The Absolute Power Meme
Maybe it's a convenient twist of fortune and chance, maybe it's a game between friends or lovers, maybe it's a vacation of restraint, or maybe it's sweet revenge. Whatever the case is, suddenly you find you can make people do anything you like, simply by telling them to. Or maybe just that one person. And boy does that power
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Hey, Masaomi! How are you?! [Brain's happy to see him, soooo happy. He's waving with his one arm...and it just so happens that it's a mistake.
Because for some reason the movement causes Masaomi to turn into...a bleache blonde haired puppy!]
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...Oh, no. [This is BAD. He didn't mean for this to happen!! From here, Brain will be wheeling around Masaomi, calling for a certain creator who might be able to fix this!]
Igor! Uh--help! Could use some help here! [Oh dear this bad, bad, BAD!]
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Why the hell is he suddenly a puppy? He tries to ask Brain that exact question, but his words end up being a bunch of barking - and not even serious, threatening barking. It's all puppy-ish and... cute. Ew.
Puppy runs at Brain, barking the whole time, and then runs circles around Brain, still barking, demanding that Brain fixes whatever he just did. (And no, Masaomi doesn't doubt for a second that this is somehow Brain's fault. He only knows the guy a little - but he knows enough!) The longer he keeps at it, the more his barks are followed by whines, because this can't be happening. Masaomi doesn't want to be a puppy! He likes being a human, OK?!]
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"As my Lady Sister commands, so must I obey."
Thor's expression is carefully, painfully neutral, but his eyes are stormy and dark as he slowly removes his gauntlets. They fall to the floor with a clatter, joining his helm and his hammer. His cape and breastplate follow, and then the rest, piece by piece. There's nothing in his expression now, nothing at all in the cold, perfect mask of his features; he could have been carved from unfeeling marble as he finally pulls his shirt over his head and steps forward to kneel at Loki's feet, clad in nothing but the tight leather trousers he wore under his metal and mail. He bows his head, and the painful restraint in his voice does as much to underline his rage as does the tension evident in the line of his shoulders, the white-knuckled clenching of his fists.
"As is only right," he grits out finally, at war with himself to keep that expression neutral, "for so loyal a hound as I."
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It's her greatest victory. Having Thor kneeling at her feet, his compliance despite how obvious it is that he hates this, the tension he carries heavy on the line of him. He kneels and she reaches out to grasp a lock of golden hair between her fingers. She lets it drop before she pats his head just like she would with any good hound.
"You kneel like you were born to it. I'm almost impressed, brother. Though you don't seem happy to be there. Try and show some enthusiasm." The sarcasm drips from her words and her smile is venomous.
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Love that's been tainted, corrupted. Love gone dark and feral, pushed passed the bounds of simplicity into something mixed with rage. That still simmers beneath the surface, kept alive by nothing more now than foolish, desperate hope.
The pat to his head, like the reward to a favoured hound for a good trick of a successful hunt, sends a bit of that rage seething through him, and he bites back a growl by force of will alone. Dogs growl, not Princes, and he refuses to give her the satisfaction ( ... )
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