“So demanding, brother,” Loki purrs into Thor’s ear, lips brushing the shell, and the sibilants make the proud warrior beneath him jerk and arch. “Always so certain that you will have what you want.”
Thor’s arms strain against the whisper-thin spellstrands that bind them, stretch them up and over his head and pin them together near the headboard—all his might, all his strength, constrained by a few strings of green light wrapped around his wrists and ankles and a sigil traced in the air with a fingertip. It leaves the core of him open—exposed—vulnerable—just as Loki wishes it. No matter how his muscles tense, pull, shudder, he cannot break those slender green streaks, nor lift the anchor that holds them down.
“Such a greedy little thing you are. Selfish. Caring only for your own desires.”
YAY IT’S FINALLY DONE