Chapter Text
Jotun labor was a cornerstone of Aesir society. Most Jotnar—large and strong—were used for physical labor, hard work in the fields, in the mines, as indentured soldiers in other Aesir colonies. Through the centuries, though, it had become increasingly popular to breed Jotnar for other attributes. Jotun secondary sexual characteristics were appealing in many ways: the heat that came upon the omega breed, coupled with their submissive predisposition, made them perfect for sexual slavery.
Of course, a Jotun could only be bred by another Jotun, so there was no fear of mixing blood. No mutts, no bastards, no troublesome pregnancies. It was an easy solution for the lusts that come upon Aesir men and women so easily. Indeed, ever since Jotnar sex slaves went to market in the reign of Bor, Aesir society had only improved and grown by leaps and bounds. Almost every household had a number of Jotun slaves. The alphas made good workers, and the omegas, good pets.
Thor Odinson has had a number of omegas in his care, all of them from the best pedigree, carefully trained and eager to please. They were even educated, a rare status for an omega, and could read and write and entertain Thor with music. As Crown Prince of Asgard, Thor could have his pick of any omega in the realm—of any omega in the Nine Realms and beyond.
So when he decided to drop by a local pound one day, the rumors that flew through the court were shocked and scandalized. What could Thor Odinson want with abandoned or captured omegas? Everyone knew that pounds only had omegas with the worst breeding, those who acted out or were simply too broken to be of any use. It was scandalous.
But not as scandalous as the day Thor Odinson actually brought his new omega home.
—
Days in the pound were marked by the sudden surge of lights overhead. The glaring, painful white lights shone over dank and cramped cages, filled with Jotun omegas. If the lights did not wake the omegas up, a blast of cold water did, sprayed directly into their cages by the handlers. The omegas at the pound were not allowed blankets or clothes or any personal items. They had one bowl attached to their cage, for hard and tasteless nutrient pellets. Water was hosed in twice a day, and they had no choice but to drink it from the spray or lick it from the cage floor.
Loki had been in the pound for almost a month, abandoned by his previous master. He had spent about a year strapped into a breeding bench, kept in a dark basement and whored out to seedy clients.
The pound was hardly better. The days were slow and torturous. Three times a week, they were let out for a walk around the cages, dragged along by their leashes whether they wanted to move or not. At night, the guards had their fill of whichever omegas they wanted. Loki was used to spreading his legs and taking it, but not all omegas were. Nights were filled with the sound of crying and wailing. The pound was heavy with the stench of miserable and frightened omegas.
The worst of it was when an omega went into heat and the guards didn’t fuck them. The begging and sobbing went on for days. Loki hadn’t been able to keep track of his heats, but he knew his would come one day. His previous masters had claimed him through his heat, or else sold his heats to the highest bidder, and Loki had never had to spend it alone. The idea terrified him. It was one thing to become so helpless that he begged to be taken—another thing to beg for it and not have his terrible, desperate need fulfilled.
Every day, people would come and check the omegas, wandering through the cages and reading off the labels on the outside. Sometimes, they stuck their hands through the bars of Loki’s cage and pet him, or made him turn around and present himself for their fingers or cock. No one ever bought him, though, because Loki was defective: he could not talk.
His first master had told him that a slave’s place was to be silent. Loki had been punished terribly for any noise he made, and now nothing would come out of his throat, not a single sound, no matter how much he was ordered to speak or to beg.
Loki knew that the longer he stayed in the pound, the closer he was to being put to sleep.
Sometimes, he thought, he would even welcome it.
—
One day, there was a ruckus in the pound. Someone important was coming. Loki was too exhausted to uncurl himself from the corner of his cage. When the shadow of a large man came over him, he barely moved.
“Ah, my Prince, I don’t think you would be interested in this one,” someone said in a weedy voice. “He’s defective. Nonverbal. We have much better wares for you to—”
“What’s his name?” asked the shadow.
Something in Loki stirred. He’d never had anyone ask him for his name before. He looked up, wary, and saw that a man had slipped a hand through the bars of his cage. Shakily, Loki crawled over to kiss his fingers.
“You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?” the man murmured.
The hand drifted down, stroking Loki’s skin above his cold metal collar, then lower to tug at the piercings on his nipples. Loki gasped, just a breath of air, torn between leaning into the touch and pulling away. He could feel himself growing wet just from the simple ministrations, slick dripping slowly down his thighs.
When he was ordered to turn around, Loki scrambled to obey, raising his ass for inspection. Two fingers slipped into him, large and rough, and Loki opened around them easily. His fingers scratched at the floor. He spread his legs and arched his back, hips swaying into the touch.
“He’s sensitive,” the man said, sounding amused.
Loki bit his lip, dropping his head into his arms and fucking himself into the fingers like he was meant to. It was starting to feel good, and his cock, small and neglected, twitched to life between his legs.
Then the hand pulled away. Loki would have whimpered if he could, but instead he just held the position until the shadow walked away.
Wait, he wanted to say, wait, please, I can be good. I can be good. But he could not speak.
When the footsteps disappeared into the distance, Loki curled into himself and closed his eyes.
Days passed, slow and terrible. Loki forgot about the shadow. Something else occupied him. He could feel the beginnings of his heat.
The terror of it, along with the near-starvation and constant abuse, wore him down. He slipped through consciousness and unconsciousness. Everything happened in flashes: the bright glare of artificial lights in the mornings, the cold blast of water to clean him, the interminable days. He started to crave for the nights when the guards take their turns in his ass, his mouth. It was better than the horrible nothingness otherwise.
He could barely open his eyes one day when someone reached into his cage and grabbed him by the collar, tugging him until his face was pressed up against the bars. He hung from their grasp, limp, no strength left in him.
“Shit, is that thing still alive?”
“Better be. This one’s going to the Odinson.”
The cage door opened. Loki was tugged onto his feet but his legs gave out and he fell. He was kicked in the side, but not hard enough to leave a mark. Someone grabbed him by the hair.
“If you’re not going to walk, you’re going to crawl,” someone said.
They dragged him through the halls into a room he’d never been in before. They shoved pellets into his mouth, made him chew and swallow, then dumped him into a scalding tub of water and scrubbed him clean.
His heat crept up on him, slowly licking through his limbs, until he was dripping steadily just from being manhandled. The handlers cursed and made noises of dismay when they saw he was in heat, but they bent him over and stuffed a plug in his ass to keep him from making a mess. Loki wished they would milk him, but they only tied a cock ring around him. Someone slapped his ass and he jolted.
“Look alive, slave.”
Then they clipped a leash onto his collar and Loki was being dragged out again, past the rows and rows of Jotun omegas in cages, beaten down and broken, sobbing and whining. And then—sunlight.
Loki squeezed his eyes shut. He was so dizzy he could barely stand.
He was lucid enough to register a covered skiff by the street. It was the sort of thing Loki had never been allowed inside. The door opened, and he was pushed in.
He stumbled, sprawling on his hands and knees on a carpet that was the softest thing he’d ever touched.
He stayed there, weak and mindless with heat, his ass twitching and clenching around the plug.
“What’s wrong with him?” someone murmured. The voice was familiar, but Loki couldn’t place it. He couldn’t think. His cock twitched, leaking incessantly onto the carpet. He’d be made to clean it up with his tongue later, he thought.
“He seems to be in heat, sire,” someone else said. The skiff started moving.
“Oh,” said the man. “Do they not provide omegas with suppressants in those facilities?”
“I hardly think they care to, sire,” replied the other person.
“Put it on the list,” the man said, and then he was reaching out and tugging Loki into his lap.
Loki’s eyes rolled upwards. His skin was sweat-slick and burning with every touch. His mouth fell open in ragged pants. He needed—he needed—
“Shh, be good now,” the man said. He twisted the plug out of Loki’s ass, and Loki wanted to scream. He wanted to beg. He opened his mouth and nothing came out but a soundless sob.
And then a cock was nudging into his ass, steady and unforgiving.
It was large. Seemingly bigger than anything Loki had ever taken, but it didn’t hurt. There was nothing but relief when the cock was all the way inside him, Loki twitching and rolling his hips to take it all.
Then he slumped, drooling and shaking, eyes wide but unseeing. The Aesir were murmuring to each other again, but Loki could comprehend none of it. Nothing else mattered except the cock inside him and his new master’s hands on his ass, his hips.
“I’m taking you home,” his master murmured.
Loki closed his eyes, clenched around his master’s cock and shuddered all over. His cock twitched in its binding. He thought of nothing else.