Sif’s one long line spread out on his bed, skin pale in the harshness of the moon’s light. Her dark hair shines with splotches of blood and dirt still in it, sweat making the strands stick across her neck and collarbones. Eyes blown wide, she holds his gaze from where he kneels over her.
Blood lust, battle lust, has made her body tremble. He sweeps his gaze down to see the raised goose flesh of her skin, the tightening of her muscles in her forearms and thighs. Her entire body is a poised line, ready to move at the slightest need.
Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip.
He swallows his name from her mouth, leaning down to kiss her and take that moan as his. Biting at her lip, his hand darts forward to grasp her hair, pulling hard to expose the length of her neck. The tips of his fingers touch the strong muscle there.
When Sif’s foot kicks his side, impatience translated in her gesture instead of words, he uses his other hand to put her thigh up on his hip. The movement presses him closer to her, and she breaks her mouth from his to gasp.
Loki echoes her noise, jerking forward to press even closer. His hand is still tight in its hold on her hair, and he sets his teeth to her neck, moving over the tan flesh.
Blood is not the only thing that flows through her veins. She is made of war and battle, the dead she leaves behind, and the victories she exalts in. Sometimes, though, when the field has been left, the lust does not leave so easily.
Some nights, some days, some of these times, she likes to be the one to dominate him, ride him hard and take her pleasure with a near cruelness in her bared teeth. Others, she likes the pressure of his body against hers, and he can be just as harsh as she.
This is one of those nights.
Loki can feel how wet she is, and knows that she’s been this way for longer than it took him to strip her leathers away. He lifts her thigh higher on his hip and thrusts into her.
Sif rises up to meet him, her head jerking against his hold in her hair, uncaring of the tension and pain. She puts her arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into the meat of his back.
It’s not nice, what they do, this. It’s biting teeth, and fingers that trade bruises back and forth, curves and angles that bend and slide together.
"Sif," he grunts and pinches her nipple.
She groans, a punched out sound, and bucks against him, fingers talons in his back as she finds her release.
Loki chases after her, needing several more thrusts before he spills inside her. When he lifts his head from its place in her neck, it’s hazel eyes and a lazy smile that greet him.
It’s not nice, this thing, but as he loosens his hand in her hair, and she stretches out beside him, muscles now relaxed, it’s them.