(no subject)

[beworthy]

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.

Comments

[beworthy]

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.

[silfr]

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."

[beworthy]

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.

[silfr]

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.

[beworthy]

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."

[treachery]

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."