Author's note: Well, I'm glad no one seemed bothered by the graphic content of the previous chapter. There's a dream sequence in this chapter as well, which was originally much shorter and of a considerably less graphic nature, but since you guys didn't mind the previous chapter I rewrote this into something longer and more graphic. Never fear, though, there will be *real* things happening towards the end…
He's standing in the middle of the room, his back still a patchwork of raw agony from the whipping he suffered a few days ago, while Tony is lounging comfortably in a chair, smug and conceited. This time the whip from their previous session has been replaced with a crop that he holds in one hand, smacking one end slowly and deliberately against his open palm as he regards Loki contentedly.
Something – perhaps it's the man's posture or the look in his eyes or the aura he's giving off – suggests that his main intention this time isn't primarily to inflict pain, though, but rather humiliation.
The crop stops its tapping, and Loki holds his breath.
"Strip," comes the very much predictable order.
He has no choice, of course, so he lets his clothes fall to the floor. Seeing as how nudity is considered natural in Asgard, it shouldn't make him feel uncomfortable like this, and yet he finds himself desperately wanting to shirk away from Tony's gaze feasting upon his naked body.
"Kneel," is the next word that comes out of Tony's mouth, also expected.
Again, he obeys. There's nothing to gain by refusing. And kneeling is certainly nothing he hasn't done many times already, so it hardly matters anymore.
The third order is not expected, though.
"Crawl over here," Tony drawls as he beckons Loki with a lazy wave of his fingers. "On your hands and knees."
He should, but his limbs refuse to obey. Something is holding him back, a tiny shadow of something he can barely recall, but still flickers in the back of his mind.
Yes, that's right, he used to have pride once. The sudden memory keeps him frozen on the spot, unmoving and motionless as the seconds tick away, agonizingly slow.
Tony narrows his eyes in fury at this show of rebellion. Brusquely standing up, he walks over to Loki and, without speaking a word, brings down the crop over his abused back, making him cry out from the fiery pain suddenly flaring up. Relentlessly, the crop continues to fall, until he has lost count of the strokes raining down on him and the cuts from the far-too recent whipping are opening up again, blood welling up to run down his sides.
And the only thing he can think of as he lies there, consumed by the pain that is growing increasingly unbearable for every strike, is that there is no one to save him, no one who would lift even a finger to help him. He is utterly alone; the world has turned its back on him, indifferent to all his pain and suffering. Again, he wonders if he truly deserves all this. Does anyone deserve this? But it is of no consequence; Tony clearly thinks that he does, and here, his is the only opinion that matters.
When the beating finally stops, he's lying face down on the floor, gasping for air that seems to have been driven out of his lungs, bitterly regretting his ill-considered disobedience. The pain is every bit as intense as last time, if not worse, making him queasy and nauseous.
Then Tony's shoes move into view as the man comes to stand before him. He softly smacks his lips, and Loki is sure he's shaking his head even though he can't see it from his prone position on the floor.
"I thought you'd have learned by now that being recalcitrant doesn't pay." A foot ungently nudges his side, as if he's a piece of discarded trash found littering the roadside. "So are you going to obey my orders from now on like a good little slave?"
There is only one possible answer to that. "Yes," he whispers, the word hoarse from his raw throat.
Without warning, the crop comes down hard on his back again, and he screams from the sudden, unexpected pain.
"You forgot something," he hears Tony's displeased voice somewhere above him. "Namely your station. And above all, mine."
What Tony wants from him is all too obvious. And as always, he has no choice but to offer it.
"Master," he manages, the word like ashes in his mouth.
Tony lets out a satisfied grunt. "Better. Maybe you are learning, after all." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is several notes harder. "However, if you think this is at all acceptable behaviour, perhaps it's time I taught you a real lesson. Maybe you'd learn your place more quickly if I handed you over to my Avenger friends so they can take their turns with you as well."
No, he thinks, stomach turning itself into a knot, but he knows better than to speak the word out loud.
Tony continues, as unperturbed as if he had been talking about the weather. "Natasha would be delighted at the opportunity to have some fun with her knives. She isn't very happy about you calling her a mewling quim, to say nothing of what you did to her boyfriend. Bruce Banner – or should I say the Hulk – is dearly missing his little plaything. As for Steve Rogers – well, don't let his good-natured exterior fool you. You don't want to know what's lurking beneath that innocent façade. At the end of the day, he's probably the worst of them."
A pregnant pause. Then: "And Barton, well, I'm sure the two of you have plenty of lost time to make up for. In fact, they've all been asking me to let them spend some time alone with you. Barton, for one, has been particularly adamant in his demands, and I've been very tempted to indulge him."
Loki shudders. Of course, all those Avengers still bearing grudges against him. And he can't even handle what Tony's been throwing at him.
The sound of footsteps is telling him that the man is moving away from him and into the direction of the chair. It is a tiny comfort, but certainly all he is going to get.
"So if you won't appreciate the virtue of obedience, I might just decide to see if one of my friends will be better at teaching it than I am."
He swallows, though his mouth is dry and there is nothing left to swallow but fear and trepidation.
Then Tony speaks again, voice harsh. "Now. Crawl."
Yes, he used to have pride once, as difficult as that is to believe. But there's nothing left of it now, not even a trace, so with an effort that makes his head spin from exhaustion, he pushes himself up from the floor and crawls on his hands and knees, slowly, over to where Tony is sitting, watching in pleased satisfaction.
"Stop there," he demands when Loki has made it halfway. Loki halts in his tracks, sinking back on his haunches, not sure whether he should be relieved that he is still out of reaching distance from Tony. The man smirks as he looks him over, gaze critically examining the naked body before him.
"Touch yourself," he orders. "And don't fucking make me repeat myself."
No, the pride he used to have is no more, the last shred of it long gone. Ripped out from his being and torn to pieces by the very man staring at him with hate and resentment etched into every line of his features.
Face flushing with shame, he grabs his limp shaft with trembling fingers, stroking his hand along the length. Of course, his ministrations have no effect whatsoever, produces no reaction at all. It's just his palm kneading at unresponsive skin and tissue, and he can hardly remember being in a more abjectly un-erotic situation than this.
Tony laughs at his pitiful performance. "That's the best you can do? How pathetic. I expected much better from you, Reindeer Games." He snorts in spiteful amusement. "Put some effort into it, or I will seriously reconsider Barton's demands."
Another heated wave of shame washes over him, but he strokes harder, trying to concentrate. Of course, it's useless and he doesn't even get half-hard. So he closes his eyes, trying to shut the world out and bring up recollections of pleasures shared with lovers of the past, but the memories slip away and all that fills his mind is humiliation and fear and utter despair.
Then, there is a strange crackling sound, and when he looks up, Tony is gone. In his stead there is a vile creature crouched on the seat of the chair, a beast born of fire and brimstone, ember eyes gleaming and slobber running from jaws opening to reveal perfect rows of sharp, gleaming teeth. Teeth that want to rip and tear, maim and destroy until there's nothing left.
It jumps at him, seemingly floating through the air, unbelievably graceful for such an ugly, brutish thing, landing with its front paws on his chest. There is nothing graceful about the impact, however, which feels as if a meteor crashes into him, and he smashes to the ground with angry jaws inches away, snapping at his throat. Just barely, he manages to get an arm up and out from under him to defend himself, trying to grab the snout about to rip his jugular artery in two.
And that's when the face of the beast flickers, like the air itself boils and shifts around it, and when the strange mirage disappears, what's left is a creature wearing a face far too familiar for comfort.
Tony's face.
The grin is Tony's too, but the fangs behind the lips are still that of the beast, sharp and pointed. He tries to shift his body away, to get a leg up and gain enough leverage to tip the heavy weight lumbering over him off to the side, but his efforts are futile; the beast weighs far too much and won't budge.
One paw-like hand comes down hard on the side of his head, making his vision spin from the heavy blow, momentarily dazing him. When he comes to, clawed appendages are raking over his body, leaving deep, bloody scratches, ripping him to shreds.
And he screams, again, and again, as the beast tears away at him, until there's nothing left to tear apart.
When he wakes up, it is with sweat dripping from every pore of his body, with crinkled sheets entangling his legs, and with a throat raw from screaming.
The dreams from last night won't leave him alone. They remain stubbornly in the back of his head, like apparitions set on haunting him, refusing to give him even a moment of peace.
And the memory of what Tony had reduced him to in those dreams is still clear and vivid. Would it be possible for the man to do that; could he truly make Loki fall that far? Or a more disturbing question yet – perhaps he's not very far from already being there?
Again, he's prowling the tower, not knowing where to go or what to do with himself, but feeling like the beast is still skulking in the shadows, following mere steps behind. And there is no safety to be had from that monster, no place to hide, nowhere to escape. He's trapped, as surely as had he still been sitting in that dungeon back in Asgard.
The wait is unbearable. Why hasn't Tony called on him yet? What is he waiting for? Is this a sick, twisted part of the fun, making Loki stew in his own misery as he waits for the inevitable?
He has no answers to any of those questions.
So instead, he wanders, restlessly, in and out of rooms, through hallways and back, in endless circles, to and forth. Perhaps it is an attempt to drop his distressing thoughts off somewhere along the way, but his efforts prove futile; they refuse to be left behind, tearing and ripping at his consciousness with sharp claws and fangs.
He suddenly finds himself in the kitchen, a place he's been many times before, but only once or twice without Tony present. For some reason, it feels oddly out of place being here alone, so he stops for a moment, briefly halting in his tracks. The area is light and spacious, and might under different circumstances have struck him as relatively pleasant, even relaxing. He takes in the shining chrome, the dark marble, the grey tiles, his eyes sweeping over it all.
Then, they meet with something else entirely, and remain there.
The collection of blank kitchen knives on the kitchen counter.
For a long time, he just stands there, frozen. Something is raging inside of him, and that something is getting louder and more insistent as he's staring at the sharp utensils. Like it's telling him to act, to actually do something rather than resigning himself to his miserable, terrible future.
As if someone else is moving his limbs, a shivering hand suddenly reaches out, fingers closing around one of the handles, slowly pulling the knife out from its holder.
It's heavy in his grip, not anything like the light throwing knifes he's more used to handling. The blade glints as light strikes it. Sharp. Blank. Metallic. He turns it around, weighing it, the handle smooth in his palm.
Yes, there is always that option.
After everything that has happened, after everything he has gone through and put up with, it would be such a failure to resort to this. To end by his own hand. It would be disgraceful and shameful… but certainly no worse than what he will have to face as Tony's slave.
It would be quick, at least, and involve relatively little pain. Perhaps he should have chosen this option back at his trial instead. It would have been so much easier, rather than suffering through this drawn-out process with no end in sight, with no hopes for improvement, just an endless string of debasement and pain and even more horrible things to come.
Slowly, he lifts the knife, placing it against his own wrist. The steel is cold against his skin, but oddly comforting nonetheless. It could offer him a way out of all this. The only way out.
The chill of the blade is almost burning him, and he wonders if he'd ever be able to go through with such a thing. Could he? Does he even want to?
He imagines being Tony's bed slave, enduring year after year of long suffering, of being used in all possible ways. How long would he be able to put up with that? Would he eventually go numb and not care anymore? Or would each time still remain as awful as the first?
Perhaps he'd be better off acting now, before Tony finally decides to claim him, but something is holding him back. Because he doesn't really want to die, he still wants to live… just not like this.
He looks at the knife in his hand, the sharp, alluring blade. Just one flick of his wrist, and it would be over. So easy. All so easy.
But…
No, he decides. Not today.
Still, he doesn't remove the knife just yet. Its presence is too perversely comforting, ensuring him that the option is still there. So he lets it remain against his skin, trying to draw some tiny vestige of safety and strength from its chilly touch.
The screen is bleeping dully, informing him that the final round of tests for his new prototype suit is finished.
About time.
He plonks himself down before the monitor, scrolling through the last few lines of text. No problems so far. Good. Then he can get around to-
"Mr Stark?" Jarvis voice is suddenly cutting through the silence. "I think I should report to you that Mr Laufeyson is in the kitchen and has just pulled out one of your knives."
Tony's hand freezes mid-air just as he is about to press the return button on his keyboard.
And suddenly, there are a million thoughts going through his head. Most of them containing the word fuck. And not the good kind.
So Loki has finally gone off his rocker and is about to go on a murderous rampage. And why the hell didn't he put a shock collar on him after last time when he still had the chance? He should have known better, of course the lunatic was going to flip out again. He should suit up, and-
"What's he doing, Jarvis? Where is he now?" he asks, in a state of half-panic.
And he could have imagined any number of answers to that, but not the one that Jarvis gives him.
"He's still in the kitchen, sir. I'd say from the looks of it, it seems like he is contemplating slitting his own wrists."
And Tony stops in his tracks on his way to snag his bracelets, freezing like a deer in headlights.
What the hell?
I have to admit that I'm feeling a bit stupid posting this chapter, because a number of you readers asked me whether Loki might consider taking the drastic way out, and I quickly assured everyone that 'oh nooooo, don't you worry, Loki will most certainly do no such thing!' Uh, let's just say that I've decided to change things around a bit since then, because this was not how they were originally written. But they did turn out much better this way, I have to say. ^^
Please review. :)