He feels the weight of Loki's gaze upon him and the hunger in his appraisal as though they are tangible things. And Thor knows all over again an appreciation of his own beauty, seen through his brother's eyes: he is a body crafted by the skilled hands of fate, mapped now by a desire which is as much a part of him as the swell of his lungs within him. Golden, beautiful, big in all his parts, he is made to be wrapped around his brother and reveled in, his warmth a pleasure to be shared. He reaches out to cup Loki's face between his, to let his own unsubtle fingers map the starved hollows of Loki's cheeks, and his own smile stretches hungry and wanting in his understanding of Loki's desires.
What he is made for is this: to bury himself so deep within his brother that no anchor could hold him so fast. And if ever again Loki should long for escape, there Thor will be holding him within the cage of his heart, with his hands upon him to subdue every errant thought of flight.
And he knows himself great enough to bear even the jagged edges of his brother's shadows within him, to muffle despair beneath his own weight. To ease if not erase, to gentle his brother like a wild creature tamed. It was fear which drove Loki forth from the beginning, and now there is nothing left to be afraid of, no secret in Thor's mind which has not already been opened and willingly shared. All the shelter of him has embraced Loki already, and holds him secure, and Thor does not fear to lose him any more than he fears to stand before a kaiju with the bloodsong of war singing in his heart. He lifts Loki now, drawing him upwards to put his mouth at his breast, his belly, as his hands drag the flight suit all the way down to sag at his thighs: white skin bared, and the jut of ravenous desire, which is as much an awareness within Thor as the swell of his own cock. A hand cups his flank and grasps crudely, and Thor breaks away briefly to wet a pair of his fingers in his mouth, suckling them down to the knuckles: his touch smooths then between Loki's thighs, finding unerrantly the place he so desires to split apart on his own arousal. His mouth hungrily devouring the skin just above the trail of coarse dark hair leading down to his cock, Thor works his fingers within him, shuddering as much for Loki's pleasure as for his own lust.
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What he is made for is this: to bury himself so deep within his brother that no anchor could hold him so fast. And if ever again Loki should long for escape, there Thor will be holding him within the cage of his heart, with his hands upon him to subdue every errant thought of flight.
And he knows himself great enough to bear even the jagged edges of his brother's shadows within him, to muffle despair beneath his own weight. To ease if not erase, to gentle his brother like a wild creature tamed. It was fear which drove Loki forth from the beginning, and now there is nothing left to be afraid of, no secret in Thor's mind which has not already been opened and willingly shared. All the shelter of him has embraced Loki already, and holds him secure, and Thor does not fear to lose him any more than he fears to stand before a kaiju with the bloodsong of war singing in his heart. He lifts Loki now, drawing him upwards to put his mouth at his breast, his belly, as his hands drag the flight suit all the way down to sag at his thighs: white skin bared, and the jut of ravenous desire, which is as much an awareness within Thor as the swell of his own cock. A hand cups his flank and grasps crudely, and Thor breaks away briefly to wet a pair of his fingers in his mouth, suckling them down to the knuckles: his touch smooths then between Loki's thighs, finding unerrantly the place he so desires to split apart on his own arousal. His mouth hungrily devouring the skin just above the trail of coarse dark hair leading down to his cock, Thor works his fingers within him, shuddering as much for Loki's pleasure as for his own lust.