Author's note: I think a little warning about this chapter might be in place since it's going to stray into territories that not everyone might be comfortable with. You can skip it if you want without missing any important plot points, though.
His wrists are chafed raw from desperately pulling at the shackles encircling them, taut chains suspending his arms above his head. The strained position is stretching his ribcage and makes it hard for him to breath; even though his feet reach down to the floor and offer him some support, his aching shoulder joints still have to take far too much of his body's weight. His breathing is shallow, and for each intake of air, he can swear he hears his joints creaking in protest.
Still, all that pales to mere nuisances in comparison to the burning agony that is his shredded back. He has no idea for how long this has been going on, it is as if his memory has short-circuited itself, so that he only remembers a long eternity of being strung up here in this place of torment. Like he's been here forever, single-handedly paying for all the sins ever committed in the nine realms.
However, he knows he can't have been here for more than, what? An hour? Half an hour? Time and location seem to have lost their meaning; there is only here and now, the past is far too distant to matter and the future reduced to a raging sea of never-ending pain and agony.
His head is slumping; the mere effort of keeping it upright seems like an impossible feat of strength. Strength that is no longer his to claim, strength that is bleeding out from him with the droplets flowing in rivulets over his naked body, staining the floor with awful red.
He tries to swallow, but neither his throat nor his tongue obeys him. Desperately, he wishes for a drink of water, if only a swallow, something to soothe the throat turned raw and hoarse from screaming. But he knows he will be offered nothing, not a single drop, nothing to ease his suffering. He is being punished, and will receive no such boons, nothing to alleviate his anguish.
The whip lashes against his back again – for what time in a row, he has long since lost count. Hasn't it been forever, though? – and he screams as the leather cuts another stripe across his already abused skin.
For a moment, the pain is all-encompassing, blocking all other thoughts and impressions. His senses black out, and in that instant there is neither sight nor sound, just raw, undiluted agony.
It takes a while before he manages to breathe again, before the world is slowly coming back to him. Before there is once more sight and sound and not only excruciating pain. He's been hoping he would eventually pass out, that blissful unconsciousness would come to claim him, but so far he has remained painfully awake and aware. Apparently, not even this small mercy will be granted him by the fates.
He can feel the drops of blood slowly making their way across his skin from the cuts criss-crossing his back, ass, and thighs, dripping onto the floor. He wishes he could collapse upon it as well, but he is strung up by the unrelenting chains, kept painfully upright, not given even a moment of rest from his torment.
And it hurts so bad, so awfully. Still, the whip continues to fall, again and again. Each lash taking a small piece of his sanity away, reducing him to a creature without word or thought or mind, just someone controlled by fear and pain and dread. And he only has one wish left – for all this to stop.
But maybe it won't stop, not now, not ever. Maybe he'll be strung up here for the rest of a red-tinted eternity, until his mind has left him completely, leaving only a bleeding, broken shell still hanging from those chains like a maddened and shackled beast.
And he knows he won't be healing anytime soon, the pain won't begin to subside, even if all this were to stop. He no longer has the powers he once held, the ones that would see to it that his flayed skin would be starting to knit itself up, slowly but steadily removing every trace of the agony he has suffered.
But no such relief will be forthcoming. He's been reduced to inhabiting the body of a mortal, and made to suffer like one.
Another lash falls, and he cries out in anguish yet again. He managed to stay silent at first, but it soon became too much, and he realized quickly that the screams gave him a small amount of relief, taking a part of the pain with them, dulling the fire burning his skin. However, those reprieves are long gone, small and insignificant as they were. Now, those screams do nothing to ease the pain, if anything they make it even worse, but he is unable to stop them any longer. The tiny remains of pride that kept him stubbornly silent in the beginning was soon shredded to tattered pieces along with his back, and now there is nothing left of it at all.
The whip falls again, making another cry echo between the walls. He never knew pain could feel like this, like a cruel entity nestling within the very core of his being, utterly overpowering, like it has become a part of him. His back has been reduced to a field of fire and blood and pain, and it just hurts so much…
Have his crimes really been so grievous as to be deserving of all this? But it is pointless to ask, because he isn't in a position to place judgement; no, there is only one man who is. He, who is standing there behind him ,holding the handle of that whip, striking at him again and again. And he wonders how long he will have to pay, before that man has decided he has suffered enough and the price has been paid.
With fearful anticipation, he waits for the next lash that he knows is about to come, that will yet again send the flaming agony spiralling into new heights. But the whip doesn't fall as expected; instead his tormentor languidly steps forward and comes to a halt before him, taking in the sight with a smirk on his lips and a glint of something unpleasant in his eyes. Something that makes his body shudder and then tense.
"You know," Tony finally says, "'submissive' is a good look on you." His gaze travels across the naked body strung up before him, critically examining it. He then leers. "So is 'whipped bloody'."
Loki tries to focus on breathing; a task which should be so simple, but somehow got so much more difficult once the man entered his view. His throat constricts at the sudden closeness, and his chest heaves a few times, as if he's about to get sick.
Tony's eyes are cold and calculating, not a trace of pity in them. "Well then. Are you ready to apologize?" There is a pregnant pause, as Tony's mouth curls slightly. "Or would you rather prefer that we continue?" He flicks the whip in his hand, looking like he's almost hoping for the latter.
"No…" Loki just barely manages through his chafed throat, hearing full well how pitiful and pathetic he's sounding, but being far beyond the point of caring. "No. Please…" The word feels foreign and alien in his mouth, but it seems to satisfy Tony nevertheless.
Lifting his hand, the man slowly traces the whip over his chest in lazy lines, leaving red trails over his skin. Loki shivers, though he isn't sure quite why. Perhaps it's the pleased and contented look on Tony's face at seeing his broken enemy beaten bloody by his own hand that causes his body to tremble, or maybe it's the exhaustion, the pain, or something else entirely.
Then Tony's hand drops, and his eyes harden.
"You didn't sound very sorry last time you apologized for throwing me out a window," he says in a harsh voice that promises further pain and hurt should Loki not live up to the expected standards. "So let's try it one more time, shall we?"
Loki swallows, for a moment fearful that he won't be able to get any words out of his abused throat, but his voice obeys, albeit reluctantly. "I'm sorry," he whispers in a voice that he just barely recognizes as his own. And he really means it, though perhaps not for the reasons that Tony wants.
Tony lets out a distorted mixture of a laugh and a snort. "I have to say, you do sound quite a bit more sincere this time, Reindeer Games," he mocks, spiteful glee painting his words. He takes a step back, regarding Loki where he's slumping in his chains. "However, if you really want my forgiveness, you have to earn it."
With that, the chains are loosened, and Loki unceremoniously falls to his knees on the hard floor, hissing in pain as his arms are suddenly released from the strain.
His hunched posture tugs excruciatingly at his cuts from the whip, and for a moment, the world goes a little blurry around the edges, before once again reverting back to normal. As normal as the world can be in its current state.
From his kneeling position, he is painfully aware of the bulge at the front of Tony's pants. The man had been erect already when Loki was stripped naked and strung up in shackles and chains, but he has no doubt hardened considerably since.
His stomach churns unpleasantly, and he closes his eyes, trying to block out the disturbing sight, to pretend that it isn't there in front of him. But not even this small respite will be his, because mere seconds later, a hard slap is stinging his cheek, making his eyes fly open. "Knock it off," Tony growls above him, clearly not happy with what he obviously considers Loki's little show of rebellion.
The handle of the whip comes to rest under his chin, tilting his face up so that his eyes meet with Tony's.
He almost balks as he looks into them and is greeted with a warped and twisted blend of hate and glee and arousal, so intense that he can almost feel the heat radiating from it. "You better make good use of that famous silvertongue of yours or I'll chain you right back up and we'll continue where we left off," he hisses, as if Loki isn't already aware of what's expected, what Tony is demanding of him.
And then, Tony unbuckles his pants, unceremoniously letting them fall to the floor. Against better judgement, Loki is overcome by a desire to turn his head away, but there is a pair of strong hands in his hair, firmly locking his head into place. He is far too weak to fight them, would he be stupid enough to try, so instead he merely acquiesces.
The hands are tugging painfully at his hair, as if they're about to pull out the strands by the roots. However, he doesn't struggle. He knows better. He has no choice.
No choice.
Tony groans his pleasure as Loki gets to it, and though he is on the brink of gagging, he proceeds as ordered. The unbearable pain in his back urges him on, quelling his burning desire to stop what he's doing, reminding him what the consequences of refusing will be. The abject humiliation is worse than any he has ever suffered before, even worse than being brought back to Asgard in chains, but he just can't take another whipping, so he continues.
As Tony forcefully thrusts into his mouth, he futilely tries to pull away from the hands holding his head in a firm grip, but Tony will have none of it, tugging viciously in response. "Already having a hard time coping, princess? Remember, this is just for throwing me out that window," the man growls at him, voice breathy with lust and victory. "For what you did to New York, forgiveness will come at a higher price."
The words are still ringing in his ears as he awakes with a startle and a scream, breath ragged in his burning throat and heart beating so hard in his chest that he's surprised that it hasn't punched its way out of his body already. For a long time, he just lies there, panting, as his blood is pounding like thunder in his ears, the terrifying dream images swirling like a raging storm in his mind.
Gradually, the dread gives way to overwhelming relief in the realization that it was only a dream – though a terrifying, horrible, far too real nightmare, far worse than anyone he can remember from feverish nights and uneasy slumbers.
Still, the memories are clear and vivid in his mind, and they fill his consciousness, refusing to disappear just yet.
Swallowing, he wonders if his dream is anything similar to what Tony is planning for him. Or will he perhaps do even worse? Once again, the dream-terror rears its ugly head full force, as the dreadful prospects of his future are once more making themselves known.
If he only knew, things might have been slightly easier to deal with.
But he doesn't. He has no clue what Tony is going to do with him.
And in the end, he can only hope for the best, while dreading the worst.
It takes a long time before sleep claims him again, and when it does, it is fitful and full of nightmarish images, making him toss and turn between the sheets.
Poor Loki. He can't catch a break even when he's asleep…
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