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A Deep Itch to Scratch

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Compared to his fellow Asgardians, Loki has always been a subtle creature, calculating and coy. While the average man in their society typically deals with lust by storming into the feasting hall after a battle, hot-blooded and boasting, flexing his muscles and roaring with laughter as he boisterously declares his intention to ride the first maid he can find until her back is broken…that is not Loki’s way. At such displays, he only rolls his eyes. Though if he is in a slyer mood he may begin loudly countering the talk with his own remarks; that he’s heard the speaking warrior, in truth, needs to go to Nidavellir for bearded women are the only ones that will willingly lay with him, that his manhood is not even half the size he is claiming, that he is so lackluster in bed that his own wife prefers kissing girls, and so on.

 

The less observant mutter that Loki must be coldblooded, chaste; that he knows not even what arousal is. But just because he does not show his attractions in public and does not brag of his conquests after, does not mean Loki doesn’t have them. His manner in both pursuit and capture, so to speak, is as concealed and careful in lovemaking as in all other aspects of his life – and also just as artfully practiced.

 

Still. It is true, that while his brother, their companions, and just about every other male on their world could complain of being hot and bothered almost any night of their life, Loki has always been able to make a little satisfaction go a long way. He watches and waits, plucks a perfect opportunity off the vine like a ripened fruit, and then goes on his merry way, well aware he will be content in body and mind for quite some time.

 

At least that is the way that things always have been. But recently, very suddenly, something has changed.

 

It’s a feeling inside of him in some deep down place he can’t reach. Above it, his skin tingles and itches. His body feels warm, so warm; too warm, uncomfortably so. He feels out of sorts, distracted - so very unlike himself it’s frustrating, unnerving. It’s a feeling like something is stuck in his throat that he can’t rid himself of no matter how he swallows, his mouth gone dry.

 

Only it isn’t his throat, it’s his whole body. His muscles are taut. His blood rushes so he can feel it by merely pressing a finger to a vein. He can taste his own pulse. Every sense is heightened to hyper-sensitivity, and he finds himself watching those around him with a wired desperation he hasn’t known since adolescence. His eyes linger over the curves of shapely legs and arms and the pale flush of an exposed neck.

 

He has, to put it bluntly, sex on the brain. On his skin, in his pores, on the tip of his tongue like some dish he is craving for.

 

And it will not go away.

 

No one finds anything odd, that Loki sits in a crowded room acting as if he is leagues away from those around him, something on his mind that locks his mouth into silence; everything about him completely still save for his gleaming eyes, which take in everything with a sharp cool ferocity. He has always been the sort to stay quiet and observe. And if anyone would’ve expected by now that he would have broken in with clever words or a new jest, well. The longer period of restraint just means that the wheels are spinning especially hard with the complexities of a scheme.

 

Oh, if only. The fact of the matter is Loki is feeling so wanton and distracted that he, of all people, literally cannot think.

 

With each day the situation does not pass but somehow manages to grow worse. Carrying on conversations has become difficult. He cannot focus on his reading. Sleep is getting harder and harder to reach at night, and he finds himself tossing and turning between the sheets, rubbing his body against the mattress in an instinctive desire to find friction and solace, but it is never, ever enough. He abandons the sparring ring completely, though he snubs that so often anyway that nobody even misses him. Using his magic is challenging – the art of sorcery demands focus, the ability to channel his energy, and he struggles to do that when so much of his energy is currently tied up in nameless lust.

 

He has no appetite in this state. But he gives himself an extra serving of dessert at dinner, purposefully getting honey on his fingers so that he can place them inside his mouth and suck, fingernails scraping the flat edge of his incisors. Loki is a creature of habit. His particular style has several refined specific techniques, so that he will always associate sex with teeth and hands.

 

He blames his brother, he decides, after a long period of fretful pondering. Thor’s coronation looms near, and Loki is well aware soon he must figure out how to stop it and set whatever plan he makes into motion. The small betrayal will only delay the inevitable, but he hopes delay is all that is needed. Maybe in another century or two Thor will have grown up more, and he can become king without Loki fearing he’ll destroy himself in the process and take them all with him.

 

Clearly, all the worrying about Thor has set him on edge, his body channeling the stress into this bizarre physical tension. He needs to rid himself of it, and fast, so he can clear his mind and get back to doing what needs to be done.

 

Taking himself in hand doesn’t help. The release is fleeting, unsatisfactory. The burning in his flesh only becomes more maddening, the pit in his stomach growing deeper and wider as he craves another’s touch.

 

In the middle of the day Loki slinks to the public bathhouse. Alone he sulks in icy water up past his neck, trying to literally drown his misery. It washes the feeling of sweat off his skin, cools him, but he’s unable to relax. The temperature makes an erection almost physically impossible but he can feel the slow throbbing in his manhood that means it’s only a matter of time.

 

He needs to lay with someone. Someone he can bed quickly, with little effort, for right now he is in no state to perform a proper seduction.

 

But that approach has risks, for he also needs a decent fuck, if he has any hope of getting this out of his system in a single blow. And it’s a little hard to get a measure of someone when you’re attempting a grab and run.

 

Fandral, he decides abruptly, licking his teeth inside closed lips. Loki makes it a point to hear everything, for he never knows what might come in use – and for all of Fandral the Dashing’s swagger, there are others beside him eager to comment on his prowess. One might say he comes highly recommended. And while he only brags about the women, Loki knows he’ll take a man on occasion.

 

He and the warrior have never as much as locked eyes meaningfully before. But it’s easy to note Fandral is a man so readily and eagerly bedded, all a serving girl has to do is wink.

 

And for once, fortune surely smiles on Loki. For even as he’s settling the thoughts in his mind, the door swings open – in strides Fandral, whistling obliviously as he rids himself of armor and clothes.

 

The water conceals Loki’s smirk. He glides forward like a predator in the deep.

 

Fandral is still whistling as he approaches the tap, clad only in a towel. Loki tingles as he drinks in an eyeful of toned polished muscles and purposefully tanned skin. Vanity does have its occasional benefits.

 

He steals a glance around, already knowing they’re alone.

 

“Washing up after your exercise, Fandral?”

 

The addressed comes close to giving a decidedly unmanly shriek.

 

Loki! Honestly, friend, you know how I feel about you sneaking up on a fellow like that,” Fandral chides, shaken, but he’s grinning with an attempt at good humor as he says it. He makes a point of keeping his gaze at the level of Loki’s eyes, but otherwise is unconcerned by their shared nudity.

 

“My apologies.” Loki moves closer so that their arms are almost touching and still Fandral doesn’t blink. He just stands there, hands on his hips, smiling the same blank smile.

 

But Loki smiles slowly, eyelids lowering as he continues, “But you know, in truth, I’m not really all that sorry.”

 

“Oh?” Fandral huffs, chuckling absently. “And why is that?”

 

“Maybe I wanted to see you flinch.” There’s a low meaningfulness in his tone as Loki says it. He reaches out, fingers curling in Fandral’s beard to give it a careful tug. “There’s just something about watching you…flinch.”

 

Fandral’s mouth drops open slightly. He blinks at him, agog. “I…er, beg pardon?” His voice is strained and cracks, just a bit.

 

Loki steps in against him. Their hips bump – it sends a much-desired shiver up Loki’s spine, and he rests a hand on Fandral’s shoulder. Knuckles tightening, he strokes collarbone with his thumb. His other hand goes lower, much lower. Fandral instinctively puts his hands up, bracing them against the middle of Loki’s abdomen. His towel drops to the floor.

 

“What are you doing?” Fandral demands hoarsely. His eyes are wide; bewildered, maybe even frightened.

 

Loki leans even further forward so their eyes match and the heat of his breath ghosts on Fandral’s skin. He watches the way it makes the other man shiver. “Can it not be obvious, what I want? What I’m intending?”

 

Loki enunciates his words carefully, so that lips move slow and teeth show more than briefly. He inflects so his tongue curves, tip brushing the edge of his mouth. Fandral watches every motion, hypnotized.

 

“Does Fandral the Dashing, of all people, need instruction in how to read the signs?”

 

“This is,” Fandral manages to drag his eyes away to meet Loki’s, “highly unlike you.”

 

Loki allows himself a thin smile. “You think I’m frigid. Just as everyone else does.”

 

“No!” Fandral exclaims instantly, eyes widening with the fear of offending a prince. Then he fumbles backward, “I mean, well, yes. I mean – I don’t know. You never talk about-” He trails off with a flustered wave of one arm.

 

Loki grabs his bicep and Fandral stops moving. He doesn’t resist as Loki pulls his arm closer, as Loki gently cups the curve of his palm in his and then slides his mouth over Fandral’s thumb.

 

Loki closes his eyes, savoring the taste and feel as his lips glide against skin. He feels the water falling in steady droplets off his own wet hair, down his back.

 

When he is finished he opens his eyes again and says, “I am not. Frigid.”

 

Fandral opens and closes his mouth several times before going, “I can see that.”

 

He seems to forget his hand is still in Loki’s grasp or at least makes no attempt to remove it. “You must admit though, you’ve picked a…an odd time for showing it.”

 

“How so?” Loki murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “You’re here, and so am I…and no one else is.”

 

“What, you mean – right here?” Fandral looks around, distracted. “Right now?” He cuts off with an inhale, almost a gasp, as Loki’s grip tightens around his cock.

 

“Am I intruding on your careful schedule?” Loki remarks, hushed, as he touches Fandral with hard careful strokes, and rubs against his body, grinding. “Perhaps you intended to use this time for polishing your armor. Or combing your hair. If so, by all means, I apologize for interrupting-”

 

“Heavens, man, I haven’t even washed yet!” Fandral exclaims in a choked manner, trying to laugh and succeeding in only making an odd sound instead.

 

“Good. I like the sweat.” His free hand goes to the back of Fandral’s neck, fingertips pressing down, nails digging, just enough as a promise. “I like the smell of you.” He breathes in deep; he isn’t lying. This is feeding his arousal in nearly unbearable pleasure. “The musk.”

 

There’s only so much Fandral and his very prim, very feeble sense of self-control can take. A sound escapes his throat that is both growl and whine as his hips start bucking against Loki’s hand.

 

He makes to grab for Loki’s waist, stepping forward – and Loki gives in more easily than he was expecting, allowing the other man to lift him right off of the ground. He lets go of Fandral’s cock, bracing his hand on one shoulder.

 

He admires briefly just how very nice a figure Fandral cuts. His trim waist, the muscles of his stomach. Those legs. Those arms. His coiffed hair and well-groomed mustache, currently somewhat lank and loose with heat and sweat. Those very broad shoulders, put to good use by the deft, expert strokes of his sword.

 

But Loki has no time to take in the view. His body is screaming at him, this close to what he’s been thirsting for without end the past few days. His nerves are alive, every touch giving him bliss even as it makes that voice inside plead, More, please, so close.

 

Fandral stumbles forward, off-balance. Loki is taller than he, but he’s also flexible. He slides a leg up, calf braced against Fandral’s shoulder, his back colliding with the wall. He grabs a shelf above his head to hold onto, bottles and pots crashing to the tile at Fandral’s feet down below.

 

“Go on,” Loki breathes, as much a command as it is entreaty. “Go on. I want…I need…”

 

“By the nine skies, what has gotten into you?” Fandral groans, as aroused as he is overwhelmed. He stares up at Loki, his writhing, trembling body, the way he’s offering himself to him. He looks and sounds more than a little unsettled.

 

“I know what I want, that’s all,” Loki manages, voice sticking in his throat out of pure frustrated longing. “I know that you want to give it me.”

 

For a moment Fandral is uneasy again. “If your brother ever found out-”

 

But Loki cuts him off, grabbing the back of his head as he leans forward with a hiss. “Thor isn’t here.”

 

It’s good enough for Fandral. With some dexterous maneuvering he manages to get Loki into position, teeth set, mouth parting as he enters him.

 

Loki is still wet from his bath and he clenches tight, reveling in the friction. His head tilts upward, neck and back arching, eyes fluttering closed.

 

“Oh.” It escapes him as a soft moan, almost too quiet to be heard. But he seems to lose control of his voice, it now attached to whatever part of him is controlled by his desperate desire, and as Fandral fucks him, steady and hard and good, against the wall, his words fly out in a keen: “Oh. Yes. Please.

 

He leaves a scratch, not quite enough to draw blood, down the upper part of Fandral’s back. Fandral laps his tongue around one nipple, then bites the erect nub. He presses his fingers into Loki’s stomach just below his ribs. He kisses then nips then sucks at a sensitive area beside his throat.

 

Loki’s knuckles twine in the hair at the nape of Fandral’s neck.

 

“Almost…almost…more…” he gasps. “Don’t stop…don’t stop…don’t stop…!”

 

Fandral is groaning, panting, body shuddering as he holds not the slightest bit back, pounding into Loki with all that he’s got. Spots dance in Loki’s eyes, the sensations turning into a white hot void that threatens to swallow him. He wants it to. He’s almost there; he can feel it, the looming ecstasy of release.

 

So close, so close, please…yes…!

 

He comes all over Fandral’s stomach with a sharp, bitten-off cry, just moments before Fandral finally does.

 

Fandral wheezes, and barely manages not to drop him. Loki slides off of him and then down, holding on until he’s certain he’s able to stand.

 

They linger in that position, both catching their breath, hands resting against one another’s upper bodies.

 

As he recovers, Fandral chuckles, and he lifts his head to look Loki in the eye. “Not bad,” he professes, in a tone of supreme understatement. “Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

 

Loki blinks – and then shrugs. Still reeling from afterglow, he hardly spares a thought for anything outside the wonderful vague almost-quiet in his head. “Maybe,” he offers, indifferent.

 

Fandral looks hurt, but mostly confused. He lets go and pulls back, and when Loki walks away (limping slightly) he doesn’t follow.

 

They wash up at opposite ends of the bathhouse, in complete silence, not looking at one another.

 

Loki dresses and leaves, not sparing a glance behind him as he thinks in relief, Glad that’s over with. Now he can finally get on with planning. Back to his life.

 

Except as he rests in the library, examining a book on the ancient forgotten pathways of Yggdrasil, the rush of pleasure and satisfaction that comes in the aftermath of sex swiftly fades. And as it does, he feels his skin start to prickle again, heat and arousal sweeping over it.

 

As he sits there stiff with disbelief, he still senses the same warmth and need and restless craving slowly but undeniably begin to build all over again.