Because Loki holds him, anchors him down, Thor lets himself sink again so that the weight of him is upon his brother: a body which could crush him if Loki too were not immortal, and which threatens yet to smother him entirely beneath warmth and affectionate desire. His turgid cock, thickly swelled against the laces of his breeches, presses into Loki's bared stomach, and Thor's hips work slowly, gently against him, his thighs spreading and straddling over his brother's hips. His fingers anchor themselves within his brother's dark hair. Thor licks and cuddles and kisses, no fearsome would-be king or relentless warrior now but a bedmate eagerly seeking his lover's attentions.

"None," he answers, between presses of their mouths as sweet as bites of fruit, "none; who would I desire in your absence enough, brother?" He adds more candidly, "Sif and I were engaged, of a few evenings, but it was kisses only, and stroking: she has skilled hands." Perhaps he wants to provoke a bout of envy, hissing and displeased: to know that Loki longed for him too in lonely nights and crafted angry plots against those who might have dared shared Thor's bed in his absence. Yet Loki is splayed too warm, too smiling, it seems, to be roused to such displeasure; Thor sighs and kisses him again, again, his body full of a low simmering warmth of pleasure as he presses himself against the spread of Loki's body. "I will say, rather, how I worked myself to pleasure in this bed, imagining it was your hands and your mouth upon me: but that I fell asleep with craving still in me, and my dreams would be full of you, bringing little rest."