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Another Love

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It all starts with Loki. And ends with Loki.

* * *

His hands, his voice, the shadows that the eyelashes cast on his pale cheekbones. His fingers, long and skilled. His teasing touches. His smirk that always has a hint of a real mirth behind it.

* * *

It starts and ends with Loki.

(But never lasts.)


Sif is first. Not the first, but first after. Instead of. In the place of. In substitution for.

She is sweet. Not too sweet, just the right amount. She can tear him to pieces on the training ground and cast her eyes down in a shy flirtation with an equal amount of sincerity.

She knows him, like the back of her hand, like the hilt of her sword. Or so she thinks.

* * *

She kicks Fandral in the shin and he falls, whining, on the sandy floor of a training ring. She then turns to Thor and truly beams, every time so proud of her victories (that now so countless but still so precious). He smiles at her with just his lips, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

She doesn’t notice.

(He hoped, she would.)

* * *

“Oh, Thor.” she says, her hand on his forearm, her fingers moving lightly on his overheated skin. He doesn’t move away, she does move closer. “It was indeed a fine battle. Though you needn’t have to be a hero again and singlehandedly scatter the whole platoon. Now Fandral has nothing to brag about.”

She uses Fandral’s name a lot these days, and he doesn’t know if it is meant to hurt him or to encourage. It doesn’t do either, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

* * *

One day he hugs her. Or more like crashes into her arms with all his weight, burying his face into her silky smooth neck. She smells of daffodils and sweat, of sun heated steel and something so sickeningly familiar, that he has to take the next breath through his mouth, not being strong enough just yet to pull away. Her fingers find their way into his tangled hair, play idly with the braid behind his right ear, massage in passing his nape.

“Come to me tonight, Thor.” Sif whispers in his ear, her breath hot and almost branding. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

Thor doesn’t come to her, instead he wields his Mjolnir, lifts himself from the ground and spends the next three years roaming the mountains of Vanaheim. Not that he has any particular reason to do so.

She has been waiting forever, his wait has just begun.

(Besides, it would be dishonorable to fuck your sister-in-arms.)

(Sometimes he still regrets not doing it, but just barely.)


Ah, Jane. If Loki had met her, he’d say that Thor is going soft.

(He is.)

Though he can’t imagine how could anyone go harder than Loki.

Jane is smart. And beautiful. She has sunshine trapped in her hazel eyes, she hides daggers on the tip of her tongue. She tucks stray strands of her hair behind her ear and smiles shyly, almost nervously. And then she takes the world to pieces, molecule by molecule.

He can’t take his eyes off of her.

* * *

He kisses her when she least expects it.

Why, it’s been so long, this whole courtship, almost inappropriately so. He was a gentlemen, brushing his lips over the tips of her fingers in greeting; always bowing his head and pulling out a chair for her; carrying heavy things and helping her into her jacket. So polite and sometimes a little impersonal.

(Unlike Sif, she might’ve noticed.)

He kisses her anyway.

Her lips taste of ashes.

* * *

He saves her. More than once. He saves her world. More than once.

He crafts lightnings for her to study. He calls the thunder to make her laugh.

He pours the rain on her just to see the fine lines of her body emphasized by the wet textile of her clothing. He sees, she doesn’t mind.

* * *

He calls for Bifrost once and takes her to see Nine Realms. Not all of them, of course, but some. He puts his cloak over her shoulders and dances with her under Asgard stars. Later that night he kisses milky skin of her inner thigh and has to fight the urge to sink his teeth in it.

He wins.

(And he losses, because now he knows that the urge is still within him.)

He kisses her whole body, licks it, ruins it in the gentlest way. She moans and blushes prettily, runs her fingers through his hair but never pulls .

(He doesn’t mind.)

Even after he spends all night familiarizing himself with her folds and lines, she still tastes of ashes.


Amora comes the closest.

Where Jane was soft and pliant, Amora kicks and bites.

Where Jane was rational and practical, Amora acts on impulse (that impulse usually being to kill first and to think later).

Where Jane was kind and empathetic, Amora breaks and hurts.

Where Jane was a creator, Amora is a destroyer.

* * *

There is something in her that makes him draw her closer. Pull her hair, smash their lips together. Squeeze his thigh between her legs and grind. Hard.

She moans and drags her sharp nails over his bare back, leaving long bloodied scratches behind.

(For a second it feels almost familiar.)

She tastes of iron and mead, no tricky undertones, no delicious hints.

(No ashes either.)

He spends the next five years running away. Hiding in caverns of Svartalfheim and in forests of Alfheim. It doesn’t really help, but it’s nice to finally have some kind of purpose.

He kills her in the end.

(Not that he was planning on it.)

She falls from the cliff, her chest smashed with the blow of his hammer.

(For a second it feels almost familiar too.)


Now that is funny.

Hilarious. In a hysterical way.

* * *

She is tall, blue, with ruby eyes and intricate horns.

She grabs his heart and holds it steady in her beautiful fingers. She beams at him and says such dangerous words as fate and future and together.

He gives her that smile, the one without actual mirth in it. She just laughs and tugs at the stray strand of his hair.

He moves away from her touch, ever polite and so impersonal. She hugs him fiercely, alines her body with his, hiding his face in her perfectly round breasts, barely covered with furs.

He snarls at her, baring his teeth and immediately feeling that excruciating pain under his ribs at the familiarity of this expression, that rearranges his features. She wipes off a strand tear that runs down his cheek and promises him the world .    

* * *

It doesn’t last.

(It never lasts, remember?)

* * *

She speaks of children, of home, of love. He can just bow his head and look away.

She wants a future, their future to come true. He wants the past become his present .

* * *

He leaves. She doesn’t stop him.

Loki (again)

He is the same. Loki is the same as Thor remembers him.

Yes, his hair is longer and his fake golden horns are somehow bigger, but he is the same.

Mother says something about insanity in his eyes; about torture, pain and the impact of such monstrosity on his soul; about the difference in his posture, the confidence that borders on arrogance, that wasn’t there before.

Father says something about greed and birthrights; about long forgotten deeds and baby icicles; about trust and power, and responsibility, and the lack of all that.

It’s lost on Loki, all of it, Thor sees it.

The twinkle in his eyes that promises both pain and pleasure in equal amount. The strain in his shoulder, the tension of his muscles. The little twitch of his left hand, the one that doesn’t clench that hideous staff of his.

(Maybe, Mother sees it too, for she turns away too swiftly, covers her mouth with her hand too promptly, swallows her sobs too heartily.)

(Maybe, Father sees it too, for he stops mid sentence, the manner so unlike him, fidgets , rolls his shoulders and shifts his gaze abruptly.)   

Thor can’t get enough.

* * *


* * *

It’s easy to remember, to start over.

(Can one start over something that has never really stopped?)

* * *

Thor’s hands are on Loki’s shoulders before the doors of his chambers slam shut behind them. Loki’s nails (sharp like his daggers) tear at the skin of Thor’s back not the minute later.

Thor sinks his teeth into milky skin of Loki’s thigh, savoring the salty taste and leaving purple marks (there was a time when Loki would spend decades without the pattern of Thor’s markings ever completely fading from his body).

Loki’s fingers dig into tight muscles of Thor’s bare shoulders, leaving scratches, drawing blood (again) and then bury into Thor’s hair and pull .

It’s all moans and kisses after. And heavy thrusts. And bites, and angry marks, and bloodied fingertips.  

* * *


* * *

And Thor suddenly remembers what it's like: to breath . To live. To have a purpose.

(Then, of course, he remembers what it's like: to yell, to scream until it hurts. To clench his fists in desperation. To lash out and be dragged away.)

* * *

“Finally, the brother I know. As much as I enjoyed seeing the lack of your almightiness, it started to get boring. Besides, the look of a kicked puppy has never actually suited you, despite what Mother says.”  

* * *

It is the same and not the same at once.

When they are alone, Loki slaps him, kisses him, stabs him, straddles him.

When they are alone, Loki spreads him out on silky sheets, sinks onto his cock and carves his own name on Thor’s chest.

(It’s bloody. It hurts. Thor groans and comes in just two thrusts, buried deep in Loki’s body. Loki doesn’t seem to mind.)

When they are alone, Loki speaks of fate and future and together , and Thor wishes (though silently) that he would carve those words on his skin too.

When they are not alone, Loki sneers and snarls and smirks, being impossible and irresponsible and insufferable.

For some reason, Father allows it.

For some reason, Mother doesn’t do anything to stop it.

And Thor just licks his lips and grins.

(And then, of course, goes and destroys the enemies of Asgard, Loki at his side again.)

* * *

“Have you been with anyone while I was away, brother? Why, you must’ve gotten lonely at least once.”

“It has always been about you, Loki.”

* * *

(And it always will be.)