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( we were once cinema gods in the night )

[ Loki runs — through fields and meadow, through sweetgrass and sunlit wheat. He runs, and he does not cast his glance behind him, for he can hear Thor alighting upon his fleeing shadow, the promise of an embrace as inevitable as the rise of the sun, and the fall of the moon.

When the open fields give way to the fringe of surrounding woods, Loki scurries up into the boughs of a tree, dislodging a family of songbirds in the process. He had not known to climb with such limber skill when he first tumbled into Thor's arms, weeks and weeks ago, but the summer sun has scorched his winter-skin to a golden tan, his arms have become lean and graceful, and he moves with the elegant confidence of a creature accustomed to plenty.

Only when he has reached the topmost branches of the towering oak does Loki peer down from its heights. His lungs are full and aching with laughter, but still the music of it flows forth, as sweet and soft as the renewed murmurings of the wood;s birds and of summer-beasts.

He tosses a chain of gem-studded gold into the air — it had been the victor's recompense for a tournament meant to be held a fortnight hence, but Loki had seen it, grown enamored, and had thought to make a game of its theft. ]

How slow you are, Thor-king — !

[ crows the king of winter, perched upon his throne of wooded green. With another flick of his wrist, he sends the chain into the air again, catching it with one outstretched finger and spinning it lazily about. ]

You could have mined an ore of gold and beaten it into another chain in the time it has taken you to catch up to me.

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[ The tall stalks of grasses bend to his passing, like a river rippling in the wake of a swift-cutting canoe. The deer bound away across the fields, white tails flashing the alarm, only to stop near the edge of the woods and look back with ears pricking forward wary and curious. Thor, in spite of Loki's contrast, feels as though he flies across the verdant grasses on the wings of a bird, on feet lifted by joy and laughter, a heart buoyed by bright love. The summer kingdom has burst into riotous, gaudy color since Loki came, since the moon waxed and waned and waxed again. Fruit hangs heavy from the trees, swelled to sweet ripeness, and in the waving grasses ripple outrageous spreads of wildflowers, orange and red, violet and pink, colors of passion and love and desire. The deer are sweet and abundant, and the dryads sing like songbirds as they go about their work in the palace. There is joy in the heart of the king of summer, and it spreads like the warmth of the sun to all beneath his dominion.

He chases his beloved, as enamored of the pursuit as he is of Loki himself. The chain he took was stolen quite precipitously; Thor had planned to be the victor of the tournament himself, and to present the jewels in token to the prince of winter, for he would far rather see him thus adorned than keep such a prize for himself. In hundreds upon hundreds of years Thor has never known a prize better or more cherished than the winter who came sweet and shy down from his mountains and into the summer's arms.

Not so shy anymore. Thor comes to a stop beneath the tree that Loki has climbed, his great antlers shading his brow as he gazes up. ]

No, my heart; I will have this chain returned to me, and its thief captured. And how then am I to punish him, I wonder?

[ And the sun upon its cloud-soft chariot streams down across the upturned leaves, setting the wood into ripples the color of flame. Loki, crowned by its light, for once remains indifferent to the majesty of nature's bounty about him: now his attention is focused on the pinprick of joy and power below, upon the jut of Thor's antlers, upon the generous curl of his smile.

If this the meager price that criminals must pay, Loki will make an art of thievery. He will steal the very walls of Thor's heartwood palace, and leave them strewn about the fields to be trodden upon by Thor's subjects, where they will be lost under the growth of riotous wildflowers and sweet-smelling grasses. Perhaps he'll craft the entirety of the summerlands into a new palace for his king, and he'll mark the edges of its bounds with memories sown anew.

So Loki rocks forward upon his precarious perch; he unclasps the chain of glittering gold, and fastens it instead about his own neck. The blue gem comes to rest in the hollow of his throat; it lends a strange glacial cast to his features, even in the sunlit embrace of day. ]

I shall not be punished at all, I think. [ Loki says, his fingers tracing the swell of the gem. He grins like a child in the night, his eyes luminous and fringed with lashes of shadow. ]

So you say.

[ Even from the ground he can see the sparkle of the gem at the hollow of Loki's throat, the gleam of gold encircling his neck. And all at once Thor is jealous of jewels, that they might have the privilege of kissing his beloved's pale skin while he must watch in envy from the ground. What if Loki should love them more than he loves Thor?

So he seizes a bough and begins to climb, hand over hand, the branches creaking for his weight, but this tree Loki chose is an ancient one, sturdy and thick-boughed, well-rooted.

He moves through dappled light with his own grace, stalking Loki like a lion through the branches. ]

Give me the chain, beloved, that I might adorn you with it properly, and claim you a prize of Thor-king, and carry you off ripe for conquering.

Must I?

[ And yet Loki does not move from his perch, merely tilting his head to the side, his dark hair spilling like a stain of ink over his white shoulder. Despite the vigor and strength that the summerlands have lent to him, he yet appears like a hollow-boned bird perched with transience upon the tree's branches, ready at a moment's behest to spread his mortal wings and dip his face into the wind. ]

Perhaps I've stolen it on principle alone. [ says the grinning thief; his gaze is caught and hooked upon the shift of strength through Thor's great golden body. Oh, even now Loki is but a paler shadow of this king of the sun and the sky. Of the king throned upon his heart. ]

Perhaps I despise the thought of you gifting another with the spoils worthy of only one.

[ His voice softens as Thor draws nearer still, and the restless swinging of his legs in the air ceases entirely. ]

Perhaps I wished to hang it about your neck myself. [ And now, at last, a shade of Loki's cast-off reticence returns; his gaze flits away. ]

[ Thor pauses, standing upon a branch as thick around as the trunk of his own body, his hand upon another bough above his head for balance; Loki is yet above him, but he has drawn close enough that he might reach forth and snag his ankle if he chose. Yet Thor-king stands and gazes with his great antlers shadowing his brow and his head cast at a bemused angle, gazing at the sweet prince of winter who does not meet his eyes, as though withdrawn into abashedness by the pale truths of his words. His shyness draws him as much as his eager yielding: beautiful prince who has learned of pleasure and plenty in his kingdom, who has lain in the sun with his legs bound at Thor's waist, who has knelt across his bed muffling cries into his pillows, and who Thor lusts after in day and night as his own, his love, his consort.

He smiles, warmed through by that sweet and restless desire; oh, he will have the prize he sought for. ]

Then come with me to the ground and place it around my throat, and it will be the chain which binds you to my dominion, my heart. So you will offer me your kisses, too, and your love, and bare yourself for my pleasure. This shall be your punishment: to serve me until I am well-sated, with all the arts that you have learned here in my kingdom.

[ Even still, Loki does not yet slip from his perch and alight upon the sweet punishment that Thor-king has decreed; instead he draws his legs up onto his own slender branch, crossing them beneath himself. He has plucked his shyness away from himself in the space of a moment to the next, and now he feeds it to the winds rustling the boughs of greenery about them.

Yet it takes more than a whisper of effort for Loki to keep himself away, though he knows the culmination of his desire will be sweeter still for all the time he keeps himself pendulous and separate. Winter's scion will again be made into a creature wrought by Thor's hands, but he would not allow the boon of his own yielding to come so easily.

He leans forward, just enough for the blue gem to swing free from its rest upon Loki's clavicle. It glimmers in the tawny sunlight, too high for Thor to reach up and steal away. ]

What, then, will you offer your tournament's champion, now that I have repurposed the spoils of victory? [ asks Loki, though his voice has grown softer than the rustle of reeds in the breeze. He would have already cast himself down upon the thicket of moss for Thor's pleasure if not for the tremulous strand of self-control that has yet to fray. ]

[ He moves slowly across the bough, drawing still nearer; a reach of his hand, and his fingers touch Loki's thigh, curve possessively over it. He cannot snag the chain, perhaps, but he could tug his beloved from his perch, and tumble with him into the bed of grasses below. He could, but Thor only draws nearer, until he can lean his face to that thigh, and nuzzle at the white skin bared by the parting of hide, his lips hot and his beard scraping, his tongue wet upon that sweet skin. ]

As I plan to be the tournament's champion, I will choose my own prize. [ Higher, the nuzzling of his lips, nosing beneath the wrap of deerskin. ] And when I claim him, there too he will offer himself in my service, for the glory of my strength and skill. He must be sure to pay proper homage.

[ Loki's hands fall to Thor's shoulders, seeking skin like the dawn seeks the cold clean expanse of sky. His heart skitters in his chest, thudding an erratic beat against his ribcage; his mind is full of half-formed song.

He has been welcomed into summer's abode as a treasured guest, indeed, and perhaps one day as the sole bastion of Thor's love, but the low murmur of the summer-king's voice serves to remind Loki that wildness runs free in the blood of the summerborn.

(Yet — how sweet it would be, to make an offering of heart and body alike before all of Thor's subjects, before all those with eyes to see.) ]

—yes. [ he says, softly, immediately, without true thought behind the exhalation of breath. A moment, as he collects himself; another, as he collects his words. ]

But — what if I am your victor, my king? [ His fingertips trail down Thor's shoulder; his spine bows as he leans ponderously close. ] Will you carve me a seat of heartwood beside yours, and feed me from your plate now and always?

Always, my love.

[ The easiest vow in the world to make. Thor lifts his head, his blue eyes earnest and true. Here before the prince of winter, the king of summer will promise him all: a lifetime of love and honor, a place forever beside him, if Loki should want him. At his right hand, in his bed, in his heart. The marriage of summer and winter.

Then his fingers reach up and snag the chain that has swung just close enough for his capture.

He grins broadly even as he strips it from Loki's neck, and swings down from his reach before the winter can think to catch it back, descending to the ground. His feet thump upon the grass, and Thor gazes up smiling at his beloved left among the bows, like a pale songbird perched upon his branch, singing sweetly for a mate. ]

Now come down and take back your chain, so that you may place it around my throat. Obey, sweet prince: is your king not owed his rightful tribute?

[ A moment of surprise crowns Loki's dark head, widening the fathomless green of his eyes; then he smiles with laughter in the exhalation of his breath, his hand creeping aloft as if reaching for the gemstone now stolen from him. ]

Ha!

[ crows the featherless bird of winter's beget, perched still upon his slender twisting bough. He swings down, clever and agile as the creatures born and wrought to live and die in the branches of summer's trees. By the time he has shimmied down the trunk and cloaked himself in the richness of Thor's shadow, he wears a grin matching in intensity. ]

He is, and all unrightful tribute as well. [ His grin gains a cheeky edge, but he carries himself without a shade of insubordination. ] Offer the chain hence, my king, [ he murmurs, holding up an empty palm. ] and bend your royal head so that I may do as you bid.

[ His heart swells as he watches Loki descend the tree, grace in every motion, and his desire, too: all his joy, all his dreams for the lord of winter made into truth. He has grown strong and rounded upon love, upon the plenty of the summer kingdom, so much more than the gaunt and hollow-cheeked creature who came first to Thor's land. It is not that his beauty has increased, for nothing could have been more beautiful than that first glimpse of glimmering crystal and frost, the pale, sweet, shy prince before him. But he is made new by Thor's own hand, by the tender onslaught of his love. ]

Aye, I will do more.

[ He goes down to one knee, bending his great antlered head, as a king ought before his beloved. As a lord making sacrifice, as a lover paying his own homage. ]

Place your chain around me, my heart. [ he murmurs, tender, his eyes lowered. ] Bind me to you, as you bind yourself to me.

Edited 2012-12-23 06:09 (UTC)

[ Never before has the summer-king bowed his head to the winterborn trespasser of his lands and his heart, ere his majesty lose precedence. Loki inhales the sweet wooded air, holding in the sanctuary of his lungs for a long moment, his heart full to bursting. If he knew to capture a second of time in the palm of his hand and to keep it thus until eternity fell, then he would have done so now and again, until memory of his great proud lover upon his knees blotted out all else.

He takes the chain again into his own hands, but the glitter of gold has become an afterthought. Without compunction, Loki falls upon his own bent knees, drawing near enough to taste the breath released from Thor's lips.

So Loki bows to kiss the hollow of Thor's throat, where the gemstone will soon fall; his lips impart a smear of ice. ] So you are bound, my king, as my champion thus promised. [ And he reaches to settle the chain about Thor's neck, his hands lingering long after the clasp has been fastened.

His voice falls quieter still. ]

May you never rue the day you lowered yourself in devotion to the one who holds you sacred above all others.

[ Oh, no, there could be no hint of regret in him, no moment of it; how can he regret what is so beautiful between them, every act of love and devotion to one another a power which binds them both with chains unseen and greater than any physical tie? All his life Thor has known what pride is, what might and homage is, how easily tribute comes to offer itself to all his desires. But now he is learning what love is, now he is learning the sweetness and the humility of it, how every offering must be offered in turn, how devotion is to be accepted and cherished for the great gift that it is.

Loki's kiss burns sweetly upon the hollow of his throat, and the gem rests lovely cold there; Thor shivers, smiles, takes Loki's hand between his and brings it to his lips. ]

How unworthy I should be of such regard, to resent giving my devotion in return. Don't you know that my heart is yours? [ The tenderness swells in him, in his touch, his voice. ] It is yours, Loki, my love, it is in your hands to do with as you please.

[ His trust in those hands is broad, open and complete.

He smiles then, captures Loki's chin and takes from him a kiss which licks into his cold sweet mouth as though to heat him from within, desire spilling over. ] Prince of winter, would you give me pleasure with your mouth? [ Sweet words murmured at his ear, his voice turned very soft. He has not had such pleasure from him yet, but oh, he has thought of it, he has wanted and ached for it. ] Would you pay tribute to your king thus, here beneath the shade of the trees?

[ Of course Loki had known and rejoiced in the truth of the summer-king's love for him, but to be reaffirmed in its name is joy doubled and tripled.

Reluctant to part from the kiss bestowed upon his, he shuffles nearer still, his arms a circling cradle for Thor's great body within. ]

With joy. [ Loki responds, eagerness in his lifted gaze. ] With the greatest of joy, and yet without experience, for only have I received such pleasures in our shared past — [ And his hands unclasp, sliding across the golden swell of Thor's shoulders, down his arms, past his belt of burnished gold disks, until Loki's clever fingers make quick work of the fastenings holding Thor from him. He strokes him but once, his fingers trailing across the crown lightly before drawing entirely away.

Thus Loki leans close again, pressing a chaste kiss to Thor's cheek, to the point of his chin, to the apex of his collarbone. He takes Thor's hands in his own, and brings them up to frame his own head; his eyes are sweet and wide with the intent to please.

His tongue darts out, whisper-quick, to wet his own lips. ] — will you not guide me in the pursuit, my love?

Aye. [ he whispers, made breathless by that single teasing caress of Loki's hand, by the beguiling sweetness in his eyes, round upon him and eager to be taught. Thor strokes Loki's cheeks, then runs his thumb caressing over the lower of his lips, touching the dampness left there by the flicker of his own tongue. He presses upon that lip until it parts from the upper, and his thumb eases a little within, over sharp teeth, over the silken wetness of a tongue.

Then it withdraws, and Thor rises to his feet with Loki yet on his knees before him, drawing up his gaze with the touch of his own broad hands. His laces undone, his breeches slip a little from his hips, and Thor pauses to unbuckle his belt and let that fall to the grass beside him, then takes his cock in hand, swelling still more with desire.

How beautiful Loki is, how pale and pink his lips, how bright and vivid the green of his eyes upon Thor's face, now in this moment when he is intent on learning his pleasure. ]

Be as slow as you like. [ he tells him, with a little tremor in his voice but a resolve to be patient. ] Wet me with your tongue first, beloved.

[ Winter had never known tenderness before the summer-king's hand upon him; now he has grown sweet and compliant after drinking from the cup brimming with love split and shared between them. Now he sits back upon his haunches, his upturned face framed within the strength of Thor's hands, and he wants for nothing but the gentle dominion of his king's word.

He kisses the blunt press of Thor's thumb upon his lip, tasting salt and loamy earth; only with reluctance does he let it free.

No matter. His king has provided well for him in the history of their knowledge of one another, and Loki knows that his plate will only be heaped and heaped anew in the coming moments.

His lashes flicker as he blinks, and again he wets his own lips with a perfunctory swipe of his tongue. His mouth waters already at sight of proud desire held steady by Thor's own hand; with only the faintest tremor of hesitation, Loki leans forward, bracing his palm against Thor's hip. Curiosity brightening the green of his eyes, he licks the swollen crown, gauging its taste; a moment later his heavy braid falls over his shoulder as he leans forward to lick at the curl of Thor's fingers, over the thick swell of the shaft, quick experimental licks that fill his mouth with the heavy musk overlaying the taste of salt and earth. ]

[ Thor, too, has been gifted by the winter's unexpected generosity. There he came from the jagged edges of his mountains like a slash of white upon the color of the summerland, and took Thor's hands, and sang for him in a voice purer and sweeter than any he'd ever known. Vivid, sharp life melting into a pliant lover in his arms, the sweet thrall of his bed, his palace, his heart. He has taken Thor's love within him and given all his love in return: has cried for him, has pleaded for him in the night, has offered him all the pleasures of his body.

Thor trembles as Loki touches his cock with his tentative tongue, wet heat and lavishing flickers of sensation, the sight of his prince's raven hair falling forward and his eyes lowering in concentration making his pulse throb as loudly in his ears as the beat of a hammer. He holds himself in offering to Loki's shy tasting, like a delicacy pressed to his mouth at the feast table, and the prince of winter is such beauty on his knees, his tongue unbearably wet. ]

Yes. Like that, my heart. [ His voice tenderly impatient, thick with lust, his fingers warm as they stroke back the strands of hair from Loki's brow. He loves him so, he loves him more than he can bear, that Loki offers him such sweetness. ]

[ Loki, gratified by the trembling note of Thor's voice, redoubles his efforts, drawing a wet path along the thick vein running up the underside of the shaft, mouthing at the turgid crown with lips soft and gleaming.

Though at first his gaze had fallen in silent focus upon the jut of proffered cock, now it rises again to meet Thor's storm-wrought blue, watching and noting every flicker of pleasure that his own mouth calls into being.

(Perhaps there is a shadow of mischief upon Loki's white face, enough to offer the wet flickering pleasure of his tongue, but not yet the sheathe of his mouth. He is inexperienced and he is eager to please, but his submission does not come without self-awareness.)

So he lowers his mouth to kiss Thor's knuckles with tongue and the suggestion of teeth; so his knees spread to lower himself to the green flank of the earth as he lathes kiss after kiss to the pendulous weight of the sac below. The taste of sky and storm, the heat of Thor's skin upon his tongue: it is enough to send Loki's blood rushing through vein and capillary, his pale cheeks flushing with color.

He leaves another kiss at the base of Thor's glistening cock, waiting for the spur of a new command. ]

[ Here again, Loki's eyes meeting his is a shock of sweetness, so deep and green they are, as green as the forests through which they chase one another, drunk on love. Green as the fields in which they lie and give one another pleasure. Eyes softer and sweeter than he had ever known the winter's eyes could be, and pale lips brushing gentle across the turgid length of his cock, a red tongue flickering to wet him, to lathe and stroke him until his blood is a sweet fire in his veins.

Thor draws breath deeply, letting it free again in a rush as Loki ducks his head to pay him tender homage, his lips upon the heavy sway of his balls, warmth given and shared between them. He is shuddering as Loki mouths him sweetly, until at last his fingers grasp in his hair, let loose again, cup his cheek to bring his face up to him again, to see the color in his cheeks, the shining of desire in his eyes. ]

Your mouth, now, sweet one. [ The words are of gentle command but it has the longing of a plea, and his fingers tender upon Loki's cheek. ] Take me within, suck me as deeply as you can. I yearn to be sheathed in you.

[ Obeisance in the bow of his shoulders, and in the curl of his fingers; yet still he waits, weighted by his own hesitation, caught in the space between eagerness and wariness. To press kiss after kiss to the length of silky skin is no hardship, not when Thor's eyes urge him forth with the silence of his fettered strength, not when Loki-prince revels in the service that he alone has been chosen to perform.

His own cock is a swollen thrum against the seam of his summer-wrought leathers, yet so focused is he upon the pleasure of his king, it remains but a splash of muted color against a horizon saturated with Thor's blue and red and gold.

So, with purpose in the tilt of his throat, his hair falls to shadow his brow, and he takes the crown of Thor's cock between his lips, lathing it again with his tongue. The hesitation flickers and dies to the coals from whence it had flared; so Loki sucks the breadth and the length within the willing heat of his mouth, his eyes slipping shut.

He moves too quickly; his teeth graze the tender underside, and the head brushes against the back of his throat. His eyes well with involuntary tears, and he wrenches suddenly away, dragging in ragged breath after breath to keep himself from coughing. ]

—you mustn't laugh. [ says the winterborn king, his hand sliding forth to rest upon Thor's. But already he draws forward again, kissing Thor's belly, nuzzling the jut of his cock. Soon his lips part and his head dips forward again, though embarrassment keeps his gaze from rising to gauge Thor's reaction. ]

[ Loki's eagerness is to be appreciated, even if he is yet too new at this to have developed proper technique. Thor would hardly know what to do either, though he has been given such service often enough that he might be able to find his way well enough. He hisses at the graze of teeth against his most tender skin, lets out breath in quick huff of laughter before his prince of winter can tell him not to, but there is nothing in him but the warm glow of tenderness for him; his fingers stroke his cheeks and Thor smiles, reassuring, a thumb brushing at the brightness of tears gathered in the corner of Loki's eyes. ]

Never mind, beloved. You are so pleasing, so beautiful on your knees for me, so sweet and loving, my very own. I can be patient for you. I have wanted nothing so much as you; I would wait and tremble a hundred years for you, only for your touch, your kiss...

[ So murmuring a soft flow of endearments, he strokes his fingers through Loki's raven hair, shivers as his mouth brushes again the hot skin of his belly, the upthrust swell of his cock, and when Loki's lips come back to his thick cockhead Thor traces the soft stretch of them with his thumb, and urges the press of himself slowly, slowly into that sweet dampness and heat, gently, tenderly. There is no need to rush, nothing to rush for; they are each other's, always. ]

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( we were once cinema gods in the night )

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