That Loki can be laid before him like a tapestry woven of dazzling threads, so brilliant as to make him reverent before the power of that unassailable mind, that his every intention might be just at Thor's fingertips and yet the turning of thought be so quick as to run fleeting before his expectations brings him as much joy as surprise; his own laughter startles him, and the hungry clasp of his hands to the shoulders his brother impatiently bares. "Then you will?" Thor says, hope leaping like a bird into flight, and answers the question by his own hands, his own kiss, rough and tender all at once, filled with tenderness; he holds Loki by the throat again and stretches him back to take his mouth, to take and drink of the liquor taste, the fire, the sweetness, his grasp brutal, just brutal enough.

He will. He will. He rears to his knees, bringing Loki upright with him; with a hand buried in the dark strands of his hair he drags his brother's head back and sets his mouth to the white curve of his throat, making an arch of his body, their bodies, hips pressed to backside. When they brought Loki before him they brought him down to his knees, like a prisoner of war, and Thor had been savage later with those who had dared to bind his hands and handle him so; had demanded the bonds cut, and had fallen down before him dragging him into his arms, pressing cheek to cheek, unashamedly wet with tears. The idea of failure had never occurred. To pilot Mjolnir, to achieve the drift, Loki was what he needed, Loki was everything and all that he needed. He had thought there could be no greater joy.

It had been nothing compared to this. He is afire with it. He drags Loki's suit from his hips, runs his hands, eager, hungry, over the intimate parts of him, utterly certain of his welcome.