Thor, like an instrument, made to fit perfectly into the hand of his younger brother. He will never know that the trial he faced during Loki's absence was an idle machination, one never truly meant to bear fruit: a whisper in a counselor's ear, a passing suggestion to their father to give Thor tasks beyond offering the esteem of his presence in the halls of counsel. Loki had known Thor would falter, and he'd known too that Odin would see it as a failing in his own parenthood. Thor, no matter how great, no matter how beautiful, no matter how strong of arm and gentle of eye, is not yet ready for the throne. If no one will heed Loki's word, then only careful scheming will show them all what he already knows.
Still, it causes him little pleasure to see his brother caught in the storm of his own distemper. Has it not always been true that all have loved Thor best? All, including Loki himself?
He had not, after all, expected Odin to cast Thor out of Asgard, nor had he expected the reprimand to be delivered publicly.
Still, now all is past: Loki is a sparrow upon a bough, now, readied for the winter. Thor's arms raise him from the shadows, and the rise of his mood warms them both. Loki welcomes the kiss, open-mouthed, taking Thor's breath into his own lungs. When Thor moves to shift above him, Loki holds him fast, arms looped tightly about those great shoulders. "Oh! The stories that have been written of your famed impatience, my would-be king," he is smiling, feeding the murmured words into Thor's mouth. "And so I must ask — how many have you claimed since my departure?" says Loki, coquettish in his manner, his mouth a loose red curl. He is indulgence itself: his body splayed without modesty, his eyes dark and hooded. Jealousy is a faraway dream, mattering little in scant space between them. What need has Loki for such things, when he can feel the beat of Thor's heart matching its rhythm with his own? "Tell me — tell me how they all fell short of whom you truly craved."
no subject
Still, it causes him little pleasure to see his brother caught in the storm of his own distemper. Has it not always been true that all have loved Thor best? All, including Loki himself?
He had not, after all, expected Odin to cast Thor out of Asgard, nor had he expected the reprimand to be delivered publicly.
Still, now all is past: Loki is a sparrow upon a bough, now, readied for the winter. Thor's arms raise him from the shadows, and the rise of his mood warms them both. Loki welcomes the kiss, open-mouthed, taking Thor's breath into his own lungs. When Thor moves to shift above him, Loki holds him fast, arms looped tightly about those great shoulders. "Oh! The stories that have been written of your famed impatience, my would-be king," he is smiling, feeding the murmured words into Thor's mouth. "And so I must ask — how many have you claimed since my departure?" says Loki, coquettish in his manner, his mouth a loose red curl. He is indulgence itself: his body splayed without modesty, his eyes dark and hooded. Jealousy is a faraway dream, mattering little in scant space between them. What need has Loki for such things, when he can feel the beat of Thor's heart matching its rhythm with his own? "Tell me — tell me how they all fell short of whom you truly craved."