Sensation play. ALL the sensation play.
[How did I know you were going to ask me for this? XD
…Holy fucking shit this veered way into left field, what the hell. WARNING, FEELS AHEAD.]
The room is dimmed, the starlight faint thanks to the dark curtains hung in Loki’s windows. The only significant illumination is the soft greenish glow of the spellstrands binding Thor’s wrists together and anchored to the empty air above his head, holding him up in a kneeling posture on the bed. The glow is not quite steady—it pulses, just a bit, barely visible, in time with Loki’s heartbeat, throwing an eerie, eldritch cast over the scene.
Thor’s head is tipped back slightly. A black silk cloth binds his eyes; otherwise, he is bare, his skin strangely pale in the sorcerous light (all but his cock, which is already heavy and dark with blood, jutting out of the shadow of his body). His tongue slips out to wet his lips, slips back in and leaves them parted.
He looks deliciously vulnerable, Loki thinks, smiling to himself as he toys with the dagger of ice formed in one deep indigo hand. No rough, ugly spike, conjured quick in the midst of combat, brutally functional—but a delicate blade, beautiful as a serpent’s fang, a frigid crystalline athame meant for ritual. Loki prides himself on how differently he manifests the cold magic inherent in his blood (it fascinates him, he cannot simply ignore it, but he works to separate himself from his brutal—from the more familiar Jotnar). He is no barbarian, no flesh-eating primitive, regardless of what the skin hidden beneath his Aesir mask might say. He is still a prince of Asgard, and he will behave as such.
He only wears this skin now because he knows how it affects his brother. The strange color, the flowing lines raised out of it, whatever the attraction may be, Thor is drawn to it as a moth to a flame. Too eager to touch, to lay hands on what might well kill him. A kiss of frost to snuff out the green summer in his heart.
But he has always been drawn to Loki. The truth of his brother’s heritage has only added one more dancing flame to hold his gaze. Loki will never understand it—why bright, golden, firstborn Thunder-Bringer, honored warrior, best-loved Odinson, who could take any pretty thing he wishes into his bed with hardly a word, has ever had eyes only for his thin shadowy changeling of a brother.
Loki drags the flat of the blade down the center of Thor’s chest, listens to the hitch of breath, watches the flesh pebble with chill. And something else. Heat rolls off of Thor’s skin, slow melting the dagger’s surface into cool clinging droplets. Fire and ice. Two sides of the same coin.
No one must ever know of this. Loki tells Thor time and again that no one must ever know (Thor is proud and strong and far too trusting, far too willing to believe the best of anyone, and Loki knows this is the only reason he is still permitted in Asgard at all); Loki explains over and over again, to Thor’s sad childlike face, that they can never be wed, can never have children, can never rule together as Thor (sad, childlike) wishes they might. Because Asgard will never believe that Thor’s devotion to his treacherous, silver-tongued false brother is anything less than vile enchantment.
“Hold still, brother,” Loki murmurs, as Thor shivers under his touch, icy fingertips and sharp ink-black nails. His words mist the air, wisps of chilly smoke like frozen incense (ritual element, like the darkness, like the blade) rising from between his lips. ”Hold still. Feel.”
Thor is simple, honest, loving. Asgard knows this. Loki is inscrutable, deceptive, spiteful. Asgard knows this, as well. (Put two and two together, brother, Loki reminds him. They will. And they will see their simple, honest, loving future king in helpless thrall to their inscrutable, deceptive, spiteful secondborn prince.
Then I will explain, Thor argues stubbornly.
They will not believe you, Loki replies tiredly.)
Thor’s breath quickens. His front is decorated with glistening drops of cold water, now, and Loki’s ice dagger has shrunk to a pocket knife, though it retains its sharp edge. He presses the tip sideways against one of Thor’s nipples—dark and tight with chill and arousal—watches the elder prince’s cock jump with the sensation. Closes his lips around the nub of flesh, hot tongue on cold skin; Thor’s breath catches, releases in a moan that fills the room like the warmth from a firepit. The sound warms Loki’s core in a way fire never could. If not for Thor he would never know what warmth felt like.
And perhaps this is a spell, an enchantment that Loki is weaving, though not the sort that Asgard would assume—no enthrallment intended to addle the future king’s mind and ensnare his senses, no binding meant to leash his will to that of his brother. Loki knows such spells, he will not deny it, but with Thor they would be a mere redundancy (and one with undesirable side effects; Thor’s mind is simple enough to begin with, he does not need it further dulled by compelled obeisance). Thor’s love is unconditional, uncomplicated, unfathomable. Painful. Too bright to look at, for Loki’s eyes, eyes used to shadow and moonlight and disapproval. Eyes meant for grey sky and endless night.
It will blind him. He knows it.
Yet no matter how he tries, he cannot stay away.
He trails long thin fingers—blue, deep blue, near black in the jade light—along the vein of Thor’s cock, feels it twitch at the touch (toward, away from, all the same in the end), and Thor gasps.
There is so much wrapped in that sound, in those two syllables (desire love trust possession desperation sadness hope so many things that Loki will never deserve) that for one frostbite-fire moment Loki hates. Wants nothing more than to stop that mouth from ever again speaking his name—strike his brother with a geas, so that every time those syllables try to pass his lips he collapses in agony—
Instead he snatches Thor’s hair in one hand and yanks his head back, shoves three fingers into that whip-honest mouth before the cry of pain can escape. And his mouth is so hot, it nearly burns, and the sear of it is clarity and coherence in Loki’s mind, a slow spreading hurt to balance out the sharp tearing in his breast (where something clawed and writhing thrashes at the sound of Thor’s voice).
“Suck,” he snarls, and Thor obeys, his scalding tongue slipping between Loki’s fingers. Loki lets go of his hair, drags his nails down Thor’s back to score thin red lines into the flesh; punishment, reward, mere impulse, does it matter? It needs to happen, Loki needs him to feel that tearing shredding horror that whirls behind his breastbone every time Thor looks at him (star-blue eyes so open and naive and knowing and that is why Loki blindfolds him, not for the sensuality but because he cannot tolerate that knowing).
But Thor’s tongue, though not silver, is skilled, and soon Loki’s blue skin has faded back to Aesir pale, his concentration melted with his ice inside his brother’s sweltering mouth. His breath comes in quick huffs—his fingers are sensitive, and Thor’s tongue dips into the hollows between their knuckles, fumblingly familiar and eager to please—and soon Loki has tugged his own cock free of his clothes, his grip on it ruthlessly tight, as he pulls his fingers out from between Thor’s lips. Thor chases them, one last little suck, one last brush of his tongue against their tips, as Loki waves his hand and vanishes the threads that bind his brother’s wrists.
Thor pitches forward, thrown off-balance by the sudden disappearance of his support. Loki gives him no time to recover—only seizes his hair again and drags him forward, until the scrape of his beard is pressed to the side of Loki’s arousal.
In the space of a moment he has taken the hint (Thor may be dense, Loki may say many things about the sad state of his intelligence, but this at least is something the golden firstborn understands implicitly) and taken Loki’s cock, burning tongue pressed to burning flesh, and Loki doubles over with a choked cry at the unexpected intensity. His hands fist in Thor’s spun-gold hair, his skin alive with sparks of pleasure.
Thor is clumsy, sloppy, as always—all disgusting noises and drooling wetness—but it hardly matters, not now, not when Loki is holding his head still and fucking his mouth with vicious abandon. Thor clings to his thighs, so tight Loki knows his fingers will leave bruises, and tries to keep his teeth out of the way, tries to flutter his tongue the way he does when Loki has more patience.
(And if Asgard could see them now, if anyone could hear what is being done to their beloved crown prince, Loki would burn for a witch by sunrise. Forcing our future king, our proud warrior, into such degrading acts, it could only be by some horrid sorcery tying puppet strings to his broad limbs…
Yet, somehow, it is more satisfying to know that Thor does this willingly, though no one will ever accept that. Another little secret, another prize for Loki to hold close to his chest and keep entirely to himself, another glittering trinket to slip into his cloak.)
Loki watches those red lips stretch around his girth, unafraid to grace his brother with his gaze because the blindfold prevents him from gazing back (prevents him from asking too many questions with his eyes, is it good, brother, have I pleased you well, do you see how much I love you?, whirl around, run away, slam the door). Shining trails streak the handsome face, tears leaking from beneath the black cloth, forced from him by the head of Loki’s cock swelling in the very back of his throat, but he does not gag. He swallows, just as Loki has taught him, and Loki is obscurely proud—hears words of faint praise trickling between his own lips, words that only escape him when his mind is awash in approaching climax.
Thor groans loud around him, whimpering, moaning, his hips thrusting into the bedspread. The vibration of it buzzes through Loki’s bones, the very sound of it stoking the flame inside his head—Thor is close, he always cries out like this when he is close, he is going to come just from this, just from this filthy degenerate thing that Loki is doing to him, and Loki’s own words dissolve into incoherence at the thought of it.
And then Thor does come, all through the helpless cries of his orgasm he never stops sucking Loki’s cock, and Loki can’t hold back any longer with the vibration of his voice and the sight of him coming and still sucking and Loki nearly tears out a clump of Thor’s hair as his own climax crashes over him like a storm surge.
Then, Thor sleeps.
Loki watches him sleep, knees drawn up to his chest. The sleep of the just. Loki wonders what that feels like. He has never known. Never will.
Thor rolls over, lost in dreams, and one hand wraps loose around Loki’s ankle.
It tears him, stretches him out between desires (feel Thor’s embrace, accept it, like in their childhood when they slept in the same bed; flee to safety, deep into the night, run from that touch and never return).
Loki sits paralyzed, unable to decide.
Tagged with #anshinwrites #thorki #hey look i wrote a thing #nsfw #tumblr prompt fic
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