Warnings, this chapter contains fairly graphic non-con and Loki being a complete and utter jerk. If you don't like please feel free to skip the next two chapters. :-)

3.

Loki's house on the edge of The Appian Way is amongst the finest of the district; a haven of taste and minimalism, combined with an air of coolness and utmost class. Loki loves it unreservedly, the quiet and solitude, the faint smell of citrus, the very columns and bones of the place he has made his own. It is with the deepest relief that he returns to it that evening, heading early to bed and the dark cool sweetness of being out of the glare of sun and crowd. He lies in the dark, skin burning in the blissful arms of the cool, soft sheets, images of blue eyes flashing fiery behind his eyelids. He hisses into the dark, a twisted whisper amongst the sheets, breaching the place between asleep and awake with the gladiator's glorious strength upon his mind and his own hands upon his cock.

The next morning feels like a child's day of festivity. Loki wakes early and excited, pleased with himself that he has managed to wait until today to unwrap his new present. Moreover, the sun is still punishing, and today he does not have to go out in it. He determines to savour the anticipation and busy himself with whatever distraction he can find for as long as possible. There is a spring in his step this morning, and he greets each relevant servant with actual cordiality. By late morning he has ensconced himself in a silver couch that he has had brought outside, settled comfortably beneath the lemon tree by the pond with a cool glass of grape juice and the complete works of Ovid.

Alternately reading and reclining on his back Loki revels in the triviality of today, gazing up at the bright sky through the web of fine branches while two slaves wave palm fans constantly and unobtrusively near him and a third waits a little way off to heed the next shouted command.

When the slave's next call comes in the early afternoon, shortly after lunch, Loki makes sure to phrase it in the most casual, could-not-care-less tone he can possibly muster. He congratulates himself for what he perceives as incredible self-control in having waited this long to play with his new toy.

Thor, when he is sent for, is already tired and unimpressed with the entire set up. Though it had hardly been possible to form real friendships with men he had been forced to fight, there had least been a common bond there and he had taken strength, particularly from The Archer, in the stoicism and finely maintained pride with which he faced their situation. For himself, Thor knew that he had not even left as much behind to miss or to mourn as The Dacian had.

But he takes from the strength now as he is taken away, taking farewells only in eloquent silence. He bears it patiently as he is cleaned up and made presentable purely for the amusement of another. It is not for the first time. But when, after a dark and uncomfortable journey through the streets, he arrives at a strange new dwelling, and is summarily dismissed to the common slaves' quarters for the night – it stings. It rankles almost worse than had he been instantly put to use as this so called nobleman's whore – something he nervously suspects could be his fate here. Nevertheless, he does not relish the prospect and the next day finds him waking with spirits as low as Loki's are high.

He determines in spite of everything to meet whatever the day throws at him with honour and whatever dignity he can maintain, and when he is escorted, hands chained behind his back, across the wide expanse of garden he looks down to no-one. When he is pushed on to his knees before his new master however he looks resolutely down at the ground, refusing to give the satisfaction of even looking him in the eye. At least not for now.

Loki dismisses his attendants to a safe but discreet distance with an arrogant wave of the hand. He remains seated, eyes drinking in his prize. He has become beyond skilled at not reacting when it is in his benefit not to, but cannot resist moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue delightedly upon gazing at his beautiful slave; as though in anticipation of a delicious treat. The gladiator on his knees gleams in the sunlight, golden and bronze, muscles rippling like water, waves just waiting to crash. Loki's eyes narrow in satisfaction – for better yet, he is now clean and smells pleasantly of sun and wind, stone and leather. It is a perfectly intoxicating combination and he is surprised to find himself actually a little overwhelmed by the gladiator's dazzling proximity. He dislikes the feeling and chooses to seek out what will irritate him instead.

"Look at me, slave."

Thor does not budge, nor heed the imperious command. But this one does not play fair or by any rules and he feels a merciless hand yank his head back by the hair.

"I said, look at me," Loki spits, a snarl in his voice, though his blood dances and skin sings at the warm rough softness beneath the cruel touch; like trying to pet a lion. He likes making it sound as though he is simply furious, but if his pulse even quickens, it is with enjoyment at the excuse both to touch and to hurt his slave. He knows the gladiator is not afraid of him and is intrigued, impressed and angered to a pleasant tingle by the growling hatred that glares up at him out of those stormy eyes.

"Have you any idea what I could do to you?" It is half a question, half a threat and he both smiles it and sneers it out. Thor resolutely says nothing, not even following Loki with his eyes as the smaller man rises and circles him like a hyena, tracing idle – not – so – idle patterns across Thor's skin with insidious trailing fingers. He can feel how much Thor wants to flinch away from his touch and can feel too that he does not.

"I could break you," he whispers, despicably intimately, into Thor's ear – "Or have you destroyed – it would make no difference to me."

As he prowls back into Thor's vision, he finds himself disliking the way the slave looks at him, almost but not quite smiling as though he can see through the lie. As though he could see through every lie Loki ever told. As though – but it is surely preposterous – he has looked straight into Loki, and seen all that he really is and pretends to be. It un-nerves him – when he has fooled everyone for two decades now, how could this unknown slave see right through him? Almost as though testing he spits in Thor's face, and is gratified when he finally flinches – slightly; a grimace that he puts quickly away but that is visible nonetheless.

Loki settles back into his chair, regarding Thor steadily as he unfolds his own attire with an attitude of perfectly languorous, dismissive boredom. Thor is not fooled in the slightest by the message he is meant to be receiving – that his humiliation means nothing to his supposed master, and he files his awareness of how Loki wants things to appear away for later.

"Suck it," Loki orders, lip curling, cock out and urgently hard, as he has been for quite some time now. Thor simply looks at him as though he is making his own rapid decision, making it as plain as his eyes can say that he could just as easily not do this if he really wished it – not wholly caring whether this is true or not.

Loki bites his lip until it hurts to stifle a groan as Thor takes his cock in his mouth, with agonising slowness, staggering a little, even on his knees, for his inability to use his hands. Loki is almost unsure of what feels better – that delicious mouth against his throbbing flesh or the eyes that glare up at him blazing in sublime hatred. But those lips and tongue work in the manner of one who has never done this before and yet, at the same time tease and torment him to the point where he no longer feels himself to be the one in control of this situation as much as he would like to. It feels unreal – like he has wanted this his entire life and even though he feels the slave smirk around him to feel it, he cannot quite hold back on every low breathy gasp of pleasure. Aware too of his fingers, digging and scratching into the slave's hair to hold him in place – he lets go quickly before it is too late – to come snarling and violently across that beautiful, satisfyingly disgusted face.

His satisfaction however does not last long beyond the time it takes to rearrange his attire once more. He looks down for a moment, smiling to see those downcast eyes and that noble face painted and dripping with his seed. Feeling that detested gaze Thor looks up slowly, fury and ice warring in his eyes. It is a potent combination that, for a moment, makes Loki think only of making use of him again. But then Thor smiles mirthlessly and very quietly, gently and intently says –

"You are no Roman."

The shot flies truer than one of Hawkeye's arrows, as Thor had known it would and Loki snarls, starting and defensive as though hit in the heart by it.

"You're nothing," Thor adds, just as gently, firing straight into the wound already made. It scorches, the wound, and Loki feels it as least as strong as the pleasure of mere moments ago. How? He thinks wildly – how has this mere slave named aloud within seconds of each other both his deepest public and private fears? He wonders all this in the space of a split second before dealing Thor a vicious backhand across the face, violent enough to throw his head back, spraying fine droplets of blood over the perfect gold and green of Loki's robe, an ugly gash appearing across Thor's face from a jagged emerald ring on Loki's hand. Thor bites his lip – the blow is somehow kaleidoscopically painful, even after the blows and arrows of the amphitheatre.

"You will be brought to bow before this nothing, slave," he snarls, teeth bared.

"Never," Thor spits back, blood in the spit and Loki raises his hand as though to strike him again, before dropping it, soft as a snake changing its mind about when to strike. Loki nods, keeping his breath and his words under icily balanced control, his voice freezing in the midst of the heat –

"You will," he repeats. Thor grins in a disarming parody of friendliness, leaning in ever so slightly to mock Loki's disgustingly intimate threatening tone –

"Go fuck yourself," he says, with a little jerk of the head, as gentle and dismissive as he would make a request from a servant he did not like.

Loki's eyes narrow and delicate nostrils flare, so incensed as to remain silent for several stunned seconds. When he does then yell it cuts through the afternoon like an animal's howl –

"Guards!" he screeches and they come running, knowing better by now, all of them, than to test that tone in the master's voice. When they approach Loki's face is a mask of fury – "Take this filth out to the courtyard," he snaps, pointing an imperious finger that nevertheless trembles slightly, at Thor – "And fetch me my whip."

The very request starts to make him instantly feel ever so slightly better.

_x_

Yeah, this is the jerkiest Loki I've written yet, though I hope to make him likeable if not redeemable by the end of this – certainly not for the next couple of chapters! In case you hadn't guessed the next chnapter will contain torture also continued non-con. Yaay? :-)