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you and me and the war at the end times

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The waves swell and wane, clear lazy strokes against the sand. It lulls him and laps at him, curls at his toes and kisses his ankles. In, out, the pulse of the moon-pulled tide, and it makes him think of woman, of female; touches at his skin, all-knowing, and he slips on a form better suited to these sways and rhythms. Loki is no fan of the sun, not like her not-brother-brother (Thor had pouted at the cloud-heavy sky until the light had sulked its way through), but the breeze makes it bearable; cool, even. Loki feels it, soft at the swimsuit she's dressed these curves in – dark greens on black – and she likes it. Likes it, too, that she can still surprise her brother, when the blond turns to speak and finds a woman at his side.

“Does nobody notice such a startling alteration?” Thor brums, though he knows full well the answer.

“They see what it suits them to see,” Loki answers, though she knows that Thor knows. She doesn't further her opinion on the matter, doesn't talk of the things she thinks that these people require (deserve. possibly, need). She finds, instead, that she doesn't want to add metaphorical clouds to her idiot companion's morning.

That she even considers Thor's equilibrium doesn't baffle her these days, and her shrug is one of simple indifference, nothing more.

Thor snorts his own opinion, but he's grinning, as he lopes from Loki and into the waves. The water beats against him and he splashes, like a young hound, waves and white catching at his chest, at his shoulders, at the hair of him, making him glint beneath the sun he so enjoys. Loki does not grin in mirror-form, but she does smile. Does allow a smile, here, beneath this Midgardian sky, where no-one is watching, or no-one of import, save possibly Heimdall, but Heimdall is surely long bored with paying them too much heed; at least, when they're sharing company instead of thrashings.

Besides, Loki's already brought this place to its knees once, and repetition is tedious, and they can break it quite well on their own.

No, nothing to see here, and Loki can smile if she wants to. Loki can step further into the waves, can let them bang against her knees, can let them cool around her the deeper she goes.

Whisper of a world slowly ending, and she leans down to flick water at the god before her.

 

(There are times when they are enemies. This is not one of them.)

 

The hotel bed is opulent and Loki says, “Really?”, and rolls her eyes, but it isn't the money itself, so much as where it has come from. Wages. Salary. Oh, the faces they would pull, if they saw what – if they saw upon whom – their golden boy of the hour past was choosing to spend it upon. Mortal memories are short, though, even if their bank accounts are lasting.

Thor is emptying the mini bar with a huff, so he likely doesn't notice, anyway.

Loki knees her way to the centre of the bed. The sheets are drawn tight but they rumple beneath her, and she tracks sand from the arches of her feet, from the backs of her calves. She puts her hands out and creases the silk with a thumbnail. She can hear Thor finish with his doll-sized beers. She watches the reflection of him in the window, as she reaches to her back and undoes the strings of her bikini. She does not need to see his face, to know the appreciation that will make its home there, but she likes to. Would not employ the term gratifying, either, but it is.

“Sister,” says Thor, low and pleased. Sister, because Thor has always been easy with her, with the ebb and the flow that rests between her ribs and her pelvis. Sister, because that is a habit that mere centuries apparently cannot kick. Sister. Brother. Not-brother-brother, Loki's mind corrects in kind, but she knows it wouldn't matter even if she couldn't.

To the far poles, she is aware, ice is melting into the sea. Rivers are rising. Rivers are drying. Weather is moving across continents, but it is not her doing. It is not theirs, even. There is a reason this place is godless. Loki likes the feel of it, the consciousness of it, until the distraction of a dip in the mattress beneath her.

That, she warms from. Anticipation. Expectation. Familiarity may not breed contempt but may instead engender an awareness of the things to come. Loki can feel the colour flush slowly across her shoulders as Thor's own warmth reaches her, his chest to her back as he lifts his hands to cup the small of her breasts; squeeze, touch, gentle tug, flick of nipple and press of flesh. She knows that he likes the way they barely fill his palms; had made them larger, once, like a wench he might more usually bed, and had missed his customary purr. Loki smirks now, considers it a victory over him even though it's her belly that's quivering, and tips her head back to angle for a kiss.

Thor's mouth against hers, the touch of his tongue to her lips, sends lust like heat through her stomach and her loins. She thinks sometimes that he could kiss her forever, could kiss her through their own Ragnarǫk itself, though she would never say it. Would explode a world rather than admit it.

“Like what you see?” she hums, because it is an easier thing.

“I like you,” says Thor, and sometimes Loki hates him. It's a well known fact, but it's mostly this: mostly this disarming charm, and the simple honesty of it, and she wants to smack him on the jaw, and she wants to put her tongue to the lobe of his ear and make him moan and grumble. Loki cannot answer his honesty, does not allow herself to want to, but she can swing around, can slide herself against him and breathe in the salt and the sea and the smile and him; can graze her fingers through the gold curls on his chest, can press her thighs and flex. She can wrap her hand around the length of him, too, could take him deep in mouth or cunt.

She can feel him grinning against her neck. She falls still. Relaxes back so that only her hands at his shoulders are keeping her upright.

Challenge, Loki thinks. Everything is a challenge. She leans in again, down; presses her lips above his god's heart. Breathes, "What if I said, I like you too?"

Heartbeat-thrum beneath her mouth, heartbeat-pulse behind her ears, and a victory, but she's not sure to whom, not sure but for his hands against her, but for her nails in his skin. The ice can melt in solitude, Loki thinks, while she can bite and kiss and fuck and hold.

"Mine," says Thor, and Loki will punish him for it later but for now, for now, she moans.

 

(There are times when they are enemies, but only partly. Only ever partly.)