Loki's hands settled on his head, fingers tangling deep in the gold strands of his hair, but since they did not push him away Thor did not cease these attentions: his mouth was gentle upon him, with a devotional sweetness, even when his teeth carefully nipped the skin he was intent on teasing. Ah, this—he liked this better than Loki's weight upon his back, Loki's cock splitting him open, for all that it had driven him into such a wild frenzy of sensation and heat. And his brother was quiet, neither murmuring filthy, degrading things nor giving orders, at least for the moment, and Thor liked that too. He could nearly pretend that they were lovers sharing a bed and nothing more than that—though he had gone too far to pretend that they were only kin, with love a simple thing between them.

Except when he caught and lifted Loki's thigh over his shoulder: then his king spoke, and there was anger in his voice and tension in the splay of his body, and his leg trying to shove him away, and Thor, glancing up at him, caught that white thigh and dug his fingers firm into the skin to still him. His own gaze was hot and stern, and then he turned his head and nuzzled deliberately at the tender inside of Loki's thigh, grazing with lips and with beard. Don't, Loki said, and this order Thor refused; let his king strike him away and shove him down to his belly again if that was what he preferred. Meanwhile the taste of his skin absorbed Thor, fascinated him, and the nuzzle turned into a lingering kiss, wet and suckling, as though he sought to bring a dark bruise to the white surface.