Chapter Text
“I am yours,” whispers Loki against his brother’s neck, inside Thor’s arms; the most beautiful place in all of Yggdrasil’s creation and the most grueling of prisons all at once. He loathes the thought of being reduced to anyone’s property and feasts on it at the same time, exposing the starved wretch that he is inside; a pitiful creature hungering for mere crumbs of his brother’s greatness so desperately that he settled for the wrath of the Mighty Thor.
Loki scoffs at the title, ice filling his stomach. Thor is a pathetic excuse for a crown prince; reckless, arrogant, brutish, uncultured, unread, vulgar, without any grace or style, drawn to pleasure and oh so insufferably sure of himself. He takes what he wants and tramples everything in his path. He is a pain to be around. His jokes are not funny. He is neither well-spoken nor particularly intelligent. He is, in many ways, a personification of his powers. Flashy, loud, uncontrollable, irritating, sometimes terrifying.
And yet ... people adore him. Loki adores him, and hates every atom of his tainted soul for it. He feels protected. Even if his dear brother peered so deeply into his mead horn tonight he probably wouldn’t be able to fight a single stray gremlin if Heimdall were to raise the alarm and is snoring so loudly that Loki’s eardrums might start to bleed any moment now, he feels safe. Loved. Cared for.
And isn’t that absolutely maddening?
That Loki loves Thor so much despite all his blatant faults? That he loves him even though he hates him, very much like he hates himself but still thinks himself above all those narrow-minded peasants who are jarring on his nerves every day?
He sighs and reaches for a strand of Thor’s hair to play with.
Everything feels so wrong and yet so right at the same time, it’s excruciating. Not that Loki has a problem with unconventional affiliations such as two brothers being in love, mind you. He has understood long ago that morality is a carefully crafted deception; a code conceived of by those in power to maintain control over the lives of their subjects that still allows them to uphold the illusion of free will. He loves Thor and Thor loves him in a way most other brothers do not. It is a fact apparently and, as such, it is neither wicked nor filthy. It just is and the very existence of their love justifies its right to exist. Loki is not in need of external validation construed upon shaky moral grounds to accept his feelings, as his brother undoubtedly will be.
No, what Loki does not understand is the true nature of that love. His love, that is. Thor made his own standpoint more than clear and Loki’s bottom aches from his brother’s boastful demonstration.
You are mine.
I am your future king.
Loki groans again because the mere thought of Thor holding him like this, trapping him, claiming him, degrading him like a filthy, useless runt, is enough to melt his brain. Which is exactly what he does not understand. How can Thor make him feel that way about himself? Why can he subdue him thus and make him lose all self-control, yearning to be battered by those mighty fists that have vanquished countless foes? Why can Thor make Loki long to be beaten, strangled, hurt? Why does surrendering himself to his older brother like a dog on a leash turn his resilient brain into a puddle?
And why ...
A sob tears loose from his chest and he buries himself deeper in his brother’s sweaty arms.
You love me.
I do and I don’t.
Then what ...
“It was my first time,” Loki whispers, hot tears pooling into his eyes as he reaches for his brother’s face. Thor’s lips are standing open and he’s drooling a little. He looks so strong and so pathetic at the same time. And so unbelievably handsome, with his tanned cheeks and that golden stubble. Loki shifts in his brother’s slackened embrace and tries to sit up. It hurts. Loki doubts he’ll be able to take his seat in the dining hall or even walk a few steps without drawing mother’s attention to himself. Frigga will instantly know that something is amiss. She already suspected that morning at breakfast when the Allfather demanded explanations. There is no way in Hel she fell for Thor’s poorly worded deceptions and it is only a matter of time before she will seek him out and demand the truth from him. The queen is quite relentless in that regard and Loki should probably start thinking of believable subterfuges.
And he will. He’ll worry about that come morning. Having spent much of his childhood in the healing chambers plagued by ills no one seemed to be able to find an explanation for, he can always feign sickness shall the need to stall arise.
But tonight, tonight he is Thor’s, and his brother’s face looks very kissable in sleep, Loki finds. So very kissable and he bends down, brushing his lips against his brother’s forehead. Yes, he loves him. Even if it baffles him, even if he can’t quite forgive himself for it because his brother is such an uncouth klutz, he does love him.
And still ...
“I wasn’t ready,” Loki whispers, stroking Thor’s cheek. “I didn’t want it ... Not like that.”
Clearly, there must be something wrong with him, figures Loki. He is seven-hundred-seventy-two years old and he never experienced sexual arousal. Clearly, he must be broken in some way. Every muscle in his body responded with a longing so fierce it could have burned an entire civilization when Thor slammed him against the wall earlier. Loki wanted him. Wants him. He does. With every muscle, every fiber, every thought, every breath, every beat of his foul, black heart.
But then Thor kissed him oh so very sloppily and Loki’s stomach revolted against the touch, the wetness of his brother’s tongue in his mouth. He felt trapped then, ambushed, violated. And when Thor thrust into him, unleashing a world of pain upon his unsuspecting brother, he wanted to sink into the mattress. Not so much because of the pain but ...
He cannot describe it, cannot put it into words.
He just got sick.
But you feel the same way.
He loves Thor but he doesn’t. Not like this although he does. He does want to kiss him, wants to hug him, wants to spend every waking minute in his brother’s arms. The way they stood face to face, their lips an inch apart, it felt so very right. So very how things should be.
And still the actual kiss felt so, so wrong and the sex even wronger.
Does he feel the same way?
Yes and no.
Loki wonders where that leaves him. Where it leaves them both. The whole of Asgard branded him as an outsider long ago and here is yet another thing that sets him apart from everyone else. Not because it was his big brother who took his virginity. He can see himself revealing that for shock value because it’d be a spectacle, a scandal. Something hysterical to confide in mother dearest to defile his golden brother. He can see it, can almost hear himself sob. “It was Thor who hit me and he, uh, he ...” And then he’d break out in tears and crumble into Frigga’s arms like the child she misses so much. And Thor would suffer the consequences, the disgusted stares, the distrust, which would be quite the mood elevator.
But it wouldn’t change the fact that Loki loves Thor more than anyone ever loved another being and still felt repulsed by his kiss.
Why?
Why is he so deficient, so different from everyone else, so utterly wrong and weird?
It’s a crippling realization that would probably drown him inside his own mind if Thor weren’t right there with him. Drunken, snoring, drooling, passed-out Thor; his rock, his beacon of hope, his savior, the very center of his pathetic, little universe.
It is quite ridiculous but that is how life treats you when you were born Loki.
As long as Thor is there, though, it will be alright because how could it not?
Loki lies back down and snuggles up to his brother, burrowing into Thor’s armpits like an overgrown cat. “But I am yours,” he whispers, a promise for all eternities to come. “And I always will be.”