Chapter Text
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LOKI
His heart is fragile. I know that much.
Once, I snuck a brief touch to explore that curiosity embedded in his chest. My head had ended up against the nearest wall for it. He is almost invincibly strong; a firm gesture of his hand can send me flying. It is a lesson I should have learnt well. But my species is a hard one, made to bear the harshest blows of winter and the uncertainties of the wild. The Carpathians are mild in comparison with my homeland. And I had been – briefly – happy in our new hunting grounds.
And then I made the mistake of challenging him over a kill.
Now I grace his bed like an elaborate ornament, restrained by silk, and by the constant touch of his voice at the back of my mind. My will is but a thing Stark plays with like a prized toy; ever has it been since I fell into his grasp. He manipulates it as he now manipulates my sex, stroking it with skill and rhythm.
I would cry out were it not for the silk digging into my mouth. Knotted so as to still my tongue and teeth, while leaving my lips exposed enough for him to kiss and tease and nibble. The same fabric hold my arms and legs in a deadlock.
“Loki,” he murmurs, over and over. His mouth – roughened slightly by dark stubble – traces circles around my navel, paints warm streaks on my hipbones.
I want to come. He will not let me.
“Mmmmfffhhh.” The sound I make, repeatedly and with rising frequency, as he pulls me to the edge of bursting while controlling my body to such a degree that I fail to climax without his consent.
“You belong to me,” he is saying. “Every nerve, every hair, every inch of you. Jotunn runt. Changeling. Do you know how perfect you are?” Two of his fingers snake their way between my thighs, into my entrance. I gasp. “Know this: I can destroy you with a twitch of my hands. I could tear you from the inside without ever getting out of bed.” The fingers push deeper.
“Nnnfhh!”
His voice softens. “But I never will.” Now almost worshipful, he kisses the underside of my calves, one by one. “I love you, my prince. My precious.”
The two fingers become three. They slide in with serpentine grace, moving me from within, loosening me. He cannot penetrate me like a mortal man; this I know. But he can do so much more.
I rock to his rhythm. I feel myself reduced to a seamless thing of muscle and skin and bone. I am nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
My sex is hardening again. This time it swells to almost twice its size, alarmingly stiff, and painful in its arousal. Against my will I struggle. Against my will, he makes me arch. Tears spill down my face. Four fingers now, manipulating, forcing, flexing. Not so long ago I vowed I would not cry for him. That vow shatters around my ears again and again. Soon enough I am wet and hot all over. Salt-laced bliss, oozing from every pore.
A beautiful sensation.
As my moans rise in frequency, he clamps a hand around my jaw. “I wish you to be quiet now.” He withdraws briefly from inside me to refasten my gag. The excess fabric trailing from the knot is wound around my face now, stifling me further, cutting all air from my mouth. I draw a long hard breath through my nose. The discomfort – the perverse pleasure – makes me dizzy.
Who knew silk could be so strong? My restraints hold me as ruthlessly as ever, letting me writhe only in narrow inches and subtle undulations. He licks the base of my neck. My eyes sting; my uneven breaths make me shudder. With expert hands and tongue he continues to bring me to the edge of release only to pull me back. My desperation is his delight. He revels in my torment. He breathes in my sweat and struggles and small stifled pleas as if he lives on them.
At some point – I know not when – I lose consciousness. Time passes strangely in the glow of his spell.
When I next open my eyes, my limbs are unbound. They are also leaden – held down by an invisible force. More magic, Stark’s brand of sorcery. Or perhaps he has drugged me. I know of his collection of exotic poisons. Something like poison (not lethal but strong nonetheless) courses through me and holds me still. My lips remain sealed. I remain unable to free them.
Then I feel my legs being sheathed in gossamer; light, translucent. Fabric that feels more like a breath upon the skin.
“You look beautiful in hose,” he says conversationally. “I entertained the thought of garters. But these are far better.” The ‘hose’ as he calls in reaches right up to my waist. My erection – only slightly less swollen than before – looks obscene to me, pushing against the gossamer cloth. But it is soon covered by a woman’s garb. The upper portion hugs my chest and abdomen tightly, though not uncomfortably (unlike that constricting leather thing of laces and under-wires he has forced on me before). The skirt, a pool of cream-white, falls over my hips and legs.
I have seen such garments before. White trimmed with lace: the bridal garments of human females worn in marriage ceremonies.
It would seem I am his bride tonight. In the drawing of blood he will bind me to his side.
As I close my eyes, I see the flash of teeth. He lowers his lips to my neck.
And I – his bride and slave – rise to meet him.
~