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There’s music, and there’s bass--and they should be part of the same, two halves that make up an acoustic whole, but they’re not, the bass a thumping, writhing,  living  thing that threads through the floorboards and up through his shoes into his bones, his teeth, his  heart , forcing it into a stuttering rhythm different and somehow greater than the standard pounding of life.

And lights. There are lights, flashing and pulsing in rhythm with the cacophony around him, swirling globes of LEDs that shimmer through every colour of the rainbow, occasionally blinding him, strobing into his eyes, painting everything in great swathes of colour that are unnameable in the time they exist; ephemeral, primal hues that register in some part of his brain that forgets words and thought and anything except  this , movement and music and--

He’s lost track of his hands and hips and feet. There aren’t words for what he’s doing with them, anyways--a voice in the back of his head whispers a babble of “ pique, pirouette, watch your lines, Loki” ” and is almost immediately drowned out by a drumming he feels more in his bones than he ever did the melodic lines of classical strings, and it is forgotten. He just  moves , lets the music pour over him and wash through him and direct it according to its unseen will, a puppet with lax strings tugged only by the desires of the universe, complete, whole, surrounding him in resplendent electronic light and captured in the manipulated found sounds of the world entire, filtered through wires and cables and speakers until he feels like he could hold it in his hands.

The chemicals rushing through his system could have something to do with that, he supposes, in fleeting thought that escapes him in a breathless laugh as soon as it occurs. They lighten his head and bring him to a point of perfect equilibrium in the center of the dervish, everything so clear, unavoidable, inexorable, like the thumping taking root in the base of his spine. There’s a hand on his stomach, low--curiously, possessively low--and he turns into it with a wide smile that doesn’t quite reach his closed eyes; a wide palm brushes over his bare stomach as he turns, rough calloused fingers catching on the hair that sprouts, fine and dark, on his abdomen. It settles in the small of his back, fingers resting just above the curve of his ass, as a thigh teases between his legs, and he circles into it. Eyes still closed, hardly caring as a thick hand, mate to the first, cups the back of his skull and sends fingers searching into his loose dark hair.

He feels the pounding bass through both his body and his new friend’s, all around him, like trailing fingertips over your own skin and not being able to separate the sensation of feeling from being felt. It melds together, woven by strains of melody half obscured by electronic noise and the buzzing of the universe; it surrounds him, fills up his senses, so much so that he hardly recognizes the lips pressed against his lips and hot breath filling his mouth. The taste of it is heady; alcohol, herbal and yeasty and just a little fruity, and cigarettes and smoke, and he chases it into the other man’s mouth, licking as much as kissing as his hand settle on broad shoulders and his nails dig into soft jersey and hard muscle. The music reaches fever pitch, careful fingers on a board somewhere far away sliding the tempo up and up as if to match the frenetic pounding of his heart, and he throws his head back and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

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Even here, far away, the bass thrums through him like a living thing, whispers in his ear and drives his hips to its insistent beat. There is no mix of colours here; only red and ultraviolet black, washing everything in whispers, sultry and secret in this hall of mirrors. He feels a tug on his arm, is pulled close to that massive form, and his eyes flutter shut as a mouth seals over his again and breathes him full of smoke. He cracks one back open just to watch their doubles, mirrored in the walls to either side, and admires the form his body makes as it curves backwards under the assault; the wave, undulating, not quite cresting and formed of need, that his frame describes as he presses back close and lets some of it spill out between them. He watches a glowing ember of ash fall to the floor as though in slow motion, ground beneath a heel as their lips part in a hush of heated breath. There is a moment of lamentable loss as he feels the psychosomatic burn of the blunt against his bare skin, what feels like long ago, bass beats marking the passage of hours in the time it takes to fall.

But then, he doesn’t need it to feel alive. Not right now. Not with the insistent driving vibrations pushing him forward, stuttering his heart, reminding him with every fought for gasp that he is alive, alive, alive…

It is a cruel trick, one he admires even as they escape it; nearby, a girl, all long white limbs and short black skirt and hair in drug-addled disarray stumbles against a pane and gapes at herself. “I’m lost!” she shrieks; it ends in a giggle, and she pushes away, leaving a handprint on the silvered glass that blooms in the black light and then fades to nothing. Her friends call her name; her heels teeter under her as she whirls and falls, more than walks, towards them. A doe, a deer, and he’s forgotten the rest; the tempo changes below them and they pass out of the mirrors into a hall of white doors and white walls and white floors, or at least, ones that look white in comparison to the crimson that paints over everything. It’s either refined, or seedy, all depending on how much you’ve had to drink and what you’re there for, and it will suit his purposes just fine.

They pull open one of those doors--it’s marked with figures, light blue and a pink that almost vanishes under the red lights--and it gets slammed shut behind them just as more voices sound from the corridor behind them. No one sees them enter, not that he minds, not that he cares--this is primal, necessity, dictated by the pulsing of the universe--and then he’s not thinking, not listening, as those hands grab handfuls of his thighs and hoist him in a heady rush of ease to the edge of the counter. His head smacks into the mirror; he doesn’t care, stares blindly upwards in a daze towards the single red bulb that illuminates the stall the same as it does the hall outside. He lowers his gaze, lazy, fixating blurred vision on the man standing between the opened V of his legs, and hooks his knee with a foot.

“Come here,” he mutters, lips splitting in another lazy smile as he gets his hands in that gorgeous golden hair, tugs the insistent, raspy mouth down to his. He feels the meaty hands at his waist, searching out the fastenings, and groans as his knuckles brush against his dick through the stiff fabric of his jeans. There’s a pause, and a huff of breath against his mouth--a laugh, a sigh, a groan--and then there’s a heavy palm dragging, intentional, delighted laughter writ somehow in the lines that score the skin, along the entire length of him. The sensation drags slow up his spine and tingling down to the ends of him, electricity sparking. He bites, too hard, at the other man’s lips; it draws a deep, rumbling laugh from that powerful chest, even as he pulls away. When the hand drags up his dick again, heel digging in almost painfully, Loki’s head falls back again, supported by the filthy mirror. A moment later, there’s a wet mouth on his neck, teeth scraping over the skin sharp enough to sting and tongue soothing it immediately afterwards; he waits to find the spot that makes Loki keen, then fastens, suckling at the skin until Loki can practically feel it purpling. His fingers dig into his back, scrabbling, scraping, trying to find purchase--to urge him to stop, faster, he doesn’t know, can’t think through the haze of alcohol and smoke and the thumping in his ears.

It might be the music, still; it might also be his heart, pounding out a rhythm in his ears, echoed in the beat of his pulse that he can feel against the man’s thick calloused fingers against the smooth skin of his dick. His own heartbeat, the other’s, the thrum of the music as it vibrates through the walls and forms a cocoon of sound about everyone in this place--he doesn’t know, it doesn’t matter, he just wants more. He loses himself in the beat of it, lets his breathing form a harsh counterpoint, a huffing, hushing sound as sensations batter against his body, his nails in the other man’s back anchoring him against the world that seems to spin around them, their entwined bodies the center of gravity in this tiny stall of a universe--

And then there’s cold under his thighs, the porcelain of the sink making direct contact with his bare skin, and his anchor vanishes from beneath him without warning--caught off guard, too focused or too un focused to have noticed his jeans being peeled down to his knees and cock released from it’s heated captivity. He pitches forward and finds a new home for his hands in the man’s hair, as he bends--kneels, and the floor must be filthy, and Loki can’t think of how or why he would--but then heat. Wet. Vibrations, tuneless rhythmic accompaniment to the bass below, and Loki’s mouth drops open as he whines in the back of his throat and tries to buck forward into that mouth.

He’s sloppy--uncoordinated, more than likely because of whatever cocktail is pouring through his system, much the same as Loki’s--but there’s a hint of skill there, a pulsing in his throat that belies his desire to swallow him down. Loki can feel it, the way he wants to take him all the way in, but whatever is roiling in his gut must be telling him no. He growls in frustration, and Loki grins at it, panting through bared teeth. Warm spit slides down his length, urged by the pressure of the bearded lips as they attack and retreat, conquering him inch by inch. It slicks him, slicks his balls, makes him feel wet and filthy and open despite the fact that he hasn’t been touched anywhere but his cock. He keeps grabbing new handfuls of blond hair, trying to find more purchase, to get closer, deeper, and every time his nails scratch the man’s scalp he hums around Loki’s cock. It’s perfect, perfect, and his ears are full of harsh breaths and sloppy wet sounds and always, everywhere, the echoes of a world far away.

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It doesn’t take long for Loki’s cries to become loud, for every one of his gasped-out groans to be answered by a rumbling growl from between his knees; he thinks that they can probably be heard even out in the hall, despite the ambient cacophony of the bar, but the thought just makes him thrill even more. There’s power and desire and sex emanating from this little room, he thinks; you can’t be embarrassed of something others should envy, and he knows that if he were drunk and horny and taking a leak, and heard sounds like theirs echoing through the dressed-up plywood walls, he wouldn’t be able to resist taking himself in hand. The thought is adrenaline straight to his brain, and he moans out long and loud and low in defiance of his new friend’s doing anything at all with the cock in his mouth.

Said friend pulls back, a string of spit keeping his lips connected to Loki’s shining, dark-flushed dick, and grins up at him. The red light washes his irises out to all black, any colour they might have been lost--or perhaps his pupils are just blown that wide--but the whites are bright and shining and almost eerie in the half-dark. “Whatever that was, I want to hear it again,” he says, voice rough and deep, and accented with something warm and smooth as honey--if a voice could be blown the same way pupils can, Loki thinks, that’s what it would sound like. He wants to hear more of it, but also, he wants that mouth back around his dick. He untangles one hand from the blond hair, unruly to the point of no return, and grasps the base of his cock with it instead, staring down at him. His vision swims, a little; it’s hard to focus on the details of the man’s face, just those white, white eyes, staring out from shadowy skin, all hard planes and angular bones. The eyes drop, just a little, and his tongue darts out to wet his swollen lips. Ah, fuck , Loki swears silently, dragging his own palm, damp with sweat, along his cock just the way he likes it.

“You’ll have to wait, I'm afraid,” he murmurs, sliding off the countertop, loving the way the black eyes fixate on the motion of his hand as he stands. “My mouth’s going to be rather busy in a moment."

“Fuck yeah,” the other guy breathes, and he scrambles to his feet even while Loki goes to his knees. The motion isn’t as smooth or as graceful as he’d like; his pants are still hanging off his legs, ankles bound together by the fabric bunched between them, and there’s a hell of a lot running through his system. He’s euphoric, adrenaline and dopamine flooding his system in equal measure, and so turned on that he can hardly think straight even if it weren’t for the weed and booze and molly turning the world into a carousel. But still, he ends up on the floor, knees on the cold tile and not even caring because he can now see what their previous position and the dim red light had kept hidden from him--the outline of a thick, hard cock in the other’s jeans.

His hand tightens, unconsciously, incrementally, on his own dick at the sight of it; he wants it, now, wants it in his mouth, wants to hear what that mouth sounds like without being filled with cock, wants, wants, wants . It’s a cyclone of need around him, whirling like the cyclical loops of the bass beats that still have him in thrall, and he leans in close and closes his lips over the shape of it.

The texture of the denim under his tongue--denim, and iron hardness beneath it, roughness belying smooth, a study in contrasts, oh , it’s delicious. He turns his head, presses his cheek against it; drags his face sideways, then turns, and his lower lip catches on where the tight fabric is pulled taut and aching at the other’s groin. He knows this, knows how to be sex incarnate, and even with his mouth distended he gives a coy, sleek smile at the way the other man’s breath catches as his eyes cast upwards. There’s a choking to it, like he’s already got a mouthful of Loki’s cum down his throat, sticky and sliding; an ungentle hand shoves into his hair, grabs hold and tugs , and Loki lets out the moan already hovering just behind the swell of his tongue. Musk rises into his nose, the stink of sweat and beer and sex; he can feel the heat of it, almost feel the pulsing blood just below the surface, beating in steady rhythm despite the uneven rise and fall of his partner’s chest. His knees vibrate against the tile as he mouths, lips at the cock under the fabric. He wants to draw it out forever, inexorable and unending, endless cycle of sex and sex and sex; but that hand is insistent, almost painful enough to be annoying, so he turns to the task at hand.

One long-fingered hand presses against the man’s stomach, pushing him stumbling back until his shoulders collide with the door. The knob rattles with the force, the weight of it--he’s heavy, solid and firm and unyielding except that he yields so nicely, groans a little at Loki’s eagerness. He abandons his own cock with a promising twist to the head, gathering up what he can of his own precome and lifting it to his lips to suck it clean. The beat is changing, tempo picking up; Loki can feel it rattling through the bones of this place, urging him on, in perfect sync with his heartbeat, a driving, headlong headrush. It takes him no time at all to pull the man’s cock out from the gap in the metal teeth and bleached white cotton, proud and dark and weeping already. It juts out towards him, intimidating in size, and his eager partner uses the hold he has on Loki’s dark hair to shove his mouth towards it. It slides against his lips, up his cheek, leaving a sticky smear along one side; Loki grins, bares his teeth as he pulls back and opens up, and the next forward thrust has his mouth full of cock.

The taste of him is disgusting, all spoiled salt and musky, stale sweat, and Loki loves it. He can feel the way his cheeks hollow, then bulge slightly as the messy, shaky thrusts of a man too long denied pushes and pulls his length in and out of his waiting mouth. His tongue laps at what he can, swirling in a deceptively uncoordinated rhythm; he closes his eyes, feels the muscle shift and tense and relax, lets the distant driving beat of the music dictate its motion the same as any limb on the dance floor. There’s no technique nor plan, just the primal instinct to give pleasure, to bring pleasure, to drink deeply of what is offered and ride the waves as they crash over him. They aren’t a matched pair, each moving to different rhythms of want and need, and it makes for a messy face-fucking; Loki drools every time he pulls out, spit gathering at the corners of his mouth and trailing down his chin. With his cock buried in Loki’s wet, sloppy heat and his own mouth unoccupied, Loki hears what was only hinted at before--deep, rumbling bass groans, grunts and vocalizations that he can almost make fit into the tempo building between them. He lets his teeth graze the underside, too hard to be a mistake, not anything mistaken for gentle, and groans around the thick dick in his mouth when it makes the man growl , primal and angry and needy, and yank Loki’s hair so hard his eyes water.

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He can’t keep from moving; his shoulders, his hips, as much as they can when they’re stacked on his heels and supporting his weight, even his head, despite having an incredibly occupied mouth. He’s too drunk and high and free to even try to resist, and he knows how it looks; knows how he looks, from up above, outlining sinuous curves with a body that should be too angular, suggesting something more diverting than a simple dirty bathroom blowjob with the subtle movements of his hips. It’s as irresistible as a siren call, and just as impossible to ignore, and this, this is what he was made for; his body has been made of music as long as he can remember, and it wasn’t just his pretty hair and pretty face that brought them to this moment. The legs framing his body are shaking, and he runs his fingers up and down over the steel beams of the man’s thighs, feeling the tension there that strings the muscles taut. There are two hands in his hair, now, weight held and balanced on tegs and shoulders entire, and the door rattles in the frame with every frantic thrust of the man’s hips. His groans and grunts have turned into full-out cries, rumbling with bass and audible, Loki is certain, from any room on this floor.

He’s close, Loki can feel it--in the way that his body has given up any hope of keeping pace or tempo with the music around them, the utter chaos in the aborted motions of his snapping hips, trying to get deeper and unwilling to wait the extra instant to really achieve it, rearing back for the next plunge before he’s even finished feeling the sensation of the first one. Loki’s fingers dig into his buttocks, powerful as the rest of him, and draw him closer, urging him onwards. His mouth is numb, lips swollen and tingling, and his jaw aches; but he feels it from far away, through the haze, like sound from a distant room. He holds his mouth open and lets the other man fuck into it, sloppy popping sounds echoing around them every time he pulls out too far and abandons the warmth of Loki’s mouth entirely.

“Touch yourself,” he gasps, sudden and unexpected, filling Loki’s mouth and sinking deep and holding , just for a moment; Loki glances up, letting the silky cockhead rub against the inside of his cheek, and the half-lidded eyes of the stranger meet his gaze. “I wanna watch you come.” He pulls out, obscenely slowly, one hand wrapped around the base of his dick to steady it, and hovers there; just inside the puckered “o” shape of Loki’s parted lips. Loki lets his teeth close on it, just a little, the flared head catching before it can leave his mouth entirely.

He feels dizzy, a pounding behind his eyes that borders on painful, but pushes it aside as the stranger’s words seem to pulse straight to his own cock. He’s hard, has been hard this entire time, but it’s so easy to fixate on one thing, one single beat, one single driving directive; it’s easy to ignore. But now there’s attention drawn to it, and he realizes like a wash of light, like the sudden flare of a strobe forcing everything into sharp delayed relief, how very much he needs to come. When his fingers touch his own cock again, he keens, and it’s all he can do not to abandon pretense entirely and just strip his dick until he comes, messy, everywhere.

Instead, he maintains eye contact, and leans back. One hand plants itself on the cool tile--the beat is here, too, now, rumbling up through his fingertips, setting the thin bones of his wrist to shaking, vibrating so much that he isn’t sure they won’t shatter. The guy follows him, unable to do anything else with Loki’s teeth insistent around the head of his cock, and has to release Loki’s hair to brace his bent form against the countertop; one hand goes to the sink, curling around the porcelain, and the other presses flat against the mirror. He cranes his neck, wanting to see, and Loki lets his knees spread and his other hand, the one not holding him up, wrap tightly around his cock. There’s a full body shudder int he man above that Loki can feel right through to his dick as he gives an experimental push into the waiting heat, and fuck--he’s not going to be able to breathe, and he doesn’t want to.

This is always where it ends, the rapid tempo stuttering his heart out of rhythm until it stops, and whether it’s on the dance floor or the dirty floor of the red-washed bathroom, Loki’s never really given a fuck. He strokes, long and languid, and the movement is echoed in the plunge of the cock deeper into his waiting mouth. It almost, almost hits his throat--he almost gags, almost , but forces it down, and it’s--

He’s fucking him in time, in tempo, timing his strokes downwards into the slack wet of Loki’s mouth with the movements of Loki’s hand along his own cock, and even though Loki’s eyes are closed and the other guy is watching him jack himself off it feels like they’re still making unbreaking eye contact. Loki listens to the DJ downstairs, can see the inexorable twisting of the knob in his mind’s eye, and he raises up on his knees to every beat, feeling the rhythm take him over. And the stranger meets him there, perfect symphonic sex, even the tones of their harsh breaths and pained, desperate groans somehow melodic and perfectly in sync--until finally Loki can’t, anymore, the blood pounding in his ears and desperate need to come finally overcoming even the ever-present thrum of the bass, and he shouts, stripping his cock desperately until he feels his heart stop.

His mouth is empty, and seconds later, he feels warmth paint his cheeks, his chin, sticky and disgusting as his companion empties his balls with a long drawn-out groan. Some of it gets into his open, panting mouth, spatters his lips; he licks them clean, swallows hungrily, and is rewarded with another shaky groan. Sound slowly returns to him; even though the vibration of the floor never stops, keeping him grounded, present throughout the process of dying and being remade, carrying him forward even as he drifts on a river of torrential tension finally released, reminding him he is alive, alive, alive.

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Loki presses another tab against his tongue, holds it until it dissolves. It won’t be for another twenty minutes that the euphoria suffuses him again, carries him away, but he has the afterglow of sex and the renewed thrum and vigor of the dance floor to bear him along until then. His orgasm lingers pleasantly in the base of his spine; his mouth is lovely and sore, and every time he lifts his hand near his face, he can smell the stink of sex and come on his skin. It makes his spine tingle and something, lower, flutter, and he lounges against the wall, letting the waves of sound lap against him as he moves lazily, reuniting with the rhythm. He pulls his phone from his pocket, the light almost unnoticeable in an amongst all the others. There’s a strobe, somewhere a little farther out; he is outside its pocket of influence, unfrozen where he stands unlike those knots of writhing bodies captured in frieze, but it reminds him of the way it felt to come with that gorgeous cock between his lips and that dark gaze locked onto his face. He shivers, and unlocks the phone, tapping on the Contacts app and grinning lazily to himself.

“Moonlit,” he mouths to himself. Autocorrect, probably; who knows what he was trying to type, as he’d blown lazy smoke into Loki’s mouth pressed against the door and thumbed his number into Loki’s phone. It’s unlikely he’ll ever call; encounters like this are like dancing to electronica. You let the music move you, let the beat drive you, unrehearsed and unrepeatable; a unique performance, perfect in it’s spontaneous creation. But it’s always nice to know that you’ve made an impression.

The molly comes up on him like the tide, incrementally, filling his limbs with warmth and making them loose and languid. Soon enough, the beat suffuses through him, and as the DJs make a seamless change at the soundboard, Loki pushes away from the wall and wades out into the music. 

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Everything hurts. His body feels sore, like someone’s being tapdancing on every single muscle, or like he spent the evening at the gym rather than dancing at the closest club he could find. His mouth tastes like ass, like an ashtray and stale skunk and the remnants of cheap beer, and his nose wrinkles as he wakes up with his face buried in the crook of an elbow that stinks of sweat and sex. He groans, and pushes himself upright on the hotel mattress, starched sheets scratching against his palms.

He’d gotten into the city the night before, delayed afternoon flight depositing him at his destination airport two hours too late for even a late dinner, much less a sudden, out of the blue phone call to an estranged brother. He was grouchy, grumpy, rumpled and smelly; travel didn’t put him at his best at the best of times, much less travel as disorganized and fraught with annoyances as the last day and a half had been. Even with the paper burning a hole in his pocket, his deep-seated, desperate need to finally reach the denouement of this particular journey, he hadn’t wanted to do so looking like a hobo. So he had had the cab take him to his hotel, checked in, showered, ordered room service, and opted for heading to the nearest source of thumping bass and flashing lights.

And then--if he’s honest, Thor doesn’t remember a lot of the night. It’s been awhile since he got that shitfaced; the stress, the pounding of his heart and the blood in his veins, and the sudden tide of what-ifs and worries that had started crashing over him in waves the closer the clock ticked to midnight probably had something to do with it. He scrubs a hand over his face, sighing inwardly. At least now, his head hurts too much to bother being nervous.

He gets up, noting with disgust the white, crusty smears on his jeans; so not just drugs and beer, then, apparently. The thought of finally reuniting with his brother after over a decade of family estrangement must have really been getting to him last night. He strips, quickly, and leaves the clothes in a pile on the musty beige carpet, padding into the bathroom and turning on the shower. It’s well heated, apparently, and blessedly high-pressure, and he steps under the spray and lets it wash away the grime and stink of the night before.

When he emerges, he feels much closer to human again; and there’s no sense putting it off any longer. Picking up the cum-stained jeans, he shoves two fingers into a pocket and grabs hold of the folded and re-folded slip of paper inside. He drips water from his hair and legs as he settles back onto the bed, feeling it pool wetly under him, dampening the comforter below. His phone sits on the bedside table, and he holds it in one hand for longer than strictly necessary, thumb hovering over the number buttons in their dull-white glow. Glancing between the paper and his phone, he beings to dial.

The phone rings through four, five times; it’s past 10 in the morning, on a Saturday, but maybe he’s asleep, or away from the phone, or--he could be at work, for all Thor knows. This phone number is the one thing he knows about his brother, the one link he has after months of going through family and friends, ex-co-workers and exes both, trying to locate his wandering sibling. He’s not even sure this number still belongs to him, but he knows he’s in the right city, and no one changes their number unless they’ve moved, right?

Thor’s about to hang up, try again later, when the tone cuts off mid-ring. He holds his breath, despite the way it makes his head pound, and his heart stutters strangely in his chest--like it’s been taken over suddenly and all at once by a driving beat that has nothing to do with his own body.

“...You called,” the voice on the other end says, sounding half-awake, drowsy and heavy with recently-abandoned sleep. “I’m not used to getting wake-up calls from anonymous hook-ups. Especially when I don’t even remember giving them my number…?”

It’s curious, interested, even if a little, little bit accusatory--yet Thor’s greeting, rehearsed, over and over again, in airports and taxis and on planes, “Hey, Loki, it’s Thor--I can’t believe I found you--I’ve missed you so much--” is choked off in his throat, like a gasp, a groan, the sound of a man trying to catch his breath as he meets the eyes of the gorgeous stranger with his cock in his mouth as the inexorable rhythm of the universe brings two hearts into step with the distant drumming of pounding bass.