“They fuck like animals, these Asgardian pigs. They'll take you as soon as you are out of our sight, leave you bleeding on the ground like a whore used.” Fafnir hisses in Loki's ears, bending himself over in order to stoop down to Loki's height. He himself is not tall, after all, barely a little past six feet and four inches; even the slightest of the Frost Giants surpass his height by two feet or more, but on this day, Loki refuses to be ashamed.
“And yet they seem ready enough to clean the rancid meat from their teeth, that they might not carry a stench with every word spoken.” Loki returns easily, and he readies a ball of white hot seiðr in the left hand held behind his back, seeing the older man bristle. For all Fafnir is meant to be his bodyguard, Loki finds he fights with Fafnir more than any attacker. “How is it that these “pigs” understand the concept, Fafnir, but not you?”
“Why, you-”
“Loki!” Laufey exclaims as he enters the room, and Loki lets the seiðr dissipate in his fingers, turning to regard his first parent with a polite and respectful inclination of his shoulders. The other Frost Giant is almost twice Loki's height, and Loki is forced to look directly up at him, his expression carefully schooled into one of neutrality. “The ceremony will start soon.”
The ceremony. That word has become like as sharp as knives underfoot to him, after so many months of the same word repeated over and over: he is to trade places with one of the Asgardian lads, and they are to live alongside the royals of the other side, as brothers. It is certainly a modern form of alliance, and all of Jötunheimr is wondering and predicting as to how it will succeed – or not.
“I understand.” Loki says quietly, and he pulls away from Fafnir's unwanted company to look himself over in the mirror once more. His jewellery is carefully put, the blue cloth around his waist light and made of an airy silk; by Frost Giant standards, bar his miniature form, he is made up for ceremony.
Loki cannot help the twist of worry in his stomach at the thought of Asgardian views on his body, but no, was it not him that planted the idea in his parent's mind to send him to Asgard? Is it not he who stands the best chance of infiltrating Asgard, of fulfilling his own goals while working under the guise of the monarch's wish for alliance?
Loki may not be large, but he is cunning, must be cunning, and he will be more than capable for this.
“Are you ready?” Fafnir asks, and the other smirks down at him, all but slavering as he regards the princeling; no doubt he will touch himself oh so thoroughly at the thought of his least favourite charge being accosted by one Asgardian or another. Loki considers, as an aside, how the other will fare – his name is Balder, the thing being sent to Loki's place.
No doubt they share a height.
“Let us go.” Loki says imperiously, inwardly delighting the way Fafnir's lips curl and his teeth move to snarl at Loki's confidence. For all he might be princeling in blood, he is weak and small; that is most of the reason Laufey is so willing to trade him away to Asgard, is it not? But Loki minds not at all.
Long may Laufey may reign, if he continues to push his child's vendettas forwards, knowingly or otherwise.
The hall is large, carved of ice and with an extremely high, domed ceiling. Light from the moon and the starts filters dimly in through the little space above, but Loki cares not for constellations and galaxies, not tonight. In the centre of the room is a space in the floor, and below water quietly babbles beneath the ice-made party all; across the water, across the hall, is a bridge of shining white.
The hall is full enough; for the time being, Asgardians are on the other side, and Jötunns are on this one, separated by block-built walls perpendicular to the bridge. There is chatter on this side, and chatter on the other, but no intermingling yet; Loki does so hope to mend the gap between their two peoples. He moves forwards, gracefully taking his place on the snow-blanketed platform on his side of the bridge. There is a pause, and chatter in the room dies down to a deafening silence as Odin – and Loki recognizes Odin, with his thick furs and the patch o'er his eye – pushes forwards a lad that must be of Loki's age, but is yet shorter.
Loki feels no sympathy, but knows his way here will be hard.
Balder takes his place parallel to his Jötunn counterpart, and behind him Loki hears Laufey begin to speak, but he ignores the words. They are platitudes, after all, and Loki has little interest in them: instead, he examines Balder. He is warmly dressed in a cape of heavy gold, and it seems to be fur-lined. Loki imagines his mother cooed and fussed tremendously over him, as Asgardian mothers are wont to do, and he wonders, with a flash of ill-advised humour, if young Balder has nineteen cases for his clothes, or twenty.
Asgardians wear so much, after all.
A gong sounds, and then there is the satisfying sound of shattering ice: hammers strike into the walls between the two peoples, separating the hall into its two halves. Loki watches Balder's face, watches the fear flash over his eyes even as he straightens his back and broadens his shoulders, and he is careful not to laugh.
Loki is a wolf being sent amongst a flock of quiet sheep; Balder, so it seems, is a kitten being thrown to the dogs.
And Loki had wondered if the stories of Odin's cruelty were true.
He takes a first step forwards, and for all his evident worry, Balder takes one too, apparently resolved to his fate. And so it goes, steps forwards until they pass each other by, until Balder is on the side of Jötunheimr, and Loki's bare feet touches the side of Asgard.
All of them are looking at him, staring at him with their strange, colourful eyes, and Loki glances over the crowd, examining those before him before his gaze alights on Odin. Odin, son of Bor, is an imposing figure cut in the ice of Loki's home realm, and Loki makes a mental note to never cross him. A woman is beside him, Frigga, Loki supposes, his dear wife: she is a tall woman of beauty enough, and it is at her Loki first smiles, the expression tender, sweet, shy.
He shan't be obvious, of course, but it will do him no harm to mimic the worry of Balder, and draw out maternity from Frigga, wife of Odin.
“Never,” Loki begins, and he sees eyes widen with shock, surprise and curiosity amongst the Asgardian nobles at his cadence and assured tones. They had expected a slobbering grumble, perhaps. Loki ought have sent his long-suffering guard in his place. “Have I been so delighted to know new friends. My heart was gladdened and lightened of heavy burden when I came to know our peoples would ally so; I stepped forwards readily and willingly to bridge the gap myself. My name is Loki, son of Laufey, and to you, Odin, son of Bor, do I offer my allegiance and my loyalty.” Loki bows, so lowly that his black hair touches to the snow dusted ground below him.
He hears the nobles around coo and murmur amongst themselves, but that is not the sound he is listening for. He has to wait for it, for a moments' pause, and then he hears Odin's boots crunch on the floor as he makes his way forwards.
“Glad am I to accept you into the fold, Loki, son of Laufey.” Loki looks at him, and is surprised to see Odin smiling, the solemnity of the occasion apparently already cast aside. “Stand, and be at my side. I must introduce you to those assembled.”
Loki smiles right back, and follows the other readily.
---
Loki is tired as he crosses the Bifrost, his limbs aching, the satchel on his shoulder cutting cruelly into the meat of his shoulder as he walks. He had refused to be carried by a large and vaulting man who had offered, though he had done so in the best of humours.
In truth, he wishes only to make his way to his new quarters and swiftly set himself to rest.
Others walk about him, but he himself makes his journey alone, not in carefully gathered groups as the others are. It is not that they are avoiding him, he does not think, but Odin, Frigga and their blond-haired son had gone ahead, and Loki moves on his bare feet, without use of seiðr, though the temptation to glide over the shining bridge beneath him is strong.
After the ceremony, people had intermingled, and it had been – tense. But things will improve, he imagines, with years enough, and with his and Balder's presence on either side of the rainbow bridge beneath his bare feet.
“Do you not wear shoes?” A man asks, and Loki turns to him. He hopes that's correct, anyway – he had spent months upon months studying Asgardian thoughts of gender, and the idea of men and women is confusing, to say the least. Foreign and awkward is the concept, but he has not erred this evening yet.
“My feet are cool; the ground is cold and soft. Never before have I had such things upon my feet.” The man nods his head, and he offers his arm. Loki takes it, squeezes the other's forearm as is the custom, and offers a polite nod of his head.
“Loki.” He says quietly; Loki registers that he does not seem to be Æsir, judging by his facial features. “My name is Hogun: I am one of the Warriors Three. Those here call me Hogun the Grim.” Loki chuckles at the moniker, and Hogun's lip twitches slightly, but that is all that betrays his good humour.
“Glad am I to meet you.” Loki says. They walk on for a few moments in silence, and in the pads of his feet, Loki feels a sharp pain. He wonders if the skin will blister, for the Bifrost is discomfitingly warm under his soles, and the warmth of Asgard begins to soak into his bones as they move closer and closer to their destination.
“You will grow used to the heat.” Hogun promises as they reach the bridge's end. “I offer you my service and my advice, should you need it.” He looks to Loki's feet, upon which the princeling is now stepping far more tenderly than he had been at the start of their trek. “I shall give you worn-in leather boots, too, should you require them.”
“My thanks.” Loki murmurs, and he offers Hogun a small smile as they move into the observatory that serves to control the bridge. Loki's gaze is caught by the figure of Heimdall, the Gatekeeper; his lips part despite himself, and he stares with an open fascination.
Heimdall's skin is black, darker than that of many of the other Asgardians, and his eyes shine a plain and beautiful gold. He is attractive, Loki thinks, and his gaze is only caught once more when Hogun taps his shoulder.
“Good night to you, Loki. May your journey home be safe.” Home. The word strikes Loki as sharply as a knife might in his side – Asgard is to be his home now.
“Loki.” Heimdall says, and his voice booms as the Asgardians hurry through towards home, across the open bridge the Bifrost makes. In times of war, never would they be able to travel such an easy path, but they are at peace now: Loki's presence is proof enough of that.
“Heimdall?” The Gatekeeper inclines his head, gesturing for Loki to come closer, and he does, taking cautious and uncertain steps upon the ground. He waits in silence until the last of the Asgardians heads through the golden room and towards home, and Heimdall brings his staff down into the device at the centre of the room, closing off the bridge to Loki's home realm.
That is well-cemented, now: Loki is stranded in Asgard.
“Be not afeared for the use of your seiðr.” Heimdall says quietly, and Loki looks at him owlishly, perplexed and wondering as to his meaning, until he gestures to the Frost Giant's small and aching feet. “I have seen you, Loki. I have seen you Skywalking.”
Loki's Jötunn blood runs hot with fear as he stares up at the Gatekeeper, and immediately, apologies burn upon his lips. Skywalked has he since he was a babe just out of arms, and never had he spared a thought for Heimdall, Gatekeeper who sees all, taking offence to his free movement from Jötunheimr to other realms, though never to Asgard.
Loki is here to make allies and warm relations, and not to offend the most powerful men of Asgard; he opens his mouth with desperation but Heimdall holds up one broad, easy hand, quietening Loki with that gesture alone.
“I am not angry.” Heimdall says seriously. “No crimes have you committed by moving freely. Come, make use of your magic now, lest you damage your feet further.” Despite his willingness to make good relations, Loki is not pleased at being ordered around, but for the time being he makes no complaint.
He lets magic flow to his feet, and he soon hovers three inches over the ground, the enchanted air offering sufficient padding for his sore soles. Loki lets out a pleased sigh, relaxing somewhat, and then straightens his back.
“Your satchel.” Heimdall murmurs, and he holds out his hand. Loki carefully removes his bag of clothes, knives and trinkets, handing it over with only a hint of reluctant plain in his form; his shoulder sings for being allowed free once more.
But Heimdall does not search the bag as Loki had expected. Instead, he drops it at their feet, and the smile he offers Loki is warm, friendly; for all its platonic intention, Loki feels weak at the knees. Never has he been attracted to an Asgardian before, but never has he met an Asgardian to striking of stature and face.
“I see all.” says Heimdall, as if Loki is not keenly aware of the fact. “Our alliance will serve the two realms well.”
“So I should hope.” Loki says quietly, and he looks into one of the gems of the observatory as he speaks, peering into its pink depths with fascination. “T'is a long way I've travelled on tired feet, if it is all for nought.” Heimdall's laugh is a quiet chuckle, but Loki commits that blessed sound to memory – the deep, low sound is exciting.
Loki does his best not to show his interest, for such things are undoubtedly ill-advised, and Heimdall is watching him so carefully.
“Thor is collecting you from here.” Heimdall says. “It is why I required you stay; he will bring a vessel this way, and you shall be brought back in that. The initial trek across the Bifrost was symbolic in nature, but the walk through the city and to the palace is hardly necessary.” Loki nods his head cleanly.
“Do you not get lonely here, in this observatory?” He asks quietly, and he allows the flirtation to hang plainly on the air as he begins to pace suspended above the floor. Allowing his attraction to show is ill-advised, but he is in Asgard to select for himself a mate, and while Loki isn't usually one to pick the first bird that comes from the bush, this eagle of a man is a fascinating specimen indeed.
“Watch your step, Skywalker.” Heimdall rumbles, but despite his words his tone indicates a good humour, as does the shift of his brow. “Fly too high, and you may fall.”
“Do not worry, sir.” Loki says, and he offers the other a winning smile. “Many a time have I fallen: I know how to land safely.” Heimdall lets out a quiet hum, but Loki is not lucky enough to hear the response that waits on Heimdall's tongue.
“Loki.” says Odin's son, Thor, and he regards both the Frost Giant and the Gatekeeper stonily. Loki had noticed at the event his attention had seemed sour, but it had seemed impolite to ask or to comment. “Come.”
“I bid you good night, Heimdall.” Loki says, and to catch his bag he kneels at Heimdall's feet, looking the other up and down in a not at all subtle fashion as he does so. Heimdall snorts.
“Farewell, Loki. Good evening, Thor.” Thor grunts in response, and gestures for Loki to step into the odd, Asgardian skyboat he has piloted to the observatory. It's an awkward little vessel, but Loki makes no complaint as to its design.
“You ought not throw yourself so freely.” Thor says stiffly, and Loki tilts his head, regarding him curiously. Thor's body is all made of tension and stiff lines, and yes, he must be terribly against the alliance to be so very upset.
“Come, surely you do not think Heimdall unworthy of my attentions?”
“I think you unworthy of his.” Thor snaps back, and Loki's suspicions are confirmed. “You ought clothe yourself properly.” Loki barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes, letting out a quiet, disapproving sound.
“As you say.” He says evasively, wishing to avoid conflict with his new brother for the time being. The alliance will not be easy, but Loki shall persevere. He remains silent for a time longer, not making eye contact with Thor as he pilots the small skyboat – ably, though Loki would vastly prefer to travel by use of his own seiðr – through the skies and towards the city.
The City of Asgard is truly a glory to behold.
Jötunn cities are always hidden in the sides of ice or rock or mountain, for the sake of security as much as to avoid too much sun and to keep cool; Asgard's capital has no such worries. It is a beautiful thing, massive and stretching wide across the land below, and the buildings are all so tall, so ambitious, crafted of shining gold and beautiful green!
Loki cannot help but he somewhat awed, and he makes no attempt to hide his admiration, guessing his excitement for Thor's home may inspire some endearment or other; this assumption is proved wrong, of course, when he glances from the sprawling and shining landscape of technology and architecture below him to see Thor's expression stoic and still.
He looks like his father, Loki thinks, though he is not nearly so intimidating.
Loki sits in silence, his bag between his knees, and elects not to speak, his head slightly bowed. There is no need to involve himself in conflict straight away, not if Thor is so intent on being hostile towards him in the beginning; he will take his time and carefully infiltrate the other man's affections.
He follows Thor obediently when they touch down on the palace wall, keeping track of the other man and walking on his self-made padding of air as Thor leads him into the hall. “We are to share chambers.” Thor says grimly, and Loki stops pretending to walk, instead gliding easily on the air to avoid the beginnings of ache in his thighs. Loki does his best to keep track of their movements as they go through hallway after hallway, until they get to a large oak door in the wall, and Thor pulls it open.
Loki steps inside, and he looks around with interest; it's a fairly large room with shelves of books against the walls, simple furniture and a table in the centre of the room. “This is a salon. Your room is over there.” Thor points to the right of the room. “Mine is here.” He indicates the matching door on the left side, and then says, “Our bathroom is to be shared also.”
With that, he turns into his own room and slams the door behind him, and Loki is left alone in the central room. Such a hostility – Loki wonders how he shall play through this particular and strong dislike.
He moves carefully into his own room, and he looks around it uncertainly; the windows are large and wide, and the bed is of thick green cloth, with four posts and a heavy canopy. There are bookshelves to the side, empty, and a wardrobe and a chest of drawers, but nothing more. Sparse, really.
Loki begins to remove the three cloths in his bag, and the two different sets of silver chains he has, as well as the golden ones he wears currently. These are placed awkwardly in the top drawer of the chest – such strange and unnecessary furniture. His comb is settled upon the dresser, along with his short-knives, and then he sets his daggers aside also.
He sets aside jewellery, two or three books about seiðr that do little to fill the emptiness of his shelves, and then he hovers with his empty bag in his hands, looking around his room. He is struck by a sudden and uncomfortable vulnerability as he considers how far away he is from home. For all he despises his family, for all Laufey despises his own child, home would be preferable to here.
Well, no. This is home now, he supposes.
He moves towards the one window, and when he reaches out and touches the glass with his fingers it opens up, the two windows opening with the walls as if they were doors. Loki's mouth drops open, and he steps out onto the balcony, awed by the beauty of the city below. He looks out with fascination from his place, down the side of the palace and into the wide streets; they are empty, of course, for it is very late at night, but in some of the windows glow golden lights of warmth, betraying the wakefulness of their inhabitants.
Loki rests his forearms on the balcony's bannister, and after a pause, he lets the pocket of air slowly dissipate below his feet, until his feet touch on the gloriously cool tile of the balcony's floor beneath him. The air, of course, is not as cool as he'd wish; it stifles him somewhat, making it feel harder to breathe than usual, and it is uncomfortable to feel that heat cling so particularly to his flesh, and where is the breeze? Where are the pleasant winds kissing over his flesh?
Loki lets out a quiet sigh, and relaxes further against the balcony's walls, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
He steels his wills, and then he stands up straight, flattening out his hands and allowing seiðr to flow freely from his fingertips as he enchants the balcony's space in a thick bubble to obscure himself from view and to filter the air before it enters the space and, by extension, his own room. Despite his fatigue, he moves carefully through the walls of his room, enchanting the walls and employing the same filtration system until he has it from wall to wall, and then he allows a whispered word to sing on the air.
Immediately the temperature of his room drops and drops, so extremely and suddenly that a frost forms on the side of the wardrobe door, and Loki lets out a fatigued sigh of sound, moving to drop back onto the bed, enjoying the comfort of the cool. He waves a hand and pushes the doors closed with a movement of easy magic, and then he wriggles from his chains and cloth, lying naked on the top of the mattress on his belly, his face mashed to the pillow.
He ignores the lingering burn in his muscles, the soreness on the soles of his feet, and instead relishes the cold of the room and the comfort of the fabric beneath his form. And so he sleeps.
---
“Why is it so cold in here?” Loki wakes up, his head lifting as he looks up at Thor with confusion plain on his face, for he is tired and bleary and uncertain.
“I enchanted the space. It was too warm.” He says softly, and Thor tuts at him; he wears only leather trousers and he is shirtless; on his body grows a bizarre thatch of golden hair not unlike the hair upon his head, only shorter. It is on his chest, his navel, his arms. Odd. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”
“You are meant to sleep beneath the sheets, and with the curtains closed.” Thor says irritably, gesturing to the bed and then to the bared windows. Curtains, Loki supposes, are the stretches of fabric hanging down from the sides of the windows – they are intended to, what? Block out the morning light? Bizarre. “Do your people sleep atop blocks of ice?”
“Yes.” Loki says bluntly, and some part of him delights in the way Thor recoils slightly, apparently taken aback by the answer. Truly, they know little of their respective peoples. “What are you doing in my chambers?”
“It is time for breakfast.” Thor snaps at him. “Dress yourself and join us in the entrance hall. Then, we shall train.” With that, Thor leaves, and the door slams shut behind him; Loki reluctantly drags himself from bed, dressing himself in silver chains and a cloth of sweet red before moving from the room.
He does not know his way, but he does know to send out a snake of golden seiðr that seeks out Thor, and he follows it with care, skating upon the thin air of the corridors rather than put more pressure on his tired feet.
He does have blisters.
“Loki!” Odin bellows as he enters, and Loki stops short in the air, his eyes wide and his expression utterly terrified for a second or two, until he schools his expression into one of neutrality again. Loki looks guilty from Odin to the string of golden chain plain to their views, and to Thor and Frigga. Thor is scowling, and Loki adjusts his position in the air, lowering himself to be closer to the ground.
“I did not know my way.” Loki admits softly, and Odin's expression softens somewhat before he gives a nod and gestures for Loki to join them at the table. He does not snap at his son for not showing the path, but Frigga shakes her head in Thor's direction.
It is a small, square table, and it only has four seats: it seems an oddly intimate fashion in which to break the fast, but Loki supposes it is to do with the Asgardian focus on familial activity. The hearth is so bizarrely important to these people, though Frost Giants lack the same focus; Loki's second parent has not even talked to him in several decades, and he imagines Farbauti has not so much as uttered his name, in praise or curse of him.
“Was your room to your liking, Loki?” Frigga asks as Loki looks over the plates in the centre of the table, deliberating over what seemed safe to eat and what did not.
“He has enchanted it as one charms a box for one's meat in summer.” Thor says in an irritated fashion, as if Loki's use of magic has offended him personally.
“Ought I take your comment, Thor, to mean that you can use seiðr yourself?” Thor glares at him. It is his mother that speaks on.
“Thor is a warrior.” Odin says, but then, after a short pause, he says, “He does not take to seiðr as naturally as some.” Loki, inwardly, is amused – Thor seems a young thing with a short fuse, and while he can train his muscles and his hands, work with weapons as he goes, Loki imagines he lacks the patience for the intricate and particular work that magic requires.
“In Asgard, Loki,” Frigga says quietly, in a warm and pleasant enough tone – and yes, Loki likes this woman, for the sake of her speech and for the very energy she produces. “Children are taught the most basic of charms at a young age. Small charms that involve the elements, and basic rune enchantments once they learn to read and write. If they show an aptitude for seiðr, tutelage is often offered by the state, but it is rare.”
“Rare?” Loki repeats, and he tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. “In Jötunheimr, one studies magic independently. I-” He considers how to tread this particular path; to insult Thor subtly, or to offer complete respect? Well. Such an obvious decision. “I was taught the basics of seiðr by my parent, Laufey, and from there I was expected to study independently or seek out my own tutelage, if I wished to improve.” And how many of those tutors had he killed, ensuring only he could practise the rarest of magics? So satisfying, in truth. “Seiðr can be practised by anyone, but it is a difficult path that requires both discipline and patience. I understand that the diligence expected might be... Off-putting.”
Thor's jaw twitches, and Loki offers the other man a smile.
---
Loki surveys the training ground from his cool and comfortable balcony, his lips pressed together as he looks over the flat space. He recognizes Hogun as he trains against another man of Thor's age or perhaps somewhat younger – Fandral The Dashing, so his moniker goes, but Loki doesn't think he seems so dashing yet.
There are others, of course; Sif is a mighty warrior, better than the others from what Loki has seen, unmatched except by Thor, and then there is Volstagg, a lion of a man with broad shoulders and a heavy form.
As he watches, he cannot deny Thor's skill: for what he may lack in patience and charm, he is truly skilled, and it cannot all be attributed to the hammer Mjölnir in his hands. He is rapid, strong, quick-witted and lighter on his feet than one might expect: Loki cannot help but admire his form as he swings a two-handed sword, his grace as he catches his hammer, his balance as he lands on his feet after a throw from Volstagg.
Loki had chosen to remain in his room for the time being, under cover of equipping himself with his weapons, but seeing their easy camaraderie, he has no wish to interrupt or involve himself. Training on another day might be appropriate, when he can go one-on-one with Thor...
There is a knock of knuckles on wood, and Loki steps from his balcony into his room.
“Enter.” He says, and the door is pushed open; it is the Lady Frigga that steps into his room, though she shudders at the cool. Immediately he gestures with his hand, and the space warms to a temperature more comfortable for her. Frigga offers him a warm and grateful smile.
“Your command of seiðr is most impressive, Loki.” She says, and carefully she makes her way forwards, settling on the edge of his bed with her hands folded neatly in her lap.
“My thanks.” Loki says graciously, with a careful nod of his head, and she watches him for a few moments, looking thoughtful. “My apologies, my lady, I was merely watching from the balcony.”
“They can't see you, I suppose?” Loki's cheeks flush to a dark purple as he regards her; he is not meek, but she likely thinks it ridiculous he chose to enchant his room so.
“I meant no offence, my lady.”
“And you have caused none.” She assures him. “When I first married Odin and found the balcony of his bedroom, I did exactly the same.” Loki chuckles a little despite himself. “Loki, while I am certain Thor would delight to have you run straight into training, I thought I might introduce you to our library.”
There is a pause: Loki's heart jumps at the consideration of Asgard's libraries, of how many books there must be held within the walls. He has heard tell of them in other realms, heard tell of shelves thirty feet high and covering the golden walls, and he bites his lip.
Lady Frigga is smiling at him, as if she knows. Loki has always jumped at the thought of having new knowledge, and he reads and takes tutelage with a voracity his siblings had always mocked, unless it suited them for Loki to make use of his knowledge. Not all of it well-gained, of course – what's learning without a few corpses along the way? - but it serves him well, and Loki is known for his cleverness.
“My lady, I would be honoured.” Loki says softly, and he follows Frigga as she leads him down the corridor, up a set of steps and into a room with a high ceiling and wide walls. Loki looks around with a feeling of excitement coiling in his chest, and he stares at the high ceilings, each lined with more and more shelves. The domed ceiling above is made of windowed class, but the heated sun does not stream in; instead, the stars are plain above as if it is still night.
Frigga grasps his hand and leads him forwards, weaving through shelves; Loki finds himself struck by how warm her flesh is against his own. It is not unpleasant, as such, but certainly it is bizarre of sensation, setting his own skin alight with it.
“Here.” The murmurs with a small smile of plain pride; in the centre of the room here, amongst curved shelves to retain the circular shape of the library, is a thick rug embroidered to mimic the sky above, and to the side is a small lectern. Upon it stands a large, heavy book, its cover embossed with gold. “This book,” Frigga says quietly, stepping towards the lectern and opening the first cover. “Shall offer you titles and their placements by subject, if you make a request of it. For example, I could ask for Jötnar...” Loki watches intently as she presses her fingers to the edges of the lectern in offering her inquiry, and black ink begins to curl over the book's pages, listing title after title. “Though I have no doubt much of this information is either out-of-date or completely wrong.”
Frigga turns, and regards Loki awkwardly for a moment before moving on to say, “Though I confess, barring two or three in the corner of the room, I do not believe any of our books are written in the Jötunn tongue.”
“That is very well, my lady.” Loki says politely. “I can read and write in the scripts of the Æsir, the Ljósálfr, the Vanir, and the Dvergar.” Frigga stares at him, and for a moment Loki is uncertain as to whether her expression is one of distrust or simple surprise. “For a Jötunn completing their studies, one's own literature is not often sufficient. Much of our information is offered via tutelage or word of mouth: the few things inscribed in script are artefacts or tablets. The frost, I confess, is pleasant to the skin, but it lends itself not to the use of ink on paper.”
She gives a little laugh of sudden understanding, and nods her head. “In that case, perhaps the books in the Jötunn script will be to your interest?” She begins to lead him through shelves again, and continues to speak as she moves. Her dress flows so beautifully, and Loki considers the idea of wearing such a garment for himself, though he imagines it would not be treated well; the strange binary of Asgard would insist against him dressing so, if he is to act a “man”. “You will be able to take these books wherever you like in the palace, though attempting to take them into the city proper will affect them to dematerialize and replace themselves on their shelves. If you wish to take them elsewhere, you'll have to register them with the book in the centre, though this requires a small sample of your blood.”
“My blood?” Loki repeats, somewhat distrustful of the process.
“The book absorbs it; only I or Odin can track those registered in its banks, however, and there is no way to extract drops from an individual.” Frigga assures him, and they reach a glass cabinet, where a few items are on display. Loki regards the items with quiet interest; there are three books on small stands which Frigga moves to remove for him, but the other items are- bizarre.
There is a set of silver chains in a bowl, and on a blue plate is a set of facial jewellery. He recognizes other things; hairclips, a blunted knife intended for sweet cakes, a glass bottle of red powder intended for painting one's face.
“Why do you keep these things?” Loki asks curiously, and Frigga opens it up, glancing at him with confusion.
“These are merely Jötunn items that have been collected over the years, from camps in Asgard and Vanaheim.”
“So you display them as spoils of war?” Loki asks, and Frigga looks uncertain for a moment, but Loki chuckles a little, reaching out and taking the knife for the time being. It is a pleasant thing, encrusted with sapphire gems, and he appreciates the weight in his hand. “Do you know what this is for, my lady Frigga?”
“It's simply a knife, is it not?” He shakes his head, and he holds it in his hands, displaying the blade to her.
“You see how the blade is blunted? Amongst the Jötnar, we create a sweet cake of honey and caramel collected from Vanaheim or elsewhere. Sætur is its name. It has a stone-like outward appearance, and within is a pink, hard innards which can be shaved and layered with the honey and caramel.” Loki offers an indulgent smile; he does his best not to be condescending about it, but good-humoured. Odd, that the Æsir would choose to display such objects, but he supposes it can be expected, when they do not know their purposes. “This is designed for cutting such treats, and only for that.”
The beginnings of a scarlet flush come to Frigga's cheeks, and she gives a rueful little laugh as she looks to the other items on the cabinet's shelves. “I suppose you think us foolish.”
“Not at all.” Loki murmurs, and he returns the blade to its place on the shelf. “Only very recently have our realms been allied; how are the Æsir to know the peculiarities of society in Jötunheimr, when it is endemic only to our world and so rarely shared?” It is better that he is gracious about this; he will perhaps make some of the sætur cakes for those of the city, though is cooking not a “feminine” thing?
He shall have to consider it in more detail or- no, what a perfect way to endear himself to the lady Frigga; undoubtedly she will develop a protective attitude in time, with him so carefully pressed into their familial life, but there is no shame in speeding those feelings along.
“My lady Frigga,” He asks softly as he reaches for the three books on the top shelf, carefully removing them and stacking them in his arms. “Your- in coming to Asgard, I made the decision to select one of your two genders and present myself thus.” He affects his voice with a carefully laden vulnerability as they move together towards the centre of the room, keeping his gaze upon her face. “As I already made use of pronouns you consider masculine, I thought it might be best to select maleness. However, this binary, it does not exist among my people, and it is, in truth, confusing to me. If I were to make sætur for those here, or, for example, wear a “dress”, as you do, would such actions be treated with hostility?”
Frigga's brow furrows, and she considers the question, mulling it over. He imagines she knows very little of Jötunn sex, and he imagines his words have sparked curiosity, but she is not so crass as to ask after what lies beneath the cloth o'er his hips.
“I believe the sweet cakes would be well-accepted.” She says after a short pause, speaking seriously. “As an ambassador of Jötunheimr, you will be sharing with us an element of your culture, and moreover, while cooking is seen as a more feminine act, it is not especially so. I confess, elements of a savage past linger amongst our people, and elements considered womanly are often times shamed simply for virtue of being feminine. To wear a gown as I do would be treated with revulsion, and many would consider you confused.”
“I am confused.” Loki admits, and Frigga gives a rueful hum.
“Yes, it must seem so foreign to you.” She murmurs. “You know the basics?”
“I know that here a man is expected to be flat-chested with a cock, and a woman with breasts and a cunny. Amongst the Jötnar, all of our people are flat-chested until pregnant, and usually one is born with aspects of both- ah, “sexes”? For one to have only one or the other is quite rare, but as so many Jötnar can utilize seiðr easily in regards to their own body, how one is born is hardly permanent. If someone prefers a different ideal, one can easily take it on.” Loki says, and he settles cross-legged on the floor as Frigga weaves herself a small, low stool with seiðr and seats herself upon it, her knees together and leaned to the left. “I know that here, masculinity is associated with violence and strength, whereas femininity is considered less hostile. But, conversely, seiðr is considered a woman's weapon, as are small blades and poison, for reasons I do not pretend to understand.”
“Much of it is contradictory.” Frigga agrees with a nod of her head. Loki listens as she begins to speak, explaining intricacies of Asgard's misogyny Loki had not considered before, in lights that shed knowledge on the situation. Some are aspects he has experienced – for instance, the entitlement of some men to a body they consider womanly, the press of sexual violence as Fafnir had spoken of – but others are subtleties he never would have considered. Truly, this concern of gender seems harmful, but Loki doubts he will change the very values of a society in his time here, so he elects to ignore it.
They speak for some time, until a bell tolls in another part of the castle, and Frigga stands, offering him her hand. “Come, we shall deposit these books in your and Thor's quarters, and we shall adjourn for the midday meal.”
“My thanks, my lady.” Loki says quietly. “For your advice.”
“Of course, Loki.” She assures him sweetly; yes, she is beginning to enjoy his company. He appreciates her company, for what it stands for; she is honest, warm. And most importantly, she is beginning to warm to him.
---
“Where have you been?” Thor asks when Loki and Frigga join he and Odin at the table, and Loki very carefully selects a piece of cheese, cutting three slices daintily away from the block before taking some bread. So different is the food of the Æsir, and while before Loki has tasted much of it, never has he been able to have such pleasant meals.
“In the library.” Loki says lightly. “Forgive me, Thor, if I have no wish to run directly into combat with my new brother not in blood.”
“You wish to ensconce yourself in blankets and cushions and read?”
“Reading can allow one to garner a lot of knowledge, Thor. Perhaps you ought give the practice a try. Do you know how?” Thor slams his tankard on the table.
“Of course I know how, you-”
“Boys.” Frigga interrupts them patiently, before Odin can move to snap at either one of them. “Much as I am pleased to see your brotherly nature has spread to bickering already, perhaps we can leave it away from the luncheon table.”
Loki nods his head, and takes a delicate bite of his bread and cheese. “My lady.” Inwardly, he is amused at having got such an aggressive reaction from Thor so easily. They eat swiftly enough, and only then does Loki move out to the proving ground in the other's trail.
“Come. We shall fight with our fists first, an easy spar.” Loki nods his acquiescence, and he stands straight, his feet apart and his hands open, ready for a fight. Thor glances at his stance with an arrogant superiority, but he makes no comment.
Thor fights well, but so does Loki.
They go for six rounds, and Loki bests Thor four times out of six – this is, he imagines, due to the difference in their tutelage and their strategies. Thor uses his strength well, has good balance and posture, but he is too trusting of Loki's feints and tricked even without Loki's seiðr.
“Once more!” Thor says when Loki pulls back, and Loki shakes his head.
“No.” He says, for his magic-fuelled illusion shows him as fine as ever, but inwardly he feels nauseated, and thinks he may vomit up the meal they had just partaken of. It is too hot, and the heat coming down to the training ring affects him awfully. He feels like he may be melting, and it is far from a pleasant sensation.
“You are a coward!”
“As you like.” Loki says exhaustedly, and he steps away from the ground to their chambers. He takes a step into their shared bathroom, and looks around at the bath in the centre of the room. It is a large thing, made for several Asgardian bodies in size, round and buried in the ground. Its tiles are green and shining, a pleasant design inscribed on them, and Loki finds it interesting.
He puts out his hands and turns the taps with a stretch of seiðr, and he watches the water flow. He doesn't use the one marked for hot water, instead focusing on the cold, and immediately he slips into the bath and lets out a soft sigh at the coolness on his skin.
Once the bath is full, he turns off the taps, and he soaks himself under the water. Slowly, the nausea fades and uncoils from his belly, and then he stands, putting the cloth about his waist again.
He moves into the main room, then, and curls in a chair in their shared chamber, selecting the books from the table and glancing over them. The titles are unfamiliar to him, which is surprising, as he has carefully selected for himself an extensive library of all texts of the Jötunn texts available. He has 700 or so squirrelled away in a property in the mountains of Vanaheim, hidden in a library no person without Jötunn blood could enter.
Jötnar texts are so rare, after all, and Loki had gone to such care to obtain each and every one of them without staining the pages with flying blood from their original owners. One can hardly blame him for hoarding them.
Of Bardsong In Times Of Heat is the first; it's a piece of non-fiction, certainly, and there are numerous illustrations; a study on how instrument sound is affected in summers, when the frost is almost melting for the sake of the coming warmth. It is not to his especial interest, but he focuses on all items from his own realm, so he'll read it no matter how dry it may seem. The second is a collection of poetry; it has been awkwardly stitched together from a dozen different books, and Loki frowns at the shoddy binding, but all the same, many are poems he has never been so lucky to read again, but the third, oh, the third.
Erotica.
Loki grins down at the text as he reads through the text; each of the illustrations is metaphorical in nature, with dozens of images of small birds and marsupials involving themselves with plundering flowers for their nectar and hives for their honey, but the words are positively filthy.
Oh, Loki should like to add this one to his own personal collection, but to add his blood to the registry in the Asgardian library would be an awful sacrifice to make just to take the book away. He does his best not to wriggle in his place as he reads through the first page, delighting in the way it jumps straight to the action.
“Loki!” He slams the book shut without a thought, a slight flush coming to his cheeks before he can think to hide beneath a glamour. “Won't your clothe yourself?” Thor snaps at him, and then he disappears into his own bedroom.
Loki looks thoughtfully to the erotic little number in his lap, and elects to take himself to his own bedroom instead.
---
He exits his bedroom when the sun is beginning to set, and then he moves from the palace. He adjusts his form as he passes from the door, affects his hair to lengthen and darken, his skin to whiten and his eyes to turn to blue, his form to fill out. He makes his breasts large enough, and allows his clothing to become a gown of sweet and pleasant blue, showing off his new cleavage and coiling about his ankles.
Loki moves swiftly enough, and when men and women look his way he offers a smile of white teeth he knows are dazzling, but he clucks his tongue when a man tries to grasp his arm, catching his fingers and squeezing so hard they crack.
He hisses in pain, and Loki waggles his finger gracefully before continuing on his way; he hears a woman give a whoop at his reaction.
Of course, men such as these are not his priority, and instead he keeps walking, walking and walking towards the observatory.
“I have known you to be bold, son of Laufey, but never have I thought you foolish.” Heimdall says as he enters the room, but Heimdall's gaze lingers on his adopted form.
“I am not foolish.” Loki says. “Heimdall, when they call you all-seeing...” Heimdall's lip twitches as he regards the Jötunn thoughtfully, his gaze particular.
“As all who have entered that library, I had wondered as to what content was within them, but Allspeak cannot cover written scripts, as you and I both know. Your reaction, of course, offered more information than I ever thought I'd have.” Heimdall says, and Loki takes a slow, deliberate step forwards, looking Heimdall up and down with a plain and eager fascination on his face.
“Did the view please you?” Loki asks, and Heimdall gives a low chuckle.
“What motive do you have?”
“My motive is to partake of as many natives to Asgard as I might, before I am married off to some man or woman or other.” Loki says, and he speaks the truth. “I confess, while the erotica whetted my appetite, I am unused to being forced to satisfy myself with my own fingers. Often, I desire more.”
“Then I suggest you look elsewhere, so your appetite may be sated.” Heimdall suggests, and Loki huffs, waving his hand and producing himself a seat of oak before he settles on it and watches Heimdall with an expression not unlike a pout upon his face.
“You disappoint me.”
“You will live.” Loki leans back in his seat, adjusting the gown upon his legs; he likes how the garment fits him, in truth, and he is somewhat disappointed wearing it permanently would be ill-advised. “This is the first you have come to know of Asgard, is it not?”
“That is so.” Loki agrees with a small nod of his face, and he considers telling a lie, but telling the truth may affect Heimdall to trust him more. “I confess, I feared reprise from you. From what I hear, you are a worthy adversary, and I had no guarantee my only punishment would be a spanking.”
“A spanking would be the least of your worries.” Heimdall agrees, and then goes on to say “I did hope it would be you Laufey sent, and not another. Your siblings are not nearly so clever.”
“You think me clever? I'm touched.”
“Don't you wish.” Heimdall comments, and Loki laughs, delighting at the other man's innuendo. Heimdall regards him seriously, thoughtfully regarding him. “You are a dangerous young creature. There are many deaths on your hands.”
“I've never killed an Æsir.” Loki points out.
“No.” Heimdall agrees. “Nor any friend of mine. I am sworn to secrecy on some matters, Loki. There are things I could never, and would never, choose to reveal. Treat those of Asgard suitably, suitably and well, and you and I might remain friends.”
“I don't suppose we might be friends who engage carnally?” Heimdall laughs, and Loki takes his amusement, unfortunately, as a no.
“Go back to your palace, princeling.” Heimdall orders him, and Loki lets out a soft, disappointed sigh. “And if you make a stop to knock boots along the way, I promise I shall offer my attentions.” Loki regards the other quizzically for a moment or two, adjusting his form and tilting his head to the side.
“Knock boots?”
“An expression.” Heimdall says lightly. “It refers to how one's shoes may join someone else's under or beside a bed, when their two owners are otherwise engaged.”
“Oh.” Loki says thoughtfully. “We do not wear shoes, in Jötunheimr.” He says, and Heimdall gives a nod of his head.
“So I've seen. Now go, off with you. You shall not find satisfaction here.” Loki winks at him, and then he moves to stand, sauntering from the observatory back to the city. He moves into a tavern not far into its borders, and he settles himself at a table, arching in his seat.
“May I buy you a drink, fair lady?” says a man, and he is short and stocky; he has roots, no doubt, of Dvergar origin. Loki looks him up and down, thoughtful as he puts his knuckles below his chin, and takes on a deliberate and drawn-out pause. He's never much liked dwarves.
“No.” He says lightly, and he tosses his hair.
“May I?” comes forth a second, and he has skin that has browned from work beneath the sun, calloused hands and scars upon his arms: a farmer, he thinks. His eyes are a striking green, and Loki grins at him.
“You may.” Soon enough, Loki has a tankard of ale in his dainty hands, and the farmer sits across from him. Loki hears “whore” and “wench” from the man with Dvergar blood as he speaks among his fellows, and he sits up straighter, lengthens his pretty neck, to affect the man with further bitterness for having been spurned. “My name is Lauti.” Loki says, and he isn't certain how he feels about his voice; it is strong, but higher than usual, and it lacks the resonance he appreciates.
At least he can drop it later on.
“Oskar.” says the farmer, and Loki lets his hands move forwards; he turns the other's hand over, examining his well-calloused palm with an interested coo. He has done this to a thousand men over the years, taken on a fake form and fucked them once or twice, pilfered what he felt like if the mood struck him, and yet it still fills him with an unimaginable thrill.

“Oh, your hands!” Loki says softly, and he parts his lips, cooing over the hard parts of flesh under the pads of his fingers. “So strong, oh! You're a working man?”
“I'm a farmer.” He says, and the aroused crack to his voice is quite obvious to Loki's ear. Sweet.
“Mmm, so I see.” Loki bites at his lip, worrying the flesh of it below his teeth, and then he glances at his tankard. He won't so much as sip of it – alcohol has never been to his taste, and the Asgardian way is to take it strong and potent. “While I've no wish to offend you by leaving my drink untouched,” Loki murmurs, and he looks at the other man through lidded eyes. “I've a different sort of thirst to quench.”
Oskar swallows, and then he nods his head, moving to stand. Loki keeps hold of his hand, letting the other man lead him from the tavern and across the way, to a small cottage apart from another. Loki chuckles a little, and pushes the man against the wall once inside, making use of his height to lean down and press his mouth to the other's.
Stubble; never had Loki loved that sensation.
Loki has him on his back within a minute or two, both their clothes strewn rapidly aside, and then Loki has his cunt down on the other man,
Oskar does not last. Loki takes his cock the once, and the other comes swiftly with a whisper of “Lauti-”, and Loki drags two fingers over his throat, letting seiðr take hold and affect the other man to sleep. With him laid back, Loki stands, looking around the room with interest. Herbs and flowers were shelved neatly on the walls, most of them dried, but there are horns and other items.
Loki reaches out, plucking a silver chain from the shelf before him; a locket, how nice. He replaces it, of course, and steps towards the bookshelf, letting his fingers trail over the books there. Not too many, really, but they're interesting enough; he plucks off the ones the library will not stock, the erotica and dirty rhymes, the recipe books and the hand-written diary- oh, yes.
Loki makes copies of the books, easily replicating the material they are made of, and then he replaces the originals, taking his replicas and then his leave.
---
When he steps into their shared room, Thor is asleep on one of the sofas, a toy of some kind or other in his hand. Loki raises an eyebrow, depositing his new texts in his room before returning to Thor and looking down at him.
He reaches out and draws two fingers over the other's face, watching as Thor's eyes open wide, and he stares up at the Jötunn as he comes awake. Loki smirks at him, somewhat amused. “Keeping vigil, were you?”
“Where were you?” Thor asks wearily and warily, and Loki chuckles, amused.
“Out.” He murmurs lightly, and he pats the other man's cheek patronizingly, not missing the way Thor's gaze flickers to his lips before they shift back to Loki's eyes. “Off to bed, Thor. Are we not sparring more come the morrow?” With that, Loki steps into his own bedroom to slip into bed, under the covers.
Bizarre practice, but Loki will work as custom dictates.
He considers Heimdall thoughtfully, as a potential spouse. The man is ever so powerful, after all, in a position of esteem, and he certainly has a sense of humour and a worthy physical form. Who else? Fandral is a bachelor, but Loki had seen the way the man had looked at him at the initial party, evidently revolted by his Jötunn form: he is unwilling to stand for arrogance and a dislike for Loki's pride in his homerealm.
Thor is an option, of course.
If Loki were to marry Thor, he would be Queen or King or whatever of Asgard within time enough alongside the other man, but he would have to tame the beast first. Thor's attraction to him is evident, though Thor may try and push it down, and Loki could, perhaps, indulge in it...
Hmm. Later, perhaps.
---
“Clothe yourself!” Thor snaps at him for what must be the dozenth time, and it truly is beginning to grate on Loki's nerves. Just over a week he has been here now, and Thor is obsessed with the way he dresses. Perhaps it is too much of a temptation for him when Loki dresses himself as Jötunn custom dictates.
Loki looks up from the Vanir text he'd borrowed from the library, staring at Thor with raised eyebrows and a distinctly unimpressed expression. He'd settled sprawled in the front room after his bath, having been cooling down after their sparring session that morning; he is bearing the heat better now, but still it is a difficult weight on his shoulders, and it makes him less patient that he might usually be. “Pardon me?”
“You are in Asgard now, Jötunn!” Thor snaps at him, and Loki regards him as he paces up and down like an old man mad, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. “You ought dress as custom dictates!”
“This is what custom dictates, Thor.” Loki says patiently, and perhaps, this time, he'll be able to press forward and educate Thor as to life on the other side of the Bifrost. Frigga has taken to it so naturally, after all, and while Thor can be a bore, it is best for Loki to push for the broadening of his mind. That is the point of their alliance, after all. “It merely has its roots in a culture different than your own. I might educate you in our dress, if you wish. The significance of-”
“Hold your tongue, Jötunn.” Loki's jaw clicks shut, and he does his best not to snap at Thor or to snap Thor's neck with an outstretch of his hand and a bolt of seiðr. “I will bathe.” He says, and he storms from the room as if Loki is but a servant in his presence, arrogant creature.
But Loki cannot simply kill the man. He has to play this cleverly, carefully; Loki must strategize, must play upon Thor's weaknesses. His prejudices are partially based in, Loki thinks, the reminder that Loki's form allows. If Loki were to appear in a more common form – of an Æsir, perhaps. The small glamours work well enough when he goes into the City of Asgard in order to select a bedpartner or another.
Hmm.
Loki moves into the cool of his bedroom and steps before the mirror, watching his body morph in his own sight. White skin, yes, darker hair, green eyes? Blue eyes? Green eyes. He adjusts the colour of his nipples, affecting them to be the same pink as his lips, and then he adjusts his hair somewhat, allowing the chains still clinging to his form melt and drop down to his hips in order to become leather trousers fashioned after those the Asgardians wear.
He considers leaving his hair loose, but then he pulls it back with one of his bracelets as a tie, drawing it up into a ponytail before he moves out of his bedroom. He does not knock before he steps into their shared bathroom, and though the heat affects him some, he does not allow his seiðr to falter.
“Loki!” Thor hisses at him, scandalized at Loki's sudden, unwarned intrusion, and Loki stands up straight with his arms crossed over his chest, looking down at Thor with an impassive expression upon his face. It takes only a moment's wait, and then Thor's mouth drops open as he regards his Jötunn “brother”.
“I wish to do the best I can for Jötunheimr.” Loki says in a serious fashion, and he does not allow his gaze to falter as he looks down at the other man where he simmers in his hot bathwater. He does not miss the slight dilation of the other man's pupils, nor the way his back lowers a little in order to ensure his cock is firmly hidden beneath the water. “Is it-” He allows himself a trace of uncertainty, unwilling to appear completely sure of himself. “Do you think it simpler, that I show myself as such?”
He feigns distaste, discomfort, as if he has never taken the form of an Æsir, as if he hasn't done it a hundred thousand times over the years to accomplish one goal or another. As if Loki cares for some concept so ridiculous and worthless as pride.
“You do not look so monstrous.” Thor says in a satisfied fashion, and Loki turns his head and looks deliberately at the ground, as if Thor has hurt him. As if Thor could.
“You laugh now.” Loki murmurs, and he lifts his gaze, catching Thor's eyes and regarding him with a slight smirk on his newly pink lips. “Think of your brother in my position – though, of course, he lacks the seiðr with which to change his appearance.” Thor snarls at him, and Loki smiles as he leaves the room, amused at how reactionary the other man is, as he always is. He creates for himself a jacket from the thin air about him and leaves their chambers, then, stepping swiftly down the corridor and out into the city in his new form.
The Asgardian version of Loki, son of Laufey, is a new sight in the streets, and he offers warm smiles to strangers as he goes. They do not recognize him, not yet, but they will come to.
Oh, how Loki should like to rule these people.
“Good evening.” He says as he enters the observatory and crafts for himself a seat as he has twice previous, now; Heimdall watches him amusedly, with a raised eyebrow.
“This is to be your new form, then?” Heimdall asks, and Loki shrugs his shoulders.
“You do not like it?”
“Let down your hair.” Heimdall says, and Loki reaches up, removing the tangled chain and setting it around his wrist before shaking his head a little. The locks are thick and black about his shoulders: he imagines he might slick them somewhat, or condition them to affect them to be shinier and thinner. “Better.”
“So glad you think so.” Loki purrs, and Heimdall chuckles. “Do you think Thor will warm to it?”
“Better than he would have to a Frost Giant's form.” Heimdall says with a nod of his head, and Loki wonders, not for the first time, as to the length and girth of the other's cock beneath that charming golden armour: the Gatekeeper smirks at him as if he knows of Loki's inner thoughts. “You are gentle with him, when you spar.”
“Not gentle.” Loki disagrees, with an ever so slight furrow to his brow. “Not gentle, certainly, but more careful. While I'm certain he would appreciate the fight, I have no wish to end our alliance having killed Odin's son in a simple spar.”
“He can handle it. The son of Odin is a warrior mighty.”
“You have seen many a warrior mighty fall to my hand, have you not?”
“To your seiðr.” Heimdall corrects, and Loki laughs outright, his head tilting back.
“Surely you do not subscribe to the idea that seiðr is a shameful weapon to utilize?” Loki asks, and Heimdall shakes his head, regarding Loki with a cool and easy amusement.
“That is not so. I have seiðr as deep and powerful as the waves of the ocean, buried in my very eyes.” comes the easy retort, and something clicks in Loki at the idea – what right, truly, does Heimdall have to be so terribly enticing when Loki cannot partake of his body? “I merely think that if you thought with weapons only, you and Thor might be evenly matched.”
“One day, perhaps. When he is not so arrogant.”
“You may wait some time.” Heimdall says in a sage enough fashion. “Good evening, Loki.”
“Good evening.” Loki says, and he affects his seat to vanish as he stands.
“Will it be a man tonight, or a woman?” Heimdall asks, and Loki chuckles, turning back to the other man and offering a clever little smirk.
“Why, you have a preference?”
“Use that form, and take a man.” Heimdall says, and it's an order more than it is a suggestion, but Loki does not bristle.
“Preference as to his looks?” Loki queries.
“He will not be my focus.” Heimdall says, and Loki winks at him, amused, and moves off towards the city once again.
---
“A mug of berry juice, if you please.” Loki says as he enters the inn in the centre of the city, not so far from the palace. The man behind the bar raises an eyebrow, regarding Loki quizzically. He sees it muttered under the other's breath; a woman's drink, but Loki makes no further comment.
“Do you not take ale as a proper man?” says the man beside him; he is tall, and Loki tells by his pointed ears and face that he is not Æsir; this man is of the Ljósálfr, a Light Elf, and oh, he is pretty to the eye.
“Ale is the least of my concerns,” Loki murmurs, deliberately looking the other man up and down. “As a proper man.”
“Is that so?” The Elf says, and he leans on the counter as Loki sips at his sweet drink, looking up at him with a positively innocent expression upon his face. “What better do you like, then, to fill you on a summer night?”
“I should think we each know the answer to that question.” Loki murmurs, and he lets a little red juice hover on his lip before his tongue darts out and he licks it away.
“What is your name?”
“Loki.” Loki says, and he watches the Ljósálfr's face shift, his eyes widening slightly.
“Loki.” He repeats, and Loki grins at him.
“Loki, son of Laufey and Farbauti.” The Elf stares down at him, and Loki can see him weighing it up – on one hand, the man before him is a dreaded Frost Giant, the only Frost Giant in Asgard at this stage of their new alliance, but on the other, he finds Loki terribly enticing, and Frost Giant or not, Loki is still a prince.
“I thought you looked- that you were-”
“I am a Frost Giant.” Loki murmurs in a sweet and pleasant voice, and he reaches out, letting two of his pale fingers play over those of the other man's. “But I am small compared to my people, as you see, and am quite capable of taking on a form like the Æsir.” Loki pouts, then, looking up at the other man with wide eyes showing faux innocence. “Do you think me ugly?”
“No.” The Elf says immediately, and Loki knows that he has him in his hands. “My name is Farmei.”
“Farmei.” Loki repeats in a whisper, drawing out the fricative sound with his teeth against his lips, and the other's knees shift as he leans forwards slightly, undoubtedly not even conscious of how eager he seems to the young princeling's sight. He drains his mug, and then murmurs, “While it may not be for a proper man, the juice is good and sweet. You're certain you don't want a taste?”
Farmei's hand moves for Loki's mug, but he catches the other's hand in his own, and says, “There's no more in the mug.” He says deliberately, dragging his thumb over Farmei's wrist and leaving a tiny trail of frost in his wake, affecting the other to gasp at the cool sensation. “Though I imagine some lingers on my lips.”
He sees the thought run through Farmei's mind, see him weigh up his options, but then the Elf dips and catches Loki's mouth under his own, putting his hand in Loki's hair and fisting his fingers in the black locks – oh yes, Heimdall's suggestion was a good one.
It is quickly that the both of them retire to a room above the inn's effective tavern, and Loki allows Farmei to undress him, dropping his clothes aside as Loki kicks off his boots – it feels so good to have those damn things off again. Farmei pushes him back onto the bed as he pulls off Loki's leather trousers, and Loki arches his back off the bed, looking up at Farmei in a sweetly seductive fashion.
“Pretty.” He murmurs, and Loki grins at him, his legs spreading wide.
“Come, then.” Loki murmurs lowly, his hand moving down to his own cock as he bites hard at his lip, watching the other man grasp at a small bottle of oil. “Show me how pretty you think I am.”
---
“I think it suits you.” Frigga murmurs quietly, and there is a small smile on her face as she speaks to him. “All the same, it's too bad you've been forced to change your appearance so.”
“Not forced, as such, but it is something of a necessity, I feel. It will not be permanent, after all, my lady Frigga.” Loki glances up as Thor enters the room, but he offers no verbal greeting in order to better avoid Thor's irritation this early in the morning. Truth be told, Loki's arse is sore, as Farmei had been far better endowed that he'd expected, and he is very careful about remaining still in his seat.
“Loki Laufeyson!” comes a sudden roar, and Loki stands up straight immediately despite himself, his eyes wide and his body suddenly stiff as he looks desperately in Odin's direction. He flinches slightly as the other moves forward despite himself; some part of him still worries that Odin might strike him down at any, alliance or no.
“Al-Allfather?” He asks, and there is a quaver to his own voice he is humiliated to hear; it doesn't help that standing up straight has caused his arse and thighs to ache, and he wants to go back to bed with a stack of books, in truth. Odin stares at him with his remaining good eye.
“This change is of your own decision?” Odin asks, and Loki takes in a very slow and careful breath; Odin, at least, looks somewhat pleased at Loki's decision, and not as if he might cause the Frost Giant injury.
“Yes, Allfather.” Loki murmurs, and he carefully settles in his seat again as Thor seats himself and Odin moves out of the room. “Thor, good morning.” He greets the other, for after Odin's presence, it's not so easy to ignore the man. “How did you sleep?”
“Where did you go last night?” Thor asks, and Loki considers the position he'd been in, his ankles high above his head as the Ljósálfr had driven into him for ages on end, his stamina more than slightly impressive.
“He joined me in the library, Thor.” Frigga lies smoothly, and Loki wonders how much she knows of his activities when nights come, but she has not yet made a comment, and so he does not ask. “We spoke for a while, and then read together until he retired to bed.” Loki shoots her a grateful look, but the smirk Frigga returns sets him slightly on edge: it is a quirk of lips that seems to betray a hidden motive. Oh, dear. “Come now, what will you two do today?”
“Sif, Fandral, Volstagg, Hogun and I are travelling Westwards on horseback - we will picnic, perhaps fish for a while, and then return home by tomorrow.” Thor supplies easily, and Frigga looks from her son to Loki.
Oh, no. No, no, no. Loki hides his face in his mug for a moment, before he goes onto speak himself. She wouldn't. She wouldn't be so cruel as to send him out on horseback. “I thought I might read.” Loki murmurs carefully, shooting Frigga a look that does its best to communicate his desperation. “There are many tomes here I could not hope to access at home – our libraries differ vastly.”
“Nonsense!” Frigga proclaims, and Loki's heart sinks in his chest. Sadist. “You'll join Thor and his party.”
“Mother!” protests Thor, and he is not alone in his arguments.
“Frigga, my lady, I assure you I am quite content with-”
“It was not a suggestion.” Frigga says firmly, and Loki crumples. Loki squares his jaw, and rolls his eyes when Thor slams his hand down on the table, displaying as usual his inability to manage his own anger.
“Very well.” Loki says, and he tries to salvage the situation, considering his ability to Skywalk. “But I have no horse-”
“We shall waste no horse: you'll ride behind me.” Thor says, and Loki blinks at him, initially somewhat perplexed by the gracious offer until he says, “Like the woman you are.”
“It is on days like these, Thor, I am ashamed to call you my son.” Frigga says, and Loki considers how pained she had been so many days previous, when they had discussed the prejudices of men in Asgard; he knows how he will affect Thor to be uncomfortable with this particular discussion. He regards the other man with a quiet and concerned confusion, waiting until Thor loses patience and snaps.
“What!?” He asks sharply, and Loki just looks at him awkwardly.
“Is that an insult on Asgard?” Loki asks curiously, and he ensures to lay his faux perplexity on thick, knowing very well Thor will fall for it. Luckily for Loki, the other man is not nearly so astute as his mother. “To be called woman? To be a woman? Is it shameful?” Thor's face falls, and Loki feels an inward burst of utter satisfaction.
“What?” Thor asks, faltering somewhat; this is the best way to combat his misogyny, perhaps, to feign complete confusion as to why he parrots the views, and force him to review them in a more rational fashion. Loki might craft a decent fellow out of Thor Odinson yet; a worthy spouse, perhaps, with a little more work. “No- no, it's not- women can be great warriors, and mothers. It is not shameful to be a woman.” Thor says with a wave of his hand, and Loki retains his confused expression, going so far to tilt his head slightly to the side.
“Then why phrase it like that? “Like the woman you are”, you said. What does that mean?” Loki asks in a deliberate fashion; oh, so many levers to pull and push with, where Thor's honour is concerned.
“You know very well what it means.” Thor mutters, grasping at a piece of toast and biting it with a disgusting voracity that reminds Loki of Fafnir. Perhaps table lessons would also be necessary in affecting Thor to worthiness.
Loki lets the pause hang in the air, allowing Thor to feel he has perhaps dropped the issue. Better for him to lower his guard once again in order that Loki might take him by surprise. “Do you dislike women?” He takes on as pleasant a tone as he can while he asks the question, drawing himself as innocently as he can manage.
“Don't be stupid, Loki. Of course I do not.” Thor looks somewhat lost as his eyes shift in his head, thinking of his arguments, perhaps. Loki waits with interest on the pregnant silence between them, hoping it will perhaps birth an argument he can discuss thoroughly, but Thor suddenly stands. “I will gather my friends. Pack yourself a bag, and meet us at the stables. If you are not there in fifteen minutes, we will go without you, my mother's wish be damned.”
Well, then. So much for that.
Loki moves swiftly to his rooms, dropping into his bag his daggers and a book or two, ones replicated and stolen from those around the city, of course, as opposed to any of those from Asgard's library. Even a replica he is unwilling to attempt from books such as these, lest they've been charmed to prevent such things.
Loki moves out towards the stables, and Mjeif, the horse he knows to be Thor's, is tied to a fence post, waiting patiently.
“Hello, darling.” Loki murmurs quietly, and he strokes over the thing's muzzle, enjoying the feel of its lips against his thumb and its breath hot on his skin. Loki has always liked horses, after all; he feels a sense of warmth and pleasantry in being in their presence, and Mjeif is no exception to that rule.
“Loki.” Hogun says, and Loki glances away from the black steed before him, regarding Thor and his Warriors Three with amusement. He offers Hogun a friendly smile, guessing by his impassive expression that Thor does not know they have already met. “My name is Hogun.”
“Hogun.” Loki repeats, and he returns Hogun's polite bow when the other gives it, somewhat amused at their shared façade.
“Fandral am I.” says The Dashing as he steps forwards, and he puts out his arm immediately. Loki grasps his forearm as is customary, ensuring he feigns an uncertainty in the action – after all, t'would not do for Asgard as a whole to know of his travels before visiting Asgard. Loki had to have some secrets, did he not?
“I am the Lady Sif.” Loki offers his hand for the woman to take, but she is a proud warrior, it seems, and stands by Thor. She gives him a lofty glance, apparently unimpressed. Instead, his proffered hand is grasped by the mighty Volstagg, and despite himself Loki lets out a loud sound as Volstagg pulls him off the ground and into a tight and ready hug. He pats Loki hard on the back, and it forces a cough out of him – where did they grow this man? In a field, amongst bulls?
“And I, Volstagg!” He thunders and Loki stares up at him, letting out a sort of giddy little laugh.
“I am Loki Laufeyson, of Jötunheimr.” Loki says politely, because politeness is in his nature, and it is the only clever thing to do here anyway. Sif, though, well, he can make easy use of her – and she'd refused to shake his hand, anyway. A little upset sent her way could hardly be thought of as a crime. “I-” He mumbles hesitantly, looking from Volstagg to Sif with an uncertain expression on his face.
“What?” Her voice cuts sharply through the air as she looks at him, and Loki wonders how this realm's dislike of femininity affects her, if she is a female in a “masculine” profession.
“You are permitted to travel with us?” Loki asks, looking from Sif to Thor. “As a woman?” The hand around his throat is not unexpected, and Loki does not feign the choke, as her grip is tight and strong. He lets out a squeak of noise, his hands wrapping loosely about her wrists as if to foster purchase for himself.
“You have issues with women in your party?” Oh, that tone alone shows how much she has to fight for her way forwards. She is beautiful, of course, but he likes her very much indeed; she is strong, sharp, and very clever. Better than Thor.
“N-no-” Loki splutters out, shifting himself slightly. “He does-” Sif drops him, and he leans over, gasping a little and clutching at his chest. His hair looses from its ties, and hangs around his face, hiding it as his seiðr falters for a moment or two for the sake of his laboured breathing.
“What do you mean?” Sif asks, but though she is looking down at him, Loki imagines the question is rhetorical. “What does he mean?” She asks in a thunderous tone, turning her head towards Thor.
“I merely made a single comment-” Thor begins, but he doesn't have the silver tongue Loki was blessed with.
“About women?” Loki stands straight, massaging his newly sore throat, and considers what he's gone through today. He's got a sore arse, sore thighs, he's just let himself be strangled for the sake of teaching Thor some morality, and he's to ride on horseback to make his backside more the agonized. “Repeat the comment.” Sif says, her arms crossing over her chest, and Thor's jaw shifts slightly; he does not wish to answer the question.
“There is no reason for me to do so, my lady Sif, you know I have the greatest of-”
“Repeat. The. Comment.” Sif says stiffly, enunciating every syllable in an irritated fashion – and why should she not be annoyed? That was the clumsiest attempt at evasion Loki has ever had the misfortune to witness. Loki does respect Sif's willingness to call out their “leader”, though, misogyny aside, and new respect for her blossoms in his eyes.
Thor lets out a harsh sigh like a child forced to apologize for some misstep or other: Loki is almost surprised he does not stamp his foot. “I said he would have no horse for him to waste, and that he ought ride behind me, like the woman he is.” Hogun sighs, pinching his brow as Fandral and Volstagg snigger at Thor's misfortune; unfortunately, it seems they find the comment itself amusing. Truly disappointing.
“You may ride Aeojan, Loki.” Sif says graciously, still evidently disapproving of Thor and shaking her head slightly. “He will carry you well.”
“My thanks, my lady Sif.” Loki says, as sweetly as he can manage, but as they and Thor move towards the stable, Loki offers his “brother” a small smirk. “If I might make a suggestion, Thor; learn to hold your tongue.” He thinks for a moment that Thor might strike him, but he does no such thing, merely snarling in Loki's direction as he comes to pet Mjeif himself.
---
Loki is in pain. His hands are tight on the reins of Sif's Aejoan, and his breaths hitch as they ride; it is not so much his arse as it is the tired and aching muscles of his fatigued thighs, and riding is doing them no good health. “To whence has your old skin gone?” asks Hogun in a casual fashion, and when Loki catches his gaze, he is certain enough Hogun knows nothing of Loki's impropriety, but wishes only to break the silence as they ride.
“I wish to do the best for my people.” Loki says firmly, and he raises his head slightly, his pride more than somewhat evident. “In showing myself as non-threatening, I think hostility will be reduced.” And hadn't he been correct? Farmei hadn't been hostile at all. “For a time: I shall not remain in this form forever.”
Thor is listening to their conversation, and he's doing his best to be subtle about his eavesdropping, so Loki makes no comment.
The nod of Hogun's head is matched with a stoic expression, but Loki sees something odd in the shift of his shoulders and the tightening of his fingers on his horse's reins. “You think this is the wrong path to tread?” He asks, for he trusts Hogun well enough for having spoken to the man twice now, and he seems wiser than his fellows.
“I think it is a well-reasoned path.” Hogun answers after a pause, quietly and certainly. “The people of Asgard, of any kingdom, fear change.” Loki frowns slightly, somewhat upset by the knowledge weighting the other's known; he wonders how those of the Vanir had been treated by the Æsir, when Hogun first came to the City of Asgard.
“But when I marry, and my spouse is Asgardian, we will stand together. It will be sufficient to temper the fears of the people, I believe.” Loki looks ahead to Sif in a thoughtful fashion, considering her wit and strength, and then he looks back at Thor with a little grin. Oh, it's not a definite yet, but he shall have Thor as a spouse.
“What woman of the people would care to marry you?” Thor asks in some form or other of mockery, and Fandral and Volstagg laugh; the jibe is well-met, but Loki cares little. If Thor does not understand his meaning, that is on his own head.
“I assure you, Thor, even in my time here men and women alike have turned their heads as I passed.” Loki retorts. He is not so crass as to continue on to discuss his exploits more explicitly, for he needs not bolster his ego with comments on bed partners from these people. “I will find someone.”
“Or someone will find you.” comes Sif's voice, smoothly from the head of their party, and Loki chuckles a little; he is somewhat surprised at the comment, but he believes it is to provoke Thor into irritation more than it is for her to flirt with Loki. Loki minds little being a tool to upset Thor, of course; after all, who is he to judge another for their choices of manipulation?
The clearing they come to is a thing of pleasantry, and the marks in the grass betray its being a well-loved spot by the warriors; Loki slips carefully from Aeojan's back, and then he moves to stroke over the poor creature's side, murmuring apologies at his winces and the tight grip of his fingers on the reins. He does this as the others undo their packs and put out their bedrolls, enjoying the horse's regular breathing.
Fandral's hand on his back is an unwelcome and sudden shock, and he flinches before rapidly turning himself to glare in the other's direction. “Fond of horses, are you, lad?” He asks, and while he may be charming, Loki dislikes the man.
“You are not?” He queries, and Fandral shrugs his shoulders. He widens his stance then, leaning into Loki's space and altering his posture – he is like a fancy bird of coloured plumage for all his preening.
“I care little for horses.” Fandral murmurs, and his tone is heavy with innuendo. “For people, though-” He steps further into Loki's space, until their lips are almost touching; this man wears a sickly and cloying scent, and Loki barely restrains himself from cutting through the other's body and showing his organs off on the dew-painted grass. “I have fondness for all people.”
“Is that so?” Loki returns, and he chuckles a little, letting his gaze flit from the other's eyes to his mouth. He pushes his own body lightly forwards, as if promising an encounter before he says, “I note your fondness has been obvious only once my skin has paled to this.” Loki purrs, and then he turns away to begin unrolling the bedding Frigga had leant him.
Volstagg begins to laugh, then, jovial and bright, plainly delighted at how Fandral had been spurned. “Come then, fair Giant of Frost, is it so that your people fish with their bare hands?” comes Volstagg's thundering question, and Loki delights in the way Fandral shifts back to his own place, his pride cut into.
“It is so that my people fish and hunt with our hands.” Loki says, setting his pack down. “You will see.” Their people use seiðr, after all, and the Asgardians do not use it as they do. He is somewhat excited to show a different fashion of performing the same action.
“Oh, will I?” Volstagg queries, and he looks down at Loki as he stands, as if Loki is little more than a child.
“Unless you would rather I do not participate?” Loki stands up, regarding Volstagg with confidence and amusement, wondering how much fun it will be to pull and push at this old man's patience. “If it is to be a competition, after all, and you wish to have an easy time of it-”
“I have no need of an easy time, boy!” Volstagg roars, and then he has his arms about Loki again, pulling him in until his face is mashed against the larger man's chest. He struggles to break free as Volstagg ruffles his hair in a rough but affectionate fashion, and restrains himself from throwing the other man aside with the use of seiðr. “Win shall I of my own strengths!” At the very least, Volstagg seems to like him well enough.
“And if you do not?” Loki challenges, though he is not quite so charming when his mouth is muffled by the thick muscle of the other's side.
“If I do not!? Ha, t'is not a thought!” Volstagg gives a loud belly laugh that rumbles through Loki's form, but then he finally lets Loki go and the Jötunn stands up straight, fixing his messy air in an automatic fashion.
“But if you do not?” Loki repeats again, and he considers a wager an ideal here; Asgard is so populous with varied peoples, but a common enjoyment seems to be that of wagers, and such a thing may endear him to Volstagg, as well as gain him a boon.
“Then he shall cry himself to sleep tonight.” Interrupts Sif, and Loki laughs, combing through his hair with his fingers as he looks to her with delight.
“If it is a wager you wish for, Jötunn, then name your prize.” Volstagg says, looking down at Loki with a sort of grin on his face; he expects to succeed in this wager, but the Jötunn and Æsir definitions of “with one's bare hands” are quite different, and Loki knows full well he will not win. Loki considers what prize he ought ask for – something that will benefit him, of course. Volstagg no doubt has weaponry and trinkets galore, but that will do Loki no good, and while he undoubtedly has rare texts, it would be overtly suspicious if Loki asked for a few of those.
What Loki has need of, most of all, however, is to be loved by the people – if he is to take on Thor as a spouse, which he may well do, he will need the Asgardians to look upon him with an already existing affection.
“You are known as the Lion of Asgard, is that not so?” Loki asks, and the idea strikes him suddenly enough, utterly delighting him. Yes, yes, yes.
“That is so.” Volstagg proclaims, and he puffs out his chest; Loki cannot help but grin at him.
“Then if I am to win, I shall ride your shoulders into Asgard. A lion is a steed worthy for a princeling, no?” Loki raises an eyebrow, and although he hears Sif, Fandral and Thor each laugh and snort, he keeps his gaze upon the older man's increasingly reddening face.
“Why, you little-” Volstagg's shoulders shift and he seems as if he might punch the Jötunn before him; Loki adjusts his stance and readies himself to come to blows, if it should happen.
“You asked for his price, Volstagg.” Hogun says as he re-enters the camp, and Loki glances to him before looking back to the mighty “lion” before him. “He gave it.” Hogun begins to drop the wood he'd collected for a fire on the floor, adjusting his grip on the bucket of water in his hand.
“And if you lose,” Volstagg says, though his tone isn't so content as it was before, and the question he asks is somewhat serious. “What is my boon to be?” Loki gives a mocking little bow, and he waves his hand about fluidly as he does so.
“Take your pick, o mighty warrior.” He says lightly before he stands up straight again, and he smiles up at the other man in an innocent fashion; Volstagg, perhaps, would be a worthy spouse, if only he were not already married.
“Fine.” Volstagg says, and a smirk comes to his face before it slowly evolves into a wide and delightful grin. “If I win tonight, then you shall run naked through the streets of Asgard, wearing only sandals for the sake of your poor little feet.” What is with these people and their obscene fascination with footwear? “In your true form, of course. How will the people learn not to fear you, if they cannot see you as they do us?” Loki restrains himself from chuckling; how apt it is, that the both of them are along the same lines.
“Do your people see you often nude?” Loki asks in a mocking fashion, and Hogun cuffs the upside of his head even as he lets out a little laugh. It hurts, in truth, but not so terribly, and the action is so familiar that he makes no complaint at all, instead moving to assist Hogun in setting up the wood for the fire.
“They see him nude more often than they might like.” Fandral supplies, and he makes a motion with his hand as if to show someone drinking meal from a large tankard.
“Do you accept the wager, Loki, son of Laufey, or are you too afraid?”
“Afraid I am not.” Loki says easily, and he spreads out his hands, offering a small smile. “My friend, I shall take your wager readily.”
---
Loki settles himself carefully on Aeojan's back after pulling himself up onto the horse, and he ties his hair back, glancing at Hogun in a thoughtful fashion. He has four or five fish hanging from his horse, already smoked – as much as bread and cheese are edible enough, his diet is naturally inclined towards fish and meat. Not cooked, of course, but he hardly wants a conversation about Jötnar eating raw meat “like animals”.
“Will he ever speak to me again?” Loki asks Hogun as they begin to ride, and Hogun shrugs slightly. Loki rather likes the other fellow, in truth; they'd settled by the fire the night before to get on with smoking their respective catches, particularly as Loki had more to get on with than the others.
“He considers your use of seiðr a trick.” Hogun says simply, but he does not seem to agree with the idea – to Loki's awareness, Hogun has no ability to use seiðr himself, but he does not seem as suspicious of it as the Æsir.
“My hands were bare.” Loki points out in a light and pleasant tone, and he adjusts himself on Aeojan – his thighs are better, now, though there is such an ache settled into them that he shan't ride a horse or a cock for a week, though after that time is up, he may seek out Farmei again.
“Yes. Still, he will sulk.” Hogun sees things as they are, Loki thinks, sees things realistically. It's refreshing, in a way. Loki bows his head in understanding, looking ahead; Volstagg's head is bowed against the back of his horse's as he rides, and his conversation with Fandral and Sif is quiet and muted. His cheer from the day before has been sapped out of him for the time being, but he had not been dishonourable in his loss.
Loki must have caught twenty fish, and that did not count the thirty or so he put back into the water, having plucked them out and considered them too small or not yet mature enough for his purposes. Volstagg had tried several methods, using his hands, a trap, fishing line and a spear, but what mundane attempt could match one made magical?
“Come, Asgard awaits us!” Fandral says, and Loki dismounts, allowing Sif to lead Aeojan beside her own mount. Volstagg grumbles good-naturedly before he stoops, catching the Jötunn under the thighs and lifting him easily. Loki sits plainly upon one of his broad shoulders, and as they walk through the streets people cheer and laugh, chattering merrily as to the spirit of the young man from Jötunheimr.
Distrust is still present amongst them, distrust that will linger and linger like weeds under tiled ground, of course, but little steps are still steps forward.
“A challenge well-met.” Loki says as he slides from Volstagg's mighty shoulder, and he takes the older man's proffered hand when he holds it out for Loki to shake. He sees something glint in the other's eyes, and readies himself to spar, but Thor's mother steps out onto the ground, and saves him from whatever might have taken Volstagg's humour. “My lady Frigga.” Loki says politely, and he bows in as respectful a fashion, noting that the warriors about him do the same.
“Mother.” Thor greets her, and he offers her a pleasant smile; Frigga looks between them for a moment, and Loki wonders if she is considering, as he has half a dozen times, how they would match as a married pair. “How have you fared in our absence?”
“I have muddled through, my son, though of course my heart was in pieces for your momentary absence.” says she, and Loki cannot help but smile somewhat at the maternal teasing: it affects Thor to grin also, but his mirth fades as morning dew when Frigga speaks on. “I have heard tell of a Frost Giant riding the shoulders of one mighty warrior.”
There is laughter amongst them, and Loki grins up at Volstagg. He feels comfortable among these people, more comfortable than he had ever expected to.
---
That night, Loki visits Heimdall.
The Gatekeeper watches him thoughtfully, and then says, “The Ljósálfr's cock gave you pause.”
“It gave me ache, certainly.” Loki says, and he is tired; he will not linger in the observatory for long, for he feels overwrought with fatigue, and he wishes to sleep. He is certain enough he has reached the menstrual point in his cycle, and even in the heat he has grown used to, it is difficult to hold the illusion o'er his form.
“You are ill?” Heimdall asks, and Loki shakes his head.
“I shall bleed.” He says by way of explanation, gingerly stroking over his own sore stomach through the green velvet of his shirt, and Heimdall nods his head in understanding.
“We can continue our chatter another time, son of Laufey. Return home, and bathe. Take some raw salmon, perhaps, or some fruit.”
“Is there any place on Asgard where sætur grows, Heimdall?” Loki asks quietly, thinking of his sweet cakes, but the Gatekeeper shakes his mighty head.
“Tradesmen from Jötunheimr will tread on Asgard's soil soon enough, and I will see as to their cargo. If sætur is among it, I shall send word.”
“My thanks, and my gratitude.” Loki says politely, and he feels bad for not offering the other more entertaining country, but it is so hot.
He flees home, then, and he sinks into a cool bath that is not nearly cool enough, even when Loki enchants the air to be cooler. His seiðr melts from his body, and instead he lies in the water in his true form, willing the cold to soothe his pains somewhat, if not to take them away entirely.
“Loki?” Frigga asks, and she carefully steps into the room, watching the other with a small frown upon her face. “You ate little at dinner. I wished to see if you were well.”
“It is my time to bleed, my lady. Nothing more.” Loki murmurs quietly, remaining huddled in the bath, and Frigga's brow furrows slightly in concern.
“I will have ice prepared for your bath.” She says firmly, and Loki considers protesting that no such trouble is necessary in order that he might act a more gracious guest, but ice does sound terribly appealing, and even the smallest effort of seiðr tires him further.
“My thanks, Lady Frigga.”
He sleeps in the cold water that night. Never has his menstruation affected him so thoroughly, and he is somewhat glad the leather of his trousers could so easily be cleaned for the sake of the blood. In the bath, the flow of blood is reduced, and he simply vanishes away what purple mars the cool water.
He lies still and thinks for a while, until he hears the door to their shared chambers come open – the one to the bathroom he had left open, and he calls, his voice coming out weaker than he would have wished, “Thor?”
The blond Æsir appears in the doorway, clad for breakfast, and he looks at the Jötunn for a moment or two with a scowl upon his face. Loki wishes Thor already loved him better, that he might crawl into bed with the other and press against another body, warmth be damned, but alas, it was not to be. “Loki.” Thor murmurs quietly, and Loki finds himself affected by the gravel in his voice. One's libido ought not be so active when one is bleeding from the vital parts; truly, it is one of the universe's honest injustices. “Mother says you are unwell.”
“I am unwell.” Loki agrees, and when Thor stares at him for a few drawn out moments, he adds reluctantly, “I am at the menstrual point of my cycle. I have pains, and on top of the heat, it is too much for me to carry the Asgardian illusion. By my next, I'm certain I will be able to do it more naturally, though for now, I cannot.”
Thor is blinking at him, and for a moment Loki wonders why, until he remembers the Æsir binary, and considers drowning himself in his own bathwater to escape the soon coming argument with Thor The Obtuse. “Your menstrual point?” He repeats, and Loki flushes despite himself – how had he forgotten so vital a cultural different?
“Your mother has educated you in these matters?” Loki asks, feigning an uneasy tone. He can allow Thor to think him uncertain, for Thor to think Loki knows not of the “male” and “female” differences as he does. “We- there are painful cramps, and we bleed, and-”
“Women bleed.” Thor says. “You are a man.” Oh, Loki simply cannot be bothered with this nonsense.
“I am not.” Loki retorts firmly. “I allow the common usage of the term for the sake of your people understanding me better, but I am not a man, Thor. We do not have this in Jötunheimr – there are people, and some are he, and some are she, and others change, and others are outside this idea.” Thor looks angry. Æsir arrogance.
“You've a cock, no? A man has a cock, a woman a cunt – it is simple.” Loki is too tired for this. He stands up straight, crossing his arms over his chest and watching Thor expectantly as his gaze goes to Loki's genitalia: he has a cock, of course, but beneath is a cunny as any Jötunn has, his testes hidden within his body.
“As I say.” Loki murmurs, and he realizes he ought show more example. “Your binary applies not to us – physically or mentally. I am he because I like he. But easily,” Loki shifts his form, becoming taller than giving himself breasts as the Æsir women have, allowing fat to form on his thighs and belly and his hips to widen; he makes himself look like a “feminine” version of a Jötunn, and it is- bizarre. Unappealing, in truth, but Loki cannot change the conditioned preferences of Æsir men. “I can present myself differently.”
The cramp hits him hard without the water to dull it, and his illusion fades away rapidly as he sinks beneath his water again, wishing for more ice but unwilling to ask such a favour of Thor. When he looks up again, the other is gone, and he lets out a quiet sigh, but makes no complaint.

Loki closes his eyes and relaxes in the bathwater, and wonders if it will take two days, or three days, for his menstruation to subside.
Loki comes awake at the sound of a wooden stool touching down with a clack upon the tiled floor of the bathroom. Loki looks up at Thor as he pushes the stool close to Loki that he might eat the salmon upon its surface, and then a mug of steaming tea.
Loki blinks drowsily at the other man perplexedly as he pours new ice into Loki's bath, and it feels good for his skin to be so pleasantly cool again, but he is confused. “What are you doing?” He asks blearily, and his voice comes out dull and low.
“My-” Thor falters somewhat, and then he stands up properly, regarding Loki seriously. “My apologies for my tone, before. I am adding ice to your bath water. Eat the salmon, and the tea. They will help for your pains.” Loki looks at the mug and plate once more in a thoughtful fashion, and then he looks confusedly at Thor once more, hoping for some sort of explanation. Thor, to his credit, does so. “Balder and I used to wait on my mother, when her time came. Her pains are no longer so terrible these days, of course.”
“Oh.” Loki says uncertain what more to say. Thor has honestly taken him aback with this, and he is filled with a feeling of cool pleasantry as he considers that the other is so wiling to do so nice a thing for him. “My thanks.” He adds, and Thor nods his head before he exits the room.
Loki looks to the plate, reaching up for it, and he takes petite bites of the fish; it tastes decent enough, and though it does little to help so much with his pains, Loki has eaten barely anything at all in the past few days, and it is good to have something fill his belly. He regards the tea suspiciously and uncertainly before he reaches out and grasps at the mug, holding it in his hands and peering at it thoughtfully.
It is hot.
Loki inhales, and the tea is fiercely aromatic and almost fruity to his nose, and he very cautiously tips his head forwards to take a sip. The extreme heat on his heat is something of a surprise, but so too is the taste.
It is very pleasant indeed, the taste of hot leaf dried and soaked in the water, and he enjoys it on his tongue as he takes a little more. Drinking more, the hot drink settles bizarrely in his stomach, at odds with the temperature of the rest of his body, but the contrasting sensations are notunpleasant.
Loki likes it.
When he does finally exit the bath, he puts on one of his old cloths about his hips, enchants a smaller cloth against his cunt, and settles in the main room, that he might see Thor when he returns; if Thor is more willing to be civil than usual, Loki ought take advantage of it, even if he is tired and not feeling at his best. He reads as he settles in place, but it is difficult to focus on the text, and soon enough he lets his head tilt back for him to doze.
He falls asleep with his book upon his chest in a parody of one of the Æsir's blankets, and wakes only at the sound of the door coming open. “Thor?” Loki says softly as the other enters, and he looks tired also – Loki imagines he's been training judging by the sweat shining upon his skin. The sight is actually somewhat charming in the dim candlelight of the room, and Loki wants to be fucked, blood or no blood.
Too bad.
“Your pains have subsided?” Thor asks, and his tone is somewhat business-like; Loki blinks slowly up at him, interested.
“Some.” Loki allows, and he lets out a yawn, arching on the sofa and stretching out his tremendous limbs, but when his eyes come back to Thor again, the other man is staring at those limbs and at his neck. Ah, so Thor is becoming more obvious about his attraction to him now, is he? Goodgood.
“Is your mo-” Thor stops himself short. He is removing the binary from his language, simply for Loki's comfort, and that is ever so pleasing. Loki considers moving forwards and clambering brazenly into the other's lap, but he is not feeling such affection for Thor's new politeness that he might sacrifice his dignity to do so. “Are your parents' this bad?”
“I don't know.” Loki says quietly, honestly; he is not certain whether this will endear Thor to him or do the opposite, but either way, honesty in this situation will affect Thor to trust him further, he expects. The blond has just shown, after all, that Loki can trust him, to an extent.
“You do not know?” Thor repeats, and he seems somewhat confused. “Is it shameful, among your people, to discuss these things?” Loki can tell from the reactions of those he has spoken with that a person's cycle is not at all taboo, if Thor knew of his mother's menstruation, and Heimdall and Frigga treated it so understandingly; it is the same in Jötunheimr, of course, for most.
“No.” Loki answers, and he shrugs, but it is a far from casual action. “My parents surely discuss them – but not with me. Surely you realize why they sent me here, and not one of my brothers?” Loki can see Thor's brow is furrowed, his expression uncertain and somewhat upset. Loki's fatigue is making him seem more vulnerable than usual, and while he is willing to tell some truth, he is not pleased with how weak and pliable he does look. “I was a runt, a thing they kept out of pity. That I am here is because they wished not to have me.”
There are other truths he could add, but he does not wish to weaken himself further in Thor's eyes, and so he goes silent as Thor looks down at him. His eyes defocus for a few moments, and Loki can't help but imagine what he's thinking of, but of course he does not ask at all.
“You are of regular size.” Thor says simply after pulling himself out of his thoughts, and Loki shakes his head as he looks up at the other.
“For an Asgardian.” Loki corrects him, but he is certain if he continues to speak on with Thor, he will weaken and ask for the other to keep him company, and he is not ready to ask boons of Thor, not yet, even if they are boons so very simple. “I shall see you tomorrow.” Loki murmurs, and he turns on his side and closes his eyes to go to sleep.
There is a short pause as Thor hovers for a moment, no doubt watching him, and then he hears Thor's bedroom door open and close.
He doesn't go out much for the next two days, retiring with his books and spending more time than is proper in the bath.
It is on the third day that he manages to leave the respective cool of their chambers and into the more affecting heat of the outer parts of the palace, and he joins the other three at breakfast that morning.
“What are you to do with yourself today, Laufeyson?” asks Odin, and he regards Loki's small bites and nibbles with an expression that seems like disapproval, though there is no concern in his form.
“I thought I would put myself amongst the people, sir.” Loki says in a light and conversational tone, and he does not miss the way Thor's gaze lingers on his face as he speaks. “I have not yet done so, in truth, and I think this is a failure on my part, when the Æsir are so warm to each other in the streets.”
Thor is staring at him, but Loki does not meet his gaze; despite himself, he remembers his past weakness in the earlier days, and feelsembarrassed.
“That's a good idea, Loki.” Frigga murmurs, and Loki offers her a pleasant smile. That he is comfortable, on some level, at table with these people, intensifies his latent desire to be at home. Loki wonders, on some level, if their young Balder is appreciating the frost as he ought.
Loki doubts it.
He puts on simple clothes befitting of a prince, though when he looks at himself in the mirror, he worries for a moment that he is too Æsir in his presentation. To show one's self with less hostility is one thing, but to erase one's own culture, one's own very race?
He will have to consider it in more time: for now, he will continue as he is.
Loki moves out from the palace, and as he goes down the steps towards the marketplace in the city centre, he stops still, watching a host of six or seven Æsir children with a ball that runs rapidly through the air, and they laugh and play, tossing it between them. Loki cannot help but smile as he watches them, a cool feeling of contentment rushing through his veins as he delights in their infant joy.
Oh, how Loki loves children; he wishes for some of his own, but alas, he doubts that will happen for many more decades. One of the Æsir, a very short, sweet creature with dark skin and the most beautiful blue eyes, sees Loki and stops short, dropping the ball. The others let out dismayed cries as it smashes in one part, and Loki descends the rest of the steps, coming forwards.
“Do you know who I am?” He asks the young girl, and oh, her hair is so pretty, thick and dark and curly. Loki would have thousands of children if he could.
“Yo- you're the Frost Giant.” She says, and all the others let out sounds of fright and confusion, each of them coming in closer to peer up at Loki.
“Yes.” Loki murmurs. “But you can call me Loki. Please, pass me your ball.” He says softly, holding out his hands and bending over slightly, and she picks up the ball and the piece that had come away, holding it out. It is intended to be thrown, and with the momentum it alters angle: a drop straight down does little for it.
Strange design, for a children's toy, but many of the Jötunn ones would no doubt be unfit for the heat, if Loki brought them here. Perhaps he could redesign a few here and there, though it would require a trip to his Vanaheim library in order to obtain schematics, perhaps.
“Now, children, watch closely.” Loki says quietly, but his tone is soft and warm and gentle, and it lacks imperative. He lets seiðr flow slowly from his fingers in order that they might see it work, and the piece of metal knits itself back into the ball's structure.
The children let out noises of awe and fascination, and Loki regards each of them fondly as he hands the ball back. So varied are their looks! The young girl beside him has dark skin, as does a boy a little taller than her; another young thing (Loki has struggle assigning gender to these children) has skin the colour of light tree bark, and the others have skin like Thor and Frigga.
“Now, when you are taught your first seiðr magic, I request that you study hard.. Although seiðr is a hard and taxing craft, and takes much dedication, it is much akin to learning to use an instrument. When one becomes more skilled, magic becomes easier and easier, as music on the air.” They all nod, and Loki smiles at them. “My apologies for interrupting your game.”
“Thank you for fixing our ball, sir!” They chirp together, and Loki moves onwards, through the City of Asgard. On one level, he is somewhat cognizant of the fact that guards are following him, as he had not snuck out as he usually does, but he minds not at all if he is allowed free rein of the city.
He buys a few things – garments, mostly, but an old woman, Vanir, catches his wrist when she sees him gaze at her books on the stall, and brings out a trunk of charming volumes, insisting the young prince take one as a gift of good faith.
Loki enchants the wood material of her stall as thanks, that it will stave off rain and snow and rot, and to prevent thieves from taking books away from its surface.
It is odd, he thinks, that so many people are willing to be warm, willing to be friendly, when tensions have been high for so many years, but not every person looks upon him favourably; Loki catches the glances and the glares his way as he mingles with the people, and though he smiles and offers boon or spell, distrust is high.
Particularly when seiðr is so thoroughly spurned in the first place.
It is worse, outside the city. Although he travels out to other villages, small towns closer or so far as to be on the very edge of the realm, though people have heard of him, they worry, and they fear him. Loki learns not to offer unasked assistance unless people are already close to danger, and even then to be careful about combating it.
The children are better than their parents, but it will take time for those less trusting in nature to take to Jötnar presence in Asgard.
“You like children, don't you?” Volstagg asks one evening, when Loki takes care to enchant a large spiral upon the ground of the square, and delights in encouraging the children to play a game of Jötunn origin, where hopping, skipping and jumping is much encouraged.
It is a trick, really, to speed children in learning simple runes they need for the ground, but it is a good trick, nonetheless. Loki watches from a seat on the steps, and he glances to Volstagg, smiling as he looks down to the groups in play below. “I should have dozens.” Loki murmurs softly, and the laugh Volstagg gives is bright and warm.
He pats Loki too hard on the back, and as always Loki lets out a harsh cough, the force having pushed it out of him. “You might have two or three of mine!” Volstagg jokes, and Loki laughs a little before he glances at the sun.
“I ought return to the palace; Thor wishes that we might spar this afternoon. Farewell, Volstagg.”
“And you, you Jötunn trickster!”
---
He is harder on Thor, in these weeks. With every fight, he will reveal some other trick or use new seiðr; they are evenly matched, now, for Thor has become more cunning, more clever. It fills Loki with a sort of burnished pride that the other can learn so quickly.
“I wish you would not hold yourself back in spars!” Thor complains to him the next day all the same, and Loki snorts. While he would not, perhaps, kill Thor so easily now, his natural and well-honed command of his magic makes him a more than worthy opponent.
“I should like to keep you alive, brother.” Loki says lightly, and he looks at Thor fondly, plucking an apple from the table as they pass. “And so do I hold myself back.”
“You do not know that I could not hold my own!” Loki laughs. Oh, if Thor only knew.
“I do.” is his easy response, and he looks at Thor thoughtfully as they move. So pleasant and easy has their relationship come; Thor has new respect for Loki, as Loki has better respect for him, and it truly does make conversation more enjoyable.
How many times has Thor complained, “Do not go so easy on me!” this week and the week past, and affectionately ruffled Loki's hair and pushed him around in the warrior's fashion?
“Is it customary for Jötnar to go so easily on their sparring partners?” Thor asks one evening in a booming, thunderous voice, and Loki laughs as he supports the other man. He himself feigns tipsiness, but Thor is somewhat drunk himself; they had had a long conversation in the tavern, and for once Loki is not going home with some random creature selected from the crowd, but with Thor.
“When their partners are delicate flowers such as you.” Loki teases, and he reaches up to pinch at Thor's cheek in the way he has seen the elderly do to youths. It is taken as the jest it is, and Thor slaps his hand away without any lingering malice to his features. “In truth, Thor, I am not holding back.” Loki lies, wondering if Thor will drop the subject. “You simply have fantasies as to my abilities, it seems.”
“Then for what reason do you never fatigue?” Thor asks, thinking himself clever; Loki wonders how long it will take until he can see through Loki's illusions when he actually is tired, or if he will remain forever oblivious.
“Do you worry for your stamina, Odinson?” Loki teases, and he laughs again as they move onwards; they are nearly at the castle now, walking through an effective corridor of pillars. It is dark, as they had long since passed into the early hours of the morning, but Loki does not mind so much.
“Not at all: many a time I've been assured of it.” Thor replies easily, and his tone comes heavy with entendre Loki most certainly appreciates; he gives a quiet laugh. It is good to see that Thor is coming to be attracted to him also – they ought marry. Truly, it would be a beneficial union for all involved.
“Well, I can assure you: my own is impressive also.” He carefully moves himself out from under the other's arm, and he moves on quickly; he wishes for a bath, and then he wishes to sleep for a time, but Thor catches him by the wrist and pulls him back, throwing him into an alcove and pressing his own, far broader body into the small space with him – the big lummox.
Thor's mouth is against Loki's own, and Loki is stiff for the sake of the position; both of their breaths are speeding, and Loki could give in now, have Thor fuck him against his very wall, and all would be his.
“How impressive?” Thor asks. But no, better to give the other a tease first. Loki swallows.
“Release me.” He says, turning his head to the side as if uncomfortable with Thor's sudden advance, and Thor's eyes widen as he steps back, his hands spreading flat on the air.
“I- I am sorry, Loki, I meant no intimidation – I merely wished to-”
“Hush.” Loki orders, and his right hand grasps at Thor's throat, squeezing at the plump flesh under his fingers. Thor stares down at him, and Loki knows his breathlessness has little to do with the actual hand Loki has on his neck. “I take no offence to your interest, Thor.” Loki does his best to sound as sultry as possible, bathing every word that passes over his tongue in pure sex. “I merely wish to make it clear: I am no tavern wench.” That is the word for the people Loki takes home, is it not, disposable but fun? Wenches? “I will not bend over for you, as you please.”
“I will make you bend over then.” Thor says, and Loki gives an amused little snort as he lets the other go. He delights in the mark he has left on the taller man's throat, a mark in red that is a beautiful ghost of Loki's own fingers.
“I should like to see you try.” Loki murmurs seductively, with an easy shift of his hips, and then he turns away from Thor and continues down the corridor.
He seems Heimdall when the morning comes on, and Heimdall raises an eyebrow at him. “You have been enjoying Asgard?” He asks, tone teasing, and Loki laughs a little.
“With all its splendours.” Loki says, and Heimdall looks amused. “It does not upset you?”
“What ought upset me, son of Laufey?”
“That I have come from Jötunheimr, that I might partake of so many pleasures and enjoyments, but you are here, observing always?” The question affects Heimdall to raise his eyebrows, having taken him aback, and for a few long moments the Gatekeeper is silent, and thoughtful.
“No.” Heimdall says finally. “This is my duty, and glad am I to complete it. I shall be here until I am relieved, but it truly troubles me not. I am lucky I may still observe.” Loki smiles at the older man, and he seems somewhat expectant as he matches the Jötunn's gaze. “This is the answer you expected?”
“No.” Loki says with a shake of his head. “But I appreciate that you gave it.”
“Thor will be waiting for you tonight, when you return to your chambers.” Heimdall says lightly. “You ought feign disinterest: it will titillate him further.” Loki furrows his brow, regarding the other with a suspicious (but no less delighted) expression.
“Are you not sworn to secrecy in these matters?” Heimdall shrugs his mighty shoulders.
“What matters, son of Laufey?” Loki laughs.
---
As Heimdall had promised, when Loki comes from dinner that evening, Thor is sprawled naked across the couch Loki so often takes to to read, his hand wrapped around his cock and fisting rapidly over the flesh. It certainly is a pleasant sight – that cock will fill Loki quite nicely, and he cannot wait to take sample of it.
But it would not do to show that.
He schools his expression into one of disinterest, closing the door behind him. Thor's eyes snap open, and he looks breathlessly at Loki as he sits up straight, expression affronted. “You do not like what you see before you?”
“Passable.” Loki says, and then he shrugs his shoulders, wondering if Thor will be rough with him for these offhand comments. Oh, he hopes he will be. “Nothing remarkable.”
“I wish for a boon of you.” Thor says as he stands and moves forwards, his shoulders widening out.
“A boon?” Loki repeats, the request unexpected, and he looks at the other man with a furrowed and distrustful brow. “Name it.”
“Make use of your magic not at all tonight.” Loki considers slapping the man.
“For what reason?”
“T'is the boon for which I asked: do you grant I?” Loki glares at the other; Thor no doubt refers to active magic, and not to his standing enchantments and illusions. All the same, when Loki's being is so infused with his own seiðr, it is a request of hefty weight. Thor is asking, really, that Loki trust him for the evening.
“I grant it.” Loki says reluctantly, and Thor pounces. He rips and tears at Loki's clothes, and Loki understands the ask; Thor wants to be rough with him, and oh, Loki will delight in that. He kicks off his boots to help the process along, his feet singing for their freedom, and asks, “Too scared to seduce me with my magic intact?”
Thor laughs in his face and Loki shivers despite himself at the brazen idea of power the other represents; without new illusion, he cannot hide the reaction. “Come now, Loki – surely you have strength enough?” Loki tries to dodge away, but Thor's hand wraps around his throat, and he lets out a heady gasp. Oh, yes, yes, yes.”I want to fuck you.” Their mouths are together, almost brushing, and this is the roughness Loki has wanted and wanted for a while.
“Then I suggest you not tarry about it.” Loki retorts, and then Thor kisses him, their mouths crashing together. It is not at all gentle; it is rough and aggressive and positively vicious, and Loki digs into the other's naked flesh with his fingernails, carving marks into his thighs and his arse.
“I will have you in every hole tonight, Jötunn.” Thor growls in his ear, and then he puts his hand in Loki's hair, and oh, it feels so good, so good. The pull on his scalp is rough and on the perfect side of pain, sending electric shocks of delight down his spine as Thor drags him into his own bedroom. Thor then goes to bite at Loki's neck, and his mouth is so wet and so hot that Loki lets out a loud cry as he arches into the touch. “I will fuck you full, and you will scream for more like the slut you are.”
“So many words, good Thor, and yet I feel no true touch on me yet.” Loki will not stop his provocation, will never stop his provocation if it leads to such carnal delights as this, and he lies back on the bed with his legs spread, eager and waiting. Thor, much to his surprise, brings his hand down onto Loki's cunt in a loud, harsh smack, and Loki stops himself from screaming as his cock bounces for the blow.
Heat and pain and cold all rush through his outer lips at once, and he tries not to writhe on the bed as he rides out the soon-fading sensation. “Is that touch enough for you?” Loki doesn't reply, cannot reply, because Thor's fingers wraps about his cock, giving a teasing stroke before his fingers drag over Loki's quickly wettening and widening entrance. “You wish for me to plunder you as I wish, do you not?” Thor asks, and oh, Loki wantseverything. “No other man could take you as I could.”
“Men like you are easy to find.” Loki manages to say through his bitten teeth, but then Thor drags his tongue over Loki's entrance, and he takes in a harsh and heavy, gasping breath. “And easier to take.”
“You've taken men like me before?” Thor drags his tongue over his own finger, slicking it before he pushes it forwards and into Loki's cunny, not yet ready for more than a digit in the singular. Loki grunts, his thighs shaking, and Thor flips him onto his belly without warning, so that Loki's chest and face are pressed against the blankets. “Yes, that is evident. Fine then; I'll take you like the bitch you are, from behind.”
“That makes you a dirty hound, then?” Loki manages to say for the sake of wit, but it is difficult when he can focus only on having his cunt filled. He wants, he needs. Thor's laugh is like lightning on the air, cutting through Loki with a shock, and the Jötunn is reminded of the other's precious hammer.
“When you feel my cock in you, Loki, you will wish I was a hound.” comes his promise, and although Thor is arrogant, now Loki delights in that arrogance, wishing to coax more from his Æsir partner.
“No doubt.” Loki retorts. “I might feel a hound in me – you, well, it is uncertain.” Thor presses two oil-slicked fingers forwards, pressing them into Loki's arse, and the Jötunn chokes out his next breath as Thor brings his other hand down in a harsh, hard smack; the sound of it rings through the room that affects Loki to quiver.
“Do you feel that?”
“I do, in fact.” Loki retorts, unwilling to lose his cheek, but he has to grit his teeth to manage any words at all: this is made yet more difficult as Thor fucks forth a third finger, and Loki clenches down about him. It feels good, to be taken so roughly, so thoroughly by those thick digits, but Loki is not yet satisfied.
And to think, Heimdall is no doubt watching this with equal satisfaction.
“Good.” Thor murmurs, and he sounds somewhat distracted; he scissors his fingers then, and Loki groans, his thighs spreading out yet wider than they had been before.
“Come then.” Loki says breathlessly, and he ought plant the idea of a gag in Thor's mind at some point, in one conversation or another, so that during their next encounter he need not bother trying to be well-fucked and well-spoken at the same time. “You shall have me this way, and then spank me.”
“Then your cunt.” Loki lets out a huff of noise, wrinkling his nose; do the Æsir have no care for cleanliness?
“Wash yourself first, and I shall allow it.” Loki yowls at the sudden hand in his hair, and Thor grasps at his thigh as he lifts him, lining him up to be impaled on Thor's newly oil-slicked cock. Loki is hot, very hot indeed, but it is not the uncomfortable, overheated fatigue of the training ground: he wants more.
“You will allow it?” Thor laughs, and the sound is low and hot against the back of Loki's ear, and it is perfect. Loki can barely breathe at all, for he's hot and full to the brim with the Æsir beneath him and behind him, and he tries to regulate himself, tries to mute the blush to his features, but it's simply not possible. He is overwrought, and it is wonderful, and Thor just continues muttering filth into his ear. “I do not believe you are in the state to be allowing things, brother mine.”
“Fuck me.” Loki orders, and the imperative rings clear; Thor laughs even more, and his odd hot breath on the back of Loki's neck is perfection. “Thor, now.”
“Whore.” Thor murmurs, and he shifts Loki's position, teasing Loki's dripping cunt with the head of his cock, playing over the folds, and Loki lets out a noise that's more a wail than it is anything else, but he doesn't struggle free. “Ill have you six times over tonight, Loki, have you again and again, 'til your belly is swollen with such spend one might think you already pregnant, 'til you leak from every hole.”
“All words again.” Loki says, as crisply as one can when one is suspended over a cock one has been waiting far too long for. “I wish for a-agh-” Thor drops him down in one movement, utilizing Loki's own weight and having him fuck himself down on Thor's cock all in one go: Loki's arse is full of hot, hot Thor, and he can't help but groan and squirm once impaled, leaning back against the other as he clenches as tightly as he can manage.
Thor fucks him, then, fucks him properly and completely, throws him forwards and onto the bed and rapidly thrusts his hips as if he has seiðr in line with his hips, enchanting him and giving him yet better speed. Loki just melts under the welcome onslaught, gasping and shaking and pressing back for more.
Thor's orgasm is one Loki feels well, when the other's come paints the insides of his arse and the white come leaves an odd ghost of Thor's natural warmth even as he pulls out. Loki feels empty, and he leaks.
“I shall run a bath, then.” says Thor, and Loki wants to go to sleep. “From there, I shall have your mouth, and then your cunt, and then your mouth again.” Well. So much for sleep.
“If you think you can handle it.” Loki returns, and Thor puts his arms under Loki's body, lifting him with such a charming and obscene ease that Loki delights in it. He sets the taps to work with Loki still in his lap, but Loki's bones have turned to some sort of charming jelly. He manages to smirk up at Thor, of course, but he is tired.
“I can.” Thor assures him lightly, amusedly. “Can you?”
“Oh, yes.” comes Loki's retort – as if he would say anything else, fatigue or no. “I am here to make Jötunheimr proud, am I not? And tomorrow, I shall make true on your requests, Thor; I shall not hold back with you.” He feels the other shiver more than he feels it, and oh, yes – he is enjoying Thor playing dominant tonight, but their roles will certainly be reversed tomorrow afternoon.
Assuming Loki can drag himself from bed with his expected aches and bruises, of course.
“Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.” Thor says, and Loki can tell by his face and his tone that he is equally excited at the consideration of swapping back and forth – so good, really, when one is on a level with one's partner.
“Oh, yes.” Loki murmurs, and with an obscene effort, he pushes himself up, straddling the blond's lap and letting his arms wrap around his neck. He presses his lips to Thor's, moving hard into the kiss, and then he murmurs against the other's mouth, “I do believe it is.”
Thor grins at him, and then Loki is thrown over his lap again, and Thor's hand comes down in first harsh smack Loki had asked for, no doubt the first of many.
Amongst the spanks, of course, comes another sound: wedding bells.
Loki is terribly pleased with the position he's in, and cannot wait to climb his ladder further.

Notes