Another ~norsekink fic, for a prompt based off one of Fornax's lovely images of Lady Loki. Convenient shopping bags, and Thor and Loki bra shopping. I don't think I ever de-anon'd for this one.


They are on Midgard in a place called a shopping mall, but Thor would prefer to liken it to the fiery pits of Muspelheim. He finds the whole place uncomfortable, full of fragile mortals that stare at him and his brother – who is currently his sister – as they pass by. He is afraid one of them will offend his brother – sister, he reminds himself – who will then, in a pique, destroy the entire building. Laden with bags as Thor is, he doubts his ability to prevent Loki from destroying everything.

"Brother, stop dallying," Loki commands as he – she – enters another store.

Thor has not yet had a chance to ask Loki how he – she – prefers to be thought of in this particular form. Loki has a penchant for changing his shape on a fairly regular basis, and this is the latest in a line of many bodies. It is, Thor must admit, very comely.

But Loki is still his brother. Possibly. He thinks.

He isn't entirely sure, but this isn't very different from the normal state of things.

"Thor!" Loki snaps Thor's name, and Thor hurries into the store.

His eyes grow wide, and he swallows, hard, thinking this may not be the best of ideas. Loki usually has the most amazing ideas. But this one. This one is not as amazing as the others.

"Ah, Loki, br—sister." He thinks it might be best to think of Loki as a woman for the time being so as not to confuse the mortals. "Is this—"

The venomous glare Loki gives him offers no room for argument, and Thor, drawing the bags on his arms against his body protectively, shuts his mouth and does not continue.

So he shuffles further into Victoria's Secret and tries not to look at any of the flimsy bits of fabric surrounding him. It is very, very difficult. Thor is a physical person. He likes tactile sensations. He likes to be able to touch and taste and see and feel. It is only real if he can get his hands on it, around it. He is also a visual person. Words on a page mean nothing to him, but an illustration can clarify anything.

He is surrounded by silky, filmy bits of fabric and his sister, admittedly a very beautiful woman, and all he can do is imagine his sister in those little bits of fabric.

Closing his eyes, Thor tries to blank his mind. He pictures, instead, Volstagg and Hogun and Fandral naked. Surely, he thinks, that will help.

Loki's fingers curl around his upper arm. "Stop just standing there, you dolt," she commands imperiously, and she tugs him after her.

Thor opens his eyes so he does not trip and fall, moving after her with a long-suffering expression. She pulls him to a display full of colorful bits of fabric, and he wonders how mortal men can stand this place. He certainly can't.

"What do you think?" Loki asks, holding up a pair of bras. One is striped, pink and green, and has black lace around the edges. The other is bright yellow with a thick band of lace on the underside of the cup.

Mouth suddenly dry, Thor says, "Ah. Um." He nods at one of them, he isn't sure which, because his mind is overwhelmed by the mental image of Loki wearing first one bra and then the other, and there is nothing on his sister's bottom half.

He should feel bad about that, Thor thinks, picturing his sister almost naked in his mind. But he can't, because Loki is gorgeous and she's bringing this on herself. He is almost certain this whole trip is a deliberately planned tease. She glances at him as she shifts through the undergarments, sneaking quick, assessing looks at his face. She likely thinks he does not notice, but Thor is very, very aware of every move Loki makes.

Mostly because he has a rather impressive erection and it is the last thing he wants her to notice.

Loki brushes against his arm as she reaches around him. "Excuse me," she purrs, lifting her eyes to his face.

Thor imagines that he is a stone. He remains utterly still, every muscle in his body held taught. "Of course," he grits out, giving her a pained smile, and she laughs.

Oh, yes. This is all deliberate. She is teasing him.

Against his better judgment, his eyes flicker across the open store to the other room, where there is lingerie on display. Loki follows his gaze and touches a nail to her lips. "Ooh," she breathes. "Now, those are underclothes. Come, Thor."

He tells himself he will not follow. He tells himself he is not Loki's pet, and he does not have to follow Loki's commands, but Loki has her hands on a sheer green gown with little gold threads for straps, and she looks at him like he's lunch and all Thor can think is that he would very much like to be eaten.

"What do you think of this?" she asks when he obediently trots to her side.

He thinks a lot of things about that, none of them appropriate. His face must tell her this, because she laughs, the sound low and throaty.

Thor's mind immediately conjures the image of Loki in the green dress, kneeling between his legs, her long fingers curling around his thighs. She laughs that same husky laugh as she lowers her mouth to his erection, taking his cock into her mouth. Her tongue swirls around him as she sucks, her nails pricking his skin just enough to hurt, but not enough to bother him.

"Problem, darling?" Loki asks him as she picks through the garments in search of her size.

"No," Thor replies, his voice sounding strangled even to his own ears. He pulls the bags closer to his body.

A knowing smile spreads across Loki's red lips, and she plucks one of the dresses from the rack with far too much pleasure on her face. It is all Thor can do to suppress a whimper. "If you're sure," she says, her voice syrupy.

She drifts away to look at another garment, this one all lace and ribbon, and Thor thinks that if she wore that, she would look like a present. She lifts it from the rack and, stepping in front of a mirror, examines it against her body with a critical eye. In the mirror, she shifts her gaze to meet his, and she lifts one brow in question.

Thor says nothing. Does nothing.

He is too busy imagining how it would feel to crush that fabric in his hands as he sinks into her, because he would not let her take the scrap of clothing off. He would require her to wear it while he takes his pleasure from her, while he makes her twist and writhe and cut red lines into his back with her nails.

"Yes, this one, too, I think," she says, and her voice shakes him back to reality, where he is fully clothed and by himself and Loki is not nearly as naked as she should be. "Excuse me," she says to one of the mortals attending the shop, "I'd like a fitting room. Thank you."

Dutifully, Thor follows, but he does not go into the little corridor where the changing rooms are. Loki makes a quiet noise of irritation, and he can only wonder at what she thought he would do – likely go into the little changing room with her. And he is in the midst of another fantasy, of Loki with her back pressed to a wall and her legs around his hips. He nibbles the long column of her neck as one hand slides along her thigh and the other brushes over one of her breasts.

She sighs and gasps, her breaths coming in short pants. She has too much control to moan or cry out in a store full of people, but he wants to push her and push himself, and he slips his hand around her thigh to touch the warm, wet center of her body. Her teeth close hard on his shoulder; her nails bite into his skin. He strokes her, marveling in the difference between a woman's body and a man's.

Shaking in his arms, she tightens her legs around his waist, and one of her hands falls to his pants. She tears at the fly of his pants, desperately trying to free his cock, and she says in a sing-song voice, "Thor."

It takes him a moment to realize the she is actually speaking to him, that her voice is real and not fantasy, and he turns. She hangs behind the corner of the wall and beckons him forward with a crook of her finger.

He hesitates. "If there are others—"

"Oh, it's just me," she says, ducking out of sight. The dressing room attendant watches him with a severe expression as he follows his sister's command.

Loki stands before three mirrors, her hair piled on the top of her head and haphazardly pinned there. Thin strands curl around her neck and sweep across her cheeks, giving her the look of a woman who has just climbed from a very enjoyable tangle between the sheets. She meets his eyes in the mirror and winks. Then she leans forward, fingers running along the straps of the green gown.

Thor is torn between watching her rounded bottom, so like her male form's, and her breasts, swaying enticingly before him in the mirror.

"Mm, I'm not sure," she says, and it takes Thor a moment to realize she's talking to the attendant and not him. "These straps don't seem to offer that much support."

The attendant, breezing by him, looks at the straps lying against Loki's milk-white shoulder. "May I?" she asks.

"Oh, of course," Loki says dismissively, and Thor nearly chokes on his own breath when the attendant smoothes the strap against Loki's skin and then tightens it.

In his mind, they are, all three of them, naked in Thor's bed in Asgard, a tangled mess of hot, wanting flesh.

The attendant gives him a curious look as she passes by once more, and Thor offers her a weak smile. "Thor." His gaze returns to Loki who turns to him and sways her hips from side to side, making the fabric of the little gown dance over her thighs. "Thoughts?"

"Yes," he says without thinking.

She laughs, brushing by him, her nails whispering over his neck. It is just enough a threat to be erotic, and he follows her retreat into her changing room with a hungry gaze. She is out of his sight but briefly, stepping out wearing the second piece of lingerie.

There is a silky ribbon between her laced-covered breasts. The whole gown is red, and it makes her look like she has found a way to wear droplets of blood. The thought shouldn't be enticing. But it is. The red against her pale skin and dark hair is sinful, and he wants nothing more than to indulge in it. In her. In everything.

With a single finger on his shoulder, she pushes him against the wall. He lets her because he is too busy staring at her and thinking of her in that outfit and him in her. She rises to her toes and leans against the bags he clutches to his body. They are a flimsy shield against his own lusts. The changing room attendant should be a stronger shield, but he can hear her breathing coming in short bursts. The sight of them arouses her.

That makes him all the harder in his pants, and he swallows. Loki's eyes watch him, and a smile, predatory and sultry, spreads across her lips.

"I think you like this one more," she murmurs.

He doesn't know if the statement is a trap. If he says he likes this bit of lingerie more, does that mean she won't purchase the other? There is no reason for her to moderate herself. No reason at all. They are rich beyond mortal measure. She could buy the whole damn store if she wanted. If he says he doesn't, that he prefers the other, what will that tell her? Is this all just an elaborate ploy to torture him?

That, he suspects, is the most likely.

"I like them both," he says.

She laughs and scrapes her nail down the side of his neck. "So you do." She steps back, lifting her arms over her head, and this displays her breasts like an offering.

A breathy moan from the attendant reminds them both of her presence, and though neither of them mind an audience, Loki doesn't seem interested in sharing him. She gives the other woman a long, measured look, and whatever passes between them makes the mortal's face go white as chalk.

Another smile blooms on Loki's face, and she steps lightly back into her changing room.

Thor laughs. "Sisters, right?" he says, and then he realizes he's made a mistake. The mortal now looks like she might be sick.

Embarrassed, Thor hurries back into the main body of the store, and he waits for Loki to join him once more.

When she emerges from the changing rooms, she wears a satisfied smile, looking like a well pleased cat. She purchases both of the tiny gowns, and Thor can't decide which he'd like to have her in first. He is glad, then, when she makes the decision for him, appearing in his room later that night in the red gown, a scrap of matching lace between her legs, and nothing else.