His nose throbs; a deep, steady ache in time with his pulse, matched by unsteady rush of his breathing and the answering throb of his cock. His thick fingers pinch at the sensitive skin beneath the crown, a vain attempt to distract himself into thinking of something else, but it only serves to remind him of too-white teeth and punishments for disobedience in games long past.
Dark, slow-clotting blood seeps into his coarse beard in a steady flow, trickling down to trace the curve of his chin as his jaw clenches with each stroke of his hand. In defiance or pleasure, he has yet to parse. A red droplet traces the seam of his lips and his tongue swipes it clean almost without thought; the sharp tinge of copper and heat thick in the warming, moist air.
Thor has seen Loki irritated countless times, angry at still others, but his brother's rage is a foreign, vicious beast; one he has seldom encountered and even fewer against himself.
His brother had never struck him in anger before this day.
Not once, even as babes. Not as children in play, nor as teenagers sparring, not even when Thor's quests had driven them to the very edge of their capabilities, and, once or thrice, their sanity. Thor cannot claim his brother to be kind. Ymir's teeth know Loki is not softhearted; his words bite quick and deep; their poison sharp and long-burning. The price of earning his wrath paid in centuries. Allowed his brother his grand dreams of glory, of valiant and victorious battle against their sworn foes despite their ill-preparedness; their (Thor's) lack of foresight as they battle. Loki has been angry with Thor, has cursed his name and vowed retribution, but he has never, ever, done this.
The memory of it slithers forth once more, poison-quick until it is all he can remember. The mad fury contorting his brother's features, the spittle bursting from his thin, pale lips as his brother debased him with ever-growing volume. He was a fool, a coward, unworthy for the throne of Asgard, cowed and made less by a woman he had known mere days.
Thor groans dissent, a denial, but his hips hitch upward even as his skin grows hot with shame; seeks relief, assurance, something else Thor cannot quite name. Thick fingers trace the seam of his hip, fall lower, as the fist clenching tight against his cock forces a quiet groan from him, as blood oozes onto his tongue and precum leaks.
His brother's strike had come without warning, as Loki's battle tactics have always favored. As a warrior he knew better, should have been prepared for it, but in his arrogance he saw hesitation; in his trust he saw a chance for reason. It was a quick, solid blow, strong enough to crack if not break the bone and Thor had stumbled backward like an apprentice at his first spar; stunned and wide-eyed at the easy cruelty of battle.
Thor knows pain; can and does enjoy the groaning stretch of aching muscles after the field has been won, appreciates the throbbing pulse of an unchecked blow, the sharp flare of a blade-wound as his body mends. They are proof of his work, his worthiness as a warrior and the hard-earned glory of victorious battle. But as he lies on his too-small bed in the Avengers headquarters, head thrown back as his own fingers trace the seam of his body to the small pucker of skin, he cannot help but remember his brother's fierce joy, the wicked pleasure in his gaze as Thor grunted and blood splattered against pavement; his boots.
Blood pulses anew from his nose as his body wages its own private war. For the vice-grip of the hand that pumps his cock and the want for something more, something else; dark and wrong and against everything he's known. Fingers press against puckered flesh, the question growing sharper as his body yields, the burn of it a sharp counterpoint to the pleasure of the rest.
A memory of long, pale fingers blooms without his consent and heat coils deep in his belly at the wonder of what they might do, could do; the sick, questioning desire to both know and to not.
He squeezes his eyes shut; defiant even now as his body shudders and arches, seeking an orgasm he is not sure he wants though his nerves spark with the growing need and his pulse pounds in his ears; a drumbeat of strung out sounds he cannot parse.
But there is no escape from his brother's gaze; emerald-dark and cold as winter's bite, mocking as they watch him clutch desperately at his shredded, fading dignity; at what is right and good. At what brothers are supposed to be and everything they are not.
"When I am finished with this world," His brother's words hiss, memory sharp and red-tinged, "you will be next."
Thor remembers little after that.
When he returns to himself his throat is raw and aching and he cannot tell how much time has passed. He pants; gaze fixed to the ceiling above him sightless and purposefully blurred. He does not want to think. Not yet. Not of the cramped ache in the hand half-caught beneath him, nor the other as it loosens from his now flaccid cock. He does not want to ponder what he has done; does not want to question what it might mean.
Loki is his brother; as corrupt and broken he might seem, as far as he may fall, Thor will not leave him. He will bring him home; show him reason and truth, relieve him of the burden of his ill-founded fear as he is supposed to do. As a brother should do.
He will not do this. He will not shame his brother's memory with such thoughts, will not fall in step with desires that have no place within his heart. He is strong, a warrior in mind and body. There is no place for this here.
Thor allows himself a sigh, exhausted and resigned. There is much he has left to do' tend to his wounds, discuss further strategy with the Midgardian warriors, and find a moment within that to speak with Jane and Selvig. Jane has theorized much on the capabilities of the bi-frost in his absence, intimated the possibility of Midgard creating its own, but perhaps Thor can tempt her away from her quest for an evening. He is hungry, and Jane may be as well; perhaps she will be willing assist him in finding sustenance outside of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s banquet hall tonight. There is still much of Midgard's harvest he has yet to try; a minor, though thoroughly enjoyable quest of his own design.
As he thinks, Thor raises a careless hand to wipe the blood from his chin, now half-congealed and cooling against his skin. He pauses mid-motion, his gaze falling to his soiled, dripping fingers. Something hovers, not quite question, not quite desire, but lingering, caught halfway between.
"No." He rumbles at last, voice scratched and broken, but the words feel necessary as they are forced from his tongue like a promise. It settles his mind and his heart in their proper place. Thor is not this way. He is not such a creature and will not be guided by such desires. He has control, however others might feel, and he will exercise it here. His brother has fallen, but Thor will not.
He rises, intent on cleaning himself in the room adjacent to his sleeping quarters and forgetting this to wash away the sins he had promised to forget.
He does not think of how his tongue darts out to lick the cooling blood from his lips, nor how he only stops when his own blue-eyed gaze stares back upon him in the mirror.