Voices from Heaven (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thespaceopera) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2015-10-20 11:18 am
thespaceopera) wrote in driftfleet2015-10-20 11:18 am
Entry tags:
- !event,
- ahsoka tano,
- coil lenn,
- margaret "peggy" carter,
- nami,
- natasha romanoff,
- nelkeila tarid,
- nyssa al ghul,
- octavia blake,
- one,
- phèdre nó delaunay de montrève,
- r. daneel olivaw,
- rapunzel,
- remy lebeau,
- riku,
- robin redbreast,
- rogue,
- santanico pandemonium,
- shawn hunter,
- sokka,
- stefan salvatore,
- steve rogers (ou),
- steven quartz universe,
- stiles stilinski,
- syeira,
- tadashi hamada,
- tekhetsio,
- the vision,
- vash the stampede,
- vima sunrider,
- wanda maximoff,
- wrath,
- yamanaka ino
...And also these.
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She was more important to him than to any of them, he'd wager.
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She smiled at him. "We could set a limit? Start with three? If it gets too weird, I'll tell ya to stop."
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He rose to his feet. Of course what he found most curious on first glance was the broken mirror. It was something that resonated with him.
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A quiet, crackling laugh. "You're already inside of me, so go right ahead."
He'd already seen more than enough that he could put together what he wanted, and she didn't currently see a reason to hide from him. That was not her current function. So she was not hiding, was not hiding =her purpose or even her perception. There wasn't room for anything false in the flame.
As to what he would see in the mirror, besides the cracks and facets and shattered reflection of the candles and his face, well... that depended on where he would touch. Would he reach for a shard? Or a crack?
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It was one of the shards he reached for first, wanting to examine it, though careful to not cut himself.
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[You are sitting with your back against the wall, breathless and trembling and so afraid and angry and scared, you didn't even know your body could hold this many feelings, this many voices...
You hear someone approach from the alley, and suddenly there is no more confusion - only anger.]
Abruptly, he was outside her body then - able to only watch as the confrontation with Mystique and Rogue played out. The scene would begin to fade after that, as Rogue assumed Sabertooth's form... though if he continued to hold on, he might make it to the rest of the night, right up until the time the professor began to deal with Rogue's psyches.
Though Rogue's mind was too confused, too angry for any clear thoughts about this memory to remain, the feelings were there. The anger. The hurt. The betrayal. The... slowly seeping in bone deep gratitude and relief as at last Logan reached out to her.
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And obviously much more disorienting for her.
His reaction was a sharp inhalation of breath and then a step back from the mirror.
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"Ya alright?" the fire said quietly.
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But interesting. Very, very interesting.
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Have you ever wondered what Rogue's powers felt like when she absorbed someone, Loki? Because that... that was very much like it.
"I'm not sure which one ya saw unless I try," again, simple, almost tour-guidey. "I just know all the ones in the mirror are important."
So he can try again... or move on. The guest's choice.
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He considered the question, but even in such strange circumstances, he was bound by his promise of honesty. "An alleyway. A confrontation with... Mystique." He wasn't about to just call her your mother even if he knew the relationship. Of anyone, he knew how sensitive such things could be.
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She sighed quietly, leaned against the glass that kept her from burning her own room down.
"Don't think many of the memories in there are real happy."
Of course, some of them probably were and she smiled a little at that thought. "Except for a few really good ones, maybe."
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"That is the way of things, is it not? 'Tis the pain that carves us into our current form. We are cut like diamonds." What else could a silver-tongued person hope to say about that? Though he was curious, what good memories there might be.
"I don't suppose there's a way to sort out one of the nicer ones."
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She was trying to exert more control over her mind, after all.
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You feel a little sick over it still, physically upset as the ever-present burden of isolation, guilt, and self-hatred settles like a cold, wet blanket over your shoulders. But you have been given a horse, the creature depends on you, and you are not enough of a monster to let it starve, to let a day pass without seeing it.
And then, of course, it's him. And just as you attempt to walk beyond him you realize that you can not - nether of you can move. He sighs and gives you an awkward smile. "That wasn't there a minute ago."
And it isn't fair. You curse and you tense, because you really didn't want to be this close to him again, not after yesterday. You didn't want to be this close to all that he was offering you and all that you had to, must, reject. You remember the day before, standing quite close to him after he'd explained about setting a ward on you without your consent, told you that he was more concerned for your safety than your good opinion... your pulse flickers in your throat, beating more quickly, and you can't look away from him anymore than you can step free of the enchanged mistletoe. "So you know about these? Any chance you could set it on fire?"
"It doesn't work. I've certainly tried." He makes a sound, half-laugh, half-sigh. "Being caught in such a fashion with person after person who would rather kiss a vulture has done wonders for my pride, I assure you." You can see that he is telling the truth. It's written in his tone, in the slant of his eyes, in his word to you. "I think after this I will just go home and not leave again until someone tells me this infernal plant has wholly vanished."
You wish you'd thought of that. Your face contorts with guilt, not just due to the current circumstances - this was a really terrible idea - but because of what almost happened. You exhale a shaky breath and glance away, finding it hard to look at him. "I nearly put someone in a coma. Guess I should have done that too."
"I... are you all right?" he says, and it makes no sense. How can he demonstrate concern for you when you are what you are? At first, you offer him what you think it is best to say, but then... because he asked, because he cared, because of who he is and who he was to you, and what you both will have to do to get free, you meet his gaze and tell them the truth, "No. I really hate this."
And well done, Rogue, honestly. He'd just confessed to how hurt he was due to his previous experiences, and here you were talking about how much you hated the situation. But it wasn't about kissing him - no, you only wish that you could hate that. The vast majority of you wouldn't mind kissing Loki again, no, not at all. This is hardly even about him, or about the damage you know this will do to the defenses of your heart. This is about you, yourself, your skin, and the lack of control. You apologize, and it's not enough.
How can you look at me like you do?
He tells you that it is alright, and you believe him. He looks at you like you're the only person he sees, and not like you are a fragile, broken thing, but as though you are... valuable. Worth something.
Another quiet confession, admitting to the meaning of this - of contact, of being able to touch. He knows, he at least understands in part, enough to grant you that while it might not be a big deal to him, he knows it is of immeasurable significance to you. And he does not seek to take advantage of that. When he kisses you, it's on your gloved hand. And nothing happens.
And then he touches your cheek, and the world falls out from beneath your feet. Nothing else is the same as that point of contact, the slight chill of his skin and the simple human contact. You shiver. You rest against his palm. You know you shouldn't and you don't care, because for all of their warnings and for all of his past, Loki has never been anything other than good to you. And that matters. And what he is doing now, how he is treating you, his behavior in the village matters. It all has to matter, or none of it does.
He waits. He waits for such a long time, until you have almost grown accustomed to the sensation of touch. He waits until you have opened your eyes, until the thoughts and memories of kissing him have bubbled up from somewhere inside your core and you can almost feel the pressure of his lips on yours. Then, making sure you can track the movement, he does not kiss your lips at all.
Instead, with a tenderness that you feel like a brand, he presses a kiss to your temple. "There. You can get away now if you want," and his voice is temptation itself, it's a fireplace and candlelight and chocolate and skin upon skin with the promise of more.
You do not want to move away. You know that you should. You do not want to break off whatever this understanding is between you two, but the way he is looking at you right now is dangerous, and you feel your heart open before him because he won't take, but he waits, and he wants, and he tries, and has been true. And all of that intensity is focused on you. And he is willing to give, to give to you, and to give you the one thing you want beyond all others.
Would it be so wrong to just let yourself taste it, just for a minute? Must you rush away and pretend this meant nothing when... when that would be completely not true? It should mean nothing, you know that, you know what he's done. But you also know what he's done to you, with you, for you... and somehow that seems more important right now.
"Just a minute, okay?" You hear yourself say it as you shut your eyes, lean into his touch, sway a little closer. "Just a minute."
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