fic | thor (2011) | some shadowed corner

[mekosuchinae]

NOBODY LOOK AT ME. This is porn. I'm sorry if you thought I was a ~serious auteur.~

Title: Some Shadowed Corner
Fandom: Thor (2011)
Characters: Sif/Loki, Thor, Frigg.
Warning: Sex.
Summary: When a formal event drags on, Sif and Loki make their own amusement.

Pre-film. 3,800~ words.

The ceremony dragged on; ceremonies so often did. Sif shifted weight to her right leg and thought of defensive combat strategies against larger opponents. She wished she'd worn a dress. The formal armor bit into her shoulders, her ribs. The Allfather spoke of duty, and setting aside thoughts of giants, Sif made an effort to pay attention.

A little sigh at her side. Sif glanced sidelong at Loki. He stood with one leg slightly out and his hands at his back, his wrists lost in his sleeves. His face was carefully blank. The helmet cast a shadow on his brow.

The first he'd worn the stupid thing with its tall horns curling back, she'd laughed half to death and said, "You look like a goat."

"Better a goat than a horse," he'd said lightly, then he'd wound a finger in her hair, pulled the lock tight, and whickered. She'd bit him for that.

Now Sif looked to his throat. The high collar of his jacket hid his throat and the mark she'd left earlier and the beat of his heart besides, that he looked like nothing so much as stone. A stone goat in a black coat cut to stick to his waist. If they'd been children, perhaps she could have kicked his ankle. Then, of course, the king would have turned his eye upon her and with him the court would turn, to look at the girl who'd broken (Loki would insist) the second prince's leg. Still, Sif thought as she shifted weight again to keep her knees from locking, it would've been worth it.

"Yet more than duty," said the Allfather, "it is honor which guides us; it is privilege."

The end of Loki's nose wrinkled, just a bit, then his face smoothed again. What of it had bothered him, if only briefly? Sif found she was staring hard at his lips from the corner of her eye. Her head ached for it, and for the mead of the night before, and for the sudden, consuming memory of how Loki had laughed when she'd kissed him, his lips dry, hers wet and mead-sticky. She'd pulled his tunic open at the collar, which subsequent loss of a button he'd mourned, and Loki had slipped his fingers in her hair and set his long thumbs along her jaw and bent to kiss her again.

Sif looked away. The far wall glittered, gold and candescent, lit with the rising sun. Still the Allfather spoke. She shouldn't have downed as much mead as she had. A yawn threatened; she downed that, too. Loki no doubt felt no worse for the wear. Times, she'd woken late in the night to find him petting her hair and staring at the ceiling.

"Don't you ever sleep?" she'd grumbled one night, not long after the first.

His hands on her shoulders had stilled then. It was as if he needed to touch her, to know she was there and drooling into the pillow; but it was her bed in her room and surely even Loki, who thought and guessed and thought again and second-guessed, couldn't be so needy as to think her one of his illusions.

In the dark of her room, his face was rich with shadows. A little light reflected in his eyes, a green in the black. He turned his hand over and touched a finger to her nape.

"Oh, never," he said. "I gave up sleeping years ago. It's the only way to get things done."

"Well, I want to get sleep done," she told him. "And if you don't stop pulling my hair, I can't, and if I can't sleep, then I'll make you sleep."

"Violence is hardly a healthy thing to introduce into any relationship," he'd said. Then his face had blanked as it did when he'd said something he wished he hadn't, as if he thought freezing in place would somehow make him too easy a target to pursue.

Sif, tired, had only punched his shoulder and pressed her face to his throat. He smelled of sweat and Sif and a crisp, zinging thing which got up her nose and sparked on her tongue and was, simply, Loki. She'd woken again to his lips at her ear, his fingers combing, combing through her unbound hair, his clipped nails catching then dragging free, and she had stuck her hand in his hair and fallen asleep like that, Loki curled and curling about her.

"As to their vast bravery," said the Allfather, and Sif blinked.

She tightened her jaw. Focus, she thought cruelly; then she looked at Loki again. He looked disgustingly, perfectly alert for all the carrying on of the night before. Even Thor had the decency to looked haggard about the eyes. Sif pinched her lips at Loki. Later, she thought, she would shove him up against a wall and make him regret his practiced serenity.

Then, a small flickering in his face: his eyelashes dropped; his eyes slitted; he looked over to her, the sweep of lashes black on his cheek near coy. The muscles in back of her legs tightened; her back stiffened. If she'd another inch of height to give, she would have given it to account for the step between them.

His lids drooped lower still. His gaze fell the length of her to her feet. Her toes curled in her boots. Sif ground her heels down; she rooted. Slowly Loki looked her over, regarding first her ankles then her knees and her thighs. Her heart beat fiercely and a little dagger ran up her spine, a thrill like the moment when a troll loomed out of the protecting darkness of its cave and her fingers ached for her lance.

To fight a foe taller than oneself, one must seek to put them off-balance. His eyes lingered on her waist. Sif shifted to her left; her hip jutted. The corner of his mouth flipped up briefly. Sif rolled her eyes away. What did she care if he looked? A little dripping pool of warmth had set up camp in her gut. She thought of Loki's eyes sliding inexorably, coolly higher, how his gaze did not strip the armor from her but instead lingered upon the leather which showed in the gaps, the breastplate, the guards at her shoulders. Her throat felt bare, exposed.

His boot scraped over the stone. He'd drawn his leg back. Sif met his gaze, now even with her jaw, her mouth, her eyes, and she arched one brow in challenge. That corner of his mouth deepened. His lower lip thinned, flat as the upper lip bowed. He'd smiled like that the night before when she'd whispered his name in his ear and ran her fingers down his belly.

The chamber gleamed and was hot with those who had come to witness, and the Allfather's voice filled the vaults, the hollows, the distant corners. A murmur ran through the crowd. Loki's eyes were bright and pale and glimmering beneath his lashes. Sif wanted to dig her fingers behind Loki's ears and drag him down the step then to his knees before her, and the force of her wanting shook her. She looked away.

Then spoke the king: "At peace," and Sif said: "At peace," and Loki at her side bowed his head and said: "At peace."

"I recognize first my firstborn son," said the Allfather, "Thor, for his courage in the heat of battle."

Loki was still beside Sif. Her eyes flickered to him, drawn as ever to the carefully uncaring slope of his shoulders and the set of his hips, the whole of him open and yet removed as he looked up to his father and to his brother, who was ever the firstborn son.

Thor stood and as he turned, he caught Sif's eye and smiled. She wrinkled her mouth at him. Loki's cape whispered as it drew across his legs.

"Then, I recognize my secondborn son," said the Allfather, "Loki, for his wits, which did not desert him."

She watched Loki ascend. His cape, a dark green, fluttered at his back like a shadow, and as he bowed his head low to the king the horns on his head flashed; they shone a moment as long and twisting blades, and then they were horns again. He rose. Sif lifted her chin; she set her jaw, her throat; another challenge, then, as he turned: she smiled archly, only a little. The skin at his eyes creased.

"I recognize the maiden, Sif," said the Allfather, "whose bravery and ferocity have distinguished her once more."

Sif marched up the steps. Her armor held fast, metal on leather and the lights shining off her shoulders bright as beacons cutting through shadows, and it was Loki now who looked to Sif. She knew his regard in the heat at the back of her neck, the warmth still dripping in her gut, how her fingers itched as she knelt before the king and lowered her head so her hair pooled upon the marble stones and set one hand upon her bent knee and the other a fist pressed to the ground: a warrior's kneel.

The king touched his fingers to her hair and bid her rise, and as his fingers glossed over her she thought of Loki's long, slender fingers stroking down her cheek. Sif rose at the king's command and bowed again at the waist before she turned from him. To her right and to the king's Thor grinned up at her. At her left, Loki lowered his eyes and lifted them again.

She did not look to him as she took her place again, nor did he look then to her; still she felt him in her skin, and she wondered if he felt her in his, if his palms itched or his fingertips ached for the thought of Sif standing a hands-breath from him. The line of his jaw did not waver, but a muscle in his cheek twitched once, as if he'd pressed his tongue to it or bit down upon the inside. A wonder, to think anyone thought him a trick to read. If she slid a finger between his helmet to stroke his neck, would he still, a little shiver fluttering up his spine? She thought of running her hands up beneath the folds of his cape and peeling it from him.

Another murmur in the crowd, this one an echo of the Allfather, then the cheering began. She straightened; the ceremony was at an end. Sif bowed to the king at his dismissal and rose to Thor's shout of congratulations. The end of Loki's cape swung at his calves; he turned to Frigg.

"So, you see?" Thor shouted over the din as he clapped Sif's shoulder. "I told you it would not be so bad, and was it?"

"I can't feel either of my feet," she told him.

Thor laughed, booming. "All right! I suppose I was wrong."

"That's very generous of you," she said, quite seriously, and she did not look at Loki at all.

A banquet succeeded the ceremony, as was custom. Thor, suffused with pleasure, would not rest until he had recounted his own hand in this most recent and grandest of grand escapades and hounded Sif and the Warriors Three to recount theirs to every person present. Loki, the snake, had fled with Frigg.

"What a brute!" said Fandral. "Naturally I thought it a travesty for such a beautiful woman to be wasted on so savage a beast, and so--"

Sif touched Thor's arm. Laughing still as Fandral pantomimed how the maiden (who had not been a maiden at all) had swooned, Thor turned to her. His cheeks were ruddy, his nose too. He'd a goblet clasped firmly in his hand.

"I'm out of mead," she said. She proferred her own goblet. "I'll return soon."

"Take as much time as you need," Thor said cheerily. "Fandral will be talking another hour."

She socked his arm and took her leave of the glittering, shouting crowd. Where had Loki gone? Sif spotted him by those silly horns. Frigg was smiling up at him, her teeth flashing as she laughed. A goblet hung from the ends of Loki's fingers, his knuckles only slightly crooked.

"My queen," said Sif. She bowed her head.

"Oh, there's no need of that," said Frigg merrily. "We know each other very well. Have you come to steal my son?"

"Only to borrow me," said Loki. "Surely Sif would not be so rude as to forget to return me to you."

"I need only ask him a few things," Sif said quickly. "I hope you won't mind."

The little cunning twist to Frigg's smile did not escape her, nor did the soft way in which Frigg looked from Sif to Loki. There were times when Frigg reminded Sif alarmingly of Loki at his most secretive. Then Frigg said, "I don't mind at all. Please bring him back in one piece, Sif."

*
Loki followed her from the great chamber to a nook in the hall, and his face when she rounded on him was thoughtful.

"If this is about the ribbon," he said, "I can explain."

"Shut up," Sif said.

She set her hands on his chestplate, the metal cool beneath her hot fingers, and she shoved him back against the wall. His helmet clanged against the stones. Loki's pale eyes darkened. In a moment, he would say something clever, so she hooked her fingers in his jaw and dragged him down to kiss the cleverness out of his mouth. She flicked her tongue along the crease between his lips, and his lips parted; his mouth was warm and slick.

"That's for staring at me," she said.

She bit at his lip. Loki's hand slithered from her shoulder down her back. She felt the pressure of his hand in the way her armor pushed against her, how a leather strap folded.

"If you would recall," he murmured into her mouth, "you were the one who first stared."

Sif pulled him nearer. She chased after his vaunted silver tongue, caught it, dragged at it, then licked at his teeth until he shuddered just once. His tongue curled. She nipped the tip. His hand slid lower to cup her arse.

"Only," she said, "because you looked like an idiot standing there in that helmet."

"I'll be sure to get a new one," he said as he turned his head; his breath trembled in the corner of her mouth. "What do you think of ram's horns?"

"I think--" She bit at him again, at his lip, his tongue. "--you don't need any help--" Loki's teeth scraped over her lower lip, turning it out. His tongue flickered along her teeth. "--looking silly," she ended, more breathless than she would have liked.

"I'm wounded."

He carded his fingers through her hair, cradled her head in his narrow palm, raised her as he bent, his kiss a supplication. The hand on her arse hitched her hips up. They pressed together, his arousal hard between her legs. His lashes fluttered. A sly smile ran across his face.

"Here I thought you liked my horns."

"You didn't even try," she said scornfully.

She leaned far enough away to reach for his helmet, to take it from him. Her fingertips brushed the edges of those horns; she wrapped her hands about them, and Loki licked at the corner of her mouth. His cape ran down her arm, faint as a ghost and darker. Her mouth spilled open again, and Loki's lips moved against hers as if to speak to her. His tongue coiled behind her teeth.

Sif dragged him closer still, her hands tight about the horns. His fingers fit beneath the waistband of her trousers, the callused tips scraping along her skin. She rolled her tongue over his and wanted his tongue on her skin, his clever, clever tongue where his fingers played, his lips parting as he licked at her.

"Sif," he whispered into her mouth, "Sif. I wanted to unbuckle your armor. You looked so fierce. My father called you a maiden, but that wasn't right. Not in this."

His tongue, turning. His thumb scraped her hipbone. Her belly ached for want, and she pulled on those horns, pulled him down to her. His knees bent; he bowed. His hands cradled the small of her back then slid around front. His breath misted on her breastplate; then it dissipated in his wake. Loki nuzzled her thigh, his long nose pale on the leather.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked. "I only want to be sure."

"I'll yank your tongue out," she snapped.

He pulled her belt open. Cool air shivered across her skin, bared. She clutched the horns of his helmet so her hands hurt with it, the metal hard in her palms, the edges biting into her fingers. She pulled again. He hid a smile in the crease of her thigh.

"What a great loss that would be," he said. "For you, I mean."

"Stop trying to be so clever."

"But I'm not trying," he said.

She thought his eyes wide, innocent, even as she felt his sharp smile. He leaned into her. His hands slid down her thighs, bracing, then his tongue was sliding slickly between her folds. The first shock ran through her, the tip of his tongue a herald. Sif held tightly to his helmet and pulled, pulled him nearer.

Loki laughed--it hummed through her--then he flicked his tongue over her clit. Her thighs ached; she wanted him nearer still. He murmured between her legs, his voice low, the vibration of his tongue prickling her skin, and Sif bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Pleasure uncurled in her toes; it wriggled like a serpent through her legs to curl again in her belly. Her chest pinched beneath the breastplate.

"Stop," she said suddenly, "get up."

He licked at her, a long and languid swipe like a cat at its supper. A fingertip brushed over her. She tightened, and he licked again.

"This isn't the time for your teasing," she said, unsteady.

Loki crooked his finger. His tongue circled it, then he withdrew. His eyes gleamed beneath his helmet, clever and wicked and fever-bright.

"What time is it?"

"Loki," she said, and she dropped one hand to touch his cheek. The light in his eyes dimmed some, but the shadow which crossed his face was not a cruel one. He turned to kiss her fingers.

"Get off your knees."

She tugged and he followed, rising against her. His chest rose and fell again; distant lights shone over his black armor and caught in her eyes. Sif kissed him again, hungrily, and Loki gave and gave, his back to the wall, his mouth turned down to hers. Her fingers worked at his stays.

He ran his thumb up her jaw and said, in a low voice, "Sif," and she knew from the fairy lightness of his fingers he thought of the blade which had descended upon her the day before, which had nearly cut into her throat. She tore his trousers open, the laces splitting under her hands.

"I'm here," she said. Sif turned and kissed the puckered corner of his mouth. She bit at his lip and said again, laughing, "I'm here. Can't you see me, you with your sharp eyes?"

"He never should have got that close."

She could not bear the stupid, thoughtless pity in that. Sif took his cock in hand and squeezed once, hard enough for his breath to catch. His eyes darkened further still. He would not look away from her.

"He did," she said softly. "But it won't happen again." Her fingers covered his jaw. "Not least of all because I slew him."

He reached for and wove his fingers in her hair, and as Loki bent to kiss her, she sank upon him. He gave to her or she took; either way she breathed out across his cheek, and Loki wound his arm about her. His hips jerked, rolling; he pushed into her and Sif bore him back against the wall. Her armor pressed her breasts flat, and a twinge ran up her side.

Loki surrounded her: the scent of him, his shadows, his hand at her back, fingers spreading wide as he followed her hips. Dizzy, she turned to his throat and bit at the pulse. She thought of how he'd bowed to his father, ever second, and she wanted to strip the armor from him, the helmet, his cape; she wanted Loki in her bed and his hands in her hair. She wanted him to laugh again. His thumb traced her ear.

Her hips stuttered. He pulled her thighs higher. Sif kissed his throat where she'd bit the night before and whispered-- She did not know what she whispered. His hands tightened, the one at her back, the other knotted so high in her hair. His cape trembled as she drove him against the wall; the folds engulfed her.

Sif buried her face in his collar. Her eyes stung; she couldn't explain it. His fingers ran through her hair, from her crown to her shoulders, once, twice, and then he knotted his fingers again and turned his head and kissed her temple. The hard edge of his helmet pressed to her skin. She circled his neck, her fingers fanning down his nape, beneath his cape, his helmet, against the hot and hidden skin there, and when he gasped she wrapped her legs about him and held him to her.

*
Sif roused. The collar of her breastplate eased, falling from her throat, and she made a face at the thought of the bruise. Loki followed her. His palm brushed her nape. Her hair spilled between his fingers.

"You're obsessed with my hair," she said.

"Only curious," he said. His face was flushed. Sweat beaded along his brow. "Wouldn't it be more effective to cut it all off?"

Still: he petted her hair. His thumb touched her temple, where he'd kissed her, and in the scrape of his callus she felt an echo of that earlier touch.

"No," she said. "I like it this way."

He studied her. What he saw in her face, the line of her throat, how she leaned into him, she could only guess.

"So do I," he said.

"Luckily," she told him, "I don't care what you think."

Loki smiled at this. His cheeks folded. She felt soft and hideously naked with him smiling at her like that, as if he'd seen more of her than she had shown, as if he looked at her across her bed instead of across this little shadowed nook.

"We should go back," she said.

"Yes," said Loki. "We should."

Those horns are ridiculous, though. (Hahaha, when I e-mailed this to Rawles in a fit of panic at three in the morning I told her the working title was "loki's hat is stupid," because I am an adult.) (Also: UGH, RAWLES, WHY ARE YOU SO AMAZING, AHHHHHHH, BEST E-MAIL. I'm not saying I emotioned all over myself, but yes, that's what I'm saying.)

I really hope nobody expects me to ever write anything of worth or meaning again. All I have left in me is porn and kidfic. Sorry about my life. :(