word count: 725
summary: Theirs is a history of chances lost, of words unspoken and unheard.
Theirs is a history of chances lost, of words unspoken and unheard. Of colliding somewhere in the middle and he is always too blind or too foolish (and too cruel, with his words and crafty tongue) and she is forever quick enough to stop herself from developing an attachment she is wary of and cannot put a name to.
“The more you know me, the less you like me,” he muses, whispers into her ear one evening in the banquet hall.
He whispers and still his words are louder than the ruckus and merriment surrounding them, caressing her skin like midnight silk until every hair on her arms stands on end. Under the table, his thumb traces across the arc of her palm.
Sif fights against a vicious shiver.
“What does that mean?”
Loki laughs, presses his mouth open to her neck. No one takes notice (no one ever takes notice). “Dear Sif, lovely Sif, follow me and I might show you.”
She pulls away, as if she would like to slap him or cry from frustration or – oh, do something, Sif, anything but look at him and into his clever – so very clever – green eyes. Anything but remain taut on her seat, wired tight like a bow and ready to snap.
Loki stands to leave.
She downs a goblet of mead before sitting up and following after him.
Once, they were children.
A strange, peculiar pair. A girl: beautiful and proud and playing warrior (only not). A boy: his head perpetually stuck in a book, intelligent, but not in a good way. And everyone should have known it would lead to trouble (of course, they didn’t).
Once, he called her a horse and she pushed him into a lake, breaking his leg.
Once, she called him a snake and he cut off her hair, enchanting it black.
Now, they are older. Now, they play a different though no-less-foolish game, but Sif never forgets–
How history is a tricky thing, terribly oblique and ironically giddy.
And doomed to be repeated.
“Looking for someone, my Lady?” His voice echoes around her, is playful.
“Looking for me?” and this is more demanding as he appears right at her side, right out from behind his smokescreens and shadows.
Slowly, he traces a finger over the lines of her elbow, mapping the path of bone; her face turns away from him, eyes screwed up against the moon outside. He catches her chin and brings her face close to his own – something wild touches his eyes.
“You are so maddening,” he whispers in one swift breath before crushing his mouth to hers, tipping both of their bodies forward till her back collides with the wall, head tipping painfully into the embrace.
His chambers are close, beckoning oh so mockingly. Sif is scarcely aware of opening the doors herself, of pulling him in.
Of clothes being torn off and it’s his long cock and her open legs, the way he makes her spread, the curl of his lips, the rise and fall of his elegant voice, and it shouldn’t happen like this, it shouldn’t, but the feel of leather gives way to soft sheets that skid beneath her heels, and his tricky mouth will find her clit before hips meet hips.
Later, his fingers will once again wander up her leg, bury into the skin and he will watch her face, carefully, until she bares her teeth.
“Your hair was gold, once,” he taunts, voice curling on a sneer in time with his fingers and ending with a twisted grin, and watch, yes, he watches her swallow and turn her gaze for a mere second (wars are won in a second). “Remember?”
She does, and she suspects he thinks he is being purposefully malicious, dealing a blow that will leave her frowning and livid – at him. (Only his eyes will darken, the corner of his lips will quiver once the words are spoken, betraying the lie, screaming remorse and her chest will constrict pondering his true intentions.)
She debates saying something, decides against it. She pushes him away before crawling over to him, her lips closing on his and biting down until he sighs at the pain, yielding to her make-believe rage.
(Sif has learnt to lie too.
It’s another opportunity – for weary hearts, for guarded truths – thoughtlessly relinquished.)