Darkness is mercy for the ones, who don't want to be seen.
For Loki it has become one of his closest confidants long time ago.
And he loves it. Loves it, loves with never-ending devosion and distinction.
Thor shouldn't find out about that.
He would have only been jealous. Unnecessarily, of course.
And yet it is the impervious blackness the dark contains, which allows their licentious nights.
It is its gloomy veil, which hides the two gods from Heimdall's restless eyes, even if it's just for a short period of hectical lip services, for seconds in which clothes are torn to colorful rags majestically sailing down to the ground. Loki claws his hands in soft hair and with the face it's caressing he pulls both in his direction.
What he searches is soon be found, marked with teeth and tongue.
He kisses him, kisses Thor as there would be no tomorrow and who knows, maybe there will be no other.
Ragnarök can come whenever it wants to come and if it wants to come on next day or the day after or the day after after or in the next year, then that's how it shall be. Loki regrets nothing and he is not willing to start with it.
Thor thinks the same way. It had been a wonder if not.
He kisses back, as fervently as he can feurig without crushing the lower jaw of his beloved brother into little pieces. But sometimes he loses control. Sometimes he forgets the measure of his own strength und the breaking sound of an unlucky squashed rib is what testifies of it in the end.
Loki accepts every bruise and bitemark without complainment, even tries to provoke it for several times.
He is very pecular when it leads to such things.
He is not satisfied with a little piece when he can get the whole thunderer.
(And damn, he wants him with neck and crop and all the blood, which cleaves to his hands.).
But he can be soft, too.
Incredibly soft. So soft it almost makes Thor feel safe. It is a lie. Loki's always been the master of lies, making them sweet with wet, tangeled kisses and sensual touches.
Thor is an favored victim of such mocked safety and he loves to fall for it.
The astonished noise blurting out of his throat when Loki's sharp nails suddenly dig in his flesh, cutting it open so that fine rills of blood soak the linen, rumbles in his brother's ears like beautiful thunder.
Well, Loki is fascinated by fire, has always been. He rarely cares about burns.
And Thor is fluid magma in his skilled hands.
Should he cool down sometime, Loki will lay with him and freez slowly, too.
Closing his eyes he will cover the dead mouth with unreturned kisses, pull the dagger and slit the breathless chest of his brother open.
¨My heart belongs to you.¨ Thor once said to him.
He laughed about it (but he never forgot these words).
Yes, sometime Loki will take what is rightfully his.
As a memento. When the time has come.
But now it's not the right moment for speaking about death.
Not when Thor is on top of him, hot, gasping, unbarely strong and full of life. Loki just has to press himself against the berserker, for he was cold all day long and needs someone, who can drown him with sweeping, threatening heat. Needs the knowledge to be wanted. Inside this bed. Inside this palace. Inside this world.
Needs to know why he is alive. Otherwise perhaps he would go crazy.
His enthusiasm is appreciated with a dark moan, which climbs above his own body, echoing in his bones.
Hel knows, he loves Thor's voice.
Every sound, every theme, every variation of it.
Thor is his bottomless fountain. Curtly ten hours and anew the thirst leads him into prohibited chambers doing prohibited things.
Prohibition is good. Prohibition is necessary. Loki does not not want to change it. Change nothing.
Darkness.
Mercy for the ones, who do not want to be seen.
For Loki it has become one of his closest confidants long time ago.
And he loves it. Loves it, loves with never-ending devosion and distinction.
But Odin loves it the most.
Because when he fades out the jeering folk enjoying the glittering feast he organized, he doesn't have to worry about catching his two sons from the
corner of his eye
.
If they leave through the narrow corridor side by side resorting to more isolated rooms, he is allowed to turn his head into another direction and act like he is blind.
Darkness helps him not to notice, what could possibly be there playing in the alluring sootiness. It helps him not to think about it.
And even the next day, when Loki dines with his family sporadically feeling his pulsative waist with twisted lips while checkered bruises paint a colorful, blazing path over his throat, Odin can ignore it. He may imagine that these wounds really come from the training, which Thor affirms to have absolved together with his brother. (¨Three times in a row!¨). Loki nods in a mechanical manner without looking up.
Though Odin knows too well that Loki hates to be the target of physical violence in battle and prefers to kill his enemies by using magical corruption, he believes his sons without hesitation.
(Probably for self protection.)
Sometimes Loki thinks about it while he lays in bed and then he smiles, pulls Thor in a dominant, almost avaricious way to his body and chaines their lips in another kiss.
When Thor then asks him gasping, what was so funny, Loki just shakes his head, still smiling.
¨Ignorance is bless.¨ he finally whispers and that is everything he allows Thor to know.
But as soon as Loki moves his slim fingers down to lower realms of his trembling body, the berserker does not mind it at all.
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Love,
Nathaira