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( you've got trouble in your blood )
[ Sometimes, when night steals the sunlight from the sky, Loki emerges from his lair of villainy (a thatched-roof cottage tucked into the Wienerwald forests, where wildflowers grow to his doorstep and the sweet cold taste of rain never leaves the air). He folds himself into the branches of a hornbeam hardwood, shifting his bones until he emerges as insect or bird or beast, and watches the stars continue their endless parade across the sky. It calms him, to set the rhythm of his thoughts against the punctured brightness of the sky, until he can again strip his flesh down to vein and artery and devote himself to another act of treachery.
A week ago, he'd burst apart his favorite hardwood whilst attempting to rein in his magic enough to shapeshift.
Loki knows this restlessness. He knows it, and he fears it, for the answer to the demand of his blood lies in the golden halls of Gladsheim. Or, perhaps, upon the seventy-fifth floor of the Avengers Tower in Manhattan, where Anthony "Iron Man" Stark has set aside living quarters for Earth's sole Asgardian defender.
The first night, Loki takes his painfully turgid cock in hand and strokes himself to release half a dozen times before acknowledging that his frustration has only burgeoned in response. The next four nights, he devotes all of his remaining concentration to maintaining a glamor convincing enough to fool the mortals. He fucks his way through twelve, thirteen, fourteen eager mortals, the self-hatred curling like smoke about his heart. This is the puling creature that Loki-prince has become, left to dig in the earth for worms to satisfy the ancient lusts born from noble Ymir's loins. And worse still, the indignity produces no result, as the company of mortals offers naught to quell the flames that have begun to scorch him from within.
Thor, his mind screams, not even allowing him the comfort of self-deception.
On the seventh day, Loki dresses himself in the greens and golds of his royal standard, cloaks himself in shadow, and forces open the paths between the worlds. In the depths of the Asgardian woods he will hide himself, and he will rend the sky apart with green flame and crimson flood, but he already knows how his journey will end.
Brother, his mind screams.
Loki steps out into the forests of his long-abandoned home country, and already he's nothing but a shadow of movement across the moonlit grass. ]
A week ago, he'd burst apart his favorite hardwood whilst attempting to rein in his magic enough to shapeshift.
Loki knows this restlessness. He knows it, and he fears it, for the answer to the demand of his blood lies in the golden halls of Gladsheim. Or, perhaps, upon the seventy-fifth floor of the Avengers Tower in Manhattan, where Anthony "Iron Man" Stark has set aside living quarters for Earth's sole Asgardian defender.
The first night, Loki takes his painfully turgid cock in hand and strokes himself to release half a dozen times before acknowledging that his frustration has only burgeoned in response. The next four nights, he devotes all of his remaining concentration to maintaining a glamor convincing enough to fool the mortals. He fucks his way through twelve, thirteen, fourteen eager mortals, the self-hatred curling like smoke about his heart. This is the puling creature that Loki-prince has become, left to dig in the earth for worms to satisfy the ancient lusts born from noble Ymir's loins. And worse still, the indignity produces no result, as the company of mortals offers naught to quell the flames that have begun to scorch him from within.
Thor, his mind screams, not even allowing him the comfort of self-deception.
On the seventh day, Loki dresses himself in the greens and golds of his royal standard, cloaks himself in shadow, and forces open the paths between the worlds. In the depths of the Asgardian woods he will hide himself, and he will rend the sky apart with green flame and crimson flood, but he already knows how his journey will end.
Brother, his mind screams.
Loki steps out into the forests of his long-abandoned home country, and already he's nothing but a shadow of movement across the moonlit grass. ]