Schadenfreude

I think, at least for me, its all about opposites attracting–fire (ok technically lightening) and ice, light and dark, earnest and mischievous, brains and brawn… 

I mean, you have Thor who is essentially a big, crazy strong, puppy and wants to love and get on with everyone and then there is Loki, the god of mischief himself, who had to compensate for his lack of brawn by being brainy/magic and he has a giant chip on his shoulder for many (sometimes valid) reasons but maybe a weak spot for Thor who still, despite all the shit Loki does, loves him.

Plus, they hot. And touch each other a lot. And the tension. My god.

Since I cannot get my act together for the #eattherare fest with a full chapter I thought I’d at least give you all a little taste of the next chapter since it’s been, what, a year (again, I am so sorry). 

The Four Corners of the Earth: Nigel, with his two jittery, Danish bodyguards in tow, comes to collect his quarterly bonus from his business partner and banker, Le Chiffre. The Albanian is more than accommodating, as is his American paramour, who always puts on a good show for their handsome guests.

Chapter Three: Arne, finally, gets some.

Jack/Arne, mentions of Jack/Le Chiffre and Jack/Nigel.

“Fucking limp dick junkie,” Arne seethes under his breath the moment the cabin door snicks shut behind them. 

With a familiar dour expression set into the lines around Arne’s pout, he allows Jack’s hand to slip from his own when the boy tries tugging him toward the bed. Lingering near the door, Arne roughly shoves both fist into the pockets of his trousers. A few stray strands of hair fall across his forehead. His heavy gaze slowly scales up the lean length of Jack’s naked body. The flinty possessiveness rimming dark irises sours the sweet, ragged longing he has barely managed to keep in check since first touching Jack’s hand only a few hours ago.

“Arne,” Jack murmurs, expertly masking the mild flicker of exasperation as he saunters back over to Arne with a purposefully delicate twist in his hips. 

“He—”

Damp hands skim over the dingy fabric stretched tight across on Arne’s chest, ticking over the hard edge of sturdy collarbones, dipping into the hollows of his throat, sliding up around to the nape of his neck. Blunt nails dragging through the lank locks, scratching along his scalp until he feels a reluctant shiver beneath his fingertips. Leaning in, he places a soft kiss to the corner of Arne’s mouth; the flat line unwavering. Undaunted by the lack of response, Jack repeats the action on the opposite side, trying to coax him out of his petulant sulk. 

“Arne,” he tries again, warm breath dancing over Arne’s lips before he draws back to level the other with a fluttering, doe-eyed gaze. Rubbing the tip of his nose against the slope of Arne’s own, deliberately slow and soft and painfully enticing. Praying on Arne’s weakness for such sweet displays of affection, though the man would never admit to that particular fondness despite the staggering amount of evidence.

With a frustrated groan, Arne surrenders, chasing after the retreating mouth, delving in without reserve. Both hands tangle in the mess of hair curling around the slick nape of Jack’s neck. With two quick strides, he has Jack back up against the opposite wall with a soft thud and a pleased moan.

After their first brief tryst, Jack realized that Arne was easily the best kisser he had encountered in a very long time. The wickedly talented tongue, plush lips and the slight, delicious prickle of facial hair, were all a devastating confluence of sensations. All underpinned by a surprisingly tender passion, effortlessly short-circuits Jack’s brain. 

“And you,” Arne hisses into the boy’s mouth, nuzzling his cheek. Any real sting sapped from his accusation by the sweetness of his touch. A finger curls under his chin, thumb worrying over the soft patch of skin near his jaw where he still struggles to grow any facial hair.

“Me?” Jack pulls back, feigning innocence, toying with the hem of Arne’s tank top. Staring up with wide eyes, he bites his lips to further emphasize his coy act.

“Teasing me like that.” He thumbs the lower lip free, soothing away the faint indentations. Tracing the curved seam of Jack’s obedient mouth, Arne slides the tip of his finger past the soft, wet lips, grazing perfect straight teeth. He strokes the flat of the boy’s tongue before withdrawing his finger, smearing spit over his lips and chin until the skin glistens in the dim light. “Now I will have to jerk off every time I see a…a…vandmelon.” The tenderness swells up inside him once more at the sound of Arne stumbling over his words into the safer realm of Danish.