Loki was sharp and defiant when he moved through the room; even the man he was posing as could not help but cause havoc wherever he went. He was an actor tonight, relatively unknown, but with a few stage productions in Britain to his name, something he knew could lure a certain type of woman. Perhaps the type of woman he was looking for tonight: one who was more of a mirror than a complement. Someone else who was just smoke and trickery and falsehood upon falsehood masquerading as a person. Unfortunately, as far as he could tell, there wasn’t anyone like that at the quaint little cocktail party he’d wrangled an invite to.
Tony Stark was at the bar, and wasn’t that just special, an Avenger just a few feet away from a sworn enemy, with no idea who had accidentally (or not so accidentally) bumped him a few moments ago. He didn’t want Tony Stark, though, at least not tonight. He was in the mood for a woman. Besides, Stark had his little mistress, the lady Pepper Potts. He wasn’t likely to fool around with anyone while she still had him on her leash. She would have been a good choice, though. Strong-willed, with just a hint of vulnerability, enough to exploit, to push her close to the edge, race her heart and have her screaming when she came. Alas, it was likely the same situation with her. So tiresomely tied to another. And Loki liked his victims to come willingly, very willingly, to him.
Mmm, and besides, he’d prefer they both lived. They were at least mildly entertaining, intelligent people, and as much as it would be interesting to see Stark’s fall from sanity after losing his lady love, he knew the inventions the man came up with while coasting on happiness or mania or whatever it was that kept Stark going, were far more entertaining than a mental breakdown. No, living wasn’t something one generally did after sharing Loki Liesmith’s bed. It happened, but it was very, very rare.
Killing people was bad. Loki knew this. Loki did not care.
Many women looked at him as the night wore on. Women in low-cut dresses, women with slits high up their thighs, women with corseted tops that pressed their bosoms and cinched their waists. Some of their dresses almost begged to be undone. Certainly, that was the point of wearing them. He couldn’t bed them all, though. Not tonight, at least, and what was the point of tracking them all down, after the soiree ended? There were more women, many, many more women in New York alone. No, he didn’t need them all. Just one. Someone who would scratch his back and call him dirty things and know exactly what to do with his cock. And die very, very prettily.
Killing people was bad. Most people did not want to die, not even when their life was surely complete and would amount to nothing more, after pleasuring themselves on the manhood of the God of Lies. Loki knew these things. Loki did not care.
Out of the women who tried to catch his eye, he returned the gaze of only a few. One of them looked almost promising, but her invitation clearly came with her date attached, a man who looked like he wanted his alias’ ass very, very badly. He did not wish to be taken tonight. He wanted to plunder. He wanted to sink into the folds of a femme fatale and watch her eyes flutter shut. And they always did. Thor had long resented him for possessing a larger manhood than the God of Fertility himself. The thought of his brother’s jealousy made him smile.
Some foolish woman thought the smile was for her. She sidled up to him, after slinking obnoxiously across half of the room, and had the gall to rest her hand on the back of his barstool.
“I don’t remember seeing you at the benefactor’s speech.” she opened with, which, in Loki’s opinion, wasn’t the of best pick-up line. Her voice was smoke-smooth, though, a low register that had to get her as many men as her skin-tight dress did.
“ Unfortunate that I missed it. I’d decided a better use of my time would be to have a cigarette.” He wondered how much she wanted him. That she did was quite clear.
“That’s a filthy habit.” Her tone implied she didn’t mind it, or any other filthy habits he might have. A predator, then. Someone who stalked people like him regularly. Or thought she did.
“Oh, I know.” She smiled at him, and he could tell that she thought herself confident, that the amount of teeth she showed meant she was bold. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she wasn’t. Perhaps he’d see how bold she was when she was tied down, the rope around her neck tightening, choking off her air supply. Oh, that was a lovely possibility.
“Why not try to quit, then? It’s becoming next to impossible to smoke in the city, you know. I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to find some kind of aid for it.” Hmm. Something there. A tendency to try to fix people. A desire to tame wild men.
“I don’t have the time for quitting, unfortunately.” He sighed dramatically, one of his favourite parts of posing as an actor. “I’ve been kept quite busy, as of late.”
“Working on another play, then?” She knew him, or at least, knew of him. He wasn’t all that well known; she had to have seen him before. Another one of these events, or a matinee across the pond? It seemed he had a bit of a stalker, which was dangerous. For her. Unfortunate that she had caught his attention. He often felt curiosity towards that which caught his attention, which… rarely ended well.
“What else would there be for me to do?” She simply inclined her head, content to play the role of mysterious woman. It hardly mattered. She would speak some lie on the ride back to his apartment, and he would unravel her. And he would take as much pleasure in that as in the sex. Not as much as in the killing, though. How he loathed creatures like her… arrogant enough to think that they alone can change those who have strayed off the path of righteousness. All while appearing to be one of their kind, using their feminine wiles against the often simple thought processes of the Midgardian male.
“Are you finding this party as dull as I am? I think you’re the most interesting thing that’s happened to me all night.” He hoped she was stupid enough to not take that last bit as an insult. He hated when he accidentally scared his prospective partners off by accidentally insulting them.
“Mmm… and what’s so interesting about me?” Not insulted, then. But she also didn’t take his hint. Loki didn’t like her playing with him. She was clearly not very skilled at it, despite the fact that she thought very, very highly of her ability. Thought she can further ensnare him by making her persona more interesting. She should have just taken the hint and run with it. Why had she not simply complied, when it was clear that Loki wanted to take her home? Unless she had wanted to make it clear that she was the aggressor. Foolish.
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet.” He dipped his gaze to her décolletage,
which, while not impressive, was certainly adequate. No doubt helped along by the obvious push-up bra she was wearing, but still appealing. He made the movement of his eyes obvious; he did not want to play her ridiculous game all night. “I’m sure I will, though.”
“Perhaps you’re right about the party.” she whispered, when he looked up. She moved closer to him, her mouth at his ear. “I think you’d find me more… interesting, in a private location, besides.”
“Shall we find out?” Even the interplay of their bodies there, just barely touching at their ears, mouths, her hip and his torso, set him alight. He hadn’t had a woman since… oh, yesterday afternoon. Much too long. And he hadn’t killed her. No, she’d been too intriguing, too… violent, in her own way, to kill. He’d kept her number, even. What had been the name she’d given? Ah, yes. Irene.
That had been London. This was New York. And New York was wearing a blood-red dress the shade of her lipstick. Blood, then. There would be blood, later tonight.
He took her hand as he got off of the barstool, ready to guide her out of the room. She nodded to a few friends as she left, as if to show off her catch. Unfortunate, that. Had they left discretely, he might have been able to keep this persona a while longer. As things were, with the fifteen or so people that had paid attention to their leaving, he would be the first suspect in her untimely death. The façade, or the woman’s death… it was no choice. He was the God of Lies; another face was just around the corner.
Another woman was also just around the corner, too, but this one was right here, and was annoying him so much, would offer him so much satisfaction. He would regret the loss of this acting career, yes, but there were other actors to inhabit, and other occupations where one lived lies to get paid. A lawyer, perhaps. Or a politician. He could just imagine the looks on the faces of the Avengers should he rise to power through politics. Maybe he would do that. Start small, work his way up to the highest office in their pitiful ‘America’ on the backs of the oppressed. It would have a certain poetry, he had to admit.
That was all for later, though. At the moment, there was a brunette (clearly dyed, he could see her dirty blonde roots coming through whenever she tilted her head) standing on the corner of the street, waiting by the taxi he had hailed. To business, then. Or rather, to pleasure. Business waited for afterwards.
“You coming, handsome?” Presumptuous, and definitely to a fault. She was lucky he wanted an easy woman tonight, else she would never have garnered his attention. He almost wished she could know the great honour she had. Maybe he would tell her, just before he ended her life. Maybe that would make the going easier. Time after time, it didn’t, but that didn’t stop him from seeing if it would work for someone. He was a regular charity worker, in that respect. Humans simply didn’t know how to die. He wondered why he wasted himself on them, sometimes. Then he remembered.
“Do you know where we’re going?” he asked, as he slid into the back of the taxi, ready to deal with the vision of legs that she’d left for him.
“I was hoping you would know.” He had always enjoyed a woman’s legs crossed, especially when the woman was wearing a short dress. The way she sat even gave him a brief tease of the panties she was wearing. He loved how forward the women on Midgard could be. It meant that they aroused him at the same time as irritating him. There was no point when it was just irritation.
“Take us to the St. Regis.” he told the cab driver. It was perhaps not a good idea to take her back to his apartment, after all. Best to bring the festivities to the hotel room he’d checked into after returning from England. He hadn’t visited his Manhattan residence wearing his current disguise, and it wouldn’t do for anyone to have funny questions. He could kill anyone who knew too much, of course, but he’d have to kill them quickly and efficiently, and that wasn’t any way to kill a person at all. He liked to enjoy it. He liked to draw it out and think about it for hours, while they were near him, completely oblivious. He especially liked to picture them bleeding out while he carried their conversation.
“Fancy digs.” He could taste the suspicion at the edge of her mind, and relaxed as it gave way to the greed and lust that controlled her. There was no way an actor of his alias’ standing could afford to stay in New York at the St. Regis, but apparently she had decided to not let that little detail matter. A good choice.
“I like to stay in comfort, while I’m abroad.” he whispered in her ear, flicking the tip of the lobe with his tongue. She drew in a breath. Mmm. Perfect. “So, Miss…?”
“Carlyle.” Not technically so, since her marriage last spring to an Andrew Westing, but he would let it slide. Adulterers had a certain… spice to them, which he enjoyed.
“Miss Carlyle, then. How did you come to be familiar with my work? It’s not easy, getting recognized on this side of the pond.”
“I was in London five months ago. You were in a play.”
“Ah. The Kingdom of Earth. Did you enjoy it?” He listened to her prattle on pretentiously about the plotline of the play, occasionally preening at the compliments she paid his performance. He had an ego, it liked to be stroked. As did other parts of him. It was nice when both were taken care of by the same person.
“And what drew you to the Kingdom of Earth? Forgive me, but you do not look like a woman who would like Tennessee Williams.” She most definitely did not, but Loki never made assumptions about people. He let them talk, and they told him the truth, one way or another.
“My sister wanted to see it. One of her friends was an extra.” A well-crafted lie, for a woman of her intelligence, at least on the surface. A reasonable enough reason, with a bit of embellishment that couldn’t be questioned. His alias would likely not have familiarized himself with extras in the play. It fell apart easily enough for a person with knowledge of the play, sadly. Knowledge which she should have kept in the forefront of her mind. It was almost disappointing, that this Miss Carlyle forgot that there were only three characters in the play; it had not been some awful musical number with an endless supply of backup dancers.
No, no, a lie it had been; it would have made more sense for the imaginary sister’s friend to have been an understudy, though that did leave room for the lie to fall apart if he had decided to talk about the understudy in question. A lie it had been, and so Loki knew the truth. The truth always came to him, whether it was spoken by a man’s mouth or revealed by Loki’s mastery over all things false.
She knew him. Not his alias, him. She was a member of a group of people chasing a vast conspiracy that, quite rightly, had guessed the villain defeated by the Avengers during a botched invasion of Earth had managed to return. Many of the men (and women) supposedly Loki in disguise were quite innocent, but he had to admit, they had found quite a few of his little pretences. Not that they had done anything but turn him into some sort of cult figure, which was oddly flattering, in its own way. Modern worship, the counterpart to the modern sacrifices he took. Strange that this woman would give him both.
She knew him, and wanted him. How delusional these humans could be. What sane person would want to sleep with a being known for mindless slaughter, who wanted to subjugate the entire human race? Oh, but he had forgotten; under her own facades, Miss ‘Carlyle’ believed she could somehow change him. Well, many had tried. So very many. Their methods had all been different, but the results were identical. Whether it was a lower member of his father’s court sending him woman’s garments for him to be fitted into, as a slight against his use of magic, or his idiotic brother begging him to come back home, so he could pretend that all was as it once was, nothing changed. What was his nature, if not to lie and deceive and plot and scheme and take what was his?
She could try. He wondered if there were any rumours floating around about him killing anyone he slept with. There should be. He did so enjoy when rumours turned out to be true.
He let her lie slide, though. She either did not know who he truly was, and thought him a celebrity to chase, or was more foolish than he had thought possible. Either way, he would enjoy revealing that he was on to her, once the point of no return had been reached.
He was glad of the fact that she didn’t attempt embellish the story about her sister’s friend, though. Sometimes it pained him to hear lies so unskilfully told. A master like himself, whose sincerity rarely wavered, who covered every base and left escapes in each of his details, was a joy to hear, but those were rare.
Sometimes he liked to take the form of an adolescent’s mother and see how well they could spin falsehoods about just what he and his friends had been up to the previous night, or why they had received a phone call from the school. It gave him an almost nostalgic feeling. Not that he feel prey to anything like nostalgia. He simply got… bored.
He had to give Miss Carlyle some credit when she walked into the hotel lobby, though. She did a passable job of pretending the sheer amount of luxury surrounding them was nothing new, despite the fact that the most high-class even she’d ever attended had been the cocktail party he’d picked her up at. The dress was rented, and even then had cost her an arm and a leg, but she’d needed to blend in. Loki hadn’t been her only target; she’d chosen an even where with a few men she’d been stalking in attendance. But Loki had been the one she’d wanted the most. Lucky girl. Her infiltration of the glitterati had been successful.
Loki offered her his arm, and she positively glowed at his show of gentlemanliness. He smiled. He loved pretending. Small wonder he had found many an alternate identity as an actor.
He also loathed wasting time; he was suitably grateful, then, when Miss Carlyle pressed him against the wall of the elevator as soon as the gilded doors had closed. She was a quick one, not unskilled with her tongue, and her hands…well, they definitely knew where to go. Right where his ass met his legs, fingers playing along the curve of his buttocks, sensation helped along by the silk of the pants he wore.
“How many floors are we going?”
“You didn’t pay attention when I punched the button?” He still has the power of speech, thankfully. Didn’t lose it often, even when he was buried deep… or someone was buried deep in him. Maybe that would be tomorrow night. He so loved tricking men into thinking they had control over him, that they were dominating him, that he was doing anything less than owning them through their libidos and their inability to resist the lure of a tight, docile sex partner. And then, of course, he killed them. The looks on their faces… oh, he practically lived for those.
“I’m afraid I was paying more attention to… other things.” She gave his ass a squeeze, in case he somehow hadn’t got the message. He definitely had. His following kiss wasn’t so much an assault as it was a showcase of his repertoire, a teaser of what could come later. He didn’t like to pull out all of the stops until he and his partner reached the bedroom. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to kiss with skill, though. He’d had millennia to perfect the dance of tongue and lips; why should he be anything less than devastatingly proficient in that particular art? They did, after all, call him Silvertongue. Many had wondered, teasingly, if it was for more than his skill in lying. Many had found out the answer to that question. He wasn’t ashamed of the way he, in Midgardian terms, ‘got around’.
And she appreciated his demonstration of skill, from the sound of the whimpers she let out every few seconds. They neared his floor, which was both good and bad. He very much liked the position they were in, but his plans for her hadn’t included extended foreplay. He’d use his fingers on her for a short while, maybe even bring her to orgasm. If she were easy to pleasure, of course. But he wasn’t going to postpone the main event for longer than was necessary to get the feel of her. He liked knowing his victims intimately before killing them. It almost made him feel like he was more worthy of taking their lives than whatever could have befallen them, had he not touched them. Like he could ease them into the void better than any other, having known their pleasures.
His door wasn’t far from the elevator, which was a good thing. There was no way either of them could have looked remotely presentable, with his shirttails untucked and one of her breasts half falling out of her dress, victims of the pawing they hadn’t been able to resist. He so liked acts of sexuality in semi-public places. Public places, if he could get them.
Their walk to his room wasn’t so much a walk as an exercise in restraint. His considerable girth was rarely well-contained in the pathetically non-durable garments Midgardians liked to wear on their bottom halves when it wasn’t erect; filled with blood, stiff and heavy, it made an obscene bulge that would be the first thing to draw anyone’s eye, should they happen upon him and his companion in the hall. It was certainly drawing Miss Carlyle’s eye. She almost walked into a very expensive wall lamp while trying to get a good look at what was contained in his trousers.
“Would you care for a nightcap, Madam?” he asked, sure to lick his lips after he spoke. He’d been given many a comment about the way his lips tempted, especially when he drew attention to them. And so he did, as often as possible, when he was looking to slake his desires.
“I’d love one.” She clearly thought that they were still playing her game. He let her, when he poured her a finger of brandy from the minifridge, watching her throat as she swallowed the liquor.
“None for yourself?” she asked, mouth wet and glistening with brandy and the lights from the street outside the window. She sat like she was made for the kind of couch he had in his suite, though her college education clearly cost less than the contents of the room.
“Mmm, I think not. I had more than enough back at the party. I suppose it’s what happens when one sits at the bar most of the night.”
“Looking for women?”
“Obviously.” He took the tumbler from her hand, an action she seemed not to have any objection to, and lifted her hand to his mouth. Her fingers were slender, almost too delicate; she would have done well as a pianist. He loved bedding pianists, especially when wearing a female form. Guitarists, too, any musician, really, as long as they came with the promise of being good with their hands. Sometimes he’d ask them to play a piece of music afterwards, and he’d come up behind them just as their piece reached a climax, and rip out their throat with his bare hands. The music would follow him for the next few days. That was often his favourite part.
She looked at him through eyes that were far too hidden from him; likely the result of a heavy application of makeup and far too many sleepless nights. He could see enough of her, however, to know that she waited in taught anticipation for what he would do next. His breath ghosted across her digits as he contemplated her. Would she like what he had in mind? Would he care if she didn’t? He usually did. Despite the fact that he killed most of his bedmates after sleeping with them, he was a very considerate lover.
She just barely managed to stifle a gasp when he took her index finger into his mouth. He was usually met with success when he tried this on his lovers, but sometimes it wasn’t to their liking, which was fair enough, he supposed. To each his mundane own. Miss Carlyle clearly did not find having her fingers suckled distasteful. Each finger got the treatment, one at a time into his mouth, right up to the knuckle, and scraped by his tongue, before suction was applied. She liked it best when she had three fingers in his mouth, sliding them in and out obscenely, a pantomime of fellatio. He nibbled at the tips of her fingers, which also earned a favourable reaction, before sliding them out completely. Then he found her other hand.
He knew he was giving her great pleasure, and so time must not have made much sense to her. He knew very well that two and a half minutes had passed since he had first started playing with her hands, though, just barely into the forty minutes of foreplay and intercourse he had planned on, but enough time that he was ready to move on to more exciting things. She seemed to share in his eagerness to move on, fortunately. She didn’t hesitate as she took back control of her hands and slid them both down to the buckle of his trousers. She undid it like an expert, leaving just two buttons and a zipper, as well as the silk boxer briefs he wore underneath, between her and his cock. Entirely too much, obviously.
“You are one impressive man.” she said, when finally his manhood was free. He’d long been used to the compliments his equipment received, though sometimes, when he was feeling inadequate, for one reason or another, he would remind himself that his cock was larger than average while still being of a practical size, both enviable traits, and a rare combination. He’d heard enough stories about women constantly asking Tyr if he had finished inserting himself, only to groan in exasperation when he answered that he was only half sheathed, to know that he had a very, very good thing between his legs.
“I try.” was his reply to her compliment, though it hadn’t quite come out as suave as he’d intended, likely due to the fact that she’d closed her lips around his head, and had begun to tease him with small, rapid licks. She was a most intuitive practitioner, and very skilled, as had been hinted at in the elevator. Had he not decided on fucking her, he would have been very satisfied to come in her mouth.
He started to unbutton his shirt as she continued to attend to him; he disliked being too hot while having sex, and had no need of his shirt, anyway. Besides, he was in no mood to wear more clothing than his partner. Sometimes he liked to be fully dressed as he took his partner against a desk, or atop the kitchen table, but tonight he wanted to press his flesh against hers and feel her reactions to what he did through the vibrations of her flesh.
His chest didn’t glisten with sweat as she increased her ministrations, but he did start to breathe more heavily, something that she apparently noticed, since she stopped pleasuring him to look up, eyes dangerous as they met his. Or, she imagined them to be. All he saw was lust, which was all he needed.
“Get on the bed.” he told her, voice still not anything other than what he wanted it to be. Sometimes he pretended that he was only capable of whispers and grunts, just to see his bedmates pleased with themselves, having rendered their beautiful partner incoherent. It was interesting to see a person die with pride still on their faces. Pride, and surprise. He often wondered what went through their heads. Since they never spoke, he never knew. And he wouldn’t want them to. That would ruin the mystery. And come to think of it, it was a kindness, to leave a man’s last thoughts to himself, was it not?
It was the opposite, of course, when they were in bed with him, and when they weren’t speaking aloud, their bodies told Loki all he needed to know. Right now, his Miss Carlyle was telegraphing with the cant of her hips and the hold her teeth had on her bottom lip just what she wanted to happen. He would have her, then. He would taste her, first, but he would have her.
He stepped out of his trousers before stepping on the ends of his socks, sliding them easily off. He absolutely despised socks, and hated them even more when they were left on during intimate encounters. He watched as the woman on his bed unzipped the back of her dress just enough to pull it down, leaving her chest exposed. He changed his earlier judgment of push-up bra to double push-up. There was no way breasts were supposed to stick up at that angle. That hardly mattered, though. As long as they were at least half a handful and some kind of firm, he could work with them.
He couldn’t see what she was wearing underneath the skirt of her dress, though. The taxi ride had given him enough time to discern that she wasn’t wearing nylons, summer night that it was, and he’d seen an inch of some kind of dark, lacy fabric, but beyond that… He didn’t know if she liked to wear thongs, or boy shorts, or briefs, or, horror of horrors, a g-string. He liked undergarments to leave a little to the imagination, to tease and frame and entice. Having a string up someone’s rear didn’t really do it for him. Then again, he was being picky. He didn’t think he could afford to kick her out of his bed simply for wearing the wrong kind of panties…
“Help me with my dress?” she asked him, faux-meek and very nearly failing at that, too. He complied, though. Strode across the room, fully nude, and pushed her onto her back, pulling the zipper the rest of the way down, slipping the dress the rest of the way off to leave her legs fully bared and her ass, clad in a thong, almost demanding his attentions.
So he gave them.
She gasped and moaned, to a point that was almost too much; he knew not all of the noises she made were involuntary. He wondered exactly what her game was. Had it been him, chasing after some man he admired, he would have been content with bedding them, taking whatever he got from them. He wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of putting on a show, like she was. That didn’t matter, either. He had a proven way of stopping a show in its tracks. Several proven ways, actually, but the one he had in mind, at least for now, had considerably less of a… mortality rate. At least in and of itself.
Her backside truly was a thing of glory, though. He didn’t want to dwell too much, since he was hard and leaking and pressed to the sheets of his bed, but it was hard not to. He would never get anything done if he lingered, though. So Miss Carlyle was turned onto her back, revealing the front of her panties, or, rather, the lack of. Interesting. He hadn’t seen crotchless panties for quite some time.
Of course, faced with the view, he had no choice but to give the same attention to this side of her lower body. Obviously, she had liked his previous attentions, since she was visibly wet and flushed and… oh, yes, quite heated, when he let his hand drift downward to tease at her core. Incredibly wet, actually. So wet that he knew he’d never be satisfied with just knowing her with his fingers and his cock.
He bent over her, mouth reaching her neck so he could suck at it, hard enough to leave a bruise. Leaving bruises didn’t matter, not when she wasn’t going to return to her pathetic office job the next day, and therefore didn’t need to worry about hiding them. Her earlobe received similar attention, which earned him a few moans that were definitely genuine. Sometimes he wished he could tell his partners that he was the God of Lies and that he saw through them every time they reacted with anything less than sincerity, to save himself the annoyance of hearing noises that weren’t real. But who would believe him?
He let his mouth stay by her ear, after he finished worrying the lobe. It was a perfect place to tell her what he was going to do next. “I’m going to taste you now.” He loved modulating his voice to make it sound husky, raw with desire. It always had an effect. Sometimes, it was just too easy.
“Please do.” his ridiculous lover managed to get out. He could have admired her for that, since few women were able to speak while he had his fingers in them and his thumb rubbing their clit. But he had better things to think about.
He did smile at her, though, just a touch more predatory than was usual for a bedroom situation. He saw something in her eyes falter when he did; good, perhaps she was starting to realize that what she had got herself into had the potential to be very, very bad. Oh, but she was in too deep. She didn’t know it, but there was no going back, not now. Besides, once again, her lust overrid any concerns she had about the situation. Who cared if your bed partner was possibly psychotic if he was good in bed? Not Midgardian women, apparently.
“You look delicious.” he told her, which was the truth. It wasn’t much of a compliment, since he found every woman a delicacy, no matter what they looked or sounded or smelled like. But she melted when he told her, and that made her pliant, easy to manoeuvre.
Mmm, and she was delicious. Both in the way she tasted and the way she sounded, when he finally started lapping her up. She was so easy to navigate, all because of him, all because he’d made her wet. She was close to orgasm, which also served to inflate his ego, so he brought her there. Easily. Skilfully. She nearly screamed.
“Oh, God, that was fantastic.” Yes, of course it was, fool woman. How could it not have been, with an actual god in your bed? He did like it when they inadvertently addressed him, though.
“Thank you.” She was ready for him, definitely. There wouldn’t be any difficulty entering, not with the about of lubrication she had produced. He was ready, too. The noises she had made, when she had actually needed to make them, had aroused him, and he wasn’t planning on waiting any longer.
She was on her back, which would do for the moment. Those ridiculous panties were still in the way, though, despite the fact that they left his prize uncovered, so he tore them off. Quite easily, of course; he did have the strength of several men. She looked at him strangely for that, but he didn’t care. It was clear from the look of the material that they were made to stand up to tugging and pulling, shouldn’t have been ripped like that by a mortal man, but she was still controlled by lust, and her suspicions were destined to lead nowhere.
He loomed over her, just letting the tip of his manhood touch her, and he moved slowly closer to her neck, rubbing just slightly against her. She moaned. Obscenely. It hadn’t been entirely necessary.
He bit at her neck, leaving a line across the throat that his knife would follow, later. She wouldn’t know this until the very last seconds of her life, of course, but it was nice to leave himself a reminder of what was to come. She bruised so nicely, so easily. And her chest heaved under him, and he could feel her hardened nipples drag against his skin. Perhaps he’d neglected that area. That could be easily remedied, though.
“Are you ready for me?” Not his best line, but she was beyond caring. Especially when he lowered his head to her breasts, which were full enough, though definitely not what had been advertised earlier. He loved the feeling of a nipple on his tongue. It didn’t matter if it were male or female, although he did enjoy having some amount of soft flesh to play with in his hands while his mouth was busy. She was not overly sensitive, but sensitive enough that she appreciated the attention. He sucked lightly, then with more pressure, all while treating the other nipple to light pinches with the hand that wasn’t stroking her hip. She reached up to run her hands through his hair, which wasn’t nearly as black or as long as it usually was, but still enough for her to grab on to, when he moved his mouth slightly, and sucked hard enough on her breast to leave a mark.
“Oh, God, fuck me, right now.” An easy enough suggestion to follow.
He entered her slowly, so she could know his girth, so he could hear her gasp and whimper. Another boost to his ego.
“How do you want me? Fast? Slow? Hard?” The answer was all of the above, of course, but Loki did so like to hear what they wanted from him.
“Fast…” was the moan he got, as he slid in and out at a torturously slow pace. Slow, yes, but deliberate. Not how the lady wanted him, though. So he delivered.
He didn’t want to keep track of the filth that spilled from her mouth; it was enough that it was filth, and that it was for him. Occasionally she squeaked out commands for him, a few of which he followed. She was obviously confused, caught between wanting to be in control of him, to take him herself, and enjoying Loki’s own domination far too much.
Loki did not want her on her back, though. As interesting as her face was, pinched and flushed in pleasure, he did not wish to look upon it when he reached his own climax. Mostly, her preferred to take his women from behind, so he didn’t have to see them look into his eyes, as if they were sharing some kind of connection. Irene, he had permitted to do so. Only because he had recognized in her some kind of kindred spirit. The woman he was currently fucking had no such thing.
“Turn around.” he growled, which didn’t reflect his arousal, but his tiring of the woman smiling and clawing at him. The sooner she was on her hands and knees, the better.
“You want me from behind? Dirty boy.” She would not be so amused when he was finished with her, that he knew. She would tremble with fear, not lust. She would wet his fingers, but with her blood, not her arousal. Her breast would heave, her thighs tighten, her eyes widen and pupils dilate, but not for anything other than petrification. He was looking forward to that as much as his climax.
He slipped out of her, glistening with both of their fluids. She was as well, but perversely, the sight of his own manhood aroused and covered in secretions turned him on more that did the sight of her genitals in the same state. Maybe one of these days he’d simply clone himself, be done with the other person. It had worked well in the past. Then again, there was always a reason he turned to the flesh of others. As satisfying as his own body was, there was no suspense to it. He enjoyed learning other people, even when it turned out to be an exercise in confirming that most everyone he encountered would be helplessly boring.
She was quick about repositioning herself, no doubt as eager as he was to get back to fucking. The sight of her, with her derriere displayed most prominently, was infinitely more appetizing than the one he’d looked on before. His idiotic little Miss Carlyle arched downward, to expose herself further and tempt him with the wet flesh that lay just beyond her buttocks. Loki had to admit that it was an effective tactic. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly more dry than he remembered it being.
He moved forward, taken with the urge to taste her again. She was so wet, so swollen… it almost impossible not to touch her with his tongue again, taste her juices and also his own pre-ejaculate, feel the texture of her labia, and, with a skill that no mortal man had, find her clitoris to massage it, nearly sending her over the edge again. Of course, this exploration was merely a deviation… he had no intention of letting her finish again, while he remained unsated.
And he tired of her breathy moans, her little gasps and insipid encouragements. If he had to hear ‘Oh, God, yes, fuck…’ one more time…No, he was going to enter her, and fuck her, hard enough to turn her moans into wails.
So he pushed into her again, entering in a stroke that she felt, oh, she felt, would have felt for days had she not already been marked for death. So he felt no guilt, or pride, when he slammed into her, gripping her hips with vice-like fingers, which must have hurt her. And that meant she liked being manhandled, oh, yes, she did. She should have just given in to her submissive side, not pretended to be woman in control, slinking from room to room, pretending to be a lioness. Had she not wanted her façade so badly, she might never have encountered him.
She had stopped talking, thankfully. He didn’t need her to voice her need for him to drive into her, or her appreciation of his skill or girth. These things, he knew well enough. Her low voice had disappeared after her control had been lost, and her true tones were nothing short of grating.
He was taller than her, which made it quite easy to bend over her, bite at her neck again. Except this time, he paired the bites with deep thrusts, enough to distract her from the fact that his teeth were sharp enough to tear flesh, and so tear flesh he did. The blood now trickling steadily from the wounds he’d left, along with the ring of bruised marks, was the sight he’d been waiting for, the one that pushed him close enough to orgasm that he could feel it. He licked at her, lapping up the blood that was rich and red and oh, so delicious, and how pathetic, to be so far gone in sex to not know that your partner was sucking life-blood from your very, very vulnerable neck? He’d avoided her carotid artery purposefully, so as not to end things prematurely, but she wouldn’t be so lucky, later.
He did want her to come, just before he did, so she could clench around his cock and tremble beneath him. He couldn’t understand men who didn’t let their partners reach climax first. Did they not know just how arousing the sight and feel of a woman having an orgasm while they were in them truly was? They must be creatures, only interested in having their genitals stimulated and their pleasure centres activated, to see sex as an activity and not as an art. Not Loki. He reached for her clit, rubbed it in quick, punishing circles, and her still-annoying cries of pleasure grew louder. They were both close, then, and her just closer than he. Perfect.
There were spots of blood on the sheets, which were, of course, pristine and white and smooth as sin, or at least had been. He would take them, afterwards, take them to his apartment to photograph and sell on fetish sites. He did so enjoy being artful. It elevated him further above the men who had called him weak, and the men who still did. And there would soon be a stain spreading across them. He’d have to move her further forward, to preserve the delicacy of what was there now.
He reached up to cover his hands in her blood, and brought them back down, gripping her hips, leaving red handprints that smudged as he she bucked under him. She was very close, then. One hand moved from her hips to rub at her again, something that turned out to be a very, very good idea. The stimulation and the sheer force with which he entered her were enough. She clenched, shuddered, grew silent and then gasped, drawing in quick breaths of air as she rode her orgasm out, every movement stimulating him.
Loki had brought her to orgasm by touching her with hands covered in her own blood, which still dripped from her neck, and some of it was surely landing on her breasts, whose nipples must still be hard and… yes, oh, yes, yes…
His own climax was dizzying, more potent than he expected, and almost enough to make him lose himself. Almost. When it ended, he was still clear of mind, and had enough sense not to slide out of her immediately. Let her focus more on his cock softening inside of her, rather than the mess he had made of her neck. He braced his legs around her, so that she was effectively trapped. He didn’t want her to fight him. No, she was to go… relatively peacefully. It wasn’t the violence he liked, not really. He was sadistic enough in bed, yes, but that was always with their permission, or at least, what permission they could offer. No, he just liked the killing. Taking someone’s life, being the last person to own them.
She wanted to slump onto the bed. Loki wasn’t going to let that happen. Unfortunate that their two aims were going to begin to differ again. He did not care that she felt rubbery and weak after getting so thoroughly fucked. A mortal man may have felt the same, after the exertion; Loki was as alert as he had been in the bar. And now that he’d had one pleasure…
There was one more order of business to be taken care of, though. As much as it was inconvenient at times, Loki was a terribly curious creature. And so he wanted to know. Besides, wasn’t it nice to give a girl some satisfaction before she died? Let her think herself smart, prove herself? He’d take her satisfaction away as soon as she got it, but giving it to her for a few seconds was enough, wasn’t it?
“You never called me by my name, my dear Miss Carlyle. What is it?” he asked her, not bothering to disguise his voice as something less than dangerous. There was no longer a point.
She turned her head slightly, a self-serving smile on her face, along with the sweat from their previous activities. And the blood. There was no way she could have managed to not notice the blood. Kinkier than she wanted to be, yes. Too bad she’d been awoken by the wrong man.
“Tom.” she whispered. He slipped out of her, but otherwise didn’t move. Let her feel empty without his manhood filling her. Let her know that the time for her to have what she wanted was over. “But also Brent, and Oscar, and Richard. Oliver and Samwell and Judas. Rajesh, Carlo and Pietro. Marie-Claude and Salma.” He smiled as she said each name; sometimes praising her cleverness, or, rather the cleverness of her associates, sometimes in amusement. Brent, Salma, and Oscar had been actors, Oliver a salesman, Rajesh a sitar player, and Marie-Claude a well-known dominatrix. The rest he did not recognize, save for Judas and Pietro, but he did not recall ever betraying the one they called Jesus, and he was definitely not Magneto’s son.
“My, aren’t you clever.” he hissed back. She practically preened, though she was still on her knees on his bed, naked and slick, his softened cock pressed against her backside. Hardly the most dignified position.
“There’s a lot you’re hiding from… Loki.” He smiled. A fool. An utter fool. She had outlived her usefulness. Oh, how he would enjoy ending her life.
“Oh, my dear, you have no idea how much I’m hiding from.” She was still smiling, still content with herself. That would change soon. “But don’t worry your feeble little mind about any of it.”
“I wouldn’t call my mind feeble.” Her gall, again, to presume that she could play with him! Yes, he would enjoy taking her apart, talking her down until there was just one spark of arrogance left, taking that spark, too.
“But I would. You see, Mrs. Westing, this was never your ridiculous game of seduction.” She started at the name, faltered at the rest of his words. “Oh, yes, I know who you are. It never mattered to me, but I knew who you were the moment you lied.” He still held her with his thighs, which was fortunate, because she tried to move. He grabbed her chin, bit at her jawline to open up one of the wounds he’d left earlier, and let the blood pour down her neck much faster than it had before, now enough to cover half of her left breast. She looked at him in horror. Idiot girl. The danger wasn’t just starting now. She gasped when he lapped it up, just as eager as he had been when it had been her cunt he was feasting on.
His other hand left her alone, but that was just because he needed it to hold his knife. It was a simple mistake, thinking that a naked man could not possibly hold any weapons. He did not need pockets to house his possessions; at least, not pockets of the conventional sort. He smiled his widest smile of the night when he felt the knife in his hands, released from a dimension as small as a change purse. It was an understated knife, yes, with none of the ridiculous decoration that those of Asgard gave to their daggers, but its edge was sharp enough to cut through worlds. Its weight was almost comforting.
“You are a fool, Alexis Westing, born Alexis Carlyle, owner of no property, mother of no children.” He brought the knife up to her throat. The small amount of light let in through the curtains, the light made up of street lamps and neon signs and the cars passing, was enough to reflect off of the blade. And the red of her neck, and the few bits of untouched pale skin left to her, reflected as well. “You thought to lure me in with your woman’s wiles, give me a good time, and convince me to keep seeing you. Gain my trust and, with your ‘subtlety’, change me. You believe I need changing. Unfortunate for you that I am very, very content with what I am.”
She was out of quips. Good. Bound by his thighs and his hand and his knife, she was a thing of beauty, finally.
“This wasn’t a game, but thank you for playing.” And he slit her throat. Slowly, so the blood slid neatly down her throat, but not so slowly that she was able to make a sound. She didn’t scream, couldn’t scream, not with her voice box so neatly butchered. That was the way he liked them. Silent, not begging for reprise or mercy or whatever it was they thought could stop their death. Wide-eyed, yes, disbelieving, yes, but silent.
Let them scream while he pleasured them. In the end, he ate their words.
“This isn’t what you wanted at all, was it?” Loki asked her, as she knelt trapped between his legs, life draining from her neck. He wrenched her head towards him, wanting to see it drain from her eyes. It did. “But you die so prettily.” And, he supposed, she wasn’t entirely silent. She made half-noises as she died, strange spurts of sound that were part blood, part air, part protest.
And then it was over. She’d done a good job of it; not strong enough to look him in the eye to her last, she’d stared at the pool of blood slowly growing on the bed, eyes wide. She’d been a fool, but that wasn’t the point. Fools didn’t deserve death any more than those who were smart enough not to seek out mass-murderers for bed partners. No one deserved to die. That, or everyone did.
Damn, he’d forgotten to move her further up the bed. The pretty spatter of red droplets had been overtaken by the much less graceful outpouring from her neck. Blood was gorgeous, whether it dripped or gushed, but he had so many pictures of red sheets… Perhaps he’d leave them here, for the maids to find. Cruel, but it wasn’t his duty to shield people from the horrors of their world.
That meant he could leave her on the bed. He didn’t have to move her then, didn’t have to touch her, didn’t have to feel the overwhelming urge to eat her heart. He never did eat the heart, not after that one… incident, but it was always so tempting. Loki preferred to avoid temptation that would do him harm to act on.
Besides, even if he didn’t have a history of… reactions, human heart was far too rich for him to consume after the dinner he’d had. Too tough, also, with all of the tendons and valves. While not tired, exactly, a nice long bath did appeal to him.
And so Loki, sometimes Odinson, always Laufeyson, and forever Lie-smith, went into the bathroom, turned on the taps of his large jacuzzi tub, and had a nice soak, while a woman continued to drip blood onto his bed. He was most satisfied. And would be, until the next time the need overtook him, and then he’d be on the hunt for another poor, poor soul…