Something Vexes Thee?

Mostly NSFW, slash, mpreg, non-con, anything goes...

[beckerbell]

thescentofwhiteroses and I were talking about lastflowerarts’ harem!Loki artwork that’s so gorgeous and complaining about how there’s not any harem!Loki fic that we know of and, well. It was late and my defenses were down. Not precisely harem!Loki, but inspired by the idea. …

[themstrawberries-blog]

We need more harem!Jotun!Loki. It's just so right <3

[jawbone-violin]

Pregnant harem Loki, and harem master Ranulfr (OC) for my friend at themstrawberries.

[themstrawberries-blog]

AUGHGHGHHGALJKAGHEUIORNAGBOIEFAHOEROUIHNAFRG WHATDIDIDOTODESERVEWONDERFUL? Jawbone makes my day, ladies and gentlemen and lady-gentlemen and gentlemen-ladies and gaydies and lentlemen and all you marvellous people :* Loki's like "Gods, how many are stuffed in there?" Ran's like "Yep, that's all mine" #possessive

[themstrawberries-blog]

32 Little Mpreg Harem Lokis

A certain number for a certain special person. Was supposed to do a pinup but ran outta time D:

(sorry about the repost, I done it wrong. We're not very bright around here...)

[themstrawberries-blog]

OH MY GOD YOUR HAREM LOKIS ARE JUST HHHHHNGHHHH I JUST WISH THERE WERE LIKE 50K OF FIC FOR THIS SERIOUSLY

One day I should write something for it, shouldn't I? He just lives in RP land at the moment. Glad you enjoy <3

[themstrawberries-blog]

Your blog is amazing ^^ <3

Thankyou!! 

[themstrawberries-blog]

Intersex harem Loki

[themstrawberries-blog]

bit harem-y ;)

[themstrawberries-blog]

"He'll be all right, brother..." "Will he, Thor? Do you promise?" 

[themstrawberries-blog]

Jotun!Loki and his son... 

[jawbone-violin]

More intersex Jotun Loki.  I can’t help myself.

(for Sparklebee)

[themstrawberries-blog]

BEAUTIFUL LOKI! No wonder men and women fall over themselves because of him!

[themstrawberries-blog]

BEE I AM SHRIEKING, AAAAHHHHHHHHHH YOUR NEW FIC AAAHHHH <3333333 *flails and falls out of chair* --love, other B

Anything you want, you got it ;)BAYYYYYYYYY-BEEEEEEEEEEE 

[themstrawberries-blog]

Breakfast

WARNINGS: Lactation-kink, implied M-preg, intersex!Loki

If any of the above warnings freak you out, please do not read, or read with caution. 

Notes: Spell-checking may or may not be present. I take no responsibility for squick induced injuries or eye-bleeding.

For my B - NO HOLDS BARRED!

Breakfast.

It took all of Bruce's self control not to stare, but after a moment he realized he was doing it anyway, and by then he figured it was too late and the chagrin he was experiencing as a result was much deserved. It wasn't so weird, really. He'd seen a hermaphrodite before - he’d seen two, actually, although they tended to call themselves intersex now, and celebrated their differences, rather than hide them in a history of surgical procedures. It was especially taxing in some of the areas where Bruce had hidden himself, to try to encourage the intersex person to let their instincts and their heart decide on their true gender - should they choose one - and while the mutation wasn't common in humans, it wasn’t something Dr Banner would usually balk at. Usually. However the composition in front of him left something to be said for the “usual” manner of anything. Particularly since the composition in front of him happened to be attached to one Loki Laufeyson, Thor’s brother, a God, and currently an exclusive member of SHIELD’s list of top ten criminals (number 3 on the Avenger’s dartboard).

That, Bruce had to admit. Came as a surprise. Gone was the pale, deep-shadowed skin and glass-green eyes of the man that Bruce (well, Bruce and the other guy) had cemented into the floor of Tony Stark’s kitchen, and in its place was the strange, counter-intuitive shape of an androgyne the colour of toilet cleaner and with eyes like something Bruce had seen in a horror movie back in nineteen eighty-four. This was, according to Thor, Loki’s true form; apparently his human-like “Aesir” skin was nothing more than a guise he wore to fit in with the rest of the God crowd and he usually looked as he did now. Blue, red eyed and cool to the touch, his skin decorated with sweeping, orbicular markings, like strange tracks of planetary alignment.

Gone also was the bravado. The hatred. The overbearing sense of self-involvement. Instead, Loki stared quietly at his hands, having uttered less than sixteen words since he awoke in the closed quarters of the Helicarrier’s infirmary. Bruce could have sworn he’d seen tears once, though he didn’t want to bet on it.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, taking a quick look at the clipboard in his hands. It was mostly for show - just random ticks and squiggles here and there. In truth, there hadn’t been a single cough bubbling from Loki’s chest that Bruce hadn’t taken note of and categorized efficiently in the back of his mind. Though he was a God, Loki had been as sick and weak as any of Banner’s patience in Calcutta, suffering from Dengue fever. His temperature had soared and plummeted and, despite his already cool body temperature which appeared to be his natural state, he developed chills that had thrown him into delirium. For the amount of blood Loki had lost, however, his illness wasn’t uncommon. And as it was, Bruce knew exactly how Loki was feeling.

Lousy. He didn’t even need to say it. But then again, Loki didn’t seem too keen on talking. Bruce wasn’t really surprised. He’d been too angry to talk when Fury begrudgingly handed him over to his own superiors, The Order, on the proviso that he would serve some of his lengthy sentence on “Migard”, and the rest under the steely fist of the Asgardian Justice system. It was pretty black and white - even pissed, Fury himself seemed somewhat resigned to it. Thor, had been equally miffed (to put it mildly) and had roared and snarled - living well up to his namesake as Loki was escorted into the transport vehicle that bore a team of Special Ops with expressions as blank as its plates. The rest of the Avengers had barely blinked - Clint still being the one irked enough at Loki’s manipulation of him to put a bullet between his eyes on sight and worry about the cranial hemorrhaging later. After they’d managed to calm Thor down, however, no one was really that worried.

Until they said he’d fallen ill. And Bruce knew, even though he’d never known of The Order before, that one part of an establishment like SHIELD does not call on another like Fury’s team, unless something had gone very wrong. Or something needed cleaning up. Fury was to take a blood sample of Thor’s to the unit where his brother was being held. He did not return for half a day and when he did, his mood was grim. When Fury returned from the Order, he asked Thor to stay and not return to Asgard. Four months later, the Avengers were storming into what Fury had discovered was an unregistered branch of The Order. Something that looked like a cross between the X-Files, Star Trek and A Nightmare on Elm street.

What they’d been prepared for was something along the lines of a rather red-faced, germ-stricken, snot-covered deity, just as glad to see them as a house cat is a bottle of feline shampoo.

What they got was blood. A lot of blood. Blood like ink, like a few thousand broken biros seeping onto the white linoleum - the smell of it was so strong, Bruce had felt the revulsion coiling around his stomach, threatening to upend the contents of it onto the floor. The blood was first. Then the keening - a terrible, broken whimpering like a rabbit caught in a gin trap. Then, once Bruce had managed to get past the first two tasks - feeling a little like Hercules as written by David Lynch - he saw Loki. Well... At least, he thought it was Loki. He hadn't recognized him immediately, given that he happened to be the exact shade of cobalt of the ‘67 Chevy that Bruce had been eyeing up in the car lot near Tony’s favorite diner, was lying on the floor of his cell in a stained white gown that revealed not only what appeared to be a pair of breasts, but the firm swell of a pregnant stomach - of which he clasped with clawed fingers as he moaned and writhed weakly in a slick of filth.

What they got was a God in labor. A God, forced by The Order to wear a form he could not abide and impregnated against his will, simply because it could be done. They’d wanted to see what they could breed from him, but the effects of pregnancy on Loki’s runt Jotun body were dire and finally, it was decided that they could not save him. Loki had miscarried three times and delivered one stillborn, after only a few months. The trauma had cost Loki dearly.

“She’s better today,” Bruce said, awkwardly, motioning toward the incubator. “Breathing’s better. Heart’s a bit stronger. She’s doing good.”

“She isn’t,” Loki’s voice was barely a whisper. “Do not sate me with lies, I can feel her. I know she is dying.”

“If you’re dead set on thinking bad things will happen, they often will,” Bruce parried, gently, moving over to Loki’s bedside. He rested a hand on Loki’s hip and let his weight fall on it, carefully - coaxing him to roll over. “Don’t tempt fate. Or the Norns... yanno. Whatever.” He smiled, wanly and nodded with encouragement as Loki slowly turned, gritting his teeth against the pain. “You’ve been in the wars too, don’t forget. Let’s have a look at you.”

“Why, so I shall be well for when you incarcerate me again?” Loki gasped, groaning as Bruce propped a few pillows behind him. “So that I do not expire unexpectedly in your care? For you know my brother would-”

He stopped abruptly as Bruce rolled back the sheet and blankets, carefully shifting Loki’s thighs to open them a little wider. His hand slipped deftly between Loki’s legs to collect the post-partum sanitary pad he’d managed to fix in place. Loki had been bleeding like crazy; Bruce was pleased to note that it had slowed at least. Loki paled terribly as he pulled the soiled pad away and set about affixing a new one. It seemed any snappy comments he’d manage to brew overnight while he lay in his sickbed had very rapidly evaporated and even his breathing seemed scarce as Bruce gently examined his embroidery on the base of Loki’s swollen female sex, looking for any sign of infection or tearing. Loki’s prick lay limp and sympathetic over the top of its sister - unimportant to Bruce’s inspection.

“Let me know if you feel any sharp pains or burning sensations,” Bruce said, now moving to Loki’s pallid, bare stomach as he proceeded to palpate the flesh, gently. The way Loki had practically snapped back into shape, save for a thickening around the waist, would have any new mother (or any mother, or any woman, for that matter) seeing red, yet it was a blessing he neither seemed to acknowledge, nor cherish. If Bruce had not seen him that day, his mouth twisted into a grimace as he was too weak to scream, his belly straining with the weight of the child who was struggling to be born, he would never have believed that the babe in the plastic bassinet beside him was Loki’s daughter.

Loki twisted, plainly uncomfortable as Bruce continued to prod as carefully as he could - his hands twitching at his sides as though he fought the urge to cover himself. His eyes had turned glassy, his skin impossibly paler under Bruce’s touch. Thor had said he hated to appear in his natural form, calling it ugly, base and disfigured. Being unable to hide it was torture to him, and Bruce could tell. He shivered. His breath was light and quick as though he was trying very had not to be there, to become nothing more than a gust of air; to disappear into the drape of the sheets. Bruce only rested his hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently for his attention.

It wasn’t the form he wore, or the colour he happened to be that truly bothered Bruce. It wasn’t his small, almost pitiful breasts that he had absently tried to cover with the edge of the sheet, nor was it the way he pressed his knees together, trying to stem the ache from his torn vagina that Bruce himself had to stitch back together after Loki had finally delivered. It wasn’t the fact that Loki had delivered, or that the product lay cuddled in the incubator near Loki’s bed - a fragile mess of tubes, tape and hope. It was simply the look in Loki’s eyes; the defeat, the shame. That’s what bothered Bruce. Only a few days ago, Loki was still the powerful sorcerer who had nearly broken New York, The Avengers, The World and Fury’s balls all in less than a week and not necessarily in that order. He’d still been mad, he’d still been challenging and dangerous - even when he’d been imprisoned by SHIELD, even when the Order took him.

That’s what Loki had been. Now... Well... Bruce wasn’t sure he even remembered that entity. Not with that look haunting his eyes - a man who’d had everything turned inside out - all his secrets dug from inside him and put on show; all his fabrications, untangled, bared, marked with exhibit numbers and aligned neatly before a jury of all he’d wronged. Bruce saw the bottom of the barrel in Loki’s eyes; a broken creature, a savaged bird. He wet his lips and padded a little closer, trying not to let himself think that Loki’s patch-worked body was weird or odd or anything out of the ordinary. If there was anything they needed to help mend Thor’s brother, it was a neutral confidante. As Loki’s doctor (well, the only one willing to go near him out of SHIELD’s entire medical team) Bruce had raised his hand. He certainly wasn’t one to go poking holes in someones physical appearance. Even the Hulk wasn’t such a hypocrite.

“No pain?” He repeated, the fingers of his other hand still warm on Loki’s cooler skin. Loki shook his head.

“No more than the usual ache,” he admitted, his gaze fringed by thick, black eyelashes. He said nothing more. Bruce wondered if he was lying. With a firm expression - lips stretched into a stern line - he moved his hand to sit on Loki’s ribs, motioning to one of his small, swollen breasts.

“And how about... ” he paused, thinking how odd it was to comment to another man about his breasts. “How about... uh... here?”

“D-don’t-” Loki gasped, his eyes filling with hot tears as he rolled away from Bruce, clawing at the blanket pooled by his knees. “Don’t touch me!”

“Loki, your baby is weak-”

“She’s dying.”

“No... but she needs you...” Bruce coaxed, carefully. “I don’t know much about... about... um... About your people, but I know that the uh... parent’s milk is um... Well, it’s good for her. It’s got all sorts of antibodies and things that will make her strong...”

“I am not a cow!” Loki whispered, tearfully. “I’m not... I’m not a... a... I’m a God... I’m a King. I’m not... I’m...”

The excuses slowly started to wear thin, however, and Bruce simply waited patiently until Loki surrendered a soft sigh and reclined again, his hands still covering his chest. His eyes were aimed somewhere toward the side of the bed, fringed by his heavy, dark lashes. He could not bring himself to look Bruce in the eye. It was the same when he’d been lying on the floor of his cell, surrounded by a moat of dark blue blood. The fluorescent bulb that lit his room flickered on and off at intervals, giving the entire tableau another handhold into absurdity. Loki had been well into his labour and had been suffering for far too long without help. He’d been bleeding out, unable to free the child who’d been breach and complicated and his narrow hips just couldn’t have it.

Bruce Banner had approached him as Bruce Banner, and stayed that way as he helped the ailing God give birth. He called for help. He cut the cord. He talked Thor out of slaying the entirety of the Organization who’d thought it necessary and beneficial to try and breed from Loki’s intersex jotun form. He pounded Loki’s chest when his heart failed and breathed air into his lungs to force him to live again There was very little Loki could say to dissuade Bruce from doing anything he could to help him. And so, he waited a moment more, then slowly pushed Loki’s hands aside, cupping one small, straining breast in his hand, pulling back a little when Loki hissed sharply through his teeth.

“Sore?” Bruce frowned as Loki nodded mutely, still refraining from acknowledging him. He weighed his breast lightly in his fingers, doing his damnedest to turn his Dr Banner persona on full and keep things as professional as he could while two warring factions of his instincts voted to a) Run like hell, or b) Council Loki until he was a sobbing mess. Neither were really appropriate. “Your milk is just stuck-”

“Oh for the love of the Allfather-”

“-won’t take too much to get it going again.” Bruce massaged the soft tissue lightly, rolling Loki’s dark nipple with his thumb. Loki’s breath quickened, and he keened softly, letting a few silent tears fall as Bruce’s fingers did their work, gently applying pressure to the nub. After a few minutes, however, the milk still did not fall, and Loki seemed to be fighting an internal battle of shame, humiliation and anxiety that was quickly becoming reasonably external. Bruce cleared his throat and motioned to Loki’s chest.

“Um... Do you mind if I...” His words petered off as he made a strange, apologetic grimace.

“If what?” Loki perplexity bled through his distress and his brow worried a frown as he peered up at him. “If you what?”

“Er... get a bit... um... Well... get into your personal space. It’s... I... I don’t have my usual equipment... There’s a type of pump that-”

“D-do whatever you must,” Loki said, completely confused. Getting Banner to quieten down was really the only he could think of to do, through he didn’t expect the man to mutter something unintelligible, shrug, and lean over to put his lips on his nipple. Bruce’s mouth was warm, and the pressure was pleasantly biting. Loki gasped breathily as Bruce rolled the nub carefully around the roof of his mouth, trying not to cause any pain to Loki, or damage to the ducts. He half expected to be punched in the face, yet Loki only let out a soft whimper as he continued to suckle, softly, but resolutely until he felt something give. Loki sucked in a worried breath, but let it out slowly as Banner simply winced a little and pulled away, wiping his mouth on a handful of tissues.

“There,” Bruce said in a tight voice, swallowing hard. “That’s helped it. Now if you-ah...”

The second nipple, he’d managed to unclog with just the warmth and pressure of his hand, and he drew his thumb over the beading drops gathering on Loki’s dark flesh, wiping them on his pants. Without saying another word, he drifted over to the incubator and pushed it closer to the gurney - reaching inside to lift out the tiniest, fragile little baby Loki had ever seen. No one had ever offered him a look at her. No one had thought to let him touch her. SHIELD were in the business of making problems go away, not provide them with adequate housing and substantial aftercare. Loki sucked in breath as his daughter was laid on his chest, submitting a few weak coos as she tucked her feet up underneath her. Slowly, Loki stroked one long, thin finger down her pale blue arm and shook his head, disbelieving.

"She's hideous."

"Really? I would have said she was ultramarine," Bruce quipped, helping move the little girl into the crook of Loki’s elbow. She bleated unhappily, but settled - being cooler to the touch herself, the temperature of Loki’s Jotun skin did not seem to bother her.

Loki didn’t answer him, but Bruce was unsurprised. He helped Loki position her - moving her up to face a nipple and carefully drew his thumb across her lower lip, encouraging her to start suckling. Though it took a few minutes and a few coaxing words from Bruce (and, after a moment, Loki - who seemed to speak to her in his own tongue, a soft, rolling lilt that tumbled of his breath) she finally latched and slowly began to nurse. Loki was undeniably relieved as he was surprised, and he shifted a little in his bed; dusting his fingers lightly over her head. His IV tube swayed absently with the movement.

“There,” Bruce grinned. “That’s better... She’ll be all right... She’s doing fine.”

“She’s a runt,” he whispered. “Like me. Like I was... She’ll never be any good for it.”

“Hey, don’t knock the little things,” Bruce retorted, good naturedly. “Sometimes they end up packing more of a wallop than you think. Look at Stark.”

“Don’t compare my daughter to that miscreant.” Loki said, but there was no ire in it. Bruce laughed.

“Fine, fine.... Well, now that we have her sorted out...” He glanced at the clock and nodded. “How about some breakfast?”

[themstrawberries-blog]

Of Wood, Blood and Bone part 3

WARNINGS: M-preg, underage (JiM Loki), shota, non-con, rape and an OC.

If any of the above warnings freak you out, please do not read, or read with caution. 

Notes: This is part one in a fic that I'm going to just nut out on occasion between bigger fic exploits. It's just a bit of crazy I need to get out of my head. This will usually be unbeta-ed, so sorry if it's messy.

Dedicated to That Person Who Understands. *Brofist*

Part one is here: http://themstrawberries.tumblr.com/post/31917988040/of-wood-bone-and-blood

By the way, when picturing Loki for this fic - specifically his fuzzy age - I go with Pasqual Ferry's older, lankier version, who seems around 14-15... not the really, really childlike depictions... If that... makes it better... um.

Relieving himself is not only foreign and awkward, but for the degree of injury he has sustained at the Vargr’s treatment, pissing feels like he's passing needles. He wakes from another bout of forced unconsciousness, head thick and swimming, the pain a thick, stolid plank between his hips. He cannot get up, any attempt to do so stabs shards of raw hurt through his back and pelvis - so acute his scream of pain grinds against the backs of his teeth. Instead, he simply soils himself, spreading his legs as wide as he can to keep the bulk of it from stinging his lacerated thighs. It pools beneath him, warm and stinking and he chokes on a sob as the wide grazes on his belly itch and hiss from the ammonia. Loki notices, after a long moment, that there is blood in his urine. He is both sickened and unsurprised. And also, very much alone. The Vargr seems unconcerned at leaving him unattended given that Nornheim is a virtual wasteland of stone and sand and nothing more. Unpopulated, uncomplicated. Barren. His captor wastes no worry in simply leaving him on his own to feebly tend his injuries whilst he gathers food and small, pungent-smelling succulents that are virtually the only sources of water for miles. There is little reality in rescue - the Aseir rarely bother to visit the land of the Norns; there is little to hunt here beside birds, jackals and tunnelling sand worms and the desert temperature is biting and uncomfortable. It is not a location that anyone from Asgard would bother with. No one comes here. The Vargr need not worry about his prize being stolen from him. And, even if Loki somehow found the strength and entertained the compulsion to flee, the boy can barely move; his agility worn down to nothing more than a pathetic wiggle, which takes him about as far as the Vargr can stride in less than ten seconds. There is no threat of his escape. Loki groans loudly as he thrusts his hands beneath him, pushing himself over onto his back. It takes such a tremendous effort, he's panting and gasping by the time he's face up, hands wiping the spill of urine from his stomach. He reaches down, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain when he touches himself, his labia hot and scabbed with blood and come and swollen with irritation. It aches. He presses the heel of his hand to it, firmly, trying it stem the hurt that throbs throughout the flesh and tunnels deep inside. More pain grinds into his pelvis, sharp through the softer skin, then bruising as it travels back. Loki's cry shakes in his throat and he presses his fingers into his barking sides, He doesn't know what to think, doesn't know what to do. The most he can manage at this current moment us to try to stay conscious and not succumb to the agony. His head feels weighty - full of a compounding drunkenness that he knows is caused by a deadly mixture of exposure and concussion- and to think through it is like taking a mental jog through quicksand. His skin burns and itches, his lips are split and flaking. His stomach twists angrily against the hunger that assails it and his throat rubs raw against his breath. Apart from the head trauma, he is not sure how how much this unfair transformation has cost him; how badly the Vargr’s rape has damaged him on the inside. He dearly wishes to cry, but he knows that will not do him any good. Tears will not bring back what has been taken. Even if it did, he doubts the Vargr will be disinclined to put a halt to his sport - he has already taken Loki in the rectum several times, when the godling cried in desperate protest of the pain and bleeding in his female sex. And the Vargr won't kill him, not when it can use him. Not when it has the opportunity to watch the light fading from his eyes, no. The Vargr feeds him enough bloody, raw meat to keep him just on the edge of starvation; lets him drink just enough for his thirst to spark in the back of his throat - satiation aching in his dry gums - before the water is taken away and Loki is left wanting, begging for relief. He'd tried to make a bargain at one point - no screams, no struggling, he'd let the Vargr take him whole - he'd even try to enjoy it. The Vargr answered by pissing in his face. The Vargr was done making deals with gods. Footsteps crush the sand near his head and Loki shudders as he realizes the mad God has returned - he can smell him before he even hears him. A clawed hand closes around his ankle and drags him forward until his buttocks touch the Vargr’s knee. Loki mewls unhappily, his hand closing over himself in attempt to keep the Vargr away, but the man simply grips his wrists in one giant fist and holds them up over his head while his free hand fingers Loki’s throbbing clit. "No, please," the Godling whimpers, his voice hoarse. "Please, I can’t... Please let me rest. I could be so much better if I could rest." "It is your screams that please me." The Vargr replies, thumbing over the nub while he pushes a finger inside. Loki is swollen and tender and his muscles twitch around the Vargrs knuckle. He keens, weakly, but his breath is shortening into brisk pants, his cunt moistening with more than the warm, sticky ooze of blood. "And you whore for them, you see?" "I’m bleeding. On the inside," Loki moans, shaking his head. Tears tracks stripe his dirty cheeks, though none have run anew quite yet. "It looks bad... I think... Please, I do not know the workings of this body... Let me rest a while and heal, so that it may be stronger for you the next time." The Vargr seems to ignore him and simply eases himself out of his loincloth, stiff and enormous as ever, his cock slicked by wet trails of pre-come. He leans over to rub it against Loki's stomach, grinning as the boy jerks and bucks beneath him. He rubs the side of his prick against the slick folds of Lokis sex, then drags him by the throat, pulling him upward into a sitting position. If he could not have his cunt or his arse, then his mouth would do. Loki screams as agony courses through him at the sudden movement and wails as strong, rough fingers curl in his hair - nearly ripping several clumps out at the root. The Vargr’s cock is hot and bitter at his lips and he stares at it quizzically, unsure of what his captor plans, until the Vargr’s free hand clamps about his chin, pressing into the muscles of his jaw with a vice grip - prising his mouth open. Loki cries out in both pain and fright, but the Vargr ignores him and simply shoves himself inside, sliding down the soft, wet pad of Lokis tongue to slam against the back of his throat. Epiglottal muscles rear in response, shuddering and squeezing to clear the blockage, but it does not budge. Loki chokes, wildly, feeling the nausea ball in a lump around his lungs as his gag reflex trampolines - unhelpfully sending more foul tasting fluid down to curdle in his stomach. Fingers tightening in his hair, the Vargr starts thrusting, roughly - his cock jamming painfully down Lokis trachea, hard and hot, until his fetid come rushes over Lokis tongue and coats his mouth in seed. Lokis nails claw at its stomach, weak and frantic with shock and lack of air, but the Vargr holds him still, ordering him to swallow it all before he will even consider letting him go. Were he not so worn, were he not so tired and hurt, Loki might have thought of clamping his teeth down, breaking through skin, piercing flesh and biting the bastards god damn prick off. And as the Vargr discards him, as his head cracks once again on the hard seam of rock that punctures through the sand, Loki in all his evaporating conscience, stumbles upon a plan...

[themstrawberries-blog]

Of Wood, Bone and Blood, part 2

WARNINGS: M-preg, underage (JiM Loki), shota, non-con, rape and an OC.

If any of the above warnings freak you out, please do not read, or read with caution. 

Notes: This is part one in a fic that I'm going to just nut out on occasion between bigger fic exploits. It's just a bit of crazy I need to get out of my head. This will usually be unbeta-ed, so sorry if it's messy.

Dedicated to That Person Who Understands. *Brofist*

Part one is here: http://themstrawberries.tumblr.com/post/31917988040/of-wood-bone-and-blood

****

The Norns remember the Vargr, though no one else does.

He was a God forgotten by man; forgotten by Gods. A criminal, a lunatic, lost in the labyrinth of the outer hells for centuries, he has become nothing more than a shadow of a memory - his name is merely the shiver that runs down your spine as you sense something is wrong, something is not as it should be. The carnal tug of fear as a darkness, old and instinctual, presses against your lungs, that is he. That is the Vargr, that is he.

While most Gods revel in their immortality, becoming wiser, dearer - becoming pillars of mortal worship, the Vargr's has become mind twisted in his tremendous age and he finds himself pining for youth, for the brightest spark of beauty that only mortal children possess for the shortest time before their bodies and minds mature and the magic is gone from their bones. After many struggles and many deaths - even the occasional demi-God born to those who survived - the Vargr was cast out from his kingdom by his disgusted contemporaries. The Gods were beginning to change now, and for the better – mortals were not such playthings anymore. The Vargr does not agree with this. He is a God to be feared, a God of pain, sex and blood and he will not stand to be smudged out so easily.

Eager for revenge, he sought the aid of the Asgardian trickster - one who is well known to rub at the fading bruise of a grudge until the blood flows thick under the skin. Loki was powerful. Loki was much smarter than he. Loki was angry. Loki would help him. But as vehement as Loki Laufeyson was against his own enemies, he saw nothing of use in the Vargr, and, sickened by his mad misuse of human young, conspired with his enemies in order to throw the villain in the deepest pits of hell. Alone. Unrelenting. Furious. Even his name was torn from him and he became nothing more than a lone wolf, toiling aimlessly through the deserts of hell.

Then the three women called him back. The old one; the ripe one; the fair one. And they told him of his prey. And he searches for Loki, gums sheened in anticipation, fangs dripping with desire to taste him; to devour him. To remind him just how sorely he'd been mistaken with he'd branded him a fool. All too soon he finds him wandering. Finds him lost, confused and weakened by the old ones potions and drained by the sun. He is different, but he is still Loki – the Vargr can smell his name embedded in his bones.

The blow he casts is to the side of the boy’s head is with a long, heavy bone and the Godling stumbles from the weight of it. When he turns around, dazed, his eyes wide with surprise and a little fear (it used to be annoyance, clearly he doesn’t have the power to swallow his surprise as he used to), there is blood on the side of his face. The Vargr likes this, it makes his cock twitch - drives his hand forward to grasp the boy’s hair in one clump, wrenching his head backwards to take a good long look at him. Into his eyes, into the rage still burning there - a rage he’d kindled so long ago.

Even though the God has changed shape dramatically, the Vargr remembers him. Even though the Vargr is an account from his former life, Loki remembers him duly, and he struggles with wild fingers, desperate to claw himself to safety. But the Vargr is stronger, the Vargr is determined. Revenge is the only flavour he wishes to glut himself upon - Loki's pleas fall on deaf ears and the Vargr is long past words now, having no need of them for centuries. Vengeance is poison bleeding through his flesh, hot and thrumming in his veins, and Loki’s small fists are only like the patter of hail against his broad chest. He knows only the fever that drives him; hate, want, and the promise in the young body before him. The hags have given him a better gift than he could have ever imagined; for the Vargr far preferred this helpless, shaking stripling to the Aesir’s previous wiry form with its taste far too soured by time and bitterness.

The clothes are stripped easily from him, though the boy struggles and cries, there is little he can do to dissuade the hands that clutch and bruise his skin, or the teeth that sink into the back of his neck in warning. The Vargr’s hands search across Loki’s form, hungrily, but when they seek his sex they find another mystery that pleases them. It appears the Aesir is also ill-equipped as a man, for the Vargr’s rough fingers find soft, pleasing folds instead - warm smoothness around him that brings his mouth away from the boy’s throat and fills it with odd, gurgling chuckles.

He toys with the Lordling’s cunt, while he muses over the strange form before him - half and half, like the Havfrue. But unlike the merfolk of legend, the boy was not half fish, he was half maiden - and it doubly pleases to note that this transformation is also a complete surprise to the God himself. Loki’s eyes are wider than Skoll’s supper, and he trembles violently at the Vargr’s touch, his lips forming words that his breath cannot fill with sound - too shocked it is, that it has fled from his lungs. He’s sweating. Good. That would only season his flesh for the Vargr to enjoy - for there was nothing more enjoyable than the condiment of fear upon nubile meat.

The Vargr finds his opening and runs his finger around the edge of it, snickering as Loki emits a strangled gasp of shock. Up until now he couldn’t be entered in such a way; up until now, no one would have thought of such a thing. Up until now.

The boy is struggling to right himself but the Vargr merely pushes him over again, easily, uncaring at the sickening crack of his skull as it hits a jutting rock. Loki reels, gasping to catch both his breath and a sense of coherency, but the Vargr ignores him and seizes his thighs, forcing them open as wide as they will go, then wider. He descends upon the hairless mound before him, running his thick, rough tongue between, lathering the smooth ridges with his own hot, foul-smelling saliva. The Vargr cannot determine the Godling's age, but does not miss the way Loki’s clit is hardening at his touch, and the boy’s breath hitches at the back of his throat. He may not remember how to use what he has between his legs, but his body does and it seems to respond without his permission - confusing him even further.

He pushes a finger inside, dry, and licks his teeth as the Aesir squirms, trying to shut his knees upon him, close him away. Loki has stopped with the pleas and the promises for now and hisses dully, his retaliation slowed by a mixture of drugs, exposure and a mild concussion. He swats and kicks, but his efforts are weak and the frustration is beating him. The Vargr licks him again, inhaling deeply, lingering over the taste of him, while he twists his claw deeper and Loki jerks, mewling unhappily - his stomach pumping as his body wrestles with the sensations of terrible repulsion and pain and strange pleasure at the same time. As the Vargr presses in more, there’s resistance; he’s untried. Unbroken. He isn’t surprised - the boy’s passage is so tight, the pressure around even his finger is maddening. Well there is only one thing for that.

The Vargr wears only a slight loincloth, as most of his clothes and armour had long since been lost or discarded in the depths of the pit, and now he tugs it off and tosses it aside, pulling out of the boy to give him a moment’s cessation - trick him into thinking the worst is over, before he will take him completely. His cock is hard against his belly, straining for the warmth, for the friction, for the body below it, and the Vargr rubs himself casually against Loki’s milky thigh, waiting for the moment when the Lordling realizes where that particular piece of equipment is going. It is there in the widening of his eyes, in the movement of his lips as he prays no...no! and then the Vargr is lost.

Nudging against the boy’s hole, he tries him once, twice, then - gasping as the little lord screams - thrusts inside. The Vargr’s girth is more than Loki can stand and the whole motion is broken down to nothing more than a display of monstrous strength and callousness; mimicking the act of hammering a nail into stone. Loki’s peals are strangled and broken as the Vargr seizes his hips and tips him upward, enabling him to enter more deeply. Blood slicks the side of his member as he punches into the stripling, and Loki’s muscles are strict cords as they react to the pain of being forced wider; trying in vain to stand strong against the intruding attacks. His back scrapes against sand and rock, ripping shallow, searing channels in his flesh. His head reels, heavy with pain, and numbing tendrils shoot down his fingers as the world in his eyes develops a dark fringing around the edges.

The last thing Loki is aware of is the hot gush of the Vargr’s seed spilling inside of him, and the blood slicking his legs before the light cancels completely. He collapses into a thin heap, muscles twitching in spasms, cries dying on his breath. The Vargr snorts and wipes a hand over its muzzle, plunging into him a second time.

[themstrawberries-blog]

Of Wood, Bone and Blood.

WARNINGS: M-preg (wow, weren't expecting that from me, were you, lol), underage (JiM Loki), shota, non-con, rape all the bad shit and a bunch of grapes. Oh, and angst. SO MUCH DAMN ANGST.

If any of the above warnings freak you out, please do not read, or read with caution. I will put things under cuts. I am a considerate freak, after all.

Notes: This is part one in a fic that I'm going to just nut out on occasion between bigger fic exploits. It's just a bit of crazy I need to get out of my head. This will usually be unbeta-ed, so sorry if it's messy.

I am not that well acquainted with JiM, but I've read bits here and there. I've kind of shoved these events in a fictional aftermath of Everything Burns. Totally fictional. But basically Loki manages to iron everything out in his usual, complicated way, only he ends up getting on the bad side of the Norns, who have a bit of beef with him. I've also re-dressed the Norns a little, just to make them fit...

Dedicated to That Person Who Understands. *Brofist*

Anyway, if you take the red pill, read on...

Of Wood, Bone and Blood.

 He should have known that crossing the Weird Sisters was a bad idea. Though the three do not seem particularly formidable at first glance, it is not the first impression that counts, but the lasting taste they leave in your mouth. The strange, worrisome worm of thought that bites through the back of your skull as you realize these three are your beginning, middle and end. They know all, these seemingly undistinguished women - all about you, all about everything. Worse than that, they have the ability to change what “all” might encompass - influence, if you will - and steer it toward “for better” or “for worse”. The most common goal for a Nornheim tourist is to persuade the Maiden, Mother and Crone to consider the fairer side of one’s future, appeasing the three with gifts, compliments and unrestrained awe.

Most mortals know to fear the Norns. Most Gods know never to cross them. Loki knows just as much as either, and yet this does not stop his antics from getting on their nerves. Which is, as discussed, not the best course of action.

“He has shirked his responsibilities again,” the Maiden muses, idly licking the blood of a deer from her fingers. She sips from her wooden bowl again - crimson staining her lips. “Crossed his brother, of whom we all favor. It is madness to let him continue on his path.”

“Crossing Surtur, letting Asgard fall,” the Mother agrees, nodding. She wipes her chin, greased with fat and juices from the plumpest cuts of meat lying stacking on a large dish at her side, and picks up another chunk of flesh, stuffing it between her teeth. “Naughty boy, naughty child. We have let him get away with far too much.”

“He should be punished,” the Crone hisses between cracking bones in her long, sinewy fingers; sucking the marrow from each. Her brow furrows over the dark voids of her eyes. “He takes and takes, and what does he give back? Nothing!”

“Not so,” the Maiden corrects her, lazily. “He did rid Asgard of the serpent. He did stop that dreadful row between the Manchester Gods and the Otherworlders-”

“Stalled it, anyway. For his own reasons,” the Mother snorts. “Everything is for his own reasons. Every line he casts leads back to him.”

“Where else would a line lead?” Maiden raises a brow, swirling the blood in her bowl. “If you wish to eat, you must always hold the end or you cast your hook in vain.”

“Perhaps he should give fishing a rest,” Mother replies tightly. “And sit quiet at the table for a time. It might suit him well.”

“Let the others feed him? What will that teach him?” Maiden purses her lips. “I agree with Dusk, he ought to be punished! Leaving him in the purgatory of his plots will not stop his mind from ticking.”

“Aye, this is true,” Mother says, and casts a telling glance at Dusk - the Crone - before swallowing another mouthful of flesh. “What say you, old one? You have always been the best with fitting recompense.”

Dusk grunts under her breath and thinks for a moment, picking at her teeth with a yellowed nail before she finally comes to an ultimatum.

“The boy thinks only of himself,” she says, her voice low and thick with scheming. “That is how he operates. Loki cares only for Loki; looks out only for Loki-”

“He loves his brother,” Maiden interrupts, earning her a firm glare from her oldest sister.

“He does, but that has been buried by many, many centuries of thinking only of his own hide. His jealousy has rotted that love. Even reborn, he cannot trust it.”

“What of the girl, Leah? Hela’s ill-fated representative?” The Mother adds. “He liked her.”

“Cared for her a little, yes. He felt she understood him.” The Crone grins, wickedly. “He liked to be told what to do by her. No doubt it made his little prick jump and those skinny thighs tremble when she did.”

“Men,” the Maiden agrees, raising her chin. The Mother simply shakes her head.

“Well what do you propose, sister? What best is a punishment for the ungrateful one? The things he cares most about he’s had to either give up or is so casual with his treatment of them, they oft end up deceased.”

“We cannot do anything with Thor, it will need to be more personal than that,” Dusk says, tapping an empty bone on the dusty ground. “It will need to be something that will belong to him; that he will treasure more greatly than he does any of his skills and plans.”

“I don’t think there is anything in his possession that he favors so,” Maiden frowns. The Crone waves a finger knowingly.

“Oh, he does not have it yet.” The Crone laughs as her sisters shoot her looks loaded with confusion. “Loki’s legends tell of him both siring and bearing children,” she goes on to explain. “Few are famous enough to be named and have their own tales, but it is altogether unclear as to how many he produced. Only that he seemed to produce many more than his brother, or any other Gods of note.”

“So he is a virile scoundrel, so what?” The Mother says, frowning. “If we set him up to sire a son, he will most likely lean on the mother to care for it. It is not quite the same as-”

“Bearing one? No. Precisely.” The Crone smiles, wickedly. “Therefore that is exactly what I propose we do. We have the power to alter him as easily as a doll made from clay, be that our intentions are united as one.”

“And true to the paths of fate,” Maiden adds, nodding.

“Take away his manhood and cleft him a cunt?” Mother spits onto the fire. Green smoke rises in thick curls. “As delicious as that sounds to shame him, he wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“He won’t need to,” the Crone says, airily. “I have someone in mind to seed him. Apart from that, I would imagine he’s seen a cunny before. Or at least knows of its use.”

“But Dusk, he is only a boy - even with the right equipment,” Maiden licks her plump lips. “Will he even quicken? Will he be able to bring it to term?”

“He’ll take, he’s been a woman before,” Dusk nods. “The soul can fill in what the body does not remember. As for his carry, well... It will be hard. But what is it the mortals say? The harder the toil, the greater the reward? We shall see how dearly he becomes invested - what lengths he’ll go to to keep it.”

“And if it dies, it becomes one of Hela’s flock,” the Maiden grins, clapping her hands in delight. “She will have her own sway over him yet, oh! Oh I do like this idea. I like it verily!”

“As do I,” Mother’s mouth pulls into a tight smile. “But please, whatever happens, the child’s interests must be put first.”

“We will make sure of it, Noon,” Dusk assures her, and rests a thin hand on her shoulder. The other she waves in the fire, coaxing a myriad of colourful flames to bleed from the embers. In the middle of the blaze, the image of the young Godling, staggering back through the deserts of Nornheim with an odd, loping gait.

“Is he drunk?” The Maiden asks, pushing her golden hair out of her eyes.

“Mead,” the Crone nods. “Spiked with my serum of wood, bone and blood to both ensure that he will respond to my Stallion, as well as forget himself enough to lack the ability to fight back.”

“Oh, we won’t have a show?” Noon says, disappointed. “I was hoping for a show.”

“A little suffering would be nice,” Morning agrees with a genial shrug. “Just to sate my annoyance with him. Can’t we make him suffer a little?”

“My sisters,” Dusk chuckles. “By the time we are finished with him, the Midgardians will have to pen a new word for his pain.”

**** 

[donono]

[drawsaurus]

9 Pictures of Loki Laufeyson wearing an ‘I Heart London’ shirt

Journey Into Mystery #639

there are some artists who draw him looking like fifteen, which is perf, and then there are some artists who draw him looking about ten, which is, you know, less cool

i can’t even tell with this one

[themstrawberries-blog]

Yes, 15 plz. 15 is fine...

[themstrawberries-blog]

Someone knows what I'm on about.

But that's Kid!Loki with a little wooden doll. FOR REASONS.

I might say... when I get over the crazy of it...