The first time Loki sees him, Loki wants.
He is still but a frostling, his fingers tingling with newfound magic, yet bearing the markings of a prince with as much pride as any Jotun warrior thrice his age, and with good reason: Loki knows more than most of his eon in matters of seidr and politics, wiser than any counsel and stronger than any sorcerer in the Nine Realms, and Laufey uses that to his advantage.
"Our worlds are on the brink of war, noble king. Our people are uneasy. Surely an amendment can be made, in light of these trying times. Especially now that the Casket is in our hands."
He lets the threat echo in the throne-room.
Odin has one pale eye fixed on the Jotun, perfectly still and cruel, and Laufey barely flinches. He turns to the frost-giant on his right, awaiting Loki to deliver the final blow, but Loki is far away.
He stares at the golden creature beside Odin's throne, wide-eyed, wanting. A creature of outstanding beauty, with eyes as bright and shimmering as the sapphires of the Jotnar crown. A head of spun gold, a body carved of marble, meeting his gaze with a sharp grimace, as if Loki were the opposite of what he thought to be beautiful.
A sick tremor runs through him like a current.
When he opens his mouth, he speaks of blood-allegiances and two realms bound together by two heirs, his eyes never leaving the golden prince's, and in the end, when Odin disdainfully accepts, Loki savors the disgust on the Asgardian's face as if it were the sweetest of poison.
But Laufey breaks his word.
He takes the golden prince for himself, giving Loki nothing but a sly grin in return for his efforts; and Loki stares in horror as the golden creature —Thor, his name— disappears into Laufey's chambers.
And Loki wants. And Loki hates.
They are on a mission in Svartalfheim two weeks after Laufey has taken what was rightfully his when they come across a dark beast in the middle of the icy desert, thick, black fur a stark contrast against the pale white snow.
It doesn't take much for the finest sorcerer in the Nine Realms to kill the beast, no more than a blink of an eye, but Loki comes to realize, as the dark creature notices their presence and begins to advance, that it takes even less to bend the snow-warg's mind to his will. A simple, unnoticeable twitch of his fingers, and the warg is his to control.
Laufey stands behind, his face placid with confidence that this is no hard task for the bastard heir, but Loki has other things in mind.
He remembers the shame on Thor's face as Laufey paraded him through the dark columns of Jotunheim, the small pinch of defeat behind the proud mask of an Asgardian warrior, a prince. He remembers bitterly the sickening sight of Laufey tasting the Aesir's lips, his golden prize for all to see, Loki's prize, taken from his very grasp like every other thing Loki has ever cared for, the bright, shiny evidence of his own victory against Asgard in another's arms, another's bed—
When the dark beast comes close enough, pushed by nothing more than Loki's seidr, it's so easy to delay a little too long, to let the creature plummet into him with as much force as necessary to make the accident believable. The warg's horns spear through him and he falls aside, gasping, clutching his side where the beast pierced him.
He turns long enough to see the beast run Laufey through.
In the sudden, unexpected turn of events, no brave Jotun warrior has time to come to the king's aid, let alone realize what has just transpired.
It only takes a moment of stunned silence for the damage to be done. The beast is telepathically ordered to bite and tear, to feast, and so it manages to do before the Jotnar take it down, but by then it is already too late.
They stare in horror at the remnants of their king, Loki's smile hidden behind a green cloak.
Eight days of mourning pass before Loki is crowned king in Laufey's stead.
He takes the throne, the crown, the scepter— all the sigils of his sovereignty over Jotunheim, over the entire frost-giant race; but only one sigil remains.
"Thor," his voice echoes through the vast ice-cave that makes the Jotun palace, "Come."
The Aesir wastes no moment of hesitation before striding up the stairs of Loki's throne. The Asgardians taught him well. Hesitation is weakness in the eyes of the strong, and weakness is a terrible thing for a prince so far from home. The Aesir's jaw is set as he stands to Loki's side, his gaze sharp and raw.
"I am your king now." he booms, loud enough for all in the throne-room to hear. He slowly rises to his feet, the scepter scraping heavily across the ice, feeling every pair of red Jotun eyes on him when he strikes the floor with its base. Then, turning to Thor, in a moment of utter daring or foolishness, bends the knee to the golden prince, his eyes low.
He revels in the shocked gasps of his kinsmen.
"And you are mine." he completes.
It is worth the look of surprise on the Odinson's face, worth having that brave warrior's mask fall apart with a simple gesture of his own hearty submission. Something in those pale blue eyes flickers like a warm flame, and Loki wants. And Loki has.
Mine, he whispers to himself, Mine.
Like all sweet delicacies, Loki intends to take his time with this one.
Laufey may have been thought of as a great king by his people, but for all his royal tutelage and so-called highborn sophistication, it was evident that he had been a terrible host. In his short time with Thor, he had treated the Asgardian as if he were nothing more than a common consort, a name to tarnish in his constant, unfruitful struggle to spite Odin.
But Thor is a thunder-god, an Aesir of important blood, and like most great gods, he does not buckle easily.
Loki has no desire to break the prince, especially not when they are bound together for the rest of eternity, for the sake of peace between their realms. What he desires is relatively simple: Contentment. To give pleasure, and to willingly receive. That, he thinks, is the utmost sign of dominance. That is the greatest victory. To have the Aesir readily give himself to him when he has refused all others in turn.
He spoils Thor completely and utterly, showers him with gifts and throws unimaginable feasts in his name, asking for nothing but his company in return. He makes sure Thor has his fill of mead and boar whenever he desires, offers him strange, foreign flavors to try and simply smirks when the Aesir looks at him warily, yet knowingly.
"You Jotnar have strange customs." he says one day, gulping down what Loki estimates should be his sixth pint of mead. An impressive feat, if Loki may say so himself.
"How so?" Loki arches a brow. He sees Thor's gaze rake across his face, no doubt studying the lines carved deep by nature on his dark blue skin, though unnatural for an Aesir.
A throaty chuckle leaves the Asgardian's lips. "You fatten your companions like cows for slaughter." he pauses, before a smirk slowly spreads across his face. "It is very alarming."
Loki mirrors his smile. "Slaughter?" he gasps teasingly, "My, Odinson, that would be a terrible, terrible waste." He allows himself the momentary pleasure of watching Thor squirm just slightly under his suggestive, penetrating gaze. "This is merely my way of showing you my undying gratitude for accepting my offer." He methodically lets his gaze soften. "I understand how difficult this must be for you. Having to spend eternity in a foreign land—"
"It is no hard task, son of Laufey. When the safety of our realms hangs in the balance, no sacrifice is too difficult. Our people are more important than our own desires. It is our duty as kings, is it not?"
A soft, bittersweet smile settles on the corners of Loki's mouth. "It is."
They share a look of mutual understanding in the oncoming silence. For once in his life, Loki feels a pleasant warmth seeping through his bones and warming his blood. A strange flush blossoms on his cheeks, his neck, the tips of his ears. His thin armor feels a few inches too tight across his chest.
"But," he clears his throat, ripping himself out of his reverie, "I only wish to make you feel as comfortable as possible in these trying times. Is there anything I can do, anything at all, to have you feel more at home?"
The Asgardian seems to contemplate the offer for a moment. He takes a large swig from his cup, coughs with all the rough mannerism of a lowborn mercenary before fixing Loki with a steady gaze. "There is a custom in Asgard for newlyweds." Thor begins, and instantly Loki takes interest. "It is expected of them to ride out into the wilderness with one another, where they will remain for at least a week."
"Doing what, might I ask?" he grins, amused, and the sultry look Thor gives him in return surprises him completely before he breaks into another smirk.
"Hunting." The Aesir simply says.
"Well, how else are you going to prove yourself to your companion, if you do not test your mettle, and theirs, in glorious battle?" Thor shouts excitedly, gesturing with one big, meaty hand, and Loki almost laughs.
Thor finishes his drink in one great gulp, licking the sweet remnants of his mead from his lips. Loki observes him silently.
"Well..." he says, eventually, "I am sure that something can be arranged."
Loki brings Thor a gift the very next morning, though he predicts that this one might be of more value to Thor than anything he has given the Aesir so far.
"The blacksmiths named it Mjolnir. It is a rare beauty, and a most powerful weapon." He spares a quick glance at the Aesir and is more than pleased at the sight. Thor seems enamored with the crafted uru. He runs a pale finger along the leather handle, brushing his fingertips against the cool metal as the corners of his lips tilt slightly upwards. "It is yours. If you can lift it."
Thor greedily accepts the challenge, if one might call it so. All it takes is a confident smirk and a hard tug on the handle on Thor's behalf, and Loki is left staring at the thunder-god, proudly toying with the uru hammer as if it weighed nothing more than a feather.
They leave the palace at sunset.
"Jotunheim is brighter at night." Loki explains, strapping his sack of essentials to his shoulder. "There are three moons, you see."
He tells Thor stories of his people as they trek through the white planes of the ice-kingdom. A harsh breeze whistles past and Loki catches Thor clutching at the dark brown furs wrapped around him with trembling fingers. He wonders to himself if this was truly such a good idea. The landscape is steep and treacherous, the climate extreme even for an Asgardian, and dangers lurk in every shadow and under each icy stone.
"It would be wise not to venture too far." Loki offers, "Perhaps we would fare better in these caves nearby. The wind truly is merciless, I would not wish for you to fall ill—"
"I am fine, Laufeyson." Thor bites back. There is a silent rage visibly brewing beneath the calm Aesir demeanor, slowly manifesting as the god fixes him with a stern, unamused look.
Loki scoffs. Stubbornness. A purely Asgardian trait.
If this were anyone but Thor, he would have struck the fool for his stupidity and dragged him to the nearest cave by the hair. Jotunheim is no place for petty bravery. Even the strongest Jotnar fall prey to less than the cruel wind in this cold hell, and know all too well not to take nature lightly.
But this is Thor indeed, and Loki has promised him whatever he desires; and so he must keep his word.
As Loki estimated, it is a terrible mistake.
A blizzard hits not too long after midnight, one of the worst Loki has ever seen, and they are nowhere near shelter. The temperature drops fast, and so low that even Loki begins to shiver at the feel of the wind against his naturally frostbitten skin, the harsh snow blinding his crimson eyes, the vast curtain of it nearly impossible to see through.
"Thor!" he shouts over the storm, "Take my hand!"
He can barely see the blurry shadow of the Aesir's form in the blizzard, but he feels a cold hand clutching his own a moment later. "We cannot stop!" Thor bellows, "We must find shelter!"
And Loki finds himself cursing his own name for this, for his own foolishness. The king of Jotunheim, the most powerful sorcerer in Yggdrasil, risking his life to impress another god. Risking war between two realms lest one of them dies with no heirs to leave behind, breaking the peace.
"There's no time. We would meet our end long before we could find shelter." He reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a thin, shimmery black cloak. "Lie down. We'll protect ourselves with this."
"Are you mad? You think a tattered piece of cloth can shield us from a damn blizzard?!" Thor barks, "This is no sandstorm, Laufeyson. We'd freeze in seconds should we lie down!"
The sudden rage that runs through Loki is enough to warm his blood a little. "Fool." he spits, with all the cruel malice he can muster. "This is no mere piece of cloth. This is seidr. Now lie. Down."
He doesn't wait for Thor to take the lead. He lies down on the freezing landscape, the snow so incredibly cold against his skin that it feels like a burning flame. Thor follows after, hesitant and uncertain, until Loki throws the black cloak over them and everything goes quiet and warm.
"See?" Loki whispers in the sudden silence. Thor observes him warily, two sapphire eyes raking over his entire frame, as if Loki were some dark, evil creature from the fiery realm of Muspell. Loki doesn't have to wonder why. Sorcerers are thought to be mystical, indifferent beings in the land of Asgard, full of wickedness and cruel intention.
He longs to prove Thor otherwise.
"Didn't Odin ever teach you how rude it is to stare?"
The Aesir is quickly startled out of his daydream. He breaks his gaze a little in mild shame, only to lock eyes with Loki a few moments later, a look of contemplation on his blush-tinted features. "Forgive me." he says sincerely, "It is just that... You are quite different from other frost giants. You look more of an Aesir in body— apart from the blue skin and the red eyes, that is. You do not share the barbarism of your race, either."
The words stun him entirely. "Barbarism?" Loki almost growls. A feeling of repulsion curls in his gut and brings a bitter taste to his mouth. "Do not take us for barbarians, Odinson, simply because our ways are different than yours. Should you strip away our skin, you'd find the same sinew and bone that holds your flesh upright. You and I are the same. My people and I are the same."
Thor's laughter puts a sudden end to Loki's speech. "Say what you will, king. But from what I have seen with my own eyes, you are different entirely. The Jotnar are a violent, selfish people. Take a gander upon Jotunheim's last king. Is that not proof enough? Is the ruler not a symbol, an example of his followers? Laufey—"
"Laufey was a monster."
"Is that why you killed him?"
Loki hears the muffled whistling of a sharp breeze behind the dark enchanted veil.
Other than that, there is nothing but silence. He still feels the Aesir's eyes locked on him in challenge, feels the heat of his body so close to his own, immeasurably scalding and unbearable. Thoughts of lifting the cloak and leaving the Aesir at the mercy of the elements fill his mind. "Laufey..." he enunciates, his voice nothing more than a low growl, "...was an oathbreaker."
Thor says nothing in return. He stares at him with those bright, accusing eyes and Loki hears the echo of his words a thousand times over in his mind, breaking against his body like strong waves against the shore. Violent. Selfish. Laufey was an oathbreaker indeed, but he died for reasons other than betrayal.
Laufey's death was brought on not by the final verdict of a court, but by the trickster-god's own dark greed. An executioner's ax would have been sweet; sweeter than the cold fangs of a Svartalfheim beast.
"No, Odinson." he says tiredly, "We are all the same."
Loki doesn't speak for the rest of the journey.
The blizzard has calmed down to a soft, cool breeze when Loki pulls the cloak away, Thor sleeping heavily at his side until a sharp elbow to the ribs knocks him straight to his feet.
They make it to a cave beside a flowing river at twilight. Hot streams of molten rock run beneath the earth, keeping the river in a liquid state and the cave in a pleasant warmth that Loki doesn't doubt the Aesir will enjoy. He cannot say the same for himself. An ice-giant's worst enemy is heat alone.
A bead of sweat runs along his forehead and sends a shiver down his spine. Loki hates this strange environment. Thor probably doesn't even realize, all wrapped up in his own little world, perfectly pious and superior. He sees why Odin couldn't resist spoiling him, how Loki in turn failed to resist, too. A sudden anger courses through his veins.
"Pick up your hammer." he growls, before turning to the mouth of the cave and walking out into the cold air. He breathes deep, reveling in the feel of it soothing his heated skin.
He hears Thor shuffle around behind him. "Where are you going?" he asks as Loki ventures farther away. If Thor were a little closer, he would have heard him chuckle mockingly in retort.
"Hunting." he simply spits.
He doesn't have to look back to know that Thor is following. Asgardians are barbaric creatures, too, full of fiery rage and insatiable bloodlust, and they would not refuse a challenge for anything in the Nine Realms.
It is amusingly predictable when Thor all but runs to his side through the snow, Mjolnir raised high, a dark smile on his face and a strange glow in his eyes.
Earth dragons are not rare in the land of Jotunheim.
"All yours." Thor dares, and all it does is add fire to Loki's rage.
The Asgardian may still take this as a jovial expedition in honor of his people's customs, but to Loki, it has become an outlet for his anger, his frustration. Laufey's hatred over the millenia, Thor's disgust over the course of the week, pressing down on him like shards of hot uru, burning right to the bone.
It is a vast giant of a dragon, all long talons and thick scales and terribly sharp teeth— but Loki's ice-blades are sharper.
He doesn't even wait for the creature to charge. A telltale twitch of his fingers is all it takes and then he's running, large fistfuls of deadly sharp dagger-shaped icicles in his hands, screaming at the beast. If Thor wanted barbaric, then Loki will gladly give the best performance he can.
The first blade shatters against the dragon's scales, but the second digs deep. An ungodly screech leaves the creature's gaping jaws. One massive clawed hand swipes just a little too close before Loki summons another blade to stick in the soft, unprotected flesh of its belly. The fourth blade hits something vital that spatters Loki with oozing black from head to toe.
"Loki! There's more than one!" Thor shouts, suddenly alarmed. Loki is far too preoccupied to care.
"Then kill it." he snarls, tasting the beast's acidic blood on his lips. A few more strikes bring the dragon to its knees. The pure white landscape turns black, and Loki thinks, as he summons a rain of icicles down on the helpless, frantic creature, that he is a kind god, that leaving the brute to bleed out would have been worse than this act of mercy.
In the aftermath, Loki feels like he's breathing smoke.
"It's a nest!" Thor shouts from afar.
Loki turns to find the thunder-god standing on a fresh dragon carcass, another one right beside the first. Even from this distance, Loki can see the darkness in Thor's eyes, smell the bloodlust on him like the stench of war. Dragons roar close by, readying to attack, and a thirsty grin splits Thor's face in two. Asgardians; greedy, petulant beings that always bite off more than they can chew.
"Let us go. We've finished what we came here to do." Loki absentmindedly pokes at the dead dragon. A terrible waste, he thinks.
"Nonsense, son of Laufey!" Thor vainly exclaims, "Did we not come here to prove ourselves to each other? I'd hardly describe three kills as a successful hunt. What have we to boast about?"
Loki finds the Aesir's thickheadedness nothing short of infuriating. If he had known the golden creature was as blissfully ignorant and selfish, he would have pushed Odin to war instead of making an allegiance with him in return for Thor.
"Enough." he rasps. "Enough."
In the short moment in takes Thor to reply, Loki has already muttered seidr under his breath and transported them back to the palace. The Asgardian carries on talking for a while, not noticing the sudden change of scenery until he hears the low rattle of a door opening.
Loki burrows in the safety of his chambers as Thor stares in confusion, still in the throes of battle, his heavy hammer dripping black with blood.
At night, Loki's desire rekindles like a licking flame.
Asgardians, it seems, when deprived of their basic need to kill and destroy, are forced to find other ways to sate their bloodlust.
Slick, frantic sounds wake Loki from a pleasant dream. Tiredly, and with a blurred gaze, he turns his head towards the source of the noise. Though the thunder-god's form is almost impossible to make out, hidden under numerous blankets and furs as it is, the ardent motions of his writhing body are unmistakable. A low moan leaves the Aesir's lips, muffled against a pillow, and something in Loki stirs.
He finds himself inching closer to the god without realizing it, his hands splayed out over the sheets and reaching out for Thor in the darkness. He longs to touch, to feel, to give Thor all he needs and wants, just as he has promised.
The pure heat pouring from the Aesir is a pleasurable pain of sorts. The scent of Thor's arousal, stronger with every passing second and every stroke of his own rough hand against his rigid flesh, sends a warm current through his frostbitten body that has him feeling strangely lightheaded. Thor is but inches away, and so close that Loki can almost taste him, but he doesn't dare cross the imaginary line.
Thor has hated him thus far. Every look in his eyes had spoken of nothing but disgust, every word out of his mouth an insult to the Jotun race. Loki knows that to Thor, he is nothing but a vile monster, selfish and cruel, eager to please no one but himself.
But he has promised Thor pleasure, and pleasure he will give.
"May I?" he whispers softly.
The squirming beneath the covers instantly comes to a standstill. In the overwhelming silence, Loki hears nothing but the thunder-god's heavy breathing, quick and irregular, like his own heartbeat. His fingers reach out for the Aesir, to gently rest on the naked skin of his shoulder. The flesh feels wet and burning hot, but to Thor, Loki's hand must feel like nothing short of ice, because a shiver runs through the Asgardian that has naught to do with pleasure.
Thor turns to meet his gaze after a long, hesitant moment. Emotions war in his eyes like opposing forces: There is shame, certainly, as one could imagine, for being caught in this position. Anger, frustration, lust; all cousins of the same dark breed that has haunted all beings equally since the birth of Yggdrasil. The need for satisfaction is an old curse, and more powerful than most seidr. Powerful enough to bring the disgust in Thor's eyes to a dim, and to replace the remnants with something else entirely.
Hesitation is weakness, Loki was taught from an early age; a weakness of the flesh that speaks more truth than words ever can.
In one fluid motion, he rips the covers away and brings his body flush against Thor's, wrapping a fist around his hot arousal, and the guttural groan the touch rips from the Aesir's lungs is more than worth the wait.
Thor feels like molten uru in his hands. The arch of his back fits perfectly against Loki's warming flesh, and only now, with their bodies laid bare for one another, does Loki truly realize the sheer size of the god, the vast power in the flex of his arms and the clench of his thighs. Thor feels like a storm personified, the loud rumble in the skies before the violent flash.
"Thor..." Loki groans, his lips mouthing at the golden line of Thor's neck. An answering moan resonates through the solitary chambers just as Loki presses a thumb to the slit of his weeping length.
Thor feels so warm, so incredibly warm, that Loki has to wonder if perhaps the Aesir finds his touch as opposing to his nature as Loki does. He doesn't seem to find it unappealing. Thor's hips stutter, thrusting into the tightness of Loki's hand with what Loki cannot help but describe as a frantic violence.
He chuckles lowly against Thor's skin. "Barbarian." he teases, and the Aesir's half-slit eyes part wide to fix him with a stern look.
Loki foolishly mistakes the threat for petty defiance.
All it takes is another mocking smile on the trickster's behalf, laced with an air of pompousness, and Loki swiftly finds himself beneath the thunder-god, pinned to the bedding by Thor's sheer burning weight alone. A low gasp escapes his lips at the pressure, the feel of the Aesir's arousal brushing against his own. Loki feels like he's melting.
"You think yourself above me, son of Nál?" Thor growls. Two large hands encompass his, trapping them above his head as Thor looms over him. Loki comes to discover that for all Thor's heat, his eyes are colder and more merciless than a Jotunheim blade. And Loki likes this. He likes knowing that beneath the golden, warm surface of the shiny Aesir lies a chilling darkness waiting to spill out like a thunderstorm.
"I..." he confidently begins, but the slow, rocking motion of Thor's hips turns his tongue to lead. A knowing smirk adorns the Aesir's features. He breaks their gaze to press his lips against Loki's chest, to expertly run a tongue over the darkened cerulean nipples. Loki tries his best to stifle a moan, carrying as if unaffected, "I am your king." he rasps, his voice already rich with desire.
The words earn him a gentle bite of an oversensitive nub. "You forget your oath, king." Thor's warm breath washes over his chest. "I may be your consort," he whispers, lips brushing against the hollow of Loki's throat, "...but you are also mine."
A sharp hiss escapes through clenched teeth. Loki comes to find that Thor isn't as merciful a king as he is. Rough hands twine in his long dark locks and pull, baring his neck to the Aesir's eager mouth. Loki would moan, if he had the breath to spare. His own hands slowly slide down Thor's backside to grasp and fondle, daring to press a little closer to the pink pucker of flesh in between like a promise, and a low, appreciative moan leaves Thor's belly and vibrates against his jawline.
Loki chuckles softly. "I thought you hated us Jotnar," he groans as Thor parts his legs and settles warmly in between, their cocks sliding against each other delectably. "What changed your mind?"
It is an unexpected surprise, when the confident grin on Thor's face changes into a frown. The frantic motions of Thor's desire come to sudden halt. "I never..." Thor stutters pitifully. For the first time, the strong, sturdy Asgardian warrior seems all too vulnerable, exposed. Confusion swims in those bright blue pools and Loki, feeling strangely ashamed of his words, takes Thor's face in his hands and brings their lips together.
It doesn't taste as sweet as he thought it would, but it is only the beginning, and it is sweeter than anything Loki has ever had.
Long blue limbs wrap around Thor's waist, trapping their slick, hot lengths together. Loki feels Thor's heart beating frantically against his chest, sees the maelstrom of emotions in his lightning blue eyes. Hesitantly, Thor begins to move again, his eyes never leaving Loki's face.
It is a challenge Loki is willing to accept.
"You make a very compelling argument." Thor tells him in the morning, long, golden locks plastered to his wet face.
They are sprawled haphazardly across the bed, their legs entwined, perfectly sated and relaxed when Thor gives him a hearty slap on the shoulder, as if they were nothing more than a pair of Einherjar who had just won a glorious victory on the battlefield.
Asgardians, Loki chuckles lazily, shaking his head.
Thor's warm hand lingers a little longer, brushing gently against his collarbone, following the long, smooth line of his throat. He feels like he's in a dream. There is nothing but the soft sound of their breathing and dim glow of the Jotunheim sun spilling through the open balcony. A light shiver visibly runs through the Aesir's body.
"Are you cold?" he asks before throwing the fur blankets over their bodies.
Loki sees a small smile tugging at the corners of Thor's mouth, and cannot help but smile, too. "You'll melt under there, Laufeyson," the Aesir teases, mercifully prying the covers from Loki's heated form. "Perhaps we should find other ways to keep you cold while I keep warm."
"Oh?" Loki exclaims. "Like what, might I ask?"
It shouldn't really surprise him, when Thor gives him an achingly familiar sultry look; but that same sudden wave of warmth washes over him, that same euphoric wave that Loki never truly believed he would ever feel in his entire immortal lifetime, rhythmically calm yet violent— like an ocean breaking its waters on the shore.
"Hunting." The Aesir simply says, and when Loki quietly brings their lips together, it feels like he is the deep, dark ocean, and Thor the gold shore.