[ Perhaps he would not take it, were it to be offered so; no gift of body or spirit can ease the eternity of isolation that has frozen and shattered heart-blood once sweet and crimson with love. Perhaps it was folly to see himself as master, and the golden spread of summer's love upon his bed as mastered — for are they not god and god alike, sewn from the fabric of eternity, stitched through with silver and golden thread? Even now, when Loki curls his hand into a cool fist about the heft of Thor's cock, even now he is but a channel, a conduit, meant to carry the warmth of Thor's love within himself. There is no master between them, and thus neither can be mastered.

Loki knows this, beyond the corruption that his jealousy has inflicted. No longer can he call upon the ice and the snow to shackle Thor-king to himself; he had been a fool once to believe himself capable of overwhelming prophecy, but no longer will he descend into the same gaping chasm of complacency. ]

They will not see what you see. Your children, your people — they will look upon you with pity, not pride.

[ His tone a steady murmur, without inflection. His hand works still, his thumb pressing into the tender skin below the crown's ridge, his fingers spread and curled about the heavy heat of the shaft. His thigh rises below the drape of fur and linen, his leg hooking over Thor's, fitting them inextricably together. ]

And yet I do not love you enough to release you from your own folly. [ As he lifts his chin to seek a kiss, the light slants across his face, blanching the last of the color from his face. He looks as if he is wrought from marble, from ivory.

And in the next moment, Loki remembers the heat and the pain of lust. His breath falls from parted lips, soft and sibilant. ]