Part I of drabble here.
#in which wants tries to write both smut and banter #and sort of gives up after a while #thorki #thor loki #thorxloki #thor x loki #thorloki #thor/loki #fuck so many tags man #le casual doodling #le casual typing
A charged swing from Mjölnir fries the room’s camera and automatic door system. The alerted Midgardians will soon come, but the holding chamber is heavily fortified and it would take some time before they get inside.
That would be enough.
The combination to the cell has been kept a secret from him, but the numbers he has learned easily. They fear he would release their captive out of compassion or foolishness; but through their quest in undermining his intelligence and misinterpreting his intentions, they seem to have overlooked a simple truth:
the captive would have escaped one way or another. It’s just a matter of which how is preferable at any given time.
He knows full well this would, like always, end up with his not-brother’s gain at his expense; might as well milk anything he could out of the shitty deal because this dynamic isn’t going to change in a hurry.
The glass door hisses behind him and Mjölnir suddenly becomes heavy in his hand—the cell’s unseen mechanisms at work, suppressing the current of power flowing through him. The ever-songs of the Nine is now silenced from his deadened ears and it’s almost like becoming mortal, leaving him even more vulnerable under the stare of the green eyes that always seem to ripple; as if there’s liquid fire trapped inside, constantly slithering and stirring within their secret depths.
It takes almost everything he has not to blurt out and yell himself hoarse with questions that all starts with where or why, and to instead say quietly,
The name used to be just on the tip of his teeth, always warm and ready to be thrown out thoughtlessly; now it requires effort to conjure, a dusty thing long abandoned and buried so deep that even the caress of his own tongue as he forms the sound surprises him.
“Thor,” comes the reply, all breath and airy sibilance contrasting his strained endeavor. “Brother.”
A razor twists in Thor’s gut then and he can no longer bear looking into those green eyes. “Turn around,” he commands, placing Mjölnir on the floor. “Hands against the wall.”
Loki passes him a feigned a look of surprise before complying, and the action becomes almost a dance, graceful and enticing; a display of submission as the narrow back is presented to him, long fingers stretched like spiderwebs on the smooth surface of the glass. In two long strides he is already behind his not-brother and for a moment he hesitates—
but then his fingers, all this time forlornly dreaming of silken black mane and soft white skin, have already reached out to slowly pull Loki’s locks aside. A slender, pale nape fills his vision and what enduring logic remained flees him.
Fingers entwined within the raven locks, he dives into the shallow dip below Loki’s ear with an impatient groan, nipping and licking, bruising the small patch of skin mad. Loki’s heady musk, like earth and fire, invokes memories of bodies beneath warm sunlight and soft grass; memories he thought would never know again.
“So you have missed me,” he breathes, lips wet on the abused skin as Loki’s dark head tilts to give way to his ministrations; an impatient demand masked as timid surrender.
“Mn,” comes the reply, long spine coiling and uncoiling against his ribs as he pulls down on the remaining inner shirt with the hand that isn’t entangled in Loki’s hair, freeing one alabaster shoulder and bites down on it greedily, “so mmuch.”
“Show me,” he snarls, yanking the remaining buckles on Loki’s waist open.
The rest of the leather outerwear falls with a loud thud and Loki’s breeches are barely halfway down willowy thighs before Thor is shoving two thick fingers into the warm opening between them. This is rewarded with a clear, concise ‘ah’ and a sharp bucking of hips, encouraging Thor as his fingers continue to spread his not-brother further open.
“Is this how you recruit your ‘army’?” he spits bitterly, curling his fingers and eliciting a gasp. “Parting your legs to any filthy creature in the nine realms that would have you and demanded they fight for you as payment?”
“Don’t be sour, brother,” Loki retorts with a chuckle, lazily fucking himself on Thor’s fingers. “You of all people should know I have parted my legs for less.”
White rage that glows not unlike keening shame blinds him then and he roars, pulling his fingers out and slamming Loki’s head hard against the glass. Grabbing a fistful of raven hair he yanks sharply back until Loki’s temples are level to his jaw and the throat oh so tautly and deliciously exposed, spine straining like a a tense bow. Loki’s bared upper teeth digs into his lower lip as ecstatic laughter bubbles just beneath, forever mocking.
“Whore,” Thor rumbles in a guttural growl, freeing himself from his trousers. He is hard as a stone, and rightly so. “You shall be punished severely for all your lewd trickery.”
“Yes,” Loki gasps, trembling with eagerness as he feels Thor’s rigid length trailing a wet line down his tailbone to between his moist cleft, the crown rubbing against his entrance. “Punish me, Thor. Put me in my place. Yes. Yesyes.”
With a grunt, Thor rams inside and almost immediately starts moving. Loki is coming alive all around him and the pleasure from that tight heat pulsing against his length is almost too much to bear, reminding him that once again he is helpless, helpless; always walking willingly into his not-brother’s games and allowing himself to be used until he’s hollow and spent and no longer caring about anything else except the all-consuming heat spreading from where their skin meet.
His hand finally lets go of the drenched locks only to wrap around Loki’s throat, clenching down with bruising strength. He revels on the fleeting sense of makeshift power, of control, he has over this beautiful, bucking mess of trickery and wickedness and erratic volition. His other hand rips Loki’s shirt open, tracing the heaving, sweat-slicked shoals and mounds beneath before burrowing nail marks on the narrow waist as he drives into Loki again and again, feeling his sanity unraveling with each maddening roll of Loki’s hips as they rise to meet his.
“You made me do this,” he nearly chokes on the words, confused and furious and so aroused and being rend apart between conflicting grief and yearning in wonderful, glacial slowness. “You forced my hand. You made me.”
Loki laughs then, less a satisfied cackle and more a loud bark from one greatly entertained. “Yes, Thor,” he pants, delight bright and pointed in his tone. “I made you.”
And then Thor notices a pair of green eyes looking at him from the other side of the glass and realization spears like a blade between his brows.
In the cell, still painfully tight around him, is no more than a clone of his not-brother.
The real Loki’s expression is still, but the way his eyes are locked into Thor’s, watching his every move, watching everything, spurs a kind of carnal fervor into taking him over and he plunges harder, crueler into the clone; never taking his eyes away from the green ones beyond the glass. The clone is now writhing and mewling, completely out of its reason if it ever had any—and Loki’s stare intensifies, searing into his, and Thor crumbles and explodes into the clone.
It breaks into a long, rapturous string of vowels and collapses; wet hands sliding down the glass with a vulgar squeak.
There is a small hitch in Loki’s shoulders as he breaks into a silent gasp, eyes momentarily glazed before focusing back on Thor; still panting and staring at him.
“Mighty, foolish Thor,” Loki murmurs finally as the clone dissipates into blue smoke, his velvety purr both caresses and condescends. “Forever grasping for my shadow.”
Thor heaves himself up, reaching for Mjölnir. The hammer feels significantly heavier now. “You keep letting me.”
“I suppose. Then again desperation makes for an entertaining spectacle.” Loki smiles at that, a curvature of liver-red lips that betrays no kindness nor mirth, and Thor wonders just to whom the desperation Loki meant belongs.
And they just stand there, not-brothers separated by a clear wall, each seeing a little bit of himself reflected on the image of the other.
He steadies himself to speak, but is halted by a whirring sound from outside. The Midgardians are cutting a way through, and with increasing dread he sees the pensive gravity inside Loki’s eyes being rapidly replaced with a murderous glint, as if a blade is unsheathing inside.
“Loki, don’t,” he is shouting but it is more a plea than a demand, and he bangs Mjölnir against the glass but it stubbornly holds and there is blue fire crackling in Loki’s palms.
“We have been apart for so long and yet nothing has really changed, Thor,” Loki mutters with an eerie sort of abandon. “I still do what I want and you still think your incessant begging could somehow make me not.”
“No,” Mjölnir collides with the glass again and this time it cracks, but not enough, not enough to—
The entire section of the building erupts into a blue inferno.