fredbassett

“You’re a poisonous little shit,” commented Vidar, something approaching approval in his voice.

The other man smiled. “So I’ve been told. But strange as it may seem, I’ve no desire for a fight, so I’ll bid you good night.” Drawing his cloak around him, he strode off into a night as black as a wolf’s pelt, the noise of his boots unnaturally loud on the flags of the courtyard.

Vidar sighed.

Loki was nowhere near as sober as he appeared and there were those in the hall who had no cause to love him after tonight’s little display. To be fair, most of them hated his guts at the best of times. And today could not have been described as the best of times, even by the biggest optimist in Valhalla.

Vidar leant against a carved wooden pillar and waited.

Predictable as ever, Heimdall was the first to appear. The damp bottom remark clearly still rankled, even though it had been one of Loki’s milder offerings.

“Which way?” he muttered, thickly.

The man was too unsteady on his feet to pose much of a threat, but there was no point in taking chances.

“Towards Bifrost. I’d tell your lads to let him through, if I were you. No point in keeping trouble penned in here.”

Vidar’s dark eyes followed Heimdall’s unsteady progress. The Watchman of the Gods would have more than a damp arse by morning at this rate. It looked set for rain, and his chances of making it as far as the Bridge in that state weren’t high.

The door to the hall opened again. Smoky light flooded out and spewed a cursing Thor into the cold air, Mjollnir cradled threateningly in hands the size of shovels.

“Stables,” said Vidar, helpfully. “Your threats sent him scuttling, Thunderer. I doubt he’ll stop before he reaches the Ironwood.”  But next time try a retort of somewhat greater subtlety than just threatening to stuff the Hammer down his throat. Once was reasonable, twice was repetitive and three times was just damned boring.

Thor strode off, still muttering uncreative threats.

Vidar doubted the rest of them would have the balls to even consider getting physical with their erstwhile companion, but he waited a while longer just to be sure. Byggvir could be a chancy bastard when his temper was up but he hadn’t looked sober enough to pick his nose, let alone a fight.

A flurry of rain blew in and the Lord of the Forests decided enough was enough and headed for his own hall.

The fire burned brightly in the hearth and Loki had already helped himself to the mead.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough already?” commented Vidar mildly, throwing the cloak down and shaking his dark hair like a dog.

“Still upright, aren’t I?” The silken voice held just a hint of challenge. “So, have they got the dogs out for me yet?”

“Heimdall’s headed for Bifrost, Thor’ll no doubt sober up half way to Ironwood and find someone else to thump, the rest of them will probably be picking over some of your choicer observations until dawn. Those that don’t slide under the table in a stupor, that is.”

“Gave ‘em something to gossip about from here till Ragnarok, didn’t I? The miserable fuckers ought to thank me for brightening the tedium. And be fair, there are only so many ale and pork parties anyone can stand without attempting to liven things up!”

“You certainly livened things up,” Vidar acknowledged, with a rueful grin, “but you should have left Sif out of it. Her only folly was taking you to her bed. Thor will make her pay for that.”

Loki shook his head. “She told him, years ago. Said he couldn’t match me when it came to a good roll in the hay. Miserable sod’s hated me ever since.”  His voice sounded faintly aggrieved, which was a probably a sign of exactly how drunk he really was.

Vidar crossed the room in three long strides, swiping the mead horn and draining it in one deep swallow. At times, it was easier at times to deal with Loki on his own terms.

“As I said before, you really are a poisonous little shit.”

He slid one hand round the other man’s neck and drew him into a long kiss that tasted pleasantly of honey and herbs. There were those who claimed that kissing Loki was reminiscent of swallowing a mouthful of bile, but then he’d always had an unhappy knack of alienating his lovers. Slagging them off at parties was only one of his bad habits.

Firelight brought out red-gold highlights in Loki’s pale hair and added a flush to the high cheekbones.

He stayed unusually passive as Vidar’s tongue slid against his. If truth be told, the last few mouthfuls of mead had been a horn too far and he was gripped by a sudden need to lie down before he fell down.

Vidar laughed into the other man’s open mouth and lowered him to the furs in front of the fire. “Water?”

Loki shook his head. You couldn’t trust the water round here. He was convinced they used the tanks to store dead rats. Every time he drank the water he spewed. Something he felt at pains to point out to Vidar, in the slow, careful way of the exceedingly drunk.

“That’s because you only drink it when you get into this state,” commented Vidar, as he started to unlace his companion’s tunic.

“Your fault, you tell me to drink it, always your bloody fault when I spew ……..”

Vidar silenced him with a kiss. “Don’t start on me or I’ll let the women know where you are. And if you think Freya’ll forgive you for that farting in bed crack in a hurry, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Well, she does!”

Vidar’s tongue licked a wet trail along Loki’s collarbone. “I know that, you know that, the whole of sodding Asgard knows that, but it isn’t polite to talk about it in public.”

His tongue dipped lower to flick across a nipple.

“Is Idun cross with me?”

You told a hall full of people that she fucked her brother’s murderer. I’d say cross was an understatement. He sucked and nipped his way down the other man’s chest. “She’ll get over it.”

His hands struggled briefly with Loki’s belt, then pushed soft lambswool breeches down over slim hips. Swordsman’s hips.

Boots!  Why in Niflheim’s name do I always forget to deal with the boots? Maybe because he always seemed to get up close and personal with Loki when the other man was too drunk to deal with his own footwear.

He swept his tongue briefly down Loki’s already swelling cock – clearly not that drunk – then wrestled a pair of muddy boots off and flung them into the darkness of the room. The breeches followed.

His companion sprawled loosely in the furs, naked apart from the open tunic and a gaping shirt, the flames of the fire turning his pale skin to gold. Loki’s eyes were half-closed, long dark lashes fluttering on his cheeks like bird’s wings. He shifted his hips invitingly.

Loki may have accused Odin of playing a woman’s part, but coming from him, it hardly ranked as an insult. Loki would fuck, and let himself be fucked by, anything with a pulse, as the inhabitants of Asgard, Midgard and Jotunheim knew only too well. And there were times when Vidar wondered if lack of life in a partner would even act as a constraint.

“Prefer my lovers warm,” muttered Loki, squirming prettily.

“Get out of my head,” said Vidar, under his breath, while his lips tracked lower through a tangle of darker curls. Not so drunk as you appear, my friend, but this time he kept his thoughts closely guarded.

A stone jar of mead sat warming by the fire. Vidar pulled out the stopper and slowly, carefully, poured a warm, sticky trail over the other man’s cock and balls. Might as well entertain himself at the same time. His companion was clearly intending to contribute nothing more than a pliant body and the occasional murmur of lazy encouragement.

The mead tasted just as good this way. Vidar rolled his tongue round the head of Loki’s cock then sucked him down deeply, drawing a surprised gasp followed by a buck of the narrow hips.

Using both hands, Vidar pressed him back into the furs and made a disapproving noise deep in his throat. Loki groaned, trying – and failing – to fuck Vidar’s mouth.

Teeth grazed along his cock warningly and with a muttered curse, Loki lapsed back into bonelessness. More mead followed as Vidar concentrated his efforts on the sensitive skin of his lover’s balls. The smaller man might fuck like a whore, but there were few he trusted to get this close, and Vidar knew he was one of them, and it always amused him to play such games, knowing that somewhere buried deep in Loki’s brain, his survival instincts were struggling for dominance. And losing.

He drew one sticky globe, then the other, into his mouth, lips wide and tongue rolling. Loki moaned but stayed very still. Vidar ran his hands over the taught skin of his hipbones, pressing down with his thumbs hard enough to bruise.

“Not going to last ……” the words were muffled.

Vidar glanced along an expanse of fire-warmed skin and let his lover’s balls slip out of his mouth before he castrated him with laughter. Loki had one fist stuffed into his mouth and he was biting his own knuckles.

Leaning back on one elbow, Vidar took a deep swallow of the warm liquid from the jar and asked, in a conversational tone, “Was there anyone in the hall tonight that you didn’t insult?”

As a distraction it clearly worked. A frown creased Loki’s forehead as he cast his mind back over the evening. Vidar used that as an opportunity to shed his own clothes.

“Bragi?”

Vidar shook his head. “You called him a coward. The most backward in battle. Remember?”

“ ’s true.”

“It wasn’t tactful.” 

He bent his head and licked the last of the mead off the other man’s cock. He was about to roll him over and he didn’t want the stuff getting into the bear skin. It was a bugger to get the mess out of the fur. Not that it wouldn’t end up covered with other substances later, but Vidar liked to make at least a brief attempt to maintain some standards of good housekeeping.

“Gefjun?”

“ ‘fraid not. You accused her of getting seduced by the religion of the White Christ.”

Loki turned his head and spat into the fire at the mention of the name. “I’d forgotten that.”

Vidar sighed. He was going to have to take his companion through this lot again in the morning, wasn’t he? Sober. Otherwise he’d just look vaguely hurt and puzzled when someone tried to kill him.

“And you saw fit to blazon to the four winds the unsavoury truth that Frigga’s screwed both of her husband’s brothers. That one went down like a turd in a washtub, I can assure you.”

Loki chuckled, then hiccupped as strong hands pulled him up, ripped off the tunic and undershirt and flipped him over onto his stomach.

Vidar winced, expecting the other man to throw up. That was what hiccups normally preceded, in his experience.

A quick dribble of mead was followed by him driving three fingers hard into Loki’s arse.

The next hiccup was curtailed by a loud squeak. Vidar grinned. Looked like he’d escaped the vomit. For now, at least.

He drew his fingers out slowly and dribbled more mead into the hollow at the base of his lover’s back, then as an afterthought, he did his best to pour more down the crack of his arse.

“Stay still, or it’ll get everywhere!” he ordered, in a voice of iron coated with honey.

Loki subsided, pillowing his head on his arms. That tone went to his groin every time it was used on him.

“Do I have to avoid Njord?”

Vidar paused in the act of lapping the sticky fluid from the base of the other man’s back. “Unless you want your teeth stuffed out backwards through your arse, I’d advise it.”

“I didn’t, did I?”

“Oh yes you did.”

“But he does like women pissing in his mouth!” He liked it when I did it too, thought Loki with amusement.

Vidar grimaced. There some things that really should remain private.

“Maybe, but Hymir’s daughters are rather large. I think that’s what caused the surprise.”

Actually, maybe surprise wasn’t quite the right word. Even Odin had looked disgusted at that little revelation, and it was a well known fact that some of his tastes ran to the bizarre and down-right offensive at times, no matter how much his wife tried to deny it.

Vidar’s tongue slid lower, following the mead. Loki obligingly lifted his hips and spread his thighs. Receptive as ever. Vidar sighed, blowing warm breath across small, sticky hairs.

“Do you promise not to talk about this in public?”

“Oath of honour,” lied Loki, smoothly.

Vidar’s tongue ran lightly round darker, puckered skin. He hoped he’d managed to get enough of the mead where it mattered, but just in case, he took another mouthful and proceeded to try and work it in, with the aid of tongue and fingers.

It took all his strength to prevent the other man grinding his cock against the bearskin rug. Loki never could stay still while he was being deeply and thoroughly tongue-fucked.  

It was getting to the stage that Vidar was having trouble ignoring his own erection. He also needed to breathe.

“Tyr gave as good as he got,” he remarked, panting slightly.

“Did not!” Loki’s voice was loaded with outrage. “Don’t stop …….” he added, plaintively.

Still trying to catch his breath, Vidar slipped two sticky fingers inside. That seemed to work as a tongue substitute and Loki’s irritated whine subsided.

“And it wasn’t nice, reminding a lady that you helped kill her husband.” Even if Skadi and Thjazi had spent most of their married life ripping the shit out of each other.

“Don’t like her,” muttered Loki, a shade petulantly. “Didn’t like him much, either.”

“That was obvious.” Shoving a sword in someone’s guts was always an effective means of conveying disapproval.

His fingers were working harder and faster now, making Loki mewl like a wolfhound pup wanting more milk. He wasn’t going to hold out against this much longer, that was for sure. Vidar slipped his fingers out, then removed any surplus mead with a swift swipe of his tongue. He knew all too well that Loki liked a sharp edge to his pleasure. A trait that Vidar applauded.

In one hard, deep thrust, he shoved himself balls-deep into a very welcoming arse.

Loki came, yelling a curse, obscene and amusing, in equal measure.

Vidar’s hips promptly lost their stroke as surprised laughter coursed through him. How could he have forgotten his lover’s inability to climax either quietly or politely? It upset his rhythm every sodding time.

Loki’s shoulders shook with his own laughter, which turned quickly to a gasp as Vidar bit down hard, recovering with all the speed of a natural fighter. He then proceeded to drive his own pleasure remorselessly into the Lord of Mischief’s still spasming arse.

His own climax hit as hard as blow from Thor’s Hammer, driving the breath from his lungs, exploding sparks in his brain with the heat of a forge. Molten gold settled around him like a cloak of fire as he lost himself in Loki’s heat. But they didn’t call him Vidar the Silent for nothing. He could always come quietly if he wanted. It was a useful talent in Asgard’s crowded halls. Especially if the other person’s spouse was in earshot.

A stray thought intruded briefly, You didn’t insult Beyla much.

A chuckle ran though the other man’s muscles and clenched them hard around Vidar’s now softening cock. 

Only by association with her argumentative dullard of a husband. See, I can be subtle when I want to be.

Loki worked practised muscles a final time, dragging a last shudder of pleasure out of the other man. Then the Lord of Fire took charge at last and rolled his still gasping lover onto his side, pillowing Vidar’s head onto a welcoming shoulder.

Vidar groaned. Yes, he really was going to have to explain the true meaning of subtlety sometime. But now not, not with those hands running through his hair, down his arms, along his thighs, forcing more heat into his body that even he felt capable of holding.

“And I didn’t insult you at all,” muttered Loki, directly into his ear. “Even though you are an arse-licker and a back-biter.”