Story Notes:Anonymous: Hi, I know this is weird but... How does Loki feel when he breastfeeds his babies? And how does Thor react to it?
HJB: Trust me, anon, this is not the weirdest ask I’ve gotten, and I’m always up for a challenge.
Motherhood has its moments.
Amidst the sleepless nights and soiled nappies, the physical aches and emotional pains, and the continuous accumulation of dirty laundry that makes Loki appreciate the palace waitstaff more than anyone else in Asgard, there are glowing moments of contentment that make it all worth it.
Of these moments, feeding his baby is what Loki treasures most. He can’t describe in words what a meaningful and tender experience it is for him—he, Loki Laufeyson, the Silvertongue, who once scoffed at sentimentality and rolled his eyes at romance. But now his heart overflows with the love Thor has given him, as well as love for his baby, this tiny new person he and Thor have made together.
A full day passed after giving birth before Loki’s milk finally came in. He was wracked with worry the entire time, afraid that his pitifully small breasts would never yield and he would be forced to employ a wet nurse to feed his own child. He didn’t want to be a failure. He knew it was silly, that it wouldn’t make him any less of a mother if he couldn’t breastfeed, but he hated the thought that this confounded, dual-sexed body of his—the source of centuries of anguish and frustration—was so inadequate that it couldn’t even produce the food his child needed to live.
All of his insecurities about his body magnified when he learned he was pregnant, and he feared about his capacity to be a good parent. Even Thor’s reassurances were of little comfort to him. His confidence had always been a delicate, fragile thing, especially where physical ability was concerned.
But the milk eventually came, and Loki shed tears of relief the first time he held Tjörvi to his breast and nursed him. Thor slipped a strong, comforting arm around Loki’s shoulder and kissed his head, more happy about Loki being happy than anything else.
To Loki, feeding his child is the gentlest, most intimate thing he’s ever done. He carried this little thing in his belly for many months, where it was nourished and protected and kept warm without a conscious effort. Now he holds him in his arms, this tiny, helpless creature who must be fed and handled carefully and wrapped in blankets in order to survive. He is completely, utterly dependent upon Loki for everything, and it makes Loki ferociously protective.
And terribly anxious.
The worst of his worries have been quieted since he gave birth two months ago, and now experience—and Thor’s reliable assistance—is lending him the confidence he needs to let go of irrational fears and enjoy the lovely things that come with being a new mother. He likes caring for this soft, lovely little boy who is half him and half Thor, and every time he successfully soothes his baby’s hungry cries, he is reassured that, yes, he can do this.
Tjörvi, now eight weeks old, is wailing in Loki’s arms. He’s tired and fussy and it’s been a long afternoon. Loki knows he will sleep better on a full stomach, so he obliges him. It’s a tactic he knows will work every time: feed Tjörvi, put him down for a nap, and enjoy a few hours of baby-free personal time.
Loki cradles him in one arm while he unfastens his tunic with his free hand. Sometimes he has to help Tjörvi find his way, but no assistance is needed today. Loki’s nipples are much darker now than before he was pregnant, standing out against the pale skin of his breast. Tjörvi stops sobbing and reaches out with chubby arms, grasping instinctively for his sustenance. Loki almost laughs at the sight of him, those teary blue eyes and his tiny mouth open wide. Loki lifts him up a little more, and soon he is firmly latched and sucking.
The silence is beautiful. Loki exhales and relaxes, enjoying the peace and quiet. The warm, satisfying sensation of his nipple being gently pulled lulls him into a placid, drowsy state, and he can feel his milk flowing out of him and the rhythmic bobbing of Tjörvi’s jaw as he swallows. The child almost seems to be in a trance, his eyes taking on a dreamy, glazed stare while one of his plump hands digs into Loki’s breast, the nails sharp as a kitten’s claws. Loki winces, gently unclamps the hand, and replaces the fistful of flesh with his finger. Much better.
He leans back in the chaise lounge with a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. There is physical pleasure that comes with nursing, a fluttery stirring inside him, but nothing sordid or salacious. He likes being able to provide for his son, to feed him with his own body. The sweet little caresses trigger a chemical response in his brain, flooding it with feelings of bliss and bonding and love of inexpressible depth. Loki welcomes them without shame.
I am here, darling, he thinks, ducking his head to kiss the back of Tjörvi’s tiny hand. I am here.
After Tjörvi has eaten his fill, Loki lifts him onto his shoulder and rubs his back for a few minutes, until he squeaks and lets out a tiny burp. Then he begins to nod off, just as Loki expected.
He carefully lays Tjörvi into the nearby cradle, tucks him in snugly, and pets the wispy hairs on his head until his blue eyes finally shut.
He straightens his back and fixes his hair, folds his tunic closed. He’s tying it in place when two strong, thick arms slide around his waist, halting him. A familiar masculine scent washes over him, and Loki grins. “Hello, dear.”
“Hello, pretty,” Thor answers, kissing the side of Loki’s neck.
His beard tickles. Loki suppresses a giggle. “How long have you been here?”
“A while. I heard the little one stop crying and came to check on you.” Thor smiles. “I do love watching you feed him. You look so beautiful and serene. Does it… how does it feel when you nurse him? Is it arousing?”
“Not quite,” Loki answers, gazing down into the cradle. “It’s more soothing than sexual. But it does feel good.”
Thor sneakily slips Loki’s tunic aside to bare his shoulder. He presses a kiss to the exposed skin. “What about when I do it? Is it different?”
“Hmm, indeed,” Loki purrs, and guides Thor’s hand to his right breast, the one from which Tjörvi had not suckled. “Very sensual.”
Thor grins and cups Loki’s soft, small breast in his hand. “Are you feeling sensual now?” Gently he gathers Loki’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, applying pressure while gently pulling. A thick white drop of milk squeezes from the dark, erect nub.
Loki’s eyelids flutter and he releases a huff of air through his smiling lips. “Oh, yes. Yes, I am.”
Thor hums, the sound like thunder resonating through his broad chest. Loki can feel the vibrations in his back. “If you’re feeling a bit uneven, I offer my humble assistance.”
Loki shuts his eyes as Thor continues to tug his nipple, sending a trickle of warm milk rolling down the back of his hand. “Ahh…”
“You smell so good,” Thor murmurs, slipping his free hand around Loki’s hip and cupping his heavy cock. “Like flowers and milk. Sweet and… so maternal. You’re irresistible.”
Loki reaches down and places his hand over Thor’s, grinding himself into Thor’s palm. “How quiet can you be?”
“I’ve just put him down. If he wakes…”
“He won’t.” Thor slides Loki’s tunic off in a single motion; it lands on the rug in a crumpled heap. He begins kissing Loki’s neck. “You’re the screamer, remember?”
“I am not,” Loki hisses. Thor’s hands are on him, caressing the soft, stretched skin of his naked stomach. Then they dip down, into Loki’s trousers, and Loki bites his lip to keep from moaning.
He turns around and shoves Thor onto the chaise. Thor lands on a wooden music box and his face twists in a hilarious, bug-eyed look of surprise and pain. Loki covers his mouth and snorts with laughter. Thor digs the box out from under him and sets it on a nearby table. He pushes aside the fluffy nursing pillows and crocheted blankets and stuffed toys while Loki hastily removes his trousers. They’re stripped off in seconds and then Loki climbs astride Thor’s lap, kissing him earnestly while Thor fumbles to free himself from his pants.
Loki had stopped bleeding three weeks ago, a sign that he was healed from giving birth and well enough to have sex. It had hurt a little the first time he and Thor made love again, but he has since gotten better. They don’t even need to use lubricant now; Loki is wet and slick and ready. He can’t wait to sit on Thor’s cock again.
He sinks onto Thor in three smooth movements before planting himself squarely onto Thor’s broad thighs.
“Mmm,” he murmurs, relishing the deep stretch and the full feeling inside him, his body hugging Thor’s familiar shape and size. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”
Thor grunts and reclines on the chaise, pulling Loki down with him. He gathers Loki’s right breast in his hand and squeezes, catching the thin stream of milk in his mouth. He follows it to its source and plants his mouth on Loki’s nipple, then begins to suck.
Loki’s eyes flutter closed and he releases a shaky breath.
It’s a very different sensation from feeding his son. This is erotic and pleasurable, sexually stimulating and indulgent. With Tjörvi, it’s wholesome and gratifying, a sort of natural innocence. Both sensations are good. Both are shared with people he loves. But they are different. Explicitly, wonderfully different.
Thor suckles the milk from Loki’s breast until he has taken roughly the same amount as his son. Now Loki feels balanced again.
“That’s enough,” he says in a breathless hush, lifting himself away from Thor. His nipple pops out of Thor’s mouth with a clean, wet smack. He places his hands on Thor’s chest and clenches around his cock, clamping a hand to Thor’s mouth just as a loud moan begins to escape.
“Hush, daddy,” he whispers deviously, enjoying the half-lidded look of lust on Thor’s face. Loki begins to ride him, his hips rising and rolling with serpentine smoothness. “Don’t wake the baby.”
Thor whimpers. Loki can feel him smiling against his palm, the soft scrape of his beard and the warm, plush skin of his lips. And when he lifts his hand away to give Thor a kiss, he tastes the sweetness of his milk on Thor’s tongue.
Yes. Motherhood has its moments.