March 06 2012, 11:23 PM


I still don’t know what this AU is supposed to be oh god damn it
reposting since tumblr is a douche and I had to remake and stuff

i’ve been wanting to write some hipster au for them. this definitely inspired me in more ways than one. as per usual: no beta, sleepily proofread. LMFAO also first attempt at writing some rimming jfskldjfs [ AO3 link ]


The air is cold. Stagnant. Laden with the acrid smell of stale cigarettes. Yellowed wallpaper is peeling in various places throughout the small apartment. Which, if Loki was honest (and he would be), he found it to be an improvement. A once bright floral pattern looked dead and decaying. Ugly vintage. Brown shag carpets the floors, crushed and matted from years of travel. Dark stains mottled the surface, here and there, like a pattern all its own. He definitely feels it is in his best interest to not question how or why or what. Old, dusty furniture lay scattered about. Tufts of stuffing or springs poking out through the warn fabrics. Nothing terribly inviting. And he likes it.

A steady drip of water falls every seven seconds. He had counted once.


It wasn’t yet time.

Loki sits on the counter, once a bright white, but now just a dingy gray. The flecks of gold no longer holding a shine. Dull and muted. Heavy boots knock against the cabinets below, the sound hollow and resonating. Vibrations shake his legs and all the way up to his chest. Rattles around like it’s hollow there, too. And it just may very well be.

The last rays of the sun shine through the slats of the blind. Yellow-orange lines decorate his body, striping his clothes to make it look like a prison uniform. Crossing over his eyes so brightly that it nearly blinds him. But, he doesn’t turn away. Doesn’t move. Instead, his eyes follow the flecks of dust dancing in the light.

The faucet merely drips as if to ask him why.

He’s lazy, moving slow. Lighting a new cigarette and taking his time on that first inhale. It’s bitter and burns; sucking the smoke down deep to smolder in his lungs. Breathing it down so far that he curls his toes inside his boots. A long exhale and his gaze shifts, watching as the smoke curls around him. Circling and closing in like a predator. Closer and closer. Just when he thinks may suffocate, it disappears, like smoke is wont to do.

Blinking against the sun, he decides it’s more like the shadow of a cage. He feels trapped. Blocked in. There’s a tightening in his chest and he feels like he can’t breathe. Or maybe that he may just burst. The question lingers; why his wings have been clipped and he’s still here. Still coming back to this fucking place. Distantly, the sound of heavy footsteps sound. Noise bouncing off the corridor moving ever closer. Loki can feel each one shake him to his core.

The faucet drips in acknowledgement.

Another stream of smoke is blown out—harsh, forceful—just as the front door bangs open. Thor had once said Loki resembled a dragon when he did that. Angry and full of fire. Now, standing in the doorway, Loki thinks Thor resembles a tiger. Wild and untamed. Nearly crouched and ready to spring. Pounce upon the enemy and consume him until there’s nothing left. Unafraid and set for the kill. Loki doesn’t flinch at the sudden intrusion—he never does. Thor is expected. Predicted. Predestined and it’s suffocating. So fucking suffocating, but he needs it. They need it. He anticipates what’s coming—Thor always being so easily readable—setting down the still burning cigarette in the ashtray by his thigh.

In an instant, the door is slammed shut and Thor is there. Omnipresent and more utterly fucking suffocating than the smoke. Except for as much as Loki despises being cornered, he also can’t seem to turn it away when it’s Thor. Their lips are crushed together in a kiss so encompassing that had he been standing, his knees would have gone weak. He hates this. He hates how invasive these kisses are. They take his breath away. Tongues clashing in a battle for control—that control neither is willing to relinquish. And what he hates most of all is how he craves it and how Thor seems to know that he does. So he gives it to him, unrelenting. Loki doesn’t know when Thor became so attune to his needs and wants, and for as much as he hates it, he wants it, too.

Clothing is shed, dropped carelessly to the floor. The ashtray pushed aside, the smoke from the still burning cigarette curling around Thor’s arm like a snake ready to sink it’s teeth into his arm. Fill him with venom until it kills him. Loki’s eyes watch, trained and then almost unconsciously, his fingers brush down the strong arm. Almost in a possessive streak down the skin, staking claim that if anyone is killing Thor from the inside out, it will be him.

The smoke dissipates.

All too soon, his face is resting against the cool laminate countertop, the bones of his hips pressing hard at the edge. His breathing sounds harsh to his own ears and he tries to reign himself in. But, he’s finding that harder to do with each stroke of Thor’s tongue that slips passed his entrance. This isn’t something that happens often; Loki can’t help but feel like Thor is up to something. A strike of heat fires through his body as Thor’s tongue delves deeper, over and over again, and Loki feels himself begin to come undone. He bites on his lip to stifle any sound, hold back the words that threaten to spill over. Knees begin to shake and he feels like he’s falling—physically and metaphorically. This has to stop, he can’t keep letting Thor do this. But then he feels strong hands grip his waist, fit around him so perfectly and tug him back and he can’t think of anything besides how good it feels. How feeling that gentle sucking and then another assault of the stroke of Thor’s tongue in such a sensitive place. It’s too much, and maybe he’s actually saying that aloud now, hands gripping so tight at the edge of the counter. Legs buckling as he feels a slightly calloused hand wrap around his cock, stroking him in time with each lick of his tongue.

It’s dangerous, but he doesn’t remember moving from the kitchen to the living room. His back is against that shitty wallpaper, legs wrapped so tight around Thor’s waist. He knows he won’t fall, trusts that idiot implicitly no matter how much he denies that fact. No, he’s wrapped so tight because he wants to feel Thor. Feel him so keenly and deeply that it’s almost like he’ll be split apart. And maybe that’s what he wants. Wants no one but Thor to split him wide and make him feel nothing but feel everything all at once. He wants the world and knows Thor is the only one that can give it to him. Just like this. He tries to hold himself there, Thor buried so deep inside that in those few precious seconds he can feel his cock throb inside him with impatience. But it doesn’t last as long as he’d like before Thor moves, fucking him so hard he can hardly breathe. He hates this, too. Hates presenting this face to Thor because he can’t hide how good it is. Hates seeing that confident grin on Thor’s lips as they move together. Perfectly. It’s always so fucking perfect and he doesn’t know why he can’t muster up the hatred for that, too.

And then they’re on the floor—any reservations Loki had about the carpet long since forgotten. He’s poised on top of Thor, looking regal enough that he could be sitting atop a throne rather than a cock. This time he dictates the pace. Moves slow and teasing, making Thor writhe beneath him. Contracting his muscles to create more stimulation to drive Thor mad. And it’s there in his eyes, electricity sparking in the depths that speak of the desire he has for Loki. He doesn’t hate this so much—he’s in control now.  For as much as he’d like to torture Thor for all the torturing his body endured (he does so enjoy retribution), he doesn’t. He wants the gratification, needs that release. The speed increases, hips moving faster, grinding a little harder. Coaxing them both to the edge and then shoving them off. Stars spark his vision, a multitude of colors that remind him of a distant past. It feels so good and so welcome that this time he doesn’t mind when Thor’s fingers slip between his own as he comes.

Loki sits perched on the arm of the dilapidated sofa. A piece of wood poking upward and making it slightly uncomfortable. But he doesn’t move. Not yet. Instead, he lights a cigarette absently. He doesn’t feel like smoking but he doesn’t feel like being idle either. It’s something to occupy his hands that still feel the press of warm, muscled skin and his mouth that still tastes of Thor. He thinks he shouldn’t still want to feel those things, tells himself he doesn’t—lies to himself to make it all okay.

The sun has long since set, the room illuminated by the neon lights of the bar next door. Shining in just enough so he can watch Thor sleep; unabashed in his nakedness. So foolish and trusting. And Loki thinks of all the things he could do to him, but he doesn’t. Instead he bends to put his boots on, teeth grinding on the butt of the cigarette. This is how it always ends and he thinks it should get easier, but it never does. But, that’s alright. He lies well enough that even he believes what he tells himself to believe. It’s all a game—it’s fun. Never mind that he’s made it easier for Thor the more time goes by.

He pulls Thor’s jacket on, inhaling the smell and all at once gets hit with a wave of a feeling he’s never, ever going to admit to anyone. Especially, himself. It’s a little too big, but he’s taking it anyway. Spoils of the war. The cigarette is put out on a broken end table and Loki jams the rest of the pack in the pocket. Feels something in there and pulls it out. A napkin with Thor’s scrawled, messy hand writing—the address of this apartment. Just from a quick glance there in the near dark room, he can sense the excitement he felt when he figured it out. His eyes flick over to him laying there on the floor and there might be the barest hint of a grin on his lips. But it’s gone before he can waste any time thinking about it further.

In the kitchen he finds a pen—amazed that it works—and writes one simple note on the back. His steps are quiet as he returns. Stealth and silent. It’s carefully laid on Thor’s chest so it will be the first thing he sees upon waking and then he’s leaning down, almost as if he’s going to leave one parting kiss. But he stops, hovering there above his lips; breathing softly and allowing their breaths to mingle. Entwining together as one. Again there’s a twitch of a smile and then he’s pulling away, rising and without another look back—he’s gone.

Later, Thor stands at the window. A black hoodie one size too small stretched over his body, smelling like ash and cloves. A crumpled napkin in his hands and a bright grin on his face.

Catch me if you can, brother.

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