constancychaos:

icyxmischief:

         “Well I was hoping for your input, darling.  Vali … is a name
          that a part of me seeks … in homage to what my family once
          was.  But does that somehow run counter to my claims of
          starting anew?  Perhaps our first child need not carry the title.”

The King of Asgard trails his fingers down his fire-haired
maiden’s ample thigh, back up, and down again, an affectionate
gesture mingled with one of genuine pensiveness, as they lay
tangled together in the furs lining his bed. 

“Vali … hmmm …” Sigyn quietly hummed the name as her hands rested over the slight curve of her belly. “I quite like that.”

She giggled at Loki’s touch, which sent ticklish shivers up the length of her leg. She entwined her fingers with her husbands, as she stared up at their bedroom ceiling, letting her mind wander.

“On Vanaheim, in the old days, newborns were named by the Norns. A priest would be called upon and sit with the child in trace, divining their future before a name was revealed. Few still practice the rite now, after the Great War, but my father insisted upon it for all his children, even if they were to live on Asgard’s lands.”

Sigyn turned to face Loki, her hand resting on his cheek before combing back his raven hair from his brow.

“Sometimes the past should be honored, and mingled with the new to ease the transition.”

Loki reclines now, across Sigyn’s form, possessive
yet yielding, relaxed and light, a cool consoling presence.
His arm drapes across her chest, leaving her hands free
to comfort herself in the lasting presence of the life growing
within.  He studies her features with that loving intensity
that intimidates so many who have known him, but not,
thank the Norns, she.  

At her touch, he at last blinks, and inhales thoughtfully 
through his nose.  

        “Then it would seem appropriate that we have named one child
          to come of our union after the past I have shed … but not, perhaps,
          the child who waits within you now.  Would you prefer that we name
          this one by Vanic tradition?” 

He guides her hand back to her belly, and rests his own
palm atop it.  

         “It does our dual heritage respect, I think.”  

         “Well I was hoping for your input, darling.  Vali … is a name
          that a part of me seeks … in homage to what my family once
          was.  But does that somehow run counter to my claims of
          starting anew?  Perhaps our first child need not carry the title.”

The King of Asgard trails his fingers down his fire-haired
maiden’s ample thigh, back up, and down again, an affectionate
gesture mingled with one of genuine pensiveness, as they lay
tangled together in the furs lining his bed. 

constancychaos:

icyxmischief:

Send ╰☆╮ if your muse thinks mine is attractive.

 The God of Mischief has little to say when his bride
assaults him with a torrential downpour of happy cleansing
praise.  So the Mother of Monsters, the Skytreader, the
Serpent, the Silvertongue, simply tucks his sharp chin
into his chest at Sigyn’s accolades, feigning engrossment
in a book and in doodling and notating its margins, and
mumbles one word.

              “Stop.” 

Sigyn, never one to back down from a challenge herself, sits herself directly in front of her husband. First, her fingers close in around the top of the book the blocks her view of Loki’s face, pulling it down to reveal a rose-hued flush gracing his all-too familiar visage.

She leans in towards his right cheek, her lips softly grazing the hollow. She continues, placing tender, playful kisses along his brow, jawline, and the tip of his nose before stopping millimeters away from his lips. She answers his request in the same manner he gave it, before engulfing his lips in hers.

“No.”

The simple, stubborn declaration strikes Loki as
inordinately hilarious. That’s possibly because Sigyn
is also quite skillfully climbing atop him and showering
him in nurturing yet flirtatious kisses.  Regardless
he wheezes with merriment.  

         “You … you are making me very frustrated … .!” he strives
         to claim, even while being unable to finish a single sentence
         for laughing. 

His book falls to their bedroom floor.