beworthy: ponponpon (50)
Thor Odinson ([personal profile] beworthy) wrote in [community profile] brodir2013-07-14 08:00 pm
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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.
silfr: (SMILE °• let me go take me back)

[personal profile] silfr 2013-07-17 04:43 pm (UTC)(link)
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."
silfr: (QUIET °• the pages sit in our bellies)

[personal profile] silfr 2013-07-22 05:30 pm (UTC)(link)
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.
silfr: (ASIDE °• in the garden)

[personal profile] silfr 2013-07-31 05:51 am (UTC)(link)
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.
silfr: (BACK °• crumpled my spine)

[personal profile] silfr 2013-08-01 02:02 am (UTC)(link)
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."
silfr: (DEFEAT °• some days I find my way)

[personal profile] silfr 2013-08-13 04:15 pm (UTC)(link)
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.
treachery: (| listen.)

[personal profile] treachery 2013-09-03 05:59 am (UTC)(link)
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."