They corner Loki in the showers on his third day in the prison. He’s staring at the tiled floor, watching the water drip through his hair, soaking in the five minutes of hot water that they’re allowed. Everyone else he’s seen at the Authority—everyone else who has hair, that is, the place is full to bursting with different species of alien, and not all of them have ropes of keratin growing out of their heads—has it closely cropped to their head. But they didn’t shave his.
Loki knows better than to be grateful for it.
There’s always a guard, humanoid, posted at the door to the communal showers, but he only watches when four burly aliens, each easily twice Loki’s size, surround him.
One of the aliens steps forward, grabbing Loki’s hand by the wrist and jerking it down to where Loki supposes his genitals are.
The guard turns away.
Loki holds back a sigh.
Instead, he drives his fist into the alien’s crotch, then takes down the rest of them in practiced movements. Even without his powers, he’s still a warrior, honed to be a weapon for Asgard. It’s easier than the drills they used to do at the training field every morning. Within seconds, he has all of them on the floor in various states of injury.
The guard watches as the water shuts off and Loki walks over to the opposite wall to grab a towel and a change of clothes, the same ugly grey shirt and loose pants that everyone else wears.
Those eyes stay on him as he leaves, and no one else accosts him.
Loki knows better than to be grateful for that too.
At the end of the week, two guards come into Loki’s cell to take him to see the warden.
There are three more guards waiting in the warden’s office. It’s well-appointed in dark hardwood walls and soft-looking velvet chairs. There’s a window that shows the recreational field outside, a dusty square where inmates can catch a break from the tedious grey walls of the prison. And beyond that field, looming across electrified fences, is the void of space.
Loki looks away.
The warden himself is a humanoid as well. The same humanoid, in fact. Every guard in this prison looks exactly the same.
“Mr. Odinson,” the warden says, his voice like gravel.
Loki fights not to twitch. The room is warm, temperature-controlled, but the grey shirt makes him feel exposed. He is exposed.
“You haven’t been behaving,” the warden continues. “Picking fights with the other inmates, and in full view of your handlers, too. This has to be rectified.”
He doesn’t fight. He knows it’s futile—they injected something into his bloodstream when they first brought him in, and he knows nothing good can come out of it. Besides that, the only other thing they did to him was cuff him. There’s no chain connecting the manacles on his wrists, but at a gesture from the warden, they connect with each other, forcing Loki’s hands behind him. He twists and tugs, but there is no give at all.
One of the guards presses up against Loki’s back, and another stands in front of him to ruck his shirt up his chest, bringing the hem of it to Loki’s mouth.
He stares, defiant.
That’s when he finds out what that thing they injected into him does.
“Non-lethal,” the warden says, over Loki’s screams. “But particularly effective for frost giants.”
He’s on his knees, his eyes watering. Every molecule in his body throbs. He’s hauled up to his feet, and the guard takes the hem of his shirt again, and brings it up to Loki’s mouth.
Loki swallows, throat sore, and takes the cloth between his teeth.
It’s just two of them, at the start. The one in front of him drags his hands up and down Loki’s chest and sides, as if fascinated by him. The one behind him tucks the swell of his cock against Loki’s ass and sets his fingers to Loki’s nipples, sweeping over them steadily, until Loki is breathing heavily, panting through the makeshift gag, his jaw clenched tight.
Then, a strip of cloth is wrapped around his head, covering his eyes, and Loki is blindfolded. It is not entirely dark, but it is dark enough.
They pull down his pants, almost gentle. The material pools around his ankles and they wait for him to step out of it.
They let him keep the shirt on, though it’s not covering much, in any case. Loki knows he’s drooling into it, and tries to swallow down his own spit.
They lead him forward, and Loki realizes he’s being made to sit on one of the chairs. It is soft. They rearrange his legs—Loki bites into the wet shirt and curls his hands into fists behind his back—so that they are spread wide open, hooked on either arm of the chair.
One of them jerks him forward, making him lean further back, so that his ass sits at the edge of the chair.
Exposed, like the rest of him.
The rest of it should be mechanical. Loki should be able to tune it out—the press of cold, slick fingers against his rim, the curl of a fist around his cock, pumping it to hardness against his will—he should be able to close his eyes behind the blindfold and ride it out, leave himself. If he gives them what they want—his humiliation, his compliance—they should be satisfied.
Only, they stop.
He doesn’t realize how close he is to orgasm until the fingers pull out of his ass and the hand uncurls from his cock. His eyes fly open into darkness, and his cock twitches, dribbling precome. His ass clenches around nothing, and he shudders.
“Do you think he can come just from his ass?”
Loki swallows, his heart pounding in his ears.
“We’ll find out, won’t we?”
They take their time. They use their fingers and their mouths. They hold his legs open—the arms of the chair don’t spread them far enough to their liking—and coax his body closer and closer to orgasm.
And then they stop.
Loki keens, and the shirt falls from his mouth.
Someone slaps his ass, hard, and shoves it back in. Rucks it up further.
Hands and fingers on his cock again, a tongue in his ass, teeth on his nipples.
Loki throws his head back and sobs, his cock swaying and leaking desperately. His hips jerk, he moans into the gag, and the fingers retreat. A slow, wet lick from the head of his cock down to the fucked-open rim of his ass has Loki shuddering, full-bodied.
Time passes. Loki’s legs ache. His jaw aches. His cock pulses steadily, leaving his belly sticky, and the precome drips down the crease of his thighs.
There’s no other touch on him except for the two fingers pumping steadily in and out of him. It’s not enough, but his body doesn’t care anymore. He chases the touch, grinding into it, clenching to feel the barely-enough fullness.
He’s so far-gone that even that is enough to have his body tightening up, cresting towards—
The fingers pull out of him and Loki groans, twisting helplessly.
The next time, it’s just two fingers being brushed steadily up and down the length of his cock, a maddeningly light touch that has his body jerking for more.
Then, a tongue in his ass, just the point of it flicking back and forth against his sensitive rim.
A finger again, just one this time, enough to make him feel like he’s flying apart.
“How many times has he been edged?”
“I don’t know, six? Think he can take more?”
“Why don’t we ask him?”
The finger slides out of him, rubbing against his rim along the way, and Loki groans, guttural, trying to keep it inside him, but he’s lying so far back on the chair that he can’t get any leverage.
“How about it, Mr. Odinson?” It’s the warden’s voice. “Do you want a cock in your ass so you can come?”
Loki lets out a garbled plea and nods, his head bobbing too fast.
“Beg,” the warden says.
Loki opens his mouth to reply, but someone only takes more of the shirt and shoves it roughly between his teeth.
“Not like that,” the warden says. “With your body, Mr. Odinson.”
Behind the blindfold, Loki’s eyes squeeze tight, and his teeth grind into the material of the shirt. Humiliation floods him, but the need to come overtakes everything else.
Slowly, deliberately, he spreads his legs out and up, arches his chest, bares his neck. Offering himself.
They make him hold the position. Seconds pass, then minutes, and Loki realizes that muffled sobs are spilling out of his mouth, hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
Then, a touch. A hand, spreading one of his legs farther. Loki goes, shivering in anticipation.
He hears it before he feels it, but there’s nothing he can do to escape.
Something cracks down against his ass, a belt, or a crop, and Loki screams, his knees snapping together. Hands draw them apart. He shakes his head, struggling now, trying to get away—there’s another crack and a sharp, terrible pain.
It comes again, and again, and again.
Before Loki can recover from the beating, a hard cock is pressing up against his hot, tender rim, and he’s being fucked in one smooth motion.
He comes, just from that.
There’s a round of laughter as Loki’s body splays open, shuddering from the aftershocks.
Loki sucks the shirt deeper into his mouth, bites into it. It’s almost comforting, now.
After they’ve all had their turns—some go twice, leaving Loki so oversensitive all he can do is twitch and whine, constantly in tears—they slide something smooth and cold into his ass.
Loki comes a second time from that, from the blunt force of being opened up by something unyielding.
Then they help him stand him, draw the pants up over his shaking legs and bruised ass, and tug the shirt out of his mouth. The blindfold comes off last, and Loki blinks into the dim yellow light. His eyes are swollen and sore from the crying.
“If you take this out,” the warden says, pressing fingers up against the plug in Loki’s ass, “we’ll collar you like a dog and drag you naked through the halls.”
Loki swallows, and tries not to imagine it.
“Do you understand, Mr. Odinson?”
“I…I understand,” Loki says, hoarse.
Afterwards, two guards lead him back to his cell, where he falls into bed and passes out.
The next day, the guard watches him in the shower again.
Loki’s hands flutter at the hem of his shirt, hesitant, but the water’s already starting to run. It’s either take his clothes off and shower, or spend the rest of the day covered in come.
He tugs the shirt off, and then the pants. Stumbles under the spray.
When a large, alien hand reaches between his ass and thumbs at the base of the plug, Loki doesn’t fight.
The guard looks away.