If he is envious, it is but an echo of its usual bellow. There are parts of his brother that none other may touch; even Sif, for all of her carefully-wrought similarities to Thor, has never seen him as Loki has, stripped of bravado and arrogance, shamed by his own faults. They are brothers, in the end. Here, in Loki's arms, Thor can put away his golden mantle, set duty aside, and, for a time, dress himself in desire alone.
(The thought of Thor lying in this very bed, only the swollen crown of his visible past his curled fist, stroking himself again and again to completion, Loki's name sweet upon his parted lips — the arch of his body when release snatches him up, the artless flush of his cheeks. His mouth, open and red, the blue-glass sheen of his eyes, unfocused, veiled by his lashes.
Or, perhaps, though Thor is loathe to admit enjoyment of an act into which Loki has coaxed him but sparingly—perhaps he had worked his fingers into himself, stuffed himself full to aching, and yearned even at his peak for a lighter touch.)
Loki's hand slides to the groove of Thor's hip; the other slides further, undoing the laces with quick-fingered skill. His own cock has risen and thickened, spurred on by the full-bodied press of Thor's body against his own. "Then you missed my hands and my mouth, and not the entirety of my person. Shall I take offense?"
no subject
If he is envious, it is but an echo of its usual bellow. There are parts of his brother that none other may touch; even Sif, for all of her carefully-wrought similarities to Thor, has never seen him as Loki has, stripped of bravado and arrogance, shamed by his own faults. They are brothers, in the end. Here, in Loki's arms, Thor can put away his golden mantle, set duty aside, and, for a time, dress himself in desire alone.
(The thought of Thor lying in this very bed, only the swollen crown of his visible past his curled fist, stroking himself again and again to completion, Loki's name sweet upon his parted lips — the arch of his body when release snatches him up, the artless flush of his cheeks. His mouth, open and red, the blue-glass sheen of his eyes, unfocused, veiled by his lashes.
Or, perhaps, though Thor is loathe to admit enjoyment of an act into which Loki has coaxed him but sparingly—perhaps he had worked his fingers into himself, stuffed himself full to aching, and yearned even at his peak for a lighter touch.)
Loki's hand slides to the groove of Thor's hip; the other slides further, undoing the laces with quick-fingered skill. His own cock has risen and thickened, spurred on by the full-bodied press of Thor's body against his own. "Then you missed my hands and my mouth, and not the entirety of my person. Shall I take offense?"