brodir | (no subject)

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All his muscles ache, the reverberation of tension and shock unwinding only slowly from his body as he commandeers a bottle of hard-won liquor and sequesters it away in a quiet corner of the bay, muffled by the frazzled post-battle atmosphere by the bulk of his own Jaeger. Their own Jaeger, Thor thinks, a hand curved firm and gentle over the nape of Loki's neck as he guides him to his favorite overlook in the web of steel and scaffolding. He has yet to be intruded upon in this hiding space. From here, they are level with a corner of the face plate, Mjolnir's shining golden eye seeming to look upon them benevolently; he draws Loki down to sit beside him, an arm slung now about his shoulders, and drinks first and deeply of the bottle before passing it on, leaning his head back against a steel beam.

Under the current of his thoughts the drift of Loki's memories plays like an old picture reel, grayed and vague yet persistent, revealing. He feels the twinning of loneliness and madness within his brother, the way rage wraps itself around the cold sweet fire of Loki's heart and threatens to choke it with its own consuming blackness, and he holds Loki close, even closer than he had the night before when they had at last brought Loki before him, wet from the rain and panting, fury sparking in his eyes which looked upon Thor, belaying the resignation painted across his face. Loki was no Aesir, yet Thor was the greatest among them, and he would not—could not—pilot Mjolnir without the man he called brother at his side. That had been the price of his service, the price which Loki must now pay alongside him. Thor, and the Aesir, had not given him a choice.

Yet it was by their hands that another pair of Kaiju were repelled that day.

He is glad of it, fiercely joyful, for their victory and for the circumstances that have brought Loki back to him, and even his awareness of the pain his brother has suffered cannot dampen that; it can only make him more resolute that they should not be parted again. Bloodied now, with sweat staining his skin, armor stripped away so that only the skin-tight pilot's suit covers now covers him, he pulls Loki against his chest, a hand cupping over his brother's sharp shoulder, and Thor nuzzles the fine arch of his cheek with tender lips.

"It was well done between us today, brother. The victory is yours as much as mine." Smiling, he passes his hand over the long curve of Loki's spine, from nape of the neck to the small of his back, stroking, soothing, praising.

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Mjolnir. Beautiful as she is, the sight of her sends a shiver down Loki's spine. He had spent seven years running from her, after all, immersing himself amongst the sharks and slavers of the underworld as if he had been born there. He remains a bramble of conflicted desires, but still he curls into the embrace his brother has always held open for him. Seven years running from that embrace, too, though dream after dream cascaded through mind and body alike until Loki had become a livewire, thrumming with a force unable to escape the narrow confines of hollow bird-bones. He takes a long swallow from the bottle passed to him, dark lashes falling to shadow his cheek. It traces a line of fire down his throat, curling into a fire-breathing beast in the pit of his stomach.

Thor smells of ozone, as if he has spent the last several hours in flight, soaring through cloud and blue sky rather than wading knee-deep through the muddy swamp of Loki's mind. He looks sweet and young and newfragile even in his appalling strength; his joy crowns him in gold, makes a god of a mere man. Loki breathes in the copper scent of his blood, open-mouthed; he hesitates but a moment before chasing the taste of it with his lips. Just a taste.

Perhaps Loki has always seen him so: even before he learned that they were half-brothers instead of true. Perhaps that's why he learned to be a coward.

Loki has a knife for a tongue, and he knows how to wound with only the lightest brush of it. Yet they have been of one mind, of one heart, standing in the pulse of machine and muscle alike, bringing Mjolnir's sweet fury down upon not one but two Kaiju. How can he lie, when Thor already knows to peel the words back like skin from ripe fruit, leaving Loki naked and rent crimson? Leaving Loki glad to bleed, for all that he has yearned and yearned for freedom from his brother's arms?

(They did not hate him, in the underworld. He filled his lungs with the dream-smoke of Hong Kong peddlers, losing himself in the chemical haze, and no one knew him as Marshal Odin's Jotnar bastard son. That he had neither the strength nor the stamina of an Aesir meant nothing, for mortal men were not meant to boast such. He was Loki, only Loki. They had prized his quick fingers and his quicker mind; he'd burrowed so deeply into that world of shadow and corruption that diving once again into the clear ocean of Thor's mind had been like a revelation. He cannot leave again, that much is certain.)

"There's hardly time to celebrate," Loki says, softly. The thieves and monsters of his former acquaintance taught him to speak like a commoner; he has lost the careful vowels and well-enunciated consonants that marks the elegance of Aesir upbringing. He could assimilate into what he once was, of course, but he finds the roughness of his own language, the definitive difference between golden Aesir Thor and his quicksilver shadow of a brother, to be a comfort. "A class five duality was considered to be a ludicrous impossibility before today. And that fool you've hired to run R&D would sooner fuck a Kaiju than search out a way to kill it; you need to reinstate me as head of the department."

Loki's tone speaks of urgency, yet he licks Thor's blood from the arch of his own lips with something blacker than hunger in his eyes.

There is a short, quick breath when Loki's tongue touches a place where blood stains his skin, yet wet and crimson. He seems to know every movement of his brother's body, every small shift and breath, to almost know his intent before he acts: an intimacy that is beyond even that which they shared when they were easy with one another, when they were yet ignorant of the truth of their parentage and the affection of brothers came as simply as breathing. Yet even then, Thor had not been within Loki's mind. He had not joined to him body and soul, so that they moved as one, thought as one, even when they thought apart—an entity which was capable, somehow, of retaining an awareness of its two halves, that they could speak and argue with one another even as they acted in perfect accord. Three parts, if one counted Mjolnir: but no, Mjolnir was the skin, and Thor and Loki the spirit which gave it animation.

His fingers tangle in Loki's hair in response. He does not even think of the action, or of how close their bodies, at least not in any way as to cause consternation; it is as though no way in which he touches Loki now could be wrong, when his brother is as much a part of him as blood and bone. He wants to linger long, long in that awareness. Now his hand cups Loki's chin, forcing his long white throat to arch, and Thor admires the beauty and tension of it as he takes back the bottle and has himself a long drink, followed by a quick and sweet taste of his brother's mouth. It is as nothing to touch him so, to steal the taste of his lips. All is his, all of Loki belongs between his hands; there is such perfection in it as to make him brim over with joy.

"How are you to head research and to pilot Mjolnir with me, all at once?" His voice is subsumed with tenderness, his hands fitting themselves to intimate places across Loki's body. "You could not; there is training, and drills, and exercises to strengthen the neural bond, even without Kaiju attacks to occupy our time." His mouth brushes Loki's ear. "I won't have your attentions divided, brother."

He teases, yet there is a true degree of selfish possessiveness within him: having now Loki back, having claimed him as his partner, the only one to whom he will trust his Jaeger and half his mind and heart besides, he cannot and will not give him up to be preoccupied by any other task. Loki is his, and his alone.

Strange, how their minds clasp still; the neural propagation has been disengaged, their minds and bodies are separate once again, and yet still Loki can feel the burr of Thor's thoughts below his own, heating his cold skin. As if he has spent the last seven years underneath a swathe of black cloth, and only the Shatterdome's shining scaffolds have opened his eyes again. He feels — alive. Three days after the Marshall's men wove their shackle of words about him and thrust him to his knees, Loki has risen from the dead.

He needs not speak, for Thor holds his words in the cup of great hands. He need not move nor breathe nor remember, for Thor has already done it all for him. Somewhere, in the twists and knots of Norway's fjords, where Loki had found his mother and watched her die from one moment to the next. Elsewhere, when Loki had been a splinter of a child, harboring desires for a brother he had not yet known was only a half-truth. And here, where anger and bitterness have cleaved to Loki's bowed shoulders, never again to be parted from him.

Thor knows. Thor carries the weight of two hearts, now. It is no burden, for Loki is a cold curl of sinew against his brother's stormcloud bastion, lighting the shadowed corners of Thor's own silver-bright mind with fortitude and honesty otherwise foreign to him.

If this is wrong, then he will welcome hell's flames. Brotherhood offers only sanctuary when the secret gates between thought and word are splintered to dust, sanctuary without corruption. What Jaeger pilot can exist without joining the strength of right hand to left? How would Mjolnir stand and fight and kill, if Thor's mouth did not alight upon Loki's with such absolute certainty?

"Of course, none — save for me — could manage the responsibility," whispers Loki, though he is distracted by the press of Thor's hands, by the working of his throat when he swallows. Each taut line of muscle and tendon is now one to be traced with green-glass gaze and covetous fingertips. He does not deny himself the temptation. Restraint will come, in time. "You've supped upon my innermost thoughts. You know it to be true."

Loss has become a familiarity. Their father's death left Thor adrift, without the guiding flame of Odin's rigid principles and a fresh grief over the circumstances that had forced him apart from Loki; his father would have wanted to see brother and brother reunited, and Thor could not give him that while he lived. If nothing else, the loss of Odin to a Kaiju attack had given him fresh determination to take Mjolnir as his own, and Frigga's gentle voice in the letters she wrote him faithfully buoyed his hope to have Loki someday beside him again in the cockpit. He felt the keenness of Loki's grief over his own mother as though it were his own; how quietly she slipped away in the end, a low candleflame at last gone out, with an exhausted sigh. The sense of utter aloneness it had left his brother with: that too was familiar.

He is determined that Loki should never know such again.

The unspoken promise is woven into the tangle of their limbs. Loki's fingers seek him, trace and map him, and Thor shivers agreeably, wishing it were Loki's mouth which limned the contours of his body, and that it was golden skin which such intimacy lit upon rather than his pilot's suit. Perhaps that is something which might be remedied. Gentle, and indeed certain, his hands find the fastenings which run the length of Loki's spine, and drag them apart; he slides the engineered fabric from white shoulders, and his mouth brushes the curve of one as he pulls his brother still more firmly against him.

"I suppose," Thor murmurs, and then: "And I might agree, if you and I share a cabin henceforth; it is said that even sleeping side by side will work upon the neural drift."

In the early days of the Jaeger project, centuries ago, when statistics were calculated as data was being produced, the science of neural compatibility had been poorly understood. Trials had been held, mental and physical capacity quantified, innumerable data points that millions of databases across the globe had sought to catalog. In the end, they had been unable to turn pilot-matching into a science.

Now, the richness of Thor's blood upon his tongue, Loki knows why. When they had brought him to the Shatterdome, feral as a wild beast, he had beheld Thor standing at the helm of his celebrated array of soldiers, as unattainable as he had ever been. He had fought the drift, fought the sweet pull of Thor's mind, fought every moment of joy that had lifted him from the shadows. They should have failed.

Yet they perch in the rafters of their citadel, kings of a moment singular in Loki's life. Victorious, where even the greatest of all marshals had failed. Let all of the Shatterdome know what they have wrought, in body and in mind; Loki shamelessly strips his flight suit from his arms, dislodging Thor's hands. He has no patience for seduction.

"Truly?" Loki says, feigning astonishment. He presses close, heedless of the cold touch of Thor's own flight suit against his naked back. "I had not known that your brain resided in your cock."

That Loki can be laid before him like a tapestry woven of dazzling threads, so brilliant as to make him reverent before the power of that unassailable mind, that his every intention might be just at Thor's fingertips and yet the turning of thought be so quick as to run fleeting before his expectations brings him as much joy as surprise; his own laughter startles him, and the hungry clasp of his hands to the shoulders his brother impatiently bares. "Then you will?" Thor says, hope leaping like a bird into flight, and answers the question by his own hands, his own kiss, rough and tender all at once, filled with tenderness; he holds Loki by the throat again and stretches him back to take his mouth, to take and drink of the liquor taste, the fire, the sweetness, his grasp brutal, just brutal enough.

He will. He will. He rears to his knees, bringing Loki upright with him; with a hand buried in the dark strands of his hair he drags his brother's head back and sets his mouth to the white curve of his throat, making an arch of his body, their bodies, hips pressed to backside. When they brought Loki before him they brought him down to his knees, like a prisoner of war, and Thor had been savage later with those who had dared to bind his hands and handle him so; had demanded the bonds cut, and had fallen down before him dragging him into his arms, pressing cheek to cheek, unashamedly wet with tears. The idea of failure had never occurred. To pilot Mjolnir, to achieve the drift, Loki was what he needed, Loki was everything and all that he needed. He had thought there could be no greater joy.

It had been nothing compared to this. He is afire with it. He drags Loki's suit from his hips, runs his hands, eager, hungry, over the intimate parts of him, utterly certain of his welcome.

Loki would sooner watch the world burn than to save it. He would sooner give birth to the devouring flame himself. The fjords of Norway had been followed by crimson-draped lounges in the bowels of Napoli, where he had stained his teeth with foreign cigars and indulged his taste for expensive wine. The Camorra had become worse than the Hong Kong underground, even, for they planned to sate more than their greed for wealth. The Camorra believed that the kaiju could be subjugated and thus made into a tool of war.

Loki thinks of that broken world now — the attempts at genetic engineering, the breeding consoles, the filthy lucre. The fear. His own hands had been sticky with blood, human blood, more often than not. He'd never believed that the kaiju could be controlled.

With a violent inhalation of breath, Loki drops his hands, catching hold of Thor's wrists. Holding him still and terrifyingly close. Thor has seen into the void of Loki's mind, and yet still he rises past the horizon of Loki's shattered earth, filling all the fissures below with innocent light. He cannot understand. He cannot understand. And yet he does — as if judgment were meant for all others but brother and to-be-lover. Their whole lives have been a turning of pages, and finally they have reached the end.

Loki's fingertips dig so deeply into Thor's wrists that his nailbeds begin to ache. His grip loosens only then, but even that is not yet acquiescence; Loki twists his way free, quickly and nimbly. The bottle of liquor has fallen, bleeding its clear liquid fire onto the floor beneath them, but Loki pays it no mind, busying himself instead by pressing Thor against the bulwark, pressing himself into the suddenly excruciating distance between body and body. He had wanted this even mid-battle, when fighting and fucking became two interchangeable states of being. Next time, perhaps, they will join minds and do this, instead —

So Loki laves a kiss to the apple of Thor's throat, leaving a bruise to blossom in the wake of his mouth. His hands work at zipper and clasp, yet he will not draw away for long enough to draw the flight suit away.

"Convince me," says Loki, in a rough twist of sound; his eyes have fallen closed, needing only the sensory anchors of Thor's body and mind to guide him forth. He is convinced already, as Thor well knows.

As Thor well knows —

Once, it would have terrified him.

He had thrown himself for years into the war, alone. There had never been a true purpose to his efforts once his brother had escaped, but he could teach others, and he could pilot alone: a less deadly occupation for a Aesir than a human, though he still woke some mornings with blood across his face and a pounding like hammer-blows behind his eyes. Yet Mjolnir did not want him alone; she did not heed, she did not give all as she did when Loki was locked within her hull, the heart of her as brother and brother. There had been a shattering when Loki had gone. Open spaces of sky and light became as blighted fields, barren.

But now the heavens are lit again; now within Thor there is a sky which stretches vast, which opens forever, which embraces another heart within his own, and even the shadows within his brother's mind are taken in solace and solidarity. When Loki clutches at his wrists Thor does not fear, but only waits, his great strength checked, patient, knowing. When Loki breaks free Thor does not reach to draw him back, knowing he does not have to. Loki comes to him, comes into his arms like a man starved and hungering, and Thor's arms close around him crushingly, lifting him close; he growls rough and pleased as Loki's mouth bruises his skin and his fingers tear frantically at his zipper, and drags his own mouth from throat to shoulder.

"I will." There is nothing which truly needs be said. They know, the both of them, how this will end; they know that Loki belongs to Thor and Thor to Loki, always. He grips his brother's hand, bringing it down to the ready jut of him, the swell of his cock beneath the stretched fabric of the flight suit--presses, molds his fingers around him, murmuring at his mouth, urging his touch, the contact between them, and there is nothing which could pass between them which has not already begun, which is not a fervent shining path within their minds.

A shining path, indeed, lit by the fluorescence of the Shatterdome's inlaid stars, set into stark relief against the blackness of danger and fear in the world beyond. Jaeger pilots, the pinnacle of mortal innovation. Loki believes in everything, in that moment, for he cannot help but lose doubt and despair in the wash of Thor's eyes upon him. There is safety here beyond anything that he has known, and — oh! — how sweetly it aches, in the secret crevices that even Thor has not yet burrowed into.

Because — yes, there is fine golden chain linking brother and brother, equal in strength at either end, but all things can be severed. Just as all mortal things must die. Loki reaches for Thor, his eyes naught but pinpricks of light, reflecting only a terrible yearning. There is space between them now, space between their minds, and already Loki remembers the rise of the sea, the smell of salt and silt, the silhouette of the training facilities fading into the distance as he escaped, as he escaped —

Loki breathes out roughly, a susurrus of painful sound. Thor's name, whispered, somewhere in the tangle of his mouth. His hands are greedy for skin; he makes quick work of the armored suit, rucking it down until the landscape of his brother's body is bared for his appraisal. His eyes, too, are greedy. Selfish.

"Touch me," he says, sharp and splintered at the edges, his gaze fluttering like a pulse point: from the generous curve of Thor's mouth, the rise and fall of his well-beloved ribcage, the hollow between the wings of his collarbone, the rough golden trail arrowing towards his cock. Loki kisses him again, his mouth a grasping pull, leaving another dark imprint of his teeth upon Thor's neck. He would mark him entire, if he could. Down to his very bones.

Already his hand works in erratic counterpoint, stroking the eager jut of Thor's cock, now readied and waiting for him — for him, as if all that has come between them in the years past has fallen to meaninglessness. And yet Loki wants more than the pleasure of this: he wants to be taken apart by the furious weight of brother-lover upon him. He wants the pain to sing brightly into his mind's emptiness, leaving its mark forever and again.

He feels the weight of Loki's gaze upon him and the hunger in his appraisal as though they are tangible things. And Thor knows all over again an appreciation of his own beauty, seen through his brother's eyes: he is a body crafted by the skilled hands of fate, mapped now by a desire which is as much a part of him as the swell of his lungs within him. Golden, beautiful, big in all his parts, he is made to be wrapped around his brother and reveled in, his warmth a pleasure to be shared. He reaches out to cup Loki's face between his, to let his own unsubtle fingers map the starved hollows of Loki's cheeks, and his own smile stretches hungry and wanting in his understanding of Loki's desires.

What he is made for is this: to bury himself so deep within his brother that no anchor could hold him so fast. And if ever again Loki should long for escape, there Thor will be holding him within the cage of his heart, with his hands upon him to subdue every errant thought of flight.

And he knows himself great enough to bear even the jagged edges of his brother's shadows within him, to muffle despair beneath his own weight. To ease if not erase, to gentle his brother like a wild creature tamed. It was fear which drove Loki forth from the beginning, and now there is nothing left to be afraid of, no secret in Thor's mind which has not already been opened and willingly shared. All the shelter of him has embraced Loki already, and holds him secure, and Thor does not fear to lose him any more than he fears to stand before a kaiju with the bloodsong of war singing in his heart. He lifts Loki now, drawing him upwards to put his mouth at his breast, his belly, as his hands drag the flight suit all the way down to sag at his thighs: white skin bared, and the jut of ravenous desire, which is as much an awareness within Thor as the swell of his own cock. A hand cups his flank and grasps crudely, and Thor breaks away briefly to wet a pair of his fingers in his mouth, suckling them down to the knuckles: his touch smooths then between Loki's thighs, finding unerrantly the place he so desires to split apart on his own arousal. His mouth hungrily devouring the skin just above the trail of coarse dark hair leading down to his cock, Thor works his fingers within him, shuddering as much for Loki's pleasure as for his own lust.

Here, between them, a memory: the sky folding in on itself, the sharp crease of horizon hiding the sun's bashful face. Loki had been a quiet child, preferring only Thor's presence over solitude, and solitude over all else. Once, he'd hidden his silence in the branches of a tree that overlooked the ancestral manor he'd believed to be his birthplace. He'd hoped that his father's fear-masked-rage at his disappearance would be enough to soothe the anger and the loneliness and the jealousy that had burned even then. Yet Odin, strongest and bravest of all Aesir, had little reason to notice his youngest's twenty-four hour absence.

Still, Loki had not braved the heights alone. Thor, laughter caught in his lashes, had found him, staining his hands and knees with woodsap rather than putting forth the logical question.

Thor is nothing like he had once been, shaped now as a god rather than a sliver of youth. But the laughter remains in the fan of his lashes, bright and sweet in the afterimage of his mind overlaid Loki's own. A day from now, a year from now, the intimacy of their neural communion may fade, but Thor presses now into the hollow of Loki's body, his breath alone inflating the lungs damned to a lifetime in Loki's chest. Would that this fragment of time could be as bread and butter for the years of hunger to come, as Loki has starved and starved and now finally his hunger begins to ebb.

"Enough," he whispers, softly enough that he can barely hear his own voice over the thundering rush of his own blood. Thor's fingers are warm and calloused, painful even with the perfunctory slick, but Loki's mouth is an open chasm, his mind blessed and free from all thought. He does not want to be cossetted. Neither does he want to cosset in return, for this has been burgeoning between them for longer than he knows. Pleasure is too kind for the desperation that blackens the green of Loki's eyes; so he asks for pain instead. "Give it to me, brother."

In Loki's entire demeanor stands stark need and desperation. All the secrets of his body are surrendered into Thor's hands, Thor who has been within him already in the most intimate of ways, has known his mind, the thoughts that rake him from inside, the feelings which he denies even to himself. All of those things are between his hands now, in Loki's body which cleaves to his, Loki who would glut himself on him alone. Even in the childhood they had once shared there had been laid the foundations of this inevitability. Loki would never have run from him, not then.

He will never run from him again.

Thor murmurs, devouring Loki's mouth, greedy for the desperation in the hands which cling to him, in the harsh cracked whisper to give it to him, to give him everything; his fingers withdraw, and Thor holds Loki by the waist as he shoves his own flight suit down and down until it presents no obstacle to his desire, to his cock coming rampantly free in his fingers, swollen, turgid, the broad silken head stroking between Loki's flanks. He spits into his hand to slick it, not enough slick by far yet enough to match the desire which would take him in now, now, and Thor pulls Loki down onto him, his eyes hot on his face as he guides himself to him and lifts his hips to press within. A first few throbbing inches, Loki's body painfully snug around him and their joining in physical intimacy a shock which galvanizes his entire body: Thor grips Loki's thighs hard, making him sink down upon him even as he works himself within in short upward jerks of his hips.

Edited 2013-08-04 11:12 (UTC)

Pain, first; it clutches him by the spine and drags him into the hot, sharp reality of it. Loki might struggle now, but Thor has anchored himself deep in mind as well as body. There is nowhere left to hide, with all of the dark secret spaces within him flung open and ransacked by well-beloved hands, and Loki can do little but press his head back against the bulwark and take his breath in half-wrought syllables of Thor's name.

Thor's face is split in two by the shadow of a data-console; Loki's fingers spider into the spill of his hair, holding him near. "Move," says Loki, though the pain clutches at him still. Better to be rent apart by the hands that hold him now. Pieced back together in the neural drift, the clasp of their minds a terrible inevitability, until Thor is but an extension of himself. Until they are inextricable even beyond Mjolnir's womb. "Now, Thor," he says, with urgency shredding his voice.

Yes. Yes. There are terrible desires between them, a lust for ruin which he can nearly taste: Loki's green eyes nearly black with desperation for him, and his mouth slack as his lungs struggle to command breath. He feels the struggle through all his body, the tension between pain and wanting, and how they merge into one: how Loki would be impaled upon him, speared and rent apart, and it catches Thor rising into him, working within him with greedy passion, his fingers biting into his brother's hips, thighs. Yes. Let him be wrought apart, his body and his spirit cleaved to Thor's, so that he cannot be put back together that Thor is not within him always. Forever his, forever marked, mind and body shared in intimacies even pilots do not dare. He feels Loki's body yield to his, to his cock thick and splitting him apart, an impassioned rutting, and Thor drags him into a kiss, opening and plundering his mouth as ruthlessly as he plunders all parts of him.

He drags Loki's head back by the hair. His tongue traces the white curve of his throat, his teeth relentlessly bruise his jaw, and Thor fucks up into him again, again, again, catching Loki's hip and guiding him into the rhythm of it. "Move upon me, brother." He makes Loki look into his eyes, as though possession is woven into every part of them which joins. He does not need the neural link to know this. "Show me how you desire me. Show me how you are mine."

If only the Drift would swallow them up now, shrouding them in thought and emotion indistinguishable. Loki's heart has ever been locked into the recesses of a dusty ribcage, lost in the darkness of his own creation: and yet Thor's mind shattered the locks, saturated the darkness with light and color unfathomable. Loki wants it now, even as Thor gives him the strength and the brutality of his body—greedy Loki, always wanting more, selfish Loki, always wanting for himself alone. But Thor's hands and Thor's cock have shattered the citadel of stone and mortar; Loki has forgotten what it means to be alone. If he is greedy, if he is selfish, it has only been for Thor.

His fingernails pierce into the skin between Thor's shoulderblades, drawing blood; Loki writhes and clenches and demands more, more, more, with every half-syllable wrenched from his mouth.

He curses Thor's name. "You are mine to have," he chokes out instead, shoving himself back, impaling himself so deep that he cannot form thought around the heat and the weight of Thor's cock, filling him, stretching him wide. Dragging out, forcing itself back in, the moments blurring into a furious amalgamation of pleasure and pain and all sensation between. Loki draws quick, labored breaths, his hands clutching at Thor's shoulders. He stands already at the precipice, wrought into splinters by the force of Thor's body upon his. The unleashed strength of the Shatterdome's finest, made into a vessel that only Loki may drink from. He need not even lay a hand upon his own cock. "Mine, and mine alone."

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for this au jotnar = child born of an aesir union who doesn't have aesir supernatural powers! c:

:>b

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