within | ( darling, everything's on fire )

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seasons au

( darling, everything's on fire )

[ Loki shifts from shadow to shadow in the halls of the greenwood palace, a plain wooden goblet of Thor's favored honeyed mead in one hand, and a sprig of braided sweetgrass in the other. Though his draped crystals remain strung about his limbs, chiming gently with each step that he takes, he is otherwise dressed as a creature wrought of summer: in green-edged linen, with flowers tucked into the thick spill of his hair, with a cape of white draped across his shoulders, and silver and gold circling his throat. If not for the cloud of ice upon the air every time he exhales, he may have been born of summer, a brother of Thor, meant to lie languid in the soft warmth of sun-dappled earth for the rest of eternity.

He is saying his farewells: to the red-cheeked dryads, to the soft-footed deer, to the very walls and rafters of Thor's summer palace. He leaves gifts where he may, a blue feather for the sweetest of the dryads, a tinny silver bell for each of the fawns to wear strung about their necks.

Twice has the moon grown fat, and twice has she cut herself away to a mere sliver — Loki has come to love the summerlands as much as he loves the lands of his own crafting. They have taught him to love, and to raise his whispering voice in laughter. They have taught him to cup the warmth of the sun in his hands and still brim with more.

Most of all, they have given him Thor, and even Loki's songs cannot paint the intricacies of the summer-king as he lives: warm and broad and filled with bounteous plenty. Loki has learned of all the secret hidden knolls of Thor's country, and he has learned of all the secrets hidden upon his golden skin; so winter begins it ascent into the mountains with Thor's antlers shadowed like wings upon his back. ]

If you miss your country overmuch, you must tell me. [ says Loki, when they have climbed halfway to the lands of ice. His gaze is a quick, flitting thing, darting from Thor to the peaks in the distance and back again.

After a moment, he reaches out and takes Thor's hand in his own; his thumb strokes across the back of that sun-warmed hand. ]

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[ That Thor will miss his kingdom of plenty is of no question, but that he would stay behind while his love returns to his snowy, frosty home amidst the white mountain peaks is not to be considered; Loki is too dear, too beloved to let go alone. And a vow was made, the first night they lay together, and renewed in soft whispers and gasps many nights after that: Loki is his and he is Loki's, and where he goes Thor will follow. He has shown him the sweet bounty of summer, now Loki will show him the stark cold beauty of winter, and in truth he is curious to see it, to travel to this kingdom he has only looked upon from afar, wondering what it is like and who lives there. He did not know until the day the prince of winter wandered down from the mountains and into his arms.

Though here he is the king of winter, Thor remembers. Here he is the master, and Thor now is the guest, Thor now is the one who walks with wondering eyes, as around them the green of hill and mountain gives way to steep bare slopes and paths covered by new-fallen snow. It crunches beneath his feet, drifts gently from the graying sky onto his antlered brow. Thor is dressed in the warmth of a bear's-fur cloak over the thick hides of his tunic and breeches, and thick-soled boots which bind up to the tops of his calves. Yet the wind still cuts, and he shivers in it, made more bemused than unhappy by the unfamiliar sensation of cold.

His hand twines with Loki's, and he lifts it and presses it to his mouth, his richly-bearded jaw. It pleases him to see Loki softer after his stay in the gentle summer country, more pink in his white skin, the hollows of his cheeks and his eyes not quite so sunken. The love of summer has writ itself upon him, the generous plenty of meat and mead and the communion of their bodies. ]

I do not miss it so much that I would rather turn and go back than follow you—my king. [ he adds, tasting the unfamiliar title on his tongue. ] You are the first of my heart, in my land or yours.

Edited 2012-11-17 11:19 (UTC)

[ So Loki smiles, a stark sliver of sweetness in his summer-warmed face, and he tugs Thor further into the cold embrace of the mountains. Already the north wind draws its scythe across his skin, and already Loki revels in the blade of ice as it slices the warmth away from his skin. He divests himself of his leather raiment, instead covering Thor's shoulders with the excess. ]

My people are not so gentle as yours. [ says Loki, and his voice is half-sweetened by song, raised above the biting winds with joy wrought by familiarity of his home. The spires of his ice-palace rise before them, glinting with diamond hardness across the earth softened by snow. Ravens circle in the air above them, chattering shrilly; the white bears stand on their haunches at the entrance to the gate, teeth bared. Wolves howl from the trees about them, the ululating sound made eerie by the flash of hungry red eyes amongst the brush.

Loki sings, and his retinue of birds sing his own melodies in return. The monochrome expanse of land before them leeches the color from Thor's skin, but Loki presses close to him, offering what little succor his winter-born body can. ] Be at peace, my love. They may look up you with suspicion, and they may test you direly before they come to love you. But remember that you are mine in this country as I was yours alone in the summerlands, and no opinion save mine holds dominion in the end.

[ Loki had been ashamed of his own hungry land when Thor had poured the bounty of his land of plenty forth, and yet now he has forgotten his shame. The winterlands birthed desperation and anger and fear, they wrought hunger and death into each shadow. And yet there is beauty here, too, beauty in every errant note of song. How can he be ashamed of everything that he is? ]

[ The beasts that guard the gates of Loki's ice palace are of interest to him, but not of fear: he has hunted beasts both greater and smaller, and the woods of summer have their own wolves, their own lumbering, black-furred bears; gladly would Thor take up Mjolnir in guard of his winter king if they meant harm, but plainly these are Loki's guards and servants and courtiers, as the dryads and deer and dogs are in the greenwood palace. Here they are not gentle-eyed beasts, but creatures lean with the harshness of their land, with eyes sharp and canny; and here the palace is not fragrant young wood but narrow towering spires of ice, white and stark against the gray sky, as white and stark as once the master of that palace was when he stood before Thor, a wild creature newly come from a wild land, come wondering and tremulous to his hand.

Now he looks upon Loki and sees again that creature, that beautiful wild prince, here a king, here the master of all who walk in his kingdom, Thor among them; here the wind tosses his dark hair wildly across his white skin, his voice raises in sweet song and his arms shelter Thor near, and the lord of summer knows a piercing, shivering desire which has him bowing his head to the join of neck and shoulder and burying his face in the black fall of that hair. His arms are around Loki, yet it is Loki who cradles him.

Then he lifts his head, kisses his cold cheek, overcome by the beauty of him; his voice is rough as he speaks again. ] Will you show me your palace, king of winter?

[ The winter-king's answer comes not in words. He takes Thor's hand in his own, he kisses the warmth of his palm, and whispers his name — Thor, born of summer, Thor, king of plenty — and there is magic in the curl of his voice, for all about them the snow is a fierce crush and the ice and the sleet clings to skin and hair and the clasp of their hands. ]

Come, my love. [ says Loki, and already he is hollowed by the chill, already the verdant fields of summer are naught but a distant memory. He is beautiful, and he is terrible, and only in that duality does his country recognize him as king and master of all. The great icy doors split and splinter apart to allow them passage, reforming as soon as they are within.

Here, mage-light is imbued into the blue-white walls of ice, stalagmites curl into delicate whorls and spires.

The white bears before them growl and roar and rend apart the air with fierce claws; two of them fall upon the icy floors, and mirrors surface blooms crimson beneath the ferocity of the battle. And when one of them falls dead, the ravens descend from the high rafters to pluck apart the warm carrion meat left to freeze.

So the servants of winter welcome their king — with death instead of life, with ice and snow instead of laughter and warm mead.

When Loki passes the fallen beast, he bows to wet his fingertips in the steaming blood, touching them to his own tongue with eagerness. Blood is warmer than any mead than the winterlands could squeeze from its meager fruit; the thick metallic taste offers more succor than any sweeter drink. Loki draws down to wet his fingers again , and does not ask Thor whether or not he would partake — he simply traces those full lips with the red stain, the blood steaming still. ]

His blood was spilt in your honor. Drink of it, and find joy in the perpetuity of your own life.

[ Within the palace, the glow of white and blue are as glittering jewels, the ice shimmering like crystal, so that the interior of Loki's kingdom is cold and unutterably lovely, like the king himself. His hand is within his love's hand, and he stands to bear witness to the brutal quick slaughter between the great white bears, the injury and death, and tastes the blood when Loki lifts it to his lips, steaming hot and coppery and rich; Thor is no stranger to sacrifice, for at the height of every summer comes the king stag, trusting and unafraid, to offer himself to the knife, to the quick slash of a throat and his blood poured upon the earth for the sake of summer's perpetual bounty. So Thor takes his king's fingers into his mouth, sucking the blood clean from them, and the rich hot taste sustains him; for already his eyes have begun to grow heavy and his strength to wane.

The lord of summer is not meant for the cold of winter. He is meant to wrap himself in furs and sleep away that cold season, not bear witness to it, not love its own king and walk hand-in-hand with him into his palace; yet love is stronger even than nature, and thus he is here.

So he follows his love into these cold walls of ice, staying close beside him, gripping his hand to share in the strength of him, for here it is Loki who stands proud and beautiful and enduring, and Thor who reflects his pale loveliness. The hungry animals bear witness to their progress, and later on a wolf bars the path and snarls challenge, as the king of winter warned him, and only then does Thor let go of Loki to meet it, his knife in hand. The fight is as brutal and quick as those between the bears, and ends with his knife in the wolf's ribs and its blood upon his hands, more sustenance, and a new light of respect in the beasts' eyes. ]

[ Standing against the cold magelight flickering within the walls, Loki looks less of a creature wrought of flesh and blood, and more like a cold extrusion of ice formed into the shape of a man. A wicked smile curls across his face, the blood offered from the white bear already dried into a browning crust across the seam of his lips — he is watching as Thor strikes down the wolf's challenge with the brutal grace of a born hunter, and his blood beats cold and quick at the sight.

When the kill has been completed, he again completes the ritual begun with the death of the white bear, but this time he feeds the blood first to Thor. The victory has made the summer-king a lord of the winter, too, and so he will remain even when he descends the mountain and retakes his greenwood throne.

Afterwards, the winter-dryads in their long trailing cloaks bring folded furs to Loki; he takes each and draws them about Thor's shoulders, blotting out the worst of the cold. Only when he is finished with this glad task does he take Thor's hand, leading him further into the winding passageways of the palace. This time, the beasts allow them free passage, and even the icy north wind has blunted its scythe. ]

You have done well, my love. I would be glad to die by your hand, if you made such a pretty art of my death, too.

[ says Loki, when they have been seated at the great stone table of his dining hall, and the corpse of the wolf is thus carried away by Loki's attendants. The damp and the cold follow them here, too, even though the grate blazes with blue flame, even though the high windows allow the spill of fading light to pool upon their faces. ]

[ It pleases him that Loki witnesses: to sense his pride in him, to sense that he has taken part in some merciless rite of passage, and performed well, even before Loki drapes the furs around him and murmurs sweet praise. Warmed by the battle and the blood, by the drape of furs and by Loki-king's fierce love, Thor follows him to the feast, the dryads and the beasts giving way. He is not so weary now, seated at Loki's hand, even in the frozen glow of the feast hall.

It is cold, Loki's kingdom, it is strange and bare and stark, but it there is beauty in it, too, and in its own way it makes him welcome. ]

I should not be glad, my heart; better to be cursed a thousand times than to slay you with my own hands. [ The very thought of it makes him grieve, and press Loki's hands to his lips as though to seal the words away. ] Or rather I should fall to you. In this place I see you enduring and hard, and as beautiful as those cold peaks which I once looked at from afar. I never knew what splendor there was in your kingdom.

Death is splendor of itself. [ says Loki, softly, but his brow is creased with unhappy contemplation. The pale hands of winter's dryads draw forth to fill their crystal goblets with blood-rich wine, and to pull back the green-embroided white cloth shrouding the feast from view. Elderberries, black bread, cold sweet milk, great platters with salted meat and fresh meat still weeping crimson from the kill. The ravens chatter anew in a flurry of black wing-beats, and Loki himself fills Thor's plate, heaping it thrice as high as his own.

Here in the winterlands, guests may eat well, but already Loki remembers his own middling appetite. He was meant to be frail and cold and skeletal as the trees rising naked from the snow.

Only after he has heaped food upon Thor's plate does he hesitate, crafting the words carefully before speaking them. ] Thor — you will not fall to me. No matter what may happen, come tomorrow, or the next day, or after the slivering of the craven moon, you must not fall to my hand. Swear it upon the country that you love so well, and only then will I be content.

[ The feast spread before him is as worthy as any he would have offered a guest of his own in the summerland, and Thor is in truth surprised; he did not anticipate the plenty. But Loki would seek to give him all that Thor gave him in turn, when he was the guest in Thor's own kingdom: he heaps his plate generously, even as he forgoes only but a sparse plate for himself, and he stays close beside him so that Thor's heart swells with tenderness and love; all is well, then, and he has pleased Loki, he has done well to come here.

So he thinks, at least until Loki speaks with unhappiness in his voice, and then Thor sets down his goblet of rich crimson wine and looks at him in surprise. ] Don't think of it, my love. I spoke in illustration only.

[ But Loki's mouth is drawn, and after a moment Thor takes his hands in his and kisses them both, one after the other, and lays one of those hands against his breast. ]

I swear it, my king, upon the summer; may it wither if my vow falls astray. I will not fall to your hand. There will be no death; you and I will live together, and I will sit for many more of your feasts and you will take me to your bed in the dark of the night. [ A roguish smile tugs at his lips. ] That is a promise you must make to me.

[ Loki would not name the light in Thor's eyes as naivete, and yet it sits upon the same plinth. Because the winter was born with the melody of prophecy writ upon his heart and mind; he sees the future in the gyre of the winds, and in the rime crusting the earth and trees. He sees it now, where the clasp of pale skin against golden speaks of an thread drawn taut.

In that moment, a raven — the same that followed its master into the summerlands — looses a braying, ugly sound, offering unwittingly a chance for Loki to mask the soft whisper of a sigh.

Yet Thor's heart beats strong and steady below the splay of Loki's hand; for awhile the winter-king lets time draw forth without the interruption of conversation. And then he leans into the powerful chest wrought by summer's bountiful plenty, and leaves a murmuring kiss and a blossom of ice upon the furs covering the thrum of a beloved heart.

When he draws away, his smile is a mirror of Thor's own, sweet and sharp with mischief. ]

The dark of the night falls rapidly in the winterlands. If I am to honor such a promise, you must fill your belly with haste.

[ It is naivety, perhaps, or it is the sort of love that is born of summer: sweet and soft and passionate, burning brightly, so consuming that those who love in the land of summer cannot see an ending, the night falling, the cold coming in. Surely their love endures forever, surely theirs is the very meaning of immortality. And Thor, Thor would share such love with Loki and know nothing of death, know nothing other than how they are meant for one another.

So he smiles at his love, after he withdraws from the blossom of a frosty kiss upon his chest, and takes up again his goblet. ]

I will, for I know no hunger greater than this greed in me for your touch.

[ Though the feast itself is excellent, and to be savored: and though Thor does not linger over his plate hours into the night, as he might at the long feasts in the greenwood palace, he does it justice indeed. But at last the food is cleared, and his goblet is empty, and he has Loki's hand within his again, kissing the fingertips, the palm; he looks at the king of winter with eyes made hot by desire, having all the long day awaited what he wanted most, and he murmurs soft against Loki's skin. ]

Take me, show me now where I may lay myself down and have you again in my arms. The aching for you keeps me warm, my heart.

[ Loki swallows little of the serving set upon his plate — for the cold of winter's kiss has been enough to rouse his fallen spirits, and to freeze again the ice floes of his blood.

Under the bone-white eye of the moonlight do they pass into the hallways; Loki has no words but that of his eagerness to draw further and further into the stone maze of his fortress-castle. Ice grows and shrinks away when he passes, as do blossoms reaching for the sun in Thor's country. In the aching silence, Loki's body is stripped of color and warmth.

So they wind into the blanketing darkness, together.

After a time, the narrow passageways give way to a great echoing chamber, where green-tinted glass is set into the high windows to turn away the beseeching howls of the wind. The hearth leaps in white flames in its grate, offering no more heat than the cold touch of Loki's mouth. And yet despite the austerity of winter, Loki's vanity has visited his chambers many times, for the walls are draped with gauzy colored banners, and silver bells are strung from here to there and back again. The cold floors hidden by a white carpeting fur; Loki draws Thor thus into his chambers, and into the quiet secret alcove where his bed is set in black wood and white wool.

So Loki lays the king of summer in his wintry bed, and rejoices in the sight of him. He kneels upon the furs, his hands perched like sparrows upon Thor's knees. ]

None save you and I have entered this chamber — and so your presence is thus an oath forsworn from winter to summer in turn. Are you well pleased, my love?

[ The loveliness of this quiet chamber Loki has carved for himself makes Thor ache; it as vast and silent and cold as some sacred place, yet the winter king's love of beautiful things is in evidence throughout, and as Loki draws him into the alcove of his bed he knows a desire never to leave: as though he could be satisfied living in this vault of a bedchamber like another treasure hidden away for the king to savor. He would warm Loki's bed, and take him in his arms whenever he returned to greet him, and thus the lord of winter would never sleep alone again--for Thor knows by now that Loki came first to his bed in the kingdom of summer as virgin as springwater.

By now they are well-versed in intimacy. Loki's hands are familiar and beloved upon his knees, and Thor, kneeling across from him on the furs, takes his face between his hands and kisses him softly, with a well of longing beneath the tender brush of his mouth. ]

Oh, Loki, my king. [ He kisses his fingers, and then brings them to the fastenings of his armor, smiling, willing Loki with gesture and expression to strip away his raiment until he lies naked in his arms. ] I have been imagining myself the ornament of your bed. It would please me to stay here forever if you only you might stay with me.

[ It can never be, of course; too long in winter and Thor would wither and burrow into sleep like a bear in its den, perhaps never again to wake. Too long and his own kingdom would wither and softly die in turn, bereft of its king as though bereft of the sun, and never could he abide it, yet as always love is an eternity to Thor: or it is the breathless passion of a moment, such as now when he is aching for his lord's sweet cold touch. ]

[ Even now, hidden in the innermost heart of winter's country, Loki's hands work upon the catches of Thor-king's armor, and he finds sunlight in the skin bared to him. The white flames leap in the grate, and an echo of wolf's lonely howl draws a cloak of melancholy about them, and yet Thor remains whole and lovely and alien in this cold chamber of winter's crafting.

So Loki sets armored plate and braided leather aside with hands well-accustomed to the task, until Thor is left only in his antlered helm and the sweet curl of his mouth.

When his eyes have feasted to their liking, the winter-king splays a cold hand upon Thor's breast. The heat from golden skin spills into Loki's grasping hands, and into the soft press of Loki's kiss upon the swell of a strong shoulder. ]

You must not speak of forever. [ He hungers again with the ravening that Thor had gifted to him upon their first night in the greenwood palace, and yet his patience has uncoiled itself into a endless length. Many times has the summer-king uncorked the spill of pleasure over the joining of white and golden flesh, but never has it been so: with Loki knowing again the weight of a crown and of duties far beyond the sight of man or beast. His body is a whisper of sound as he closes the final distance between them, his limbs falling forward to cage the warm sweet creature below.

Winter is yet young, as is its scion-king, but now the darkness in his eyes is as ancient as the shadow and light. ] You do not yet understand the pain of my dominion, my summer love — for even one night in my castle of ice, in my arms of stone and steel, may give you pleasure and sorrow in equal part. Winter will steal your warmth away from you until you lie as anothing blood-offering for its king.

[ Cold words, but the mouth that delivers them is soft upon Thor's own. ]

[ The cold comes at him swifter now, his golden skin bared to it, but Thor is warmed as Loki presses him back down to the soft thick furs over the broad mattress: if not by the heat of Loki's skin, then by the tenderness of his touch. They have been lovers time and time again, in Thor's bed in the greenwood palace, in the verdant fields of summer, beneath the canopy of trees deep in the cool green forest. Thor has known the sweet wet suck of his mouth and the greedy clasp of a well-worked hole; he has had Loki on his knees or astride him or on his back with their mouths never leaving one another. In the land of summer Loki was as a wife, sweet and yielding, coming eagerly to his lord's bed, shrouded only in pleasure and love.

Here it is different. Here Loki is the king, and Thor the one who would lay himself down in the bed of his lord and open himself, and here Loki's touch is as cold as it is sweet, patience in his hands, his mouth upon Thor's, while the lord of summer in his youth and greed twists restless and eager for more. He would bow to Loki's will, yet his hands seek and caress as though to remind him of the mindless passion and pleasure they found in one another in the warm valley below these harsh mountains, for his nature cannot be changed any more than Loki's. ]

Still there is nothing but joy within me when I think of bearing you. [ He is earnest, the sweetness of his words anointing Loki's lips, his fingers cupping tenderly at his cheeks. ] I long to surrender to you and offer you pleasure in your own kingdom, as you have given me such pleasure in mine. Here I am yours; you may do with me as you like, and I do not fear what use you will make of me—what kinder master could I wish for?

[ For Loki has learned that summer is the starlight, and winter is the darkness beyond, that summer may shine until it cannot shine any longer, and still it cannot overcome the blanketing shadows.

Loki could reach out even now, and with one final kiss to that mouth that has known him beyond his knowledge of his own self, he could snuff out that sharp brightness. He could take all of Thor's warmth to heat his own bones, and still it would not be enough. He would be left in the cooling darkness, and the summerlands would be forced to shape a new king from its earth and rain. ]

You could have given me no sweeter answer. [ says Loki, and the curve of his smile is as wicked as the North Wind's scythe. The joy and the generosity of summer, offered thus for winter's pleasure: it is a boon beyond deserving, and yet Loki has been taught the novelty of selfishness and greed. He will take what is offered, well and thoroughly, until Thor remembers his verdant lands and the table set with bountiful plenty, and until Thor bids him a final farewell.

That Loki has always been mastered instead of master is no object. Already he draws his light cloak from about his shoulders, letting it drop soundless from the mattress. A flask of summer oil is strapped about his chest, meant for this purpose alone — for no such luxury existed in the winterlands before now.

His raiment parts under the quick work of his hands, motion made musical by the crystal meeting crystal. There is no attempt to slow the rise of desire; he slicks the swell of his own cock with a few quick flicks of his hand, and then he presses the golden weight of Thor's thighs apart so that his slicked fingers may slide within. ] So many vows your body has made to me — let me make my own in turn, my love.

[ He watches with an open and wanting gaze as Loki strips his garments, opening furs and robes to bear himself to Thor's eyes, and he feels the heat in his skin deepening, the true taste of lust creeping onto his tongue so that his mouth waters for want of him. They have been lovers, they have known one another's bodies with the starkest intimacy and given one another warmth and joy, but Thor had not until now surrendered himself, had not offered his own body in yielding to Loki's. Yet here he has seen the power and beauty of the winter king; here all is his dominion, his sovereignty, and so Thor is his, so Thor desires nothing more than to be his, to live for the cold touch of winter's lips.

So he spreads apart his thighs, one of his hands lifting above his head to grasp the pillow; so he braces himself, yet nothing can quite prepare him for the swift slick press of Loki's fingers, his breath hitching at the stretch and ache of his tender flesh. His lover's fingers stroke within, sliding deep, withdrawing and sliding deep again, and Thor's breast heaves with the sudden swiftness of his breath, his body throbs at this unexpected source of heat in the midst of the cold winter. His eyes are wide pools of vibrant blue beneath the gold frost of their lashes, looking at Loki in wonder, his lips parted. ]

What--what vows, my king?

[ One of Loki's spidery hands rests upon the strength of a spread thigh, the crooked fingers of the other press sweetly in, again, again; Loki's gaze flicks from the furl of flesh speared for his own pleasure, up to Thor's storm-wrought gaze, and back down again, as if he cannot decide which is most deserving of his focus. ]

Oh, my love. [ murmurs Loki, the soft curl of his voice made liquid and smooth with the heat of his desire. No longer does he draw back like a beast afeared by the unknown; no, he is a white splinter of light upon the golden mantle of Thor's body, ready to delve further into the cold bed he has made for them both, ready to anchor himself to the unknown and never again to pull away. ]

How much you have given me, in our days together — [ His voice is low and breathless and darkly intimate, his eyes a growing flame. The oil upon his cool fingers is warmed by the clench of Thor's body within — oh, that hungry clutch of secret flesh, where he is soon to be sheathed deep. He takes a moment again to slick anew the swell of his own eagerness, and then the king of winter braces himself in the white fur below them, and kisses at the flat plain of Thor's chest, feeding his cock slowly into that grasping heat. ] — desire, ah, yes, and love, and the taste of you upon my lips always. So I vow to repay you in full.

[ Breath comes tight into his lungs, his jaw set, his eyes glittering as they rest upon Loki's face. Oh, it is sweet, sweeter than he had known to be opened so, to be worked apart so that he might better yield for his king, so that he might become his own sheath, his mate, the sweet thrall to his pleasure. Loki rises above him as upright as the starkest of the mountain peaks, white as snow, pure and cold and beautiful beyond measure, so that Thor's heart is so full that he feels as though it might brim over and spill out all longing and desire for the king of winter to see. Here in winter's bed, the lord of summer is the feast laid for him to sup upon.

His fingers tighten in the furs as Loki presses himself against him and begins to ease within. Ah, what a tight fit, what thick aching and stretch, made slick and warm with oil, this relentless hard pride which spears and pierces him hotly open and takes Thor's breath for how deep within his innermost self it reaches. A moan comes soft and thick from his throat. He reaches restlessly to Loki's hair, drags him up to cover his mouth with that soft cold press of winter fruit, the pure sweet taste on the thrust of tongue past his lips. ]

As I gave, so I have been given. [ he says at Loki's mouth, and twists restlessly beneath him. ] You were my own, from the first night we lay together and you yielded so sweetly--so it is for me to give to you, Loki, my heart.

[ Yet this night cannot be a simple reversal of the first act of communion spent in the depths of Thor's heartwood. No merry hearth heats the length of his body, and the winter's sky is as terrible as it is beautiful. Loki trembles, his head bowed forward, his dark hair falling over his white cheeks; he has never known pleasure of this kind, where Thor does not drive it into the loose cradle of his body, but rather lies sweetly pliant under the onslaught of winter. ]

—but a moment. [ says the wind rustling branches bared by the frost, says the fall of dying leaves. He is hilted within; each restless shift of Thor's body beneath sends a sparking brightness through his body. Oh, he'd felt renewed by the first night of union in Thor's arms, and this is another life unto itself. Each breath is another spent clasped tight in the heat of summer's verdant depths, each murmuring gasp is a half-formed attempt at shaping her king's name.

And there is magic in this, too — Loki was once a distaff heavy with raw fibers; the summerlands have spun him into white cloth, vast and beautiful beyond his vanity. And now Thor takes him apart again, and teaches him to want more than communion, to want more than to be changed by those golden hands; now he would be the one to wreak the change he so craves.

A thin sweet note passes from Loki's lips, hanging in the scant space between mouth and mouth, and then he cants his hips forward upon a sigh. ] Then — then let me have all of you. Let the rivers of your mind mix with the ice of mine own, until — [ Oh, another exhalation of breath, as Loki grasps for Thor's hand, and holds it fast. ] — until I am not so alone in this cage of flesh.

[ Oh sweet winter king, as true and wondering now as he was the first night they lay together, when Thor rode him in tender passion and wanted to spill the plenty of his seed within him always, when he dreamed of him ripe and swelled, grown fat on abundance and love. Even now as he spreads his great thighs and opens himself to his lord, he is sought and pursued by the gentle white hands upon him and the heavy thickness of a gliding cock within him, so that Thor murmurs and takes Loki's face between his hands, pressing a tender mouth to the corner of his lips, to the hollow of his cheek and the fine arch of the bone; his arms open, generous and inviting, to take Loki within him, to bring him down further over him, and Thor buries his face in the raven hair of his love and moans with wanton longing for him.

For how hot, how feverish and slick and aching his cock within him, fucking him open, taking and taking of pleasure within him, as though the sacred body of summer is the vessel for Loki to cup between his fingers and drink his fill of verdant sweetness.

Their fingers entwine, and Thor lifts Loki's hand to his fervent mouth, pressing kiss after kiss to his beautiful white fingers, the tender inside of his palm. ]

Yes, Loki, my love, yes. Come inside me. Tell me how to open to you, that I might be within you, within your heart.

[ And the mage-lights blaze within their sconces of silver as Loki's seeks again the sweetness of Thor's mouth against his own.

The stalactites of ice poised above like falling swords from the recessed ceilings begin to groan, low and smooth, growing and shrinking and curling about the pointed edge of brother and sister stalactite alike. So Loki's secret chambers are made cold and colder still with the ice and the rime given willful motion, so Loki breathes silvered ice into the warmth of Thor's mouth; his hands twining with Thor's own are near frozen with the rising chill .

He has forgotten to control the storm within him. And though the heat of the summerlord's skin melts the ice upon his body to a gleaming sheen of water instead, it reforms again upon the next skittering heartbeat of master and mastered both.

Oh, Loki can feel the imprint of his hands upon Thor now, rooted so deep that even the bones below are but a moment from growing brittle with frost. ]

Thor— [ Loki moans on a plaintive note, and though his hips perpetuate a gentle rhythm, the cold is cruel and unabating. Each thrust of his cock within drags forth another ragged breath; soon Thor will be speared upon a cock too cold for his body to bear, and soon the congress of their bodies will lose speed and fervor in the face of the greed that chills and heats Loki's blood in equal part. ] Thor, you are within my heart already — you, and only you. Remember. [ His hand gripped tight about Thor's own, the other driving bruises into the splay of a golden thigh. ] Remember my love for you, and drive away the worst of my bitter frost. [ Another driving thrust of his cock piercing deep, another spasm of his grasping hands. ] Please. Thor.

[ Colder and colder, the chill of Loki's hands upon him, sinking deep into his skin so that Thor burns and shivers and cries out for the sensations. The king of winter has hands which could freeze him to solid ice, which could leech all the warmth and life from him and leave him a pale husk of death, and he cannot fight that beloved touch, he can do nothing but spread himself for the pleasure of being fucked while heat and cold rushes through him in turns. Loki's cock stabs forth, pierces through him again and again, slick and sweet and aching, and Thor's breath hitches, thought and will scatter before the force of his beloved king, his beloved lord, the lover who now masters his body as though he has ever been meant as a thrall to his pleasure.

He feels as though he will shatter, breast and heart and body broken apart beneath Loki's wild desperate fucking, the fervent love in his hands and mouth. At last Thor, gasping, reaches up to twist both hands in Loki's hair and drag him down to press their mouths together; though the cold of his lover's mouth burns, he thrusts his tongue past his lips as though to heat him from the inside, his legs lifting and wrapping tight around Loki's waist. ]

My love, my heart-- [ He speaks the words against his lips, against his cheek, gasping and pained. ] Loki, you are burning me. Remember yourself.

[ It is not the words that reach through the fog of Loki's mind, but the pain in Thor's voice. Loki jerks away before he knows himself, his cock unsheathing itself, his hands falling back to catch his weight.

For a moment, he remains as such: sprawled an armsbreadth away, his narrow chest heaving. The green of his eyes is flecked with black that bleeds sluggishly to blot out the remaining color, and clouds of frost billow from his lips at every exhale. Terrible is the realization of his own cruelty, but worse still is the knowledge that it was imparted upon the sole focus of his heart. ]

Thor— [ he breathes, when he has mastered himself. The ice warms and melts, and the deathly whiteness of his face gains meager color. He cannot apologize, because Loki in his youth does not know the words to express regret — but he reaches for Thor like a child desperate for what he fears he has lost. ] I — I would lose myself, if you offer me free reign. [ He draws in another breath, regaining his equilibrium with every moment forward. ] Would you come astride me, instead, as you once taught me within the gardens of your domain?

[ To be so full and then so abruptly bereft pains him nearly as much as the frost burning his skin to blackness. Thor lays sprawled and shivering upon the bed, gasping for breath, the dark bruising where Loki's hands held him and his mouth touched him slowly leaving his skin, the color turning again ruddy and golden. He is turned towards Loki, a hand outreached as though in beseeching, and at last he moves to grasp Loki's fingers and bring them to his mouth, tentative, but they are only cool again rather than icy to the touch, and the press of them at his lips does not burn.

So this is winter's mastery, beautiful and fearsome, painful and piercing and pleasurable beyond imagining. Thor draws breath as if to answer, but then moves abruptly, catching Loki and pinning him down to the mattress; he covers his mouth in a fierce kiss even as he swings himself astride his lord's hips, his body aching now not with cold but with passion, trembling not in pain but in an endless fury of need. His lord and his master, supine beneath him as once Thor lay supine and smiling beneath Loki's arched, rocking form: and so he takes his lover's cock and guides it to his wet, yielding hole. ]

My king. [ Thor moans as he sinks down upon that thick spear, sleek and gliding within him. ]

[ And Loki has been called as such a thousand thousand times, but upon Thor's lips it becomes an intimacy rather than a formality. The color returns quickly to Thor's skin, but even so it takes Loki a moment more to settle his hands upon the feast of flesh splayed for his desire.

And so Thor's weight upon him drives the piercing strength of his cock within, slow and slick, and though he'd known this pleasure just a moment prior, the shock of Thor's agony had quieted his ardor — now, with Thor's mouth loosened in a moan, with his antlered helm thrust proudly into the air and his golden hair silvered by the stark magelight, Loki knows desire anew. And this time he masters it, remembering the strength of his own will, his hands upon golden hip and thigh firm but still gentle.

His hips follow the arch of Thor's body, pressing steadily within, each sharp movement begun with the cool thrust of his cock and ended with the heat of impalement. ]

Thor. [ whispers Loki, his eyes clear and sweet, and he fills his hungry gaze with the sight of the summer-king made into an eager yielding thrall. He strokes gently at the muscle of golden thigh, feeling its shift as Thor rises and falls. ] How I wish that I could remain within you — how I wish that the sating of our lusts would not end this. [ The clench of hot flesh about him; Loki presses back against the furs, his hips jerking up, a moan leaving his lips. ] No, my love, slow, slower —

[ Oh, he wishes Loki could remain within him too, always within him. To be speared upon him, opened and impaled by his lord's slick cock is a sweeter pleasure than he had ever imagined it could be. His breath hitches, his powerful thighs flex and grasp around Loki's hips as he lowers himself onto him again, pushes up, lowers down. ]

Yes, my king, my lord. I would have you always--

[ A gasp as his beloved's hips jerk, his cock impales him deeper; a protesting moan as Loki urges him to slow, but Thor obeys, he must obey, he is his lord's thrall here and it is so sweet to obey: his thighs strain, his spine arches, his weight sinks back, and the fervent rocking of his hips becomes instead a slow, trembling drag, so that he feels all the length of Loki's shaft withdrawing to leave him bereft, and moans as he is filled anew, slowly and smoothly spread apart.

His lashes sweep down to fan at his cheeks, and Thor's hand rests upon one of Loki's thighs, his head thrown back, his lips parted as he struggles for breath, struggles not to take and take and take, as swift and greedy as he could wish. ]

Like so, my heart--?

[ There is time enough for the fierce animal joy of rutting later, when Thor has learned well the shape of Loki within him. Thus is the rudimentary difference between Thor-king and Loki-king, masters of their domain, masters also of natures as mercurial as they are unfathomably disparate. That Loki would ask to be taken apart with strokes made rapid and rough by his own pleas, under the stars, caught in the arms of his summer king. And now, here, upon his own bed, he dare not allow even the beat of his own heart to quicken, for fear of the consequences that his own passion may wreak.

Instead he finds the well of winter chill within himself, and he stills the thrust of his hips, the fury of his desire. His hands move from thigh to abdomen to the swell of shoulder, stroking with the flat of his palm, scraping with his shorn nails, drawing forth Thor's own passion with hands made clever by long nights spent in a bed far and away from here.

Oh, in the summerlands he'd never thought to see its king undone like this: sweet and sloe-eyed with pleasure wrought by the weight of Loki's cock piercing deep.]

Like so. [ says Loki, upon a soft intake of breath. Thor's great body is a fount of desire before him, muscles drawn taut and loosened again in concert. Loki curls a cool white hand about the cock rising rampant from its thatch of golden curls — many times has he held it within him, and the heat upon his palm is well-beloved after many nights spent lost in communion, but even this familiarity is given novelty. Loki strokes it with his fingertips alone, from its base to his tip, rubbing the edge of his thumb in the pearlescent pre-spending that gathers and falls. ]

[ His warm arousal swells and lifts to the touch of Loki's hand, rising thick and slightly curved, aching for the stroke of cool fingertips. Thor moans and works himself down upon his lord's cock again and again, trying so hard for slowness, for resilience, for a careful, languid pace. He wants so badly to move quickly, to fuck himself down hard and brutally that it is a torment to impale himself slowly, but it is brilliant as well: so much hot and slick sensation entering him endlessly, spreading him open again and again.

It is as though they recreate the meaning of pleasure here, together: thrall and master, subject and king, lover and lover. ]

Oh my heart. [ Thor murmurs, swelled and longing, desire the blood which runs hot through his veins. His hand comes around Loki's to tighten it upon his own cock. Lust is greed and tenderness, it is thrusting into Loki's hand and working himself down on his cock in tandem, caught between the two, stroked and pierced and filled until he knows no more but his own wanting. ] My love--my king--more--

[ And even with his plea to slow the rise of pleasure stoked by the thrust and parry of body against body, Loki is not satisfied — still he knows that minutes hence Thor will fall apart above him, and soon after he too will spill and spill until he is emptied of the night's first communion.

No, he thinks, and already his hands jerk free of their places upon thigh and cock, sliding up past the curve and jut of buttocks and hip, until they settle tightly upon Thor's waist, holding him still. The ice burns below his skin, but Loki dare not release it, armed now with the remembered sight of Thor's golden skin blackening under his touch. ]

Thor — [ Loki's voice is as sweet as the trill of summer birdsong, pitched low and breathless. ] Will you trust me, now that I have mastered myself? I would have you upon your hands and knees, so that I may control the plunge of my cock within. [ His gaze dips, and a flush rises to his cheek — the shallowness of embarrassment, nothing more. When he speaks again, it is a murmur halved again in volume. ] Please, my love. You would end this too quickly for my liking.

[ Will he trust? How can he not trust? How can he not desire it with all of his heart, how can he not be relieved, that he will no longer have to torment himself pressing so slow and careful upon Loki's cock when he wants to ride it with abandon and be shown the brutal pleasure of a thorough fucking? Thor leans down to kiss him, sweetly, passionately, all love and desire in that press of their mouths. ]

You need not ask. [ he tells him breathlessly. ] I am yours, beloved; I will obey your every desire, with a glad heart.

[ Every word a sincere one; he swings himself off of Loki's hips, the thick spear of his cock sliding slickly from his aching hole, and then Thor, his breath quick, all his body throbbing, bends himself down to his elbows, his knees sliding apart. So he took Loki the first time they lay together, and many times hence, with hands gentle and firm upon his hips and the plunge of his cock deep and thorough and satisfying. So he anticipates being taken, his breath and belly seething with it, his head turned to watch his lord and king and master, soft hot longing in the blue eyes upon him. ]

Only hurry, Loki.

[ The cast of that soft blue gaze upon him, and Loki again struggles to master the desire that stirs the calm of his mind into an insurrection. He draws in a cold breath, another, speckles of ice glittering upon his parted lips.

The summer-king is more than a creature to be conquered, he tells himself. More than a shred of warmth to be used and cast away. More than a flame behind a grate to smother with ice and snow. More, more, more — and he knows it well as truth, for in the yielding curve of golden flesh is a promise made upon the verdant hills, and again upon the black varnished wood of Loki's table.

Indeed, he is lord and king and master in his own country, but Thor is no thrall to be claimed and plundered until death becomes his sole companion.

So Loki calms the skitter of his own heartbeat, and so he settles the quiet strength of his hands upon the hips raised for his pleasure. He leans down to brush a kiss at the base of Thor's spine, his tongue laving a bright smear of ice against the last ridge of vertebra.

Finally, he draws close; his breath is a sibilant whisper as he presses steadily inwards, the lean muscle in thigh and calf trembling at the effort to keep himself reigned. How he had lived for so long without Thor to catch him and hold him aloft away from the piercing stalactites, this he cannot fathom: not now, when his mind is a blur of sensation. ]

Can you bear it? [ says the soft breath of winter, his lashes fallen to obscure the color of his eyes. ] —if I were to have you so for an eternity — slow and gentle, and lacking entire the promise of a quick end?

[ His heart quickens its beating as Loki's hands come upon his hips, as the soft touch of icy lips upon his spine sends a shudder of pleasure through his body, the sensation as shocking as the blackened burns beneath the winter's frozen hands had been: yet Thor does not fear, Thor does not expect pain from the hands of his king. Thor does not fear to call himself his, and take what Loki would give to him, and lose himself in the joining of their passion. How many times did he lose himself thus when Loki was his own, his guest, his consort, his own dear love in the palace of summer? Cradled within his heart, given without reservation, and so Thor cherished and protected that dear spirit for the love and generosity Loki gave to him. He could do no less than offer the same.

Breath bursts from him as Loki mounts and presses within, the glide of him steady and slick. He struggles to draw it in again, his lungs swelling, his hands grasping for purchase across the tangled furs, and to be once again filled is a wonderful completion; here in the heart of winter, in the frozen towers of the ice palace Thor is warmed from within by Loki's cock, desire and pleasure heating him more than the densest fur or the brightest fire could. ]

Oh, Loki. [ he breathes, eyes closing, head bowed low, in tenderness and in yearning. ] Oh, my love, more. More.

[ But Loki will be gentle; Loki will be patient and slow and promising as the winter, his soft words like kisses dropped to his skin, and Thor shivers and thinks plaintively that he cannot bear it, not at all, but surely he must, he will, if that is Loki's wish. ]

I would—I would have you always within me, my heart.

[ The folly of all beautiful creatures — that they would look upon their own reflection, and fail to see the inevitability of its transience. Loki saw that indulgent folly in Thor the moment he stepped past the borders of his own country, and he mourned then before he could truly rejoice. And the pain has only heightened with each sweet stroke of flesh against flesh, with each soft word spoken and bound between them. As if Loki were a ragged black crow upon the wind, and Thor a glimmer of color fading as the sun dips from the sky: indeed he may revel in the sight now and a moment hence. Yet, as soon as the crown of the sun disappears past the horizon, the sky will return to its moonlit pale, and even Loki will be unable to extricate his own black feathers from the shadows.

The knowledge is a terrible thing, but Loki rises like the dawn of a cold quiet morning, inevitable, unchangeable. He is young, but he has already known many terrible things.

And so even the plea upon Thor's voice does naught to quicken Loki's pace; his hips move like a whisper, his cock dragging gently against the heat and the clutch of Thor within. The pleasure is no trifle, but more than that, it is the ache of Thor beneath him, clasped about him body and heart alike, willingly delivering his powerful strength into the hands of his lesser; that is what drives Loki slowly forward, again, again. ]

It would be no trial to make it so. [ Loki says, his voice a ripple in the air. His hand follows the curve of golden hip and buttock, before sliding in to take Thor's cock in hand, but this time he does not stroke nor tease, but he circles index and thumb about the swollen base, ringing it thus with constraining ice. ] Are we not eternal as the earth and the sky?

[ So tenderly, so slowly does Loki take him, moving within him at a pace which is as long and lingering as the snow upon these mountain peaks, as enduring as the frozen palace. In summer all is brightness and swiftness and change, the warm roil of a storm, the quick flight of a bird, the riotous blooming of flowers. There he fucked Loki joyfully and with no leash upon his passion, mating with the sweet urgency of a youthful love.

And now here in the frozen palace he is taught how the winter mates, with patience and mastery, with a gentle touch, with the sweet shackle of an icy ring set at the base of his cock. Thor chokes and moans as it rings his swollen flesh, his cock throbbing with the need for release yet constrained from it, cut off from it, his hands grasping after the furs with a desperation which has no outlet, which must be made to bow and yield to the winter king's desire. He is rocked slowly by the slick glide of Loki's cock, a motion endless and repetitive and lulling, like the roll and drag of gentle waves against a smooth shore. ]

Oh. [ Thor says mindlessly, struggling for breath. ] Oh, Loki--will you not--

[ Soft and soft, his own hungry flesh clasping and yielding, his cock throbbing and gripped in icy restraint, heat and cold rushing through him by turns. He moans again, lower this time, a sweet rough sound, his head bowing further. ]

My king. [ And Thor shivers, and rocks with Loki, and does not protest again. ]

We are.

[ says Loki, the gentle rise of his voice offering an answer to his own question. He has buried the anger and the violence of winter's cruelty beneath his skin, and now he knows only the snowy plains, the serenity of monochrome in the land and the falling sky.

How can Thor not feel this? There is no urgency in the joining of body and body, no edge of frenzied lust that would have driven them to completion whilst entwined upon the soft linens of the summer-king's bed. Here there is only perpetuity, white hands upon golden hips, the pierce of winter's cock like thread dipping into cloth, embroidering upon flesh the truth of their union.

And so Loki endeavors to share the peace that has caught him in its embrace, sliding forth with patient tenderness, until the night grows dark and darker still. Only when Thor's great body begins to tremble beneath the anchoring thrusts does Loki draw his cock away, gentle hands arranging the spill of golden limbs until Thor lies again upon his back, his legs splayed to allow Loki purview.

This time Loki takes Thor's breath with his own mouth as he presses forward again, the pleasure pooling molten at the pit of his stomach. A minute more. Only a minute more. One day, this will seem a fragment of a moment compared to the eternity they will live, and Loki cannot bear to cut it short. ]

[ Pleasure will not be rushed here in the kingdom of winter; here it strokes patient and tender within him, it is leisurely, it is serene, and it takes him so fully that Thor at last knows nothing but his own soft gasps and the weight of Loki's hands upon his hips and the throb of his cock within him, piercing and sweet, stroking and stroking endlessly. He finds himself sunk to elbows, his thighs braced wide; his cheek rests upon the bedspread and his eyes are closed, his body is passive in its acceptance of such gentle and thorough lovemaking, and his own cock a sweet, heavy weight between his legs, an aching which pleasures him still more and more, a yearning which knows no relief. He begins, almost, to understand. That this, perhaps, is how Loki will have him here: that it will be long, very long, that his king will linger within him as time spirals endlessly into oblivion, until Thor knows nothing but that Loki has filled him.

He rouses up when at last Loki turns him to his back, presses him down into the soft furs and bedclothes and covers his mouth as he slides within him again, completing the two halves of them into one wholeness. Thor's arms, Thor's legs wrap around him, draw him down and inward, so that his cock in its shackle of ice is caught between them, caressed between the slow rocking of their bodies. He shares his warmth with Loki almost innocently, shares the taste of summer, his tongue ripe and seeking in the winter's cold mouth, his body anchoring, holding him near. ]

Loki. [ he murmurs at last when the kiss ends, burying his face in his king's white throat, his voice plaintive. ] Loki, my heart. [ It is so lovely, so unbearably sweet. ]

[ Like Loki once settled bellow the skeletal trees and taught the birds above to sing, now he teaches Thor a song that he had learned himself only hours ago in this bed of secrets, this chamber of winter and summer made into one interminable melody. Time and its constraints are meant for lesser creatures, those fettered by life and by death, those who swear fealty to Loki-king and to Thor-king. Winter and summer were bound once upon the green fields of plenty, and again now in the tenderness of cold shifting hands.

Morning dawns, and morning settles into the air; still Loki holds Thor near, still he works him open and loose for the endless parry and thrust of their joining.

Thrice he draws away to slick his cock again with the slick oil brought from the summerlands, and thrice his breath leaves him in the shape of Thor's name when he presses inwards again. ]

How will I let you free, knowing what you are to me? [ whispers Loki, kissing the golden hair, the words lost in its spill. ] How will I live, knowing that you live and breathe away from my dominion?

[ And only when his words have fallen to silence, when his cock is sheathed deeply within, and the sweetness of lust and desire throws a net over Loki's dark bowed head, only then does he stroke his hands down the leashed power beneath him, and grasp the heated swell of Thor's cock trapped between them.

Loki does not allow the ring of ice to melt, but his fingers work clever and quick over the shaft and head, over the swollen sacs below, drawing forth pleasure without mercy. ]

[ The fall of darkness and the rise of light passes outside long, narrow windows pointing up to the arched vault of Loki's chambers, and still the king of winter moves within Thor, sweet and lingering between the spread of golden thighs. So Thor is made to wait and long for him, to desire him all the more for how Loki fills him and fucks him, takes him in this endless gentle rocking, crafts his body into an instrument of the eternal. Gods, Loki calls them, and beneath his cold pale hands Thor knows himself the child of starlight and sunlight, burning on without end: so they both are, so they are together. The winter is locked within him, within his body and his heart; he spreads within Thor and makes a place for himself to linger.

Come back, he begs Loki with rough, uncultured eloquence, each time his king withdraws from him to slick himself afresh with sweet warm oil, so that he might glide through him as smoothly and tenderly as ever, into the hot stinging clasp of his body, worked loose and wet by the endless plunge and slide of Loki's cock. Come within me.

And when Loki joins within him again, his warm calloused hands stroke urgently over the pale face of his lover, through the black strands of his hair, yet the winter will not be moved to urgency; the winter soothes him again, kisses and hushes him, lulls him with the tender pace of his fucking, until Thor is once more lost to the endless stroking of pleasure.

He rouses at the words, turns his head so that their mouths brush together, the answer resting in him with the weight of certainty. ]

You must not let me free.

[ Soft words, breathed into Loki's mouth, and Thor knows it, Thor knows he will forever belong here in winter's bed.

He rouses again as cold, clever fingers find his cock as though to remind him of the devastating swell and throb of it; he stirs and moans thickly, arching to the touch, trying to thrust against the seeking hand as heat rushes through him anew and all of his body begs for relief. ]

[ The horrible encumbrance of permission, and of rebellion — for Loki has seen the roots of the future spread through land fertile and barren, he has seen with certainty the loss which already aches within him, pain no less terrible for the fact that the wound is yet to come.

Is it possible, then, to turn away, to stray from the path set before them, to lose themselves in the dense thicket of the wilderness beyond?

Perhaps, if they were children of the earth instead of children born of eternity. If they were born from clay and rain, if the rhythm of their hearts was quieted by the frailty of old age or the impotent pain of illness. If the fates could martyr summer and winter by raising them up and striking them down, then, perhaps, they could stage a rebellion.

No. They are the ones who wrought eternity, and who taught life to live, who taught death to grasp and cling. They can no more escape the boundaries of fate than the mortals can escape the maws of oblivion.

Yet Loki thinks of none of this as Thor again comes to life under the swift stroke of his fingers. His grip is cool but not yet cold; his fingertips grasp and twist with focused intensity. Thor is beautiful, and Thor belongs here — let the prophecy fall to snuff out the very stars themselves, it matters not. Because now Loki drives inwards with the liquid slap of skin against skin marring the perfect susurrant silence about them, his mind roils and tumbles;nhis cock is again a tool of desire and ownership and fearsome possession, fucking in and jerking out, repeating the joy and the transience of joining with grim purpose. ]

No. [ hisses Loki, as the black frost again swallows the green of his eyes. ] I will not. [ And only then does the ring of ice about Thor's cock melt to icy rivulets of water, only then does Loki arch the spindle of his spine and fill the clutch of Thor's body with spurt after spurt of his seed. ]

[ Yes, yes, he has found his place. He has vowed it, and in the vowing given Loki more than he can ever imagine, yet the stretch of eternity is gone now from his thoughts for the urgency of the moment has come back into him, it has returned with Loki's touch, the determined stroke of his cool fingers and the pulse and thrust of his cock within. Thor is all at once undone, meltwater running cold between his legs but all the rest of him burning with bright ardor, his cock throbbing and his hole hot and stinging and tender, loose and hungrily welcoming the renewed pitch and thrust of Loki's cock. And then the king of winter is spurting and spurting, filling him with sweet, cool seed, so that Thor's own release seems scalding by comparison, striped thickly over Loki's belly and his own. He cries out roughly and bucks his hips into the final thrusts, feeling seed spill and trickle down his thighs, Loki's spending overflowing him.

And as it is done he lies gasping, shivering, lifting tremorous hands to draw Loki down to him; he kisses his mouth with sweet passion, parting his lips, offering up still more of himself for the winter's pleasure. Loki is splintery and thin beneath his searching hands, and Thor caresses him with loving urgency, with ardor at last growing softer and drowsier as lassitude begins to set into his limbs. ]

My heart. [ he murmurs thickly, with sinking eyelids and a hand pulling Loki's fingers to his mouth, that he might kiss and kiss them. He is cold and he is warm all at once, warmed as though a hearth glows softly within him. He lifts his lips to the snapping black frost of Loki's eyes and smiles without fear. ] Now you have promised me, beloved, and I will hold you to it.

[ A blind man may smile without fear when an abyss gapes before him, so Thor smiles now, sweet and pliant and effortlessly warm in the aftermoments of his release. Loki loves him as the wild loves the tamed, as the beast loves the beautiful — because there is light now in the dark phastasmic corners of his chambers, and light spilling into the chambers of his heart, too. If death beckons, there is no meaning to it. Loki's blood may run black and his flesh melt from his bones, and still Thor's vow will keep him locked here within the winterlands, so that snow and ice and sleet may gain new vigor from the warmth of the hearth glowing within him.

Loki draws in soft breath after breath, learning again what it is to be himself alone. His cock slides free from its sheath, and the cool spill of his release follows. His gaze dips, watching with dark eyes how Thor's hole clutches desperately for what it has lost.

Such is the future: freed from constraint, walking with hands clasped through the lands of Loki's crafting, learning the songs of the winds, watching the sun fade and the stars rise. Loki will show Thor to love the cold as dearly as he loves the sun's warmth — and if that too fails, he will bring him night upon night to the furs of his bed, and master the needs of heart and body until Thor misplaces the memory of his origins. ]

Promises made in winter's lands are bolstered by my own magic, my love. Have I pleased you? [ asks Loki, and though he has grown into the cruelty of the frost he commands, there is a note of hesitation when he curls into the arms proffered. ]

[ Seed and slick stains his thighs and the sensation is luxurious, all his body grown heavy and pliant now in the wake of such thorough use, and Thor lays indolently across the mattress, the furs, the bed of the winter king, here turned from a king in his own right to a sweet consort, generously open for the winter's pleasure. Indeed, the thought of his own throne, the palace of greenwood and the warm lands of summer blessed by sun and gentle rain are far from him; had they been nearer perhaps he would not have so readily vowed himself to this: Loki's bed his throne, Loki's love his kingdom, the summer made a plentiful feast upon which the lonely winter might sup.

But he has fallen in love. Now he knows nothing more than desire, and joy in his beloved's presence.

Thor nuzzles Loki's palm, smiles as he beds down hesitantly in his embrace, closing those broad arms around him. Loki's head is upon his breast, Thor's mouth pressed to his hair. ] I am pleased. Very pleased. I had not known it could be so sweet, Loki.

[ To have the king of winter within him. To spread his legs, to offer his body and be given such devastating pleasure in return. ]

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