It’s a woman. He knows it immediately and not entirely because the skin against his feels soft and smooth but because over the last couple of years he has learnt the differences in the behavior of the two sexes. Women tend to start slowly, maybe reservedly, placing their first touch further from the final target. They place a hand on the knee, maybe on mid-thigh and crawl upwards, leaving weightless traces and lighting up nerves in ways only women can caress. Most men grab the upper thigh, or aim right at his cock.
Light fingers draw circles on his pelvis as a soft, rounded body wedges between his legs. Loki smirks as he feels a tongue lick at the head of his cock. A woman indeed. They are more prone to pleasure with their lips, too. And she isn’t bad either, hands and tongue busy if not with harmonized moves. She lets him in as far as he can go, the head of his cock hitting the soft tissue of her throat repeatedly. Loki would like her to move on quicker but he doesn’t mind too much if she takes her time.
Maybe they have already encountered over the past years but it matters not, and he has never been curious as to whom he is sharing his body with. Nobody has a name here, and nobody cares about anything beyond seeking pleasure.
He stares at the plank wall that seemingly cuts him in half as he lies on his back, his lower body swallowed by the room next to his, and just as every single time when he comes to this tavern, he blesses the owner for the idea Loki cannot imagine his life without. He doesn’t see, and he is unseen – and (maybe yet another proof that there is something inherently wrong with him) the simple fact only amplifies the pleasure to incredible heights.
Loki throws his head back in ecstasy as the wet and soft insides of the strange woman descend upon his length, enveloping him with welcomed heat while two warm thighs encage his, and he groans with the lack of inhibition of someone who, at the moment, is weightless and transparent in his almost non-existence.
. . .
They happened upon the tavern many years ago when, tired and hungry, they stumbled through the door on one of their adventures with Thor. Loki is sure his brother has already forgotten about their findings: for someone like him, arrogant and self-confident, such place holds no appeal, but afterwards for many torturous fruitless months spent bedding men and women and chasing the pleasure that slipped out of his fingers like an illusion he wrought, Loki hasn’t succeeded in pushing the memory out of his mind.
On that evening, while they were waiting for their lamb to roast, they noticed someone slip a handful of coins in the hand of the owner of the tavern. In turn, the shifty-eyed landlord led the guest through a door to the back.
Then through another one, and down a corridor to a set of rooms.
They know this because when the second guest with another fistful of coins to spare arrived, all in ridiculous secrecy, they still felt adventurous enough with Thor to creep after them. One of the doors opened when they tried it, the room empty behind it.
Or rather, empty, bar the lower half of a woman sticking out of the wall as it lay on a couch. Only when a leg moved did they bolt for the exit and their table loaded with the roasted lamb and pints of ale, unsure whether they should laugh or be simply shocked by the view and the obvious function of the rooms. Because even after so many years of finding himself in the same position as that unknown woman, Loki has to admit it’s a grotesque sight.
. . .
The sparring pole breaks in half as it collides with the ground, and it’s really fortunate that Fandral could dance out of its way, otherwise he would now nurture a few broken bones, and Thor an onslaught of guilt.
“My friend,” Fandral laughs at Thor, unfazed, “you have much energy to vent.”
And Thor has to agree with him for he feels the rising level of frustration inside him. His days are loaded with tedious studies of statecraft and diplomacy, long spanning discussion with the Elders that Loki surely enjoys more than Thor does if it is any indication that his brother sets to torture him with his own ideas on the subjects even after the discussions are long over, and he does it in such great length that only betrays how his impish little brother relishes in Thor’s suffering. Apart from these, Thor has many small matters to tend to as well, something his father insisted on and pushed on him in an effort to force him to act and make decisions responsibly – as it is required from the heir to the throne. Wherever he goes, they find him with various affairs, his father’s halls packed with travelers, jarls and common men who need advice, but all Thor wants is to take Loki or his friends, don a guise and escape somewhere nobody knows him. Which is, quite frankly, must be a faraway land for sometimes it seems everyone is familiar with the face of the Crown Prince.
“I will just take a bath,” he says to Fandral, picking up the remains of the pole and bidding farewell to his friend because he knows just the place that fits all requirement.
He hasn’t visited the tavern for months, and he feels its pull in his groins. It is two hours ride from Bilskirnir but the evening is still young, and he can make it there and back before dawn, without anyone noticing his absence.
It’s his secret indulgence, that tavern, a place where along his clothes, he can shed his title, too. He hasn’t talked about it to anyone, not even his greatest confident, Loki, though it was with his brother that they discovered the hidden treasure.
He doesn’t know how he could explain it to him, to anyone at all, when everyone is viewing him through some golden frame of magnitude, comparing him to a standard he has unknowingly set up for himself to reach every single time. Loki mocks him for being cherished and popular and beloved, but it has its downside, too. A burden he sometimes tires to carry around. Just for once, he wants to be measured as Thor, and not the Crown Prince of Asgard. Loki would laugh at him, undoubtedly not believing a word.
Whatever he does behind closed doors rarely stays there, and it’s disturbing to think that these acts are the subject of discussions where he doesn’t always want to boast about them. All he wants sometimes is unlimited freedom. He cannot have his trust even in brothels, for the women there are no less prone to spread lengthy tales of sharing their bed with a prince. It is the last thing Thor wishes his mother to hear.
He is reluctant to admit but besides the privacy it provides, the whole concept of the tavern arouses him to a shameful extent: taking people he cannot see, he doesn’t know anything about. The idea laces his blood with pure lust.
He scrubs the sweat and dust that stuck to him during the sparring with Fandral. The water has the perfect temperature but his muscles don’t relax a little. He gets into his garments and ties the old worn cowl around his neck, pulling the hood over his head as he leaves the palace grounds behind, with a pouch of golden coins and too much energy to spend.
. . .
In the cover of an oak just across the tavern, Loki weaves the well-known spell, casting the usual glamour on himself. He is a nondescript Asgardian now, blonde and well-built and tanned, hands rough from fight or work. When he plays a man’s part, this is the appearance he crafts for himself. As a woman he is tall and dark-haired and pallid, not so different from his real look but who would think of the second son of Odin when looking at the fair maiden?
Today he chooses to be a man.
It is complete anonymity: Loki of Asgard has only ever been seen here once, in the company of his brother many years agone. Now he can be here whatever he wants to be without the fear of anyone discovering his secret perversion. For he is sure they would mock him for it, disgusted at how he is willing to throw his body for anyone to claim it like a common whore. They would call him argr anew but when has Loki not been labeled unmanly?
The tavern is busy with numerous travelers shouting for mead, leaning over the tables with many tales to share. Loki weaves his way through them. He places a pouch filled with coins in the waiting hand of the innkeeper he came to know and yet not know at all over the years. It’s an almost wordless exchange. The man nods, gives him a room number. He doesn’t show him the way anymore for Loki is a frequent guest, though maybe not even as frequent as he sometimes would like to be.
In the room, the first thing he gets rid of is the glamour. It doesn’t matter what face he wears when all anyone would see is the lower half of his body.
Slowly, he takes off his clothes. The sheets on the bed are crisp and clean, though grey and worn with many years of everyday washing. The hole in the plank is curtained off the usual way with a black material that looks common but he can feel the weavings of a seiðkona having reinforced it so it wouldn’t let the sound and sight filter from one room to the other. Loki waves his hand, with the flicker of his wrist adding his own spells to the existing one. Who said he should trust anyone’s magic above his own, after all?
With his feet first, he crawls through the hole until his lower half below his navel disappears in the adjacent room, and he lies back patiently. The bed on the other side is narrow, going only down his knees so he is able to bend his legs. It is foldable, too, as he has come to discover: there are hinges fastened on it, around which the half supporting his thighs can be unhooked, granting perfect access for anyone who wants to lodge themselves between his legs.
The thought now makes his hair bristle in anticipation. He wants to be taken by a man today so much that the simple prospect of it stirs the desire in his cock, and he sighs raggedly. His chances would have been higher in the form of a woman, as it always is, but there are times he is lucky to have a man as his partner even in his male form.
There is only one rule everyone has to keep here, and it’s that no harm is allowed to be done to one’s partner. He has no fear – in worst case, he can defend himself by unleashing the most harmful of his spells, but it has never come to it.
His hand runs down his torso as he waits. It’s so easy to do this, to give himself to anyone, to faceless people, not caring who they are or what they think of the body they claim. Not running the risk of ending up in a vile rumor that travels the realms and gets back to the hungry ears of people around him, for his parents to hear it, for others to twist it until even he doesn’t recognize the story, and mock him for it. To give them another opportunity to compare him to Thor.
For many years, it has been cycles of desperate attempts to squeeze an ounce of pleasure out of his couplings, to let himself just take and not care about anything, but there has ever been a barrier within him, holding back against his own completion. Those years brought naught but anguish. And as it is always bound to happen, the more he has tried the further he has grown from his goal until a point his skin crawled even at the mere thought of intimacy. He accepted how he is a wrong, wretched thing, unfit for even the simple act anyone from a dull stableman to a common palace guard is capable of. He constructed lies, designed nameless lovers for himself to fill in the gaps where a real person should have been, and they came easier than the barren efforts at opening up and submitting to someone.
He doesn’t know where he would be without what the tavern provides him. Maybe beyond the borders of sanity.
Some think he is asexual because it has become more and more rare that he takes anyone to bed, but the truth is to the contrary. His hunger is almost insatiable, and he is instinctive and wild when there is no name and title attached to him. There are no expectations upon him here, no moments of vulnerability and weakness that they can later turn against him. He dares to do anything and asks wordlessly even for more, and it amuses Loki how these people are oblivious to the fact that they have bedded the son of Odin, spilling their seed in him, or letting him spill his own in them. The latter gives him the wickedest delight: maybe, with luck, he has even reproduced this flawed, monstrous thing that is Loki of Asgard, spoiled the pure and pristine Asgardian blood with his wretched one.
It is freedom, the sort that he can never experience anywhere. He wishes he was like his brother, wild and free beast, beautiful and careless and negligent in his concern for people’s opinion. But Thor is perfect, everything about him makes Loki tremble with envy but (and even in this he is a failure) it only makes him love Thor all the more.
It is so easy for Thor. It has never been so for Loki who only trails after his grandeur like a sickly animal born in darkness.
. . .
“Woman or man?” the landlord asks him in a low voice, and Thor hums to himself.
He is rarely asked this question. He supposes there aren’t many men willing to offer themselves such way. It is a foreign concept in Asgard where people are so quick to stick labels on others.
A particular memory resurfaces in his mind, of one of the last occasions he was here. There was a man he took then; the thought of it still prickles his skin with electric want. He chose to have a man that night out of whim and feeling adventurous, and he hasn’t regretted it.
“Maybe…” he murmurs, shifting a little. “There was a man here, a few months ago—“
He is cut off curtly. “Man, then?”
“I wish to be with that particular man…”
“I don’t remember anyone,” comes the reply, and Thor understands. Nobody wears a face here. Anyone coming here is nameless, faceless, anonym. In a certain aspect, it sooths him because the only record kept of his visits is in this gruff man’s mind, and it isn’t too likely it will ever get out of there.
“I will take my chance with the man, then,” Thor smiles a little.
He is shown to the room. He waits for the landlord to retreat to the inn before he pushes the door in.
He is almost immediately certain luck is with him today. The creamy calves, pulled up, heels rested against the edge of the bed, show a resemblance of what he keeps in his memory. Pale skin, with a dusting of dark hair between the legs, angular lines and surprising silkiness wherever he touches the lithe body. He remembers everything so clearly, and it easily can be the same person.
With impatient movements Thor unclothes himself. He steps closer, his hand reaching out and touching—
. . .
—his knees, a rough, callous palm that startles Loki out of his reverie. He lets the other –a man, not hard to figure it out, and he smirks that his wish is granted– unfold his knees, his thighs coming to rest against the bed on the other side of the wall. His blood is racing with lust but when two strong hands curve under his knees and move upwards, squeezing him right below the curve of his ass like an uncommon greetings as if they knew each other, his heart jolts with faint recognition. Maybe hope, too.
He recalls a man from some time ago, with the same initiative touch, possessive and fierce. He remembers how he was left there lying for an hour afterwards, with body humming pleasantly, sated like never before. How he tried to catch the smell of strange sweat coating his skin, how he—
A flush floods his face at the memory. That occasion pushed him into doing and thinking things he had never done and thought before.
A palm now wraps around his hardening cock, rasps against it as it moves slowly up and down. The hard patch of skin on the thumb is almost painful as it circles around the slit at the head. Loki groans, half out of discomfort the roughness leaves in him, his hips shifting. It might be the hands of a farmer, someone who works with his hands regularly, every day, Loki fancies, or a warrior who wields heavy weapons.
A warrior, he decides as his calves run up on bulky thighs. He prods them with his toes, and they dig into thick batches of iron muscles. The soft tickle of hair against his soles tells him the man is hairy but it’s probably sparse and fair. A blond man – but it’s like saying he wants to catch a silver fish: most men on Asgard are blond or red.
Loki’s hands spring from the bed the next moment, plastering against the plank for purchase because a wet and warm mouth and a playful tongue against his cock steal his breath away. His hips buckle, trying to drive into the welcoming mouth. A vibration runs along his length, a deep rumble that fuzzes his thoughts, and he slowly realizes the man must be laughing at his urgency.
Out of spite, Loki repeats the movement with more force now, claiming the warmth and having his revenge, and the hum reverberates through him anew, stirring up his groins. The desire unfurls in him like a snake, crawling through his body from head to toe.
“Bastard,” he groans as a set of teeth scrapes against the sensitive skin and Loki hisses, wishing for the first time ever since he started to visit the tavern that he could sink his fingers in the stranger’s hair, pulling, tearing at it.
The other man’s tongue runs from the tip to the base, following a vein maybe or whatever pattern he came up with. A whisper of silkiness on the skin of his inner thighs; then something rasps against his balls, and if Loki wasn’t certain it is a man treating him, now he can dismiss any doubts: it’s a man with a beard cropped short and shoulder-long hair.
Yes, he thinks, it must be the same as that time. Or maybe he only wishes so.
As the teeth now start to nip at his balls, suckling and playing as if they have been lovers for years, Loki wonders with addled mind why he tries to imagine his partner by the snippets of information his skin picks up from the touches. He has never tried to draw a picture closest to reality. To the contrary, he has only ever imagined being breached by men he would be repulsed by, rough marauders and repelling thugs, scarred lumberjacks and dull lowly men. Such fantasies arouse him to no end.
There is always a strange sense of vengeance in how he parts his legs and offers up everything he has, though he knows not who exactly he wants to punish. Maybe his title, the labels of disgrace they stick on him, the ropes that hold him in place and never lets him be free in his own skin, not like this. Maybe there is a sick glee in the idea of debauching Prince Loki of Asgard, this unworthy, secondary thing who is so unbecoming in his position.
Lips wrap around his cockhead again, the tongue twirling and lapping. There is a sudden tightness around his erection that makes Loki see stars. The suction is mind-blowing as the man hollows his cheeks, and Loki considers kicking him. He doesn’t want to come yet, but if it goes on like this, he would soon reach his completion.
Then suddenly the farther half of the cushioned board disappears under his legs, supporting him only below his buttocks now, and Loki lifts his legs in excitement, placing his heels on the edge in a wide stance, but the hands clasp—
. . .
—around his ankles and drop them to the floor again. Thor grabs the slender hips and flips the body easily, pulling the man forward a bit so he can drape around the edge of the divan. His own erection is thick and leaking, though he hasn’t even touched himself yet.
He will fuck this man, with every push of his cock he will pick him apart so he would never forget this night. He wants this more than anything, and the feeling explodes in his chest with carefree merriment, with wicked glee, and the sweet taste of freedom. His lips curve into a grin, throat vibrating with a laughter as he drills his face between the two pale mounds presented to him, stealing with his tongue into the crease.
The reaction he gets albeit silent due to the insulated wall is wonderful. The wiry muscles in the lean thighs tense against his chest as the hips cant upwards, pushing against his eager mouth. He feels the iron ropes of tendons pull taut in the man’s back. Thor can imagine him arch his chest into the bed on the other side, boring his face into the sheets with a silent scream of pleasure.
Thor kneads the cheeks expertly, letting go every scrap of inhibition and giving in to fantasies he hasn’t even known he harbored as his tongue presses against the circular muscle experimentally. He can almost hear the whine the man surely lets out, it sings under the skin and in every cell of the lean body, and he wishes it wasn’t only almost.
As his tongue whirls on the sensitive area, Thor realizes he could never do this with his name upon him. The next day the whole of Asgard would talk about how Prince Thor has buried his face in another man’s ass to lick him until he opened up for him. He would die of embarrassment. How could he look into his mother’s, his father’s eyes? Loki would tease him about this for centuries!
His hands glide down the pale thighs, running in soothing circles on the knees while his tongue does the same, prodding and breaching the pulsating muscles of the entrance he cannot wait to spread with his girth. The tip of his tongue slides lower, and he places open-mouthed kisses on the underside of the cheeks where his beard has left red marks on the immaculate skin. His chin rasps across the tight balls, and he soothes them with pressing the flat of his tongue to them. The body beneath his palms convulses with pleasure at every touch he makes. With teeth biting into one firm cheek, he moves back again, goading the wet hole, eliciting the most amazing undulation of the slender spine. The man pushes back against him, ever the impatient, and Thor tastes him as far as he can, unable to resist the sudden playfulness that urges him to tickle the crease with his tongue as he pulls out. The muscles enveloping his face shiver and tremble, making him moan, his vision blurring. He could do this all night.
Instead, he reaches out for the jar on the bedside table. With two fingers coated in the oil found in it he pushes past the twitching hole and it opens for him beautifully, knuckle by knuckle. He thrusts in and out a few times, all the while kneading one of the ass cheeks in a soothing manner as he works the man open. He twists his fingers around, applying gentle pressure with his pads as he moves out, circling around with them in patient search. Even if he didn’t feel the firm spot under his fingertips, the reaction he gets tells everything he needs to know. The man’s knees buckle and knock together, his hips snapping backwards, trying to pull himself on his fingers.
It’s amazing how he can see, even with this limited view granted, how the other man is coming undone under his hands, feet constantly shifting and shuffling on the floor, trying to find something firm amidst the breakneck fall. The power he has in the situation sings in Thor’s blood, scraping feral groans against his throat. The feeling is familiar, something that floods his mind only in the heights of battles, an instinctive urge that drives him to trudge forward in search for one purpose.
With a hungry growl, he removes his fingers.
“Good, all ready for the Mighty Thor,” he murmurs and barks out a laugh at how ridiculously that sounds. His wicked-tongued little brother would never let him get away with this either, Loki would call him a self-conceited, vain and arrogant beast. Maybe he would be right.
He rubs the oil on his length, and parts the red-blotted cheeks, probing—
. . .
—his entrance teasingly. Loki hardly senses anything beyond the man pressed to him. The past minutes reduced him to a level he has never thought he could ever descend to. Or maybe it was ascension, by the way he feels.
The sheets under his face are wet with spit as he tried to catch his breath through open mouth as each small rub of the thickly cut fingers sought that wonderful spot in him, petrifying his body. He thrusts his own fingers into his mouth, sucking them and twirling his tongue around. His moans reverberate around the digits, and the bite he gives them spices the soaring lust with just the right amount of pain that darts across his body with a sharp pang.
It should frighten him, how he throws himself before another person so completely, how the thought lights immense pleasure in him.
He pushes backwards, trying to force the shaft into his body, but the man draws back and Loki can practically hear him laugh at him again. Instead of gliding inside, he now slides down, painting a wet line in the crease of his ass and rubbing against his balls delicately. It sends sparks through his lower belly. Loki finds himself tear at the sheets with his bare teeth, fisting them in frustration.
“Please,” he grunts, with only one thought rolling around in his head on loop, “takemetakemetakeme—“
He kicks his leg out, hitting a hard bone, and in response the other man pats his ass like he was no more than a naughty horse, and Loki growls into his hands incoherently. His own erection is a leaking abandoned thing trapped between the divan and his belly, beyond his own reach. It as much drives him crazy as it excites him.
Finally he feels the press of the blunt head of the cock, and though he is relaxed and feels prepared enough, his breath catches as the head passes past the ring of muscle.
“Oh sweet—,” he whines, choking on his own saliva as the girth stretches him inch by inch to an extent where blinding whiteness fills his vision, and Loki has no idea if it’s from pain or rapture.
The man has an impressive size, and it’s beyond Loki how he could forget it. He feels paralyzed as the man slowly impales him, sliding deeper and deeper, and sliding still. The shaft under the head feels so much thicker that Loki fears he comes undone only by thinking of the size of it. It tears a long string of whimpers from his throat. He buries his face into the wet sheets, inhaling and exhaling is short puffs at the sensation of being utterly full. It melts something delicate and sensible in his mind, leaving him fuzzy and instinctive and on the verge of momentary insanity.
The man is finally hilt-deep in him, pressing against the curve of his ass with such force as if he were attempting to knot with him like dogs do, and the idea erases all remaining coherent thoughts in Loki’s mind.
The shaft pulls back again, almost all the way out. The feeling is exquisite, the long drag, the relaxation of his muscles, the sweet anticipation of being filled again.
A rough hand presses into the small of his back, pushing him down on the cushion. There is a shift behind him, a knee comes against his own, and then the man dives inside him again.
Loki doesn’t recognize his own voice, the long, inhuman whimper cannot possibly come from his throat. The man managed to find that mind-blowing spot inside him at first try, and it doesn’t happen too often that Loki is amazed into silence.
Then it repeats. Retreating, diving in, hitting the spot on the way in, stretching him to unbelievable extent.
He is grateful for his own precaution for reinforcing the spells because the chants of moans spilling from him might manage to break the seiðkona’s magic. All he is able to do is groan and writhe with each rock of the powerful hips.
The other man picks up a speed, his thrusts turning shallower, shorter. Strong hands keep him in place, hips snapping against him as the other man humps him recklessly. He cants his hips so now it’s not the head of his cock that hits the spot but the shaft itself keeps rubbing against it, and Loki can do nothing but fist the sheets and cling onto them for dear life. The pleasure is building inside him with every glide, rising to impossible heights and suffocating him as if caught in the flow of a river.
“Yes, plea—, ah there yes,” the nonsenses roll off his tongue without Loki registering them, without realizing how futile it is when the other cannot hear him. The silence of the room is filled with his own continuous moans and loud pants as he gulps the air at every retreat of the cock inside him.
Drops of sweat trickle in his eyes, he feels them pooling in the hollows of his body, and Loki thinks of how those rough fingers are leaving their marks on his skin, oblivious that a prince will wear them under his velvet robes for the following days. He savors the truth, rolls it around in his mind how the manhood of some common unknown man rubs him sore and loose, and he moans deliriously at the secret that’s only his.
How could he let anyone see him like this, completely unmade, begging for someone’s prick to pick him apart, crawling for his completion in utter abandon?
His erection rubs against the cushioned surface of the divan, and the friction feels like it’s burning out his mind. A hand sneaks around his waist, seeking his cock but he snaps his hips to the side as much as he can, a wordless indication that he doesn’t want the treatment. He is sure he can come even like this, by rutting against the sheets and being fucked in this steady rhythm, if only the man wouldn’t stop.
As if reading his thoughts, the man pulls out completely, and Loki freezes in despair.
“No, come inside me!” he snaps frustrated, his voice is a hoarse croak, but then hands heft him a few inches backward and higher so he is balancing on the balls of his feet. His spine curves into a sharp slope. His legs are forced further apart, and the man—
. . .
—drives into him with anew force, the angle granting better opportunity to slide deeper and harder with the support of the strength of his thigh muscles. Thor presses his forehead to the plank wall, hands keeping the man in place while he rocks his hips, using the momentum of the slant to rut harder into him.
He cannot see straight anymore. His body seeking its own pleasure, and he watches numbly his length disappear in the heat of the lithe body beneath him. It’s a sight that drives him half-crazed. All creamy skin and lean muscles, the dips in the small of his back are the perfect size for Thor’s thumbs to press into. It’s a beautiful body. He is just as curious of how this man looks as he is grateful that he would never see him because it can only be a disappointment.
It feels wonderful, the tight heat around him, enveloping him fully and not loosening a bit. His own hair sticks to his forehead, skin dripping of sweat. Suddenly he craves leaning over the man and whispering dirty things into his ear, telling him how incredible he feels, and what else could Thor do to him that would be able to fill the whole night with naught but pleasure.
He is close, so close. One arm comes up and braces against the wall as he plummets into the other man in careless abandon, bumping him against the edge of the bed with every thrust. The hinges must be cutting into the soft flesh of the man’s thighs but the intensity of the rolls of the hips as they snap backwards, meeting Thor’s moves doesn’t tell about pain. Thor feels the plank shake under his arm, giving hollow but loud thuds as the bed collides with it, and the wet noises their skins, their slapping balls make with every snap are so deliciously wanton that they rip a string of moans from Thor.
When he thinks he cannot possibly hold it back any longer, the pale hips twitch erratically. The muscles around his cock convulse in mad pulsations, and his fingertips that are still wrapped around the slim hips are suddenly covered in wetness as the other man comes all over himself.
The stimulation finally wrings his own climax out of Thor. He throws his head back, muscles taut like a drawn bow stretched beyond its boundaries. He pounds a few times into the tight hole, ramming carelessly against the back of the firm ass and sheaths as deep inside the heat as possible, and it feels like centuries while he spills, filling the man with his seed.
For long minutes, with his head against the wall, he stays still, waiting for his cock to soften, trying to imprint the memory into his mind and skin, into his retina. His fingers draw lazy circles on the base of the spine under him, rubbing the lean sides and wishing his hands could move further up, beyond the opening in the plank.
He doubts he would ever forget this. For a moment Thor wonders if it is something he will be chasing for the rest of his life. He wishes he could get hard again and continue where they finished but he is utterly spent at the moment.
The man hardly stirs beneath him, knees slightly buckled. He twitches a little as Thor pulls out eventually, leaving—
. . .
—a trail of semen dripping down the curve of his ass.
The level of pleasure drains from his body only slowly, as it is bound to happen when he reaches his completion by teasing that spot so thoroughly. Loki feels boneless, coils of lust singing in his limbs and making him feel heavy. His mind is gloriously clouded, patches of spots still blank on the canvas of his consciousness.
He has no idea how much time has passed when he finally finds the strength to pull his lower part back to the room. He doesn’t know either if the other man is still there on the other side, or has long since left.
He is a mess. His abdomen is coated in his own smeared cum, and so is the back of his thighs. The movements cause another dose to spill from him, and the feeling makes him groan in satisfaction.
He is almost bashful to admit it even to himself that the only time he has ever tasted the semen after a coupling was the first time with this man.
He dips his fingers now in the mess trickling down his buttocks and thrusts them into his mouth before he would start to think about it, moaning at the feel of it against his tongue. It’s utterly dirty, everything about it. He could, he would let this man fuck him for days, over and over again. He wishes they could swap so he was able to use his hands and tongue on him, to catch a glimpse of the body that gives him so much pleasure. To claim him in the same way as he was claimed just now, tasting and taking and teasing.
Maybe next time, he thinks before the thought freezes in him.
Can he, should he allow having a steady partner? An anonym lover however ridiculously it sounds? He isn’t sure he should take such risks and let something build between them, even if completely carnal, it is still a connection that might demand more later with time. He doesn’t want to grow dependent on this but if he is honest enough to himself, he already has. For this sets the standard very high for anyone afterwards.
He growls, frustrated with himself as he cleans his body with a snap of his fingers. Why does it always have to turn so complicated?
He dresses himself, pulling the glamour on, and easing his way out of the room cautiously, in case the other man is still lingering around. In the inn, he hurries past the landlord. At the door he casts another guise on himself, of an old, withered man this time, because he can never be cautious enough, and when someone is an easy liar, they tend to cover a lie with another one.
But the lie he cannot warp into truth is that he doesn’t hope for a replay.