brodir | (no subject)

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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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."