The newfound King of Asgard had seen peasants kneel before him, had tasted the flesh of men and women alike - all before he'd obliterated them. Closeness, true intimacy - it had been forgotten. Carnal desire was simple. As simple as the desire for violence: earth-shattering, all-encompassing.
And yet as he wrung his hands about his own brother's throat, insatiable lust and blood-lust alike boiling to the surface, simple was the last word that came to mind. Loki's utterance added pressure, another great shift in their dynamic, and Thor had never been so enraptured. He wanted to be closer, needed it, craved it, every inch of his being lost in some wordless cry to land his brother midst some miserable debauchery, and inevitably, destruction.
Thor had dismantled every assurance he'd ever lived by, stood aside as complexity intruded upon his life, tearing piece by piece of key character away - each and every carefully conceived detail. And at last, after such prolonged suffering, he'd found himself unable to remain at rest. He'd stood instead, fighting with everything he had to avoid facing the thing he dreaded most: but it came, nonetheless:
The creature he truly was,
the creature that they all were,
buried in the nameless black
of a name.
A title.
It hadn't happened immediately. The fall of Jotunheim had brought its promised peace, ushered in an era of wealth and tranquility. But to Thor, these trophies of war were nothing but reminders of what had once been great: the tumultuous times of battle. He longed for diplomacy to falter, for high councils to be disbanded such that he could pound the drums of war, and bury heathen cities in downpour and drought. He craved to hear thunder reign supreme, to paint white streaks of lightning into the very ethereal existence of the bifrost.
{ And to watch it splinter and shatter -
A divine instrument of the Gods
To serve not but divine punishment. }
But Loki was not deserving of this same fate. No. The trickster who'd hidden from Thor, concealed himself within the apathetic horrors of Midgard, fled in order to save his own flesh and bone... he would face his own personal breed of fear. A silken, inky blackness that slid effortlessly as a shadow: one that would consume him. Each and every thought would linger on that tantalizing dark: king, ruler, master, owner - and god.
That Cheshire grin grew larger still, nearly splitting the thunderer's maw in two. "Very good, brother." It was breathless praise, accompanied only by the careful observation of elevated veins, pulse-point protruding and pounding with life.
And so he squeezed, wanting to watch the steady slow, hear the faint murmurs of his brother's heart. He wanted to watch him squirm, until he was within seconds of heralding blackness, beckoning in unconsciousness: respite.
And Thor would wait until he saw the wavering white of Loki's eyes, rich black glossed with terror as he gazed heavenward, choking for precious breath.
And then he'd release him
Never to be free.
Never to be sated or relieved.