#lokidall

[starsofnixie]

For @allofourkingsaredead, Hemidall x Loki. 

[movedto-dazaipositive]

Loki’s memories of Sakaar, and of the Grandmaster, had blended together after a while. Into one long, endless nightmare of pain and hurt and an inability to say no. Wanting to please people was an old instinct, but everything about Sakaar twisted that instinct out of shape, made it harder and easier by convincing him that the only thing he had to offer was his body, and its ability to take whatever was done to it without complaint.

When they sent him back to Asgard an indeterminable amount of time later, right into Thor’s waiting arms, Loki barely recognised him. Held onto him anyway, begged and begged to be allowed to be of use. He didn’t really understand why Thor wouldn’t touch him or fuck; all he knew was that he hated it, hated being such a vile and used thing that Thor couldn’t even stand to look at his body.

In his desperation, he went to Heimdall, who at least would be able to explain why Thor didn’t want him. He didn’t expect Heimdall to take him to his bed and fuck him until he cried, or the way Heimdall held him and read to him afterwards like he could understand the words. He hadn’t realised, or allowed himself to feel, the building ache beneath his skin that came with being untouched for so long. The way Heimdall fucked him hurt, but it was a cleaner ache than the little he could recall of Sakaar, and Heimdall always washed him when they were done. He was always gentle, in every way Loki was starving for. And there was no universe where he deserved this, but Loki was too tired, too greedy and starved, to say no. To even try.

Besides, he liked himself when Heimdall was in him. Liked how he could be good for Heimdall and be rewarded for it, as consistent as the tides. How  Heimdall drew out of Loki every bit of pleasure his body could still feel, and made it so it wasn’t scary or wrong. How he kissed Loki and allowed Loki to reach for him. And Loki couldn’t come without bursting into tears and ruining everything, but Heimdall made him feel good anyway. Didn’t hurt Loki for being a useless whore and didn’t tell him he was one even if they both knew it.

The days with Heimdall blended together too, Loki’s ability to stitch memories into a coherent narrative long since shattered the Grandmaster. But now his days were tinged with gold; the sunlight in the gardens he tended, the gold of his brother’s hair and the castle walls, the gold of Heimdall’s eyes. It was recovery, of a sort, and it was enough.