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Black Lace

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He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it all began. It had always been part of him, he supposed, his fondness for soft, lacy things against his bare skin, the need to feel admired and indulged, even if only by himself.

Loki was still a teenager by Asgard’s reckoning when he bought his first pair of panties from a little shop in Vanaheim—in disguise, of course, but that hadn’t been enough to keep his heart from pounding with fear at the thought of being discovered. He was quick about it, entirely too nervous to linger in this infamous boutique, even though he could have spent hours perusing the shelves and hangers. He simply grabbed the first thing he saw, paid the clerk, and was out the door in a matter of seconds. He tucked the little red sachet into his pocket and rejoined his group with a sparkle in his eye and a faint grin on his face. He couldn’t wait to get home and try them on.

Oh, they had been worth every cent.

He stood naked in front of his bedroom’s full-length mirror and carefully stepped into the lacy black panties, sliding them slowly up his thighs, sighing at their incredible softness. He smoothed them against his hips and admired his reflection, a strangely harmonious blend of masculine and feminine features.

The panties gave his belly a certain softness and power, imparting the illusion of curves where there had been none before. They were low-slung, the waistband sitting several inches below his navel and just barely covering his modest patch of hair. His cock lay folded atop his balls, which were cradled comfortably between his legs, the dark pink skin showing through the tiny spaces in the frilly black lace. He turned and was delighted by how well the underwear complemented his ass, the bottoms of his cheeks peeking out coyly, the waistband dipping down in a deep V and making his back look long and elegant.

He spent several minutes just rubbing his hands over his hips, enjoying his little present to himself.

A few minutes later, he was enjoying himself. Period.

The sight of his erect cock, flushed red with excitement and poking out from the leg of his beautiful new panties, was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. He grasped himself with one hand and caressed the lace with the other, imagining all sorts of dirty, delicious things—like giving Thor a flash, just to shock him, or wearing them during his studies and feeling sexy and mysterious and secretive.

By the time he orgasmed—loudly, with a shameless smile on his face—he was already planning his next trip to Vanaheim.


At first he only wore lingerie under his clothes for special occasions—celebrations, political dinners, any event where he might be bored and need a little something to keep him smiling. Then he realized that wearing risqué underthings had a subtle effect on his mood. He began to wear them whenever he felt listless or depressed, irritable or impatient, and it always put him in a brighter, more positive mindset. It gave him confidence. It gave him power. It made him feel better about himself.

It wasn’t long before he was wearing lingerie almost constantly. He still had his bad days, but having a lacy secret underneath his everyday attire made them a little easier to deal with.

In the following years, he amassed a collection of unmentionables that he kept hidden behind a secret wall in his wardrobe. It was a walk-in closet inside a walk-in closet, only this one was twice as big and the walls were floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The rug was plush velvet, there was a large, ornate bench in the middle for sitting and admiring oneself, and everything smelled of jasmine and roses.

Sometimes when he was feeling particularly indulgent, Loki would put on some music, pour himself a glass of wine, and spend an hour or two trying on his collection—foreplay, basically. He liked to work himself up slowly, watching himself get harder as he tried on gradually more naughty things: little bralettes, corsets, thigh-high stockings, arm gloves, thongs—he had a pair of everything.

One evening he must have forgotten to lock his door and was playing the music a little too loudly, because suddenly he turned around and there was Thor, shirtless and barefoot, clad in his night pants, his face blank and his mouth open in shock. He looked hilariously out of place amidst so much delicate finery—all muscle and machismo, testosterone and testicles, literally a bull in a china shop.

Loki froze. The wineglass slipped from his fingers and thumped softly onto the rug, spilling its contents across his bare feet and his carefully-painted toenails. Sultry music filled the ensuing silence.

“W-what are you doing in here?” he demanded once he found his voice. He summoned a dressing gown and covered his emerald-green tanga and balconette—with the small breasts he had conjured specially for this occasion. His face was already bright red, his eyes filling with humiliated tears.

Thor’s jaw wagged mutely for a moment. “I… wanted to ask if you would like to go to Ljosalfheim with me tomorrow,” he said slowly, staring at Loki’s shivering frame before gazing around at the closet. “Loki, what… what is all this? Do you actually wear these things?”

“So what if I do?” Loki snapped. He felt threatened, sick with panic, ready to lash out like a viper. “I like it. It makes me feel pretty and I’m not going to stop doing it just because you think it’s wrong. Am I not allowed to have even this minute bit of—”

“Calm down, Loki, I never said you should stop. From what little I’ve seen, it’d be a shame if you did.”

Loki’s mouth fell open. His hands dropped limply to his sides, his gown drifting open slightly.

Thor tilted his head, peering at the glimpse of green satin with a raised eyebrow. “That color really suits you. How long have you been doing this?”

Loki swallowed dryly. “Years. Since we were boys.”

Thor pulled his mouth downward, impressed. “You are a master at keeping secrets.”

Loki said nothing.

Thor walked soundlessly across the thick rug and stopped in front of him. He reached out and brushed a stray tendril of hair from Loki’s shoulder, sneakily tracing the outline of Loki’s bra strap beneath the thin gown. He gave him a wry grin.

“You have elegant tastes, brother. Could you show me some of these pretty things of yours?”

Oh.

Loki’s heart gave a wild flutter. The thought of sharing his deep, lifelong secret with someone else—with Thor, his brawny brother, the mighty warrior, the man’s man, to whom he thought such things would be a revulsion and an insult—sent a thrill through his whole body. His cock, which had softened from his earlier shock, gave an awakening throb. He licked his lips.

“Alright,” he whispered, pushing Thor gently toward the bench. “Sit down and be quiet. I’m not used to having an audience.”

Thor’s eyes widened as the dressing gown slid from Loki’s shoulders and pooled around his bare feet. He lowered himself onto the bench, dragged his gaze up and down his brother’s slim, androgynous frame, and took a slow breath inward.

As it would turn out, Loki wasn’t the only one who had an appreciation for a nice piece of lace.