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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Again an abrupt, violent shift. Loki drove his brother's hips flat against the bed and rose behind him, malevolent, his red mouth slung open in need and fury and his eyes unblinking on Thor's miserable golden head.

"Can you not follow the simplest command."

In his hand he grasped his painfully hard cock, with the other he pinned Thor to the bed as if he were an animal to be bred. A final obscenity, a last unlocking of his kingdom: he dragged himself closer, his knees fitting against or under Thor's splayed legs, and guided himself against his brother's fucked-open hole. The slick heat made him gasp. His hand trembled at Thor's back.

The broad, flushed head of his dick probed at him and sank in. Neither easily nor quickly did it come but Loki persisted, his panting breath frothing between his clenched teeth. He gloated at the breathtaking tightness that engulfed him. Here alone he was not wholly overshadowed by Thor's outrageous natural gifts, and he would make his brother feel every alien inch of his endowment.

And he watched that he might see Thor's shame and bestial lust. If he cried out...

He throbbed, bereft of sensation, Loki's anger cold upon his back. His king displeased, forcing himself down upon him--Thor braced himself for what must be coming now, felt his brother's cock, turgid and jutting and warmer than the rest of him, prodding between his buttocks, pressing eagerly forth; his own flesh, hot and slick and unfurled before him, yielding to the thick inches which slid into the feverish tightness of him, and Thor, gasping and shuddering, starting against the bed--Thor was now and fully his brother's possession. His catamite, claimed in his own bed, licked open and at last split apart upon Loki's cock.

A tremor ran through his great frame, as his knees, forced further apart by Loki's legs between them, braced themselves against the bed: an arch to his spine now, and his hips raised, his body filled with heat and throbbing sensation as Loki sank deeper and deeper into him. It ached, his tender innermost flesh stretched nearly beyond bearing, stinging-hot and speared open; there was a burn and a deep ache within him, where he clasped helplessly tight around the girth of his brother's shaft. Its invasion was relentless. Thor gasped again, his breath catching on a moan, on a thick, short cry, and then again, a longer sound rough and harsh from deep in his chest, smothered against the pillows. He did not speak again--too late obedient--but the sinking glide and thrust wrung sounds out of him that he could not silence.

He burned with shame, with unutterable desire.

Brother. He did not give the word voice but mouthed it against the bedclothes and pushed back against him as though desperate to be taken fully, desperate for the long slide within to end.

Laughter, or a gasp of relief; unquiet hands that cupped Thor's hips and hauled at him until he was pulled flush against his brother; Loki's brilliant green gaze upon the tense, broad spread of his Thor's back and his downturned head.

His fantasies of this moment had been always wavering and occluded: now his brother struggled, now he slept, now he was bound, now some duress forced his hand, or he did it, and this Loki remembered most bitterly, for the good of Asgard, and lay back and bore his pain with blank eyes. One circumstance would overlay another as in Loki's machinations--restless his thoughts, even in self-pleasure--each scenario fell apart. He had not imagined Thor's trembling, sensitivity, his arching as if he were willing. Loki had never imagined Thor to be willing.

His brow was damp, his hands clammy except that Thor's salubrious flesh drove away chill. He palmed his brother's ass and looked down upon himself driven into Thor. This was aside from pleasure. He felt first the tightness within Thor like an embrace; then his heat, intimately transmitted, like a stay of execution. If he never left, if he were always here within Thor, would that burn away his shame? He'd made Thor cry out and his ears burned from it and yet still this trembling...

He thrust. With each stroke it became easier. Lust rose over his wavering heart and eclipsed whatever nameless thing had bewitched him before. Eldritch his smiling: he fucked a god. He had made a slave of a god, he would use a god to satisfy himself.

He could not call this a thing to be borne, however much he ached within, however cruel the breathless sounds of Loki's laughter or the hot prickle of shame that spread all across his skin, so that he could only imagine how he must look before his brother's greedy eyes, patched with color, his head bowed against the pillows. In spite all of that the sinking of his brother's cock within him wrung him to breathless longing, a stunned pleasure rooting itself deep within his body so that even within the span of a first few experimental thrusts he felt his own hips squirming maddeningly as though desperate for more. They were raised now, and his own neglected cock hung heavy and thick between his legs, bereft of touch; his balls swung heavy and aching, his body forced forward and back by the motion of Loki's hips against him, Loki thrusting into him, Loki fucking him.

Loki was fucking him. Fucking him, a god of unassailable strength, of beauty and fertility; and Loki the tyrant king of Asgard had him bowed down before him with his hips raised like an offering, that Loki might grip them between his spidery hands and come at him faster, harder, that Loki might better use him for his pleasure. In a thousand years not one man or woman or creature would have dared use him so, but Loki, Loki was fucking him and Thor was moaning, muffling the sounds in the bedclothes, sensation scouring through him in wholly strange, wholly exhilarating new ways.

Brother. His heart cried out for him in desolation and pleasure, his heart which felt as though it were tearing itself asunder in his breast between two such conflicting forces.

For a brief moment, his body covering his brother's... he was surprised, delighted, sickened to own that he was not outmatched or meager here. They fit together. With Thor's ass in the air there was a vulgar, magnificent charm in the way their bodies pressed together. It was easy to push into him.

This grunting, wallowing Thor was so unlike the cold and distant god he had imagined. To learn this... ice over his heart and heat in his hands.

He was shivering. Gooseflesh raised upon his thighs and the back of his arms; there was a desperate light in his eyes as he shoved himself into Thor again and again. As fast and snapping as self-pleasure, he took his brother, as if he meant to prove something with the stain of his semen. The incredible heat and tightness of Thor's ass made him feel obscenely huge and bestial, a satyr, a giant to defile the might of Asgard...

Slim fingers felt their way over Thor's back--searing hot, he was, broad and sleek and powerful, worth mastering. Loki felt for his neck, for his chain. Loki pulled it back without staying in his stroke. He would drag his brother up on all fours. He would pull Thor up against his rutting and force him to put his strength to purpose.

The thrusts battered him, rocked him forth again and again, Loki's hips snapping forward and his cock plowing into him with a force that made him dizzy, left him gasping, a burning heat rushing through and through him. He felt so thick inside of Thor, so hard and so full, like nothing had ever filled him before, like nothing he had ever imagined. Mounted by a frost giant: as though the touch of him finally matched the creature he truly was, the long thick spear stabbing forth within him, except the touch of it was not a blackening chill but a heat which swept through him and brought him to gasping.

He shivered at the sweep of Loki's fingers over his back, a touch which his heart called caresses and wanted to invent affection for, tenderness; he wanted to strain towards those touches, to invite more. As though Loki were his lover here and not his master. Only his mind could not forget—that to Loki he was a slave, not to be loved but to be used, and the collar around his neck and the drag of the chain, too, were to remind him; Thor gasped and struggled up onto all fours, his back arching, flinching at the savage strokes of Loki's cock.

The angle changed this way, the sensations changed, and when Loki thrust forth there was a burst of such brutal pleasure that it made him cry out, thick and lost. His hands gripped the bedcovers, still clenched into tight fists; his back sloped slightly downwards now, and he braced his thighs further apart and rutted back without thinking, without true awareness of what he was doing, the whore he was making of himself. His hips met Loki's; his brother's hips smacked loud against his backside as his thrusts drove to the hilt again and again, erratic strokes of brutal, breathtaking pleasure and Thor cried out again, his cock jerking, spurting a little onto the bed.

He dragged the chain back yet more forcefully with a hissing howl. He no longer saw his brother at all. A golden blur, something eating up his cock mindlessly. Something that moaned and fucked himself back against his penis, sluttish and degenerate. A tight, beautiful, wholly sexual object that belonged to him.

Thorns of rage bit into his lust. He loathed Thor's whorishness. How dare he degenerate his line and his throne with such filthy, depraved lust. He despised it the more for the effect it had on him, Loki, god and king, who felt this offered heat like a celebration and who fucked into his whorish body so eagerly he revealed himself to be a whore. He gasped at the bottom of each vicious thrust. They could have done this a thousand times before... a thousand times he might have brought his brother to pleasure, a thousand times spent himself inside Thor's body, a thousand times been so close and so abandoned, and yet Thor pretended he was too good to answer the question Loki had not asked...

In his scattered and delirious thoughts he saw Thor crying out for him and holding him, a light in his eye, singular and explicit, as he could not be satisfied by anyone but Loki. Drawn close in passion and love...

Loki's choked groan rung from the stone walls. He bottomed out deep within Thor and yanked back so hard upon the chain that Thor would be drawn upright, kneeling, against his body, that he might wrap his brother in his arms and hold him breathlessly close as he ejaculated inside of him.

Better to abandon himself than to let himself feel this loss, this tearing away of the strength and glory which were his, birthright, beauty and perfection. All that he had known his life to be that slipped now from his grasp, and the weight of chains and thralldom were heavy, awful things. He had not understood the price that slavery would exact of him. Could it be so wrong, then, to lose himself in desperate pleasure, to desire Loki, to desire a betrayal that was not a knife between his ribs but instead the undoing of his body in passionate greed? For even to be used so was to use Loki in turn. His brother was with him now. He wanted Thor; he could not tear himself away from Thor.

Vicious, the yank of the chain and the tenor of Loki's thrusts; Thor was wrought upright on his knees, caught between Loki's arms, shuddering at the spurting of seed within him and the thickness of his cock buried fully in the snug channel. His own hips arched, his hole clenching. He stood stiffly erect, seed beading thickly from the tip of his own arousal and sliding down the underside of the shaft, and there was a raw unspeakable intimacy to being held in his brother's arms while Loki spilled himself within him, an agonizing tightness to his throat; Thor turned his head, sought his brother's jaw with his mouth, his cool pale skin, any part of him which he might reach. How it hurt. That he was Loki's, that Loki was his, yet nothing about it was good or right.

He ached for touch, to seek kisses and be given them. He sank into Loki's arms, sank back into the press of his hips and the impaling of his cock, nuzzled softly at the edge of his jaw.

For a moment he inclined to his brother's tenderness. With his green eyes shut and his dark brows subtly turned-up, his terrible grip on Thor loosening, he appeared to grow tranquil... then he flinched and hid his face in Thor's thick hair. There he let loose a long shaking exhale.

He searched for consolation in this familiar scent, despite the pungency of sex; this familiar shape and weight, this body with which he had sparred, embraced, punished, clung to after nightmares or glared at in envy; this brother whom he had sentenced to banishment, death, and bondage, and who answered with his miserable kisses that Loki did long to accept.

Yet he was no longer brother Loki any more than the one in his arms was any longer brother Thor. He had stripped his brother's radiance and laid him bare as a whore and slave in the bed of Loki, King of Asgard. His cheek fell to Thor's shoulder. Grief struck him and a terrible sensation of waste. The visceral sensation of his soft cock slipping from Thor's body was so utterly unwelcome, ridiculous, and symbolic that he burst into soft nasty laughter. Unthreading one arm from around Thor he touched the corner of each eye and found them dry.

In a listless, colorless tone he ordered, "Finish yourself off. No," but then he began to unwind himself from about Thor in preparation to leave the bed.

The laughter made him flinch, soft though it was; there was a note of cruelty threaded into it, and he had no reason not to believe that cruelty unintended for him. Or perhaps it was intended for them both. He felt a clenching in his belly when Loki slid from him, a hollowness within him that he sorrowed for. Loki was unwinding himself from him, retreating, leaving him kneeling on the bed, and in the absence of that brief warmth and peace Thor began to feel other things, far more discomforting: a soreness and lingering wetness, slickness; a sense of being defiled, shamed. He bowed his head a moment or two, in silence and obedience to Loki's will.

But then he turned, and he caught Loki's wrist before he could slide away from the bed; not a hard grip, not one that his brother could not easily break if he chose, but in his gaze there was defiance and longing both. Was he now to retreat, to run away, after all that he and Thor had done here? Had Thor displeased him so much? It had been, he thought, what Loki wanted of him. His will above all, Thor made his and possessed, bowed down for his use, that Loki might prove himself master and king.

"Will you not help me?" His voice was low and rough and a tremor went through him as he glanced down at his erection, impossibly thick and upthrust. "I thought it was your brother you despised, not your thrall."

These dreams and despairs were too great to bear. The hot, muscular curve of Thor's body against his still hummed in his flesh like they had become a part of each other. Yet he wanted no part of such weakness and shame. Yet he desired it still with unchecked hunger.

If his expression was raw when Thor first grasped him, it turned. As did all of him, from his shoulders squaring after his miserable slouch to the tension in his long white legs. A strange sort of smiling took him as he stared back at Thor. One that his despised thrall might recognize as the harbinger of unpleasant tidings.

"...You shall not touch it at all." He pulled his wrist free. "Neither shall I. Lay... No, stay you there, on your knees."

He slipped from the bed and stood back a moment to admire his handiwork: his fucked wreck of a former brother, golden and splendid still, painfully erect, and in the posture of servitude. It was not what he had wanted, though he wanted it past anything. Thor would pay for that.

And he, feeling himself now the tall white god of a new order, would claim and keep all that was his. He vanished into the washing-room to carefully cleanse the taste of his brother from his mouth.

His hand fell after Loki tugged his white wrist from his grasp, his fingers still tingling with the sensation of that spindly, delicate limb surrounded by his touch. If his brother had made Thor's body his to use and defile as he saw fit, had he not also given himself like a gift to Thor's desire? Pale, stark, beautiful like the moon, with skin that Thor longed to kiss, and a narrow body which he longed to caress. Bitter disappointment settled in his heart, to be denied of all he would have given and taken. Thor looked down, away.

"As my king commands."

The gold strands of his hair fell, comforting, over his flushed face. He kept his hands on his thighs, curved in loose fists, while the sounds of running water came from the bathing room and his mind created for him lurid pictures of a wet and naked Loki to further compound his shame and rampant desire. Arousal did not flag for a moment. The lingering ache of his well-fucked hole was still another source of unflagging need, raking through his body like a ravenous beast caught and scrabbling at the bars of his cage. Within him turmoil, but on the outside he knelt still as a carven figure, his head patiently bowed, in the hope of grasping at some lingering scrap of tranquility and dignity.

When Loki returned he was damp, naked, and rosy from scrubbing. He traipsed to the windows without so much as a sideways glance at the god upon his bed, and pulled back the curtains, so the rich, tender light of sunset would fill the room. If he wished for some purgative effect of sunlight, he was nearly too late. Far below the promontory lay his kingdom. Already construction had begun to repair the damaged palaces and streets; even at the waning hour, those below toiled upon their scaffolds. Then they would run home to their families. Board by board and brick by brick the damage he had done would be undone and new lives and livelihoods would take the place of those he had destroyed.

The thought of it was in turns solace and annoyance.

He turned to the wreck on the bed--obedient Thor, still in the position ordered, his great shaggy head hung as if he were waiting to be forgiven. Now this was a permanent, trustworthy harm. Loki pressed his lips together in pleasurable dismay and called for the guards.

They arrived just as he was settling himself upon the covers again, impudently naked. Two noble Aesir warriors who saw at once the nakedness of the brothers and read all in their postures--the king leisurely; his thrall, in servitude--however much they might grieve for it later, the point had been made. And Loki, smiling and crossing one ankle over the other, his fat, slumbering phallus askew and prominent, gave them their orders.

"Those in the antechamber... tell them I am indisposed. No audiences today. They may try again tomorrow. That is all."

He said it in the face of their disgusted frowns.

His stomach tightened; he half-reared and grabbed for the dangling end of Thor's chain. As he dragged his brother down he quipped, "Oh, and see about dinner. A roast."

Pulling Thor against his chest--insolent, now, and unworried of argument--he laced an arm around his brother's wide shoulders.

He watched Loki at the great windows with a silent yearning, the dying light falling golden across his face. Beyond the walls of the citadel the kingdom would be beginning to repair itself, nursing the wounds of long war, and Thor's surrender, Thor's servitude had bought it. Would Loki too keep faith? Would he too serve, not as a thrall to king but as king to Asgard, that the realm of their boyhoods might return in its warm and golden glory? He hoped for it so desperately that his heart clenched in the cage of his ribs. He could not bear the thought that all of this—the undoing of him—would not be worth at least that.

His back stiffened with the guards' arrival. Far more difficult to maintain was the appearance of resigned peace, when horrified and repulsed eyes were upon him: he did not need to look at the guards to feel it, or to know that he was not bowed now but rigid with anger and shame, but that it did not matter what he looked like when he was so clearly stripped, defiled, well and thoroughly used and left himself unsatisfied—insult to injury. Worse still with Loki lounging upon the bed like a great pale cat in repose, as lewdly naked as Thor himself while he issued his casual orders—while his narrow fingers caught at Thor's leash and dragged him down, and Thor must go, must obediently lay himself down against his king with his head at his breast, his hair fanning out golden against pale skin.

A tremor ran through him, fury and desire twisted into some choking and unrecognizable tangle. His erection was pressed to his brother's thigh, his body a rampant tense curve of unfulfillment, with relief offered him only in the form of the guards' departure. His shoulders rose and fell tightly beneath Loki's arm; he grit his teeth against the urge to curse his brother.

He was very proud of his little show.

Kingly, he thought it. Or more to the point, a demonstration of what kingly would mean going forward. No longer the beneficent and all-seeing wisdom of Odin, nor the golden, warlike dominion of Thor: the new order would be spiteful, cold, exemplary, and kept in hand only by Loki's own native genius. He would build a world that none could control but he himself.

Just as none other would control Thor, so he thought, smiling, as a god of great power rested upon him tense with unhappiness. Neither crown nor throne was as plainly a symbol of his mastery as his magnificent slave.

Yet his hand came to rest in Thor's hair unlike an owner upon that which he owned. Curiously gentle he was in spreading Thor's bright hair over his skin and delighting in its warmth. He traced the curve of his brother's ear and followed his strong throat to his shoulder, and his dense, splendid arm; this last he dragged up so Thor's hand would lay upon his own chest. This soft, fragrant, tender, delicious show of affection--as if he now owned himself so great a lord that he no longer feared rejection.

As if Thor could no longer hurt him nor please him, which was not true.

He did not want to feel warmth, to feel easing beneath Loki's touch. Yet it worked on him like a spell, the silence between them, the solitude now that the guards had gone--the brush of his king's fingers at his ear, at his throat and shoulder, down his arm, so light it brought a reflexive twitch and shiver of golden skin. His hand drawn up to rest upon Loki's breast, so that he could feel his brother's quick heartbeat beneath his own strong, warm palm. This was not for show. Or if it was, there was no one to show it to but Thor: no one else who could be equal parts tormented and entranced. Tension unwound from him slowly, uncoiled from his limbs, like a knot of string tugged apart by patient, clever fingers.

Thor gasped a little, turning his face to Loki's breast. His mouth pressed to the pale skin, more a brush of lips than a kiss, a little desolate caress in return.

His thigh was hooked over Loki's hip, his erection pressed firm and thick against him, and the lead of the chain ran across his brother's belly like a resting snake, and there was peace here in Loki's arms: strange then that it made him ache so. He feared to believe the lie, to believe in the fond tenderness in Loki's touch, that he would succumb and want only to lie in his king's embrace, that he could learn to want nothing more than his thralldom.

"Brother." He stirred wanton against him, pale lashes brushing Loki's skin as he closed his eyes. "You are tormenting me."

A thought occurred as he stared at the bas-relief ceiling and stroked his brother's hair. He had spied upon Thor in his passion with a woman, once, when he was younger. Eager he had been, ardent, generous, attentive, unstintingly virile. Loki imagined himself first one, then the other: bright and glorious when armed with Thor's potent strength, shivering and rapturous as Thor made love to him. How often he had thumbed these delicious memories as the years passed. But when the moment came he had experienced neither. Yet another entry on the list of ways in which Thor had cheated him.

His fingers laced with Thor's at his breast. With calm tutorial patience he showed Thor how to touch him: to stroke his flat, lithe chest, his belly that tightened beneath his palm, his rawbone hip, slowly and warmly. As he had for so long wished to be touched by the god Thor, he would show the slave Thor to perform. If it held not the same sumptuous transgressive delight he had lusted after, it was still pleasurable. The more so because he controlled it.

"Of what possible interest do you imagine your suffering to be."

The studied, neutral way in which he pronounced this left little doubt about the esteem in which he held his brother now. He drew Thor's palm up his flank once more and uncurled his fingers to touch Thor's own side in the same place.

At first he did not know what Loki intended, with his narrow hand drawing Thor's across his narrow body, yet he obediently touched and caressed, and soon enough comprehended the instruction in Loki's guidance: thereafter, stirred to greater enthusiasm, he stroked him the way he was shown and found a quiet comfort in the skin beneath his touch, the way his broad hand looked against Loki's pale body. For here was a way in which Thor might please, if his king so wanted his touch. Perhaps even learn to share his bed in a way that was not so terribly degrading, if it was his hands and not merely the slick yielding of a fucked hole that could bring Loki pleasure. Though the words that followed were quiet barbs to his heart, stilling his touch a moment; he flushed again, miserably, at his own foolishness—oh, indeed, there was no reason to expect that his brother would have any such care for him. He was a toy here in this bed, and that for Loki seemed to be enough.

Yet he still drew Thor's touch along his skin.

Resolute, Thor caught his lean thigh in his broad hand, fingers curving in a way that could have almost bespoken possession. He lifted his head, a glance up to Loki's eyes, and then bent again to kiss his breast, to brush his mouth across the paths his fingers had been a moment ago guided. His hair fell forward to brush Loki's skin and his mouth left hot dampness against him, his lips parted as he kissed him, his tongue gently teasing. He moved lower to kiss and nuzzle at Loki's belly, while his hand drew Loki's thigh up slowly, inexorably, until it could hook over the broad expanse of his shoulder.

Beneath Thor's warming touch he grew still and settled. Only a born slave would take orders so eagerly, he thought, disgusted except that Thor's thick fingers against his skin felt pleasant. His flinch of insult was the best part.

But when Thor moved over him and began to use his mouth Loki frowned. He took Thor's head between his hands--neither guiding him nor driving him away, only holding him. His thumbs rubbed against his slave's scalp. When a tongue touched him some place ticklish above his ribs he tensed and squirmed, though the sound he made was not really laughter, now. His mouth was pursed and his eyes pinched.

When his thigh was gathered over Thor's shoulder it was his turn to flinch, and he did so with a darkling glare, pushing Thor away with his leg. "Don't," he warned.

One white hand had clenched into a fist around a handful of gold embroidery.

Loki's hands settled on his head, fingers tangling deep in the gold strands of his hair, but since they did not push him away Thor did not cease these attentions: his mouth was gentle upon him, with a devotional sweetness, even when his teeth carefully nipped the skin he was intent on teasing. Ah, this—he liked this better than Loki's weight upon his back, Loki's cock splitting him open, for all that it had driven him into such a wild frenzy of sensation and heat. And his brother was quiet, neither murmuring filthy, degrading things nor giving orders, at least for the moment, and Thor liked that too. He could nearly pretend that they were lovers sharing a bed and nothing more than that—though he had gone too far to pretend that they were only kin, with love a simple thing between them.

Except when he caught and lifted Loki's thigh over his shoulder: then his king spoke, and there was anger in his voice and tension in the splay of his body, and his leg trying to shove him away, and Thor, glancing up at him, caught that white thigh and dug his fingers firm into the skin to still him. His own gaze was hot and stern, and then he turned his head and nuzzled deliberately at the tender inside of Loki's thigh, grazing with lips and with beard. Don't, Loki said, and this order Thor refused; let his king strike him away and shove him down to his belly again if that was what he preferred. Meanwhile the taste of his skin absorbed Thor, fascinated him, and the nuzzle turned into a lingering kiss, wet and suckling, as though he sought to bring a dark bruise to the white surface.

A darkness, a sign of hope. The sun slipped below the horizon and his brother's golden head slipped lower along Loki's thigh and sucked at his flesh in a way that stole his breath. Whether or not he liked it, he could not say; it froze him. Certainly he had not ordered it. He twitched under Thor's grasp but his thrall's strength held or at least it would not be undone by such an uncommitted effort.

He looked worried. Rising up on his elbows to look down upon Thor and his own lean body, he struggled to retain his lordly, mocking tone.

"What do you imagine you are doing, slave?"

It was not Thor's proximity to his limp, dark cock that bothered him so much as he could not imagine a reason why Thor would willingly put himself there. His thoughts raced to determine the nature of this engagement: a trick, meant to put him off his guard? But he was more guarded than ever. A trap of some kind. A way to prove his dominance. Thor, dominant, kneeling between Loki's thighs, the sum of his rebellion concentrated on disobediently licking? And if he meant to illustrate his physical superiority and thereby generate unease in Loki's heart, he should have done so with kisses less tender, hands less wholesomely engulfing; there was no contempt in Thor's touch.

There was not nearly so much contempt as there ought to be.

Slave. He twitched at the word, as he could not seem to stop doing, but it did not dissuade him; Loki's tender skin beneath his mouth was what he wanted, and without even opening his eyes to look again at his king's worried face he sucked hotly and wetly until the first flush of a bruise was left marked by the attentions of his mouth. He looked at it in satisfaction, nuzzled Loki's thigh again, moved upwards to bite gently at his hip. All the same attentions he might have paid him if they had lain together this way as youths, without bitterness and long years of enmity between them. Without slavery, without mastery. He drew Loki's thigh higher up over his shoulder as he moved over him. His hand cupped over his brother's spent cock, still sizable in his grasp, thick and substantial in a way that Thor had not expected of him. The memory of it still—it had filled him so—

He looked at Loki then, with a flush in his cheeks. "I wanted to please you again."

His hand rubbed, kneaded gently, as he bent to kiss his belly again. He wondered how easily Loki might be brought again to full desire. Perhaps it could be different between them this time, of Thor was sweet, eager and willing, if there could be affection in this: already Loki looked as though he had been knocked from his lordly pedestal, a hint of uncertainty in the green eyes which were narrowed on him as though he could not imagine what Thor thought he was doing. As though affection was a foreign thing.

Yet Thor had never stopped wanting to love his brother.

The perverse sight of his brother sucking a bruise onto his leg caused Loki's worry to curdle up into an incredulous leer. He could not even think to shift, the thing was so unexpected. Already unbalanced, then, he hardly thought about how to react to Thor's whiskery cheek against his skin, his nip--at once tickling and unmanageably sexual--his heavy, powerful hand covering Loki's traitorous phallus.

Vulnerable wonder stole into his expression as he watched his slave blush and gaze back at him.

"Surely not."

A joke--no, a tease, Thor would toy with him and then leave at a critical moment. No, but he could not leave; Loki would call the guards and force him to his knees and take him again. Whether it was this thought or Thor's tender lips on his belly that brought quick heat to his loins, the swelling result was the same. Did Thor wish to prove that Loki was as much of a whorish, wanton beast as he was? But what matter if a king is wanton; if he fathered a thousand sons or split his brother open and took his pleasure from him every hour of the day it would be his right. What did he want? What was this farce?

His leg stirred again in Thor's grasp, this time not to escape but to nudge at him, rub against him, perhaps guide his head somewhat to the right as if saying kiss there. And he watched, still, avidly: searching for any sign of betrayal, searching his slave's broad, bright shape which entangled with his own so discourteous-beautiful, unaware that he was holding his breath.

"Believe as you like."

Resentment and tenderness made a strange pair. Perhaps he didn't know what he was doing anymore than Loki did: and surely a slave should take no initiative of his own, much less in the pursuit of his desire, but merely lay submissive beneath what use his master wanted to make of him. But Thor had not been born a slave, or ever made one until this day; he hadn't the slightest idea what a thrall was or was not supposed to do, and he rather doubted that Loki did, either. All Loki seemed to want was that Thor be brought low and shamed. And yet he stirred beneath Thor's seeking touch as though, indeed, he did desire more than that: as though these kisses and caresses pleasured him, and might even be welcomed.

So he did not stop. Did not even hesitate to wrap his hand around Loki's cock and stroke it fully, as it awakened in his hand, swelling in length and girth until he flushed all over again to remember this thick, heavy weight seated within him. His kisses searched his pale skin, his belly and waist and the edge of his thin ribs, where Thor gently gnawed; and Loki's thigh was caught in the other hand, the broad strong fingers denting into the skin as he held it slung over his shoulder that as he explored his brother's body he spread him wide apart for his gaze and touch. And he licked and nuzzled as though it was his brother's pleasure he feasted upon, stroked him in his hands, urged him with tender attention to full magnificent hardness. It was sweeter than he had known it could be, to see Loki awakened and manipulated by his own hands.

How long had it been since he lay beneath a lover and was kissed.

Never had he lain beneath a lover to be kissed. Many he had brought to his bed, or stolen upon in the night; many he had pleasured, many mastered, so their upturned, rapturous faces were a source of mysterious wonder to him; many he had forced himself upon and many tasted and many made use of. But he himself passed among these forms as a virgin: the giver of pleasures and the doer of criminal acts, never himself subject to any of it. The exceedingly daring soul or two who had tried had met the same perplexed scorn as Thor now confronted.

For what reason would you bother, to what purpose do you intend?

Love and affection no more entered into his scheming than the weather did. Yet Thor--of all possible persons, Thor--kissed him and fondled him. The same Thor who had stripped and jerked himself off on Loki's command. The same that he had defiled not a half-hour earlier on this very bed. His slave, Thor, licked at him and pet the cock that had taken him surely by force. The golden king of the Aesir, usurped, cuddled his usurper. The brother unmanned and made slave kissed the brother who had bound him.

Loki slipped himself loose of Thor's shoulder and drew his noble head up. Shock there was upon his face, or deep fear; whatever would draw his lips so white and his eyes so terribly bright when he looked upon his brother. He dragged at Thor and writhed himself down at the same moment: shoulder to shoulder they would be when Loki took his brother's mouth and kissed him, his whole body arching beneath Thor's, all his strength bent to this demand of contact.

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sorry for the delay!! work ugh

haha I was beginning to worry

<3 when i work a m-f week my tags become nonexistent by thurs/fri. i need a recovery day.

jhgalkjhgafg sweetheart come here and nap