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Rend Mine Skin

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He can see it now. Skittering along Thor’s skin, black and purple, like a spider’s web spun from twilight. Cracks and veins that intersect and splinter, thin trails of light that flicker as randomly as flames.

He has no doubt that Thor is oblivious.

Does the All-Father know, Loki cannot help but wonder. Does Odin know the poison he has exposed his eldest, his dearest son to?

For it is a poison. All that dark energy, all that twisted and dangerous magic that Odin must have conjured to send Thor safely to Midgard. It clings to Thor, and before Loki could not see it, but now he can almost hear it as it whispers to Thor’s soul.

Thor is weakened. It is the most obvious explanation. Exhausted, both emotionally and physically.

Loki remembers the look on his so-called brother’s face as Loki stood before him on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s flying vessel, fingers poised over the controls that would plummet Thor to his doom.

He had looked so tired.

“Brother,” Thor rumbles, voice distant and unhappy. He looms over Loki’s body, sprawled as it is across the cushioned chair, one knee digging in the fabric beside Loki’s thigh for leverage. In his hand, he clutches a contraption that Loki recognises from the vaults of Asgard.

A mask. A muzzle.

“Brother, I do not wish to do this.”

Loki closes his eyes, listens to the hiss and prickle of dark energy as it teases at Thor’s senses without his knowledge.

“I am beaten, Thor. Surrendered to your custody. You are the victor, you have no need to lie to me.”

“It is not a lie!” Thor snaps, and it is the anger of his youth that colours his voice. He has learned compassion and patience and understanding from the Midgardians, but the darkness eats away at him now, unbidden, leaves him on edge. “You have forced my hand.”

Loki lets his eyes flutter open, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “You would blame me for your pleasure in this moment?” he purrs, and even with Mjolnir resting a safe distance away, across the room, still lightning crackles in Thor’s eyes.

“You think I take pleasure in this?” Thor spits, and there is frustration and confusion in his gaze, and something else that lingers in the roiling blue. Something that Loki has only glimpsed before, that even the most gilded of words could not tease and taunt from the hidden vault of Thor’s deepest and most fiercely guarded secrets.

Something that Loki has desired for a very, very long time.

Thor is weakened, his defences frayed. Attacked on a level he does not understand, for Thor has never shared Loki’s appreciation for magic, not when there is brute force to be wielded.

Loki can smell the blood on him, a coppery tang he can almost taste at the back of his throat. The wound has not yet closed, the wound that Loki gave him, blade piercing Thor’s side, sliding into flesh with an almost shocking ease.

The dark energy, it will have hold of Thor soon. All Loki need do is open the wound wider. And he may not be able to reach the blood at Thor’s side, not with his hands chained and pinned between them, not with Thor’s weight bearing down and holding him against the furnishings of Stark’s personal rooms.

But he can still reach the wounds of Thor’s soul.

The Avengers were fools to respect Thor’s request for privacy in this moment.

Loki lets his smile grow wider, baring his teeth.

“Yes, brother,” he smirks, allowing his distaste for the word to stand plain between them. “I think you take immense pleasure in this.”

Thor snarls at him then, one hand gripping the back of Loki’s neck, the other brandishing the muzzle, letting the threat of its presence say more than his words ever could.

But Loki has always had more use for words than Thor.

The inside of his knee slides up the length of Thor’s thigh, settles against Thor’s hip, and perhaps on another occasion Thor might find an excuse to shy away, eyes averted and irritation at his own discomfort clear in the set of his shoulders.

Except now the darkness about him flares, and Thor’s eyes narrow, grip on Loki’s neck tightening, and he does not move away.

“In fact, dear Thor,” he whispers, and when he runs his tongue along the line of his bottom lip, Thor’s eyes follow it eagerly. It is difficult to move his head with Thor’s fingers digging in so harshly, but he leans up into Thor’s presence as much as he can, presses his dampened mouth to Thor’s cheek. “I think that you take intimate pleasure in this.”

For a moment, Thor’s face is slack with surprise and that soft, sweet vulnerability that made the All-Father so weak to him.

For a moment, Thor is the boy Loki grew up beside, the boy he called brother without irony or spite.

And then the moment is gone, and Thor’s face twists in rage and Loki throws his head back and laughs.

It is the final push, the last shred of Thor’s resolve stretched to breaking, and the darkness ripples over Thor’s skin and he is lost to its call.

It is not so much a kiss as an attack, brutal in the way it smashes their lips together, but Loki’s blood sings for it. Still laughing, in the back of his throat, as Thor’s teeth bite at his lips, and then Thor is plundering his mouth. Tongue pressing inside, claiming Loki in ways he has dreamed of for a thousand years and more.

To think, that this desire has been inside of Thor, coiled and waiting, until the bitter whispers of dark energy could shatter the walls that banked such heat.

Loki smiles against the mouth that savages his own and feels Thor growl at the stretch of his lips, pull back to glare down at him.

“You think this funny?” Thor gasps, and Loki can see the last of Thor’s resolve flicker in doubt, but the darkness is there to whisk it away before it can take root.

“Perhaps I do,” Loki jeers, and he cannot catch his breath, is exhilarated by the tightening in his chest and the stain of colour on Thor’s cheeks. “Perhaps I find it amusing that, even now, you hesitate to punish me.”

“Punish you?” Thor’s brows tighten, and his gaze remains fixed on the curve of Loki’s mouth.

“Is this not a punishment?” Loki croons, careful to keep his tone light, mocking, beckoning the darkness forth.

He wants this, has felt the dull ache of it for so long that the sharpness of the moment almost threatens to shake him apart. Wants the strength of Thor’s anger and Thor’s lust to crash down upon him like a cresting wave, wants that pleasure laced with pain, wants to feel Thor’s fire chasing away the cold that has haunted him for so long.

“Am I not your spoils of war?”

The sound Thor makes is guttural and almost as anguished as it is angry.

Loki wraps his legs around Thor’s waist, feels the solid power there, the heft and weight of him, and fights the urge to tremble. Instead he whispers, “Take me, brother.”

There is no shocked pause this time, only Thor’s instincts taking hold, the crush of his mouth and the tearing of cloth. The muzzle drops to the seat of the chair beside them, and Thor’s hands are frenzied as they rip at laces and stitching, and Loki inhales sharply to hide his moan and arches up into the rough touch.

Thor’s eyes are dark, beyond battle lust, almost intoxicated on dark energy and Loki’s words and freed emotion. He palms Loki’s hardness, and his lips pull back in a victorious grin when Loki cannot bite back the sharp noise that bursts from his lips.

The stroke of Thor’s hand is insistent, unyielding. “You will submit to my whim,” he rasps, and Loki resists the smirk that teases the corners of his lips. So easy, to let Thor believe it his whims that dictate their interaction and relationship, even now, and Loki allows himself to make a soft, hungry sound that makes Thor’s grip on his shaft turn deliciously tighter.

He spreads his thighs easily when Thor’s fingers sink lower, fabric of his britches near shredded under Thor’s ministrations. For the briefest of moments he entertains the notion of not hiding his state of undress behind magic when they finally leave this room, but instead allowing the Avengers to see just what their new ally can do, just how violent his passion can be.

But the thought escapes him when Thor’s blunt fingers nudge at his entrance, and then Thor is breaching him, and Loki cries out despite himself. The sensation of being opened, of being stretched, banishes everything from his mind but the feeling. Everything but the open want on Thor’s face.

“Know this, brother,” Thor murmurs, and his fingers work within Loki, undo him, until he can only pant and squirm. “Know that this is my mark upon you. That you will wear this, wear my ownership, for the rest of all time.”

Thor’s gaze is wild, only the faintest sliver of blue eclipsed by the black of his eyes, and he is gone, Loki realises. Past the point where he could stop, even if Loki begged him to, dark energy crackling around him, and Loki groans at the realisation, feels a shudder rip its way through him until he is clenching around Thor’s fingers.

Thor makes a sound like a wounded animal, hand leaving Loki’s shaft to grip at his throat, to hold him down as those fingers withdraw.

Loki hears himself whimper at the loss of sensation and cannot bring himself to feel ashamed.

He watches, face open and all deception momentarily forgotten, as Thor shoves his own britches down his thighs. He is hard and flushed, ruddy and shining wet at the tip, and he spits into the palm of his hand before giving himself a few cursory strokes.

He is magnificent, and Loki’s chest aches with need.

Thor’s hands are as sure as they are in battle as they grasp Loki’s hips, lift him slightly as if his weight were nothing, and then he is lining himself up. Pushing inside in one long, slow, agonising moment, and Loki feels his eyes roll back, legs fanning open as Thor pushes between them.

The stretch of it, the burn, it is so much more than Thor’s fingers, so much more intense. Filling him, and Loki whines, fingers of his bound hands scrabbling against Thor’s armour. It seems to go on forever, time slipping away from him, just the drag along sensitive skin, until Thor is fully sheathed within him, sweating and shaking and eyes huge with wonderment.

Loki has dreamt of this moment, but he had not prepared for the intimacy of it, the swell in his chest.

Move,” he hisses, because if Thor does not, he may just tremble to pieces, may just break.

Thor stares at him, almost unseeing, before the command seems to register, and then he is pulling back and Loki is gasping, before he slams back home. Their groans join together, twist around each other, and Thor’s pace is hungry, needy, hurried, and exactly what Loki needs. His back bows against the seat, trying for more when such a thing is impossible, and Thor’s hands hold his hips firm as he takes his pleasure.

As he uses Loki’s body, and Loki is floating above himself, a void within him he had long since learned to ignore now full to bursting, the numbness receding.

“Yes, brother,” he hisses sardonically, lets the slam of Thor’s hips force the words from his throat. “Show me what you truly think of me, show me my worth.”

Thor’s rage plays clearly across his face as the words have their desired effect, as they serve to push him higher. He is merciless as he pounds into Loki’s pliant form, and maybe once Loki had imagined that Thor would be gentle with him, as he would with no other. But those were foolish dreams, and he has craved this since he realised such a truth, craved this violence, knowing how much it will haunt Thor after, knowing that it will brand them both, damaged and irreparable.

“No more words,” Thor grits out, and Loki can feel the bruises forming under Thor’s fingers.

He wants more.

“Show me how much you love me,” he cries, and he hears the insanity in his own laughter, everything beginning to crash down on him.

He has always been the lesser, in Thor’s shadow, but now Thor will be tainted by him forever, tainted by that twisted thing that is Loki’s love.

And then Thor’s hand is reaching forward, and Loki registers what is gripped within it too late to snap his head away. The muzzle clamps around his jaw as if it was designed for him, stinging pinpricks along his lips as it settles and the binds weave themselves around the back of his skull. Killing every noise within his throat, not just words but every grunt and snarl and keening moan.

Thor is staring down at him, hips never faltering in their movements, and his eyes are as wide as Loki imagines his own to be. “No more words,” he pleads, voice cracked and earnest and raw.

So achingly, damningly beautiful and Loki’s head presses back against the chair, spine arching, mind swimming, heart thundering, as he soundlessly spills his release across his chest.

Thor jolts him, staggering slightly as Loki clamps down around him, and then there is the rush within him, the sensation of Thor following him over the edge, and Thor’s shout is shocked and almost wretched, hands clawing at Loki’s skin.

He holds Loki there, hips raised from the chair, the insides of his thighs gripping Thor’s waist, his eyes closed and mouth parted around great, gasping breaths. Loki stares and mourns the thought that he may never have this again, even as his body shivers in the aftershocks, his flesh still half-hard and willing.

When Thor finally slips free, he is gentle, lowering Loki carefully to the chair and stroking shaking hands over the marks he has left behind.

Loki realises that the dark energy has dissipated from Thor’s skin, that it has been devoured and depleted.

He wants to raise his hands, touch the muzzle that confines him, but he cannot bring himself to do so.

“Loki,” Thor murmurs, and he sounds so hurt, and Loki should be angry at him for that, for Loki is the prisoner here, Loki is the one gagged.

But he finds he cannot be angry, that exhaustion has crept into his very bones. And when Thor sinks to his knees and rests his head against Loki’s hip, Loki does not try to kick him away. He stares at the ceiling instead, breathing steadily through his nose, and after a time he runs his fingers through Thor’s golden hair, and allows himself to savour the ache between his legs.