mentalmimosa:

Prompt: Friends with benefits. Prompt from this generator.

The first time Loki wakes up in Thor’s bed, he’s not entirely surprised.

He has vague memories of a kiss, of Thor’s arms around him, of the catch of the carpet against his back as Thor drove in to him, the high, wild sound of his own cries. He’s sticky and sore in all the right places and Thor’s back is to him, a wall of flesh covered in cotton and crowned by the pillow jammed in place over Thor’s head.

The light outside is gray. It’s early. Too. And it makes more sense to him to peel out of the sheets and pick his way to the shadows and down the hall to the living room, where his clothes are spread all over the floor. His jeans are halfway under the sofa and his shirt’s buried beneath Thor’s, crumpled in a heap by the front door. He tugs the v-neck over his head gingerly, leaning against the wall for support. That’s right; he’d been leaving. He’d had his hand on the knob and turned to say something, one last semi-drunken bon mot, and Thor had been there, right there, pink-cheeked and smiling, looking like he had a thousand times before at the end of a night when they’d drunk too much and laughed too hard at some dumb movie and spent far too long talking after, both of them pretending they didn’t have to be up early, that they were still young enough to responsible only to themselves; no bills, no job, no professional responsibilities. Days that were long, long gone. There was gray in Thor’s beard now, unwelcome silver, sometimes, in Loki’s hair, and they can’t drink as much as they used to when the worst of their worries was an 8 AM class.

Loki had brought vodka the night before, a couple of fancy flavored bottles a client in Austin had sent him by way of saying job well done . One was peach–Loki could still taste that one–and the other had been sweet tea, and everything had been fine until Thor had had the inspired idea to mix both together inside the same massive cup.

He can’t remember what they’d watched–an odious rom-com or two, probably; it’d been Thor’s night to choose–but somehow, after the credits rolled and he was two steps from leaving, he’d found himself back on the couch, spread across Thor’s muscled thighs, shoving his tongue in Thor’s mouth and lapping up each gorgeous, wanton moan.

Even through the haze of his hangover, of the dim, not quite dawn, Loki remembers that feeling, the overwhelming sense of need and lust and relief. Finally, he’d thought as Thor grabbed at his ass, bit wet, angled kisses into his throat. Fucking finally. At last.

He steps into his loafers and cracks open the door, slips onto the front step as quietly as he can.

His keys are in his pocket and he fumbles for his spare and locks Thor’s home behind him.

Outside, the sidewalk is quiet. There’s a woman running with her dog across the street and a car or two moving sluggishly down the street, their high beams cross cut through the fog. Loki turns up the block and starts walking up the hill towards his building, towards his own bed, back towards sleep.

His wallet’s not there, nor are his sunglasses, and he’ll have to call Thor when it’s more decent, when it’s more day outside than night. He’s not worried; they’re there, somewhere, temporary casualties of their eagerness. He doesn’t remember his jeans coming off, when, but he can’t forget the feeling of Thor’s fingers on the zipper, the promise of it, the sweet of Thor’s breath against his cheek, the soft, happy curve of Thor’s smile.

“You want this?” Thor had whispered. “You want me?”

Loki had wound his hands in that long, messy hair and hummed, words beyond him, unimportant, stupid. He’d smothered Thor’s mouth again and arched into his hand and tried to answer with his body, tried to let Thor read everything he needed in Loki’s fingers, the tangle of their legs, the sound he gave up when Thor battled Loki’s zipper down at last and reached in and drawn out his cock.

It stays in his head the whole walk home, that sound: a dozen years of longing, of denial, of stubbornness cast aside in an instant. It had felt so good. That’s what makes him blush now, as he punches in his code and heads for the stairs. His legs feel like lead and his head like a boulder but his hips are twitching at the memory of that feeling, the crush of pleasure he’d known from being bared to Thor at last, from there being nothing left between them.

“Oh, Loki,” Thor had said, his fist hot and too tight and perfect. “Look at you.”

He collapses on his bed in a heap, still wearing his shoes, one hand spread over the space where now it feels like–now he knows–Thor should be.

*****

The second time they sleep together, it’s more of a problem, because Thor’s girlfriend is two rooms away along with a dozen other of their friend, all them yelling at some stupid football game while Thor ruthlessly, beautifully sucks Loki off.

They’re in the half-bath off the back bedroom, two walls away from the party, and Thor’s face is red, Loki’s cock is, red and fat and incredibly hard. They’re supposed to be looking for weed, digging around in Thor’s guest room for a stash Thor swore to everybody was there, that he and Loki would try to find. It’s reckless, what they’re doing, so fucking stupid, that it’s making Loki crazy, how badly he wants to throw his head back and wail, wants to scream loud enough to cut through the noise. He feels vicious like this, cruel, and it isn’t fair to anyone what’s happening. He didn’t mean for it to.

But maybe Thor had. Maybe Thor had known exactly what he was doing, hovering at Loki’s side all night, sitting too close to him, letting their shoulders brush.

It’s been two weeks since the first time and Loki’s been away, busy soothing this client and that, and they haven’t seen each other. Haven’t talked about it. Haven’t been alone.

And they aren’t alone now, Loki reminds himself; they could easily be discovered, and what a shitstorm would that be. What a goddamn calamity. For Thor, anyway. He’s been with this woman, Jane, for almost a year; they’ve talked about moving in together, on and off. Loki thinks she wants a ring, Thor hasn’t been sure, and now they’re jeopardizing all of that for a sloppy blow job in Thor’s tasteful guest bathroom and Loki’s sure he’s never been so hard in his life.

He’s clutching the sink, his hands braced behind him, and Thor’s kneeling straight on the tile. Loki’s tight jeans are peeled open and Thor’s squeezing his hip the same way he did when they were fucking, when he was nailing Loki to the living room carpet and beaming into his face, those blue eyes alight with affection, and he’s looking up at Loki just like that now, like he wants to see everything he’s making Loki feel, wants to watch it play frame by frame across Loki’s face.

The tension in his body is paralyzing, exquisite, painful, and he realizes he’s holding himself back, that’s he’s doing his best not to come. He doesn’t want this to be over. He wants to feel like this forever, like Thor has him tied to the end of a string.

But then there’s a roar from the living room, a stomping of feet, a brush of fingers across the clutch of his hole, and Loki’s coming, hard, a vicious, sweet jerk that has him slamming into Thor’s mouth, his hands scrabbling at Thor’s shoulders, and it doesn’t help that Thor’s groaning, a deep, satisfied sound that makes Loki’s cock twitch again, eager to please Thor again.

They stay like that too long: Thor’s forehead on Loki’s hip, Loki’s hand in his hair, a ragged sort of benediction. And then Thor stands up and kisses him, gentle now, sweet.

“I missed you,” he murmurs in Loki’s ear. “Thought about doing that every night. God, I dreamed about you, Loki, about the noises you make. But no dream’s as good as the real thing.”

Loki shakes his head. He wants to say something, he wants to chide, but Thor’s disarmed his senses, all semblance of reason, and all Loki can do is lean in for kiss and lick the taste of his own bitterness away.