Fic: Contortions in the Dark (Thor, Thor/Loki)
Title: Contortions in the Dark
Fandom: Thor
Pairing: Thor/Loki
Rating: R for sex, mild violence and some dark themes.
Word Count: 1430
Summary: Nyarlathotep is Loki's father. No, really.
Author's Note: Written for the prompt on norsekink, [Crossover] OuterGod!Loki [Lovecraft]. Unbetaed.
Loki has never dreamed before. The others talk of dreams, of nightmares and fantasies both mundane and obscene, but they have never been his to experience.
He supposes this must be a dream, but never having had one before, the sensation of falling seems terrifyingly real.
Loki falls for an age, and when he finds his feet again, he doesn't find himself in Asgard, Midgard, Jotunheim or any of the nine realms.
Nonetheless, he finds his feet and walks on the void between voids. His mind fills with white noise as if to make up for the dead space around him, he curls in on himself and clutches his stomach, and he knows as surely as any other time he has shapeshifted that he is changing.
He grows, shrinks, twists, seems to keep shifting as if he were never to become static again, and he realises with a stab of sharp panic that he is no longer whole, that there are parts of him touching corners of the universe whole years from where he centres himself.
There is a whisper of comfort in his ear, a presence that feels like a thousand arms holding a million of his own, and it says in a language that never existed and never will, son.
He shuts his eyes and is rocked to sleep in the only place he ever truly belonged.
He wakes in his room in Asgard, checks his arms and legs, finds only two of each, and throws off his blanket with shaking hands. He knows how dreams work, but he feels as if he should not have found himself waking in the same place he went to sleep.
Every step he takes is painful, his joints aching as if he were too old to use them, and dizziness makes it worse; vertigo twists his stomach, leaving him clinging to the walls for support, but everything he touches feels like a lie.
Volstagg finds him not long after he finally collapses, and he lets himself be carried, thankful for Volstagg's simplicity of thought. There is no guile in the warrior's eyes, no questioning beyond his concern for Loki's health, and it is easy enough to pass out in his arms.
Someone's hands are warm on his left knee, and it eases the pain, makes waking up easier even if the vertigo still hasn't passed.
Volstagg and the healer seem to think him asleep, and he shuts his eyes, listens in on their conversation.
"I've never seen anything like it before, but I swear to you, if I did not know better, I would think you had described growing pains."
"He shapeshifts," Volstagg says, and Loki tries not to smirk at the warrior's comment; the healers are all well aware of his abilities, given they had to assist him when he gave birth to Sleipnir.
"Has shapeshifting ever tired him before?"
Loki can't hear their answers, but even though his eyes are shut, suddenly he sees their faces, sees Volstagg shake his head, and he knows the eyes he looks through are not those in his skull.
He sits up, looks at his arm, and screams until Volstagg punches him unconscious.
In his dreams he moves through the corridors of Asgard with ease, not quite walking, but moving nonetheless. Someone moves with him, someone slender and dark-haired like him, and though their skin is darker than his he can see all too many similarities. They could be brothers.
There is more to the man with him than two legs and two arms, and Loki cannot bring himself to look in his eyes.
"The gods are bored," he says. "Your games have fed them well, but it will not satisfy them."
Everything about the man feels malevolent, and yet Loki knows he means him no harm. That strange sense of comfort returns, and Loki understands. "You're the one who called me 'son'."
"You are so much more than a son," says the man, and his lips stop moving but Loki still hears his name. Nyarlathotep. Father.
"What do you wish of me?"
"Do what comes naturally. Be deceit itself. Sow madness. Reap its rewards." Nyarlathotep grins, and his teeth are like shards of ice, bright and cold and wicked. "A war is coming. Claim it as yours."
He wakes in the healing rooms again, expects his head to be sore from Volstagg's punch but finds he still only aches in his joints. The dizziness seems to have eased, and he slides off the bed onto what feels like seven legs, almost falls over the instant he processes the sensation.
He's shapeshifted before, and it's unsettling to have to make sure he is in the shape he thinks of as his own without the use of magic as an aid. It feels more like regaining the use of long ignored muscles than like bending the rules of physics - as if having as few or many limbs as he needs, rather than the prescribed one or two, is more natural than having one form alone.
He'll get used to it somehow, he's certain, and he walks outside past healers who look at him without looking, their expressions frozen, glazed over. He needs to find something more solid than stone or metal, crawls around the corridors of Asgard before checking himself, making himself walk.
He does not know how Thor will greet him at this hour, but pounds on his brother's door until it opens.
"What is it?" Thor growls; Loki does not bother to check if he is interrupting anything, walks in past his brother and paces idly for a moment, uncertain of what he should say. "Loki?" the anger in Thor's voice eases, and by the time he repeats the question, "Loki?" it is replaced entirely by concern.
"I'm not mad," Loki says, hating his eyes for welling up, hating himself for being weak enough to panic over what has to be a dream.
"I know," Thor says, his tone and stance showing he believes himself honest, and Loki wraps his arms around his brother's shoulders, clings to him and sobs. Thor is solid, warm, flesh and nerves and blood and bones all in order, all where they belong, neat and tidy. It's something stable to hold onto.
Thor clears the mess of unwashed clothes and discarded trinkets from his bed to make room for another occupant, lets Loki lie down with him, and it is blissful to find comfort in arms that have never refused him.
Nyarlathotep sits in front of the bed despite there being no chair to sit on, seems comfortable enough ignoring gravity. "What more attention do you need?"
"I did not invite you here," Loki replies, defiant and feeling nervous at that defiance even if the reasoning part of him knows the man in front of him can't exist. The unreasonable part of him is just as certain that the man does.
"But you want something of me. I don't come unless someone calls first, and I wish to answer."
Loki is alone in the bed here, but knows in the waking world there are warm arms around his waist, holding him close and keeping him safe. "You mentioned war. I know what Ragnarok will bring -"
"Do you?"
"- but I know you don't speak of it," Loki replies, trying to stay strong, stay focused, and keep from meeting Nyarlathotep's eyes. "If I start this war, will my brother stay safe?"
Nyarlathotep is quiet for a moment before sitting up, walking over to him, and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Loki has walked through Jotunheim's frozen halls, but never felt colder than he does at this moment. "Our gods are screaming children," he says, and strokes his fingers through Loki's hair, tucking it behind his ear. "But they gave me you. You can keep your toys."
Loki feels a warm nose press against the back of his neck, Thor's legs nudging his apart, gentle rutting against his hips he can refuse if he wants to.
He lets it continue, closes his eyes and grinds back against his brother slowly.
"Bad dreams?" Thor says, planting small, sweet kisses along the line of Loki's neck and shoulders, his hand sliding from where it had rested on Loki's stomach to start stroking his thighs, leaving his half-hard cock alone for now.
"I would not know," Loki replies, and brings his hand to rest over Thor's, relaxes into Thor's touch as best as he can.
He can feel two arms and two legs. They're more than enough for now.
The End
Fandom: Thor
Pairing: Thor/Loki
Rating: R for sex, mild violence and some dark themes.
Word Count: 1430
Summary: Nyarlathotep is Loki's father. No, really.
Author's Note: Written for the prompt on norsekink, [Crossover] OuterGod!Loki [Lovecraft]. Unbetaed.
Loki has never dreamed before. The others talk of dreams, of nightmares and fantasies both mundane and obscene, but they have never been his to experience.
He supposes this must be a dream, but never having had one before, the sensation of falling seems terrifyingly real.
Loki falls for an age, and when he finds his feet again, he doesn't find himself in Asgard, Midgard, Jotunheim or any of the nine realms.
Nonetheless, he finds his feet and walks on the void between voids. His mind fills with white noise as if to make up for the dead space around him, he curls in on himself and clutches his stomach, and he knows as surely as any other time he has shapeshifted that he is changing.
He grows, shrinks, twists, seems to keep shifting as if he were never to become static again, and he realises with a stab of sharp panic that he is no longer whole, that there are parts of him touching corners of the universe whole years from where he centres himself.
There is a whisper of comfort in his ear, a presence that feels like a thousand arms holding a million of his own, and it says in a language that never existed and never will, son.
He shuts his eyes and is rocked to sleep in the only place he ever truly belonged.
He wakes in his room in Asgard, checks his arms and legs, finds only two of each, and throws off his blanket with shaking hands. He knows how dreams work, but he feels as if he should not have found himself waking in the same place he went to sleep.
Every step he takes is painful, his joints aching as if he were too old to use them, and dizziness makes it worse; vertigo twists his stomach, leaving him clinging to the walls for support, but everything he touches feels like a lie.
Volstagg finds him not long after he finally collapses, and he lets himself be carried, thankful for Volstagg's simplicity of thought. There is no guile in the warrior's eyes, no questioning beyond his concern for Loki's health, and it is easy enough to pass out in his arms.
Someone's hands are warm on his left knee, and it eases the pain, makes waking up easier even if the vertigo still hasn't passed.
Volstagg and the healer seem to think him asleep, and he shuts his eyes, listens in on their conversation.
"I've never seen anything like it before, but I swear to you, if I did not know better, I would think you had described growing pains."
"He shapeshifts," Volstagg says, and Loki tries not to smirk at the warrior's comment; the healers are all well aware of his abilities, given they had to assist him when he gave birth to Sleipnir.
"Has shapeshifting ever tired him before?"
Loki can't hear their answers, but even though his eyes are shut, suddenly he sees their faces, sees Volstagg shake his head, and he knows the eyes he looks through are not those in his skull.
He sits up, looks at his arm, and screams until Volstagg punches him unconscious.
In his dreams he moves through the corridors of Asgard with ease, not quite walking, but moving nonetheless. Someone moves with him, someone slender and dark-haired like him, and though their skin is darker than his he can see all too many similarities. They could be brothers.
There is more to the man with him than two legs and two arms, and Loki cannot bring himself to look in his eyes.
"The gods are bored," he says. "Your games have fed them well, but it will not satisfy them."
Everything about the man feels malevolent, and yet Loki knows he means him no harm. That strange sense of comfort returns, and Loki understands. "You're the one who called me 'son'."
"You are so much more than a son," says the man, and his lips stop moving but Loki still hears his name. Nyarlathotep. Father.
"What do you wish of me?"
"Do what comes naturally. Be deceit itself. Sow madness. Reap its rewards." Nyarlathotep grins, and his teeth are like shards of ice, bright and cold and wicked. "A war is coming. Claim it as yours."
He wakes in the healing rooms again, expects his head to be sore from Volstagg's punch but finds he still only aches in his joints. The dizziness seems to have eased, and he slides off the bed onto what feels like seven legs, almost falls over the instant he processes the sensation.
He's shapeshifted before, and it's unsettling to have to make sure he is in the shape he thinks of as his own without the use of magic as an aid. It feels more like regaining the use of long ignored muscles than like bending the rules of physics - as if having as few or many limbs as he needs, rather than the prescribed one or two, is more natural than having one form alone.
He'll get used to it somehow, he's certain, and he walks outside past healers who look at him without looking, their expressions frozen, glazed over. He needs to find something more solid than stone or metal, crawls around the corridors of Asgard before checking himself, making himself walk.
He does not know how Thor will greet him at this hour, but pounds on his brother's door until it opens.
"What is it?" Thor growls; Loki does not bother to check if he is interrupting anything, walks in past his brother and paces idly for a moment, uncertain of what he should say. "Loki?" the anger in Thor's voice eases, and by the time he repeats the question, "Loki?" it is replaced entirely by concern.
"I'm not mad," Loki says, hating his eyes for welling up, hating himself for being weak enough to panic over what has to be a dream.
"I know," Thor says, his tone and stance showing he believes himself honest, and Loki wraps his arms around his brother's shoulders, clings to him and sobs. Thor is solid, warm, flesh and nerves and blood and bones all in order, all where they belong, neat and tidy. It's something stable to hold onto.
Thor clears the mess of unwashed clothes and discarded trinkets from his bed to make room for another occupant, lets Loki lie down with him, and it is blissful to find comfort in arms that have never refused him.
Nyarlathotep sits in front of the bed despite there being no chair to sit on, seems comfortable enough ignoring gravity. "What more attention do you need?"
"I did not invite you here," Loki replies, defiant and feeling nervous at that defiance even if the reasoning part of him knows the man in front of him can't exist. The unreasonable part of him is just as certain that the man does.
"But you want something of me. I don't come unless someone calls first, and I wish to answer."
Loki is alone in the bed here, but knows in the waking world there are warm arms around his waist, holding him close and keeping him safe. "You mentioned war. I know what Ragnarok will bring -"
"Do you?"
"- but I know you don't speak of it," Loki replies, trying to stay strong, stay focused, and keep from meeting Nyarlathotep's eyes. "If I start this war, will my brother stay safe?"
Nyarlathotep is quiet for a moment before sitting up, walking over to him, and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Loki has walked through Jotunheim's frozen halls, but never felt colder than he does at this moment. "Our gods are screaming children," he says, and strokes his fingers through Loki's hair, tucking it behind his ear. "But they gave me you. You can keep your toys."
Loki feels a warm nose press against the back of his neck, Thor's legs nudging his apart, gentle rutting against his hips he can refuse if he wants to.
He lets it continue, closes his eyes and grinds back against his brother slowly.
"Bad dreams?" Thor says, planting small, sweet kisses along the line of Loki's neck and shoulders, his hand sliding from where it had rested on Loki's stomach to start stroking his thighs, leaving his half-hard cock alone for now.
"I would not know," Loki replies, and brings his hand to rest over Thor's, relaxes into Thor's touch as best as he can.
He can feel two arms and two legs. They're more than enough for now.
The End