[ ϟ ]—– Every press is felt in the god's bones, every point of connection sensed deeper than that still.
There is no flinch, or bracing, only accepting, and the pliancy is far from passive. It is power, and invitation, storm-hearted and wide-shouldered, entire body speaking come, take, be taken.
Each clench of muscles around angel's cock is deliberate, desperate, divine in its welcome, making the god keen with deep, wrecked noise of recognition. Possession and offering both, atmosphere responding in kind to the elements racing through thunderer's veins. When the rain descends the god's moans along with lover's sounds, his own forged from maddening hunger.
Bodies clash as the forces of nature they are, violent, joyous, unstoppable, having him arch into every thrust, wild with it, mouth meeting Meta's in a connection of teeth and tongue. The storm gathers, not just around and above them; within him it roars under his ribs, the lightning licking along his spine. Catching the edge of lover's bite and welcoming the sting Thor's body surges with it, every strike of hips a pounding of waves against a cliff.
He has never been more himself than when he is being undone like this, back bowing, raindrops swelling with each press against his cock, pre flowing in equally heavy dollops. Every crackling in the sky echoes the friction of sweat-slick skin, the throb of flesh inside him, thighs clenching to lock his lover closer. Meeting each thrust with his own comes with ease, and hands strain a fraction against the bindings of light, fists curled as if attempting to hold on to the sky itself.
Deeper, his mind swirls with the word, ' harder..' is what the mouth manages.
Praises raining down on him feel holy in the ruin, provoking a brief smirk that is utterly short-lived; when lips wrap around his nipple mighty form bucks without shame, feeling the flood inside causing violent tendrils to dance over heaving chest. Eyes flutter, the desire to be suffused, to have their light tangled so tightly even gods and heavens could not tell them apart, it burns deep in his core, the heat of it shifting into a vortex.
When bindings dissolve, it is not liberation, not truly, only the beginning of release. It had not been true capturing, it was chosen surrender, and eagerness returns in the god's arms, one hand chasing a hold onto dark tresses, the other digging for purchase between the wings.
The reward of pace and angle is bruising, harsh pressure against nerves and swollen flesh, a strike of lightning feeling feeble in comparison.
' fill me... make me full and round with it...'
His undoing is not shallow climax of trembling form; it rolls through him like divine fire, harsh, ungraceful, the storm turning violent along with it. Light explodes across his skin in erratic slivers of blue and white, seed pouring freely now, each streak dolloped with flecks of lightning. The brief tightening of his core transforms into a full-body quake, growls torn from his throat, deep, filthy, and grateful, and seed flows hot and heavy still, an offering caught between copper and gold that floods from swollen head with each released gasp.
