Disclaimer: I own nothing but the OC's, whom are loosely based off of either real people, or characters not my own.
A/N: I'm sure my long periods of not posting have become bothersome, but here's some smut for you, right here.
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.
It was dark, the familiar feel of his bearskin surrounding him in his frozen home. Breath, nearby, someone was stirring.
"Dämpa." Dim. He commanded the lights, slowly glowing to reveal a woman with dark hair turned away from him. He looked at her, an animalistic scream of frustration soaring from his snarl. It wasn't her. The Bitch never made it to his bed.
. . .
The sunrise was always something calming to the little Ice Princess. Chewing on her scabbed lip, Thora let the charcoal in her hand come alive. With gentle, rapid flutters of her plump hand, she let Him come out of the white space that had been where his frozen eyes bore into hers. She shuttered; involuntarily, she swore.
It was just dawn, only Gears up and about. Everyone else was hung over, or dead; at least she assumed as much. She dropped the charcoal, smearing her hands on bare, moonbeam legs. Drawing her tormentor was going to do her no good. Thora decided she needed to go for a ride; she needed to clear her head.
Pulling her pale sweater over her head, she chose chocolate velvet riding pants. A warmer sweater, slate grey, and decent combat boots left her feeling cold. She shuddered, trying to banish his glaciers from her mind. With a quick step out the door, she quietly descended the stairs from her tower, and made her way to the stable.
Choosing a sturdy mare as grey as London, she saddled up, and took off over the drawbridge, and out into the hills.
. . .
The whore had left Skwis half an hour ago, terrified and thrilled all in one. Angelica, or something like that; she had told him at one point; He still didn't care.
He was still where he had been when he had screamed. He had half-moon fingernail cuts in his biceps, and it made his skin crawl. Standing suddenly, he threw on clothes that weren't covered in assorted body fluids, grabbed a thick towel, and headed down to the stables. He wanted to ride Mörka Vindar (Dark Winds) to the hot springs a bit away from the 'Haus, and rinse off the stains of his failures.
. . .
Charles, balls deep in Pickles' mouth, shuddered quietly as he approached his release. Pickles unexpectedly pulled away. The Robot whined almost inaudibly in response. He was bound to the headboard by a braid of his own ties, his legs connected to a spreader bar. He was stuck in limbo, and after a night of edging, dying for release.
"F-uhck Pickles, pleee-ahs."
"Pathetic." Pickles chuckled, wiping his chin with the back of a freckled hand.
The drummer's dreads were swept up in a dashingly good man-bun, emerald eyes afire.
"Sebastian, please." Ofdensen was panting, his cock twitching. He fucking needed it.
"Se-Bah-stian, eeeeh?" Pickles cooed. "Usin' mah real name, eh Charlie? Needin' ta cum tha' bad?"
The Manager for the most sought-after band in the Universe could do nothing but moan in return as Pickles began to stroke his cock.
"'ve been wantin' to talk ta ya 'bout somet'in fer a while, Cha'lie." The ginger was purring like a cat, working his partner with practiced expertise. Charles had a dirty little secret.
"Yes, pleaaaase Bastion what is it? Tell me, please, please I need it." The slut trailed off in a whine.
"Yer makin' some good money offa this Thora thing, eh? 'm thinkin' yer not thinkin' big enough, Charliedoll." Pickles released the other man swiftly, causing the recipient to groan in frustration. "'m thinkin' we make dis a romance, ya Charlie? Make 'em somethin' the world's gonna look at and say WOWEE!"
The very thought of Toki at this time made Charles cringe in disguist. Pickles was the only man he had ever coveted for. Charles Ofdensen denied himself of little; waste not want not.
"Whadda ya say, Char? Nothin' secret, no affairs. A proper courtship, ya know?"
"Whatever You say, Master."
"That's a good laddie." Stroking, quickly, with purpose.
Charles last coherent thought before his euphoria overtook him was how he had never cared for the color green before the eyes of his Master.
. . .
Skwis rode Mörka Vindar hard, and was seven miles out in no time. He easily located the cave that led to the natural hot spring, and tied his horse to graze and drink from the stream. Gathering his items, he took a deep breath of the pure pine smell, the cold air with just a hint of animal, just a hint of sulfur; it was the closest thing he had ever found to home here in this stupid fucking redneck country.
"Gudar, fan dessa svin." Gods, damn these pigs. He spat, ducking to enter the cave, and picking his way down a rocky slope to a well-lit plateau at the bottom. The confined space opened up into a large dome missing its top. Skwisgaar Swkigelf sighed.
"Jag vill bara gå hem." I just want to go home. He snarled to no one.
He was alone; like he had always been, like he would always be.
. . .
Thora was particularly thrilled with the path she'd chosen. Her horse, whom she'd lovingly named Uværsskyen (Stormcloud) for their time together, was a well tempered mare in her fourth year. She was mostly gray, with gentle white blended in here and there. Truly, she was a painted masterpiece, much like the view.
Thy rode over the crests of several hills, with Mordhaus winking out of sight behind the taller and a riverbed in sight over the shorter. Picking their way gently down to the stream, a mere trickle this time of year, Thora spotted a large black Stallion with dappled quarters the next hill over.
Eyebrow raised at who might be out, the directed Uværsskyen that-a-way. She recognized the stallion from the 'Haus stables, but couldn't recall who –
Thora Wartooth froze, her blood ice, her heart encased. He was here, she shouldn't be here. Turning Uværsskyen to take the long way around the hill, as to not have to cross his horse, Thora's heart was in wardrums.
Rounding a rather large evergreen, Uværsskyen halted suddenly, almost pitching Thora down an open chasm. Inhaling deeply, she managed to turn the rearing horse to avoid that fate. Nickering uneasily, Thora backed her mare away from the gap, soothing her gently.
"
Nå nå min søte hoppeføll, gjør du ikke bekymre deg. Vi er i orden, vi er greit. Se trinn, Uværsskyen." Now now my sweet filly, don't you fret. We're okay, we're okay. Watch your step, little.
Thora dismounted, stroking her companion reassuringly.
Skwisgaar hear the words echoing from above him, his heart caught in his throat, encased. He was hallucinating. This must be a dream, too many fuck fuckity fuck fuck drugs.
"Thora Wartooth?' He called uneasily.
"Ja?" Yes?
"Thora, vad fan gör du här?" Thora, what the fuck are you doing here?
He sighed in exasperation, looking up, and catching her horse's shadow against the bright blue sky. It was truly her, she was truly here. And yet, he could not touch her.
"Uh, jeg leter etter et sted å være." Uh, am looking for a place to be. She muttered, the echo clear in the cavern.
Each finely-tuned hair on his body rose to her call. Here was the woman who set his blood ablaze, the bitch who haunted his every waking moment since the first time she had entered the 'Haus. Skwis reminded himself that she truly hadn't been around for too long, which made this hell all the more unbearable.
The Swede heard his ancestors whispering to him through the babbling spring, recognizing the guidance of his Gods. Of Their Gods.
"Hon är ensam, alltför." She is alone, too. The voices rose around him, racing in his brain.
"Kom ner hit, sto. Lämna din häst med mig, och låt mig visa dig något." Come down here, filly. Leave your horse with mine, and let me show you something. Skwisgaar called, his voice not his own as it wavered in the syllables, commanding her.
The Gods had spoken, who was he to disobey?
Thora, grabbing the reins of Uværsskyen, began to negotiate back around the cavern, down to the spine-chilling spot. She tied her mare next to (Black Wind), and shivered herself. Was she truly going to put herself in the confined space of a cave with the man who turned her body into flame?
No, she wasn't. Thora Wartooth was not so dumb that she would endanger herself like that. He might hurt her, or rape her. Her breath caught in her throat as the realization of how willingly she would accept his body washed over her. Needless to say, she was not content. Untying her steed, Thora shimmied up a tree conveniently close by, and mounted herself. She was not tall enough to climb up unassisted, and was thankful for the Gods gifting her this assistance.
The Norseman strode out of the cavern mouth, shirtless and breathtaking, as she was preparing to take off.
"Går någonstans?" Going somewhere? Skwis' tone was low, needy, but non-threatening.
"Jeg var, ja, kommer til å gå hjem." I was, yeah, going to go home.
"Hem är ganska långt härifrån." Home is pretty far from here.
The silent sigh that passed between them would have broken the hearts of normal mortals. These were no mere mortals, these were Vikings.
"Hjem er her, nå." Home is here, now.
She would not be made out to be weak. This was surely some intricate trick he had planned up with the help of Loki.
"Nej, lite snö häxa. Ni vet lika väl som jag att hemmet är en frusen plats kan vi bara hålla vid liv inne i oss. Det är vintergröna dalar och snötäckta berg, floder fulla av björnjakt fisk och rådjur trav försiktigt i månskenet. Hemma är där vi kommer ifrån." No, little snow witch. You know as well as I do that home is a frozen place we can only keep alive inside of us. It is evergreen valleys, and snowy mountains; rivers full of bears hunting fish, and deer trotting gently in the moonlight. Home is where we come from.
Thora remembered these things. She remembered her solitary confinement, her use and abuse, her past, far deeper. A shiver ran though her bones, this one not caused by her companion.
"Komma. Låt mig visa dig var gudarna bor här." Come. Let me show you where the Gods live here.
He extended a pale, strong hand to help her dismount. Without thinking,
how could she when this Snøstorm (blizzard) was so close?,
she grasped his calloused palm, and nearly fell from her horse.
The tordenskrall (thunderclap) was audible in her ears, in her veins. The blonde ripped his hand away from hers, his skin on fire where she had touched him. Goosebumps covered his exposed skin, a breeze playing with his cascading locks.
"Du inte göra det till sängs med mig i går kväll." You didn't make it to bed with me last night. Skwis half-growled-half-chuckled.
. . .
He remembered chasing her up a flight of stairs. He rounded a corner, finding Thora pressing a slim brunette against the wall. The Norwegian grabbed the face of her partner, kissed her deeply, and shoved her towards the Swede, who was FUBAR. Thora ran, locking her little princess self in her little princess tower, and cried for a safety she had never known.
Skwis, unaware he had not captured his prize, carted the woman back to his den, where she was willingly ravaged.
"Thora, knulla." Thora, fuck. He grunted, again, as he came, again, inside the brunette.
"I'm Angel, I told you." The woman moaned back, enjoying the passionate fucking.
And then it was black.
. . .
"Nei det gjorde jeg ikke. Du syntes å gjøre ganske bra for deg selv." No, I did not. You seemed to do pretty well for yourself. She gestured to the half-moon scabs littering his skin, the bite marks along his jaw line, the bruises along his throat.
"Det kunde ha varit du." It could have been you. The growl was half-assed.
"Men det var ikke, var det?" But it wasn't, was it? She was getting cocky, defensive; snarling in here thick Norwegian.
He turned on his heels, and strode off into the mouth of the cavern.
"Nej, men jag svär på likbål av mina förfäder, måste jag dig hur du är tänkta att vara hade." No, but I swear on the funeral pyres of my forefathers, I will have you the way you are meant to be had. His eyes were blue steel, cutting her in unimaginable places, as he whispered to himself.
"Kom, liten snöflinga. Gudarna kommer jag att visa dig denna fredliga plats av deras." Come along, little snowflake. The Gods will me to show you this peaceful place of theirs.
A/N: There's more to come, and soon, I hope. Enjoy what I've given you, and never lose hope.