Erotic & Fantasy Short. A sailor places a wager to win a boon from Loki.
2.4k, rated E, M/M! Magical weirdness and oddity here, with cockwarming, banter, and an edge of divine danger. A bit more of Loki!
It was late in the evening when Lon stepped into the office — the lights had been turned off, and the room was lit by the warm, pleasant light of several candles instead, resting on plates on the windowsills. The firelight made his lordship’s freckles show more obviously on his face, seeming darker and more golden against the paler flesh of the rest of his skin, and made his green eye seem dark and less obvious, his grey eye golder and more visible.
He wasn’t doing paperwork — Lon had never seen his lordship do paperwork, and wasn’t convinced it was something he actually did — but had a hand-painted map spread out on the table in front of him, various stones sprawled on top of it. His hands were outstretched with his palms down over the table surface, and as Lon took a second to watch him, not coming forward right away.
Loki wore a great many symbols and fetishes around his wrists, around his neck, even around his waist and braided into his hair, and as he watched now, the shining silver of the symbols caught the light, glinted as though from within, and they shifted as though in an invisible breeze as Loki worked, channelled magic between his palms and his worktable.
Loki’s hands withdrew, and Lon blinked as he room darkened slightly, realising that at least some of the light had been shining from underneath his skin, from his very palms; the candles flickered as Loki picked up a pencil and made a note on a separate pad.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked idly, not looking at Lon.
“Not waiting,” said Lon. “I was just looking — aren’t I supposed to?”
Loki’s scarred lips twitched, amusement glinting in his mismatched eyes. “A man might think you were dawdling.”
“But, lord,” said Lon. “You’re not a man.”
Loki laughed, his mouth falling open and showing his slightly crooked teeth, his head tipping back, and he leaned back in his seat. “Come, Alonzo. What’s your bet?”
“An hour,” said Lon.
Loki arched his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side, so that Lon heard two of the pendants braided in his hair clink together. “An hour,” he mused. “If you managed an hour, I’d award you two spells and a meal.”
“A meal, lord?”
“You don’t eat, Alonzo?”
“I do eat, lord. But never with someone like you, lord.”
“Did I say I would be at the table with you?”
“You didn’t, lord. Would you be frightened to share a table with me?”
Loki laughed again, and his teeth were wonderfully sharp now, his eyes glinting. “I don’t think you can last an hour, Alonzo.”
“I’ve been practising, lord.”
“Practising? How ever do you practice?”
“The same way I’m tested, lord.”
Loki scoffed, a soft and disbelieving and strangely haughty sound — at times, he seemed as regular as anybody, seemed like a scruffy and half-feral animal fresh from the woods, and at the same time, you never forgot he was more than that, that he was a lord, that he was a god. He was everything at once, all those contradictions — even when he was lying, he was being honest, and even when he told the truth, you couldn’t trust a word. “You bet an hour?”
“Yes, lord.”
“Do you want to hear the stakes?”
“Two spells and a meal, lord.”
“Mmm, the stakes if you win. You don’t want to hear the stakes if you lose?”
Lon raised his chin, smiled slightly, and he met his lordship’s gaze, looking at him as unflinchingly as he could manage, although whenever he locked eyes with Loki, it made his cheeks burn and made his skin feel as though it was stretched taut, or as though his skin had been painted in something to make it extra sensitive.
“No, lord. I’ll take my penance if I lose, lord, no matter what.”
“Don’t tell the others I said this, Alonzo, but you really are my favourite.”
“You only say not to tell the others because you tell us all the same thing, lord.”
“Accusing me of lying, Alonzo?”
“I’d never, lord.”
Loki’s chuckle was low and sultry, but he raised his hand and gestured for Lon to come forward, and he did.
It was a test of patience, in some ways, and in others, it was a test of resolve — Lon slipped underneath Loki’s desk, settled his knees onto the rug, and dipped his head underneath the skirts of Loki’s robe. He had a cock today, a little above average in size but not so large as to be difficult — he was going easy on Lon because he’d bet twice as long as he’d ever sat — and it was soft when Lon opened his mouth and slowly eased himself forward.
Loki’s cock was a pleasant weight on his tongue as Lon shifted on his knees, relaxing his throat and closing his eyes, his nose nestled in the red curls at the base of Loki’s cock: Loki didn’t taste like anyone Lon had never been with before, tasted like sea air and icy wind, and he hardened slightly under the heat and wetness of Lon’s mouth, but not all the way.
It took him a minute or two to relax into the position, feeling Loki fill his mouth — this size was a perfect middle-ground, he thought. He’d done this Loki’s cock being obscenely large before, so much so that breathing took a careful positioning of his head and his throat; he’d done it before with it being much smaller or not being a cock at all, and that was almost as difficult as when it was superlatively large, because he had to concentrate to keep his lips pursed around it rather than letting the cock itself hold his lips open.
The cockwarming itself was by-the-by — it seemed strange if you’d never done it before, but in itself, it wasn’t hard, wasn’t challenging. Lon actually rather liked it, enjoyed it, when he was subbing, liked the mindset it put him in, but that was with other people.
With Loki —
Lon wasn’t a priest, but that wasn’t unusual. This temple wasn’t even to Loki, particularly, but a place where people came and prayed and begged safe passage, and was simply somewhere that Loki often inhabited; Lon didn’t know the specifics of how it worked, as a rule, which figures were worshiped and which were just acknowledged or respected or appeased, but Loki was very much of the latter, and when he did have priests, they tended to be of a certain unpredictable calibre.
But you didn’t have to worship him. You had to respect him, certainly, but you didn’t have to worship him — it was risky, and you had to follow certain rules, had to be careful about how precisely you conducted yourself, but Lon thought he had a decent handle on it.
Lon was a sailor — or he had been a sailor for five years, and would be a sailor, when he went back to it. For now, he was one of the lighthouse keepers for the great lamp over this temple, built where several dimensions intersected with one another, where the winds turned at impossible angles and went from speed to speed, carried ancient airs and strange dusts in their wake.
He wanted a position on a vessel that traversed mundane and magical waters both, that went through fae seas and netherworldly oceans, because the money was incredible and the work itself was real adventure, but he had to be inured to most of the natural illusions first: he had to have an instinct for the strange mirages, feel his way between different portals, learn to taste the sea and the air and the wind, to know by feel where he was and where he was going.
It was almost like learning to sail again from the start, to re-learn a new layer of instincts, and Loki, Loki was an extra opportunity.
Loki liked sailors, and he liked Lon — he didn’t believe for a moment that he really was his favourite, but at least Loki seemed to like him. A priest of Tyr had warned him that he should be careful with that, that Loki’s affection could be more dangerous than his loathing, but he could worry about the danger later on.
There was a warmth, a strange heat, glowing inside Lon’s mouth, as though he were holding a burning candle between his lips instead of his cock, and Lon breathed through his nose, kept his breathing even and of a slow rhythm as best he could even as the heat intensified. It didn’t burn, didn’t hurt his tongue or the roof of his mouth, but that actually made it all the stranger, because it was increasingly so hot that it felt like it should be burning.
The heat was radiating down his throat, down the line of his spine to pool against his lower back, in his loins, his arse, out from his head so he could feel it in every strand of his hair, in his teeth, in his chest: he felt like he was fucking glowing.
He didn’t know how long it had been, and he tried not to focus on it, to wonder about it — even if he could trust a clock, it didn’t matter. When they were wagering, it was Loki’s measure of time that mattered, not a clock’s.
He couldn’t feel the rug under his knees or his feet anymore, couldn’t feel the fabric of the sheepskin, couldn’t feel the wood of the floor. He felt as though he were floating in space, and he resisted the urge to take his hands out of his own lap and try to find Loki’s legs, try to grip at them, try to hold them.
He focused on the weight of the cock in his mouth, the way his lips closed around the base of it, the feel of Loki’s pubic hair tickling his nose and his lips, his thighs warm but not quite touchable either side of his head.
Lon was floating in space — or, no, he was floating in water, he had to be, because he was affected by the ebb and flow of it around him, like swelling waves. His own cock was hard, and he had to focus to make sure he wasn’t grinding his hips against anything, that he wasn’t rocking them, but he didn’t think that he was, wasn’t trying to.
His cock felt —
Enveloped by it, the impossible sea he was floating in.
It felt as warm as the beach shallows on a bright summer’s day, warm as a salt bath, and Lon was dizzy, spinning happening in his ears, the world feeling as though it were slowly tilting and revolving around him, every inch of his body pleasantly, strangely hot. He felt like the sea was warm, and he was melting in it, like he was dissolving in it, but he kept his lips wrapped around Loki’s cock.
The world suddenly tilted on his axis, making him feel like he was falling from a height, and he let out a choked noise of surprise, but he breathed in through his nose and gripped tightly at his own thighs, digging his fingernails into his legs through his trousers, kept his feet under him, his knees bent, his shoulders forward, his lips pursed but his mouth open enough.
The wind and the waves were screaming in his ears as though he were being pulled through a squall, and he did his best to weather it.
It intensified, more air rushing and rushing in his ears, a weird pressure building behind his nose and under his eyes and in his ears, so much pressure that he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, felt like his skull would just —
Blackness.
It all went black.
When Lon opened his eyes, he was on the floor with his legs in front of him, his back against a chair. He blinked slowly, dizzily, and realised that there was a hand in his hair, cupping the back of his head — a pale hand with painted fingernails and a great many bands around the wrist was holding a shallow bowl up to his mouth, and obediently, Lon drank from it.
Water that wasn’t cold, but somehow still tasted like ice.
“Did I do it?” he asked, and Loki laughed.
“You did,” he said. “Two spells and a meal.”
Lon’s eyes, which were still taking time to focus properly, looked past Loki to the hazy shape of a low table on the rug they were sitting on. He could see circles, shapes — bowls and plates? Food?
“That the meal?” asked Lon. His tongue was clumsy in his mouth, and Loki responded by pressing two fingers against his lower lip, pushing his jaw apart and peering inside, between his teeth. “Wha’s wrong-gg?”
“Just checking,” said Loki, taking his fingers back and bringing the bowl back to his lips. He was starting to show in focus now, his freckles singular dots on his cheeks instead of Pollock-esque streaks on the air. “An hour of that is more than most can bear, but it appears that you’re intact.”
“Can I try for longer next time?”
Loki laughed, the sound sudden and heavy as a dark night, and when Loki kissed him there was a savagery in it, biting at his lips, bruising them, making him groan and spread his legs, his hips grinding up against the hair.
“I think an hour is as long as you can last,” he purred against Lon’s lips. “Come, young man. Break bread with me.”
“Yes, lord,” said Lon. “Are you going to kill me?”
He didn’t mean to ask that, and he froze like a deer in headlights, his eyes going wide. Loki didn’t seem surprised as he took a plate from the table, setting it down beside him and breaking a piece of bread apart, taking a piece of himself and setting the other on Lon’s plate.
“No, Alonzo,” said Loki.
Again, it was like he couldn’t control his mouth: “Will you do something else to me? Something… bad?”
“Destiny is destiny, young man,” said Loki. “What will happen to you will happen — if you want my favour in future, you can earn it.”
Lon stared at him, astonished and terrified and surprisingly aroused.
“Yes, lord,” said Lon, his lips tingling with the ghost of Loki’s teeth, and picked up the bread he’d been given.
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