[ Isolation has left him greedy for the sight of each shifting moment of bared skin, and yet his body remains a torn strip of vellum, sodden and frayed at the edges. Even the touch of mouth and tongue upon his cock had done little more than to draw out sunlit memory of a hundred such moments in the handful of months that summer and winter had once known communion.
Loki rises to his knees, crawling forward across the doeskin, the ladder of his spine shifting obscenely under the naked cloak of his skin; he draws himself upwards just enough to touch a palm to the warmth of Thor's shoulder, to sweep along the swell of it until his fingertips rest in the hollow of Thor's throat.
A temptation, even now.
Yet the moment passes soon into silence, and Loki casts off his malice into the sea lapping at the rocky shore of his mind — there it sinks, hiding beneath the black waves until Loki would cast his net again to call it hence.
Now he slips beneath the warm drape proffered to him, his hand steady upon the join of golden throat to shoulder, and he spreads his knees to straddle the width of Thor's hips below. The heat rises to warm his skin as if the open flame of Thor's body lies a thousand leagues away, so deeply has the cold wrapped itself about winter's king. ]
Did they seek to leave your kingdom because they share the coldness of my heart? [ asks Loki Winterborn, his hands splayed upon Thor's chest, his head bowed, his hair a tumbling chaos of shadow. The words have no bearing on the graceful shift of movement wrought by the fragmented body upon Thor's great thighs. Yet he speaks like a child, with the same plaintive note that had once kept Thor near to him through summer breeze and winter blizzard both. ] The children. Our children.
no subject
Loki rises to his knees, crawling forward across the doeskin, the ladder of his spine shifting obscenely under the naked cloak of his skin; he draws himself upwards just enough to touch a palm to the warmth of Thor's shoulder, to sweep along the swell of it until his fingertips rest in the hollow of Thor's throat.
A temptation, even now.
Yet the moment passes soon into silence, and Loki casts off his malice into the sea lapping at the rocky shore of his mind — there it sinks, hiding beneath the black waves until Loki would cast his net again to call it hence.
Now he slips beneath the warm drape proffered to him, his hand steady upon the join of golden throat to shoulder, and he spreads his knees to straddle the width of Thor's hips below. The heat rises to warm his skin as if the open flame of Thor's body lies a thousand leagues away, so deeply has the cold wrapped itself about winter's king. ]
Did they seek to leave your kingdom because they share the coldness of my heart? [ asks Loki Winterborn, his hands splayed upon Thor's chest, his head bowed, his hair a tumbling chaos of shadow. The words have no bearing on the graceful shift of movement wrought by the fragmented body upon Thor's great thighs. Yet he speaks like a child, with the same plaintive note that had once kept Thor near to him through summer breeze and winter blizzard both. ] The children. Our children.