FIC : next to godliness

Marcel has two tattoos. Well, he has two tattoos of significance and on top of that, all the extras. The little ones. The biblical quotes, the stupid Roman numeral JL insisted on when they were 15 and one Dutch word for each German shepherd he’s lost to the currents of the underground. Three so far, Bubbles is his fourth. His best. His little lady. He already knows what word to get tattooed onto his thigh when it’s her turn to go: Vorstin. Princess. Daughter of a fucking queen, ruler of worlds and hearts. Yeah.

As for the two big ones. The one on his chest, of Loki and Sleipnir and the one on his back, of Odin and Loki – they are symbolic, of course. Marcel might not be the most educated man around, but he knows his Bible (like a good boy of a strict, Catholic father) and he knows his Norse mythology (from his old, childhood picture books) and as such, he recognises Sleipnir as Loki’s offspring, his work and Odin as his blood brother. He knows Loki is the trickster, the joker in the deck and it’s like a fucking reflection. You see, Marcel is a trickster, too. Oh yes, he laughs all the way to the bank, all the way home and in the evening, all the way to his favourite bar with his men in tow, because he’s got the means to be rich and the friends to be powerful.

He’s invincible. Untouchable. Until fucking Ragnarök breaks out, he’s more than a king. He’s a god.