WARNING: Violence, abuse, sexual and otherwise.

Takes place during the lead-up to 'Siege.'

The Shapeshifter

Today he is a woman, and he is snake-like, having glided into Thor's bed.

Like Jormungand, he wraps himself around his brother, his beloved brother, whom the world has not been kind to of late. Thor does not have the energy to resist, or even to tell him 'no', and Loki presses Sif's breasts against his back and strokes him.

He speaks into his ear, as though they were still children whispering secrets to one another under father's eye; "How goes the search for your beloved, sire?"

Thor's muscles tense beneath him. The sensation is glorious, well worth having died and been reborn for. Loki licks his neck with a tongue that is not forked, despite ample speculation.

"You must move swiftly, Thor," he urges, although he knows Thor spends every waking second looking for the raven-haired cunt as it is. That tonight is the first night he has actually tried for sleep in two weeks. "Time grows short. I am surprised you can think of anything else."

He squeezes Thor's cock, plays with a lock of sun-gold hair.

But he has gone too far. Thor sits up, moving to get out of the bed, away from Loki. That simply will not do.

"She could die, brother," say Loki, softly. "The human body she is in could succumb to disease, or drown, or be murdered."

Thor looks at him tiredly. "Will you never stop punishing me? Even in this new world?" he asks, standing up and retrieving his clothes.

"Or," says Loki, slithering after him, "she could become enamoured of another..."

That does it, as he knew it would. Thor punches him- punches Sif- not as hard as he can, but as hard as he can without actually killing his brother.

The instant it is done, regret mingles with anger on Thor's noble countenance, for Loki makes a great show of whimpering in pain, curls up on the floor grasping his face pitifully.

He thinks Thor might actually kneel and comfort him, but he leaves instead, shutting the door behind him. As soon as he does, Loki breaks into a grin, returns to the bed that smells of his brother's sweat and misery, and spends the next few hours pleasuring Lady Sif's body.

Truly, ardour may fade, empires may fall, but the joy of annoying Thor is eternal.

0

Today he is a man, lizard-like and long limbed, crawling all over Doom's armour until every piece lies on the floor.

He has always liked strong men. They are more fun. And they hit harder.

"Tell me about your mother," says the god of mischief, while Doom is deep inside him, and the Lord of Latveria casually slaps him across the face for it.

Doom is a strange and entertaining mortal. He never bothers to conceal his fury. Such would be beneath him.

"Does it upset you that Namor favours Susan Storm?"

With a regal snort, Doom flips him onto his back, pinning his wrists and fucking him like a man trying to break in an unruly horse. His eyes, as he watches the god of mischief, are full of disgust. He is as kingly as Odin, Loki thinks fondly.

Doom is so dignified in his rage, not restrained, but majestic as a slowly swelling tidal wave. It is exciting, the precision with which he inflicts his injuries. Loki's aquiline nose is broken, cleanly, the rest of his face unmarred. Three of his fingers on his right hand are snapped, and three of the fingers on his left hand. They will heal clean.

Such control.

Very exciting.

"This Richards...in a way, you look up to him, don't you?"

Doom gives him pain for that one.

He discovers that Loki's pain threshold is extraordinarily high.

True, Loki can barely move by the time Victor calmly leaves, his cape swirling behind him. But his face aches, not from Victor's fists, but from mad grinning.

0

Today he is leonine, curled on the edge of the bed with the look a sated predator, licking his teeth.

Norman lies stunned in the bed, helpless and bedraggled. He has never lain with a god before. The poor thing.

Loki has been goading him all evening, subtly guiding him down the path, and now he puts the finishing touches on his work. Spitting the taste of Norman's cock from his mouth, Loki begins by saying, "Those pills you take, dear Norman... for your brain sickness. They do not promote stamina, do they?"

Norman is far less entertaining than Doom. But far more easy.

His face contorts in rage, making him look very much like that ridiculous mask he used to wear.

"I do not mean to be cruel," lies Loki, his voice a deep purr, "but twice tonight I thought you would pass out. You must take better care of your health, Norman."

Like Thor, Norman tries to suppress his rage. Like Thor, he fails, although his failure is far less impressive. It's a mean, weak blow, from a mean, weak man, and Loki laughs at him for it. In response, Norman throws what can only be described as a full-scale tantrum, shoving the god of mischief down, shoving his cock back into his mouth, calling him wretch and slut and demon and, once, goblin. Loki permits it, although he'd been hoping for something less pathetic.

Still, he's soon need to win a place in Norman's trust. Best not to make it too difficult.

With mild amusement he watches Mr Osborn leave the room in a huff, zipping up his pants so quickly he nearly castrates himself.

Maybe it would have been better if he'd had him wear the mask, Loki Laufeyson reflects.

0

Today he is in Balder's lap, and the exquisite god of beauty and light is clutching his waist. The little moans he gives make Loki sneer and roll his eyes.

"Such a pity about the Lady Karnilla," he croons, when Balder seems on the cusp of release. "She hasn't returned to us, has she? Perhaps my brother forgot about her."

At the mention of his former lover's name, Balder's lips on Loki's jaw stop moving, his shallow breathing stops. Loki smiles.

"Or perhaps she has returned to this world," he continues, thrusting gently, "but she has not yet bothered to visit us. Why do you think that might be, sire?"

(Balder, for his part, is finally starting to notice the play of intonation when Loki says the word 'sire' that makes it sound so much less like a title, and so much more like a private, filthy nickname.)

Loki expects that to do it, but Balder goes back to fingering his tip as though nothing has happened.

Hmm.

That's...irritating. Balder is supposed to be easier than Thor. Why isn't Balder getting angry? Moreover, why is the childish fondling he is giving Loki's scrotum so distracting?

Frustrated, Loki deals his shin an accidental-on-purpose kick that makes Balder the Brave jump, and look at him quizzically.

"Why do you have all these bruises?" Balder asks, tracing one of the mauve-black stains with his thumb.

Loki would have magiced them away, or concealed them beneath an illusion, but it gives him pleasure to look upon them, and the victory each one denotes. The room is dark, and he hadn't expected Balder to notice.

He smiles, sweetly, falsely. "I am clumsy, my king."

"Hmm," says Balder, with all the composure of someone who isn't hard as a rock against Loki's pelvis. He gets back to the task of kissing Loki's chest.

(Balder has, for some time now, been convinced that Loki is mad. This does nothing but lend credence to that belief.)

Enough of this. Loki goes for the jugular.

"Of course, when I shared the Lady Karnilla's bed..." he says, viciously, and merciful Odin but the way Balder's perfect eyes widen at that is sweet. "...we would discuss her infatuation with you at some length."

"What a vicious little brute you really are," the king sighs, and slides a hand up his thigh.

Loki keens in annoyance. Mostly in annoyance. He wriggles, trying to find a position slightly less susceptible to Balder's pretty mouth and palms, and the motion makes Balder laugh, softly.

Loki FREEZES with rage.

That is the only reason Balder does not die instantly for his laughter. Nothing to do with the sensation of Balder's naked, rock-hard stomach pressed tight against his own, or Balder's large hand now on the small of his back. Nothing at all.

Loki tries to steady himself, but his hips seem to be moving without his consent, and his words have gotten stuck somewhere beneath his throat. A thin growl comes out, turning into a whine as Balder dips his head and sucks on his areola. Everything dissolves quickly at that point. Loki hisses as he comes, partly in defeat.

Having lost the game, he feels obliged to spend the night in Balder's bed.

Who knows? Maybe the god of light will want to go a second round in the morning.

Maybe Loki will win that one.

(Balder, for his part, smiles in his sleep, and places an arm around his bedmate's waist. Perhaps, if he is feeling generous, he will let Loki win in the morning.)