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Stand in the Conflagration

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Thor's body was not made to move in this manner, he is quite certain of this. Not these soft, slinking steps, not this trailing touch of fingertips along the edge of the table, this measured, calculated exploration; it looks wrong to his eyes, twists something deep inside him.

"Brother," he says, wincing at his own inflection in Loki's silken voice, "would you please refrain from doing that?"

"Refrain from what?" Loki asks. "Being myself? I'm afraid I'm not sure how to accomplish that, even when burdened with your ridiculous bulk."

Thor leans back in his chair, crossing his arms - Loki's arms - over his chest.

"You don't usually find it ridiculous."

Loki smiles, that lightning-quick grin that never fails to make Thor's stomach drop, with something like dread and something like hunger. It looks out of place on Thor's broad, bearded face; it's unsettling how it is still every part his brother.

"Oh, I do. But all these muscles do have their appeal." He looks down at his arm, at Thor's arm, and slowly turns it over, flexes it. There is a ripple of muscles and sinews just beneath the skin, and it is strange, to see it from this angle. If Thor thinks of his body, it is as something to be used, a tool well-honed, for battle or games or the pleasures of the bedroom. But seen like this, it is something else entirely. "Especially to the touch," Loki adds, as an afterthought. He steps closer, a smooth, swaying glide across the floor that is nothing Thor has ever been, that is mesmerizing, the way Loki always is. That is beautiful. "Do you wish to touch, brother?"

Thor turns his face away.

"Loki," he says, chastising. It sounds half-hearted to his own ears, but perhaps that is only Loki's voice playing tricks on him. If he were in his own body, he suspects his face would be flushed, his skin heated, but this flesh is so cool, its responses different, subtle to a degree he wouldn't have known to expect. They're there, though, beneath the chill. What he always feels, familiar, even in this shape.

"It is only us, Thor," Loki says, and that coaxing, seductive tone of voice shouldn't be as irresistible like this, but, oh, it is. "There is nothing here we have not touched before."

He takes Thor's hand in his, and Thor has to turn his head and see, has to watch as Loki lays his fingers - his long, delicate fingers, so different from what he is used to - against his bare skin, just above the buckle of his belt. Loki is warm, so warm that a gasp escapes Thor - of surprise, of sudden, overwhelming pleasure. His cool skin, Loki's skin, wants to soak it all up, melt into the fire of it. Without thought, he brings his other hand up as well, splays his palms over Loki's abdomen. Over his own taut, hard muscles. He runs his hands up, back down again. He can't seem to stop touching.

"Does it always feel this way to you?" he asks, glancing up. There is an open wonder in his voice that he has never heard from Loki, but it seems to match the sensations of Loki's body so well. "The heat?"

He thinks if Loki were wearing his own features, he would never have seen it, but on the borrowed face his brother is wearing now, it is, for an instant, obvious. The shock at being caught out, discovered.

It is Loki's turn to shift his gaze away.

"I forgot it isn't so for everyone in this realm," he says. His tone reaches for a detachment that Thor's voice doesn't quite possess. "Thoughtless of me."

Thoughtless of Thor, rubbing in what he wants Loki to never have to remember. He never seems able to stop doing that, never seems able to make it right. Except, tonight...

"It is so for me now," Thor says, and his heart is beating too quick in his chest. This feels like the rarest gift; he does not think he could bare if Loki snatched it away. "Would you allow me to experience it fully?"

Loki looks down at him, and there must be something in his face, maybe something he hides as badly in Loki's features as Loki hid his hurt in his, because Loki smiles again - sharp and thin, this time, but yet a smile - and runs warm fingertips over Thor's temple.

"I did want to make you take your own cock," he says.

Thor shudders, deep, deep down, beneath the cool. There is an ache in his body, in Loki's body, something howling like winter storms for the promise of being pierced with so much heat, something knotted tight unfurling to reach for it. It leaves him dizzy, leaves him panting with need. Leaves him exposed, vulnerable, and he wishes for Loki's armor of detachment, suddenly, to shield him, cover him up. If this is how Loki feels, in his own body, all the time... And Thor never understood.

"Anything," he says, and he means it, more than he ever has. He reaches for the fastenings of Loki's pants, for the hard flesh inside that looks so much bigger from this perspective. "I do want you to feel how tight you are."

Loki surges down to kiss him.

The world tree must be burning to cinders, or there could not be this much heat. It matters not. All he wants is to stand in the conflagration, and burn.