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the dread lord's throne

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The throne room's stone floor is rough and filthy with dirt and rotted flesh under his bare feet. Loki runs a finger along one curved, cracked wall and inspects it – smudged black. “Does no one clean this place?” he says, grimacing and wiping off his finger on the head of the imp that followed him here and now hovers anxiously behind him.

“Clean?” it repeats blankly. “That is not important. You –”

“And this!” Loki strides to the great throne itself – rough, yellowed bone fitted together to create a towering monstrosity. The walls seem to bend inwards, as if gravitating to its impressive form. “Not even human. What is this? Dragon?”

“Dragon,” the imp agrees. “Now listen, Jötun –”

“Who would fear dragon? Most would celebrate a dragon's death, not cower at its skeleton.”

Shifting from foot to foot, the imp says with growing impatience, “Master is glorious in size and strength. Human bones are not structurally capable of bearing –”

Physics?” Loki says. “You're blaming physics?” Even the bones are caked in dust. Appearances are an important consideration, of course, even if he doubts any visitors to this room leave in any capacity to speak let alone judge it. Loki understands that. But hell is not exactly lacking for souls doomed to eternal torturous labor. Grab one, once in a while, place a feather duster in its hand, order it to replace the cobwebs with hygienic cotton and the black soot with paint, and there you go. Have it put a polish on that dragon bone. Even bring along one of the overseers to whip the thing as it cleans if it would make everyone more comfortable. “In all the realms you could not find a spell to strengthen bone? I can think of three right now. Embarrassing.”

The imp hisses and looks over its shoulder in alarm. “Master does not prefer magic – listen, this is not important, Jötun! You must leave! You should not be here! You risk the master's wrath!”

“I was invited, you wretch,” Loki says. “The dread lord Lucifer is currently occupied elsewhere. I most graciously offered to oversee matters in his stead until his excellence returns to us.”

“That is not –” The imp's mouth works. It vibrates, barely able to contain its outrage. “That cannot be – you lie! You are the trickster Jötun!”

Loki sighs. “You believe – truly believe in your wrinkled little heart – that I would waltz into Lucifer's throne room and seek to baldly usurp him with no hope of any outcome save brutal retribution upon his return? You believe any creature, even a tricky one, has so little self-preservation?”

The imp's eyes are still narrowed, but uncertainty wavers underneath its suspicion. “I am his most loyal servant. Why would I not be told –”

“Oh, yes,” Loki says. “A servant that thinks it deserves to be told of all its lord's affairs. Oh my, yes. How silly to think Lucifer would do anything without your strict approval.”

The imp's mottled cheeks flush deep red. “Of course. I do not – that is – I – I –” It trails off, stuttering.

“Perhaps we ought proceed with matters of actual importance?” Loki says. “The duties I ought fulfill? Unless you plan on wasting even more of my time.”

The imp, now eager to redeem itself, falls over itself to instruct Loki on all of Lucifer's responsibilities and lordly duties, his preferences, his routines. Loki keeps his expression bored and free of his inward glee. This imp is going to get the thrashing of its nonexistence when Lucifer escapes from where Loki has managed to trap him and finds out how embarrassingly easy it fell for this. How swiftly it allowed Loki free reign. Just thinking of it is going to make Loki's own thrashing a pleasure to endure.

The third time the imp slips and calls him master before correcting itself, Loki says, “No, master will do. Or Lucifer. In fact, anything you might call the dread lord you may call me.” When the imp appears uneasy, Loki lays a hand against his chest and says, “Not for my sake, you realize. For continuity. So when Lucifer returns to us it will be as if he never left.”

Wariness clearing, the imp says, “Of course.”

“Master,” Loki prompts.

“Of course, master,” the imp says.

When Loki feels he has humored the imp enough and performed enough functions that hell may not ground to a complete halt before Lucifer inevitably frees himself – though hopefully not too quickly – Loki says, “Where are my worshipers?”

“Everywhere,” the imp says promptly. “They are legion. They –”

“Yes, good, of course,” Loki interrupts. “But I meant literally.”

The imp blinks. “I spoke literally. They are everywhere.”

“Not here,” Loki says. When the imp puffs out its chest, turning indignant, Loki says, “I speak not of my demon hoards of which you are a most valued member.” The imp's indignation slips smoothly to stunned, pleased pride. Loki doubts Lucifer is generous with his praise. “My worshipers.”

“They are not permitted in hell,” the imp says. “Until such time as they have in his dread name been slain in glorious battle or sacrificed in glorious ritual, they are kept to the living realm.”

“I wish to meet one,” Loki says.

Shaking its head, the imp says, “Impossible. Never before has the master invited one here nor permitted one in his presence. I do not think –”

Loki closes his fingers around the imp's neck and lifts it so they are eye to eye. He squeezes, thumb tilting the imp's head back. “I wish to meet one,” he says pleasantly.

The imp does not resist his hold, just submits; though it chokes and nods frantically until Loki places it down. “Of course,” it wheezes. “I will fetch one –”

“The best,” Loki says.

“Master?”

Flicking the imp's nose – it squeals but makes no attempt to evade a second and third flick – Loki says, “Not some random fool you snatch from a roadside. Find me Lucifer’s most ardent worshiper and loyal servant. Bring such to me while I await in the throne room, and then leave us.”

“Of course, master,” the imp says; it scurries off to do as bid, rubbing its throat and wincing.

Loki returns to the throne room and lounges on the wicked throne – well, he tries to. It scratches and jabs him in a dozen places and is designed for a creature much larger than himself. Who would willingly sit on this? But even Loki is not so brave as to order it destroyed and replaced with … something. Something with cushions. That's what it needs. He's affected what he hopes is a studied, careless lounge, his fur coat draped artfully along his shoulders, when the imp returns, announces Lucifer's worshiper, and with bowed head scampers out.

Finally.

The giants of fire and ice are footmen in hell, wastrels, slow and dumb and fodder for the greater demons. Held with no more regard than the imps – less, actually, because they are not expected to be even intelligent enough to act as servants. As a a halfbreed bastard, Loki is regarded with even more disdain than most. But he is more clever than his brethren – more clever than his so-called betters – and evaded the standard labors he was otherwise born to. Made a name for himself as trickster, defying propriety and doing as he wishes; slipping between the dead and living realms, interfering with the living's affairs, ignoring and tormenting those in the dead realm that believe themselves his better.

But Jötnar – even ambitious and clever ones – do not have worshipers nor loyal servants. Loki deserves them. He wants this one.

Broad and tall of build, his armor studded with spikes and engraved with dread runes, and his hair raven and eyes glowing with dark light, he holds loosely in his grip the infamous weapon Mjölnir – stained with the blood and guts of a thousand thousand foes. He smirks with earned arrogance. Long has Loki watched him from the shadows. He's watched him pray in dark rituals lit by dim, flickering candlelight,. Watched him rut with scores of wicked women and devilish men. Watched him lead legions into glorious battle, and shivered deliciously each time he cried, voice booming, “Hail Satan!” Loki has even lent unseen aid, tricking his enemies' eyes with illusions and shaking the ground to unsettle foes with weapon aimed at his turned back.

As Loki understands, he was born the golden son of some heavenly lord, but his soul was stolen at birth and his purpose and fate blackened for ever and ever. Thunder and lightening split the sky at his arrival. Not warning, but promise. To hear it, to feel sudden heavy rain begin to fall and soak the ground, is to know Lucifer’s Deconsecrator comes for you, and there is naught you can do but await his arrival and pray death will be swift.

The Deconsecrator, Thor, steps forward into the throne room, but his confident expression slips when he sees where he is – sees Loki on the throne. Turns stunned. Reverent. Worshipful. A shiver runs down Loki's spine.

Loki says, tapping a finger languidly against the throne arm and valiantly not wincing when he inadvertently slashes open the finger against a jagged piece of broken bone, “You are honored at last to be found in the presence of your glorious lord and master Lucifer, and you do not even kneel? How … disappointing.”

Thor falls to one knee, head immediately bowed. When he drops his weapon beside him, it splits the stone ground – the crack winds across the floor and halts just short of the throne's foot. Power. Forget the petty demon lords and their petty squabbles. This is power, and it kneels at Loki's feet. Loki slinks forward until he stands before Thor's submissive figure, already throbbing deliciously at the sight. He wants, has always wanted, always, and how bright this day looks – because at this moment, what he wants is his.

Sliding the fingers of one hand through the long raven hair, Loki says, “Your adoration and loyalty pleases me. Ever have you been my unwavering servant, my hand that strikes the living realm. Tell me, my Deconsecrator: Are you worthy of my presence?”

“Yes,” Thor says simply.

“Hmmm,” Loki says. “Such arrogance, pet. Long have you adored me from afar. But I am here in flesh.” Sliding his hand down to cup Thor's smooth jaw, with his other hand Loki reaches beneath the short wrap around his hips and wraps his fingers around his already hard cock, bringing the glistening tip to Thor's lips. “Show me how you worship your god,” he murmurs.

Glowing eyes fixed on Loki's face, Thor opens his mouth eagerly, sucking on the cockhead. Loki groans, grabbing fistfuls of Thor's hair in either hand to steady himself, as Thor begins a slow, shallow bob. “Yes, like that,” Loki breathes. Warm and wet and strong. “More,” he says. “Take more of me.”

Thor opens wider and sinks further down, tongue busy against his length. He chokes slightly when Loki's cock hits the back of his throat; from Loki's observations, Thor was always more prone to having other's heads buried in his lap, and that he so readily – so eager, flushed and greedy – sucks at Loki is almost enough to make Loki come here and now. When Thor starts to slide his hands up Loki's legs, palms large and hot against Loki's flesh, Loki tightens his fists and snaps, “No. Clasped behind your back.” Thor obeys, unquestioning. Loki is bent over him now, thrusting into Thor's mouth, shivering each time he presses too far and Thor chokes around him, until Thor's lips are around the base at last and Loki's heavy balls against Thor's chin.

“Later,” he gasps. Fixated at how saliva drips down the corners of Thor's mouth. “Later, pet. Later you will please me with – with your hands. With your ass. With every piece of your flesh until you are worn and collapsed and reeking of my come.”

Thor groans and pulls back to lick in long swipes along Loki's cock before taking it once more into his mouth and down his throat. Steadying himself with firm grips of Thor's hair, Loki presses one bare foot against Thor's crotch, mindless of the sharp spikes along Thor's belt threateningly close, and kneads Thor's own hard length. Loki meant to deny him – to sate himself again and again on Thor's body without allowing Thor once such relief, simply because he can – but this may be his only chance. To see Thor not only flushed with pleasure but to watch his face as he finds sweet release. So when Loki pulls back and his come splatters Thor's open-mouthed face while Thor gasps for air, he presses his foot harder against Thor's cock and orders, “Come! With my name on your lips!”

Thor groans, “Master,” still gasping as he comes.

When Loki's legs are steady enough, he carefully straightens. Thor, without question, remains kneeled, and that alone is enough for Loki to stir again, want him again, right now. Thor says, “I have pleased you, master?”

“You have, pet,” Loki says. “Though you have not begun to satisfy my lust for you. Next we shall –”

Shit.

He never inquired of the location of Lucifer's bed chambers. Or of any bed chambers. And he has no desire to rut against this unforgiving floor. But he can hardly admit ignorance and so give himself away – not now, not when everything is going perfectly.

Striding to the room's entrance, he throws open the doors and shouts at a nearby circle of imps, “Skins! As many as you can find! Now!” The imps begin to scurry, but Loki hesitates before slamming shut the doors again, considering the potential confusion. He shouts at their backs, “Animal skins! Furs. Soft ones.” The imps halt and exchange puzzled glances and say, “Oh,” as if they have never heard such an odd request. But they return swiftly enough, and Loki snatches the pile of soft furs and slams the doors closed.

Spreading them in thick layers on the floor, he places his foot in the middle of Thor's chest and presses him back against the furs. “Undress,” he orders, greedily staring at every uncovered inch of flesh. When Thor is all but naked before him, a creature of glorious, bronze skin stretched by strong muscle, his cock full and hard and bobbling against his belly, Loki amends, “Not the cuffs. Leave on the cuffs.”

Thor obeys and simply watches him, eyes darkened almost to black, as Loki settles himself between his legs. “Tell me you are mine,” he says. He wraps his hand around Thor's cock and begins what he knows must be a torturously slow pump.

“I am yours,” Thor says. His hands fist in the furs, though he is still beneath Loki's ministrations.

“Tell me there is no command of mine you would not obey.”

“I would never disobey nor – ah,” he gasps when Loki with his other hand begins feeling along Thor's perineum. Thor takes a deep breath and continues with less steadiness, “nor question nor hesitate at anything – uh! – anything you commanded of me.”

“You are mine,” Loki says, working fingers into Thor's entrance – dry, at first, to watch Thor pant against the burn, and then allowing Thor to suck on his fingers until they are wet enough and sliding them in anew. “And from this moment on, whenever you are touched, whenever you are fucked, whenever your flesh finds any pleasure, know that your dread lord watches and finds his own. Know that you will never find such satisfaction than that you've found at my feet. Tell me you know this.”

“I know,” Thor pants, as Loki braces himself and seats himself inside Thor with one harsh, unforgiving press forward. And he makes Thor tell him again and again that he is Loki's, as he thrusts, twisting his hips and grinning viciously when he finds the angle that makes Thor call out desperately, “Master!” Thor's warm, large hands grip his arms, the spiked cuffs occasionally tearing at Loki's skin, but it only makes Loki thrust harder.

Hours and hours later, after he has had Thor in every way he can imagine, and Thor is gasping, drenched with sweat and saliva and weak and muttering that he can take no more, Loki says, though he has barely the strength to prop himself to his elbows, “Already? Here I meant to allow you once the rare honor of rutting inside me.” He's barely finished speaking before, with sudden renewed vigor, Thor is between his thighs and spreading him open. He pumps himself until he is firm again and slides his fat cock into Loki's entrance with a long, drawn-out groan. His arms straight and straining on either side of Loki's head, he pounds relentlessly inside, leaning down to bite and lick at Loki's lips. Head thrown back so his horns scratch against the floor, Loki twists and writhes, his cock attempting to rise again though he is so sated every twitch is painful. It's delicious and he never again wants Thor's flesh not touching his.

When they've again found their pleasure, and Loki knows time is becoming short, he orders Thor to dress once more – though he regrets it the moment Thor begins to obey. “You have pleased greatly your master,” he says, struggling to remain distant and imperial, even as Thor's come slides down the inside of his thigh. Struggling not to show his devastation that this must end.

“Will I ever be so called upon again?” Thor asks.

Every day for the rest of eternity, if Loki had his way. He smells of Loki, and Loki wants to throw him to the ground and have him again. To chain him to Loki's side and be at his every beck and call. But Loki is not the dread lord whom Thor so worships, and even if Lucifer was not soon to escape and return, eventually Thor would learn of how he has been deceived and debased by a lowly Jötun. So he says, “Greedy, pet, greedy. Here I have rewarded your loyalty most handsomely, and already you beg for more?”

“So I will not be,” Thor says. He makes no attempt to mask his disappointment. Loki wants to lick and kiss the furrow between his brow until it smooths. Remembers that he can, for another moment at least, and presses his body against Thor's and does. But Thor's expression does not clear, though he tilts his head up so Loki's lips instead slide and lick at his own.

“I will always have an eye on my mighty Deconsecrator,” Loki says, regretfully pulling back. Though it will be from the shadows rather than from a tall, bone throne. When he brings himself to order Thor to leave, escorted back to the living realm, Loki sulks, seated on the uncomfortable seat. He makes no effort to hide – not his person nor what he's done.

Lucifer's inevitable return heralds about as much pain and torture as Loki had expected and lasts for what feels like decades. Eventually he limps back to his icy hovel at the outskirts of the Jötnar's territory – at least it's clean, he thinks moodily. He carefully lowers himself into a seat cushioned by piles of soft snow, hissing at the pressure against his ruined flesh. Most of his strength having been spent crawling from Lucifer's feet when the dread lord dismissed him with as little care as one crunches an insect underfoot, Loki falls immediately into uneasy sleep. Hoping when he wakes the worst of his injuries will have healed.

Worth it, though. All worth it, that even for a fraction of a fraction of his eternity he possessed what he has so long coveted. He dreams delicious dreams of his loyal servant.

He sleeps for weeks, curled in the snowy chair – would've slept for longer, but he feels eyes upon him. He's resigned to Lucifer's wrath being not fully appeased, expecting it to be an imp to beckon him back for more punishment – as if he would go willingly! He has strength enough to stop an imp! But when he lifts his head from his folded arms, the Deconsecrator stands before him.

No.

No, any torture but this.

But the Deconsecrator does not strike him. He does not drag him back to Lucifer's halls, either. Instead he speaks, slow and measured.

“I have known always two demons,” he says. His voice booms and echoes within the small hovel. “One I have prayed to since before my tongue knew how to speak words nor my mind to understand them. I have to him given everything and always – my life, my strength, my worship, my immortal soul. I have been always by his side, and yet … in all my centuries, never has he been by mine. The second I knew nothing of, and gave nothing to, and yet he followed me and stared ever at me with greedy eyes, and quietly aided me when even I needed aid. I knew not how to pray to him nor by what name to call him. But I believe he risked everything to know just once my strength knelt before him.” Loki stares and straightens, though his back still aches and the action tears his barely healed flesh. Thor steps forward and goes to one knee beside him.

“You knew,” Loki says. “That I was not him.”

“I knew,” Thor says. “And by your machinations, I at last knew also my dread lord's face, as he called me before him upon ousting you. You looked better on his throne. I preferred you on it.”

Loki barks a laugh, disbelieving. “I do not disagree, but you are speaking of more than how pretty I looked.”

“I am,” Thor agrees.

“That is madness,” Loki says, though he cannot resist cupping Thor's strong jaw in his hand and stroking the flesh with his thumb. “Who says I even wish for a throne? Who says I could win it? Lucifer has legions.”

I have legions,” Thor says. “In this realm and the dead one. They may call Satan's name but they follow my command. Idealists follow a god, but warriors worship a leader. And I am a leader such as history has never before known.”

“A lovely thought,” Loki says. Though he stirs at the knowledge of the power this creature kneeling before him possesses. “But he owns you. Your soul.”

“If it were mine I would sacrifice it to you.”

“But it is not,” Loki says. “And you cannot.”

“Then steal it,” Thor says. While Loki blinks dumbly, he repeats, “You look better on that throne.”

Warming to the idea, Loki grins and says, “I would look better still with you at my feet chained to it.”

Thor's grin matches his. “Hail Loki,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to Loki's hand.