The candles had all but burned themselves out, yet the room was not truly dark. Moonlight and starlight and the lights of the third feast in as many nights came in through the tower's wide windows, casting deep shadows. Somewhere out there, Loki supposed, they were celebrating the first day of his trial. Celebrating the beginning of his end.
He let his lips curve up, but otherwise kept quite still, listening to the distant music Asgard's people made - and to the sounds of their perfect golden prince, whose clumsy fingers were having some difficulty with the many fastenings of his finery.
First up against the wall, with him pinned and prone; then in the bath, with him on his knees; and finally in the bed, with him on his back and his legs spread wide to take the last of what even so well-favored a god could give in a single night.
Once, Thor might have been able to dismiss. A dreadful mistake, a moment of confused passion, a lapse in judgment. Once, he might have even been able to forget, someday if not tomorrow. Three times, one right after the other? When each time he had mustered less and less resistance to Loki's charms?
Well. That was not so easily swept away, was it.
The door opened, almost noiseless, but then there was a very long pause, and Loki fancied he could picture Thor lingering dumbly in the doorway, a white-knuckled grip on the latch, attention briefly caught on the bed and on his bared body. Remembering, perhaps.
Cursing himself, and what he had allowed to transpire, almost certainly.
Oh, what Loki would have given then to see the expression on his dearly beloved brother's face - but alas, his part was to feign sleep, exhausted by the pleasure they had taken in each other again and again, so that Thor would be able to slip, without another word, from his cell.
So that Thor would have no choice but to slip, without another word, from his cell. Like a guilty man fleeing the scene of his crime.
Loki held still, luxuriating in the rise and fall of his own chest, the cooling sweat, the exquisite ache that unfurled slowly deep inside him, and Thor's hesitation.
There had been little enough of that in him the last time, hands so large and powerful all but forcing him close, dragging his legs up high over Thor's broad shoulders, bringing their hips together and spearing into him again. For all that he had not, apparently, known what men could do together, the golden god had seemed quite eager to mount him again.
Loki, yes, ah-
Then, finally, the door clicked softly shut, footfalls faded from the staircase beyond, and he was left alone.
Loki waited a moment more, then rolled carefully onto his back and spent some time simply watching the lights and shadows play their way across the ceiling. He contemplated letting real sleep overtake him, but no matter how steady his breathing had become he could not seem to calm his thoughts. They raced and leapt and sang with all he had managed thus far.
Outside his tower, the celebration continued. Inside it, Loki stretched out his limbs one by one, and levered himself upright to survey the damage he had done.
The main room was only ever so slightly worse for wear. His sheets needed changing, of course: rumpled as they were from where he had dug in his heels and arched his back, their already-deep purple darker still with sweat. He could also see a trail to the bed from the adjoining chamber, places where the long ornate rug was damp and twisted, a silk screen beside the door pulled down by Thor's hand when they had struck the wall in a heated tangle of wet naked flesh.
Nothing he could not easily rectify, bound wrists and sealed spells or no.
Loki slung his legs over the side of the bed and brought a hand up to smooth through his hair, feeling the perspiration at his roots and slicking it back into something slightly more presentable. He looked down at himself, taking stock of all the bruises from battle that had so troubled Thor in their bath, and the new ones from passion that he could feel even now forming over the bones of his hips.
And those was not the only marks Thor had left on him. Loki brushed his fingers down over his flat belly, through the streaks of off-white liquid that were now drying there and on his chest, the mess he had made of himself when that last fierce thrust had sent off sparks behind his eyes. The mess Thor had made of him, now drying on the insides of his thighs and deeper between them.
Which mark, Loki wondered idly, would he more regret?
The journey to his feet was slow and steady, taking care to ensure that his legs would support him. Even so they very nearly didn't, and the languorous ache sharpened intimately, his breath catching.
Of course, this was only to be expected. He'd had nothing to prepare him, either time - not against the wall, where he had had to guide Thor into the correct position, and certainly not in the bed, where he had urged more and harder and now. There hadn't been time for the sweet oil he usually favored, or saliva, or even a blunt fingertip to help his body adjust after a year of going almost completely without.
And as much as he'd wanted it, Loki almost hadn't needed preparation. Almost.
Not that he regretted the haste now. Oh, no. The raw intensity, the feeling of being stretched too thin and taken too hard - what pain had come... He would have had his brother no other way.
Something in that line of thought tightened his chest. Loki took a moment more to wet his lips, felt the sting of saliva in their cracks, and smoothed his hair again unnecessarily. Then he moved away from the bed and back into the other room.
All things considered, he rather thought another bath was in order.
But it was a pity about the water. Loki knelt at the edge of the deep-set tub and drained it, watching as the surface rippled and swirled. Hot enough yet for a haze of steam, but no longer quite as... clean as bath water ought to be.
Thor's belly had been taut with breath held, his grip bloodless on the edge of the bath, so much effort in every inch of his tightly-coiled muscle devoted to holding still while Loki took him deeper and deeper into his mouth, lips sheathing teeth, suction sweet to pry each trembling sound from the golden god's throat. Thor had come undone for him.
For an instant, the remaining candlelight caught just so on the remaining bath water, and Loki found himself gazing unblinkingly down at his own distorted reflection. Then the water sank another quarter of an inch, and all he could see was the bottom of the tub.
With a careless flick of his wrist, he turned the spigot and began to fill it again.
The best part had been the expression on his brother's face, all that pleasure and urgent need, when he finally gave in and arched away from the edge of the bath, when his hands were suddenly very much alive and fierce in Loki's hair, digging desperately into his scalp and then plunging down his throat. He had very nearly choked.
Loki ran his tongue over his own teeth, tasting them. Thick, hot, copious, and bitter. He'd swallowed it all, and he very nearly hadn't needed to even touch himself, just a quick tight scrape of fingernail over the sensitive tip of his cock enough to spill his seed, too.
Are we brothers even now, Thor? Everything just like it used to be?
If anything, there were fewer signs in this room of what had happened in it. Only puddles here and there, the largest from when Thor had thrown himself bodily across the space between them like an overgrown child and then somehow Loki had been pinned to his chest and there was warmth, Thor's rambunctious version of affection, unspoiled and shining and impossible and false, and for an instant...
For an instant, even he could almost have believed it.
But he had taken care of that, oh yes. With words and lips and tongue. With the sinuous steps he had taken from the bath, the lingering look over his shoulder that had drawn Thor from it after only a dazed moment's hesitation.
One last piece of driftwood for the fire.
And the knowledge that Thor would find it difficult, if not impossible, to so much as look at him ever again without remembering - that only a flicker of tongue over his lower lip might bring back these memories, that heat - was deeply, darkly satisfying.
With so much to fuel it, the fire would burn brightly, burn Thor, consume the flesh he had so willingly taken into his body again and again. It might even consume him.
Which was, Loki knew now, what he had wanted from this. He had wanted to damage Thor. It almost didn't matter how. Whatever it took to make the perfect golden prince's perfect golden world crumble around him. Whatever it took to shake that sure security in his perfect golden life. Whatever it took to tear apart this illusion.
Because there had never been any coming home, there had never been forgiveness for his sins. Never the open arms of a loving family waiting to embrace him. Only capture, imprisonment, and eventual execution. That was what Thor had brought him.
The tub was full now so Loki reached for the nearest spigot, twisted it to keep the water from overflowing.
Nothing was just like it used to be. Nothing would ever again be just like it used to be. And the sooner his damnable fool of a brother accepted that...
If it had to hurt, so much the better. Even if it hurt him, too.
Perhaps especially if it hurt him, too.
He lowered his legs over the edge of the bath, sliding into the water all at once, but it was so hot that it made his skin itch and somehow before he quite knew what he was doing he had both hands on his face, scrubbing at his eyes, scrubbing at his flesh, and he had to pry them away, find the edge of the raised shelf beneath the water and dig his nails into the marble instead.
Sometimes it struck him like that. Bursts of disgust, of horror, of what are you doing, stop, fix this before it gets worse.
Intellectually he knew better, of course. Knew that it was much too late for that. This slope would always be too steep for him. Had been, ever since the Bifrost. No: Ever since he'd sent the Destroyer which had taken Thor's life, snuffed out its brightness, if for only an instant. Or perhaps: Ever since he'd paid Thor that Midgard visit to tell him that their (not his) father was dead from his foolishness and that their (never his) mother could no longer bear the sight of him. Ever since he'd ascended the throne. Ever since a careless touch had opened his eyes to the truth of the lie of his life.
Every step had been one he could never take back, every blow a mortal wound.
And now he was sabotaging one of the few things he had left.
You are still brothers, whispered the tiny voice that even monsters could hear in the back of their minds. If not by blood, then by rearing. For a thousand years you believed it so and that cannot be wiped away in one. Doing this with him, to him, is wrong. You are wrong. How can you take pleasure from this? What's wrong with you?
Loki stilled his hands on the shelf of the bath. He felt his teeth cutting a smile deep into his face.
The only difficulty, of course, was that he did take pleasure from it. The thought of reducing Thor from a paragon of heroism to a shamed man hiding a filthy secret, unable to look at his own brother without remembering how it had felt to rut senselessly into his body - perhaps even without wanting that again - tangled in his chest with strained excitement.
This was what he wanted. And it was, in the end, the least of the things that were wrong with him.
If he could never rise to meet Thor, wouldn't bringing him down to his level just as surely make them equals, at long last?
One breath in, then out again slowly. Loki released the shelf and again took cupped water in his hands to begin washing himself in earnest.
The important part, at any rate, was Thor's weakness. Ruining him would have been a very pretty little bonus, if Loki could manage it, but it was not - had never been - the goal. Oh, no. His ambitions were much simpler than that: to play on his brother's newfound softness just enough to earn some small charity, in the form of his nail paint.
For centuries, he had worn his nails black. He liked the way it looked, how it completed his appearance, the edge of something subtly different, unique and distinct in Asgard. Not, especially, in keeping with their ideals of masculinity, but then - he had lost interest in playing that particular game long ago. The traditional Aesir mold was so very at odds with every single aspect of himself that he could not, perhaps, have done otherwise, but it had still been very much his choice. After all, why should he have set aside the hobbies he enjoyed, the skills he possessed, or the lovers he preferred and resigned himself to being less accomplished, all for the sake of what the lowest rungs of Asgardian society considered masculine.
And accomplished he was. None in Asgard could match his ability as a sorcerer, whether or not they cared to admit it. If he was not handsome, he was beautiful, and if neither suited he could, for at least an hour or two, be anything else he wanted.
The nail paint was the smallest part of it, a pretty surface decoration. And its lacquer would serve more purpose than mere decoration now.
Runes of power, drawn thick and dark, gathered power.
Oh, the silver chains were clever. They numbed his skin, numbed his soul, and between their cage and the enspelled tower he could not so much as reach for power of his own, but runes painted on his skin would bring it to him all the same, slipping through the bars. Slowly, perhaps, and faintly, without any ability to guide it properly into his hands - but he only needed a little. Just enough to break the enchantment on the chains. And then he would be... free.
Thor would not and could not possibly see it coming. He had never been interested in learning more of magic than was required to wield his own without disaster, and rune magic was even subtler, even less direct, and demanded even more of the scholarly dedication that suited him so poorly. Even if he had not been thoroughly distracted with much, much darker suspicions about how Loki would use what had transpired here tonight against him... Thor would not have thought to question such an innocent request.
And his were, for the time being, the only questions Loki needed concern himself with.
Asgard's gatekeeper was old, even for a god, and while few presumed to know his mind or what he would choose to turn his farseeing gaze upon, Loki imagined that this tower and all that happened within it would have been a focal point. Heimdall, with the knowledge of millennia spent watching nine realms, would almost certainly have known what the nail paint could be used for - and likely he would have had something to say about the rest of the evening, as well.
And of all the Aesir with all their many and varied reasons to loathe him, Heimdall's were more personal than most. Loki did not doubt that, had he been able to see into the tower, this particular scheme would have ended an hour ago or more.
How fortunate he was, then, that magic so often made for a double-edged sword, and that wards like the ones the Allfather had used to drive every thread of it from these chambers would also keep the Watcher's eyes out.
Yes. The plan was fully-formed now in his mind. Everything had fallen into place, or would very soon.
All he had to do was wait. And a few more days would, in the end, be ideal anyway. The last year had taken its toll, robbed him of much of his strength even as his mastery over what he possessed had, by necessity, increased. Another few days of resting and relaxing and having all his meals brought to him would leave him in far better condition. Justice moved slowly, among immortals more than most, so there was no disadvantage in however long it took for Thor to return to him with books and nail paint and festering shame.
And then he would flee, open the secrets routes and take one elsewhere, to another realm. Any realm he liked.
Loki let his eyes close, leaning back against the smooth marble wall of the bath, and pretended to consider.
Muspelheim, perhaps? That would be unpleasant this time of year, as it was at all times of year. As much as he appreciated the ludicrous juxtaposition, as little as he had ever minded heat, no.
Svartalfheim? They had buildings and marketplaces, he might have lived in relative comfort. If relative comfort were all he sought, it might have suited. Vanaheim, where his sorcery would be commonplace: expected? But he had never liked being either of those things.
Each of them appealed in part for how close they would have been to home - hiding in plain sight, as it were - but naturally that had its risks as well.
And then, of course, there was the opposite approach: to go as far as he could, seek out one of the small ugly worlds that lay beyond Yggdrasil's roots, find a crevice to hide in and wait...
That had its appeal, too, but then there was the risk that he might be too far from Asgard to feel the heavens tremble when they discovered his escape, and that would not do at all.
One by one, Loki went through each realm he knew and found fault. Until at last there were no realms left, save Midgard.
Because of course it had to be Midgard. His pride demanded no less. Those self-proclaimed "Avengers" had coming to them every ounce of trouble he could stir. And once he was through with them, if he had the time...
He might not even need to kill her. He might need only whisper the words into her ear while she lay sleeping.
Shall I tell you what Thor likes from his lovers, mortal?
If he had the time.
And he did so enjoy the idea of Thor and the Allfather's fear when they realized where he had gone, and who might now pay the price for their hubris. They had thought they could sit in judgment on him? That chaos could ever be contained, let alone humbled and made repentant, let alone forgiven?
It was going to be so very easy, and so very satisfying, and there was no part of it that did not please him to imagine.
The only thing his plan hinged on was Thor's honor. Informal though it had been, they both knew he had promised to bring Loki his innocuous things, and wasn't Loki still his dear, beloved brother, the one he wanted so desperately to save?
(He was still that, wasn't he?) (This would not all fall apart for a moment's impulse, would it?)
Of course Thor would not stay away, would not be able to stay away, no matter how destructive coming back would be. And when he came back, well...
Then Loki would see what else he could get away with while on his best behavior.
