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Chances Lost

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It seems, sometimes, that chances are all he gets. Second and third chances for all of the times that he's mis-stepped. Chances to change the world. Chances to remake Asgard in his own image. Chances to do all of the things that he so desperately longs to do, though there is no saying why or how he comes by these ideas. And every opportunity that has ever presented itself has been snatched from his eager fingers, every new beginning likewise swept away.

It all comes down to trust.

He straddles his brother's lap, slim legs stretched to their limits, graceful fingers tracing the masculine planes of Thor's face. His blue eyes drift in and out of focus. His hair, gold like the sun, spills across his bare shoulders. He is handsome in ways that no other man has ever been, or will ever be, and Loki hates him for it. Hates him, or worships him.

"Sleep, brother," he whispers close to Thor's ear, breath tickling and teasing. Thor stirs, rests big hands on Loki's hips. "Sleep, and dream of me." A rumble of laughter rises in Thor's chest. His fingers tighten, bruising milky white skin.

"How drunk do you think me, Loki?" His voice is low and powerful, like the thunder that he commands, and Loki tenses slightly. Thor's eyes are suddenly open, devastatingly alert, and a mocking smile twists his lips. "How small do you imagine my tolerance for such things?"

"I only thought that you looked weary, brother," Loki purrs. His long fingers comb soothing patterns in Thor's thick hair, tricks that he's learned over the years. Thor's eyelids droop again. His lips relax, smoothing into satisfaction.

"And that is why you sit in my lap like a woman?" he mocks. Hard fingers find the openings in Loki's clothes, slip beneath to stroke skin. Loki arches like a cat, the breath gusting out of him in a quick huff. "Or is this another of your games?"

"I have many games," Loki whispers, leaning close, drawing his lips across Thor's cheekbones. His hair falls forward like a veil, hiding them in a curtain of silvery gold. "Which one do you want it to be?"

Thor laughs, tilts his chin, and words are lost as his lips find Loki's, capturing and claiming them as they've done many times before. There's a sort of poetry to it, a beautiful irony in the fact that he can take so much comfort in the touch of one whose sole purpose has been to thwart him at every turn. He moans into Thor's mouth, twists into his caresses. Slowly, piece by piece, Thor divests him of his clothes until he is bare, flesh crawling in the chilly air.

A thick finger works its way inside him and he cries out. It is a wild, inhuman sound and it rings off of stone walls like a steel bell. Thor groans softly, rests his lips against Loki's breastbone. "Sometimes I wonder," he whispers, words of confession against his brother's skin, "what you really look like."

Loki snarls, thrusting Thor away with arms that are not nearly powerful enough, and Thor laughs. He rises from his chair, bearing Loki with him as he crosses the room. They collapse onto the bed, Thor's greater weight pinning him, knocking the air from his lungs. There are things that he could do, wicked things, powerful things, but Loki has always known his own heart, and he knows that he does not truly want to escape his brother's embrace. Still, he fights, because it is expected of him, and Thor wraps one great hand around his wrists and uses the other to guide himself in.

They both cry out now, a low snarl from the god of thunder and a shriek of pain from his adopted brother. Loki squirms, bearing down, accepting Thor inside himself with a welling of triumph that dies as soon as it is born, slain by idiot pleasure as Thor's hips shift and move, pinning him to the bed. His skin grows slick with sweat, his and Thor's mingled, and he wraps long legs around his brother's waist, pulling him in deeper, harder. Sparks leap between them, arcs of electric blue that are Loki's doing and that delight Thor, teasing laughter from his lips even as his face contorts in a grimace of animal pleasure. Loki holds his breath, flings his head back and forth. One hand works free and he claws patterns across Thor's shoulders, little gifts that Thor will have to hide from Sif if he wishes to avoid explanation. He twists, bucks, screams like an animal as Thor bites his neck. There will be a bruise there, black and purple, and he'll stare at it in the mirror when he touches himself until it fades away, one more reminder gone.

Loki doesn't come until Thor is ready, trembling on the edge of ecstasy, murmuring brokenly that Loki should do it, say it, please, please, and Loki wraps his arms around Thor's neck, drags himself up to whisper beguiling words into his brother's ear, yes and please and thor, inside me, i love you. Thor's arms crush him in a back-breaking embrace and he feels warmth flood him, fill him up. Sighing, he gives himself over to pleasure, spilling his secrets across the flat heat of his brother's belly.

He detangles himself as Thor sleeps, sprawled across his bed with a blissful expression on his face. Tomorrow, it will be as if this never happened. He will push Thor too far, they will war with each other, then gradually forget until they are back in this place, this moment that can never decide if it is forgiveness or deception.

Loki leaves the room silently, unseen by all, already plotting his next move, his next lost chance that will lead him back into his brother's arms.