bakerstreet | the slave auction meme

the slave auction meme

THE SLAVE AUCTION MEME

❧ Leave a comment with the character's name, fandom, and whether your character will be playing the part of 'slave' or 'master', plus preferences for scenarios if you have any or set up the scene yourself in the comment.

❧ Respond to others with one of the scenarios below or feel free to make up your own.

❧ Please remember to be respectful of others while you play

WARNING: Be aware that this meme deals with dark subjects like slavery and may also contain non-consensual/dubiously consensual sex, violence, and kink.

SLAVES

1. The Newbie - This is your very first auction and you don't quite know what to expect. Hopefully you remember your training and don't disgrace yourself in front of your new master. Hopefully someone thinks you're worth buying at all.

2. The Oldtimer - You've been bought and sold and bought again so many times. You've seen it all before and don't think this time is going to be much different. In fact, the only real anxiety you've got is whether or not someone's going to pay for a more than slightly used slave.

3. The Pet - You're a pleasure slave. A bed warmer. A decorative piece of artwork. You're meant to look pretty and be pleasing and not much else.

4. The Guard - Your master hired you because of your ability to swing a sword or shoot a gun, not your looks.

5. The Escape Artist - Somehow you always manage to squirm out of your master's chains. Too bad you seem to get caught after a while. Maybe your next daring escape will be permanent. Then again, maybe your next master has special ways of keeping you locked up.

6. The Undercover - You aren't a slave at all, you're just pretending to be one. Why? Well that's up to you. Either way, your cover is blown if you don't act the part.

7. The Specialist - You have a skill that no one else has. Something rare and valuable. Something your master needs more than anything else.

MASTERS

1. The Customer - You've owned slaves before and this trip to the market is nothing new to you. Still, you're hoping to find something worth your while.

2. The Gift - Someone bought a pet for you, isn't that nice of them? Or maybe it isn't so nice. Did you even want a slave in the first place? Well you're stuck with one now.

3. The Giver - You're selecting a slave for someone else, and they need to be perfect. Perhaps you'd better test them out first to make sure you're getting your money's worth.

4. The Trainer - You specialize in taming unruly slaves and making them over into perfect, obedient, well-trained pets.

5. The Rebel - You hate the idea of slavery, but the system isn't going to go away any time soon, so the next best thing is to buy up any slave you can get your hands on and free them, right?

6. The Companion - You want someone to be with you always, someone you can talk to and depend on, someone who will never leave your side. It's a good thing that money can buy that these days.

7. The Undercover - You're not actually a Master. You're at the auction for an entirely different reason. Maybe it's special policework, maybe you're trying to hunt down a certain someone. Either way, your cover is blown unless you act the part.

As always, feel free to use a combination of scenarios or make up your own if you have other ideas.

Originally taken from here.

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((ooc: I see a Loki and I inflict myself, I can't help it. It's a terrible affliction. :T))

Loki would stand in their father's place now. Thor, at his right hand.

It wasn't a position of honor, no. It was a bargain, if one could call it that when there was truly no choice in the matter. Protect, defend the usurper king, quell the rebellious hearts of fellow Aesir--with Mjolnir, if need be--and those Thor loved would be permitted to live. Serve, obey, and perhaps Loki in turn would serve Asgard as a king (as Thor knew he could, for had he not also been raised a prince? a son of Odin?) and not as a tyrant. These were the terms, and Thor, kneeling before him in chains--the way all of Asgard had been forced to kneel, in utter supplication--Thor did not have a choice. That had been stolen from him, like the golden throne itself.

Obedience to every demand. Obedience in every form that Loki's mind might conjure, and the twisting in his belly at that thought was--if not fear--certainly unease. For who could know what Loki's mind might conjure.

The chains clinked as he shifted. Enchantments weighed heavily upon him, draining him of the strength that would have otherwise allowed him to snap those bonds with the barest thought. He wearied quickly under such spells, felt pain much more keenly. He had knelt for hours waiting on his brother's pleasure, and there was a splintering ache in his knees, which no shuffling upon the hard floor could relieve.

"I swear myself." Bought, as effectively as a thrall. Thor's voice was low but clear. "In obedience to the will of Loki Laufeyson." Still his tongue would stumble over the surname. Odinson, it wanted to speak. Brother. "I swear."

Edited 2013-02-10 14:33 (UTC)

Such a harsh word, steal. So petty. Boys steal each others' toys. Men steal trinkets, wallets. Thrones are not stolen: they are won. The champion of Asgard rose from the throne - his throne - and loomed over his cringing slave. Over Thor's wide shoulder he could perceive the pale faces of all the mighty host of Asgard, all of them flinching with each word of Thor's supplicating vow, all of them brought low, his, unable to dare anything against the thunderstorm of Thor's wrath. Countless spineless witnesses to the power of Laufeyson.

Loki smiled and touched Thor's brow with curdled beneficence.

"I accept your obedience, Thor Odinson. You may rise."

His delight was vicious. He glowed with it, his voice sang out with it as he addressed his people: how he accepted all of their fealty, how Asgard was entering into a new era of peace, how there was nothing to fear now that Asgard no longer had enemies. Hail Loki Laufeyson, King. His speech concluded, he permitted his audience to depart; those who had business could wait in the antechamber. He had private matters to attend to.

His fingers, trembling still with quick, vulnerable excitement, threaded around the chain at Thor's neck. He jerked him closer. Plainly, in an empty throne room (guards do not matter, not any more,) this was only for the pleasure of exercising his dominion.

At first he could say nothing; his gaze roamed over Thor, peripatetic and shivering-bright, hungry in some strange and unfathomable way. At last he managed, "Obedient... to my will. How I have longed for this day, brother. Come."

He set off into the wings, towards the private chambers of the king--Loki's private chambers. Whether Thor was able to follow or whether he was dragged, it would not matter.

He could not see their audience flinch, but he could sense it: a vague, dull wave of horror sweeping through the great vault of the throne room. As if they had hoped, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, that Thor was not bowed; as though after so many years of war, after all the spilling of blood and destruction of nearly everything of beauty and worth in Asgard, Thor would try some futile last-ditch act of rebellion and probably cost all of their lives, just to display himself like a barking dog on its chain: did they think he had learned nothing from his exile to Midgard, so long ago?

For he did not think it would be him that Loki killed, no. He would bind Thor, and then he would make him watch.

Finally there was nothing left but resignation.

Once the chamber had emptied, Thor stood resolute but leashed as surely as a beast, stumbling forward a step when Loki's fingers caught and jerked the chain. His eyes met his brother's briefly. This was a crossing into a life that Thor had never before imagined for himself, and yet there was in him an awakening towards the gleaming hunger in Loki's eyes, the fathomless, bottomless madness of his that nonetheless pulled at something aching and familiar within Thor's breast. How he has longed for this day. Thor swallowed and went beside him, and found himself in the chambers that would have been his if fate had spun differently. There was no audience here.

"Well, Loki." His voice was rough. "Are you now satisfied with what you have won?"

For an answer, Thor received mocking laughter as cool as a melody. Loki laughed in his face, though it tapered off the longer he stared at Thor's gentle, perfect features schooled into acceptance. Indeed Loki could not stop staring at him. All the wealth of Asgard, all the power of a king, all that he might command any in Asgard to kneel in his presence: all of that could be toyed with later. What he wanted now was...

"And what have I won?" Spoken in a tender way, as if he were Thor's tutor and not his god. "The right of kingship? To rule over those who cannot rule themselves? This is a heavy responsibility, no gift."

Though his shining eyes and condescension were confession enough that he had never felt so glorious. He let Thor's chain slip lightly through his grasp.

Without warning his expression turned hard. His cape snapped with the force of the slap he flung across Thor's face: bitter his strength, and cruel. In place of tenderness, a keening cry: "What have I won!"

His jaw ached from the force of the blow. A lip was swollen, perhaps split: a moment later he felt the warm trickle of blood. Injury, too, came far more easily with the enchantments upon him, and healed more slowly. It was not quite like being mortal, not like it had been upon Midgard, his first time there. But unpleasantly close.

"Why do you ask me such questions?"

Now there was fury struggling its way past the resignation that weighed him, a tremor of it in his voice. To be leashed and enthralled was bad enough, but to submit to being struck and battered about like an errant creature in need of thrashing--yet this was Loki as Thor had come to know him, this twist of tenderness and cold rage, the madness of which he must beware.

"Be sure, brother, I do not know what you have won for yourself here, or why you so longed to have it like this." And there was bitterness in him, too, and beyond that there is hurt. That Loki who was his brother had become instead his master, his jailer, his most terrible enemy. And for what?

To hear Thor's quick anger--it touched some nervous place he had no name for and soothed it, and Loki was grateful despite himself, and he would share his gratitude. With pity upon his face he gathered Thor's head in his hands. Soft, now; his touch easy as it buried into his golden mane, his mouth tenderly pursed. He gazed at him in sympathy. Poor brother. Poor fool.

Gently he wiped away the crimson stain at the corner of Thor's mouth. Their years together had left many marks upon him and yet midst his rage and humiliation and triumph, even now he could not keep himself from admiration for Thor's beauty, his power and noble bearing. Truly he was kingly and worthy of...

No, he was not kingly enough. Loki would grind that knowledge into him, though his heart churned and clutched at his throat.

Against the brightness of day the curtains had been drawn. In these sumptuous quarters only the flicker of lamplight illuminated them. There, to their side, reposed the vast and luxurious bed; at its foot, a great gilt and jeweled chest. Tousling Thor's warm hair in his hands one last time, Loki slipped away and sat himself upon this chest.

"You will remove your clothing. I command you."

Edited (hi i verbs) 2013-02-10 16:59 (UTC)

He braced himself as Loki drew once more near. No, but it was tenderness again, gentle hands cupping his face and clever, knowledgeable fingers: stroking over the sore lip, burrowing into the wheat-colored strands of his hair. Loki's eyes, so vividly green--they watched Thor as though his brother could divine all that was in him, as if every confused and longing facet of him was visible behind his own startled gaze. Perhaps it was. Perhaps for Loki it was a simple matter to reach past fury and bravado and wrap his fingers around Thor's very heart.

A heart he did not think Loki wanted.

His head bowed forward as his brother moved away from him. His king upon a gilt throne, and Thor his subject before him, who must yield, most obey; his hands rose, hesitant at first, but soon enough resolute on the clasps of the shining armor he had been permitted to wear for this, his vow of fealty, the ceremony of his own subjugation. He unhooked his cloak and let it fall, a heavy scarlet curtain folding quietly upon itself on the floor. The breastplate followed, and mailed sleeves and leggings. Beneath the ensemble a tunic and breeches, boots; all stripped piecemeal, beneath Loki's gaze, and if Thor had not thought to expect this before swearing, it did not come as a surprise either: so perhaps, then, some part of him had known.

Bare-chested, tawny in the lamplight, he let his hands fall to the laces of his breeches, undid the ties with strong and capable fingers. He knew at least that he still looked the part, that of a god mighty and flawless. And that he rather hoped this would please Loki, would calm and appease him, for the boundaries between Loki's pleasure and Loki's rage so often eluded him.

He slid the breeches from his hips and stepped from them, left clad in nothing now but the leash.

Yet it was beyond Loki's own power to name what he wanted, and if Thor's heart was confused, how much more so Loki's--he who had conquered a throne to win the approval of those he'd killed and subjugated, who had imprisoned the brother he loathed and worshipped, and who now looked upon the naked, virile perfection of Thor's form with such a strangling flood of emotions that he struggled to keep his head upright.

Too lost he was to accept in kindness what Thor might offer. Such a thing had to be demanded by force. Pillaged. Stolen. For this battle he girded himself. On his white face, a smirk of contempt to see the great god Thor so humbled--as if there were anything humbling in exposing himself, as if there were anything humiliating in casting aside his shabby armor to reveal his golden flesh.

A memory struck him. How long had they bathed together in harmony? Then one day Loki had known shame, and at first he believed it to be because of Thor's perfection...

"Turn. All the way around, slowly." His voice cracked as he said it. He made a show of leaning back casually on one elbow against the bed, though beneath his armor, his stomach was pulled tight as cured hide.

Once he might have believed there was nothing humbling in it. No, very recently had he believed it, had he known that he was beautiful, that he was glorious, that he was worthy of love and admiration in the eyes of other men. The god of thunder, the first-born heir of Asgard. He had known lessons of humility in the past: but only here, it seemed to him, was the first true taste of degradation. That he was stripped as much by his brother's eyes on him as by being bereft of clothing, now that he might look back at Loki and see nothing of the love that had once existed between them. That if he was worth beholding now, it was only for the sake of lust.

He would rather not look. So it was easy enough to obey the next order, to turn around in place, though it was not easy to do it slowly: he was inclined towards stiffness, towards brusque motions and a proud, suffering rigidness of his spine that straightened all the more when he felt Loki's eyes upon his back. A shapely back, narrowing into lean hips and firm flanks. His skin golden, nearly smooth but for the beard; at his arms and his legs there was a fine dusting of tawny hair, and then too a thatch a shade darker at his groin, where his cock hung soft but heavy. When he had made the circuit he stood still again with erect spine and tight throat, working a little before he was able to struggle words out.

"What now, my king?"

It seemed, just now, a better epitaph than brother.

Lust, yes. Long had he looked upon his brother with craven desire. To contend with and satisfy his lust was easier than to dare anything more. For this, too, he bore a bitter golden thorn in his heart.

Thor with his magnificent back turned would not see Loki's brows crumple in despair, nor his jaw slacken. At once pierced with guilt, pained to see his regal brother brought so low, he was suspended above pain to see this... ideal object display himself. He was thirsty to take hold of all that he owned. By grasping Thor's majesty he would only add to his own. He fought the urge to cover his eyes with his hand. By the time Thor had turned fully, Loki had composed himself once more, though it was a narrow thing.

That Thor would call him by his proper title--like a spur in his side, driving him to greater outrages still.

He affected a bored look and dropped his eyes to the rich coverlet above the bed. Idly he plucked at the stitches.

"Do you know, slave..." How ardently he longed to stare at the chain around Thor's throat, to study the fall of the leash along his splendid body. Thoughts unbidden of Thor's taut, muscular rump and gracefully dangling cock filled his mind. He did not dare look up now. There was much Loki could not dare, but this...

"Are you--truly--obedient? Then I would see you... pleasure yourself."

His white teeth gleamed, and then he giggled in shame and eagerness.

Face burning and ears ringing, he watched Loki's fingers pull at the golden embroidery of the coverlets. A gesture which made Thor rather long to stride forward, seize his king's throat and throttle the cutting grin from his face. What a satisfaction, indeed a pleasure that would be, though no doubt halfway through the urge instead to embrace him would overtake the urge to strangle him and Thor would crush his brother in his arms, weep and curse him and shout himself hoarse at him...

All for nothing, he was sure.

"Is it that you think me your rebellious thrall? Have you known me to break my word, once given?"

He drew breath deeply, glanced down at himself, at the shame of his nakedness. The glory. And Thor closed his eyes, as he reached to curve fingers warm and knowledgeable around himself.

He did not think of the woman of Midgard that he loved, or of any of the other lovers he had known throughout the years. He did not want to think of them, did not want to conjure any presence which yet brought him solace into this chamber, to make it part of the subjugation to which he must put himself for the sake of those beloved, and all the other lives of Asgard, of Midgard as well. What came instead, almost unbidden, was the memory of Loki's hands cupping his face, the soft weight of them against his cheeks, cool and slightly roughened skin, so nearly tangible. Gentle hands, and the knowing tenderness in his brother's gaze. He had known no other soft touch from him in--oh, many years. And all it had taken, all it had required of him, was a bowed head, a vow of obedience, utter submission.

His breath caught, his cock stirred against his palm, and he felt the weight of it, the swelling heaviness, the heating skin, so soft and silken over the steel beneath. His grasp tightened and stroked.

He hadn't truly believed.

Before this, he had thought nothing of his brother's vow. How cheap for a warrior to promise war! How easy, and simple, for a prince to offer his princely allegiance! What fancies had Thor flattered himself with when he promised himself at the foot of the throne? That all would be just, fair, and lovely as he himself was... but this...

That he obeyed even in the most whimsical and weak part of his flesh: this was obedience. Loki could not bear to direct his gaze to it at first. And yet he heard the soft hitch in Thor's breathing, heard the rustling of skin against skin. A holy lure lifted his chin to this... obscenity... this risible... He pretended still to cold boredom yet the glide of Thor's hand pricked him with fire. When he broke into quiet unkind laughter again it was because he, himself, thickened--so gifted was his brother!

Often had he wondered and never discovered his brother in this humiliating act (humiliating for Loki, at least: shameful how he brought himself to it, how he fled from their baths or spied upon others.) Thor had no doubt fallen into the bed of a beautiful woman the day he'd first come into manhood, did he ever even... In the twilight between question and remark he spoke, "Is that your typical manner."

He was burning, feverish, a flush that first was humiliation entirely but into which desire crept, insidious, like licking flames. It was easy. It was startlingly, fearfully easy, how his body succumbed. How he roused and thickened to his own hand, to his treacherous thoughts, and if he could not forget that Loki watched him, he could at least ignore, could keep his eyes closed and listen to the hitches of his own breath and imagine that he gave this to himself privately, as a gift.

Though he faltered at the sound of laughter, thinking at once, of course, that he was the cause, the object of mockery. His eyes opened; they went once to Loki's face, a hot glance above crimson cheeks, and then fell, his body rigid now, burning, angry, but he did not stop.

Of course he had had cause, all those years: as a pleasure, as a joy, a discovery of himself. Not as the source of obscenity and display. But his body knew its work, and he moved, almost unconsciously, with the strokes of his hand: a twitch, a tremor, an urging of himself into his own grasp, for more. His lips parted. Thor did not look at Loki again, but spoke: "What manner?" This, did he mean? Pleasuring himself? Did he caress himself just thus, or--oh, he was growing even hotter to the thought of talking about it. Why did his brother always want words?

The pound of his heart had a physical, sensual realness; he could feel it in his fingertips and knocking against the inner wall of his armor.

He could no longer tear his eyes away from Thor fondling himself like an ape, so hard it was a humiliation--his hips tilting as he thrust, an act at once pathetic and subtly erotic... not could he close his ears to the change of his breathing and sound of his brother's deep voice grown richer, softer with passion. Loki's sneer was a lie, as illusory as his cast shadows. Naked longing darkened his eyes.

"Must I dumb it down for you?" He plucked off his gloves finger by finger. "Is that your typical manner of pleasuring yourself. Do you fuck yourself that way."

Gloves set aside, crown removed, he began to unclasp his cloak and remove his heavy necklace of state. Loki was tired of their weight and the room was overwarm.

Now that he had seen this thing he had so desired to see, now that Thor obeyed him even to the point of becoming an ape for his amusement, he felt uncertainty shivering within himself. His mind betrayed him; he could not think of anything else to ask for except things he truly desired. The room was intolerably dark. He stood.

Edited 2013-02-11 15:47 (UTC)

"Do you mean by your command, brother?"

In the quick heat of bitterness it was an easy matter to forgot that he had ever thought not to call him such. Brother, a name as familiar as his own, achingly sweet and forever ready at his lips.

"As you watch, and mock me? No, it is not the typical manner."

For there was hurt in him, at this. A wrongness, this display under which vastly different circumstances he might have put himself with eagerness, for the satisfaction of Loki's eyes gleaming so upon him, a hunger deeply piercing.

The rhythm of his hand faltered when Loki rose to his feet. Thor lifted his head and looked at him directly, watched him in turn while he stripped himself of the accoutrements of a king. There was a glory in Loki too, dark and shining, Loki who had conquered and claimed and taken for himself everything within his hands, including Thor--who stood before him now naked and swelled and filled with nameless desires. He looked down again at himself, and spoke quietly.

"Do you only wish to watch?"

Loki paled to hear him. Like a axe raised to split his skull were these words, these monstrous words that tore at his breast, these hateful words, treacherous words to make a king's blood race and his hands shake.

How and why they punished him so, he could not say. Disgusted at the pain he had caused, deeply desiring of it; in his heart he cried You are wrong! You lie! This is not mockery... yet if it was not mockery, then it was something so raw and dangerous that Loki trembled to feel its truth.

Thunderstruck, he staggered towards his enemy with all his senses condensed to slow, thick, unlit suffocation. The white flame of despair shone upon his face and his throat tightened with anger.

"That you would dare."

He hunted his brother's wrists and hauled them away, his grip terrible as he forced them into the air. In grief and confusion he did not understand what he himself had intended except to interrupt this display. Of all things, it was most like how they had once grappled as boys.

"Know your place, slave!"

More desperate scream than command, shouted as he struggled with his brother and crushed against him unwillingly. Here, only, the darkness lifted; here was the source of light, most hateful. To Thor's final question there was an answer too destructive to ever speak aloud.

In a swift rush he forgot all promises of meek obedience. Thor knocked away Loki's hands with one blow of his arms, for even stripped of all but the barest scraps of godhood there was still a beautiful might within him, a strength that had been his even when banished to live as a mortal among mortals.

As a boy he could grapple Loki into quick submission every time they fought, whether it was for play or in hot-tempered earnest, unless he stumbled blind into one of his brother's tricks. As men grown and stripped of innocence, reforged by terrible revelations into enemies, still Loki had only trickery and cunning against him; and Thor had taken pride in it, a fierce angry pride born of the love he still bore his brother--that he imagined the day he would finally bring him to submission, drag him home once more. And this time Thor would keep him there, no matter the cost. Beside him.

And rather than strike he seized now Loki by the raiment he wore, dragged him bodily against him and crushed his mouth against his brother's, fury and bare longing in the kiss, stripped to the marrow of pride and dignity. Just as quickly he thrust him back, and then Thor knelt down on both knees, crimson, fuming, expecting savagery to be paid in full with nothing to do but beg.

Which he did. "Your forgiveness, my king." His voice was shaking.

Thor's words and the ring of his chain upon the cold floor were the only sound for a long, bleak moment.

Shivering fingers lightly fell into the thickness of Thor's hair. A tangle; they snagged, and then were withdrawn. Loki was as pale and still as a marble pillar. His eyes snapped shut. Against his legs, through his breeches and his armor, he could feel the warmth radiating from Thor's body. Against his lips in indelible pressure he felt still his brother's kiss.

Once before he had been so frozen, and his father had collapsed at his feet, just as Thor did now. Just as in that moment, many truths were being rewritten, many memories recolored; before he had learned why he would be denied the crown, and now he... what sorted through his heart in frightened, glittering fragments could not be named.

Surely what had happen was a ruse. Or deliberate error, meant to fracture his resolve. There were lies in Thor's mouth as delicious and needful as sweet wine against sorrow. It was a falsehood, forgery, impossible and therefore trickery--as Loki's wandering thoughts congealed upon this matter, he drove mirrors between what had been done and what must be. He must not fall. He would not be denied what was promised. A cruel smile pulled the corners of his flushed, tender mouth.

"Slave," And he, too, spoke in a trembling voice. He leaned to run his fingers along the collar at Thor's throat. Carefully he took up the chain. "I order you... to feign desire for me. Pretend."

His fist tightened. He yanked the chain up with a god's rage and love.

He braced himself, but the fingers which touched in his hair were as light and quick as a leaf carried by the wind, brushing briefly past those gold strands. The silence stretched taut, and Thor listened to the sound of his breath, short and angry pants through his nose, and could hardly bear it; he felt at once enervated and weary, hot and cold, fury running trembling through him and stark, dizzying yearning which pierced him to his very core. Loki's voice at last shattering the silence came almost welcome, even the cruel grasp jerking on the chain which bound his throat. Thor came stumbling again to his feet.

Then he gathered breath and spoke again, quietly. "Must it be feigned?"

Perhaps he did lie. Perhaps he did pretend. Perhaps the lie was one he told himself as well as his brother, but if so then he must surely prove himself a liar even greater than Loki Silvertongue, for it felt as helpless and devastating as truth. How strange it felt to loathe and want all at once, to know need as he knew despair. Miserable, Thor lifted his hands and cupped his brother's face between them, so warm and golden and strong, so ineffective. He drew him near and laid his brow to Loki's, so that they breathed one another.

"You see already my desire." Rampant, ready desire, awakened by his touch and by Loki's gaze on him. Pressed close, now, and all of Thor's body helplessly eager, skin hot to the touch. He could burn even Loki Laufeyson in his own embrace. "I don't know what it is that you want of me."

"Liar, you lie beautifully." A manic edge sharpened his smile; he shook in Thor's grasp and glanced at his brother's marvellous face, mirror of made-up sincerity, the most gorgeous fraud he'd ever seen in his life, and Loki's eyes were full of appreciative laughter for it. "As you were commanded."

Thor was so immensely strong and hot that to be cupped in his arms was dizzying, melting, a toxin to provoke strong sleep; it was not natural to Loki to feel such a sensuous, affirmative pleasure in being touched. Those he had been with, those who had writhed naked beneath him, women and men, willing and unwilling, had all of them placed a wall between their stupid souls and Loki's immense hunger. Thor was surely the same. If the separation did not come now, it would come soon. The lies of this liar would not withstand ten minutes of fondling. For all his dreams of his brother their origins and endings were obscure and turned to shadow, as if he could not even fool himself with fantasy.

Would he dare now to tempt this fate. Yes. And when Thor turned away he, Loki, would at last be triumphant and alone.

He began to strip out of his armor, still grinning, curious to know which part of his nakedness would be the first to bring contempt to his brother's fine features. And even that was not enough; he puckered his mouth like a boy and placed a clownish kiss upon Thor's soft lips.

"Is that what you like, liar? Is it?"

He himself did not know that he did this to ward against the zephyr of his brother's breath.

"Do not call me such."

His voice turned sharp, his hands gripping Loki's wrists in warning. He would not accept this twisted version of the truth that his brother wanted. He had made Thor kneel, he had made him his thrall; he would not also make of him a liar, or the bearer of recompense for sins he had not committed. Surely only Loki could frame a command to preface betrayal, indeed to manipulate it into being. Well, Thor had sworn obedience, not betrayal. For all the twisting paths of Loki's thoughts and words, perhaps he might yet still forge a clear road through the quagmire for himself, with nothing but the armor of his resolve.

He let go only to take up the task of stripping Loki himself. His king, his brother, his mortal enemy, his greatest love; Thor's hands trembled slightly yet forced on relentless in their work, until pale skin unveiled itself for his gaze and his touch. Loki seemed very thin to him, an awful creature starved and hungry with madness, but to see him now was like seeing him as when they were children: the pale and stark shadow which Thor might wrap in his own golden fineness, and there keep safe and warm.

But that was his desire, not Loki's.

He stroked his brother's bare skin, gathered him with hunger and wanting into his arms. The kiss this time was a softer one, but carrying within it a desperate ardor and an impassioned greed, as though it were not him who belonged to Loki now but Loki who belonged to him, to be consumed as he pleased.

As the shadow so longed to enclose the sun, and hold within himself such noble, glorious heat as would melt away his ancestral wickedness; then truly would he belong.

How much he despised Thor for this artifice and its provoking agony. How close he came to tears at this first embrace. Loki gasped, writhed, was wrought breathless within desperate swimming pleasure. This was painful as though all his flesh were covered with ice that splintered where Thor's hand brushed him. He would rather have been beaten to death beneath his brother's hammer than made to experience such excruciating physical joy as he did now. It would be taken from him at any moment. He would count down the seconds with dread and hatred in his heart.

His hands clasped Thor's shoulders--thick they were beneath his touch, smooth and potent and hot as mulled wine. He meant to push Thor away and yet his fingers dug in as he pulled his brother closer instead. This was not the truth and yet the floodgates burst: whether true or not, stolen from him or not, Thor was here before him now and he might vent all his most elaborate, revolting wishes upon his flesh.

He could scrub his palms down his brother's glorious back, and did so. And restlessly his touch roved over Thor's belly and hips, until he took Thor's cock in hand. The thing burned so against his own skin when they were close together--now, here, surely, this would be too much. This would make an end to Thor's pretending. Though his fearful, breathless, clumsy kiss seemed to plead despite everything: not yet, not yet.

There was a strange timidness, Thor found, in Loki's hands upon his skin, as though the king and conqueror of Asgard was afraid to claim what he had won for himself. For a moment it made him bitter—oh, the mighty king, mocking Thor's shame: where had his cold amusement gone?—and then it made him tender. This was his brother, who as a boy had armored himself against nightmares in Thor's arms, and Thor was the eldest prince of Asgard, the first born heir: born the furthest thing from slavery, and though he might bow his head and profess his submission he could no more act the part of a trueborn thrall than he could banish his own beauty. He dragged Loki greedily, impatiently against him, devouring the mouth which pressed fearfully to his, handling him as though they were lovers rather than master and slave—which perhaps he had forgotten entirely, for Thor lived very much in moments, in high passions or low, brief despair.

Loki took him in hand, cool palm and cool fingers wrapped around his own swelled and fevered flesh, the silken heat of skin over blood-hot steel beneath, and Thor's grasp tightened in response; Thor broke the kiss to sigh "Yes" against Loki's mouth, urging himself into his grasp the way he had urged himself into his own hand while making a show of his pleasure before him. Reaching down, he wrapped his own hand, broad and warm, around Loki's, tightening his grip, making him stroke: thorough and lingering, base to crown, that his brother might feel and marvel for every inch of him. "Like so," Thor murmured, the rough quality of a plea in his voice. "Brother, you must. Again—" And with his own hand he guided him to a rhythm.

Such heat in Thor's lips, such rough passion in his hands, such affection, given so freely. Like the winter moon upon the surface of a lake, Loki shivered. Beyond any fantasy, this powerful warmth... The more he was given, the more open Thor became, the more disturbed and frightened grew Loki: uncertain of what he had conquered or why. As his own brother rubbed his hand against his proud phallus he startled. Thor's bullying, lying love was meant to shame him and make him forget.

He would not forget.

Loki snatched his hand away as if burned. The cryptic leer he'd worn before came once again to mask his trembling. He capered back a few steps and felt at once naked and cold without his brother's aura to cover him. His spine stiffened.

"Stop! There is nothing I must. I am king, Thor. I--"

The memory of all that he had just touched vibrated still in his skin. He cast about himself, lost and pallorous in the vast, dark, golden chamber.

"Lay... on the bed." His tongue wet his dry lips as he foundered to finish. "Face down. Do not speak any further."

It was the withdrawal of touch that hurt the most, the loss of skin against skin, a cool hand holding him and his brother in the circle of his arms. The sense of closeness, of intimacy between them, that he had not known since before they were ever enemies: unfurled, unfolding from the place in his heart where he had locked such memories, his own need dizzying him. He almost staggered to be denied of it. Thor looked at him, his heart pounding a quick hammerbeat and his body alive and awakened, wanting, but protest died in the face of Loki's command, his hands--a moment ago open, reaching, beseeching--curving slowly again into fists.

If you wish it so-- Words he would have spoken if permitted, the taste of bitterness once more familiar in his mouth. Thor looked down, but a moment later obeyed, lifting his head once more--pride and defiance, for all the good that did him--as he moved across to the bed. His brother could order away passion, if he liked, but he could not order away the naked, stark desire which every line of Thor's body bespoke. He hoped Loki watched. He hoped he envied and wanted, for all that he might pay for both in pain.

He moved onto the bed, lithe and brutal, clutching great handfuls of the gold-woven coverlet a she laid himself down upon his belly. His cock was caught beneath, pressed to the bed, and his shoulders rose and fell with his rough, deep breathing; every part of him ached with need. Face-down, Loki had said, but his head was turned, his eyes bright as they watched his brother and king.

mostly 3 + 4 I'm thinking

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sdlfkdjslgkhasldkghasd have i mentioned recently how much I love sex-positive Thor

he loves you too bb &hearts;

.////////.

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