#wildcherryspark

From far off, the palace guards engage the massive lock, and the sound rolls like thunder to where you stand. Loki smiles like a gleeful child then tugs your hand. His chin is high as he swaggers with all the confidence of his station toward the golden doors of the throne room. “A prince may go wherever his desires lead him,” he assures you. “If you’re willing, I’d love your company on such a journey.” You drop his hand, and stop following. You make yourself immovable, planting figurative roots in the marble floor. Loki turns to you, his stare searching for answers. He reaches out a hand, but you do not take it. Giving voice to very real fear, you say, “Only one of us is a prince. My lord, though I know not what punishment the Allfather would mete out on his beloved son, I’m certain that being found in the innermost sanctums of his palace would spell out certain death for me. If not by his hand, then by the scandal.” “Do you so doubt my sincerity? Do you mistake this clandestine rendezvous as a means of keeping my affection for you in the shadows? Know this: you are no scandal. You are my prize. Let the Allfather find me in your arms, and I’ll gladly proclaim you my love. Were he to try to take you from me, I would slay all of his armies and sweep you away. Run with you to any of the nine realms you wished to see, and there, resting on your bosom, would I make my home. And home it would surely be for I would have all that I need with you.” You blush and look to your feet for a response. He lifts your chin with a finger. “My darling, you are with me. I will protect you from all manner of prying eyes, wagging tongues and raging parents that you might fear. Put your trust in me.” Closing the distance between you, he brings up a hand and gently strokes your cheek. “Will you be daring with me tonight? For every risk you take, I promise to reward you ten fold.” “Stealing into Odin’s throne room is not dangerous enough? What other treacherous adventures would you have me party to?” His smile becomes dark, and his eyes glitter with mischief. “Wherever a prince’s desires may lead.” Without another word, he turns, your wrist gripped in his hand, and leads you to the throne room. Your eyes explore the circular space. Torches adorn the walls, and large bowls hold dancing flames. The black floor gleams. You see patterns etched in the marble, twining knots of gold. These writhe in the firelight, and stretch up the stairs that lead to Odin’s seat of power. Loki stands at the right hand of the throne, allowing you time to take in the sights.

“What do you think?” he asks, voice sober and deep. “How can a room be so empty and yet so decadent?” Behind you the mammoth doors close with cold finality. “Come to me,” he orders. Something has changed in him. Loki’s jovial nature has hardened, and the man before you is unreadable. A slab of icy stone. Though you would never admit it, you fear him. But that fear is thrilling. Your steps echo in the chamber, and you’re sure he can hear your quaking breath. “I cannot help but feel I don’t belong here.” With a flourish of his green cloak, Loki lowers himself onto the throne. The golden, horned helm appears on his head. Such simple magics are a favorite and nothing new to you. Extending a hand he answers, “Where else should a queen be, if not by the king’s side?” You respond with a coy smile. “But where am I to sit?” “I am all the throne you need tonight.” Once you are settled atop his lap, Loki wraps both arms around you. His gaze fixes on your face, travels down your form. After a time, he smiles. “You are such a divine creature,” he purrs, running slender fingers through your hair. Gently, he pulls you into a kiss. His lips are full against yours, and they part slightly. His tongue tastes you, tests your willingness. You open your mouth to him. He tastes of honey and wine. Of starlight and snowfall. While your tongues dance, your hands explore one another; his fingers tracing over your throat and hips, yours sliding over the leather folds of his clothing. You begin plotting all the movements you’ll make to remove the breastplate, the leather coat, the codpiece. As if he can sense your thoughts, Loki inhales sharply and the languid kiss becomes more urgent. His tongue darts in your mouth and his fingers clutch at you tightly. You feel him harden beneath you and give out a low moan of delight. He rips away from you and you see his lust laid bare. Lips swollen from kissing, eyes glazed with desire. “Do you trust me?” “Yes, my love.” “Wherever my desires may lead?” With a smile you repeat, “Yes, my love.” He produces a pair of manacles and holds them up to you. He watches you—intently and shamelessly--as you study them. Do you fear them? Him? “I’ll not take advantage of your trust,” he promises. “If you indulge me, I will feed every need you possess. Submit to me, and I will cherish you.” You answer by offering up your wrists. The horns dip as he bows his head in gratitude. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” The manacles click shut and the locks whir around your wrists. They are heavy, and while they are tight, they are not uncomfortable. Their weight is comforting. “You’re welcome, my king,” he corrects you. “And right now your king bids you to go stand at the bottom of the stairs.” Your pulse quickens, and once more you taste the thrilling fear of this unknown version of Loki. He is all at once colder, yet he smolders with a barely-contained passion. Doing as you are told, you rise from his lap and step off the dais. When you are near the center of the room, he calls for you to stop.

“Turn around and face me.” You do. Bound hands before you, you stand and weather the weight of his appraisal. “Remove your shoes and throw them over there,” he orders, gesturing to the columns. The marble floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Loki rises and slowly descends from the throne. With each step, he is wreathed with green light that shivers and quakes. A copy of him appears from that light. Then it splits into two more. And they divide. Again and again until Loki surrounds you. You take them in. Some of them wear his helmet and armor while others are in simple clothing, black hair unbound. You see that some of them are holding things: a raven quill, a peacock feather, a blanket of fur, a flogger with long black leather falls, a goblet of wine. And on and on. Each of the Lokis stares at you hungrily, but none with such naked need as the one directly before you. He holds a strip of green silk. As he circles you, he says, “They are all me. They only act on my will. What one feels, I feel. What I crave, they all seek. But I wonder, can you tell the difference?” Loki, your Loki, slips around behind you. As the green silk lowers over your eyes, the last thing you see is the multiplicity of your lover advancing. His breath is a hot splash against your ear. “I did promise to reward you for your risks. Ten. Fold.” His tongue quickly licks your ear before lips trace down your neck. You feel their heat, their bodies closing in, but only one body is pressed to yours. Only one pair of hands slides up under your clothes and glides along your back, your belly and chest. Only one set of fingers lightly teases your nipples before ghosting down your ribs, over your hips and dipping beneath your waistband. Kisses ghost their way down your throat. You gasp at the sting of his bite. The shift is sudden and fierce. Though his hands still grip your hips, your top is ripped, shreds left to hang from your bare flesh. The hands you know to be those of Loki yank off the rest of your garments. With an arm around your middle, he hoists you up to free your ankles from any stitch that might remain. As you are lowered again, feet finding the floor, you can hear fabric rustle over marble. As if being pulled by a chain in the ceiling your manacled wrists fly up. Blindfolded, feet pressed to the floor, arms raised over your head, you are at the mercy of your king and his duplicates. They are upon you, like a pack of ravenous wolves. Hands cup your buttocks and spread your thighs apart, caress your calves, and whisper over your shoulders. You let out a shuddering whimper as something cold and wet—is that ice?—traces over your nipples, drips down your stomach. You hiss at the sudden, biting cold, only to melt as a scorching hot mouth covers each of your breasts. Your jaw falls open and your legs quiver as a surge of ecstasy explodes within you. “You feel it,” he purrs into your ear. “The boiling need. The luscious passion. This is what you do to me.” Hands slide along your thighs, up and down, slowly and teasingly. The touch is soon followed by a tongue. Along the back of your legs, however, is a different sensation. Something long and supple. Fingers, but not of flesh. Your mind is reeling, senses over run. The sting and snap of leather becomes all you know. Though you tug and pull your arms are still held securely above your head. The leather strikes harder. You cry out, rocking against the unseen bodies around you. “Does this please you?” he asks. Another blow from the flogger. He sucks and bites at your nipples, and you shriek with pleasure. “Yes!” “Yes? Yes, what?” Another strike. A tongue darts into the wet center of you.

“Oh! Yes, my king!” Your knees shake. Though you think you might stumble, strong arms curl around your thighs and pull you forward to where a mouth eagerly receives you. Your head falls back only to land on what feels like Loki’s chest. Hands reach around from behind and slide up your stomach, claw at your hips. Kisses fall over your neck and shoulders, all while you are devoured by the lover between your legs. For every unctuous wave of pleasure, there is the sting of his teeth nipping at your sweaty flesh, of his hand smacking your bare ass. After a particularly forceful swat, he lets his hand linger there on your bottom. Slowly, he pushes his fingers between your folds, sliding over you from behind. While part of him still tastes you, he teases by slipping a fingertip inside you. Your pleasure escalates and you cry out. You buck and twist, your body pleading while you moan. His voice is hoarse and breathless in your ear. “Tell me,” he demands. “Tell me what you need.” “Mmmmm---more. Please,” you pant. His laugh is low. “More. I already outnumber you.” You are not amused. You try to settle yourself over his hand, try to push him. “Inside me. More, please.” “Please, what?” he whispers. He starts to remove the finger. “Please, my king!” A fist curls in your hair and yanks back. The tongue teasing you flicks, and that mouth sucks at you. The blindfold is ripped off and he is there. His eyes burn with blue fire. Loki covers your mouth with his, shoving his hot tongue in to taste your crippling desire. Fingers plunge into you and teeth sink into the sacred spot where neck meets shoulder. Your body jolts with the first wave of climax and you moan into his mouth. He growls, urged on by your passion. His fingers tighten in your hair. The invisible chain holding up your arms goes slack. Your bound wrists fall around his neck, and he scoops you up into his arms. The world is a blur of firelight and his face. He ascends to the throne and puts you down in the seat. It is covered with the fur blanket you saw earlier and soothes the aching flesh where you were flogged. Your arms sag, tired from being suspended. You open your eyes to see the throne room as Odin must see it. Glittering, gleaming and vast. From between your legs, Lokis horns rise up. His hands spread your thighs apart and his tongue begins exploring you. You take a firm hold on the horns and pull him into you. Your cries of pleasure echo in the chamber and he groans. “Louder,” he demands. You can only oblige. You rock against him, urging him to guide you to another orgasm. Closer and closer. You are undone, aching and begging. He tears his mouth from you, yanking at the manacles and bringing you to your feet. He roughly spins you to face the throne and cups your buttocks. Guiding your leg up, he orders you to kneel. And so you do. Gripping the back of the throne, you kneel upon it. You look over your shoulder, smoldering at him, to find he’s done away with helmet, cloak and leather. Not only this, but he has shed something far more important than armor. There are no duplicates. There is no magic. This is Loki, the real and true Loki. His skin is blue, his eyes red. “Are you afraid?” he asks. You look on him not with pity, but with love. “Oh, my king,” you whisper. “Another risk? Or are you satisfied with those you’ve already taken?” You smile wryly. “Satisfaction is not in my nature.” He grins and begins to worship you. His lips take their time kissing up and down your neck, over your shoulders. His palms linger over your back, your hips and thighs. Then, slowly, he spreads your legs apart and guides the length of his hardness inside you. You gasp, head falling back as he fills you. The rhythm he sets is potent and steady, but not too fast. He wants to relish this—relish you sheathing him. He pulls your body against his, enveloping you in his arms. With every thrust you are ignited. His hands tease and explore you, enjoy and taunt you, and soon the rhythm becomes more fervent. You are both overcome with raw, primal need. His whispers your name.

Without dropping his gaze, he asks you, “And just what does Jon have to say in regards to us?”

You stifle a laugh. “He’s chartreuse with envy.”

“Hmm. Jealous thing, is he?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking. He is beyond supportive of us–you, me and Eddie. Thing is…Jon likes to…watch.”

Volt raises an eyebrow and lowers his voice. “Does he now?”

“You and Eddie are a bit of a fascination for him. A holy grail, kinda.”

“Are you part of these notions, or is it just myself and Eddie?”

“Oh, my gods above, he hasn’t stopped hinting–or outright asking–for weeks. Since before we became an us he asked--and I quote--'do I finally get to watch Eddie and Volt rail you?'"

"Rail you?" "Six ways to a month of Sundays, I believe. Pretty sure he’d commit war crimes for a front row seat.”

His chuckle is dark and short-lived, his expression inscrutable. As he walks behind the bar, the crease between his brow appears as he disappears deeper into thought. Volt begins mixing a drink for himself. The rattle of shaking ice echoes in the empty club, and for a moment, you’re afraid you’ve hurt Volt somehow. 

Just as you begin to stammer an apology, Volt announces. “Eddie would never agree. Not to being involved, anyway.” 

“Oh, I’m not aski–.”

“And certainly never in the bar or in our flat.”

“Yeah, I’ve told Jon–.”

“I, on the other hand…”

There is a long silence, Volt’s comment hanging like the fucking sword of Damaclese over your head. You hold his stare.

Now it’s time for your eyebrow to climb. “Is that so?”

Returning to your side, he takes a drink. Then, “There would be rules, of course. As stated, not here. Not upstairs. And never with Eddie. In regards to Jon, if he likes to watch, that is precisely what he will receive. He is not allowed to touch you, or himself for that matter. And he must remain quiet as a church mouse.”

You stare at him, waiting for Volt to wink playfully, tell you he’s kidding, or at the very least shout April Fools’! 

But he doesn’t. 

You let out another nervous half-laugh. “You’re…you’re serious.”

“Aren’t you?” Eyes locked on yours, he sips his drink. 

“I wasn’t asking.”

“Maybe I am.”

Dumbstruck. 

Fucking. Dumbstruck. 

He gives you one of his deep, throaty laughs. “Have I surprised you?”

“More than a little! You said you don’t trust him.”

“I don’t need to trust him to torment him.”

“Oh, it’s like that? A little possessive, are we?”

“Dear one, when it comes to you and Eddie, absolutely.”

Heat creeps along your skin, cheeks burning. 

Volt places your drinks on the bar before coaxing you to your feet, and giving you a twirl. As he pulls you against him he asks, “When you are together–you and Jon–just what is it that he watches? Hmm?”

Your breath hitches and your pulse skips. The leer on Volt’s face tells you that he noticed. His thumb brushes across your lower lip. 

“Tell me,” he whispers teasingly. 

“Me,” you answer, voice thready. “He watches me.”

Volt purrs. “He watches you.” Cradling your head in his hand, he leaves a trail of kisses down your throat. He lingers dangerously above your pulse. “Do you touch yourself for him, live wire?” 

Your answer escapes on a quivering breath. “Yes.”

As his hands slip down your body, desire blooms through your core. Volt grips your ass then presses you to his rocking hips, dragging his hardening length over your sex. He kisses you forcefully, his fingertips digging into your flesh. A low, sinister laugh rumbles in his chest. You can only whimper in response as you grind against him. Pulling away, Volt commands your gaze.