the_variant | (no subject)

Sylvie keeps seeing her idiot brother.

She sees him as he was, not as the man Loki or Bucky might know, but as the boy she had grown up with. The glimpses she gets of him are always fleeting, a flash of his stupid gold armour (play armour, he's a child) through a crowd, or his eyes meeting hers from across the street, just for a moment before someone crosses in front of her and he's gone. He'll turn a corner ahead of her and when she follows, he's nowhere to be seen.

Twice now, he's stayed a bit longer. Staring from a distance too great for her to cross before he disappears and when he holds her gaze, she feels like he has something he's trying to tell her.

But Thor was always a bit too thick even for message delivery and maybe she's just gone insane.

Her dreams aren't much better, strange and dark, with details that become bogged down in a sense of ruination. In one, she vaguely remembers Loki sitting cross legged in a dark room with a handsome stag resting at his side. But the stag had started shedding his velvet and it hung in bloody strips from his rack, which Loki had been pulling off bit by bit, laying the bloody velvet at his feet. He had beckoned her closer and when Sylvie knelt, it was in the blood. Loki leaned in, his lips to her ear, and he had said something to her in the dream, but she doesn't remember his words, only that they had left her chest feeling tight, as if something was coming for them both.

Tonight she's sleeping in her own room, having started off alone, but at some point Loki had joined her. When she wakes with a start, a warning on her lips from a new, ominous dream she can't remember, it takes her a moment make sense of the shape in the bed beside her. Before long, his familiar sprawl becomes apparent, dark hair on a pale cheek, and Sylvie exhales shakily as she rests her forehead on his shoulder.

It's clear she isn't going to fall asleep easily, so after several moments, Sylvie rises and hooks a silky robe from where she'd left it on a nearby chair. Pulling it over her shoulders, she wanders to the window to look down on their yard, their home, and centre herself.

Thor is standing below. Her breath catches as their eyes meet, his large and sorrowful, and she's suddenly furious.

"What?" she barks, then slaps her palm against the glass. "What do you want?"

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"You say such lovely things," he teased back, eyes on hers as he buried his face between her legs. Letting out a low rumbled of a groan at the taste of her, hands gripping her thighs.

If taking her time was rare, over all those years on the run, he intended to touch her now with the care and reverence she deserved. They'd had their share of passionate fumbling. Now, he planned to be as thorough as possible.

No one would have said to that to her before him. No one would have had cause to, because Sylvie hasn't had reason to be kind for a very long time. Her fingers twist in his hair again and she gasps at the touch of his mouth, his lips on her clit, the press of his tongue inside of her.

One leg lifts and hooks properly over his shoulders as Sylvie's back arches and she moans again. Then, on a gasp, "Fingers, please."

She rarely says please, but here she will. Here, it feels appropriate, like she isn't giving anything up.

His eyes smiled up at her and he hesitated only for a moment before doing as he was told. Two fingers, pressed deep and curling upward as his tongue worked at her clit. It took a lot out of her to ask for what she wanted, instead of demanding it, and he wasn't so foolish to take that moment of vulnerability for granted.

Gripping her thigh in one hand, he pumped his fingers into her firmly, slowly, angling the stroke of his fingertips where he knew she'd appreciate it most. He sucked gently at her clit, then a bit harder when he felt her begin to clench down around his fingers. The rhythm of it was easy to fall into. She was easy to fall into, and moments like this, everything else faded away. The noise in his mind, the flightiness and artifice of The God of Mischief disappeared and he could simply be.

"Fuck," she breathes as she feels warmth creeping into her, low and tight, and tingling beginning in her toes, her cheeks. It's as if all other sensation flees, heading to the places Loki is touching her, where he's inside her, where his tongue is dragging over her, where he is instead of anywhere else. She loves him so much it sometimes feels like it's burning up the angrier parts of her, leaving her fumbling and stupid and new, and instead of running from it, she just slips deeper into it. Him.

"Fuck," she says again, back arching beneath him. "Loki, I-" Whatever else she might say is cut off as she comes, riding each wave of pleasure with a flex of her thighs, her back lifting, pressing herself to him, to his mouth and his fingers.

He worked her through it, finally lifting his head to watch as she arched beneath him, his thumb taking over where his tongue had been.

Smiling lazily, his cheek rested against her thigh and his hand slowed, letting her cool down a bit. "What was that?" he teased, as if he'd interrupted her in the middle of something important she'd needed to say.

Sated, and somehow not, Sylvie tips her head in the same direction, cheek against her shoulder, looking down at Loki. There's a sheen of sweat on her skin and her chest is still heaving as she catches her breath, but a grin flickers over her lips.

"I think," she begins, stroking her fingers through his hair, "I was preparing to ask for your cock."

Her gaze is warm, still a little hungry, and while she thinks she could easily fall asleep now, she still wants him. She wants to feel him close against her. It isn't just about sex, it's about needing him in a way that usually makes her nervous.

"Ah, only that," Loki said, playfully flippant as he crawled up her body, pausing to kiss her here and there as he went. Catching her lips with his own, he settled between her thighs, cock sliding into her to the hilt. She was warm beneath him, almost sleepy, and he rolled his hips lazily, taking the cue for her that they could be in no particular hurry.

He wanted only to be near her, and would always take whatever excuse she would give him.

They've had plenty of times together that have ended on floors or outdoors, against walls, bent over different surfaces around the townhouse, and times like this, too. But this feels much more rare and Sylvie's hands slide down Loki's back as he presses inside of her, gentle and slow.

"Only nothing, darling," she teases, then nips gently at his lower lip. "Be kinder to yourself than that."

As if he has any insecurity about his body. She's the same, at home in the form she wears, confident, content, and easily able to change it, should she want to.