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The blows that resound in the glare of the white-lit room is loud, and thick with love.
Not much had changed since their first time - except that the blows were less urgent, and unspoken awkward apologies no longer hung in the air. They were two dancers in the same dance. Each blow is a drumbeat in a familiar rhythm that quickens slightly as it goes on, until the beats are punctuated by sharp little moans when the stimulation becomes too much to bear.
But the dance is a complicit one. They both know this is what Loki needs.
The wild cannot know the depth of their nature until the world tries to tame them.
Loki felt like he had been running wild all his life, a maelstrom of misadventures and blinding pleasures and rash moments lived at the edge of the world. He was mischief; he was mayhem; to court danger was akin to breathing in his sleep. Unrest ran in his very bones.
It was only when Thor took him in hand for the first time, held him over his lap with a grip that said "Be steady. Be calm. I love you -" that the spinning kaleidoscope began to make sense. With each stinging slap, the world came into focus.
Even the worst villains know that punishment is inevitable. Whether it comes intermittently or at the end of all things, the great twilight of the gods, retribution is to be faced, not feared. Loki was hardly the worst of the lot. But he had wreaked his share of havoc. Like a hurricane, he could tear through lives with a smile and a breath, leaving chaos in his wake.
Unlike a hurricane, he could be tamed.
He submits now to the maintenance that is his due every moon or so. Moves into position as soon as Thor's large presence fills the room. Sometimes he removes his clothing in advance; sometimes he allows Thor to do so. With leather straps his hands are fastened to the small of his back. Occasionally, a gag may accompany the restraints. Only when he is in position does the spanking begin.
One.
Two.
Three.
Twenty.
His mouth is freed, briefly. “Will you behave now?”
“Make me.”
The gag is pushed back in.
Thirty.
They had begun has foes, brittle and sharpened with each attack. With the remnants of brotherhood about their ankles in ashes, they had wasted no time in coming to blows. And then Thor had decided that he needed to be punished in earnest...and perhaps Loki, too, had decided so. For suddenly he had found himself bent over and exposed, painfully vulnerable, his backside at the disposal of Thor's palm. The red marks were obscene and beautiful. And Loki knew he was meant to be adorned by them, and by Thor's hand alone.
There had been confusion, in the beginning. The ordeal left them both breathless with shame creeping up their necks. Loki, who had been hard and mocking when he was first forced into position, was soft and damp and boneless, pliant to the touch. His slick pink mouth hung open in a frozen gasp of pain - of want. And Thor beheld his brother in a new light as the glaring silence made them both rethink their actions...slowly, torturously.
Actions they would hence repeat with a regularity neither would acknowledge existed.
It would start, always, with minor forms of havoc just major enough to warrant notice. Disappearing walls. Faulty locks. Overturned furniture. Abusing the wardens or a hapless sentry. His magic was limited by the special runes and painstakingly woven enchantments around his cell; but he could, with some effort, create mischief in ways that were essentially harmless but could make a person snap.
Only the protection of Thor kept the guards from doing serious damage to his self. The worst that had befallen Loki was a bloody nose and a wrecked piece of furniture (an ugly chair he had never liked anyway).
The dealer of that particular blow had received worse punishment. For Thor and Thor alone was to wield the discipline that Loki so badly needed.
Need and want blurred into one.
And so some days found Loki's breath hot on the dungeon glass, blowing mist blossoms in rhythm with the hard smacks on his bared bottom. Thor would press him naked against the glass, under-trousers pushed down his trembling thighs, and make him display himself to all within sight as he took his punishment.
His face burned red. He cried tears of seeming remorse. But his sex bloomed hard and red. Only when sufficient discipline had been meted out was he allowed to relieve himself.
If Thor was feeling generous, he would take care of it. After the harshness of the spanking he would cradle Loki with near-excessive tenderness and stroke him to completion. Sighing, sweat-laced, they kissed as sweetly as lovers are wont to do.
Or at least, that is what Thor wishes.
Such kisses are not a luxury due them.
So instead he ends each visit by returning to his room in a haze of guilt and confusion. He will urgently relieve himself the way he has just done unto his brother, spilling into his own hand with increasing frustration every time. He comes with Loki's name on his lips. He curses himself for being a degenerate - an incestuous profligate masquerading as the golden son of Asgard.
His lips continue to breathe Loki's name with each climax.
And in his prison, Loki falls into sleep filled with wishful dreams of Thor pushing him apart, filling him till he is full to bursting; Thor's hand slipping beyond his backside, slipping inside him and violating him as his face and neck are stained red with the heat of his shame, his desire. Thor’s leaking sex gagging him as effectively as the other restraints. The well of aching want makes him grunt and sigh into his pillow and wake with sweat-dampened hair. The heat of these dreams will not leave him be.
Both will continue to burn with the force that pulls one to another. And no deeper satisfaction is found than when Loki lets his rage and chaos-magic swell to its limits so that it may be tamed, and cooled, and turned to pleasure in the safety of Thor's strong hands. There is no sweeter surrender than when Thor has his wayward other half beneath his palms - his to hold for just a while as he initiates the ritual that binds them both in a cycle that, once begun, seems to have no end.
Pain.
Conflict.
The calm after a storm.
"Be still, brother."
A caress follows the last resounding smack.
"I love you."
"I know."
~