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sentimental savages

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“Dad’s coming to visit this weekend,” Hel begins, snagging a grape off of Loki’s plate.

The ceramic clatters awkwardly against the faux-granite in Loki’s kitchen, and Hel stabilizes it with a fluidity borne of extensive practice.

“Always wondered how you were so damn good at playing when you were always such a klutz,” Hel says affectionately, and Loki tucks his hands underneath his armpits for warmth.

Hel ruffles his hair, big hand enclosing Loki’s skull, and he nuzzles into it out of habit.

“On Friday?” Loki asks, green eyes narrowed.

Hel nods, raising his legs so that he can stuff them underneath Loki’s thighs.

“You’re built like a ballerina,” Hel sighs, and Loki smiles, ducking his head so that his hair fans out against the backside of the couch.

His apartment smells like Thor’s cooking--leftover tikka masala that was surprisingly spicy.

“You know we enrolled you,” Hel teases, rubbing his hand over his full stomach.

Loki hums, wrapping his arms around his chest. It’s easy to pretend it’s just he and Hel, just as it was during childhood, ten years between them.

“You what?” Loki asks, and Hel grunts, spreading his arms wide in invitation. Loki squeals as cold toes dig into the soft give of his flesh and he topples into his brother’s shoulder, chest to chest.

Hel tugs him half into his lap and smiles into his hair.

“In ballet class. You were six,” Hel says, and Loki wrinkles his nose.

“I don’t remember that,” Loki says, and Hel’s body trembles with suppressed laughter.

“You were mad because you’d just learned the Hungarian Waltz,” Hel says. “You quit after two months. You were such a fucking clumsy kid. One big bruise, especially in those leotards.”

Loki’s fingers tighten against his ribcage, a steepled dagger.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hel says, pressing a careless kiss against Loki’s scalp. “You were a beautiful ballerina.”


Hel meets Thor on accident, the day before their father comes into town.

Loki doesn’t sleep well alone, never has, and so Hel answers Loki’s door when it rings.

Loki’s asleep on the couch, missing the warmth from Hel’s body, and he sits up when he hears Thor’s cadence beyond Hel’s suspicious overtures.

“You’re the boyfriend?”

Loki drags his blanket around his neck and rubs the side of his fist against his eye.

“I know Father never got us a pet, Hel, but you’d make a horrible attack dog.”

Hel doesn’t even bother to turn around, angling his palm backwards in a futile attempt to rest it atop Loki’s disheveled hair.

Loki is still considerably shorter than both Hel and Thor, who are almost of a height.

Loki angles his head so that it curves under Hel’s hand and grins up at Thor.

“Thor,” he says, and Thor meets his gaze with a half-smile.

“Darlin,’” Thor says, and Hell’s fingers flatten in irritation.

“Hel,” Loki says, and Thor crosses too-big arms across his barrel chest.

Loki leans into Thor’s space inadvertently, and it’s only Hel’s presence that holds him steady.

“This is my older brother, Helblindi,” Loki offers, and Hel sighs in irritation.

“It’s a family name,” Hel says, tugging Loki into his side like a barnacle.

Thor smiles, one of his real ones, even if a bit less broad than the ones Loki gets to see regularly.

“Loki’s an fucking awful cook,” Thor says with no preamble. “I just dropped by to see if he was eating.”

Hel barks out a laugh and Loki’s ears warm. “He said his boyfriend made dinner last night, so it’s nice to put a face to the name.”

Thor raises a brow, but the expression is fluid as water; it disappears almost instantaneously.

“Clearly, my little brother’s got you wrapped around his finger,” Hel says, and Loki stiffens against him.

Hel makes no move to invite Thor inside, and Thor straightens to his full height.

“Makes two of us, then,” Thor says, and it’s finally Loki’s turn to laugh.


Hel leaves after dinner on Friday, a flight booked to California for a conference.

He kisses Loki’s brow and his face twitches minutely as he looks down, hand tightening on Loki’s cheek.

“You’re doing okay up here, right?” Hel’s fingers are warm and Loki blinks slowly, even as Father sits at Loki’s desk on his Mac, typing at a methodical 180wpm.

“I’m okay,” Loki says, thinking of Thor’s thighs and his arms, the way he murmurs Loki’s name when Loki wakes up sweating from a nightmare.

Hel flips his wrist up, watch face visible.

“I gotta go, Lo,” Hel says, tweaking his nose at the old rhyme.

“Dad,” Hel says, one hand still on Loki’s shoulder. “I’m headed out. I’ll call you when I land,” Hel pauses, and their father does as well, turning around just enough to catch sight of his children.

“Don’t forget to email the letter of allotment. I want this done before Tuesday.” Their father nods at Hel and Hel nods back, and then Loki’s brother is gone, a waft of cologne in his wake.

The shivering begins.

“Come here.”

Father is still typing but it’s slower than usual, and Loki comes as he’s bade, lights swimming before his eyes.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

Loki is not expected to answer, and he tucks his fists underneath his armpits and locks his knees.

Father turns fully, closing his laptop with a soft click.

“Let me look at you, then,” he says, and he spreads his knees so that Loki is forced to step in between his legs.

“You never looked anything like me,” he says after a moment, and Loki resists the urge to make a sound, noise trapped behind a closed throat.

“She wanted you, more than anything. Maybe more than Hel,” Father continues, and Loki’s eyes flutter shut. It’s been so long and it’s always the same. How is it always the same?

His shirt rises, a soft brush of cotton against a concave abdomen and he bites down on his lower lip as one-two-three knuckles slide across flesh, nodules of bone.

“Do you miss her?”

Loki’s eyes open, pupils dilated. He doesn’t know the answer to this.

“Father,” Loki tries, and one hand spans his ribcage, digging in so tightly that it leaves him short of breath.

“I don’t--I don’t know what--”

The shift is minute, like the whistle of displaced air, and Loki stumbles backwards even as his father’s hands catch him around the middle, placing another bruise atop the blossoming merlot on his ribs.

Loki gasps, a stuttered search for a breath, and his father runs his fingers down the starburst, brows lowered.

“You’re my youngest,” he says, thoughtful, and Loki’s face is wet, saline tangled into his hair.

“Come here. Come here. I love you.” His words are slurred and Loki takes a deep breath.


“I’m not using the cane.”

Thor hums noncommittally and hefts the wood in one palm.

“I can have a new one made. I can understand wanting to burn this fucking thing to the ground.”

Loki shrugs, digging four fingers into his shin and pressing down, a blunt trauma.

“I don’t want to use it. It slows me down and I look fucking ridiculous. Let’s go,” Loki says, and Thor catches him by the nape of the neck, a hot brand against skin.


Loki looks away, eyes heavy with tears. He’s going to be late for class and they have a guest pianist.

“Sweetheart, you have to talk to me. This can’t work if you don’t talk to me.”

Loki squirms in his hold, black bun pressing messily against Thor’s fingers.

“Whatever’s going on, you know I’ll handle it--” Thor begins, and he runs a hand through his own hair, eyes slightly frantic. Whatever he must read in Loki’s expression must be disconcerting.

“Daddy,” Loki dry-sobs, the word forced out in desperation.

Thor’s face twists and he leans down, hands settling against Loki’s ribs, dragging him closer. The pain that shoots from the area is blinding, and Loki sags in Thor’s hold, vision swimming.


Loki does not use the cane.


“Strings must have a waiting room,” Loki says without turning, the last note of Träumerei echoing, a warble into the sky.

He deflates after it ends, and the loosening of his spine brings the pain back with such a vengeance that his hands tumble on the keys in order to brace himself, and the sound is clashing.

Aaron is light-footed; he hops quickly onto the platform and lifts Loki by the elbow, drawing him back onto the piano seat.

“I’d rather hear you play,” Aaron says plainly, and Loki stiffens, rubbing his left hand absently against the catch of bone.

“What’s wrong with your stomach?” Aaron asks, and Loki looks up at him, expression dry.

“You try hunching over an instrument for hours and hours and tell me that your body isn’t seven kinds of fucked-up.” Loki stands with Aaron’s help and the man looks at him, expression flat.

“You don’t bend,” Aaron says and Loki is caught unawares as he flips Loki’s shirt up, just a cautionary fraction, but it’s enough for him to see the indigo stain.

Aaron steps back as if he’s been burned and Loki slams down the keylid with more violence than he’s ever shown his favored pastime.

“Don’t touch me,” Loki says, and he reaches for his satchel, cramming superfluous sheet music inside.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything? Loki, I know I’m a fucking--a fucking degenerate sometimes, but I honestly just wanna know you’re doing alright.”

Loki whirls around, the motion tugging at the injury.

“Why? We’re not even friends! I don’t see why you--why you give a fuck. I’m going outside to wait for Thor,” he says, and he suddenly feels listless, brain-dead.

“I can drive you home,” Aaron says, “Anica isn’t here today.”

Loki is already headed toward the double doors, shin aching with a phantom pain.

“My boyfriend is on his way,” Loki says. “I can’t do this right now.”

Aaron stumbles after him, skirting in front of his path and blocking the exit.

“Two seconds,” he breathes, and Loki’s head has a separate pulse from the rest of his body.

“I can take you home. I don’t know what the fuck is going on between you two, but I know what I fucking saw, Loki.”

Loki is already shaking his head, world tilting.

“You don’t understand anything,” Loki breathes. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” He’s shaking harder than he’d like, teeth chattering together, and Aaron advances, mouth pursed.

“I’m not trying to scare you, I swear. I just.” He sighs, bending his head to meet Loki’s height.

“I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

Loki’s face is pale and there’s a moment where he doesn’t recall how to speak, but it passes with the sound of footsteps in the hall.

They’re quick and purposeful and Loki looks up to where Aaron’s still leaned down.

“You--” Loki tries, and the door behind them shoves forward, nearly catching Aaron in the back. He steps out of the way and Thor steps through, momentarily nonplussed as he looks toward Loki’s regular location.

It only takes him a few seconds to make sense of the situation, and Loki’s body hums with unreleased energy.

“I’m done with you,” Thor says, and Loki steps forward, pressing one hand against Thor’s chest.

“Thor. Thor,” Loki says, and Loki can feel the ripple of muscle under his hand, tightly leashed.

“You have two seconds to get the fuck away from him,” Thor says, ignoring Loki entirely, “Or I’ll break every bone in your face.”

Thor’s tone is an approximation of pleasant, the same cadence he offers to grandmothers and big dogs, his voice at night on the phone with his mother.

“As much as you probably like breaking shit,” Aaron says tightly, and Loki turns around, incredulous.

Thor steps bodily between them, and Loki’s head is stuffed with cotton.

“I’m not going unless Loki wants me to.” Aaron is slighter than Thor by a few stones, and Thor laughs, discordant.

“You’re under the impression,” Thor says, “that you have a choice.”

Thor’s hand comes up, settling around Aaron’s neck with practiced ease. His fingers turn bloodless quickly, melding pale, and Aaron’s hands scrabble at the noose of Thor’s hand.

“You piece of goddamn shit. You talk to him because I fucking allow it,” Thor hisses, and Loki can see the tendons on his forearm, standing out in stark relief.

“Thor,” Loki says, not much more than a whisper because he’s so tired, and Thor hesitates, his gaze dispassionate even as Aaron struggles, hands coming up to frame Thor’s immovable wrist.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Thor says, and for a moment no one moves, and Thor releases Aaron’s throat, finger by finger.

Aaron’s cough is dreadful, a wild, unhinged thing, and Loki nods at him from behind Thor’s back.


And he does, unable to defend himself.

It’s very silent for a moment, and Loki doesn’t think either of them is breathing.

“If you want him, I won’t stop you,” Thor says, and his entire body sags, deflated.

“I’m sorry I lost it like that. I tried to ignore it--ignore him, but every time I pick you up he’s always lurking around, waiting for his goddamn chance.”

Thor’s fists clench and Loki steps closer, heart beating wildly.

“You want me?” Loki asks, and Thor turns to face him, incredulous.

“Do I--don’t fuck with me, Lo,” Thor says, and Loki shakes his head, no.

“Daddy,” Loki tries, and Thor grabs both of his wrists in one hand, so tightly that Loki thinks they’ll bruise.

“I always want you to be my baby,” Thor hisses, “but I don’t know what you want.”

Loki can’t speak, and he can’t ask and he arches into Thor’s hold with a shudder.

Thor doesn’t speak, dragging Loki into his chest, and he presses his lips into Loki’s, sealing in his air.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Thor says, and Loki does, leaning into him with no compunction.

“You gonna let me fuck you right here?” Thor asks, and he’s not really requesting permission and Loki knows it, but he nods regardless, hair catching on the sharp stubble on Thor’s chin.

Thor’s moving, swinging them around so that Loki is bracketed to Thor’s body, chest to chest, and Thor has one hand snaked underneath his shirt and down his pants.

It’s a tight squeeze, and Thor can only reach the fleshy upper curve of his ass, but it’s enough, and Loki whines into Thor’s mouth.

There’s nothing in this room of import except the assortment of pianos, highlighted by the concert grand that Loki practices on just before recitals.

It’s deafening, even in a room this large, and Thor knocks his body against the Steinway, and Loki gasps in both shock and arousal.

“T-Thor,” he stutters, useless, even as Thor unbuckles his pants, pulling down his zipper with surprising gentility.

“You can’t afford to break this,” Loki says, his tailbone resting on the edge of satin lacquer.

Thor grunts, wrapping his hand into the hair at the nape of Loki’s hairline. Loki’s head is drawn backwards, his neck a vulnerable arch, and Loki struggles to focus his gaze despite the tears collecting in his vision.

“You don’t know what I’m willing to pay,” Thor says, and Loki feels air hit the wet tip of his dick and he’s blindingly hard.

“I wanna fuck you here,” Thor says, wrapping one hand around his dick, tugging from root to tip, grip so tight it borders on abuse.

“With these big windows, so everybody can look up and see who you call Daddy,” Thor says, and Loki hips corkscrew, balls tight against his body in a forestalled effort to come.

Thor’s fingers slide around, glossing over his taint and hitching up over his hole, an unforgiving rub against puckered skin.

Loki’s pants are tangled around his ankles but he tries to spread his legs wide just the same, humping downwards even though Thor offers him no give.

“You always want me like this,” Loki says, panting. “Me taking your fingers, your tongue, your dick,” he says, and Thor presses closer, still clothed to Loki’s half undressed state.

Thor presses his index up into dry, clingy heat only to remove it, working Loki’s shirt up to his armpits.

Loki has only a very short time to come back to himself, and when he does, Thor is silent.

It’s not an expectant silence, only something heavy and untenable.

Loki doesn’t often look at himself in mirrors, and less whenever his father leaves after a visit.

Thor’s hand hovers over top of the large bruise, shaking as he maintains a careful distance. It’s worse with the shaft of sunlight, a cornucopia of coloring.

Loki inhales sharply and Thor moves his gaze to Loki’s face.

“I’m not asking.”

Thor’s body is more tightly contained than when Aaron was present, and Loki doesn’t know what it says about him that his dick hardens further at the demand in Thor’s tone.

“My father came to visit after Hel left,” Loki sighs, ducking so he’s not obligated to meet Thor’s eyes.

“He was in a good mood,” Loki says, leaning back so that his upper half is supported by the lid.

“He didn’t want to,” Loki slurs, and he wraps one ankle around Thor’s calf as best he can.

Thor doesn’t move for a moment, and then he blankets Loki entirely, trapping his wrists in between their chests.

“Call me Daddy,” Thor says, and Loki mewls, eyes shifting.

“Daddy,” he obliges, and Thor backs up, only to flip Loki onto his stomach, one hand braced against the contusion to soften the impact.

He settles Loki and then removes the hand, unbuckling his own jeans with the other.

Loki can feel how wet he is, mostly ashamed, because he doesn’t know if other boys get as sloppy as he does, dripping and thick from the head.

Thor doesn’t seem to mind, collecting the excess from the crown and reaching between Loki’s cheeks to smear it around his crack, slapping the head of his own dick into the mess.

Loki rises onto his elbows in an attempt to gain enough leverage to push back, and Thor shoves him back down, sternum to black.

“You want me to fuck you open?”

Thor drops to his knees, two hands on either side of Loki’s cheeks and pries him wide, slurping around his hole with no foreplay whatsoever.

He’s already sticky with combined pre-come and he pushes back on Thor’s grip, sliding against the finish.

Thor pulls back, prying Loki’s rim open with the edge of his thumb, just looking.

Loki flushes red and Thor hums with delight.

“I could just fuck up in here,” Thor says, “lick you open and stuff my dick inside til you cried,” Thor says, and Loki hyperventilates, ass shaking as he humps back on nothing.

“Do it,” Loki begs, “C’mon, Daddy, do it, do it, do it,” and all his words slur into nothing, and Thor stands, shoving forward until Loki’s holding Thor’s dick between two soft cheeks and he could die of happiness.

“Fuck me,” Loki whispers, “please, Daddy,” and Thor groans, too loud for this big space.

Loki’s hands are sweaty and they slide against lacquer, smudging the surface.

“You’ll bleed,” Thor admits, and Loki snorts, hot with arousal.

“You can make me bleed, Daddy,” Loki says, delirious. “I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care--”

Thor hushes him, something wet and cumbersome, and Loki keens at the squelch Thor makes when he drags his cock back, catching on Loki’s swollen rim.

“Push it in,” Loki says, and Thor reaches around, one hand around Loki’s neck, a warning squeeze.

Loki’s ribs ache, a forgotten thrum in the haze of want, and Thor reaches beneath him to take hold of his dick, one long stroke.

Loki wants that dick inside so badly he thinks he might be sick, chants Daddy Daddy until Thor shakes him.

“You gonna be good for me?” Thor asks, and Loki is nodding, stupid, hair sweat-stuck to one cheek.

“Yes sir,” Loki says, and Thor grunts, air leaving his lungs with a whoosh.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, and Loki squeezes his eyes shut, winding his hips so he can get that quicksilver sensation on his hole, that wide gape the tip of Thor’s dick provides.

“I’m not giving you this dick right now,” Thor says, and Loki chokes on a disgruntled cry.

“You can come like this, baby,” Thor says, and he screws his thumb deep with no preamble, his cock still hot and hard, and Loki comes with a wail, sticky and long against the floor and his own abdomen.

Loki loves the finger plugging him, and he says so, voice low in his embarrassment.

Thor grunts again, his thumb pulsating around the phantom shivers of Loki’s hole.

“I like it when you’re in me, Daddy,” Loki says, clumsy. “You can do it however you want--” and Loki’s not even trying but that’s enough, because Thor spills all between his cheeks, covering the edge of his own hand, and Loki’s whole body flushes as he thinks about the sticky mess sliding down his crack, warm and thick on his hole.


He doesn’t see Thor for three days.

Loki picks at his cuticles, unwilling to ruin his nails, and Aaron comes by practice once, waiting ostensibly for Anica.

Loki thinks about Thor’s face, the calculated manner in which he’d decided Aaron was an immediate threat, and he chubs right up, his zipper teeth cutting into the swell of his erection.

It’s hard to play any Schumann, soft, mindless romantic pieces that work on muscle memory alone, and Loki stays all night, leaving only when he can no longer move his hands.


When Thor does come, he looks nothing like familiar.

Loki braces himself.


“I need you to know something,” Thor says, and Loki arranges himself on Thor’s couch, spine rigid. It’s hard to resist the urge to crawl into Thor’s lap, and Thor paces for a second before he freezes, eyes fixated on Loki’s larger ones.

Thor tips Loki’s chin up so he can lean down, something like a butterfly kiss between them.

Loki is loathe to release him, after days of radio silence, and he throws his arms around Thor’s neck, already crying, even as Thor tries to pull back.

Thor takes Loki’s weight with him in the retreat, and gives up, picking Loki up with one palm on both cheeks, encouraging Loki to tangle his legs around his waist.

Loki bites his lower lip and Thor sits down where Loki was, one hand braced against the small of Loki’s back.

“You don’t belong to him,” Thor says harshly, and Loki doesn’t have time to react before his brother emerges from Thor’s back room.