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."