Tell You My Sins || allthetricksters
It wasn’t until the lock on his bedroom door clicked into place that Terran finally exhaled deeply, allowing his shoulders to drop as some of the tension drained away.
Mission accomplished.
Everything had gone off without any obvious hitches. He had kept to his own part of the plan, played his part, and successfully purloined the information that the others had been unable to access. Months of training had paid off. After getting out, he’d been debriefed – enough to give the leaders of Loki’s army food for thought in planning their next course of action.
After being dismissed to the safety of his room, he had every intention of cleaning up and changing his clothes – maybe getting a snack and some water.
His body, however, had other plans, and he found himself sagging to his knees and bracing himself with his arms, breath coming in short gasps. Tiny, dark circles appeared on the floor and his brow furrowed as he brushed a finger against them – wet?
Oh.
Wiping tears from his cheeks, he’d had no idea he was crying. And as he looked down at his hand, he hadn’t realized he was shaking. Oh.
Anxiety attack.
Sitting back on his heels, he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to remember to breathe. The mission had taken more out of him than he’d realized. It had been so long since he’d been put in that sort of position – and tonight, the stakes had been so much higher.
A broken sob escaped him as his body trembled uncontrollably. For an instant, he wasn’t in his room in the compound – he was back in the basement, cold and alone, with the shadows creeping in on him. Anxiety gave way to full-blown panic, and the notion of calling for help was alternatively dismissed and mollified in quick succession. He won’t come – he said he would – but he won’t, they never do… The prospect of putting himself back together yet again wrenched another anguished sob from his chest as the clock on the wall quietly ticked away the seconds.
Unforgivable how late the divine one was, but there was little helping it. If he were truly as infallible-- as tireless, as he made his army believe, well, he’d have little need of them, and his lover wouldn’t be a shambles in his private quarters.
Perhaps a mortal man might have made it a priority to see the boy immediately after having asked such a cruel thing of him, but Loki was not that. He bathed first, washing away the sickly scent of his dealings with the Latverian who was the other linchpin in their plans. It was borderline offensive what that petty dictator believed was pleasing to Gods. Honestly, bull’s blood was for spilling, not drinking-- though it had given him a perverse little thrill to drain that goblet anyway and see Doom be unnerved. All the more reason though not to go to Terran like that, kissing him with such a foul taste lingering on his tongue.
No, when he appeared he was fresh and clean smelling, every bit the fussy and vain lover his beloved Pet knew him to be. In that moment Loki was made of strong arms and a broad chest, perfect for the waves of the boy’s sorrow to beat against.
“Hush now, my Little Blade. You have cut perfectly, as I needed. Perfect.” Just how he liked things. Sure, he could piled words on, they were his favorite toy after all, but instead he made use of the secret language between them. Skin to skin contact made for an entirely different form of communication with the empath. No lies there, only miles of appreciation and pleasure-- every rewarding feeling that the trickster legitimately felt towards his protege. Not to mention endless love, pride, and even threads of protectiveness.
Somewhere deep and carefully filtered out, there was even a chord of jealousy. His Little Blade...
