Loki loved make Thor angry, there’s a secret pleasure on making his brother lose control and start to be who he truly was. Thor’s hands in his arm, holding him careless, showed how much the god of thunder wanted to keep him between his body and the stones. It wasn’t the best place for a kiss, neither for sex, but there wasn’t rationality in Thor’s movement, in the way that the hips collided or the moans echoed for the empty and old battle field.
He would keep the marks of Thor’s hand in his skin for a week or more, he’d remember the warmth of the lips on his neck, the sensation that invaded his veins each time that his name escaped. “Loki” Thor said, “Loki” he called, “Loki” he begged, “Loki” he demanded in an angry tone, strong, needy, as a wanderer asking for water on a desert and prepared to kill anyone to get it.
Loki smirked, he knew that would make Thor go even worse against his body. It hurt, but he loved it, he needed it because pain was the only way he had to differ that from the illusions he spent years creating to console himself…
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