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Loki sits unclothed and cross-legged on the floor of his chamber, a meditative expression on his face. On the edge of hearing, carousing continues in the great hall. Otherwise, the room is silent.
He’s arranged himself facing the curtained window with the two great vine-carved pillars to each side of it. Symmetry: control and symmetry, that’s the aim. Wind sighs briefly, out there above the city, as faint as, in counterpoint to, the monotonous carousing.
Two of Loki’s knives hover in the air in front of him, outlined faintly in green. He’s been learning to wield them in conventional physical fashion, with a degree of mastery that is beginning to please him. Sometimes, though, when he is alone in his chambers, they rise before him and turn and tilt as if regarding him and considering.
That’s a conceit of course; the knives are animated by his sorcery, in which he has attained still greater skill than in physical combat. But still they please him… except for their occasional barely visible dip and twitch due to his imperfect control.
This particular pair are relatively plain, pommelled with a spiral of durable leather, the crossguards dull bronze and the blades of course the brightest; steel occasionally winking green as it catches the lambent sorcery around it. Loki studies them for a moment as they ready themselves (he readies them) suspended above him, and then he leans back on his hands, tips his chin back so his unbound hair tickles his upper arms, and closes his eyes, aware of the knives’ presence through his unnamed sense; calling them closer, and closer.
The flats of the blades press against his shoulders, as the hands of a friend might grip him in a moment of shared mirth. Then they slide down, snagging the tiny hairs, before leaving his body, to sweep around in the air and reform above him, directed at his navel. Loki opens his eyes again, unable to resist the sight.
He wills the knives down, flat, so that they sweep slowly up his torso, safely skimming his nipples, lingering a moment on his throat before pressing their way around the jut of his chin close enough to shave the beard he would never allow in the first place, and rise into the air to pirouette directly above his eyes; a little victory display. How clever they are/he is. How deadly and controlled…
In a trailing hiss of green one knife is at his throat, and the other in his left fist. He grasps it, pressing it to the floor, feeling it jump and twitch with the rage that as always surges from nowhere, and as he fights to subdue the captured knife the rage flits snaking into the other, the free agent, the Loki. It begins to take its (his) pleasure of him, brushing the thinnest of lines like a teardrop from the corner of his eye to the curve of his chin; a bare bloodless disturbance of the upper epidermis. A shift in the air and a dull streak of pain scores across his chest, still bloodless except for a few straggling dots, but the discomfort drags his focus from the struggle to hold down the blade on his left, and the fascination of the other that is stained now with his blood and rising to his throat, nuzzling insistently against it while his right hand considers offering an objection – but no, that was never going to happen, was it. His right hand goes to his cock.
The unhindered blade – the Loki – in its lambent green has free range. A streak of pain trails across his ribs and the blood rises, and lightly spatters the linear steel within the halo of green. Too much, too much, Loki tells himself – tells it – and the next cut is a little shallower, running along the ridge of his collarbone, then stabbing suddenly its tip a centimetre into the hollow bright white moment and then – the knife dips
to play with –
the nipple –
drawing a single drop of red from the little areola. A single. One. Two. More.
That’s it; enough; Loki collapses onto his back, his legs go sprawling out but he still manages to pin down one blade while his hand is on his cock and the other blade fucks the whole of him… It carves streaks of pain in his belly, his shoulder, his thigh dear shit no that bliss agony to the between his clenched fingers…! – only briefly there though before it rises (it’s Loki) hovers and the flat of it presses with an almost parental firmness against his neck, forcing his head to the floor and seeming to whisper to him: You would actually fuck death, would you?
Well, obviously, he answers in his head. Who do you think we are? And the humour that cuts his tongue is quite as bitter as the knife, so that it’s his hand, it’s his lacerating mind, it’s the blade drinking blood from his throat that tips him over the edge to spasm until hands and knives and cock all falter, subsiding or dropping to the dusty floor of the chamber.
He’s made a bit of a mess.
Let that wait until morning.
Loki sits up cross-legged again, streaked in his own blood and semen, his fingers steepled. He frowns slightly, watching chaos and control court one another, seeking an essence, never quite there.