[ 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. ]
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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. ]