humiliation. yes I just saw yanagoya’s latest art.
[Ooh. Hmm. This has potential, yes.
This one got weird. Mostly because I had to do some finagling to get anywhere near a sadistic Thor. Oh, Loki.]
The guards threw the prisoner roughly to the floor at Thor’s feet with a clatter of chain.
Thor stood, Gungnir in one hand (his only for a time, as the Allfather slept, and it felt strange to hold it this way, too heavy, too tall). With the other, he waved a dismissal at the others in the throne room.
“Leave us,” he said. ”All of you.”
As the faceless figures drained away, he gazed down at the crumpled body before him, a chill seeping into his blood.
Pale, thin, dark-haired, the red welts of the last eve’s flogging still bright slashes across the knotted cord of his spine. Bare, dressed only in a flimsy cloth tied around his hips. Wrists and hands bound, the fingers bent tight to the palms and lashed there, immobile.
All limbs and bony joints, he was. Heaving ribcage. Sharp elbows. His hair hung loose from his bowed head, stringed with sweat, longer than Thor remembered it being.
“Loki,” he said softly. He stepped down from the dais, dropped to one knee before the bent form. ”Loki. My brother. Is it truly you?”
The only response was a high, close-mouthed laugh.
Rage snapped through him—sourceless, so far as he knew—
(there had been years, so many long years spent searching and searching and searching, for any sign, any hint, any shred of evidence that Thor’s brother was not dead, even Mother had begun to believe him mad, but he knew he knew Loki still lived would have done anything to have him back and now, now, now they brought him some horrible shade of Asgard’s second prince in, in chains, bound like some common thief, and where had he been why had he left why had he let himself fall)
—and through a red haze his hand shot out and seized the prisoner’s chin, forcing his face up. ”Look at me!” he growled.
The eyes. They were the same, yet not. Green, the green Thor knew so intimately, pale jade shot through with emerald and so wide, but—limned with awful shadows, sunken, and too, too bright, far too bright, glittering with some terrible secret.
He tore the gag from between his brother’s teeth—he would have the whole of the prison guard flogged for this, for this indignity (the rational part of him, rapidly fading into nothing, whispered betrayer, silvertongue, if he speaks I am lost), but now he had to hear, had to know—
“Where?” he rasped, his voice thick with too many things at once, too many emotions, and anger was easiest, anger was most familiar, he slipped into it like a well-worn boot. ”Where were you? Why did you never show yourself? What happened to you?”
“I have so missed your temper,” Loki said, sweet and soft and gleaming, like silk wrapped round a stiletto. ”Brother.” The word slipped off his tongue, bitter, poisoned honey. His razorthin smile did not reach his eyes.
Thor gritted his teeth at the mockery—and it was mockery, of that he had no doubt, and how dare he, after everything—“I searched for you!” he shouted, gripping Loki’s arms with bruising force, Gungnir lying forgotten nearby. ”For endless years I searched! Every spare moment spent combing the realms—”
“I wonder, has the lady Jane forgiven you for abandoning her?” Loki interrupted smoothly, and though his tone was mild, almost idle, there was acid behind it.
“I forsook her for you!”
Loki laughed at that, a harsh glitter of a sound like broken glass. ”And again you lay the blame upon me for your poor decisions,” he sneered. ”Such a convenient scapegoat I make, yes?”
The red filled Thor’s vision, then (and if he had thought, had been capable of thought, he would have wondered at its searing intensity, at how it moved his body seemingly without his direction), and he threw Loki backwards, snarling like a wolf. Still Loki laughed at him, the shards of it cutting, and Thor strode forward and planted his boot into the center of Loki’s pale chest to keep him from scrambling away.
“Ungrateful wretch,” Thor said, not quite shouting but very close to it. ”You test my patience with your sidesteps.”
“What have I to be grateful for, O my King?” Loki’s smile was infuriating, condescending, a needle dipped in venom, and Thor’s knuckles creaked as he clenched his fists. ”Your hospitality has been…” He paused, gazing off to the side. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. ”Lacking.”
Thor yanked the belt from around his waist, folding it in half, his breath coming fast and deep with his fury. Loki’s bright eyes followed his motion, fixed, like a hawk catching sight of prey.
“It is past time you learned respect, Loki,” Thor growled.
He reached down, seized Loki’s arm and flipped him over onto his stomach. The violence of it, the abruptness, drove Loki’s breath from his lungs—yet it did not silence him, far from it; he began to cackle, high and jagged and airless, and the sound drilled itself into Thor’s skull until he thought he would go mad from it.
The leather of his belt cracked beautifully against the bare skin of Loki’s thigh, and Loki cried out, tears of laughter streaming down his face.
“Yes, yes, respect, teach me aah teach me!” he babbled, as Thor’s belt came down on him again and again and again and he squirmed under its slap, writhed, like a serpent trying to crawl. ”Aaah O my petulant child-King, O my aaha my prince of tantrums, aaanh strike me, strike mmngh yes—”
And Thor did strike, struck over and over, until Loki was screaming through his laughter and insults and twisted mockery, until Loki’s thighs and buttocks were angry burning scarlet, and then he kept striking, watching bruises blossom dark and night-blue through the searing red, the red on Loki’s skin and the red in his vision.
Soon Loki lost his voice completely, and the only sound aside from the crack of leather against flesh was the high reedy hiss of Loki’s ragged throat.
And then, when Loki was covered from the hips down in ugly yellowing bruises, when his skin was almost too hot to touch, when he had ceased writhing and only twitched at each strike, shoulders shaking, tears dripping from his nose onto the polished floor—
—a great exhaustion came sweeping through Thor’s muscles, greater than any he had ever felt before, as though his limbs were turning to stone. His knees buckled, and he sank heavily to the ground as his rage flowed out of him in a rush, leaving him hollow and blank.
The last thing he saw, before his leaden limbs dragged him down into blackness, was Loki’s sated, predatory eyes, and the dark stain spreading across the front of his loincloth.
Tagged with #stereobone #thorki #hey look I wrote a thing #nsfw #tumblr prompt fic