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Thor’s not supposed to be here. He keeps his footsteps light, Mjolnir gripped tight in one hand as he walks through the cold, empty hallways. It’s difficult for a being of his stature to blend into the shadows, but he’s had years, centuries of practice.

(Him and Loki sneaking through the palace at night, fighting invisible monsters.

Him and Loki slinking through sun-dappled forests, taking care not to alert the beast they were hunting.

Him and Loki on the battlefield, silent and sure-footed, to catch their enemies by surprise.

Him and Loki—)

His comms come to life, breaking him out of his thoughts. Steve murmurs on the other side: “Did you find anything important?”

“Nay,” Thor murmurs, voice edged with frustration. He had been so convinced—had outlined his suspicions and theories to Steve one night, when the rest of the team was asleep. The Midgardian has proved himself as steadfast as any of Thor’s companions on Asgard, and often they find themselves seeking each other on sleepless nights.

Steve knows about Loki, the brother that Thor had failed utterly and lost years ago.

Thor knows about Bucky, the best friend that Steve had failed utterly and lost years ago.

In the past few months of tracking and taking down Hydra bases, Thor has browsed all the information they gathered, pouring over files and papers for hours, doing more research than he’s ever cared to do in his life. He found a pattern, mentions of a figure, strange and alien, that had been found on Midgard three years ago. Three years ago, when Loki fell from the Bifrost.

“Damn,” Steve says. “Maybe we can do another circle around but if nothing comes up—”

Thor pulls up short, tucking himself against the wall as he hears a low sound drift down the corridor.

There’s a smacking sound, flesh on flesh, and it makes Thor’s stomach clench.

“Anything on your end, boys?” Natasha’s voice is almost lost in the rushing of blood through Thor’s ears.

“Not on my end,” Steve says. “Thor?”

Heart pounding, Thor turns the corner and finds a plain steel door at the end of the hallway. In a little slot on the door is a piece of paper, and on it is written: “Asgardian - ?”

“Thor, what are you seeing?” Steve again, sounding concerned.

There’s a little hatch on the door, with a small knob to slide it open.

Thor reaches up, slides the hatch open, and peers inside.


It’s dark, but Loki knows where he is. 

There are few senses left for him here, with his mouth gagged and his arms bound and his eyes covered, and the drugs keep him dull, compliant. Still, he counts his steps as he stumbles barefoot, held up by the men gripping his arms tight, noting the change from the sterile tiles of the lab to the dusty concrete of the holding cells.

1,083 steps take Loki to his cell. It’s new. He’s being moved around more and more often these days, though they always put him to sleep for long journeys. When he wakes up, the air is different, the heat, the sounds boots make on the floor.

The sound is quiet, now, as the men stand around, waiting. He can hear them shuffling every so often, with the way he has the side of his head pressed to the floor, his body twisting as his back is forced to arch. The position makes his chest throb from the wound they keep opening to look inside him, but it’s a familiar ache by now.

There are more pressing matters, like the fingers that have been working his ass open for the past few minutes, rough, though excessively slicked. They try to take care not to damage him too much. The scientists complain.

“Is he ready? You’ve been at it for ages, man.”

They’re always careful not to use names around him, but Loki can pick out the voices by now. He’s named that one Pig in his head, for the way he grunts when he’s fucking Loki.

“You’ll have your turn,” says the one whose fingers glide slow and slick inside him. He always goes first in these things, suggesting seniority. Those fingers nudge deeper, finding his prostate, and Loki jerks on the floor as his cock twitches, spitting out precome to add to the puddle on the floor. His hands, bound in front of him, scrabble uselessly on the floor.

“He’s a whore with the drugs in him,” someone laughs.

“Never gets old,” someone says, smacking his ass hard, then again, and again, and again. The pain is sharp, delivered by a practiced hand, and it makes heat flare even on patches of Loki’s skin that are untouched, until he’s pushing into the slaps rather than away from them. It’s the drugs, like they say, like Loki tries to tell himself, but it doesn’t make him feel any less like a bitch in heat.

The assault has him biting viciously into the gag, saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth. Someone pulls his head up by the hair, and there’s a round of laughter at his state.

Not for the first time, he’s glad for the blindfold that soaks up his tears, though at this point he’s not sure if they’re from the pain of humiliation or the unceasing, agonizing pleasure of being used like this.

“All right, all right, get on with it, some of us have places to be in the morning.”

There’s a huff, close to his ear, and then the fingers are being pulled out of his ass. He tries not to keen at the loss, but his thighs shift, spreading further apart as another chorus of laughter fills the room.

“Slut,” uttered with no heat, almost sickeningly fond, and then there’s a fat cock nudging into him. It’s a slow, steady push, like a ship coming to harbor. The man does not rush, expecting Loki’s body to yield to him as it always, inevitably, does.

By the end of it, Loki is quivering like a plucked harp string, tremors going all across his body.

A hand comes up to stroke at his side, fingers running along his ribs, hushing him.

Behind the blindfold, Loki squeezes his eyes shut in shame. He’s been keening like a whore the entire time.

“There’s a good girl,” the man murmurs, then pulls back and starts to fuck him.

The man fucks his ass in short strokes, pulling back an inch or two before slamming back in, his rim stretching to accommodate the intrusion. Like a well-used whore, someone laughs. The man’s balls slap against his ass, and the sound of it seems impossibly loud.

Every thrust shoves him against the ground. Loki hangs his head and tries to breathe.

“Hey, now,” the man croons, “it’s no fun when you hide.”

And then Loki is being pulled upright, hands in his hair and on his shoulders and neck, baring him to the stale, musky air of the room, legs being spread apart, knees hooked over strong, unforgiving thighs.

The position has him speared open on his captor’s cock, bound hands pressed to his chest for lack of anywhere else to go. Loki sinks down into the cock, so, so easily, further and then further still, until he feels frozen in place. Pinned, like a specimen in a museum, by a cock rammed up his ass.

And still horribly, helplessly aroused.

There’s silence in the room, transfixed and hungry.

Then Loki sobs, choking on it, and the men laugh. A few of them whistle, and there’s the familiar slut, whore, look at that greedy little cunt.

Different hands come to stroke playfully at his shamefully hard cock, feather light touches that have him whining mindlessly for more. Hands on his side, stroking him just to show they can, fingers on his nipples, screwing them into aching peaks.

There’s too many of them, and the touches come, relentless, wave after wave. Loki can feel his cock bobbing against his stomach, desperate.

They don’t take the gag off anymore, not after Loki bit someone’s cock off. If they did it now, though, Loki would only beg.

“Shhh, kitten, we’ll give you what you want,” spoken right up against his ear, startling him and making him clench and shudder around the cock inside him.

“As long as you give us what we want.”

Loki looks up at the ceiling, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Whatever they want, he’ll give it to them.

He has nothing left of him.


It takes Thor a moment to process what he’s seeing. Just a moment, and then all hell breaks loose.

The door crumples like paper under his strength, and the men are not much better off. Thor’s vision is filled with lightning, his senses overtaken by rage.

The floor is an ocean of blood by the time’s he’s done. The smell of burnt flesh hangs heavy in the room.

Beyond all that, the sound of soft, muffled sobbing.

Thor’s head jerks towards it, his teeth bared in a ferocious grimace.

There, tucked into the corner, is Loki. Bound and gagged still, scrawny chest heaving with the force of his weeping. His knees are drawn up, knocking together as he shakes, hiding the evidence of his violation.

The blindfold has slipped down, revealing one tear-filled eye. A sharp green, made bright by the tears, the color of fresh spring grass.

All of Thor’s rage dissipates. Mjolnir falls to the ground from slack hands, forgotten.

Steve and Natasha are shouting in his ear, so he plucks the communicator out and crushes it between his fingers.

He approaches Loki like he is a wounded animal, hands help up at his sides. Loki doesn’t understand—he shakes and keens and cries, looking up at Thor fearfully.

“Brother,” Thor says, but he finds he can only mouth the words. Seeing Loki again has robbed him of his voice.

That one eye widens—maybe a hint of recognition—Thor’s heart jumps—

—and then Loki lowers his head and parts his knees, spreading his legs open.

Thunder quakes through the sky.

Thor quickly unclasps his cape, draping it over Loki’s shuddering form, and heaves the unresisting body into his arms.

Loki curls into him feverishly, addled by his violation, delirious from drugs, or simply seeking touch.

“It’s all right, brother,” Thor says, though his voice breaks. His heart feels rent in two.

“It’s all right. I’m taking you home.”