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Loki has been difficult as of late.
One could argue that Loki has been difficult since the day he was born, but there’s a petulant sullenness to him these days in place of the charm that usually lets him get away with his antics.
He sulked openly for a month when Father brought Thor a new horse from Vanaheim; never mind that Thor was in dire need of one. There was nothing wrong with any of Loki’s horses. Come to think of it, Thor can’t remember a time when there has been. Meanwhile, Thor’s horses have gone lame or thrown shoes with even greater frequency since Father gifted him Gyllir.
Some days Thor feels as if Loki exists only to test his limits. Mother counsels him to let it be, but then, she never bears the brunt of Loki’s moods. That honour, as always, falls to Thor.
Worse, Loki now shies away from the secret touches he once used to instigate, leaving Thor in shame and wanting. And when Loki does accept him – when he shrouds them in darkness behind double-locked doors and takes Thor into himself – it feels less like passion than permission.
And Thor grits his teeth and bears it, because Loki’s skin is the most exquisite wonder his hands have ever touched, and despite Loki’s compulsion to be contrary, Thor loves him and craves him.
Tonight, however, Thor has a table full of friends, a tankard in his hand, and a woman on his arm. The great feasting hall is filled with music and food and dancing, a new shipment of strong barrel-aged mead has just been unloaded, and night won’t fall for another week.
The dancing dies down when Loki and Volstagg get up from the far end of the long table and in each other’s faces. Soon after, the musicians put down their pipes and bows – everyone wanting to hear the words being spoken. After all, who doesn’t love a good flyting? Thor’s brother is, without question, an unparalleled master of the game. And when he isn’t insulting his opponent, he’s the one getting insulted – something many of Thor’s friends seem to find even better.
But tonight, something is different. Thor’s skill with words is unremarkable – he finds no shame in this – but even he can tell that Loki’s verses lack their usual wit and subtlety. Instead, there’s an unexpected aggression to them, and an unrefined vulgarity that Loki usually saves for the final rounds, when he’s meticulously fiddling with his audience to work the last few gasps and laughs of shock out of them.
Thor should be roaring with mirth, but instead he finds himself confused – and a little defensive on Volstagg’s behalf. Distracted, he knocks back his tankard.
No one else seems bothered by the rapid escalation, however. If anything, they’re delighted, and the back-and-forth match between Loki and Volstagg soon dissolves into a free-for-all mayhem where everyone who feels so inclined takes turns insulting Loki the best they can.
Thor’s lady company laughs deep in her chest and throws her dark braids over her shoulders. In a sinuous motion, she lowers herself onto Thor’s lap and reaches across the table to refill her plate with raspberries and grapes. Thor’s hands settle heavily on her hips. The voices further down the table fade away as he feels her body move against his. The rush of desire, of power, is heady. When she sits back up, he snakes his arms around her firm waist and hums against her neck.
Then Loki’s voice cuts through the shouting and clinking and laughter.
“One may brood on
why my brother
seeks a bride of
such broad shoulders.
Sibling, might her
raven stubble
rub and sting you
sore like mine would?”
From one moment to the next, Thor has the unpleasant experience of being somewhere outside of himself. He’s floated away with the blood that has drained from his face and is watching Loki at the centre of the feasting hall, all sly smile and slick leathers, over his own shoulder.
And then he’s dragging Loki out by his hair.
Loki’s head makes a satisfying thud when Thor slams it against the hallway wall. “What were you thinking?!” He pulls Loki towards himself and slams him back again for good measure.
Loki squints up at him with an expression of utmost contempt. Then his eyes glaze over, and the metal behind him shimmers with a sickly light as he veils them both from prying eyes and ears.
His lower lip is split. Thor isn’t sure how or when that happened.
“You do comprehend the rules of this game, do you not?” Loki hisses. He wrenches his weight out of Thor’s grip and back onto his feet. “It would be more questionable if I didn’t insult your character.” He straightens his jerkin with a sharp tug, then sucks his bleeding lip into his mouth and bites down on it.
Thor shakes his head to clear it. “Find another way to insult it! It’s the one thing you’re good at, so stop – stop being bad at it. Don’t –” With a deep breath to steady himself, he leans in close and raises a warning finger in the narrow space between their faces. “Don’t put us at risk ever again.”
Loki glares back at him. “And just what do you think they’ll make of your spectacular overreaction? You don’t think they’ll wonder if I struck a nerve?”
Thor rips his hands away and starts walking.
“Is that it?” Loki calls out. “You won’t even return to the feast with me?”
“I’m no longer in the mood for feasting.”
Loki falls in step with him. “Then let us retreat to your chambers together. Let me make it up to you.”
“Leave me alone.”
“My mouth,” Loki tries, sounding just shy of frantic now. Whiny, begging, infuriating. “Let my mouth make it up to you. You know you’d like nothing more than to grab hold of my hair again and –
Thor stops dead. “If you say one more word, I swear I will sew your lips shut, and when I’m done, I’ll put a blade through your cheek and fuck your mouth through the hole.”
Loki huffs out a shocked little laugh. “Brother.”
He sounds beyond gratified. His eyes are glittering.
“Would you?” he asks after a beat, his tone now halfway between curious and taunting, as if he fears the answer may disappoint him.
“Certainly not the last part,” Thor says and has to lean against a pillar, because he’s had a lot to drink and the image of what he just described turns out to be truly sickening now that Loki has tricked him into picturing it.
“But you would silence me?” Loki asks softly, now leaning against the same pillar and into Thor’s field of vision, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Thor sighs, feeling the fight leave him. “I would do a great many things to you.”
Loki’s lips quirk in a smile, leaving no doubt about how thrilled he is by the duality in Thor’s answer: the promise and the threat.
Perhaps they are one and the same.
In the past, whenever Thor has hurt Loki, it has been fast and wild and spur-of-the-moment. The first few times he didn’t even notice how hard he was gripping or thrusting until Loki, with laboured breathing and eyes gleaming, told him ‘harder’.
Since then, he has held Loki down and tied him up, has hit him and whipped him, has healed his bruises and then done it all again. He has learnt that ‘too much’ does not mean ‘stop’, and that it’s futile for him to even think about matching his brother’s endurance when Loki on occasion sees fit to reverse their roles by restraining Thor and taking a belt to his back.
But the idea awakened by Thor’s drunken outburst is a different beast. Thor would have put it out of his mind entirely, had Loki not found a myriad of ways to make himself increasingly insufferable over the course of the weeks that follow. Methodically, he wears down Thor’s reservations about this new proposed violation of his body. He deserves to be punished; when it happens, he’ll have brought it upon himself.
But more than that, it’s the first time in a good long while that Loki has seemed excited about sharing Thor’s bed – and Thor is helplessly weak.
The suturing of wounds is an archaic practice, and one Thor has never had to try his hand at. Still, he’s aware of the theory; his education as a boy covered survival skills comprehensively. As for practical training, sewing was included even if suturing was not. Healing stones are not to be wasted, which made it necessary to learn how to mend garments by hand if they became too badly damaged. It isn’t something he’s had use for in many years – not when he has Loki by his side who can command any fabric or hide or armour to weave itself back together with a flick of his wrist.
But now Thor procures a sharp needle and a spool of coarse silk thread, chestnut in colour. He sets aside clean linens, a small knife, a straw, and two lengths of elf rope – deceptively soft and resistant to most forms of magic. He prepares water and a healing salve. He gets nothing for the pain.
Loki comes to Thor’s chambers dressed in a loose, unadorned tunic, his hair still damp from a bath. He smells of rare oils when he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Thor’s cheek, as well as something herbal. When Thor cups the back of his neck in greeting, Loki’s skin is impossibly smooth to the touch, as if he’s spent considerable time in preparation.
Thor leads him to the corner of his bed where the light is good and sits him down on a low pillow on the floor.
Loki eyes the supplies set out on the white cloth next to it. “Hm,” he says, as if deep in thought, “yes, I suppose this will do.”
When Thor reaches for the ropes, he offers his wrists wordlessly. Thor ties them to the bedpost above his head, first one and then the other.
When he’s done, he shifts to kneel across Loki’s thighs. Loki lets out a soft little gasp at the contact, and it’s all Thor can do not to bring his hand down and cup him through his trousers, maybe a little too roughly for it to be strictly pleasurable, as long as it will draw more sounds out of him.
But that is not why they’re here.
Thor takes a deep breath. He’s sweating.
It may not be his first time hurting Loki, but it’s the first time he’s had an elaborate plan to do so. This isn’t instinct; he isn’t following an impulse born out of some primal urge that Loki, beautiful and unbearable, has unearthed in the depths of his being. He’s about to hurt Loki, and it’s going to be slow, and every step he takes is going to be intentional.
After a moment’s consideration, he removes his belt and tunic, leaving his upper body bare.
He’s decided on five stitches, starting in the middle.
It takes him several attempts to thread the needle. His fingers feel clumsy and too large; his hands are unsteady. He is ill-suited for this task. Loki would be far better off doing it himself, but then, Thor supposes that would defeat the purpose of this exercise.
What is the purpose of this exercise?
Asking Loki would be pointless, but so far, nothing has stopped Thor from asking himself. It is said that all great magic is obtained through sacrifice. Is there some insight Loki hopes to gain by pushing himself beyond his limits, some dark art he hopes to learn by relinquishing control to Thor?
If so, Thor is honoured to be part of his brother’s quest.
Or – did Loki push Thor into this just to see what would happen? Was he merely dying of curiosity to find out whether Thor would actually do it?
Loki’s lips are a thin line when Thor turns his attention back to his face. He’s watching Thor intently.
“Last chance to speak up,” Thor says. His voice comes out hoarse. “Are you ready?”
Loki smiles. “I’ve been waiting weeks.”
Thor wills his hands to steady. Reaching out, he takes Loki’s lower lip between his thumb and forefinger and pulls it down. Loki’s breath is hot on his fingers. Tightening his grip, Thor points the needle upwards and positions it.
He looks at nothing but the point of the needle when he pushes it through Loki’s soft skin and into the flesh of his mouth. There’s a minuscule twitch, and then the needle sits halfway through the wound, gleaming brightly. Changing his grip, Thor pulls it all the way through.
When the needle exits, Loki tenses against the friction of the thread, but there is no escape for him now. A drop of blood wells up slowly, staining the chestnut fibres a deeper red. Thor stares at it, then lifts Loki’s upper lip and positions the needle underneath it while he’s still feeling bold. Another push and pull. The result isn’t entirely straight, but that is of no matter.
Leaving the needle and thread hanging, Thor sits back and breathes deeply. He lifts his eyes, finally daring to take in the rest of Loki again.
A tear has fallen from Loki’s eye and made a track down his cheek – a vertical gleam against his skin, mirroring the needle. He looks calm otherwise, his breathing only slightly elevated.
As a child, Loki wielded his tears like weapons. For a while, his favourite trick was to goad Thor into fighting him, and when Thor finally threw a punch, Loki would cry out and fall over, and then the waterworks would start. But while his weeping endeared him to their soft-hearted mother, it seldom won him any favours with Father – who eventually got fed up with them both and sent them their separate ways. Thor to learn sword and axe mastery from Vidar the Silent; Loki to learn who knows what – Thor could never get a straight answer out of him.
They spent the better part of a century away from each other, and when Thor saw Loki again he barely recognised him. This lean, graceful creature who called himself Thor’s brother didn’t cry – not even when Thor during sparring threw him to the ground hard enough to fracture his arm.
“I’m surprised,” Thor teased him afterwards, while they waited for the bone knitter to take effect, “I’d have thought you’d run straight to Mother.”
“I’m not a little girl,” Loki spat back, in a voice that didn’t sound like him at all.
Now, the wetness on Loki’s cheek tightens Thor’s stomach. He wants to wipe it away – but stops himself before reaching out. He’s already taken Loki’s hands, and in a moment he will take his voice. Real or not, he shouldn’t take Loki’s tears as well.
Loki’s eyes have gone unfocused. The tip of his tongue probes at the thread between his parted lips. He smiles tentatively, and then a crease forms between his eyebrows, as if he’s cataloguing the new sensation. Thor waits for him to appear a little more present before he leans back in and reaches for the ends of the thread.
He feels more in control of his hands now, but still manages to tug on the thread a few times when he ties the first half knot. Annoyance enters Loki’s expression before he relaxes, evidently resigning himself to the discomfort. Then Thor pulls slowly until the knot sits against Loki’s lower lip, denting it slightly. He ties the second half, completing the reef knot.
One down, four to go.
With Loki’s lips held together by the first stitch, Thor now has to push the needle through both of them at once. Loki’s breathing quickens when the needle pierces his flesh again, followed by the inexorable drag of the thread. Thor ties another knot. This time when he tugs on the thread, Loki closes his eyes and offers another, if shakier, smile.
Is this truly penance? Does Loki submit to Thor’s abuse to prove how much he still wants him?
Is Thor the recipient of Loki’s sacrifice?
Then again – it’s perfectly possible that Loki is playing with him even now.
Is Thor wrong to think he’s in control?
The thought that he isn’t holds an attraction of its own. It would mean he’s not to blame for what he’s doing. It might even excuse the way he’s swelling against the seam of his trousers as he mars his brother’s face, stitch by stitch.
Loki is still sitting quietly when Thor starts on the third one. Thor hits an artery this time; suddenly, blood seeps bright red from the exit wound above Loki’s upper lip across his mouth and down his chin. Trading the needle for a piece of cloth, Thor cleans up the worst of it before hurrying to tie off the stitch.
When he replaces the cloth and puts pressure on the wound, Loki flinches. The skin around his mouth has begun to swell and redden.
The blood soaks through the folded fabric under Thor’s fingers. “This is messier than I expected,” he mumbles, attempting a smile.
He sees the fine muscles in Loki’s face shift – pictures the retort forming on the tip of Loki’s tongue – but Loki never opens his mouth. He can’t.
Loki’s eyes go wide. He yanks at the ropes around his wrists. His nostrils flare, and for a moment, he strains against the stitches so hard that Thor fears he’s going to rip himself apart – that his skin is going to give before the thread does. Then he stops, closing his jaw, but his chest keeps heaving, and Thor can still see the white all around his irises. He’s trembling all over, from his pale, bleeding face to where his thighs are trapped under Thor’s weight.
The worst part – the part that makes Thor’s role in this utterly, irrevocably irredeemable – is that Loki’s terror goes straight to his cock.
It is so rare for Loki to lose his composure. For him to display an emotion fully and wholeheartedly with no reservations? Almost unheard of these days. But in this moment, his fear, his wide-eyed panic, is real.
The surge of arousal dies down as quickly as it flared up. In its place, Thor is overcome with a love so deep and fierce he feels as if his body might shatter with it. Dropping the cloth, he takes Loki’s blood-stained face in both hands and holds it steady. Loki’s eyes snap into focus, and Thor meets them with reverence. He blankets Loki with his body and holds his face tenderly against his chest, taking care not to disturb the stitches.
“Shh,” he whispers, stroking Loki’s hair. “Slow. Calm, blue light. Clouds across the sky. Remember?”
Loki makes a soft, wounded sound through his nose. Thor buries his face in his hair, inhaling the comforting scent of the fragrant oil in it, and rocks slowly from side to side.
Loki settles against him, warm and heavy.
They rest together for a minute. Then Thor pulls back and presses a kiss to Loki’s temple, a weak and overdue apology. He reaches for the knife. But when he cups Loki’s chin and brings the tip of the blade to Loki’s mouth, Loki draws back with a shake of his head.
Thor gently takes him by the chin again. “I’m only going to cut the thread.”
Loki gives him a long look. His eyes are clear and sharp. Then he shakes his head again, slowly.
This time, Thor gets the message. His chest heaves with a sigh. “Very well,” he says softly.
He dips another piece of cloth in water and begins to wipe at the sticky mess of blood on his hands, on the knife handle, on his chest, and finally on Loki’s face. When he dabs at the wounds themselves, Loki closes his eyes and tilts his head into the touch. Pulling at the stitches has left his mouth in an even worse state than before, but perhaps the cold water is more soothing than the pressure is painful.
Thor considers his options. What he wants is to tend properly to Loki’s wounds and put all of this behind them. In truth, he should never have agreed to this madness to begin with – and where punishment is concerned, surely Loki has now paid in full for his transgressions.
But yielding is not an option, not while Loki remains adamant to see this through. Thor’s eyes flicker to his bound wrists. Perhaps a compromise can be made.
He cuts Loki’s left hand loose. “If you want it to be over, just hit me.”
Loki gives no response, but rolls his shoulder once and places his hand neatly in his lap.
Thor has two stitches left.
When he starts on the fourth one, Loki’s face goes tight with pain. His restrained hand hangs limply from the rope, but his free one clenches into a fist before he traps it between his thighs. His narrowed eyes have settled somewhere in the vicinity of Thor’s groin. Thor has gone completely soft, but shame still rolls through his stomach. He fiddles with the thread.
It’s bad enough that he covets his brother – worse still that he has him – but this goes against his heart; this is something he can no longer justify even to himself.
Something prickles the back of his neck. When he lifts his head, another Loki is sitting on the bed, cross-legged and dressed in gold-trimmed leathers.
“That’s cheating,” Thor says.
The other Loki shrugs. It looks at Thor for a little while longer before vanishing.
But Thor’s brief illusion of control has been brutally shattered. A simmering rage now takes its place, sizzling and crackling beneath his skin. He doesn’t bother to be careful when he ties off the stitch; Loki’s flinching and gasping only serve to spur him on. If Loki wants proof that he can pull Thor’s strings – that he can tune him and play him and make him do terrible, shameful things – then Thor will prove it thoroughly enough for Loki to regret it.
Loki blinks tears out of his eyes. Tears of pain this time, it seems – a physical response; reflexive, involuntary – but Thor cannot be certain. He threads the needle one last time, pinches Loki’s lips far harder than necessary, and pushes it through slowly. A half-choked sound escapes Loki’s throat. More tears well up. His breathing goes stuttered and shallow before he forces it deeper into his chest, correcting himself through willpower. But his free hand remains wedged between his thighs, so Thor takes his time with the knot.
When the work is done – when five blood-stained knots are lined up unevenly against Loki’s lower lip, the coarse thread pressing painful grooves into red skin – Thor cuts Loki’s right hand free and hauls him up. While the knife is in his hand, he slices through the front of Loki’s tunic as well and rips it off of him before getting to work on both of their trousers.
He pushes Loki face-down onto the bed, but leaves him to rearrange himself while he reaches for the small, ornate jar that sits on the floor among the other supplies. The butter-like wax melts instantly into oil on his fingers; with a shuddering sigh he takes himself in hand.
Getting hard is easy enough with Loki’s naked body on full display before him. Still lying on his stomach, Loki has drawn one leg up and brought a hand down to fondle himself. The long curve of his spine and the shadows between his legs shift with the cant of his hips. His other arm is tucked under his head as he tracks Thor out of the corner of his eye.
Thor shoves a hand between Loki’s legs from behind and spreads the remaining oil across his entrance. Then he pulls Loki up by his hips and onto all fours. His anger notwithstanding, he must take care not to restrict Loki’s breathing further. This position should be safe enough.
He isn’t brutal when he enters Loki, but neither is he more gentle than he needs to be. He gives Loki a moment to adjust; then, taking a firm hold of his narrow hips, he begins to ram into him hard and fast. He doesn’t bother to draw it out; he’s too furious and too frustrated. What he needs right now is to strike ground.
He comes inside Loki with a sudden groan before crashing down onto the sheets. He rubs at his face and waits for his breathing to slow and his head to stop spinning. The darkness behind his eyelids is soft and forgiving. Mercifully, his mind clears a little.
When he feels steady enough he shuffles off the bed to get the infused water. Loki sits up and crosses his legs in a naked, dishevelled imitation of his earlier illusion. His mouth looks –
Thor finds himself struggling to look at it.
Sitting down, he holds out the leather-wrapped bottle and points the straw towards Loki, who squints at it as if it might bite him. Thor reaches deep for patience.
“It’s water,” he says, “with honey and some herbs. It’ll neither hurt nor heal you, but it will help you keep up your strength.”
Loki purses his swollen lips.
Changing his tactic, Thor leans into his space and squeezes the soft inside of his thigh. “Come on,” he grunts in Loki’s ear. “We’re not done yet.”
Loki shifts away from his touch, but finally motions for Thor to give him the bottle. Thor’s attempts to help him are fended off as well, but Loki manages to push the straw into the corner of his mouth and begins to sip.
Thor longs to run a hand down the stretch of his back – to caress Loki’s perfect skin and trail kisses from one smooth shoulder to the other – but he isn’t so delusional as to think it would be welcome. As soon as Loki has finished drinking, Thor puts the bottle back on the floor and shoves Loki back down on the bed.
This time, he takes his time. Having come once, there is virtually no limit to his stamina. Loki is still slick from the oil, and slicker still inside after Thor’s first release. Thor slams into him from behind and quickly works himself up to a punishing pace.
He’s still angry. He’s angry with Loki, angry for hurting him, and angry for being turned on. He feels like he’s sacrificed something as well.
He leans over Loki and strokes his neck, his back, his sides – heavy caresses, possessive. He presses his lips to the spot between Loki’s shoulder blades, then plants a hand in the rucked-up sheets and blankets Loki’s back with his sweat-damp chest. With a muffled groan, he buries his face against Loki’s neck and breathes him in. Loki arches against him. Thor picks up the pace further.
He keeps going, angling his hips just so, until the friction becomes too much. Usually, he has no trouble finishing at this point, but now his peak remains just out of reach. Perhaps it’s the whole situation. Perhaps it’s the knowledge of what Loki’s face looks like: damaged and disfigured by Thor’s own hand.
It’s unnerving not to hear his voice. Until now, Loki’s penchant for talking has always followed them into bed. Thor never expected to miss it.
But he should know by now that Loki doesn’t need words to speak. It isn’t long before he gets progressively more vocal, whining and whimpering in that way of his that never fails to drive Thor mad with lust. Loki has never given Thor the satisfaction of believing that the sounds he makes are sincere, but it works anyway; Thor is a simple creature. He finds himself answering, groaning brokenly into the hot skin of Loki’s shoulder.
And Loki cannot fake the way his pulse races under the flushed skin of his neck, nor the way his body trembles from overstimulation as Thor drives into him again and again – until he crashes over the edge with a roar.
Thor is still recovering when Loki slips out from underneath his arm and drops off the edge of the bed. Thor can hear him move around on the floor, likely cleaning himself up a little, or helping himself to more water. Thor settles for drying his sweat with the nearest pillow. He sits up just as Loki gets back to his feet, his slim form shadowed against the light behind him.
Loki steps towards the bed. Then he staggers, barely catching himself on the bedpost when his knees buckle.
Thor is at his side in an instant, one hand firm on his waist, the other brushing hair out of his hazy eyes. “Hey, hey, come here –” he murmurs, pulling Loki back with him onto the bed.
He lays Loki down, but when he tries to leave, Loki’s hand closes around his wrist. “I need the knife,” Thor tells him, but Loki shakes his head sharply. Getting to his knees, he brings Thor’s hand back to his waist.
Thor’s breath stutters. His fingers slip over Loki’s ribs. This isn’t mere permission; this is a demand, and it ignites the fire in his blood all over again.
He presses close, caressing Loki’s lean body all over. Loki’s hands come to rest on the small of his back, but his fingers clench when Thor kisses his neck with tongue and teeth. One hand on Loki’s arse, the other in his hair, Thor puts his lips to his ear. “If you can spare me for a moment, I’ll get more oil.”
Loki’s hands fall away.
The floor is cold under Thor’s feet; he feels hot all over. He slicks himself up and adds another shaving of wax to his fingers before returning to Loki’s side. Loki will be sore enough already – it’s time for Thor to be tender.
He moves Loki onto his side and settles in behind him, at last taking the opportunity to kiss along one delicate shoulder while he strokes Loki’s rim. Briefly, he slips his hand deeper between Loki’s legs to press behind his balls and fondle them. Loki makes a strangled sound in his throat, obliterating Thor’s remaining patience. He shifts and pushes inside, letting Loki’s velvety heat envelop him.
“Ah, Loki –”
With a deep, drawn-out groan, he wraps an arm around Loki’s chest and rolls his hips slowly. There is nothing now but Loki’s back flush against his front, the swell of Loki’s arse against his hips, Loki’s hole around his cock.
Then Loki sniffles wetly, and Thor needs to prop himself up to look at him, to make sure he isn’t struggling to breathe.
Loki’s eyes are obscured by his hand. He appears to have been rubbing at them, but at Thor’s change of position he stills, and his swollen, blotchy lips curl into a smile. Covering Loki’s slender hand with his larger one, Thor gently moves it away. Loki turns his face towards him like a sapling towards a sun, and a searing desire surges through Thor; suddenly, he wants nothing more in all the realms than to kiss him.
Instead, he settles back down and lays his palm over Loki’s heart, feeling its rapid beat before continuing downward across the flat planes of Loki’s stomach and further below. Loki’s cock feels small in his hand, barely hard when Thor begins to stroke. But Loki’s fingers curl lightly around his arm, keeping him going.
Loki gets harder slowly. After a while, he twists to look at Thor over his shoulder. Thor meets his eyes briefly, then lowers his gaze, because the flawless stretch of Loki’s shoulder is a far more pleasant sight than the mess of stitches on his face. Loki elbows him. His eyes snap back up.
Loki’s seafoam eyes bore into his. Breathing through the discomfort, Thor keeps his gaze and rhythm steady. For a fraction of a moment, Loki’s eyes widen, and then they flutter closed. His jaw goes slack as he spills in Thor’s hand.
When Loki has gone limp and pliant, Thor rolls him onto his stomach. His hands circle Loki’s wrists, and then he works his hips, chasing his pleasure, until he comes deep inside the perfect darkness of Loki’s body one last time.
This time when he sits Loki on the edge of the bed and brings the knife to his lips, there is no protest. When the last stitch is cut, a great shudder goes through Loki’s shoulders. His mouth falls open and he slumps forward, catching himself with his elbows on his knees as he sucks in mouthfuls of air. Thor lets the knife clatter to the floor. He envelops Loki in his arms and holds him.
Loki lets himself be held.
Kneeling at Loki’s feet, Thor dabs the healing salve onto each of his external wounds. He’s diluted it enough to delay the effect; in the past, Loki has urged Thor to let him savour what has transpired between them, not erase it in an instant as if it never happened.
Thor rubs small circles, working the salve into Loki’s skin with light fingertips until they’re tingling slightly. He pulls down Loki’s lower lip and repeats the treatment on the inside, then lifts Loki’s upper lip and does it again – slowly, carefully, methodically – trying to cause as little further pain as possible.
Loki grimaces. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to consider how this would taste,” he says when Thor is done.
Thor meets his poisonous look with a heartfelt smile. “You’re welcome.”
Standing, he cups the side of Loki’s face and presses his lips to his forehead, then tears himself away to wipe the residue from his fingers.
He gets back on the bed. “Come.” He pats the wrinkled sheets beside him, then reaches out a hand for Loki.
Loki doesn’t take it, but the mattress dips and shifts as he shuffles closer. He’s easier to look at now, without the stitches. Thor’s relief has been a palpable thing in his chest since the moment they came out.
They lie down. The second Thor’s head hits the mattress, he realises how thoroughly drained he is. Next to him, Loki looks equally wrung out. His eyes are heavy-lidded; his body, which always holds tension these days, is boneless. There’s a softness to him now that reaches beyond his skin.
“Can I kiss you?” Thor asks. “It’s fine if you don’t want me to,” he adds quickly.
Loki tilts his chin up a fraction. Slowly, Thor leans in and covers Loki’s damaged lips with his own – gently, lovingly, as if the pressure of his lips and the scrape of his beard could be anything but painful for Loki. As if this mockery of tenderness doesn’t make everything worse.
Thor feels so selfish – which is unspeakably unfair, because all of this was Loki’s idea. It was all Loki’s idea.
“Why did you make me do this?” he asks.
Turning to lie on his back, Loki lets out a put-upon sigh. “Why does anyone do anything?”
He closes his eyes.
The skin around his mouth is looking better. The wounds are still clearly visible, but the swelling is subsiding, and the colour has paled from an angry red to little more than a subtle flush. Loki’s hair is fanned out over the sheets, still glistening with oil but coiled in loose curls now – the way he rarely lets anyone see it.
“You are so beautiful,” Thor mumbles.
“I think you have us confused.”
Loki’s voice sounds flat.
He must be so terribly tired.