epidemiology

Entry tags:

OPEN.

CHARACTERS: Loki & open!
DATE: January catch-all, including the party.
WARNINGS: There's some dirty implications and a naked Loki, so tread carefully.
SUMMARY: Celebration, pranks, fireworks, devious planning, milkshakes, drama, fuzzy handcuffs and casual invasions of privacy. The usual.

Loki doesn't have a routine. In fact, he does his best to defy all possibility of routine. There are days that he sleeps late, other days that he doesn't sleep at all, mingling in the library as if somehow the deepest hour will reveal hidden texts to him. There are midnight snacks in the kitchen, mischief to be had for those lucky few who come across him in his more disobedient moods, and diving into the recesses of the photo app recently added to the jewelcomm.

The new year came like the one before it, the celebration welcome as Loki stretched himself in what felt like a new beginning. Everything had changed, but in name only. Lucky that's where it counted. A few years ago he had a party for the Young Avengers, an attempt at an apology for exploiting their trust after pulling the strings that lead to a very sore confession. If he had stayed, they would most likely trust him again, even now. He hadn't stayed; he had left in favor of a new start.

"Happy New Year, Loki," he says with a hint of a smile, a mutter into his glass beneath the loud shrieks and pops of fireworks.

NOTE | hey it's an open log, feel free to toss in a prompt. if you need a prompt, send me a PM or shoot me a msg on hadal!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Loki's quarters are as neat as they are disorderly.

over a year of being part of ALASTAIR has left him with a unique collection of oddities plus whatever else he could manage to get his hands on through what he considered a five finger discount. there are books of all varieties stacked in precarious piles, from tomes found in the library to paperbacks with frayed edges and salacious paintings of ripped bodices on the covers. some are marked with colorful pieces of paper or scratch, whatever he could find to keep his place. it's hard to tell just how much thought he put into each tower, as they all have different heights from different surfaces.

from here he doesn't seem to cautious, but an trained eye will be able to find the little runes written in charcoal pencil scattered here and there to keep certain fingers from touching his stuff. the bed is made, though difficult to tell when it's been last used. there's folds in the blanket from where he was reading atop the comforter, pulled neatly into a Loki-shape.

there are other things, too: two open bottles of wine and the bottle of mead, Loki's jacket flung haphazardly over the backs of one of the chairs, a CD player and accompanying CD, papers with notes in two sets of handwriting with a distinct set of loops and dotted is, and various other treasures both piled on and peeking out from an open dresser against the wall.

for the time, Loki seems to have occupied himself with the shower. a stunning rendition of Queen's Don't Stop Me Now carrying with the steam. ]

[ She woke before dawn from half-formed dreams of smoke and fire, and when she'd turned aside to shake Daario's shoulders, she had found herself alone and in another world.

It is mid-morning now, and she is restless still, in need of company. When the singing reaches her ears, she lets herself in, all a flutter of silver hair and white lion fur. The windblown state of her tresses bespeaks prior flying, perhaps for hours, and it all seems to settle about her small form with a wild sort of regality. At first, she sinks into the imprint he'd made on the bed, choosing to conquer it with her own, but when it becomes clear that the song (or the shower, elsewise) is not done, she grows impatient and rises again, leaving her pelt behind.

"I wanna make a supersonic man outta YOU." By all means, she thinks, unfazed by the word and uncaring of its meaning. She has long ceased attempting to learn every word she hears.

With a distant sort of curiosity, she begins making the rounds around the godsroom, as though it is in part her own. The mead bottle is picked up, sniffed at suspiciously, and put down again. Delicate fingertips are trailed, whisper-soft and without regard for runes, along the edges of tables and books. The summary on the back of one of the novels cheers her enough to inspire a faint smile, but in the end it is the dresser that draws her eye. With book in hand, she pulls one of the drawers out gently, so as not to damage anything inside, and peers in. ]

[ it's an eclectic array of packrattery that's jumbled in the drawer.

in a disarray is Loki's hoodie, half folded, the hood of it half tumbled out of the drawer, an arm hanging as if it were trying to make an escape. there are objects shoved in around it: a pair of sunglasses, a ring with a minuscule but lifelike depiction of Asgardia's golden towers as it floats through the fogs and colors of space, a copy of Borat in a printed sleeve, and a pair of handcuffs, lined with fur.

the shower stops at the last refrain of 'cause I'm having a good time as Loki steps out, still humming the follow-up as he grabs himself a towel. there are a few muffled hums as he tries himself off.

you still have a minute or two, Dany. ]

[ A man who cannot have seen more than forty namedays grins up at her from the shadows, teeth gleaming broadly beneath a thick mustachio. She plucks him up with care, bringing him into light.

CULTURAL LEARNINGS OF AMERICA FOR MAKE BENEFIT GLORIOUS NATION OF KAZAKHSTAN

Some document, she presumes, but a queer and poorly-written one. The cover is turned over, the plot skimmed. Her eyes narrow as she reads, and then she replaces proud Borat where he may resume his voyage to the US and A. By now she hears that the singing has ceased, the water turned off, but she remains unfazed. He found no fault with searching her own room, why should she? The ring she recognizes to be the one Loki must have received from ALASTAIR, and she holds it up to catch a glimpse of a realm she shall (like as not) never see. Asgard glitters even in miniature, its vast turrets crafted in gold. This too is replaced, after some quiet consideration; the sleeve of the hoodie is tucked the rest of the way into the drawer, her hand lingering fondly on the familiar softness.

But toward the back, something winks at her: metal. With a beckon of her fingertips, she draws out what looks to be a pair of detached shackles, all lined in a garish color. The fur does not seem real, but as she draws them out to dangle from her hand, it strikes her that these shackles are meant to be comfortable. They are too easy to escape, opening and closing with a nudge of her fingertip. Thoughtfully, she wriggles her finger, sending them to rattling gently.

When the door opens at last, she does not turn to face him at once, but the sight of Lloyd's dangling handcuffs should be greeting enough. ]

[ this is the opposite of what he expected when he walked out of the bathroom.

the towel that he was drying his hair with is slung over his shoulders, hanging in wet folds as it sticks to his skin. in fact, that's all he's wearing. there's an uncaring way about the way that he poses himself, both shameless and confident. there's dark hair, still damp, sticking to his flushed cheeks. the hot steam seeps out from beyond the door and into the room, mingling in the air with the scent of shampoo.

he observes her with a look of mock surprise.

it should be simple for him to parse out the events that had lead to this, but the reality of the situation was far more comical. there he was, bare save the towel around his neck, covering skin that didn't need to be covered, and there was someone standing there grasping the ring of his fuzzy handcuffs. ]

So ... [ he begins, eyes going from the handcuffs and back to her face. ] You, or me?

[ he has a feeling he knows the answer to that, but it's the novelty of the question. ]

[ For all her flaws, an assessment that cannot be denied of Dany is that she is a quick study. Whether that has meant learning to count armies from afar, speaking Dothraki, or nocking an arrow to the dainty bow Graham has fashioned for her hands, she readily absorbs what she is taught and the context that is granted her, when she is willing.

She turns at last in wisps of silver and white, gazing boldly at who stands before her as though it is her queenly wont. Her lashes lower as she slowly takes his image in full, then her eyes flit toward the handcuffs, still glinting in the light as they swing gently from her grasp. Context is sorted and resorted at her leisure, stretching the silence for as long as it pleases her, and then a tinge of pink rises into her face. She is surprised, and he has his answer. ]

You know the answer to that, [ she says at last, sweetly as she winds the chain about her wrist. Coyness, it seems, must serve to defy how flustered she feels. ] It would not be the first time someone deemed your hands troublesome, I'm certain.

Edited (everything in this tag is awful ) 2017-01-22 12:15 (UTC)

[ there's no hint of modesty as her eyes rake him from head to toe, and he goes about his business as if he weren't being watched from all angles. he's all curves and legs, lissome and cat-like as if he were made for sneaking. the towel he's using to dry rubs against the side of his head, ruffling his still-wet hair. ]

My mouth more so than my hands. It tends to really get me into trouble. [ it comes out wistfully, twisted into a little smile as he crosses the room. where he begins to rummage for his clothing. there's no hurry to dress, even if Dany may be taking liberties with her gaze. ] ALASTAIR gave them to me. [ he finally adds as he grabs the waistband of his green briefs from over a chair. ] Their gifts are more an exercise in trolling than they are in holiday cheer.

I keep hoping they'll manifest some ability aside from what they're meant for.

[ like magic handcuffs. ]

[ He does not lack for confidence. She likes his immodesty. Swagger, too, shall always draw her favor. A queen she may be, but though she has made a marriage with Hizdahr, her true tastes have never been so politic.

He reaches for green (of course) clothing, and she turns back to the drawer, as though uncertain she's taken out everything. ]

What abilities could they hold? [ she wonders it aloud as she searches, and then, finding nothing, closes the drawer. Without the hoodie hanging out, there is nothing to obstruct it. No mention is made of why she has come, and she does not expect him to ask. Whilst he dresses, her eyes rove the room in search of new mysteries, and alight upon something leaning against the wall. It is long and lean, and bears the unmistakable shape of a sword. ]

[ there's theatrics in his manner, even when he's completely unclothed.

even though he's emerged and dressing, Dany takes it as an invitation to snoop some more. she is rather audacious at times, but he doesn't seem bothered at the prospect of anyone going through his things. there's not much there that could incriminate him, and most of what he has is junk acquired from his time at ALASTAIR.

he goes through the motions of his briefs, then his pants with a rare level of routine. ]

Ah, who knows? They could be enchanted with a spell of great wind, causing one to fart at inappropriate moments.

[ Loki that is not sexy at all.

when she leans toward the sword, he watches her out of the corner of his eye. ]

I have changed my mind, [ comes the sweet answer. ] Don them yourself.

[ It is enough to decimate her fluster. She throws the handcuffs past him, where they strike the chair with a satisfying thump, and turns her full attention to the blade. Delicate hands carefully wrap around the hilt and turn it this way and that, the morning sun gleaming off the metal. ]

Your magic sword? [ she guesses. ] I thought to ask Hizdahr for one such, when first we spoke of marrying.

[ He had upheld her true request, at least. ]

I may wish to claim this one for my spoils.

Edited 2017-01-24 11:42 (UTC)

[ she discards them, but he's certain that her curiosity will overcome the taste of a poor joke soon enough. for now, he's somewhat satisfied.

when he's finished with his pants, he reaches for the nearest shirt. the garment is an olive green, typically worn beneath the glimmering armor with enamel scales. with a stretch, he tugs it over his head, his still-damp hair in an artful tousle when he emerges from the low collar. ]

Aren't there rules here? Either you need to steal it from under my nose, or marry me.

[ the sword is long and slim, a warm gold that makes its own light. it's a simple design of early Vanir making, the runes of the first gods scored down the center of the blade. it's light for what it is, even if no Asgardian thinks much of weight. it's old, glorious, and foreboding.

he doesn't discourage her of indulging in her curiosity. ]

[ She sounds amused. ] And what am I meant to do with Hizdahr? Set him aside?

[ She has already done that here in all but marriage, though she is skeptical that he misses her. Better that he is put to this very sword, perhaps. A poisoner lurks among the ranks of her court, even if it is not him.

She considers the blade with some degree of wonder, watching as the gold reflects warm light against her hands. Then, carefully and with some effort, she hefts the blade up to rest it into her palms. There are runes etched upon it, marching down the gold as though struck with magic precision. ]

Such bladecraft I have never seen, [ she murmurs, her head canting as she studies the patterns. ] Was it yours to begin with? [ Or is this something else he has claimed for himself, as he had done with the boots? ]

Hizdahr's the boring one, right?

[ he only says it to say it. the prospect of marriage is so far off that it couldn't be anything but a joke, but it was a silent jab at him; one enough to make Loki look somewhat smug.

after that it's dismissed. the towel he was using gets thrown over his shoulders, and he begins to use it to dry his damp hair with distracted carelessness. ]

Kinda. I didn't steal it this time, if that's what you're asking. [ emphasis on this time. ] It belonged to Sigurd, the first hero of Asgard, given to him by a crafter fueled with vengeance. It then fell into the hands of my father when he was newly crowned.

He created a box that held it, locked it with five keys, and scattered them across the universe. It was meant for me to unlock when I was worthy. So, I faked it and unlocked it, anyway.

[ by King Loki's hand and by Odin's—it was an elaborate trick to fill the gaps in a story that he had long erased. it was a good idea at the time, and now it seems like a victory for someone who had the right tools. ]

A god of lies with a sword of truth. [ he sounds amused. ] It makes for a good story.

[ The slight earns him a swift, sharp look, but her mouth looks as though she might smile. Hizdahr is dull in matters of love, his kisses tepid, but he is clever and infuriating and scheming, too. She might have granted him that much, if she were feeling merciful. ]

A pretty story, [ she agrees, but then, Loki's always are at least prettily spoken, even if the content does not agree. Five keys across the universe. It sounds the sort of story she might have read in the book of tales Jorah had given her when first she'd wed. ]

If I wish to surprise you with a gift, I must be sure to make no mention of it, you mean. [ Though he had not stolen it, he had cheated his way to the sword, and it does not surprise her in the least. She turns toward him, moving her hands toward the hilt. From a queenly, knighting pose to a warrior's, or as closely as she can imitate it. ] How is it meant to work?

[ A sword that slays people and extracts the truth at once seems a poor design. ]

[ it is a myth, or a story, not far from those that were told in her world. all stories got mixed together in the cosmic fray, bleeding out into different directions through the multiverse. it's no surprise that some of the same themes repeated in her world as they did in his own.

the towel falls to rest over his shoulder, and he takes an elegant step forward to catch the flat of blade between his thumb and forefinger. ]

The blade is sharp enough to shave with. A close shave. [ he runs a finger along the edge, until the blood wells up around it. ] It pierces the skin, and an old curse bleeds into the body, and forces out the truth. To suffer the blade is to suffer the truth. It's said that the even a non-fatal blow can become fatal, yet the victim doesn't die from a mortal wound, but from the truths they deny that the blade uncovers.

I see. [ She seems satisfied. ] Then any cut may suffice.

[ And hence there is no need to drive it through someone, should she only want for the truth. Still, swords are scarce wielded delicately.

A thin, dark shadow blossoms on the edge of the blade where he bleeds, and she removes it from his grasp. It is a small gesture, and he will surely heal, but she does not love to see him hurt. ]

And cravens are doomed by its bite. [ She returns to slyness. ] I may wish to bring it to Meereen with me. There are many such liars in my court, slavers and poisoners chief amongst them. With so many trying to break the peace, I will have little time for trials.

[ The flaunting of justice is said half in jest, but there's an undercurrent of seriousness to it, a sentiment that he will doubtless detect. If she should find her third betrayer among them, would that forestall the rest of the prophecy? Loki has done wonders for her wandering thoughts on that, but they have not fled her entirely. ]

Not just cravens. Everyone lies to themselves about something, and someone is lying if they call themselves entirely truthful.

[ as the god of lies he knows the grey area to walk when it comes to lies. not just outright falsehoods, but exaggerations and omissions, lies told to keep someone together, ones that became the truth after long. ]

And sometimes it's the lies that save us.

[ he turns his finger as she removes the blade, the bright blood dripping across the blade. where the razor thin cut was, there is now nothing. he barely flinches.

with a long, exaggerated step back, he considers her. ]

Would you stab all of them? Erm—I take that back: Poke them a little.

Poke them, to start.

[ It is said sweetly. He knows what that means. ]

I may change my mind. The slavers have grown brazen within sight of my walls, and young girls have been known to be fickle.

[ It is said with all the hypothetical viciousness of a young queen who has tried for too long to achieve what was thought impossible, and is slowly, tragically becoming convinced that none of it was worth the trouble. I should never have chained my children in the darkness. Silently, she examines the blade's gleam. Groleo had the right of it. One taste of dragonfire, and the fleet would have broken away and fled.

Thankfully, she still retains enough presence of mind to remember where she is. She pushes the thoughts away, and returns Gram to the wall, hilt first. ]

[ well, she's certainly terrifying with something sharp in her hands; Loki appreciates it. Asgardians were gods that always had weapons in their hands, and while Loki made the most of weapons that weren't forged so literally, he was still an Asgardian. there was much to admire in cold steel.

for a moment, despite all of his resentment, he thinks that his mother would like her. ]

You do look good with it. [ the compliment comes out smoothly, like well-rehearsed poetry. the towel around his shoulders gets its use, and Loki begins to dry his wet hair with it. ] Politics would be easier if there was more stabbing and less game playing. Given, I'm more of the game player, myself, there's always room for a good stab to the gut.

[ I show him my teeth, and he admires them. What have I done? She knows she should not love such a response, god or human. Hizdahr, for all she half despises him, is a match befitting her temperament: allowing her rage to wash over him as water, stopping her fire before it spreads. Loki watches, and Loki approves.

She steps to close the distance between them, her hands coming to rest over his own in the towel. He smells of soap, and she intends to do the rest. ]

Come back with me, [ she invites. It is a good dream. ] To Meereen. Help me to settle my quarrels, that no more need die. Help me distinguish friend from foe, secure trade, and ... and I shall have the time and men to put an end to slavery, as I wished to do.

[ Help me leave without burning away all that I have done. That would resolve some things, but not all. Strict agreements must be forged to find new means of earning coin, given time. There is still the matter of the pale mare to confront. But it is a fine thing, to imagine all her troubles vanishing with the aid of a deft hand. It is finer still to imagine him finding her in another world. ]

[ there's no compliment to Loki. he's chaotic, fiery and mercurial. for all of his passions, he'd burn down empires for the sake of revolution, and while the urge to rule still takes him sometimes and makes him breathless, he finds that he's more comfortable in the niche between revolt and new starts.

he releases the towel as she takes it, letting her take charge of his damp hair. it falls with perfect ease no matter which way she seems to push it, as if it were meant to be artfully disheveled. with an easy lean, he sinks his rear into the bed, making his hair more accessible. ]

Admittedly ... as much as I find myself manipulating such circumstances, they usually turn out badly. [ there's a wistful, self-depreciating sort of smile. ] I'm better at tearing things down than I am at keeping them up.

But you never know—perhaps I'm there, already.

[ As am I. Her fingers massage with the towel, the dampness from his hair beginning to cool through the cloth and kissing at her fingertips. There is something deeply affectionate about the gesture, something laden with care and deliberate thought, though it is not particularly effortful. ]

Perhaps it is you who is to blame for my troubles. [ The towel is released, his hair thoroughly rubbed, and still infuriating. ] I should have been searching for a god, not men in masks. Is that what you are saying?

[ It's a tease. Her troubles are many and more, though, and the knot she has found herself at the center of had only just begun to unwind. It is fiendishly worthy of him.

He's sitting, though, and perhaps it is the way he smells of soap, or the way his hair hangs just so, or even the easy way that they banter that tempts her to consider pushing him back onto the bed. Her hands settle onto his shoulders, but she makes no moves, yet. ]

[ where he's generally either long and languid, strutting in his seat with pride, or anxious and unable to sit still, he settles for her, allowing his shoulders to roll back as her fingers endeavor to dry the rest of his hair. there are few things that he'll still himself for, or rather, few things that he finds himself stilled for. perhaps she's become too familiar in that way, but he knows that there's only steps forward, and no steps back.

he's not the sort of person to go back.

there's a low little hah that comes from his chest as she teasingly accuses him of plaguing her. the irony isn't lost upon him. ]

Certainly so. Perhaps you should seek that god and charm them as you have me. You have a knack for it.

[ he's not one to be teased and not give a small jab back.

the scent is fragrant, Loki isn't one to cherish the traditionally-produced masculine scents. they're fresher, like something from his world, but clean with a little woodsy undertone. ]

Though your life may not be any easier for it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

OPEN.

DAENERYS.

no subject

no subject

are you happy i'm happy

this looks bad

makes it worse immediately

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

it is a """"""joke""""""

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject