Thor stepped inside his sleeping tent, the heavy fabric falling closed behind him. Torchlight flickered, illuminating the huddled figure of the Jötunn prisoner who was chained to the central pole. Thor stopped a few feet away, examining the motionless form. Blue arms were wrapped around the seiðmaðr’s calves, and his forehead was pressed to his knees. Rune-inscribed silver bands had been placed around his wrists, and though it was invisible behind the fall of black hair, Thor knew a similar collar had been placed around the Jötunn’s neck, both bespelled to bind his seiðr. Thick black hair, still partially caught up in whatever ties still confined it behind his head, fell in two wings around his face, concealing it completely.
The Jötunn was even smaller than he had imagined. Thor had been told the Jötunn was a runt, and here was the evidence.
He can do you no harm, the mages Odin had supplied for this campaign had told him. His powers are bound, all save for scrying, and he must use this for your purpose and no other. The Jötnar have blocked our gaze, but they cannot block his. He is biddable and so you may ask of their plans and he must answer truthfully. The chief mage’s voice had lowered and with a lewd smile he added, They are reputed to excel in bed-sport. He will do all you require of him.
Thor glanced over at his large bed. This tent was his private place; it would be odd sleeping with another present. But once he was done with him he could keep the Jötunn chained to the pole and sleep alone.
His ornately-carved leader chair had been brought in from its usual place in the war council tent. As he sat, Tyr entered the tent, along with the three mages. One of the mages set an ornate golden bowl, decorated with images of dragons and filled with water, on the ground in front of the motionless prisoner.
“Jötunn,” Thor said. “Look at me.”
The prisoner’s head pulled up and back as if being drawn by an invisible rope, entirely against his will. Demonic scarlet eyes glared in fierce defiance.
“You will answer every question my general puts to you.” The Jötunn glanced at Tyr and swallowed convulsively. “Look into the scrying bowl. Tell us what you see and hear.” Thor nodded to Tyr.
And Tyr began the questioning. Where was the Jötnararmy now? How many were they? What was their intent? Their formation? When did they plan to attack?
Trembling violently, the Jötunn answered every question in detail, gasping out each syllable as if the words were carved from his flesh with knives. Thor remained still, disliking the unclean feeling this interrogation gave him. It was wrong to drag the words out of prisoners by seiðr, to deny their captive even the chance to save his honor by resisting torture. He set these concerns aside. If the information was good it would bring them a great victory. And, all knew that filthy Jötnar had no honor.
Finally, Tyr concluded the questioning. Two tears ran down the Jötunn’s face and he buried his forehead against his knees once more.
Unmanly weakling, weeping like a woman. Thor’s discomfort with the proceedings forgotten, he joined Tyr as he left the tent and headed to meet with the War Council to discuss the best tactics for the coming battle.
At sundown, many hours later, with a flagon of mead inside him, Thor strode back into his tent. The Jötunn was still where they had left him by the central pole. A plate of barely-touched food sat beside him, though Thor noted the water vessel was empty.
“Stand up,” he ordered, and the Jötunn obeyed, the chains attached to the bracelets rattling as he stood. He kept his head bowed, his black hair still concealing his face. The Jötunn was naked, and Thor studied the long, limp blue cock. Mead had driven Thor’s conflicted feelings away and wild anticipation for the coming battle had made him half hard. Here was a naked body waiting for his pleasure.
The Jötunn jerked back as Thor brushed tentative fingers over the cool skin of his shoulders, the old tales that all Jötunn skin burned like fire keeping his hands cautious. He knew that wasn’t true, but he had only ever touched them before with hammer or blade, and their spilled blood, though blue in color, gushed out like any other when gashed by sword or axe.
Thor traced over some of the strange skin markings with a fingertip, his captive’s skin shivering at the touch. The texture was no different than that of the rest of his skin. Such a curiosity. He ran his fingertip up the Jötunn’s neck, then threaded one hand in the thick black hair and pulled it back, revealing half of the Jötunn’s face. The Jötunn squeezed his eyes shut and held himself very still as Thor brushed his fingers along his face, then reached lower, down the Jötunn’s chest, finding and squeezing one violet-colored nipple. The Jötunn hissed, showing his teeth briefly.
It was his right, as leader, to have any prisoner first, in the way of making a defeated enemy ergi, and that was a fierce pleasure in itself, breaking the enemy’s will by unmanning them. But this was a seiðmaðr, not a warrior; was he not ergi already? Might he not be willing, understanding his situation? Biddable, yes, but actually willing? The mages had told him it was said Jötunn runts were skilled in bedsport. His cock jerked and hardened in anticipation.
He tipped the Jötunn’s head up with his fingertip. The scarlet eyes opened but remained downcast, refusing to look at him.
Suddenly impatient, he ordered, “Go to the bed.”
The Jötunn moved like a puppet, limbs stiff as if controlled by someone else, and Thor supposed that was true. He walked toward the bed, chains dragging after him, and Thor saw that his waist-length hair, still messily caught up in two gold rings, one at the nape of his neck, and one halfway down his back, flowed like a silk black river down the cerulean skin.
“Bend over.” The Jötunn did so, bending at the waist and lowering his upper body on the high bed, upturned buttocks waiting.
Thor rummaged in a chest and pulled out a vial of oil suitable for bedsport. This would make it easier for the both of them. He did not deliberately cause pain to the weak; he was not cruel to his horses or dogs or women. He would not be cruel to this trophy they had captured, either. And if he injured him he might not be able to scry for them.
The Jötunn shuddered when Thor grasped his buttocks and parted them. “Easy,” Thor whispered, as if calming a fractious horse. The Jötunn pulled forward and drew in a quick breath as Thor placed two oil-slicked fingers at the opening into his body, then slid them slowly inside. “Easy,” Thor whispered again as he worked in a third. He moved his fingers in and out several times, then oiled his shaft and aligned it to the slicked hole, his hard cock, already leaking, demanding satisfaction. The Jötunn let out one bitten-off mewling cry and gripped the bed furs as Thor breeched him and claimed him with one long thrust.
Thor groaned in pleasure. So tight! He thrust, thrust again, the tight channel squeezing and releasing his cock. Intense pleasure sang through every nerve. The Jötunn had become silent again while Thor rutted into him. Thor lifted one hand from the bed, slid it around the Jötunn’s hip, ran his fingers, still oil-slick, against the long, quiescent cock and then grasped it firmly. He heard the Jötunn suck in a breath, and he dragged his closed hand up and back along its length. His touch did not elicit even a twitch of a response from the limp flesh and presently he ceased his attempt, braced himself on both hands again and fucked even more rapidly into the passive body beneath him.
Thor roared his pleasure when he came, and still the Jötunn did not respond in any way. So much for being good at bedsport, Thor thought, but truly he hadn’t expected anything more. Relaxing into the afterglow, Thor patted awkwardly at the strands of long black hair fanned across the Jötunn’s lower back, caressed one buttock, then pulled out and got to his feet.
Thor cleaned himself and put on bedclothes. Turning, he was surprised to find the Jötunn still bent over his bed. A surge of possessive power ran through him. The mages had not lied; the captive could do no other than what Thor commanded. “You may get up.”
The Jötunn did, avoiding his gaze, and waited.
“Rest or eat or sleep, or use that as you like,” Thor said, impatient and tired, gesturing to the chamber pot in the corner. He was unaccustomed to having a bedslave and wondered what one did with them when they weren’t of use.
Chains rattling, the Jötunn moved back to the central pole and settled down again, glancing briefly at his empty water vessel, never once meeting Thor’s gaze. Thor pointed at a nearby ewer. The Jötunn took it, refilled the vessel, and drank. Thor grabbed a fur from his bed and tossed it at him, but the Jötunn let it fall without reaching for it. Thor shrugged, climbed into bed, and was asleep in moments.
Far into the night, after the last toast was called, after the last boastful story was told, after the last saga of their glorious days-long victory over the Jötnar army was sung, Thor returned to his sleeping tent, filled with restless surging energy. The sight of his naked slave reclining on the plush carpeting near the central pole, his back to the tent opening, pleased him. The Jötunn had rebound his hair neatly in the gold rings behind his back, and the long midnight black rope was resting on the carpet along the length of his back.
“Jötunn,” he said.
The Jötunn sat up and turned toward him. Pulling the hair back from his face had revealed a fine, delicate bone structure. Strange. Thor had never been able to tell one Jötunn from another, but now he saw the individual details of forehead, nose, cheekbones and chin. It was different, he supposed, in the bedchamber than the battle-field; there was more time to look at faces. “What is your name?” he asked suddenly.
Ruby eyes glittered at him, filled with loathing, quickly veiled by a blank indifference. “Now you ask, after you take me, not before,” he said in a fine, cultured voice, very different from the one he used under questioning. “I am Loki.”
You dare speak like this to me! Anger surged. Why care what a slave thought? “Take the same position you did last time,” he ordered harshly.
Loki rose with an indolent grace. Moving slowly, as if utterly indifferent to what was about to happen, he bent over Thor’s bed.
Thor made no attempt to offer pleasure or make it gentle this time. He oiled Loki quickly and roughly. He seated himself in one motion, pulled back quickly, and at Loki’s gasp of pain only rutted the harder. Once done, he ordered Loki back to his place by the central pole and fell immediately asleep.
In the morning the mages were there with the scrying bowl. All trace of insolence was gone as Loki gazed into the bowl. Tyr began the questioning: What did the Jötnar plan next? Where had they gone? Loki’s skin bled as he tugged and pulled at the silver bracelets around his wrists but he could not force them off. He answered Tyr’s relentless questions in a shredded, wounded voice, never leaving off his attempts to escape his bonds. When the questioning was done blood flowed down his hands from his damaged wrists and dripped onto the carpet.
Thor left him where he was and headed to the Council tent. There, they made their plans from the information Loki had given them and were gone again by the following day.
The battle was shorter this time, a day and a night and till noontime the next day. Thor swung his hammer again and again, until he was knee deep in Jötunn blood and gore and severed limbs. Many more fell under Asgardian swords, axes and hammers this time, and the few that remained fled swiftly when it was clear they could not prevail.
All the Aesir were in excellent spirits upon their return to camp. Bathing and feasting and joking and drinking heartily, they whiled away the afternoon. By sunset the mages brought their scrying bowl again and Thor and Tyr went to Thor’s sleeping tent.
Loki started awake when they entered, and pushed back away from them in a sudden startled motion before he caught himself and looked down at the carpeting covering the ground.
“Loki,” Thor said, and Tyr looked at him questioningly at the use of the Jötunn’s name. “Answer Tyr’s questions.”
The mages set the bowl before Loki, who looked down, face drawn and exhausted. Darker blue circles marred the skin beneath his eyes.
“You have been riding him hard, I see,” one of the mages snickered.
Thor, irritated, ignored him and sat in the leader chair. Tyr stood by his side and began the questioning. Loki stared into the scrying bowl and his voice, as he answered, was toneless and weary and unspeakably sad. He didn’t look at any of them as he described the sneak attack the Jötnar were planning which would take place the following midday.
Once Tyr had gotten every last detail from him, Loki bent forward and placed his face in his hands. Wracking sobs shook his body.
The mages removed their bowl, and Thor and Tyr followed them out. Thor didn’t look back, filled with blood lust, with anticipated victory. Soon, they would defeat the bulk of their enemy and they could return to Asgard in triumph. As he and Tyr discussed tactics with the war leaders, he rejoiced in the avid anticipation of their coming triumph displayed on their faces. So why, then, did a tiny worm of discomfort intrude in his thoughts? Why was he still thinking of Loki’s tears? One should only feel contempt for a man who acted so.
He shoved those feelings away and concentrated on the war council. Later, still filled with the lust that comes after battle fever, Thor returned to his tent and found Loki huddled by the central pole, arms wrapped around his torso, knees pulled up to his chest. He did not stir at Thor’s approach.
“Get up,” Thor commanded, and Loki did so, moving as if in great pain. “On the bed. On your back.”
Loki shot him a look of pure hatred but did Thor’s bidding.
“Lift your legs for me,” he commanded. Sliding long-fingered hands beneath his knees Loki pulled his legs back, exposing himself. Thor stared, his cock rigid with need, and grabbed for the oil. Loki squeezed his eyes shut as Thor prepared him. Thor once again took a moment to stroke the flaccid blue cock, but Loki did not react at all. Shrugging, Thor pulled Loki toward him, pulled his legs until they rested on Thor’s thighs, worked his hands beneath Loki’s ass and positioned his cock against Loki’s entrance. Nudging, then pushing, he slid in, long and slow and sure, all the way to his root.
Panting, his sweat dripping down onto the Jötunn beneath him, he thrust again and again – pleasure sparking – faster – faster – unbearable pressure – he shouted as he spilled, brain whiting out in ecstasy. He collapsed over Loki, already almost asleep.
A strange sound roused him.
Loki was laughing.
Prying his eyes open, he found he’d rolled off Loki and the Jötunn had moved further up the bed. He was lounging on Thor’s pillows and looking at him with an amused expression
Thor, roused from lassitude, reared back in anger and dragged Loki up to a seated position. Loki kept laughing, and Thor raised a hand to strike him. “Do you mock me? Why do you laugh?” he roared.
“At ironies,” Loki said, not attempting to evade the blow. Nor did the amused expression on his face change to one of fear.
Something glinting in Loki’s blood-colored eyes gave Thor pause. His hand dropped to his side. Loki arranged himself wantonly against the pillows. “Shall you have me again?” he invited, pulling his knees up and parting his legs.
With an inarticulate roar, Thor grabbed for him but Loki rolled aside and off the bed, springing to his feet and leaping up behind Thor while Thor was still looking for him over the side of the bed.
Thor had barely realized that the chains holding Loki had vanished when cool hands grasped his shoulders. Then a cold finger traced a vertical line on his forehead and he knew no more.
Thor came to in green-lit darkness. The torches had all guttered out, but two strange emerald lights hovered in mid air onto either side of the bed casting a dim glow to where he lay spreadeagled.
Loki’s face loomed over his in the dim light and when he saw Thor was awake he gave him a predatory smile. Thor made to leap up – and discovered he was utterly immobile, though he could not feel any bond holding him. He opened his mouth to shout out demands and orders and curses, but no sound came out.
Paralyzed! Mute! Heart pounding, sweat breaking out, he fought back the fear that shot through every nerve and muscle. Loki hummed and held up a plain obsidian bowl for Thor to see.
In shape it was similar to the scrying bowl, yet Thor knew he had never seen it before. Where had Loki gotten it? When the Jötunn had been captured he’d been stripped of possessions and clothing and not allowed anything since. Thor tried to speak again, but all he managed to do was make an inarticulate muffled groan.
Loki dipped two fingers in the bowl and withdrew them. A thick milky liquid clung to them. He held them to Thor’s forehead and traced out a rune, which stung and burned and felt like it was sinking through his skin.
Getting back on the bed without spilling a drop of the fluid, Loki straddled him and smiled down into his face. Dipping his fingers into the bowl again he drew a second rune on Thor’s throat. Thor swallowed again and again, the sensation intense and irritating.
“It’s the oldest magic.” Loki grinned at him and moved down his body just enough so he could paint a complex rune over Thor’s heart. He took one of Thor’s hands and turned it palm up to draw stinging lines along those already on his skin. “All that is necessary is to use what a person has possessed.”
He took Thor’s other hand and repeated the process. “Something they have owned is good,” Loki whispered and moved yet further down on Thor’s body, brushing against Thor’s cock and balls with his buttocks. Sudden fire filled him, and, though Thor himself could not move head, torso, arms or legs, he realized with shock this one part of him could and did respond – though not by his own choice.
“Some part of themselves they have discarded, such as nail parings or hair, is better,” Loki breathed, jerking his hips forward, rubbing the crack of his ass along Thor’s cock. Thor’s cock jerked again and he sucked in a breath. Loki gave him a pleased smile and painted one more rune on Thor’s belly, his body sliding gently against Thor’s needy cock. Thor tried to thrust and groaned when his body refused to obey him. Panicked, he tried desperately to thrash, to escape, and yet he was held in place as firmly as if weighted down with chains.
Loki lifted himself up and the loss of that touch made Thor hiss. Loki moved further back down until he was straddling Thor’s knees.
Loki was staring into his eyes. Thor stared back, heart hammering, alarmed at the gleeful expression on Loki’s face. “The fluids from their bodies, better yet. Best,” he drew a circle around Thor’s cockhead while Thor tried to jerk his hips, keening in frustration, “is when that fluid is given, not taken.”
One finger pressed a complex curlicue up the underside of Thor’s cock. Thor bit back a needy moan, struggling desperately to move, but all voluntary movement was denied him. “And you…” Loki said breathily, as one wet thumb pushed back Thor’s foreskin. Fire and need shot up Thor’s spine, and his cock became impossibly harder, curving toward his belly. He wanted desperately to thrash his way free, to seize Loki and force his cock inside his body and slake his lust, but all movement was denied him. Loki’s finger drew patterns on one ultrasensitive ball. “You gave it…” Thor tried to scream as Loki transferred his touch to the other ball. “…most willingly…” Loki’s mouth twisted and darkness passed through his gaze. “…and generously indeed.”
Loki withdrew his fingers and rose to his knees, looming over Thor, his smile a bright slash in the darkness. “You spilled inside my body, three times, and now I return it to you.” His long blue cock was full and erect, already glistening with fluid as Thor had never yet seen it. Sudden new terror jolted through Thor. Was this seiðmaðr planning to unman him?
Loki’s hand hovered over his own cock. He gave Thor an anticipatory smile, then wrapped his long fingers around his shaft, sliding them back and forth along the hard length faster and harder, pausing occasionally to thumb the tip. Thor could only watch helplessly as Loki pleasured himself, Thor’s cock throbbing and burning and demanding the denied touch. Loki reached his other hand behind his body and though Thor could not see what he did Loki gasped and grunted, squeezed his eyes shut, head falling back.
Another jerk of his hand, two, three, and then Loki cried out and gasped, mouth open and panting, as he spilled a white river across Thor’s chest.
Loki sat back slowly, caught his breath, then looked up at Thor’s needy cock. He smiled, got back on his knees, reached out and dipped a finger in his own cum. He moved forward and used his finger to retrace the rune on Thor’s forehead, ignoring Thor’s furious gaze.
Thor found he could move again, but only slightly, and that somehow made it worse than when he could not thrash or struggle or do anything but curse softly. Loki bent over him and slowly retraced every rune he’d already placed on Thor’s body with his own cum. Each touch was lightning along Thor’s nerves, each slide of fingertip against his skin raced in lines of fire to his groin, and when Loki touched his cock and re-caressed every line there Thor made a high whining noise and whipped his head from side to side, hands digging convulsively into the bed coverings.
Loki sat down on Thor’s thighs and looked at Thor’s rigid organ with a possessive smile. “You shall speak of this to no one. You shall do nothing to harm me, by deed or by word.”
Loki moved to Thor’s left side and stretched himself on his side, his face close to Thor’s head. “You will not spend again,” a dark whisper murmured into to his ear, “save inside my willing body.”
Stunned, Thor growled in horror, desperately trying to move, but he was immobile again. Loki laughed softly, then insolently turned his back. The witch lights vanished, and from his even breathing Thor guessed Loki was already asleep less than half a foot away from him and entirely outside his grasp.
Wave after wave of panic seized him. He struggled for breath, his chest feeling as if it were weighted down with boulders. Nightmare tales of men buried alive, unable to move or scream, filled his mind. Fury at his own fear overwhelmed him, shame at his weakness. He was a warrior, he could endure all, even this foul sorcery. Through it all his cock tormented him with its surging burning need, and all the while Loki slept untroubled by his side. Finally he dozed, and was plagued by dreams of laughing demons wrapping bands of heated iron around his inflamed member.
At dawn he awoke, blinking in the dim light that filtered through the tent walls, his skin itching, his cock still aching. He reached to ease himself and grabbed his shaft. Lightning pleasure and intense pain shot through his balls – and realization struck him. He could move again.
He sat up. Loki was seated crosslegged at the foot of the bed, watching him out of expressionless scarlet eyes. He stared back with hatred, and Loki smiled.
He dropped his hand from his cock. You filthy creature! Rage whited out his mind, and with an inarticulate shout he tried to leap forward and grab the monster by the throat.
He found he couldn’t move. Loki was still smiling, and Thor felt every cell in his body would explode with anger. Loki’s words rang in his head: You shall do nothing to harm me, by deed or by word.
Cautiously, he twitched a hand, then, relieved he could still move as long as he wasn’t offering threat to Loki, he rolled out of the bed and grabbed for the ewer and a washing cloth. Loki turned to watch him as he began scrubbing at his itching skin. He wiped off the crusty remains of Loki’s cum and at the foul liquid the seiðmaðr had used to bespell him. Water ran down his body, yet another torture to his inflamed cock. He rubbed so harshly he felt he’d wear the very skin away from his flesh, and yet the echoes of the tracings Loki had drawn on him had sunk in past skin, through blood and flesh, and now he felt the ache in his very bones, the runes etched so deep they were ineradicable.
Throwing the cloth to the carpet in disgust, he set the ewer down and turned back to the seiðmaðr. “How did you break free of the bindings?”
Loki lifted his chin with pride. “I was never bound.”
“Wh-what?” Thor stuttered.
Loki stood up and stepped closer, taking a moment to smile down at Thor’s still-rampant cock.
“How?” Thor demanded.
Loki grinned like a wolf ready to tear into prey. “Aesir know nothing of seiðr!” he spat. “You call your mages ergi and treat them like dogs. I am a Jötunn seiðmaðr; how dare they think they could bind me?” Loki laughed. “But why do you linger here? It is morning. Don’t you have a battle to fight?”
A trap, Thor thought. Loki is luring us into a trap. Icy horror filled Thor and he glanced desperately at the tent’s entrance, gauging his ability to flee before Loki cast another spell.
Loki waved a dismissive hand toward the chest where everything Thor had stripped off the previous evening lay. “Put on your armor and go.”
The skin of his back and neck prickled as he went to the chest, reluctant to turn his back on his nemesis. Thor took up his clothing and drew it on, gritting his teeth against the painful throb of his cock. He grabbed for his armor, turned, and put that on as well, trying desperately to find some way to force his rampant flesh inside the confines of his clothing and armor. Loki had settled back on his bed and was now reclining against Thor’s best cushions, one blue hand placed lazily next to his flaccid cock. Loki shifted his hand and rubbed one fingertip against his cockhead. Thor swallowed and looked away.
Stomping out of the tent, still half-certain Loki would paralyze him again, he went immediately to Tyr. His general stood respectfully as he approached.
We’re been betrayed! We’re walking into a trap! But when he opened his mouth he realized in horror he was still Loki’s puppet, for the words that spilled out of his mouth merely confirmed the day’s battle plans. When Tyr answered and brought up additional issues, he answered readily and saw in Tyr’s eyes that his general saw nothing amiss and was anticipating the coming fight.
Despairing, he went then to the mages tent, for surely they would see he had been bespelled. They greeted him most courteously and respectfully but he saw in their eyes something he had not noticed before: they feared him. He tried again to speak of what Loki had done, and found himself instead thanking them for their work instead of begging for their aid.
All too soon the time came to march off to battle, and every step was torment: fear they were walking into a trap and nothing could be done to prevent it warring with the spikes of lust that each movement of his clothing drew from his unwilling body. Every step he took ignited ferocious need in his desperate cock, and not even the horrifying pictures that filled his mind could quell his lust.
He was in a waking nightmare. One disastrous image after another raced through his mind. A horde of Jötnar behind them, boxing them into a canyon, falling on them and slaying them all. An overwhelming number of Jötnar outnumbering them 100 to one, and everyone he knew dying before his horrified eyes and Thor helpless to prevent it all, while back in his tent Loki laughed and laughed. A field full of Aesir bodies, hacked to bits, and Thor speared through the heart by a sword in Loki’s hand.
Dread filling his head and his heart, helpless to speak, he marched along, and when the time came they followed Tyr’s plan exactly.
The Jötnar were exactly where Loki had specified in his torn and anguished voice the day before. When the Aesir fell upon them they seemed genuinely surprised and unprepared, and as the day wore on more and more fell before their weaponry and superior forces until Thor was climbing through mountains of dismembered blue bodies. Finally, he watched in bewilderment as the last remaining Jötnar troops slipped away into the growing dusk.
Confused and weary, he returned with the Aesir forces back to camp, grateful at least that the energy needed to fight had quelled his lust.
When they questioned Loki that night Loki wept and gasped his way through a recitation of where the Jötnar forces had retreated, how many had died, how many were wounded, how many still hale. Thor stood by in silent impotent rage, unsurprised to find the vanished chains now visible again and attached to Loki’s useless bracelets. His gut clenched, sickened by Loki’s lies and deceit and wondering when they would feel the full force of his treachery. Because there had to be treachery beneath his words. He stared down at Loki, now collapsed and sobbing on the carpet, and felt disgust and rage and fury so powerful he wondered that the heavens did not open and lightning strike Loki where he lay.
Thor departed with Tyr for the council tent, and tried to concentrate on what his leaders were discussing, but other thoughts intruded. Loki was lying. He had to be lying. Had the Jötnar found new allies? Were there more of them than expected, and some huge force awaiting them for a final devastating battle?
He could not speak a word of these fears. Filled with dread and the unwelcome return of lust he returned to his sleeping tent. Loki was sprawled comfortably on Thor’s bed, his black scrying bowl by his side.
Loki gave him a smug smile, and used a fingertip to stir the water in the bowl. Thor stopped just inside the tent, his treacherous body aching with desire for the man before him. Loki rose fluidly from the bed, almost as if he were a being of air or water, and stepped forward.
“Take off your clothes,” he ordered.
“Why did you tell me true?” Thor demanded, even as desire flooded his body and his traitorous hands stripped off his armor and then his clothing, dropping it piece by piece on the carpet. “Why did you betray your people today? We slew many. But surely - ” he glanced at the scrying bowl – “you already know that.”
Loki said nothing, merely watched appraisingly as Thor stripped to the skin. When the last piece of clothing hit the carpet a dark expression crossed Loki’s face. “Why did I tell you true? How do you think Jötnar view those of my…” his lips twisted ironically, “…stature?”
And Thor, thinking of those runts that rarely occurred among the Asgardians, who, if male, were always hidden away, for they had no hope of becoming warriors and so must remain ergi all their lives, slowly nodded.
“Have any attempted to rescue me?” Loki’s smile was a bitter thing.
And Loki nodded. “And how long do you think I will wait patiently for rescue?”
“You could have left at any time!” Thor said hotly.
“And yet I did not. Did not your mages tell you that all like me are good only for bedsport? Where should I go, if that is all I am desired for?”
“But you are a powerful mage!”
Loki laughed, stepping close and staring into his eyes. “And how do you think mages are viewed by my people? Do you not think that I am a tool and nothing more?”
And Thor thought of how the mages were ergi, and the fear he had seen in his own mages’ eyes upon seeing him, and said no more.
He startled when a cool finger traced its way down his chest, skimmed its way past his navel, slid further down and stuttered on the roughness of the hair at his crotch. His cock leapt in anticipation as the fingertip approached, and ached and burned when it veered away, avoiding his yearning flesh. The maddening touch continued down one thigh; every hair on his body prickled and gooseflesh covered his skin.
Loki pulled his hand away. The blue face was very close, and there was a strange assessing smile on his lips. “Stay still,” he breathed, stepping aside and then around him. Thor shuddered as cold hands explored his back, pushing and prodding at the muscles. The hands went lower, cupped and squeezed his buttocks, then parted them. His heart jolted wildly as a finger explored between his ass cheeks. Panic pulsed through him. Did Loki mean to make me ergi?
“Better you drag a knife across my throat now and end my life than unman me in that way!” he shouted without thought. Loki laughed harshly, laughed even more, and withdrew his finger.
Thor tried desperately to look behind him but could only catch quick flashes of blue skin as Loki moved. Both hands settled on Thor’s head then ran the length of Thor’s hair, and corrosive rage filled him as he realized Loki was petting him as one would a favored hound. Long fingers threaded through the strands and tugged.
Loki pressed his naked body against Thor’s, set his chin on Thor’s left shoulder and put his mouth on Thor’s neck. Gusts of breath tickled Thor’s skin. Thor whined as Loki licked one ear, then whispered into it, “I see now the pleasure of exploring a helpless body.”
Sudden surprising shame filled him. He set his teeth against the unwelcome emotion.
Loki moved to stand in front of him. He pulled up a hank of Thor’s hair and studied it. Thor tried and failed to ignore him, finally sent him a questioning look. “So soft,” Loki said. “Your hair looks like spun gold. I thought it would feel like metal.” He looked Thor up and down. “And your skin. I would call it snow, but of an unnatural color.”
“Lower your head,” Loki commanded, ruby eyes glittering, and tears squeezed themselves out of Thor’s eyes as Loki used his tongue to trace the runes he had painted the previous night. Forehead, then throat, and with each maddening touch the pressure built and built and built. Then heart, then hands, the pressure, the need in his cock, then his belly. His cock felt like it would burst. When those cool fingertips touched it he screamed with pain.
Loki stood again, a mocking smile on his lips. “Do you want me to take you in my mouth?” Thor groaned, then gritted his teeth. “All you have to do is ask.” Loki’s voice was seductive, low, and Thor desperately tried to close his ears to the taunting words. “I promise if you do I will let you spend.” Loki dropped to his knees and breathed on Thor’s manhood. He parted his lips one inch above the swollen, purpled flesh, gaze fixed on Thor’s desperate eyes. “Or, you can always,” he said breathily, “decline.”
Thor would not speak. Gods, this grinding relentless need was as bad as any torture. He would not speak. He would not beg!
“…please…” The word escaped him. Loki opened his mouth. Swallowed him down.
He screamed again. Loki gave a powerful suck, another, and used the flat of his tongue along the underside of his cock. Seconds later Thor shouted his release and felt himself flood into the cool Jötunn throat.
Loki pulled away and stood, drawing fastidious fingers across his mouth. Thor, still shuddering, still half hard, watched in alarm as Loki’s brought his wet fingers close to Thor’s face and then set them next to his eyes, the dampness a startling sensation against his fevered skin. Loki’s gaze shifted from his own fingers to Thor’s and back again. “Aesir eyes resemble my skin. Aesir blood resembles my eyes. A strangeness of nature, I think.”
He stepped back, then moved to settle himself comfortably on the bed. “Join me, if you wish. Or,” he waved a hand at the central pole. “You may sleep there. Your choice.”
Thor growled and Loki laughed. “You mean to betray us.”
Loki raised his eyebrows. “When Tyr and the mages come again, ask me all your questions. I will answer true.”
Thor settled himself down on the carpet by the central pole. He expected mocking laughter, but when he looked up he saw Loki had already closed his eyes and was apparently asleep.
On the morrow, Tyr came with the mages and the scrying bowl, and once again Loki sobbed his way through the questioning. Where? When? How many? Were there others lying in wait?
Satisfied with his answers, the council made their plans for the final battle. And Thor put on his armor and dreaded what was to come.
The battle raged for days. When, finally, it ended and the sun rose that day, blood and gore and corpses law strewn across a devastated landscape as far as the eye could see. Everywhere, the dead and the nearly so. Throughout that long day as the Aesir moved through the battlefield they left no wounded Jötunn alive.
Aesir casualties had been heavy. Tyr was struggling to stay standing, his face nearly white as salt. But he still bragged about the kills he had made in battle, left arm supporting his injured right arm. His right wrist had been cauterized to keep him from bleeding out after the amputation of his hand. They were victorious, Tyr said roughly, and their honored dead were surely all now in Valhalla.
There was no need of the mages on their return to camp. No further need to question the Jötunn seiðmaðr. Those warriors who could walk staggered back to their tents. Those who could not were carried to the healers. When the bonfires went up that night and the mead and ale were passed and the feasting began there were far fewer to sing tales of glory. And many more were silent, too weakened from injuries or exhaustion to speak or too sorrowed from the loss of their companions to compose victory songs.
When Thor returned to his sleeping tent Loki was seated in Thor’s leader chair. He was dressed in a black-and-silver breechcloth that Thor supposed was what Loki had been wearing when he’d been captured. He was looking into the scrying bowl and absently picking silver-colored tidbits from a plate balanced precariously on one arm of the chair. Thor took a closer look and saw the plate contained several whole fish, each the size of his thumb. He’d never seen anything of their like before, and they had certainly never been served in this camp.
More mysteries, he thought dully, and didn’t bother to question either of them.
Loki didn’t look up and the long minutes stretched. When he finally met Thor’s gaze he said nothing.
Thor, impatient, finally broke the silence. “What happens now?”
“We go to Asgard.”
His tone was so matter of fact that Thor looked at him in disbelief. “What happens then? How shall we – “ he gestured at the two of them, at a loss for words. “Do you wish to pose as my servant? I can say you were my ally all along. Perhaps you can be a liaison to Jotunheim. Perhaps I – “
Loki’s lips had stretched into a tooth-filled grin. “What happens then? Why Thor, once we arrive in Asgard I shall take my place on Asgard’s throne.”
“What?” Momentarily speechless, Thor was certain he hadn’t heard correctly. “You cannot think we will allow that to happen. Your power is not that strong. Enthrall me as you will, but you cannot control all of us!”
But Loki was laughing, his bloody gaze triumphant. “Do you know what a golem is, Thor?”
Something seized up in Thor, as if he’d stepped on solid ground and it had fallen away beneath his feet. He stammered, “A creature… made of mud.”
“We are very skilled at making golems, Thor. Skilled enough to create an entire army.”
“But – they bled! They died!”
“I am not the only seiðmaðr in Jotunheim. We are very, very good at illusioning. We made an entire army of golem look like real warriors.
Impossible! Battle-energy surged through him and his fist reached for a non-existent weapon. “You jest,” he said hoarsely. “We are triumphant. We –”
“You slew not a one of my people in any of those battles. They were all created just to die before your swords and axes. And now,” he smirked, “How many of your fine warriors died on the battlefields? And how many are left? Very few. And our army, whole and hale, is now triumphant in Asgard.”
“Dishonorable cowards!” Thor roared.
“You speak of honor! You find it honorable to ensorcell a prisoner and question him when he cannot refuse instead of putting him to the test? You find rape honorable? You chose to dishonor me in every way.”
“You chose to spy and degrade yourself! Your way has no honor!”
“It is YOU who degrades yourself! Your berserkrs slay warriors and artisans and children alike, no distinction in the bloodbath! It is YOU who are dishonorable!” Loki was screaming, bristling with rage.
“We do not kill children!” Thor insisted hotly.
“What do know of Jötnar children? Would you recognize one? You think us beasts so it matters not to you whom you slay.”
Thor had no answer to that.
Loki was on his feet before him and Thor did not step back. “Where is the honor in brute battle? Because you are strong in arms you think yourself above all realms, and ask those finer than you to kneel, kiss your feet, and pledge loyalty and treasure and women. But not this time!” he hissed, scarlet eyes blazing. “Not this time! Did you think we would allow it? Your brutes to ruin us all?” He dug his fingers into Thor’s shoulders and shook him. “To lay waste to all we love, to all we value?” He caught his breath and lowered his voice to a tone like the calm between walls of storm. “Did you think force alone would destroy us? Even your berserkrs?” Loki bared his teeth in a parody of a grin. “We have learned much, since last you lay waste to our lands. But how many of us have died in the learning? Aesir honor!” He spat.
They stood face to face for one long tense moment and Thor thought of those many dead at his hands.
“Why bespell me, then? There was no need,” Thor said hollowly. “You already had us following your plan.”
“Why despoil me?” Loki said mockingly. “There was no need. Can you not find the willing to spread their legs for you?”
Filled with unaccustomed shame, Thor didn’t answer.
“I return in kind what is taken from me,” Loki said. “And, it is also good to have a plan behind the plan.” Loki ran one finger around the edge of the scrying bowl and settled himself back indolently in Thor’s leader chair, picking through the remaining fish on the plate. He glanced back into the bowl and smiled pleasantly. “It is done now. Prince Helblindi has taken Asgard, as regent for me. And when I arrive, I shall take the Kingship, as he shall take the Kingship of Jotunheim. Two brothers born to be kings.”
“…Regent…?” Thor said, not comprehending.
“You yourself slew Laufey-King early on. Did you not know he had sons?” Loki’s voice was low, dangerous.
“Two sons, one now dead. I know not their names.”
“Yes!” Loki sprang from the chair, his face suddenly terrifyingly close to Thor’s. “You slew my father. Tyr slew Býleistr. But there were three sons, and I the eldest.” He smiled at the expression in Thor’s eyes. “I will enjoy,” he ran his fingers through Thor’s hair, “my reign very much. I upon your father’s throne. You, at my feet. With me, always.”
No! Not possible! Horrific visions began filling Thor’s head. He backed away. Loki followed.
Loki was still talking. “I shall collar you, I think, and give you bracelets to match the ones your mages so generously bestowed on me.” Loki lifted his wrists and admired how the torchlight highlighted the runes on the silver bracelets. “Of equal use, of course. Which is to say, only decorative. Your true chains are written on your skin and embedded in your bones. I’ll keep these as trophies. I do so love fine jewelry,” he added with good cheer. “Do not fear. I will be a merciful master. You chose not to be cruel, at times. I will remember that.”
“You lied to me,” Thor said numbly.
“Did I?” Loki’s lips curved in a delighted smile. “How do you think Jötnar view those of my stature?”
Thor, hearing the echo of words spoken days before, felt a sudden chill.
Loki’s face was still bare inches from Thor’s, his scarlet eyes alight with triumph. “I did not lie. You believed, because, in your arrogance, you chose to learn nothing about my people. There is an old saying that your people have never learned: ‘Know your enemy.’ As for your lewd Aesir rumors that those of my stature are whores?” He drew his lips back from his teeth in a victorious grin. “Those of my height are rare,” he said softly. “Are precious. Are prized. None would sully us. We are the ones who make the choice.” Loki stretched luxuriously and looked at Thor with proprietary eyes. “You did not even think to ask the next question. So I will tell you. Have any attempted to rescue me? No, because that was never part of the plan. Have you not guessed that I allowed myself to be captured?”
Thor stepped back in horror and found he could not move one more step.
“Kneel,” Loki said, and helpless, Thor knelt. “Suck me,” Loki commanded. Bile burned Thor’s throat at the shameful request. Loki tangled his fingers in Thor’s hair as Thor unwillingly opened his mouth. “And think on hubris.”