[ There is time enough for the fierce animal joy of rutting later, when Thor has learned well the shape of Loki within him. Thus is the rudimentary difference between Thor-king and Loki-king, masters of their domain, masters also of natures as mercurial as they are unfathomably disparate. That Loki would ask to be taken apart with strokes made rapid and rough by his own pleas, under the stars, caught in the arms of his summer king. And now, here, upon his own bed, he dare not allow even the beat of his own heart to quicken, for fear of the consequences that his own passion may wreak.
Instead he finds the well of winter chill within himself, and he stills the thrust of his hips, the fury of his desire. His hands move from thigh to abdomen to the swell of shoulder, stroking with the flat of his palm, scraping with his shorn nails, drawing forth Thor's own passion with hands made clever by long nights spent in a bed far and away from here.
Oh, in the summerlands he'd never thought to see its king undone like this: sweet and sloe-eyed with pleasure wrought by the weight of Loki's cock piercing deep.]
Like so. [ says Loki, upon a soft intake of breath. Thor's great body is a fount of desire before him, muscles drawn taut and loosened again in concert. Loki curls a cool white hand about the cock rising rampant from its thatch of golden curls — many times has he held it within him, and the heat upon his palm is well-beloved after many nights spent lost in communion, but even this familiarity is given novelty. Loki strokes it with his fingertips alone, from its base to his tip, rubbing the edge of his thumb in the pearlescent pre-spending that gathers and falls. ]
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Instead he finds the well of winter chill within himself, and he stills the thrust of his hips, the fury of his desire. His hands move from thigh to abdomen to the swell of shoulder, stroking with the flat of his palm, scraping with his shorn nails, drawing forth Thor's own passion with hands made clever by long nights spent in a bed far and away from here.
Oh, in the summerlands he'd never thought to see its king undone like this: sweet and sloe-eyed with pleasure wrought by the weight of Loki's cock piercing deep.]
Like so. [ says Loki, upon a soft intake of breath. Thor's great body is a fount of desire before him, muscles drawn taut and loosened again in concert. Loki curls a cool white hand about the cock rising rampant from its thatch of golden curls — many times has he held it within him, and the heat upon his palm is well-beloved after many nights spent lost in communion, but even this familiarity is given novelty. Loki strokes it with his fingertips alone, from its base to his tip, rubbing the edge of his thumb in the pearlescent pre-spending that gathers and falls. ]