[ The sharp sting of Primal hope had been smothered under eggs and coffee, doubt and fear like salt and creamer with their breakfast. Loki knew better than to try to anticipate Paul when he knew so little, but they'd come a bit cleaner since breakfast, and that hope had begun to struggle to the surface when Paul had told him to lock the door.
Loki's lips part and he finds himself almost hungry to lick and suck the leather finger, to worship the touch while it was there. He's disappointed when Paul pulls back and unashamed by the growing hard on in his pants.
Take off your shirt.
He hesitates for only a few heartbeats before taking half a step back (necessary for a smooth pull of any kind) and turning around. Paul hadn't asked for that, no, but if he was going to see what was on Loki's skin, he might as well see it in all it's full glory. There was a reason that Loki didn't wear short sleeve shirts or tank tops outside of undershirts for work. No one saw him topless anymore. No one got a hint as to how extensive his inkwork was. The black knit Henley is tugged out of his waistband and slowly tugged up so he can cross his arms, grab the hem, and start the smoother motion of pulling it off in one go.
Loki's back told a story that very few would be able to read or understand - twists of script (from the Bible, Paul would recognize,) lifting the robes of a small someone holding something to the large and intricate Freemason symbol. There wasn't much of his skin that wasn't covered in something, save the very low small of his back, and the ink crawled around and over his shoulders. The only thing that marred the images were the scars of whipping that cut lashes of pale scar tissue across the dark ink.
He held a moment after dropping the shirt to turn back around to face Paul and whatever look of likely horror would rest there.
Loki's chest was only covered over his right breast, his left still bare, pure skin to match his stomach. There was script running around Loki's hips, down his arms - someone could spend years looking over every inch and find something new.
He wasn't ashamed of that either. ]
Don't ask about what they mean. I won't be able to tell you.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2023-09-04 02:51 pm (UTC)Loki's lips part and he finds himself almost hungry to lick and suck the leather finger, to worship the touch while it was there. He's disappointed when Paul pulls back and unashamed by the growing hard on in his pants.
Take off your shirt.
He hesitates for only a few heartbeats before taking half a step back (necessary for a smooth pull of any kind) and turning around. Paul hadn't asked for that, no, but if he was going to see what was on Loki's skin, he might as well see it in all it's full glory. There was a reason that Loki didn't wear short sleeve shirts or tank tops outside of undershirts for work. No one saw him topless anymore. No one got a hint as to how extensive his inkwork was. The black knit Henley is tugged out of his waistband and slowly tugged up so he can cross his arms, grab the hem, and start the smoother motion of pulling it off in one go.
Loki's back told a story that very few would be able to read or understand - twists of script (from the Bible, Paul would recognize,) lifting the robes of a small someone holding something to the large and intricate Freemason symbol. There wasn't much of his skin that wasn't covered in something, save the very low small of his back, and the ink crawled around and over his shoulders. The only thing that marred the images were the scars of whipping that cut lashes of pale scar tissue across the dark ink.
He held a moment after dropping the shirt to turn back around to face Paul and whatever look of likely horror would rest there.
Loki's chest was only covered over his right breast, his left still bare, pure skin to match his stomach. There was script running around Loki's hips, down his arms - someone could spend years looking over every inch and find something new.
He wasn't ashamed of that either. ]
Don't ask about what they mean. I won't be able to tell you.