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Golden Mouth

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“Loki.”

The voice rumbles softly in Loki's ear, deep and calm, a lion's purr, and heat blooms in his face. His eyes dart to the side, just a glance to register the broad hand resting upon his shoulder, but otherwise he does not look up from his reading. He had thought himself alone in their father's library; in retrospect, that is perhaps too much to ask of his infernally sociable sibling.

“Yes, brother,” he says, less a question and more an idle acknowledgement. He turns the page with a flick of his delicate fingers.

Thor's arm is very warm across his back.

“Do you never grow weary of your studies?” Thor asks. Loki can hear the smile in his voice—broad, bright. “You should not read so much. Your eyes will fall out of your head.”

Loki smirks. “Did you need something,” he says, eyes still on the page in front of him, “or did you come merely to annoy me?”

“Annoy you?” says Thor. “Need I a reason for wishing to see my beautiful little brother?”

“Ah, yes. I often forget that you are much too simple for ulterior motives.”

Thor laughs, and the sound slides into Loki's stomach like hot mead. “Your sharp tongue hides you well,” he says, and though Loki's calm expression does not change, his teeth clench just for half a moment. Thor becomes observant at the most inopportune times. “You have been avoiding me.”

“Have I?” says Loki idly, playing at disinterest. He turns another page.

“You have,” says Thor, his voice lowered. His hand tightens on Loki's shoulder; it draws Loki's attention to the warmth and weight of it, and he wonders if Thor meant to do so. “Do you intend to tease me with your denials, brother? Or is it simply that you are still sore from my last fucking?”

The harsh, blunt word, spoken in Thor's gentle growl, sends a hot bolt shooting down Loki's spine. He fights to keep his placid mask. Revealing his hand this early in the game would be a shameful loss.

“Am I no longer permitted to take time for myself?” he says, carefully dismissive. “My studies are important to me. You know this.”

Thor's beard brushes against Loki's earlobe, strangely soft, and sends waves of tingling sweetness down that side of Loki's body. He barely manages not to shudder. “You would deny me?” says Thor. “You are insolent, Loki. I would have you no other way—but what must I do for your acquiesence?”

The hand moves, for the first time, but only to rest upon the crook of Loki's shoulder, just where his neck begins; the rough calluses against Loki's sensitive skin trigger another shiver, desperately suppressed. His breath has sped up. He only just notices it, and even then he cannot seem to slow himself. He has not comprehended a word of the last three paragraphs he has read.

“Should I simply throw you over my shoulder and carry you one-armed to my chambers, like a woman snatched from her bed by raiders? Should I bind your hands, so you cannot use your magics? Should I gag you, so you cannot beguile me with pretty words? Should I do these things, then toy with you until your wit deserts you?”

Loki's mind reels. By now Thor should be pawing at him through his clothes, foregoing words in favor of strong fingers seeking the spots that make Loki writhe and groan—because Thor is a man of actions, not of speeches, because the tongue is Loki's playground, because Thor has no patience for such things.

But the hand at the crook of Loki's shoulder is still as stone, and the warm breath of Thor's voice blows gentle over Loki's ear. It is baffling.

“Or would you have me ask your leave?” Thor murmurs. Loki's skin feels hot. “Would you have me go down on bended knee before you? Would you have me beg for the privilege of touching your cheek? Plead my case anew for every article of your clothing I wish to remove? Prostrate myself at your feet until you give me permission to kiss the toe of your boot?”

“Thor,” Loki hears himself say, voice husky; the images dancing in his mind have made his throat very dry. He swallows.

But Thor is relentless. “Which would you have me call you, prince or whore? Master or slave? Shall I be yours, or you be mine? I would have you either way.”

Loki's body is alight, his muscles warm and heavy, his nipples hard and his cock straining behind his smallclothes; the weave of the fabric against his hypersensitive skin is too much to bear. And still his brother's hand does not move. “Thor—”

“I would have your ankles over your head, wrapped in my hands, as I thrust myself into you over and over again until you are limp as a rag doll. I would have your thighs around my hips, your beautiful body arched above me as you ride me, slow, seductive, wringing every ounce of pleasure out of me until all I can remember is your name.” Thor's voice has gone dark, breathless, and it wreathes every word in a heat that goes straight to Loki's head. “I would fuck your throat, or let you tease me with your soft lips and your clever tongue and your nimble fingers. I would handle you like glass, or leave you with bruises.”

Thor—

“I would make you ache for me, or leave you aching after. I would pin you beneath my weight, or struggle helpless under your spells.”

“By Hela, brother, please,” Loki groans, his mind caught in a whirl of arousal, his reading long forgotten.

“Loki Liesmith, Loki Silvertongue, Loki Trickskin,” Thor whispers, as though chanting a spell, and Loki cannot stop himself from gasping each time the sound of his name passes Thor's lips. “Loki Raven-Prince, Loki Mischief-Maker—Loki my brother, Loki my beautiful brother.”

“Enough, enough,” Loki manages, certainly not writhing in his seat, desperate for the slightest friction. “I yield, brother, mine is not the only silver tongue in the house of Odin!”

He feels Thor's lips stretch into a grin against his ear. His brother's free hand finds its way to his chest, strokes through the many layers of Loki's clothes, and Loki arches into it with a strangled cry.

“And where is your wit now, Lie-Son?” Thor laughs. “Has it fled you at my touch? Or is this another of your tricks?”

Please, brother,” Loki whines, and Thor growls like a great beast.

“Can you concentrate long enough to transport us to my chambers?” he says. “I do not wish to waste time in walking.”

“You make such demands of me, after you purposely addle my brain?” Loki pants, but his fingers twine through the air regardless.

“What would you have, brother?” Thor says, as the green light fades and they tangle themselves up in each other on his bed.

“Everything,” Loki demands.

And Thor obliges.