#frostfitz

“I don’t know, Fitz,” she snapped impatiently. “Ham and cheese? Why is it important?”

Loki simply stared at him for a few moments, long enough for the smugness Fitz was feeling to evaporate into unease. How effective were those cuffs? Was the forcefield strong enough to contain him? Or was this a display case more than a cell?

“Oh, plenty of times, no doubt. Norse myth’s not here for no good reason. That was back in London with a little group called the SHARP society.”

“My former employer.”

“I don’t know, Fitz,” she snapped impatiently. “Ham and cheese? Why is it important?”

The bedroom door was barely closed before Scott was shoved back against it, his head thumping hard enough into the wood that stars burst momentarily behind his eyes. He made a sound, low in the back of his throat, but it was lost against the hot, demanding mouth that took his without warning, without mercy. The author found a handful of suit jacket and pulled, the satisfactory pop of buttons being ripped free loud in his ears - as was the growl of acknowledgement, a thread of sound shoved between his lips. He shuffled his feet, looking for leverage, but there was a knee nudging its way between his own, knocking his thighs apart with undeniable insistence. Scott fought it — just for a moment — and was reward by a sharp tug at his hair that dragged his head back to expose his throat, the vulnerable curve of which was attacked by that same, relentlessly demanding mouth. Kisses turned to bites, sharp, bittersweet pinpoints of fire that bloomed under his skin and drew short, hitched protests from his lips. His whole body thrummed with barely checked anticipation and he arched up into the impatient hands that tugged at the collar of his button-down. “You are wearing entirely too much clothing, Fitzgerald.” Scott’s answer was a barely coherent command to be rid of them — and even before the words could leave his lips in their entirety, fabric melted away from his skin, leaving him bare and exposed for the cool, roving touch that seems suddenly so intent on exploring every inch of him. “Have you craved for me in my absence, wordsmith? I think so.” The words were a low, warm murmur against the curve of his ear, a knowing purr that sent a shiver of something forbidden down Scott’s spine. ”You’ve missed me a great deal, haven’t you?” Scott didn’t bother to deny it — not when long fingers found the proof of Loki’s claim between their bodies, jutting up from between his thighs, aching and hard and shamelessly flushed. His only answer was lift his hips, offering himself to the god’s touch in unspoken need. He didn’t have to say a word, he knew he didn’t — because Loki knew. Loki always knew. But it didn’t stop the deity from playing with him, he knew that too — and he hissed a curse when those cool fingers wrapped around his length and squeezed, stroking him slowly, tortuously. “How much have you missed me, my scribe? Tell me, Scott — how much would you give for me to ease this ache for you now?” The words were a black magic invitation, a bid to sell his soul. Scott drew a breath to say, crafting his answer from odds and ends of pretty words, spinning them together into a teasing, coherent reply—  Until the flat of Loki’s thumb flicked across the sensitive tip of his arousal and Scott’s hips jerked sharply away from the door with a curse, the word mangled over an invocation of the god’s name. Loki’s low chuckle was wicked and unforgiving. “Absolute perfection.”

It takes much to make an Asgardian drunk - but not nearly as much as it takes to intoxicate an immortal human. Loki knows this and Scott, well Scott has just learned - and he is vividly detailing how thoroughly he plans to wring the god's neck for daring him to down a whole bottle of gin, but then the world is swaying and melting away and there's suddenly the bedroom and the bed right beneath him and Scott's laughter is a low hum of sound against the curve of Loki's jaw as he loops an arm around the god's neck. "You," he whispers, words slurring slightly, "are a sly, sneaky, tricky--" "Trickster?" Loki supplies, his lips curving up at one corner in a not-too-subtle smirk. "Yes, indeed. Your clever tongue is failing you, my dear scribe. Perhaps you've imbibed too much after all." Scott's brows lift against his forehead in the picture perfect expression of blissful outrage and he shoves at Loki's chest with a suddenly deviant smile that has the god raising a brow himself. The author's lips are warm where they brush his, tasting thickly of juniper and laughter. "If you lay still, my god, I will show you just how clever my tongue still is."

Scott: Behave yourself, my fiend. I'm composing a piece, just for you.