I don't own the Avengers or any characters there.

Trigger warning: abuse, torture

This story does not involve smut in any way, shape or form. It's only a little slashy at that, so if you want that, you'll need to go elsewhere. This takes place after the Avengers movie.


It is dark and silent. Not cold dark, not the way falling from Bifrost had been-oh an eternity ago-but dark. Silent. He can hear his breath, ragged and wet but it is better than before. He hopes everything will stay silent. That he is forgotten.

Sound, his traitorous silver tongue, that kind laughter, is pain. There is a slight pinch between his shoulder blades, and sweat stings in the wounds. He isn't sure how long it had been since last time, but time doesn't matter. They will be back.

Oh Loki Loki Loki, look at you. Tell me, what do you want, little fire starter? Trickster, tell me, what do you want?

He does not answer. He isn't sure if he is alone or not, but if he is silent they would not beat him, will not heft him up and break him, over and over again until he screams because the pain is too much-and then they will hurt him for breaking the silence more. No no no.

Another drip splashes on his face, his eyes. He is weak. He wants death-you do not deserve death-and yet his magic and will fight, try to save his eyes. If he allows it, the acid will burn through, straight through, to his brain, and he will be gone, but he can't escape that voice, that one that reminds him how worthless he is, that golden smile that is filled with pity and kindness and which visits him and he cannot escape, cannot, cannot.

There is a noise and Loki wants to weep. It seems so soon, too soon, surely they'll allow his back to heal a little further, let his shattered leg mend itself poorly before breaking him again. Surely it is not him, come to whisper and urge and coax until his tongue betrays him. Hands remove the chains that bind his wrist in place, a cloth presses against his face, dabbing away the venom that sliced and burned and made even his bones ache. The soft sob isn't his, and he is grateful for the moment. Something, he doesn't know what, wraps around him, and it is the softest thing he has felt other than his hands in ages. The being cradles him, lifts him. This is not one of his captors-it smells of lightning and Valhalla's smoke and some lavender perfume he cannot place.

He tries to will his tongue to obey him, to ask for death, but it does not listen. Smell of lightning and they are gone, and he prays they will not put him back together. It will only hurt worse the second time.