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Beautiful. They’re beautiful, this scene that Loki has wrought by magic, those Thor lies entwined with. They’re beautiful—they are all him, all Thor. They lie together, gleaming, blond on blond on blond in a perfect plait.
Warriors’ limbs, strong lines, a palette of warm colors, undertones of gold in the soft light. Blue shadows. Lush, wet mouths.
One of them cries out in a rough, needy voice, moans and lets his arms be spread, another pair of lips working their way across from fingertip to fingertip, lingering on the musculature of his back, swirls of shadow no sculptor could capture. His whines fill the air. Warm, slick sounds as he is toyed with somewhere Loki cannot see.
The curling hair under his arms is stippled with clinging glistening droplets, a heady scent rolling hot down his skin. Fingers slide through the dampness; strong fingers, blunt nails trailing along the line of a shiver.
Loki has watched his brother bed willing maids before, watching as Thor held their ankles in his massive hands and pounded into them until they screamed in pleasure, and he has conjured his own doubles to amuse them both, bending Thor over while he watched and taunted from nearby, but oh, it is different to see Thor with someone of his own size. Loki may be strong enough to match him, but he is slight, wiry rather than broad. And for all his own vanity, he knows he will never be as beautiful as what he sees before him now.
He drinks down every moment as they become familiar with each other. He gasps as one golden head drops, as soft pink lips swallow Thor’s cock to make it slick, as those same strong, massive hands clutch at Thor’s thick thighs, digging into the tender flesh until it is sure to bruise. He watches as the other claims his brother’s mouth and kisses him, palm clasped around his skull. Loki can almost feel the wet clash of their tongues. Everywhere he looks there is something lovely to see—but they are all eager, and soon Thor is letting himself be positioned between them.
They had beckoned him.
“Go to them, brother,” Loki whispered in his ear when Thor hesitated, cheeks hot with blood after watching their first coupling, brow twisted with some inexplicable worry. “I wish to see you with them.”
I know you are arrogant enough, after all. Taste them, let them taste you. I smell it on you that you want them.
Thor had gone, glancing back at Loki only once, eagerness and shameful hunger pulsing in his eyes.
The one on the bottom is already ready, his body already worked loose and soft and open, and Thor holds himself up on strong arms as he takes him, his saliva-wet cock curving rock-hard as it pushes into hungry flesh. The Thor on the bottom pillows his face on folded arms and cries out, moaning, whimpering, accepting. The firm globes of his ass pushing back to take more, to take him inside entirely. A palette of gold and rose and cream. Shivering and tensing. Fine hairs so soft under the brush of fingertips.
“See how lovely you are like this?”
The red creeps higher on Thor’s cheeks as Loki says it.
Loki’s fingers tap on his thighs as the Thor on top prepares the Thor in the middle, and the Thor on the bottom twists his wrist around, offering a hand to squeeze. Thor squeezes back; his cock stays buried inside but he stills his thrusts to let it happen.
It is far sweeter than Loki could have imagined, the sight of them. They are tender with one another, yet it is also the filthiest thing Loki has ever seen, and that is saying much. The Thor on top spreads the middle Thor’s buttocks with one hand, paints the tight, pink hole with oil with the tips of his big fingers, circling around before gently prodding inward.
The Thor in the middle bites his lip as his own thick fingers begin to stretch him, working him open. He moans, and when his hips shift the Thor beneath him gives a desperate whine. The Thor on top laughs warmly and shoves his fingers deeper, and for a minute he plays them both, stroking and twisting and making Thor—Loki’s Thor, the one trapped between the others—into a puppet on his fingers, fucking forward and clutching at the body beneath him and whimpering. Then the Thor atop withdraws his fingers, kneels up, and then he is feeding his cock into that body identical to his own.
He pushes forward, and the Thor in the middle makes a sound that boils away every drop of blood into bliss in Loki’s body. He shifts as if he wants to writhe—that massive cock must feel like a brand as it is shoved inside, burning its way in and marking every inch of its path. He keens again and tilts his hips up to take it. Wanton. He shuts his eyes, drawing down a lazy, sparkling curtain over starry blue, and even that little detail is so perfectly lovely that it makes Loki’s whole being ache.
Loki sits back watching, so enthralled he almost forgets to take himself in hand.
They are like one body. They move as one; they moan as one. Muscles tense, rippling like waves, like the pulse of a single heart, like the brightness of light off a shining stone. Blond on blond on blond. A palette of flushed gold, beginning to glisten. They start slow, but they do not stay that way. The Thor on top sets the pace, a punishing speed, cracking hips. He pounds into Thor’s delectable, squeezable ass, shoving him deeper into the Thor beneath and the slap of flesh on flesh rings through the air above grunts and groans.
They moan together. Loki feels it in the pit of his stomach. Once, his Thor glances over at him, smiling, eyes dazed.
Loki breathes deep the scent of warriors’ sweat on the air; salt and musk. It smells of Thor, and he could drown in that scent gladly. His fingers tap on his thighs. He cannot stay away; he creeps nearer on hands and bony knees, as if whole seas might wash over him unnoticed, as if he is a thing that resides in the darkest deeps. He kneels before their writhing shape, knowing he could worship each thickly muscled golden limb, but instead he steals the lips of the Thor in the middle, placing his own upon them. Those lips are jolted yet Loki keeps them, and Thor’s mouth opens. Loki’s tongue slips inside. He likes the feel of that.
He cups Thor’s face in his hands and tells him how lovely he is. He splays their fingertips together.
The one on the bottom is eager and he reaches out for Loki, pulling his hips closer until he can suckle, filling his mouth with satisfaction, humming around the heat of it. The one on top pants and grunts and makes such noises that Loki feels it like a shiver up his backbone, as if it were a ladder for each little groan to climb. He frees one hand and tangles it in Loki’s hair, as if he likes to feel its softness wrapped around his fist as he fucks.
The Thor in the middle… Loki kisses him, and Thor kisses back as if he’s been thirsting, as if he’d been walking in a desert, but the kiss shatters as the one above him comes with an animal groan, pumping hips against him. Thor’s pupils widen like circles of blackness between stars and he blinks unseeing, drops his head to bury his face against blond hair. He sighs and shifts and Loki is privy to the sight of a pair of fingers coming down to the muscled, damp plane of his chest, pinching and twisting at tender, rosy peaks and bringing him closer. Thor’s brow twists in exquisite pleasure. His back bows. He spills into the one beneath him, arms wrapped tight, with a single gasp.
Loki’s heart clenches.
“Do you think I want myself?” Thor had laughed, unsteady, a burbling sound like a running stream as Loki called the other two into existence, two naked forms already curled around each other, one with his hand on his twin’s shoulder as if to protect him.
“I want them,” Loki told him.
Thor looked at his two magical twins, studying every inch of them as they lay back. From the pink of their toes to the stiff red cocks on their bellies. The wide vee of their torsos, speckled gold rising to their navels. The two identical pairs of blue eyes that studied them both, returning their scrutiny, arms around each other.
“They are beautiful,” Loki hissed between his teeth. “I want to see you with them”
But now Thor sinks boneless between them, as if he has never belonged so well anywhere else, a perfect rose of a smile on the salted petals of his lips.
Loki threads his fist into his hair and tightens it, but the Thor at the bottom is still sucking. And the Thor on top rises up, pushing back with strong arms like the trunks of young oaks, and gazes at him hard. His mouth is a closed line. No shadows, no soft blue.
The Thor on the bottom keeps on him until he comes, sharp pleasure rushing through him.
Loki collapses to one side, catching himself as if no one else ever would.
All three of them are gone, dissipated into nothing.
Loki’s body forms a curve, his wrist sharp beneath his cheek, the damp trickling down. In this way rain becomes rivers becomes canyons cut in stone. It is inevitable that he is worn away as well, weak as the base earth.
He wants to call his brother into being again to wrap around him, to hold him as he stares at nothing. He wants to stroke the pads of his fingers down Thor’s face, memorizing him again. He remembers wanting to do the same when Thor’s face was so changed, the bruises dark and creeping inexorably beneath his skin, the unmended bones misshapen. One eye swollen almost closed. So horribly changed. Thor crawling to him to hold him one last time, one last time before he left Loki alone for all the years they should have had together.
All because Loki listened, did what he asked, obeyed his demand.
He gnashes his teeth and hates Thor for that promise.
He hates Thor for leaving him, and the hatred and pain well up together like a flood and spill down. If he is worn away enough, what will be uncovered is a diamond so black it will do what the Dark Elves never could. In his loss he will darken all the worlds—
—but Loki is pitying himself now, pitifully, pathetically, and he sneers at his own wretchedness. Thor was the only one who could ever stand him like this, and that is now a joke too perfect to bring him any amusement at all.
Loki’s hand rises to cover his mouth as laughter takes him, hard and wracking as despair.