He sat next to her. Thora never let her eyes leave his, the thunder rumbling low in the not far off distance. She allowed him to watch her frost over. She was protecting herself, he realized.

And that triggered it.

The proximity closed.

Nose to nose.

"Jag hatar dig." I hate you.

"Jeg hater deg mer, din jævla drittsekk."I hate you more, you fucking prick.

"En sådan ilska, lite snö ängel. Vad är allt det här nu?" Such anger, little snow angel. What's all this now?

The fastest guitar player in the world was unsure if that was his overwhelming lust or the powerful blood-wine on an empty stomach talking.

"Jeg hater deg. Jeg hater alt du er." I hate you. I hate everything you are. Her voice was rising, the fury showing through the glaciers. The blizzard was coming.

:Eftersom jag är bättre än du?" Because I am better than you? Such a calm, cool response.

Thora was on him before he could blink. The Storm was here. Soft, small, angry lips crashed into his full, hungry ones. She dug her nails into his shoulder. She wanted him to hurt. She hated him.

"Fordi du aldri kan være bra nok for meg." Because you could never be good enough for me. She hissed into his ear as he overtook her.

Skwisgaar rose, her legs suddenly around his waist, her hands in his hair, his lips on her neck, her breathlessness in his ear.

His desire was difficult to control, and he was sure she felt him. The hardness of waiting in torment. Of no other woman nor man satisfying his appetite. This was Global Warming, and his Glaciers were melting away one by one. Only the frozen Omens of Home could stop this fire. And she was his.

...

It was in the dark underbeat of the after party, upon the pinnacle of his intoxication, that Skwisgaar saw her again. She was standing against the opposite wall, in a dark blue, bell sleeved sweater, eyeing the room nervously. He spotted Toki nearby, lost in his high, as Pickles tried to give him his insulin. Skwisgaar snarled, inaudible below the heartbeat of the party.

Everything had gone off without a hitch. Klok Stock has skyrocketed to an unseen high; Charles was practically cumming in his panties.

Charles.

Charles. There he was, Skwis swayed again, as if his eyes knew where to find the Robot; Watching Skwisgaar. Ofdensen never attended the afterparties. But his soulless eyes were upon the Viking, and the chill made him quiver. Charles shook his head slowly, and smiled cruelly.

The Norseman fled, his anger leaving him; the message was clear. This was not over for the Swede by far. A line had been crossed by the Ice King during the Premier. He had thrown her away at the very end, storming off the stage. Everyone went wild as she awkwardly picked herself up, and stood there staring, searching for something. They thought the message of heartbreak was so totally metal, and how she had picked herself up was brutal. It was bullshit.

Skwis had to get out of there. Charles had moved. He couldn't see him. Anxiety rippled through his chest, cold heart beating. He had tried snorting crack out of a whore's asscrack to wash the lingering flavor of Thora, and had apparently gone too far, done too much.

It hadn't helped, anyway. He could still taste her; taste the indecency as a world watched him attempt to control himself. He couldn't have had her the way he wanted her, anyway.

In the darkness, swift, soft hands made their way to his crotch, and rubbed him, dancing. Skwisgaar could not fucking see for the life of him, but he didn't care. The storm beneath her skin was still tangible, and he would go home with anybody,

Camera's flashing with supersonic speed; comparable to strobes that graced their of people had crammed themselves into the cramped arena. Ticket sales had been just as high as a concert. Skwisgaar growled low in his throat as he let the curtain fall back into place. He took another hearty swig of whatever was in his cup. It numbed his anxiety.

Calf high combats, sleek skintight jeans, a crown upon his golden tresses. A DethKlok-patched vest left his chest bare. Arm gauntlets, Mjolnir dangling from his neck.

The Ice King hadn't seen what ludacris "fashionista" they had fashioned the Snowflake out to be; the surprise on the stage.

The tightness of his jeans did little to hide the frustration he felt. Two minutes into his encounter with the Blizzard Witch, Ofdensen had strolled in the door with a demonic smirk in his eyes.

"Showtime, my good lady. We wouldn't want you to ruin your make-up."
Just as quickly as he had appeared, he whisked Thora away after quickly, almost with relief, untangled herself from the Swede.

A tap on his shoulder brought Skwis back to reality. Toki was smiling, offering him a peppermint stick. "It ams showtime, Skwis."

The Demon of the North knocked the candy from Toki's hand with a sneer. "Fucks you, Wartooth."

"You have all waited patiently. Our Snow Queen is here. Primarily, I present to you, Thora Wartooth, the face of Deth!Chik Industries." Ofdensen rang over the stadium's PA. Toki's grin countered the malice building on Skwisgaar's face.

The applause, the screams,were deafening, but didn't eliminate the click click of the vultures.

"To compliment our lovely Majesty here, may I present the Fastest Guitar Player in the World, Skiwsgaar Skwigelf."

He wasn't ready; frozen hands pushed him through the curtain. He caught himself, walking with dignity to the center to meet the Robot and his hatred. Glaciers glanced over her, and froze; time froze, everything froze. She was too much, stunning. He hated her more.

Ofdensen backed up, becoming a Wallflower to allow the turns of Thora in the stagelight were the center, followed so closely by Skwis' stagefright. He found he had no breath in his body, the frost of her skin piercing something deep within him.

Strong hands wrapped in her hair, forcing her face to his. This was a live, worldwide, broadcast. Panic fought to be free behind her eyes as his mouth crashed down on hers, claiming her. His other hand grabbed her waist, pulling her against his bare chest. The arena was going 1960's asylum insane over his display. She pulled back, biting into his shoulder, drawing blood.

Ofdensen tapped Pickles playfully on the ass behind the curtain. They were going to make millions.

Skwis bore down on her, his mouth finding her throat, her lips at his ear.

"Du vil bli min før dette er gjennom." You will be mine before this is through. She purred, something taking ahold of her.

She took ahold of him, his throat in her delicate hands; His eyes met hers, the desire overwhelming him. He threw her down, snarling at the camera's, and stormed away.

"Beauty does not always quell the beast." Ofdensen chuckled into the microphone. The paparazzi were eating this up. With dignity, blood trickling from her lip where he had bitten her, she faced them, and triumphed.

Skwis turned to seek the hands that grabbed him, and found himself nose to nose with Charles. Rage overtook him as Ofdensen rubbed greedily at the Nord's crotch. "Now now, pet." He purred, so similar to Her, "We aren't done here. You made me a lot of money today."

"Leaves me alones, Charle." A growl, a direct threat.

"Ah but you left her on the stage. Don't you want her, don't you want a taste?" Skwis tried to pull away, but Ofdensen was unprecedentedly strong, unforeseen.

Skwisgaar snarled as his eyes found hers, the smirk on her face. She thought she was safe.

"You are going to have a willing affair with Miss Wartooth, Skwigelf, and you are going to love it, do you hear me?" The man that literally had him by the balls hissed with venom. "Or your eating disorder will plaster the front pages for a decade."

Skwis bit his lip to keep himself for biting The Robot. There were teeth marks at her throat, he could see. He watched a tall, curly ginger talk her up, her stone mask cracking with a smile.

"Own her, Skwisgaar."
"Ifs I ams can, ams will."

Charles threw an arm around the Swede, both bodies tense in the underbeat of the party. "That's my boy." He pinched the carved cheek with affirmation before strolling away to a shirtless Pickles. He whispered something to Pickles, who nodded. They rapidly disappeared into the crowd.

Nathan was seated with two busty blonde's on his lap, their lips blacker than his rage. Even Murderface was wandering off with homely groupies.

Skwis found himself in front of Thora, of the redhead chatting her up. His fist slammed into the freckled temple of the man, sending him flying back into the bar. The man recoiled, rearing up to strike back, before realizing who the man he faced was. WIth fear smeared across his pale face, the Irishman dodged a second blow, and was off.

The Ice King turned to face the Snowflake, to find her offering him the blunt she held. He leaned down, catching her off guard with his tongue tracing her jawline. She had sworn he would be hers, but he intended to make that the other way around. Swaying with intoxication, he leaned in again to leave a whisper on her cheek.

"Du vil bli min før dette er gjennom." You're going to beg me to fuck you.

And he had every intention of making her.

…