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Bring them all back to life
[ He had not known cold, he had never truly known cold before the winter kingdom. Before he first saw the palace frozen of ice, and the snow glittering like a thousand thousand diamonds under a pale wintry sun. Before he saw his first blizzard, the wind howling in an endless wrathful voice and the falling of snow so thick and swift that it obscured all sight beyond his own hand in front of his eyes. Before he saw the snow continue to fall and fall and fall until it was piled halfway up the windows, slowly burying the palace in a silent, white blanket.
This is the cold of winter, a piercing, aching chill thrust like a spear deep within him, relieved only by the touch of his lord's hands upon his skin, the slow thrust and rocking of his cock within him. Early on, Thor came to the feasts and sat at Loki's right hand, as he had once seated Loki beside him in the greenwood palace of summer, and did honor to the food they put before him; he attended the contests and tournaments between the beasts and the sharp-eyed dryads, and took his own part in them, spilling blood before the burning black eyes of the winter king, all to see the pleasure and hunger and desire in Loki's gaze upon him. He was a part of the life in that palace, slow-moving and sluggish at times, harsh and demanding at others, but that was before the cold began to sink into him, began to steal the life and warmth from him so that he spent more and more time in Loki's bed, sleeping or fucking or awaiting the presence of his lord beside him: awaiting a soft kiss to the nape of his neck, a caress to wake him, a well-oiled cock sliding slowly, so very slowly within him, to linger for days or even weeks until he knew nothing but the endless rocking and pleasure.
He is truly the thrall of the winter's bed, now.
Thor is asleep, but only by half; there is an aching in his loins, a fierce burning and spark within him, a new life which grips him, which makes him restless. His fingers are grasped in the sheets and somewhere in the back of his mind lingers a thought: does Loki know? Does the winter king know what his cool seed has sown in him? How bewildering, how strange and shameful and joyous; and he aches for Loki's touch, gasping in the grip of dreams, waiting for him to come. ]
This is the cold of winter, a piercing, aching chill thrust like a spear deep within him, relieved only by the touch of his lord's hands upon his skin, the slow thrust and rocking of his cock within him. Early on, Thor came to the feasts and sat at Loki's right hand, as he had once seated Loki beside him in the greenwood palace of summer, and did honor to the food they put before him; he attended the contests and tournaments between the beasts and the sharp-eyed dryads, and took his own part in them, spilling blood before the burning black eyes of the winter king, all to see the pleasure and hunger and desire in Loki's gaze upon him. He was a part of the life in that palace, slow-moving and sluggish at times, harsh and demanding at others, but that was before the cold began to sink into him, began to steal the life and warmth from him so that he spent more and more time in Loki's bed, sleeping or fucking or awaiting the presence of his lord beside him: awaiting a soft kiss to the nape of his neck, a caress to wake him, a well-oiled cock sliding slowly, so very slowly within him, to linger for days or even weeks until he knew nothing but the endless rocking and pleasure.
He is truly the thrall of the winter's bed, now.
Thor is asleep, but only by half; there is an aching in his loins, a fierce burning and spark within him, a new life which grips him, which makes him restless. His fingers are grasped in the sheets and somewhere in the back of his mind lingers a thought: does Loki know? Does the winter king know what his cool seed has sown in him? How bewildering, how strange and shameful and joyous; and he aches for Loki's touch, gasping in the grip of dreams, waiting for him to come. ]