@fiddlingonthetympanic || i liked for interactions || 💚
Tess screamed at Loki when he crawled out of his father's gut, all raw emotion. She cried, too--and because of her absolute inability to process sadness like a normal person, proceeded to empty the contents of her stomach into a trash can. Then she screamed some more, tears streaming down her cheeks as she shoved at his chest.
She didn't even cry the night she put the breaks between them other than a little gleam to her eyes, sending away the one person she'd ever wanted, choking down the truth about her futurepast and their warning. (Stay out of the war. Stay out, you ignorant bitch. This isn't for you.) She didn't cry about--any of it. Not in front of him.
'You let me think you were dead. YOU LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD. G-DDAMN YOU, LOKI. G-DDAMN YOU G-DDAMN YOU G-DDAMN YOU.'
Five minutes later, he had her straddling his leg on the one chair left in her apartment, grinding against his thigh and gripping his big shoulders for leverage. "Fuck you, Loki--" His fingers squeezed her hips; his knee jutted against bare, swollen flesh. "Ffffuck you, L--Loki--"
The sensation curls tighter, hotter. She buried her head in his neck, breathing in the smell of him. Fuck y--" He pulls her down hard against his leg and she cried out, wriggling and squirming against him to get what she needed-- "Ffffffuck--"
Loki had let the entire world think he was dead, but he can’t blame Tess for taking it personally. He had put her through far too much and yet another false death could only hurt what was already broken between them. What had broken somewhere along the line while he wasn’t looking.
He still didn’t fully understand what had happened that had caused her to want that distance from him. Of course he had an idea - had noticed a strange familiarity about the situation and had plucked and pulled at story threads until he found something that made the change in her make sense - but he still doesn’t understand it all.
No. Not here, not now, not with her within arms reach. There are far more important things in this moment than the why of their paths diverging. Things like the way her biceps tense beneath his fingers when he grabs her. Like the resistance as he pulls, taking a moment longer to scream her fury at him. He’s earned it, this much he knows, and so he doesn’t pull any harder. Just an insistent pressure to guide her close to his chest.
“Fuck me,” he agrees, and at first that’s all it is. An agreement that this is what he deserves for all that he has done. But it changes as he repeats it. An invitation as his lips brush over her hair. Needy insistence as his his arms wrap around her. A plea as he guides her back towards the first stable surface.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”
‘I’ve missed you,’ callused hands fill in as they slip below her shirt, thumbs stroking over bared skin as palms rest on her hips.
‘I love you,’ is written across her throat in rushed kisses and the scrape of teeth.
`Don’t send me away,` is begged as his knee presses up against her and his hands pull her down, focusing entirely on what he can do for her rather than the ache between his own legs. She - and her needs - will come first tonight.
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