FIC: How Far To Fall (Loki/Thor, Avengers)
Sep. 3rd, 2012 09:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeTitle: How Far To Fall
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Word Count: 1500+
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Loki/Thor
Warnings: Mildly Dubious Consent, Implied Incest
Summary: The prison in Asgard was not a dungeon but a tower, rising high into the skyline, a solitary spire against the blue of the sky. Truth be told, it was inhabited but rarely. Due punishment was given, true, but Asgardians were oft known to seek their own judgment and let retribution of the All-Father fall where it was most needed.
~~*~~
The prison in Asgard was not a dungeon but a tower, rising high into the skyline, a solitary spire against the blue of the sky. Truth be told, it was inhabited but rarely. Due punishment was given, true, but Asgardians were oft known to seek their own judgment and let retribution of the All-Father fall where it was most needed.
In the uppermost room, high above the city, there is but a single window overlooking a cobblestone courtyard against which one might break bones, if one were foolish enough to leap. The bars across it prevent such a thing and also, prevent one from flying off to undeserved freedom, if one possessed such skills.
It is a room that holds his brother and Thor goes to it every morning. Every morning he stands before Loki, every morning he pleads, with words, with silences, with what few meager parlaying skills he has at his disposal and if his love were a weapon, perhaps Thor might be able to wield it. As it is, he cannot.
Loki sits on the single cushioned bench in this room, silenced and restrained, a thin chain binding his wrists and his magic both, as it has been since his return to Asgard.
His love for his family, for his brother, has been bound for much longer than that.
Yet, Thor stands here, morning after morning, watching his brother slip further and further from between his fingers once again. It was a burden unmatched, a punishment for his own arrogance, his myriad of sins. Despite them, Thor had been forgiven, absolved, and would it not be that Loki could be as well? Would that he repented, would that his heart would come home as his body had--Thor had been forgiven and all it had cost him was his brother.
Nothing changed. Morning after morning, nothing changed. And here Loki remained, a Prince of Asgard in the tower; his magic restrained, muzzled, bound like the commonest of criminals and it was not this, not this, that tore open unhealed wounds that were gouged into Thor's very being.
His brother, little brother, was bound before him and Thor could not save him.
Twice failed; twice now he had failed to save his brother and Thor knew that tragedies came in threes.
Loki could not speak but his eyes carried his words for him, spitting bitterness, daggers of glared anger--
(hatred)
--that left Thor with naught but despair.
"Loki," Thor whispered, hoarsely and the sound carried in the silence of the room. One could not even hear the cry of birds from the tower.
The tower where Loki would remain. His brother would not repent and the punishment must suit Loki's crimes. His parents were in anguish, the kingdom mourned. Even the weather cast rain from the skies, weeping for the pain of Asgard. Water sheeted down the heavy glass of the single window, rivulets of wetness glossing down it. Like tears, always tears, the world could not cry enough to soothe the pain in Thor's being.
"Brother," Thor let the word fall between them, a mere thread of sound yet that smallest of things crackled in Loki's eyes like a flame. Reaching out, Thor cupped his brother's head in his hands and did not rejoice when Loki allowed it. He had to allow it, there was no place for him to flee, he was bound, inward and out, and Thor had failed him.
Beneath the muzzling restraint, Loki could not even part his lips, his magic and his lies bound as one. Loki could not offer his mouth but Thor was still in possession of his own and he pressed his lips against Loki's forehead, yielded one kiss each on the delicate skin of his eyelids. Lower, following the line of the muzzle. Loki's cheek was petal-smooth, beardless as the youth he had not been in an age and perhaps Thor should have questioned that years ago, an Asgardian as such.
No. He would never have questioned his brother.
His fingers trembled as he cupped them beneath Loki's chin, urging him to tip his head back that Thor might press his lips to the pale skin hidden beneath it. Grazed his teeth against his larynx and he could feel the vibration beneath his mouth, words that could not be spoken imprisoned there as surely as Loki was in this cell.
Trapped, they were all of them trapped by Loki's crimes and they would all suffer for them.
Loki could not escape him, could not curse him, could not flee from him. To shift his legs? To part his knees and allow Thor between them? That he could, he did, allow, and Thor fell to his own knees before his brother, as Loki had once commanded of a frightened crowd of Midgardians. Fell to his knees and buried his face into his brother's belly and if the thin cloth of his tunic dampened beneath his cheek, Loki could say nothing of it.
Loki's hands did not move from the bench he was sat upon, fingers curled over the edge, his knuckles whitened. But they did not push Thor away when he slid his arms around his brother, held him with his great strength. Useless strength, for it could do nothing for him here.
Perhaps that knowledge made it easier to slide his hands lower, following the line of Loki's back. Sitting back on his heels gave his hands room to drag over Loki's hips, down the smooth, fine fabric of his leggings. Bound as a common criminal, perhaps, but someone had chosen not to dress Loki as one.
His tunic and leggings were simple, plain, nothing so ornate as not to allow Thor to tug the lacings free easily, to part the cloth, and if Loki lifted his hips, if he allowed Thor to free the hardened length of his cock, then perhaps he could not be blamed. He claimed no blood of Odin's was his own, Thor was no kin of his, and every unspoken sound that he could not make shrieked silently from his body as Thor lowered his head and took the pink, swollen head between his lips.
Beneath his hands, his mouth, Loki thrashed in one brief, graceless movement. He stilled almost as quickly, the tension within him thrumming with electricity, like the moment before a lightening strike. Thor pulled back, wet his lips as he met Loki's eyes and saw…he did not know what he saw. The anger
(hatred)
anger was banked and what he saw made Thor close his eyes, leaning in again blindly to slick his tongue up the silken flesh of his shaft. The skin was faintly, unexpectedly, cool against his tongue and Thor was briefly reminded that his brother was not of Asgard, that he was Jotun.
Nothing of his heritage was revealed in his taste, sweet-salt beneath Thor's tongue and he felt the quiver in his thighs, felt the raggedness of his breathing.
How long had it been since Loki had been touched thus? Surely there had been none whom he might have lain with out in the furthest of outer worlds and Thor did not believe he would have allowed a human any liberties. There was no way to know, Loki could not, surely would not, tell him and so Thor only curled his tongue around the slick head, lapped away the slick droplets there.
Loki merely let his thighs fall a-splay, breathed out a noiseless sigh as Thor took him into the warm wetness of his own mouth. Took the shaft as deep as he could, swallowing hard as the tip bumped the back of his throat and he was forced to pull back, breathing in desperately through his nose before trying again. It took him a moment, swallowing down Loki's cock and his own uncertainty in the same movement. His lips were wet with his own spit as though his mouth were watering for the taste of this and Thor found a rhythm, worked his tongue against the shaft as he took more, swallowing again and again, his own eager saliva and Loki's cock sliding between his lips.
Loki could not make a sound, not a murmur or a groan could escape him. There was no warning to be had before the first hot spurt crossed his tongue and Thor nearly choked, startling at the heated contrast to Loki's skin. He swallowed down the rich saltiness of it, lapped up each spilled droplet. Savored it as a rare thing that may never be tasted again. And perhaps that was so.
Thor let Loki slide from between his lips and he rested his sweat-damp forehead on his brother's thigh, dragging in great gulps of air. Saltiness in his mouth again, salt wetness falling from his eyes, trailing down his cheeks to limn his lips, the taste of pleasure and pain mingled within his mouth and Thor—
Thor could not save his little brother.
He knew not how long he rested there, long enough for the thunder of his own heartbeat to ease, for tears to dry into tacky streaks. Loki was still beneath his head, his clothing still in disarray. He was as motionless as a statue; even his breathing seemed muted, still.
And then, slowly, Thor felt a slight shift, the faint tinkling chime of a chain rattling and a hand landed lightly on his head, slim fingers combing through his hair with the gentleness of a springtime breeze.
-finis-
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Word Count: 1500+
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Loki/Thor
Warnings: Mildly Dubious Consent, Implied Incest
Summary: The prison in Asgard was not a dungeon but a tower, rising high into the skyline, a solitary spire against the blue of the sky. Truth be told, it was inhabited but rarely. Due punishment was given, true, but Asgardians were oft known to seek their own judgment and let retribution of the All-Father fall where it was most needed.
~~*~~
The prison in Asgard was not a dungeon but a tower, rising high into the skyline, a solitary spire against the blue of the sky. Truth be told, it was inhabited but rarely. Due punishment was given, true, but Asgardians were oft known to seek their own judgment and let retribution of the All-Father fall where it was most needed.
In the uppermost room, high above the city, there is but a single window overlooking a cobblestone courtyard against which one might break bones, if one were foolish enough to leap. The bars across it prevent such a thing and also, prevent one from flying off to undeserved freedom, if one possessed such skills.
It is a room that holds his brother and Thor goes to it every morning. Every morning he stands before Loki, every morning he pleads, with words, with silences, with what few meager parlaying skills he has at his disposal and if his love were a weapon, perhaps Thor might be able to wield it. As it is, he cannot.
Loki sits on the single cushioned bench in this room, silenced and restrained, a thin chain binding his wrists and his magic both, as it has been since his return to Asgard.
His love for his family, for his brother, has been bound for much longer than that.
Yet, Thor stands here, morning after morning, watching his brother slip further and further from between his fingers once again. It was a burden unmatched, a punishment for his own arrogance, his myriad of sins. Despite them, Thor had been forgiven, absolved, and would it not be that Loki could be as well? Would that he repented, would that his heart would come home as his body had--Thor had been forgiven and all it had cost him was his brother.
Nothing changed. Morning after morning, nothing changed. And here Loki remained, a Prince of Asgard in the tower; his magic restrained, muzzled, bound like the commonest of criminals and it was not this, not this, that tore open unhealed wounds that were gouged into Thor's very being.
His brother, little brother, was bound before him and Thor could not save him.
Twice failed; twice now he had failed to save his brother and Thor knew that tragedies came in threes.
Loki could not speak but his eyes carried his words for him, spitting bitterness, daggers of glared anger--
(hatred)
--that left Thor with naught but despair.
"Loki," Thor whispered, hoarsely and the sound carried in the silence of the room. One could not even hear the cry of birds from the tower.
The tower where Loki would remain. His brother would not repent and the punishment must suit Loki's crimes. His parents were in anguish, the kingdom mourned. Even the weather cast rain from the skies, weeping for the pain of Asgard. Water sheeted down the heavy glass of the single window, rivulets of wetness glossing down it. Like tears, always tears, the world could not cry enough to soothe the pain in Thor's being.
"Brother," Thor let the word fall between them, a mere thread of sound yet that smallest of things crackled in Loki's eyes like a flame. Reaching out, Thor cupped his brother's head in his hands and did not rejoice when Loki allowed it. He had to allow it, there was no place for him to flee, he was bound, inward and out, and Thor had failed him.
Beneath the muzzling restraint, Loki could not even part his lips, his magic and his lies bound as one. Loki could not offer his mouth but Thor was still in possession of his own and he pressed his lips against Loki's forehead, yielded one kiss each on the delicate skin of his eyelids. Lower, following the line of the muzzle. Loki's cheek was petal-smooth, beardless as the youth he had not been in an age and perhaps Thor should have questioned that years ago, an Asgardian as such.
No. He would never have questioned his brother.
His fingers trembled as he cupped them beneath Loki's chin, urging him to tip his head back that Thor might press his lips to the pale skin hidden beneath it. Grazed his teeth against his larynx and he could feel the vibration beneath his mouth, words that could not be spoken imprisoned there as surely as Loki was in this cell.
Trapped, they were all of them trapped by Loki's crimes and they would all suffer for them.
Loki could not escape him, could not curse him, could not flee from him. To shift his legs? To part his knees and allow Thor between them? That he could, he did, allow, and Thor fell to his own knees before his brother, as Loki had once commanded of a frightened crowd of Midgardians. Fell to his knees and buried his face into his brother's belly and if the thin cloth of his tunic dampened beneath his cheek, Loki could say nothing of it.
Loki's hands did not move from the bench he was sat upon, fingers curled over the edge, his knuckles whitened. But they did not push Thor away when he slid his arms around his brother, held him with his great strength. Useless strength, for it could do nothing for him here.
Perhaps that knowledge made it easier to slide his hands lower, following the line of Loki's back. Sitting back on his heels gave his hands room to drag over Loki's hips, down the smooth, fine fabric of his leggings. Bound as a common criminal, perhaps, but someone had chosen not to dress Loki as one.
His tunic and leggings were simple, plain, nothing so ornate as not to allow Thor to tug the lacings free easily, to part the cloth, and if Loki lifted his hips, if he allowed Thor to free the hardened length of his cock, then perhaps he could not be blamed. He claimed no blood of Odin's was his own, Thor was no kin of his, and every unspoken sound that he could not make shrieked silently from his body as Thor lowered his head and took the pink, swollen head between his lips.
Beneath his hands, his mouth, Loki thrashed in one brief, graceless movement. He stilled almost as quickly, the tension within him thrumming with electricity, like the moment before a lightening strike. Thor pulled back, wet his lips as he met Loki's eyes and saw…he did not know what he saw. The anger
(hatred)
anger was banked and what he saw made Thor close his eyes, leaning in again blindly to slick his tongue up the silken flesh of his shaft. The skin was faintly, unexpectedly, cool against his tongue and Thor was briefly reminded that his brother was not of Asgard, that he was Jotun.
Nothing of his heritage was revealed in his taste, sweet-salt beneath Thor's tongue and he felt the quiver in his thighs, felt the raggedness of his breathing.
How long had it been since Loki had been touched thus? Surely there had been none whom he might have lain with out in the furthest of outer worlds and Thor did not believe he would have allowed a human any liberties. There was no way to know, Loki could not, surely would not, tell him and so Thor only curled his tongue around the slick head, lapped away the slick droplets there.
Loki merely let his thighs fall a-splay, breathed out a noiseless sigh as Thor took him into the warm wetness of his own mouth. Took the shaft as deep as he could, swallowing hard as the tip bumped the back of his throat and he was forced to pull back, breathing in desperately through his nose before trying again. It took him a moment, swallowing down Loki's cock and his own uncertainty in the same movement. His lips were wet with his own spit as though his mouth were watering for the taste of this and Thor found a rhythm, worked his tongue against the shaft as he took more, swallowing again and again, his own eager saliva and Loki's cock sliding between his lips.
Loki could not make a sound, not a murmur or a groan could escape him. There was no warning to be had before the first hot spurt crossed his tongue and Thor nearly choked, startling at the heated contrast to Loki's skin. He swallowed down the rich saltiness of it, lapped up each spilled droplet. Savored it as a rare thing that may never be tasted again. And perhaps that was so.
Thor let Loki slide from between his lips and he rested his sweat-damp forehead on his brother's thigh, dragging in great gulps of air. Saltiness in his mouth again, salt wetness falling from his eyes, trailing down his cheeks to limn his lips, the taste of pleasure and pain mingled within his mouth and Thor—
Thor could not save his little brother.
He knew not how long he rested there, long enough for the thunder of his own heartbeat to ease, for tears to dry into tacky streaks. Loki was still beneath his head, his clothing still in disarray. He was as motionless as a statue; even his breathing seemed muted, still.
And then, slowly, Thor felt a slight shift, the faint tinkling chime of a chain rattling and a hand landed lightly on his head, slim fingers combing through his hair with the gentleness of a springtime breeze.
-finis-
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-09-09 05:37 pm (UTC)Also, this was lovely, with the blending of hot and sad.