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It's not that Sylvie doesn't fuck. Of course Sylvie fucks. She fucks anyone she pleases, mostly, and it does please her, mostly. It's just that sometimes, she doesn't want it. It's usually not even about sex, when she finds her own hands wandering over her body, often absentmindedly. It's habit, instinct, comfort. At least, that's how it starts out. Inevitably, a heat builds up within her, and things become a bit more focused, a bit more pressing. Her attention is demanded between her legs, and still, even as one hand darts beneath her waistband to respond to her need, she's not thinking about sex, really—it's just sensation, the delicious, tingly ache that spreads through her cunt, inside and out, the slippery slickness that coats her fingertips when they meet her entrance. Sometimes, it's enough. Today, there's an itch Sylvie can't seem to scratch. She sighs. It isn't that she's never inclined to take more time, or more effort, in getting herself off. She's spent whole days, at times, by herself, enjoying leisurely pleasure by her own hands, or with accessories, and loved every moment. But when a part of her seems to demand it without her input, it's irksome, for some reason. Irksome, but unfortunately undeniable. She's not looking to draw anything out this time, so it's magic that strips her, that conjures something long and smooth, thick and heavy, that draws a long, low moan from her as she presses it against her entrance until her body admits it, relishing the pressure within. (She couldn't say what it looks like, even—she won't bother to look, and it makes no difference to her, anyway.)And oh, that's better— much better. Sylvie couldn't take things slowly even if she wanted to. So there isn't even time to think about anything other than the rhythm of it, quickly working up to something one could consider brutal, as she fucks herself, the half-bruising, half-pinching kind of pain when she slams the blunt end against the entrance to her womb, the subsequent spreading ache that radiates through her belly and hips, before it all repeats again. And that's all it takes. That, and a firm pressure rubbing over the engorged, throbbing thickness of her clit, and Sylvie is tense and shaking, eyes squeezed tightly shut, jaw locked with teeth clenched and—And it's one of those days. The bad days. Sylvie should have known, really; she's normally unusually in tune with her own thoughts and feelings, much more intently than anyone else is with themselves, she reckons. Still, she surprises herself now and then. The bad days are the days she can't not think about Loki, no matter what she does. She eats a sandwich and hears his stupid critique of its flavor profile somewhere in the back of her mind. She sees the silhouette of someone tall and slim in her periphery, and for a moment, her heart drops to her feet. Her last memory of him replays over and over, while she agonizes over how it might have gone differently. That one, especially.Normally, Sylvie wonders if she might've stopped him. But sometimes it's different. And right now, with her hips thrusting out and up to meet each stroke of her hand maneuvering the thick length inside of her, the memory is only of darkness. Darkness, and infinite sparkling branches of timelines, which quickly fade—or her eyes close, or they cease to work, perhaps. And Loki is there. He's everywhere. He's dead already; Sylvie knows this. It's fine. He takes her, pulls her to him across the vast blackness, envelops her. He fucks her at the same brutal pace she fucks herself—fucks the breath from her, fucks the life from her. The suffocation is welcome, it's beautiful, it's a satisfaction Sylvie isn't sure she could ever fully describe or even understand, herself. All she knows is the void, the blackness, and Loki. He fills her—not just her cunt, but everything, every space, until there is no room for air in her lungs or blood in her veins, until there is barely even a spark for her nerves to carry those last sensations when abruptly she is coming,
howling,
cursing,
sobbing.
She wants to cry out to him. She wants to utter his name, even if only to put out into the universe how deeply she feels. But there's only nothingness there; she can only continue to shake and shiver and babble frantic nonsense while she rides wave after wave of ecstatic sensation.Gone. Gone. And then…Gone. The blissful emptiness is gone, replaced by the more tangible emptiness that is Sylvie's reality. In her shock at the transition, she'd vanished the item that had filled her, and now there is only a dull, hollow ache inside, an ebbing throb, the sound of her ragged breathing—gods, she's still breathing— and already, light filters in through her still-closed lids, obliterating the sleek, inky darkness that had cocooned her. She wants to scream, but she won't.