“You look beautiful like this…”
Loki’s fingers comb through his hair. Thor tips his head back and feels their long drag, pulling just on the edge of pain to send tendrils of sensation quivering down his sides.
Mouths hover on the edge of touching. Thor can taste the wine still on Loki’s breath.
There is nothing between them. No cloth. No space. Loki straddles his lap and Thor’s arms hold him around his thighs and the small of his back. A faint sheen of sweat makes their skin soft, golden in the firelight.
Loki kisses his brow. His cheeks. His closed eyelids.
There’s a freedom in his touch.
Finally he finds his mouth again. The kiss is heated and Loki licks a long line up Thor’s neck, so willingly exposed. Teeth scrape as he bites into the scruff along his jaw.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers.
Thor groans. He opens his eyes enough to see him, but he cannot think to respond. Loki has stolen all thought.
When Thor can finally manage, his voice is low, broken through a gasp.
Loki’s smile takes an edge.
His touch softens, and he bends low, whispering close to Thor’s ear.
“On your knees. Hands on the bedrail.”
“Do not make a sound.”
It is almost Thor’s undoing.
Heat tears through his insides and his stomach falls away from him. The look in Loki’s sharply cast eyes, the stark contrast of shadow and firelight upon his face, allows no room for argument.
Thor swallows hard, and turns to obey.
Apprehension makes his shift tenuous.
Thor knows he has ever been many things, and quiet was never one of them.
But, if it is Loki’s command…
Loki withdraws as Thor turns himself over to his hands and knees. His grip is unsteady until he braces it on the wooden rail lining the bed. There he grasps, holds on. He holds his breath and spreads himself behind, head ducked low.
He feels the bed dip where he cannot see as Loki moves behind him.
Hands on his backside. They slide up across his waist, down the musculature along his ribs. Nails gently scrape.
There is the glide of a tongue hot against his skin, then a grind of hips as Loki takes hold. It earns almost a desolate whimper before Thor locks his insides down tight, his grip on the bedrail enough to make the wood creak. He clenches his eyes shut and turns his face aside, burying it against his arm.
He can hear Loki’s hum in the quiet. Pleased.
He strokes his hip.
Loki enters him slowly: fingers first, then slick arousal, easing his way in with indulgent languor. Thor is certain he does it to torment him. He crushes his mouth against his arm and breathes heavily through his nose, insides ready to cramp against the urge to cry out. To make a sound as simple as a grunt.
But Loki has forbidden it.
Instead he feels the ripple echo up Loki’s body and hears the deep sigh it pushes from his throat. The first thrust, and Loki lets his head roll back. A moan breaks free from his chest: the very same sort that tear from him in those moments Thor pins him down, claims his neck and the rest of him.
It is the hardest strain of all for Thor to stay quiet. Nor does being able to hear Loki over the lack of his own noise do him any favors. He holds onto the bedrail for his life and bites his lip as Loki makes it deliberately more difficult. He moans and cries out and whispers aloud dark desires to his heart’s content. (Perhaps more, if only to gloat.) He moves within Thor with the whole of his body, having him at his leisure.
It’s difficult. And humiliating. And embarrassing. And every warrior’s instinct Thor possesses itches against the idea of leaving himself so defenseless, of bearing himself so openly to another he cannot see.
But it is Loki.
And he loves it.
It is that last thought that draws him close. Thor’s breath hitches and he stiffens, full-bodied, nearing the end of what he can bear.
Only then does Loki cease. He arches into him a moment longer, then stills. His vocal torments fall away and he leans himself along Thor’s back.
A hand slips around. Wraps itself around him.
Begins to stroke.
“Now let me hear you,” comes Loki’s whisper.
In the grandest irony, Thor can immediately make no sound at all. His mouth drops open and he very nearly gasps. But Loki’s hand has already stolen his breath. He pushes into Loki’s touch instead and arches his back, forgetting to reel his strength in on the bedrail.
“Say my name.”
“Loki,” Thor rasps.
His hand moves. Quick, subtle strokes. Then a circle over the head of his engorged cock and a long drag back to its base. Enough to make Thor stagger in breath as well as body.
“Say my name,” Loki demands again.
“Loki.” Thor hears his own voice, pained and keening.
Loki kisses his shoulder before he bites.
“Say. My. Name.”
It’s enough, and too much. Thor bursts in his hand and arches until he feels his back might break.
The bedrail already has.
Whether Loki finds his end in the same moment, Thor cannot say. Thought and sense abandon him and it is all Thor can do to collapse where he is. He pants into the pillows for the time it takes to return to near-consciousness. Even longer to catch his breath.
Loki lies alongside him, stroking his shoulder.
He kisses it.
When Thor looks to him next, it is dazed and spent, and with a wonder. Astonished still that he could be there.
Loki only smiles, and sets his chin in one hand.
The smug look on his face is worthy of most cats.
It sends a fresh shiver along Thor’s cooling body.
“I do so enjoy it when you say my name,” he says. One finger traces along Thor’s chest, following idle patterns closer to his heart.
Thor catches it, and kisses him.
In doing so he sees Loki not yet satisfied. As ever, enjoying the pleasure of seeing Thor reduced to mewling nothingness first.
He thinks to remedy that.
It is nothing – nothing – to capture Loki’s mouth in the next moment and roll him beneath. Nothing at all to pin his hands to the bedclothes, and hold back no measure of the worshipful prayers Thor had before been denied.
He will say Loki’s name many more times before the night is ended.