eyeus: (Thorki)
Title: Turn A Corner In The Night (2/2)
Fandom: Thor (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Pairing: Thor/Loki
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4570 (11500 overall)
Summary:I will be Loki’s champion,” says Thor. His voice rings through the great hall, regal and bold, every inch a king in bearing. Every inch a fool.

Thanos’ lips curl back from wide teeth, a grotesque mockery of a grin. “So be it.”

A/N: For this prompt on norsekink, where “Thor fights Thanos to avenge Loki; Thor is the strongest.” Title from Trace Adkins’ And There Was You. Inspiration for the amphitheatre where the fight takes place drawn from Thor concept art here and here.



~


“When did you—how did you—” Loki tries, as Thor drags him into his chambers, pressing him into the sheets of soft silk and kissing him breathless. If Thor would just stop kissing him for a moment, Loki might be able to ask him about the brilliantly foolish gamble he took against Thanos, but then Thor bites the apple of his throat, and oh, he doesn’t want Thor to stop, not ever.

They tangle together on Thor’s bed, hidden just behind brocades of crimson and gold. Loki remembers pulling those same adornments from the bed frame and walls with Thor when they were young, draping them over plush chairs to build their airy blanket fortresses. It had been a different world, then, their own little world; a microcosm of cozy warmth where they could snuggle against each other beneath blankets, eating treats stolen from the kitchens and sharing stories, before falling asleep, nestled together like two halves of a whole.

The patterns on those brocades will soon be twined with green, in the tradition of Asgardian union, Loki has time to think, before Thor brings him back to the moment, nosing at his neck and nipping the soft flesh of his jaw.

“What you did against Thanos—such seiðr is beyond you,” Loki manages, before Thor steals the breath from his lungs with greedy, sucking kisses. The air around them is rent with the sharp tang of remnant lightning, and Thor is so hot against him, the fire of battle still burning in his blood enough to melt the ice in Loki’s veins, to spark wild against his skin.

“It was,” Thor admits, pausing for a breath, “the only piece of your spellwork that stayed with me.”

That Thor, with his penchant for bashing things about with his hammer, had somehow learned from watching Loki practice and perform the same spell was a miracle in and of itself, much less his unbelievable execution of it.

“And you thought to use this untested magic in a battle against an Eternal? Not knowing if you would succeed?” Loki asks, incredulous. Thanos had the ability to see through most magics, so Thor must only have replaced his real self with the copy at the last possible moment.

“I thought—when the time came, I could—” Thor stammers, unsure of himself in the face of one more practiced than he in the art of seiðr , before setting his lips stubbornly. “I would win with your methods, your weapons, or not at all.”

“You fool,” Loki growls, voice hoarse. He buries his face in Thor’s neck, soaking in his warmth, affirmation that Thor is here, that Thor is alive, hands twisting into Thor’s cloak tight enough to bruise. The same sentiment that drove Thor to draw upon his trove of Loki-treasures—his weaponry, his seiðr—might well have killed him. “You brilliant, bloody, fool.”

Your fool,” Thor answers. “Only ever yours.” Loki draws back to glare at him, and at the flash of impossible blue, something breaks inside Loki, because he’s only just realized how close he was to never seeing those eyes again, never seeing Thor.

It’s a dam that bursts, a well of emotion swelling into a rushing tide, and it takes all of Loki’s willpower not to sink his teeth into Thor, to crush himself into his brother’s warmth that he might burrow inside him and stay entwined within him forever.

As it turns out, there is no need for it, for Thor seems to have sensed his intent, and pushes him into the sheets, laying dark, possessive bruises along Loki’s neck and the line of his collarbone. Bites rose-hued brands of ownership into the curve of his shoulders.

A drop of heated wetness splashes against Loki’s face, stinging, and when he touches his fingers to the warmth, they come away a rich, dark red.

“Your wounds,” Loki says, swallowing back the rush of emotion that knots his throat and brings tears to his eyes. This blood that Thor bled, these grievous hurts that Thor sustains, were all for him. He readies a glow of seiðr to heal, to mend Thor’s body and mind of all the pain the Titan has visited upon him.

“Leave them,” Thor growls, winding his hands around Loki’s wrists and pinning them to the bed. The sight of blood seems to trigger a primal hunger in Thor, and he crushes his lips against Loki’s, tasting of copper and ozone, his kisses fierce and hard and everywhere, pressed into Loki’s skin like a thousand promises paid en masse.

Loki whimpers at the ferocity of Thor’s lips, the surfeit of untamed affection too much, but when Thor grinds against him, their cocks sliding together through their clothing, Loki moans, twisting out of the cage of Thor’s arms to claw at his hips, to buck up against Thor for more friction, more anything that Thor will give.

Yes,” Thor gasps, before he’s tearing off his own armor and ripping through the fabric of Loki’s, paying no mind to the floor he litters with their clothing. Their cloaks merge together on the floor, crimson swirled with green until it is impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends, as if they were woven from the same patchwork fabric.

“Loki,” whispers Thor, breath heaving as his hands curl tight behind Loki’s shoulders, urgent and desperate, “let me have you. All of you. Loki, please—”

“Yes,” Loki breathes, “I want this. I want us.” He tugs Thor forward, raking trails of fervent red down his back. “You and I. Together. In every sense of the word.”

Thor rumbles his agreement, his mouth hot against the hollow of Loki’s throat, his collarbone. “Together,” he rasps. “We shall not be parted again.” With that declaration, he kisses his way down Loki’s chest and bites the tender flesh of Loki’s nipple. Ignores Loki’s wounded cry and works his way across to its double, with sucking, nipping kisses that leave a trail of cherry bruises in their wake.

Loki traps his lower lip in his teeth against the pleasure-pain Thor inflicts upon him. There will be time for tenderness later, he decides. When they have laid their claim on each other. When there is no question about whom they belong to.

He’s so distracted by Thor’s tongue, swirling around his other nipple, that it’s a surprise when Thor presses large, insistent fingers against the pucker of Loki’s hole. They’re blunt and thick and wet, slick with precome and spittle, and Thor eases one in, then another, until he has bullied his way in with three, dragging them in and along the edges of Loki’s entrance in their quest to probe, to pleasure.

Tears spring to Loki’s eyes at the uncomfortable stretch. “Thor, not so—not so fast, please,” he chokes out. The rest of his sentence is lost in a keening cry when Thor crooks his fingers, brushing against the sweet nub of flesh inside Loki. “Thor. Thor,” he gasps.

It’s too much, the cool wetness of Thor’s mouth on his chest, the burn of Thor’s fingers inside him, but Loki never makes it to the word stop, because suddenly Thor’s replacing the fingers with himself, nudging the head of his cock just inside Loki. He pushes in and draws back, small experimental thrusts that have Loki whimpering, until with a low moan, Thor surges forward and buries himself to the hilt.

Loki’s mouth springs open in a wordless scream, throat pulled too tight to cry out as Thor spears him open with each rough slide of his cock. Thor grips Loki’s shoulders, pinning him against the bed as he shoves into Loki and sucks bruises, dark, desirous, along his neck. And when Loki finds his voice again, Thor bites down with each of Loki’s cries. Clamps his hand over Loki’s mouth, smiling wickedly at how Loki’s chest heaves beneath him, at his high, keening gasps and urgent nngh’s against Thor’s fingers. Flicks his tongue out to lick the dampness from Loki’s eyes, his salt tears of pain and pleasure.

“Thor—ah—wait,” Loki tries, when Thor hikes Loki’s legs over the crook of his elbows, backing him into the headboard, but his plea goes unanswered as Thor draws back and slams into him so hard Loki can barely see straight. The forceful, bruising thrusts have Loki gripping the sheets hard enough to split skin, and he cries out, dizzy and lightheaded from the immense force of each thrust, until the only words he knows are ah and Thor.

And when Thor urges his legs just that much higher, hitching them over his shoulders to push deep within him, Loki bites back a scream, because Thor is too deep and hot and hard and he—he can’t breathe, can’t think—

Their lovemaking—no, fucking—is rough and raw and visceral, and Loki only manages to cling to Thor’s shoulders as Thor heaves harsh, wet breaths above him, biting and growling, “Loki, Loki, Loki,” like a mantra, a prayer. He lets Loki’s legs slip from his shoulders and curls his hands beneath Loki’s arms, fingers raking bloody crescents into Loki’s skin as his teeth tug at Loki’s lip, nipping it and sucking thick, dark drops of his blood.

“Mine,” hisses Thor. He repeats the growl as he laps the sweat at Loki’s brow, and again as he licks the tears from his eyes. Then he pulls Loki into his lap until they’re flush against the headboard and Loki’s straddling his thighs, Thor impossibly deep within him, each heave of his hips ripping a cry from Loki’s throat.

“Thor, please,” Loki gasps. He’s not sure if he means please, more or please, it’s too much, but either way Thor obliges and wraps his hand around Loki’s length, stroking and teasing in all the right places, clever fingers working to wring Loki’s release from him. It takes only the slightest pressure of Thor’s thumb against the slit of his cock before Loki’s burying his face into Thor’s neck, spilling with such force that white and stars and colors burst across his vision, the photo negative of everything that was the void he had fallen into.

Thor slows his pace just a fraction to touch his fingers to Loki’s seed. Dips his fingers into Loki’s navel where most of it has collected and licks it off. Pushes the slick digits into Loki’s mouth to let him suck on them. Loki moans at the taste of his own essence on Thor’s fingers, on Thor’s lips, before Thor’s tongue slides into his mouth again, hot and wet as Thor seals his lips over Loki’s, stealing his breath away in a hungry, filthy kiss.

“Loki,” Thor growls, “Loki.” His hands close over Loki’s shoulders from behind, like a pair of eagle’s talons, steadying him as much as they trap him, and suddenly he’s driving up and into Loki to find his own release, and Loki’s left clinging to Thor’s neck, his face mashed into Thor’s hair as his mouth gapes in search of air, riding out the storm until Thor’s thrusts stutter against Loki’s hips, no less brutal for all they are erratic.

Thor rakes possessive trails down Loki’s back with his fingers, growling, “Mine,” with each thrust, a litany of mine, mine, mine as if repetition could breathe life into the words, could make Loki his in all the ways that matter. And with a sudden, viciously deep thrust, Thor sinks teeth into the soft junction between Loki’s neck and shoulder, and spends, hot bursts of liquid lightning that fill Loki too much, too fast, leaving him trembling and shaking against Thor, gasping as his lungs burn from the ache for air.

“Loki,” croaks Thor, collapsing into the bed and pulling Loki with him. He burrows his face into Loki’s neck, breathing deep as if he can’t get enough of him, winds himself around Loki like a vine, his hands creeping under Loki’s arms, legs twining around Loki’s feet like he won’t ever let Loki go. “My Loki. My love. My…”

Loki’s caught between cuffing him on the ear or huffing out a laugh when Thor trails off mid-sentence, his breath evening out into a snore. In the end, he opts for the latter, twining his arms around Thor’s shoulders and finding a slumber of his own.

~


Later, when the first rays of sunlight peek through the drapes of the bed and the last wisps of his battle ardor have faded, Thor stirs again, shifting the weight of his upper body into Loki’s lap. Loki grumbles at the weight, but strokes slow, careful fingers through the curls of Thor’s hair.

With an appreciative hum, Thor blinks up at Loki, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a soft, dreamy smile. He reaches up to press a thumb, gentle, against the mess of bruises that line Loki’s throat.

Thor.” Loki winces at the touch, a mistake; the soreness in his hips and rump makes itself known again, and he sucks in a pained breath.

“Oh, Loki, I—” Thor tries. His throat shifts in a guilty swallow. “I did not mean to hurt you last night.” He at least has the good grace to look ashamed about it, and curls his fingers around Loki’s wrist in apology.

Loki makes to swat his hand away, before deciding against it. “Perhaps not so forceful the next time. And listen to me when I tell you no.” He pauses. “Or yes, as it were.” Loki thanks the Norns that Thor cannot feel the flush that heats his cheeks at that.

Thor nods eagerly, a puppy being given a second chance, and Loki sighs. It is impossible to stay angry at Thor for long, though it would do well for Loki not to let on how soon he had forgiven him.

“The kingship,” Loki says after a time, when Thor has settled drowsily into his arms, lulled into half-sleep by the nimble fingers stroking his hair. “And your announcement.”

Thor presses lazily into Loki’s hand. “Mmh,” he says, rolling into the touch like a spoiled feline. “What of it?”

“Will Odin not renounce his decision to make you his heir? You have all but declared that I…” Loki stops, unable to continue. In the light of day, Thor’s declaration to take Loki as consort seems a mere pipe dream, and Loki—Loki had allowed himself to be taken in by this foolishness—

Thor shrugs, his broad shoulder lifting the sheets around them. “If he does, so be it. Throne or no, we shall be together.”

Loki narrows his eyes, incredulous, his fingers giving pause in their gentle carding. “You would do that. You would give up the throne?” He wets his mouth, touching his tongue to his lower lip. “For me?”

Thor tracks the motion with his eyes, then laughs, a genuinely amused rumble. “Loki,” he admonishes, “I laid my life on the line for you. I killed a Titan. What is relinquishing the throne in the face of all that?”

“Hmm,” Loki says noncommittally. Though he concedes that Thor does have a point.

“Besides,” says Thor, sitting up and wriggling back far enough to wrap an arm around Loki’s waist, “I have seen to the matter already; father has given us his blessing for our union. It was the boon I begged of him should I emerge from the fight victorious.”

“What nonsense are you spouting—” Loki begins, before he remembers the private council Thor had held with Odin shortly before his fight. Then the blessing had not been for battle, but for—oh. “So I am to be your…” Loki manages, before words elude him once again.

“You are to be mine,” Thor says proudly. “In every sense of the word. My consort. My lover.” He presses a sweet, airy peck of kiss to Loki’s mouth. “My life.” His eyes flicker away from Loki’s for a moment, expression unreadable as he fidgets at the sheets with his fingers. “And I, yours. If you will have me.”

As much as Loki wants to toy with this vulnerability Thor’s shown him, to tell him that presuming Loki would have him would be an incredible amount of hubris on Thor’s part, they have been through too much this day. Here, nestled safely in the privacy of their bedchamber, there is no need for the liesmith’s talents, no need to propagate the seeds of self-doubt.

“Yes,” says Loki. He winds his fingers into Thor’s hair, meets his mouth in a warm, languid kiss. Thor’s tongue darts out to touch Loki’s upper lip, just a soft, sweet lick, and Loki takes the opportunity to revel in the lazy tangle of their tongues. “Yes,” he hisses, more sure of himself now, sure of where he stands with Thor.

Thor nudges his face into the warm hollow of Loki’s neck, lips curling into a smile as he hums against Loki’s throat. He slides a hand along the curve of Loki’s hip, walking light and teasing fingers over the surface of Loki’s belly, and tracing a downward path from his navel. “Now then,” Thor says, “since we have addressed that issue, shall we turn our minds to other things?”

“Mmh, and our tongues,” Loki agrees, his answering smile wicked and full of promise as he slips beneath the sheets.

As raw and visceral as their first lovemaking session was, the second time is slower, gentler and sweeter, as Thor takes the time to caress Loki’s face, to worship Loki’s neck and limbs with leisurely, soothing kisses. Together, they find mutual pleasure in new ways, with teeth and lips and tongues, experimenting with different ways to share affections long overdue.

Loki draws the line when Thor spreads their combined seed on Loki’s belly and traces runes into his skin, the letters for “I” and “you” with a squiggle resembling a heart between the words. “Stop that,” he says, pushing his palm into Thor’s face, relishing the silly grin he gets in response. With his disheveled mane of golden hair falling over his eyes, Thor resembles a dog ever eager to please its master. “It’s disgusting.”

“It’s love,” Thor insists, with something akin to a pout. He looks every bit the spoiled princeling instead of the king he is to become, a side of him only Loki now has the privilege to see.

The smile that’s begun to form on Loki’s lips disappears, and he reaches out, questing fingers tracing the edge of Thor’s mouth, mapping the solid line of his jaw.

Yes, Loki decides. I suppose it is. Or close enough to. And despite the sweat and stickiness between them, he drags Thor close again, to savor his lips, to breathe his air, and taste that love for himself.

~


What follows are several days of feasting and revelry, most of which neither Thor nor Loki participate in, ensconced within Thor’s chambers as they are. It’s only when Frigga drags them both out by the ears, tutting at them all the way, that they grudgingly make an appearance at the banquet hall.

Although Thor had banished the Chitauri from Asgard after the fight, guests from other realms still fill the hall, drinking and laughing as echoes of their dissonant songs float in the air. Thor downs several goblets of mead with Sif and the Warriors Three, while Loki circles the various tables, heaping a platter with food enough for a private banquet of their own.

He’s helping himself to a stein of ale when Volstagg appears at his elbow, a worried crinkle in his brow.

“Are you sure you should you be drinking that?” Volstagg asks. When Loki sets down the platter to glare at him, he adds quickly, “I only meant to say that it cannot be good for the baby.” He gestures to Loki’s belly.

“The baby—no,” Loki replies. “Not yet. Not right now. No,” he says again, emphatically. He and Thor have yet to converse on this matter, as they are still feeling out the edges of their relationship, mending the cracks and smoothing out the crags of their rough-hewn history. There is also the matter of the anatomy and physiology of it to consider as well.

“Oh.” Volstagg blinks, his cheeks flushing a ruddy, wine-dark red. “I thought you and Thor were trying to—we had not seen either of you for days, and so—”

“And so,” Thor declares, appearing behind the two of them and slapping Volstagg heartily on the back, “perhaps we have been, and are on our way to do so again.”

Thor,” Loki says, indignant, as Volstagg excuses himself in a hurry, mumbling something about refilling his tankard. “That was hardly necessary.”

“Unnecessary, maybe, but not entirely untrue,” Thor chuckles. “Especially when we differ only in the purpose, and not in the act, of lovemaking.”

Loki snorts. “Who is the silver-tongued one of us now?”

Thor dips his head to lay a smacking kiss on Loki’s brow and crowds him into a nearby alcove. “If you are worried for your title as Silvertongue,” he purrs, canting a suggestive hip into Loki’s thigh, “perhaps a defense of it with bodily demonstration is in order.”

“Oh?” Loki grins, as he tugs Thor in by the waist. He slots their mouths and hips together, tasting the sweetness of honeyed mead and grapes on Thor’s lips. “Is that a challenge?”

“Hmm.” Thor graces him with a roguish smile, one Loki feels more than he sees. “A cooperative one, you might say.”

Neither demonstration nor challenge are meant to be, however; Frigga intercepts them on their way back to their chambers—for the sole purpose of fussing over them for measurements and patterns for ceremonial wedding robes.

~


By the time celebrations come to a close, the two of them have been fitted for a pair of crimson and emerald robes each, Frigga has swayed them into having a grand wedding ceremony on Asgard (followed by a smaller one on Midgard for Thor’s mortal friends), and Odin has consumed more than his weight in mead and ale combined, lying in his chambers in a drunken stupor not unlike that of the Odinsleep.

It is difficult to blame the Allfather for his indulgence; it has been long since Asgard has had cause for celebration on this scale. Either that, or he is still coming to terms with who Thor has chosen as his partner, Loki decides.

Stark and Rogers are both due to return to Midgard, having had their fill of the Realm Eternal, so Thor and Loki escort the two mortals toward the Bifrost by foot, neither of them having mastered the art of riding a horse quite yet.

“Well, so long,” Stark says with a grin, “and thanks for all the fish.”

It is not a true farewell, as Thor has taken it upon himself to return to Midgard and explain what transpired with Thanos to Director Fury, with Loki set to accompany him. Still, Loki gives Stark a withering look. He’s certain there is a Midgardian pop-culture reference in his statement, but remains deliberately obtuse out of spite. “I am sure our hospitality included more than just fish,” he says. “Perhaps a reminder of the venison and fruits you consumed would be in order? The volume of mead? Your guest chambers alone—”

“Yeah, okay, all right,” Stark says hastily. “I only meant thanks. For things. Everything.” He turns to Thor, as if he will find a kindred spirit in him, or at least someone who will not twist his words, but his next words are not what Loki expects. “Good thing we didn’t have to enact Plan B, huh?”

Thor laughs, the sound stilted and strange as he claps Stark on the back.

“Plan B?” Loki echoes, arching a brow.

“Ah, well—” Thor manages a sheepish smile just as Stark says, “Yeah, Plan B. Thor didn’t tell you? We were supposed to—”

“Tony, please,” says Thor quietly, warning clear in his grip on Stark’s shoulder. His fingers tighten around Loki’s waist, a subtle signal to cease his questioning.

“Yes, ‘Tony’, please,” Loki demands, twisting out of Thor’s hold and barring the way forward. “Enlighten me. What was this ‘Plan B’?”

Stark throws an apologetic look at Thor. “If Thor lost the fight, we were supposed to spirit you back to Earth and hide you. Keep you safe. Who knows how that would’ve gone, though, considering our buddy Thanos, the Colossal Meat Tank That Could.”

Rogers’ eyes light up. “Hey!” he says, “I got that reference. You’re referring to the Little Engine That Could, right?”

Loki disregards the two imbeciles to glare at Thor. “Your contingency plan was not to defeat Thanos by other means, but to hide me? Like some weak, defenseless maiden—”

“No, Loki,” Thor says gently. His hands come up to rest on the sides of Loki’s arms, thumbs stroking his shoulders in small, soothing circles. “Like my beloved. I was asking them to protect my beloved.”

Something thrills in Loki’s chest at the idea of Thor calling him his beloved, a sort of resonant thrum he finds oddly pleasing. The corners of his mouth tilt up against his will before Loki recognizes the chance for a barb. “I never asked for your protection. Or theirs,” he says scathingly.

“Good thing, too,” Stark shoots back, having finished his aside with Rogers. “Not sure we would’ve wanted to provide it.”

Rogers throws Stark a disapproving look, just as Thor chides, “Lokiii,” dragging out the last syllable, fond. Ever the peacekeepers, the two of them. Thor blinks at Loki’s responding scowl, and turns a smile on him, soppy and affectionate.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Loki says, folding his arms over his chest.

“Like what?” asks Thor. The words like a besotted fool are on the tip of Loki’s tongue when Thor reaches out and clasps Loki’s face, pressing their foreheads together. “Like you have hung the stars and the moons? Because you have.”

Shocked into silence, Loki is unable to make a proper riposte; Thor has always been honest to a fault, but this affection, so guileless and true, leaves Loki reeling in its wake.

“I see the cow has stopped its mooing,” Thor laughs, and before Loki can fire off an insult about Thor’s helm, he’s being lifted over Thor’s shoulder like a petulant child. “I think I shall take advantage of its silence to put its tongue to other uses.”

“Put me down, Thor,” Loki demands, beating his fists against Thor’s back. He will not suffer this indignity in front of Thor’s mortal friends, he will not.

Thor only chuckles and pats Loki on the rump, sending a frisson of electricity up his spine as well as a very insistent, reminding ache.

“Wait, where are you guys going?” asks Steve. “We need to report back to Director Fury about what happened here.” He pauses, before giving them a cautious smile. “And let our teammates know about the news. Of your wedding.”

“Perhaps you should go on ahead,” Thor says, turning to speak, and Loki can almost hear the broad grin in his voice. He gives Loki’s bottom a sharp, playful smack as he carries his betrothed away. “We are, as you say on Midgard, ‘getting a room’.”

Stark and Rogers groan, while Heimdall, to his credit, neither blushes nor rolls his eyes at the innuendo; he only gives one long, slow blink as he sends the Midgardians on their way.

[End]
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