[ 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?