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“Blue suits you, God of Mischief,” the words roll velvet across the Grandmaster’s lips as he swipes a thumb over Loki’s chin. The vivid trail of blue from the Grandmaster’s lip to his jaw has been smudged to near transparency; patches of turquoise are blotted about Loki’s mouth, smeared down his chin. The Grandmaster’s hand brushes past Loki’s jawline to the back of his neck, ready to pull him in for another kiss.
“You think?” an ineluctable smirk tilts the corners of Loki’s mouth upward, and before the Grandmaster can blink, can shoot back some salacious complement, the ivory hue of Loki’s skin is receding, driven away by a deep, royal blue. Crimson eyes are unmasked from beneath their blue veneer; exotic and arcing lines of the palest blue chase each other across the suddenly freezing skin of Loki’s Jotun form.
For the first time since Loki landed on Sakaar those months ago, the Grandmaster is speechless. Genuinely caught off guard. Mouth slightly agape, eyes wide and bright as such electric, esoteric thoughts wheel behind them. From the smooth skin at the base of Loki’s throat to the geometric markings etched across his cheekbones to his carmine irises the Grandmaster’s eyes rove. The hand at the nape of Loki’s neck, twined into his hair, shifts not an inch despite the bone-chilling cold his skin radiates. To Loki, the touch blazes like fire.
Under this intense, searching stare Loki cannot bring himself to maintain eye contact, and he casts his gaze to the side. Some whim in the heat of the moment had compelled him to reveal this form to the Grandmaster, some capricious desire to show the man exactly how well blue suited him. But now Loki is vulnerable, laid bare as a nerve, and he does not even know the Grandmaster’s true name. A massive portrait of the Grandmaster winks at him from over the man’s gold-draped shoulder. Loki scrabbles for his composure, blinking hard before he forces his gaze back to the Grandmaster.
Brows furrowed minutely, the Grandmaster has lost his shocked expression. His eyes are soft.
En Dwi Gast
Voiceless the words coagulate in Loki’s mind, and confusion washes through him before he inhales sharply.
“You—”
“Now you have my name.”
“You read my mind,” Loki cannot keep the accusation from his tone.
“Well, I—I wouldn’t call it that,” the Grandmaster splutters, hand falling from Loki’s neck to rest tentatively on his shoulder.
“What else have you—”
“Nothing, nothing! Do you think after billions of years I want to hear everyone’s thoughts? Goodness no, no, it’s horrible,” his eyes go wide in earnest. “You just—you thought that so loudly I wasn’t ready to block it out. Your thoughts are so much closer to the surface in this form.”
The tension that has collected in Loki’s shoulders dissolves. “Had I your gifts, I would not choose to shut them out.”
“It’s more fun that way,” the Grandmaster flashes a corny grin, trailing his fingers down Loki’s shirt. Dull heat bleeds from the wake of each fingertip. “You know I love to be surprised.” Both hands on Loki’s narrow abdomen, the Grandmaster pushes him firmly, backing him across the room. What shallow breaths Loki has drawn leave his lungs in a huff as he bumps into the garishly painted wall.
With languid fingers Loki unknots the red belt that fastens the Grandmaster’s robe shut. “En Dwi Gast,” his lips contort about the words, taste their shape and essence. Some abstruse feeling shivers through him as the words pour over his tongue, but he is distracted by a scorching finger pressed abruptly to his lips.
“Though I prefer,” the Grandmaster taps his finger against Loki’s lips, “Grandmaster.”
Arousal coils through Loki at the blistering heat the Grandmaster’s finger radiates, though he fights to maintain a neutral expression, to resist the urge to swallow against his drying mouth. “Of course, Grandmaster,” Loki purrs the final two syllables.
Breathy and fragmented comes the Grandmaster’s juddering reply. “Oh, stars,” and he claims Loki’s icy lips in a fevered kiss. The Grandmaster kisses with an intensity and a strength that his frame belies, hands flying up to cradle Loki’s face, and the sizzling heat where their skin meets has Loki’s eyes rolling back, eyelids fluttering shut. At his lower lip the Grandmaster nibbles, and too soon, too soon he is breaking the kiss to once more drag his eyes across the planes of Loki’s true face, his breath sending warm puffs of air dancing across Loki’s skin.
“You’re so beautiful.” Loki can physically feel the Grandmaster’s eyes raking across his high cheekbones, down the sleek column of his throat; the Grandmaster’s mouth soon replaces his gaze, lips brushing along Loki’s jawline to whisper in his ear. “So beautiful and, uh, and cold,” the Grandmaster gives a shiver for emphasis, a little shimmy of his shoulders that Loki cannot help huffing an endeared laugh at. “I like it,” he nips at Loki’s earlobe.
Only one other lover had Loki revealed this form to, and while his appearance had intrigued them, ultimately, they could not bear to touch him for long, fingers and lips gone numb from the temperature of Loki’s skin. He could hardly fault them, as their touch scorched his skin in turn. Even more acutely do the Grandmaster’s teasing caresses sting, his body operating at a temperature several degrees higher than Loki’s even in his Aesir form; Loki has privately thought of him as something of a personal heater. In the wake of each brush of his lips, each tantalizing stroke of his fingertips, Loki’s skin burns, balanced deliciously on that precipitous point between pain and pleasure.
Down the curve of his neck the Grandmaster mouths, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin, and Loki whimpers. A spike of arousal lances through him, pools hotly in his groin, and he seizes the Grandmaster’s waist in a possessive grip, pulling the man into himself so they are flush from the chests down. Between the Grandmaster’s thighs he pushes a leg and rolls his hips shamelessly, letting him feel the hardening length of his cock. A strangled groan catches in the Grandmaster’s throat.
“Stars, you like your neck touched,” his voice is deep against Loki’s skin, and he trails a constellation of fleeting kisses up Loki’s jaw, finally pausing a hair’s breadth from Loki’s mouth. His breath ghosts hot and shallow across Loki’s lips, teasing, but Loki’s patience has snapped; he surges forward to capture the Grandmaster’s lips in a searing kiss. To Loki’s immense gratification, the Grandmaster pushes his hips forward, grinding his swollen length into Loki through the thin layers of their clothing. Loki matches the Grandmaster’s efforts, rolling his hips steadily, and snakes his hands greedily downward to grope at the Grandmaster’s ass, crush their bodies tighter together. Across the seam of the Grandmaster’s lips Loki runs his tongue lightly, and the Grandmaster grants him access, drawing in a sharp, gasping little breath as he feels Loki’s icy tongue swirl expertly against his own. From slow and erotic to outright desperate and filthy the kiss rapidly evolves.
Loki is achingly hard, the drag of the Grandmaster’s length against his own driving him gradually into a frenzy, and he digs his fingers hard enough to bruise into the firm muscles of the Grandmaster’s ass to keep himself from ripping the gaudy clothes straight off his absurdly tall, lithe frame. From experience he has learned that is a line not to be crossed—if the Grandmaster even removes any of his clothes, he removes them himself. Which articles of clothing come off and when they come off are entirely up to the Grandmaster, as frustrating and oppressive as Loki finds that boundary. His epithet is not silver-tongue for nothing, however, and he has his methods of coaxing his lover to undress.
A quick moment of torsion, and Loki has spun their entwined bodies so that the Grandmaster is now pressed heavily into the wall. Savagely he breaks the kiss, one hand fisting hard into the Grandmaster’s silver hair as the other reaches between them to palm the Grandmaster’s cock. His lips, still prickling with the near unbearable heat of the Grandmaster’s kiss, curve into a suggestive grin as his crimson eyes hold the Grandmaster’s gaze, transfix him. “Shall we continue this in a more… horizontal direction?”
“Eager, are we?” the Grandmaster’s tone is even, taunting, but the wildness of his blue-lined eyes and the way he squirms against Loki’s hand bespeak his eagerness.
“I don’t know. You tell me,” the words are jagged and icy, and Loki squeezes the Grandmaster through the thin material of his pants. He crowds in on the Grandmaster, elbow anchored against the wall as he shifts his weight forward.
“We have all the time in the world,” the Grandmaster says lazily, dragging his fingertips up Loki’s back. “We can take all night,” the fingertips skim back down, “And all of tomorrow. We can—we can take the Commodore—”
“Or—”
“Out for a spin, and—” the Grandmaster quiets abruptly once he notices Loki has spoken, and frozen upon his face is that same semi-shocked expression he always assumes on the rare occasions he is interrupted, mouth open delicately and eyebrows raised.
“Or you could just fuck me.”
Before the Grandmaster can reply, the intercom at the door buzzes.
“I should, uh, get that—it’s pr—probably important,” the Grandmaster slinks cat-like out of Loki’s grasp, teeth flashing in a wide, mischievous grin. Of course he would elect to answer the door and drive Loki up the wall. Through Loki’s mind runs a litany of curses inventive and vulgar enough to ruddy the cheeks of the most hardened warrior. “So impatient,” the Grandmaster chides, eyes playfully wide.
“Can you blame me?” Loki rasps, choosing not to remark on how the Grandmaster has read his thoughts again. He tips his head forward to rest against the wall in frustration.
“Yes.” The Grandmaster swans over to the door, drawing his robe closed over the obvious sign of his arousal and fastening the red belt at his waist with ungainly fingers. He runs a hand through his hair, combing it into some semblance of neatness, though Loki takes pleasure in the fact that the Grandmaster looks undeniably ravished: hair mussed, lips deliciously kiss-swollen. Good. Let whoever is interrupting them see how Loki has taken him apart. A smirk curves wickedly across Loki’s lips as the Grandmaster pauses for a moment, shoulders rising with a deep, steadying breath, before cracking the door open halfway. Topaz stares nonplussed at the Grandmaster, and she thrusts a pen and clipboard with paperwork peremptorily at her boss.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” the Grandmaster’s indignant voice fades as Loki pads across the capacious living quarters, past the partition that divides the lounging area from the actual bedroom. An idea has occurred to him.
While his lover tousles with the paperwork he has hubristically inflicted upon himself (Loki thinks with no small amount of schadenfreude), Loki relishes the feeling of the plush, vibrant purple carpet beneath his bare feet. Through a floor-length window set into one wall the sprawling, cobbled-together city is visible, and dusky evening light floods the room, lapping gently at Loki’s skin. Yet another life-size portrait of the Grandmaster is mounted upon the adjacent wall. Something in the Grandmaster’s obnoxiously styled silver hair, something in the daring blue lines beneath his eyes and down his chin, has always gotten to Loki. Intrigued him. And by every branch of Yggdrasil, his eyes—even in the brushstrokes of the painting, the Grandmaster’s eyes sparkle with wit and irreverence. Just minutes prior, Loki had stared into those eyes clouded with ardor, clouded with the pleasure Loki gave him. The recollection sends a spark of lust shivering down his spine, and he is keenly aware of the still-hard press of his cock against his confining pants. A lazy wave of his hand, and his clothes vanish in a wash of coruscating green light; they rematerialize neatly folded in a corner of the bedroom.
Several minutes pass before Loki is accompanied once more. The harsh slam of a door, and a beat of silence. Then, rising in a gradual crescendo from behind the dividing wall, the Grandmaster’s odd, drawn-out laugh. His sandals shuffle softly across the luxuriously carpeted floor as his laughter melts into words: “Now where, oh where, could my favorite lover have gone with that silver tongue of his?”
“I wonder,” the words pour sultry over Loki’s lips.
The Grandmaster rounds the partition, stepping into the bedroom with a flirty grin. “Hmm, could he have wandered in—” the sentence catches and dies in the Grandmaster’s throat; dense silence supplants it as he lays eyes upon the god in his bed.
A feral smirk curves Loki’s lips. The Grandmaster stunned into silence twice in one evening is a wondrous occurrence, and Loki relishes that he has produced this effect in his primeval lover. After all, that was rather the point of revealing this frost-blue form to him in the first place. Across the Grandmaster’s bed he has sprawled, long blue legs complemented by amaranthine bedsheets. Upon one forearm he has propped himself up so casually as to appear insouciant, and with his other hand Loki strokes feather-light the length of his fully hard cock—enough to keep himself aching and leaking, never enough to provide true satisfaction. This is his next move in this game without rules that he and the Grandmaster play between and above the sheets, and he suspects with hedonistic glee that now, now the Grandmaster will at last yield to him. Inky black hair spills in subtle waves over his shoulders, though some renegade strands have fallen across his right eye. Over every expanse of Jotun blue skin, down every sweep and curve of his nude body, pale lines run in esoteric patterns. With ersatz demureness, he bats his carmine eyes at the speechless Grandmaster.
The Grandmaster’s mouth remains slack as he steps forward, eyes flickering across every inch of Loki’s body laid bare for him, and his chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. As he reaches the side of the bed, Loki draws back his slender hand from his cock with a twinge of reluctance, using that arm to help prop himself up as well. Now nothing obstructs the Grandmaster’s view of his body. Objectively, Loki thinks, he must look like quite the sight. His aching length suffused in lust with an indigo hue, slick with his own fluid, lying heavily on his taut stomach. The sculpted muscles of his battle-hardened torso heaving with each deep breath he takes, breaths deep with near overwhelming desire and the torture of waiting those several viscous minutes for the Grandmaster to return. The corded muscles of his arm purposefully flexed as he holds himself semi-upright; the delicate brush of his abyssal hair over his pronounced collarbones, against the smooth column of his neck. And, of course, everywhere on his body, those pale blue lines that so fascinate the Grandmaster.
Seconds pour by thick and languid as honey, bleeding into a minute as the Grandmaster simply stands looking down upon Loki. His eyes never cease their exploration of the planes of Loki’s skin, and something inscrutable lies behind their brown depths. A vague gossamer of insecurity passes through Loki as the Grandmaster continues to stare and continues to say absolutely nothing. He opens his mouth, brows furrowed, a biting comment forming upon his tongue, but he reels in the urge. Of all the beings he has encountered across so many realms named and unnamed, he reminds himself, the Grandmaster is probably the least likely to pass judgement on him for his Jotun heritage, for the unusual tone of his true skin and eyes. “Beautiful” the Grandmaster had called him just minutes ago. The Grandmaster loves all things exotic, and, well, if nothing else—Loki matches the sheets, blue on purple. Thickly he swallows, and he forcibly patches over this inexplicable chink in his self-assurance.
Still, far too many moments have dripped by in this torturous period since last the Grandmaster spoke, in this absence of the Grandmaster’s typical loquaciousness. “Have you forgotten how to speak?” Loki settles on something comfortably sarcastic, a barb gentle enough to compel the Grandmaster to talk, yet phrased right on that precipice of something Loki can twist caustic if need be.
“Can I—can I touch them? Your…” the Grandmaster gestures at one of the pale lines that extends across the entirety of Loki’s torso. When had the Grandmaster ever asked for permission, for anything, from anyone? Loki is taken aback thoroughly enough that ne nearly forgets to respond.
“Of course.” The tension strung up through Loki’s every muscle diffuses as the Grandmaster stares down at him with nothing shy of reverence in his eyes. Confidence returns to him like the tide to the shore, swift and absolute, and he mentally rolls his eyes at his foolishness. Of course the Grandmaster would lack the same disgust Loki initially felt with this Jotun form, with its unknowable markings, with its eerily tinted irises, with its strange tinges of purple where Loki flushed. Of course the Grandmaster would delight in this form, as most things that washed up onto Sakaar were effluvia through and through: twisted scraps of iron, thick set beings of pure rock, hideous oozing creatures. There likely were few things, Loki thought with brazen assuredness, on this realm quite so intricately decorated and well sculpted as his Jotun body.
Feather-light, the Grandmaster presses his fingertips to the muscles of Loki’s abdomen, and unbidden Loki arches his back into the searing touch. He hisses in a sharp breath as the fingers skim from his abdomen to the jut of his collarbone, tracing one of the thickest lines that spans Loki’s torso. Heady is the sensation of that touch comingled with the whorl of lovers’ nerves in the pit of his stomach. Against his stomach his cock twitches. Usually, Loki has far tighter control of his desire, but something overpowering is in the combination of his vulnerability in this form and the enigmatic presence of the Grandmaster above him. Lust, hot and razor-sharp and demanding, sings through his every nerve. “Please…” the plea shivers over his lips.
“Hold that thought,” the Grandmaster grins cheekily at him, teeth bared, and withdraws his hand from Loki’s collarbone. Loki wants to bodily drag the Grandmaster down to him, to vanish his clothes with a flourish of his hand and just get fucked, but then his gaze drops to the Grandmaster’s other hand, palming the clear outline of his own erection, and the air is leaving Loki’s lungs. The Grandmaster steps back from the bed and, with the self-satisfied air of one who knows exactly what they are doing, begins to strip.
First comes his belt, fingers working open the knot of red fabric at a torturous pace. Easily the Grandmaster could vanish his own clothes, but Loki is well aware by now that the Grandmaster finds it more entertaining to remove his clothes piece by piece. Next is the Grandmaster’s robe, its glitzy, shimmering surface tossing the light of the bedroom about; slowly he shrugs it from his shoulders, dragging it down his body sinfully as he speaks. “You look so pretty like this, all blue and naked just for me. Tell me. What do you want me to do to you?” At the Grandmaster’s feet the robe pools, and his voice is deep. “How do you want me to fuck you, God of Mischief? Would you—would you let me fuck that silver-tongued mouth of yours?” The aureate vambraces come next, thudding against the carpet as the Grandmaster drops them with abandon. “Would you—”
A strangled moan escapes Loki’s lips. Perhaps even more than the Grandmaster himself Loki loves the sound of the Grandmaster’s voice, and his cock throbs insistently at the filthy monologue. Down fully onto the bed Loki sinks, and he arches his neck as he reaches to grab his aching length—
Don’t touch yourself
The words materialize quick and urgent in his mind, and he is compelled to obey before he can even process them, hand snapping away to fist helplessly into the sheets. “Grandmaster,” Loki rasps, and his hips twitch upward; obscenely his cock bobs against his stomach.
“Stars,” the Grandmaster groans. “You have no idea how pr—” he cuts himself off as he hitches his tunic over his head to toss it unceremoniously aside, now bare-chested before Loki. “—How gorgeous you look like this. You have no idea what you do to me,” he kicks off his sandals and tugs lazily at the laces of his pants.
Breath shuddering heavy through his lungs, Loki eyes the egregious swell of the Grandmaster’s arousal through those ridiculous thin pants. “I think I have an idea,” he draws in a deep breath before continuing, clawing through the thick haze of his lust to regain a shred of mental acuity. “I think I drive you mad,” his eyes follow the slide of the Grandmaster’s pants down his tanned legs. Naturally, the Grandmaster has worn no underwear.
“I think your eyes have followed me all day, Grandmaster. I think you’ve been fantasizing about this all day, ever since you brushed against me from behind in that hallway, already aroused and wanting me to feel it. I think you want me,” his voice drops icily, fingers gripping the sheets around him vice-like. “And that is why you’ve been sitting down most times I’ve seen you, your robes gathered around you otherwise, hiding your desire. I think—” Loki pauses, panting, as the Grandmaster climbs atop the bed and straddles him. “I think you’ve thought of me all day, of fucking into me until you spill with my name upon your lips.” Loki rolls his hips up for emphasis, and the drag of his swollen cock against that of the Grandmaster nearly has him crying out in pleasure and relief. The Grandmaster’s gaze is smoldering, and Loki props himself up into a sitting position, hands anchored against the mattress. “I know exactly what I do to you.”
“My, my, what a—what a mouth you have on you, God of Mischief,” the Grandmaster snakes an arm around his torso and hauls him into a brutal kiss, other hand raising to cup Loki’s neck. Their teeth clack painfully, and the Grandmaster’s skilled tongue is swirling hot patterns in his mouth. Together their chests are pressed, and the sudden waves of scorching heat at Loki’s neck, the small of his back, the front of his chest, have him moaning into the Grandmaster’s mouth. He had wondered in a moment of hesitance if the Grandmaster would even enjoy kissing him in this form, mouth ice-cold, but any qualms the Grandmaster has are concealed well. Against Loki’s cock and stomach the Grandmaster ruts at a slow, measured pace, kissing Loki deeply enough that Loki has to pull back, catch his breath. He huffs a laugh shallow and broken from exertion. “You may not need to breathe, but I do.”
Nuzzling at the Grandmaster’s searing neck, Loki catches his breath and peppers a constellation of fleeting kisses all along the Grandmaster’s jaw, neck, collarbone, lips stinging with each press to the Grandmaster’s skin. For a being billions of years old, the Grandmaster has an inexplicably fit body. Loki had not expected that when he first saw the Grandmaster nude—the soft but undeniable layer of muscle he carried. Arms only slightly slenderer than Loki’s own, and broad shoulders tapering to a toned waist, every inch of his skin evenly tanned. A slight dusting of hair upon his chest, and scandalously long legs shaped subtly by muscle. Around Loki’s cock the Grandmaster wraps a hand, and Loki’s lips falter in their trail of slow kisses. His other hand the Grandmaster rakes down Loki’s back, nails digging into the cobalt flesh, and Loki moans, pleasure rolling and licking up his spine like fire; in the Grandmaster’s neck he buries his face as sensation slams through him.
At once, the Grandmaster’s hands leave him, leave him with nothing but the thrumming ghosts of his touch. Through Loki’s hair fingers thread, tugging him back to face the Grandmaster. A small kiss the Grandmaster presses to the corner of his mouth, a little spike of heat, before he pushes Loki down onto his back. The Grandmaster’s hands lift to grasp at the air around his neck, tugging at the phantom collar of his robe out of habit, a motion that stutters and is aborted as soon as it begins. Despite the thick pulse of arousal through his veins, Loki manages an endeared smile.
“Loki,” the Grandmaster begins, and Loki’s breath catches in his throat at his own name said in that rolling velvet tone. “Don’t think you’re going to get fucked until I’ve mapped out every inch of this body of yours.”
The Grandmaster has always taken satisfaction in winding Loki up, letting the anticipation build until Loki is desperate, drawing out the foreplay until Loki begs, and this time is no different. Loki wills whatever grace exists in the universe to keep him from exploding. He racks his brain for a retort that will flay the Grandmaster’s teasing objections to the bone, something to get the man to just fuck him already, but too cloyed is his mind by the dense fog of arousal. A thrum of exogenous and ancient amusement pulses through Loki, yet in the Grandmaster’s warm brown eyes sparkles nothing but reverence. Before Loki can dwell on that, two searing hands are on his neck, tracing pale blue lines that mirror each other from his jaw to his shoulders.
“So pretty,” the Grandmaster whispers nearly too low for Loki to hear, shifting his position above Loki so he can put his mouth to Loki’s frozen skin. A string of kisses he trails down the ephemeral arc of one line; a deep purple mark he sucks into the point where two lines intersect just under the hollow of Loki’s neck. With his fingers and tongue the Grandmaster follows every marking on Loki’s chest: the ones that zag from his clavicle to his ribs in harsh undulations, the twin vertical lines that brush over his taut abdomen, the gossamer-thin lines that describe a diamond beneath his pectoral muscles, the sloping lines that traverse from his navel to his waist, disappearing under his back. Down his narrow hips the Grandmaster follows a tangle of four lines, pointedly ignoring Loki’s cock as he passes down to Loki’s thighs. Loki mewls into the caress, clenching his hands in the bedsheets at the surge of blistering heat so close to where he craves the Grandmaster’s touch. And as the Grandmaster grabs him by the hipbones with those sinfully large hands, as the Grandmaster presses lingering kisses along the markings of his upper and inner thighs, his muscles contract and jerk, blind lust shivering through him.
Finally the Grandmaster finishes exploring his legs, and with dizzying relief Loki lifts a hand to drag the Grandmaster down to him. With a scorching grip, however, the Grandmaster seizes his wrist. “Not yet,” he purrs, and he nudges Loki to flip over, pinning Loki’s wrist to the bed as he leans down atop the god, leaking cock pressed into Loki’s back. “I’ve got something different I want to try.”
With both hands, he strokes down the path of two mirrored lines from Loki’s shoulder blades to their convergence at the small of his back. A playful slap the Grandmaster gives Loki’s ass, and the smarting heat has Loki grinding down into the mattress. And then both of the Grandmaster’s palms are firm upon Loki’s lower back, and the rolling wave of heat they bring is ebbing away, turning lukewarm, turning cold. Never has anything felt chilled to Loki’s Jotun skin. His eyes widen, and with mingling alarm and curiosity he asks: “What are you doing?”
“What, this?” the Grandmaster asks with nonchalance, skimming a fingertip up one of the markings of Loki’s back. Gooseflesh breaks out in its wake, and Loki shivers; surreptitiously the Grandmaster rolls his hips, rutting his cock against Loki’s ass. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” he rakes his nails down Loki’s back with pressure enough that Loki will still bear the scratches come sunrise. “How do you like it?” Loki’s skin prickles with the wintry impression of the Grandmaster’s touch, and he can give no reply other than to moan, the sudden cold and the bulk of the Grandmaster grinding small circles against his ass overwhelming his heightened senses, severing any words that would form, fleeting, in his throat.
“Answer me,” the Grandmaster’s voice is a blade swathed in silk, deadly and so smoothly alluring. Against Loki’s waist he trails two fingers; one scorches fire into his sapphire skin, and the other freezes. The disparate temperatures send uncontrollable arousal crashing through him. “I—” Loki pants, fingers twisting into the lavender bedsheets, hips rolling to meet the Grandmaster’s thrusts.
At once the searing weight of the Grandmaster is upon his back, pressing him into the mattress, and the friction against Loki’s cock has him seeing stars. “Answer me, Loki,” the Grandmaster’s breath washes cold over the sensitive skin of his neck, the shell of his ear. And the words are so enticing as they pour across the Grandmaster’s freezing lips, so irresistibly inviting, and the Grandmaster’s hips are driving Loki’s aching cock into the mattress with each punishing roll. Something within Loki that has balanced shakily on some precipice finally snaps, shatters into something fragmented and raw with base carnal desire.
With unfettered strength and ferocity that has laid quiescent in the bones of this Jotun form, Loki twists about and tackles the Grandmaster, pinning the taller man beneath him with a growl. “I would have you, inside me. Now,” he leverages the full force of his carmine eyes, drives his gaze like a dagger into the Grandmaster.
Beneath him the Grandmaster squirms with uncharacteristic wantonness, brown eyes unfocused, feet digging into the bedcovers only to slide against the satiny material. The Grandmaster’s eyes look straight through Loki’s own, and Loki realizes that the Grandmaster must feel some of his lust telepathically, puissant as it was as it crashed through him. Wavering ever so slightly, the Grandmaster’s hands lift to frame his waist, comfortably warm rather than blazing with heat. The Grandmaster opens his mouth, in silence for several seconds as he gathers the words, then says breathily: “So demanding.”
Down the smooth skin of Loki’s back the Grandmaster’s hand trails, down the muscled curve of his ass, coming to rest just shy of Loki’s entrance. Heat flares briefly from the Grandmaster’s fingers, and in the next moment they are slick with lube, swirling intimate circles into the tender flesh surrounding his hole. Expectantly the Grandmaster looks up at Loki, one eyebrow arched, and despite the Grandmaster’s lust-wrecked appearance, the expression tugs at something within Loki, compels him to play along with what he knows the Grandmaster desires of him.
“Please,” Loki breathes, the Grandmaster’s hips hitching up at the quavering plea. “Please, Grandmaster.” He pours every ounce of sultriness he possesses into his begging.
Satisfied, the Grandmaster slides one long finger into him at a languid pace, its warmth a delicious feeling inside him; it is nowhere close to enough, however. “More… please,” the final word curls lascivious off his tongue. Loki groans as the Grandmaster enters him with two fingers, one still warm, the other chilled. The dueling sensations within him send a jolt of dazzling arousal to his cock as the Grandmaster scissors his fingers, stretching him. His fingers recede only to fuck roughly back into Loki, crooking to one side and brushing against a spot that tears a wrecked, jagged sound from Loki’s throat. Such overwhelming arcs of arousal assail Loki—the sudden lance of pleasure; the antithetical temperatures stroking inside him; the very sight of the Grandmaster pinned under his thighs, faint traces of blue paint still smeared just beneath his lips, chest heaving in ardor—that he has to pause, or he will come undone.
In a crushing grip he takes the Grandmaster’s bicep, halting the man’s movements. “Give me a second, or I’m—I—” the words shudder brokenly across his lips, and he trails off in favor of screwing his eyes shut as the Grandmaster slides his fingers out, leaving him empty. Admittedly, he must summon a fragment of his magic to steel himself wholly against the tide of his building orgasm.
When he opens his eyes once more in the assurance that he will last longer, the Grandmaster’s stare flickers back and forth between his eyes. Something indecipherable to Loki he whispers, something in a language Loki has never heard, though it carries the cadence of a swear. “Loki,” he says louder, “your eye… you… y—” his speech dissolves into a groan. Worry flickers through Loki at the Grandmaster’s concern with his eye before he senses that his right eye has reverted to its Aesir blue. With a transient pulse of magic, he shifts it back to match the rest of him, icy blue melting into crimson.
“You’re actually going to kill me. I—I’m banned from death’s realm, and” the Grandmaster pauses to catch his breath, “and you’re still going to kill me.” The moment of levity amidst the atmosphere dense with lust brings a small smile to Loki’s lips. “Come down here and kiss me,” the Grandmaster’s eyes fixate on the twist of Loki’s mouth.
Gently Loki lowers himself; a soft, lingering kiss he places against the Grandmaster’s mouth. The Grandmaster’s eyes are reverential. “You ready?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.”
Upright Loki sits, tossing inky ribbons of hair over his shoulder with a shake of his head, and the Grandmaster’s fingers enter him once more, long and slender and slick and not nearly enough. A third finger breaches him, hot enough to bring Loki to the brink of pain, though the interplay of variegated temperatures within him along with the delectable, stinging stretch of his hole brings pleasure enough to drown out the pain. In exactly the right way the Grandmaster crooks his fingers, and Loki bucks against them, lips falling open in ecstasy.
“Grandmaster,” Loki places a palm on his chest, though the Grandmaster’s fingers continue fucking up into him in that erotic, slow slide of stinging skin and slick thrusts. “I want you. Your length, inside me. And I would have that now.”
“As you wish,” the Grandmaster withdraws his fingers, leaving Loki hollow and incomplete. In his throat Loki stifles a needy whine. For his own cock the Grandmaster reaches to slick it, fingers still wet with conjured lube, but Loki brushes his hand aside, stilling him.
“Allow me,” he purrs. “Let’s do this the old-fashioned way, shall we?” he tips his head towards the bedside table, hand held open. Easily the Grandmaster interprets his wishes, and with an indolent flourish of his hand, a small vial of some clear liquid materializes into his now-dry hand. Feline satisfaction bristles across Loki’s features as he plucks it from the Grandmaster’s hand. “Thanks, dearest.” On Loki’s tongue, the pet name is taunting, an allure cold and distant as the stars behind it; his eyes are hooded narrow. Despite the myriad terms of endearment the Grandmaster fancies pinning to Loki, Loki himself has never been much for reciprocity, the words tasting alien and brackish in his mouth—except in the bedroom. For the sheer gratification of watching the Grandmaster’s reaction, Loki has taken a liking to flinging the Grandmaster’s favored pet names back at him, turning them sultry from their innocence in the Grandmaster’s use.
Ersatz modesty blossoms across Loki’s face as he casts his eyes downward, unscrews the cap of the vial with elegance only for the Grandmaster’s benefit. Onto his outstretched fingers he drizzles the liquid; against his blue skin it spills hot and viscous. Onto the Grandmaster’s straining cock as well he pours some of the liquid in a provocative trickle, and he returns the vial to the bedside table with an effortless flick of sorcery. In a tight grip he at last takes the Grandmaster, stroking from base to tip with a torturously slow pull. Just beneath the head Loki gives a squeeze, eyes trailing back up the Grandmaster’s tanned chest, his neck, his jawline and lips, coming to rest upon his eyes squeezed shut in desire. When his eyes open once more, they are wild, pupils blown wide in lust. Into each of Loki’s strokes, the Grandmaster thrusts shallowly. Sweat gleams at the Grandmaster’s temples, and Loki is certain that he looks no more composed, himself. The bedroom air skims warm and thin against the bared expanses of his Jotun skin; his hand working the Grandmaster’s cock makes downright obscene, slick sounds with each pump; a layer of sweat has formed where his thighs straddle the Grandmaster’s hips, dusky blue against bronze. Some matted strands of hair have fallen into Loki’s face, and with his free hand he brushes the disheveled waves back into place behind his ear.
From the Grandmaster’s length Loki removes his hand, bracing it against the man’s hips to still them. The Grandmaster’s breaths come ragged and uneven. With the lightest of touches, he takes the Grandmaster back in hand and aligns him at his entrance, sinking down onto him inch by inch. When he has taken all of the Grandmaster, as he adjusts to the stretch and throbbing pleasure of being so filled, an evanescent snatch of heat spikes inside him and against his thighs just as a splintered, shivering moan slips past the Grandmaster’s teeth.
“Was that—” Loki breathes, though he knows the answer as soon as he speaks. Tightly are the Grandmaster’s hands clenched into the bedsheets. His hold on the power keeping his body at a temperature pleasurably comfortable for Loki had faltered. “Do it,” Loki commands. “Drop the enchantment, let me feel your true skin. I can handle it.” Unbidden, the thought worms into his mind that perhaps the mildness of their difference in temperature had been for the Grandmaster’s benefit, not his own. Ready to backpedal, Loki opens his mouth—
“Really? You—you aren’t hurt by this?” The temperature of every inch of the Grandmaster’s body in contact with Loki’s raises precipitously; the hips, thighs beneath him scorch into his inner thighs, and the cock inside him sends waves of jolting heat hurtling through him.
Half-moaned and ragged Loki pushes the words past his lips: “Not in the slightest. Are you? This form would—give most—frostbite.” His hitching breaths are delimiters between the words.
“I’m not most people.” In utter seriousness, with no modicum of mirth the Grandmaster replies, and it is the plain sincerity written across his face, the otherworldly intensity behind his brown eyes, that strikes at something suspiciously close to Loki’s heart. Assuaged are Loki’s worries, and he gathers his cavalier assurance back around himself as a cloak.
“In that case,” Loki says, tone carefully offhand, and moves.
Assiduously slow, confined rolls of his hips bleed into a rough rhythm as he adjusts to the Grandmaster’s full length. Blistering heat sparks and flares within him in a delicious ebb and flow as he fucks himself on the Grandmaster’s cock, and the Grandmaster is rolling his hips to meet his every thrust, and the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin mingles with their labored breaths. The Grandmaster’s hands settle on Loki’s thighs, caressing the wintry flesh with raking strokes of heat. Brow creased beautifully, lips fallen open about hitching breaths, the Grandmaster stares lust-mesmerized into the deep red of Loki’s eyes.
Loki shifts his angle atop the Grandmaster, and though his muscles must work harder to sustain it, the Grandmaster’s cock brushes firm against that delectable spot that sends pleasure scorching through him. Around the Grandmaster he clenches, a gasping moan wrung from his throat. His cock, heavy and flushed, bobs obscenely with each roll of his hips. The Grandmaster must sense the pleasure stoking steadily higher within Loki, as in a rough grip he then takes Loki’s length. Mildly chilled and smeared with lube, his fingers stroke Loki’s aching cock. At odds with the blazing heat of the rest of the Grandmaster, the slick cold on his cock pushes Loki past a threshold. Some expression of pleasure or plea for the Grandmaster to go faster forms and crumbles in Loki’s throat, resolved as hitching, unintelligible moans. Panting, Loki screws his eyes shut; an ineluctable wave of searing pleasure rises to its crest within him, threatening to break at any second.
“Open your eyes. I want you to look at me when you come,” the demand is fractured and breathy.
As Loki opens his eyes to the Grandmaster absolutely wrecked beneath him, the hand pumping his cock drops precipitously in temperature, and that is what ultimately sends him over the edge. Over the Grandmaster’s hand and chest he spills, hips stuttering in their rhythm riding the Grandmaster as undulating bliss crashes through him. The Grandmaster groans as Loki’s muscles clench about his cock; his hand works Loki shuddering and moaning through his orgasm.
When at last the overpowering tide of his climax recedes into fucked-out ataraxy, Loki gazes down at the Grandmaster, breaths heavy, hips gone still. Around some inchoate sentence the Grandmaster’s jaw works silently before he finds his voice. “Loki. For the love of,” the sentence breaks off into a needy whine, “all that is—good in—in the—world. Don’t. Stop.” His tone crescendos, cracks; his hips thrust erratically, deep creases knitting across his forehead. Slowly, so slowly as to torture the man writhing desperate beneath him, Loki rolls his hips. Punishing, sinuous motions.
“You minx—I—pl—stars—L-Loki—” the Grandmaster devolves into speech fragmented and unfiltered. Garrulous at the best of times, the Grandmaster has a habit of speaking through moans and hitching breaths as his climax builds, the words running away from him, slipped from his control, streaming from his lips as pleasure blistering and devastating mounts and burns within him as his hips thrust and—
“Come for me, Grandmaster.” Had he not spent himself just moments prior, numbing contentment singing through his every nerve, his cock would surely be stiffening once more at the sight of the Grandmaster so ruined beneath him. Eyes glassy with a licentious frenzy, come-slick fingers digging into Loki’s thigh, broken shards of speech slipping from his lips. Loki affects his most sultry, wicked voice: “Come for me, darling.”
And the Grandmaster is spilling hot and thick inside him, voice hoarse as he cries Loki’s name. Never ceasing the languid rolls of his hips, Loki clenches his muscles, wringing the Grandmaster’s orgasm from him until the hands on his thighs slip limply off, the Grandmaster’s eyes sliding shut in hazy ecstasy. Idly Loki traces over the heaving muscles of his abdomen.
After a minute of silence punctuated only by his and the Grandmaster’s deep breaths, Loki disentangles himself from the Grandmaster, flopping down onto his back beside the man. His limbs are leaden, muscles stinging in a way that will inexorably evolve to soreness tomorrow. Through the massive bedroom window, Loki watches the city lights twinkle gently, like little stars set into buildings limned with valedictory drops of dissolving sunlight. In the rapidly falling night, the portals pouring ceaselessly into the outlands are near invisible, betrayed only by their neon circumferences. Two halves of the same broken moon hang gleaming in the sky, solemnly removed from the chaos and bustle of Sakaar.
The bed dips beside Loki, and he turns to find the Grandmaster on his side, staring intently at him. A lazy wave of the Grandmaster’s hand, and both he and Loki are clean, what smudges that had remained of the Grandmaster’s makeup vanished, the bedsheets pulled up to their chests; the bedroom lights dim to a quiet, aureate glow.
“You look so beautiful,” the Grandmaster breathes, lifting a hand to trace a burning path up one of the pale, filigree lines embellishing Loki’s neck, and his reverent wonder is too much to bear. So intimate, so close next to Loki vulnerable and blue and frozen. It had been a risk exposing this true form to the Grandmaster in the heat of a lustful moment, and Loki had not taken a moment to consider the ramifications that might echo in their relationship going forward. Revulsion, discomfort—Loki had steeled himself for that reaction, that worst case scenario. Even a shocked sort of lust Loki had anticipated. But this, this innocent reverence, twists some knife within him, drives it straight into his chest; he struggles and flounders to process it. This Jotun form is his burden to carry. In the frozen wasteland of Jotunheim it would serve him well, but to Loki, it is his vestigial shame. Never would he have considered it something beautiful, something worthy of admiration. Cloying is the Grandmaster’s ancient gaze, and Loki does the only thing he can to break the tension thick between them. One moment he is sapphire blue, swathed in recherché markings; the next, he is strikingly pale, the only remaining blue icy in his eyes.
“Hey there, gorgeous,” the Grandmaster purrs, with levity this time, and smiles one of his infrequent close-mouthed smiles. Up Loki’s neck his hand continues to skim, coming up to frame his jaw. After an unyielding torrent of scalding touches, the Grandmaster’s mild hand upon his skin is soothing. Unconsciously, Loki leans into the touch. Here in this dim bedroom, in the still twilight eye of a frenetic hurricane of a planet, beneath a sky bedecked with portals and fractured moons, each moment is a small, pacific eternity. Golden light caresses the Grandmaster’s face, softening the incomprehensibly old planes dented with laugh lines and crow’s feet. Here in this gloaming, Loki feels the strange urge to tell the Grandmaster everything about himself, to learn of the Grandmaster’s own history until their throats go raw and speech-sore. To stay here on Sakaar forever.
Loki frowns. Disconcerted, he brushes those feelings aside and hastily scrambles for something, anything to forget those treacherously quixotic thoughts. He speaks the first words that come to mind, arranging his expression into something conspiratorial: “So. Which do you prefer: this form or the blue?”
“Well, you know I have a weak spot for blue,” the Grandmaster’s thumb strokes idly across Loki’s jawline, “However. I’ve been a big, uh, big fan of this you since you landed here. Even if you look like a witch.” The Grandmaster’s grin widens.
“So I’ve heard.”
“A very pretty witch.” On Loki’s lips the Grandmaster plants a small kiss, then one beside his eye. “No, but it’s like comparing Sakaarans to Kronans. Blue you, Asgardian you,” he waves a hand airily. “They’re totally different, bedroom-wise. Different experiences. They both have their… perks.” Closer to Loki he scoots. “And what I like the most,” he rolls onto his stomach, hooking an ankle across Loki’s calf and flinging a hand across Loki’s torso as he buries his face sideways into his pillow, “Is that they’re both—both of them are you. So I really couldn’t choose,” his words slur and muffle as he burrows deeper into the pillow. “Go to sleep, God of Mis… God of Mischief.”
What corner of the Grandmaster’s mouth Loki can still see quirks into a grin; with a pulse of magic the Grandmaster extinguishes the bedroom lights, and he succumbs to the draw of sleep. Strictly speaking, he requires no sleep, but Loki has learned that, like most things, the Grandmaster does it for the sheer pleasure.
Loki should join the Grandmaster in rest, but despite the cossetting comfort of the plush bed, his thoughts wheel too rapidly for sleep to take hold. On his chest the Grandmaster’s arm rests leaden and pleasantly warm, and Loki’s even breaths break the otherwise dead silence of the room. Had that been mere flattery, or did the Grandmaster truly appreciate Loki’s essence above his appearance?
Surface charm and base carnality abound on Sakaar, and Loki has seamlessly insinuated himself into this sybaritic world. Debonair comments in the right ears at the right times, tactical use of his wit—within mere days of his arrival, Loki had ingratiated himself with the Grandmaster. Reached the apex of this weltering and cutthroat social hierarchy. Loki eventually admitted to himself that he did in fact find the Grandmaster physically attractive, and following weeks of worming his way out of the man’s advances, he gave himself over to pleasure. They fell into a rhythm, he and the Grandmaster: make light conversation over breakfast, spectate games together, dine together, wine together. Some days he chose Loki to accompany him through the evening; some days he chose others; some days he chose no one, spending the night alone, immersed in party glitz and thumping music, untouchable.
As substance gradually, against Loki’s better judgement, slipped into their conversations, as Loki discovered the gentle side of a man he had once thought a lunatic and a tyrant, he found himself caught in the gravity of the Grandmaster, inexorably drawn to him. He tried to extricate himself. With every glimpse of the Grandmaster’s inexplicable puissance, though, with every night he watched the Grandmaster dance alone behind his keyboard in the midst of shimmering drunken conversation and grinding bodies, Loki’s intrigue flourished. Whenever the Grandmaster grappled with Topaz’s severe disposition, whenever he spent dusk through dawn engrossed in the louche world of his parties, Loki found himself battling a fond grin.
In the most recent weeks, this shift had become more pronounced. Rarely did the Grandmaster invite anyone aside from Loki to bed, and he had taken to addressing Loki as “darling.” He draped himself like an octopus across Loki at night, and despite waking with the first spears of sunlight that pierced the bedroom window, the Grandmaster would merely lie there watching Loki lazily, stroking painted fingertips idly against his skin until Loki insisted they leave for breakfast. His true age he revealed to Loki, and in turn Loki revealed what pieces of himself he could bear the man knowing—namely, childhood memories involving Frigga. Somehow, on this planet so remote from every realm Loki had ever known, he felt safe exposing these small fragments of his life.
When first he fell from Sakaar’s sky, he had plotted to overthrow the eccentric despot that was the Grandmaster. Now, lying in perfect stillness beside the man drifting deep in slumber, Loki cannot suppress the wry twist of his lips at the memory. Somewhere in his bones, the urgency remains to either supplant the Grandmaster or escape Sakaar, though his bones are nothing if not a palimpsest of desires. All his life Loki has sought belonging, admiration, and here on Sakaar he has stumbled into exactly that. In this moment, a bony ankle hooked over his leg and starlight glimmering outside the window, Loki’s chest is heavy with the pale yearning to drag this moment into eternity. To remain upon Sakaar at the Grandmaster’s side.
En Dwi Gast. That true, archaic name rings in his ears. It twists something in Loki’s gut, sets his fingers alight with restlessness. En Dwi Gast.
“Damn,” he breathes, and the quiet swear dissolves into the night. He stares into the congealed bedroom darkness as sleep dances from his unsteady grasp, nighttime hours dripping by with only his thoughts to occupy him.
The broken moon of Sakaar hangs silent sentry in the sky, shining down silver-blue.