Trade of Kings
A Supernatural, Avengers Crossover
A/N- This chapter contains some porny elements. Tyr/Loki.
A holdover habit that War carries with him is his inability to leave things be. When told something is out of bounds, he deliberately crosses the border. Wounded, he picks at the scab until it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds forcing scars where none had a need. He digs for meanings in words that are thrown away comments on the weather. Even though he knows Asgard -the Asgard of his youth- is but a tiny drop in the swimming pool of reality, and there are a near-endless number of Asgards to choose from, he keeps coming back. The realm glows like a bonfire, War likes to warm his hands on her, and some of the inhabitants stand out more than others.
And it may be petty, but War takes his amusement where he finds it.
He walks along in Sif's shadow, reaching out to stroke old hurts stored in the hindbrain, and watches as she stiffens, fingers curling, lips thinning, eyes narrowing at the men laughing around her. A flash of a red studded ring and the wind echos back time-lost slurs; the little goddess reaches self-consciously for her hair. Face red Sif challenges Tyr to a bout and as their swords clash, fresh whispers sprouting from the sudden spite-filled hostility, War basks in the fighting like a cat in the sun.
"Loki!" Thor's shout cuts through the practice yard, and War sighs. There's always something…
Heads turn toward where War is perched in the old tree, dressed in the green-brown camouflage of Midgard, and the two war gods freeze as their blades lock. Sif's face is pale with shock even as sweat continues to drip down her nose, and Thor all but throws spectators out of the way in his haste to make War's position. War stands in one smooth motion and looks out over the gathered warriors. Hogun's expression is as unreadable as always, but Tyr's is something delicious to behold.
"Loki, wait, please-"
War rolls his eyes. "Bored, now." He turns on his heel, seemingly stepping off the branch and into nothing, Thor's Loki, no! ringing dimly in his ears.
War comes to his high priest in the early morning. There have been troubles all around the realms since the Bifrost broke, and with it Asgard's suffocating hold, and Vanaheim is the last to be subdued. It should have been Sif's tent. For near three hundred years now it had been. But Sif had fallen out of favor of late, and Odin AllFather needed someone proven who he could rely on instead of a naive little girl who is follows her heart and the golden prince who owns it rather than the Word of her King. War felt only satisfaction as he walked out of the red sun and into Tyr's War tent. He felt only a tiny bit of embarrassment when he realized he had also walked right into his priest's bare chest.
War bounced back, and looked up into a face full of wonder as a calloused hand snapped out to catch him. His smile was all sharp points. "You know me, then?"
"Aye." Tyr's voice was husky, his hair streaked with the grey of wisdom, of age. Swollen, scarred fingers moved up along War's arm, touch like a steel butterfly, settling on the back of his neck. The thumb stroked War's skin. "You smell like blood, and fire. Burnt metal. Cold steel. Hot breath. Fame and fortune."
"Terribly dull people, those last too." War commented, gaze wandering to the dangerously low hanging towel. "Though Fortune's ass is very tight. Perky."
Tyr laughed, falling to his knees, drops of joy slipping from the corners of his eyes. War leaned down, cupping Tyr's head in his hands and whispered, Do you love me?
"For three thousand years."
War touched the gnarled stump of a missing hand. He had been but a boy when it happened; but he knew now the true story instead of the crock that was passed around Asgard's feast halls. He asked, What would you sacrifice for me?
"My life. All my men."
War took Tyr's remaining hand in his own and slid it up along his leg, under the skirt of leather and chain he wore in remembrance of a culture long since perished. The fingers squeezed where they lingered. Worship me, he ordered, and delighted as Tyr surged up. With one arm War was carried to a bed of horns and fur, his neck attacked with teeth and lips.
"I love you."
His coat was cast to the floor.
Tyr held his body close with the crippled arm, and slid his hand under War's shirt to tweak his nipples. War pulled the Asgardian's head in for a kiss. A knife parted the fabric and bore his skin.
Licks. Sucks. Bruises like flowers peppering pale skin until all that was left was the little band of gold, of power, of lust.
Tyr's weight pressed down, War kissed his stump, and suddenly Loki looked up and his old tutor, bare of everything. The ring fell to the ground, rolled over to a pair of discarded boots. Loki shivered, and a curtain of dark hair obscured both their faces as Tyr pressed his forehead into Loki's.
Tyr placed a chaste kiss on his nose, then claimed his mouth as Loki recovered from the surprise. Each touch was a line of warmth, each kiss a delicious burn until the whole of Loki's skin glowed from the pleasure.
A woman rode with Tyr's in battle that day. Breasts bare but for blood and viscera like necklaces, red hair whipping in the wind, she laughed and clung to the War god's back as they charged into the enemy.
Be Victorious, and her fingers flashed with magic.
Be Mine, and the ring on her finger glinted.
Tyr presented the AllFather with the Kursed's head on a platter, and the ripple of whispers was a dull roar of impossible fear.
"You play a dangerous game, little brother." Pestilence hacked and spat a wad of hard yellow onto the dead world.
War shrugged and shivered; his female self vanished and a second shake found him wrapped in skin-tight black. "It's my job. Without Malekith to call it out of her, the mortal will die. And so will whomever it jumps to. Like… a plague. Mutating and growing stronger with every life it takes."
Pestilence stared at him. Then gave a sly smirk of appreciation. "Oh, brother… you are my favorite."
War watched the world's align as his brother vanished, and wondered how long it would be before the collected spit he'd left behind mutated and evolved into a life form worth reaping.