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    Summary

    He has scarcely wrapped the towel around his waist when Thor storms into the washroom, his nostrils flaring and clearly het up after training. He’s filthy, covered from head to toe in dirt and grime, and Loki’s sensitive nose wrinkles in distaste at the stench of sweat that pervades the air. “No,” he says at once, recognising the gleam in his brother’s gaze, and perhaps more noticeably, the swell of his cock through his trousers. There is a certain thrill to be found in combat, Thor explained to him once— a lust not unlike that of sexual arousal.

    Language:
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