lucetilogs | variety is the spice of life

variety is the spice of life

Who: Everyone who wants to be here!
What: Total Recall 2014
When: The first week of the event, roughly April 9th-16th, give or take a few days depending on your character's timeline.
Where: All over Luceti, presumably
Summary: Chaos! Madness! Unreasonable happenings! You know the drill. Alternatively: characters wake up and sigh because god, not this again.
Rating: Varied. Anything frisky goes to appointments as per usual, chums.

Due to the size and variation of this event, it's probably best to have several logs for it to avoid one getting overcrowded and broken. Feel free to have your characters post their own entries, of course, if you'd prefer- you're more than welcome! This is for people who like to consolidate. Another log ought to be posted around the 16th for round 2.

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Incorrigible beast. If you wish to mock me then you need not partake in the fruits of that tedium. [But there's a decided fondness to his tone when he says that. He reaches over to poke Iofast on the knee.] And what have my boots done to offend you with their presence?

[No. No he is not going to suggest that Iofast remove them if they offend him so much. No. He will bite his tongue. He takes a sip of his mead instead, trying to figure out what in the name of Hel he actually wants right now. And in a long-term sense, because his heart has ideas about the short-term that he's doing his best to ignore.

It's too easy to fall into these patterns. Far too easy.]

The nature of incorrigible beasts is to take out of all proportion to what we likely deserve.

[Such fond derision he takes without argument, mostly because he cannot deny the truth in it, and in returns he offers a flashing smile that may be more tinged with knowingness than he intends. But there is no way to erase that Loki does know fully well how incorrigible he can be, and how very much he can take.

The look is the length of a moment, though, as all good teases and temptations are - and even Iofast isn't quite sure which he means it to be, or if he means the easy joking that follows to bury it down or make the thing all the keener by contrast.]

As for your boots, they are entirely too handsome. You see my own boots have already fled my feet in shame. The blame will be all on you if I hear them weeping softly tonight and need crawl out of bed to comfort them.

Have care, Iofast, or all of your friends will think you've spent far too long in my company. [He grins, and sips his mead.

Oh Hel. He's never been that good at self control when there is something he wants. He's far better at simply doing what he wants and taking what he wants and then rationalizing it extremely well later.

He lifts up one leg, just straightening at the knee as if to inspect his boots.]

They are most excellent boots. I hate to part with them, even to comfort the footwear of a friend. [He gives Iofast a toothy grin.] You may have to pry them from my feet yourself if you cannot drown your sorrows entirely in my mead.

[The warning is taken with a laugh, as is the invitation, though with the latter Iofast takes another bracing drink of mead before setting his mug aside and hefting one of Loki's legs into his lap.]

Out of love for my boots, then I suppose I will have to . . .

[He trails off, frowning at the limb in his lap, turning it slowly in one direction, then another. Are those lappets, or-? Ngh. A light tug at the first layer of leather reveals that it's hooked on something, and he works his fingers under a free edge, hunting for it that way.]

[Loki bursts out laughing, and he lets his head fall back against the couch.] Poor Iofast, champion of the nine battles of Sjoris and breaker of the hearts of Alfheim, pity him for he has been defeated by a common boot.

Common? [Iofast laughs the word incredulously, adding to the tumble of delighted sound as his fingers find a fastener. He works the other hand inside the boot itself, knuckles to calf in the warmth of cloth and leather as he works at what he is sure will loosen the top edge, at least.] The boot of Loki is as cunning as its master! Do you first test your powers each morning by bespelling them onto your feet?

They have only metamorphosed to match the diabolical nature of their master. Be cautious, Iofast, next they may bite.

[And as if it is the most natural thing in the world--because in this moment it is, he can't help it, it's reflex--he reaches with the hand not occupied by his mead, and runs fond fingers through Iofast's hair.]

They had best not. Juti will be most displeased if I lose my fingertips in unarmed combat with footwear.

[He can't say how he does it, but he twists and wriggles something and a catch comes loose, in a way that he can tell would be effortless if he knew the proper angle from which to approach it. But any temptation to feel put-out about that scatters with the hand in his hair, and he glances up from beneath the fringe that is falling into his eyes, smile gentling by quiet, breathless degrees.

That is Loki as well, he knows, deep in the part of his gut that warms with the touch. For all the talk of monstrousness, of betrayal and lies, what has happened has not completely erased the man who can run those nimble, seiðmaðr's fingertips along his skin like the forbidden blessing they are.]

I serve to amuse, at least?

[The usual tenor of his voice is half a pitch too low and much too soft for the lightness of the question, transforming it into something else, a question he cannot find such clever words for.]

[Loki draws in a slightly unsteady breath. He feels curiously tipsy, though he hasn't yet had more than a few sips of mead. He laughs.]

It would be tragic. You've such lovely hands.

[Not helping, really. Not helping at all. Because he remembers those hands all too keenly, and what they've done to him in the past, every little touch a memory he's hidden carefully away.

Well, he doesn't seem to need help; his hands knows what it's doing. And though he thinks he probably ought to draw away, he doesn't want to. He feels like he might suffocate from the weight of Iofast's regard, but it would be a gentle death indeed.

His smile goes a bit crooked.]

I hear it doesn't take so much effort to amuse Loki. He finds the oddest things funny.

[And he smooths his fingers through Iofast's hair again--he remembers this feeling, so many times, in warm sunlight, in cold shivering night, through laughter and barely concealed terror all--stopping just short of his ear.]

[It's the way a child pets an animal for the first time, Iofast thinks, turning his head into the stroking in comfortable welcome. So tentative to start, and by the third pass moving as if they have done this a thousand times. It's the pleasure in it, he knows, as well as he knows anything. The body desires what it will desire, and when it finds something it enjoys, it takes it. It learns how to take, and having learned, remembers so much more quickly.

Part from your lover for a year. Part from your weapon for the same length of time. It is a rare man who returns to mastery on the latter first.]

What luck. I have been told I'm a very odd thing.

[More vivid words than 'odd,' but they both know those labels already, and for Iofast the sting is an old and well-accustomed thing. He can take them because there is a truth in them - a truth he is almost unashamed of as he twists sideways on their seat, heart skittering like a horse startling out of its gait with the awareness of what he's doing. But he does it regardless, hooking a leg around Loki's, listing back with fingers still in his hair in hopes to tug him along as he sinks toward the cushion.]

Edited 2014-04-25 05:36 (UTC)

I hear tell that I am something far worse than the innocence of odd. [He might have said something more, turned it to a much more barbed joke, the sort that cuts him and the listener simultaneously--his favorite sort. But then Iofast slips into motion, and it's familiar, so very familiar, as if it's a dance they've done a thousand times before, one that becomes a thing of warm comfort instead of boredom. Loki's breath catches, and he moves to follow before he's truly aware of it, because that is habit too.

The body always remembers, and knows what it wants. And he no longer has interest in fighting that. This is the one part of home that he no longer wants to escape. Even if he is a fool, a thousand times a fool, for this will probably end some day with him truly dead.

Well, he's died before. This time would be far more pleasant. He leaves his cup of mead aside, floating forgotten in the air, then frees his leg lithely from Iofast's. In one smooth movement he transfers onto his knees on the couch cushions, then shifts to straddle the other man's hips. Idly, he gathers up a handful of Iofast's tunic with his newly freed hand. His other, he smooths through that beloved hair again, touch firming, and breathes out a sigh.

This puts them close, so much closer. Not nearly close enough. But it's a start. And not an hour ago, he was sinking verbal barbs into this man's flesh; perhaps he'll soothe away whatever sting remains with his lips.]

Because of you, I've my boots on my furniture. [He murmurs the words around a smile.] Poor Iofast, defeated at the battle of Loki's boots, unable to defend the integrity of the upholstery. How shall we ever make a song of you now?

Edited 2014-04-25 05:55 (UTC)

[Oh all the things Loki might rebuke and shame him for, he has been sure, this would have been the last. It is a thing they bear too much in common, and even if now he is the one with his back down, his throat and so much more open to attack and advantage, this is somehow the safest ground that exists between them. Resting back on an elbow, he thinks a moment, then hums, kissing the inside of Loki's forearm.]

There is yet a song in this.

[It it something he is sure of, and he takes only a moment to gather his words, though they come easily. He has much memory to draw on, and it is not so difficult, to craft the tale of a fool who through trials and disgrace finds a greater prize than he had dreamed. He chants in a tone that is almost his own, through there is a throaty drone beneath it - a place-holder for the bright notes and accents that come later, and an ancient thing all on its own. Even if there is jest in it, this tale is real. They are real.]

On past defeat, again past defeat
in Vængrheim Iofast struggled
bested by boot, furniture failing
but still he knew his purpose

[Bested by boot or not, his fingers are still nimble, and they work up past Loki's trousers and belt to slide up a warm flank, wrist pushing up tunic and leaving his stomach bare.]

And at last he found it, gilt in dark he found it
treasure of lands forever beyond travel
bright as starlight, cool as starlight
Loki, who is endless-

[He pulls toward his heels, enough to curl and kiss the smooth, fair skin above his navel, then glance up with a quiet, flushed smile.]

You see?

Edited 2014-04-25 12:55 (UTC)

[And suddenly he could be back in Asgard, were it not for the color scheme. He has lived this moment many a time before, the warmth of closeness--how was it that he had never noticed, that Juti and Iofast had never noticed how cold his body often was at times, were they all idiots, the lot of them?--the sound of Iofast spinning words ridiculous or sublime, mead on their tongues, and always that tight anticipation.

Does he want to feel as if he's returned to that place? He's spilled so much blood to escape it, and himself. Hah, and then spilled so much blood in return, for the sake of his mother and brother. Even now, he is inconsistent Loki, who never knows what he wants and can never make up his mind.

Though one particular want does seem clear.

Iofast's chant draws a laugh from Loki, one of genuine amusement for the subject, not at its expense. There is a subtle difference in the sound of that sort of laughter, something less dark and cutting to it. But Iofast always had that way about him; it was what had drawn him to the man to begin with, when he'd thought himself incapable of laughing with anything beyond hatred. He still isn't certain if he's forgiven Iofast (and then Juti, even then they were always inseparable) from dragging him back from that particular precipice. If he hadn't, what followed eventually might have not destroyed Loki quite so utterly.

His breath stutters at that touch. He doesn't let people touch him so familiarly as that, not any more. Intimacy is the enemy of a man composed of lies; allowing someone to be so close gives them the chance to glimpse he's still just an empty sack filled with straw. He frees his hand from Iofast's tunic and takes the man's wrist instead, but can't bring himself to pull that hand away.

Something so simple as that touch, as the little kiss that follows, makes his eyes flutter closed for a moment, a soft little breath escaping him. The muscles low across his belly go tight, that anticipation again, always his favorite part--hah, except for all the others.

Loki smiles at his old friend, for a moment the expression too soft to be believed, as he cradles the back of Iofast's head with tenderly his hand, thumb moving slowly through his hair.]

Always such a clever tongue. You could compose edda from an old cloak without the use of a sewing needle.

[No one else could ever keep up with me. Will they play word games again?

Then his smile twists up with its customary sharp, bitter tilt a moment later.]

Though so trusting, perhaps, to think something treasure when it might well be gilded dross.

[He bends down for a moment, though, to press a soft kiss against Iofast's temple. His hand, already resting on Iofast's, moves slightly, almost tentatively, to link their fingers together.]

Edited 2014-04-25 13:51 (UTC)

[Loki's laughter, his smile, even the soft syncopation his his breath gone shivery wash through Iofast like the sudden warmth of the sun on skin left under shadow too long. The praise he loves as well, but he knows as well as loki how ephemeral words are. The way flesh shifts beneath his lips, the catch of voiceless air - those are far more reliable truths. He hums in bliss with the petting, eyebrows only lifting mildly as the naked honesty of Loki's expression twists into form for another volley. He will play this game with him, certainly, and play it without quarter.]

And even if it is? A child may love a threadbare doll more than a king may love all the gold in his stores. A starving man will trade a fine helm for a roasted squab.

[He curls his fingers with Loki's in a steady clasp, kissing the firm tendon of his throat, voice soft with conviction.]

What makes a treasure is the treasuring of it. [Another kiss in the softness between cheek and jaw, moving ever closer to his mouth, one interrupted only by a mischievous grin.] If you would have a man who only cherishes what others tell him he should value, find one with less ergi in him.

[There is pain in the laugh Iofast wins with those words, the sound of tears swallowed for centuries.] Ah, but this is no child, here, nor king. And no man starving but for perhaps myself. So then what does this man, this warrior, this honeytongued poet Iofast love?

[His fingers tighten against Iofast's, chin tilting subtly to bring their lips closer.] Would I have a man?

[Loki breathes out an unsteady little sound, because has that not always been the problem, the wedge driven between him and both men who he might have loved? But this is what he had wanted, always, and he had traded it for the pallid hope of Odin's approval.

He laughs again, unsteady, bitter, and pained.]

Expect not scolding from a dead ragr, Iofast.

[It hadn't been worth it, at all. None of what he had done for Odin had been worth it. It had all been dross, stones that had weighed him down and dragged him from the Bifrost.]

And less still from a dead fool.

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variety is the spice of life

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