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Fandral is half asleep when he hears the whisper of air and glass that means Loki has come to him through the mirrors.
He lays very still in his bed, beneath the heavy furs and blankets with her fingers curling slowly into a fist beneath his pillow. It is as though the very air in his room takes on a quality that he cannot describe; colder, perhaps, or more accurately threaded through with a power and magic that is not at all like the explosive heat of Thor and Mjolnir or the Allfather’s immense well of life-giving strength.
Loki is a colder sort and Fandral is not a moth like the others, to be drawn toward the flame.
The soft shush of footfalls on the polished floors marks Loki’s progress from the large mirror that dominates the far wall to Fandral’s bedside. With eyes closed, Fandral senses rather than sees. The air eddies from his clothing and his magic, his trickster magic, dances like lightening against Fandral’s exposed skin.
“I know you are not asleep, my little warrior,” Loki says. His voice is lighter than it ought be, pitched higher in timber and cadence. A hand lights on Fandral’s shoulder, cold through the fabric of his shirt. “Tease too much and you might find yourself alone.”
Fandral opens his eyes and turns, offering no pretense of having just woken so that sleep still clings near. It takes a moment for Loki to swim into focus from the darkness, sharpening into a silhouette. Fandral blinks once, thinking perhaps he is in fact dreaming, but the shape does not change. “My lord,” he says, swallowing. “My lady?”
It is undeniably Loki that stands before him, but a Loki-that-might-have-been rather than the Loki-that-is. It is a woman beside Fandral’s bed, cloaked in warm and heavy green with golden horns rising proudly from her helmet. Her hair falls thick and dark and rich over her shoulders. Her breasts strain enticingly against her clothes and Fandral’s mouth goes dry.
“Either, as you wish,” Loki says, grinning with the mischievous glint in her eyes. “You look so frightened,” she chuckles, undoing the clasp of her cloak with one practiced flick of fingers. The fabric falls to the floor and leaves her smaller and yet not at all diminished. “Shall I take my leave?”
“No,” Fandral says quickly, reaching out a hand to touch her fingers. “My. Loki, no.”
She smiles again, with less humor and something darker and more dangerous. Loki has always made Fandral burn and this is strange, so utterly strange, and still his insides feel as though there are replaced with cold fire. “You have never taken a woman,” Loki says. “Would you take me, oh brave and mighty warrior?”
Fandral swallows. “Yes.”
Loki smirks. “Good.”
Her disrobing is utterly deliberate and still sinuous. She removes her helmet first and lays in on the low dresser. The horns seem dangerous in the scattered light from a few dancing candle flames, like weapons rather than decoration. Her vambraces and corset come loose with practiced gestures of her clever hands and she lays them beside her helmet. Then her breeches and shirt, boots, and underclothes, and Loki Odinsson stands before Fandral as naked and lush as any woman the warriors of Asgard have waxes rhapsodic about.
“Do you desire me?” she asks, standing still in the thin light. Her skin glows so white there is a blueness beneath it. She is like ice and Fandral burns.
“Yes,” he says.
Loki tosses back his blankets with such blinding speed that Fandral suspects she used magic rather than her hand. The coldness of the room rushes into the warm pocket his body created and bring up cold bumps against his skin.
His cock, untouched, is already hard to pain, but that is no different than always with Loki. Fandral would suspect magic, has suspected magic, except that he has been drawn to Loki since they were children. Loki, who was a strange and silent dark child next to his brilliant brother. Loki who has become a man while no one watched, so powerful in his way. Loki who can transform to woman and still twist him out of reason to senseless lust.
Loki climbs atop him with the same practicality with which she disrobed.
The weight of her across Fandral’s hips is not so different from the weight of him. With eyes half-lidded, Fandral could perhaps convince himself that it is no different at all. Except that it is, for the heavy swell of Loki’s lush breasts and the thick fall of her hair. “Touch me, lest you would have me think you a cowering little mouse,” Loki instructs imperiously, placing Fandral’s hands on her generous hips. “I know you are afraid,” she says, just a touch mocking. “You have never done this before.”
Loki circles her hand around Fandral’s cock and strokes once, then twice. It is effort, nearly painful effort, to keep his hips against the bed, because there are some rules between them that are as universal as the rise of the sun and moon and the rainbow road between the realms.
“Why do you do this?” Fandral asks, voice low and rumbling.
“Why?” Loki looks at him, mouth curled into a smile. “Because I like taking things from you, pet. And this, my virgin warrior, is something that can be taken but once.”
She rises higher on her knees and steadies his cock with her hand. The heat of her from the first touch is something unlike Fandral has ever felt. His fingers tighten around her hips and she chuckles; the sound is low and throaty and amused. “Ah, my warrior,” she sighs. “My handsome little pet.”
When she sinks down on him, Fandral gasps out a sound that resounds in the room, of shock and awe and alien sensation come to understanding. To be inside Loki’s woman’s body is not at all like to be inside his man’s body. It is both familiar and dissimilar, in angle and feel. Fandral throws his head back at the tight, wet heat and hears Loki’s rich laugh through ears that mute and distort the sound.
Their coupling requires very little from Fandral; he feels the flex of Loki’s thighs around his hips and the deep clench of her internal muscles around his cock. Fandral lays amidst the tangles of her bed, hands anchored on her hips, and is used like something to be tossed away. It is dismissive, and perhaps ought be offensive, but rather fans the cold flame in his breasts for this creature that is Loki, is whatever form he chooses to take.
His climax comes hard and expansive. Eyes squeezes closed, Fandral sees sparks of white and gasps. He is only vaguely aware of Loki’s weight shifting off his hips and to his bed. A hand caresses his face and he whimpers. She strokes her thumb over his mouth and Fandral opens his eyes, lidded and sated.
It is a man laying beside him, smirking and naked. “Did you bleed, my virgin? Virgin no longer, I suppose.”
Fandral smiles faintly. “No, but I might have died.”
Loki laughs and draws the blankets over them. “None of that, my warrior. Not yet.”