cunningas: (other: wide grin and a smile)
To my Lasko 20 inch Weather-shield Box Fan With Thermostat that I ordered from Home Depot:

I must say, I was a bit skeptical about your ability to keep my room cool. "Air conditioners are the way of the future!" I claimed and stubbornly, and stupidly I realise in hindsight, clung to my unfounded belief that central air was better than a window fan by virtue of being the somewhat newer technology.

But now, oh now the scales have been lifted from my eyes and I see the truth! You, box fan, are the way of the future. Your buzzing as I fall asleep is better than any white-noise box and your capacity for cooling is amazing since you do nothing but circulate air.

Your clean white color and friendly rounded edges also serve for you to add some character to my previously drab room, I don't know how I thought of ever decorating without you! I am now, in fact, planning on placing one of your brethren in every room of my houses. I have converted to the way of the fan and I have you to thank for it. Rest assured, box-fan o' my heart, I will soon be converting others to the path of the fan.

Many thanks from your devoted owner,

cunningas: (adrien: in bed with kiera)
She was sleeping soundly, he knew. He also knew it was, in large part, because she trusted him. Trusted him to keep her safe, to keep her warm in his arms. To stay with her until she woke. With anyone else, anyone else, he'd have tsked at the thought, muttered something about the "silly little lamb". Not with her. With her he only stood quietly beside her bed for a moment, looking down at her with something like regret in his eyes.

And then he left, slipping out of her rooms, their rooms as quietly as a cat stalking a mouse. She never heard him leave.

He'd be back, anyway. Eventually.

But there were places to go, people to see, dalliances to be had and of course, appearances to keep and masks to wear. And upon stepping out into the cool evening air, that which he wore most often so that it was more familiar to him than his own skin slid into place. He smiled, laughed, even, and a heartbeat -- or two -- later, he was off doing what he did best.

Not even Odin's disapproving stare seemed to slow him down. Not even when Odin reminded him of their conversation long ago when he'd first wooed her. Reminded him of his promise not to hurt her. There, then, anger flashed beneath his mask, but he only laughed Odin away, ignored the All-father's words and warning.

It was expected, after all.

And he'd go back to her, in time.

He always would.

Muse: Loki
Fandom: Norse Mythology
Wordcount: 247


Feb. 28th, 2007 11:33 am
cunningas: (adrien: contemplative)
"Do I believe in ghosts?" He repeats her and then he laughs. "Do I believe in ghosts." And now it isn't a question when he says it. He shakes his head, "that's like asking an Gabriel over there if he believes in Christ or something. Christ."

She shrugged, "it's a legitimate question. More things in heaven and earth, etc and yeah, you're a god but...Gods and monsters do not ghosts make."

His reply is quick coming just on the heels of her words and his tone is cutting. "Don't they?"

"...what do you mean?" He made no real sense to her at the best of times and his tone suggested he was about to get maudlin or angry or...something. Damn him for being so changeable even if that was one of the things she loved about him.

"What is a ghost but a memory? What is a god but the collective memory of his (or her, not that it matters) people? Of course I believe in ghosts." He paused, his lips quirking as he did so and then he continued, "I am one."

Muse: Loki
Fandom: Norse mythology
Wordcount: 179
Note: This was originally going to be longer. I may end up rewriting it but I wanted to go ahead and get the general idea down. :)
cunningas: (adrien: cheeky bastard)
Loki rocked back on his heels, tilted his head, and screwed up his face, watching the tableau unfold before him. A plastic bucket flew by his head, landing somewhere behind him on the garishly colored carpet. He didn't flinch, being far too engrossed in the chaos he was watching. The noise was almost overwhelming, even for him, what with the clangs and the dinging, and beeps and the chink-chink-chink of coins dropping. Not to mention the yelps, screams, and shouts of a few dozen teenaged girls and a crapload of adults of various age. He was pretty sure that one old retiree over there was in the middle of a catastrophic heart attack.

"Hmmm," he mused, settling back onto the balls of his feet. "Hmm. You know," he looked over at his companion, a grin now tugging at his lips. "You know, I never really thought I would say this but...I think we may have gone a little overboard. Just a bit."

He turned his attention back out before them onto the casino floor, where a cadre of young Slayers-in-training seemed to be waging war on the casino staff. "Who knew they got so upset about being accused of cheating?"

Muse: Loki
Fandom: Norse Mythology
Wordcount: 199
cunningas: (boys: horsing around)
"The world is doomed," was all Hermes would say as the Messenger shook his head.

Loki frowned, "but it's a fabulous idea!"

"Loki. It's an idiotic idea and anyway, the universe would probably implode or something."

" it wouldn't! You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."

"What are you? In first grade??"

Now Loki crossed his arms petulantly, "I don't know what you're trying to imply," and sniffed.

Hermes merely rolled his eyes, "come on, Lok'm'boy, give it up, it's not worth it."

Mulishly, Loki shook his head. "Nope, I'm gonna do it."

"But why?"

"Because it's awesome, that's why!"

"Loki. It. Is. Stupid."








Cue a bout of random scuffling and tussling until both gods have somehow gotten themselves so entangled in each other's limbs (and clothes) that neither was capable of movement. "Now look at what you've done!" Hermes complained, his face stuffed into Loki's armpit.

From somewhere in the region of under Hermes' bent knee Loki's voice floated out, "me?? You started it by saying I was stupid!"

"You called me a pussy!"

"You deserved it!"

More growling and wriggling and tussling ensued until both Hermes and Loki were no more entangled but somehow utterly naked. Each stared at the other before they both burst into laughter. As the hilarity of the moment faded, Loki looked over at Hermes and quirked an eyebrow at his friend, "c'mon, me cloning myself? It's awesome!"

All Hermes found himself capable of doing was to groan and slump back onto the floor, "whatever you say, Loki..."
cunningas: (other: sucker punch)
Loki Vs. Heimdall; It's war! Describe yourself fighting against Heimdall.

Loki swiped the blood of a fallen enemy... )
cunningas: (adrien: in bed with kiera)
He'd sometimes wondered if she'd known, if the innocence was an act (of course it couldn't be that innocence was one of the reasons he loved her as he did), if she knew every time but chose to say nothing. Perhaps she did. She wasn't stupid. She had to know that not every night he left her alone was spent by him traveling all over Creation with Thor or Odin or alone. That there were...others...he gave his attentions to, whose attentions he wanted in return. Took in return, but never did he have to force them. Convince? Perhaps.

Surely she knew.

Surely she cried.

But he hadn't stopped, had he?

They'd, perhaps, never been meant as anything more than something more than friends and less than lovers. True lovers. He trusted no one (almost no one) and refused to settle down, refused to truly give. He was the wild thing, the whirlwind, the cat who walked by himself and sometimes he might choose to sit for a time, still and content in her arms, purring. But he always got up again and always left and that was the way he'd always be.

He was not meant to be kept. Not meant for love.

Out of all them, perhaps Hermes had understood him the best. They were, after all, the same or at least as much alike as makes no nevermind. But that sameness, that alikeness was what also made them impossible. They would never commit to each other any more than they would, truly, fully to anyone else. And they knew it.

And perhaps it hurt, but that was simply the way of things, was it not?

There was the possibility, once. Of an instant when that boy was still a boy. But the boy had been more of a pet then and perhaps there was a power there that even Loki feared. For, after all, the key that could unlock a prison could certainly lock it up again. It was better not to be too close, but close enough. Close enough for watching.


Nov. 17th, 2006 06:04 pm
cunningas: (adrien: hold on there a moment)
[another dealing with my NaNo novel]

cut for spoilers )

Muse: Loki
Fandom: Norse Mythology
Wordcount: 260

Road Trip

Nov. 17th, 2006 05:53 pm
cunningas: (adrien: just get in the car bitch)
Wesley might kill him. Methos would probably laugh. And Mike and/or Sam or both would want to know why he/they weren't invited.

Oh well.

Loki beamed at the girls standing in a loose semi-circle around him, while one of them fidgeted a little uncertainly, "are you sure we can do this?"

Loki's beam turned to something of a frown, as if he were profoundly disappointed in being asked that question, "Sarah, it's good to question authority, so don't feel badly for questioning me, however... don't you think I have your best interests at heart? Am I not charged with teaching you girls some very important lessons? Don't you think that Mr. Wyndham-Pryce would kill me if I did anything that might truly harm the hair on any of your heads?" He looked around at the four girls who each shook their heads slightly.

He smiled again, "besides, every teenager deserves one good road trip. It'll be an educational experience. Now get on in!" he waved the Slayers-in-training into the SUV he'd borrowed for the occasion and glanced about. Hah, no one would notice they'd gone for a good hour at least. Plenty of time to get out and give these girls some real lessons in the world.

Muse: Loki
Fandom: Norse Mythology
Wordcount: 203
Note: to understand this, you've got to know that, in game, Wesley has started a school for Slayers in training and Loki teaches there, lord only knows why they let him.
cunningas: (adrien: shadowed)
[written for my NaNoWriMo novel, so not exactly TM-canon Loki]

cut for length, language, and spoilers )
cunningas: (eyeing you)
He can imagine his favorite retreat simply by closing his eyes. He can imagine the warm, inviting atmosphere, the sweet smell in the air. He can get the best seat in the house with a wonderful view, not to mention a fabulous meal to go with it. The door was always open and his hostess was only the most gracious and beautiful woman in the nine worlds -- if he did say so himself. The only "negative", as it were, was the bad-tempered wolf who liked to hang out there too and really, Loki couldn't blame the kid, he'd be grouchy too.

He's dreamed of it, sometimes, seen himself back there, happy.

Many times, while he was still Bound, that is the place he thought of, a retreat inside his head, to take him away from those damnable rocks, to a time when he could look at Her without feeling any sort of guilt for what he'd done to her, they were simply together...with Vali and Narvi running bout underfoot. A family.

Not anymore, though.

But still, the place was there: Sigyn's kitchen.

When he thought of the place he'd been happiest, that was it. Not Tahiti. Not Fiji. Not New York. Not Washington. Not Greece. Not anywhere but there.


Jun. 14th, 2006 08:22 pm
cunningas: (bound)
There is a time and place for everything, he knows. And perhaps Cervantes said it best when he wrote, "There is a time for some things, and a time for all things; a time for great things, and a time for small things." There was even perhaps a time for loyalty. Loyalty to...a person, a place, a thing, an idea, a thought, a way, a non-way, order, chaos, life, death, religion, or persecution. Few were truly loyal to anything besides themselves, if they were being honest, and even at that they tended to fail for self-interest often lead to self-destruction. Too much of a good thing, you see. Too much food, wine, sex, vengeance, fighting, peace, laziness, work, whatever, it'd all kill you eventually. Too much moderation, even. Life was a terminal disease that only ever ended in death, sooner or later. Even for the so-called "deathless". Hadn't he proven that all those years (or was it just yesterday?) ago?

Loyalty, even when kept, was rarely rewarded truly. Baldr was loyal, what did it get him? Ignominous death by his brother's own hand and an eternal visit to Helheim. Tyr was loyal and all he has to show for it is a missing arm. Loki's own wife-...too loyal for her own good, he knows, too innocent to see the writing on the wall, too fucking nice to end her own suffering by just getting up and walking away from he to whom she'd given her loyalty. None of them got what they deserved for these acts of loyalty and probably never would, he knows. He knows this because he knows, understands, the way of the world. No matter what you do, no matter how nice or how loyal or how sober or what-the-fuck-ever you are, the house always wins. You always get screwed over.

He knows this better than anyone. He knows this because he knows his own destiny. He knows how his own loyalty will get him in the end. He knows his own doom.

Doesn't stop him, though.

Muse: Loki
Fandom: Norse Mythology


Jun. 13th, 2006 03:15 pm
cunningas: (metamorphosis)
[Concludes what this began, and this continued.]

Night fell, muffling the land under a blanket of darkness. The area around the old manor house lay completely silent and still. Not a bird chirped, no small animals scuttled through the grass, no horse in the barn nickered sleepily to another or stamped its hoof. It was as if all the creatures around, indeed, the very land itself, were holding their breath, waiting in expectation of...something. And within the house itself, even the humans were quiet as if they too could sense the tension of anticipation in the air. Many of them had gone to bed early, though one still sat in the parlor, staring at the fire while up in one of the bedrooms, at the window, stood a white figure, pale as a wraith.

She is growing old, now, her once-golden hair frosted with strands of silver. She wears only a long, white nightgown and nothing else. No gloves. No fine dress. No shoes. No jewelry. No make-up. Her gold-and-silver hair flows freely down her back. Outwardly, she is hardly dressed but... her mind she wears the most glorious of white gowns imagineable, a dress that would put anything in the Queen's wardrobe to shame. In her mind, she was still young and beautiful. In her mind, she was standing at the window, waiting, just like the rest of the world. Waiting with bated breath. Unlike the rest of the world, though, she knew for what she waited.


He will come for her tonight, finally, to take her as his bride. She waits, tonight, just as she's waited every night for years. But tonight is different. Tonight she knows he'll come. It doesn't matter to her that she's know it in the past as well. While she awaits her nocturnal lover, she speaks softly, telling the story to her son of how they had met and loved and how he would return for them on this night and take them away where they would never want or worry again.


Outside, the wind picks up, carrying along the sound of husky, whispered secrets.


Downstairs in the parlor, a youth with grass-green eyes glanced up toward the ceiling, thinking he should perhaps check on his mother.


And the pale-white woman murmurs excitedly to the bundle in her arms, "Do you hear it?," she was certain she heard the whir of wheels on gravel, "His carriage is coming! Oh, my son, we must make ready!" And she bustles about the chamber, throwing glances back toward the window every few moments for that first glimpse of him.


Something in the air or in the dark or in his blood makes the young man quicken his steps as he begins climbing the stairs.


The wind rises again, its whispers becoming voices one can almost make out if one only listens hard enough.


She pauses in her preparations, something making her turn and there, there! He stood, watching her, silhouetted agains the moonlight within the frame made by the window she had so recently stood before. With a cry of joy, she ran to him, embracing him and feeling his strong arms curve around her in return. "Oh, my love," she cried, "I have missed you so. I feared-"

"Shhh," he murmured softly, quieting her with a tender kiss. "I am late, yes, but not lost. I have missed you too much to tell, love, and I only hope you may forgive me."

She smiled radiantly up at him, her faded blue eyes meeting his piercing green ones. "Of course I forgive you, always."

His eyes seem to go distant for half a moment, but in the darkness and th emoonlight it is difficult to tell and she is overwhelmed, anyway, by the emotion of the moment. But the distant look soon fades and he smiles down upon her once more as he lovingly caresses her cheek, "then it is time for us to go. Quickly now, love, we must away," and he gently pulled her with him, toward the open window.

She, of course, trusted him with everything and so it wasn't a window he was leading her toward but the door of some grand carriage. Still, though, she hesitated, "our son-" and she turned toward the bundle she'd lain in a cradle earlier while she'd made her frenzied preparations for her love's arrival.

He shook his head, "No, love, only you. He must stay here, for a time. But you'll rejoin one another soon enough."

Frowning up at him, she reached still for the cradle, "I don't-" but whatever she had been about to say was cut off when the door to the room flew open. Her eyes widened as she saw the young man who now stood, framed in the doorway. He was the mirror image of her love, very like to how she'd imagined her son would look if he were grown. That thought causes her to gasp in surprise. Her son. Her son who was not a babe. Her sone who she had watched grow. Her son who stood in that doorway staring at her and her love with wide, green eyes.

She understands now. Remembers, everything. In that one instant, she can view her life and beyond with diamond-edged clarity. In that one instant, she smiles at the youth, her son, with a beatific, blinding smile and let her love's arms envelope her once more. In the next instant, the two of them stepped out the window.

Those two, short instants were lifetimes to the youth, time slowing almost to a standstill. She smiles at him, and he knows, knows that for the first time in years she is truly seeing him and the...she's gone. Time returns to its normal course, letting him run to the window, looking out for two broken bodies on the earth below. But instead, he sees a man with bird-wings, his mother clapsed in its arms, winging silently away through the night.

His cheeks are wet.

Not tears.


In slow motion, the young man steps back from the window and closes it, looking out at the rain for a long time afterward.


Deep under the earth, there lies a glade. Within that quiet glade, sits a home. Within that home, lives a young woman. Her hair is the color of sunshine and her eyes the color of a clear summer sky. She is visited, sometimes, by those who live near the glade. Sometimes by an old-young woman who carries herself like a queen. Sometimes by a beautiful young man who looks even more like sunshine than her hair and his friendly, quiet wife. And sometimes, just sometimes, by a handsome man with eyes as green as her glade and hair the color of wildfire.


Through the years, the young man grows up, marries, has children, and never forgets the mother who loved him, in her own way, or the gift she bestowed upon him with her smile before she left. The smile that remained on her lips that morning as the sun rose and he was discovered still staring out the window at a world washed clean and she was found lying still on her bed, as if only sleeping.

That smile stays with him over the years. The love and joy she'd shared with him in that one moment carrying him through the hard times of his life, making him a better person, lighting the nights when he felt most alone.

And finally, one night, many years later, he awakens to find her smiling at him once more.
cunningas: (gradient)
[follows this]

Twenty years, at least, had passed since he'd last been in this area of the world. Twenty years since he had slipped out of town as the sun was rising, leaving behind just one more lover on a long list of them. That, and a scandal. Surely, though, there was no one here now who would remember the mysterious stranger who had blown into town for all of a week? It was unlikely, at the least, that anyone would link the dark and mysterious traveler he'd been then with the flashy and loud performer-magician he was now. Indeed, he was playing at his conjurer's tricks there in the town square, delighting the crowd with simple sleights of hand and smoke and mirrors while he dazzled all in the gaudy finery he wore and there seemed to not be a glimmer of recognition among any of the large group of townspeople gathered about him. Certainly he didn't recognize any of them, though that was hardly remarkable for Loki found none of these mortals particularly memorable.

Except, oh, that one perhaps. As he scanned the crowd, keeping tabs on its collective mood, gauging what would be best for his next trick, the Trickster god noticed one among those watching him who was not seeming to enjoy himself. Indeed, this one simply stood there among the masses, staring at Loki. It was the sort of intense gaze reserved for lovers. Or bitter enemies. Or, maybe, that which a hunting-cat gives its prey just before it strikes. Certainly this was a puzzle for Loki recognized the youth no more than he had anyone else in the crowd, And, besides, that young man was hardly old enough to remember Loki's previous visit and what had occurred then, if the lad had even been born at that point. As he performed, Loki kept his attention surreptitiously on the staring young man. His clothing implied that of minor nobility, if a bit worn around the edges it was still fashionable enough without crossing the line into the blatent ostentatiousness found among some members of the Nobility. He seemed to have pale hair, blonde, though he wore a hat and his hair was most likely pulled back into a tail so Loki assumed based on the lad's eyebrows. And just below those eyebrows were a pair of brilliant, emerald-green eyes. The color only served to further remind Loki of a cat. Beyond that, the boy appeared handsome enough and well-formed, perhaps he would make a pleasing diversion for later. If nothing else, Loki was more than curious enough to wish to discover what the boy found so stareworthy about him. And, with this thought in mind, Loki continued his show, determining to approach the boy just as soon as his spectacle was over.

It didn't take too terribly long until Loki was wrapping up his act to the love and adoration of all. Well, except for that one. Loki had hardly returned his props to his traveling-bag and the crowd dispersed before a gloved hand had closed about his throat and he found himself pushed violently against the nearby wall, his attacker shouting, "You, sir, are a villain and a scoundrel and deserve only to be flogged and hung!"

Ears ringing, Loki recovered from this enough to open his eyes and found them staring into an intense green pair opposite his that for half a moment he thought were in a mirror before he realised they belonged to the staring boy from earlier. Well, that made his job of finding out what the lad had wanted easier. And, quire obviously, that hadn't been a lover's stare. Enemies, then. Somehow. He managed to drawl languidly as he responded to the boy's insults, "is there some problem, sir?"

For answer, the boy's (he could hardly have been older than nineteen) jaw clenched and Loki found something gold and shiny thrust into his field of vision. As his gaze focused on it, Loki recognized the stylized flame sigil embossed on its surface. It was one of his medallions. A non-magical one, simply a bit of gold to be used for a keepsake. He'd only ever left one here that he could remember and it certainly hadn't been with this angry young man. Still, Loki only raised one red-gold eyebrow at the medallion and inquired, "is that supposed to mean something in particular?"

The medallion was shoved back into the young noble's pocket and the boy hissed, "you should know very well what it is, black-guard, you left it with my mother nearly twenty years ago."

Oh. Thought Loki. Oh. "You must be mistaken, boy, I've never performed here before. I've been told I bear an uncanny resemblance to a great many people, however. this is obviously a case of m-" he doesn't get to finish as the boy gave him a stinging backhand that sent his head careening back into the wall he was held against and the ringing began in his ears anew as stars blazed before his eyes.

And the crazy child was y elling again, ranting, "How dare you? You destroyed her! Her health, her mind are ruined by the torment you put her through!"

Loki groaned. He should really disappear and have done with this but...he doesn't. He simply asks, tiredly, " assuming I am who you think I am, what the hell are you talking about and how on earth would know it was me?"

So, the boy told him. Told him all about how his mother's father had discovered her in the stables, had ranted at and beat her to discover the name of her lover so that the man could be brought to justice. He was never found and, lest the daughter of the local Lord be disgraced -- more to the point, lest the local Lord himself be disgraced -- by having a child out of wedlock like a common whore, she was quickly married off to the first man who would have her. Scandal still erupted after her child, a son, was born a mere seven moths after her marriage. She largely confined herself to her new home for years, doting on her only son, telling him over and over and over again the story of his father. How he had been so dashing, handsome, gentle. How he had disappeared so mysteriously. She had told of every detail of his features until the boy could easily picture "Brisi's" face in his mind. She told of how one day he would return for them, his love and his son, and take them away from this awful situation they lived in. Slowly, though, over the years, she had stopped telling him the story. He had stopped believing it, anyway. Instead, for her, she now lived it. She spent all day locked in her room -- for her own good -- believing she was still at the ball where she'd first met "Brisi", where his seduction of her had begun, and all night dreaming she was in his arms. She no longer recognized anyone around her, not even her own son.

Loki stared. The boy glared. They remained in that tableau for what must have seemed and eternity. Slowly, the boy wilted when Loki proclaimed neither his guilt nor his innocence. Even more slowly, he loosened his grip and stepped back. Loki just straightened his shoulders and picked up his bag, began to walk away, paused. Over his shoulder he said, "I am sorry for your loss. But I am not whom you seek." And he walked away. Didn't look back at the man-boy who stood in the middle of the street and stared after him, so full of despair and hate and...something.
you huddle close beside my gift
and whisper prayers beside the spit
and as the woodsmoke turns and twists
you owe your lives to sly Loki

[followed by this]


May. 24th, 2006 03:49 pm
cunningas: (puzzling)
His mother?

"What about my mother?" he asked, his voice strangely rough.

The beautiful blonde woman lying beside him stroked his hair gently, soothingly, "What is she like?"

In response to this, his green eyes grew distant, lost their focus. His companion could just hear the tones of an old song hummed under his breath like a half-remembered lullaby though she couldn't make out if he were singing the words nor did she recognize the tune.
I was born in battle's fire
laid beside my mother's corpse
My toys the ravens of the field
my lullabies the screams of horse...

Just when she thought he wouldn't answer, he spoke, "I don't know what she was like, really. My father never spoke of her but for her name, Helgrid," Laufey. He sighed and turned aroudn in her embrace to face his lovely companion for the evening, the better for her to see the tears that glistened just so in the corners of his eyes in the moonlight. Her eyes widened just slightly, sympathy already showing in them as she reached out to lightly touch his cheek and he caught her hand in his, twining their fingers together, his grip that of a man desperate for the comfort of another, the simple touch of a woman. Once he's certain he fully has her his attention, he continues, "she died as I was born. I never knew her. never knew a mother at all, nor a father for he always blamed me for her death. It old story."

Now the tears glistened in her eyes as well, "oh, Brisi, that is terrible!" Then, as if afraid he didn't believe the depth of her anguish for the emotional pain he had suffered, she pressed her body closer to his and bestowed upon him a gentle kiss, "would that you had not had to experience such pain, and at such a tender age."

He smiled the smile of one who had long-suffered but still carried the strength of character to press on, who was not yet completely devoid of all human emotion despite what he had been through. "Thank you, love. I knew you would understand." He pulled her hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss of his own to her palm, "knew you, of all people, could help me. Just being here in your a balm for my wounded soul."

She looked at him, eyes still wide, "isn't there anything else I can do to ease your pain?"

Yet once more he smiled, "you are too good to me, lovely, but...I think a continuation of the kindness you showed me earlier this night may go a long way toward helping." And all the while he said this, his free hand was sliding slowly, deliberately, down her bare side toward her hip.

She was more than happy to do all she could to help him, too. Several more times. And as the sun began to rise, they both lay sated and asleep. Or at least, she did. He arose silently, a smile curving his lips as he dressed quickly and looked down upon the lord's noble daughter lying nude and curled under and on a blanket in the hay of the lord's fine stable. It would do for him to be found here with her. No, any man might find such a discovery...awkward. So, as the young woman slept, he quietly disappeared from the stables, humming again...
I am the slyest of the gods
and fire is the gift I gave
I am swifter than the wind
and none can match the tricks I've played...

When she awoke, the young lady found herself alone in the stables and naked, with no sign of her mysterious midnight lover save for a small golden medallion lying beside her with a flame embossed on its surface and, perhaps, yet another gift he did not even realise he had left behind.

[Followed by this and then this]
cunningas: (ragnarok)
I wanted only to be Odin's court jester. The fool of Asgard. To point out the flaws and wrongs and still make them laugh. To be on the edges but still on the inside. To teach and trick and fool. To sit at the feet of the All-father himself. To serve, in my own way.

Let us just say that we both got much more than we ever bargained for, shall we?

For we did do that, indeed. He got his fool, alright. His fool and his treasures and his son saved away for a rainy day [rain of fire]. And I....

I got tossed about and mocked and lost my children, tortured and maimed.

And I got free.

And I have a few more things to give them you know. My role's not done yet. It's not the one I wished for as a child, if I ever was such a one, but it'll do.

Do any of us ever get what we bargained for?


Apr. 14th, 2006 03:02 pm
cunningas: (stalking)
Close your eyes and think about what you've been missing in your life lately. It could be a person, pet, place, thing, occasion, feeling. Anything at all that you miss dearly.

He lay on the beach on a tropical island somewhere in the middle of the South Pacific, head pillowed on his arms, and stared up at the night sky. A balmy breeze caressed his face and teased his hair, and he breathed in time with the waves coming to shore.

As he lay there, letting his thoughts drift as they might like whisps of cloud upon a breeze, it slowly occurred to him they all reflected one single thing.

The stars in the sky were the light of her eyes. The breeze's caress reminded him of her touch. The few night birds calling in the night air seemed to echo a song she once sang. Even the sighing of the waves sounded like her breathing.

And suddenly, upon that conclusion, he realized that this paradise that others only dreamed about, that he so enjoyed was only a pale imitation of what he truly desired. That it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough and he was a fool (as usual) to believe it could be.

He wantedmissedneeded her.

But still, he lay on the beach and stared at the stars and listened to the birds and the sea and felt the currents of the air move and he himself moved not a muscle.

Damn his pride.
cunningas: (insane laughing)
His antics were always a sure way to get them to laugh. Rhymes and songs and jokes and dances, Loki made of himself the ultimate entertainment for his kin.

It did not matter how humiliating the show might be, from allowing his balls to be ripped off by a goat, to getting utterly drunk and singing terrible drinking songs along with Thor. Cross-dressing, straight-dressing, no-dressing were all easy to do.

He felt no shame, even if one thought they saw the tinge of blush rise to his cheeks.

He felt no shame, for he was Loki, the fool. And foolery was what he did best. Or so all thought.

So he let them think.

But then, that was only a different kind of foolery, wasn't it? A different kind that he was even better at.

And though he smiled or laughed or danced or whatever the case may have been when they laughed at his tricks, he knew one thing they did not.

One day his would be the last laugh.
cunningas: (chaos)
father without whom
i would not be in this world
guess you regret now

he who is called the
unknown giant farbauti
husband of laufey

isn't it funny
how nothing more is known
even i don't know

some say you may be
the all-father, named odin
ironic that is

mom will not tell me
anything at all 'bout you
none whatsoever

then again we haven't
talked since the year three-fifty
should send her flowers

but this is supposed
to be an ode to father
i should get on track

what more should I say
nothing really left to say
what would you say, hmmm

maybe i should have
told a story to bring tears
instead of this thing

probably no one
is still listening to me
which was my plan, yes

i still have not reached
the one hundred fifty words
oh no keep typing

my mother must wish
sometimes she didn't meet dad
because she got stuck with me

dear dad wherever
you happen to be on earth
please have a good time

i know that i am
what with the tricksynessness
no not a typo

oh look this is the
one that meets the min word count
so i shall stop now

Note: Okay, so it's crappy haiku, as the only rule I went by was the 5-7-5 one. Sorry.
cunningas: (my magic helmet!)
It had begun with milk.

Loki awoke to find Sigyn upset for having somehow spilt a pitcher of milk all over the kitchen. This perplexes Loki for several minutes first as she is so neat and careful, especially when baking, and second because she is so sensible, practical. He knows he's seen her wipe up spills before without any fuss. It takes several more minutes for him to get out of her what the problem is and finally he gets her to say something about it being such a special day and wanting to make his favorite and this was all the milk they had and she'd had to borrow that from Sif and-...


Special Day.


Once he's dried her tears, gotten her to smile, assured her it would be okay, and promised to fetch her more milk, he's faced with an even more pressing problem.

A gift, he needs a gift, and flowers too. Flowers for forgetting, though she didn't seem to have noticed.



This leads him to Thor, not his first choice for a gift-finding expedition but he isn't about to go whine at Odin about forgetting his own wedding anniversary and needing something amazing to give his wife to make up for it. Once Thor finishes laughing his head off at his traveling-partner, the big oaf agrees to help Loki find something suitable to give to Sigyn. With a few actually helpful suggestions from Sif who swears not to tell Sigyn of her husband's terrible misdeed at forgetting such an important day.

Along the way, Thor attempts to throw out useful suggestions.

"See if the dwarves will make her something like they did for you before?"

Loki's nose wrinkles, "One time deal. And after the whole lip-sewing incident, rather doubt any of them would make anything for me."

Thor's brown furrows as the thunderer considers this, "Mead?"

Now Loki's blinking, "What??"

"You like mead. I like mead. Doesn't she like mead?"

The Trickster throws his hands up into the air in frustration, "I can't give her mead!"

"Just a thought."

"How do you ever manage to get anything for Sif is beyond me."

This comment was a mistake for Thor launches into a long explanation of how every year he gives Sif the same thing, her favorite perfume, and every year she smiles and kisses him and tells him thank you. This takes much longer than one sentence when it's Thor telling the story, however and Loki somehow manages to suffer in silence until, "Wait!"


"I know what I can get her!"


"Well, unlike Freyja, she's not smitten by the shinies. Unlike Sif, she's not into perfume. In fact, what she does seem to do most of the time is the cooking and the cleaning..."

Thor interrupts, " friend, that's what women do."

Loki waves at him to shut him up, "And she should get a day off!" He looks so proud of himself, Thor can't find it in himself to make any sorts of jokes about his friend's masculinity like he might have otherwise. Though those never really seemed to affect Loki and Thor wasn't entirely certain why...."Well, if you insist."

And so, Loki returns home (with remembered milk, even) and tells his wife that today is her day of rest and insists on doing all of the cleaning and cooking. He even wears her apron. Many things could be said about Loki's housewifery skills but, to be honest, the less said? The better.

It's during this day that Sif comes to visit Sigyn, curious about what Loki's gift was and how it was working out when Sigyn comments to her, "He's very sweet, but...I hate to tell him he's doing it all wrong! My Loki just wasn't made for these things."


cunningas: (Default)

December 2013

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