(Thor) Oil And Watering Mouth
Title: Oil And Watering Mouth
Fandom: Thor (Movieverse)
Pairing: Darcy/Sif
Rating: R
Words: 1310
Notes: For Ladies Bingo, prompt "pre-femslash", Femslash Friday, and a prompt at avengerkink.
Summary: It's just giving a simple massage. It's just giving a beautiful woman a simple massage. It's just giving a painfully ridiculously intensely beautiful Asgardian woman a simple massage. It's just giving a simple massage, and trying not to choke on her own lust. It's just Darcy making disastrous life choices, is what it is.
This is a bad idea. On a scale of thinking she could pull off legwarmers (because Flashdance is an awesome movie but not a good life choice) to cutting her own bangs (the less said about that the better), this is an eleven. An eleven-and-a-half, even.
Darcy fucked up bad this time.
Because Sif is spread across her bed, facedown on Darcy’s sheets, arms folded under her head and her chin propped on the back of her wrists. And she’s topless. Totally shamelessly topless, and her skin looks golden-warm and soft and touchable.
And Darcy is supposed to touch her. Because touch is kind of an important part of massage, and why the hell did Darcy think she was qualified to offer Sif a massage anyway? Rubbing Jane’s shoulders when she’s been hunched over her laptop too long, and that one time she walked barefoot on Thor’s back because she’d seen it in a movie and there was no risk of hurting him, those do not make her a qualified masseuse.
Okay, Darcy’s brain tends to desert her when Sif’s around. So that’s probably something to do with why she offered up her services (God, she wants to service Sif good) when she noticed Sif rolling her shoulder in obvious discomfort after a particularly vicious bout of sparring with the Warriors Three.
But now Darcy’s facing the reality of actually doing this, it’s a-whole-nother thing. This isn’t Darcy rambling and doing a really terrible job of hiding her giant Hulk-sized crush on Sif, this is skin-on-skin contact and a shiny new way to humiliate herself.
Bad idea, bad bad idea, but she awkwardly shuffles across the bed on her knees anyway. Straddles Sif’s thighs, and hopes the hitch in her breathing isn’t obvious, because holy shit. Sif’s only wearing a pair of Jane’s old sweatpants, which means they’re tight around her thighs and far too short, and Darcy can feel her body heat through the fabric.
Why haven’t they bought Sif her own sweatpants yet? Ones that are baggy enough to hide how damn good her legs look, so Darcy can stop being distracted by them all the time.
She’s probably pouring too much oil on her hands. She’s definitely pouring too much oil, because Darcy almost drops the bottle when she tries to snap the cap back on, but some discreet flailing that she hopes Sif doesn’t notice means she catches it just in time.
“I appreciate you doing this for me,” Sif says, and her voice is so sincerely grateful that Darcy feels like a complete lech for perving on her.
Doesn’t mean she can stop herself, though, and she has to bite her lip and will her hands steady as she reaches forward and settles them against Sif’s back.
She’s even warmer than Darcy imagined.
Right. Massage. Darcy can do this. She moves her hands slow and firm, because a little pressure isn’t going to hurt Sif and Darcy suspects it’d be way too obvious that her hands are shaking if she moved more gently. Starting by just sliding them up and down Sif’s back, spreading the oil, getting kind of captivated by the shine of it across Sif’s skin.
It’s when Darcy moves her hands higher, curls her fingers over the muscles of Sif’s shoulders and squeezes nice and hard, that Sif gives her first moan.
The sound is soft and throaty and it makes Darcy light-headed.
A part of her wants to whip her hands away and never touch Sif again, because this is too much, she’s already aching for what she can’t have. Another part of her wants Sif to make that noise over and over again, until Darcy’s squirming and sweating and so turned-on that she can’t remember her own name. The logical part of her (and who knew that part was even still awake) instructs her hands to keep going, because that’s clearly where Sif’s holding tension and this is supposed to be a massage, after all.
So Darcy works Sif’s shoulders, slowly but steadily. Kneading into the flesh with her fingers, framing the back of Sif’s neck with her thumbs. She wouldn’t touch this firmly with another human, but Sif practically demands it, groaning appreciatively the harder Darcy pushes, and Darcy’s teeth press further into her bottom lip, her body flushed beneath her clothes.
Sif’s skin is perfect, there isn’t a single blemish along her back. Darcy wants to put her mouth there, wants to run her tongue along the length of Sif’s spine, and it almost feels like the only thing stopping her is that logical part of her (which seems to be growing quieter by the minute) reminding her that massage oil probably tastes gross.
She still wonders how Sif would react if she did it. If Darcy leant down, if she bit at Sif’s shoulders, if she reached beneath Sif’s body to cup her tits, if she ground herself down against the swell of Sif’s ass.
She won’t. Obviously, Darcy won’t, that isn’t the kind of touch she’s been given permission for. But the fantasy teases her, painted across the back of her eyelids every time she blinks.
There’s a strain starting to bother Darcy’s shoulders now, because she’s leaning into every roll of her wrist, pushing her weight down when she rocks the heel of her palm into Sif’s shoulders. Bearing down with a squeeze that a human would probably consider vicious, but Sif pushes back into it readily, shit, wantonly, her back a ripple of defined muscles.
Darcy gasps quietly; she wants to press her thighs together, heat throbbing between her legs, but Sif’s body means she can’t, so she’s held spread and wanting.
“I think that’s enough for today,” she blurts out, so squeaky she sounds like a CGI chipmunk. Darcy clambers off the bed, and spends way too long wiping oil off her hands so she has an excuse not to look at Sif. She can still hear Sif’s contentedly sigh, though. Can still see the shape of Sif’s back in her peripheral vision as Sif raises her arms over her head and stretches.
Darcy concentrates on breathing like a normal person, on not making desperate little sex noises on every exhale, and she doesn’t turn around until she’s certain Sif’s fully dressed again. And even then she counts to thirty first.
Sif smiles at her, her cheeks pink, her expression warm and relaxed. Darcy has to resist the urge to turn right back around again, because Sif is just that stupidly beautiful.
Sif’s hand settles lightly on Darcy’s wrist. “Thank you for doing this,” she says, and Darcy just nods, because what’s a voice, is she supposed to have one?
And then Sif’s stepping closer and, no, Darcy definitely doesn’t have one of those voice things.
Sif’s eyes are darker now, her gaze hooded. “Perhaps next time I might ask for a full body massage,” she murmurs, and Darcy may not have a voice but Sif’s is clearly made of pure sex. “I suspect we may both enjoy that.”
Her fingers grip Darcy’s wrist a little tighter, which is probably a good thing because Darcy’s legs suddenly feel suspiciously weak.
“We, uh, we could do that,” Darcy agrees dazedly and, hey, there’s her voice, after all.
Sif gives her a smile that manages to be both coy and sultry at the same time, which is impressive and makes stars implode inside Darcy’s head. And then she’s stepping back, moving from the room, taking the scent of massage oil and warm skin with her, and the logical part of Darcy’s mind makes a valiant attempt to inform her that, yes, that did just happen.
Darcy’s giant Hulk-sized crush gives a triumphant roar in the form of a weak and needy whimpering noise.
She’s going to need more massage oil. A lot more massage oil.
Fandom: Thor (Movieverse)
Pairing: Darcy/Sif
Rating: R
Words: 1310
Notes: For Ladies Bingo, prompt "pre-femslash", Femslash Friday, and a prompt at avengerkink.
Summary: It's just giving a simple massage. It's just giving a beautiful woman a simple massage. It's just giving a painfully ridiculously intensely beautiful Asgardian woman a simple massage. It's just giving a simple massage, and trying not to choke on her own lust. It's just Darcy making disastrous life choices, is what it is.
This is a bad idea. On a scale of thinking she could pull off legwarmers (because Flashdance is an awesome movie but not a good life choice) to cutting her own bangs (the less said about that the better), this is an eleven. An eleven-and-a-half, even.
Darcy fucked up bad this time.
Because Sif is spread across her bed, facedown on Darcy’s sheets, arms folded under her head and her chin propped on the back of her wrists. And she’s topless. Totally shamelessly topless, and her skin looks golden-warm and soft and touchable.
And Darcy is supposed to touch her. Because touch is kind of an important part of massage, and why the hell did Darcy think she was qualified to offer Sif a massage anyway? Rubbing Jane’s shoulders when she’s been hunched over her laptop too long, and that one time she walked barefoot on Thor’s back because she’d seen it in a movie and there was no risk of hurting him, those do not make her a qualified masseuse.
Okay, Darcy’s brain tends to desert her when Sif’s around. So that’s probably something to do with why she offered up her services (God, she wants to service Sif good) when she noticed Sif rolling her shoulder in obvious discomfort after a particularly vicious bout of sparring with the Warriors Three.
But now Darcy’s facing the reality of actually doing this, it’s a-whole-nother thing. This isn’t Darcy rambling and doing a really terrible job of hiding her giant Hulk-sized crush on Sif, this is skin-on-skin contact and a shiny new way to humiliate herself.
Bad idea, bad bad idea, but she awkwardly shuffles across the bed on her knees anyway. Straddles Sif’s thighs, and hopes the hitch in her breathing isn’t obvious, because holy shit. Sif’s only wearing a pair of Jane’s old sweatpants, which means they’re tight around her thighs and far too short, and Darcy can feel her body heat through the fabric.
Why haven’t they bought Sif her own sweatpants yet? Ones that are baggy enough to hide how damn good her legs look, so Darcy can stop being distracted by them all the time.
She’s probably pouring too much oil on her hands. She’s definitely pouring too much oil, because Darcy almost drops the bottle when she tries to snap the cap back on, but some discreet flailing that she hopes Sif doesn’t notice means she catches it just in time.
“I appreciate you doing this for me,” Sif says, and her voice is so sincerely grateful that Darcy feels like a complete lech for perving on her.
Doesn’t mean she can stop herself, though, and she has to bite her lip and will her hands steady as she reaches forward and settles them against Sif’s back.
She’s even warmer than Darcy imagined.
Right. Massage. Darcy can do this. She moves her hands slow and firm, because a little pressure isn’t going to hurt Sif and Darcy suspects it’d be way too obvious that her hands are shaking if she moved more gently. Starting by just sliding them up and down Sif’s back, spreading the oil, getting kind of captivated by the shine of it across Sif’s skin.
It’s when Darcy moves her hands higher, curls her fingers over the muscles of Sif’s shoulders and squeezes nice and hard, that Sif gives her first moan.
The sound is soft and throaty and it makes Darcy light-headed.
A part of her wants to whip her hands away and never touch Sif again, because this is too much, she’s already aching for what she can’t have. Another part of her wants Sif to make that noise over and over again, until Darcy’s squirming and sweating and so turned-on that she can’t remember her own name. The logical part of her (and who knew that part was even still awake) instructs her hands to keep going, because that’s clearly where Sif’s holding tension and this is supposed to be a massage, after all.
So Darcy works Sif’s shoulders, slowly but steadily. Kneading into the flesh with her fingers, framing the back of Sif’s neck with her thumbs. She wouldn’t touch this firmly with another human, but Sif practically demands it, groaning appreciatively the harder Darcy pushes, and Darcy’s teeth press further into her bottom lip, her body flushed beneath her clothes.
Sif’s skin is perfect, there isn’t a single blemish along her back. Darcy wants to put her mouth there, wants to run her tongue along the length of Sif’s spine, and it almost feels like the only thing stopping her is that logical part of her (which seems to be growing quieter by the minute) reminding her that massage oil probably tastes gross.
She still wonders how Sif would react if she did it. If Darcy leant down, if she bit at Sif’s shoulders, if she reached beneath Sif’s body to cup her tits, if she ground herself down against the swell of Sif’s ass.
She won’t. Obviously, Darcy won’t, that isn’t the kind of touch she’s been given permission for. But the fantasy teases her, painted across the back of her eyelids every time she blinks.
There’s a strain starting to bother Darcy’s shoulders now, because she’s leaning into every roll of her wrist, pushing her weight down when she rocks the heel of her palm into Sif’s shoulders. Bearing down with a squeeze that a human would probably consider vicious, but Sif pushes back into it readily, shit, wantonly, her back a ripple of defined muscles.
Darcy gasps quietly; she wants to press her thighs together, heat throbbing between her legs, but Sif’s body means she can’t, so she’s held spread and wanting.
“I think that’s enough for today,” she blurts out, so squeaky she sounds like a CGI chipmunk. Darcy clambers off the bed, and spends way too long wiping oil off her hands so she has an excuse not to look at Sif. She can still hear Sif’s contentedly sigh, though. Can still see the shape of Sif’s back in her peripheral vision as Sif raises her arms over her head and stretches.
Darcy concentrates on breathing like a normal person, on not making desperate little sex noises on every exhale, and she doesn’t turn around until she’s certain Sif’s fully dressed again. And even then she counts to thirty first.
Sif smiles at her, her cheeks pink, her expression warm and relaxed. Darcy has to resist the urge to turn right back around again, because Sif is just that stupidly beautiful.
Sif’s hand settles lightly on Darcy’s wrist. “Thank you for doing this,” she says, and Darcy just nods, because what’s a voice, is she supposed to have one?
And then Sif’s stepping closer and, no, Darcy definitely doesn’t have one of those voice things.
Sif’s eyes are darker now, her gaze hooded. “Perhaps next time I might ask for a full body massage,” she murmurs, and Darcy may not have a voice but Sif’s is clearly made of pure sex. “I suspect we may both enjoy that.”
Her fingers grip Darcy’s wrist a little tighter, which is probably a good thing because Darcy’s legs suddenly feel suspiciously weak.
“We, uh, we could do that,” Darcy agrees dazedly and, hey, there’s her voice, after all.
Sif gives her a smile that manages to be both coy and sultry at the same time, which is impressive and makes stars implode inside Darcy’s head. And then she’s stepping back, moving from the room, taking the scent of massage oil and warm skin with her, and the logical part of Darcy’s mind makes a valiant attempt to inform her that, yes, that did just happen.
Darcy’s giant Hulk-sized crush gives a triumphant roar in the form of a weak and needy whimpering noise.
She’s going to need more massage oil. A lot more massage oil.