I'm a defeatist but I don't have to be

soooooo @loxxxlay​ mentioned some whump preferences recently and I wanted to provide, especially because she’s been deep in Finals Hell and deserves something nice. which…may or may not be a reasonable way to describe…whatever this is.

anyway have 1200ish words of weird whumpy Frostmaster dubcon, unedited and untitled and here instead of AO3 because I continue to be anal about wanting to post at least one new thing each month but also it’s been a long weird day and I want to go the fuck to bed instead of staying up later to format and tag and edit and obsess over the right title and also fix weird issues from having to type it in OneDrive because Word apparently won’t open in Safe Mode. (I will almost definitely do that tomorrow, in between bouts of cleaning up my earthquake-disaster bedroom, which was a disaster pre-earthquake so as you can imagine it’s even worse now.)

When the sunlight finally drags Loki toward wakefulness, he is alone and in his own rooms in the Grandmaster’s palace, which comes as a relief; less so the gradual realization that he is entirely naked and lying on the floor. For a panicked moment he thinks either someone carried him here or he stumbled to his rooms like this under his own power, and as dangerous displays of vulnerability go, he is not sure which is worse.

His mind grudgingly supplies a foggy memory of bringing himself straight here with a twist of seidr after the party, so at least that is something, even if he’s taken great care to conceal his abilities from most of the people here. It’s insurance, the knowledge that he has at least one more trick up his sleeve in a place where losing the element of surprise can mean the difference between maintaining the Grandmaster’s favor and ending up poisoned or melted.

The party suite was almost certainly not empty when he left. If he is very lucky, which seems unlikely, it’s possible all the remaining partiers were insensate or otherwise occupied at the time, but there’s no guarantee of that either, and try as he might he can’t remember for certain. He only remembers—he was shaky, and the room was blurring at the edges, and all he wanted was to be not there.

Whatever was in the Grandmaster’s new party drug, it certainly was effective.

He rolls over with some difficulty to put his back to the wall. Everything aches, and every bit of his skin is sticky with…well, with fluids, many of which he doubts he can identify, although some of it is his own blood. That much he knows, though he isn’t sure how he knows or how it might have happened.

Sakaar, Loki has learned, is like that.

He should run a bath, he thinks distantly. Find food and drink. He must be terrifically dehydrated, and if he is not feeling it yet, that state of affairs is unlikely to last long. And…clothes, or at least a towel—he should check that his doors are locked, too, though of course on Sakaar, locked doors only accomplish as much as the Grandmaster wants them to.

He should. At the moment, that doesn’t feel like sufficient reason to move at any point in the near future or perhaps ever again, not when his body is so terribly heavy. Finally he brings up one hand to rub at his eyes—and stops with a choked gasp, his fingers seized with pain and a nauseating sense of wrongness.

They’re broken, he realizes, staring at his hands until his vision blurs and conscious of a blank numbness where he should be horrified or afraid. Three fingers on his right hand and two on his left are bent and swollen, and the skin is dark with bruising that stretches down past his wrists. He never set the bones, and they’ve already begun to heal wrong.

The memories that resurface are hazy, little more than blurs of color and sound and sensation. He remembers—sprawling in the lap of some being or another. Naked, dizzy, panting. The Grandmaster’s (predatory) smile as he caressed Loki’s jaw, throat, abdomen. Everything loud and bright. Someone holding him down, maybe multiple someones at once, appendages everywhere keeping him pinned—possibly limbs, possibly tentacles, possibly some of both, pressing against him and inside him and everywhere the Grandmaster wasn’t touching, pulling his arms up over his head and holding there. His breath coming faster because he couldn’t move and it was—

The other guest, arching against him, into him, the Grandmaster’s encouragement piercing the fog in his brain. Its grip tightening, all along his body, the Grandmaster wringing pleasure from him even as the pressure turns to pain and then the creature bears up, bears down, wrenches Loki’s arms back and grips his hands harder harder harder.  

A shock of pain as something gives way in his hands, leaving him stunned and gasping. Another, agony flaring down his arm, still stroking, pain too much like Sanctuary but he couldn’t let it be like Sanctuary, not when he (couldn’t string together the words to make it stop, couldn’t say no to the Grandmaster if he wanted to survive) didn’t want to stop.  

The Grandmaster saying “aren’t you just—the prettiest, honestly, it’s like you were just waiting to land here and finally learn what you were meant for all along—and you just love it, kitten, don’t you?” and his own voice groaning yes because (he did, and he didn’t, and) what else, on Sakaar, could you say to that?

Pain and pleasure so tangled and overwhelming he stopped being able to tell which was which and all that was left was to endure it. Try not to drown.  

Loki stares at his fingers, tries to make a fist. The throb of dull pain tightens the coil of nausea in his gut. He will have to re-break his fingers to set them properly. The Grandmaster has doctors, of course, or at least some of his scientists know enough medicine to deal with the effects of overdoses, but going to find one is out of the question. Even if he does nothing more than buy a numbing agent, it will be as good as broadcasting weakness to the Grandmaster’s entire court, where the slightest misstep can be fatal. No, he will have to do this himself—with seidr to cut cleanly through the half-healed breaks if he is lucky, or brute force if he is not.

He remembers another time that something like this happened, when one of their youthful adventures went badly wrong and he and Thor were stranded deep in a Vanir cave system for a week, separated from Thor’s friends and cut off from the Bifrost. Loki broke his wrist in the initial fight with trolls and didn’t realize until the adrenaline wore off later. By then the bone had begun knitting itself back together wrong. Without any way to know how long they might be stranded or how soon they might need to fight again, Loki realized he had to reset the bone right away to have any hope of healing enough to defend himself. Thor helped him, that time—Loki had sufficient command of seidr to examine the break but not enough to cut the bone as precisely as he needed, so he illuminated the break from within and convinced Thor to give it one careful tap with Mjolnir. And then Thor sat with him, one arm around Loki’s shoulders, as Loki shakily guided the bone back into place. He never admitted it, but without Thor’s reassuring solid presence to ground him, he thinks he might have simply passed out instead.

But Thor isn’t here. Thor is probably dead by now (your fault, you fool, if you hadn’t panicked—). Even in the unlikely event that he survived Hela somehow, he has no reason to believe Loki survived a second fall from the Bifrost and less reason to care. At best he might be relieved he no longer has to worry about the trouble that follows Loki wherever he goes.

It’s fitting, Loki supposes. He’s been discarded like trash before; this time was simply more literal. But knowing it’s what he deserves doesn’t make the aching emptiness hurt any less, doesn’t stop him from wishing, pointlessly—

It hardly matters. Once again, Loki is on his own.

He grits his teeth and begins.