the_variant | (no subject)

Sylvie hates that they're here.

Nothing about the festival itself is interesting to her, not the music, not the camping, none of it really. But the possibility of an island having simply appeared, now that is absolutely fascinating. So she goes, she demands Loki goes with her, to see what they might be able to discover about the island, about Darrow, about the impossibility of it all. Their intentions are good, even if she doesn't know what they would have possibly used any of the answers for.

All this time, all these months, and she still doesn't know if she wants to leave or make sure they stay.

Things begin to go wrong almost immediately. The festival itself is a joke, with little food being supplied, and almost nothing Sylvie might call music, even within the loose definition Darrow uses for the subject. The tents are barely more than tarps and she's intent on getting back to Darrow properly at the first chance they have.

Except they miss the ferry. And they miss the ferry because, for longer than she'd like to admit, Sylvie had been floating following a bloody bee sting. By the time she finally figures out how to get down -- a second sting, which is really more luck than anything -- the first ferry is gone.

And the second ferry is on fire.

The first time Sylvie sees someone in a cloak, they're preparing to swing a bat toward Loki's head, and while she's certain he can protect himself, she still grabs his arm and yanks him back, shouting, "Down!"

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He watched closely, cataloging every reaction, every uptick of her breath or twitch of muscle. He considered toying with her a bit, making her wait, because she was beautiful like this but she was also beautiful when she was furious with him. Instead, when she shuddered against him, gasping, he smirked faintly and repeated that particular swivel of his hips, and again, pressing just a bit more firmly with the pad of his thumb.

"I could never tire of seeing you like this."

Sylvie’s life has never given her the time or space to worry much about what people thought of her. She’s never much cared, but she cares now, with him.

No clever response comes, she can’t think clearly enough, she only manages to curl her hand over Loki’s arm and pulls herself up to kiss him. “Good,” she breathes against his mouth just before she come, the heat within building until her body clenches tight around his cock, still clinging to him.

Whatever semblance of control he might have been clinging to vanished almost instantly. Her body clenched around him, her mouth warm and insistent against his own, and he was powerless to her. Then again, he'd grown quite accustomed to that feeling.

He said her name, though it was almost completely swallowed by a helpless groan, by their mouths still tasting one another. It was only a few more moments before he came, as well, gathering her close and breaking from the kiss to pant desperately against her jaw. And heaven help him, it was every ridiculous cliche he'd ever sneered at, when it came to passion and to love.

Her worry from earlier, that she might cry, it rises in her again when she feels her eyes stinging, tear pricking the corners. She can feel Loki's muscles tensing, the way he pushes into her one last time, harder than before, his breath hot against her skin, and she buries one hand in his hair, the other clutching at his back, and something bubbles up inside her she can't control.

It comes out as a gasp, a sob, his name. She's never felt this before. Never.

Turning her head, Sylvie closes her eyes and keeps him close.

He clung to her, dumbstruck by the way she held him, the way she cried out his name, the sound of it tearing from her like a sob. For a moment, he feared he'd hurt her, somehow, but she held him so tightly, he quickly realized that wasn't the case.

"Sylvie," he said, kissing her cheek, her face turned away from him. "It's alright," he murmured, though which of them he was trying to comfort, he couldn't be sure.

Is it? His lips are against her cheek and she can hear his words and he's still inside of her, they're still connected in the most wonderful way, and she decides, yes, it's alright. It's terrifying and overwhelming and she's worried she'll find some way to ruin this unexpectedly wonderful thing she's been given, but maybe she won't.

Maybe it will be alright.

"I love you," she answers, turning toward him again. A tear has escaped, trickling from the corner of her eye, toward her temple, and she doesn't bother trying to hide it.

The breathe stuttered from his chest, the sound of it dangerously close to a sob. His chest felt achingly full, filled with something entirely unfamiliar. He hated how trite it sounded, but he could've sworn the feeling was hope.

"I love you," he echoed, thumbing away the tear before it disappeared into her hair. "I love you," he said again, breathless and muffled against her lips,