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The Burning Skull

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Loki sat sprawled on the throne of Midgard, the throne he had fashioned out of a cut crystal of black onyx. The Tesseract was like a slab of ice on a staff clutched in his arm. A smirk played upon his lips. His coal-black hair, dead-white skin, and vibrant green eyes shone in the firelight. The hall was dimly lit with candles. They cast shadows upon the walls, which were lined by red oil paintings. Thor glanced at them warily. The paintings provided the graphic details of Loki’s conquest over Midgard. One showcased his triumph over SHIELD and the Avengers. Another, more vivid painting depicted his victory over the Warriors Three.

It was January 19th, a night of Thorrablot. In an older age, many Vikings on Midgard would make sacrifices to Thor, God of Thunder, and seek his protection from the wrath of the Frost Giants. The cruel irony was that Thor himself had now become a sacrifice for the sake of the realm...

“Brother,” Thor said carefully, “I have come, as I promised you that I would.”

Loki’s smile widened into a hungry, overeager grin. “I thought you would try to flee.” He said. “I thought you would beg me to alter the terms of our agreement. I almost hoped that you would, just so I could slaughter more of your precious Midgardians.”

Thor bristled, but his love for the realm had curbed his pride.

“They are your Midgardians now.” He said softly. “You are the King of Midgard, and you (not I!) are the god of Lies. When we agreed to this arrangement, I meant to honor my word.”
Loki’s face flickered, but then relaxed into a glacial smile. “Come.” he said. “It is time to seal your oath of fealty. Strip and crawl to the foot of my throne.”

Thor divested himself of his robes. The Fertility-god had little to be ashamed of; the deal had been made with the promise of his deep chest, powerful muscles, slender waist, tapered thighs, honey-gold locks, trimmed beard, and eyes like the sapphire sea. Thor obeyed his brother’s command, the rose-red carpet soft on his knees. His plump, well-padded, muscular buttocks swayed from side to side. They looked like a pair of ripe golden peaches, and made his brother’s eyes darken from jade to emerald.

Loki’s ministers sat in the room like marble statues, but now they sprang to life: their laughter rang like an unholy temple bell at the sight of the mighty Thor’s surrender. As Thor reached the lowest step to his brother’s throne, he turned around and faced his tormentors. A frisson of fear danced up his spine. His niece and nephews—Loki’s six children—stared back at him. They occupied the six thrones on either side of Loki’s. The number six is an evil symbol for many on Midgard, Thor recalled absently.

Hela’s rotted, stinking grey legs had been replaced by the graceful feet of a living maiden. Sleipnir, Jormungand, and Fenrir still sported the heads of a horse, serpent, and wolf, but their bodies were fully human. Thor assumed that these new forms were the work of Loki’s magic. Vali and Narfi were youthful men, wholly human in appearance. They were all very different, but gazed at him as one. Thor could see the family resemblance between them.

“Our Uncle is a delectable man, Father.” Hela said in a high, tinkling voice. “We wish you would share him with us.”

Sleipnir neighed. “I am not sure if I would have him or feast on his flesh.” He admitted. “Maybe both. But tormenting him over a long period of time has its appeal...the ultimate vengeance on the All-Father, and our dear Uncle himself!”

“Indeed,” came the sibilant hiss of Jormungand. “He is my Death. Across all known cycles of Time has he slain me in the battle of Ragnarok. Until now. And I would relish the chance to make him pay for it.” The darkness in his voice made Thor’s blood run cold.

Thor was prepared for sexual congress with his brother, but the idea of being intimate with his niece and nephews made him physically sick. And he could do nothing about it if Loki chose to pass him around. It seemed like Fenrir could smell his fear, because he let out a low, hungry growl.

Loki laughed. “My children, I know your feelings for your Uncle run deep. But I am a jealous God, and he is to be mine alone.” His tone was light but brooked no argument. Thor silently released the breath he was holding. “Of course,” Loki added, “I am happy to let you watch as I have him.”

“And a stimulating sight that will be.” Hela said pleasantly. “But, do let us know if you change your mind.”

Thor ascended the six stairs to Loki’s throne. He knelt between his spread thighs and opened the fly of his trousers. Loki was very aroused. A few strokes from Thor’s hand made him fully hard.

It finally hit Thor. He had not fallen into some Dark World: his nightmares had all come true in this one. Loki was King and he the lowest of thralls. And he would be initiated into this new role in public, in a court made up of his brother’s children. Something in him cracked like an egg. He was only grateful that his parents were not there to see his shame.

Loki carded his hand through his hair. “Welcome home, brother.” he whispered.

Thor bent to his task.


Loki summoned Thor to his chamber that night. Hela disrobed Thor and placed him in a bath full of tuberoses. The waxy white flowers wafted a celestial fragrance. Afterward, she rubbed him with sandalwood oil and dabbed him dry with her long black tresses. Her touches were clinical and did not linger. Thor felt the contents of his channel vanish when she lightly touched his stomach. Hela led him to Loki’s room and handed him a vial of rosewater oil. It was made from the crushed petals of a black rose.

“Dear Uncle, you’re going to need it. My Father isn’t even halfway done with you.” Hela grinned salaciously. Her teeth were small, whitish, and sharp. “I would prepare you tonight with my fingers, but my Father wouldn’t let me. He really doesn’t like to share his toys, does he?”

Thor took the bottle from her without comment.

Thor had expected the Trickster’s chamber to be more cheerful. The bedsheets and pillow covers were made of black silk. The walls were the green of a dense, dark forest. The bed had been carved from solid gold. A single candle shaped like a severed hand rested on the table. The blood-red flames on its fingers illuminated the entire room.

The table was cluttered with stacks of Midgardian books. Thor picked up a couple of book and skimmed through the pages. They were written by men named Walt Whitman and Friedrich Nietzsche. The names meant nothing to Thor. He discreetly applied the oil and lay down on the bed. For some time, he fell asleep…

He woke up with a gasp. The candle had burned out, but Loki’s feline eyes pinned him in the darkness. The King of Midgard was still fully clothed, making Thor all the more conscious of his nakedness. Thor’s heart stilled when he saw what Loki held in his hand. It was the hammer of Mjolnir.

“Yes, Thor.” Loki said quietly. “I am powerful now, more powerful than you ever dreamed. Do not be angry we have come to this, for we were always meant to be this way.” And he snapped Mjolnir over his knee.

Thunder roared. Thor reared back, and collapsed on the bed. He felt like he’d been dealt a body blow. Loki tossed the broken pieces aside.
The kiss he placed on Thor’s collar burned like a brand. He could feel the silvery white scars around Loki’s mouth. Thor had put them there, long ago. He felt a brief burst of guilt. Perhaps losing Mjolnir was a form of justice, a cosmic punishment for sewing his brother’s lips shut. Thor lay there, limp like a rag doll. But Loki kissed him like he was trying to use his lips to bridge the gap between them.

“Please do not be angry with me, brother.” Loki implored. His eyes were wide and earnest. “Mjolnir was my gift. I was the one who risked my head and endured such pain at your hands to get her for you. But then you came to love her more than me, your baby brother, and I couldn’t have that.” Loki’s deft fingers stroked him caressingly. His sharp, shining black nails pinched and raked over his nipples. Loki murmured soothingly when Thor hissed in pain. “I have only ever wanted your love.” He whispered.

Thor growled and turned his face away in disgust. “Liar! I won’t listen to any more lies. And you lie damnably, Trickster!”

Loki smiled softly. “You are free to believe that if you want,” he said and kissed him on the lips. “The greatest lies are always near the truth. But it hardly matters, dear Thunderer. There is no escape from me now.”

Loki gently parted his legs, placed them around his waist, and entered him. They rocked together for a moment. To his horror, Thor felt himself growing hard. He hated Loki, hated him with the beat of his heart, but despised himself more for his yearning to submit. He could not stifle a gasp. He had wanted this for years, and Loki was so tender with him. Something about the press of his baby brother inside him made him feel whole. A strange vulnerability prickled in his chest, but was quickly replaced by the urge to make Loki suffer. Thor reached down and took himself in hand. Loki still pulsated within him as he nibbled on his neck. The adoration on his face aroused Thor, and it did not take long for him to climax.

“Jane,” he said clearly, and Loki froze.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment. A look of hurt passed over Loki’s face before it darkened, and then his eyes were ablaze with rage. Loki resumed his thrusts, all gentleness gone. Each one slammed Thor against the headboard. Loki’s bites drew blood the color of apples. Loki’s hands mapped every inch of Thor’s body, as though they could mark it for eternity. Loki had him for hours in all sorts of positions, but Thor smiled in dark triumph. He had won.


The Chitauri were a race of extraterrestrial beings with faces of bleached skulls, blindingly white in the candlelight, and sinister red eyes that glowed like the bloom of poppy flowers. They made up Loki’s army, which had crushed SHIELD and the Avengers. Vali often wondered about their motivation for helping his father: they were an enigma to him.

“How may we service Your Majesty?” the General asked in a hard, gravelly voice.

“Inform all of Midgard that there is a price on Jane Foster’s head. Hunt her down and erase every trace of her from the Nine Realms.” Loki’s eyes were light and staring; his voice had grown high, cold, and frenzied. “And after that, ravage the stars for the Lady Sif. Destroy all whom my brother has had before me until all he has left is me.”

The Chitauri saluted their King and vanished. Thousands of Chitauri dispersed that night and prowled across the realm.

Vali raised his eyebrows. “Is this a wise move, Father? If I learned anything on Asgard, it is that cruelty is a dangerous weapon of war. Cruelty spurs even the weakest beings to rebellion. And rebels are hard to crush.”

Loki sighed. He hardly seemed to have heard him. “I never wanted the throne. I only ever wanted to be his equal!”

“And what of him?” Vali demanded. “What about your treaty? What of your promise to end the war on this realm? You have already killed, or maimed, many of my Uncle’s friends. What if he voids your agreement and tries to flee over this?”

Loki sneered. “Where will he go? This realm would be a better place without his precious mortals. I may have sworn to end the war, but they still deserve a sharp lesson for taking him away from me!” His voice softened. “You may not remember, but he and I have fought each other in many worlds, many lifetimes. If he runs, then I will chase him, and revel in the pursuit.”

Vali narrowed his eyes. “My Uncle’s charm has addled your brain. Are you in love?”

“What is love?” Loki mused. “The philosophers of Midgard have pondered the question for centuries. Some insist that love is a pure, sacred, sacrificial force for good. Others claim that love is a base and bestial passion.”

“And where, Father, do you stand in this strange debate?”

Loki hesitated. “All I know is that I crave your Uncle like the black hole seeks to swallow the star. Is it love? Is it madness? He has ruined me, yet I cannot be without him.”