#sidrisa ficposts

Heat spreads in your gut like wax from a tipped over candle. Imagine. Him. Pale skin patterned with red welts you put there. Mouth hanging open in a sob begging. You. For more.

Please.

One of those sharp bits jams into the meat of your palm reminding you not to stray from your purpose. This is to bind, not break. Breaking will have to be negotiated later.

You’re good with rope. With ties and knots and how to make them work with flesh. The Asgaridans always thought that meant horseflesh but your prince is well read, and his libraries are vast. He came to you with a book detailing the Southlanders’ talents with rope and asked if you could do the same.

“Why?” You asked him.

He chuckles as if the question is absurd, and answers with his own. “Doesn’t this look like fun?”

He flips to an illustration of a woman, chest completely bound with a cage of rope from neck to ankle. Her expression is rapturous and tortured as an unseen hand tugs on her bindings and lifts her high enough to keep a few toes on the ground.

You search his face for sincerity or jest knowing enough of him to know his jest is his sincerity. He snaps the book shut, light smile never fading, and answers you again sincerely, true and unadorned.

“Because it is yours, and I would know it.”

“If you’re serious then, we’ll need to come to terms?”

“Terms? Like making up some codeword for stop?”

He’s not wrong, not fully, but he’s also put several carts before the horse. “No, I mean terms like what you want out of this.”

He gestures to the chap book. “Isn’t it clear what I want?”

“No.” You sigh. “You have to be open and explicit.”

“Oh I can be explicit.”

“Loki!”

“Princess?”

He laughs when you take in a sharp breath, ready to scream at him or simply disappear to another part of the castle. Ye stars why did they fate him to you? You tamp down on your exasperation, of course he wouldn’t understand such activities have special and serious significance, and that the book in his hands is probably some Asgardian colonizer’s gross misinterpretation.

“Rope,” you say slowly, hooking his gaze to yours, hoping it imparts some of your seriousness or if not, warns against any of his jokes. “Is a means, not an end. It can be, if you want it to. If all you want is for me to tie you up and fuck you rotten, that is easily done.”

His ice green eyes widen, unused to your profanity. Good. It means he’s truly listening now.

“The bound submits, makes a gift of his secrets and his desires, and his insecurities, of his fears and fantasies. And it is the responsibility of the binder to meet and respect all. To facilitate a healing or a catharsis.”

He tap a black nailed finger to his chin. “Hm. More to it than I thought.”

“Of course there is. There always is. How often does an Asgardian see beyond their own bias?”

He tosses the book over his shoulder. “If my lady has more thoughtful words on the subject, I’d read them.”

“Are my good books are at home.”

He hums, careful not to breach too deeply the subject of your stolen home. “One day you’ll read them with me.”

“One day.” You agree.