Thor hadn’t been dead a week when Loki felt the first movements of new life stirring within him. But it was impossible. He was sterile. The Cylons had robbed him of his ability to have children during his month-long imprisonment at “the farm” on Caprica. His post-rescue exam aboard the Statesman had confirmed it, and he hadn’t had a cycle since. There was no way he could be pregnant.
But pregnant he was. To the decimated Asgardian populace, this was good news. Another number added to their depleted demographic. To Loki, it was nothing short of a miracle.
An oddly well-timed one.
He and Thor had consummated their long-held love for one another just days before the Cylons triggered Ragnarok, and in the weeks leading up to Loki’s detainment on Caprica, they had often talked about starting a family—for themselves, as well as for the survival of their people.
Those hopes had been dashed when Loki returned to the Statesman with a scar on his abdomen and most of his internal sex organs missing, but now it was a reality again. Perhaps Thor’s fertility-rich seidr had healed him somehow, repairing his butchered anatomy and jump-starting the production of new ova.
Whatever the explanation, Loki now carried the last of Asgard’s royal bloodline. It made him happy to know that at least some part of Thor would still live on. The idea of single-parenthood was daunting, but Loki was determined to do the best that he could. Sif and the Warriors Three were there if he needed them. Brunnhilde had taken over his position as Viper commander while he was on maternity leave. Admiral Heimdall would find them all a new home. Everything would be fine. He could do it. He would do it. For Thor, and for this precious little seed he had planted.
Two months passed. The Cylons attacked the fleet thrice, and thrice the Aesir beat them back. They found a new planet capable of supporting life, but it had been ravaged by a nuclear event long ago and was deemed uninhabitable. They continued their search for a new home.
In this time, Loki’s belly swelled and stretched until he looked eight months pregnant instead of eight weeks. He thought he could see his stomach getting bigger by the hour. It wasn’t natural. He went to the infirmary and the ship’s medics made a shocking discovery: the fetus—yes, just one—was nearly full term. They couldn’t explain the advanced rate of gestation. Perhaps it was something the Cylons had done to him, some sort of metabolic enhancement they hadn’t detected upon his post-rescue exam. Despite the possibility of genetic manipulation, the fetus appeared to be healthy. The medics told Loki not to fret but encouraged him to visit the infirmary daily for regular checkups.
Less than ninety days after Thor’s death, Loki went into labor and, after four hours of bleeding and pushing and straining, he delivered a strong, healthy baby boy with a mat of wet blond hair on his head. His screams were like tiny roars, his tightly-clenched fists waving with all the might and fury of his thundergod father.
Sweaty and pale and exhausted, Loki accepted the squirming bundle the midwife passed to him. He cradled his son in his arms and tried not to weep. He hated sentimentality, but remaining composed was difficult when gazing at such a beautiful child. He had Thor’s eyes, Thor’s nose, Thor’s mouth. He was an exact replica, a perfect facsimile of the father he would never know. Loki instantly loved him more than anything in the universe—more than his own life, more than his people, perhaps even more than Thor himself. He kissed his baby’s hot, damp forehead and gave him a name.
Thor, after his father. It seemed appropriate.
The strangeness surrounding Loki’s child didn’t end after his birth. Within a week, little Thor’s weight doubled and he was crawling. He sprouted his first tooth after a fortnight. A month later he was toddling, eating solid food, and beginning to babble. Soon he was trying to speak words and phrases far too advanced for his clumsy, immature tongue.
It was more than unsettling. It was physically impossible, and yet here it was, happening right in front of hundreds of eyes. The Aesir thought it was a blessing from beyond, that perhaps their king had been reincarnated and that Loki was chosen by the Norns to be the vessel of his rebirth.
Loki was not so convinced. His worry turned to fear, and his fear became dread. Perhaps his sweet, lovely son was actually a Cylon. What else could account for this abnormal, accelerated growth? There was no natural explanation for it.
He kept a close eye on Thor, watching for any signs of indifference, cruelty, or disregard for living things. There were none. Despite the circumstances, he was as normal a child as could be, truly his father’s son, playful and affectionate, full of giggles and smiles, a ray of shining sunlight in the bleak, hopeless desolation of outer space. Loki loved him dearly but was always waiting for the next alarming turn of events.
Nothing could have prepared him for the shock he received when he was woken in the middle of the night by Thor’s soft, quiet mutterings: “Yo. Yogee. Wayyup, Yogi. Umbag. Peas, Yogi, wayyup!”
Loki leaped out of bed and turned on the lights. He hurried to Thor’s crib, his eyes wide and heart pounding. This wasn’t how his son usually sounded. Something was different.
Thor was standing in his crib and staring up at Loki with watery blue eyes, stretching his arms toward him needfully.
He looked just like his father in his last moments alive.
“Yogi. Bag, Yogi.” His little hands clenched and unclenched. “Pimme up. Umbag. Missoo, Yogi. Wanu no umbag.”
Loki bent down and picked Thor up—gods, he was getting heavy, he felt so much bigger than yesterday—and nuzzled him, kissed his chubby cheek, brushed aside the golden hair that was almost to his shoulders now.
“What is it, darling? What are you trying to say? What’s bad?”
Thor frowned and tears of frustration leaked from the corners of his eyes. He twisted his mouth and tried again. “No! Um bag,” he insisted. “Eye bag.”
“Eye bag? What bag, Thor? There is no bag.”
“No bag!” Thor whimpered, shaking his head. “Bagk! Bakk, Yoki! Eye’m bakk!”
Loki’s heart turned into a block of ice. There was no mistaking the desperation, the eerie intelligence in his son’s eyes.
Thor was back. The Thor who had been killed in a Cylon attack five months ago. He was reborn. This child Loki held, his child, was his own adoptive brother.
And his reincarnated lover.
Loki managed to set Thor down and take two breaths before everything went black. He hit the floor in a dead faint, Thor wailing his name and begging for him to wayyup.
In the following weeks, Thor’s vocabulary increased at a remarkable rate, as did his height and weight. He struggled to explain himself as his speech improved a little each day.
“I don’t remember dying,” he mumbled, concentrating on his crayon drawing of Asgard while Loki sat and watched numbly from the side. “I know I was in a big ship and then after a while everything went fuzzy-black, like going asleep. Then I was in the dark for a long long time. Then the dark went away and I saw you, Loki. Now I’m starting to remember everything again.”
He pressed down too hard and accidentally broke his crayon. Tears filled his eyes and he started to snivel. Loki leaned in to comfort him.
In another month, Thor was a pubescent boy in the midst of his first growth spurt. It was an awful time for him as well as Loki.
He lay awake at night and cried, agonized by growing pains, huddled up against the body he had once wanted—and repeatedly tried—to impregnate. Loki soothed him with soft words and massaged Thor’s legs, applied warm rags and numbing lotions, all while trying to ignore his own pain and discomfort. Thor had grown so rapidly that Loki’s body still thought it had a baby to feed, and though Thor had outgrown his need for milk, Loki continued to lactate. His small breasts were full and heavy and tender, and the sound of Thor’s plaintive whimpers made him leak uncontrollably. He had to wear a wide, padded band inside his shirt at night to keep from soaking his clothes and the sheets, but that only treated the symptom, not the cause.
It would stop soon, the medics assured him.
Not soon enough, as far as Loki was concerned.
One night after Thor had fallen asleep beside him, Loki opened his shirt and removed his band, allowing himself a brief respite from being confined all day. He nodded off only to wake some time later with Thor clinging to him, his mouth on his left breast, quietly nursing. The boy was half asleep, lured by the scent and warmth of his mother, drawing out the milk that was causing Loki so much pain.
It was both natural and unnatural, terribly wrong and yet biologically understandable. To Loki, it was nothing but a relief. He sighed and shifted, which caused Thor to lift his head and retreat with a guilty look.
“Oh, no, darling,” Loki whispered, “it’s alright. Please, don’t stop. You’ve no idea how much this helps me.”
After a brief hesitation, Thor shyly latched on to Loki’s nipple again and resumed suckling.
Loki shut his eyes and sifted his fingers through Thor’s soft blond hair, letting him take as much as he wanted.
It seemed to help with the growing pains. Thor went back to breastfeeding after that night, and he never experienced them again.
Loki’s milk helped Thor so much that he could find no logical reason to stop nursing. A few moral reasons, sure, but these were strange and desperate times. What harm could there be in something that was so mutually beneficial?
He fed Thor twice a day for the next three months, until the boy became an adolescent and soft whiskers began to appear on his chin and upper lip, his limbs lengthening and his body turning lean and hard and angular. He grew strong and tall, nourished by Loki’s continued care. His appreciation for his mother/brother deepened as his mind and emotions matured.
“This is what saved me,” Thor murmured in his newly-broken voice, squeezing Loki’s breast and licking away the creamy white bead that formed on his nipple. “Your love. Your body. It kept me safe when I was small and helpless. It fed me when I was hungry. It protected me. It kept me warm. I am so grateful to you, Loki. Brother… life-giver… mother.”
Loki tried not to dwell on it. Thor was doing him a service, and he was helping Thor stay healthy in this uncertain, unstable time of few rations and even fewer commodities.
But sometimes Thor’s mouth wandered. Sometimes he would drowsily drag his tongue across Loki’s chest, suck his clavicle, lick his throat, nuzzle his neck, tease his saliva-softened nipples with his fingers until they were drenched with milk. His hands began exploring Loki’s body, refamiliarizing themselves with his lover’s shape, petting his sides, his hips, pushing down Loki’s trousers to caress his bare belly.
“This is where I came from,” he said once, his blond hair spilling over his broadening shoulders as he pressed his hand into Loki’s soft, striated abdomen. “I was remade right here, inside of you, Loki. I don’t know how or why, but I think perhaps we are immortal now. You are my eternity, my passage back to life. As long as you live, so shall I, and I will protect you with every new life that you give me.”
It was a disturbing development when Loki began to experience sensations of arousal from Thor’s feedings and increasingly earnest fondling. At first he tried to suppress them, biting the inside of his mouth or clenching his fists until his nails dug into his palms and left purple crescents behind. It was easy enough to conceal the wetness that seeped from his excited cunt and left greasy slicks in his underwear, but hiding his erection was another matter.
Apparently he wasn’t the only one experiencing this sort of problem.
One night Thor sat up with a helpless snarl and reached into the front of his own trousers, jerking them open and baring his fully-erect cock. He grasped it in his fist, shut his eyes, and began to pump.
“I’m sorry, Loki,” he panted raggedly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t help… oh, Loki-!”
Loki could only stare, stupefied, as his son—no, his lover, his lover—groaned and poured himself all over the belly that had once carried him.
Things changed after that.
Thor was a man now, a young one, certainly, but he was growing fast and his appetites were growing with him. Loki was having trouble keeping up, emotionally speaking. It was all happening so fast. It seemed like only a few months ago he was changing soiled nappies and singing his little baby to sleep.
No, not “seemed”. That was exactly what Loki had been doing a few months ago. And now his little Thor was bigger than he was, had two eyes again, was unscarred and unshorn, healthier and stronger than he had ever been, and he was waking up all the sexual desires in Loki that motherhood had temporarily put to sleep.
“I remember this place,” Thor uttered, smiling as he cupped the gentle mound below Loki’s drooling cock. He wiggled his fingers between the soft, warm lips and slipped into the wet hole through which he had both come and gone. “I was dead and then you gave me life. Through this. I love you so much for doing that, Loki. You have no idea.”
Loki never mentioned that it wasn’t really his choice, that he hadn’t had a say in being the instrument of Thor’s resurrection. But no mother—or brother, or lover—would bring that up now. What good would it do? At least Thor seemed to be certain of his feelings. Loki, on the other hand, was confused by the conflicting array of love that he felt: maternal love for his son, fraternal love for his brother, and sexual desire for his lover—the man he wanted to father his child, not be his child.
He didn’t know what to do. There was nothing he could do. Through some twisted design of fate, this was their life now. This was their lot. This was how the King of Asgard would live forever—through his adopted brother’s womb.
Less than ten months after his birth, Thor was fucking the very orifice that had brought him back into the world. And Loki, repressing the memories of a toddling child who had hugged his neck and called him mómmi, spread his legs and encouraged him.
“You are so amazing,” Thor murmured as he rocked his hips rhythmically back and forth, watching his cock disappear and reappear through the pretty pink slit that would never be quite as tight as it once was. “So incredible, Loki. Taking me like this after you delivered me from death. My sweet mother. You were so good to me. Now I can return the favor. Now I can take care of you…”
He grasped Loki’s hips and groaned, thrusting deep, and Loki felt the warmth of Thor’s seed spreading inside him. He came from the sensation of that alone, his sheath contracting and squeezing, pulling Thor’s semen deeper inside him. Perhaps it would take root and they would grow a child of their own. Or perhaps it was Loki’s destiny to birth only his brother, to beget him in his belly whenever he died and deliver him, raise him, and watch him die again in a never-ending cycle.
It was a painful way to achieve immortality, but it was better than the alternative, Loki thought, moaning as Thor lowered his head and clasped his lips to his aching breast. His eyelids fluttered as he felt Thor’s tongue stroke his nipple, drawing out the first warm mouthful.
Any sort of life, no matter how strange, was better than being dead.