[ The fall of darkness and the rise of light passes outside long, narrow windows pointing up to the arched vault of Loki's chambers, and still the king of winter moves within Thor, sweet and lingering between the spread of golden thighs. So Thor is made to wait and long for him, to desire him all the more for how Loki fills him and fucks him, takes him in this endless gentle rocking, crafts his body into an instrument of the eternal. Gods, Loki calls them, and beneath his cold pale hands Thor knows himself the child of starlight and sunlight, burning on without end: so they both are, so they are together. The winter is locked within him, within his body and his heart; he spreads within Thor and makes a place for himself to linger.
Come back, he begs Loki with rough, uncultured eloquence, each time his king withdraws from him to slick himself afresh with sweet warm oil, so that he might glide through him as smoothly and tenderly as ever, into the hot stinging clasp of his body, worked loose and wet by the endless plunge and slide of Loki's cock. Come within me.
And when Loki joins within him again, his warm calloused hands stroke urgently over the pale face of his lover, through the black strands of his hair, yet the winter will not be moved to urgency; the winter soothes him again, kisses and hushes him, lulls him with the tender pace of his fucking, until Thor is once more lost to the endless stroking of pleasure.
He rouses at the words, turns his head so that their mouths brush together, the answer resting in him with the weight of certainty. ]
You must not let me free.
[ Soft words, breathed into Loki's mouth, and Thor knows it, Thor knows he will forever belong here in winter's bed.
He rouses again as cold, clever fingers find his cock as though to remind him of the devastating swell and throb of it; he stirs and moans thickly, arching to the touch, trying to thrust against the seeking hand as heat rushes through him anew and all of his body begs for relief. ]
no subject
Come back, he begs Loki with rough, uncultured eloquence, each time his king withdraws from him to slick himself afresh with sweet warm oil, so that he might glide through him as smoothly and tenderly as ever, into the hot stinging clasp of his body, worked loose and wet by the endless plunge and slide of Loki's cock. Come within me.
And when Loki joins within him again, his warm calloused hands stroke urgently over the pale face of his lover, through the black strands of his hair, yet the winter will not be moved to urgency; the winter soothes him again, kisses and hushes him, lulls him with the tender pace of his fucking, until Thor is once more lost to the endless stroking of pleasure.
He rouses at the words, turns his head so that their mouths brush together, the answer resting in him with the weight of certainty. ]
You must not let me free.
[ Soft words, breathed into Loki's mouth, and Thor knows it, Thor knows he will forever belong here in winter's bed.
He rouses again as cold, clever fingers find his cock as though to remind him of the devastating swell and throb of it; he stirs and moans thickly, arching to the touch, trying to thrust against the seeking hand as heat rushes through him anew and all of his body begs for relief. ]