full NSFW / SPOILER-Y picdrabble after the cut because this is a family-friendly blog

warnings: NC-17 / explicit / graphic depictions of torture + rape

The two of them were intercepted on their way from Midgard.

What followed after were sheer panic and the sense of separation, of being yanked away, clawing air, falling.

—

Loki has never been afraid of falling; it is one of the things he seems to consistently do best. What haunts him is the thought of what lies beneath, and this time instead of the void between realms, the Chitauri was the slick sharp rocks at the bottom of the cliff face; the jutting spikes in the depths beyond a trapdoor, patient death at the hilt of a stabbing blade.

They have promised penalty for his failure. They keep their word.

—

His captors find the muzzle a happy coincidence and decide to leave it as is, even adding a mechanized collar for good measure.

Then they strip him from head to toe, and start with the whip.

At least it feels like a whip as it cleaves into his skin, but the burn lining those cuts long after the whip departs most definitely does not. It sears into him like leaping fire; eating the meat clean off his bones before licking the marrows dry. He is quite resilient to physical hurt, but the first time they used the whip on him his entire body quaked so hard with shock it took less than ten lashes until he was wetting himself; took less than another eight before he lost consciousness entirely. And then the collar electrocuted him awake and they whipped him again.

And again.

—

The beating that comes afterward is like a much-welcomed respite as shackles on bruised wrists suspend his limp frame; all bloody and broken, back already flayed raw into ruin.

That is until they lodge needles into his open wounds and pry apart the ones still healing, carving into each and every cut until there is no more skin left to abuse; only an expanse of gashes and boils like a haphazardly plowed field.

The inability to curse and taunt and articulate gnaws on him and gnaws on him so much it stings deeper than any whip or needle could ever hope to compare. He curses through his eyes until his tears are tinged with blood, taunts through defiant stillness when his captors come and take even more of him than what was left, articulates through sharply coiling spine and stretched sinews, but nothing is ever enough. He screams and screams under the muzzle until his vocal cords snap, their siren notes wasted in silence.

—

This is better, pain is better; he deliriously rasps to the rest of his trembling body from the part of his mind that isn’t yet unhinged by isolation and distress.

Pain is the comfort of a familiar place; a lit path in the midst of madness, well-trodden and safe. He knows his way there well, wise of every turn of pebble and every stir of dust beneath scarred feet, wise of every bend and corner, wise of what lies beyond each. He thinks of the naked emotion pouring forth from cerulean eyes as soft lashes brush butterfly kisses against his cold cheeks; thinks of that torrent pounding into him like a wave, rolling and pulling him under until he drowns beneath all that blue, lost and afraid.

This is better.

Pain is real; keeps him grounded like a stone unmoving, a mountain pinning the earth still. Unlike how his gut would turn and his lips would tremble beneath warm broad hands and gentle fingers, allowing himself to suckle on whispered vows that would only serve to tighten the noose of hope around his neck again before he is pushed over the ledge and be left choking to death.

This is better.

—

Time passes.

He begins to feel frayed, unraveled; sensing spreading cracks in his psyche. Realizing he’s forgotten the sound of his own speech and barely caring.

He is so tired, so tired.

He is allowed sleep but every time he closes his eyes he keeps seeing golden hair and feeling the deep rumble of a kind voice echo inside his chest, all easy baritones and gentle strength and then he opens his eyes and pushes the half-dream away before it can linger.

—

This time his captors enter with a syringe of dark, muddied liquid which they inject straight into his neck.

In his exhaustion he entertains the thought of resisting and perhaps break the needle—

—when suddenly the weighing fatigue explodes into an impressive firework of white heat, heat rushing through his veins and igniting an inferno deep in his loins, burning him alive. He is hunger and thirst at the same time, lust and desire and need converged into a singular want.

Pretty soon he is squirming and rippling against the chains, erect and wet and submissively pliant as one of his captors makes its way inside him. It takes merely a few well-placed thrusts before the need for climax overtakes and he clamps down hard, trying to keep the Chitauri inside him. It doesn’t last long; not with him so tight milking it dry, and its come is a cold surge in his overheated belly.

His opening twitches once, twice, before another solid length spears anew into him and starts rutting.

Loki is still painfully erect.

He pushes himself ardently against the muscular hips; rolling and meeting each thrust in an attempt to ride them into completion, but as the second Chitauri spends into him and be replaced with yet another, he realizes with growing horror that they have never intended to let him have his release.

He grows desperate.

Feet slipping and sliding obscenely on a growing pool of spilled semen on the metal floor, he feverishly bucks and thrusts into whomever, whatever might have him, might fuck him, might fuck him and fuck him until he comes because right now he teeters in the brink of release; feeling it builds and builds and devours his mind and devours his body and devours everything else that is him and then recedes away coyly just as he reaches out for it, just like everything else. He is being denied everything.

Everything.

—

He feels the cracks inside deepening into fissures.

—

His captors leave him hanging in that state for days, taking turns claiming him.

The cell they use to keep him now reeks of spend and sex, and hopelessness.

By the time the umpteenth Chitauri slides into his by now gaping and leaking hole, Loki has long shattered. In his place is a writhing mess of a creature bent solely on wringing every drop of pleasure like a crazed animal, all tense limbs and feverish spasms and long, bespread legs with come running down their length in milky veins. His drool drips from the minute openings of the muzzle, rigid length sore and swollen as another Chitauri palms him there while biting angry red teeth marks into his taut areola.

If he still had a voice, he would’ve begged.

He would offer anything for a chance of release.

—Then be the pet of the Chitauri. To be used and spent as we see fit.—

Yes.

—The would-be king; now forever a thrall.You may serve us yet.—

Yes.

The dam lifts suddenly and there is a maddening split-second sense of being on yet another precipice of a freefall before climax crashes into and around him like a landslide and he violently spills and spills and spills in endless thick strands, ruined back in a lovely arch, the bright pointed end of pleasure blinding him and peeling him until there is naught left but an empty husk. 

Finally at peace and somewhat more sane with satiety, he lets it pulls him languidly into inertia and is glad that soon he won’t need to think about anything else. He prays he would never leave here. Prays he would never have to. Prays for no lightning or thunder or a blur of red crashing through the walls and bears him away again to a place he has long given up to call his own. 

Blackness swallows him and this time he does not dream.

#le casual doodling  #le casual typing  #loki