[ If they are gods, do they not have the right of self-indulgence? Loki has spent his existence walking the lands created by his own footsteps; he has taught the mountains to tower, the trees to grow, the birds to sing. He taught the mortals to speak, to walk, to eat from the sacrificed beasts of the land. Is it not time for him to reap the fields he has sown?
If he is a god, it is his right.
And yet looking upon the spill of sunlit hair across his own naked white thighs, Loki feels less a god and more of a worm white upon the black earth, worthy of neither the warmth of Thor's hands or mouth. Or of the sweet comfort of his words, those that have already shown Loki's heart again what it means to be whole and unhurt.
Oh, perhaps one day he will be the consort of a great god-king, and he will eat of a table provided by the sun and the earth, by mortals who will always love their summer-king more than his silvered shadow.
And will Loki not be amongst their numbers, offering his body to slake and be slaked in turn? Will he not offer tribute with every glance askance? ]
Not yet. [ He says, softly. His body cants backwards, unsteady, trembling, and he barely manages to brace himself before he falls splayed against the narrow bed of Thor's crafting. His breath catches between his teeth. He speaks as if bespelled, the words spoken as if from a dream. ] The cold has sunk deep. Deeper than your reach.
[ And Loki dare not reach out and touch the golden hair, nor the rough cheek, for he knows that he would draw forth heat and love and succor more than even the summer-king can provide. Loki would drink him dry, and thus murder him with plaintive desire instead of hatred alone. ]
no subject
If he is a god, it is his right.
And yet looking upon the spill of sunlit hair across his own naked white thighs, Loki feels less a god and more of a worm white upon the black earth, worthy of neither the warmth of Thor's hands or mouth. Or of the sweet comfort of his words, those that have already shown Loki's heart again what it means to be whole and unhurt.
Oh, perhaps one day he will be the consort of a great god-king, and he will eat of a table provided by the sun and the earth, by mortals who will always love their summer-king more than his silvered shadow.
And will Loki not be amongst their numbers, offering his body to slake and be slaked in turn? Will he not offer tribute with every glance askance? ]
Not yet. [ He says, softly. His body cants backwards, unsteady, trembling, and he barely manages to brace himself before he falls splayed against the narrow bed of Thor's crafting. His breath catches between his teeth. He speaks as if bespelled, the words spoken as if from a dream. ] The cold has sunk deep. Deeper than your reach.
[ And Loki dare not reach out and touch the golden hair, nor the rough cheek, for he knows that he would draw forth heat and love and succor more than even the summer-king can provide. Loki would drink him dry, and thus murder him with plaintive desire instead of hatred alone. ]