A long time ago, there was a newborn prince cursed with a body made from ice. An old king passing by took pity on the prince and cast a spell to give him a body of flesh and blood. So long as the prince’s heart burned with fire, his body would be warm and he would never again return to ice.
One day, a great betrayal struck the prince. He learned a dark secret which made him doubt the love which kept him warm. His heart ran cold, and the prince’s body became ice once more.
Snow fell over the entire world, bringing a deep and unending winter. Rivers froze over, and oceans chilled. The entire surface of the planet turned white with ice and snow, and the prince’s body became the great glacier which encased the old kingdom he once lived in.
Many years later, a golden-haired boy was born. Though the world was still in winter, the snow around the boy melted, and plants grew along his feet. He was the herald of spring, there to banish the winter.
The world gathered together and pleaded for him to save them from the prince’s curse. The boy thus set off on a journey to the old kingdom, a trail of spring left behind him. Yet the closer he came to the frozen heart of the prince, the colder the boy felt. Even he could not withstand the freezing chill of the prince’s barren heart. The boy pressed on courageously. Eventually he stood before the heart of the prince, the blue core of ice at the center of the frozen kingdom.
The boy was told to destroy the prince’s heart to break the curse. He held in his hand a mighty hammer which would smash the ice to pieces, leaving the prince’s heart in shards. Yet the boy found that he could not bring himself to injure the prince’s heart. He found its deep blue color beautiful, and he stared into its depths. The boy looked into the prince’s heart, and what he saw was a sadness so profound that it made the boy weep.
The prince had only wanted to be loved. He loved others fiercely, but he had become so deeply afraid. He could not believe in the love of others. His heart closed, and because of that, he became ice.
The boy wished to save the prince, but he did not know what to do. He cried for the prince’s pain, his warm tears falling.
The boy became the companion to the prince’s heart. He journeyed to the prince often, speaking and sharing stories to the ice. He listened to the voiceless sorrow and shed tears for the pain that the prince had not been able to speak.
The boy’s tears were always warm. After many years, these warm tears formed cracks in the ice, and slowly but surely the glacier began to melt. The fire in the prince’s heart would once again rekindle, ignited by the love the boy gave so freely, and as the prince awoke with a body warmed by compassion, the long winter would finally come to an end.
(Twenty-fifth of my entries to my self-inflicted challenge, 100 Lifetimes.)
Loki sighed. He extracted his fingers from the leaves of the aconite flowers and said, “How many times must I tell you? I’m not a witch.”
“Then why do you dress like one?” The young boy trundled out from the edge of the trees, disregarding all the signs – the skulls, the bog, the line of thorns, and the poisonous plants that Loki had circled around his home to warn people away.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Loki said. “Haven’t the villagers told you it’s dangerous?”
“My mum says you’re alright,” Thor said. He came close to Loki, grinning, and held aloft the basket in his arms. “She made scones!”
Loki looked at him as if he were particularly daft.
Thor stood in a dark and shadowy part of the forest, where the trees grew spindly and grey. The grass grew in black patches, often with nettles that caught and scratched at one’s legs. Wolves prowled its boundaries, and the only birds which nested here were ravens and crows which cawed ominously in the daytime.
Loki’s cottage was the one spot of green, hidden far and deeper into the forest than any sane and self-preserving person should venture. Loki’s home was the one place where the trees grew lush and green; where the grasses swelled with flowers and ferns. Berries grew from the bushes, and Loki’s garden of herbs and flowers prospered, painting subtle colors around his small and cozy wooden abode. This was the one place in the deep forest where sunlight broke through the trees, and the light illuminated Loki as well as Thor, when he approached.
Thor, in every lifetime, was never particularly self-preserving. It was for this reason that the boy came to stand beside Loki without any care, not minding the glare Loki set upon him.
Thor flipped open the cloth covering the basket. The smell of fresh and warm baked goods wafted into the clearing. Inside the basket were an array of beautifully-baked scones, golden brown and speckled with nuts and dried fruits. They were enticing enough to make any mouth water, including Loki’s. Thor grinned up at Loki. “I told you I’d bring you some, right?”
“You did,” Loki said, “despite my clearly telling you that you should not venture here again until you were older.”
“I am older,” Thor rebutted. “By a week!”
Loki rolled his eyes heavenward. “You never do what’s best for you, you silly boy.”
“It’s not like you’ll hurt me.”
“I could eat you.” Loki bared his teeth in a wicked smile.
“Why would you do that when you could be eating these scones, instead?”
Loki stared down at Thor. Thor stared back, so utterly trusting, and so utterly determined. The only thing that could stop him would probably be Loki throwing him into the bog. “Fine,” Loki conceded, sighing. He opened the door to his cottage with a flick of magic. “Then come inside. We shall take them with tea.”
(Second of my entries to my self-inflicted challenge, 100 Lifetimes.)
Loki knew he was adopted since childhood, and that the throne wasn’t his.
On his 700th name day, Frigga entered his study and sat next to him. Holding his hands in hers, the Queen stated,
“You shall live in the shadows, in the shade of Thor’s greatness. However, he can only survive if you will it so.”
With Frigga’s guidance, Loki inherited Asgard’s spy network when he was 1000.
On the surface, the King’s brother is looked down upon as unimportant by many courtiers. He flirts and jokes in court, tells tales of his travels and converses with diplomats. He cannot lead the country like his brother, is not given military power and has little influence. Some call him a parasite in secret, mocking him for his reliance on royal favours.
In reality, Loki is second in power in the kingdom. He plants spies within and without the court, keeping track of any undercurrents of rebellion. Any assassination plots are crushed before the news can reach the court, to prevent giving the impression of an unstable rule. Loki also subtly spreads rumours in the nine realms that ultimately place Asgard at a favourable position in treaties and their negotiations.
His hands are stained with the blood of Thor’s enemies, a place to pay so as to uphold the King’s image as the benevolent ruler.
No one knows but Thor. No one shall appreciate his fidelity but Thor.
Every evening, the King’s brother visits his chamber for a game of chess. Unknown to most, the game involves the King pounding viciously into the Spymaster. Loki holds his brother captive in his arms, whispering into his ears the latest rumours and intelligence he has gathered. In return, Thor gives him brief instructions and desired outcomes, placing his absolute faith in Loki’s ability to carry them out. It is only in his chamber where Thor reveals his true ruthlessness as the monarch striving to maintain his power, and Loki bears witness to the absolute passion of his love.
Loki is Thor’s equal in bed, and the King allows no other to enter his heart.
To most, the King continues to shower his undeserving brother with royal favours and indulge his misgivings.
“The King is a fool”, his courtiers say.
Thor, however, is no fool and knows his brother deserve all the love he can give, and he shall make sure Loki is reminded of this every day.
Not one of the real ones, the other. The fake one his father brought with him from
Asgard, the kid with fair hair and fairer skin.
The one that’s now Loki’s same color, because Loki is
a master of magic, and the boy was dying in the harsh winter of Jotunheim.
Loki hates him, because Thor is no giant, just like
him, but no one looks upon him with poorly veiled pity, Thor is not a lithe,
feeble runt. Pure unrestricted thunder flows under his skin, his arms hold a strength
known to no one on Jotunheim.
And Loki hates him, because they should have been
equals, but Thor is so much more in the eyes of their peers, something Loki
will never be, even as the heir of the throne.
Thor is respected not just feared. He’s loved, not just
tolerated.
“Come, brother, night’s upon us already. I’m cold.”
Prompt: Friends with benefits. Prompt from this generator.
The first time Loki wakes up in Thor’s bed, he’s not entirely surprised.
He has vague memories of a kiss, of Thor’s arms around him, of the catch of the carpet against his back as Thor drove in to him, the high, wild sound of his own cries. He’s sticky and sore in all the right places and Thor’s back is to him, a wall of flesh covered in cotton and crowned by the pillow jammed in place over Thor’s head.
The light outside is gray. It’s early. Too. And it makes more sense to him to peel out of the sheets and pick his way to the shadows and down the hall to the living room, where his clothes are spread all over the floor. His jeans are halfway under the sofa and his shirt’s buried beneath Thor’s, crumpled in a heap by the front door. He tugs the v-neck over his head gingerly, leaning against the wall for support. That’s right; he’d been leaving. He’d had his hand on the knob and turned to say something, one last semi-drunken bon mot, and Thor had been there, right there, pink-cheeked and smiling, looking like he had a thousand times before at the end of a night when they’d drunk too much and laughed too hard at some dumb movie and spent far too long talking after, both of them pretending they didn’t have to be up early, that they were still young enough to responsible only to themselves; no bills, no job, no professional responsibilities. Days that were long, long gone. There was gray in Thor’s beard now, unwelcome silver, sometimes, in Loki’s hair, and they can’t drink as much as they used to when the worst of their worries was an 8 AM class.
Loki had brought vodka the night before, a couple of fancy flavored bottles a client in Austin had sent him by way of saying job well done . One was peach–Loki could still taste that one–and the other had been sweet tea, and everything had been fine until Thor had had the inspired idea to mix both together inside the same massive cup.
He can’t remember what they’d watched–an odious rom-com or two, probably; it’d been Thor’s night to choose–but somehow, after the credits rolled and he was two steps from leaving, he’d found himself back on the couch, spread across Thor’s muscled thighs, shoving his tongue in Thor’s mouth and lapping up each gorgeous, wanton moan.
Even through the haze of his hangover, of the dim, not quite dawn, Loki remembers that feeling, the overwhelming sense of need and lust and relief. Finally, he’d thought as Thor grabbed at his ass, bit wet, angled kisses into his throat. Fucking finally. At last.
He steps into his loafers and cracks open the door, slips onto the front step as quietly as he can.
His keys are in his pocket and he fumbles for his spare and locks Thor’s home behind him.
Outside, the sidewalk is quiet. There’s a woman running with her dog across the street and a car or two moving sluggishly down the street, their high beams cross cut through the fog. Loki turns up the block and starts walking up the hill towards his building, towards his own bed, back towards sleep.
His wallet’s not there, nor are his sunglasses, and he’ll have to call Thor when it’s more decent, when it’s more day outside than night. He’s not worried; they’re there, somewhere, temporary casualties of their eagerness. He doesn’t remember his jeans coming off, when, but he can’t forget the feeling of Thor’s fingers on the zipper, the promise of it, the sweet of Thor’s breath against his cheek, the soft, happy curve of Thor’s smile.
“You want this?” Thor had whispered. “You want me?”
Loki had wound his hands in that long, messy hair and hummed, words beyond him, unimportant, stupid. He’d smothered Thor’s mouth again and arched into his hand and tried to answer with his body, tried to let Thor read everything he needed in Loki’s fingers, the tangle of their legs, the sound he gave up when Thor battled Loki’s zipper down at last and reached in and drawn out his cock.
It stays in his head the whole walk home, that sound: a dozen years of longing, of denial, of stubbornness cast aside in an instant. It had felt so good. That’s what makes him blush now, as he punches in his code and heads for the stairs. His legs feel like lead and his head like a boulder but his hips are twitching at the memory of that feeling, the crush of pleasure he’d known from being bared to Thor at last, from there being nothing left between them.
“Oh, Loki,” Thor had said, his fist hot and too tight and perfect. “Look at you.”
He collapses on his bed in a heap, still wearing his shoes, one hand spread over the space where now it feels like–now he knows–Thor should be.
*****
The second time they sleep together, it’s more of a problem, because Thor’s girlfriend is two rooms away along with a dozen other of their friend, all them yelling at some stupid football game while Thor ruthlessly, beautifully sucks Loki off.
They’re in the half-bath off the back bedroom, two walls away from the party, and Thor’s face is red, Loki’s cock is, red and fat and incredibly hard. They’re supposed to be looking for weed, digging around in Thor’s guest room for a stash Thor swore to everybody was there, that he and Loki would try to find. It’s reckless, what they’re doing, so fucking stupid, that it’s making Loki crazy, how badly he wants to throw his head back and wail, wants to scream loud enough to cut through the noise. He feels vicious like this, cruel, and it isn’t fair to anyone what’s happening. He didn’t mean for it to.
But maybe Thor had. Maybe Thor had known exactly what he was doing, hovering at Loki’s side all night, sitting too close to him, letting their shoulders brush.
It’s been two weeks since the first time and Loki’s been away, busy soothing this client and that, and they haven’t seen each other. Haven’t talked about it. Haven’t been alone.
And they aren’t alone now, Loki reminds himself; they could easily be discovered, and what a shitstorm would that be. What a goddamn calamity. For Thor, anyway. He’s been with this woman, Jane, for almost a year; they’ve talked about moving in together, on and off. Loki thinks she wants a ring, Thor hasn’t been sure, and now they’re jeopardizing all of that for a sloppy blow job in Thor’s tasteful guest bathroom and Loki’s sure he’s never been so hard in his life.
He’s clutching the sink, his hands braced behind him, and Thor’s kneeling straight on the tile. Loki’s tight jeans are peeled open and Thor’s squeezing his hip the same way he did when they were fucking, when he was nailing Loki to the living room carpet and beaming into his face, those blue eyes alight with affection, and he’s looking up at Loki just like that now, like he wants to see everything he’s making Loki feel, wants to watch it play frame by frame across Loki’s face.
The tension in his body is paralyzing, exquisite, painful, and he realizes he’s holding himself back, that’s he’s doing his best not to come. He doesn’t want this to be over. He wants to feel like this forever, like Thor has him tied to the end of a string.
But then there’s a roar from the living room, a stomping of feet, a brush of fingers across the clutch of his hole, and Loki’s coming, hard, a vicious, sweet jerk that has him slamming into Thor’s mouth, his hands scrabbling at Thor’s shoulders, and it doesn’t help that Thor’s groaning, a deep, satisfied sound that makes Loki’s cock twitch again, eager to please Thor again.
They stay like that too long: Thor’s forehead on Loki’s hip, Loki’s hand in his hair, a ragged sort of benediction. And then Thor stands up and kisses him, gentle now, sweet.
“I missed you,” he murmurs in Loki’s ear. “Thought about doing that every night. God, I dreamed about you, Loki, about the noises you make. But no dream’s as good as the real thing.”
Loki shakes his head. He wants to say something, he wants to chide, but Thor’s disarmed his senses, all semblance of reason, and all Loki can do is lean in for kiss and lick the taste of his own bitterness away.
We are our own worst enemies, anon. We can be so hard on ourselves, so critical and merciless, especially when it comes to something as inconsequential (and yet so important to us) as our outside appearances. I wish there was some way we could physically look into our bodies and see them for the amazing tools that they are. Complex networks of capillaries, tendons and ligaments holding our muscles together and keeping them attached to our bones. Limbs that transport us with barely a thought, appendages that allow us to touch our world and interact with it, to feel and taste and smell and interpret… it’s incredible. And we really have no idea of it—or perhaps we do, but we forget. Again and again. Sometimes we need to be reminded of it because we are so forgetful, and if we’re lucky, we’ve got a special person or people in our lives who will do that.
I think that Loki is canonically self-conscious in the MCU, perhaps to the point he has a serious inferiority complex. I can see him staring into the mirror and beginning The List. We all know it. The List of Things We Hate About Ourselves.
I hate my hair. It’s so thin and oily. My forehead is too wide. My nose is huge and crooked. My lips are thin. That scar is showing up again—I need to find a longer-lasting spell…
He starts from the top and goes all the way down, until he is feeling so low and miserable and worthless that he can’t even stand to look at himself anymore.
This only gets worse when it’s revealed that he’s a Frost Giant.
As if he weren’t ugly before, now he has to deal with being an actual, real monster.
Once he learns how to manipulate the illusion of his Aesir form (a tricky process that takes him many hours of practice), the first thing he does is strip naked and take a good long look in the mirror.
Oh, it’s so much worse than before. Worse because this is what’s real. These rheumy red eyes. The lines and creases on his face, his leathery skin—so greasy in Asgard’s warm, dry climate—with its corpselike blue hue. There isn’t an inch of him that is even faintly attractive. There never was. He’s an ugly misfit. Even the Frost Giants would consider him pathetic, so small and weak, possessing none of the qualities of a worthy jötunn.
Because I am worthless, he thinks. Not only am I ugly, but I’m a failure as well. I can’t do anything right. My plans always fall through. No one truly loves me. They love the illusion I’ve had cast over me all this time. After all, who in their right mind could love this? I am a horrible, ugly person with no friends and nothing to offer except parlor tricks and silly little—
“You’re beautiful.”
Loki jumps at the voice and turns, covering himself with his hands.
Thor has been standing in the doorway for the last five minutes, watching Loki study his reflection with his face twisted in disgust, wiping away his tears, muttering quiet, distressed utterances with every new flaw he found.
“I know you don’t think it,” says Thor, “but you are. You’re amazing, Loki.”
“I am not,” Loki utters, throwing on a robe but remaining in his jötunn form. He wants Thor to see this hideousness for himself. Maybe that will stop the lies he’s spewing. “I’m awful. I look like an ogre or some sort of demon.”
“But you’re neither ogre nor demon. You’re a prince. You’re a sorcerer. You’re my brother, and I love you.”
Loki glowers. “That makes one of us, then.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Thor walks forward and puts his hands on Loki’s shoulders, guiding him back to the mirror.
“You don’t have to look,” he says softly, “and I’m not going to make you look. But I want you to know that you are more than this body, Loki. The you in here”—he touches Loki’s temple—“and in here”—he touches the center of Loki’s chest, just above his beating heart—“is still the same. That is the you I will always love, no matter what your outside looks like.”
Loki scoffs bitterly, his head bowed. “Even if that outside is your enemy?”
“Your skin is not my enemy, Loki. Nor is it yours.”
“Isn’t it? Am I not a Frost Giant? Am I not a member of that race of monsters all Asgard despises, including you?”
Thor goes quiet, his expression reflecting his shame. “I have been forced to do a lot of thinking since Father told me of your true parentage. I have changed my mind about many things.” He looks at Loki’s reflection and gives him a small smile. “So can you. That is the beauty of it. We can change the way we think and see others, even ourselves.”
Loki finally raises his head and looks at himself in the mirror.
Standing beside Thor, his handsome and perfect brother, he thought he would look uglier than ever before. But he doesn’t. He looks… not attractive, but something about their skins beside one another, pink and blue, and their hair, gold and black—even their eyes, sky-blue and fire-red—looks nice somehow. Complementary. Diverse yet harmonious.
Or maybe it’s just the way Thor is looking at him, his heart and his hopes—and his love—showing clearly in his eyes. That is the most beautiful thing in this mirror. Not them. Certainly not Loki.
“I’m afraid it’s going to take a long time to do that,” Loki murmurs. “Much longer than it took to change yours.”
“That’s alright. I will help you. I am here for you, Loki. I will always be here for you.” Thor gives him a squeeze and leans forward to plant a kiss in his hair—his oily, stringy, smelly jötunn hair, as if it doesn’t bother him at all.
…maybe it doesn’t.
Loki reaches up and grasps Thor’s hand. A thin veil of frost spreads across his warm fingers, but he doesn’t recoil, doesn’t pull away. No, he smiles and moves even closer.
Tears sting Loki’s eyes.
Maybe someday he’ll love himself as much as Thor loves him. It seems unlikely. Impossible, even. How does one learn to un-see this much ugliness? Who could look at this face and think that it—or anything beneath it—could be beautiful?
“I bet you can conjure some impressive ice weapons in this form,” says Thor, turning himself and Loki away from the mirror. “Has your sorcery been affected at all?”
“You should. Perhaps they are even stronger now that your true form is no longer being suppressed.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” says Thor cheerfully. “Come on, let’s go to the training yard. I’ve never been stabbed with an ice dagger before. It’s probably quite refreshing.”
Loki can’t quite keep his mouth straight; it curls up at the corners despite his best efforts. He rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot, brother.”
“I’m your idiot brother, forever and ever. Never forget that.”
“I’m already trying as hard as I can.”
Thor grins and pats Loki’s back. “I’ll leave you to get dressed. Meet me in the yard in ten minutes. Oh, and Loki?”
“What.”
“Bring your best game.” Thor wags his eyebrows as he leaves the room. “I don’t want to walk away from this without a scratch.”
Loki smiles at last. He doesn’t even wonder what it looks like on his jötunn face. “You’ll be lucky to walk away from this at all, you pompous fool.” He finishes by putting on a scowl and sticking out his blue tongue as far as it will go. Not exactly mature, but somehow it feels appropriate in this moment.
Thor laughs heartily and points at him warningly. “We shall see about that, little brother!” he declared. “We shall see!”
It was early in the morning when the two parties met at the border between Jotunheim and Asgard. The sun was just beginning to rise and the snow sparkled under it’s weak beams. There was a beautiful harshness to the scene, something that would be captured later in paintings and sketches.
Thor came with his attendants, with an entourage of servants. They came on horse back, each and every one of them. There was even a scribe there, hastily recording this historic moment for future sagas and to report back to the King.
Thor’s betrothed arrived escorted by soldiers.
Between the towering figures of his guards, he looked even smaller and younger than Thor knew him to be.
Thor smiled at him.
Loki scowled back.
Thor wondered how he would feel if he was in Loki’s place, if he was the one being made to leave his homeland. Loki was only fourteen, a child really, although Thor was not much older than him at seventeen. It was cruel to put so much on their shoulders, to require them to unite their Kingdoms and bring a stop to an unwinnable war.
Thor had only seen Loki once before, when their betrothal was announced. Loki had bared his fangs at him then. He did it again now.
It would have been frightening on a full-grown Jotun.
On Loki it was oddly endearing.
He reminded Thor of a kitten trying to defend itself. Loki postured, attempting to intimidate him, but he did not have the bulk or the ferocity to pull it off. Thor suspected that was the reason they had been betrothed to each other. Loki was a Jotun runt. No Asgardian would find him fearsome.
Loki took a step towards the boundary, but a large hand clamped down on his shoulder, stopping him.
One of his guards spoke in a low voice, his words lost to Thor.
Loki’s eyes widened and the color drained from his face. He shook his head, but the guard’s grip only tightened, fingers digging in.
“What’s happening?” Thor asked quietly, turning his head to direct his question to Sif.
She stood beside him, her face stoic.
Thor was supposed to accept Loki here at the border and escort him back to Asgard. That was what Thor knew. Loki was coming to live with them, to stay in Asgard until he came of age, then he and Thor would marry. That was the plan as Thor understood it, but looking at Sif’s face, he realized that there was something of this plan he had not been told.
“Prince Loki is leaving all of Jotunheim behind,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on the horizon.
Thor looked back at Loki in confusion. The meaning behind Sif’s words dawned on him as he saw Loki resignedly removing his clothing, his movements slow and his fingers trembling.
Loki was to cross over the border naked, to come to Thor in subjugation.
Thor felt bile rise in his throat. He could not imagine being in Loki’s place, could not imagine having all these people watching his humiliation, having one of them recording it for the ages. Thor knew it would have been his own father who requested this, who would have insisted on humbling the Jotun Prince.
Loki couldn’t come to Thor as an equal. Odin had seen to that. He had ensured that with this one action he stripped Loki of his standing. This would be the story people would tell of the day Prince Loki crossed the border to Asgard.
Thor found himself shaking.
Furious, unthinking, he reached for the clasp of his cloak.
“Thor!” Sif hissed at him, but he didn’t listen.
It was freezing and Thor’s shaking now had more to do with the cold than rage, but he undressed, leaving Sif with his clothes and walked across the border to join Loki’s side.
Loki looked up at him with wide eyes, taking in all of him. Thor hoped he approved of what he saw.
“I would not ask my future husband to do anything I would not do myself,” he said, offering his hand to Loki.
He pointedly did not look at Loki’s own nude form. He kept his eyes trained on Loki’s face.
Shyly, Loki placed his hand in Thor’s.
They crossed the border together, hand in hand, naked and smiling; Thor a beaming smile that threatening to out do the weak morning sun, Loki a smaller, softer smile, but one that Thor still noted all the same.
When they reached the Asgardian side, Thor took his cloak from Sif and throw it around Loki’s shoulders, hiding him from the assembly.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and pitched for Loki alone to hear.
Loki tugged the cloak tight around him, watching Thor with his large, dark eyes. There were no bared teeth now, no sneers. He seemed awed and Thor found himself warmed despite the chill of the snow under his feet.
**
Odin berated Thor until the windows rattled and the ground shook, but Thor did not care.
He knew his father had wanted to make Loki a symbol, to show the other realms that Asgard had gained mastery over the proud Jotuns, but Thor was not interesting in playing his father’s games.
He was the one who Loki would be married to and he would not have Loki made to feel like a conquered prize.
Their marriage would be a partnership, not a battlefield.
I’ve never seen anything like the way you handled that. I’m just so moved.
It’s not the first time some assholes have hassled him after the show. There are always guys who don’t get it, who are frightened by Loki and everything he is. They always wait for him to be alone.
Loki can roll with the punches and he gives as good as he gets. He learned to fight from his mother and sister and he fights to draw blood – nails scratching, pulling hair, kicking the legs out from under the bastards who only think with their fists. Loki fights fast and he fights dirty because he knows he’s cornered.
One of them grabs hold of his arms, pinning them to his sides and another strikes him across the jaw. Loki knows it’s going to bruise, but he licks the blood on his now split-lip and smiles.
“That all you got?” he asks.
His mother could never teach him when to back down.
The guy draws his fist back, readying himself for another punch and Loki hopes the guy will be happy with just breaking his nose or giving him a black eye.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The voice that interrupts them is like thunder. It is awe-inspiring and complete silence follows it.
Loki turns his head, just to catch sight of the guy.
He’s thick, built, with long blonde hair and miles and miles of tanned skin. He should be in a gym, or on the cover of a fitness magazine, not standing under a streetlight watching two guys fuck up Loki’s make-up and his face.
Loki feels dread build in his stomach.
This guy isn’t going to stop what’s happening. He might even join in.
“I said, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man repeats, his words coming out a growl.
He moves fast.
Loki hears a snap – bones breaking – and then the man who punched him his howling in pain. His friend lets go of Loki and Loki ducks away from trouble, just far enough to watch his blonde hero headbutt the guy in the face and knock him out cold.
“We need to get out of here,” he says, tugging at his hero’s arm. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, but we need to get out of here.”
The guy nods. He looks dazed. Loki isn’t sure if it’s from the headbutt or if he’s just realized he fought two men – committed assault – to protect a complete stranger.
Loki hates himself for wearing boots that have such a spiked heel. It makes running so much harder.
“I’m Thor,” his hero says, jogging beside Loki as if this is simply leisurely for him.
“Loki,” says Loki. He’s feels breathless.
“Oh, I know,” Thor says. “I really like your band.”
Loki glances at him, a smile stretching his sore mouth.
“You like Glam Rock?”
“Well, I like you,” Thor says. “Hey, where are we going?”
“Back to mine,” Loki says, grabbing hold of Thor’s hand so he can hold it while they run.
Loki is the Philosopher King 