In Loki's entire demeanor stands stark need and desperation. All the secrets of his body are surrendered into Thor's hands, Thor who has been within him already in the most intimate of ways, has known his mind, the thoughts that rake him from inside, the feelings which he denies even to himself. All of those things are between his hands now, in Loki's body which cleaves to his, Loki who would glut himself on him alone. Even in the childhood they had once shared there had been laid the foundations of this inevitability. Loki would never have run from him, not then.

He will never run from him again.

Thor murmurs, devouring Loki's mouth, greedy for the desperation in the hands which cling to him, in the harsh cracked whisper to give it to him, to give him everything; his fingers withdraw, and Thor holds Loki by the waist as he shoves his own flight suit down and down until it presents no obstacle to his desire, to his cock coming rampantly free in his fingers, swollen, turgid, the broad silken head stroking between Loki's flanks. He spits into his hand to slick it, not enough slick by far yet enough to match the desire which would take him in now, now, and Thor pulls Loki down onto him, his eyes hot on his face as he guides himself to him and lifts his hips to press within. A first few throbbing inches, Loki's body painfully snug around him and their joining in physical intimacy a shock which galvanizes his entire body: Thor grips Loki's thighs hard, making him sink down upon him even as he works himself within in short upward jerks of his hips.