They had rolled around in the dirt, pulling and crushing at whichever part of the other they could reach; Loki felt several of his ribs snap under Thor’s fists and gasped, his throat too clotted with gravel and grime to put them back together. For a few tense seconds he was on his stomach, utterly unable to move, and Thor’s breath was hot on his neck and his hands were unmoving at his waist, unsure. Hesitating. Loki swallowed down a lungful of air, and, carefully, pressed his backside against Thor’s torn and shaking front. Thor hesitated only a moment longer before he was pawing away the few bits of clothing and armor necessary so he could enter him, and Loki felt his breath hitch as relieved, molten heat surged through his chest and stomach and throat and threatened to prick at his eyes.
Same Thor, he thought messily, his half-broken body now taut with pleasure, with fullness, with Thor’s ragged gasps near his ear, He doesn’t grow up that easily.
“Kill you,” Thor was saying, through broken sniffles and a choking hiccup, “I will kill you…”
“Harder,” Loki commanded, and dug his hands tight into Thor’s sweat-slippery arms, wanting his blood underneath his fingernails.
“Kill you,” Thor whined insistently, even as his hips bucked to obey the command, driving Loki so hard into the rocky earth that he felt his bones creak.
“Shh,” he soothed, though his voice was little more than a rasp. It would be all right. Tears weren’t good; he hated for Thor to cry, but they wouldn’t last. “Don’t cry, brother. I’m here.”