( we were once cinema gods in the night )

[treachery]

[ 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.

Comments

[beworthy]

[ 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. ]