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Chapter Text

It all starts as it usually does: with Thor making a mistake.

Or rather, with Thor displaying some kind of weakness, Loki noticing, and using it against him. But what difference is there when Thor is the one a heartbeat away from picking Loki up, carrying him to his chambers, and having his way with his brother so thoroughly that the trickster wouldn’t leave his rooms for at least two days?

It all began because of him — of course — and although he’d cursed his own name constantly since then, it didn’t erase the fact that all of this was his own damned fault.

Thor was in the sparring ring with Lady Sif when Loki finally deemed them worthy of his presence and strolled to the edges of the barriers with an indolent look, one of his books still halfway opened in his hand and his gaze darting to his brother and friend fighting in the dust.

The air grew heavy and humid in the late summer, prompting Thor to discard his tunic earlier when it became soaked with sweat and streaked with small rivulets of blood from both Sif and himself.

Despite his brother’s loud claims that he was an idiot, Thor spoke Loki’s language better than anyone and didn’t miss the way his brother’s gaze darted from his pages to the ring. Loki was probably waiting for Thor to fail so he could mock him for months on end. Especially if Thor lost to Sif, who had significantly less experience than him. Never one to resist a little showing off or to back down from a challenge, he sent Loki a radiant smile before launching a strong offensive towards his partner.

Thor still heard Loki snort and cover his laugh with a delicate cough before the sound of Sif’s training weapon hit his. Soon, Thor concentrated on nothing else than the rhythm of his heavy breaths, each carrying the faint, dry tang of dust stirred by quick, sharp movements and the scent of sweat, rich and primal on this oppressive day.

The sparring itself was a familiar exercise, one he had practised countless times before, but this time, the stakes felt higher. Thor couldn’t explain it, but a deep need to impress his brother drove him — a desire to show Loki how perfectly their abilities complemented each other. Loki, with his sharp wit and growing mastery of seiðr, was earning the name ‘Silvertongue,’ while Thor was solidifying his reputation as a warrior. Determined to prove they were stronger together, Thor pushed against the distance growing between them, battling Loki’s mercurial moods and tendency to retreat—a pattern that had become all too familiar lately.

As he jumped backwards to avoid Sif’s brutal lunge, he couldn’t help but steal a glance towards where his brother was watching. Needing to be sure his brother’s focus was on him, just as his was on Loki.

Loki was breathtaking, like he always was. The high sun cast harsh shadows on the nearby onlookers and, as he was wont to do, Loki had found refuge under a tree, its leaves and branches carving intricate details of delicate lace on his brother’s milky skin. Never one to enjoy the heat brought by their realm, Loki was less dressed than usual, having forgone his customary regal outfits for a simple loose green shirt half tucked in the black fitted breeches clinging to him like a second skin.

Loki hadn’t looked away. While his eyes scanned Thor, they seemed to leave a fiery path in their wake. Despite only his shirt being off, Thor had never felt less covered than under his brother’s keen gaze, and the god had to force his attention back to where Sif was preparing another attack.

In a fluid dive, she tackled his shins. Thor, distracted as he’d been, fell back with a pained grunt.

“Well, brother, it seems you’ve been bested by Lady Sif. Again — I might add,” Loki taunted him, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“I have yet to see you best her either, brother,” Thor huffed even though he took Sif’s outstretched hand good-naturedly.

Loki sauntered to the entrance of the sparring ring, his gait smooth and relaxed with feigned indifference. But Thor knew his brother better than that. A challenge lurked behind his infuriating smirk, and his brother's timing suggested a precise reason for their meeting. Loki had come for something. Thor wasn't sure if Loki was there to challenge him, prove a point, or simply annoy him, but his brother wouldn't attend his training without good reason.

Loki hummed, “Ah, yes. But you forget it is you who has become the one to beat, Thor. I believe your adoring sycophants call you the ‘Golden Shield of Asgarðr’, do they not ?”

Thor waved Loki’s words away and faced him. “Pretty words and nothing more. Not when it is General Týr’s command of the Einherjar allowing Asgarðr to be protected. I am merely doing my duties as a Prince of our realm,” he shrugged.

“Are you implying I am not?” Loki asked when Thor stood closer to him, his voice hurt and defensive.

“Of course not, brother. But your use of seiðr brings you train in the library rather than brawl in the sand. I only meant the moniker was not thanks to any prowess of mine but the regularity with which others see me thrown in the sand,” Thor answered, his smile crinkling the line of his blue eyes.

Loki scoffed and crossed his arms. “You mean I hide away in the shadows while you bask in the sunlight of our people’s praise and applause?”

“Why must you twist my words so, Loki? I only meant—”

“I know what you meant, you oaf,” Loki bit, his tone sharp and cutting but with an undercurrent of fondness for his slow, idiot brother.

“Spar with me, brother,” Thor urged, hoping the challenge would be enough to change Loki’s darkening thoughts.

The blond almost thought Loki would find a clever way to back down from the duel, but it appeared Thor had once again played his way straight into his brother’s hands because a satisfied smile curled his lips.

“Very well, I accept. What are the rules?” Loki agreed — too quickly in Thor’s opinion — banishing his tome Thor knew not where with a wave of his hand.

Past experiences had taught him to think through any kind of rules between Loki and him. His brother always found clever loopholes to counter them but that day Thor didn’t want to stifle his brother. From the way Loki jumped on the chance to best him, it was clear that the attention given to Thor since he’d been declared the heir by their father had worn Loki down to proving his worth where Thor was the strongest: the sparring ring. So Thor would do nothing to avoid his brother demonstrating to everyone that, here too, he was as accomplished as he could be. For there was a good reason his brother had not returned to their training sessions. Loki would not abandon a skill he didn’t think he had mastered and he was known for his high expectations in others but also himself. Loki was sure of his upcoming victory and Thor found himself curious to see what kind of fighting his brother would bring to the table.

“You are not allowed to use seiðr.” Loki scowled when Thor rushed out his first rule. “And I am not allowed to use Mjölnir.”

His brother stayed silent, pondering the rules, and grumbled. “Very well,” he said. “But” —of course, there was a ‘but’ — “if I win, I want your help for a project of mine. When I want, no questions asked.”

Thor chuckled. It wasn’t like he was unwilling to help his brother when he asked but it was true he usually asked many questions and Loki had spelt him silent more than once either because Thor was wary and wanted reassurance or because he was so interested in the proceedings that he distracted Loki while he worked.

“Fine,” Thor agreed. “But if I win, you will accompany me on my next trip.” Loki tilted his head, considering the offer and trying to decipher if there was anything more to Thor’s words. There wasn’t. Thor just missed Loki and wished his brother to be alongside him during his next adventure.

“Very well,” Loki conceded silkily.

Loki conjured two daggers and from their deadly shine, Thor saw this was not to be a friendly sparring. He nodded, reaching to the weapons rack to take two daggers of his own, prepared to meet his brother on equal footing.

He gripped his daggers and willed away the fleeting moment of tension in his chest, replacing it with the adrenaline of the challenge. Testing the weight of the slightly unfamiliar weapon in his hands, his eyes locked with Loki’s. There, he found his brother's usual pre-battle expression—a sternness that somehow suited the delicate features of his face, but also a flicker of something deeper —respect, perhaps, for Thor choosing a weapon similar to his. One could hope. Maybe it was merely amusement. Thor took his position, attempted to ignore how entrancing his brother looked as he prepared for combat and tried to shake off the heat brought by the upcoming battle with his brother.

Loki wasted no time, lunging to the right in a smooth feint, his shin hitting Thor’s left rib with unrestrained strength. Thor gritted his teeth as he felt the brunt of Loki’s strike. The sting from the hit reverberated through his ribs, but it only fueled him. Thor struck as fast as he could and caught his brother’s foot, raising it in the air to force Loki down. He angled his pommel to strike his thigh, but Loki freed himself from his grasp and jumped back. He swung his dagger, missing his brother’s arm by mere inches and growled, furious at the near miss.

They prowled around each other, both of them waiting for the other to attack first. Behind them, the crowd had grown and Thor’s name was shouted in encouragement. This only served to annoy Thor for their slight of his brother and enrage Loki at the lack of respect for his skills. Loki’s eyes flickered with a dark glint, and with a sudden flick of his wrist, his brother threw one of his daggers, forcing him to dodge. His reflexes sharpened just in time but still, the whizzing of the weapon so close to his ear revealed just how close the blade had passed to his skin. He rolled sideways, his damp skin picking up sand, only to find himself moving in a cloud of dust. He growled but refrained from admonishing his brother for his use of seiðr as it was possible Loki had simply kicked the dust off the ground, but the underhanded tactic still grated on his nerves.

As he waited for the powder to descend, Thor listened, aware his brother favoured attacks from behind and could be stealthy as a fox when he wished it. The scrape of metal against the ground told him Loki had retrieved his second dagger and Loki’s footsteps resonated around him. Unsure of his brother’s position, Thor slashed blindly where the sound had come but the air was empty. Loki snickered a few feet away from where Thor had struck. The sound gnawed at Thor’s patience, his need for a hands-on fight and the tension between them growing stronger by the minute.

Closing his eyes and concentrating on his surroundings, his eyes snapped open when the dust finally settled and he heard Loki’s breathing, faint and steady, behind him. His grip tightened on the dagger and with a roar, slashed towards the sound. His blade was intercepted by Loki’s just as his brother made his move. In a flash, his instincts took over and he lunged forward, tackling Loki to the ground with such force that the earth trembled beneath them. The sound of his brother’s breath hitching in surprise was almost a win enough and Thor was tempted to let him have the upper hand. But he knew Loki hadn’t given his all yet.

With practised ease, he took away one of Loki’s daggers, throwing it far away from their prone figures and clasped his brother’s wrist in his hand, raising it above his head and using his weight to hold it against the ground. His brother’s muscles tightened beneath him as he tried to break free. Thor could feel the tension in his brother’s limbs, the struggle, and the heat between them. He pressed down with more strength, forcing his brother to stay still while they tried to disarm one another with their free hands.

The crowds’ cheers faded to the background and they locked eyes during their primal struggle, both exchanging defiant looks tinted with the amusement of such childish sparring. Gone were the warrior tactics and strategies, their fight resembling more a drunken brawl than an epic combat between the two princes of Asgard.

Loki shifted underneath him, their hips flush against one another as Thor tried to pin Loki to the ground. It was at this precise moment that Thor realised his mistake. During their sparring, he had grown hard, the adrenaline from their fight and Loki’s dishevelled looks making his body react against his will. Loki’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling under his weight and Thor felt his pulse race at the proximity and sudden vulnerability of his situation. Of all the times for his body to betray him in that way, it had to be now.

His brother's wide eyes met his and then narrowed, surprise mingling with something else, something deeper, dangerous. Thor could feel the shape of Loki’s body under him and, for a moment, he lost focus, just enough for Loki to shift his hips upwards and place his lips close to his temple.

Whatever Thor had thought Loki would goad him with, it wasn’t for his brother to breathe a ragged moan in the shell of his ear, lock his legs behind his back and rub his crotch against his.

He bit his lip, knowing the sounds he would make would be less discreet than his brother’s and pulled back, not trusting himself not to go too far. As far as he knew, this was just another trick, another way Loki found he could manipulate him and push him where he wanted to better claim the path to victory. Thor had kept hidden as best as he could the desire he felt for his brother, locking the thoughts away in the deepest darkest corners of his mind, sealing the base lust with his shame but now, Loki had seen and was taunting Thor with what he couldn’t have.

Surely enough, Loki’s legs shifted in a swift movement and he twisted his body to unseat Thor. The unexpected movement caught him off guard and, for a quick second, his body was airborne before being slammed into the ground with Loki sitting atop him, his ass flush in Thor’s lap and grinding against his growing erection.

“Do you yield, brother?” Loki whispered. His cheeks were flushed and his breath uneven. From where he was, Thor could see his delicate collarbones rising with each intake of air and while he knew he was staring dumbly at his brother while he should fight back, he couldn’t tear away his eyes from Loki’s victorious smile.

With a small grin, Thor discreetly tightened his grasp around his dagger’s hilt and cut a shallow slit in his brother’s arm.

“First blood is mine, brother,” Thor teased. Loki growled and struck, angling his dagger towards Thor’s unprotected throat. His blow was interrupted by Thor grabbing his untied hair and pulling it back, his hand tangled in the raven locks. Loki’s eyes widened in surprise and he appeared to bite back a sound. His body betrayed him though and Thor knew he was done for when Loki shuddered and raised his hips up and down his hardening bulge.

The picture was deviously erotic. Loki, sitting astride him, Thor’s hand lost in his brother’s hair and his head pulled back, Loki’s ass against his cock and his brother’s milky skin shining with sweat. Thor was so far gone he would’ve taken Loki on the training grounds without a second thought if Sif hadn’t chosen that exact movement to shout, “Come on Thor, don’t just lay there. Fight back!”

Everything came rushing back at once, their audience, his brother’s tricks, Thor’s misplaced honour. With a mighty grunt, he pushed his brother back and started on the offensive.

Loki rolled to his feet the instant Thor shoved him off, his dagger held in a reverse grip. Thor rose with a more measured pace, his chest heaving, shaking his head to dispel the haze of heat and desire clouding his judgment. His brother smirked, his lips curling into one of his most annoying smiles, swaying lightly on the balls of his feet, his stance low and ready.

“You’re distracted, brother of mine,” he said, his voice a silken drawl. “Shall I put a quick end to your misery?”

Thor snorted, his grip tightening on his own weapon. “Come closer and see what happens, trickster,” he tried to say with bravado only for the moniker to come out unbearably fond.

Loli darted forward in a blur of movement and his dagger sliced a tight arc aimed at his exposed forearm. Thor twisted just in time, the blade barely nicking his skin, and countered with a downward slash, forcing Loki to leap back. Dust rose from their motions, swirling around their boots and the crowd roared, their cheers blending into a cacophony of sounds.

The brothers circled each other, testing defenses, probing weaknesses. Thor feinted a lunge to the left, his dagger angling toward Loki’s slide but his brother read the move and parried with ease, their blades clanging together in a sharp metallic ring.

Loki stepped inside Thor’s guard, his lithe frame allowing him to duck beneath a broad swing. He jabbed upwards with his dagger, aiming for Thor’s ribs, but Thor pivoted to grasp his wrist in an iron hold.

Thor drove his knee upward, aiming for Loki’s stomach. Loki twisted his body, absorbing the hit on his hip instead, a pained hiss escaping his lips. Gritting his teeth, Loki retaliated with a powerful kick to Thor’s knee, forcing him to release his grip.

“Sloppy, brother,” Loki sneered through his uneven breathing. “You look preoccupied with something.” Loki glanced downwards, focusing on Thor’s crotch with a smirk.

With a feral grin, Loki lunged, driving his shoulder into Thor’s midsection and sending both sprawling to the ground. Thor rolled them over immediately, unwilling to give the same kind of spectacle as earlier, but Loki was prepared for it and used the momentum to buck his hips and twist his torso, reversing their positions.

Thor would’ve sighed if it wasn’t so predictable that they would end in a humiliating position for him again.

Now straddling his brother once more, Loki pressed his dagger against Thor’s chest, just over his heart. His free hand grabbed Thor’s wrist, holding it firmly against the dirt.

Thor snarled, arching his back to dislodge Loki, trying —and failing— to push his desire aside and not let it cloud his thoughts but Loki pressed his weight down, effectively pinning Thor to the ground. “Yield, brother,” he hissed, his voice breathy and elated by his victory.

Thor locked eyes with his. In the depth of Loki’s gaze, Thor could see the pride and joy at beating him, in front of such a crowd no less, but he knew Loki well and he could see what his brother tried to hide as well. The disbelief of being victorious, the agonised wait for something to go wrong or for Thor to overpower him. The fear of something coming to mar his victory.

Loki mistook his silence for plotting and pricked his skin with the tip of the dagger, watching the trickle of blood slide around his muscles.

“Do you yield, Thor?” Loki asked, throwing his voice to be heard by the crowd.

Thor nodded and swallowed his pride and discontent at the fight being over so quickly. “I yield, brother,” he clamoured loud and clear.

The crowd erupted in cheers and jeers and Loki, ever the dramatic ass, raised his dagger upwards in triumph before helping his brother to his feet. Fast as a viper, he wiped off some of Thor’s blood with his thumb and licked it clean.

Thor muffled a groan at the sight of his brother’s pink tongue cleaning his blood and all but ran to the changing rooms, ignoring his friends calling after him. On the way, he debated whether it was better to take a cold shower or allow his desire some release and jerk off in the shower even if it meant muffling his moans, hoping none would his cries.

In the end, Thor took himself in hand and came faster than he ever had, a litany consisting of his brother’s name tumbling from his lips as he spilt in the —blessedly— empty showers.

Chapter Text

That was a month ago, and since then, Loki has wielded his newfound weapon with the same precision as the rest of his arsenal, elevating the art of seducing his brother to an unmatched level of mastery.
A month of reducing Thor to a blubbering fool, his mind overcome by a lust with no relief. A month of coy glances as he bends over precious tomes in the library, his perk ass on display for Thor to gawp at. A month of Loki ‘accidentally’ cancelling the wards between their rooms so Thor can hear him pleasure himself at night and his whining, whimpering moans. An entire month of Thor doubling his intake of Iduun’s apples because he’s exhausted all the damn time, his desire-filled, sleepless nights grating on his nerves and mind.

Every day, Thor wakes up with a new sense of dread mingled with impatience, wondering what kind of devious torture his brother will make him endure that day. It has become their depraved game — Thor more a pawn than a player — and he stirs each morning wondering if today is to be the day it all comes to an end.

Despite his eternal optimism, he knows it cannot continue.
Thor knows they can’t keep this a secret forever. He is keenly aware that the likelihood of someone witnessing or overhearing their indiscretions increases with each passing day, and their continued silence with each other only makes discovery more inevitable. They haven’t talked about any of it, and as the days pass, Thor finds it harder and harder to broach the subject with Loki.
Unfortunately, he can’t find the strength to put a stop to it.

In the dead of night, when Thor’s thoughts veer towards the sleek lines of his brother’s form or the delicate hand movements Loki does when he works on his seiðr, he takes his aching cock in his hand and comes with Loki’s name on the tip of his tongue. And every night, without fault, Thor tells himself he will put some distance between them and every morn while breaking fast, his brother caresses his ankle with his foot or grazes his neck when he puts a golden lock of hair in place, and all thoughts of stopping disappear.

Because, in truth, Thor has been waiting centuries for this.

The nature of their relationship had always been ambiguous at best and Thor very well knows that Asgarðr holds its share of naysayers spreading idle gossip about their closeness. What would they say if they knew Thor has been lusting after his brother since before his coming of age, since he saw Loki lick his slender fingers clean of the apple they were sharing that day? Since his first heated dream featured Loki bobbing his head up and down his shaft? What would Asgarðr say if the gossipers proved to be right this once? What would their parents say?

Thor is in over his head, and still, he cannot — will not — put a stop to it. This past month has been the best of his life and if distant teasing is what Loki gives him, he is prepared to accept it. Thor will accept anything Loki offers him as long as it brings them closer and he can continue dreaming about words of desire and love whispered under the shared moonlight.

As he walks to Glaðsheimr, the chamber used for the High Council meetings, he makes a detour by Fársalr, Loki’s hall. Last night, a delegation of elves from Álfheimr brought some books from their library and Loki almost ran away from the feast to pour over his new tomes, so Thor knows he’ll find his brother still asleep, maybe even with a book still open on his chest. There is a more perverse reason why Thor intercepts the servant about to enter his brother’s chambers. It is still summer and he dearly hopes that Loki will have shed some clothing during the night. The prospect of stealing a quick look at his brother’s asleep and naked figure is too tempting to turn away.

In front of the door, he inhales and exhales once, gathering his courage before opening the gilded panel.

The creak of the hinges startles him and Thor feels his heart beating in his chest, threatening to break free at any given moment. Loki’s bedroom is plunged in darkness and it takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the low lighting.

Loki is indeed still asleep, his languid figure illuminated by the sliver of sunlight peaking through a faint opening in his heavy drapes. Thor’s breath catches in his throat. He could stay there, watching his brother, for the rest of his life, until he withers away and turns to dust.

The scene greeting him is worthy of being painted by the most skilled artists of the realms. The mid-morn sun catches on Loki’s skiing, highlighting the faint sheen of sweat clinging to his body. His soft curves are half-hidden by a tousled red sheet pooling on his hips and legs but the sheerness of the fabric allows Thor to see Loki’s erection as clear as day.

As he opens the panel further and closes it, Loki lets a deep breath escape and raises his arm over his eyes to hide from the light. The motion makes his dick bob under the sheet and Thor thinks he sees a darker spot near his cockhead. Thor is half-hard already and his mouth is uncomfortably dry. He wants nothing more than to stride over to the bed and take his brother in his mouth. To rouse Loki from his sleep slowly and tenderly, making him spill inside his mouth, but it’s a boundary he can’t bring himself to cross.

He clears his throat from where he stands, not trusting himself to stay chaste if he comes closer to the bed, and Loki stretches languidly, his body contorting in sinuous grace. The smell wafting from the sheets carries the essence of his brother’s chamber: fresh linen, parchment, herbs, and the musk of his skin warmed by his rest. Thor almost whimpers with how strongly he misses it.

“Loki,” he says hoping his brother won’t notice the hoarseness of his voice, “wake up. We are awaited in the Glaðsheimr.”

Loki lets out a petulant moan, turns around and pulls the sheet over his head, freeing his legs from it. Thor lets his gaze roam over his slender legs, his pulse quickening as he realises Loki’s ass is almost uncovered by his sheet. Loki stretches once more, his toes curling and one of his hands peeking from the buddle of linens piled over his head, but the only thing Thor can concentrate on is the view of his brother’s round cheeks and the tantalizing view of his balls between his legs.

“Brother —” he starts.

Loki grumbles. “Go away, Thor. I was having the most pleasant of dreams.”

Judging by the erection that greeted him upon entering the chambers, Thor doesn’t doubt it. As if on cue, Loki starts gently snoring again and moving his hips in a slow motion against the mattress, soft moans pooling from his lips. Thor is dizzy from lust and want. He can imagine himself bridging the gap between them, pulling his brother’s hips until his legs hang from the bed and feasting on his puckered ass. He would fill Loki with his tongue, awakening his brother from his sleep while he brought Loki to the precipice of pleasure. Loki would keen and whimper, the sounds carving their way into his brain and he would bring his brother to completion and let him rut against the linens. Thor can picture it vividly and the violence of his desire almost scares him.

Thor clears his throat once more, determined to wake Loki up despite his wish to see how far his brother would take his play in his half-conscious state. Loki’s games have made him lose composure in public more than a dozen times this past month and Thor does not wish to be on their father’s bad side because they were late to the meeting.

“Loki, we are already late,” Thor grumbles. Still, he doesn’t move from the doorway. “Come on,” he adds a little louder when Loki still doesn’t move.

His brother lets out an annoyed groan and extracts his head from the bedding. “Fine, fine. If you insist on being so bothersome you could at least gather my clothing,” he orders, his speech slurred and distant.

Happy to have something to occupy his mind other than his brother’s body writhing under his ministrations, Thor complies and gathers Loki’s preferred garb for council meetings. He lays them down on his chair, taking great care not to disturb the organised chaos that is Loki’s workspace. He made that mistake once or twice, he will not make it again.

Loki finally rises from his bed and his dishevelled appearance is both sinful and adorable — not that Thor would ever say it aloud, he has some survival instincts left. His tousled raven hair is knotted and it’s a lifetime of habit that has Thor walking to his brother while he dresses to untangle the dark locks. Loki purrs under his hands, his lids closing in pleasure as Thor braids his hair. While Thor works Loki’s tresses, he is once again stunned by how soft it is, like holding strands of silk between his callused fingers. It seems too precious for his hands. Too exceptional to last.

Disheartened by his thoughts, he goes to remove his hand but Loki chases it, turning his head to face Thor. Thor cups his jaw, his thumb rubbing away the sleep lines from his skin.

Loki opens his eyes, all traces of sleep absent from his gaze and meets Thor’s head-on. The conflicting emotions he can see in his brother’s green irises are dizzying and conflicting. Innocence, want, lust, hate, love, vulnerability. They are all there for Thor to read and he cups Loki’s neck, bringing their heads closer.

He feels strangely exposed when their foreheads meet, their hitched breaths warming the space between them. They’re on the brink of an abyss and he hungers for the moment they’ll finally topple over the precipice. The inferno of his desire has evolved into something that feels more real than ever and he needs to show his brother that this isn’t a game to him. He lowers his head to capture Loki’s lips —

“My Lord, your father is awaiting your presence in the Council Chambers.” Svala’s voice cuts through their haze like a sharpened weapon and they both jump away from each other. Loki is faster to regain his composure and urges her in with a soft smile towards his brother.

Svala grunts as she opens the door, a tray full of fruit and pastry resting on her hip. “Sorry for the interruption Prince Loki but — Prince Thor,” she gasps. “I'm sorry, I had no idea you were there.” Her heart-shaped face blooms red when she glances at her tray filled only for one.

“Svala, the best part of my morning,” Loki lilts and welcomes her in. “I’m afraid I’ll have no time to break fast properly if our father is waiting.” Loki waits until she has laid down the platter on the bed and picks a pastry, winking at her and moaning when he bites into it. He throws an apple at Thor with a smirk and drawls, “Come on Thor, we’re already late because of you.”

It takes all of his composure not to throw the fruit at his face and follow his brother outside instead.

This has to be the most tiresome High Council meeting Thor has ever attended.

As predicted, their father had berated their tardiness and Loki had made excuses for them both, claiming he had to rouse Thor from his dreams. It didn’t help that the prince’s dark circles under his eyes confirmed his lie.

Since then, they’ve been speaking for the better part of the last two hours and Thor feels himself drifting off, his thoughts coming back to their shared moment in Loki’s chambers. He can still taste the lingering sensation of their almost-kiss on his lips and imagines that if he were to capture Loki's right now, he would taste the pastry Loki had so eagerly devoured earlier.

Thor refocuses his attention on the subject at hand and swallows a groan when he realises they are still talking about the upcoming festival. Every year, Asgarðr holds a festival for the summer Solstice, and every year without fault the council members and his brother find ways to nitpick every inconsequential detail. Their father is content to remain silent, speaking only when necessary, making the squabbles last that much longer.

“We cannot expect the realms to stay content with being mere assets Asgarðr calls when needed,” Loki seethes passionately in an echo of an argument Thor has heard for the past century without fault. “We may invite the realms to participate and bring their gold but what good is it for if the stalls show only aesir craftsmanship? Are we not happy to relieve the dvergar of their metal and weapons? Do we not drink the mead from Vanaheimr’s brewery at each of our feasts?”

“Prince Loki,” Councillor Gunnarr butts in with a haughty tone, “it is not a matter of…disrespect like you so blatantly portray it but security. We simply cannot allow all realms to sell their goods during the festival.”

Loki’s jaw tenses and Thor wonders if his brother just bit his tongue to avoid verbally eviscerating the councillor in charge of their realm's economy. To defend his brother, even Thor argues Gunnarr’s points vehemently when he can if only because he doesn’t like the smarmy bastard. He’s always thought the councillor more interested in how he could benefit from his position rather than making sure their people do.

“And why not?” asks Thor, his voice cutting through whatever Gunnarr was about to add. “Does it not hearten our people to grow and share amongst themselves? The point of the Solstice festival is revelry, is it not?”

“Yes, My Prince, of course,” Gunnarr admits with an air of reverence he didn’t have for Loki a few seconds ago. If he hopes to win some favour with Thor by undermining his brother, he is thoroughly mistaken. “But —”

“Then why is Prince Loki’s proposition not to your taste, Councillor?” Thor interrupts, marking the titles as bluntly as he can. A little unsubtle, but it’ll do.

Gunnarr pales and his eyes dart to Loki who wears a falsely demure smile.

“Your Majesty,” he stammers, turning to the Allfather, “I merely meant —”

“That is the second time you have evaded one of my sons’ questions, Councillor Gunnarr,” Óðinn says gravely. “I suggest you answer them. Quickly.”

Gunnarr sends Loki a dark look and grits his teeth. Thor just knows his brother is reigning in his impulse to stick his tongue out. “What Prince Loki is proposing is preposterous. We cannot allow Jötnarr goods to be sold during the summer festival.”

“Why?” asks Thor.

Gunnarr jolts and focuses back on Thor. “Why, what, My Lord?”

Thor smiles easily. Loki may have his way with words and outwit any who try to challenge him, but it is also he who taught Thor the value of being underestimated. He may play the charming and witless oaf when it suits him but Thor is far from that.

“I am asking why we cannot allow Jötnarr goods to be sold. Surely the power of Asgarðr is great enough to be allowed to do anything we wish?” he inquires innocently. Well. Innocently enough. From the corner of his eye, he sees Loki withhold a proud grin and he feels like he already won this battle if this is the prize.

The councillor stays silent, trying to find an escape path out of the grave he dug for himself when, surprisingly, Loki comes to his rescue. “I am sure the councillor did not wish to undermine Asgarðr’s power, Thor. Maybe we could first enquire if any Jötunn living outside of Laufey’s realm wish to sell anything to us before planning any further?” he suggests in a honeyed voice.

“Yes exactly, My Prince, I would never presume to —”

“It is settled then,” Loki says with an air of finality and calm. The quick smile he sends Thor, though, is ripe with the bite of a predator who captured his prey and savours the blood gushing from his maw.

Thankfully, Gunnarr is intelligent enough to recognise when he’s been backed into a corner he can’t escape from and stays blissfully silent. Thank the Norns.

Thor leans back, happy to have helped his brother and goes back to listening and nodding when it is appropriate. Loki, for his part, leans forward, elated as he is by their victory and weaves his words carefully, aware the council will be on edge after the short argument.

In the next half-hour, many of the propositions Loki brings forward are accepted without much dispute, none of the council members wishing to end on the wrong side of the wordsmith. Thankfully, he is greatly helped by Lady Gríðr, the newly appointed councilwoman in charge of diplomacy between the realms. Thor is glad Loki has found another ally than him in the Council Chambers. For too long have some members looked down on his brother for all kinds of imagined – or real — slights and he is happy someone is smart enough to recognise that Loki is someone you’d want on your side in a fight. Thor was also becoming increasingly annoyed at being the only one to think his brother’s ideas had merit. He wonders if Loki claiming his title of God of Chaos during his coming of age hasn’t hurt his reputation more than they expected. As if Loki could go against his nature. He scoffs.

Loki turns to him and raises an eyebrow, silently asking what made him react that way but Thor shakes his head and questions away. Now is not the time for such a discussion. Not when there is so much unsaid between Loki and him.

Like a dog brought to heel by its master, his mind brings forward exactly what is left unsaid and unfinished between them and he feels his cheeks flush. Thor sits up, rearranging his leathers and tunic to occupy his hands and hopes his brother won’t notice the direction his thoughts have taken. Leaning forward, he tries to focus on the matter at hand.

That is when he feels a soft touch against his leg and his breath catches. At first, he thinks it accidental, but Loki’s hand moves again, this time purposefully resting above Thor’s knee. The caress is soft, teasing, and, most of all, deliberate. Thor grips his armrest so tight his knuckles whiten.

He grits his teeth, knowing looking at Loki would bring too much attention right now but he yearns to yell and ask his brother what the fuck he thinks he is doing. This is not taunting play behind closed doors or skillfully hidden innuendos during a feast. This is Loki’s hand edging up his thigh inch by inch in front of the entirety of the Council and their father. Thor shifts, trying to dislodge his hand but Loki digs his nails into the inside of his thigh, securing his grip. His brother waits a few seconds, replying with ease to someone Thor hasn’t even heard speaking and, when he seems sure Thor will not try to dislodge him again, moves his hand back to his knee, itching upwards at a leisurely pace.

Loki continues to speak, his honeyed voice a sweet lull Thor could lose himself in easily. His brother’s comments may seem nonchalant but, under the table, his hand moves imperceptibly upward, slowly travelling up his thigh. He tries to maintain his composure but the heat pooling in his core is impossible to ignore and he covers a frustrated groan with a cough. Loki smiles behind his hand and skims over his covered skin, his nails leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“We could always install a third level to the market, I think it would be easy to implement so soon into the planning,” Loki ponders with a sigh.

Óðinn grunts his agreement. “My son is right, we are weeks away from the festival and adding a level would take care of this problem.

Loki smiles, discreet pride painted on his features. “What about the dancing pole? Should it be placed in a grander square to accommodate the increased attendance?”

“Maybe —” The answer his brother receives is lost to Thor as he feels a bead of sweat run down his back.

As his brother continues to argue with the council, his hand stops just under his bulge and delicately traces his inner thigh. Thor attempts to act with normalcy but his entire focus is consumed by Loki’s touch. The ache between his legs is intoxicating and his cock throbs painfully, constricted by his breeches. He was still half-hard when he entered the chambers and his brother’s teasing rekindled his desire like oil on a pyre. His breath comes out shallow and his muscles taunt, his entire body waiting for Loki’s next move.

Their father asks Loki a question and while the reminder of the stakes should cool his head, the depravity of the situation is a turn-on like no other he’s ever experienced. His brother answers in his usual, casual manner, and moves his hand higher up while he speaks. The slow drag of Loki’s fingers on his skin is maddening and Thor doesn’t know what he’ll do once his brother reaches his groin.

“I’m afraid it will be hard and lengthy to implement such procedures for the entrance,” Loki says. He adds with a private smile, “I think it will be a tight fit enough as it is.” Because fondling him under the table wasn’t enough for the brat, he had to add innuendos to the situation. Of course.

Thor strives to escape his brother’s touch, shifting his leg again without drawing attention but Loki notices and pushes his hand further with a quiet, calculated pressure. Each subtle move of Loki’s fingers now barely brush against his cock and he’s tempted to move his hips forward himself. His breath quickens and he is forced to lay back, crossing his hands above his lip to hide how close he is to pure, lusted, madness.

The Council’s voices are growing increasingly distant. Their voices are muffled as if coming from underwater. He is reduced to a world consisting only of his brother’s hand and his hard erection. Every time Loki grazes his cock, his control slips further and he’s torn between shouting at his brother to stop and wanting to surrender completely and send caution to the wind.

Around him, the room grows hotter. He feels like he will soon suffocate under the pressure and a rush of heat brings a bead of precome to his tip. His pants are taut, his arousal painfully visible to both Loki and him and —for a brief second — Thor fears he won’t leave the room with his dignity intact.

Finally, at last, Loki reaches his shaft, his cool fingers resting on Thor’s throbbing arousal. His body jerks and he swallows a garbled moan. His brother cups his cock and balls and Thor reaches his breaking point. His hand moves involuntarily, grabbing Loki’s wrist with a strength that would’ve crushed any other. As he breathes heavily, Loki raises an eyebrow, aware that he’s pushed his brother too far, but seems unconcerned. He speaks calmly to the council again, his voice a soft, mocking lilt, perfectly timed to allow Thor to regain a semblance of control. The entire room remains oblivious to the battle happening under the table, but Thor’s face is flushed, his jaw so tight with restrain he’s surprised he hasn’t cracked any teeth.

Thor can feel the pressure of Loki’s fingers digging into his tender skin, the warmth of his brother’s skin against his hand — but his mind is struggling to keep up with the surge of conflicted emotions. The anger he feels for being so humiliated in front of the Council, the maddening desire coursing through his veins and the thrill of adrenaline from doing something so immoral. He grinds his teeth, and for a moment, his grip tightens around Loki’s wrist, trying to restrain himself from doing something he might regret later. He is aware of every eye in the room now, though they are completely oblivious to the wicked game at play before them.

Loki doesn’t flinch. In fact, he leans into Thor’s grip, his face softening into a barely perceptible smile, one that speaks volumes about his knowledge of the effect he’s having on his brother. “Why keep resisting what you want?” Loki murmurs just loud enough for Thor to hear, his voice smooth and full of amusement. He doesn’t pull away from his hold but instead, keeps his wrist perfectly still, giving Thor no opportunity to break free. His eyes flicker to Thor’s flushed face, gauging his reaction carefully, before turning his attention back to the council, speaking like nothing unusual is happening.

“As I was saying…”

He shivers when a surge of frustration flows through him. His body betrays him and he grows harder still. He wants to push Loki away, to pull his hand on his cock and grind against it, he wants to run, he wants to come, he wants Loki to stop touching him, he wants him to never stop touching him. His mind shuts off and is reduced to one world only: his brother’s name. A chant of Loki, Loki, Loki, threatens to spill from his lips and he feels like he is truly on the brink of utter insanity.

All he can hear is the rapid pulse of his heart in his own ears and Loki’s voice calmly speaking about the organisation around a delegation of some people going somewhere and what they are going to do about it. A decision is reached. Maybe. Thor doesn’t know. He doesn’t care for anything that isn’t Loki’s hand resting between his legs.

“No, no, we cannot insult the Vanir so,” Lady Gríðr exclaims passionately to which Loki and Óðinn nod their approval.

His hand eases its grip slightly and Loki smiles. With a quick and fluid motion, he takes advantage of the moment and lets his fingers slip further into the intimate space between Thor’s legs. Thor opens his thighs wider and tries not to blush harder at his brother’s pleased smile. He knows he lost, the only solace is that his brother cannot verbally gloat right now.

Loki raises his hand higher still and fully rests his palm on his erection. Thor’s arousal is a living, breathing thing, screaming for freedom. There is a very high chance that he’ll spill before the meeting is adjourned and the thought thrills and scares him in equal measure. His body is trembling and he thanks the Norns that there aren’t sparks of lightning humming around him right now.

His brother’s caress stays delicate, maddening enough to barely be considered touches but the graze of his fingers on his shaft is too much. Every stroke is a forest fire, every gasp Thor stifles is frost in his lungs, every moan clawing, biting its way out of his throat is damnation of the highest ordeal. He can’t bring himself to care anymore. He is lost in the thralls of pleasure and only centuries of etiquette being hammered in his brain stop him from whimpering out loud and begging Loki to do something, anything.

As his patience and frustration reaches its peak, Loki makes a deliberate move, pressing and cupping his cock. It pushes him to the edge of his self-restraint. His brother slides his hand up and down, barely applying any pressure — just enough to elicit a barely audible moan from Thor. It is a small, involuntary groan but condemns the Prince all the same.

General Týr turns his head towards Thor, furrowing his brow and opening his mouth, but thankfully Loki diverts his attention by asking him what kind of security detail will be implemented during the festival. The General answers but his gaze still darts to Thor, a worried look etched on his features. The air is thick, and damp, like a storm brewing and the atmosphere swells. Outside, a crack of thunder is heard and Thor can’t bring himself to be sorry.

“Are you well, my son?” Óðinn asks once the rumble outside relents.

Thor clears his throat and does his best to appear as though he isn’t falling apart by the seams. “Mearly tired, father. The shortness of my night is catching up with me.”

A faint touch hovering over his tip brings a rush of heat to his loins and he bites his cheek until he draws blood when Loki caresses it in small, tender circles. The debauched pleasure sings in his muscles, his blood coursing to his member. Loki’s thumb rubs over his slit and his balls contract. He’s close to letting go, too close than he’d like in such a public setting.

Thor’s hand snaps to grab Loki’s wrist once more, holding it still for a few blessed seconds to stave off his impending climax. When he feels less the edges of his release, he shares a look with his brother. Loki looks at him with mirth and curiosity, wondering what Thor will do now. Will he try to push his hand away, resulting in another battle Loki is sure to win, or will he let go of his wrist like he did earlier, dragging out their perverted game? However, Loki’s eyes widen when this time, instead of pushing away or releasing, Thor pulls his hand closer and places Loki’s palm on his erection, his hand cupping his balls and engorged cock. A brief, heated glance passes between them, one full of mischief, shame, and unspoken desires. His brother gives him a subtle, satisfied smile and squeezes his member and Thor moves his hips forward, arching discreetly into the touch.

The god closes his eyes. His breath comes out in short pants he desperately tries to hide, his whole body feels like a furnace and he can feel his climax coming, waves of pleasure crashing he can’t hope to hold at bay. Just as his pleasure is about to peak, he realises he cannot come undone here, in front of everyone. Thor pushes his chair back in an abrupt motion and manages a curt, gritted excuse for his sudden departure, claiming urgent matters he has to see to. The prince all but runs out of the rooms and slides into a secluded alcove he and Loki had found centuries ago when fleeing the wrath of one of their tutors.

There, Thor unlaces his trousers and takes his aching member in hand, pumping his shaft in quick motions while biting his knuckles to avoid being heard. He imagines Loki has followed him into the alcove and taken his cock in hand. He thinks of his brother’s deft fingers on him instead of his wide and callused ones. Thor lets his ecstasy swallow him, remembering Loki’s hand cupping his crotch underneath the council table. It doesn’t take long for him to come, he was seconds away from spilling in the Glaðsheimr after all, and he doubles over when he topples over the edge, the memory of Loki’s satisfied smile blinking behind his eyelids as he trembles from the shockwaves of his pleasure. He jerks his hand one more time, milking the rest of his come out and groans and slides to the ground, his knees giving out under the assault of his pleasure. Thor lets out a shaky exhale and tips his head back until it thumps gently against the surface behind him. A faint satisfied smile tugs at his lips and the tension finally ebbs from his body.

Inside the Council Chamber, Loki shrugs innocently when his father asks what the matter is with Thor and hides a satisfied smile behind his hand. It smells of Thor, a masculine blend of leather and his musk. Loki adores nothing more than when his plans progress as he wishes them to. Thor will crack. No matter how long it takes.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Thor forgoes his usual detour by Loki’s halls and goes to his mother’s private room. Most mornings, they usually break fast together, just the three of them. Sometimes Óðinn joins them but, more often than not, the King’s duties shackle him as soon as the sun rises. This time, though, Thor sees Gungnir, his father’s spear, resting near the entrance and takes joy in his presence.

He dearly hoped to avoid his brother for a few hours, especially after yesterday’s events, but the velvety laugh he hears from the sitting room tells him he will have no more peace today than yesterday.

His father, mother, and brother are all sitting in their usual seats. Loki sharing a settee with their mother and holding a cup of tea like a lifeline, a vulnerable smile hooking his lips up. The softness brought by their intimate morning ritual becomes him, and he looks more at ease than ever when Frigga throws her head back, her melodious laugh bringing forth an undeniable joy in the hearts of all, and runs her hand in his hair with a fond look.

Thor would be more appreciative of the sight if he hadn’t been woken up in the middle of the night by his brother’s hoarse moans and found him ‘sleeping’ when he barged in. Despite his weariness, he’d only closed the door and let his brother ‘rest’, too tired for his games.

“Brother, finally you’re here,” Loki exclaims happily. “And I thought I was the late riser.”

Thor glares at him and sits on his usual armchair, bending over to claim a honeyed rye loaf. “I would have slept better, brother, if your silencing spells hadn’t failed in the middle of the night,” he answers with a raised eyebrow. Loki has the grace to blush and looks away with a huff. Point to Thor, he thinks with a victorious smile, biting voraciously in his pastry.

They ease into easy conversation as their mother inquires about their respective studies and hobbies. Every so often, Loki, never one to be outdone, lets his gaze drop to Thor’s lips, gradually lowering to his chest and between his legs as he darts his tongue to lick the honey clinging to his lips.

Damn his brother for bringing this perverted game here in front of their mother. Óðinn, Thor can understand, the more time passes, the less Loki bows down to their father, their similarities grating on his brother’s nerves. But their mother?! And damn his body for reacting like it does. Thor can only cross his legs to hide his arousal and turn his gaze away. Point to Loki.

“At what time are you leaving today, Thor?” his mother asks, bringing him back to the conversation.

“What?” he answers dumbly. Loki stifles a laugh behind his pastry. Not well enough apparently, Frigga tuts and turns back to Thor.

“You had a hunting trip planned with Loki today, did you not? Loki informed your father and I of this a few days ago. It is good you chose to leave today, you’ll have to stay close to the city as the festival draws near,” she says fondly, thinking her elder is still battling his sleep away.

Thor glares at Loki who smiles innocently. “I am looking to our brotherly escapade,” he lilts. “It has been so long since we’ve been alone with one another. I find myself quite expectant about what you planned for us, brother.”

Thor gapes, feeling as though his brother has pulled a rug beneath his feet and he can’t seem to find his footing. How far do Loki’s plans and manipulations go? “What?” he asks again.

“Oh, dear,” Frigga gently states. “Loki you really must renew your enchantments if your activities keep your brother up to this extent. It’ll do him no good to traipse around the forest weapons in hand and tired.”

“Of course, Mother,” he concedes with a regal nod, “I wouldn’t want anything to risk Thor’s wellbeing,” Loki promises easily like the lying little shit he is.

“So, Thor,” Óðinn demands, his grave voice rising above his heir’s confusion, “when will you depart?” He ponders his answer for a few seconds and glances at Loki. And Loki, damn him, simply smirks, waiting for his brother to give an answer he does not know.

“As soon as Loki has finished his pack, you know how he is,” he smirks. “Mine is already done and I find it unnecessary to treat the trees like spectators at a ball,” and he raises his cup in a mock salute as his brother scowls. Thor 2; Loki 1. His odds are looking up.

In the end, Loki raises first to go back to his chambers and pack, bidding their parents a fond goodbye, but not before he brushes his hand over Thor’s arm in passing, his touch leaving a burning trail down his skin. It takes all he has not to grab his hand and place it back on his shoulder. Point to Loki. His brother’s need to have the last word is as bothersome as it is endearing.

Thor rushes to his own rooms, packing all he would need for this ‘hunting trip’ of theirs he apparently organised and — in a burst of boldness — adds a flask of oil from his bedside table. He barely dares hope but the embers of it are still there, alive and rumbling in the core of his chest.

When he knocks on Loki’s doors, he is unsurprised to see his brother has finished packing and is already putting on his usual garb for hunting. The trickster probably has his pack done since he announced their ‘plans’ to their parents.

“Loki,” he sighs as he closes the panels. “What is the meaning of this game, truly?”

“I don’t see what you’re talking about, Thor,” Loki responds coyly, lacing his boots slowly. His fingers are deft and precise. Thor can only think of how they would look unlacing his tunic and breeches, lit by their campfire after a day of hunting. He shakes his head.

“Do not play dumb with me, brother, it suits you ill.”

Loki laughs. “No you’re right, that’s more your speciality.”

He refuses to be goaded into an argument right now. “What is the purpose of this? If it is to undermine me you already have met your goal, Loki,” he grumbles. “You had your victory at the sparring ring, the whole council is thinking me nothing more than the oaf you claim me to be because of my distracted state, father has all but asked me if I would wish him to postpone my responsibilities as future king because he thinks the weight of it is eating me up. So what is it? What more do you want?”

Loki snaps his head up and glares at him angrily. He swallows and suddenly, there is fondness in his gaze. “Oh, Thor… If you ask this question, you are more stupid than I thought,” he says tenderly, cupping his brother's face. Before Thor can answer, Loki is gone, the lock from the bathroom clicking behind him.

They ride until noon, their journey shortly halted by their mutual wish to see how the preparations for the festival are progressing in one of the outer villages, both giving encouragement and praise where it is deserved and indulging the children running to them asking for stories of epic deeds. Thor narrates the time when they faced a Fossegrim, taking great pleasure in describing how Loki almost drowned because he was too enraptured by the creature’s music and, despite his scowling at his choice of tale, Loki illustrate the story with his illusions to the giggled glee of the gaggle of children surrounding them.

When they reach their usual camping spot, hours away from Iðavöllr, they dismount and set up camp quickly and efficiently. They both agree to eat what came from their packs for tonight and rise early to hunt in the morn. Even though the sun is far from its setting point, they both know there is no use to start a hunt so late in the day. During their ride here they scarcely talked, but Loki informed him he had told their parents they would be gone for less than half a dozen days which leaves them more than enough time to hunt at their leisure.

Thor gets a fire going, getting down on his knees to blow on the embers and tries not to smile when he turns and sees Loki quickly looking away. Point to him once again. Thor hides his smile as best as he can. Once that is done, he fishes his tent out of his pack and erects it deftly, decades of habit guiding his hands. The familiar ritual allows his mind to wander and he wonders what Loki has planned for them.

This is, without a doubt, another one of Loki’s ploys to get something from him, but for the life of him, Thor cannot figure out what. Once, centuries ago, he might have entertained the foolish hope that this was Loki’s way of revealing shared feelings—of crafting an elaborate charade to earn his affection. But those childish hopes are long gone. Thor has come to terms with the truth of his desires, however unseemly and un-brotherly they may be. Loki, meanwhile, has given no hint of feeling the same, while Thor now realizes he’s hardly been subtle in revealing his own. No, this teasing serves a purpose. There is an endgame Loki is pursuing, though Thor cannot grasp what it is. If it were about his honour, Loki would’ve ceased this game by now, instead of pushing it further with the spectacle of yesterday.

Maybe Thor slighted him in some way and this is Loki’s revenge for it. His brother discovered his weakness as they fought and then decided to use it in retaliation for this potential affront. But what could he have done to warrant such torture? And what did Loki mean when he said Thor was more stupid than he thought?

“Careful, Thor, you’re going to pop a vein if you keep thinking so hard,” Loki teases. In his arms, he carries their evening meal and places it around the fire before pulling a fallen tree closer to the flames. It’s ‘their’ tree with all its notches and marks from their adventures and it warms Thor that despite everything, it is still there.

“I was merely realising it had been a while since we hadn’t had an adventure just the two of us,” Thor replies, hammering the last peg in the ground with Mjolnir and tying the cord around. He rises, brushing the dirt and leaves of his leathers.

Loki scoffs. “Well, it isn’t me who insists on bringing your friends everywhere.” He crosses his arms and stands by the fire. The golden light on his face sets his delicate features alight and he has trouble parting his gaze from it.

“Our friends, brother.”

Loki snaps, “I stand by what I said.”

Thor sighs and guides Loki to the fallen tree. “Come, brother, let us sit together rather than argue.” With a gesture Loki knows well, he invites him to sit on the ground, between his legs to better access his hair.

“You know,” Thor says as he strokes his brothers’ hair as delicately as he can, “if you desire us to be without Sif and the others more often, you would need nothing else but ask.”

Loki stays silent. Thor lets him take the time he needs to answer and continues to braid and untangle his curled locks. He knows Loki’s silver tongue is less at ease when the subject of emotions is breached. “You would resent me,” he finally answers and Thor’s heart breaks a little at his brother’s decisive tone.

“Never,” he swears. And it is an easy promise to make. His brother comes before all else.

“Really?” he asks, turning his head to lock eyes with Thor. “Really,” he answers easily, wishing he could erase the traces of doubt festering in his brother’s mind, brush the cobwebs injecting his assurance and replace them with the certainty of his love. Loki hums, apparently contented by his answer and turns back around, his body more relaxed than it was a few minutes ago.

They alternate between companionable silence and shared stories of their youth as the dusk sets in and when both of their stomachs grumble, they unwrap pouches upon pouches of food pilfered from Iðavöllr’s kitchens. They dine on salty cured meats, aged cheese, buttery flatbread, nuts, dried berries, and sweet cakes, washing it down with ale from Thor’s wineskin and watered-down mead from Loki’s.

It is for those moments, those where they both drop all pretences, that Thor lives. Loki seems to have put aside his current game for the time being and his laugh comes out more carefree than ever. As for Thor, the simplicity of being lost in nature with his brother makes him realise how weighted he has been lately and allows himself to relax and just… be.

Of course, it is when their yawns grow more pronounced and he suggests they go to sleep that he remembers that Loki never puts aside his mischief. Never puts aside that part of himself.

“What do you mean you didn’t pack a tent?” he asks after he reminds his brother to set up his bedding and Loki tells him he doesn’t have one, a headache already pounding on his skull.

“Do I look like a mule, Thor? I’m already carrying the food, the covers, and a bunch of other shit we won’t be needing, I wasn’t about to carry a tent on top of that!” he stomps his foot. Thor is ready to pull his hair out and groans.

“Your horse is the one carrying all that,” he shouts in exasperation.

“Leave Yrsa out of this! She’s tired enough as it is,” Loki cries. “Besides, is it so horrible to share a tent with me?” he demands. There it is, the carefully woven snare Thor knows he won’t be able to avoid.

He counts to ten, inhales, exhales and speaks calmly. “Of course not, brother, but your recent games lead me to be rightfully wary of sharing a space with you, especially on a trip you so skilfully organised to serve a purpose still unknown to me. You’d mock me until Ragnarǫk itself if I trusted you so blindly!”

Loki rolls his eyes but, funnily enough, he seems proud of Thor at the same time. “Fine, yes, I understand why you wouldn’t want to share your tent.” He pauses, looking down shamefully and sighs. “I’ll just sleep by the fire then, won’t I?” he finally mutters, turning his back to Thor. At that precise moment, a gust of wind rattles the trees and Loki shivers while he lays his quilt on the ground.

Thor pinches the bridge of his nose and prays the Norns will give him enough resilience for whatever devious ploy awaits him. He knows this is still Loki’s game. He knows his brother’s shudder is surely faked, by the Norns, even the gust of wind could’ve been conjured by Loki’s seiðr, but he can’t let his little brother out in the cold for the night. Even of his own fabrication. He swears in a low voice and stops Loki from laying down another blanket.

“Enough, brother. We’ll share the tent.”

“What? Now that you’re feeling guilty, suddenly you don’t mind? Forget it, Thor. I said I’ll sleep by the fire, you don’t have to sacrifice yourself. There’s no one here to witness your heroic deeds but me,” he seethes, plopping down on his bedding with his nose upturned.

Norns give him patience because if Thor asks for strength the sun may never shine on his brother again.

Thor feels his migraine worsening and he doesn’t know if he should throw Loki across his shoulder and toss him in the tent or if he should let Loki lose at his own game and let the stubborn ass sleep outside.

“Brother, I am tired from the road and the day. I do not have the patience to indulge your brattiness. You have your place beside me if you wish to take it,” he ends up snapping as he turns and enters the tent.

He hates when Loki manages to goad him to anger — which happens too often to his taste — not only because it brings out the worst in him but also because for all Loki’s faults, he despises being mean to his brother, whether the stubborn brat deserves it or not.

Thor is half-naked when the flap opens and Loki strolls inside the tent as if it’s his personal palace and dumps the blankets in a heap on the floor. Thor keeps his hunting leathers on, intending to shuffle out of them once the lantern is blown out, and washes his face with a wet cloth. When he is finished, he sees Loki still standing, his arms crossed and glaring at him.

“What?” he grumbles.

“You’re not even going to apologize for speaking to me that way?” Loki huffs disbelievingly.

If he were to indulge his urges, tackle Loki to the ground and fuck him senseless until his brother’s voice was hoarse and broken, would he have some kind of blessed silence afterwards? Would the punishment be enough? Because the thought is becoming increasingly more tempting. It would be two birds with one stone. He would finally get what he wants, and Loki would — maybe — finally shut up. Thor can picture it. Clear as day. Right now he can mainly picture an exhausted Loki sleeping next to him. In his fantasy, his brother’s mouth is gloriously closed. Only the sounds of nature rolling around their campsite.

He must’ve taken too long to answer because Loki sniffs and starts undressing. Point to Thor. He thinks.

The bedding itself is simple and crudely bare. After all, Thor thought he would be the only one sleeping in it. A wolf pelt on the ground to bring some comfort, a bedroll still tied up and a thin blanket made of cotton in case the night grows hot. It’s not enough for two. He sighs.

Trying not to let his gaze roam over his brother undressing slowly and meticulously, he gathers the various blankets and soft materials they have to make a wider and more comfortable bedding. Both he and Loki have had their share of frugal sleeping situations but they are still accustomed to a some comfort and they’ll both be aching tomorrow despite Thor’s best efforts. In the end, the bed he makes is satisfactory enough and he shuffles under the cover, taking off his breeches with a satisfied smile.

Loki is still standing in his tunic but his gaze is low and he twists his hand in a nervous tick. Before Thor can ask, his brother says, “Thank you. For the bed.” That’s as good as a sorry he’s going to get and Thor is happy to accept it. It’s not often he gets to hear Loki admit he’s at fault.

“Come here,” he calls, gently tapping the place next to him. “Tell me a story before we drift off.”

His brother blows on the lantern, opens one of the tent’s panels to allow in some of the evening air and slides underneath the thin blanket. He curls against him as he did when they were younger and Thor brings him closer by placing his hand on his back. The small circles he grazes on Loki’s soft skin are born out of habit, honed by centuries of proximity. Loki nuzzles his face between this shoulder and his neck and sighs contentedly before speaking.

“This is the story of a very arrogant Prince with long locks of golden hair,” Loki starts, his velvety voice hiding his amusement. Thor already fears where this tale of his is going.

“One day, the golden Prince lets his weapon down as he goes to bathe, but unbeknownst to him, a fearless Giant was waiting for an opening in the Prince’s defences and this was exactly what he had been hoping for.”

“Loki, no,” he groans, knowing only too well where this story is going. It is, after all, Loki’s favourite tale when he wishes to shame his brother. “Anything but that,” he pleads.

“The Giant, who thinks this must surely be a trick because no one is that big of an idiot, waits and waits but the golden Prince is nowhere to be seen so he takes the weapon and steals it,” Loki says, tone full of mirth.

“Quiet, I said,” Thor says with a snort, pinching his brother’s waist. Loki shifts to escape his hand but is still trying to continue his tale.

“And so the arrogant Prince discovers the theft of his precious weapon — one might ask what he’s compensating for if you ask me —” he snickers. “And —”

Thor rises with an offended gasp and pulls his brother in his arms, tickling Loki’s side without mercy. “It’s good then that –ow– nobody asked you,” he huffs while trying to escape his brother’s nails from digging into his skin. Even so, he doesn’t relent in his attack.

“A-and… And then he –stop it– h-he goes to the Gian-,” Loki sputters, his laughter shaking his voice.

“Oh, you still didn’t have enough then?” He lets Loki think he’s going to change tactics and recover some of his breath before targeting the spot where he knows his brother is the most sensitive: his feet, which are conveniently bare due to the heat.

Loki screeches and giggles with an edge of desperation. He is pinned under Thor’s weight and tries as he can to claw his way out, but he’s too distracted to properly do so.

“S-Stop! Y-you have to— T-Thor!”

“I have to what?” Thor snorts.

“I yield! I yield!” he finally cries, tears glistening on his cheeks and his breath short.

Thor lets him go and he chuckles as Loki smooths his hair back and tries to regain a semblance of propriety as if he wasn’t wriggling like a bait worm mere seconds ago.

“That was an attack borne in disloyalty,” is all Loki can find to say and Thor doesn’t contain his roar of laughter.

Laying back down, Thor wonders if his brother will continue with his tale or if he will see the wisdom in pursuing another path. Loki follows him and curls against him once more. He is still panting and each puff of air is warm on Thor’s skin. They stay silent for a while, simply enjoying the shared silence and proximity and Thor starts to drift off when Loki clears his throat and begins another tale.

“Once upon a time, there was a king who travelled to a far away and strange country. There, he married a queen and together they had a child. A beautiful daughter with hair of silver and eyes of moss. A few days after her birth, an old woman came to the palace…”

Sleep claims him before Loki finishes his tale, his voice lulling him into a sweet slumber.

As Loki watches his brother slip further into oblivion, he wonders how far he’ll have to push Thor for him to finally snap. He strokes his golden hair, marvelling at how smooth it feels, and curls around his brother. Despite the high temperatures, he feels cold and empty, and it is only when Thor throws his arm around him and tucks him closer that he lets himself go lax and finally falls asleep.

Thor is woken up by a keening whimper and he reaches for Loki with a prickle of fear down his spine. He still remembers vividly the nightmares his brother used to have when they were younger and still shared rooms, his terrors of bleak landscapes and loneliness. The reflex to be at Loki’s side during these moments never disappeared.

The tent is seeped in shadows, the silver glow of the moon casting patterns on the fabric walls. Next to him, Loki’s paleness is a stark contrast to the dark blankets tangled around him.

Loki is spread out on his side and taking over more than half of the bedding. His skin is flush with a delicate sheen and his bare chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. He must have shed his tunic away during his slumber. In the silence of the night, Thor hears his brother whimper again, this time a little louder.

During his sleep, his brother discarded his covers as well and Thor is faced with the full glory of his naked body. The fire has long since burned out, and the moonlight casting its glow on him lends an otherworldly sheen to his fair skin, softening the harsh edges of his muscles. Loki looks…soft, vulnerable, open. Everything he ceases to be when he is awake and his mask of indifference is securely in place.

Loki shifts beside him and Thor looks for any sign of discomfort. The movement is subtle at first, and Thor almost misses it. He lets out a soft moan and Thor glances at his face, looking for answers, searching for fear or discomfort. The only sight greeting him is his parted lips and flushed cheeks. As he catches the tension in his brother’s body and the subtle motion of his hips against the bedding, Thor’s gaze drifts downward.

The realization hits him like a sack of bricks and dispels any lingering haze from his mind. His stomach tightens as he realises Loki isn’t lost in a nightmare but in a dream of an entirely different nature. Loki’s cock is erect and looks painfully hard. It is as flushed as his cheeks and leaks every time he rubs it against the covers. For a moment, he isn’t sure if he should look away or keep on watching and, fleetingly, he thinks about waking Loki up, but he can’t bring himself to speak up or move his hand to wake him. Entirely captivated by the spectacle, Thor props himself up on one elbow and observes his brother greedily.

A quiet rustle of fabric accompanies the subtle motions of Loki’s shaft grinding against the covers, the friction and sound soft, but impossible to ignore. Loki’s breath comes out in short, quick pants as he ruts against the bedding, his movements becoming more desperate as the minutes pass. His brows furrow as he hums softly, his hand reaching out to clasp Thor’s shoulder. Thor stifles a gasp, the contact between them acting as a tether, bringing him as a participant in the scene rather than a spectator.

He feels himself hardening as well and he aches to take his length in hand but dares not. It feels immoral, to take his pleasure this way. Not because Loki is unconscious or his brother, Thor is already far beyond the boundaries of morality, but because the moment feels sacred, fleeting, like a dream that would dissolve the moment it is grazed too roughly. To give in now would shatter its delicate beauty and it is too precious to mar with such selfish desire.

The deliberate hump of Loki’s hips becomes deeper, his cock jutting forward and his moans grow as well. His breathing is heavier but still soft enough to indicate he’s not fully awake. Thor is burning up, his desire an insistent ache threatening to overwhelm him. His hips have a mind of their own, raising to brush his cock against the thin linen still covering him but Thor still doesn’t takes his gaze away from the sensual display of his brother in the thralls of pleasure. The pink blush on Loki’s cheeks has since long spread along his neck, shoulders and chest and Thor shudders with delight when he suddenly realises that this is the first time he’s seen his brother in such a vulnerable state of pleasure. He now has an image to put alongside the ragged moans Loki sends him in the middle of the night and nothing could make him happier.

Loki’s breath quickens, shallow and erratic as it hitches between soft whimpers and pants. Each breath seems to make his lithe frame tremble, like a fragile thread on the verge of snapping, and his hips press more insistently into the bedding, urging for release. Thor feels the tension between them rise, thick and charged almost palpable in the air. The very space around them tightens, drawn taut with every shallow exhale and every sinful shift of Loki’s body.

Loki’s entire frame arches suddenly, a sharp gasp escaping his throat as his head tilts back, exposing the delicate curve of his neck. His lips part with a ragged moan, raw and desperate, the sound like a plea that shatters through the reverent silence between them. Thor watches, captivated, as Loki spills onto the covers, his body trembling violently. He can feel every convulsion in his brother’s form, every shudder that runs through him like an electric current, his breath hitching as he grinds frantically through his orgasm. The room seems to hold its breath, the air crackling with the intensity of the moment. Loki’s release stains the bedding in bursts of white, the marks left behind a stark reminder of the fleetingness of the moment, his seed already seeping through the fibres of their shared bed. Thor’s own body tightens, his chest tight with the weight of the tension, unable to look away as his brother’s pleasure spills over him like a wave.

The sight cuts through Thor like a blade, sharp and primal, and awakens something depraved in his heart. It is as though a dam breaks, releasing a surge of heat, motion and emotion, the stillness of the moment giving way to a wild brazier. His breathing grows shallow, his own desire now impossible to ignore. Thor’s entire body is heavy with need and want and a pang of hunger he can no longer discard or ignore.

His hand drifts beneath the blanket of its own accord, his palm cool against his flushed skin, contrasting the heat building in his loins. He takes his erection in hand, the sensation heady and intoxicating, his mind filled with the phantom echo of Loki’s touch, picturing his brother’s hand instead of his own. Despite the feral craving clawing at his chest, a thing of wilderness and rawness, a desperate hunger he cannot suppress anymore, each movement is slow and deliberate, paying tribute to the sacred display he just witnessed.

The air around him hums with static while his pleasure builds fast, too fast. Next to him, Loki’s frame is still shivering from his climax and the sight of it pushes him closer to the edge. Thor struggles to keep his orgasm at bay, muffling his groans as he tries to slow his hand and his racing heart, trying to delay the inevitable. But the heat of his brother’s body next to his and the small, almost imperceptible, movement of his softening cock against the covers bring him to the brink of what he can bear.

Around his erection, his grip tightens, each stroke sending a wave of ecstasy threatening to consume and swallow him whole, until the hunger within him swells and becomes too much to endure. Thor comes with a low, strangled grunt, his body trembling and his teeth piercing his tongue with the force of his climax. Despite his orgasm, his hand doesn’t falter, his fingers still moving in rhythm, coaxing the last drops of his pleasure. Only when he is on the edge of overstimulation and tears begin to pool in the corners of his eyes does he finally stop, a final tremor racing through him as he collapses back, breath ragged, body aching with the intensity of what he has just experienced.

The air around them is heady with the smell of their shared climax and the thought of it is as intoxicating as the scent. Thor feels boneless, weightless and spent like he never has before. Beside him, Loki looks relaxed as well, his body loose and spread out, as though his dream brought him a measure of peace in addition to his pleasure. Already, he can feel the aftermath of his climax coaxing him to slumber and he turns to plaster himself to his brother’s side, uncaring of the sticky mess spreading between them.

Tomorrow will bring its share of questions, doubts and shame, but tonight, Thor intends to enjoy what he can while he still can.

Chapter Text

Thor is alone when he wakes the next morning. He tries not to be disappointed because, in truth, he expected it, but still, it stings. Only when his heart twinges does he realise he’d hoped to wake up tangled in Loki’s arms in the same position he fell asleep last night.

Maybe yesterday’s display was not one of Loki’s ploys. For surely if it was, his brother would’ve been there to gloat in one way or another. Wouldn’t he?

While he dresses, he observes the bedding and his body and wonders how he should play it. His skin is clean — cleaner than it was when he went to sleep last night, that’s for sure — so not only did Loki clean the sheets when he woke up, but he also erased the proof of their nightly indiscretion. Thor heartily believes that if his brother had any plan regarding the night’s events, he would’ve left the evidence of their pleasure behind. Does the fact he used his seiðr to conceal it mean he wishes Thor to stay ignorant of it? Moreover, does he think Thor could ever forget the burning pleasure lighting his nerves and setting his heart aflame? This more than anything encourages him to think that Loki’s erotic dream wasn’t part of his meddling. Otherwise, Loki would’ve been there to rub it in his face as soon as he opened his eyes, his brother couldn’t have missed the bone-shattering orgasm overtaking his body or the way his limbs trembled and shivered when his pleasure finally spilt in his hand. Like a swinging sword over his head, the question threatens his sanity while he dresses, why is Loki not here? What did the trickster flee?

Nevertheless, either Loki will mention it or he will not, he thinks while lacing his boot. If he mentions it, Thor will take advantage of the opportunity to talk to him and use their time away from Iðavöllr, Asgarðr’s palace, to discuss and, maybe, finally come clean about the cravings and needs eating him alive. If he doesn’t…well Thor will cross that bridge when he comes to it.

The sun is already high in the sky but judging by the cool crispness lingering in the air, it isn’t too late to start their hunt, their usual quarry will still be hidden away or just rousing from their sleep. Loki is already dressed, his light armour as intricate and detailed as his court clothes, and has a fire going with two eggs frying in a skillet above it, keeping an eye on them between every other paragraph of his open book. From where he is, Thor can see that everything is set in place to paint an image of casualness and normalcy, Loki is sitting on the ground, his back against their tree, an idle eye roaming over his surroundings and barely reacting when Thor pulls back the panels of fabric, but he can read the tension etched in every line of Loki’s face like a well-loved book and he knows every crease and minute expression like the back of his hand. Despite how much his brother tries to hide his discomfort, the tome slowly rises to hide his face from Thor’s rapt observation.

Not talking about his dream it is then.

Thor sighs but knows he will indulge him. For now. If Loki is wary it will bring him nothing. His brother tends to lash out like a feral and cornered animal when on edge and Thor is in too good of a mood to sour it with his brother lashing out. Especially if it is because he wanted to talk about feelings that have waited for centuries. They can wait a little longer. What’s more, he slept better in one night than in the last years of his life and he wants to cling to his cheerfulness as long as he can.

“An interesting read, brother?” he asks as he approaches. On a whim, he bends down and pecks the crown of Loki’s head in an echo of the greetings they exchanged when they were younger. He is rewarded by the absolute delight that is Loki’s discreet blush, the one pinkening only the top of his cheekbones. Thor stifles a fond laugh and takes over the breakfast.

“Interesting enough,” Loki evades, but his eyes never leave the page. A skilful liar only when his head is in it apparently. Once his eggs are cooked, Thor fishes out some leftover flatbread and dried berries from their previous dinner and sits beside him to peer over his plate and steal a glance at the pages. Surprisingly, this doesn’t look like his brother’s usual reads, typically on seiðr, politics or history. As discreetly as he can, he leans sideways and cocks his head to get a better view of the writings. The soft curves of the words and the cheap-looking parchment nags at his memory and he frowns, trying to remember why it looks so familiar.

“Loki,” he breathes, delighted when it finally hits him. “Is that a Miðgarðian novel?” Loki snaps the book shut with a glare.

“Yes, yes, Thor, do go on with your teasing as fast as your addled brain can. I’d like to finish my chapter before we start our hunt.” His brother crosses his arms defiantly and arches an eyebrow at him, awaiting his mockery. It is true Thor often ribs his brother about his fondness for reading but Loki is waiting for it. Like it has become so usual that he knows he won't escape it and treats it as a necessary, temporary suffering that he has to endure before he can go back to what he was enjoying. And maybe it has. Every one of Thor’s jokes dies a slow death in his throat, silenced by the chokehold of his guilt.

He turns his head away, awash with shame. “What is it about?” he asks instead.

“Pardon?” Loki blinks.

Thor sighs. His brother really was expecting mockery on his part. “Your novel, what is the story about?”

“Why do you care about it? Ymir knows you’ve mocked me enough about my activities. Do you now need to know the content of what I read to tailor your jibes better?” he snaps.

“Maybe I realised my jests were unkind to you and now wish to know more about your interests?” Thor says, knowing only disarming honesty will defuse his brother’s, righteous, anger.

Loki narrows his gaze. “So you ask in what? Penance? Guilt? Remorse?” he hisses.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Loki blinks again. Thor smiles. It was not his intention, but he does like surprising Loki and leaving him dumbfounded when he can, which is only occasionally.

“So? What is the story about?” he asks again, washing down his breakfast with some ale from his waterskin.

Loki clears his throat and looks away with a saddened smile. “It is a tale of a quarrel, a siege, and the ruin of heroes. A tale of a war waged against a city for a decade because of a wrong done. A saga of men and gods, honour and war. At its heart, it is the story of a man, Achilles, and the fury that consumes him. It is pride, loss, fleeting glory…”

“Read it to me?” Thor asks. Contrary to his brother he has no interest in books, but it is one of his greatest pleasures to hear Loki read to him and use his silver tongue for that purpose. For when Loki speaks, the words come alive, dancing, vibrating, and shimmering with emotions.

“I must warn you it is a heavy tale and I was not at a very merry passage,” he sighs as he opens the book tentatively.

“Only tell me what I need to know to understand the gist of it, I will carry the grief if needed,” Thor nods, sure of his choice. Despite not yet at his first millennium, he is of age and has lived through his share of grief and sorrow.

“Very well.” And so Loki tells him. He talks for what seems like aeons, decades, and seconds weaved together, his rich voice narrating the tale of this mortal hero fated by destiny and his grieving fury. One sentence after the next, Thor understands why his brother chose this tale and is so wrapped in it. Even summarised it is compelling and he takes note of the title to read it at a later point.

“Then said Achilles in his great grief, “I would die here and now, in that I could not save my comrade. He has fallen far from home, and in his hour of need my hand was not there to help him. What is there for me? Return to my own land I shall not, and I have brought no saving neither to Patroclus nor to my other comrades of whom so many have been slain by mighty Hector; I stay here by my ships a bootless burden upon the earth, I, who in fight have no peer among the Achæans, though in council there are better than I.”

Thor lies down and lays his head in Loki’s lap, fully engrossed in the tale, closing his eyes to let the words take form behind his eyelids, Loki’s words painting the scene of anguish and despair with a frightening exactitude.

“Therefore, perish strife both from among gods and men, and anger, wherein even a righteous man will harden his heart—which rises up in the soul of a man like smoke, and the taste thereof is sweeter than drops of honey. Even so has Agamemnon angered me. And yet—so be it, for it is over; I will force my soul into subjection as I needs must; I will go; I will pursue Hector who has slain him whom I loved so dearly, and will then abide my doom when it may please Jove and the other gods to send it.”

Loki stops to drink from the waterskin and Thor is struggling to keep his dark thoughts and sadness at bay. His brother wasn’t wrong; this is no joyous reading. And yet, he can say nothing as he quite literally asked for it despite his brother’s warnings. Did Loki foresee the sombre turn his thoughts would take?

Now that the images of a warrior grieving his love have been conjured, Thor can’t wave away the image of his brother bloodied on a battlefield, his chest barely disturbing the dust surrounding him. What would he do, were it Loki slain by an enemy? To what ends would he go to abate the grief devouring his heart, soul and sanity? What unspeakable horrors would he unleash gladly and without guilt to avenge Loki and punish those responsible for his demise? In his bones, he knows there would be no god, creature, or man capable of stopping him. He would set ablaze Yggdrasill itself and leave none alive, feeling neither remorse nor regret and stand alone in the ashes of his world, for there is no future to be had if his brother isn’t part of it. Afterwards, he would join Loki in the halls of their ancestors’ and plead with him for his forgiveness, for not being able to protect him.

“I can sense your turmoil from here,” his brother chides as he gently strokes his hair.

“What does he do after?” Thor asks roughly instead, unwilling to share his thoughts right now.

“Achilles?”

“Yes,” he growls. “Does he kill Hector?”

“He does,” Loki answers softly. “He kills him in single combat, ties his body to his chariot and parades his corpse around the walls of Troy.”

“It is not enough.”

Loki laughs but it is a broken and sharp thing, piercing and jagged. “It would never be enough, Thor. Nothing could ever be enough to lessen that kind of grief. I mean I would —” his voice falters.

Suddenly, Thor is desperate to hear what Loki would do. He stays silent and still, hoping his brother will keep going, his words unspoken but still hanging in the air.

“I would…” Loki begins, his voice wavering. The sharpness of his earlier laughter is gone. “I would raze the world to its bare bones if it meant I could bring that person back. I would make them all pay, bathe in their blood, and commit abominations of the highest order for it. Even if it cost me everything.”

Thor feels a shiver wrangling down his spine. The rawness in Loki’s voice, the truth of it, stirs something deep inside of him. He isn’t sure if it’s fear, fear that his brother would suffer so, understanding, or something darker, but he feels it. It echoes between them, ringing in tune with the universe. This vengeful wrath they could both so easily fall into.

“And what if you couldn’t? What if you couldn’t bring them back?” he wonders, his voice low. “What if everything was for nothing? If everything you did, all the bloodshed, didn’t change a thing?”

From where he is, he sees Loki’s gaze drift, unfocused, as if seeing something far, far, beyond the campfire in front of them. Loki continues to stroke his hair but his fingers are shaking.

His breath catches, the weight of the question pulling him further down into the grim recesses of his imagined grief. “Then I would die trying,” he finally whispers, his voice barely audible.

Loki’s words have a physical quality to them and Thor is crushed by it. For his brother to mirror his thoughts so closely…

Without thinking, Thor sits up and pulls his brother to his lap. He needs Loki against him. Needs to hear him breathe, needs to feel him live, needs proof that Loki is made of substance, that he can touch him, that he is there.

He cups his neck with too much strength and brings their foreheads together. His other arm snakes around Loki’s waist, bringing them closer still, their chests rising as one.

“Look at us,” Loki chuckles darkly. “Making ourselves upset for no reason.”

Thor’s breath catches as Loki’s words linger in the air between them. In his chest, a desperate need rises, dark, coiling, visceral. He doesn’t want to just hear them. He needs to feel them, consume them. It’s not enough to be close to him, near him, pressed against him. He needs to melt into him.

With hurried moves, he tries to make Loki understand. He attempts to make him see the deep-etched terror engraved in his bones at the thought of losing him. The despair he feels just by thinking about Loki losing himself to grief and forfeiting his life for it. They have to be closer, to fuse into one being made of one body, mind and soul. His hands grasp at what he can, wringing Loki's clothes as he tries to bring his brother into him, hoping that then he will finally be complete. His mind goes blank, his scattered heartbeats howling from Loki’s absence from his core. Trembling, he snakes a hand under Loki’s clothes, gripping the small of his back, his nails digging into his skin, while the other squeezes his neck harder, almost strangling him. The desperation he feels knows no bounds and his words falter, his actions bring him no relief for he needs his brother to become part of him, needs to feel his heart beat alongside his own for eternity. How will he live as a separate being when his survival depends on being melded as one under the morning sun?

“I know, Thor. I know,” Loki shushes, bringing his arms around him, and rubbing circles on his back, breathing in and out slowly so Thor can mimic it rather than stay with the wheezing gasps coming out of his mouth. “We are already but one. Feel it. Feel my heart beating against yours, this prison of flesh separating them is only temporary.”

In and out, deep lungfuls of air bring oxygen and clarity, brushing away his panic. The words ebbs some of his despair and he chokes out a wet laugh when he finally feels Loki’s heart beating against his chest. Thump thump thump. The soft rhythm echoes his own pulsating organ and the corners of his lips hook upwards when the sounds melt together, both of their existences becoming a unique structure, a vibrant tapestry of threads belonging only to them.

“Making ourselves upset for no good reason indeed,” Thor agrees at last with a shaky chuckle. “You must know I would burn the Nine Realms and beyond to the ground for you, brother.” Because he needs Loki to know what he means to him, one way or another.

Loki laughs and the sound becomes the rays of the sun piercing the forest canopy after a storm. “And who did you think I was talking about, you great oaf?”

A relief like no other floods through him and finally washes out the last remnants of his earlier panic.

They stay there, intertwined and embracing, until the fire dies out, until Thor is lulled by the beating of their hearts answering each other in the silence.

He would be unable to say how much time has passed when Loki finally breaks their hug to say, “So, brother, weren't we supposed to be there on a hunt?”

Thor snorts and strokes Loki's cheek before helping him to his feet. “I don't know, you tell me. This was your idea to begin with, wasn't it?”

The mischievous smile he gets for an answer is as comforting as it is foreboding. But, for now, he can't bring himself to care.

Maybe he should have.

“Rusalka hair?!” Thor bellows when Loki tells him what they are hunting, an hour after they departed from their camp. “Are you out of your mind, Loki?”

“Possibly, the jury is still out on that particular matter,” he shrugs elegantly. “But think of the tale, brother, if we come back to Iðavöllr with a prize like this. Consider this your assistance given without questions for one of my projects. You know, the one you promised if I won?” he grins. His smile is feral, with too many teeth and Thor feels like he’s about to be devoured raw and bloody.

Thor sputters and grumbles but falls silent. Unfortunately, Loki is right. He did give his word that he would help him with any project and whenever he wanted if he won. The fact that Loki didn’t tell him they were going after a Rusalka before they left Iðavöllr isn’t lost on him. His brother knew he would’ve never said yes and now that they’re in the middle of the forest, days away from the palace, he has no choice but to go along and hope they’ll both live to tell the tale.

Curse him.

“You know where to find one then?” he asks. The Rusalki are known by everyone in Asgarðr and beyond. The tale of beautiful women enticing men to their deaths is usually the height of the warriors' vigils or revelries, and the water-maiden aren’t exempt from it. Thor has heard his share of cautionary –and not-so-cautionary– tales during those long nights and he feels like he could recognise one if she presented herself to him but he wouldn’t know where to start if he had to track one.

Loki snorts. “Of course not. We’ll have to trek quite a bit I’m afraid, they don’t exactly have addresses and calling cards. I can easily recognise the trail left by one but we’ll have to follow one of the river’s branches and hope for the best.”

“A fine adventure then!” he calls with humour and feels Loki roll his eyes more than he sees him.

“Why must everything be an adventure to you?”

Thor chuckles and catches up with his brother, taking advantage of the widening path they’re on. “Because calling it a trip is so very dull.”

“Of course, sound and implacable logic, brother,” Loki teases, knocking his shoulder against Thor’s. Unprepared, he stumbles lightly into the overgrown bushes scattered along the edge and laughs. It is a loud booming thing and overhead, a flock of birds take flight with indignant caws.

Thor returns the favour, too hard, and sends Loki flying to the left. He freezes when Loki erupts from the bushes with an outraged squawk. Thor mustn't laugh, but in that moment, with the twigs stuck in his hair and the red splotches marring his cheekbones, Loki is so comical that he can’t help himself. He lets a snort escape and immediately presses his fist over his mouth, hoping to contain the sound but it ends up being too much and lets his hilarity fly free. He’s wheezing by the end of it, hunched and holding his knees in a vain attempt to stay standing and every time he thinks his laughter is finally over, he looks up and sees Loki glaring at him with his arms on his hips and a murderous expression on his face and it sends him into another fit of hysterics.

“Find that funny, do you?” Loki ends up asking when Thor manages to catch his breath and dry his tears.

“Come now, brother, you’d laugh even harder if the roles were reversed,” he chuckles, trying not to fall into another fit every time Loki’s cry of surprise plays itself in his head, the sound a continuous loop he can’t seem to let go.

“Very well, let’s see how you laugh now,” Loki smiles, two twin daggers appearing in his hand.

“Loki, no —” Thor starts, but Loki is already nowhere to be seen.

“Loki, yes,” his brother answers, unseen, the wind itself carrying his voice. Thor knows fighting blind against Loki isn’t an option if he wants to come out unscathed and hopes he’ll be able to tire his brother on a terrain in which he is less adept: endurance. He breaks into a run, still following the path and turning when he hears the gurgle of water below, praying his brother isn’t already waiting for him at the finish line. In truth, he could whip out Mjolnir, smash the ground and dispel his brother’s illusion like he’s done so many times before but there’s something thrilling in this kind of hunt. The fact that he’s thought about the type of man-hunt he and Loki could participate in –and what prize the winner could have–, more than enough in the last centuries helps him play along. The worst that will happen if Loki catches him is being stabbed, and he is already intimately familiar with the pain it brings. It’s nothing new. Although he hopes this time Loki will forego the snake, he’s barely starting to trust the animals again.

The trees zoom past him in a blur of green and he laughs freely, exhilarated by the childish game between them. His footsteps are a steady rhythm echoing his heartbeat, each step forward more thrilling than the time he and Loki stole Sleipnir from its stable. It is in those moments that he feels entirely free. Of age, he may be but he still prizes the moments where he can feel like a child again, running barefoot in nature and causing some necessary –and unnecessary– mischief with his brother.

Centuries may have made them grow apart but they are inevitable. It is a truth Thor has held close to his heart ever since he first glanced at his brother’s face peaking out from his covers, a certitude he’s never deviated from, a belief he’ll carry into his grave and beyond. He’ll shout it from the feasting tables of their ancestors' halls, he’ll whisper it into Loki’s ear after their shared bliss if he is, one day, lucky enough to hold him in his arms in that way, and he will cradle the truth of it like a newborn babe in his arms. In this eternal game of cat and mouse, they exchange their roles like they change their clothes, both of their godly natures mingling in perfect sync with each other.

To his left, he hears Loki’s distant snigger and he veers to the path on his right to avoid him, stopping abruptly when he almost dives from the cliff and into the gorge below. While he catches his breath, he takes a second to admire the view. On his left, stands a waterfall at least sixty feet high, its thundering sound a deep rumble echoing on the rocky walls covered in moss and, to his right, the river gradually widens and the rapids settle, revealing a sunny bank with bleached branches washed up from the waters. From where he stands, he sees a path descending gradually to the riverbank, but that wouldn’t be amusing enough.

With a delighted whoop, Thor jumps, curls into a tight ball, and hopes the water isn’t too cold.

Fortunately for him, it is pleasantly cool and banishes away the sweat he worked up during his run. When his head breaks the water he hears, “That’s cheating and you know it!” yelled from the ledge he just dove from.

Loki is similar to a house cat in that regard: he hates getting wet. When he’s in the water he adapts well enough, but if he can avoid swimming or getting his clothes drenched, he’ll avoid it gladly.

Thor laughs, banishes his armour with merely a thought, and lies on his back to enjoy the sunrays hitting his skin and the buoyancy brought by the water. Loki hasn’t shown himself yet but, surely, he isn’t far away. The calm before the storm. The quiet of a field before an attack. Loki wants him to think he won and wallow in his victory, striking when his guard is down. He strains his ear, the ripple of the water becoming a distant murmur as he tries to catch any sound out of the ordinary.

While he revels in the violence of the hunt, Loki finds his solace in the tension before their quarry is found, the way he can lord his superiority over the poor animal chained in his clutches and the power he feels knowing its life is already forgone without it being aware of it. As for Thor, he is very much aware of his apparent vulnerability, but he also knows he won’t be able to goad Loki into attacking with words so he lets his body speak for him.

Come his closed lids whisper into the wind. Come his tranquil breathing tells the world. I’m waiting for you yells his laidback posture. A faint rustle of leaves to his right forces him to suppress the victorious smile he feels rising. Loki took the bait, now he only needs to wait and see if he will bite as well.

Hidden underwater, his hand closes in a fist. Forcing his breathing to stay shallow and silent, he focuses on the way the water flows differently around him, how the sound of the rapids curves around a shape a few feet from him and hones his warrior instincts on the presence behind him making the hairs on his arms stand up.

“Thor! Run!” Loki’s voice is strong but distant, too far away for him to be in the water. With a jolt, Thor rises, opens his eyes, and sees his brother bent over the ledge he just jumped off and looking at something behind him, fear painted on his features. He turns around and comes face to face with a woman of indescribable beauty.

Her long, straight, locks of golden hair cascade around her like a silken veil, floating serenely atop the water’s surface. The strands sway against the current with an almost sentient grace, rippling with a will of their own. They twist and turn like indolent snakes, defying the flow of the stream as if drawn –or controlled– by an invisible force. She glides effortlessly towards him, her coy smile revealing pearly white teeth when her delicate lips curve upwards. Soft, ethereal, she is a creature of near-forgotten legends and the pale sheen of her skin blending into the water is a stark reminder of what she is. Thor shakes his head to try dispelling the seducing aura clouding his reason and swims back with slow but deliberate motions. As he does so, the frothing water rushes around him, pushing him closer to her despite the strength behind his efforts.

The maiden’s smile shifts into a more mischievous expression and her hand juts out of the water, beckoning him to swim closer. While her features are closely guarded and Thor can see the smile she wears is but a well-worn mask, she angles her naked body out of the water, her round breast bejewelled with drops of water clinging to her perk nipples, unveiling herself to his gaze. The gesture brings another wave of clarity to his mind, his thoughts jumping back to the many maidens of the court hiding behind falsely shy attitudes but charming him with their curves and bodies, hoping for a night in his bed. This is a well-honed trap and Thor refuses to fall for it. Her presence radiates an aura of calmness but, behind the carefully crafted veneer of safety, a danger lurks, one awakening his instincts.

A flash of green light pulses behind him and it is only the familiarity of his brother’s magic that stops him from striking at the unknown figure now standing a few feet away from him. From the corner of his eye, he sees the illusion walk up to him, standing with water up to his chest as if unbothered by the depth of the currents. The water-maiden hisses softly at the approaching figure but doesn’t release Thor from her grasp either, the waves still trying to push him closer.

The figure his brother sent is unknown to him, both entirely similar to Loki and different in every way. His facial structure is almost the same but the illusion shows a certain banality ordinarily absent from his brother’s face. His usually long and curled raven hair is cut short and, while still curled, the strands mimic the colour of rich honey catching the sunlight. There is also an eerie softness to the face he wears. It is so unlike the harsh planes he cultivates daily, it feels like looking at another version of Loki, one with a different life, a different past and future. The sight is so jarring to Thor that his lucidity rushes back with a painful snap and he blinks both the pain and the spell away.

A growing rumble catches his attention and, turning his gaze back to the creature, he bites his lip to avoid reacting too harshly and trigger the Rusalka into attacking.

Gone is the alluring sight of an ethereal woman tempting him to otherworldly pleasures. In its place is a frightening vision he instantly knows he’ll never forget. Her previously unmarred and perfect skin is now waterlogged and awash with a sickly, greenish hue, the surface of it disgustingly similar to the sea sponges littering the shelves of the communal bathing chambers of the warrior barracks. The demure smile has all but disappeared, leaving in its place a feral grin and elongated, sharp rows of teeth jutting out her mouth. Also free from the haze of her illusion are the golden strands of her hair now revealed as thin algae-like threads furiously thrashing in the water, some wrapped around Thor’s waist and others trying to snake upwards Loki’s figure but passing through the intangible figure. Thor lets a discreet sigh escape, relieved his brother isn’t in the same danger as he is.

Loki steps forward slowly, sending him a pointed look Thor knows only too well, the one urging him to keep quiet. He nods, trusting his brother to know better than him how to combat an opponent with such strong magic.

“Greetings, fair maiden. Apologies for the disturbance, we’d seen traces of your territory but thought we hadn’t yet approached it,” Loki says, his calm voice barely audible above the furious rapids. Does Loki hope to make her believe her thrall is still in place? If so, does Thor need to play the besotted fool once again? Because he isn’t sure he can when presented with such a monstrous face.

“You… knew…” she accuses with a furious hiss, her garbled voice trailing like rocks rattling against each other in the riverbed.

“Yes,” his brother admits with a regal nod, his hands clasped behind his back, “we were seeking you out.”

“...Why?” The malice barely hidden in her tone makes him shiver and his hand crawls to Mjölnir’s handle. Loki raises a finger, ordering him to stay static. Grudgingly, he obeys.

“It was my wish to ask for strands of your hair.” And, saying so, he gestures gently to the crown of her head and the strands floating in the water. She rears back with a growl, taking Thor with her and bringing him underwater. With a few kicks his head breaches the surface but the panicked looks Loki sends him are enough to hammer in how fucked they are if she doesn’t free him from her grasp. Loki could not be quick enough and while Mjölnir is a trustworthy weapon, her magic coupled with water could have disastrous results, even more so if the real Loki is hidden somewhere in the river.

“You… would… take —”

“No,” he interrupts, “I would ask. I would bargain. Not take.”

The Rusalka cocks her head to the side, a strangely human gesture for such a fearsome-looking creature and seems to ponder the words.

“... what?” she finally asks after ten long seconds of deliberation.

“I can offer you jewels —”

“No…” she rasps.

“Knowledge?” he smiles, entirely in his element now that the negotiating is underway.

“...No…need.”

Loki hums, a private smile stuck to his lips. “I see… Is there anything you would want or need?”

A low cackle erupts from her mouth, her hair writhing wildly around her, more and more strands slithering up Thor’s chest and down his legs.

She snarls, “Kill… feed… devour…”

“Ah.” Loki stills. Behind the Rusalka, the familiar figure of his brother appears, his daggers catching the light. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” He sighs. “Thor, this doesn’t mean I won.”

Before he can ask what he means by that, the illusion disappears and Thor grunts in pain when a blade embeds itself in his shoulder. The creature roars back and plunges underwater, taking Thor with her. He wrenches the weapon from his muscle with a pained wince and severs the locks dragging him deeper and deeper. With any other weapon, his endeavour would’ve been futile, the threaded algae thin but resistant, but Loki’s blades are as sharp as his tongue and the strands keeping him prisoner are soon shredded and cut.

He breaks the surface with a gasp and swims to the shore, putting as much distance between the Rusalka and him as he can. Once on the riverbank, he dons his armour once more, the intricate chainmail growing like a second skin, supple but strong. Mjölnir in hand, he combs the water with his gaze, his stance ready for a fight, the hammer’s seiðr buzzing with barely restrained violence. When she’ll emerge, Thor will be ready for her.

The water breaks and his heart stops in its tracks, the stutter bringing bile to his throat and dread pooling in his stomach. A dozen feet away from him, thrashing in the water and doing his best to reach the edge, is Loki, his Loki, appearing and disappearing under the surface. Drowning and gasping for air. The Rusalka is nowhere to be seen. Thor spins Mjölnir, already halfway before a coherent thought can form.

“Thor! Help me! Please!” Loki cries out, his arms outstretched to grab him. Thor furrows his brows, prays to Ymir that he is right, and closes his hand around the hammer’s handle.

Using the momentum from his flight, he swings back with a roar and strikes his brother in the jaw.

Loki flies backwards, his body hitting the stone walls with a sickening crunch and a howling cry of pain.

His figure flickers, his skin alternating between milky white and sickly green, his hair lengthening and shortening every time the illusion fails. At last, the image stills. The water maiden is embedded into the rocky facade, a crater of shattered stone cradling her body.

The water breaks again and Thor calls the hammer back to his hand. His brother’s face emerges, a scowl painted on his lips, stretching them so thin they seem inexistent. He raises his weapon in case this is but another illusion but soon lowers it when he hears Loki sputter and swear. “That bitch! The nerve, the sheer audacity…the…the…” Thor cuts his grumbling short by grabbing his waist and hoisting both of them out of the river, flying to the pebble-covered bank.

At last on solid ground, Thor shakes the water off like a wet dog and Loki stomps away with whispered swears. Curling his lips at his brother’s display, Loki dries himself with a snap of his fingers and a surge of green light.

Thor is still wringing the water out of his hair, desperately trying not to overwhelm his brother with his worried hovering, when Loki asks, “How did you know it wasn’t me?”

Thor snorts, giving up his task for now. “You’d never yell ‘help’ or ‘please’. You’d say ‘Do something you oaf’ or something like that.”

Loki snickers and elbows him, his smile brittle as glass.

“Something the matter?” Thor asks.

Loki sighs and looks away, a blush creeping up his neck. “I truly was drowning before you hit her. I was just underwater… I was…” he admits, shame colouring every one of his words.

“Loki, what? How?” He steps forward, grabbing Loki’s hands in his, his eyes widening when he realises he’s shaking. His brother looks up and, suddenly, Thor sees it. His fear. It’s a pungent, decaying glint lurking in the corner of his eyes, he feels it every time Loki stifles a shudder and his fingers tremble, barely grasping his hands back, he hears when Loki tries to swallow and it doesn’t seem to go further than his throat.

In an instant, Thor’s hands are everywhere, flinging his respect for Loki’s personal space far away. They roam Loki’s face, dipping in every plane, every angle, following the creases of his laugh and his scorn, tugging the hairs at the nape of his neck and stopping on his pulse, counting the heartbeats to ensure they’re still there. They descend to his chest, halting over his heart and his lungs to feel the life filling him. Thor staggers to his knees, bowing to his brother but never stopping his fingers from continuing his inspection. “What happened?”

His brother gulps and places a hand on the crown of his head, petting his hair languidly with a small, satisfied, hum. “Rusalka hair is incredibly powerful… The strands have seiðr repelling abilities. As soon as she caught me and tied me up, I was under her thrall, same as you were before you saw through her illusion,” he explains slowly while Thor feels his stomach turn to stone. “When you hit her, her allure weakened and I was able to fight back and take one of my daggers. Otherwise I—” he chokes back a sound and Thor’s head snaps up.

The last time he saw his brother truly cry, they were much younger than this. Thor had been insufferable all week and –unbeknownst to all– Loki was already shouldering a great deal. He doesn’t even remember why he did it. Maybe Loki had used his famed tongue to flay him in public, maybe he’d been bested in combat that morning. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the tears of rage in his brother’s eyes when the weight of what Thor had said settled on both of them and the sound of Loki’s steps running away from him. He had apologised, of course, and after a few years, Loki had finally forgiven him, but it hadn’t erased the gut-wrenching pain of seeing his brother cry because of him.

These tears weren’t similar. Thor would’ve preferred to see tears of anger rather than the fear painted on his face.

“I was drowning,” Loki whispers. “And I didn’t care. My head wasn’t my own anymore. Until you struck her, I was convinced I was still on the bank.” He shudders and closes his arms around him. Thor rises slowly and cups his jaw.

He tips his brother’s head back, forcing eye contact and asks gently, “When did she get to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“To me, it does.” Thor doesn’t know if it’s his soothing, rumbling tone or the fact that Loki feels vulnerable and exposed, but he answers.

“When you were underwater. She must’ve sensed me as soon as I sent my illusion, her hair was already next to my feet…” He nods a silent ‘thank you’ and tucks his brother closer, breathing deeply and enjoying the feeling of Loki’s breath against his collarbone.

He feels oddly calm.

It’s a stark contrast with the overwhelming panic he felt earlier when sharing the burden of Achille’s pain with Loki. This time, there is only cold, twisting vengeance. Loki could’ve died, but now, he is safely in his arms. His assailant though, is still alive. And he abhors every second she still breathes.

With a last caress in his brother’s locks, he steps back and swings Mjölnir around, flying as fast as lightning until he’s eye to eye with the Rusalka.

She’s in a sorry state. Her hair falls dully on her dislocated shoulder and her jaw is bashed in. Despite the skin, sinew and bones slowly knitting back together, it’ll be at least a few hours until she wakes. Thor grabs her by the neck, careful not to crush her windpipe and rushes back to the bank.

He throws the unconscious creature to Loki’s feet, a sick rush of pleasure filling his veins at the sight.

Loki feels it too, he knows. How can he not? They are gods, always have been and always will be. Their existence transcends whatever complex thoughts swirl in mortal minds. Their lives are unbound by the decrees befalling others. Their morality goes beyond the reductive spectrum to which others are tied.

They are gods. And do gods not revel in sacrifice, blood, and pain?

Thor can’t speak for others, but he can speak for himself, and the creature that harmed his brother deserves to die, sacrificed for her crimes against the person he loves.

Snapped out of his fear, Loki smiles and crouches above the Rusalka. His grin is vicious and bloodthirsty, it’s an ode to the thousand ways he can make the creature suffer, a vow of wrath igniting Thor’s blood and setting it alight, molten trails of fire coursing his veins. He wouldn’t be surprised to see Loki grab her hair and take a bite out of her neck, gorging himself on her blood and eating her heart out as they did all these centuries ago before they abandoned their violence to play house in Asgarðr. After all, he’s seen Loki do so countless times and his ledger is no less bloody than his brother’s.

Over time, they have all forgotten what their cosmic nature pushed them to when inhabiting the mortal realms. The older generations have all but pushed it aside, scurrying for Odin’s favour and agreeing to a new and peaceful world after centuries of bloodshed, colonisation and death. But Thor hasn’t forgotten, and neither has Loki.

Before an era of peace had been ushered, blood consecrated their existence. They did not kill as men did, for petty reasons and arguments, their wrath is divine retribution, their touch enough to unravel even the soundest of minds. A single blow from him shatters mountains; Loki’s words alone drive rulers to madness.

The Rusalka may be a creature of their realm and under their protection, she needs to understand that it does no good to bite the hand feeding you. Her survival is due only to the will of the gods authorising her continued existence and in her folly, she stocked the embers of their wrath.

Thor will use Loki’s knives to gut her and string her in the trees with her entrails, letting her corpse rot overhead as a divine message, he’ll tie her hair around her ankles and wrists, chaining her to an eternity of torment, ripping her magic away from her as she did to his brother. For what she did, he’ll feast on her demented cries of agony.

Saliva pools at the back of his throat, his entire being trembling under the promise of violence and vengeance. He burns to take her life, snuff out her existence and feel her last breath concave her chest, but he’d never dare steal that pleasure away from Loki.

In a way, he knows his mind is overtaken by the almost berserker rage he can fall into when pushed too far, but it isn’t until his brother cups his jaw and turns his face away that he realises how close to the edge he truly was. The red haze covering his eyes slowly ebbs away while Loki shushes and tuts words of reassurance that do not reach his ears. He’s trembling, his grip on Mjölnir’s handle making the leather creak and groan under his strength, arcs of strobing sparks crawling up his arms.

“Thor.” Loki’s call dispels the last remnants of his wrath, acting like a soothing balm on his frayed and exposed nerves.

He can’t find his voice and only grunts in answer.

“I am well, brother,” Loki hoarsely whispers. “Come back to me.”

It is his plea more than anything else that allows him to finally plunge into his brother’s gaze. “You’re alive,” Thor breathes.

“I am.”

Thor wants to ask Loki to prove it to him, but the intensity of his searing need scares him. Thankfully, Loki doesn’t need him to voice it.

Loki’s fingers move with purpose, ghosting over the thick sinews of Thor’s hand, massaging away the strain etched deep into muscle and bone. He lingers, pressing slow circles into the calloused flesh, coaxing the tension loose, only stopping when Mjölnir tumbles from his grip and crashes to the ground with a resounding thud. The weight of it is final, an offering laid at his feet.

One by one, Loki takes his fingers, working them gently, prying them from their stiffness as though unshackling him from the burdens he carries. When Thor groans—low and relieved—Loki lets his touch wander, climbing his forearm, tracing the lines where leather and metal bite into his skin. The rasp of leather against leather is a thunderous cry through the stillness as he undoes the vambrace, its straps yielding beneath deft hands. His fingers move higher, slipping beneath buckles at his shoulders, loosening the armour holding him together.

The breastplate gives way with a sigh, and Loki hooks his fingers beneath the cape, letting it slip to the ground. It falls, heavy and silent, pooling at their feet like the remnants of a hurricane. Then the chest piece follows, metal scraping against rock as it collapses, stripped from the god who no longer needs it. Thor exhales—a long, deep breath as though he can finally move in his own skin again. Loki trails his fingers down his spine, tracing the links of chainmail, pressing warmth and magic into the flesh beneath. His seiðr leaves warm imprints as the tendrils move, threading through the rings, coaxing them apart.

Loki works in silence, each movement precise, deliberate. His hands glide over familiar terrain, unmaking the god of thunder with the same care a priest would strip an altar, dismantling the sacred only to prepare it for reverence anew. The final piece falls, cascading like summer rain.

When, at last, only the underlayers remain, Loki lingers, fingers ghosting along the last barrier between flesh and air, savouring the moment before the final unveiling.

There is something deeply sacred in this — a god, unmade not by battle, but by the hands of another, the better part of his soul.

His hands toy with the edge of the fabric, his hesitation pulsing between them for an instant before slithering under his shirt. Loki’s cool hands sizzle when they touch his overheated skin, leaving a soothing trail in their wake as they snake their way upward. Thor pants, his breath stuttering in his lungs.

The sacrality of the moment isn’t lost on him. Loki undresses him like one would unveil a relic from the bowels of a tomb, his touch shattering and repairing him in equal measure. With a deft motion, the fabric is ripped, the sound echoing along the cliffs sheltering them from the rest of the world. There is only them. Thor and Loki. Two worshippers devoted to the other.

Loki holds his gaze as his hand crawls up and down his chest, following his ribs and muscles, cataloguing the contours of his body in a slow, reverent way. Every friction of their skin elevates him higher and higher, beyond carnal pleasure and desire, beyond love and fear, far beyond what his narrow mind could’ve ever imagined.

Thor is the sacrifice brought raw and naked to the cragged slope of the mountains, gladly devoted to burning on Loki’s pyre, contenting himself with only a mere sliver of his adoration.

When his brother’s hand grazes his cheek, resting on his jaw, Thor snaps and pounces.

There’s no grace in his movements, only raw, desperate urgency as he yanks Loki forward, his hand a painful grip on his neck, and slams their mouths together.

The kiss is rough and hurried, a clash of teeth biting in hunger and fear. Thor swallows Loki’s surprised moan and seeks out his tongue, sucking on the tip while he grabs every part of him he can, his hands on his waist, his back, in his hair, on his face, around his neck, touching whatever and everything he can.

It is everything but soft. His lips are punishing and bruising against Loki’s, a forced penitence for the terror still enclosing his heart, a sinful proposition of absolution for the guilt Thor felt when he realised he’d almost failed his brother.

There is no longer a need to breathe, his only intake of air coming from the ragged moans pooling out of his brother’s lips that he gorges himself on greedily, jealous of the very surroundings bearing witness to them. Loki is his. Has always been, always will be, and Thor rues the poor soul who would try to keep them apart.

Loki draws him even closer, his supple hunting leathers rough and painful against Thor’s exposed chest. He groans at the pain, every delicate embroidery lighting his soul ablaze, desire morphing into obsession as their kiss deepens. He reaches for Loki’s clothes, intent on tearing them apart to feel his brother’s skin against him. Thankfully for his upper garments, Loki vanishes them before Thor can go through with his idea and he is rewarded with the soft, smooth, and milky skin of his chest rubbing against his own. His cock juts in his breeches, hard since Loki’s deft fingers started removing his armour but now painfully so.

Harshly, he grabs Loki’s hips, pulling them to his own. His brother’s hardness rubs against his own and all traces of reason or rationality leave his mind, leaving behind a mindless animal consumed by desire and want. His arms snake around Loki’s waist, lifting his brother slightly to better grind their bodies together.

There is no time for finesse, no time to wonder if this idea will bring a greater catastrophe. There is only Loki’s panting breath in his mouth, his cock frotting over his own and their shared moans creating a symphony greater than the song of Yggdrasil itself.

With long, purposeful strides, he carries Loki further away from the still unconscious creature, slamming him into the cliffside. Loki arches his back, separating their mouths, and hisses in pain. Thor is about to apologise when Loki moans harder, hoists his legs up to cross them behind his back, and moves his hips, his eyes glazing when their erections meet again. The foggy and heady rush of heat course between them as they rut together, mindless husks enslaved and reduced to their basest desires.

Thor grunts, his hips jutting forward, searching the delicious friction of his brother’s arousal obscenely tenting his leather breeches. Loki is flushed and sweaty, his skin glistening in the morning sun like a beacon calling to the deepest parts of him. He looks ruined and Thor aches to lay waste to the parts of his brother not yet dishevelled enough. He musses his hair, pulling it to free his neck and dives again, this time using his teeth to bite and mar the perfect skin under them, sucking the alabaster plane to adorn it with a collar of garnet and sapphire, branding Loki for his eyes only.

Loki growls his discontent and yanks Thor’s hair back, attacking his neck with a single-minded voracity to return the favour. His pointed teeth nip and bite in tandem, drawing blood in some places and punishingly bruising in others. Thor throws his head back, moaning his approval and pleasure. In between his administrations, Loki groans and sighs, ravishing his skin with a growing violence.

“L-Loki… aah.” His moan is barely breathed, a devastating offering to the shrine of their shared apostasy, nothing existing beyond their whimpers and upcoming climax.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” Loki urges desperately kissing and biting his neck with renewed determination, as if to remind Thor of what he’ll lose if he asks him to stop.

Thor cups Loki’s neck and raises his head, momentarily halting the lust gnawing at their hearts. “You misunderstand, brother,” he pants. “I could never ask you to stop. But I will not silence the pleasure your presence carves in my soul.”

Loki’s gaze widens, his surprise etched in every one of his features. “You wouldn’t?”

“Why would I?” Thor asks, dumbfounded.

“I thought… I—” he gulps. “I believed— I thought it was only lust, a passing frivolity,” Loki admits, pink colouring his cheekbones. He looks so young in that moment, so unlike the assertive man he usually shows everyone else but Thor.

“I have dreamt of you since before I can remember, I have mapped your body in my mind ever since I’ve been old enough to understand the burning need keeping me alive. This past month has been a torture unlike any other,” Thor rumbles.

“Why didn’t you act any sooner?” Loki asks with a hint of reproach in his tone.

“I was afraid,” Thor admits without any shame. “I assumed you’d taunt me for my soiled desires and use it as leverage. If I did nothing, you would keep playing with me and I’d have at least a morsel of your attention.”

“Oh, Thor…” Loki caresses his cheek and he can’t stop but lean into the touch. “I’ve craved you since forever. It was only in the sparring ring that I dared hope, but I didn’t want you to reject me.”

Thor scoffs. “And so toying with me was your first solution?”

His brother huffs and slaps his shoulder playfully. The loss of his hand on his cheek is devastating and Thor hopes he’ll still be able to kiss Loki once their conversation has ended. As it is, their erections haven’t softened in the slightest and not moving his hips to meet his brother’s is torture.

“I didn’t say it was my brightest plan, you oaf. I merely figured it would hurt less if you rejected me while you thought I was teasing and not serious,” he sighs.

“Loki…” Thor wastes no time on words and weaves their lips together once again, completing the tapestry they’ve woven since the first time they met, since that fateful day in Idunn’s orchard, ever since he woke up with Loki’s name on his lips for the first time.

The previous urgency of their kiss has burned through and now, the embers of their desire carry them in a delicate and soft dance as they learn the forbidden taste of their skin. Their lips are tender and unhurried, both of them secure and trusting in each other in that fragile moment. Thor swallows the keen whimpers Loki lets out and groans in turn, his dick throbbing and pulsing against his breeches.

He grabs his brother’s asscheeks, massaging them and pulling his body forward, looking for more friction between them. There is no after, no thoughts traipsing through his mind as he grinds their hips together. There is only here and now. Only the forbidden ecstasy of the sighs he greedily welcomes on his tongue.

Loki seems to disagree and rocks his hips harder and faster, his hands grasping the planes of his back and drawing blood with his nails. When he realises that, he brings his fingers to their joined mouths and smears the blood on their lips, their tongues lapping the liquid avidly.

“Thor… enough. I need you,” Loki keens when their kiss grows hurried once more.

With a grunt of approval, Thor lifts Loki’s hips with one arm, unfastening the leather ties of his trousers with the other and freeing his aching erection. Once done, he returns the favour and liberates Loki from his pants, lowering them to his thighs, joining their engorged cocks together and wrapping his wide hand around them.

“Aah… Thor, fuuuuck,” Loki moans wantonly.

“Do you see what you do to me, brother?” he replies while stroking their dicks, the precum oozing from the tips mixing and assisting his movements.

“Yes, yes, yessss.” Loki throws his head backwards and lifts his hips higher, humping in Thor’s hand, his hard length rubbing against his in a maddening rhythm.

Soon enough, they’re reduced only to their grunts and cries of pleasure, their hands grabbing what they can and holding on to each other as if expecting to be separated at any moment.

Thor twists his hand around them, his fingers smearing the drops seeping from the tips. “Loki, Loki, Loki…” His arms tremble in pleasure and he joins his brother in his erratic motions, nothing else mattering but chasing the bliss threatening to swallow him whole.

With a strangled cry, Loki topples over, his lips moving in silence like a hushed prayer sent to the Norns, his come painting Thor’s chest and their joint dicks. His eyes roll back and Thor captures his lips in a savage kiss, gathering his release and using it to stroke their dicks faster.

“Loki… I’m…” he gasps, sensing his own pleasure peak.

“Yes,” Loki hisses, his voice far away and blissed out. “Do it. Show me how much you want me,” he orders.

Thor readily obliges and humps his brother harder, crushing him against the flat rock, his hand a blur between them. His grunts of ecstasy become louder and he comes with a ragged whine, his hips jutting and spasming against Loki as his climax spurts in his hand.

He doesn’t stop there. They’re both still hard and Thor pumps their cocks slickened by their orgasm until they both spill again, peppering Loki with kisses while his brother whimpers and shudders under the shockwaves of pleasure.

Their foreheads meet, breaths quick and lightened by a burden they’ve been carrying for far too long, and they stay there for what could be forever as they catch their breath and come down from the high they’ve been chasing together. At last, Thor frees Loki from his grasp, holding his elbow softly when his legs falter under him.

“Well,” Loki drawls, combing his hair back with his fingers. “I’d say this is a successful hunt as any.” His eyes dart to the prone figure of the Rusalka, still unconscious on the ground and Thor feels himself blush at the idea that they’ve been so overcome by their desire that they’ve forgotten they were in the presence of an enemy — and a powerful one at that.

He chuckles and throws Loki his tunic, well aware his brother will need a few minutes to gather his thoughts and deal with the fact he’s revealed so much of himself in such short a time. “Let’s gather the hair you need and leave this place. If we show her mercy, will we come to regret it?” he asks. Now that his bloodlust has been quenched, he isn’t particularly keen on killing the creature they’ve disturbed on her territory.

Loki hums. “I don’t think so. But we’d better never show our faces here ever again.”

Thor nods, aware this is for the best. Not that he would ever come back here with the Rusalka still alive.

They dress without a word, only the rustle of leather disturbing the gurgling water, but where before their shared silences were taut and tense, they are now light and easy. He sighs when he sees the pieces of his armour lying on the ground and, with a fond but annoyed eye roll, Loki snaps his fingers and the pieces disappear in thin air. Instead of being clothed in them, Loki has dressed him in his hunting leathers, a light and easy amour to move in. Thor nods gratefully and pushes his luck by striding to his brother and thanking him with a soft but unequivocal kiss.

Somehow, his lips are even softer after what they’ve done and Thor immediately knows he’ll never tire of feeling them against his own. With a pleased hum, Loki answers the kiss and moves his lips against his own, his tongue gently licking his in a slow dance.

Too soon, Loki stops the kiss and unsheathes one of his knives to cut half a dozen strands of hair from the water-maiden. He pockets them with a pleased smirk and holds his hand out for Thor to take.

Leisurely, they make their way back to camp. After a quick meal to restore their energy, they settle in the shade—Loki between Thor’s legs, his deft fingers weaving strands of hair and seiðr into an intricate, unfamiliar pattern, while Thor reads aloud from Loki’s chapter, his voice steady as Loki works.

Loki smothers a satisfied smile as he listens to Thor read the Odyssey in a low voice, his fingers weaving the strands in a precise pattern of forgotten runes and languages well beyond Asgarðr and the Nine Realms. This trip has brought him everything he wanted and more. Not only has Thor finally snapped but he also has the hair he wanted in the first place. Its resistance to seiðr makes his weaving and braiding all the more delicate — every twist and knot needs to be exact to work.

Ever since he learned of the abilities of Rusalka hair, he knew it would be essential for his plans. Thor and he need to have something to hide them from Heimdallr’s gaze without raising the watcher’s suspicions if they are to allow themselves to explore their wants. The strands will work admirably for this purpose.

He’s happy his plan has worked so well. Granted, he wasn’t counting on the Rusalka surprising them and almost dying but it gave Thor the push he needed so he can’t bring himself to regret it. After tying another knot and binding his seiðr to the various elements of the tapestry of his spellwork, he leans back, resting his head in Thor’s lap. Loki breathes in the unique blend of scents belonging to Thor, rich and well-taken care of leather, sunkissed skin, the crackling of ozone before a storm and the smell of petrichor, rich and heady on his tongue.

He doesn’t know how Thor can keep on reading when Loki is sitting between his legs, his body alight with the thought of how close he is to his brother’s manhood, of how easy it would be to lower his trousers and wrap his mouth around his dick, how simple it would be to bring him to madness with only his throat gagging on his length. Now that Thor has allowed himself to indulge in the desire burning them alive, Loki can think of nothing else than pandering to it. He wants to take his brother walking along the hidden lines of Yggdrasill’s branches until they arrive in his bedroom and stay there forever, holded up and drinking their fill of each other’s company.

Maybe his brother’s composure is due to the sheer strength of character he displayed ever since Loki started playing with him, or maybe he just hides it as expertly as he does. Whatever the reason, Loki has had enough.

His weaving is at a point where he can put it aside without any repercussion to the strength of his spellwork and he does so, turning until he faces Thor’s crotch, his bulge already tenting the leather. So, he was not as indifferent as he feared, only too respectful to take advantage. Well. Loki will show him just how eager he is for him to take advantage. He unties the breeches with quick and assured motions and frees his brother’s half-hard length.

“No, no. Keep reading,” he orders when Thor lowers the book to caress his head.

Thor’s frustration is etched in every groove of his answering rumble. “Very well, brother, but it will not be smooth.”

Loki scoffs. “I should hope not. What would that say of my performance?” Without letting Thor time to answer, he envelops his cock until his tip hits the roof of his mouth, sucking in his cheeks to feel every inch of Thor’s erection hardening against his cheeks.

Easing back once Thor is fully hard, he cups his balls, fondling them gently while toying the tip with his tongue. He strokes his length once, twice, delighting in the way Thor’s voice stutters and his thighs tense beneath his touch. He parts his lips again and takes him in, his mouth hot, eager, stretching around the fullness of him.

Thor groans, his gravely voice urging Loki to take him deeper and swallow around his dick, humming in turn when he feels tears pooling at the corner of his eyes. His brother’s hand grabs his hair gently, carefully, but Loki — oh, Loki want more, much more than that. He wants to feel Thor lose his mind, wants him never to be able to see him talk without thinking back to his lips around his cock and his throat gagging on it.

He presses forward, pushing his jaw open further and takes Thor deeper, moaning around his cock when its head hits the back of his throat. Drool falls out of his mouth and hits the base of Thor’s shaft and coats his balls.

“Loki,” Thor rasps, his reading all but forgotten. His fingers tighten in the dark strands, his hips jerking forward before he can stop himself. Loki chokes, his body shuddering and his erection painful in his breeches, but he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he leans into it, drinking in Thor’s pleasure like a man starved, swallowing his cock and taking him deeper still until he can feel him in his throat.

Thor curses under his breath and fists his hair with a harsher touch, his restraint unravelling thread by thread. He thrusts again, harder this time, and Loki moans around him, eyes rolled back, lost in the raw, visceral pleasure he feels as Thor uses his mouth for his own gain.

“Look at me,” Thor demands, voice hoarse, and Loki obeys almost instantly, his gaze dark with heat, slick lips stretched wide around him. Something in Thor shatters at the sight. Loki knows exactly what he looks like when going down on a partner, and he is perfectly aware of what his blissed expression does to Thor. But the fact that it is Thor he is looking at is enough to shatter him as well.

He unties the laces of his trousers with his free hand and palms his erection, pumping his length in tandem with the bobs of his head. Loki moans around Thor’s cock, the vibrations making his brother’s eyes flutter and roll back.

Thor’s grip tightens and he gives in at last. He fucks into the wet heat of his mouth, no longer gentle, no longer careful. Loki takes it all — welcomes it even. He craves it in truth. The weight, the force, the bruising intensity of it. His fingers dig into Thor’s thigh, his own arousal an afterthought to the sheer, visceral pleasure of being used like this.

His brother’s groans grow deeper, his head tilts back, his control slipping fast. The peak they both crave is near and Loki swallows his cock, sucking his cheeks while Thor fists his hair and fuck his mouth brutally. “Loki—”

Loki hums around him, and it is all it takes. Thor comes with a broken sound, his hand still buried amidst the raven locks, his body taunt with release. He swallows greedily, unwilling to lose even a drop of his cum. The taste of him is thick on his tongue and when Thor finally slumps back and eases his grip, Loki follows the motion, keeping Thor’s still-hard length in his mouth, his hand jerking erratically around his cock.

His body trembles, full to the brink of the taste, scent and weight of his brother. The pleasure builds, sharp and relentless, his arousal heightened by the gentle twitches of Thor’s shaft against his tongue. Inhaling slowly to fill his lungs with air, he lowers his head until he chokes and saliva pools from the corner of his lips.

Loki’s eyes roll back, his climax building while his vision fades to white from the lack of air and the feeling of fullness. His fingers pump up and down his erection once more before he comes, his seed spilling at Thor’s feet, an offering to the god he voluntarily kneeled to.

A soft, wrecked sound escapes him as his thigh shivers, his pleasure cresting in violent waves leaving him feeling faint. He jerks his head back and nuzzles his brother’s shaft, licking the saliva slickening it as he rides out the last tremors of his climax.

Thor cups his jawn his thumb dragging gently over his red and spit-slick cheek. “I never thought I’d see the day you got on your knees for someone, brother.” There is no hiding the awe in his voice and Loki preens.

“Only for you.” His voice is raw, hoarsed, his vocal cords bruised from Thor’s violent rutting. He has never heard anything more beautiful than the proof of their devotion coating his ordinarily smooth words.

Slowly, Thor pulls his hand back and takes Loki in his arms, ignoring the disappointed whimper flowing from his lips, and carries his limp and boneless form to their tent, laying him gently on the bedding.

No words are exchanged, they aren’t needed after all, and while Thor disrobes Loki, he pets his face tenderly, brushes his hair back and braids it loosely, kisses the smooth expanse of skin revealed with the same reverence he always showed him and made him fall in the first place.

Loki doesn’t want to be the one to say it first. Despite his fear ebbing away in the face of the adoration Thor showers him with, it still feels too much like running into danger without a plan and baring his heart to a sharpened dagger. But he feels it. The warmth and indolence that come with love. The words tickle his lips and they threaten to spill every time Thor leaves a burning kiss behind, every time the golden god caresses the sides of his throat to ease the lingering pain. He feels safe. Secure in the arms of his brother and he’d almost gathered his courage when Thor speaks.

“I love you, Loki.”

No hesitation, no faltering or pause in his statement. Only the acknowledgement of a truth they’re both aware of. This, more than anything, gives him the strength to answer.

“Lucky me.”

Thor laughs, because he knows what he means by that. He knows how fiercely Loki guards his emotions, how carefully he shields his heart—and that, in itself, makes his answer as good as a confession.

Later, when Thor falls asleep in an unplanned nap, Loki will whisper the same words back to him and pretend he doesn’t see his brother’s lips quirk in a lazy smile. For now, Thor kisses him like Loki offered him the world on a platter and curls around him, caging him in his arms while leaving enough space for him to flee if needed. Because no one could ever know him as well as Thor does. That is why Loki loves him.