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[ He watches the blood dripping, spreading dark and wet upon the stones between his braced feet, rivulets following the deep-set grout; the stone is rough and cold upon his bare soles, the light filtering only dimly from the barred window above. He has never been in one of Asgard's stone oubliettes, except as a young boy playing where he didn't belong: looking down upon the criminals so dishonored and shamed as to be fit only to be chained below the earth and left to rot. The stone cell is cold, and absurdly large, an arching vault which only taunts him with his spaciousness; Thor has been chained between a pair of columns, his arms stretched like wings in flight, and there left for long, long hours--or has it been days? Weeks? No one has come.
His head is bowed with weariness, his shoulders slumped. For a while he fought and fought the restraints, disbelieving at first, then infuriated, then horrified that anything so paltry as a pair of chains could hold his strength; but of course it cannot be all that. Loki has put some enchantment on him, or else it is a magic in this place which is as old as Asgard itself: which keeps him docile and weak, which separates him from Mjolnir. Here his wounds do not even heal; the ragged slash across his chest has bled slowly but steadily all the while, the blood trickling down his bare torso, pooling between his feet. He has been stripped of armor and garments alike. His only accoutrements are a ragged pair of breeches, such as is given to prisoners, and the metal gag which seals his mouth.
His skin prickles with cold and pain, his arms and shoulders wracked and burning from being too long stretched, and his wrists chafed where the shackles bind them: but all that Thor can ignore. Harder to turn his mind from is the shame, the soul-eating sense of failure, of defeat. His brother routed him and cast him down: first from the towering heights of the city of New York, in Midgard, and then from Asgard's golden throne. What has he done with Odin and Frigga, with his friends the Avengers, with Jane, with all the others that Thor calls his own? He knows nothing of their fates.
Fear and shame are endless. They are serpents gnawing at his heart, wearying him with every moment he passes here, sinking him further into despair.
He does not know how long it is before the iron door at last swings open again. Thor lifts his head, shakes back his shoulders, finding some measure of defiance to draw out of himself. He must find defiance. Despair will destroy him, and that is one victory Loki will not have. ]
His head is bowed with weariness, his shoulders slumped. For a while he fought and fought the restraints, disbelieving at first, then infuriated, then horrified that anything so paltry as a pair of chains could hold his strength; but of course it cannot be all that. Loki has put some enchantment on him, or else it is a magic in this place which is as old as Asgard itself: which keeps him docile and weak, which separates him from Mjolnir. Here his wounds do not even heal; the ragged slash across his chest has bled slowly but steadily all the while, the blood trickling down his bare torso, pooling between his feet. He has been stripped of armor and garments alike. His only accoutrements are a ragged pair of breeches, such as is given to prisoners, and the metal gag which seals his mouth.
His skin prickles with cold and pain, his arms and shoulders wracked and burning from being too long stretched, and his wrists chafed where the shackles bind them: but all that Thor can ignore. Harder to turn his mind from is the shame, the soul-eating sense of failure, of defeat. His brother routed him and cast him down: first from the towering heights of the city of New York, in Midgard, and then from Asgard's golden throne. What has he done with Odin and Frigga, with his friends the Avengers, with Jane, with all the others that Thor calls his own? He knows nothing of their fates.
Fear and shame are endless. They are serpents gnawing at his heart, wearying him with every moment he passes here, sinking him further into despair.
He does not know how long it is before the iron door at last swings open again. Thor lifts his head, shakes back his shoulders, finding some measure of defiance to draw out of himself. He must find defiance. Despair will destroy him, and that is one victory Loki will not have. ]
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(Taking over a kingdom is a surprisingly dull task.)
Because, of course, as soon as the rebellion sparks to life again in Thor's eyes, Loki wants it doused again. The thrust of his fingers gentles as quickly as it had gained brutality; his other hand reaches forth to smooth down the golden expanse of hip and thigh. ]
Well, it does appear that nothing I suggest pleases you, no matter the extent of my creativity. [ he says, and there is little more than amiable casualness in the soft cadence of his voice. He bows his dark head, laving a kiss below the dip of Thor's navel. ] Perhaps you ought to stop casting down my plans and offer one or two of your own.
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Wretch. [ he says thickly again. ] I swear to you, my brother--
[ Tender now, the stroke of Loki's fingers make him writhe, moving within him, spreading him apart. His hips twist, and push desperately towards the thrusts as though to urge against the roughness, the mercilessness. ]
If I swear--if I should swear to take no arms against you, nor to try to leave Asgard, ever-- [ A swallow, for it is Midgard he is swearing away, it is his lover, it is everyone he has ever known and cared for in the mortal realm. ] And if I should swear serve you and you alone, and serve you with ardor, and learn to please you--if I should please you, as your thrall--will you not spare Midgard?
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[ asks Loki, his brow notched with a mockery of contemplation. ] Should I forswear all ambition for the sake of your spread legs?
[ Loki's fingers withdraw from the hungry clutch of Thor's body, sliding up to catch again about the cock rampant with reluctant desire. Loki offers it a few quelling strokes, his smile like the lash of a cat o'nine tails.
My brother, still. His smile is a rictus slashed upon his face, until he again finds the forbearance to calm himself. ]
Already you rise for me; already you bare yourself for me. Why must I bargain for what is already in my possession? [ Loki bows to lave a kiss upon the crown of Thor's cock, his tongue darting out to taste the damp slit — and then, just as quickly, he draws away, slithering up the length of Thor's body like the snake to which he has been likened again and again. When he stills, his thighs bracket the golden spill of Thor's hair; he takes a moment more to unlace the front of his britches, and then Loki is curling his own hand about his cock, angling its head to press at the corner of Thor's lips. ]
Your mouth serves you ill, thrall. Let us see if it can serve me better.
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[ He stops, the words choking in his throat as Loki bends to his cock, as once again his body arches for the shock of pleasure and sweetness, his arms strained against their bonds. For his brother is right: this he has claimed already, a steeled cock, a body bared and flushed before his eyes, a pair of spread legs. The lips which part and yield for the head of Loki's cock, even as his eyes turn glassy with helpless desire and his skin washes still more crimson.
His tongue touches upon the slit; warm and wet, it lathes slowly, licking from the underside of the vein to the tip where fluid begins to bead, the silken crown cradled at his lower lip. With his eyes upon Loki's he draws slowly, very slowly, until his lips close around the crown, and his tongue tastes the shaft, and the quiet suckling begins to draw him deeper. It is shameful. Loki's cock spreads wide his lips, presses upon his tongue, and Thor's mouth yields that it might slip fruther, Thor's lips close and softly suck. A homage paid to no one but the tyrant king of Asgard. A heat which rushes through him until his cock begins to throb, aching and bereft of touch, while Loki fills his mouth and Thor is as sullied as he promised, thoroughly beguiled by it. ]
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Loki sweeps his fingers across Thor's temples and across the hollow of his cheeks, until they curl behind his ear, sinking into the golden fall of hair. He need not exert any force to keep Thor anchored upon his cock, for a simple shift his weight forward is enough to sheathe himself entire. Thor has no leverage like this, with his hands fettered, with his fury doused by the wretched fear of what Loki may do to the mortal insects that he loves.
That he loves, more than the brother that had once shared all with him. ]
Is this not easier? [ comes the breathless spill of Loki's voice; his lashes have fallen to obscure his eyes, but yet twin slivers of glittering green watch the flush rise higher in Thor's cheeks. The sight alone could propel him from the precipice of release, but Loki grits his teeth and forces himself to embrace patience instead. Thor will come a dozen times before Loki does; that will be the true victory tonight.
His hips shift forward, gently, into the sweet sucking circle of Thor's swollen lips. ] Does this not bring you pleasure, too? Oh, Thor, look at yourself — [ And a crude sweeping motion of his wrist has a mirrored glass conjured above them, tilted just enough for Thor to glance upwards and see himself thus debauched. ] What need have you for honor or glory? You were made for my use, my brave warrior; made to pleasure your king and your liege like so. [ His fingers tighten in Thor's hair, and the shift of his hips grows more insistent. His thumb brushes across Thor's cheek, deceptively tender. ] There, just like that. You have more talent sucking cock than you ever did upon your father's throne. Open your throat, brother, just like that — [ He forgets himself in the burgeoning moment, and brother comes to his lips as easily as his next breath. ]
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Loki's cock fills his mouth, so that he has no need to answer the spill of soft madness—it is madness, it must be madness—from Loki's lips; he has only to listen to it, praise and degradation all at once, sweet horrible lovely words, as horrible as the tenderness in Loki's hands upon him, in the gentle motion of Loki's hips as he fucks his mouth. Thor shifts, aching and uneasy, shamed and desperately aroused; a single glance to the conjured mirror shows him fully the image of him as Loki must see—his eyes darkened and shaded by pale lashes above his crimson cheeks, hollowed with sucking; his lips swollen, stretched by the gleaming wet thrust of his brother's cock—and a single glance is more than he can bear. He looks away again, his hands twisting in their bonds. If he could, he would grasp his brother's thighs, pull him deeper, lose himself entirely—
And would it be so terrible? To please Loki, to be the fount of his satisfaction?
His eyes lift at brother; he makes a soft sound, a low moan deep in his throat, even as he attempts to obey. ]
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Even so, he had expected resistance from Thor. He had anticipated it with eagerness, in fact, casting it in his mind's eye like a wall built of brick and mortar and sweat, impenetrable to force. The only way to bypass its soaring heights would be with the softness of running water, with the intangibility of the spread of light and shadow.
And yet Thor lies beneath him now, an apparition of beauty, gleaming with golden truth that reigns more majesty than aught that Loki has draped himself with. Even now, with a cock thrust past his lips, Thor is made sweet and pliant and obscene, but he lacks the downtrodden resignation of a trueborn thrall.
No matter. Time and experience will strip his pride away. ]
Does the sight of your own pleasure at the hands of your degradation bring you so much shame? Look upon yourself, and do not look away — there, see, how your lips swell, fat as a maid's, about my cock; how your throat works hungrily about its length. [ Loki's voice is a murmuring stream, meandering aimlessly on, but there is a sharpness in his tone, in the renewed shifting and grinding of his hips. Still he regulates the rhythm of his thrusts with careful attention, lest he lose himself in the heat and the tightness of Thor's willing mouth stretched open for him. ] Oh, no, perhaps I will make you a princess instead, and dress you in velvets and furs; I shall fuck your sweet mouth in front of all of Odin One-Eye's counselors, and you will be so lost to the pleasure of submission that you will forget your fury entire.
[ His fingers run through the liquid gold of Thor's hair, as if he sifts through the fall of sunlight itself. ] There, my pretty harlot. Suck harder. [ The rasp of a drawn-in breath. ] How good you are for me.
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He moans again, while Loki's cock thrusts thick and wet into his mouth, warm and stretching.
He does resist in this manner, at least: he refuses to look again into the mirror, casting his will against his brother's soft coaxing, the sweet poisonous words that paint the picture of him more intimately than ever a glance at his reflection could. How easily he can himself the thrall of Loki's conjuring, kneeling before the throne to suck eagerly upon the root of Loki's pleasure, to satisfy himself before all the court of Asgard: knowing nothing but the warmth of bringing him satiation. He closes his eyes against it, all his body lost in his own degradation, aching for the sweet throb of Loki's cock filling his mouth. He sucks without needing to be told, his hands twisting against their binds, his fingers clenching and grasping uselessly, seeking something to hold. Nothing comes, nothing gives him the anchor he needs against such brutal, precise use, such perfect humiliation, so as to tear him away from his own craving for it.
There is only the weight of Loki's body, the thrust of his cock, the caress of his fingers; and even an imitation of love is enough to bind his heart. ]
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He calls forth a silent spell to cinch an invisible ring about the width of his cock, knowing that he will fall too easily into the grasp of his own release, propelled only by the sight of his slack-jawed fool of a false brother. ]
Come, now. Stubbornness is meant for mules and old hogs alone, and you are too lovely to be considered either. [ Loki strokes at Thor's rough cheek, his fingers hooking under the hinge of his jaw. ] Do you fear what you will see? Do you fear to find your release solely by the sight of your own degradation?
[ And in time with his lilting words, Loki draws the crown of his cock over the bow of Thor's lips, tracing its shape with idle fascination. His pulse thuds through the limits of his body, pumping blood and fervor into the coldest reaches of his heart; if this is what it means to claim Thor's mouth alone, how then will it feel to spread those great golden legs and drive into him as a man takes a woman?
The smile flits to Loki's mouth, giving the sharpness of his features a measure of softness. ] There is nothing to fear, sweetling. Look upon yourself, or you will never again know the weight of my cock within you. Is that not worse?
[ A gamble, but not truly a gamble at all — for Thor has proven himself a pawn in the pursuits already won. The jut of his untouched cock is proof enough. ]
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Loki, do not. [ he says, helpless, as though his own thick and ineloquent words could compensate for the surge of desire and need which twists within him. How he fights the restraints, how he begs with all his body, straining towards his brother's. And how he hates the thought of watching himself as he is given what he needs.
But when he has exhausted himself against those tinkling golden chains which bind him, when he has sunk back against the pillows defeated with Loki's touch still tender and warm upon his face, he lifts his eyes reluctantly to the mirror above; he sees himself shamed and wanting. A tremor runs through all his great body, an unassailable hunger. ]
I will watch. [ he says thickly, burning, and his fingers again clench on nothing, as within him clenches a need he cannot understand. ] I will—I will not look away, my brother.
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So regret is thrice the shackle that desire could ever hope to be.
Still, Loki wears none of his thoughts on his face, offering only smug satisfaction in response to Thor's shame. ]
Was that so very difficult? [ He tilts Thor's jaw, spreading his lips again with the fingers upon his cheek. His breath leaves him in a long sweet rush when the heat and the wetness of Thor's mouth again molds itself about his cock.
He sets a quiet rhythm, fucking forward without waiting for Thor's throat to loosen for him. ]
No. Look at yourself, son of Odin, unmanned by the viper you still name your kin — here in this bed of kings you are no god, no ideal of fertility and strength, no. [ His breath catches; he looses it again with an indulgent sigh. For a series of moments he does nothing but see to his own pleasure, the words quiescent upon his tongue. Then — ] See how your lashes flutter, how the moan rises in your throat when I am rooted within you? [ So Loki's hands tighten in Thor's hair, anchoring himself deep. His hips work in shallow thrusts, hardly pulling out before fucking back in. ] You'll spill with no touch upon you but my cock plugging your throat. Won't you?
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He watches himself unmanned. Thrown from the heights of godhood, made the vessel for his brother's pleasure, the lowest form of thrall: the one whose only purpose is to serve in his master's bed. Aching with want, his cock a steady swollen throb, Thor is all that Loki names him, but more besides--in his heart there is love which struggles and tears apart his pride, which bows him to this sweet and terrible submission.
Brother, he thinks, and oh, he moans.
He moans, he twists upon the bed, his mouth an eager hot sucking, an endless working at the cock which silences him, which muffles the sounds he makes into delicious obscenity. His eyes close, but they open again a moment later to fix upon his own reflection in the mirror, obedient, fearing to be denied. How his lungs heave with stolen breaths, how his golden skin is sheened with sweat, how his cock stands upthrust and flushed and beaded with fluid, wet pre-spending slipping in copious trails down the shaft. How his brother bends to him, rutting into his mouth, using him for his pleasure. And he moans again, desperately, for how close he is. ]
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(The God of Thunder, fallen to such depths — is there not pleasure in the sight? Does Loki's pride not soar into the fiery clouds above, and does he not smile and thrust and tighten his hands to complete the unmanning that he has begun?
Brother, he thinks, a cold echo of Thor's own thoughts, and there is fury and terror in him that eclipses all else.) ]
Take it, then.
[ says Loki, his eyes narrowed, the entirety of his gold-clad form trembling as he fights to rein himself in. His hips work furiously into the suckling wetness of Thor's mouth, and he would have already spilled himself once and again if not for the magical cinch he had tightened about the base of his cock. ]
Take your release, and know that in the end even you moaned for your own subjugation. [ He bends low, his dark hair falling about his face. His voice is a hoarse whisper. ] This is the perversion that you would call brotherhood.
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He shuts his eyes and comes all at once, wretched, wrenching pleasure, the surrender of all his body, all his heart to Loki's designs. His body arched, the golden links of the chain strained nearly to breaking, his seed striping hot, slick across his stomach; that wonderful, terrible bursting of heat and the sinking lassitude that follows, his body falling back and warmth spreading throughout him like a wash of water, his mouth sweet and sucking and pliant around Loki's cock. He knows no more but this: that he wanted, that he obeyed and surrendered, and the evidence of it is sticky between them, that now his eyes gaze not into the mirror but Loki's face, a wordless plea to follow. Perhaps then--
Perhaps if he pleased his brother, the tenderness in the caresses would be true, the sweetness in his brother's low private voice which is for him and him alone. For his thrall, his own yielding bed-slave. ]
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So decrees the king of Asgard. ]
Strange, is it not? [ says Loki, once Thor has shaken himself apart. Still he thrusts with gentle insistence, the urgency of his own desire like a flame within him; how beautiful Thor had looked whilst on the precipice of his release, how majestic, how godly even still.
How Loki wants to keep his thus forever, chained and helpless to desire, wishing only for the pleasure wrought by his king's driving hips. ]
That your throat should act as a sheathe for my cock, and yet you are the one who has found release. [ No matter that he himself had urged Thor's release. His voice is light and cruel with mockery. ] Should I plunge myself between your thighs instead, or do you think your mouth yet capable of pleasing me? [ He draws his cock away, one hand about its base. ] Speak.
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He cannot bear it, he thinks. How sweet the fire of lust and longing would be if it were not tainted by degradation. How easy to submit, how easy to yearn for his brother's hand, and to know wretchedness at the yearning, that his place is not in Loki's heart but on his knees before him.
Loki's cock slips again from his mouth, and Thor can feel the swell of his lips, the throb of them, the dampness of saliva and pre-spending upon them. In his mouth lingers the taste of his brother, musk and salt and something distinctive and sharp, like a mouthful of snow. He shudders, looking at Loki's wet shaft, gleaming with his saliva, swollen and bereft of its own pleasure, and within him is an ache of hunger, a hollowing. He meets his brother's gaze. ]
Come back, my brother. [ His own voice quiet, longing. ] Sheath yourself in my mouth—unbind my hands, let me touch you— [ A tremor now. ] I would see you pleased. I will—I will please you, Loki.
[ Oh, let his brother know how he longs for him. ]
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He had been punished severely. Even Thor's attempts to shoulder the blame had changed little.
So Loki looks upon his captive like a silver opal-studded comb, like a boon far beyond his reach. He wants, he has always wanted, and so he cannot stop himself from saying the words of power that shift the gilded chains forward until they fall loose.
(Because this cannot be a ploy, for Thor has never known how to lie. His heart beats in the sweet blue of his eyes, in the tremor of his voice; how Loki loves him, how wretchedly he loves him still — even if he is a fool and a dullard who would debase himself in the memory of long-lost affection, even if he is no more fit for kingship than Loki himself. )
Like iron hot upon the forge, like the wash of bone-white sky and clouds of ash. Loki's smile bares the glint of his teeth, but even he cannot hide his split second of hesitation. ]
See to it, then. [ he says, simply and softly. He will hate himself for this weakness, after Odin has reawakened, after Loki has been cast down and flung far from his usurped throne. What does it matter? A teardrop upon an ocean brimming in the cracked bowl of Loki's mind: so it is, and so it will remain.
Loki loosens the magical cinch about his cock; yet still his body is a study in tension, his muscles coiled, his bones ringing hollow. ]
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No matter. Because want surges, need eclipses even the bitter sorrow in his heart for the rending of a bond between those who were once brothers. Thor grasps Loki's thighs, powerful even in his infirmity, and pulls him close, nearly lifting him in those two broad hands, capturing again the length of his cock in his mouth, dragging him deep, deep, as deep as he can.
Loki.
He sucks, wet and hot, lifting his head, his lips pressed close and his throat working, and he cannot bear how the feeling of it clenches within him and makes him ache with need again, hollow within. His fingers dig into Loki's thighs, force him to move, to rock into his mouth again. He wants his brother's passion, his pleasure; let him be as lost to this as Thor is. How sweet to touch him at last, to capture him between his hands. His own.
Brother.
He groans low, surrender, one hand letting go to grasp again his own cock, to stroke and work a little more spurting of seed from its swollen head, a little more shivering of pleasure. ]
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He should not have married Thor into his service. He should never have freed him from the stone oubliette and bound him by chain and word to the red pulse of his own heart.
Because now Loki-king is caged by Thor's hands upon him, and in this subjugation there is no righteous phoenix-flame to rise from the dust. He will fall from his throne into the chasm below, and never once will he think of anything but the sight of Thor's hands curled about his own thighs, flexing even now with desire. How Thor takes his own cock in hand to coax the last of his seed forth, brought to the edge by neither tenderness nor love, but by only the lash of Loki's cock.
(Even now, with the desire. After Loki has left him to wallow in weakness and fear, and rescued him from the shadows only to treat him like a bed-slave and a wanton. No, it was never Thor whose hands sundered the ties of brotherhood between them, no matter how eagerly his throat works about the swell of his own brother's desire.)
Loki's fear makes him cruel; his knuckles bleach white as he tightens his fingers in Thor's hair, fucking into the sheathe of his throat without thought or reason. ]
There. [ he says, the word falling roughly from his lips. ] How sweetly — [ you yield, he had meant to say, but his breath falls to shreds in his aching lungs, and he can do naught but look upon Thor below him, his lashes treacherously wet. He spills before he can brace himself for the onslaught, his body shuddering through the pleasure-wrought pain, his hips fucking brutally forth even after he has filled Thor's mouth with his seed. ]
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He moans, sucks fiercely upon the root of his brother's pleasure, dragging him deeper. As though he claims Loki lover rather than master, as though the rawness of their intimacy is born of passion rather than shame. Lips bruised, hair yanked at the root, breath smothered by the thrust of Loki's cock in his throat: he is wound with sensation, shuddering again and again in desolate pleasure.
And at last Loki takes his own, spurting and spurting so that Thor's mouth fills to brimming with the hot slick of his seed, so that it spills pearlescent at the corner of his lips, and his throat works in swallows. Delicious, treacherous pleasure. He envisions himself as Loki described, so wanton as to kneel before his brother in the hall of their forefathers and part his lips obediently for the sweet thrust of his cock, and his stomach clenches in shame and wanting, his fingers tightening convulsively upon Loki's thighs.
And still he is pliant and sweet, nuzzling with warm lips at the head of his brother's cock when at last it is withdrawn from him. ]
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No.
This is a challenge, and he has already been crowned victor. No remnant of closeness between earth and sky will change the cruel thrust of eternity separating them now. Loki trembles upon his throne of splayed golden flesh, blinking again and again to disperse the glassy sheen shrouding his eyes. He has already won. ]
Remove your hands. [ breathes the king chosen by no man, his eyes wild and terrible as those of a beast set to the bit. He refuses to shift away, though every warm pass of Thor's mouth over the head of his cock sends a new shudder ripping through his body. ] Lay them above your head, and do not touch me again, lest I reinstate your chains.
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Perhaps it would be too much to bear.
He nearly obeys the breathless command, his hands beginning to lift themselves in reluctant compliance, but then he checks the motion, and Thor lays his hands again deliberately upon Loki's thighs, stroking them; he leans forth and licks at the head of Loki's cock, cleaning away the last droplets of seed. ]
Is it you now who fears, my brother? Can you bear no better intimacy between us than bestial rutting? [ A tremor passes through his voice, as truth spills forth undammed: ] Do you not know that I still love you?
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Yet he hesitates before he unsheathes the daggers that are his words; his muscles steel beneath the press of Thor's hands. Yet he hesitates, and yet his own voice cracks and splinters before he gathers his composure again. ]
Are you still so blind? [ he says, still and grave as a towering snowclad peak. Oh, if only he had the strength to deny the truth of the love offered — and yet even the Liesmith has not that power. ] The love of a creature downtrodden means nothing to he who wears the boot that treads upon him. [ His voice rises, terrible in its fury. ] Lay your hands above your head, I said.
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He obeys, hands drawn up as though by the drag of the chains, wrists laid above his head. He looks at his brother's face, flushed still, aching for his nearness, as though it were not enough to have opened his mouth and pleased him with lips and tongue and virgin throat, and moaned for him while he did it; as though he must have more than that, now that he has seen that Loki-king is still bound in his own fears and treacherous vulnerability. Thor's heart grieves for him, for the comfort he wishes to give him if only it would be permitted. ]
Like so? Does this please you? [ A flash of muted fire in his blue eyes. ] Is this all you wish of me?
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For a moment, Loki considers retreat — what need has he to conquer a conquered man? He has already stolen Thor's birthright. Time and the requisite application of cruelty will mute the vestige of love in his eyes. A fell wind blows through the wooded depths of Loki's heart, and he knows he would do best to bow his head and accept defeat for now.
He cannot. Thor has obeyed in body, but the fire in him will not be doused by Loki's hands alone. If he leaves now, he would only give Thor what he seeks: proof of Loki's weakness.
He cannot, and yet he will. ]
Yes. [ The chains snake forward, drawing tightly about Thor's wrists despite Loki's earlier words. ] And for your disobedience, I'll have you strung up in the main hall stained and violated as you are. Tomorrow you shall have the pleasure of performing before an audience. [ So Loki slips off his golden throne, tucking and lacing his breeches until again he stands immaculate. His hands are shaking. ] Guard!
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