The Midgardian Tradition got good feedback, so here's a little sequel for it. Enjoy, and thanks for the genuine support :]

Living on Midgard took a great load of adjusting for the Goddess of War. Things were very different there, and there was once a time where she couldn't bare it anymore. How did Thor do it, she would question. Even Loki could adjust in mere minutes.

Thor's mortal, Jane, and her friend, Darcy helped her though. She considered them allies of hers, as well as friends. It was because of them that she was now in the kitchen, alone in her household, and preparing something to dine for the evening.

She stirred the wooden spoon in the pot, peering inside and smelling the fetching aroma. A few members of the Avengers had taught her how to cook; Steve Rogers, who was very down to earth and kind to her; Natasha Romanoff, the one woman in this realm who Sif could relate to the most; and Bruce Banner, a quiet scientist who she learned later on about his big, green friend.

A soft smile graced her lips as she thought about her new friends. She used to think that all she needed were Thor, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, and yes, at one point, Loki. But this group of extraordinary mortals changed her view on Midgard and its people.

She wouldn't be here if she had stood up for herself to her king.

How did she get in this predicament?

King Odin, of Asgard, had summoned her at moonset. She, of course, obliged without question and met with him. She had not the faintest clue what was to be discussed.

Until he started talking about marriage and strong bloodlines.

Sif didn't have to ask, because she knew. Odin wanted her to wed with Thor, or even the God of Mischief himself. To say that she was infuriated was the understatement of the century. She remembered the unbridled rage she felt, her sharp eyes wild, her mouth pressed tightly so she could restrain herself from saying anything rash. She had been making frequent visits to Midgard with the two brothers so they could see their humans, and her loyalty was aligned with them. She voiced her opinion, stating that she would never betray Lady Jane, and she would never, ever, marry Loki.

Odin had been just as incensed. Sif winced, remembering the thunderous tone in his voice. He insisted, blaming her, that Thor and Loki's love for two mundanes respectively is short-lived and they would come to their minds soon, and she could make her decision then. Once more, she refused, and defended the men she grew up with, telling the Allfather that it is perfectly fine to find love on Midgard; to be with someone human.

And that's when her thoughts flickered to an arrow-wielding human; Clinton Barton, Eye of Hawks, the man she met not even a year ago, on the Year of New. It was there where she shared her first kiss with a human; it was tradition, he had informed her before she was quick to grab him. She found herself drawn to this mundane since then; on her next visit, she found him in one of his 'nests'. Barton was probably the only one who could sneak up on her, the only one that narrowly escaped her senses. This both amazed her and frightened her at the same time.

Out of all the Avengers, Sif stuck by Barton the most. She was normally one to lead, but if the opportunity calls for it, she would without any hesitation follow him into battle. He was a proficient fighter, and they had fought side-by-side on an occasion or two. He was funny, stubborn, sarcastic and strong; whereas, Sif was more mature, strategized, and serious. Their personalities did clash, but their pointless banter was something she had warmed up to. He was there for her during her struggles while in this realm, although he found some of her misleadings amusing.

Sif sighed. She should have known how quickly the Allfather would jump to conclusions. Assuming that she too had found love on Midgard, he ordered her to leave Asgard and see how quickly she would return and realize her mistake. But her king wronged her. Sif wasn't created to love. She was made for war, made for looking out for herself. She had never been in love. How would she know if she had never felt the emotion before?

Thor.

Her unrequited feelings for him have lasted for a good while. Jane Foster came into the equation, and it all changed. Sif accepted Thor's choice, and was perfectly fine with being Thor's friend and ally regardless. The warrior inside her was a constant reminder that she could snap Foster like a twig with just the tips of her fingers. Just like that. Save all the trouble.

But alas, Sif did adapt mortal feelings. She would never kill someone just because they were in the way. She wasn't Loki.

A muted thud caught her attention, her head snapping up. Someone dared to enter the private housing quarters of Sif, the Goddess of War? They shall meet their utmost doom.

Sif unsheathed a knife from its holster, holding it firmly by the handle; she stealthy circled around the counter, back facing the wall as she edged her way silently down the hall. Her bare feet kissed the hardwood floor, her steps cautious but steady; professional.

She saw a shadow dance across the space beneath the door that led to her bedroom and averted her attention there, flitting across to the opposite side. Heard a struggle, a curse in a language she knew not, and the other set of footsteps a lot heavier. It was a Midgardian; she could tell by the sound of the man's labored breathing.

She inched closer to the door.

Her hand ghosted over the handle. Foolish, this human was! He will not see it coming! He will learn-

Unlocking the door with a simple flick of her wrist and a swipe of her sharp nail-a useful trick she had picked up from Lady Darcy-Sif kicked the door open and leaped in the dark, as lethal as a threatened lioness ready to stalk and catch her prey, releasing a warning battle cry. She reared her arm back, ready to strike, and then-

"Relax, it's me!"

The light turned on and Sif got a good look at the intruder. Tall, sandy brown hair, familiar blue eyes with traces of grey in them. He wore a suit, sleeveless, with a bird insignia and had a bow and arrows strapped onto his back.

Her alarmed eyes took in the thoroughly wounded body of Clint Barton. She nearly mistaken him. There were blotches of dark spots that she knew to be blood running from his chest to his legs. A deep gash was cut in the side of his face, blood trickling down his swollen face. His lip was busted, and he had a black eye.

"Do humans ever knock?" she demanded.

"Normal ones don't," he said back just as casually. "I prefer using the window."

His knees buckled, flailing beneath him. Sif dropped the knife, the metal clattering on the floor before the utensil stilled. She was there before he could even make a scratch on her floor, ducking her head under his arm, maneuvering him so he could use her for support. His dead weight was on her, but she was not weakened. She has carried heavier.

"What has happened?" she hissed, dragging him out of her room and down to the den. "Barton, who has done this to you? I will show them no mercy."

"As much as I would love to see you kick some ass, honey, I have no idea who did what." Clint sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth as she set him down on the couch. "The Avengers had to go bust some secret cult's nuts, shots were fired. We all had to separate..." As he explained further, Sif returned with what they called first-aid and kneeled down next to him.

Clint cursed as she dabbled at his eye. "Why did you abandon? What was the cause of you to disassemble?"

"We had to get outta there," he said through gritted teeth and labored breaths. "'Sides, Banner hulked out. We had nothing to worry about. He finished the job."

"You should have gotten medical attention," Sif chided. "I see not why you would even think of coming to me while in a predicament such as yours."

"Yeah well I ain't too fond of needles." He received a dark look for that one. "People normally freak out over something that's not a big deal..."

"Shalt you drown in your own sea of blood." Her voice quieted as she used a wet towel to wipe at the drying blood. Damn she moved fast, he mused. His skin felt prickly where she applied ointments and other healing supplements.

"Well I'll be damned," Clint lifted his head. "Miss BAMF is suddenly worried about little ol' me."

"I know not what that means." Sif pushed his head back down.

"You want to?"

"No."

"Buzz-kill...agh!" Clint yelped aloud as she pinched his earlobe. "Jesus, woman!"

"Do not test me again."

"But you-"

"Silence, human, or I will make you wish for the feeling as sweet as pain."

"Noted."

.

Clint sniffed. "Do I smell something burning?"

Sif muttered something unintelligible, dropping her towel and racing to the kitchen. Clint took this opportunity to check her out, appreciating the way the hem of the shirt she wore rode up far enough so he could see the color of her underwear. The fact that she lacked clothing was so not a distraction from her butt, thighs, and endless, killer legs. Nope.

"How's it lookin', doc?"

Her eyes flickered in his direction, head unmoving. "Are you referring to the stew or the state of your condition?"

"Eh, I'll leave that up to you."

"The food is fine," she said with an edge to her voice. "You, however..."

"'You' what, me what?" he asked in a panic.

She simply smirked.

"A question, Eye of Hawks," she said, stooping down, and Clint gulped as she leaned close to his face, her chest grazing his own. He was positive SHE could hear his racing heart. "How would you punish someone for looking you the wrong way?"

Shitshitshit.

"Nicely, I hope," he wheezed.

"Nice...What is this 'nice'? It is unheard of in my Realm. We are a superior race, you see..."

"I don't doubt it." He shook his head, biting back an un-manly sound when she positioned her hips over his, hovering.

"In the line of punishment we do not take things lightly. But since I'm in your Realm, I must know how to follow through with the proper proceedings." Nose to nose. "Enlighten me, Barton."

The archer was rendered speechless.

"It, ah, depends on how much you hate the person," he told her, voice wavering.

"Hm," she hummed innocently, tilting her head. "And if..." Her lips did the slightest of brushes against his mouth as she spoke. "...you feel otherwise?"

Clint gulped. "Uh..."

Her smile was smug, dragging her fingers down his chest. He ached to touch her. Ached. But he couldn't move, and it wasn't fair.

The goddess leaned up, her lips grazing his ear as she whispered, "Oh, Clinton...you mundanes amuse me in the up-most of levels."

And then she was gone, now in the kitchen to prepare a bowl of stew for him, and leaving the hero heaving and hot and bothered.

Damn tease.

.

It was questionable whether or not he was imagining this. She had fed him, left him to bathe, and let him sleep on her couch. The catch was that she was supposed to be in her bedroom.

But when he somewhat woke up two hours later, he felt a presence behind him. A slimmer, warrior body curved into his own, arms around his chest and torso. Her breathing was slow and even against his collarbone. Their hands ghosted near each other, just barely touching.

Clint looked at the slumbering goddess over his shoulder. Her hair lay in her face and dipped over his bare arm. When he shifted, turning his face away, she did too, snuggling closer to him.

The Avenger smirked.

"I knew she wanted me."

One of her hands twisted in a 120° spin, her forefingers squeezing his pebbled nipple. Hard.

"Ouch-?!" he hissed.

He felt her smirk against his shoulder. "Go to sleep, Barton."