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.”
The mortals are cruel, but Loki is no stranger to cruelty. When one of them tries to ram a cock into his mouth, he bites down, hard. His mouth fills with blood and the air fills with the screams of the man whose cock has been ripped off.
Loki spits the useless mass of flesh on the floor, and gurgles out bloody laughter as someone jams a needle into his neck, sending him to sleep.
As Thor walks out, boots sinking into the mud, his brother limp and still in his arms, the weight of it all starts to crash down on him. His knees threaten to buckle and he forces himself to keep moving forward. But he cannot. As if the mud sloshing around his feet is anchoring him to this Norns-forsaken place.
He shifts Loki in his arms, and blinks the rain away from his face. They’re getting soaked, his cloak around Loki turning a deeper shade of red, spreading like blood—
One thing at a time, he tells himself. Safety. Get Loki somewhere safe and dry, heal his wounds, soothe his mind, his spirit. But where would they go? There is no way home. No Bifrost, and his father asleep after using the last of his strength to send Thor to find his brother on Midgard.
Thor feels utterly lost.
“Thor.” Steve’s voice comes from behind him. Something in Thor stirs, dark and angry. The Midgardians did this, hurt Loki, tortured him, violated him—
“Easy, Thor,” Steve says, just as lightning and thunder crackles through the sky.
“They hurt him,” Thor says, unsurprised by how raw his voice sounds. He feels scraped thin, inside and out. “They—the things they did—”
“We’ll take him home,” Steve says. “Have Tony call—”
“Home.” He can hear the frown in Steve’s voice. “The Avengers Tower.”
“I killed those men,” Thor hears himself say. “I desecrated their bodies; burned their souls to ash. They will not see Valhalla.”
“Sounds to me like they deserved it.”
Thor doesn’t say anything, only clutches Loki tighter.
“He is badly hurt,” Thor says.
Steve walks towards him, and calps a hand on Thor’s shoulder. A lesser man would not have dared. Not all Midgardians are like the men who had hurt Loki, Thor reminds himself.
“He’s got you and you’ve got us.”
Before Thor can say anything, the Quinjet roars into view.
“Come on, boys,” Natasha says, through the speakers.
“Let’s head home.”
“How long’s he been like that?”
Loki’s head jerks, than lolls against his shoulder as the vibrator in his ass goes down a level in intensity. It’s frustratingly random, not that Loki cares anymore. Hasn’t had the ability to care in the last Norns-knows-how-many hours, mind going sideways at the darkness behind the blindfold. Like the void. Like falling. He lost count after six. It has to have been more than twelve—
Loki screams into the gag as the underside of a boot lightly pushes his cock against his stomach. He shakes his head, shuddering violently in his bonds—arms bound above his head, legs spread out and up, chained against the wall. Horrible, unwanted arousal coils through every sinew of his body, and he can’t help the way his hips jerk into the rough sole of whatever dirty shoe is pressed up against his swollen, plugged-up cock. That had been new, the long, thin metal rod pushed inexorably slow into his cock, filling Loki up in a burning hot slide, keeping him from the orgasms the vibrator attempted to wring from his drug-drenched body.
A hand winds into his hair, fisting it and twisting his head side to side. Loki groans in pleasured anguish, rutting into the air as the boot removes itself from his cock, and then choking as it slams into his sternum, driving the breath out of him.
He’d run out of tears hours ago, but the strike makes garbled pleas fall from his mouth. It’s supposed to hurt. Loki only feels humiliating, desperate need. He wants to be touched, wants to be fucked raw, wants to be used, wantswantswants—
“You like that, slut? Shoulda sewn your mouth shut with a needle and thread for that stunt, but R&D had more interesting plans.”
The hand in his hair tugs again, and then his head is slammed against the wall. Stars burst in Loki’s vision, but it does nothing to distract him from the sudden spike in vibration from the toy in his ass.
He thrashes, sobbing brokenly as the toy is nudged deeper into his ass, pleasure running down his spine like lightning, making him stiffen up—and he’d come, Norns he’d come if he could but the plug in his cock makes sure only the barest trickle of come escapes his slit.
There’s a huff of laughter, mocking, and then the head of the sound is flicked, fingers pinching the head of his cock, making Loki seize up with a shriek.
Moremoremore, please, want, more, pleaseplease—
“Nothing too rough,” hurriedly spoken. “He’s too far gone to say no anyway.”
“Yeah, got it. Bring in the others. We’re gonna have a little fun.”
Thor watches Loki sleep. It’s not the first time he’s kept vigil at his brother’s bedside. Decades, centuries of playing at war, fighting Marauders in Vanaheim, dismantling raids in Muspelheim, crushing rebellions in Alfheim. Thor and Loki were born and raised as warriors, and they had the scars to prove them.
And Thor knows all of Loki’s scars—had known all of Loki’s scars. Modesty is not an Asgardian trait; Thor has seen the whole of Loki’s naked body more times than he can count, and they used to compare scars, if only to reassure each other that they were still alive. Still whole and hale, despite everything.
Reassurance is not something Thor feels to look upon the jagged scar running down Loki’s chest, from just below his collarbone, down to his navel.
Loki has ever slept deeply. A sleeping dragon, their mother would say, and Gods, Thor longs for her counsel now more than ever. Now, the sleeping dragon whimpers and tosses and turns, tormented even in sleep. Whatever drug Banner injected in him keeps him sleeping, but it is no easy slumber.
“Hey, Point Break.”
Thor doesn’t turn around to face Tony as he enters the room.
“Gotta say, you’re looking comically large in that tiny hospital chair,” Tony says, clapping a hand on the back of said chair.
“I’m not in a mood for jests,” Thor says, flat. In his sleep, Loki twitches and curls into himself, whimpering, and Thor’s hands curl into fists. There is nothing he can do.
“Gotcha,” Tony says. “Well, I’m offering something else. Not a jest.”
“I have already told you, I will not allow you to pry into my brother’s memories, Stark,” Thor nearly growls.
“It wouldn’t hurt him, Thor. On the other hand, this can help us figure out what the hell they did to him—”
“I know what they did to him,” Thor cuts in, voice shaking with restrained rage.
“The other things,” Tony says, sharp. “HYDRA kept him for a reason, Thor. The sooner we find out what those are, the better we can help him.”
Thor says nothing, only looks down at his hands. Helpless. Useless. Worthless.
“I swear, he’s not going to get hurt, Thor. Please. Let me help him.”
Thor squeezes his eyes shut.
He gives one nod.
They release him. Loki’s body screams in anguish as feeling returns to limbs that have been bound for too long. He slumps to the side, barely holding himself up by his forearms, and tries to jerkily crawl into a corner. The rod in his cock makes it bob against his stomach, hard, heavy, aching, burning.
He reaches a trembling hand up to pull the blindfold off—
“Nope, not so fast, princess,” rough hands jerk his arms behind his back and clip them there, and Loki sobs at the pull and stretch of his limbs. His entire body is shuddering with exhaustion, dehydration, and the Norns-forsaken, desperate arousal that makes stars light up under his skin with every unwanted touch.
Princess, they call him, mockingly. Your highness, sometimes. He’s not sure where the nickname came from, not sure of anything at all, these days, except for his name, and sometimes not even that.
Arms come to touch him all over, having him crying through the gag and the blindfold, writhing in their grasps, but they only move to rearrange his aching limbs. He realizes too late what they’re doing.
He finds himself on all fours, ass in the air like a whore, struggling to stay up.
Someone is holding his hair in a tight fist.
Someone leans down and says, too loud in his ear, “Are you gonna be good for us, slut?”
A slap lands on his ass, the sound of it ringing across the room, and there’s a chorus of laughter from all assembled.
“Pshh—mmff—” Loki mumbles through the gag, lowering his head to the floor in a display of contrition.
Another slap, then two more in quick succession, jostling the plug in his ass and the rod in his cock and making his eyes roll back into his head.
“MMFF!” Loki screams, nails scraping into the floor, blunted, useless.
He doesn’t know what they want. If they would just tell him what they want he would do it, would do anything, anything, Gods, he’d do whatever they wanted of him.
Someone undoes the blindfold and it falls from his eyes, and Loki looks at the gathered men through blurry eyes, weakened by hours in the darkness. The dim lights of his cell hurt. He closes his eyes and looks down.
One man laughs, unzipping his trousers and freeing his cock.
“Come and get it, princess,” he taunts.
Loki whines, trying to scramble to his feet, but there are hands on him again, pushing him down.
“Crawl,” someone says, then laughs.
“Crawl,” someone repeats. “Shake that pretty ass and crawl, princess.”
His body screams with exhaustion. He can’t open his eyes or look into the light. His jaw aches.
Whatever they want him to do, he’ll do. Someone rubs a cock up against his cheek, then against his hair, then there’s one nudging up against his gagged mouth and nose and eyes.
Loki shudders and sobs.
“Here, kitten,” says one of the men, “here.” They call him to them, use his hands, his face, his ass. There isn’t a moment where he isn’t filled with cock. They drag him across the room by the hair and he puts one shaking hand in front of the other and tries not to collapse.
Tony has assured Thor a dozen times that the device on Loki’s head won’t hurt him, but he can’t help but be twitchy about it anyway.
Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing. B.A.R.F. The Midgardian word for vomiting, which aptly explains how nauseous Thor feels right now. Steve stands in one corner of the room, by Thor’s admission. A calming presence, when he feels a storm brewing inside him.
Tony scrubs through Loki’s most recent memories as quickly as possible, but it doesn’t stop the bile from crawling up Thor’s throat.
His days in HYDRA. His torture and captivity. They rape him often. Experiment on him more. Cut his chest open and take samples from his body.
They sit him down and strap him into a chair and put something over his head that makes Loki scream—
Then, darkness. Long swathes of Loki’s memories are nothing but the void. Tony stays silent as they scrub through those too, and Thor’s heart shatters further. How much heartbreak can one person take? Surely the shards would have killed him by now.
They scrub back further, to the Bifrost—
“Stop,” Thor says, mind spinning with what he sees. It can’t be—that didn’t—
“Go back,” Thor urges, and Tony plays it again, the moment Loki falls from the Bifrost. Except he doesn’t fall. In Loki’s memories, Thor lets go. Thor lets his brother fall into the abyss.
And no matter how many times Thor has had that very nightmare, he knows it is not the truth. Knows Loki’s grip loosened, knows the gut-wrenching feeling of watching his brother let go.
“What have they done,” Thor wonders, heart pounding.
They go back further, to other places where Loki’s memory has been altered:
“I never wanted the throne!” Loki shouts. “I only ever wanted to be your equal.”
“You ask for too much,” Thor sees himself saying, sees his mocking smile, taunting Loki.
And then further back:
“I’ve looked forward to this day just as much as you have,” Loki says, earnest, as they wait for Thor’s coronation.
“The day I put you in your place, you mean?” Thor says, but he did not, he knows he did not.
But he must have. In a hundred different ways, throughout the centuries. For what else could have twisted Loki’s memories so? They found his weakness, and used it against him.
“To what end?” Thor mutters to himself, as Tony shuts down the machine and Loki’s memories vanish.
“To make him hate you,” Tony says. “For some reason, they wanted your brother to hate you more than anyone.”
“It’s just like with Bucky," Steve cuts in. "They weren’t trying to just scare him, or torture him. They were trying to make him a weapon.”
“A weapon?” Thor says. “Against what?”
“Oh, shit,” Tony says slowly.
“Against you,” says Steve.
At that, Loki twitches awake, jerking from sleep. There’s a clatter as he stumbles and crashes out of bed. Tony and Steve, who are closer, try to hold him back, but Loki bats them away as if they’re flies.
Then he goes straight for Thor’s throat.