Getting back was easier than getting out, thanks to some fancy dvergar magitek Uni had brought along. They looked sort of like glowing poles, and the dvergar set them up in a ring around the group, themselves and the jötnar and the æsir and Sigmund standing inside.

To say things were tense would be an understatement.

Uni’s brother had surrendered quietly enough, though he had objected when Uni handed over the much-contested gauntlets to Þrúðr. The pair said some words, stiff and formal, and when they were done, Þrúðr was crying, though she wasn’t sad, exactly. Just . . . crying.

“Annulment,” Lain had explained. He was sitting on one of the weird hexagonal columns of rock, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, looking damp and miserable. Which, good. He kind of deserved.

At least it wasn’t raining anymore. Þrúðr had fixed that, lifting Mjölnir to the sky. Her brother—the one who wasn’t catatonic—had been horrified, and the þursar hadn’t been much better. But all Þrúðr had done was hold the hammer up, hands cupped just beneath the head. Then the rain had stopped, and the clouds had cleared, and Sigmund had been left squinting against the glare of sun on wet-dark stone, stinking of damp sheep.

When Uni finished setting up his teleporting fence, everyone clustered around inside.

“What about the Bleed?” it’d occurred to Sigmund to ask. Wedged in between Lain on one side and Valdís on the other, wet feathers tickling his nose.

Lain shrugged, unlit cigarette dancing between the stitches in his lip like a sulky teen. “Mjölnir’s gone. It’ll close by itself.”

“Yeah, but . . . the people?” Sigmund had never been to Bowral before. He suspected he wouldn’t be hurrying back.

“Few fights, maybe.” Lain didn’t seem particularly concerned. Just tired, all tattered feathers and ashen skin. Even the glow of his tattoo seemed dull and faded out. “Bit of sledging on the pitch.”

Sigmund didn’t like it. But there were a lot of things he wasn’t liking about today. This was not very close to the top of the list.

Somewhere over the other side of the crowd, Uni hit a button, and Sigmund felt his stomach drop and his vision flare.

When the world came back, everything was dark, and Sigmund was being held upright by Lain’s big, hot claws. In the distance, giant glowing mushrooms waved in the darkness.

After that, it was all over bar the shouting.

----------------------------------------

“But seriously did you even fucking have a plan?”

Later. Uni—who’d turned out to be a pretty nice guy—had put the pair of them up in a room in his dad’s mansion. The rest of the þursar were outside, making camp. Þrúðr and Magni and Móði had vanished down a corridor shortly after they’d teleported in, and Sigmund hadn’t seen them since.

He had taken a hot shower, because apparently the dvergar had the same indoor plumbing Ásgarðr did. His clothes were currently drying in a small room sort of like a dry sauna that seemed designed for exactly that purpose.

His phone hadn’t made it. Water had gotten into the case, turning it into a very expensive paperweight before they’d even gotten out of the Bleed. Sigmund had panicked for exactly half a second before realizing Lain probably shat new phones twice a day, so whatever.

Lain, who was currently sitting on a low table with a towel over his chipped and healing horns, scowling. And Sigmund, standing not three feet away, whose own towel was wrapped around his waist.

“Yes, I had a fucking plan.” Lain looked away, as conscious of the half truth as Sigmund was.

“Really?” Sigmund, who was in no mood to be lied to. Not even by halves. “Because it didn’t bloody look like it to me.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t—”

“Arms dealing, Lain? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Lain’s head snapped around, fangs pressing into his bottom lip in a sneer. “Hey. I did what I had to do.”

“A guy lost his hands!” Thwack, plop. Just like that.

“Jesus Christ, I didn’t make him use the fucking hammer!”

“But you set it up so he’d have to!” Sigmund snapped. “Didn’t you? Forging the fake bloody gloves, getting a fucking army to follow you—”

Lain was on his feet, looming. When Lain loomed, there was a lot to loom. “Hey! Tóki was supposed to get me out. That’s all. Not my fault he decided a fucking double-cross would be better.”

“Are you— are you actually getting self-righteous over someone else being a backstabbing asshole? You?”

“Fuck you!”

It occurred to Sigmund, as every single fire in the room suddenly leaped and burned blue, just for a second, that he’d never really seen Lain angry before. Not like this, anyway. Not at Sigmund. Or . . . at something Sigmund was saying.

Lain had magicked one of those cigarettes from thin air again, and this time he did light it. Sucking a long drag, blowing it out in a huff of noxious, greasy smoke as he stalked the length of the room, claws clicking against the stone.

“They tortured me,” he snarled. “Chained up and dragged across the fucking realms. Through the dark. You say I set Magni up to lose his hands? Well, fine. I did it. I fucking admit it. You wanna know why I did that?” Lain spun, bearing down on Sigmund, pain and rage and anguish. “Because the runes were on his fucking palm. He would spit on it, like he was spitting on me, and it was like being in that fucking cave all over the fuck again! Every time they wanted something, and I wouldn’t do it . . .” Lain demonstrated, spitting into the hearth. “Over and over and over and what. Was I. Fucking. Supposed. To. Do?”

“You’re supposed to stop being the bloody villain all the goddamn time!”

Lain went still. Dead still, eyes bright and blank and wide, lips hard and thin and mauve.

One second. Two seconds. Three.

Then he turned away.

“Fuck . . .”

Sigmund grabbed his arm, feeling the hot lines of fresh scars beneath his fingers. “No! Just listen.”

Lain’s arm was like corded steel. Sigmund felt the tremble in it. Sigmund could feel the tremble in the room, Lain’s anguish bleeding out from his skin and into the air. A firestorm of emotion, just beneath the surface.

“Why?” Lain snapped. “What am I supposed to tell you, Sig? I am the fucking villain. I always have been.”

“That’s bullshit and we both know it.” A second, then: “We all know it. It’s something you can be, but it’s not something you are.”

“Every story needs one, Sig.”

“That doesn’t mean it has to always be you!” Sigmund grabbed Lain, spinning him around. Lain allowed the motion, though he wouldn’t meet Sigmund’s eyes. “Villains . . . villains lose. They get hurt, and they die, and they lose. Don’t you get it? I just . . . I—”

(love you, and don’t want to see you hurt)

Easy words, in his head. Even if they choked on his tongue, banked up behind the hand Sigmund had thrown across his mouth.

Lain sighed. “Sig . . .” he said. Then stopped, and the silence was long and cold and awful.

“I’m sorry.” What else was there to say? “I just . . . I’m sorry.” That Lain had been hurt. That he’d hurt other people in return. “I wasn’t there,” Sigmund said eventually. “I shouldn’t . . .” he trailed off.

“No,” Lain agreed. “You weren’t and you shouldn’t.” He rubbed his face with his free hand, fingers pressing hard against the soft, dark skin of his eye sockets. “But . . . but maybe I don’t always make the best decisions, either.” He dropped the hand, trying a thin smile.

Sigmund returned it, one dark laugh escaping from his throat. “No,” he said. “Really?”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Lain laughed, and Sigmund laughed. Then they were back to awkward silence. It wasn’t as if they’d never fought before, exactly. But . . .

Sigmund wondered if it ever got easier.

(“it does not”)

“Sig?”

When Sigmund looked up, Lain had shifted closer. His hand was raised, not quite touching Sigmund’s cheek, radiating heat like a candle flame.

Sigmund leaned into it, and wasn’t burned.

“I’m sorry I’m a fuckup.”

“Don’t,” Sigmund said, shifting closer. Against hot skin and dry feathers. “I’m sorry I’m not . . . good. At dealing with . . . this stuff.” He tried not to think of Magni. Or Þrúðr. Or Tóki.

Things had worked out. Sort of.

“I thought about you,” Lain said. “A lot. When things were . . . not good. I’d imagine you bursting in to save me.”

Sigmund had to laugh. This time, the sound felt almost real. Lain’s skin was warm against his own, the heartbeats beneath his ears fluttering out of time. Lain talked about his hearts like he had two: one black, one gold. Except Sigmund had always been able to count three beats beneath the bone.

“It was kind of fun,” Sigmund confessed. “Riding in to save you like that.”

“Well I enjoyed it.” Lain’s fingers caught the edge of Sigmund’s jaw, urging it upward. “And, you know, I haven’t yet showed my big. Strong. Savior the . . . appropriate gratitude.”

It should’ve been hokey, and ridiculous, and it was. Except it was also Sigmund tilting his head back and parting his lips. It was Lain, leaning forward, and the warm, damp softness of the inside of his mouth.

He was, Sigmund thought, very, very grateful.

Also, Sigmund was wearing only a thin strip of medieval pseudo-towel, and absolutely nothing else.

Lain, meanwhile, was wearing nothing but his feathers. Also technically a towel as well, but it was on his head and Sigmund figured that meant it didn’t count and, Jesus. Lain was so close and so warm and so much of the last few days had been so awful and then they’d had a full-on screaming fight and Sigmund really, really didn’t want to fight. Not while pressed flesh to flesh, damp fabric doing nothing to protect his dignity.

“Sig . . .” Lain’s voice was a breath, nearly a whine. Sigmund was suddenly very aware of the fact he was a twenty-something virgin standing in the middle of a whirl of godly lust.

Lain wanted to fuck him. It wasn’t even in question. Sigmund could smell it in the air and feel it in his bones. Soil and cinders and a thrumming beneath his skin. Because Lain was huge and old and powerful, and his emotions had shape and weight and texture. Gravity. An inexorable pull into the gyre of Lain’s insatiable wants.

Right now, he wanted Sigmund.

If the current location of the blood in Sigmund’s body was any indication, the feeling was mutual.

Sigmund shifted, just a fraction. Until his hot and heavy cock was pressed up against a silk-steel thigh.

Lain groaned, eyes shut and mouth open, lips curled up into a smile that, for one moment at least, was too grateful to be wicked. Sigmund buried his head against the soft flesh of a dark-skinned neck and shifted his hips, his own breath hitching as warm coils began to lash outward beneath his skin.

This wasn’t so hard. Not really.

A hand, drifting down Sigmund’s side. Across the pudgy rolls of his waist, to the weird dimples of his hip bones.

Then a claw, working its way beneath the towel. Just beneath the fold. Lain really did have very big claws, blunt and vicious, and he’d never, ever used them against Sigmund.

Instead, he made a soft noise of inquiry, not quite a word, and Sigmund nodded, glad Lain couldn’t see his face. Not that there was much to hide from Lain’s Wyrdsight, but . . .

But Lain tugged, and Sigmund’s towel fluttered to the floor.

Then . . . they were naked. Both of them. Sigmund was used to Lain not wearing very much, but the reverse wasn’t true, Lain’s hands taking advantage of this new thing. Running up and down and over Sigmund’s skin, cupping the curve of his ass and carding through the hairs on his arms. All while Sigmund’s hips jerked, cock leaving trails of shiny slick up Lain’s scarred thigh.

Jesus. Sigmund sure hoped he was doing this right.

Lain chucked. “There really aren’t many ways to do it wrong,” he said. “So long as we’re both having fun.”

“A-are you?”

Another laugh, Lain’s fingers squeezing Sigmund’s ass even as the other hand pushed him backward. “Fun is a word you could use, yes.”

They didn’t have a bed, mostly because the dvergar were too short. Instead, they had a bunch of pillows and blankets and mattresses arranged in a nest on the floor.

It occurred to Sigmund, as he was gently pushed down into it, that maybe it wasn’t the height thing at all. Maybe jötnar were supposed to sleep in nests. Maybe their hosts were just being polite.

Maybe Lain was looming over him, knees on either side of Sigmund’s hips, the normally dark jut of Sigmund’s swollen dick pale against Lain’s even darker skin.

Lain licked his lips. Hungry. Sigmund swallowed. The gesture was . . . It was . . .

It was.

Lain’s fingers danced over the soft, round curve of Sigmund’s belly. It tickled, and Sigmund had to bite back against a feeling he wasn’t quite sure he had a name for.

“Tell me that you want this,” Lain said.

“Jesus—”

“Isn’t here.” Lain was smirking, the evil bastard. “Only me. Do you want this?”

Sigmund slammed his eyes shut, voice hoarse as he bit out, “ . . . Yes.”

The fingers flattened into a hand, pressing down just below Sigmund’s belly button. Just above where he really wanted it. “Sig . . .” And then Lain’s voice was . . . quiet, somehow. Awkward. When Sigmund opened his eyes, Lain was pushing at the inside of his stitches with his tongue. “Sig, I . . . uh. You know I don’t have a human dick like this, right?” He finished the sentence all in a rush. Not quite embarrassed, but . . .

It’d taken Sigmund weeks to convince Lain he didn’t need to hide in his human shape every time he wanted to canoodle on the lounge. Lain had a bunch of hang-ups, his jötunn skin being one of them.

“Um,” said Sigmund. Then, lest Lain get the wrong idea, “We can still . . . y’know. Right?”

Lain made a gesture that might’ve been a shrug. “I, uh . . .” It was hard to tell, but Sigmund thought he might actually have been blushing. “Honestly, I haven’t done it. I assume so.”

(oh, um . . . wow)

Sigmund had sort of assumed Lain had done everything. Like, literally everything. Which must’ve shown, because Lain laughed and slapped playfully at Sigmund’s flank with a, “Oy. None of that, you.” But he was laughing, and Sigmund was laughing, and when he reached up, Lain came down, heavy body settling against Sigmund’s own, all firm muscle and hard bone, slotting in between Sigmund’s hairy chub.

“None of that, either,” Lain said, lips ghosting up and down Sigmund’s neck, rubbing himself in a way that sent heat and lust tightening in Sigmund’s belly.

“Oh, god.”

“Yeah,” said Lain.

Sigmund kissed him, fingers twining through the stiff quills and soft down on Lain’s scalp. Then across the whorls and ridges of his horns, Lain moaning from the attention.

Jötunn horns, Sigmund knew, were not for combat. They were for this instead.

“Fuck . . . Sig.”

Lain’s sides were heaving with his breath, tattoos pulsing with his hearts. It was a powerful feeling, being able to do that to a god. To have him open and wanting. Powerful and frightening, Sigmund’s own need a hot pool beneath his belly, fighting with the fear that fluttered in his chest.

He swallowed. “H-how do we, um . . . ?”

Lain chuckled, not raising his head from where it was bowed over Sigmund’s, his forearms trembling from holding himself up. “It’s not rocket surgery. Tab A, slot B, that sort of thing.”

“Okay.” Jesus, they were going to do it. Sigmund wanted to do it, but: “Wait. Do we need, like, a condom?”

That’d been Sex Ed from Dad, way too many years ago now not to be embarrassing. David had laid down the rules: Yes means yes and no means no, and if you’re not sure, ask; your bedroom has a door and I can always work late; and for God’s sake, use a condom.

Sigmund, much to his shame, did not have a condom.

Lain huffed. “I’m a god, Sig. We don’t really do STIs.”

“Yeah, but . . . You get pregnant, right?” If he got Lain pregnant, Dad would spew.

For one second, Lain was still. Then he slumped forward, face buried in the pillows by Sigmund’s shoulder, shaking with what turned out to be laughter.

“Oh. Fuck, Sig,” he said.

“Well, you can!” A pause, then, “Right?” Sleipnir had to have come from somewhere.

“How about”—Lain began nosing his way up Sigmund’s jaw—“tonight we fuck, and later I can draw you a diagram about the jötunn reproductive cycle.”

“It’s just, I’m too young to be a dad, man.” Despite his protestations, Sigmund’s hips were clearly interested in an audition for the role.

“And I’m too old for more damn kids.” Lain’s lips and hands and tongue were working down, leaving hot, wet streaks across Sigmund’s collarbone and the dark curls of his chest.

“Okay,” Sigmund managed. “It’s settled. No getting pregnant.”

“I promise.” Bottom of the rib cage, sending jolts through Sigmund’s body as his stomach reacted to the tickling.

Sigmund had never really considered tickling erotic before. Though, maybe almost anything could be erotic with a god’s face inches from your—

“Ohmigod!”

Scrap inches, substitute a hot, purple-black tongue, licking one huge stripe up Sigmund’s dick. He’d been, uh, faltering a little with all the pregnancy talk, but so much for that!

Sigmund got all the warning of a jaw clicking open, before he was swallowed into heat and sucked.

“Oh J-Jesus I—”

Then nothing. Just cold air, a whimper, and Lain’s smug-ass voice saying, “We’ve really got to break you out of this habit of calling to other gods in bed.” Sigmund had half a reply on his tongue when Lain’s hand wrapped around his balls, putting an end to that. “I mean, outside it’s one thing.” Lain was grinning, the sadistic bastard. “But in here I really must insist you address your prayers to me and me alone.”

“Fuck! Lain!”

“Much better!”

Sigmund groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. Above him, he felt Lain shift again. Then fingers, wrapping around his cock.

When Sigmund dared look, Lain was occupied, scowling down the length of his body, one hand lazily stroking Sigmund, the other doing . . . something between his own thighs. Parting feathers, maybe?

Sigmund didn’t get much time to think about it; a moment later and Lain was bringing his two hands together, guiding Sigmund . . .

. . . guiding Sigmund . . .

. . . guiding . . .

“Hnnrgh!”

Hot and tight and wet. Slick and sucking. Somewhere up above, Sigmund heard Lain sigh. Mostly, he was lost. Lost in the roll of hips, in the banking embers that roared to life beneath his skin.

“Oh, Sig. Yes!”

The sound of Lain’s voice, broken and lost, keening through the words in a way that wasn’t human, was something deeper and older, some true self and—when Sigmund closed his eyes—he could see it. See the endless inferno that burned around him, consuming and devouring. Building and caressing, until Sigmund’s limbs shook and his fingers clutched at rough-spun pillows, sweat beading on his skin and every muscle pulled tight and—

“God!”

Lain laughed, hot and riotous and loud. A roar as brilliant as the sun, and Sigmund fell. Fire licking up his skin and pulsing from his swollen prick, into the strange and endless body of the god above. Sigmund’s god, made new for him and him alone, and when Sigmund came it was with Lain’s scent in his nose and Lain’s laugh in his ears and Lain and Lain and Lain and Sigmund, who’d come inside a god and finally understood salvation.

----------------------------------------

Afterward—though, admittedly, not very long afterward—lying in the dark, Sigmund learned Lain was a cuddler.

There was a lot of Lain to cuddle, all firm flesh and gentle feathers. Big claws wrapped around Sigmund’s waist and a big tail, curled up around Sigmund’s chest.

Lain didn’t sleep, but he drifted, and he was drifting now. Lazy and content, radiating unchecked waves of it out through the Wyrd’s endless, weaving threads.

Lain didn’t sleep, but Sigmund did. Limbs heavy and heart stilling, one less virgin in the Realms, curled tight against the chest of his private deity.

Fingers tracing scars and tattoos that shone dully in the darkness, Sigmund allowed himself to sleep.

That night, he didn’t dream a single dream.