If you know yourself and your enemy, you need not fear the outcome of a hundred battles.
If you know yourself but not the enemy, you will suffer a defeat for every victory you achieve.
If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will subject in every battle.
- Sun Tsu. The Art of War.-
My name is Loki. I am neither Jotun nor Aesir.
I was blessed with many titles during my more or less glorious career.
Silver tongue. Schemer. Ice plague. Poisoner. The lying king. Iron brood. I was even called figment of madness. Unfortunately I could never find the person who came up with this. If I had, I would have thanked him or her and expressed my compliments for the ingenuity. But what am I now? What am I really? A single consciousness is not enough to provide all these identities at once. If it did, I would probably suffer from a fragmentation of the mind. Schizophrenia is how the people call it. But well, since I can remember, I am hopelessly possessive. I would never share myself with other split personalities. I belong only to myself. Yet whereby this self defines, has become a mystery to me on closer inspection. Even my mirror is incapable. It merely reflects a sheath, a dress of my appearance. A porcelain mask that spans my jaw. That says nothing. I can change my form within a blink of an eye, a trait gifted from the frost giant genes, the legacy of an appearance I abhor to the depths of my raven black nature. Only then when my skin turns blue I am a truly ugly , the answer is not to be found in the color of my flesh or the nature of my bones. I have to go inside me. And stand in front of a wall of frost crystals.
How often have I destroyed my nails by trying to scratch at it? The counting exhaustes me.
The translucent surface does not yield. It is so adamant as the guilt that I have loaded on me.
When I scrape my neck on purpose and red streams flow from my veins I wonder how deep I have to cut until the including pitch emerges from my skin. I have often dug after it. I dig for very long. My body is a submerged sarcophagus. I have cleaned the edges, but the lid was never opened. Why? I don't know. There. What is there inme? What distinguishes me from the other side of the call, the me, the universe has tailored?
Is this about feelings that have influenced me? Emotions?
No.
Deeds.
Deeds climb the ravages of time. But are not those feelings the ones, from which such acts arise? Is a war not the result of a shameful betrayal, sponsored by envy and jealousy? Is a death not the result of a broken heart, outlined by hatred and disappointment? Is not love the root and source of all available sufferings which life provides?
Yes. Yes, it must be this way. Emotions are the cause of all evil. Why should not I be the largest among them?
But I am stronger. Must be stronger. Conqueror the unconquerable. Conqueror of the conquerors. Conqueror of myself. I have these feelings barking like clothing that pinches my air supply. Ban them after Helheim, behind the bars, behind Gram's growling. For it is only when I am a hollow shell, polished and cool and fresh as the first morning dew, I'll have found myself. Only then I remain invulnerable. And only when I am invulnerable, you are not able to harm me with your words, your voice, your body, your hands ... (God, your hands!) Only then I can defeat you. Gain a final victory. But I want that? It's a pleasure to play with you and exceed the limits. I don't know what to do else. And if I ever knew it, I forgot it. But that doesn't bother you. You love me. You love me, you love me. Why, brother? Why you? Why I? Why she? However you slice and turn it, the fate is tricking you on both sides, no matter what you're making in the end. Midgard gives you an end with terror. I guarantee you a terror without ending.
The choice is difficult for those whose life span keeps to be almost forever. And believe me. I will make it as uncomfortable as possible for you to decide. So that you can be sure to have done the right thing. And you hold such a passion for virtue, right? I will etch it into your flesh until it croaks.
You'll love it, brother.
Love it.
It is night and Ragnarok's reputation resounds in silent screams across the country.
Until now, there is only a comforting echo that you can ignore if you please. But for how long? For how long ...
Hm, I don't know. And if I'm honest, it doesn't matter to me what tomorrow will bring this time. Or the tomorrow after tomorrow. Even next week - if we are still alive until then. You are here. With me. Nothing else matters. The moonlight drinks from the shadows cowering timidly on the walls of the room and hardly dare to move from their niches. It almost amuses me how patient it lurches through the curtains, desperately clinging to the duvet. A few rays crawl blindly to me, breaking a whisper on my skin. The coldness of the universe haunts my fingertips. I put them to my lips and lick. Stardust is paired with the silver of my tongue. Slowly, I watch as the moonlight continues its aimless journey, painting distorted tracks on my body. Affectionately it performs gentle dances with glowing schemes on my pale flesh, practising tantalizingly shimmering pirouettes above it. It is a game. Innocence springs from ignorance. It does not know my poison. And the stars have grown tired to entertain the moon. It doesn't bother me. For the first time in centuries, I readily incline from the protective cloak of darkness and give the smooth light a pleasant welcome. It harbors no room for illusions, every inch of my naked body is spread out on the bed and barely tangle across the crisp white sheets under my thighs.
It is as if I bath in cloth woven snow. Like once when I was an infant, the one trapped and whining in the eternal ice of Jotunheim, ready to die. But that is past. All the mistakes, the failures and the actions we committed at that time, are no more than a miserable delusion of our shameless memories now.
Only what is happening in the here and now, is of concern. What happenes on this day. Or in this night ...
Slowly I turn my head to the side, focusing my eyes on you, who stands in front of the bedstead for what feels like an eternity, speculating about whether you should come to me or not. My grin is the faint hint of a sneer. Disgust cuts in the right corner of your mouth, pulling it upwards equal to an anchor. A shadow scar on my marble cheek. You clench your fists, about to take a step back. My smile mutates into a real sneer and you stop. Fool. Only a coward repressed his instincts. You look up from my curled lips and hate bubbles like weeping rain on your face. Oh, your hate, your hatred is battered by hurricans and carried with the wind. In the distance a thunder dies away. A shiver runs through me. Your anger is as abundant as the hail that patters mercilessly on innocent fields and stomps the ground to smacking mud, far away from our current. Your gaze is upon me like a hunter lurking on its prey.
Instinctively, I lift my pelvis. A challenge. You like challenges. You like it. Don't deny it. The hunger that flashes in your storm clouded blue is unmistakable. We desire, what we see. You do it too. I can read it in your eyes. Your eyes have always been the best of you. Always. Not your muscular arms that could lift a whole mountain. Not your hands , rough and uncouth, presenting the battlefield and practiced of weapon use. Not your sun-smoothed, tangled mane, which would have made any lion envy you. Not your semi-hard dick protruding out your blood filled lap and hotly pulsating in suppressed desire. The material of your trousers is too sparse to deny me this delicious view. But no. Your eyes. There is nothing better than your eyes. They eat me alive. But the rules of your idoistic company have taught you to be shy. You breathe, eat, drink and fight, but tell me when do you finally begin to live? It is a miserable existence that you've created within barely the year. Neither the gold nor the dungeons of the underground were able to keep me. You, on the other hand, have always understood both as a protective barrier and wrapped yourself in them like a trembling child in its blanket. Protection is what you expect from all those institutions and laws and rules that have set up your ancestors eons ago. You draw your path, exhaust your judgment. About the worlds. About me. About yourself. You don't want to hear it but I'll never get tired to accuse your stubbornness.
You're a prince, a fucking god. But you often act like a plow horse, attached with blinders on its temples and obediently driven by a foreign whip.
This is pathetic. I know you hate the truth and you hate it even more when it drips from my mouth, because it seems so absurd to you. Without warning, I pucker my lips and spread my legs a little further, so that the light forces itself greedily around my bared center. A sweet sigh escapes my throat. The sound is terribly soft, not even a whisper. And yet it moves through you from head to toe. I feel it. The air crackles in charges, electrical impulses that shape your being. Oh, you can be so self-indulgent, my dear. I'm the last one to want you in chains. I've never needed them with you. Your gaze flashes in knowledge, a rebellious mind. Yes. You know me. From time to time you even see through me. I am able to read you like an open book, but you just accept the try to tear my cover apart. Year after year after year. And the year after these years. You yearn to climb my insides. Like now. And sometimes you succeed for a hopeful moment. Perhaps you succeed in this moment as well, but it won't help you much. Not here.
This night, I am the one who'll take hold of your wounds.I'll make them burn. And you will beg for more.
Seconds elapse. Eyelashes stroke. Heartbeats. Then you're next to me. On me. All over me. Bowing… to me.
Putting your hands on either side of my head you sink slightly into the mattress. The golden hair falls down on your temples, scattered strands touching my cheek, my neck. It tickles a bit. I deadpan quietly. The look in your eyes poses an interesting bouquet that fluctuates around the edges of rage, doubt, desire and fear. A maelstrom of suffering that takes me into its heart and does not let go until the bitter scandal takes place. Exquisite, really. I'm officially the center of your world. And I'm right. There is nothing better than your eyes.
"You're a nefarious creature." you hiss between clenched teeth and your bass almost drownes in its seething torment.
You torture yourself, you torture yourself. You're tormenting yourself because of me, how nice. With undisguised fascination I observe how the muscles quiver under your armor. My poor brother. You are tired of having to control yourself. That's fine. I will deliver you whether you let me or not. There is no permission needed.
"And you still love me." I reply and my velvet baritone sweeps calmly on your battered spirit. "So, who is the nefarious one here?"
You're silent. All right, there could be no better confession. This saves us time for more important things.
I lift my head slightly, soon I'm so close to you that our noses meet and the breath of the other blows on our skin. I'm only a few inches away from your face. Five inches. Four inches. Three. two - The remaining distance is bridged by yourself. Wonderfully simple. And so predictable. A kiss. A delicate contact of two pairs of lips. Almost innocent. It lasts too short, much too short. You dissolve, horrified by your own desire. It won't do any good. There is no escape. Your fault. Like a cobra I jerk after you and catch you with my teeth, drifting the poison of my tongue into your vaguely open mouth. Delicious, isn't it? You like what I offer. Otherwise, your harsh response would be an act of pure, unadulterated masochism.
But there is so much more than that. You know what I want. And only you can give it to me.
I want you to lie down on me, your beefy, bulky body pressed against mine, melting in my arms. I want you to enjoy me with tooth and nails, tasting every sinew, every muscle and gnawing on my bones. I want that you to rip off my chest with your bare hands and turn my hot steaming stone heart between your fingers. Lick it, suck it, devour it until the blood runs stale from your scandalously red lips. Maybe I am even a little bit happy then. What happens after is a rehearsed piece of work. Skin rubs skin, fingers hike, grab, fight. A tournament of flesh and bone. Metal plates plunge with a tinny clatter to the ground, the chain mails goodbye with a rattle. There is heat in my loins and a mouth made of lava on my nipple. You enclose my flesh, sucking on it as honey would drip. Saliva shines in sluggish threads on my skin, together with drops of sweat and hoarse moans.
Are these sounds really escaping my throat? Strange, they seem so strange to me ...
Your hands are constantly in motion, never letting me rest for a single second. Do I suspect them on my waist, they already long for my back, tug my hair, my neck, my - ah! You grab me like a snake, rubbing your fingers hard and heartless around my shaft. Sighing, I brace myself against it. I'm a whore. Your whore. Rejoice over this privilege, because no other receives it. Finally, I have enough of my ordeal. With a sardonic grin I nudge you back on the bed, sit throned above you. It's my turn. Bear it. My movements are fast. Before you can stop me, my mouth hangs over your lap. Deliberately driving my tongue along your heavy length, I lap around the leaking head, nipping at the slit, tasting the salty ingredient of your pre-come. Soon, lips and breath join the shiny glans. So soft and musky, a feast all for myself.
Let me be your banshee. It will be my pleasure to suck out your life.
Deafening thunder surges above the clouds and lightning cuts the sky at every minute. You're so easy to upset. Has it ever been different? Actually, it seems pointless to highlight something that belongs to me since I can remember. But your twitching, your sweat gleaming chest, your growling bass are worth every bite, at your most vulnerable point. Look at me quietly, while you perish. Memorize every detail as a still image, because there is so little of foreverleft like you and me. Your fingers lie down on my head. Hesitant.
Ridiculous for a thunder god. But typical.
Contact me, blowing me further. Let me sink the nails into your thighs. Play my game. You want it. And I know no shame. And yet you tug my mouth away from you, only to urge him against your own. Your taste smokes on my tongue. It sends you down rain. There is nothing wrong if you want to dominate. As long as I'm the one who keeps your reins. It's fun to give you the spores. Suddenly there are wet fingers on my entrance, swirling around the tight muscle ring and slide into my hole. The cocktail of sadness and joy that honors my lust is brought to silence from your rough lips. Stretching me while moving in and out, in and out. Over and over again. It burns, so sweetly. Stop and you will die in these sheets. My vision blurres gradually. Tears in my eye? No. A blink. They never existed. Brother, do you want to hate me? Deep, deep in the ark you call your heart? Despite all the love you're so mindful to offer? It may seem sentimental, but I would like to know it before Ragnarok deprives us of our voices and we sleep in the ashes of the dead. I can hear it. The cries of the fallen warriors in my inanimate dreams. The collapse of the worlds shares the noise of shattering glass. We all are merely shards of the broken pieces of their broken pieces.
My name is Loki. I am neither Jotun nor Aesir. A monster that feeds on mischief and craves for chaos.
But you? What are you? You're neither my enemy nor my friend.
You're neither my rival nor my ally.
You're neither my lover nor my brother.
You are my nemesis.
Without you my existence knows no deeper meaning. And without me is your victories fade and your lips are worthless. They could just as well be sewn with a thread and put to silence forever. Like me once, when I had to learn at what time honesty pays off and at what occassion it would be better to offer some lies...
Another kiss from you and every other thought eradicates in sparkling fire that burns my oil-soaked soul to the foundations and engraves my bite on your lips. You penetrate into my corner, pfählst me. And it is the most delicious penetration I have ever experienced. I see the universe. Comets that explode before my eyes. Falling tides. Nothing will be left of us, when the final battle makes the mountains tremble and forests pluck from the ground. Nothing. We pass away, mouth to mouth. Belted at the chains we forged ourselves on by iron will. United to strive after forbidden sin. The blood is our ceiling, the shimmering sparks of fire in the twilight are our stars.
Your thrusts become faster. Tearing me apart. The control is gone. It has lost you. And I've won you back instead.
You're the incarnation of a tempest and I am undone in your wake. You're the only dungeon I like. Take me. Take me till I'm dead and numb and sore, so sore that I can not move a single muscle without feeling you inside me after days and weeks. Link our eyes and look at me when you come. When I come. Do it! You turn away from me, staring over my shoulder.
Intentionally. Rebellious. Useless.
Boldly I cling my hands into your hair and force your face in my direction once again. Oh, this delicately dilated pain in your pupils. What is sweeter? The pleasure or the pain that revels in them? I can't decide now. Both is arousing. It takes a final, agonizing thrust in my inmost heat to make us both cry out. It may be that I'm louder than you, but who cares in this seconds of bliss anyway?
Drops of cum pour over your belly and a few moments later I'm filled with your hot, sticky seed. Exhausted you collapse on me. Your weight is hard and broad on my body. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around your sweaty neck and hold you.
It's alright. You fell. You're the same like me.
Yes ... I look forward to it.
The downfall. You'll be with me when it comes to an end. You all will experience Ragnarok and die with me.
For I am a god.
We are gods.
I'm truly happy.