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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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.

Loki at last did writhe free, as Thor had expected he would. And then grabbed at him, seized and dragged him upwards so that their mouths met in a kiss tasting of bruising force, of angered passion, and Thor met him kiss for kiss and body for body, all the glory of his own strength pressed down against him. This--this was better. To awaken this in his brother, to feel the shock of it resonate through his body was a sweetness in Thor, something vindicated.

He gripped at his brother and pulled him near, fingers digging into his limbs, his pale flesh, hard enough to bruise. Thor pressed down his hips and urged against him, the friction making him gasp against Loki's mouth: his cock, Loki's cock, his own arousal so monstrously swelled and begging for relief caught against his brother's, slid and rubbed and thrust, and Thor impatiently pushed Loki's legs apart that he might settle between them, the better to grind against him. As though Loki was his as surely as he was Loki's. As though they belonged to one another, the way lovers do.

This would be his rebellion. That if Loki desired a bed-slave, he would have one who desired in turn, who sought and took, who savored the tremors in Loki's narrow frame beneath his hands, his shock that Thor could answer this way.

What had bent in him earlier now broke. His mouth against Thor's grew breathless; his hips heaved bodily off the sheets as he drove himself into his brother's embrace; his arms trembled as he fought with Thor's weight to touch more of him, all of him, neck and hip, shoulder and belly and the splendid curve of his back. A frenzy was on him and his eyes were tightly shut. He reached out blindly for the fulfillment of Thor's weight and beauty.

A gasp when his brother's thick erection slid against his own. It swelled into a shout of despair as he threw his brother off of him. For a second only he lay white and panting, his fist tearing at the blankets and his hard, tense body stretched taut. Then he shifted and chased Thor down: now he pressed to him, now covered him, now settled at his side, his long legs struggling and tangled with Thor's. His touch was desperate and omnipresent as if he meant to swallow all that he could before he was forbidden to go any further. Again and again he pressed his lips to Thor's, searching for his sweetness of his mouth within his crisp beard, and only after some seven or eight of these airless impassioned kisses did he bury his face in the crook of his brother's throat and cry out in miserable joy.

In his hand he clutched Thor's sleek, muscular ass and pulled him tight against himself.

He forgot his brother's strength; thrown off of him, Thor lay still a moment, breath coming hard and his cock so swollen as to be painful, a constant aching throb that he didn't think he could bear much longer. His fingers twisted in the sheets and he looked at Loki while within his breast misery writhed with anger and desperation; he watched him come near again, seize him, half-pin him, touch and kiss him as though this were a battle for blood, as though he would choke and smother the life from Thor with these impassioned hands--they were against one another again, grappling and squirming to be closer and the kisses were bruising his mouth and driving air from his lungs. All was skin and friction and desire and Thor did not understand what drove his brother away and close again, away and close again, why he must bring his madness even into this, at last breaking away and yet burying his face against Thor's throat as though he could not bear not to be wrapped around him.

"What," Thor said aloud at last, desperately, "what is it, brother!" He buried his hands in Loki's hair to hold him close. They were wrapped around one another, hips to hips and Loki's hand clenched on his flank, their legs entangled, and it was both a joy and a despair to be so close to him, to want to please him and not know how, to need his own pleasure so terribly and be denied it again and again. "My brother, my king." He spoke words again softer this time, tenderly against his hair and with desperate need. "Take of me what you will have."

Static, tense, with the rising night at his back and Thor in his arms, Loki trembled and felt his brother's pounding heart. He leaned back fitfully at first, his dark head lifting against thick fingers; before his eyes could again meet Thor's he kissed his chin.

"I--"

He managed no further. Thor's arm lay heavily against him; Thor's heroic body was pressed to his. He tucked his own hand between them and traced his brother's shoulder; when he folded his fingers in golden hair again he looked upon Thor with anxious green eyes and a strained smile. The latter he hid against his brother's mouth, though softer, now, more gentle with the smooth lips he had crushed before. With his knee tucked between Thor's legs he rolled, pressed his brother back and lay atop him.

"I did not say..." Words did not easily follow words any longer, not when Thor was pressed against his belly, not when his brother lay with him in a posture very like relaxation, as though all of this were indeed permissible to him. The strange soft things he had spoken a moment ago still echoed in Loki's ears. "That you could stop touching me, slave."

Yet he flinched when he said it and quickly covered himself with the flash of an insincere grin. One arm tangled loosely at his brother's waist, the other at the pillow beneath them, so he might still stroke Thor's hair and his cheek. He looked down upon Thor steady but frightened, certain and flush with a desire that was plainly too much for him. His fingers slipped low to pull Thor's knee up against his flank.

Loki's eyes met his, and Thor searched them with confusion, with longing, with hope, for these touches now of his brother's fingers and mouth were gentle, and the gleam of mocking cruelty seemed to have disappeared from his own gaze, vanished beneath the weight of his own bewilderment. For a moment he looked at Thor as though he had never before seen him, fingers winding anxiously in his hair. A smile strained his pale lips and the sight of it awakened a protectiveness within Thor, so that when Loki pushed against him he went to his back, pliant, obedient and willing; his brother and king lay atop him, hands caught in his hair or bracing against the mattress, against his own body. Slave still brought a quick twisting ache in his breast but Thor ignored it, raising his hands to settle them deliberately upon Loki's hips.

"How shall I touch you, my king?" he asked him, tenderness in the low rumble of his voice.

He was glad. He was glad to see some sign in Loki that he could not ignore what chains still bound them both, as brothers and as men who had shared a lifetime together. Wasn't that why Loki hated him so? Because he could not escape Thor, because he could not run far enough or hide deep enough to sever those bonds, and knowing it, must instead prove his mastery over the brother who had always longed to bring him home? His thigh caught at Loki's hip, his leg winding around his waist to urge him down against him, and Thor flushed and gasped anew with the press of their hips, his hands lifting to tangle in Loki's hair and bring him down into a kiss. His mouth was soft and hot and wanton, coaxing Loki's in turn.

There was danger in this. For him, too. How he might be bound--how he might want more than else to serve Loki, to please him, only that he might bask in these furls of affection to dull the years of enmity and pain.

If Loki had known of his brother's misguided thoughts he would have laughed in his face. He had brought a silver, wicked army across Asgard and crushed its towers and overthrown its king. His first order of business had been to force Thor to his knees and his second to force himself upon Thor's body. None of this boded escape.

Nor was it escape that drove his now-shy, now-hungry kiss, devouring upon his brother's lips and suckling upon his tongue; nor escape that brought him to clutch at his brother's hard shoulders with such eagerness or awe; nor escape that drugged him so with insatiable lust, so that he flexed against his brother's arousal and rubbed his own against Thor's belly. Here the golden orb, the scepter to match the throne he had taken: he had ruled Asgard once without his brother and found it hollow and shifting. The king of a trembling heart, ringed all about with the glory of a land that he was not truly part of, he had flinched; he had reached into nothingness and drawn back an empty hand.

In every way that mattered, he was not king without Thor's submission. He was not even of Asgard.

When he conquered his brother's body he became lord by might and with this he might have been content. Yet in his brother's touch, in his irrepressible generosity, in the sluttish, gorgeous openness with which he offered himself to his conqueror, Loki had felt a ward against shivering black uncertainty. How he had lashed at it and struggled against its searing, loathing its promise as much as he longed for it.

To belong: that was what Thor held cupped in his palms. Where he touched, he sanctified and brought into homelikeness, and his love was redemption.

Therefore was Loki antagonized by Thor's question. Does one dictate the terms of one's own redemption? Does one demand such solace? though Loki was incomprehending of any of this in the flood of his confused anger. He pushed himself away in a tangle of black hair and lean limbs, wrathful and shattered.

"Mock me again, Thor..."

He could not help but grasp after his brother's attentions. To be kissed at last with passion instead of cruelty, to feel Loki press down atop him and answer his kisses and his caresses with hunger, his hands feverish upon his body as though he would rend him and consume him and have every part of him--where before Loki, king of Asgard, had held the chain around Thor's throat as though it were the leash of a dumb beast that was only useful for satisfying himself upon. Now he urged himself to Thor as though he wanted him, needed him, and awoke a hunger in return that threatened to bind him body and spirit.

That Loki writhed out of his grasp, turned on him again with eyes blackened and snapping with fury was like a slap to the face, too sudden and awful to be warranted, and Thor was reaching for him in bewilderment and beseeching before the words too struck across him like a lash. His hunger was a howling, hollowing thing, unrelieved and aching. It was an anguish that blackened and twisted his heart, heaped upon all the sore bruises and hurts that had been his to bear since Loki bade him kneel in his throne room and vow his life and whatever use Loki could wish to make of it, all for Asgard, nothing for the redemption of their brotherhood, nothing that Loki could ever want.

"I mock you!" His own fury rose brutal and burning, as Thor reared up towering over the wrathful tangle of limbs that Loki was, longing to strike him, throttle him, kiss him until he had no breath left with which to curse his wretched slave-- "What mockery could I put to you, Loki, my king, when I cannot disobey you in word or even heart? Do I mock you because I cannot understand what it is that you desire of me? You have made of me your slave," he added bitterly. "What offense then can a slave offer to a king?"

the slave auction meme

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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

bunkers down!

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