"So do you," Thor says, laughing softly: Loki's daggers, the barbs of his words, no longer have the power to pierce him, not deeply enough to make him bleed, anyway, when his brother will yet yield, night after night, for his pleasure. It is sweet how the days seem now to pass in a honey-warm glow of contentment, now that Loki is his lover and might no longer pretend that his place is not in Thor's arms and in his heart; now that the dark hours of the night are mostly shared. "I can smell the wine on your breath. And you are always so careful that you do not drink more than me." He shakes his head in a pretense of chiding.

He rears upward, straddling Loki, cupping his cheek a moment in one broad and calloused hand; with his thumb he strokes his brother's cool mouth. Then his hands shift, and with studied practice Thor begins the task of unfastening the outer garments Loki wears: determined to provide to him the solicitous care of a manservant, whose only purpose, surely, is to see to his greater comfort. Yet he pays him the tenderness of a lover, caressing him as he goes, bending down to steal a kiss from the annoyed press of Loki's lips. "Don't be angry, brother. You know I don't seek to dishonor you."

Only to possess him, with the most gentle certainty.