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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. ]

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I said to watch yourself , did I not? [ Loki's voice is a sharpened stake; his hips still in their relentless pursuit, and he towers above the splay of Thor's mouth like a statue wrought of stone and ice. Moment by agonizing moment, he draws his cock away from the warm vice of Thor's throat closed tight about him, until its gleaming length rises unanchored from its black thatch of hair. Upon his next rasping breath, Loki grips its base, angling the crown to nudge at the corner of Thor's loosened lips, leaving streaks of saliva, of his own pre-spending.

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. ]

[ His eyes open, lift stricken to Loki's face, as the cock for which he is so hungry, so greedy is drawn ponderously from his mouth to leave him with lips parted and his lungs rushing with dizzying heady air. So this is what it feels like to ache for his brother, to know true and horrible desire for him. To be unable to stop himself from nuzzling at the head of his cock which traces over the soft part of his lips, the swollen plush surface of them, even as he burns for every word Loki speaks. ]

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.

[ Indeed, the display of strength made captive to his own will warms Loki-king and the remnants of the shadowed Loki-prince both, but it is not of his dominion that Loki now thinks. Desire is an invisible shackle, yet stronger than the insubstantial gold links; had he known how easy it would be to flick a wrist and call Thor into his service, perhaps his silenced tongue under the pretense of filial piety could have instead been the lash that held Thor to him.

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?

[ So Thor watches, as Loki once more hooks fingers into his hair, once more mounts and presses within, his cock fit snug to the very hilt; he watches his own lips stretch about his brother's pleasure, watches them redden as the gleaming length of his shaft sinks within, the flush climbing still higher in his cheeks, the sheen startled over his eyes again by the sweet cool weight of Loki's cock upon his tongue. The working of his throat to swallow and swallow again, for Loki buries himself now, fucking deep, bracing Thor's head between his hands and leaving him no recourse but for his throat to open and take him.

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. ]

[ Still Thor moans, as wanton and willing as a whore purchased and chained for this task alone.

(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.

[ His body too is a tremor, a shaking as though by the earth tearing itself apart beneath them, fury and desire, shame and love: these things which become the foundation of his submission, his darkened and hazed eyes meeting his brother's as he whispers to him. This their brotherhood.

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. ]

[ And for a moment, Loki sees into the well of Thor's heart, and his own beats in terrible sympathy. Indeed, this is the brotherhood that they have wrought: not borne of affection nor love, but of animal need, and of desire grown gnarled and twisted. There will never be a bed laid with sheets of green-lined red, never a crown for Thor-king shared by his quicksilver shadow of a brother. Loki's cock, pressed deep into the vice of Thor's throat, denied by his own hand the pleasure of release — this is what they are, and this is all they will be.

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.

[ So it is that love can never be a bright and sweet thing between them again, never a source of easing and warmth. Never the hearth by which Thor has longed to lay down his arms and rest his weary head, bereft of bitterness, knowing only the fulfillment of intimacy between them. Such are the lessons that Loki teaches him. That their love must be bound by shame, the emblem of one brother always upon his knees, always with bowed head and wretched, miserable heart.

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. ]

[ Dangerous is the path that Thor's desperation paves, yet Loki has never been able to look away from temptation. As a child, once, a thousand years past, he had perched upon the steady seat of his brother's shoulders and stolen a comb inlaid with opal disks, belonging to Urd of the Norns. He had wanted it above all, awed by its legendary magical properties, and even the knowledge that Urd would foresee the theft before he engineered its occurrence meant nothing to him.

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. ]

[ The chains slip gentle from the wrists they have bound all this time, left chafed and red with their marks from the struggle against them, the struggle to be free, to reach for his brother. The pain of it makes him flinch, his fingers flexing. So much he has learned of injury and wounding, of bleeding and of pain, since Loki stole the throne. He has been taught what it means to be weak. To fear, to feel hurt.

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. ]

[ Loki has walked upon sands scorched by a dozen suns above; he has drunk from the black waters of eternity that no Aesir has ever dared look upon. He has grown strong and twisted in his strength, and yet every decision he makes is escorted by doubt after doubt.

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. ]

[ No. This is Loki's yielding, Loki's surrender. He feels it in the tremor of his brother's body beneath his hands, the way he fucks hard into Thor's mouth, fury and desperation in the motions. Thor grips him tighter, imagines his brother bound to him by his own chains, invisible, hatred bowing to love, the whole of his bitterness and fury spilling from his hands like earth clutched between his fingers. It is a dream, it is a vision only, but if he could wish hard enough to make it true--

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. ]

[ Thor's tenderness is a scourge, Thor's love is a slow-working poison. Loki's hands gentle in the corona of Thor's hair, combing through the golden spill for a long moment — until again he remembers himself, and jerks forcibly away.

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.

[ A slap in the face, to have the brief tenderness of Loki's fingers stroking through his hair and the next moment his brother jerking away from him as though to sever the bond that weaves itself quietly anew between them. He looks bereft at Loki, hollow-eyed, to see the fury and madness in his face, the trembling of his king atop the throne of his thrall's body, yet Loki does not pull away entirely, Loki does not pull himself far enough out of his reach.

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?

[ Loki rears like a snake baring its fangs; his fury is thus sharpened upon the whetstone of Thor's hands upon him. No, he had worn this crown and taken upon the burden of this ill-fated rule only to soothe his own fractured ego. He will fail today, and he will fail tomorrow, but let his failure be of his own creation. Let the sky blaze because Loki-king himself stuck tinder to stone.

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.

[ When Loki rears above him, towering wrathful with the blaze of rage and madness in his eyes, Thor wonders how the blow will fall, how his brother's hands will strike, will cleave him for daring to offer the quiet hope of his love. Yet it does not come that way; even the words which snarl and disdain him are but small wounds against the blades which have wounded him in the past, and Thor does not flinch overmuch.

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?

[ No, again his failure is painted and glossed by Thor's hand, lacking all delicate color and shade that Loki might have wrought. And yet still it is more complete for its crudeness.

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!

Edited 2012-12-27 18:06 (UTC)

[ The chains lash again, startling him into a brief, bucking resistance, like a stallion fighting against the bit, and then Thor settles with the banked fire glowing still in his eyes, a hot anger heavy in his breast with the weight of love which sits like a shackle around him, which he cannot go free of. ]

You fear to keep me in your bed. Instead you will send me away, and tremble alone and cold and wrathful tonight because I spoke to you of love when you would rather have my hatred. [ He hurls the accusations like javelins, and thinks that surely one or another must strike its mark, for he knows this is what his brother wants of him: that there be bitterness and rage and an insurmountable distance between them, that the bonds of kinship be ripped apart for the sake of Loki's vengeance. He does not think of himself made the display of his brother's lust and madness. Or if he does it is but briefly, his skin flushing as though with fever, and his struggle against his bonds renewed. ]

It is you who fears me, I think, that you must so erase all semblance of tenderness between us. [ he says prideful and angry and wanting. ] I can see how you tremble, my brother.

[ Unfortunate, the vast history lashed between them. Loki might have forsaken all ties of kinship between them, but no steel is sharp enough to cut through bonds tempered by the pain and joys of a thousand years.

The guard hovers in the doorway, hesitant — he'd been privy to the last of Thor's ill-advised speech. Loki gestures for him to remain where he is, but not before making the quiet fury of his response heard to both within earshot — ]

Hold your tongue, thrall, lest I rip it from your mouth.

[ The momentary distance has given him the wherewithal to step close again, glittering in the firelight like a false idol. The guard remains stock-still in the doorway, fear holding him thus.

Now, his patience returned, Loki wears a smile given edge by his own liecraft. ]

Ah. Forgive me, my temper oft finds strength where I would have it muffled instead. Listen to me thus, Thor — I will use you when I see fit, and discard of you again when I grow tired of you. [ His hand falls to Thor's spread thigh, so light as to be near intangible. ] Show me tenderness, if that would ease your heart, but do not presume to think that you know mine.

[ A flick of his wrist to usher the guard near. Loki's smile deepens, a crimson rictus carved into the pallor of his face. ] Come, guard. You've a happier task to perform tonight.

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