Red like love, red like a ruby
I lose control, it draws me to you
The feasting lasted until nightfall, though the former king and queen had risen and excused themselves from the table while the sky was still ablaze with the red hues of sunset.
“This is an evening for the young and merry,” Frigga said, planting a kiss on Thor’s cheek. “Enjoy it, your majesty.”
Thor, who was already quite drunk, smiled broadly and raised a toast to his lovely, kind, wonderful, caring, beautiful, etcetera etcetera ad infinitum, mother. The feasters roared and crashed their cups together and hailed the queen mother and king father with cheers and gregarious oaths. Odin did not smile.
On their way from the hall, Frigga stopped to collect a kiss from Loki. “See that your brother does not destroy the kingdom overnight,” she said under her breath, and grasped his hand.
“I will try,” said Loki.
Frigga smiled and gave his fingers a nervous squeeze, then she and Odin retired to another part of the palace.
Loki returned to his seat—the one at Thor’s right-hand, whose place setting still held his first goblet of wine and a plate of half-eaten food—and accepted the overly-enthusiastic welcome back to the table. Thor slung his bare, heavy arm around Loki’s shoulders and bellowed the virtues of his beloved brother (it didn’t take very long) and regaled his listeners with tales of mischief and childhood adventures (that took very long indeed).
The moon rose and the musicians plied their instruments with gusto, and the celebration spilled outdoors. Fýrvi were lit and the sky erupted with cascades of orange and gold and red—lots of red, for it was Thor’s favorite color and now it was the king’s color, the prophetic hue of Asgard’s future—and more ale and mead was brought out in huge barrels.
Loki tried to find an out-of-the-way place where he could sip his wine and keep an eye on his brother. He watched him drink and break glasses and kiss maidens—and Hogun and Volstagg, and even Fandral, who was too inebriated to escape in time. Thor was not so drunk as to attempt mashing Sif so rudely; he handed off his tankard and gave her a proper kiss, though she wiped her mouth afterward and downed the ale that the laughing Volstagg handed to her.
They were all fools, thought Loki cynically. But even fools had their uses.
Thus he sat and sipped and observed the festivities without being touched by a flicker of their joy. Every now and then he would wave his finger and prevent Thor from slipping in a puddle of alcohol or stumbling into his subjects, for as much as he resented Thor being king of Asgard, he could not allow him to become a laughingstock this soon into his reign.
Loki was doing what was best for the kingdom, inasmuch as he could.
The revelry continued well into the night and far down into the streets of the city. When the last fýrvi were set off and the last of the celebratory casks smashed and the last musician passed out in a drunken stupor, Thor finally gave his consent to be borne back to his room. Four able-bodied servants were required for task, as Loki would not deign to waste his seidr on such an ignoble undertaking.
When the king was at last delivered to his room, Loki thanked and dismissed the attendants. The moment the doors were closed, he moved to the nearby sideboard and pulled a small envelope from the folds of his jerkin. He selected an empty goblet and sprinkled a black, powdery substance into it, then filled it with water from a pitcher. The water bloomed a deep, arterial red. Loki stirred the mixture until he was certain it had fully dissolved.
He turned and walked across the room to the bed, where Thor lay sprawled on his back, mumbling to himself and occasionally chuckling. Loki sat down on the edge and leaned over him.
“Sit up now, brother,” he murmured. “Drink this.”
Thor groaned, pulled himself upright, and tried to uncross his eyes. “Ngh. What is this?”
“A little something to ameliorate the monstrous headache you shall have tomorrow. Here.”
Thor grasped the goblet and grinned. “I regret nothing,” he said and upended the vessel, draining it with a few large gulps.
Loki watched the muscles in Thor’s throat contract as he drank, his apple bobbing as the tainted liquid was ushered downward. He must have been gazing too intently because Thor noticed his stare once he had finished. Loki drew in a soft, startled breath when he saw the familiar darkness settle in Thor’s eyes.
Thor tossed the goblet over his shoulder—it clanged onto the marble floor and bounced a few times—then he pulled Loki into his arms and kissed his mouth.
Loki went stiff as a board, but he made no move to resist. Thor’s tongue pried its way between his lips. Loki opened his mouth and allowed it a place to explore. Thor’s beard scratched his cheeks, pricking and poking unpleasantly into his sensitive skin. Loki prayed it would end after this.
His prayer went unanswered.
Thor went down on his back, pulling Loki with him, and rolled over so that he had Loki pinned underneath him. He grasped Loki by the chin and turned his face to the side, then fell upon his neck and began to kiss it.
Loki shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, enduring the hot, slippery caress of his brother’s tongue.
As Thor began to fumble with the front of Loki’s tunic, he asked archly, “What’s the matter, Loki? Have you given up fighting me? Is there no dagger waiting to be thrust into my side? No more sport in this little game of ours?”
Loki’s face twitched as he felt Thor’s hand slip into his shirt and find his nipple, rubbing it until it tightened into a hard peak. “Y-you are the king of Asgard now. I am beneath you.”
Thor chuckled. “Hm, yes, you are.”
Loki flinched as Thor ripped open his shirt and pressed his face to Loki’s naked chest, covering his skin with wet, sloppy kisses. He sucked Loki’s nipples until they were red and soft, then bit them when they were at their tenderest, tugging at them gently with his teeth. Loki shut his eyes and heaved silent gasps toward the ceiling.
“I have been waiting for this day for a long time, Loki,” Thor uttered, and began to untie the laces of Loki’s breeches. “To finally have you in my bed, properly. Giving you what you deserve in the comforts of our room instead of the shadows of hallways.”
But it’s not my room, Loki wanted to snarl. He held his tongue and tried to calm his breathing. He was feeling lightheaded, delirious. Dreadfully, unwillingly aroused.
Just a few more minutes. He could last a few more minutes. He had endured worse than this, after all. Nothing as bad as what Thor ultimately had in mind for him, but there was no way he could possibly follow through. He was far too drunk. Wasn’t he?
In a disturbingly short amount of time, Loki found himself lying naked in the wreckage of his clothing, hot red marks on his body from the force of Thor’s hands ripping the fabric. Thor peeled off his own shirt, revealing mountains of smooth, thick muscle. Power and strength radiated from him like an obscene aura: fervent, fiery, full of conceit and danger. He smiled at Loki, who lay in his shadow like a virgin sacrifice, and settled back on his legs, his hands squeezing and grasping the pale flesh of Loki’s thighs.
“Give us some oil, brother.”
Loki’s heart froze. He swallowed dryly and summoned a bottle of oil to his hand. He held it out to Thor, but Thor only smiled wider and shook his head.
“You put it on me. This is for you, after all.”
With dread churning in his stomach, Loki set the bottle aside and sat up. His mouth felt as coarse as burlap. He reached out hesitantly and began to undo the front of Thor’s trousers. He was already aroused, Loki could see, straining against the leather with an earnestness that should have been impossible for the amount of alcohol he had consumed.
Thor had always been good at holding his liquor.
Loki’s lips were pinched between his teeth and he was breathing heavily through his nose when Thor finally came free, his cock swinging out at full length, red and ready. He looked up at Thor, silently pleading for mercy. It was misinterpreted.
“Don’t worry,” Thor chuckled, “he won’t bite. Pet him and you’ll see he’s quite tame.”
Loki took the bottle of oil and poured some into his palm. Then he steeled himself, reached out, and grasped Thor with both hands.
Thor groaned softly and nudged his hips forward. Loki began to stroke him, his hands gliding up and down the shaft of his brother’s penis, root to crown and back and forth. He tried not to think about when this organ was being formed in their mother’s womb, if she ever imagined it might one day end up inside of her younger son. They had drunk from the same breast, he and Thor. They had lain together in the same crib, shared blankets and baths and beds with one another. They had grown up together, all hugs and smiles and missing baby teeth, running circles around their parents’ legs and coming home with bruises on their knees and scratches on their elbows, smelling of sap and earth and magic.
And then something had gone wrong. Adolescence had turned their love into a thing unnatural and poisoned, like a tree that had gone bad deep down inside but still looked normal on the outside. They began to rot from within. Thor’s affections became much too eager, too insistent. His touches began to wander and linger. He grew close—closer than he had any right to be.
“Never doubt how much I love you,” Thor would say to him, and if it weren’t for the hunger in his eyes, Loki might have taken his words for what they were: a statement of fraternal loyalty, unwavering and steadfast.
Over the years it had grown steadily worse. The unwanted touches were now reinforced by muscle and much harder to push away. Loki was forced to arm himself, either with sorcery or much more tangible weapons, and he took to sleeping with a dagger under his pillow in case Thor’s frequent midnight visits grew too physical. And they often did.
He dared not tell his parents. He knew he was not Odin’s favorite. He knew he would be blamed for Thor’s deficiencies. After all, he was the effeminate one. The magic-user. The weakling. The one who had no interest in sex or war or all the other masculine, admirable qualities Odin revered. Loki had no doubt that their father would accuse him of leading Thor astray, of beguiling him because he was the heir to the throne and Loki was simply the jealous, wicked younger sibling.
Loki knew Frigga loved him at least, but he could not tell her, either. She kept no secrets from the Allfather; he was her king first and her husband second, and neither of them would tolerate duplicity.
That left nobody. In all the kingdom, there was no one in whom Loki could confide; no shoulder upon which he could weep, no soul in Asgard that did not see Thor for the vain, greedy, cruel boy that he was. Loki was alone.
And that was how he found himself here in Thor’s bed tonight, shedding tears down his impassive face, massaging the cock that would finally steal his chastity after all these years of daggers and illusions.
Fingertips touched his cheek and Loki raised his eyes. Thor was grinning at him drunkenly. He probably didn’t even see the salty lines tracking down his face.
“You’re very good at this,” Thor murmured, nodding downward. “Sure you haven’t done this before?”
Somehow Loki managed to feign a smile. “I enjoy this sort of thing myself, from time to time.”
“Indeed?” Thor cocked an eyebrow. “Alone or”—he reached out and took Loki in his hand—“with other men?”
“Alone. I have no interest in anyone else.”
“Except you, of course.”
Thor made a sound in his throat like a growl, then he pushed Loki back into the pillows. Loki’s eyes went wide, his heart slamming blood through his veins at a frantic tempo. Thor took him by the wrists and pinned him down, knocked his legs apart with one knee. Loki felt the blunt, slippery head of Thor’s cock poke into his cods, then begin to nudge lower, searching.
Panic seized him. “Y-you’re not even going to prepare me?”
“Let’s be honest, Loki,” Thor murmured, nuzzling his ear, “you’ve been preparing for this for years.”
Loki had just enough time to conjure some oil into his body—he shuddered at the sudden looseness he felt in his rectum—but then his breath was taken when Thor abruptly pushed the tip inside him.
Loki let out a short, sharp cry.
It felt wrong. It felt awful. It hurt. It was invasive, prying. His body stretched and burned. He bit his lip and held back his scream with a weak, high-pitched grunt. Even Thor grimaced at the pressure around him.
“It’s alright, Loki,” he panted, withdrawing a little before pushing himself in halfway. Loki’s mouth fell open and he sobbed. “You’ll loosen up after a few weeks. Then I’ll wish you were tighter. But this first time . . . nothing will compare.”
He leaned down and tried to kiss him, but Loki turned his head and clamped his jaws together.
“Ungrateful as ever,” he muttered. “Fine. Be that way.”
He grabbed the backs of Loki’s knees and held his legs open as he thrust forward. Loki clenched his teeth and his fists, moaning behind his tightly-shut mouth. Thor withdrew, repeated the motion a few more times, and then settled into a hard, heavy rhythm.
Loki rocked with the force of Thor’s fucking. He tried to relax, tried to summon some more oil, but he couldn’t concentrate. He was too appalled, too disgusted by the feeling of his own brother piercing him over and over, mating their flesh together as if they were the basest of all living creatures. Insects and vermin. Monsters and their offspring.
His hands began to tingle as Thor put all his weight onto his wrists, pressing them hard into the mattress. Every now and then Thor would hit something inside Loki that sent sickening bolts of pleasure through his belly, and he felt his cock begin to harden in response.
Thor grunted above him like a pig, rooting and rutting, slapping his hips into the soft flesh of Loki’s inner thighs. Then his thrusts began to weaken. They grew slow and shallow. At last Loki opened his eyes and beheld Thor, dazed and glassy-eyed, swaying slightly back and forth. He shook his head and resumed his pace, but after three strokes he collapsed onto Loki’s chest and didn’t move.
His breathing became slow and even. Loki felt the cock inside him shrink and go soft.
With a strained groan, Loki pushed Thor off of him and out of him, and scrambled away—all the way over the edge of the bed. He hit the floor on his side, pain singing through his hip, and was thankful at least for the rug.
He crawled upright and sat where he had fallen, hips canted to one side to keep the weight off his sore bottom. His lip quivered and his face twisted. He placed his hand to his chest as if to steady his heart.
The drug should not have taken that long to go into effect, especially considering how drunk Thor was. He must have miscalculated the ratio, perhaps used the incorrect dosage. He would have to adjust his measurements, make sure they were accurate next time.
Next time . . .
Loki drew in a breath and rose on shaking, wobbly legs. He looked over at Thor, splayed out on his back with his flaccid prick hanging out of his pants, sound asleep. Loki leaned over and gathered the tattered remains of his clothes. With a few clever waves of his hands, the pieces melded together to form a dressing gown. He pulled it on and cinched the belt tightly, smoothed his hair, and tried not to think about what had just happened. What was done was done. There was nothing for it. He had to keep his focus on the future. That was the important thing. The kingdom was depending upon him.
He climbed onto the bed and sat beside Thor. He reached out gently cleaned the oil from Thor’s penis with the edge of his dressing gown. He tucked him back into his trousers when he had finished, and fastened them. Then he pushed Thor’s heavy, senseless body to the center of the bed, wrestled the covers out from under him, and tucked him in.
Thor slept through it all, his face relaxed and expressionless, almost innocent. He would remember nothing that happened after taking the potion. He would wake up in the morning refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to rule Asgard, with no knowledge of his heinous assault.
. . . without the satisfaction of finally having his little brother. This fire would continue to burn for as long as Loki allowed it, red like love, thick as gold, darker than night.
Loki stared at Thor’s sleeping face for a full minute before his hand shot out and connected with Thor’s cheek. The force of the blow turned his head to the side, but it didn’t interrupt his breathing. He dozed, oblivious.
After a few moments Loki sniffed away his tears and carefully turned Thor’s head straight again. Then he leaned down and kissed the red, hand-shaped mark he had made on his cheek.
One day, Odin and Frigga will be gone. And shortly thereafter, Thor.
He had never wanted the throne, but it was a burden Loki supposed he could bear. He had plenty of time to learn, to observe, to immerse himself. To become truly worthy.
He gazed at the thick swell of Thor’s muscles and shivered.
If he lived that long.