[ 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.