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if you love me, if you sigh only for me

Chapter Text

The universe preferred spinning their tale so slowly and so cruelly. It began with chaos, and to chaos it shall end once more. Her dark eyes were ever so filled with the passion of hatred that she never realised that his was not a mirror of it. Only that it was full of pain from always being frowned so unfavouringly upon. Or with melancholy from being shouted at with such frustration as she did now.

In spite of the burning rage featuring in the wrath of her uncompromising mien, the dusk in her hair framed around her was still so… captivating. And she neared him, her footsteps loud and angry. Her fists were balled, and the shiver from day welcoming the night-time wind ensconced his chamber with a biting kiss, but she paid no heed, even if the hairs on her ivory skin stood.

‘Undo it. Whatever you did to the golden silk that was my hair before, Loki,’ she ordered, his name on her lips uttered with thinly veiled derision. Sif eyed him up fiercely, and if he was a lesser man – he always has been – he would have remembered to create a mirage of himself in case he needed to flee, but no, the cage that was his heart was inescapable, and the Urdanian scent in her hair enthralled him. Instead, he chose quite vehemently to stay.

‘Such vanity, Lady Sif,’ he sparred, blade in the curl of his lips. ‘No wonder why my brother loves you so. You are both so taken by yourselves.’

Snarling, she stepped closer to him and grabbed the collars of his emerald garb. ‘Don’t you dare, Laufeyson. Thor could kill you with just one blow of Mjölnir. Swiftly. I, however, would take my time showing you the many horrors I can do with my blade. Do not even dare.’

Loki took a deep breath. ‘That was a well-versed threat, my lady, but you will find that your quarrel lay not with me, but the dwarfs who re-crafted and spun the sun that was your hair. I tainted their work with none of my well-known flourishes, if you recall my fondness for mayhem, which mayhap is the best Asgard sees to rhyme with my namesake. Often than not.’

Sif pushed him to the wall, and he stood. Stood, but shaken. She stabbed a finger onto his chest, and neared his face, ‘You are not you without your tricks. But you cannot chance it with me in full conscience.’

He let his eyes roam over her features, and felt only wretchedness. The universe was ever so cruel, being around her all the time, yet not being able to have what was not foretold as his. In spite of the many centuries. Her brows were still furrowed, less in anger, yet the spirit of it remained with the way she was so near in desperation. For her hair. Silk that only in gold did his Thunder god of a brother cared about.

How pitiful.

And so was the uproar of his laughter. Her gaze steeled, and so upset was her tone when she exclaimed, ‘Won’t you just aid me, Trickster?’

He ceased the brief merriment that he had to eye her mockingly. ‘Mayhap you think you are well-versed of my tale, my lady, but you are not. In want of return for your golden locks, so too must you offer something precious that is yours.’

‘I am aware. It is for this reason that I brought my best blade with me, should you have been more patient in heeding me.’

'Tempting, but not really precious to you, my lady.’

'This sword has helped me win all of my battles! Is that not worth much fervour?’

Her tale made his lips curl dangerously, and for a breath, he saw her eyes widen a fraction as he put a hand to her throat. 'I have seen you with other blades, Lady Sif. This may be your more preferred weapon, but I know you. You can make anything deadly. Hence, it is not truly sacred to you.’

Sif angrily put away the hand on her throat and spat, 'Then speak what you think is precious! You are ever so elusive, Loki! I have tried to understand you, time and time again, but mayhap I never–’

The dark-haired prince wordlessly weaved his fingers in her tresses, and pulled her closer with a hand on her lower back before he ceased her terror with their lips clashing together. Sif tried to resist, but his hold was strong, and the tongue that he tastefully swirled inside her mouth stilled her. When she finally calmed down, Loki loosened his tugging of her hair.

The softness with which he opened his mouth to nibble on her lips made her eyes water and close. Loki caressed her cheek, beguiling her to respond, and she did – wretchedness be damned. How greatly she was damned, indeed, especially when he broke it as she was just getting used to the feeling of his gentleness, and Sif tried to follow his mouth.

Loki merely shifted his head, and proceeded to place his lips between her neck. How slowly and ardently did he move on her. The hand on her back drifted to draw circles on her stomach, and she felt heat pooling beneath her. She could not resist nearing herself to him, as their mouths came to find each other again.

He welcomed her, and soon, she was frighteningly close, pressed up as she was against him. Nothing but their clothes served as barriers. But they continued, hands over each other’s bodies. Sif put a hand inside the collar of his garb, and caressed his neck, earning a sharp breath from him as she delicately slid her tongue in his.

'My lady,’ he whispered, in between their amorous skirmishes. His voice was shaky, and deepened with wanting. He weaved his fingers in her hair again, and bid her to still by softly putting a kiss on her neck.

She eyed him, dazed still and greatly filled with lust as she tried to press her body on his more. 'What is it, Laufeyson?’

Loki’s eyes, passionate and intense as they were moments ago, suddenly became aloof. He withdrew his hands from her and stepped away, striding towards his heavily draped window, which he waved a hand over to draw and soon, the late afternoon light filtered in the chamber as Sif looked on confusingly.

'Your locks are once again laced by the sun. You have no need of me, Lady Sif.’

Taken aback, she drew a bit of her hair, and found that it indeed have turned from raven silk to her real mane of gold. She eyed him, a little wary, but mostly still… unnerved by his kisses, so she stood there a for a few more moments, the shock of it all making her rooted on the spot.

His back was still turned to her, yet he knew she remained idly. He faced her once more, and shouted, 'Well? What are you still here for, my lady? You have what you need. You can take leave now, and make glad with my brother!’

She glared at him, feeling accused of something that she shouldn’t be. 'I wanted to thank you, Your Highness. But as you requested that I depart, I shall take heed.’

'That’s all I ask. Very well. Fare-well, Lady Sif,’ he answered, eyes no longer directed at her.

She didn’t bow. But she did eye him when she got by the door, and chanced to hear his long-drawn sigh as he looked towards the setting sun. Something in the pit of her stomach made her bite her lip, but she fought it. What mattered was that she got the natural colour of her hair back with little dilemma on her side.

Thor would be happy. And so would I, she said to herself, and thought less and less of the Trickster prince as she strode away from his chamber.

Inside, however, Loki cursed the universe once more, and wept bitterly.

Chapter Text

Stories ever so rarely began happily, weaved as they were by destiny’s faithful servants. Urðr of old favoured that darkness be inherent in mankind. Of course, Verðandi, her sister fair in the moment would follow. Would that everything be morose, had Skuld, mistress of the beyond, agreed always to such manner of merriment? Fortunately, she had not, and it is through her, as all would come to pass, dare to think of that fleeting yet powerful thing we call hope.

It was with this frailty that Loki deigned to sever the gloomy call of despair that sought him, ever present with a blade to his lip within the folds of his dreams. And it was through the mists of this vulnerable promise that he murderously eyed upon the beautiful youth whom all of Asgard were forever fond of.

Balder – another of his brother, one of the few of who always tried to care for the miserable person that was he.

He should not have done it, should he? To trifle with the breath of a brother who loved him dearly, and one in return he dearly loved so?

Mayhap this would all be unneeded, of course, had the others welcomed me as warmly as Balder and Thor did, but did they? Loki reminded himself, blade forming by the curl of his lips. No, they did not.

His memory would not fail him. His mouth knew how the strings of melted Svartfalheimine iron were used to sew his lips – deceitful lips, they said – shut. His ears recall the endless laughter and jests of him for nearly a century. His hands felt the coldness that followed after the Mjölnir was denied to him forevermore. His eyes have seen how these same gods drank to the end of their wits at the near-expense of some innocents he had once helped. But did they sing him praises? No, and he remembered – as old as the threads of destiny existed, that they have never – not for once – ever tried to perceive him with generous delight.

Was it a surprise, then, that he grew more partial to threading tales with mayhem as Urðr and Verðandi preferred? After all, he was only making their wishes manifest to life? They were not truly miserably upset when the silken tendrils of gold of the Lady Sif turned to the endless canvas of starlight, and he was able to weave it back and back and back as one would with a woolen plaything.

Curse their infernal predilection for sweet and bitter poison, the dark-haired prince thought, jaws tinged with the barest of wraths as he eyed the wailing party in the woods near the seas by the fringes of Urd.

‘Why strike a design so miserable upon one who loved you, Laufeyson?’ her voice was in an eerie calm, and when the Trickster god turned, his fists balled at seeing the dusk of her lashes failing to hide the falling of her tears.

Much like before, he wished desperately to leave, but the mind recalled whatever lay precious beneath the heart, and once again, he stood there, frozen and unwilling to depart in the face of her radiant beauty.

Loki was not one to fall for the tricks of his own styling, so he merely eyed her tresses, which were as dark as the blackest night just like he wanted. He would not, would not chase the curl of her lips again, standing close as they were to each other by the shades of the trees, so far away from his Thunderer god of a brother and their blessed family.

‘Ragnarok was not weaved by me, it was foretold by Skuld and her sisters of old and of present, was it not?’ he seethed, disappointed with her well-worn accusations of misery towards him.

Sif grasped his shoulder brashly, the wretched countenance betraying the veneer of composition in her voice, which she was trying hard to maintain. He blinked slowly, his mind already half-forming this mirage and his true self a few miles away where he could slip by with a horse to go to his sister in Niflheim – if things went as badly as he expected.  Who was he kidding, truth be told? It always ended malevolently. As predicted. ‘Loki, I no longer mind what you did to me! The misfortune to lose the gold in my tresses no longer trouble me, but this?’ she cried, waving a hand to the morose atmosphere that lay claim upon all of Asgard – everywhere, everyone was crying. The stars cried, the leaves fell in sadness, and even the fire showed it could pour out a tear! ‘This, I did not expect of you!’

‘You know not of me, Lady Sif,’ he replied caustically, his hand brusquely casting hers away from his shoulder. ‘You never have. None of you ever did. Mayhap what you expected of me is to be bitter and brittle, gnashing and gnawing my teeth at the death of one so dearly loved? When I wasn’t even given the barest of a gentle kiss upon my brow? And by one who said they cared for me!’

He laughed brokenly, feeling the vast emptiness in his heart as she eyed him angrily. Dusk was to settle soon, and nearly everyone but him had shed a tear for the fair-haired and fairly-loved brethren. Gritting his teeth, he pushed her further from him, and laid rest his back upon the trunk of a tree. ‘You can only presume of me whatever it is you covet to see, my lady, and that is not how this given life works.’

‘Tell me, pray, how it works, then?’ she challenged, the edge in her voice designed to parry with his dark wanderings. She neared him once more, the glint of fire in her eyes making him shiver with a familiar feeling.

Of fear that she could kill him? No, he cannot be killed. He made sure that Hela would excuse him. Of heat? Well, of that, he was certain that he would die of. And soon, the memory of her shapeliness against him was making him breathe deeply. By Valhalla, he was already half-hard the second his body remembered her scent.

His eyes took in her form once more, and there he perceived the intensity with which he could manifest into either of two tales – one giving him enough time to finish his projection here, and thereby giving his true self splendid assurance to escape after dealing with Sif; and the other, letting himself be discovered with her so that he could wreck upon Thor’s reputation with her. Both presented vastly entertaining prospects. He can do all, of course, but would he? He need only select a few choice actions, and prepare the scenario for some of it.

The dark-haired prince grasped her waist and settled her between his legs, letting her body become acquainted once more to him. She gasped softly, and it seemed as if her mind was once more recalling the moment when they were this close to each other.

Soft and only… one to the other.

‘Something precious for something lost, then? Is that how it really is?’ Sif asked, the lids of her eyes narrowing as he held her wrists between them.

Loki felt his lips curl dangerously as he put a hand to her throat gently. His eyes peered at her cleavage before he traced it with a finger all the way to her full mouth. ‘Yes…,’ he replied slowly, ‘mayhap you do know one thing of me, Lady Sif.’

Something in his tone must have struck Sif as she licked the finger by the corner of her mouth and sucked on it. A low, guttural moan found its way to his lips as he watched her repeat it. He felt himself hardening even more as she insistently pressed herself against him. He released her wrists, and used his other hand to fondle the shapeliness of her arse as she decided to press soft kisses on his neck. Loki felt his mouth curl dangerously at the frankness of her suggestion.

Arching herself even further, Sif then took his face, and kissed him roughly. Sliding her tongue delicately in his, he engaged her and caressed her right breast before pinching her nipple through the Alfheimine scarlet silk cloth that she gave much preference to. She drew a sharp breath, and Loki was quick to steal it with his mouth, raising her skirt high until his fingers were able to reach the insides of her thighs.

‘Loki,’ she whispered as he traced the slope of her neck with his tongue, and licked his ear. Prompted by this, he then inserted a finger inside her wetness. When Sif moaned, he prodded another and made her nearly breathless as he penetrated her again and again with it. The dark-haired prince pinched her clitoris with his thumb and forefinger, and she seethed in pleasure.

Widening her legs, she responded to his ministrations until the tell-tale twitch of her thighs, indicating her nearing what was close to Valhalla was coming. She bit his neck soundly, and softened it a little with a flick of her tongue before eyeing his darkened irises with a silent plea. ‘Take of me, what you must, Loki, please, and take me fast.’

The Trickster prince eyed her, taking her lips for a second, and let her remove his breeches a tad bit, enough to see how his more than considerable bulge swell even further in her hand. Loki removed his fingers from her wet heat to caress her thighs before carrying her by her hips as they both prepared to dwell within each other. ‘Rest your eyes on me,’ he beguiled her, his voice deepening with mad, mad desire for her, and so she did.

What she saw there, she dare not tell one, for it is as the Elders say: Tell one your thoughts, but beware of two. All know what is known to three.

It was not as if she could have, for soon as she saw it, soon did her being felt filled with the swell of their hips meeting and joining as one. Again. And again. And again. Their moans were a chorus of the universe, hidden by the night’s embrace and only hinted at by the starlight’s gaze.

Traitorous heart, she thought snidely, or at least she did once it was all done. And all that had remained of her was a trembling mess of who she thought she was. For soon as they have had their fill of each other, he unsheathed himself from her and left an imprint so heavy upon her lips by the trunk of the old and willowy tree. She was still wrecked by his tongue in her mouth when she heard a familiar voice from afar calling her name, and Loki ceased, making her lids open quickly.

Only to see him vanish from her sight – and no tear was ever shed still.

‘I am wrecked,’ she murmured in the arms of her betrothed hours after it had happened, ‘I am dearly wrecked.’

Thor eyed her curiously, trying to thread his fingers in the waves of her hair, but she would not let him. She turned away from him, lips trembling. ‘I pray you not insist upon me,’ she requested, her heart feeling a little empty and her body cognizant of who it preferred more this time.

‘Why?’ she heard the confusion in his tone, and what lay underneath it was more primal – something she was also accustomed to, but did not want right now. He would not understand.

‘It is so soon to make glad, when it has only been a few moments of misery, do you not think?’ she queried, looking at her hands and remembering the silkiness of her heat when he touched her.

A sigh. Then a creak in the bed away from her. Footsteps by the open door.

‘What you say is wiser and truer, betrothed mine, and I shall not keep you agitated. I shall leave for the meantime.’

‘I bid you good-by,’ she heard herself say once the sky has welcomed dawn, and he left and was far away from her.

And she started to weep bitterly.