Help a Brother Out

by blueberry01120

Summary:

When Thor needs a favor, the hots Loki has for her big brother ask him for one in return: sex.

It's just sex. Thor has a lot of it. Loki wants some of it from him. With where their relationship is, it can't do that much damage. All she asks for is once, her first time at that. It's not a lot to ask for. But because this is Loki's life, she gets more than that.

Notes:

The purge will never end. We getting these WIPs out.

Chapter 1: Loki

Loki and Thor are brother and sister like lampreys and macaque monkeys chordates.

Loki’s Mother’s lesson that she should’ve left well enough alone. Sure, her body’s first go at baking a baby didn’t produce someone her super progressive husband would’ve cosigned putting in floral dresses for tea time, but her body created Thor, yes, a boy, but The Boy. The son that all the other mothers and fathers kneel beside their beds with white-knuckled hands praying their spawn will spontaneously transform into overnight.

While Mother’s the Betty Crocker of seeing the best in literally everyone — everyone — Thor, like Father, has seen Loki for the bad decision she is. The incongruity in their blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sun-hued family, a tomato sauce speck on the starched white shirt that back in the sandbox was only needed for a quick run to the grocery store but whoops, now, there’s a formal dinner invite and no Tide Stick.

Thor might have a sister in the dictionary sense of the word, a human being whom refers to the same set of humans as “Mother” and “Father” as he does and underneath the bathroom sink, keeps his stubble landscaping supplies company with exfoliant and rainy-day tampons, but there is no profound bond, no loyalty, no secret handshakes, none of that. Affection for Loki got ditched in the playground mulch by Thor. Lamely Loki thought that she’d grow into hers for Thor, that fuzzy, Brother Bear, Mother-bait love, “storge” as those Greeks call it, but that’s like Loki’s pride in being Canadian. She isn’t. There is none to be had.

No fucking thanks to Thor. Just — fuck. Fuck. Loki grasps that her existence isn’t precisely ideal for Thor’s Big Pretty Picture, but does he have to be such a massive fucking prick about it? Because room temperature ambivalence is one thing but that on top of him forcing her eyes down to the dick print of the day qualifies for a war crime. It’s malfeasance, Thor neglecting to keep the same non-fraternal energy by going commando under his trackies and shirtless to validate all of the gymming and the baseballing and the footballing and the ice hockeying, knowing what he does to people. Do you know what Thor smells like? Oh, Loki does, she and the collection of hoodies appropriated from the backs of chairs kept safe and sound under the stuffed animals in Loki’s closet do.

It wouldn’t have killed Thor to be attractive to literally every single person on the planet except the so-called family he shares a house with. He could settle for the seven billion minus Mother and Father, but Loki too, oh, no, that was his breaking point. Who would do the so sacred duty of ogling over Thor at home if not Loki?

And the nerve of Thor to be fucking unaware. Those acknowledging, sarcastic smiles could pass for Thor catching Loki succumbing to the glow of Thor’s blond halo of arm hairs while Thor prepares his protein muck, but the mocking “Want some?” over the cacophony of Thor’s flexing freshly gymmed and still vasculated arms says otherwise. The conscious brain where Thor takes over the big screen downstairs for FIFA when Loki has designs on Doom Patrol and elects to leave the splatter of toothpaste on the bathroom counter may not know, but you can’t tell her his Id doesn’t book keep Loki’s part in the collectivist ball-sucking of Thor.

It’d just be too troubling for the predictable flow of Thor’s life if he knew a wall over that space-filler allegedly his little sister fucks herself to a gushy, tingly orgasm imagineering Thor’s cock from four of her own fingers. Thor doesn’t go past the deep-water mark when dealing with Loki unless it’s him errand boying for Mother and Father by babysitting Loki in the headmaster’s office for her once a semester trip, all smug and “brotherly,” “Gotta pay the price.”

A fucking penny out of a Scrooge McDuck sea of gold. 

Loki’s desti-fucking-tute in comparison. Oh, but Loki’s “gorge,” “a triple threat of hot, smart, and crazy.” She has an unofficial fan club that shit talks the way she blinks. She has a lot going for her. She should feel lucky. Lucky. She should feel fucking lucky to be the candle in the fucking sun, to have ended up as the second sister to the first son of fantasy. 

Thor’s a stellar body incinerating and sucking everything into its gravitational field. He’s Mother and Father’s Pride and Joy. And their colossal blind-spot. 

If Loki smized like Thor does when Mother and Father tell them to have a good night, Father’d be on the phone pawning off their opera tickets and Mother would be declaring a spontaneous spa night. Meanwhile, Loki’d be doing what at worst? Walking the few blocks to that arthouse theater that plays the “disturbing” films Mother has officially forbidden her oh so innocent eyes from seeing? Thor’s helping himself to the keys to Father’s Rolls — opera nights are vintage Bentley nights — and burning off the tire tread to hurry up before all the shitty beer at some party’s gone.

Since Thor’s sitting on the rules’ face — which the rules would probably love like every-fucking-one else, oh, Loki included — it’s not the end of the world for Loki to pour herself a glass of from Mother’s wine stash to read to.

Loki, the troublesome child, reading books on Friday nights.

Mother’s impeccable taste in wine sets up a challenge for Loki when it comes to which bottle she’s going to uncork and covertly recork.

“Loki!” shouts Thor.

That’s an edgy tone for the friendly drunk Thor.

Loki stashes her glass in a cabinet and innocently comes to help Thor not break his chin on the stairs for Father to frame her for pushing him into.

Thor’s retreating from the Loki’s hang the living room, wild-eyed, and still in his shoes. A pitstop to lay into her on behalf of a lackey? “I was calling you,” says Thor — yes, Thor, incredulously. “Whatever. Come on.”

“Where?”

“Listen. We don’t have time for this.” Validation from his watch. “What, they get home in two hours? The sooner we fix this, the better.”

“Fix what? Nothing’s broken.”

“The Rolls!”

Slowly, Loki repeats, “The Rolls.”

Loki taking a gander out of the front door, open save for the screen in Thor’s haste to rush in, should elucidate on The Rolls. 

The Scrapes as it’ll be called from now on. Tiger stripes of dull gray metal decorate the driver’s side like a velociraptor came scratching by. Or a car on the narrow city street at whoever’s cool party that Thor parked on.

Father will love this. Truly, there will be no blood ties to placate him.

“Wow.”

“We have to come up with—”

“’We’?”

Thor freezes. “Yes, we. You can’t let me take the fall for this. It was an accident. How was I supposed to know that some asshole was going to drive a truck down a one-way street? I wasn’t doing anything bad. This, it isn’t my fault.”

“Then, tell Father that.”

“You know he won’t — that’s his car. He doesn’t let me drive the Rolls unless I ask first. Which is stupid but it’s not really the time to argue with him on that. This sure as hell isn’t going to change his mind. Loki, come on. You’re my sister—”

“News at 11:00.”

“What do you have to lose? All you have to do is lie, and you’re doing that all the time. Just — please. I never ask you for anything.”

The lie detector determines that is a fucking lie. Never? Was yesterday morning’s essay “editing” aka “ghostwriting” never? How about Loki covering for Thor when the studying he says he’s doing with his friends covers his neck in fucking hickies that Loki, despite the bright green blood in her veins, keeps Anastacia Beverly Hills concealer in Warm Neutral to hide from Mother and father?

Thor has fun, and Loki house-keeps with zero credit.

Thor’s nearly smiling with hope at the tip of his teeth, expecting Loki to personally paint the gray back onto Father’s car with her tongue. A seamless day in school, a seamless night chugging beers and motorboating tits bigger and better than hers, a seamless bump crashing Father’s car. A life really shouldn’t be so fucking seamless.

“Okay.”

The slow peel of Thor’s prized lips back from his invaluable teeth.

“But you’ll have to have sex with me.”

The stoppage of Thor’s lips. A laugh. “What?”

“I’ll get you out of this if you have sex with me.”

“You’re… you’re kidding.”

Loki’s nonchalant pause drains the amusement right out of Thor’s face. “I’m curious.”

“About — you know,” says Thor with the beginnings of righteous, neck vein-empowering rage, “all I ask for is for you to do this one thing for me, and you try to fuck with my head. That’s not alright, Loki. I asked you, not anyone else. I trust you. And you want to throw it in my face?”

“I don’t want cunnilingus. All I’m asking for is for you to jab your dick into me until I deem it satisfactory. That seems like a small request when you’re asking me to cover up grand theft auto, and I’m not talking about the video game. Despite the state of Father’s car.”

“You want to fuck me.”

“In a nutshell.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Wrong? I know that you have an intimate relationship with sex, but there’s nothing ‘wrong’ with being a virgin. I personally am curious to see what the big deal about sex is. You’ve had a lot of it. What’s more to ask?”

“I’m—“ The hesitation on the real b-word. “I’m your brother.”

“Even better reason to ask. It’s either you or some random middle-aged man on Craigslist, and you’re marginally less likely to strangle me and wear my nipples as earrings afterward.”

Thor’s eyes flick to that gore on Father’s car, seeing in the scratches the montage of Father telling him what a great disappointment he is, etc., unimaginable horrors to the Thor that can do no wrong. Thor slams the front door on that dark future and with his clenched fists, stomps past Loki, explaining himself with a single “Fine.”

The justice of this translocates all her blood to her exciting pussy.

Thor’s nightstand light flickers on, highlights the condoms in the drawer he snatches up one of. He removes his sneakers and jacket like they’re preparing to bury a body – they might as well be. “Lay on my bed.”

Considering that Loki asked, she should be stage-directing, but Loki acquiesces. The bed grants her the frontal view of Thor undoing his jeans in angry yanks, the crossed arms beside his eyes, between his eyebrows, at the corner of his overly licked mouth. His eyes sense her watching and catch hers. “Having second thoughts?”

As Thor dawdles at his waistband, Loki demonstrates that bottoms can be removed with little ceremony, her PJ pants and underwear telling her legs sayonara for the opportunity to luxuriate at the end of Thor’s bed.

Thor looks away like Loki’s closed knees don’t do the job of preserving his paper-thin integrity for him.

“Why? Are you?”

“No.” Thor faces her with his back and consequently, ass when he finally gets rid of his jeans. An ass that after locker room time some of his own lackies have undoubtedly rocketed a shameful load or two to. It clenches along with his bicep for the telltale foil tear. The empty condom wrapper drifts onto the floor, but Thor’s bicep continues to twitch, elbow rocking forward and back.

A clench-unclench allows the blood to be as free as it wants in her pussy. “I’ll give you some time.”

Thor exhales. “Don’t need it.”

Unveiled, presented by the dark blond hair not trimmed onto the shower walls, Thor’s cock, an entity worthy of its own Wikipedia page, a high expectation set by equal parts jackhammer porn and the mortified whispers that “It didn’t fit” that’ve hyperbolized the dick prints and the flashes of flaccid in overlapping bathroom sessions. The condom nervously holds onto it, adding an opaque gloss to the deep, dark pink.

Thor would get diamond hard in seconds.

He must know from extensive experience that same doesn’t hold true for most girls that haven’t even realized that the clitoral hood can slide back for even more pleasure and grabs Astroglide from underneath his pillow — which explains why Mother’s insisted on them changing their own sheets recently — for a generous splurch of it on his hand. As he greases up his cock one-handed, he holds it out toward Loki. “You’re going to need it.”

A shift and the frictionless slide of her lips says otherwise, but Loki accepts it for a dollop on her fingertip. Her pussy will need all the slip it can get, can have it when the jelly she reaches down to smooth over her clit does the job very well.

Thor’s staring with that consternated expression, and Loki’s clit gives a flare that means stopping her finger lest she blow this too soon.

“I’m ready.”

With dutiful obligation, Thor kneels, cock a warm skid on her shins, then proceeds to part Loki’s legs coldly, falling back into the ease of the muscle memory this must be once in the radius of a naked pussy. He places a palm beside her head to loom over her, untouching till his cock knocks into her pussy, a heavy, fat thing that all logic will not have Loki fitting but logic doesn’t have her clit throbbing. As Thor stares his headboard down, in his hand, the softly wrinkled head of his cock laves between her lips, giving slick and getting it, and when Thor glances down at her face, well, Thor’s cock does a vanishing trick.

Thor’s scaling down her body.

“What are you--?”

Thor’s fingers push inside of her with a stretch but not the stretch anticipated.

Shakespeare Era poetry gets the same look as Loki’s pussy’s getting, but Loki’s clit basks in it all the same.

The gears are turning in Thor’s mind before it ducks, and the brush of warm air warns Loki, but Thor’s mouth sucking on her clit nearly draws her up from the bed. The shower head wishes it could do this, the positive and negative pressure of Thor sucking but his tongue pressing, the wet warmth of his saliva. It leaves, Thor’s mouth, wet mouth above her pussy. “Tell me what you want.”

Thor asks, “Syrup or whipped cream?” at breakfast in that tone.

“Keep doing that. And your fingers, just—” Shifting her hips up sufficiently gets Thor those few extra millimeters in.

Thor puts his mouth back. Thor’s tongue treats her clit like a chocolate wrapper, not the best technique, no, but Thor’s tongue is on her clit, Thor’s fingers inside of her, Thor’s cock stabbing his own bed down there. Loosening Loki up is the least Thor can do, but Thor could do it so many other ways that don’t have Loki jamming her clit through his tongue.

Her heart’s become one with her pussy when Thor withdraws his mouth and his fingers, using the forearm attached to them to wipe the shininess off his mouth that’ll be Loki’s DNA. If anyone should be exhaling fitfully, it should be Loki, as if Thor’s not taken advantage of the bare minimum Loki’s pussy would take from him. This is the easiest part.

Thor’s looking at Loki’s forehead, blank as his cock decides with his hand’s help that it’ll try its luck at Loki’s hole.

Her pussy pulls every muscle it has splitting open to accommodate Thor’s cock. It’s the same half-step from outrageous pain that’s gagged by surprising relief for a pressure that’s been there since puberty but not as strong as this, not that Loki was aware of. Has anyone ever been so full?

The glance that shows Thor’s golden pubes flush to her dark ones concludes no.

“Thor—”

“Shut up.” Thor’s squeezed his eyes closed to no doubt summon the DDs and earthquaking ass from his earlier night beneath him in Loki’s place. He finds her, pulls blunt needles into Loki’s pussy with his urgent slide out, and Thor can have his Ideal Woman because Loki has the pleasant shock of Thor’s cock filling her out, smacking her up the pillow. The in and out of it, how predictability can be rendered toe-curling mush by physicality, a talent of Thor’s he passively parades flexing over Loki in his imagined Kate Upton.

 If she closed her eyes, who else could it be? Hercules? Thor’s fresh laundry deodorant and that freshly ground coffee that always smells like heaven but tastes nothing like it that emanates from the neck down, the breaths that carry a hint of Thor’s voice, not minding being here below him, she couldn’t get that from Hercules. Not to mention the cock.

Her clit shoots a sun burst of notice that this rubbing won’t need to last long.

“Harder. Hard—” A thrilled noise jumps out of her at the hip-dissolving shove deep Thor gives her, a shove that takes the momentum that keeps drawing back up into her clit and shatters it to cascade hot, electric waves through her. She keeps herself as quiet as she can, biting through her gums, bottling the “yeses” up where Thor won’t have to be bothered by them.

She opens her eyes to see Thor’s. “You can stop.”

Thor does. He ceases all movement, rigid like living things rarely are, and the resurrection of motion happens with his closing eyelids. Thor ducks beyond the corner of Loki’s eye, bringing all of his heavy bulk down with him on top of her, by only the mercy of the Loki’s pelvis and the leverage they have on Thor’s not suffocating her. That muffled sound’s from Bayern losing from a 95-minute howler from midfield, from the one time she walked into the bathroom during Thor’s shower and she slipped back out with suns in her cheeks. A pure animal sound.

Loki’s forced it out of him.

Before Thor can have the honor of hostility, Loki pushes at his shoulder. “I need to be alive to help you lie.”

Thor can move fast for such a massive being. Not too fast for Loki to not see the filled condom before he pulls it off and gets his pants from the ground. “We don’t have long.”  

Loki aches so nicely. “We don’t need long.”

Thor’s hidden away his cock to feel comfortable glowering at Loki again. “It better work.”

“It will.”

After Loki’s freshly fucked pussy has met its welcome party in her panties, Loki goes out to examine the gouge to both awe over how badly it went wrong for Thor of all people and show Thor just how easily he could’ve explained this away for himself if he tried. Thor’s impassive like Loki’s told him the wrong page number in French again and he hasn’t gotten his dick wet for the how many-th time tonight. Loki may not be Tits McGee, but she’s no brown-bagger.

And you can’t tell her it’s because she’s his sister, because they know how little bearing that ever has on anything.

Thor’s window-watching means he gets to see his possible damnation arrive.

Loki closes her book and after an inhale that she can swear smells like Thor despite him being as far across the room as walls let him be, she devolves into the shivering, teary-eyed mess that Father has launched into his furious puffed out chest at before he’s gotten a chance to get up the front stairs let alone let out the uproarious “Thor.”

“What is this about?”

Through her sniffles, Loki explains that they got a call from the hospital, and sniffle, sniffle, they were saying that there was an accident. As two irrational teenagers do, they high-tailed it to the hospital nearest to the opera in the most convenient car, a-and then, they got there only to have it told to them there was no Odin or Frigga checked-in.

“Didn’t you get our calls?” Loki, sniffling, cries as Father and Mother pull out their silenced phones to find a batch of dozens of missed calls from only an hour ago. When Loki and Thor made their journey to the hospital, someone in a hurry to get there too sideswiped Father’s car. “We didn’t get around to getting their details,” says Thor, arms-crossed and head low remorsefully, and Father tells them they’d be callous to bother someone at an ER for “trifles.” But did they find out who called? “No.”

“Probably some bored classmates of yours,” Father tells Thor. He shakes his head and pats Loki’s shoulder piteously. “You should not be so melodramatic. In a crisis, your brother wouldn’t need to deal with the burden of your theatrics.”

“Odin, she cares,” says Mother. She’s far gentler in her shoulder stroking. “I’d thought the opera was where all the excitement was tonight.”

“Let me call a tow,” says Father. “Thor, go up to bed. I don’t want you wasting your time hunting down the idiot responsible for this. Take your sister up with you. Surprised she hasn’t cried herself to sleep.”

With contented tears? That’s a possibility with Thor actually, get this, displaying some of the burdens of the consequences of his irresponsibility on his shoulders however majestic they still look sagging.

“Told you,” she says.

Thor asks, “How fucking dare you?” with that look in his eye but says nothing, letting the slam of his door speak for him.

What is a sister for if not help?

 

#

Thor lives in a different house than Loki. Relatively. The enraged zest his indifference has acquired repulses Thor from the Ghost of Accountability Past also known as herself, the final boss Thor’s stat-padding for with side quests like challenging fellow test fiends to basketball games with his own posse that they yuck-yuck about at the back of the classroom, starting the Apprenticeship mission under an electrician for a double whammy of a multiplier on his maxed out relationship with Mother and Father and to excuse himself from being around after school.

 Loki’s labia might as well be butterfly wings for the cascade they’ve caused – Thor’s job seeding fantasies of him naked save for an electrician belt stuck in a hole in a wall meant to stock up cash to buy himself a car so that he never again has to crash Father’s, an idea Thor wouldn’t have had if Loki had nodded and spun him up an alibi pro bono.

A person, stupid person, once asked her what her purpose was in her family, and they’d been aiming, pitifully, to remind her of her spare status like existing hasn’t and done a much better job, but Loki knows now that she is Thor’s Darth Vader. Fabulous in black, far more intelligent, the cause of all his major development as a person, secretly admired by many. Thor needs her.

Exhibit Z-1000b, the resigned footsteps that bring along the distinctively outrageous silhouette of Thor in her FOV.

Loki’s locker maintenance continues uninterrupted. “What can Loki Incorporated do for you?”

The thwack of a thick stack of paper flung underneath her locker.

A 55 with a Literature exam attached.

“She said she’ll comp my grade if I can write a 20-page essay on the book by tomorrow.”

This book, going off the names, being Pride and Prejudice. That is peak Thor privilege, a gimme for any remotely competent person. Allow Loki to force her locker shut with the fury of all the bookworms and literati that received B’s because of mismatched expectations rather than talent and no outs from the teachers, only “I know you can do so much better.”

“I opened to the first page before I closed the book. Haven’t touched it since,” says Thor. “I need you to help me with it.”

“’Help.’”

“Yeah. Help.”

The little bit of Thor Loki gets has her biting her bottom lip to block the snicker. Thor’s at peace with having to thrust in and think of Page 3 like he just knows Loki will ask of him.

“What do I have to do for it?”

“There’s a Smash tournament in Hoboken this weekend that no one I know is going to.”

“And what else?”

“I need a ride there and back. You don’t have to stay. I doubt you’ll want to.”

“Okay, some Mario tournament. Then, what? You want me to put it in your ass afterward?”

“No. I only need you to chauffeur me in the car, not in a bed. No thank you.”

“So, you’re, what, disgusted now?”

“It’s an experience that I had. I’m not enthralled to have it again. It was adequate. Now—”

“Adequate? Really?”

“Really. Anyway, the tournament starts—”

“You can lie about everything else, but you can’t lie about how your body’s natural responses. You enjoyed it. You… got off.”

“My pillow can get me off. But as I was saying—”

“What wasn’t good about it?”

“—it starts at 3:00 and ends at 10:00,” she finishes. “I never said it wasn’t good. I said it was adequate. Neutral. It happened. I have no extreme feelings about it.”

Thor’s face goes “of course.” “Well, that makes sense. I’m your brother. You wouldn’t be able to really feel it like if I wasn’t.”

“Um, no, that’s not it, but if you say so. Anyway, I have class.” She tells Thor before her turn, “Keep your Saturday open.”

The spoonful of hours of his time convert to one of Loki the Ghostwriter’s, pennies to pay for the sub-100 Loki is going to get him.

Thor’s not sprinted out of the house at the first chance in order to quarterback Loki’s essay-writing, placing himself at the kitchen island beside her to be on the lookout for any errant “lil peepees” and tangents about the oil refinery process that Loki might’ve let slip in one essay (which Thor still received an 90 for.)

“I don’t need an outline,” she informs him, three pages in already.

“Oh. I didn’t have one.”

“Figures.”

In opposite of “person who is doing you a favor etiquette,” Thor piles the silence with Ice Fight commentary shamelessly played on his otherwise unoccupied laptop, the days of keeping at least the book open for Mother to see for plausible deniability long-gone. Thor’s discomfort yells louder than the half-wit rambling about himbos smashing into each other, the twitch of Thor’s forearm muscle as he drums his thumb on the counter trying to distract his loud-mouthed mind and failing, and rather than giving in, he stubbornly switches to jogging his leg on the stool, turning it into a tuning fork.

What would be bothering Thor? Hm. Tough question.

Loki saves and starts the next paragraph. “So, I’ve been thinking about Saturday. And… I think I could get a ride there with a guy I know that’s going. Absolute fedora. He only speaks to me when spoken. The drive there should be hilarious.”

“Mhm.”

“You could, instead, do something else for me.”

Thor grunts in go-ahead.

“I’ve never been able to make myself squirt. My forearm ends up getting cramped, and it’s hard to resist the temptation when my clit is right there.” She glances back at Thor who’s offlined his eyes on the counter marbling. “I’m sure if anyone could, it’d be you.”

That’s a deliciously burdened sigh from Thor like suddenly, hefting all of his weight up is an endeavor for his legs. “Alright.”

Yes, getting it out of the way has always been Thor’s mentality, particularly when his pride is on the line.

As stupidly hilarious as pissing on Thor would be, Loki empties what little her bladder holds as Thor locks her door. She has the foresight to bring out a towel to lay down on her duvet, proudly the sibling that Mother doesn’t pinch her way through washing the sheets of.

Naked from the waist down in front of Thor for the second time this month, who’d have seen that coming besides the cackling, fuzzy pink handcuff wielding sizable portion of her that shushes any shyness to get her down on that towel, opens her knees for the brush of cool against her clit and lips.   

Thor meets Poetry/Loki’s clit again, just as studious as the last time.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah.” Thor’s thumb has a fan in Loki’s clit, its roughness, the texture and how it fights against her smooth clit skin a welcome surprise. “They let me do that. Girls.”

In response to the resentment in that, Loki asks, “’Let’ you?”

A finger of Thor’s, the middle, flips her pussy off, the tip of it teasing her hole, a novice move that shows Thor does know a thing or two about the vagina. The bare minimum from how many he’s encountered, but Thor’s finger slides up her lips to her clit with warmth and sweet wetness. “They don’t like me focusing too much down here.”

“That’s not immensely tragic. And you, of course, don’t convince them that’s ridiculous and let them entertain you with a squirt before moving onto more phallic pastures.”

“I’m not going to fight them about it. It’s their body.”

“Influenced by—” That breath is a decision by the autonomous nervous system as energy is redirected to the tip of her clit that Thor’s likely accidentally discovered displacing the hood. “—male-centered sexual standards.”

“It’s not like I don’t want to.”

“Then, tell them that.”

“I try to.” Thor’s frustration isn’t only in his face but in the jab of Loki’s clit into her body. “But I don’t want them to feel like I’m forcing them to do anything they don’t want to. That’s even worse. It sucks, but it’s whatever. So, I can’t be blamed for not having out-of-this-world head. Haven’t had a lot of time to”—Thor’s talking turns into a hiss that should be all Loki over the two thick fingers Thor slides into her—“practice.”

“I’m sure if you start a rumor that you’re really into oral sex that they’ll start lining up to sit on your face.”

Not that Thor would. He’s magnanimous like that.

“G-spot,” says Thor like he’s unearthed the parsnips from the overflowing vegetable drawer, fingertips or fingertops they should be called, the thickness of them, winding that tension started from her clit tighter.

“Doesn’t exist. It’s actually the deeper nerves of the clit and the urethral sponge. That’s what you’re feeling, hence the sponginess.”

“Oh. Good to know.” Thor’s thinking. A rarity and consequently obvious. “So, I’ve heard that back here,” he says as his finger-caps usher in deeper, deep where only squatting and yoga can get Loki’s fingertips, “there are some ‘spots’ or nerves or whatever.”

“They’re fornices, but you wouldn’t be wrong calling them spots.”

“Girls really love being touched back here. If they can fit it all the way in. Usually, don’t take the risk of hitting that thing back there—”

“Cervix.”

“Cervix. The ball sack of the pussy. Hit that and it’s over.”

Not an unfair comparison or a risk with Thor’s mindless come-hithering that’s building the aimless sort of pressure that’s going to drive her insane sooner than later.

“Could you cum like this?” Thor asks.

“If you touched my clit. Without it, I’d need some fullness.”

Thor replies, “Huh,” and withdraws his hand out till his finger-caps are back at Loki’s “need to pee so good” spot. He adjusts on his knees, putting himself more beside her. So mechanical, a shift finger-fucking Loki instead of tripping his heart inside of someone’s circuit breaker. Loki wouldn’t put it past Thor to be putty inside of those poorly fitted jeans of his.

But have no fear. Loki’s shouldering all the arousal for both of them.

Her hole stretches for blink and you miss it moments, not missing the sparks that drizzle down to that stockpile of pressure between her hips, carried down in the torrent of them from the constant milking inside of her, Thor’s fingers filling her somehow, somehow tugging on her clit from the inside.

“You’re almost there. I can feel it,” says Thor. “Just let go.”

Let go for a fingerfucking by Thor’s fuck-forged fingers? She can do that. She peegasms, a full-body clench and let’s go that gallon that’s trying to brute force itself out, drenching Thor’s hand with wet squelches that go on and on as Thor’s fingers do like her yeses tell them.

“Fuck, you cum so hard,” Thor’s telling the aftershocks like phantom clit twitches all over.

She needs a good laydown.

A chill slithers underneath her skin, shivering her legs shut. Thor’s fingers worm out, his arm pulling free from between her thighs. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“No thank you.” She got an orgasm from Thor without having to deal with him disassociating out of sheer distaste on top of her. Why change that? “I’ll have your paper finished by midnight.”

Thor stops short of getting off Loki’s bed. “I could take you Saturday.”

For some reason, Loki asks, “And you want what assignment done?”

“None. I want to fuck you.”

Loki’s pussy would reanimate over that.

“You’ve clearly got the wrong perception of what it’s like, and I’d like to show that you’re wrong.”

“Sex isn’t objective. There is no wrong. If it was bad, it was bad.”

Thor stiffens at Loki’s endorphins’ recklessness. “Saturday?”

“Fine.”

Thor Old Wild West draws a condom from his pocket before rushing himself over Loki.

“You don’t always carry condoms in your pockets, do you?”

“I knew you’d change your mind.” Condom stupidly between his teeth, Thor glances down at his knees on the towel and says, “You really soaked this.”

Thor’s Cock obeys spring physics as large, stiff objects do.

Loki has her eyes closed when her hole exponentiates in size.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?” Thor asks.

Yes. “No,” says Loki’s nothing expression that Thor’s looking down on.

“Are you going to be finished soon?” she asks.

Empty. Her knees are swinging toward her face only to narrowly miss on either side of her head. Her happy clit uses the freedom of her stretched open pussy lips to reach toward Thor, but Thor comes to it, his pubes his thumb all over again, and Thor’s sinking deep into her, so deep that he mashes her heart and forces warmth into her cheeks.

Thor falls, catching himself on his hands, spilling the hair that’s ditched his bun onto her cheeks. He stares her straight in the eye until his close – hers do too, but she has the excuse of needing to focus on not moaning over that exquisite pressure when Thor bottoms out again. Thor’s beat her to opening them. “Are you?”

Thor’s thrusts pack the free-fall of the peak of a roller coaster, battering her with a two-pronged approach, the pressing scratch of his pubes against her clit and the mind-numbing stab of the deepest places inside of her.

Ridiculous, desperate gasping noises have taken over her throat, and her face, fuck, she can’t begin to think how mortifying it looks.

“Are you going to, to cum soon?” she asks.

Thor’s lips, they’re… on hers?

They do keep that melodramatic sound her body has in mind inside when the tension shockwaves, pulsing her around Thor’s cock, her clit against Thor’s hair. Thor steals the idea for a groan, a long, rumbling groan down his spine that tickles her sensitive clit, and Thor’s twitching at the ring of her hole, filling the condom inside of her, filling her.

Thor disengages their lips. He sits back on his ass, dazed, shoulders churning air into his lungs. “Still bad?”

Her hand consoling her throbbing pussy around her still bent legs, she rolls her eyes. “It wasn’t the worst sex I’ve ever had, no.”

Thor snorts. “Take your time getting back to my paper. Sure you’ll need it.”

Loki wouldn’t be Loki if she weren’t downstairs before Thor albeit perched on one calf and more hovering than sitting on the stool, but there to have Thor wonder if really, he isn’t the sex god the girls would have him believe.

She gets Thor a 99.

Thor only listens to sports radio for half of the drive.

 

#

Loki’s aware that she should feel that gut-grappling remorse that courtesies of her own brother she overhears the breathy stories about backseat jackhammering from the oversexed popular elite and can bodily relate to the whole penis being in her vagina thing. She’s aware of that like she was that chanting “he’s my brother” to herself when Thor graduated overnight to an object of her south brain’s interest didn’t stop her from stealing herself into sweat-stiff t-shirts snuck off Thor’s bed and jamming her clit to the broad-shouldered specter piping her down in her dreams.

 She hasn’t hurt anyone. Isn’t that the ethical weapon taken up against her harmless jokes and pranks, that Loki’s hurting people and that’s just wrong? Any resentment Thor would have over it has expired and generalized into his broad spectrum “Loki exists”-related disdain. He has regressed to passively ignoring her, done with the avoidance and the effort he has remembered Loki doesn’t deserve, not when that can be channeled into his muscle inflation fetish.

If he has time to lift up heavy things to take away breathing room from his uniform button-down sleeves, he has some to spare for Loki to avoid an hour-long lecture on why she sucks from Father.

“So, I have a small ask,” Loki tells Thor’s ass being held hostage in trackies. 

   It clenches when Thor’s head turns to almost put her in his periphery. He resumes cutting his apple with vigor. “Go ahead.”

“As you know, I have regionals this weekend, and it is an hour drive away. It would be great of you if you could drive me.”

“And what am I getting out of it?”

“I’ve never really had the opportunity to practice my deep throat”—a “shit” from Thor, knife clattering—”skills.”

Thor rushes over to the sink to rinse out the cut, shallow but a bleeder, from thumb webbing to palm center. He’s too focused on the instant gratification of that cool water to think about getting it wrapped up and out of the way, but he luckily has Loki who cuts Thor’s playtime in the water short with a hand on Thor’s wrist and dabs the cut dry. Thor’s airy deodorant usurps the plain air as Thor’s pulse beats against her thumb, and Thor watches her squirt on the Neosporin.

“So, you want to blow me?” says Thor.

“Your cock but I guess you’d consider that ‘you.’”

Gauze taped secure, Thor takes his hand back and flexes his fingers to double check his CTE seeking dreams haven’t ended. “I want to touch you. You know, explore.”

Thor’s complaining outlined what that exploration would be, but Loki can’t pass up asking, “What kind of exploration?”

He returns to his sliced apple, but Loki goes around the counter to keep a look at his face. “Like what feels good. What doesn’t. Getting to know everything.”

“Oh. Okay. That sounds reasonable. So, is that a deal?”

“Sure.”

She leans over to steal herself a slice of apple, smiling. “Great.”

Mother doesn’t have the chance to get out her pointed question on if Loki’s made arrangements for getting to regionals before Thor’s saying, “I’m taking her.” “You are? There. Problem solved. I always tell you your brother would be happy to help.”

What she and Father, his two pence of “Thor can be an altruist when he dares” don’t see is the sexual handshake Loki made her deal with Thor on, in many ways profoundly hilarious because how could they? For all their distrust of Loki, they would never assume that. Their beliefs, misplaced in Father’s case, about their world class parenting would not allow them to have any suspicions about why Loki’s passing through the Jack and Jill to Thor’s room.

Thor spins in his desk chair to the invader on his laptop screen’s reflection.

“Do you want the blow job or the ‘exploration’?”

Thor’s hands answer going to his jeans’ button before Thor’s properly gotten out  “You can blow me.”

How surprising. Not. Predictable is Thor’s middle name, well, right after “quick start” going off the spontaneous hard-ons that Thor has pulled out of the metaphorical black hat of his boxers. Confirmed, Thor has blood of pahoehoe lava, burning hot and over the land speed record.     

Loki’s the only person in the world to Thor on her knees behind his cock. All of that wishing, silent hoping that she would disappear has been lost to the demand of the veins snaking up to the blossomed mushroom head, and Thor’s declaring an armistice withdrawing his hand to let it stand up on its own enthusiasm.

She wets her lips and replaces Thor’s hand with hers, his cock like an antenna for her heart beat, and never one to ease into it, she gorges on all the cock she could write Santa for. She takes full credit for the overwhelmed noise even though it comes out of Thor, not her. As if she has the air for it.

“What the fuck? How can you do that?”

Isn’t that the great mystery to keep Thor awake at night? It already has his eyelashes Hummingbird fluttering when Loki slurps her throat empty. She lets herself catch some breath but not Thor, sucks him right back down, the burn where her lips stretch to accommodate angrier but isn’t that the fun of it? The near seize of her gag reflex properly tucking her jaw against Thor’s bones and rush of spit from her body instinctively trying to get the great intrusion out, and how her persistence pays off with the pathetic, helpless noises that Thor would’ve never had her hear if he could help it.

She reels back to make space for air, but once she has that, Thor’s cock is property of her throat. Heavy hands brace against her head to help her make sure of that, but Thor’s cock shoves itself as deep as it can go too, above the squelch of Thor’s cock in her throat “fuck” being worn out.

Thor moans. “Loki.”

Thor’s cock twitches while Thor dumps cum beyond her taste buds. She lets him get it all out before she, sucking, gives Thor’s cock back to himself in a mess of spit that ends when she sits back on her haunches.

“That was fast,” she says to the protest of her throat.

Thor’s putting his cock away with haste. “Well. Clearly, you don’t need practice.”

“Or I clearly do. Drawing it out is an art.” Sighing, she pulls herself up from her knees. “I guess I’ll have to work on that.”

“Where did you even learn to do that?”

“Why? Worried it was one of your lads?”

Thor’s under-the-brow glower is a stroke to the a-spot. “They’d never. My friends are actually loyal to me.”

“I don’t see what’s disloyal about getting a blow job from a willing mouth.” 

“Like I don’t see you with bananas all the time,” says Thor, sleepy but weary, weary that his legendary stamina has abandoned him.

She leaves Thor to comfort his ego.

It takes the dip of her fingers into the juice her pussy psyched itself up and smearing that on her clit, and she gives Thor a run for his money with that sprint across the orgasmic finish line. She, however, has no witnesses in Thor to feel the strange mix of humiliation and intrigue that has Thor zoning out on her mouth while stuffing his.

Thor comes to collect his side of the deal and his dignity t-minus twelve to their early morning departure. Summoning a lifetime of confidence, he eclipses Loki’s reading light, expecting Loki to do more than blankly look at him as her hammock sways. “Take off your clothes.”

She could laugh, but she doesn’t risk Thor vengefully upturning the hammock and dropping her out of it. Her book set aside, she gets up and complies like she’s not at all interested in Thor’s reaction to her in her bra, to what he thinks about her tits, whose GGGs he must be mocking them against, or how horrified he must be at the ribs clearing plates don’t cover or unimpressed about her curves because they don’t come with soft hips or an ass he can see from the front. She steps out of her panties and drops them in the clothes pile in the hammock. 

This is what Thor wanted. He should’ve thought harder about it if he didn’t want the disappointment.

“I’m going to touch you,” says Thor, and he does, a thumb on one of Loki’s hardening nipples. He figures while he’s there he might as well confirm that his hand can hold the whole thing and rip that B-cup bandaid off, and he can’t only do one. Thor holds her tits, kneads them, and Loki should really read some of those self-help paper wasters Mother’s always buying her if this turns her on.

Thor’s millimeter long attention span moves his hands down to her ribcage, Thor’s fingertips pulling up goosebumps on her spine, and Thor stops at her waist where his thumbs touch above her bellybutton but fingertips don’t make it together by what feels like the width of Loki’s spine. That, visual proof of how insignificant Thor thinks Loki is, would make Thor smile.

One of Thor’s hands goes back while the other fully commits to Loki’s stomach. He squeezes an ass cheek while his fingertips skim through the peek-a-boo above her clit. It’d be nice of him to do more than a flyby of friction, but the slippery slide of a finger, his finger, into her catches her breath.

Thor’s finger shines when he holds it up, and you would think he’s seen it like that as much as he’s seen it dry, but his stare would say otherwise. He tastes his finger and tastes Loki. “You can go lay on the bed.”

If only Thor knew that to have Loki obey, he only needed to frame his asks like some sketchy semi-pro doctor-patient porn. Loki’s all over laying on her bed if she gets to spread her legs like Thor’s about to tell her to, baring her swollen pussy to him.

“If I wanted to make you cum right now, what’s the easiest way I could do it?”

“Stimulate my clit,” she says. “Quite honestly, my clit doesn’t care if it’s air or a dick as long as it’s getting touched.”

“Honesty.” Thor’s knee walking his shadow over her. “The only way I can get that from you is naked then.”

“The nakedness is a confound.”

“Hm” is Thor’s lack of interest in anything but Loki’s happy clit. His real-life and porn-life experience tell him to pull Loki’s lips apart to give it space to be, the tautness of her skin around it phantom stimulation her clit deeply appreciates.

“You can touch me dry, but if it’s wet, it’s better.”

One of his fingers stoppers the room temperature air playing at the juice gathered at her hole, and Thor, good boy, spreads that up along Loki’s inner lips until they fuse into her clit, and that tingles Loki’s nerves.

Thor chuckles. “You’re rock hard.”

“Analogs work the same. Who would’ve guessed?”

Thor glances up at her with this look. This is the look before Thor lunging for the Chem book she has forbid him from taking but he’s taking anyway, before Thor beats her to the last of Mother’s toffee cookies.

Tongue, Thor’s, lashes at her exposed clit, and this is it. She’s going to die. Dying with Thor’s tongue licking her clit, the death she deserves. Stroke by stroke licking the life away from him until all the breath leaves her, all the feeling, but that fabled post-mortem DMT explosion rushes through her in rigor mortis-inducing waves, contraction and euphoric relaxation, contraction, relaxation, and harder contraction. All that she has to give, she has yet Thor’s down there looking up at her as his tongue stings her clit so good, too good. She tries to escape, but her thighs go nowhere but back to where they are and where Thor’s holding them open. Like Thor wants, she cums again, and after that she’s too drained of will to try to stop him from tonguing her clit until she does yet again.

Thor’s tongue does the impossible: it stops. He dips lower where the tongue resurfaces at her still faintly pulsing hole, just the sound of the slurp torture to Loki’s exhausted clit. With the lower half of his face so wet it’s reflective, on his knees, Thor wrangles out his hard-on and strokes a fire on the neglected thing.

It swings toward her when he does, groaning, lost in the bliss of his orgasm, and warm lines of cum splat on her pubic bone, in her fucking pubes, on her pussy. An automatic instinct trained by the dozens of warm bodies that’d smiled and moaned for Thor’s cum like the porn stars do but Loki’s not a sex doll. She minds being sticky.

“I get that with how pale I am it’s an easy mistake to make, but I’m not a fucking tissue.”

 Thor remorselessly looks at his mess. “You’ve swallowed my cum. What’s the difference? And I didn’t get any inside of you. Not that it would matter. You’re on birth control.”

Loki’s hands have stopped trembling enough for her to rest on them. “How do you know that?”

“I walked in on you and Mother talking about it once. When she got suspicious about that time you were spending with those nerds.” Thor has the decency to toss Loki the box of tissues, her box of tissues, after he’s gotten some to wipe the Loki juice off his face with. “I was listening.”

“That doesn’t surprise me as much as you remembering does.” Her pussy strongly dislikes reuniting with itself when she closes her thighs.

Thor says with his back turned, “I’m not finished,” in a very by-the-way tone. “I’m skipping out on a Rangers game with fantastic seats to take you. We’re not even yet.”

Bullshit that Loki could call Thor out on. However, more orgasms.

“Fine.”

Blame the high of her gold, but rather than wait for Thor to ply him with her tongue back home, Loki settles her debt bracing her hands against the lockers in the deserted dressing room while Thor packs his cock into her pussy through the hole in her tights, and she guides his fingers on all the fun ways he can rub her clit without chafing it or failing to make her cum.

“You’re doing so good. Yes—”

His hand covers her mouth when she was whispering. Nevertheless, his other hand keeps doing what it’s supposed to, and Loki might as well be god for she becomes one with the universe. Thor crashes the union with his signature “Fuck” that the hypocrite tries to backtrack sealing his mouth to Loki’s neck to gag himself as his cock beats.

When Thor comes back from ditching the condom in a trash can, she asks, unzipping her leotard, “So, are we even now?”

“We are.”

 

#

Fix your eyes on the new lucky titleholder of Thor’s Official Cock Cozy: Jarnsaxa.

Who? A college girl whose succulent peach of an ass crosses Thor’s eye line, initializing the cascade that has him putting himself in her path to ask if she’d like to go out. Jarnsaxa with her immaculate mascara after the tart eyelash batting and nonchalant fingering of her bombshell waves agrees. Probably says, “Nothing promised,” like the plum on her pillowy lips suggests she would, has to all the Thor-lites that came before her knight in a high school varsity jacket. Then, Thor, he chuckles because he knows that his existence is the promise. Skip the surface-level conversation over dinner Thor pays for in a show of maturity and Jarnsaxa sending him off unsexed, and there you have it, the start of Thor’s latest hobby.

Thor tells this to his ball warmers on the back patio where he’s failed to shut the kitchen window to keep his hypermasc comments about how “st-st-st-st-stacked” she is (unlike Loki) between bros. Thanks to Thor’s thoughtlessness or Loki might have wasted mental bandwidth being on stand-by for her essay doctoring and dick sucking services. Jarnsaxa now has the latter, and as a Columbia undergrad in History, she must know a thing or two about essay writing.

When Thor and the boys clatter in from the patio, Thor has no comment about Loki in the kitchen because Loki, she ceased to exist to him the moment Jarnsaxa was born in his mind. His bestie Fandral hasn’t been similarly cursed to not see Loki to feel the need to lean around her and grab an apple from the dish Loki would readily push his way to avoid the “Nice shirt” breathed at her face.

Her vintage Trek shirt means nothing to Fandral. The nipples showing through it, however, pique his interest like Fandral fancies himself a Jarnsaxa to Loki’s Thor also being at Columbia and alluringly legal himself.

If he has any hopes of trying, now his chances of having his face smashed in by Thor are next to nil with Thor’s attentions elsewhere, so he will only have to deal with Loki testing his resolve.

Not that she’s working with the nuclear weapons at her disposal that Jarnsaxa’s 36, 24, and 36 are. Loki’d like to take credit for Thor’s veer to the green on black on white palette, but his ex Sif has the softness that won’t stick to Loki like Jarnsaxa even if her eyes are hazel and she has a color that isn’t Death. Jarnsaxa’s Instagram is a before Vegas Burlesque portfolio, mysterious and alluring without all the sinister baggage of Loki. A massive reminder that Loki might not be Thor’s sister but she’s definitely not official fuckbuddy material.           

When she gets home, Thor’s home early and Mother and Father aren’t home. She’s going to meet her better Jarnsaxa today.

The bass of music Thor has on drifts through the thick wall separating their spaces. He would prefer Mother and Father hear the bass than the girl like they’ve demanded he stop bringing back without warning them.

In the bathroom, the bass hums through the floor.

A feminine moan gets through Thor’s door. Thor’s door puts up a fight against the sound leakage, but it can only do so much when Jarnsaxa’s louder than Thor’s above the “can cause hearing damage” warning music.  

All but flush to the door, Loki could be stood in the room.

“Fuck, that feels so damned good,” says an accent as posh as either of theirs, underscored by breathlessness. Thor, the breath stealer. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to cum from this. Fuck.”

 Eating her pussy, huh? Thor couldn’t wait to take those lessons for a test drive and show off that he’s become one of the 1% of men that can differentiate clit and lollipop licking technique and ensnare the girls that fall for him the moment he looks their way deeper. Another exercise in fluffing up his ego. Thor couldn’t care less about making Jarnsaxa or any woman feel good. He wants to be the master of sex to add that to his trophy mantel.

Loki locks her side of the bathroom and tucks her noise-canceling headphones on, and she forces a few orgasm out of herself with her handy-dandy bullet vibrator.

#

As Thor’s friends amass downstairs, Loki soothes the wounds of sharing a radius with those morons with wine squirreled away in a Frozen mug her parents will assume to be tea.

Her irritated “yes” to the knock doesn’t shoo them away, but them is Fandral unsurprisingly. He has come to magnanimously invite her to tag along to the movies, which one currently undecided, but it wouldn’t be one of Thor’s big group semi-dates if they had plans.

Thor’s girlfriend will be there.

“Fine.”

Coming out looking like she has some powerful man’s raw and still warm testicles in her handbag wouldn’t deter Fandral, funnily and, she’ll privately admit, impressively. He lets someone else have the passenger seat to continue to widen the quadruple digit lead he has on words Thor’s spoken to Loki this week that Thor in the driver’s seat has no inkling to rectify. At least, Fandral has a few dozen brain cells to his name and willingly rolls out his Evolutionary Psych class knowledge for Loki to entertain herself in.

Jarnsaxa in the flesh lures Thor ahead of them for an embrace of her ass. She keeps a possessive hand on her hot commodity’s chest while her pals, equally Instagram ready, wiggle their fingers at Thor and introduce themselves to Thor’s strays and friends. They say “hi” to Loki as they try to decide if they’re going to intercept Fandral for themselves if their irresistible pull to Thor — literally constantly glancing over at him, adult women — ends up failing them, but as the youngest person here, Loki has to assert her dominance someway, so she slips an arm around Fandral’s shoulders, and they see how Fandral melts for her.

They don’t know the decade of familiarity behind it, but they do know a cue to move along.

Thor should’ve been pushing Jarnsaxa’s ass over to her to introduce her before or to be more faithful to Thor, while Jarnsaxa’s friends introduced themselves. She gets that he wants to delay the disapproval from Mother by hiding it from their parents, but when has Loki been one to blab to them? At least unprovoked.

“Fandral,” Thor calls.

Fandral must go to him.

Playboy centerfold eyes meet hers and smile.

Jarnsaxa in her Black Widow stilettos comes over to Loki, her perfume Dior or Chanel. “Hi, we haven’t gotten a chance to meet.” Dior. “I’m Jarnsaxa.”

“Loki.” They shake hands like civilized people that know the glory of Chloe handbags like the black hobo on Jarnsaxa’s elbow. “You’re Thor’s girlfriend?”

“Yes. I am Thor’s friend that is a girl. Woman.” A friend with benefits. Fun. “How do you know him?”

“Sister.”

“You’re his sister? Oh. Strange. I expected someone… brattier.”

“I’m only bratty to those who deserve it, so you can imagine why Thor would say that.”

“I can. I can.”

Thor crashes their conversation with an obnoxious “What are you two talking about?” as Fandral lightly pinches Loki’s bicep.   

“You,” says Jarnsaxa. “You owe Loki an apology. You’ve been defaming her.”

“I mentioned she was a liar,” says Thor. He lets the fraction of a glare out to put on Loki before retracting her allowance of his attention and casting the wide net over them all to declare the schlock they’ve decided on.

“If we share popcorn, I will castrate you if you cut a hole in the bottom to play bobbing for hot dogs,” she tells Fandral.

“We’ll share.” Thor glances back at her to answer her unspoken question if he’s talking to her. “You never finish it on your own.”

Apparently Jarnsaxa’s benefits include and are limited to orgasms. Not quite a wash or one at all but popcorn paid for by someone else has a certain zing that Loki wouldn’t trade at the moment. She enjoys it for a few moments before Thor tries to cash in any IOUs on 30-page book reports.

She holds out money to Thor when he goes to relinquish the popcorn and more importantly, implicit helpfulness to her. “You can give me the change back later.”

Thor stares at her cash like it’s Monopoly money. “Keep it.”

“Keep it?”

“You heard me the first time.”

“Sorry, I don’t speak dick fluently. You’ll have to forgive me.” She grabs the popcorn and takes one and dunks it in the cheese to Fandral’s nachos. Out of the kindness of her heart and the spite of it, she lets Fandral take some of the Thor-sponsored popcorn to vindicate Loki’s taste.

The shared popcorn enforced seating arrangement gives her the front-row seat to Thor’s abuse of the deep, meant to be sexy voice in a semi-whisper on Jarnsaxa who’s keen to hear Thor bashing the himbo lead for reasons unknown considering she has a brain. “Sh” is ammunition for Thor to stretch the limits of the whisper if anything, predictably. 

“Good movie,” says Thor.

“I’m glad you think so,” Loki replies, “seeing as how the rest of us couldn’t hear it.”

Jarnsaxa snickers, and because Jarnsaxa is not Loki, that draws Thor against her to play posture, hands all over her hips as he prepares to make good on those benefits of theirs.

“I’m gonna stay in the city tonight,” says Thor, and he tosses Fandral the keys to Father’s Benz. “Take that home for me in one piece.”

“I’ll throw her in free of charge,” Fandral replies, assuming that his best friend’s sister actually matters to said best friend. “Be safe.”

“Always am.” Thor’s invincible with his hand on a fat ass.

Loki doesn’t have that to offer to Fandral, but the second amigo Hogun has himself to offer up to relegate Loki back to backseat spectating. As she streetlight gazes, Thor’s licking Jarnsaxa’s oracy away, fully immersed in between her supple thighs and under the great shadows of her tits that will be marked with his spit and his fingerprints. Maybe, he’ll fuck them to savor how easily they hide his cock. 

“You’re quiet back there.”

Hogun’s gone, and Fandral has eight minutes of silence or this.

She climbs up into the passenger seat to be the rapt audience that like Thor, Fandral craves like oxygen. For all of the reasons that Thor waited out reaching into the popcorn until the threat of contact receded, Fandral voluntarily talks to Loki about the things that only Thor’s trusted with because Fandral’s one of those straight men that sees all women as sex dolls cum lawyers. A lot like Thor.

Thor won’t be telling his friend Jarnsaxa about his misgivings with Father, cautious that she’ll turn the knife back around on him. Fandral knows Loki will until proven otherwise, and that might be what gets him, “buts” about his best friend and all, up to Loki’s bedroom for her to “show him something.” Thor and Fandral are platonic twin flames. With the ease Jarnsaxa will have, she pushes her pants off and shows Fandral where to put his mouth.

“Lay back, sweetheart,” he genuinely says. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Fandral’s trial and errored his way to knowing how to properly use his tongue and fingers on a pussy, proving only that Thor’s issue with learning was his lack of effort in trying to convince girls to let him. He receives pointers nonetheless, hold her down, squeeze her nipple harder, keep going. He listens, so he deserves the gift of Loki’s throbbing pussy.

She lets what hair he has on his head go.

That knock is not in her head according to Fandral stopping short of getting out of Loki’s pussy’s personal space.

“Loki, do you have company?” asks Father.

“Shit,” mouths Fandral who scrambles to the en suite as Loki replies, “Possibly?”

Her door knob rattles, but the lock does its job.

“I would appreciate you unlocking the door.”

She’s on it right after she puts her pants back on.

The working parts of Father’s hearing already have him at full scowl. “Your mother and I have made it plainly clear that under no circumstances are you allowed—”

“Sir,” says Fandral. No trace of water or mouthwash can be seen after years of practice pretending he’s not ravishing daughters and sisters and, right, wives.

Father’s taken a step back from the edge. “Fandral.”

“I’m sorry. If I had known—”

“Is Thor aware that you’re here?”

“Maybe?”

“I thought I’d seen your car when I pulled in. You can go get yourself home. The drive back down into the city can be quite difficult after hours.”

“You’re right. Good night, sir.” Fandral rescues himself and his surrogate childhood.

Father takes a step back away from her and points in that Don Corleone way at her. “There will be no Fandral. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” She maintains her straight face until she has locked her door, and promptly face plants and cackles at how horrified Mother will be to hear grumpily from Father that their little girl’s fallen for Fandral’s tricks.

Little do they know Loki’s done worse within the immediate branch of their family tree.

Mother would feel far differently during her Oprah-approved argument for Loki loving herself since allegedly banging Fandral, who she and Father by all accounts love like a third child, qualifies just short of self-hate. Sat at the breakfast nook, Father distracting himself with his newspaper and coffee outside, she rubs her comforting circles into Loki’s hands and shares an anecdote about how grateful she is that she waited for Father and did not succumb to the charms of the pretenders who Loki can guess were not the sort of alpha males that think their Y-chromosome is a royal crown for better or for worse. “Perhaps, when Fandral has matured, and you’re both older, think about it.”

She thanks her Mother to free herself to get out of the kitchen and away from any unnecessary positive affirmations.

Falling into the chair next to her, Thor asks, “So, how was fucking Fandral?”  

Father would have debriefed Thor.

“I haven’t got a chance to ask him yet. You know, only just found out,” says Thor snarkily. “He’s supposed to be some master of it.”

Loki smiles to bite it back bashfully. “It wasn’t terrible.”

“Hm. You told me fucking nothing.”

“There’s nothing to tell you. I—” She exhales. “It’s difficult to put it into words.”

Thor’s eyebrows cannot believe that. “Really?”

“Don’t tell him that but really.”

“What… what did he do?”

Loki’s cheeks could be color-matched to Crayola pink. She knows that. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

Thor laughs. “I’m not going to fucking ask him what he did to my sister. Doubt he’ll tell me. I wouldn’t want to hear it from him anyway. Don’t want to hear shit from him quite frankly.”

“It’s nothing you didn’t do yourself last night.”

Mother has pancakes and Father behind her, ending this conversation.

That doesn’t mean Thor’s nagging need to know ends. Thor won’t stop until he knows the secret that will make him the true Master of the Universe.

Thor follows her from the breakfast table, and when the eyes at the back of her head don’t stop to yield to his demand, Thor burns and bruises her forearm to stop her outside of her bedroom. “You don’t have to worry about paying me back. Ever,” he says. He releases her. “Just tell me what happened with Fandral.”

She looks away like the memory overwhelms her. Blush brought back with the memory of Thor’s beard and lips shining with her pussy juice, she says, “I don’t think I’ve ever cum like I did last night. It just.” She thunks her head against her door like she’s letting the remembering overtake her. “Excuse me. I need to take care of something.”

She already got off this morning, but for realism sake, she moans her heart out for Thor’s ear pressed to the bathroom door.

   

#

Loki isn’t sure who she’s seen less of: Fandral or Thor.

Fandral’s imposed a restraining order on himself as even Father with his one eye could have foreseen. Staying away from their house minimizes his risk of being anywhere near Loki that can be misconstrued as taboo, a cowardly choice but one that Fandral, as desperate as Thor for their parents’ approval, would make. Presumably, he sees Thor, at least one time unit of a punch to the face and kick to the balls and “You’re going to have to make this up to me” threat more than Loki does, but they both have nothing on Jarnsaxa.

Jarnsaxa’s pussy sees more of Thor than Jarnsaxa herself. She has become his proof of concept for the elusive life-changing orgasm that some lesser man — meaning every man that’s not Thor — has shown him up with. Thor will figure it out on his own like Thor figured out sports and popularity Thor’s sure. All of Father’s gross stories prove that it’s Thor’s legacy to ascend to sex godliness along with all the other titles, and Thor will be damned if he lets his damned little sister Loki stop him from that.

Mother concludes that the lack of Thor has the cause of a “new girlfriend you’re spending all your time with.”

Thor balks. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Then, the girl that you’re ‘seeing.’”

“I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Don’t be short with your mother. Her assumption would not be so far-off in most cases.”

Thor chews with offense. “Well, there’s no girlfriend, alright? No one. I swear.”

Jarnsaxa’s pussy doesn’t have personhood. Loki lets Thor have that one and doesn’t tell Mother that yes, there’s someone Thor’s off to after he finishes rolling the recycling down the curb as Loki loads the dishwasher and Mother fretfully rinses. “He’s just doing what all the popular idiots do.”

Mother’s too consumed with nightmares of some tattooed, alt girl with a labret piercing and smoking habit fondling her baby boy to defend her son’s three brain cells. She knows from Op-Eds in her subscription to Women’s Health that Thor’s the boogeyman, the Fandral if you must, to misled little girls like Loki — but not Loki. Never. Mother witnesses their oil and oxygen act regularly.

A pussyhound son and bad-boy-magnet daughter, what did she do to deserve that?

What did Loki do to deserve this — Thor waking her via phone a century past the midnight he told Mother and Father?

She answers a beat before the last ring to annoy him back. “Hello?”

“Hello, Loki,” says… Jarnsaxa. “I’m calling from Thor’s phone—”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, you need to come get him. I’ll send the pin — shit. You’re his emergency call. Thankfully. I couldn’t get him to put his pin in.” Weeks together and she hasn’t glanced over while her tits were draped on his shoulder to figure out “0000”? “I’ll give you the address. Are you ready?”

“Hm.”

Brooklyn. The small intestine of Brooklyn right before the asshole of Brighton Beach, in other words, not a hop, skip, and a jump. Jarnsaxa’s been here to know that and has some decency to apologize .“I was about to order the Uber, but I didn’t trust that they’d get him home safe. Safe on their part.”

“I’ll be there.”

All of the orgasms Thor’s supplied Jarnsaxa with free of emotional charge must’ve built some care in her. The Uber driver that would have picked up the obviously blackout drunk, worst version of Thor, to drive to the wealthiest zip code in the country might have helped themselves to Thor’s wallet or not hesitated to kick him out onto the sidewalk after almost getting strangled for Father to find in the morning when getting the mail. Loki’s hears her father’s a “federal judge” during his prying masked as small talk and weighs prison against the massive fare due if he keeps her alive, and Loki’s unmurdered stepping out in front of some chain vapers with beer cans and no common sense.

Thor’s inconveniencing everyone sat pathetically a step inside the front door.

“You made it,” says Jarnsaxa, exasperated like Thor’s not been her personal orgasm dispenser and her friend’s not moral supporting her babysitting Thor. She’s ungentle leaning down to shake Thor’s shoulder. “Hey, honey, your sister’s here.”

Thor’s eyes sluggishly open. The poor lighting adds to the ire he puts on Loki. “Lucky me.”

Jarnsaxa, traumatized from the past hour of her life, anticipates the trouble Thor has standing up, but Thor’s stumble passes for a single beer versus the keg worth that emanates from him. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? You—”

Thor pointedly yanks his arm out of her hand and ignores both her and Loki pushing himself outside.

“Get home safe.”

“How can I do anything else with Thor by my side?”

 Her Uber driver’s persuaded by the return fare to be there for Thor to presumptuously have gotten inside of. “Boyfriend?” he asks her.

Head leaned back, Thor peeks down at her as she saves his life buckling him in, no thanks to be found.

“Brother but what’s the difference?”

The beer and Vodka shots that Thor loves bragging he can down by the dozen revitalize the shriveled neurons in Thor’s brain responsible for contemplation and introspection. This isn’t Thor’s usual loud quiet where Loki can read the thoughts off the rage in his eyebrows but the quiet that has Loki thinking about what Thor’s thinking with his default contempt offering her no help.

The driver, smelling Thor over the floral freshener hanging from his rearview, unbuckles to be shoulders for Thor to drag himself up the front door with, but before he can get out, Thor has and has slammed the door. He wishes her a good night. “Or early morning or whatever.”

“You too.”

Thor waits for her to unlock the front door by necessity of his MIA fine motor skills. He goes in first. Clinging to the railing keeps him from sounding like an army battalion and groping the wall deprives the floor of his ass, undoubtedly influenced by Thor’s fear of Loki’s supervision turning hands-on, stealing his precious independence. Him making it to his bed, however gracelessly, is a win for mankind.

Loki slips off his overhyped basketball sneakers in case Mother or Father stick their hands in later, so they don’t immediately know how sorry of a state their son came home in. She sets out a class of water on his nightstand for that too.

“So, what, do I owe you, huh?” comes out slurred by fatigue more than alcohol. “Gonna take advantage of me, my desperation, and ask me to fuck you again?”

“You’ve already done me the favor of sparing me the fallout of your untimely death. I don’t need that storm cloud hanging over me for the rest of my life.”

“You really don’t care about me. I knew it when you asked me to fuck you the first time, but you don’t. If you could — if there was a button, if you could press that button and erase me, so I never existed, you, you would press it so hard you would break it.”

“If you’re going to talk to yourself, I’ll leave you alone.” She taps Thor’s bedside lamp off. “Happy Hangovers.”

“Wait. Wait, wait.” Thor’s a few decibels away from a knock from Father, and neither of them need that. “I’m not — I’m not letting you hurt me anymore.”

“You’re not?”

“No. No, you… you’re not going to make me feel bad about myself again. Okay? You’re — you don’t get to… make me not like myself.”

“And how do I make you not like yourself?”

“You know.” Does she? Does anyone considering that Thor has never not liked himself? “You can’t use me. My love for you.” Please, tell Loki he isn’t thinking about crying. “I’m a good brother. Good brother. I just… I wanna be a good brother. You can’t stop me.”

“How would I be stopping you?” 

“Making me do things—”

“I didn’t make you do anything, Thor. I didn’t tell you to get in Father’s Rolls and sneak it off to a party, and I didn’t tell you to decide not to take responsibility. And I did not force you to agree to fuck me. You could’ve told me no.”

“No. No, I… I couldn’t.” The resonance of Thor’s sniffle says that he’s felt the need to roll over and risk choking himself on his own vomit. “I couldn’t. I had to. I had to,” he repeats, slowly, dreamily.

“Thor?”

The unintelligible sound of Thor’s brain turning off replies. His conscious mind out of the way, Loki wades onto the bed to nudge Thor onto his side which Thor unconsciously decides he likes anyway. Idiot.

Thor’s an unquestionable, infallible god until his skeletal little sister presents him with an ultimatum an unquestionable, infallible god would’ve rejected because he’d find some “friend” — someone that considered Thor a friend like Lady Gaga fans considered her one — that knew someone with a body shop that handled vintage cars or a “friend” that would’ve sacrificed their own wheels to stage a side swipe or how many other possibilities that would’ve spared him of fucking his evil, hurtful little sister. Thor had to her ass.

All Thor had to do was take responsibility for his actions — both with the Rolls and with the essay, oh, and he could’ve told Loki “no” to the ride to regionals. Loki hurt him. What, his conscience? Thor feels bad about himself because Loki’s rubbed his face in the fact that Thor’s a selfish jackass with morals that shift as his contentment sees fit.

“Woe is me. My little sister hurt me by forcing me to confront my narcissism.” Loki’s guilt has better uses like for Mother’s parenting losing to the war with Father’s on Thor and how she, ruffling Thor’s fucked up hair as he scavenges non-alcoholic calories, has no idea.

When she leaves to water her flowers, Loki emerges from Thor’s background and gets an orange for herself.

Thor glances at her suspiciously.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said to me last night,” she says. “About me.”

Thor’s shoulders do an exaggerated imitation of themselves when Loki’s surprised him from behind during his late-night sneak-ins. She rarely gets the front view, particularly not with the sunlight to show how Thor’s eyes widen as far as that goes with them and his skin blanches as far as that goes with it. He shifts his weight, is, it nervously? “I was joking. I — I’m your brother,” he says in his secret quiet voice. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

What Loki’s talking about is not what Thor’s talking about.

“You… were?”

“Yeah. Obviously. I don’t —” He breaks for a laugh. “I’m not attracted to you. That would be crazy.”

Oh, now it all makes sense. Of fucking course.

“So, forget everything I said. I was drunk. I wasn’t myself.”

“Already done.”

“See? You can be cool when you want. You should try it more.”

“For what?”

Thor’s eyes warn her before he, apple held between his teeth, goes to offer his services to Jarnsaxa as gratitude for hers last night, because if Thor eats her out enough, his mind will forget that it didn’t mind eating out Loki.       

 

#

    The stain of hatred rubbed away the rose-tinted lens, Thor’s externalized battle between ignoring Loki to not fuel the forbidden flame and exposing her to himself to desensitize himself again is quite the watch.

Jarnsaxa’s personal encounter with Thor’s immaturity must have closed her legs for Thor’s business, sending Thor home before dawn to wash off one-night stands his tongue wasn’t invited to. Pity him. A menagerie of girls to choose from but it’s the one that bothers him asking him to pass the orange juice across the table, the one of two that should be off-limits, that sticks to his conscience.    

Join the damned club, Thor. Loki’s had the hots for him since that Family Day picnic at 11 when she looked around at the others with their brother and sisters on their red-and-white checked blankets and looked back to Thor with his glittering smile and felt none of the sterilized camaraderie the others looked at each other with. Thor’s personality has been an invaluable tool in coping with the fact that she would never have turned her brother down for a fuck, only a fuck, because her feelings only exist on a sexual axis.

 Thor is shallow. He will never admit the negative side to that but cloak it in some aesthetic bullshit, not come out and say that he surrounds himself with pretty people because it means more for them to bow to him than the uglies. He’s selfish, thoughtless, inconsiderate, boisterous, summarily an asshole. He so happens to also be a walking, talking sex doll equipped with a perfect dildo. If Loki has to coexist with Thor, and Thor doesn’t particularly mind her pittance of ass and tits, why not turn those lemons in lemon tarts?

Thor’s stirring in his room as he haphazardly ties off the loose ends of half-assed homework to grant him passage to a party later and saves Mother from the gas attack of forgotten sports gear in his bags. In other words, Thor is doing much of nothing.

When she knocks, Thor absently says, “Yeah?”

Thor’s bent over packing away his gear for baseball, ass greeting Loki. “I’m listening.”

“I need to practice kissing.”

Thor’s confusion wins and pulls him up and around to furrow his eyebrows at Loki, briefly at her lips in nothing but gloss. “Afraid you’re not an ‘oralist’ after all?”

The only reason Thor remembers that is because he was jealous he never said it.

“Experts don’t stay expert by not practicing.”

“Muscle memory doesn’t really go away, which I’m sure you know.” Thor squats down to zip up his bag. “I want an alibi. Tomorrow, there’s a party down in Brooklyn. They told me I couldn’t go until I finished my final paper because they’ve been checking my grades and everything. I haven’t even started it.”

“Okay. You’ll be in your room all night.”

“Good.” Thor sits himself down at the foot of his bed, legs splayed open for his massive balls to have breathing room. “Let’s do this.”

It isn’t a make out session without music. The sonic analog to weed-fueled sex in a dim room skirts around Thor’s heavy and abrasive sensibilities, pads the quiet for Loki to straddle herself onto Thor’s steel beam thighs and get the seat on his lap reserved for the ones Thor welcomes.

Thor’s a statue from some divine temple, focused on the ambivalence he holds himself still with when her thumbs trace the outer curve of Thor’s mouth, when she inhales the warm exhale through the space in his subtly kissable lips, when she beats the next one out with hers. That “shut up” of a kiss the second fuck told her how soft Thor’s lips are, soft like no other flesh part on him, wet with drying spit. She braces herself on Thor’s stiff shoulders and rewets them, cough syrup sweet from the empty Gatorade over on his desk and hellbent on not accommodating her, but Loki’s tongue is flexible.

Thor’s clenched teeth smooth down her tongue, resolute about keeping Loki out. Yet Thor’s lip has no such resistance against Loki’s teeth, and following suit to it, Thor’s teeth unclamp for the wince that tightens Loki’s hipbones, Thor’s hands responsible. In Loki’s tongue helps itself, bringing Thor’s liquid pennies along for the ride to give Thor a taste of the real hurt Loki’s enacted on him, and that rouses Thor’s lips to press back with a vengeance. Thor’s stubble comes with violence that sputters out into a tickle on her nose, on her chin, the top of her lip, and here is where all of the others swoon in Thor’s arms and surrender their mouths, but Loki maintains her pace with a death grip that Thor has to compromise with.

The frenulum of Thor’s tongue digs into hers, and Thor rotates the world one right angle, his hard abs jammed against hers, his clenching pecs smushing her tits, but the little bursts of friction of her shirt against her nipples together with that low-level pain go straight to her clit. It would be easy to give her weight to Thor, to press them crotch to crotch, but she refuses to give Thor that out. She asked for kissing, and kissing is all she’ll take. Thor gets to stretch his idea of kissing when the few hundred CCs of fat missing from Loki’s ass don’t stop him from squeezing it, but Loki’s two hands stay planted beside Thor’s head to keep that room between Thor’s denial and her pussy.

That relief when force digs her panties and jeans into her clit tempts her to let Thor escalate his rutting up. Letting Thor pull her down flush to grind them together, and it wouldn’t take long for her to cum, not long at all, but no, Loki’s not in the business of donations even if she gets an orgasm out of it.

She pulls both her head and her hips up.

Thor’s eyes pop open all frantic and black.

“I’m finished.”

He can’t argue against her dismounting him. Thor’s hard-on bulges in his trackies.   

She gathers herself at the edge of his bed.

“Is there anything else you want some practice with?”

 She asks him, feigning offense, “Is there?”  

“I mean — I asked Fandral, and he didn’t seem to be as mind blown as you.”

“Oh.”

“Not that I don’t think you were good. It’s just that whatever he did for you, you didn’t do that for him.”

Duh. Fandral didn’t even get to touch his dick. She contemplates her allegedly poor performance for a few moments and sighs with resolve. “I guess I’ll have to change his mind.”

That’s not what Thor had in mind. “You know Fandral was just a one-off. You don’t have to go through all that trouble. I can help you out.” When “yes” doesn’t come in a millisecond, Thor hurries up to add, “Besides, like you said, it should be with someone you can trust. You can trust him for a lot of things, but take it from me. He’s a bit of a whore. Me personally, I barely trust him to get his dick out at the urinal next to mine without giving me something. Not that you got anything. I bet you made him wear a condom when you blew him.”

Had she, she probably would’ve, but that’s just common sense.

“Hm. I should just go and find a new subject to add to the sample size considering you’re not far off.”

Thor scoffs. “I look like a virgin compared to him.”

“What do you want?” she asks. “Homework, study guide — an alibi for the next two weeks. If you need one, you have it if I can practice it all, and not just now. I want to a few times.”

“One time for each alibi.” Thor pushes down his trackies, cock springing forth. “Sounds like a deal to me.”

She bares the tits Thor proves he likes rushing up to taste a nipple and then some. For his reticence in letting her tits know they’re loved in the first place, she grips some of the angel string to pull his mouth away. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one practicing?”

“Yeah,” says Thor, dragging Loki’s hand in his hair along for the ride to pick up where he left off. “I’m just”—more sucking—“trying to”—kiss to her heart—“make it realistic for you.” He sucks her other tit. “Help you practice.”

He can handle that while Loki handles this throbbing demon cock. Thor’s lips slip from his teeth, and yes, teeth belong on her nipples. Teeth can stay. She makes sure they have uninterrupted access to light up those painful pleasure bolts to her pussy as she frees it, Thor cooperating with her like he hasn’t this side of puberty. He recognizes its fruits now, pulls himself away from a nipple to look her over on top of him, careless in his horniness, shamelessly careless rolling his hips to tease the slippery tip of his cock down her slit. 

“Gonna ride me?”

“Mother always wanted me to do equestrian.”

Thor wants to be disgusted, but that energy serves him better pulling a condom from under a pillow, and he pauses short of putting it on himself to hand it to her. “You do the honors.”

Lube’s not Loki’s favorite taste, but the smooth pulse of Thor’s cock in her mouth through it along with the “fuck” Thor’s lips trace watching her all the way down to the hilt make it up for it.

Loki’s pussy can’t perform miracles without a little prep, and latex stretched on cock has a smooth slip that touches all of the nerves on her clit vividly well. It must not be nothing for Thor too, his bottom lip gripped hard between his teeth and his chest muscles clenching for dear life. They give Loki’s hand a place to rest while the other keeps Thor’s cock in line for her to sit herself down on it and to try to dig his fingertips into at the smoldering stretch that stops the air in her throat in or out.

It hurts so good. She fucks hard herself on Thor’s outrageous cock, stuffing herself with it like she deserves. She lets herself gorge on just that, the fullness that will have her wincing tomorrow and her pussy weeping trying to figure itself back out, and it’s a fork in a socket, the shock that clenches her, the clench that melts into — it shouldn’t be, can’t be, but it is — an orgasm.

She’s cumming. Fuck, she’s cumming. Her voice says it, declares it, this momentous day for women everywhere that a cock has fulfilled its true potential and jolted those firework contractions deep inside without hands-on coaching from the clit, hers proudly trilling all the same. Thor’s cock is pulsing, the ribbons in his neck flexing, and Thor, he is cumming, fighting it, but Thor’s cock has succumbed and dragged Thor’s gnashing teeth down with it. Her pussy did that.

“Wait,” Thor’s telling her, sliding her uncomfortably empty. He does a condom swap, and in a pointed show that his stamina should be in no doubt, he reconciles the aching cool in Loki with all of his warmth. He molds his fingerprints into her ass holding her in place for him to pace himself through his cock’s nagging to stop that fixes that exertion wrinkle between his eyebrows.

Her clit is ready and waiting for her fingers, and her teasing only pisses it off, the cute little head at full glory outside of the hood seeking all and any friction. It takes the sudden contact of Thor’s abs happily as in an obscene display of strength, Thor flat-out snatches Loki flush to the heat of him and stands them up, yes, on the bed. Thor kisses her, and Thor pounds up into her while he pants into her mouth. Because Thor won’t drop her, she weakly holds onto Thor’s neck and packs Thor’s cock back into her faster and as deep as it can go.

“Cum with me,” she says.

During the two, three rubs of her finger, Thor’s strokes stutter and slow, and they’re cumming.

Thor’s knees buckle gradually.

Loki unties her arms and gives in to gravity to leave Thor with only the lower half of her which is all of her that Thor, live from the end of the 400 m dash, can handle by the looks of it.

“See? Fandral’s not that special.”

The hands-free orgasm, unsurprisingly, settles the matter for Thor none. The mentality that has infested cabinets downstairs with trophies for every sport ESPN broadcasts and a few that it doesn’t drops Thor’s pants and perks up his cock when they have the house to themselves or the threat of a knock hovers around zero owing to Father’s golf or Mother’s backyard book-reading marathon. Thor fucks spit down her chin and a load down her throat and recovers to bend over her, in her periphery, muscles bulging with the effort to support his colossal weight, and fill her until she tells him, “Please, cum in me. Yes.”

Loki has a theory — more of a law after when she with her legs parallel to the front of Thor as Thor, slightly bent at the knees, pumps into her says, “You’re so deep in me,” Thor’s methodical rhythm topples in a strain of neck muscle and stifled groan — that Thor’s a slave to her voice. A voice for years that has reminded him of his imperfections transplanted into euphoric moments uproots Thor’s worldview, and his brain decides to wash it all out with an orgasm.

When she tells Thor he’s a miracle of modern civilization — as he is as anyone who would witness him stabbing his laptop charging port over and over in an attempt to get it to charge, only to overlook the unplugged charger, would agree — Thor glares, no orgasm to be seen. However, when she tells him, “That tickles,” as he prods fingers around her asshole, Thor’s frosting her ass with cum and chastising, “Loki.”

“What?”

Thor makes a frustrated sound. “Nothing.”

He would be loath to admit he has next to no power inside of Loki regardless if he’s in her pussy or in her asshole, a new frontier differentiated only by the fullness shifted back a few degrees dosed with — not only a legendary burn but nonstop suspense that makes cumming ridiculously cathartic. Loki relies on him not punching her cervix or tearing her sphincter, but Loki only needs to utter a syllable to turn Thor into a helpless, desperate mess.

Thor goes to his parties that Loki is sure to keep Thor’s door locked and his light on to hide from Mother’s and Father’s late-night insomnia strolls, and Thor flirts over beers, but Thor also strums his tongue over her clit as she pants when to lick harder and when to lick lower and how to lick when she’s cumming, pulsating in his mouth, like that falls into the making “practice” realistic for Loki excuse. 

Thor, the clown, deserves the “Daddy” that Loki moans the second that he slips his cock in at the end of their trade.

She laughs to herself as Thor laments through an orgasm in the comfort of her tits. She strokes his hair. “And I was hoping to try out some dirty talk tonight. Guess that’s not happening.”

#

Skates, blades sharing the Hallelujah chorus with Thor’s own halo, clatter onto the counter. These are not Loki’s skates.

“I got you new skates,” says Thor. “I heard you whining to Mother about needing new ones.”

He got the exact same model. Seeing as how Thor’s disrespect for Loki’s privacy means him routinely going through her stuff, it’s not impressive that he likely went into her closet to get an archived pair to take for reference. He gets no points for that.

“Also, um, Mother, she mentioned that you asked about some art thing next month. I know she told you she’d see. Well, I told her I’d go with you, and she said, ‘yes.’ You don’t have to worry about tickets. I’ll get them.”

They’ve crossed off all the major acts and most positions. It’s not hard to see what Thor wants.

Loki asks.

“No condom.” She saw that coming. “You’re on birth control, and we’re both STD free. I mean, I got tested yesterday, and you said you went last weekend. And other than Fandral — and you used a condom with him for the two seconds he probably lasted —  it’s not like you’ve fucked anyone.”

Technically, she hasn’t, but that’s not what Thor’s ego needs.

“Okay.”

“Okay? Cool. When do you—”

“Tomorrow. I waxed my pussy earlier. It needs the R&R.”

Loki loves those surprised eyebrows. “Oh. I don’t really see why you do that, but whatever. Your body.”

Thor, the feminist, supports Loki’s autonomy when it’s tight and wet for him. Hand him a “Future is Female” tee shirt, and Thor would wear it with a tight, eye-shutting grin in solidarity for the Holy Grail of his consummate manliness. Thor will be baptized and born anew in pussy juice, a man the likes of this world has never seen. The near grand and hour of his valuable time he will be down after this is a small entry price to pay to do a reverse King Arthur and plunge his sacred sword deep and become the douchebag that pouts to the eager to please girls, “But it feels so much better without a condom.”

But of them all that came before, Jarnsaxa, the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit pages at parties, it wasn’t until Loki that Thor dared to cross the Rubicon.

Thor’s fucking grinning that grin when he welcomes himself in to Loki’s room through the bathroom with a “Hey.”

Loki’s book keeps her hammock company in her stead while she gets up and sidetracks Thor with some mouth to mouth, the hair he’s left out of his ponytail perfect for her to get a grip in, remind him who has the upper hand here whether or not he can manhandle her onto the bed one-handed because his other’s busy unbuttoning her pants for room to it to slip into her panties and stroke her clit. His two fingers inside misalign her lips, the facial ones, from his to breathe and savor the little bit of fullness generously provided by Thor.

“Your cock can soon stop being jealous of yours fingers,” she tells Thor, and he means for the kiss to be a “shut up.” In the interest of Thor failing short of the finish line, Loki keeps it to monosyllables as they unclothe themselves, a wise decision vindicated by the pin-straight eagerness of Thor’s cock. Even Thor’s careful to stay on his knees and keep his cock from the bed when he licks her out in acknowledgment of his cock’s current hair trigger orgasm.

Thor gets her off just in case. He has a sense of forethought after all.

“I need you to say nothing, alright?” says Thor as he as calmly as he can puts the tip of his cock into place where Loki’s hole is still gently aflutter. “Just…”

The first stretch never fails to push her open like somehow, she’s never been opened before. It would be easy to put her name on the near-death moan, but that bass belongs to Thor whose face has seen the end of the world, a terror like none have felt before, like he has never. Thor’s wide, urgent eyes can’t cope with the wet, tight clench that mirrors the smooth stretch Loki feels. He bites his teeth, straining his moan, fully inside of Loki like he’s never been inside of anyone else and never will be, not with the vividness of the novelty of Loki’s perfect pussy. 

She squeezes down on Thor’s immovables shoulders, burrows her heels into Thor’s tailbone, and she mouths, “Come on. Fuck me.”

Thor’s cock is velvet against her inner lips and the lower rim of her hole. He fucks like they have the next year to, eyes closed tight to minimize the temptation to let go like Thor gathers all of his self control to resist. “I’m gonna cum.”

She uses her lips to kiss his through his faster thrusts, and when his rough fingers cover her clit, she kisses him a little bit longer.

 Just a few rubs before her pussy will cock, ready to cum, she says, “Oh, big brother. Fill me with your cum.”

Thor trembles. “That’s what you want?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Loki” breaks in half in Thor’s vocal chords as he paints her insides with his hot, sticky cum, binding them together like he’ll never be able to bind to anyone else because they won’t appreciate it, how vulnerable Thor is giving himself pieces of her. She is Thor’s universe. No one will ever know Thor like Loki now knows him.

She knows all of Thor now.

The sensitivity dumps Thor, gasping, onto his back, unstoppering Loki.

Her swollen pussy gapes in memory of Thor’s cock. A clench disrupts the pink with a bead of pearly white, syrupy like her pussy cream isn’t and lazier dripping down her taint. She has Thor’s cum inside of her.

Thor’s excited blood still him flushed. His hand reaches out toward her and grabs her wrist. His eyes open.

“I think I’ll be leaking cum for the next decade.”

“Well, I didn’t wank since last night. That’s a 24-hour load.”    

Loki lays herself down next to him on her elbow, fist on the least sweat slippery part of her cheek. “How thoughtful of you to save it.”

“It’s your first creampie. Couldn’t bring a sad load. Poor form.”

It wouldn’t be that uncomfortable to lay on Thor’s chest.

That’s not a part of the deal nor would it be fun, having to be near Thor when sex has left the building and taken all of the interest he has in Loki with it.

“Excuse me. I need to go save myself from a UTI and my underwear tomorrow from cum.”

She has a moment in the shower, cum dripping down her inner thigh, of just relishing.