mystarsforanempire

[mystarsforanempire]

The breeze that picks up draws the Grandmaster’s attention away. The word, murmured over and over again by those ghostly, ethereal voices, is each time like the firing of a synapse writ large: it sparks on his skin, and under his skin, electrifying him in ways unseen and unfelt by anyone around him. Loki, Loki, LOKI, LOKI–a cacophony, an involuntary twitch, delicious, delightful. He laughs as the wind dies away lifting one hand and curling it in the breeze as through the long hair of a loved one. LOKI, huh? Fitting name. Doesn’t it mean–trick, or trickster? Something like that?

At least that’s what someone told him, once, during some dinner party a while ago. A fact that never struck him until just now.

Cultural magicks. The universe is a weird place.

Then there’s a shrug, and a smile that’s almost shy, and En Dwi courts it, leans a little closer to coo at it, pull it a little further out. “I’m so glad. I, ah - I feel safer already! With tricks like that up your sleeve, boy, I’m gonna be safe and sound sleeping, huh?” He’s safe and sound sleeping even without Loki, but hey, HE’S the one out here hiring muscle on a whim, right? Might as well really lean into things, let Loki think he’s completely won over. And he is, he is!, but, ah… c a u t i o u s l y   so. There’s not exactly anything save his own intuition to guarantee him Loki won’t bite the hand that’s petting him, after all.

So! En Dwi gives him a bright smile, picks his drink back up, and winks in his own peculiar little way. “Bottom’s up, kitten! We’ve - got a long day tomorrow, lotsa traveling.” The drink goes down in one last, smooth gulp, the glass hitting the bar as En Dwi carelessly drops it, then places a hand on Loki’s chest near his shoulder and leans into it. Maybe it’s time to downplay how very, ah…not EXACTLY helpless he is, and really…really let the pretty, broken thing feel big and useful. It’ll just make things so much smoother later on.

Loki likes it when the GRANDMASTER leans closer. He likes the way it makes his skin thrill, makes his heart beat just the slightest bit faster - he does not, in this moment, consider Thor, worry about Thor, feel his grief... The Grandmaster distracts him from that great and immovable, monstrous beast - the knowledge of his own terrible nature, and that he has left his brother dead behind him. The Grandmaster is all-encompassing, and with his bright light, he throws out the shadows that draw themselves about him.

BOTTOM’S UP--

Loki watches as the Grandmaster swallows down his drink, and then he sets it down with a click as the glass rim touches against the bartop, and--

Loki glances down at the hand splayed upon his chest, feels its warmth, and he exhales just slightly shakily, but then he BEAMS. 

Something eats at him. Some suspicion, some understanding that this is all wrong, that a man truly in need of such protection oughtn’t seek to  hire it from some stranger in a strange tavern... But his hand is so warm, and Loki so seeks the distraction--

Sliding up his hand to the Grandmaster’s, he delicately takes his hand by the wrist, shifting his arm that Loki might interlink their arms, as is only PROPER - to hold this man’s hand would be too intimate, but to take him by the arm is only proper, is distant and yet so close.

Readily does Loki lead them from the bar, toward the room he had selected on the bar’s form... And yet, ought he do this? Sleep in the rooms with this man, this GRANDMASTER? He knows not. 

When they come to the door, Loki’s seidr slides from his palm and draws itself about the knob, pushing the door open and then shimmering through the air: it affects the lights to life, and turns on the heater at one corner of the room. Loki steps farther inside, delicately shutting the door closed behind them, and then he hesitates, unsure of what he ought do--

But he puts himself to work, plumps the pillows upon the Grandmaster’s luxurious bed, pulls back the blankets and the sheets at their corner, that he might slide easily into bed, and then he clasps his hands together, looks at the Grandmaster QUESTIONINGLY--

Will the Grandmaster expect that Loki undress him?The idea bursts within him like a firework, and Loki turns his head away from the inner glare, moving swiftly into the adjoined bathroom and busying himself not in looking at the Grandmaster, fussing over him, but instead in drawing a sizzling magic about the curve of the bath’s tub, and making it C L E A N.

This is better. This is... This is good. Keeps him from his distraction. 

#reblogged #firstofsakaar #v; in loyal service #c; the grandmaster | en dwi gast

[mystarsforanempire]

The neat little sphere is gone in just a few chews, and the Grandmaster, En Dwi, he listens to Loki and reaches for something new–something fuzzy and hard that cracks and gives way under his fingers only reluctantly, something that dribbles messily over the table. En Dwi raises his fingers to his mouth to clean them, hums around them at Loki’s question, meets the sweet thing’s eyes with a twinkle in his own.

“Oh, it’s, uh - not old. Not even as old as you,” he replies, and that’s the truth. This DELECTABLE little thing might’ve just fallen into his lap, but there’s no way he’s younger than Sakaar - days old, not years. Sakaar has only been here a month, perhaps: already, En Dwi is losing touch with the timing of it all.

Tanned-gold finger dig into one hard shell and pull out the sweet pink pulp, raising it up for a careless bite even as it continues to glint and drip in the sunlight. Messy fruit, really - but so pleasing, sweet and mellow and a little, mmm, almost musky. It’s dangerous to linger too long on the subject of Sakaar. Loki, after all, is, uh. Clearly a bright little thing.

“Let me - ah, let me tell you a little secret, kitten, a little…little something to make life on Sakaar that much, hah, easier.” En Dwi leans in, flashes a brilliant smile, runs gentle fingertips over the top of Loki’s thigh. “The people here - even, ah, even me. We all live in the - hah! - the PRESENT TENSE. People don’t, uh, end up on Sakaar without a little–pain in the background. Some - un. Hah! Unpleasant baggage. What…what came before, sweet thing, it, uh. Doesn’t matter!” En Dwi leans back, and spreads his hands, and smiles. “See! Just like that. We’re. Just between you and me,” he continues, leaning in again, one hand coming down tented on the table between them, “we’re all, uh. Running away from something, someone. And Sakaar’s a safe-haven, sure! But…memory. Tricky thing, y’know. And so…. UNPLEASANT.” En Dwi’s hand slides flat on the glass surface of the table, his eyes warm and a little curious as they bear down into Loki’s. “It’s, uh. A land for the lost and unwanted out here, and, uh. Well. Everyone’s, hah!, found and wanted with me, hmmm? Just like you. Thrown away, but, uh. Home now. And better off that way! So the - the past, see, sweet pea, it’s. Just the past. Doesn’t matter anymore. Hmmm?”

NOT EVEN AS OLD AS YOU... But Loki is old, he thinks - Loki is very old, and yet, is he older than most planets? He feels that seems silly, to think himself older than the average element of galactic geography, and yet he is SO CERTAIN he is old, that he is ancient... But what is ancient? Loki has no frame of reference: he knows not what he is, in truth, for everything around him is all but a haze - the present, the past, the future, all of them are equally uncertain, and he feels so very small in his seat, and the table between them seems as an INSURMOUNTABLE distance...

Loki feels cold. Loki feels cold, and isolated, and he thinks not of it at all as as he phases as silver dust through the very hair, sinking himself in the heat of the Grandmaster’s lap and rematerialising himself as M A N once more...

“Oh,” he says, when he realizes what he has done. How easy it had been - how he had MOVED, how comfortable it had been, to be naught but dust... And yet how carefully he listens to the Grandmaster, taking in his words. They meet ill with his thoughts - if memory is so unpleasant, why does it so grate upon him, to lack access to his own? If the past does not matter, why does he feel the itch within his own skull, to unbury his hidden memories, to rediscover that which he is, and was, and will be, what--

Loki’s head is aching, and with a low moan, he buries his face in the Grandmaster’s neck, unheeding of the IMPOLITY of it, uncaring of what the Grandmaster might think of him: the glorious h e a t of the man’s skin stings at his cool forehead, and it distracts him from the ache he feels deep within. “Present tense,” he echoes obediently, trying as hard as he might so press his body tightly against the Grand- master’s, that he might MELT against him, as ice in water. “Doesn’t matter. I understand, Grandmaster, I do... My head. How it hurts.”

#reblogged #c; en dwi gast | the grandmaster #v; tba #firstofsakaar

[mystarsforanempire]

Despite himself and everything he knows–the freshness of the wounds, the new moods, the danger of putting himself in the teeth of some new and more powerful divinity, the potential for loss of self in interest of another–Dio leans a little closer when Loki touches him, almost makes the mistake of brushing his lips against Loki’s before Loki starts talking–and more, starts with the insults.

“Yeah, well. You know how it goes, cupcake: SOME OF US had to grow out of our goth phase, huh?” Dio flicks his tail to send a current Loki’s way, but he’s gone already, and Dio takes only a moment before chasing him to steady himself, bringing his hands to either side of his neck and using sharp, thin fingers to gouge out four thin strips of flesh on either side. Skin, muscle, tissue: it all comes away easily, falling into the water like so much chum, and Dio dives beneath the rippling crest of it to chase his friend even as the wounds still bleed, gold wisps curling on the water. The wounds are soon healed, self-inflected gashes acting as gills rightly grown now, but the ichor and the heavy scent of wine pollute the top of the fountain, unwilling to let go and leave.

He catches up with Loki soon enough, fawning over an insect’s portrait–a self-portrait, radiating the same energy as Loki even in effigy. Some truths truly are universal.

“Water and wine don’t really mix well,” Dio replies, ever ready with a quip. In truth, Poseidon scares him shitless - both of Dad’s brothers do - and he’s always found more of the company of his choice in a forest, despite the one lonely soul he found washed up on a beach. But he smiles now, smiles because he’s flattered, because the flirting is easy and enjoyable, because the water feels nice and this form like every form, every skin he has worn and will ever wear, feels natural. “I’d say ‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ butevery form suits me. You, though, cupcake: YOU look about ready to sing a sailor to his doom. You spend a lot of time in here, like this?”

SUCH HORROR is to be found in Dionysus’ natural transformation: not for the first time, Loki muses on the ease of his own shapeshifting, the mercurial nature of his own physicality and how easily it transitions and evolves from one form to the next to the next - his very genes might obey his command, and yet here, in Dio, HOW DIFFERENT is the process! How his gore rips in the water, stains it with the wine-dark turmoil of his ichorous blood, and in the water Loki tastes the w i n e--

And yet how beautiful is he.

Loki smiles, looking at Dionysus as he comes closer, leaving his reddened cloud behind him and emerging from it as a merman from help: Loki puts out both of his hands, and he B E A M S at the compliment - or insult, whichever. It hardly matters how either of them means a comment, but how it is received. 

“No,” Loki replies, mildly. “Once, Odin caught me in this form, playing in the spring in Idunn’s orchard, splashing in the water with young Fandral the Dashing - I thought he might beat me, so angry was he that I should waste my shapeshifting on such folly as pleasure.” The words come matter-of-factly, with little emotion attached to them, and yet they weigh heavy in the water. “Plouton was always a better father to me than Odin - don’t you think that’s funny?” 

#reblogged #c; dio #theonios

[mystarsforanempire]

“Ooooh, cute little–what a NIFTY little trick!” The Grandmaster smiles at the floating gold letters  ( gold, too, nice touch, guy’s either a fast learner or a good guesser - both suit the Grandmaster just fine )  and, uh, just sort of gently wafts them towards him when the cutie’s attention is distracted. Cute bit of magic! Real–mm, not exactly SUBTLE, but…ah, what’s the word? ARTFUL. Kinda…charmingly novice, summoning little light letters like that, not exactly the most advanced trick in the book, but–wow! The penmanship, it’s very nice. Very professional. Very telling.

A guy doesn’t use flourishes and loops like this without being used to having a little punch behind them.

Wafting the letters over and examining the tiny sparks of magic–ooo, not standard magic, novice trick or not, this is one of those SPECIAL, cultural magicks, huh?–takes hardly any time at all; almost immediately, the Grandmaster rearranges the same gold glow into his own handwriting, an answer to a politely implied question.

                                  THE GRANDMASTER

–It’s still got a nice ring to it, even after all this time.

“I’m, ah - more of a TITLE than a NAME kinda guy, kitten. Could point out that I don’t know yours either…,” but the thought goes nowhere, lost to pure distraction as the Grandmaster leans in and studies tablet offered to him. He does it with an air not of pleasant surprise, not of smiling grace, but of pure, businesslike expectation. This is–really working out well for them, not that he takes notice of it consciously for now. It’s a note tucked away into the back of his mind, like the cultural magic, the withdrawn look from earlier, the way this guy just fell in line for him. Points to mull over when things were a little less ACTIVE for him.

“Ooo, wouldja look at that, still got the royal suite open. I think–yeah, alright. You don’t have a room, we need one, sounds, uh. Sounds good!” Tap-tap-tap: done. The room is registered under the Grandmaster of Sakaar (he’d considered the Czar of Sakaar, it’s all still a working title, experimental form of government, he’ll get it right eventually) and paid for in full out of the treasury. The credits transfer here easily enough.

The Grandmaster’s eyes leap up from the glowing screen in front of him to his new bodyguard’s face, lips lifting into an easy half-grin for him. Sometimes it’s tempting to believe in something like fate. “You, ah. Don’t mind bunking with me, I presume?” Not that it would matter much if he did.

GENUINE WARMTH slides over Loki’s skin as he takes in the easy praise: so quickly is the Grandmaster’s pleasantry upon his tongue, and it makes Loki’s lips quirk into the smallest of smiles. Humbly, he nods his head slightly, and he allows himself to inhale, taking in the Grandmaster’s scent where it lingers upon the air between them - the beast in Loki, the wolf, so delights in the cataloguing of scents and the ownerships that go with them, and he wonders if he ought prevent himself, really, from burying himself in that scent, if this man is to be his C L I E N T, if this Grandmaster is to be his charge... Can it be so wrong, to bury himself in that wonderful scent of distant stars and strange galaxies and glitter,  if he is to protect him? He ought know how he smells, no?

He has leaned forward, he realizes, better to draw in the Grandmaster’s scent even as he listens to him speak - the royal suite, yes, very well, and he doesn’t know Loki’s either - know Loki’s what? Oh, his name, his name, yes, his name...

Loki glances up to the Grandmaster’s eyes, meeting them once more, and as they lock eyes many winds seem to pick up within the bar, whipping through Loki’s hair and playing with the lines of his dark tunic, but flirting with the edge of the Grandmaster’s robe and in his neatly-coiffed hair, too: the winds whisper again and again and again, his name: L O K I. 

Loki, a breeze whispers as it kisses the Grandmaster’s chin; Loki, a sudden wind whispers in his two ears at once: Loki, Loki, Loki, the winds murmur and mutter, and yet no one else in the bar might hear the name, for it is laid at the Grandmaster’s feet as a blade before one’s master.

And is that not so? Is that not what Loki MEANS to do?

As for the last question--

Delicately, Loki gives a neat shrug of his shoulders, a demure smile as he sets the tablet upon the bar: he will curl himself up in some corner of the Grandmaster’s quarters, sleep on some part of the floor, or in a chair or on a sofa. Much as he wants to allow the Grandmaster to do as he wishes to Loki...

He ought not engage, carnally, ought not, lest the Grandmaster discover in their intimacy how truly MONSTROUS Loki is, lest he read the truth of Loki in his naked aspect, he ought not... Ought not. But he is so eager to please.

#reblogged #firstofsakaar #c; en dwi gast | the grandmaster #v; in loyal service #hHHHHHH omg #i'M #i love this thread

[mystarsforanempire]

Loathsome. Absolutely loathsome, this common creature deigning to place itself upon Tivan’s level - worse, above it! An insult, a slap to the face–how very like En Dwi, to bring such tasteless vermin into his Museum and insist it is an entity worth the knowing, the protecting. Had he not promised his brother to treat it in good faith as something he is fond of, Tivan would have the insolent thing on his slab in a heartbeat.

Better to experiment with that which is disposable than to risk his own inventory unnecessarily.

–Still. He had given his word, and even though that is too often a mutable thing…he had given it to En Dwi. Salvation and damnation wrapped in up, one and the same, in a single man. Incredible.

There is little hope for some creatures. Tivan’s impassive face grows bored with Loki’s prattle, his sharp gaze growing dull but no less intense; it looks through Loki now, aloof and unaffected, his own wrath a dull roar in his ears from which he cannot help but feel detached. All things in good time. –In this case, in very good time. The shift is small when it comes, but no less clear; Loki, his brother’s kitten, is woefully under-informed on the matter, as is En Dwi’s wont.

But Tivan knows more than even his brother suspects.

“My brother tells me everything,” Tivan replies softly, lowering his face in false modesty while keeping the vermin well in his sights, “as he does with any being he truly trusts. If he kept something from you, you were not intended to know it.” Not quite the truth, but not quite a lie either. Tivan is careful, shields his thoughts and his words as En Dwi had taught him to, once upon a lifetime ago. Between his soft voice and his half-truths, it is often difficult to find the lie in the snare he constructs.

Just because an animal can see the trap doesn’t mean it won’t fall into it time and time again.

Loki laughs.

The sound rings in the wideness of the room, bouncing and echoing off the flat, glass surfaces and the metal grating; it rings against the high ceiling like the peal of some mocking bell, and when he stops, he bows his head in an EQUALLY FALSE display of modesty, his palm over his mouth.

“My apologies,” he murmurs insincerely, his grin tugging at his thin lips as if he can scarcely control it. “But-- Tell you everything? Why, Collector, you must think me a fool.” He leans back against the table, his palms shifting to settle behind him, and he looks at Tivan with more confidence showing in his form than he truly possesses.

The Collector unsettles him on every level, but if he isn’t striking Loki NOW, Loki can only assume he lacks the appropriate permissions from the Grandmaster, and that means he has some safety. Besides... The Grandmaster had refused to answer most questions, but he knows, at least, that the Collector’s power isn’t the same as the Grandmaster’s.

It is... possible, that Loki might overpower him, if it comes to that.

He hides the shiver that runs up his spine: hopefully, he might. 

                 “You won’t hurt me like that, you know.   Insinuating that he not TRUST me. 

                                   What do I want of the Grandmaster’s trust?                 He certainly doesn’t have mine.” 

#reblogged #ofknowhere #c; the collector | taneleer tivan #v; the games on sakaar

[mystarsforanempire]

Symbol meme starters.

Send one for my muse’s reaction! Feel free to alter context, switch muse’s positions, etc, as necessary. Contains some mild NSFW.

(chest) - for your muse to press a hand against my muse’s chest (hair) - for your muse to bury their face in my muse’s hair (backhand) - for your muse to backhand my muse (jaw) - for your muse to grip my muse’s jaw in one hand (lap) - for your muse to sit in my muse’s lap (whisper) - for your muse to whisper in my muse’s ear (bottom) - for your muse to rest a hand on my muse’s ass (or slap it) (undress) - for your muse to undress mine (may not be nsfw!) (pin) - for your muse to pin mine to a specified surface  (yank) - for your muse to yank mine out of the way of danger (bite) - for your muse to bite mine (palm) - for your muse to clap a hand over my muse’s mouth (throw) - for your muse to physically throw mine (piggyback) - for your muse to leap onto my muse’s back for a piggyback ride (nourish) - for your muse to provide my muse with food or drink (secret) - for your muse to reveal a secret to mine (specify the secret!) (discover) - for your muse to discover information about mine that they shouldn’t know (rescue) - for your muse to rescue mine from danger (promise) - for your muse to make mine a promise, whether they intend to keep it or not (lie) - for your muse to lie to mine (specify the lie) (confess) - for your muse to make a confession of truth to mine (command) - for your muse to give my muse an order or instruction, which may or may not be followed (hide) - for your muse to hide somewhere with my muse (sleep) - for your muse to fall asleep on mine (misc) - create your own/sender specifies! useful if something here gives you an idea that isn’t otherwise written.

#t; ask memes

[mystarsforanempire]

Send 🌹 to give roses to my muse.

Send Reverse 🌹 to receive roses.

#t; ask memes

[mystarsforanempire]

En Dwi, En Dwi, En Dwi. Somehow it is at once the most irritating and wonderful combination of sounds and syllables in the known universe–not least of all to Tivan’s ears. His brother by bond, his savior, the one creature left alive who knows him mind and soul, and at the same time the one thorn always buried in his side, the itch he cannot scratch, the ringing in his ears no music, however sweet, can ever silence. A blessing and a curse.

Particularly when he imposes upon him so. Matters on Sakaar are of no concern to Tivan, but that hasn’t yet stopped En Dwi from coming by and sharing them with him anyway, and now from bringing his pet here to stay far away from the potential of conflict. It grates on Tivan’s nerves to no end, curls and uncurls his fingers into claws, fists, flat again, and in this relentless and cagey displeasure Tivan reenters his workshop only to find the insolent creature, the GUEST, still there.

And impudent as ever.

“It is considered impolite not to acknowledge your betters with a bow.” His chastisement of Loki is carefully monotone and distant, his gaze dark beneath thunderous brows. Leave it to En Dwi to bring him a feral cat and call it domesticated.

“Besides which–your experience elsewhere is immaterial. My Museum needs only one curator, and I am he.” Unable to resist the opportunity, Tivan keeps his gaze intense and focused solely on Loki, offense and disdain boring into the silken interloper, silently demanding to know whether the imp thinks him unequipped for the task–and warning also against the wrong answer.

Play nice, kitten, the Grandmaster had said to him, firmly, and in a tone that brooked little to NO argument. This is my little brother! You, uh, you just have to be good for me, okay?

Loki’s capacity for goodness is draining by the second, and he hardens his gaze, raising his chin slightly and looking at the Collector with a  STEELY gaze. There is nothing quite like indignation to cure a man of his L A T E N T fears of imprisonment, and Loki says, in a lofty tone plainly befitting his royal station, 

             “PRAY UNDERSTAND, Collector, that when I spy my better before me,                                                                   I shall bow most lowly.”

Adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, Loki shifts himself in the armour the Grandmaster had DRESSED HIM in, and he says in a mild tone, 

           “I merely offer my assistance, that you might make use of it if it pleases you.                         If you should prefer my hands lay idle, then idle they shall be.         I no more wish to stay here than YOU wish me here, I might remind you.”

A pause, and then,

                             “Where is he going? Did he tell you?”

#c; taneleer tivan | the collector #v; the games on sakaar #ofknowhere

[mystarsforanempire]

So, uh—tell me, kitten. Such a hot little number. Anyone ever fuck you like I have?

SUPPOSED DOMINANTS.

Loki shrugs in a non-committal fashion, and he focuses not on En Dwi, but on the quilt in his lap, resting out on the balcony and enjoying thesensation of the sun on his skin. His quarters are kept a little cool by the extensive warding he puts in place, and even when he stands uponhis balcony, no one about the palace nor the city streets below can seea thing. He doesn’t wish to appear overtly NAIVE or inexperienced beforethe other man, although the way he speaks to Loki makes his skin hot ina way the sun cannot, makes him tremble in his place. 

Loki has never had somebody in his bedroom nor upon his balcony before,bar Thor or his parents; even inviting Fandral into his parlour has always been an action to pursue with the greatest of caution, ordinarily with somemanner of supervision. 

This?

This is greater than rebellion - this borders on M A D N E S S, and yet, how itthrills him to his very core, sets his blood alight. His fingers are frenetic where theywork upon his needle and thread, and he focuses with care upon his embroideryand not upon the other man, his bracelet glinting where it catches the light. 

                                  “Fucking is fucking, En Dwi.                      Have you really such need that I validate your technique?”

Loki has never been fucked b e f o r e, En Dwi aside. He has fucked, to be sure,has had one experience before, but never has he taken somebody inside him,but for his mouth, and that had been an exercise in careful control, pinning theother down... 

Loki glances over his shoulder, looking at En Dwi thoughtfully, and then he asks,his tone perhaps too cautious to be casual, 

                                 “Why, have you-- Had many like you have myself?”

#v; supposed dominants #c; en dwi gast | the grandmaster #firstofsakaar #nsfw #t; answered asks #as defined by dictionary

[mystarsforanempire]

Stars, some things just really AREN’T FAIR, are they? Take, uh–take this little cutie right here, huh? The way he gasps and widens those pretty blue eyes of his, the part of his lips, the deepening of color like the dawning sun painting him over in those pretty, placid blues–just UN-FAIR. He’s enough to make the Grandmaster want to replicate this exact same look, with that stacked little body sitting up on his knees and silently begging for a taste.

Distractingly pretty. All kinds of perfect for this job, really, equal parts distraction and muscle, a nice little show of power and money and, mmm, that certain unnameable SOMETHING that comes when a charming guy is put in charge. The quality of attraction that keeps people coming to Sakaar in spite of the high poverty rates. MAGNETISM.

“Y’know, kitten, you are just, ah…–mmmm.” The Grandmaster leaves the sentiment dangling mid-air to take a sip of liquor, quick golden eyes watching Loki’s face closely as he swallows. Poor guy’s gone from utterly disinterested to kinda transfixed, huh?

Such is the power of knowing what you’re doing.

He smacks his lips noisily and pulls his interlocked arm away at last to set his drink back down on the counter, watching it on its way down before transferring his attention back onto the sweet little thing seated next to him.

“So! We’ve, ah–got an early start tomorrow. Good! Gotta…should probably get a room here, I guess, if we’re - leavin’ from here, huh? Couldn’t hurt. Where’s - where’s your room, sweet thing? I’ll just, uh. Set up shop close to you, shouldn’t be too hard. Wonderful things happen when you have money, honest.”

Loki is just MMM? Loki keeps his gaze on the stranger’s face, and he tilts his head slightly to the side, watching him with obvious curiosity shining in his eyes, leaning in just slightly. The way he DRINKS is so genteel, and he watches hungrily for the bob of the other man’s throat, for the way he shifts his lips, and then--

Draws his arm away.

Loki shows not his disappointment, and instead, he leans back slightly,  straightening his back slightly and changing his posture, but-- His... room? Oh. Very slowly, Loki gives a shake of his head, drawing one hand up  and moving his index finger upon the air. NO ROOM of his own, no, so this man will have to seek out whatever quarters he might desire, but--

He draws text upon the air, writing in the easy, fluid characters of Standard, and writing them backward so that this fellow can read them backward.

                                 “I don’t know your name.”

Loki’s lips quirk into a small smile, and he looks at the other man almost hopefully as he lets the words hover in shining gold upon the air, written in pure energy and hovering in their place; even as he lets them hang, he draws the barman’s attention, and he takes up the tablet proffered to him, tapping in the order for the best room on the station, and where they ought go to procure it. The barman’s eyes flit over the electronic screen, but then he passes it back: the room-booking program, here upon the screen. 

                       EASY. 

He offers the tablet to the other man, but he doesn’t press it into his hands: merely turns it, to let him make his choice of the rooms. Perhaps, on Asgard, this might have embarrassed him, humiliated him, and like this, it feels-- It pleases him.

Gives him purpose. 

#reblogged #firstofsakaar #c; en dwi gast | the grandmaster

[mystarsforanempire]

He takes the condescension surprisingly well; he’s happy to let this, uh–mmm, HANDSOME STRANGER put him through the wringer for overstepping his bounds, to mock his lack of apology, cats!, even to go on his little tirade about how HANDSOME and POWERFUL and CHARMING he is–but all interest, all indulgence, all warmth, all charisma drains out of his face for a blank moment with those too-bold, too-cold fingers light on his chin. It’s old habit; hard to break. En Dwi’s spine snaps swiftly into place, holding him high and rigid, as the lighthearted air of puckishness drains out of his eyes.

Yeah, yeah–call him out on playing a bumbling idiot. Loki’s not the first and won’t be the last, although he’ll be one of the few to survive. But touching his chin? That’s insulting. Degrading. And to judge from the look on the little worm’s face, he knows it.

“As long as we’re giving away, uh, FREE ADVICE,” En Dwi begins, “I’d, uh. Suggest not intentionally insulting people who’re bigger than you.”

This time, he doesn’t reach up to touch Loki’s wrist, drag it away from his chin. He doesn’t shove Loki back, jerk his chin away, or even take a single step in any direction. Instead, focused only on his chin–no, his face, he likes the way it shines when he does–he drops the facade of his own tempered temperature. In a snap, a blink, a heartbeat, his face fairly explodes into a temperature several thousand kelvin above normal, and En Dwi smiles through it.

There’s a good reason for his arrogance, after all, and it all comes around to…y’know. What he CAN or CAN’T do, compared to your run of the mill Asgardian (or Terran, Xylaxian, Chitari, etc., etc., etc.).

–But he’s not, y’know, a SADIST about it or anything. The second Loki’s fingers jerk away from his chin he’s quick to catch them again, bringing his temperature rapidly back down from life-threatening to, ah…more of a mild scald, pressing a kiss into the injured pads of the prince’s insolent fingers. If he had had winking figured out, he would’ve dropped a special one for Loki right about then, too.

Ignoring the subtle threats, the accusations, the physical hurt of the last few minutes, En Dwi smiles brightly and enthusiastically once more, releasing Loki’s hand with a laugh. “So! Sun–sunning room, huh? Sounds a little, uh…pretentious.” He flashes a smile that shows all of his teeth, or perhaps just enough of them to feel like too many. “I love it! What’s on the menu, a little light flirtation aside?”

THERE.

Loki has found the spot he’d been aiming for, spat back at this man just as he’d spat at Loki: Loki sees the stiffening of his body and it makes him a c h e in anticipation, to see this charming, irreverent face so SERIOUS! SO GRIM!

So those smiling lips can frown - what a discovery that is. 

“Bigger than me?” Loki repeats, amused. “How much bigger than me do you REALLY--” And there, it is all cut off, all thrown off into the universe at large and set to BURN. Loki forgets what he was saying, what he was thinking, forgets even where they are and WHO they are: he knows only the sudden BURST of heat that hits him in the face, makes him turn his face away even as his fingers CRACKLE--

He exhales shakily, trembling slightly in his place, and he stares at his own hand as En Dwi drags his fingers to the scalded agony of his fingertips, and then--

He laughs! LAUGHS! 

Loki stares at him, spellbound, at the way he shows his teeth and draws back his charm and sweetness, feels as if he has been thrown one way and then dragged back the other. This man, this-- This being burns at so obscene a heat, and yet Loki... 

Staring at his own fingers, he takes in the nasty shape of the burns there, at the reddening shine of the flesh. 

“I oughtn’t have done that,” Loki murmurs, softly and with some distant understanding of his own folly. And yet... There’s a fear that rings from the very base of his spine over his every inch of skin, setting his hairs upon their ends, and he feels as if he he is but a tiny fragment of a thing, a speck of dust in the scheme of whatever THIS man is... And yet, how it excites him. How his heart thrills. Turning his gaze from his fingers, which are healed with a crackle of ancient magic that licks over his skin and  leaves the air smelling of ozone, he meets En Dwi’s gaze again.  “I hate the sunning room: we’ll dine in my quarters, if it pleases you.”

He lets the invitation hang between them, and he feels his breath catch in his throat as he waits for the answer. 

#firstofsakaar #c; en dwi gast | the grandmaster #v; supposed dominants

[mystarsforanempire]

rp pet peeve ; when writing with a villain, one continues to poke the bear but once said villain retaliates, other’s grow upset or perturbed.

always remember ; if you choose poke the bear, you will get bitten. 

VILLAINS are not punching bags, they are opposition that pose a TRUE & REAL THREAT. antagonize one & you incur the wrath. do not smite the writer for their chosen direction as they are simply reacting as their muse commands. ( & believe me, if you’re writing a villain, the muse is in control ). villains are not teddy bears. villains are complex, multi-faceted. perhaps they react in one way to one & differently to another. bonds are formed different. villains can sometimes be unhinged mentally where reasoning is skewed or twisted. they are not to be underwritten as little puppies with attitude issues. they are rabid dog most tend to shy away from. they don’t need a little love or a sprinkle of fairy dust to feel better, to be good. some villains don’t want to be redeemed. some villains don’t want emotional connection. many are selfish & if an emotional connection is sought after the villain will usually ( ALWAYS ) put themselves first. always talk to the mun, get a feel for the muse, get to know the limits - what lines to cross, what lines to avoid like the plague. 

#reblogged #deviltoothed

[mystarsforanempire]

It’s been a, uh, a FRUITFUL day, all in all. En Dwi’s first day in the Assguardian Court. He’s never been big on, hah, on formalities, and, uh - well. Seeing the Court in action, he was really reminded why: the, uh, the rigmarole with introductions alone, the bowing and the scraping and the, uh, the “official language” mandated to speak took up - jeez, how did they get anything done?

En Dwi had been quick to ask. Quicker to be shot down. And quick again to point out, in no uncertain terms - his, uh, little vocal tics aside - how…how POINTLESS so much of it was, and why did Odin need a, uh, a room full of important people sucking his dick for an hour on end, anyway, when he could just - y’know. Pick a party day for that and do the day to day a little, uh, quicker. His “vulgarity” was, uh, given a pass because he was new. But they still tried to swat his hands for speaking up.

And the whole time, there’d been - there’d been the most DELICIOUS little thing just a…just a few chairs away, stifling laughter when he, En Dwi, really got INTO it. He’d almost pointed it out, like, uh, see?, he gets it!, but–boy. Thor was - quick as lightning! And Dad,ODIN, he wasn’t too far behind.

But, y’know. The crowd lets out, people go shuffling, and, uh, ever friendly, ever curious, En Dwi had maybe elected to cop a feel in the press of bodies, but - holy cats! Magic users, yikes, so, uh - so generally RARE in this part of the multiverse, or so he’d been led to believe. But here’s WhatHisName, the cute little snack from across the table, bursting his hand away with a little–mmm, what is that? Just some, uh, force?

En Dwi laughs as he removes his hand, shaking the strange sensation of his target’s defensive maneuver out of his hand.

“Hah! Point, uh. Point taken, sweet pea. We’ll just call that another little, uh - cultural misunderstanding, huh?” En Dwi moves his gaze from his hand to the other man’s…cuff, actually, and without thinking, he, uh. Breaks that cardinal “no-touching” rule again, slipping tanned fingers under the gold band to examine it. Right, right, he’d HEARD of this! Social stratification that, uh, fortunately or otherwise mimicked bedroom behaviors. All about - leadership capabilities or something…something funny like that. D, huh? Yeah, uh. Maybe. He could see that. He - Odin, y’know, and Thor, they had - they had the same bracelets, but, uh. Green Leather over here is the first guy En Dwi’s met that could maybe hold his own leading off-world. “That’s…a real shame, I’m kinda…kind of a tactile guy. Do these–.” The question dies almost immediately, golden gaze flicking up into Green Leather’s face. He’s sure they’ve met before, but, uh, yummy as he is, he - just isn’t the same kind of loud as the rest of the Court.

Maybe they hadn’t met. Maybe En Dwi had seen him and been shuffled right past ‘im to some other golden curiosity. So En Dwi smiles, and it’s kinda sharp, and he slips his fingers back out of the space between the bracelet and the guy wearing it, and he lets the moment slide. “If you’re, uh. Not doing anything important, why not - why not rack up some, hah, karmic points and, uh, do a good deed, huh? I’d just - HATE to dine alone. You could–hah! You could scold me about…y’know, touching or talking or - whatever’s got everyone’s underarmor in a bunch around here. Teach me the difference between a gold bauble and, uh. Whatever the opposite is. Silver or blue or - or none or what have you.”

It beats dining here alone, or worse!, with the Court again.

SWEET PEA! What must it be like, to so readily waltz through the universe that one can be so incredibly bold - to accuse the ALLFATHER of using his  court to practice some form of autofellatio, and so playfully, so casually; to touch the second prince of Asgard with such plain certainty that he will not struck down; to call perfect strangers by such easy terms of affection, and KNOW, know, that they shall not argue! That they would not dare!

And Loki might dare, if it suited him, but it doesn’t - it affects him with a thrill inside, makes his skin feel slightly hot, and then, the man TOUCHES him! ONCE MORE!

Loki exhales breathlessly at the sensation of those two hot fingers against the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist, and he leans in closer, hardening his gaze and STARING into En Dwi’s eyes. They’re a beautiful colour, a colour Loki could lose himself in, but he will not engage in such ridiculous musings in the time being.

There’s recognition in those eyes, Loki thinks, and yet Loki knows not why - he has strayed from Asgard a thousand times before, relished the freedom in being able to wear no cuff at all, to merely be LOKI - not assigned some stratified role, not with a path laid out for him. Could they have crossed paths? To Loki’s thought, he would have remembered such a man, in his golds and his beauty, but--

“Karma,” Loki says, and when the other man draws his hand away, Loki delicately shakes out his hand, as if removing some invisible STAIN En Dwi has left upon him from his wrist. “Not a concept we carry upon Asgard, En Dwi Gast.” And yet Loki does wish to spend more time with him - he’s so SHARP-WITTED, and his irreverence is exciting, offers a breath of fresh air where Asgard is so stifling...

“You wish me to scold you?” Loki asks softly, his voice ringing with a quiet amusement, mildly condescending - it is naught but a vague flirtation on the other man’s part, and yet of course, Loki is enthralled at the very thought of it-- “We might take a meal together. Come, we shall walk take it in the sunning room upstairs. You seem a man who enjoys the sun on his face.”

Loki reaches out, and he touches En Dwi’s chin - he doesn’t touch the mark of shining blue that bisects it, but he traces the underside of his chin with tracing fingers, feeling the HEAT of him: the touch is easy, confident, belying the way Loki’s slow-beating heart skips a beat. 

“You are handsome, En Dwi, but I shouldn’t overestimate how far that will get you here. You aren’t so handsome that the Allfather might spare you his WRATH; nor so powerful, nor so... Charming.” How would this man treat him, Loki wonders, were he stamped with a more submissive marker, were he wearing silver at his wrist? What abuses might Loki have to take from him, as his right? Loki  leans in slightly closer, and he speaks in little more than a whisper as he says, “HANDSOME will not woo me, sweet pea. You would do well not to overstep your bounds with your play at THOUGHTLESS FOREIGNER.”

#c; en dwi gast | the grandmaster #firstofsakaar #v; supposed dominants

[mystarsforanempire]

“There should always be other things,” the Grandmaster encouraged, eyes flickering over to Loki. There was a sudden tension between them that wasn’t there before and he was sorely tempted to brush his mind against his guest’s…but that wouldn’t be very fun. Spoilers and all that.

“But more to the point…what’s on your mind, cutie? You look like I said something wrong.”

Loki delicately shrugs his shoulders, and he takes a small sip of his drink, not looking at the Grandmaster, and instead keeping his gaze slightly  downward, on the spread of the game between them, and then on the Grandmaster’s knees.

                  “I know not, Grandmaster, merely... 

         Magic is my lifeblood. Without it, I die, surely and in agony.                   In the most literal sense, AT THIS JUNCTURE... It is my reason for being.     As a child, it scared me, the changes magic wrought upon my body,                                 but already Asgard knew me as witch. I could hardly turn back.”

#c; en dwi gast | the grandmaster #sakaarsmaster #v; the games on sakaar

[mystarsforanempire]

As Loki thumbs over his lip and chin, following the unconscious pattern En Dwi himself has painted there so many times before–in blood, in semen, with his own fingers–a thought comes unbidden of playtime in the garden, getting Loki, mmm, up in a tree, held spread nicely out, coming apart as a few vines–well, they’d done it before, with, uh, with tentacles, but the thought was somehow more…demeaning, or maybe just meaningful, in here. A nice little thought for next time, maybe.

For now, Loki’s not playing along anymore, all – CONFUSED. Geez, you–you build ‘em back up, praise them sweetly, let them sit in your lap and play with their hair, you even–dress ‘em, paint their makeup on for them, throw them parties, show them a good time–but some people, they just never learn, huh?

“Yeah, uh, you’re–really somethin’,” En Dwi says, mildly. He’s distracted by some vague thought, a rolling concern over Loki’s OBSESSION with the past, the pattern of questions lately–about En Dwi’s time as a scientist, about Homeworld, now about marriage–but, uh. Mmmm. There’s not enough data to say anything definitive there, except that SOMEONE’s not taking well to the way of things on Sakaar, to the whole “present-living” shtick. It’s just as distracting, and decisively less pleasant, as his earlier thoughts of Loki in the garden.

But he puts a smile on it, just like Loki does–one that’s sweet and warm and indulgent–and crooks his finger to beckon him closer. “Come…come over here, kitten, you’re so FAR AWAY. You’re all pensive. It’s - it’s such an ugly look on you, really. Do you think I’d LIE to you about something like this? Is that way you’re all…mmm, DOUBTFUL? I can see it in your eyes, y’know, and it - it HURTS, really, after all this time. Come tell Daddy what’s on your mind, huh?”

“You know, it doesn’t upset me as much as I’m sure you would like, when you call me ugly. I’ve always been UGLY, En Dwi, even as a child: the blade is as blunt as wood.” It isn’t true. It makes him ache, when En Dwi so cuts at him with such words, particularly when his crimes consist of naught more than thought, naught more than daring to remember his life or to think of one thing or another... Nonetheless, he sets aside his pruning shears and slowly steps forward, and he looks at En Dwi’s chest for the first few moments, but then he reluctantly looks up and into En Dwi’s eyes.

That is something he so INSISTS on - on Loki looking him in the eyes, on Loki making eye contact when he is ashamed or uncertain, on Loki meeting En Dwi’s golden gaze. He reaches out, drawing his fingers over the Grandmaster’s robes and dragging his palms over En Dwi’s ribs, down to his waist, before he leans in closer, burying his face against the other man’s neck and inhaling. 

En Dwi’s scent is a unique one, even with the centuries upon centuries Loki has been alive, and it C O M F O R T S Loki in a way that perhaps it ought not, when En Dwi can be so cruel to him, when he is drawn to En Dwi as the foolish moth to the dancing flame. 

“You can hardly fault me for my disbelief,” Loki murmurs against the warm flesh of the Elder’s collar bone, dragging his lips over the skin. “You are a being ANCIENT, in your multitudes, and to believe you might choose me is surprising enough; this is even before considering if you have ever engaged thus, and then--” Loki’s grip tightens on En Dwi’s hips. “I shan’t cease to be PENSIVE merely because higher thought displeases you. You wouldn’t like me if I didn’t think.”

#c; en dwi gast | the grandmaster #v; the games on sakaar #firstofsakaar

[mystarsforanempire]

@ofknowhere / starter

Loki sits very still in his place, resisting the urge to lend colour to his skin that might serve to camoflauge him entirely and to simply sink into the background. Tivan’s museum... Unsettles him. He dislikes to see the creatures here, bound in their varied cages, and he doesn’t wish to be here, on Knowhere. He should rather have remained on the Grandmaster’s vessel, and did his best to convince the Grandmaster to let him stay... and hadn’t. 

Loki had even feigned ill, had drawn a faux-fever onto his flesh and all but buried himself in the soft blankets of the Grandmaster’s bed, but the Elder had allowed him no slack whatsoever.

It pleases the Grandmaster, Loki thinks, that Loki fears the Collector, and yet Loki cannot help it, the way his skin c r a w l s at the idea of being trapped in one of these hideous cages - has he displeased the Grandmaster enough, Loki wonders? He is elsewhere, for now, had mildly purred something about pet-sitting before swanning from Knowhere’s halls, and it is all Loki can do (it takes every fibre of his discipline) not to flee from the great head entirely, nor to make of himself some small and scuttling creature and secrete himself in the ventilation shafts or in some careful corner. 

When the Collector comes back to the room, Loki glances at him, and he scarcely dares to draw in so much as a breath. He remains SILENT, huddling somewhat in the silken clothes the Grandmaster had tailored for him the week previous, and he steels himself before he says, 

                              “However long I am to be here for, I might be of service.             I’ve assisted in museum curation before.”

His tone is unwavering, but it is not quite as casual as he might have LIKED it to sound. The inherent question is not one he dares voice explicitly: how long is he to be here for, under the Collector’s dubious care? The Grandmaster has left him here obviously to UPSET him - perhaps even to upset the Collector,  as well - but... For how long? 

#v; tba #c; taneleer tivan | the collector #ofknowhere #listen... i'm a dumb slut 4 ren

[mystarsforanempire]

jane: you didn’t write.    loki: um i was slutting it up with new dicks in my mouth around the universe i couldn’t write you??? what the fuck??? jane: why not. you have hands, don’t you? you can’t-- do that and write at the same time?

when jane sees @mystarsforanempire back on her dash: 💖💕✨🦉🐍✨💕💖

#reblogged #vorcotec #listen... #i love u rabbit #and loki loves jane #nsfw #THIS POST IS DISGUSTING WELCOME BACK TO DICTIONARY ON THE DASH #c; weird science | jane andrews