![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"Put It On (& Don't Say A Word)" - Loki/Sif (movie!Marvelverse) {NSFW}
~
A/N: …This got written because I’ve been watching Wallander, and being exposed to so much of Tom’s beautiful…face, voice, acting, everything, is doing terrible, terrible things to my delicate little fangirl’s heart.
-Not related to the “Growing Pains” series.
-...Yes, of course I had to work some mythology in there somewhere, haha. A reference to one of the better-known and well-loved tales this time. :]
Cross-posted in the comments of Round 2 @![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
norsekink ...Or will be just as soon as I decide if I want to post it anonymously or not. |Da YEAH I'M GOIN' FOR IT, SHAMELESSNESS FTW
Prompt: Loki/Sif, Crossdressing
Sif and Loki as older teens/young adults. Sif walks in on Loki trying on dresses. Humiliated, and certain that she's run off to laugh with Thor and the others, he hides in his room. Until she comes by in full male garb and asks to see him in a dress again. He complies. Sex ensues.
[Loki, Sif. 'Put It On (& Don't Say A Word)']
--
[{Later.}]
There’s nothing gentle about it in the least. She calls him my princess, and takes him while they’re both still wearing more clothes than not, a passionate, frantic heat in her eyes and mouth and the hands she trails all over his body. Her breathing is ragged as she rides him hard, and his comes no smoother, choked gasps of yes yes oh gods yes Sif don’t stop no don’t please don’t SifSifSif. There’s the sound of tearing fabric, the musical jangle of chainmail, bruises left on sides and backs alongside reddened lines that would be bleeding freely if either were fragile mortals, and a fair degree of cursing.
There’s nothing gentle about it, but right now, neither of them wants there to be.
- ♦ ♈ ♦ -
[{Before.}]
Loki doesn’t dare ask how Thor managed to let the Frost Giants steal his hammer. With his temper, there have often been times that Loki would have described his elder brother’s mood as thunderous…but his current frame of mind makes all those other occasions look like a light drizzle in comparison.
Clearly, someone has to come up with a viable plan for getting Mjölnir back. And since everyone else’s ideas are either graceless and doomed like demand it back and go to war if they refuse (Thor’s idea) or hopeless and ridiculous like maybe ask nicely? (Volstagg’s), the task has fallen to Loki.
Who presently decides that the most logical course of action is to go try on some dresses.
Holding up the first he happens to pull from the closet, all he can do is quirk an eyebrow and give a skeptical snort--it’s so light, the material so thin, it seems almost insubstantial. Such a thing can’t possibly provide any real warmth or protection, and it’s short enough in certain areas and low-cut enough in others that it doesn’t offer much in the way of cover, either.
Really, he thinks, letting it fall to the ground in a near-silent whisper of silk as he reaches for another, one might as well go about unclothed.
The next few meet with rather more favour, being somewhat longer and more sensibly-styled. All the various articles of clothing prove to be fairly easy to get into once he figures out their basic functions, what fastens to what and which straps go where, though getting out of them is still a little tricky, and the ones that lace up in the back are impossible to fasten correctly, even with magic. He’s perhaps a bit surprised to find that on the whole, dresses are actually rather pleasant to wear, and fairly comfortable so long as they’re not laced too tightly. He isn’t particularly fond of the low scoop-neck style of the tops that leaves his collarbones exposed and a large portion of his breastbone bare, preferring the high-collared fashion of his own usual attire, but the long, loose sleeves are interesting, and could prove quite advantageous should any sort of sleight-of-hand be required while carrying out the plan he’s concocted to get Thor’s hammer back.
He goes through almost the entire closet, trying on gowns in assorted styles and colours, eyeing the various cuts and considering how best to disguise the flat, angular planes of his body beneath layers of silk and linen. In truth, he’d not really paid all that much attention to women’s clothing before today, and he finds all the baubles and trinkets and trimmings and frills simultaneously intriguing and mystifying. As a prince, his own wardrobe and various accessories could be appallingly fancy, complicated, and outright uncomfortable when it came to the more elaborate formal wear for special occasions, but this is something else, a different plane of existence altogether. Despite the elegance and ornamentation (and the irritating tendency some of the undergarments have towards chafing), for the most part the clothing still feels more free and flowing. Most of his own every-day clothing is a combination of leather, velvets, furs, rich materials with thick, heavy weaves, with swathes of mail here and there--close-fitting but easy to move in and generally quite comfortable despite the majority of it being fairly weighty. He’s never had any real problems regarding his wardrobe, since the royal tailors are more than willing to adjust things at his slightest whim and create clothing in whatever style he wishes, but this sleek material…
He’ll have to look into getting them to make something out of this for him, Loki decides as he examines the fall of the fabric in the room’s floor length mirror. Perhaps a dressing gown, he thinks, twisting about to see how it looks from the side and the back, then giving an absent little twirl, setting the silk swirling about him…
…Which is the exact moment that the door swings open, and Sif steps inside.
No knock, no warning whatsoever. Though to be fair, it is her room.
The evidence is absolute: complete, comprehensive, and utterly incriminating. There are dresses strewn everywhere, laid out on the bed, over chairs, and a few of the less-pleasing ones lie crumpled on the floor. And of course, there’s the one he’s currently wearing. That, along with the braided gold circlet bound across his brow, the tablet-woven belt around his waist, and the tortoiseshell brooch he’d pinned in place to hold the low-cut keyhole neckline of the dress a bit more modestly closed make it undeniable that he’s been enjoying himself far too much.
And why not? He’s always been sort of vaguely pretty, not square-jawed and strictly masculine and all-over hairy like Thor, and he’s still suffering through the lingering effects of late adolescence, which has given him decent height yet left him slim enough that he not only fits into most of these dresses, but looks rather fetching in them as well.
Looking at Sif, though, he can’t even begin to tell what she’s thinking, and automatically takes the simplest and most likely explanations for her wide eyes and flushed cheeks: shock, embarrassment, disgust. Possibly and probably anger, too, since he is in her personal quarters without her permission.
He opens his mouth to explain, but nothing comes out. He can’t think of anything to say to make this situation better--there’s nothing, really, not enough words in existence or enough time in all creation to say anything that will mend this.
And so, as usual, sorcery is his recourse: in a twinkling and a curling wisp of green smoke he magicks himself out of the room, out of the dress, out of sight and the whole bloody situation. And back in the dubious safety of his chambers, the true horror of the situation hits him.
Sif had seen him. Sif. Sif, who would do nearly anything to gain favour in Thor’s eyes, to fit in just a little better with the Warriors. Sif, whom he’d humiliated just over a year ago by cutting off her hair. Worse, even after restoring it he had still gotten the last word, so to speak, changing it from the brilliant honey-kissed shade of a ray of purest sunshine to the empty black of a starless night.
There is simply no way she won’t take revenge.
She’ll tell the Warriors.
She’ll tell Thor.
She might even tell his father.
She’ll tell everyone. And he’ll be ruined, truly and totally, once and for all.
Thor will laugh until he cries and never let him hear the end of it, the Warriors will jeer and curtsy whenever they see him, the whispers he already hears whenever his back is turned will intensify. His father will certainly never love him even half as much as Thor now, will never even consider letting the throne fall to him regardless of how much of an egocentric blockhead Thor is, will only ever look at him with disappointment and reproach; his mother will be forced to bow her head in shame.
Biting back a moan, Loki crumples to the floor, huddling against the wall farthest from the door, wearing naught but the blankets dragged off his bed, and fairly burns with embarrassment.
Clever as he is, even he can see no way out of this, his usual quick wits failing him now just as his ordinarily silver tongue had failed him with Sif earlier. He hasn’t shown much interest in conventional warrior’s pastimes, and at least half of Asgard thinks him strange for his bookishness and already significant skill with sorcery. All who know him even in passing hold the opinion that he is a prankster and a trickster, and there is always that flicker of distrust, a glint of suspicion in the eyes of whomever he speaks with. Liar, he almost can see them thinking, even if he’s done nothing to them personally. Liar, troublemaker, deceiver.
It’s this lack of faith that assures the second prince of Asgard that he’s doomed. For despite the disparity in their stations, Sif’s word will be taken as true over his own; and since he hasn’t told anyone of his plan to get Thor’s hammer back, after this, anything he says will just seem like an excuse.
No one will believe him, because no one ever does. Not when it really matters.
- ♦ ♈ ♦ -
[{Now.}]
A knock on the door was the last thing he expected, especially at this hour. Loki doesn’t need much sleep and he’s usually up late into the night reading, so it doesn’t wake him. And while he’s more or less accepted his fate regarding what happened earlier in Sif’s chambers--recovered his poise, dressed himself, and turned his attention to the book he’d started reading earlier that day--it still has him on edge. He’s been waiting all evening for Thor or one of those half-witted Warriors or someone to burst into his room despite the locked door and begin the mockery, and the longer he has to wait, the worse the strain of dread anticipation grows. They must be taking their time to come up with something truly nasty if it’s taken them this long.
He doesn’t know why whoever-it-is doesn’t simply force their way in, and though he wants nothing more dearly than to ignore it, Loki knows with a heavy sort of acceptance that there’s no point in trying to avoid the inevitable. Body leadened with resignation, he sets down his book and slowly draws himself up, shoulders squared and chin raised haughtily as he goes to the door at his usual unhurried, measured pace. His hand pauses against the cool metal handle for one hesitant half-second before he steels himself and calmly opens the door.
…And the last thing he expected abruptly changes from a late-night knock at the door to what he finds when he looks out into the hallway.
The fact that his caller is Sif isn’t all that surprising; considering what had happened just a few hours ago, it’s almost to be expected. What is unusual is what she’s wearing. Gone is the gold-trimmed (and far too short) scarlet-and-white shift and dark leggings she’d been wearing earlier, and in its place is not her usual armour or even her hunting leathers. Instead, she’s wearing a distinctly masculine-looking tunic and trousers, both of heavy but finely-woven wool, beneath a cuirass of leather lamellar armour, each tiny individual plate intricately tooled with graceful etchings of gold. A long brown fur cloak, pinned on one side by an emerald-bejeweled brooch, heavy flat-soled hunting boots, thick leather gloves, and a grey steel helm with gilt edges complete her outfit…and quite frankly, she is nothing short of breathtaking, perhaps even dashing enough to steal that epithet from Fandral. If not for her height (or rather the lack thereof) and the obvious grace of her physique which even layers of armour cannot fully disguise, she could easily blend in with any of the male warriors at a royal feast or tournament, and just let herself be taken for a particularly beautiful soldier.
What precisely she means by showing up looking like this is as of yet unclear, though Loki is loath to ask or demand anything of her right now, even something so simple as information.
As he stares, she presses a dress into his hands--the first he’d pulled from her closet, a mere snippet of deep blue silk, frothy lace, and satin ribbons--and says in a low, rough voice, “Put it on.”
Surely this must be some form of trick or trap, Loki thinks, and he finds himself unable to keep from darting an apprehensive glance down the hall to either side, looking for the sniggering faces of those three buffoons or, worst of all, Thor.
“Don’t worry. I’ve come alone,” she says before pushing her way into the room, forcing him to backpedal. “And if you do it,” she continues before Loki can voice the refusal and subsequent curt dismissal hardening his eyes and his expression, “I shall swear to never speak of anything I have seen this day to anyone.”
Interesting. Loki’s eyes narrow in shrewd consideration. “Swear it, then. On your sword.”
One leather-clad fist comes to rest over the blade at her hip. “I swear.”
“On your honour.”
That fist moves to her chest in a warrior’s salute. “I swear.”
The intensity of Loki’s stare doesn’t waver, and his voice drops to a cold half-whisper: “On your life.”
Without hesitation Sif’s hand unclenches, and she spreads her fingers across her left breast before speaking a third time and sealing the oath. “I swear.”
Very interesting indeed. For a moment his expression doesn’t change; then slowly the tension in his body fades somewhat, and he gives her a faint smirk as his hand closes tightly around the silken gown. With a matching smirk, Sif pointedly locks the door behind her, and Loki starts stripping out of his clothing.
She doesn’t turn away, watching him undress, and though her cheeks do redden slightly, it’s clearly more from rising excitement than embarrassment. Her gaze doesn’t waver, her eyes large and dark and intent as they follow his every move. He doesn’t hurry, doesn’t hide or attempt to cover himself, and his own eyes stay locked on her face, studying her and noting her slightest reactions.
Normally Loki would take care to fold each article of clothing as he removed it, tucking it away in its appointed place; this time, he simply lets them fall as they will with a careless sort of composure. He pauses for a moment as the last layer slides to the floor, leaving him unashamedly bare beneath her gaze, then calmly slips the blue silk shift over his head. There’s a set of those impossible laces on the back, but for the moment Loki concerns himself with tugging everything into place and smoothing out the dress’s fall. He hardly seems to notice when one of the straps slips off his shoulder as he does so.
But Sif notices. The way she’s watching him, she can’t help but notice. And before she knows it, she’s moving forward, peeling out of those thick leather hawking gloves even as she closes the distance between them, the soft flurry of her footsteps made far more firm and pronounced by the heavy boots she’s wearing. Loki goes utterly still at her approach, keeping his face turned downward, and simply waits.
Her hand brushes over the side of his arm as she reaches up to guide the strap back into place, then slides down his back, tracing the bone of his shoulderblade in a purposefully unhurried caress. Her touch, so warm against his cold skin, makes him want to shiver in nervousness and anticipation and desire, but he refuses to give her the satisfaction of that kind of response, especially so soon.
She doesn’t take her hand from his back as she moves to the side, coming around behind him; rather, her other hand comes up to mirror the first, and soon both have begun to slowly drift down his back, tracing the curve of his spine, running down his ribs, ghosting over flesh and fabric alike. Then, with an abruptness sudden and violent enough to make him jump, Sif seizes his narrow hips, her fingers digging almost painfully into bone and muscle and sinew alike as she roughly pulls him hard against her, his back pressed to her front without so much as a whisper of space between them. He manages not to gasp or give any another verbal indication of surprise, but he has to close his eyes at the feel of her breath, hot and humid, ghosting over the exposed, sensitive skin between his shoulderblades.
Sif holds him there for a long moment, her armour digging into his nearly-bare flesh, then steps back and away without a word, their only remaining point of contact her hands moving over his back as she draws the dress’s laces tight.
Already Loki is finding his feelings confusingly mixed, both his body and his mind uncertain on how to respond. He is young, but not so young that this is his first experience of a more intimate nature (quite the contrary, rather), but already it is proving to be unlike anything he’s encountered before. He doesn’t particularly like being dominated this way, forced to submit to another’s will, to just react rather than make the first move himself. He likes to be in control, the master of himself and everything around him as much as is possible. And yet…it’s a decidedly new experience, and there’s something primal and deeply thrilling about putting himself at the mercy of someone like Sif, who despite her smaller frame is easily an even match for him in physical strength. That will change drastically in a few years once he fully comes into his own, but for now…
For now, he thinks with a knife’s-edge smile, let her have her fun.
Once she’s finally finished lacing up the back of the dress, he steps away (moving just out of reach, a deliberate distance) and turns to the side, letting Sif see him in profile as well. As he does, he catches her eyes and graces her with a smile that is decidedly more than half-smirk. “Jealous that I wear it better than you?”
She eliminates the distance between them in two rapid strides, catching his pointed chin between her thumb and forefinger. “I might ask you the same question,” she all but purrs, running her other hand down the armour she’s wearing—his, he realises suddenly, from when he was still growing into his current armour. (Maybe he’s still growing into it even now, poorly as it seems to fit him these days.)
“Ask, then,” he says, his smirk not slipping in the slightest. “But don’t blame me if you do not like my answer. And don’t forget that I asked first.”
She smirks in return and mimics his voice and inflection from brief seconds before: “ ‘Jealous that I wear it better than you?’ ”
His eyebrows quirk upwards, and somehow, even though she still has ahold of his face, he manages to look down his nose at her imperiously. “No,” he says, answering as easily and offhandedly as if he were refusing another glass of mead at a feast or giving his opinion on whether or not it would rain that afternoon.
Sif’s eyes narrow, any trace of her smirk now vanished, and though he doesn’t waver or turn his gaze aside, he still feels as if he’s given himself away somehow, that for once someone has seen through his mask of cool dispassion.
Or perhaps not.
The hand on his chin moves in a blur, her nails grazing his cheek before her fingers bury themselves in his hair, digging into the nape of his neck. “Liar,” she breathes out in a low growl, then jerks his mouth down to meet hers.
From the very start, there is nothing chaste about this kiss. He finds his mouth crushed against hers, a surprising amount of passion in that first, fierce exchange, as if she might draw the truth from his lips this way. Her other hand, the one not all but clawing at his face, has settled on his hip again, tracing the outward jut of his hipbone through the thin material of the dress; when she breaks off the kiss, it’s only for long enough to take in another breath, then her mouth is on his again. This time her teeth find his lower lip, pulling it into her mouth, sucking on it long and slow before suddenly biting down just enough to hurt, enough to make his breath catch at the unexpected pain, but not hard enough to draw blood, not yet. His lips part in a near-silent gasp as he tries to jerk away on reflex, and Sif takes full advantage of that, licking her way into his open mouth. Passion and animosity and hunger all blend together in a kiss that’s deep and messy and very much about dominance, as things always seem to be between them of late. Her tongue fills his mouth, moving as if she wants to explore every bit of him, but whenever he tries to do the same to her, she bites him, his lips or his tongue, saying without saying that his role in this is to accept her dominance, to play the woman’s part and just take it.
Discontent with the purely passive role she’s trying to force on him, Loki’s hands have not been idle, and at last his long, deft fingers have managed to complete their task--working loose the brooch holding the thick fur cloak around her shoulders. The heavy mantle slips to the floor with nary a whisper as the gold-and-emerald pin falls to the stone floor, and the prince swipes at it with his foot, listening to the faintly musical sound it makes as it skitters away and comes to rest underneath a nearby table. At that, Sif finally draws back enough to look at him, a baleful scowl on her face that Loki reads easily: she is the one who is supposed to be in control, and she will not have him removing any more of her clothing without her explicit say-so. She does use the momentary break in her own assault to remove her helmet, however; it only gets in the way, and it’s far too heavy besides. And as she sets the helmet aside, placing it on the nearest table with a surprising amount of care, Asgard’s younger prince catches sight of her expression, which until now the helmet had often half-obscured.
It’s the only warning he has before she surges forward, slamming him up against the wall hard enough for the sound to echo dully through the room before ravaging his mouth once again. Before long her attention shifts, however, pressing kisses to his jawbone and leaving a trail of toothmarks and blood-bruises down his neck. Her mouth moves along his exposed collarbone, biting and suckling, as her hand glides up from his hip to jerk one of the thin dress-straps down and off his shoulder.
Pinned against the wall as he is, there’s nothing Loki can do but clutch at the extra material in the shoulders of her slightly-too-big tunic and let her do as she will with him. So far he’s been concentrating on holding back, or at least muffling, every gasp and groan that her avid attentions have elicited from him, letting his eyes close and his head fall back to rest against the wall; but as she tears that strap away, his eyes snap open and he turns a startled look down at her.
Which means he’s just in time to watch Sif kiss her way down his breastbone and across his halfway exposed chest. Her tongue flicks out, brushes lightly across that flat, male nipple, then repeats the action far more slowly. His breath catches as she traces the outside edges with her tongue before letting her mouth close over it, alternating between rolling it between her teeth and sucking hard enough to leave another blood-bruise behind. It’s the sight more than the sensation that forces him to bite his already-tender lip, teeth clamping down hard enough to draw blood in his attempt at holding back a low moan, though the sensation is enjoyable enough, if a bit unusual.
She tugs the opposite strap down and moves to the other side, and his back arches a little at the continued stroke and sweep of her tongue, his breath starting to come slow and deep. But he’s still not content to be entirely passive.
When one of his legs comes up between her own, Sif doesn’t object, at least not aloud. Instead she allows it, rocking against him once, and then takes back control by skimming her hand up the outside of his other thigh to settle, through the silk of the dress, on the growing bulge between his legs. Preternaturally strong-willed or not, Loki can’t prevent his hips from bucking towards her at that, or a startled breath from hissing in through clenched teeth. It leaves him even more forcefully when her hand spiders back down to slip up beneath the silk shift, touching and grasping him directly. Loki stiffens at that, a forced sort of surrender since she has him by the balls literally, and though his knees waver worrisomely, he can do nothing but sag against the wall and bite his already-bloody lip even harder.
Sif, meanwhile, rocks against him again, grinding against his hip, then curses the armour under her breath and pulls back, pulls away. Loki gives a strangled-sounding whimper as her hand drops away from him, though it’s cut off as she all but drags him over to the bed, pushing him down onto it. Still feeling a little dazed, he lets himself fall flat on his back without protest, limbs sprawling, and she follows him, crawling onto the bed after him, though first she pauses long enough to step out of those heavy woolen trousers. She has to take the boots off to do it, but once the pants are off, the boots go back on, and Loki doesn’t protest that either.
He’s very obviously ready, and she herself is dripping wet, so Sif doesn’t waste time with any more foreplay; she simply hikes up his dress and positions herself over him, grabbing him and guiding him in, mounting him as quickly and easily as she would her hunting-steed. She takes him in up to the hilt, her breath catching and her eyes falling half-closed as she seats herself against him fully; Loki’s reaction is much the same, his mouth dropping open in a long, low groan that he doesn’t even attempt to muffle, his hands fisting hard in the blankets.
For the space of a dozen heartbeats, both remain surprisingly still, struggling to regain control of heaving chests and fluttering muscles.
Then she leans forward, her hands pressing against his leanly-muscled stomach, and moves.
Through half-lidded eyes, Loki watches her moving over him, all those soft curves and sleek muscles hidden beneath that armour, her midnight-dark hair framing her face, and in that moment he wishes more than anything he’d never played that trick on her. Because then he would be looking up into the sun rather than the moon, and maybe he might feel just a little bit warm for once.
As she had during the kissing, Sif dominates him, this time almost entirely. Loki is still fairly young, and at this point his self-control isn’t nearly what it will be in later years. Just the feel of her, so hot and wet and tight, and the knowledge that it is Sif who is doing this to him is almost enough to make him come right then and there. But Sif won’t allow that, drawing it out, making her every move almost agonisingly slow, and when he tries to move with her, or against her, she forcibly presses him down into the bed, her nails biting at his chest and shoulders, her knees clamping tight around his hips as she ceases all movement, her expression caught somewhere between a glare and a smirk.
“Beg for me, my princess,” she says, her voice a low, raggedly breathy murmur. She raises a hand to his face, brushing her thumb across his lips, and her smirk deepens. “Put this sweet mouth and eloquent tongue to good use, and tell me what you most desire.”
It’s a terrible and wonderful sort of agony, to be buried inside her and yet find himself unable to move, the denial of that delicious friction almost maddening; but finding just the right words in challenging situations has always been one of Loki’s gifts, though in this case, that’s no great feat.
“You,” he says hoarsely, still trying to sound calm and unaffected, though the way his hips are twitching beneath her gives lie to that attempt. “What I most desire—Sif—Sif, please—”
At that word, that hard-won please, a sort of exultant triumph flashes across the warrior-maid’s face, and she rewards the prince--her ‘princess’--with another ferocious kiss before she begins to move over him in earnest. It’s an abrupt change from before, her pace near-frantic, and a hissed keep talking—tell me what you want, what you feel—keep talking, damn you is enough to make Loki temporarily cast aside his pride in favour of pleasure. Yes yes oh gods yes, he moans as she rides him hard, harder harder no don’t stop as she claws at his sides, no please don’t no no please Sif if she shows the slightest sign of slowing; but nothing he says and no amount of swearing can prevent her from pausing at the worst possible moments to lean in to press a mocking kiss to his jaw or his shoulder or the corner of his mouth when he chokes on a gasp and it interrupts his constant stream of supplication.
One of the straps has slid off Loki’s shoulders again, and short as the dress is, somehow it’s still managing to get in the way; she wants to feel warm skin beneath her hands, not slick sweat-dampened silk, and thin though the material is, it’s not the same. Sif finds herself tearing at the garment, her hands fisting in it hard enough that the delicate material rips in twain, the sound of shredding fabric melding with the jangle of her chainmail and the choked pleas of the prince beneath her. And that, along with the way she rocks against him particularly hard as she reaches out and casually snaps the strap still looped over his shoulder, is enough to make him give a strangled cry as his back arches, his hips jerking upwards as he comes.
…And as he lays there, breathing in ragged, shuddery gasps as the euphoric feeling of release drains from his body, Loki realises that Sif hadn’t climaxed; judging by the look of smug satisfaction he finds on her face when he opens his eyes to look up at her, she’d never intended to. Because this is still all about control, and now she’s kept hers while watching him lose his.
She doesn’t pull away from him, doesn’t leave immediately afterward as he’d thought she might. Instead, she stays astride him, helps him out of what little remains of the blue silk dress, and then lets him watch as, piece by piece, she takes off his old armour and the rest of the men’s clothing she’s wearing, kicking off those boots first of all.
And this time, she doesn’t object when he moves to help her.
This time, his hands grasp at her hips and ass, sliding down sleek thighs and across her well-muscled belly and upwards to cup her breasts; this time they’re both naked, nothing but skin separating them, nothing but skin sliding against skin. And this time he meets every downward motion of her hips with an upwards thrust of his own, slamming himself into her so hard that she sees stars.
This time, he tops from the bottom, tweaking a nipple here and rolling his hips just so there, his fingers pressing into silky skin and supple flesh so hard that he leaves clusters of little bruises on her hips and ass.
And this time, Sif comes well before he does. Loki makes certain of that, reaching out as she slams down onto him, his thumb catching at a certain specific spot at the apex of her thighs, circling, rubbing hard, and that’s it for her. Sif’s head snaps back and she lets out a throaty cry, her legs clamping tight around his hips as she loses control, her whole body shuddering in an uncontrollable ecstasy; then the warrior-maid gives a sigh and slumps forward atop the prince, muscles still shivering and twitching as she presses long, slow kisses to his neck and shoulder. Loki puts up with this arrangement for a short while, but he dislikes the feeling of being pinned, even by this sort of comfortable weight. Soon he shifts her to the side, and Sif doesn’t protest or resist as he lays her out on her back close beside him. And that, the sight of her graceful, loose-limbed form stretched out in his thoroughly-mussed bed, a healthy flush and a fine sheen of sweat on her pale and perfect skin, her hair a dark, messy halo fanning out beneath her head, is something Asgard’s younger prince had never dared to hope he would see.
It’s too much for him to resist, and soon Loki is leaning in to press his mouth to hers. It’s a firm kiss, fervent enough to make his bitten and still-bloody lower lip throb, and yet it’s the gentlest they’ve shared. And she’s kissing him back and letting him take his time about it, allowing him to coax her mouth open and taste her the way she’d tasted him before, listening to her quickened breathing as he drinks her in. It’s his turn to cover her neck and shoulders and chest with kisses, though he doesn’t stop there. His mouth brushes along her stomach, his tongue tracing a circle around her navel before briefly dipping into it, his thumbs pressing into the curving hollows beside her hipbones.
Loki generally considers himself a fairly patient individual--timing is everything often enough that it’s only prudent to be able to wait things out if need be--but here and now three other factors and feelings hold sway, leaving no room for something as cumbersome and restrictive as patience.
He’s selfish, in that he wants to taste all of her right now, her skin, her sweat, the dampness between her legs, everything. He wants her to remember, always, how it felt when the God of Mischief, of Chaos, of Lies took her, wants her to compare anyone and everyone she’s ever with in the future to this night, to him, and find them desperately, laughably wanting. He wants to ruin her for anyone else.
He’s curious, in that he wants to see and explore every curve and dip of the perfect, exquisitely appealing body spread out before him. In his eyes Sif has always been the most beautiful of all the goddesses, lithe of limb and fair of face, as well as capable and clever, though of course not on the same level as he.
And last and least but still compellingly, he’s bitter, in that he knows that this might be his only opportunity to fulfill either of those two other desires. There’s no guarantee that Sif won’t pretend that all of this never happened (she’d sworn not to speak of anything that she’d seen that day, after all, and that day could easily extend into that night), no reason for him to assume that this would change how things stood between them even slightly, that she would ever come to him like this and seek out his company for this purpose or that she would ever permit him to touch her in this manner again.
So he runs his hands down her legs, pressing kisses to the inside of her knees and thighs before tasting her there. At that, Sif’s hips buck and she lets out a high-pitched keening noise, the like of which he’s never heard her make in all the years he’s known her, a sound he’d never believed she, proud warrior that she is, was capable of uttering. He experiments with this new-found knowledge a little, enthralled by the new and unexpected sounds he’s drawing from her lips as well as tasting the traces of himself he’d left in her most secret places, though their battle for dominance comes into play once again here, a chance to get revenge for what she’d done to him earlier. When he can tell that she’s getting close, so close, he simply stops, his mouth moving upwards instead, dampened lips skimming over her stomach again, kissing and licking his way up her body until his hips press into hers and he’s settled between her legs.
And it’s really too much, too much for him to stop himself from having her just as he’d always imagined and dreamed of having her, with him on top and with her writhing beneath him, his lean body caught and cradled between her lush thighs. Wet as she is, he enters her with one smooth thrust, so quickly that her head jerks backwards, her breath leaving her in a rush. It takes her a minute to remember how to draw in another, and by that time he’s thrusting into her again and it’s all she can do to clutch at his shoulders and wrap her legs around him and a little thing like breathing seems so much less important than matching the movement of her hips to his. Loki drives into her with sure, deep strokes powerful enough to wrest more of those high-pitched keening noises from her throat, and yet for the most part it’s much more gentle--or at least far less frantic, chiefly because Loki doesn’t do frantic--than the two times before. Loki himself has long since given up on holding back his gasps and groans; as many years as he’d wanted her, as many times as his mind had spun forth scenes exactly like this late at night and his hand found its way down his body and beneath the blankets in response, at this moment Loki has no intention of holding anything back.
He takes his time though, his control strong and steady enough to make sure that he thoroughly enjoys himself, and that Sif does as well. He keeps up a not-quite-slow but mostly-regular pace, pausing every so often to punctuate a particularly forceful thrust with a messy, lingering kiss or a nip at her shoulder or collarbone, rocking against her hard as he does so. “Your turn,” he whispers against her cheek during one of these unhurried intervals, and he holds himself statue-still over her after pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. “Beg.”
Even pinned beneath him, with him buried to the hilt inside her, Sif manages to bare her teeth in defiance. She squirms against him, but he doesn’t relent, and the weight of his body and the hand he moves to grasp her hip and hold her in place prevents her from finding any sort of relief for herself.
“Fuck you,” she hisses, which earns her nothing but arched eyebrows and an expression that says so clearly that he doesn’t have to speak the words aloud, indeed you are, for the third time now.
She struggles against him harder, and once, with excruciating slowness, he rolls his hips against her, his breath hot in her ear as he whispers again, this time with ice and steel in his tone: “Beg.”
A soft moan issues forth from high in her throat, and then from between clenched teeth—“Damnit, please! Please, Loki—ah!”
His response is intense and immediate, and she cries out again as he drives into her harder and faster than ever, again and again and again, this time not stopping for anything. And then she’s almost there, wavering right on the edge, and when his hand moves between them once more, her world flies apart in a brief flash of white as her muscles clench and a legion of shudders shiver their way through her body again. After a few more thrusts, he’s there as well, grinding and jerking then spilling himself into her with a long, quiet, open-mouthed sigh before slumping to the bed beside her.
Both finally sated, at least for the moment, they rest in silence, still somewhat intertwined as their blood cools and their breathing and heartbeats slow. Though Loki’s body seems relaxed in a sensuous, sensual lethargy, his mind is moving at its usual dizzying pace, and right now it’s spinning down several separate paths at once.
He’d just slept with his own brother’s sometimes-lover—wasn’t that a form of betrayal? Especially since they hadn’t stopped after the first time, when the initial heat of the moment, that first searing flare of lust, had been too much to resist and might give them adequate grounds for denial of guilt and a half-way sort of justification. Instead they’d lingered, done it all again more slowly, and then again even more slowly after that. If it’s betrayal, it’s a double betrayal, for Sif is as much if not more to blame than he…though of course, he didn’t have to allow her inside his room. He could have turned her away, despite the possibility of humiliation.
Perhaps he should have. It’s doubtless what a good brother would have done.
And yet, Loki finds that he can’t muster much in the way of guilt and contrition. He’s not entirely sure what he thinks or feels about this, but he does know that he doesn’t regret it in the least. He’d make the same decision again in a heartbeat, for not only did he secure Sif’s oath and thus prevent his own disgrace, he had bedded Sif, something he’d only ever considered an idle imagining.
Still, what he really feels towards her is hard to quantify, because it’s anything but straightforward. Initially he’d been attracted to her, Sif of the beautiful golden hair, but she’d never given him so much as a second glance: she’d always been fixated on Thor, just like everyone else. That had galled Loki, and perhaps a certain sort of possessiveness and envy had entered the equation, making his motives--both then and there, and in this here and now--decidedly less than pure and honest. Perhaps he’d wanted her not because he felt anything for her, or even because she was beautiful, but simply because she was Thor’s, and any opportunity to steal something from his better-loved older brother, any scrap of love that he could take, even if it was only physical love, was not an opportunity to be missed.
But even so, he can’t deny that he’d liked this, and wanted it, and wants it again, desperately. She has never looked more attractive to him than she does now, her body gleaming with sweat and her inner thighs sticky with his cum, wearing nothing but his bedsheets. Perhaps, he thinks as his eyes trace the graceful lines of her body, lines that his hands and mouth have now mapped and thoroughly explored, those original feelings are still present, if slightly obscured by all the others piled on top of them. Perhaps, in a way, he does love her yet.
“There is one thing that troubles me still,” Sif suddenly says, her voice low and husky and a little raw from their lovemaking. “And so I find I must ask: what brought you to my chambers earlier this evening? What purpose drove you that you would seek to attire yourself thusly?”
Loki heaves a small sigh--he’d almost managed to forget about the predicament Thor and his latest act of arrogant idiocy had gotten them all into. But well, so much for that. “I was coming up with a plan for dealing with the current situation with the giants.”
Sif arches an eyebrow at that. “And what, pray tell, does trying on women’s clothing have to do with reclaiming Mjölnir?”
Loki pauses a moment, considering what to tell her, and finally decides that in certain rare cases such as this, the truth is even more entertaining than a lie.
“Tell me truthfully, Sif,” he says with a smile that can only be termed wicked, “How do you think my brother would look in a dress?”
- ♦ ♈ ♦ -
A/N: …This got written because I’ve been watching Wallander, and being exposed to so much of Tom’s beautiful…face, voice, acting, everything, is doing terrible, terrible things to my delicate little fangirl’s heart.
-Not related to the “Growing Pains” series.
-...Yes, of course I had to work some mythology in there somewhere, haha. A reference to one of the better-known and well-loved tales this time. :]
Cross-posted in the comments of Round 2 @
norsekink Prompt: Loki/Sif, Crossdressing
Sif and Loki as older teens/young adults. Sif walks in on Loki trying on dresses. Humiliated, and certain that she's run off to laugh with Thor and the others, he hides in his room. Until she comes by in full male garb and asks to see him in a dress again. He complies. Sex ensues.
[Loki, Sif. 'Put It On (& Don't Say A Word)']
--
[{Later.}]
There’s nothing gentle about it in the least. She calls him my princess, and takes him while they’re both still wearing more clothes than not, a passionate, frantic heat in her eyes and mouth and the hands she trails all over his body. Her breathing is ragged as she rides him hard, and his comes no smoother, choked gasps of yes yes oh gods yes Sif don’t stop no don’t please don’t SifSifSif. There’s the sound of tearing fabric, the musical jangle of chainmail, bruises left on sides and backs alongside reddened lines that would be bleeding freely if either were fragile mortals, and a fair degree of cursing.
There’s nothing gentle about it, but right now, neither of them wants there to be.
- ♦ ♈ ♦ -
[{Before.}]
Loki doesn’t dare ask how Thor managed to let the Frost Giants steal his hammer. With his temper, there have often been times that Loki would have described his elder brother’s mood as thunderous…but his current frame of mind makes all those other occasions look like a light drizzle in comparison.
Clearly, someone has to come up with a viable plan for getting Mjölnir back. And since everyone else’s ideas are either graceless and doomed like demand it back and go to war if they refuse (Thor’s idea) or hopeless and ridiculous like maybe ask nicely? (Volstagg’s), the task has fallen to Loki.
Who presently decides that the most logical course of action is to go try on some dresses.
Holding up the first he happens to pull from the closet, all he can do is quirk an eyebrow and give a skeptical snort--it’s so light, the material so thin, it seems almost insubstantial. Such a thing can’t possibly provide any real warmth or protection, and it’s short enough in certain areas and low-cut enough in others that it doesn’t offer much in the way of cover, either.
Really, he thinks, letting it fall to the ground in a near-silent whisper of silk as he reaches for another, one might as well go about unclothed.
The next few meet with rather more favour, being somewhat longer and more sensibly-styled. All the various articles of clothing prove to be fairly easy to get into once he figures out their basic functions, what fastens to what and which straps go where, though getting out of them is still a little tricky, and the ones that lace up in the back are impossible to fasten correctly, even with magic. He’s perhaps a bit surprised to find that on the whole, dresses are actually rather pleasant to wear, and fairly comfortable so long as they’re not laced too tightly. He isn’t particularly fond of the low scoop-neck style of the tops that leaves his collarbones exposed and a large portion of his breastbone bare, preferring the high-collared fashion of his own usual attire, but the long, loose sleeves are interesting, and could prove quite advantageous should any sort of sleight-of-hand be required while carrying out the plan he’s concocted to get Thor’s hammer back.
He goes through almost the entire closet, trying on gowns in assorted styles and colours, eyeing the various cuts and considering how best to disguise the flat, angular planes of his body beneath layers of silk and linen. In truth, he’d not really paid all that much attention to women’s clothing before today, and he finds all the baubles and trinkets and trimmings and frills simultaneously intriguing and mystifying. As a prince, his own wardrobe and various accessories could be appallingly fancy, complicated, and outright uncomfortable when it came to the more elaborate formal wear for special occasions, but this is something else, a different plane of existence altogether. Despite the elegance and ornamentation (and the irritating tendency some of the undergarments have towards chafing), for the most part the clothing still feels more free and flowing. Most of his own every-day clothing is a combination of leather, velvets, furs, rich materials with thick, heavy weaves, with swathes of mail here and there--close-fitting but easy to move in and generally quite comfortable despite the majority of it being fairly weighty. He’s never had any real problems regarding his wardrobe, since the royal tailors are more than willing to adjust things at his slightest whim and create clothing in whatever style he wishes, but this sleek material…
He’ll have to look into getting them to make something out of this for him, Loki decides as he examines the fall of the fabric in the room’s floor length mirror. Perhaps a dressing gown, he thinks, twisting about to see how it looks from the side and the back, then giving an absent little twirl, setting the silk swirling about him…
…Which is the exact moment that the door swings open, and Sif steps inside.
No knock, no warning whatsoever. Though to be fair, it is her room.
The evidence is absolute: complete, comprehensive, and utterly incriminating. There are dresses strewn everywhere, laid out on the bed, over chairs, and a few of the less-pleasing ones lie crumpled on the floor. And of course, there’s the one he’s currently wearing. That, along with the braided gold circlet bound across his brow, the tablet-woven belt around his waist, and the tortoiseshell brooch he’d pinned in place to hold the low-cut keyhole neckline of the dress a bit more modestly closed make it undeniable that he’s been enjoying himself far too much.
And why not? He’s always been sort of vaguely pretty, not square-jawed and strictly masculine and all-over hairy like Thor, and he’s still suffering through the lingering effects of late adolescence, which has given him decent height yet left him slim enough that he not only fits into most of these dresses, but looks rather fetching in them as well.
Looking at Sif, though, he can’t even begin to tell what she’s thinking, and automatically takes the simplest and most likely explanations for her wide eyes and flushed cheeks: shock, embarrassment, disgust. Possibly and probably anger, too, since he is in her personal quarters without her permission.
He opens his mouth to explain, but nothing comes out. He can’t think of anything to say to make this situation better--there’s nothing, really, not enough words in existence or enough time in all creation to say anything that will mend this.
And so, as usual, sorcery is his recourse: in a twinkling and a curling wisp of green smoke he magicks himself out of the room, out of the dress, out of sight and the whole bloody situation. And back in the dubious safety of his chambers, the true horror of the situation hits him.
Sif had seen him. Sif. Sif, who would do nearly anything to gain favour in Thor’s eyes, to fit in just a little better with the Warriors. Sif, whom he’d humiliated just over a year ago by cutting off her hair. Worse, even after restoring it he had still gotten the last word, so to speak, changing it from the brilliant honey-kissed shade of a ray of purest sunshine to the empty black of a starless night.
There is simply no way she won’t take revenge.
She’ll tell the Warriors.
She’ll tell Thor.
She might even tell his father.
She’ll tell everyone. And he’ll be ruined, truly and totally, once and for all.
Thor will laugh until he cries and never let him hear the end of it, the Warriors will jeer and curtsy whenever they see him, the whispers he already hears whenever his back is turned will intensify. His father will certainly never love him even half as much as Thor now, will never even consider letting the throne fall to him regardless of how much of an egocentric blockhead Thor is, will only ever look at him with disappointment and reproach; his mother will be forced to bow her head in shame.
Biting back a moan, Loki crumples to the floor, huddling against the wall farthest from the door, wearing naught but the blankets dragged off his bed, and fairly burns with embarrassment.
Clever as he is, even he can see no way out of this, his usual quick wits failing him now just as his ordinarily silver tongue had failed him with Sif earlier. He hasn’t shown much interest in conventional warrior’s pastimes, and at least half of Asgard thinks him strange for his bookishness and already significant skill with sorcery. All who know him even in passing hold the opinion that he is a prankster and a trickster, and there is always that flicker of distrust, a glint of suspicion in the eyes of whomever he speaks with. Liar, he almost can see them thinking, even if he’s done nothing to them personally. Liar, troublemaker, deceiver.
It’s this lack of faith that assures the second prince of Asgard that he’s doomed. For despite the disparity in their stations, Sif’s word will be taken as true over his own; and since he hasn’t told anyone of his plan to get Thor’s hammer back, after this, anything he says will just seem like an excuse.
No one will believe him, because no one ever does. Not when it really matters.
- ♦ ♈ ♦ -
[{Now.}]
A knock on the door was the last thing he expected, especially at this hour. Loki doesn’t need much sleep and he’s usually up late into the night reading, so it doesn’t wake him. And while he’s more or less accepted his fate regarding what happened earlier in Sif’s chambers--recovered his poise, dressed himself, and turned his attention to the book he’d started reading earlier that day--it still has him on edge. He’s been waiting all evening for Thor or one of those half-witted Warriors or someone to burst into his room despite the locked door and begin the mockery, and the longer he has to wait, the worse the strain of dread anticipation grows. They must be taking their time to come up with something truly nasty if it’s taken them this long.
He doesn’t know why whoever-it-is doesn’t simply force their way in, and though he wants nothing more dearly than to ignore it, Loki knows with a heavy sort of acceptance that there’s no point in trying to avoid the inevitable. Body leadened with resignation, he sets down his book and slowly draws himself up, shoulders squared and chin raised haughtily as he goes to the door at his usual unhurried, measured pace. His hand pauses against the cool metal handle for one hesitant half-second before he steels himself and calmly opens the door.
…And the last thing he expected abruptly changes from a late-night knock at the door to what he finds when he looks out into the hallway.
The fact that his caller is Sif isn’t all that surprising; considering what had happened just a few hours ago, it’s almost to be expected. What is unusual is what she’s wearing. Gone is the gold-trimmed (and far too short) scarlet-and-white shift and dark leggings she’d been wearing earlier, and in its place is not her usual armour or even her hunting leathers. Instead, she’s wearing a distinctly masculine-looking tunic and trousers, both of heavy but finely-woven wool, beneath a cuirass of leather lamellar armour, each tiny individual plate intricately tooled with graceful etchings of gold. A long brown fur cloak, pinned on one side by an emerald-bejeweled brooch, heavy flat-soled hunting boots, thick leather gloves, and a grey steel helm with gilt edges complete her outfit…and quite frankly, she is nothing short of breathtaking, perhaps even dashing enough to steal that epithet from Fandral. If not for her height (or rather the lack thereof) and the obvious grace of her physique which even layers of armour cannot fully disguise, she could easily blend in with any of the male warriors at a royal feast or tournament, and just let herself be taken for a particularly beautiful soldier.
What precisely she means by showing up looking like this is as of yet unclear, though Loki is loath to ask or demand anything of her right now, even something so simple as information.
As he stares, she presses a dress into his hands--the first he’d pulled from her closet, a mere snippet of deep blue silk, frothy lace, and satin ribbons--and says in a low, rough voice, “Put it on.”
Surely this must be some form of trick or trap, Loki thinks, and he finds himself unable to keep from darting an apprehensive glance down the hall to either side, looking for the sniggering faces of those three buffoons or, worst of all, Thor.
“Don’t worry. I’ve come alone,” she says before pushing her way into the room, forcing him to backpedal. “And if you do it,” she continues before Loki can voice the refusal and subsequent curt dismissal hardening his eyes and his expression, “I shall swear to never speak of anything I have seen this day to anyone.”
Interesting. Loki’s eyes narrow in shrewd consideration. “Swear it, then. On your sword.”
One leather-clad fist comes to rest over the blade at her hip. “I swear.”
“On your honour.”
That fist moves to her chest in a warrior’s salute. “I swear.”
The intensity of Loki’s stare doesn’t waver, and his voice drops to a cold half-whisper: “On your life.”
Without hesitation Sif’s hand unclenches, and she spreads her fingers across her left breast before speaking a third time and sealing the oath. “I swear.”
Very interesting indeed. For a moment his expression doesn’t change; then slowly the tension in his body fades somewhat, and he gives her a faint smirk as his hand closes tightly around the silken gown. With a matching smirk, Sif pointedly locks the door behind her, and Loki starts stripping out of his clothing.
She doesn’t turn away, watching him undress, and though her cheeks do redden slightly, it’s clearly more from rising excitement than embarrassment. Her gaze doesn’t waver, her eyes large and dark and intent as they follow his every move. He doesn’t hurry, doesn’t hide or attempt to cover himself, and his own eyes stay locked on her face, studying her and noting her slightest reactions.
Normally Loki would take care to fold each article of clothing as he removed it, tucking it away in its appointed place; this time, he simply lets them fall as they will with a careless sort of composure. He pauses for a moment as the last layer slides to the floor, leaving him unashamedly bare beneath her gaze, then calmly slips the blue silk shift over his head. There’s a set of those impossible laces on the back, but for the moment Loki concerns himself with tugging everything into place and smoothing out the dress’s fall. He hardly seems to notice when one of the straps slips off his shoulder as he does so.
But Sif notices. The way she’s watching him, she can’t help but notice. And before she knows it, she’s moving forward, peeling out of those thick leather hawking gloves even as she closes the distance between them, the soft flurry of her footsteps made far more firm and pronounced by the heavy boots she’s wearing. Loki goes utterly still at her approach, keeping his face turned downward, and simply waits.
Her hand brushes over the side of his arm as she reaches up to guide the strap back into place, then slides down his back, tracing the bone of his shoulderblade in a purposefully unhurried caress. Her touch, so warm against his cold skin, makes him want to shiver in nervousness and anticipation and desire, but he refuses to give her the satisfaction of that kind of response, especially so soon.
She doesn’t take her hand from his back as she moves to the side, coming around behind him; rather, her other hand comes up to mirror the first, and soon both have begun to slowly drift down his back, tracing the curve of his spine, running down his ribs, ghosting over flesh and fabric alike. Then, with an abruptness sudden and violent enough to make him jump, Sif seizes his narrow hips, her fingers digging almost painfully into bone and muscle and sinew alike as she roughly pulls him hard against her, his back pressed to her front without so much as a whisper of space between them. He manages not to gasp or give any another verbal indication of surprise, but he has to close his eyes at the feel of her breath, hot and humid, ghosting over the exposed, sensitive skin between his shoulderblades.
Sif holds him there for a long moment, her armour digging into his nearly-bare flesh, then steps back and away without a word, their only remaining point of contact her hands moving over his back as she draws the dress’s laces tight.
Already Loki is finding his feelings confusingly mixed, both his body and his mind uncertain on how to respond. He is young, but not so young that this is his first experience of a more intimate nature (quite the contrary, rather), but already it is proving to be unlike anything he’s encountered before. He doesn’t particularly like being dominated this way, forced to submit to another’s will, to just react rather than make the first move himself. He likes to be in control, the master of himself and everything around him as much as is possible. And yet…it’s a decidedly new experience, and there’s something primal and deeply thrilling about putting himself at the mercy of someone like Sif, who despite her smaller frame is easily an even match for him in physical strength. That will change drastically in a few years once he fully comes into his own, but for now…
For now, he thinks with a knife’s-edge smile, let her have her fun.
Once she’s finally finished lacing up the back of the dress, he steps away (moving just out of reach, a deliberate distance) and turns to the side, letting Sif see him in profile as well. As he does, he catches her eyes and graces her with a smile that is decidedly more than half-smirk. “Jealous that I wear it better than you?”
She eliminates the distance between them in two rapid strides, catching his pointed chin between her thumb and forefinger. “I might ask you the same question,” she all but purrs, running her other hand down the armour she’s wearing—his, he realises suddenly, from when he was still growing into his current armour. (Maybe he’s still growing into it even now, poorly as it seems to fit him these days.)
“Ask, then,” he says, his smirk not slipping in the slightest. “But don’t blame me if you do not like my answer. And don’t forget that I asked first.”
She smirks in return and mimics his voice and inflection from brief seconds before: “ ‘Jealous that I wear it better than you?’ ”
His eyebrows quirk upwards, and somehow, even though she still has ahold of his face, he manages to look down his nose at her imperiously. “No,” he says, answering as easily and offhandedly as if he were refusing another glass of mead at a feast or giving his opinion on whether or not it would rain that afternoon.
Sif’s eyes narrow, any trace of her smirk now vanished, and though he doesn’t waver or turn his gaze aside, he still feels as if he’s given himself away somehow, that for once someone has seen through his mask of cool dispassion.
Or perhaps not.
The hand on his chin moves in a blur, her nails grazing his cheek before her fingers bury themselves in his hair, digging into the nape of his neck. “Liar,” she breathes out in a low growl, then jerks his mouth down to meet hers.
From the very start, there is nothing chaste about this kiss. He finds his mouth crushed against hers, a surprising amount of passion in that first, fierce exchange, as if she might draw the truth from his lips this way. Her other hand, the one not all but clawing at his face, has settled on his hip again, tracing the outward jut of his hipbone through the thin material of the dress; when she breaks off the kiss, it’s only for long enough to take in another breath, then her mouth is on his again. This time her teeth find his lower lip, pulling it into her mouth, sucking on it long and slow before suddenly biting down just enough to hurt, enough to make his breath catch at the unexpected pain, but not hard enough to draw blood, not yet. His lips part in a near-silent gasp as he tries to jerk away on reflex, and Sif takes full advantage of that, licking her way into his open mouth. Passion and animosity and hunger all blend together in a kiss that’s deep and messy and very much about dominance, as things always seem to be between them of late. Her tongue fills his mouth, moving as if she wants to explore every bit of him, but whenever he tries to do the same to her, she bites him, his lips or his tongue, saying without saying that his role in this is to accept her dominance, to play the woman’s part and just take it.
Discontent with the purely passive role she’s trying to force on him, Loki’s hands have not been idle, and at last his long, deft fingers have managed to complete their task--working loose the brooch holding the thick fur cloak around her shoulders. The heavy mantle slips to the floor with nary a whisper as the gold-and-emerald pin falls to the stone floor, and the prince swipes at it with his foot, listening to the faintly musical sound it makes as it skitters away and comes to rest underneath a nearby table. At that, Sif finally draws back enough to look at him, a baleful scowl on her face that Loki reads easily: she is the one who is supposed to be in control, and she will not have him removing any more of her clothing without her explicit say-so. She does use the momentary break in her own assault to remove her helmet, however; it only gets in the way, and it’s far too heavy besides. And as she sets the helmet aside, placing it on the nearest table with a surprising amount of care, Asgard’s younger prince catches sight of her expression, which until now the helmet had often half-obscured.
It’s the only warning he has before she surges forward, slamming him up against the wall hard enough for the sound to echo dully through the room before ravaging his mouth once again. Before long her attention shifts, however, pressing kisses to his jawbone and leaving a trail of toothmarks and blood-bruises down his neck. Her mouth moves along his exposed collarbone, biting and suckling, as her hand glides up from his hip to jerk one of the thin dress-straps down and off his shoulder.
Pinned against the wall as he is, there’s nothing Loki can do but clutch at the extra material in the shoulders of her slightly-too-big tunic and let her do as she will with him. So far he’s been concentrating on holding back, or at least muffling, every gasp and groan that her avid attentions have elicited from him, letting his eyes close and his head fall back to rest against the wall; but as she tears that strap away, his eyes snap open and he turns a startled look down at her.
Which means he’s just in time to watch Sif kiss her way down his breastbone and across his halfway exposed chest. Her tongue flicks out, brushes lightly across that flat, male nipple, then repeats the action far more slowly. His breath catches as she traces the outside edges with her tongue before letting her mouth close over it, alternating between rolling it between her teeth and sucking hard enough to leave another blood-bruise behind. It’s the sight more than the sensation that forces him to bite his already-tender lip, teeth clamping down hard enough to draw blood in his attempt at holding back a low moan, though the sensation is enjoyable enough, if a bit unusual.
She tugs the opposite strap down and moves to the other side, and his back arches a little at the continued stroke and sweep of her tongue, his breath starting to come slow and deep. But he’s still not content to be entirely passive.
When one of his legs comes up between her own, Sif doesn’t object, at least not aloud. Instead she allows it, rocking against him once, and then takes back control by skimming her hand up the outside of his other thigh to settle, through the silk of the dress, on the growing bulge between his legs. Preternaturally strong-willed or not, Loki can’t prevent his hips from bucking towards her at that, or a startled breath from hissing in through clenched teeth. It leaves him even more forcefully when her hand spiders back down to slip up beneath the silk shift, touching and grasping him directly. Loki stiffens at that, a forced sort of surrender since she has him by the balls literally, and though his knees waver worrisomely, he can do nothing but sag against the wall and bite his already-bloody lip even harder.
Sif, meanwhile, rocks against him again, grinding against his hip, then curses the armour under her breath and pulls back, pulls away. Loki gives a strangled-sounding whimper as her hand drops away from him, though it’s cut off as she all but drags him over to the bed, pushing him down onto it. Still feeling a little dazed, he lets himself fall flat on his back without protest, limbs sprawling, and she follows him, crawling onto the bed after him, though first she pauses long enough to step out of those heavy woolen trousers. She has to take the boots off to do it, but once the pants are off, the boots go back on, and Loki doesn’t protest that either.
He’s very obviously ready, and she herself is dripping wet, so Sif doesn’t waste time with any more foreplay; she simply hikes up his dress and positions herself over him, grabbing him and guiding him in, mounting him as quickly and easily as she would her hunting-steed. She takes him in up to the hilt, her breath catching and her eyes falling half-closed as she seats herself against him fully; Loki’s reaction is much the same, his mouth dropping open in a long, low groan that he doesn’t even attempt to muffle, his hands fisting hard in the blankets.
For the space of a dozen heartbeats, both remain surprisingly still, struggling to regain control of heaving chests and fluttering muscles.
Then she leans forward, her hands pressing against his leanly-muscled stomach, and moves.
Through half-lidded eyes, Loki watches her moving over him, all those soft curves and sleek muscles hidden beneath that armour, her midnight-dark hair framing her face, and in that moment he wishes more than anything he’d never played that trick on her. Because then he would be looking up into the sun rather than the moon, and maybe he might feel just a little bit warm for once.
As she had during the kissing, Sif dominates him, this time almost entirely. Loki is still fairly young, and at this point his self-control isn’t nearly what it will be in later years. Just the feel of her, so hot and wet and tight, and the knowledge that it is Sif who is doing this to him is almost enough to make him come right then and there. But Sif won’t allow that, drawing it out, making her every move almost agonisingly slow, and when he tries to move with her, or against her, she forcibly presses him down into the bed, her nails biting at his chest and shoulders, her knees clamping tight around his hips as she ceases all movement, her expression caught somewhere between a glare and a smirk.
“Beg for me, my princess,” she says, her voice a low, raggedly breathy murmur. She raises a hand to his face, brushing her thumb across his lips, and her smirk deepens. “Put this sweet mouth and eloquent tongue to good use, and tell me what you most desire.”
It’s a terrible and wonderful sort of agony, to be buried inside her and yet find himself unable to move, the denial of that delicious friction almost maddening; but finding just the right words in challenging situations has always been one of Loki’s gifts, though in this case, that’s no great feat.
“You,” he says hoarsely, still trying to sound calm and unaffected, though the way his hips are twitching beneath her gives lie to that attempt. “What I most desire—Sif—Sif, please—”
At that word, that hard-won please, a sort of exultant triumph flashes across the warrior-maid’s face, and she rewards the prince--her ‘princess’--with another ferocious kiss before she begins to move over him in earnest. It’s an abrupt change from before, her pace near-frantic, and a hissed keep talking—tell me what you want, what you feel—keep talking, damn you is enough to make Loki temporarily cast aside his pride in favour of pleasure. Yes yes oh gods yes, he moans as she rides him hard, harder harder no don’t stop as she claws at his sides, no please don’t no no please Sif if she shows the slightest sign of slowing; but nothing he says and no amount of swearing can prevent her from pausing at the worst possible moments to lean in to press a mocking kiss to his jaw or his shoulder or the corner of his mouth when he chokes on a gasp and it interrupts his constant stream of supplication.
One of the straps has slid off Loki’s shoulders again, and short as the dress is, somehow it’s still managing to get in the way; she wants to feel warm skin beneath her hands, not slick sweat-dampened silk, and thin though the material is, it’s not the same. Sif finds herself tearing at the garment, her hands fisting in it hard enough that the delicate material rips in twain, the sound of shredding fabric melding with the jangle of her chainmail and the choked pleas of the prince beneath her. And that, along with the way she rocks against him particularly hard as she reaches out and casually snaps the strap still looped over his shoulder, is enough to make him give a strangled cry as his back arches, his hips jerking upwards as he comes.
…And as he lays there, breathing in ragged, shuddery gasps as the euphoric feeling of release drains from his body, Loki realises that Sif hadn’t climaxed; judging by the look of smug satisfaction he finds on her face when he opens his eyes to look up at her, she’d never intended to. Because this is still all about control, and now she’s kept hers while watching him lose his.
She doesn’t pull away from him, doesn’t leave immediately afterward as he’d thought she might. Instead, she stays astride him, helps him out of what little remains of the blue silk dress, and then lets him watch as, piece by piece, she takes off his old armour and the rest of the men’s clothing she’s wearing, kicking off those boots first of all.
And this time, she doesn’t object when he moves to help her.
This time, his hands grasp at her hips and ass, sliding down sleek thighs and across her well-muscled belly and upwards to cup her breasts; this time they’re both naked, nothing but skin separating them, nothing but skin sliding against skin. And this time he meets every downward motion of her hips with an upwards thrust of his own, slamming himself into her so hard that she sees stars.
This time, he tops from the bottom, tweaking a nipple here and rolling his hips just so there, his fingers pressing into silky skin and supple flesh so hard that he leaves clusters of little bruises on her hips and ass.
And this time, Sif comes well before he does. Loki makes certain of that, reaching out as she slams down onto him, his thumb catching at a certain specific spot at the apex of her thighs, circling, rubbing hard, and that’s it for her. Sif’s head snaps back and she lets out a throaty cry, her legs clamping tight around his hips as she loses control, her whole body shuddering in an uncontrollable ecstasy; then the warrior-maid gives a sigh and slumps forward atop the prince, muscles still shivering and twitching as she presses long, slow kisses to his neck and shoulder. Loki puts up with this arrangement for a short while, but he dislikes the feeling of being pinned, even by this sort of comfortable weight. Soon he shifts her to the side, and Sif doesn’t protest or resist as he lays her out on her back close beside him. And that, the sight of her graceful, loose-limbed form stretched out in his thoroughly-mussed bed, a healthy flush and a fine sheen of sweat on her pale and perfect skin, her hair a dark, messy halo fanning out beneath her head, is something Asgard’s younger prince had never dared to hope he would see.
It’s too much for him to resist, and soon Loki is leaning in to press his mouth to hers. It’s a firm kiss, fervent enough to make his bitten and still-bloody lower lip throb, and yet it’s the gentlest they’ve shared. And she’s kissing him back and letting him take his time about it, allowing him to coax her mouth open and taste her the way she’d tasted him before, listening to her quickened breathing as he drinks her in. It’s his turn to cover her neck and shoulders and chest with kisses, though he doesn’t stop there. His mouth brushes along her stomach, his tongue tracing a circle around her navel before briefly dipping into it, his thumbs pressing into the curving hollows beside her hipbones.
Loki generally considers himself a fairly patient individual--timing is everything often enough that it’s only prudent to be able to wait things out if need be--but here and now three other factors and feelings hold sway, leaving no room for something as cumbersome and restrictive as patience.
He’s selfish, in that he wants to taste all of her right now, her skin, her sweat, the dampness between her legs, everything. He wants her to remember, always, how it felt when the God of Mischief, of Chaos, of Lies took her, wants her to compare anyone and everyone she’s ever with in the future to this night, to him, and find them desperately, laughably wanting. He wants to ruin her for anyone else.
He’s curious, in that he wants to see and explore every curve and dip of the perfect, exquisitely appealing body spread out before him. In his eyes Sif has always been the most beautiful of all the goddesses, lithe of limb and fair of face, as well as capable and clever, though of course not on the same level as he.
And last and least but still compellingly, he’s bitter, in that he knows that this might be his only opportunity to fulfill either of those two other desires. There’s no guarantee that Sif won’t pretend that all of this never happened (she’d sworn not to speak of anything that she’d seen that day, after all, and that day could easily extend into that night), no reason for him to assume that this would change how things stood between them even slightly, that she would ever come to him like this and seek out his company for this purpose or that she would ever permit him to touch her in this manner again.
So he runs his hands down her legs, pressing kisses to the inside of her knees and thighs before tasting her there. At that, Sif’s hips buck and she lets out a high-pitched keening noise, the like of which he’s never heard her make in all the years he’s known her, a sound he’d never believed she, proud warrior that she is, was capable of uttering. He experiments with this new-found knowledge a little, enthralled by the new and unexpected sounds he’s drawing from her lips as well as tasting the traces of himself he’d left in her most secret places, though their battle for dominance comes into play once again here, a chance to get revenge for what she’d done to him earlier. When he can tell that she’s getting close, so close, he simply stops, his mouth moving upwards instead, dampened lips skimming over her stomach again, kissing and licking his way up her body until his hips press into hers and he’s settled between her legs.
And it’s really too much, too much for him to stop himself from having her just as he’d always imagined and dreamed of having her, with him on top and with her writhing beneath him, his lean body caught and cradled between her lush thighs. Wet as she is, he enters her with one smooth thrust, so quickly that her head jerks backwards, her breath leaving her in a rush. It takes her a minute to remember how to draw in another, and by that time he’s thrusting into her again and it’s all she can do to clutch at his shoulders and wrap her legs around him and a little thing like breathing seems so much less important than matching the movement of her hips to his. Loki drives into her with sure, deep strokes powerful enough to wrest more of those high-pitched keening noises from her throat, and yet for the most part it’s much more gentle--or at least far less frantic, chiefly because Loki doesn’t do frantic--than the two times before. Loki himself has long since given up on holding back his gasps and groans; as many years as he’d wanted her, as many times as his mind had spun forth scenes exactly like this late at night and his hand found its way down his body and beneath the blankets in response, at this moment Loki has no intention of holding anything back.
He takes his time though, his control strong and steady enough to make sure that he thoroughly enjoys himself, and that Sif does as well. He keeps up a not-quite-slow but mostly-regular pace, pausing every so often to punctuate a particularly forceful thrust with a messy, lingering kiss or a nip at her shoulder or collarbone, rocking against her hard as he does so. “Your turn,” he whispers against her cheek during one of these unhurried intervals, and he holds himself statue-still over her after pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. “Beg.”
Even pinned beneath him, with him buried to the hilt inside her, Sif manages to bare her teeth in defiance. She squirms against him, but he doesn’t relent, and the weight of his body and the hand he moves to grasp her hip and hold her in place prevents her from finding any sort of relief for herself.
“Fuck you,” she hisses, which earns her nothing but arched eyebrows and an expression that says so clearly that he doesn’t have to speak the words aloud, indeed you are, for the third time now.
She struggles against him harder, and once, with excruciating slowness, he rolls his hips against her, his breath hot in her ear as he whispers again, this time with ice and steel in his tone: “Beg.”
A soft moan issues forth from high in her throat, and then from between clenched teeth—“Damnit, please! Please, Loki—ah!”
His response is intense and immediate, and she cries out again as he drives into her harder and faster than ever, again and again and again, this time not stopping for anything. And then she’s almost there, wavering right on the edge, and when his hand moves between them once more, her world flies apart in a brief flash of white as her muscles clench and a legion of shudders shiver their way through her body again. After a few more thrusts, he’s there as well, grinding and jerking then spilling himself into her with a long, quiet, open-mouthed sigh before slumping to the bed beside her.
Both finally sated, at least for the moment, they rest in silence, still somewhat intertwined as their blood cools and their breathing and heartbeats slow. Though Loki’s body seems relaxed in a sensuous, sensual lethargy, his mind is moving at its usual dizzying pace, and right now it’s spinning down several separate paths at once.
He’d just slept with his own brother’s sometimes-lover—wasn’t that a form of betrayal? Especially since they hadn’t stopped after the first time, when the initial heat of the moment, that first searing flare of lust, had been too much to resist and might give them adequate grounds for denial of guilt and a half-way sort of justification. Instead they’d lingered, done it all again more slowly, and then again even more slowly after that. If it’s betrayal, it’s a double betrayal, for Sif is as much if not more to blame than he…though of course, he didn’t have to allow her inside his room. He could have turned her away, despite the possibility of humiliation.
Perhaps he should have. It’s doubtless what a good brother would have done.
And yet, Loki finds that he can’t muster much in the way of guilt and contrition. He’s not entirely sure what he thinks or feels about this, but he does know that he doesn’t regret it in the least. He’d make the same decision again in a heartbeat, for not only did he secure Sif’s oath and thus prevent his own disgrace, he had bedded Sif, something he’d only ever considered an idle imagining.
Still, what he really feels towards her is hard to quantify, because it’s anything but straightforward. Initially he’d been attracted to her, Sif of the beautiful golden hair, but she’d never given him so much as a second glance: she’d always been fixated on Thor, just like everyone else. That had galled Loki, and perhaps a certain sort of possessiveness and envy had entered the equation, making his motives--both then and there, and in this here and now--decidedly less than pure and honest. Perhaps he’d wanted her not because he felt anything for her, or even because she was beautiful, but simply because she was Thor’s, and any opportunity to steal something from his better-loved older brother, any scrap of love that he could take, even if it was only physical love, was not an opportunity to be missed.
But even so, he can’t deny that he’d liked this, and wanted it, and wants it again, desperately. She has never looked more attractive to him than she does now, her body gleaming with sweat and her inner thighs sticky with his cum, wearing nothing but his bedsheets. Perhaps, he thinks as his eyes trace the graceful lines of her body, lines that his hands and mouth have now mapped and thoroughly explored, those original feelings are still present, if slightly obscured by all the others piled on top of them. Perhaps, in a way, he does love her yet.
“There is one thing that troubles me still,” Sif suddenly says, her voice low and husky and a little raw from their lovemaking. “And so I find I must ask: what brought you to my chambers earlier this evening? What purpose drove you that you would seek to attire yourself thusly?”
Loki heaves a small sigh--he’d almost managed to forget about the predicament Thor and his latest act of arrogant idiocy had gotten them all into. But well, so much for that. “I was coming up with a plan for dealing with the current situation with the giants.”
Sif arches an eyebrow at that. “And what, pray tell, does trying on women’s clothing have to do with reclaiming Mjölnir?”
Loki pauses a moment, considering what to tell her, and finally decides that in certain rare cases such as this, the truth is even more entertaining than a lie.
“Tell me truthfully, Sif,” he says with a smile that can only be termed wicked, “How do you think my brother would look in a dress?”
- ♦ ♈ ♦ -