It Echoes In The Beating of Your Heart
Midgardians could oftentimes be such simple, primitive little creatures.
Their pleasures were unevolved, base. There was nothing sophisticated about their desires or their entertainments: each person clamoring for satiation until bellies and greed were calmed and full both. There was an element to it that had the taste of impersonal--and had remained the same no matter the centuries, the years and societies and cultures and changes that had come and gone; this, somehow, always remained the same. In a way, it was reassuring--this knowledge that certain tendencies would march ever onwards, branching out into an infinite number of petty indulgences--
But so, too, did it make Loki feel tired.
Currently leaning against a club in the less affluent area of London--having 'jumped across the Pond' (so to speak, to adopt the Midgardian turn of phrase) to escape S.H.I.E.L.D.'s more intense scrutiny--the Norseman watched the various revelers from beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. Boredom had coaxed the trickster away from his experiments and his studies, letting aside everything that he had been currently working on so that he might venture elsewhere: leaving behind the quiet and the thick smell of centuries-old leather to explore just what had changed and what had stayed the same when Midgardians wished to give in to their more chaotic, careless sides.
(Loki found himself disappointed.)
Still, however, the Norse god lingered still; there was little enough to occupy him at his penthouse, being so close to finishing his current studies, and--perhaps--he might come across someone he didn't find completely repugnant enough to take somewhere else to indulge himself in bedsport. (Again, there were no true expectations for this would actually happen, but--ah, it would be wonderful to have a few hours' worth of distraction offered readily enough~)
Sipping at his watered down beverage, the liesmith allowed his focus to wander over the clumps of bodies huddled throughout the club's space, attention lazy and threaded through with discontent, even as his springtime gaze eventually shifted to the writhing mass of limbs and torsos entwining on the dancefloor.
