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.
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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.