[ The cast of that soft blue gaze upon him, and Loki again struggles to master the desire that stirs the calm of his mind into an insurrection. He draws in a cold breath, another, speckles of ice glittering upon his parted lips.
The summer-king is more than a creature to be conquered, he tells himself. More than a shred of warmth to be used and cast away. More than a flame behind a grate to smother with ice and snow. More, more, more — and he knows it well as truth, for in the yielding curve of golden flesh is a promise made upon the verdant hills, and again upon the black varnished wood of Loki's table.
Indeed, he is lord and king and master in his own country, but Thor is no thrall to be claimed and plundered until death becomes his sole companion.
So Loki calms the skitter of his own heartbeat, and so he settles the quiet strength of his hands upon the hips raised for his pleasure. He leans down to brush a kiss at the base of Thor's spine, his tongue laving a bright smear of ice against the last ridge of vertebra.
Finally, he draws close; his breath is a sibilant whisper as he presses steadily inwards, the lean muscle in thigh and calf trembling at the effort to keep himself reigned. How he had lived for so long without Thor to catch him and hold him aloft away from the piercing stalactites, this he cannot fathom: not now, when his mind is a blur of sensation. ]
Can you bear it? [ says the soft breath of winter, his lashes fallen to obscure the color of his eyes. ] —if I were to have you so for an eternity — slow and gentle, and lacking entire the promise of a quick end?
no subject
The summer-king is more than a creature to be conquered, he tells himself. More than a shred of warmth to be used and cast away. More than a flame behind a grate to smother with ice and snow. More, more, more — and he knows it well as truth, for in the yielding curve of golden flesh is a promise made upon the verdant hills, and again upon the black varnished wood of Loki's table.
Indeed, he is lord and king and master in his own country, but Thor is no thrall to be claimed and plundered until death becomes his sole companion.
So Loki calms the skitter of his own heartbeat, and so he settles the quiet strength of his hands upon the hips raised for his pleasure. He leans down to brush a kiss at the base of Thor's spine, his tongue laving a bright smear of ice against the last ridge of vertebra.
Finally, he draws close; his breath is a sibilant whisper as he presses steadily inwards, the lean muscle in thigh and calf trembling at the effort to keep himself reigned. How he had lived for so long without Thor to catch him and hold him aloft away from the piercing stalactites, this he cannot fathom: not now, when his mind is a blur of sensation. ]
Can you bear it? [ says the soft breath of winter, his lashes fallen to obscure the color of his eyes. ] —if I were to have you so for an eternity — slow and gentle, and lacking entire the promise of a quick end?