Fic: More Than Bliss (Natasha/Loki, NC-17) 2/2
Title: More Than Bliss
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Natasha/Loki
Summary: The first time she sees Loki again, Natasha nearly puts a bullet in his skull. The second time, he threatens to kill her. By the third time, she has him on his knees and begging for her touch, and what's more, he likes it.
Content Notes: D/s, sadism/masochism, orgasm control, chastity devices, whipping, H/c, brief discussion of suicide (full policy in profile)
Word Count: ~15800 (total)
Author's Notes: My working summary for this fic was "Natasha and Loki find True Love via kink," and that still is pretty much what this is.
Part 1
Loki is waiting for her in the dark when she arrives, naked, perched on the kitchen counter, sipping on wine she knows she didn't buy. Natasha drops her bag on the floor and leans against the wall, taking him in. He walks the line between handsome and beautiful, and it's most obvious when he's like this, so slim, all angles and shadows, his long hair dark and spilling over his shoulders, hiding his face like a gossamer curtain. He holds the stem of the wineglass carefully, almost delicately, and Natasha suddenly remembers those fingers curled into a fist, slamming against the reinforced glass of his cell. In her mind, there's a distinct disconnect between that monster in his chains and the man sitting here now. She wonders if he feels it, too.
"Do you ever think about the Chitauri invasion?" she asks him, and he glances at her, just the tiniest twitch of his head.
"All the time," he says.
"Do you regret it?"
This time Loki brushes his hair out of his eyes and turns toward her, his eyes glowing in the dim light.
"Yes," he tells her, and she reads his dejection in the set of his shoulders, the sorrow in the whiteness around his pursed lips.
"Should I believe you?"
He laughs. "I don't know, should you?"
Always the games. Natasha picks up her bag and stalks into the kitchen, flicking on the light as she goes. She stands before him and spreads his knees, stepping into the triangle of his legs. Loki looks at her calmly, a thread of anticipation in the quirk of his mouth.
"Do you still want to die?" she inquires, and he goes very still.
"I still want you to kill me," he corrects, and that difference is not lost on Natasha. She wants to push him, to make him tell her more, but resists.
Instead, she says, "I promised you punishment, earlier." His eyes grow dark, his pupils dilating with desire. "And a gift."
"You'd think those would be contradictory," he says, watching her hungrily as Natasha takes a few items from her bag, places them on the counter. A velvet box, about five inches by four - his gift - a blindfold, and a nine-tailed whip, made of matte black leather with red strands laced through the braids.
"Mortification of the flesh," Loki murmurs, drawing out the sibilant. "I take it this is my punishment?"
"Clever boy," Natasha says approvingly, and he flinches, a flush on his high cheekbones. Embarrassment or arousal? Both, Natasha decides.
"And my gift?" he asks after a moment, clearing his throat.
This, Natasha was unsure of. Her instincts told her yes, though, and she usually listens to them. Taking the box from the counter, she opens it, and presents its contents to Loki. He stares for a long time, then picks up his gift, handling its component pieces carefully.
"Do you know what it is?" she asks him, realizing belatedly that they might not have this kind of thing where he comes from.
"Oh, yes," he says, and his voice has gone a little breathy. Natasha watches him avidly. "There is no such thing on Asgard. We see no need to police passion in such a manner."
"Sucks for you," she says. Loki is hypnotized by the steel bars of the cage, the silver padlock attached to the ring. Natasha clicks her tongue, getting his attention, and holds out her hand for the cage. He places it in her palm mutely. "Want to put it on now?"
Loki looks at her silently, helplessly, and for all that she's cut him, ridden him, threatened him with death, and ordered him not to come, she has never seen him look as exposed as this.
"Well," she says, giving him an out, "I want to, and I guess that's what matters, isn't it?"
Carefully, Natasha lifts his flaccid cock and balls, tucking the ring behind them, adjusting it in the front so his skin won't get caught in the clasp. Loki is staring down at her hands with his mouth hanging open; Natasha smirks. As she starts to fit the cage around him, though, his cock stiffens, flushing faintly red, and now she frowns.
"This is defeating the purpose," she points out, and Loki grips the counter's edge so tightly his knuckles whiten.
"I know," he says in a tight voice. "I'm - "
He breaks off, and Natasha raises her eyebrows.
"Were you going to say sorry?" She slaps his cock lightly, and Loki makes a little yipping noise and tries to scoot away from her. There's nowhere for him to go, and she does it again, a sharp tap with the back of her hand. "Because if you weren't, I don't think you deserve this."
"Damn you, whore," he hisses, and shoves her away with his foot. Natasha stumbles, and nearly loses her temper, real insults rising in her throat. She glares at Loki, and he meets her gaze with the same angry intensity, but behind that rage is…something else. Natasha narrows her eyes thoughtfully, and rethinks her method of attack.
"Lucky for you," she continues, as if that interlude never happened, "I don't hand things out based on what you deserve. I do it based on need." He's let her move closer again, so she's standing right where she was before, inches from his body. "And you do need this, don't you, Loki?" She runs her finger up the underside of his straining cock.
"Yes," he says, his voice low and hoarse, his entire body tense as if he's trying to keep as still as possible.
"Then fix this." Natasha nods at his erection.
Slowly, Loki wraps his fingers around his cock, pumping it once, twice, swirling his thumb over the tip with a small gasp. Natasha braces her hands on either side of his spread legs, watching his cock change in color from flushed pink to urgent red, the gleam of the loose cock ring nestled at the base, still waiting for the lock; she can feel his eyes on her face, gauging her reaction. Peering up at him, she meets his gaze and licks her lips deliberately, and leans down to grace the head of his cock with a little kiss. Loki mutters something fervent in a foreign language, and speeds his movements, making little animal noises in the back of his throat. Natasha steps back just in time to miss the spurt of his semen as he comes, curling in on himself.
"You'll have to clean that up later," she tells him, annoyed.
"Menial labor is for thralls," he says disdainfully. The effect is ruined a little by the shakiness of his voice. "And whatever I am to you, Natasha Romanoff, I am not your thrall."
"Slavery isn't my thing," she says, and leans in close, invading his personal space. "But you're still mine."
It feels good to let the words that have been haunting her mind finally spill from her tongue. Loki meets her eyes, not agreeing, but not disapproving, either. Natasha touches his face, runs two fingers along the steep angle of his jaw, along his lips; he shuts his eyes, kisses her fingertips, inclines his head. Yes.
"Good," she murmurs, and kisses him lightly on the lips. He seems caught between leaning closer and pushing her away, so she takes the decision away from him and goes to the sink, pulling two clean dish towels from the drawer. Running the faucet at the sink, she soaks one towel with warm water before coming back to him.
"And what is this?" he asks her, and she answers him by dabbing at his cock, cleaning him off with gentle hands.
"You have no idea how disgusting it can get if you don't keep these things clean," she says, jerking her head to indicate the cage. "I'll have to show you the best ways to do it later."
"I am a fastidious man. I'm sure I can manage," he says dryly. Natasha smiles, her face warm. After a pause, as she dries him off, he asks, "Do you do this often?"
"Do you want to be special, Loki?"
She means it as a joke, a callback to one of their earlier conversations, but as she picks up the cage to slip it back on, he stops her, looping his fingers loosely around her wrists.
"I want to kill every man you've touched before me," he enunciates. "And every man you will touch after me. I would see them all burn, and have you to myself."
Natasha opens her mouth, and finds no words. Loki releases her and leans back, inscrutable. She looks down at the cage in her hand. A lot of men have said similar things to her in the past, but she's not sure if any of them meant it as much as Loki does.
"Spread your legs," she orders. Loki exhales, tension leaving his body, and obeys. Natasha considers who he is, who she is, this whole situation, and acknowledges that she is being an idiot. She slides the cage on, wiggling it to seat his cock comfortably inside, and connects it to the cock ring. Picking up the padlock, she slips it through the part where they join, and clamps it shut. It clicks with a sense of finality, and she draws back to study Loki's reaction.
He touches the cage lightly, skimming his index finger along the smooth bars, chewing his lip every time he touches skin.
"Loki," Natasha says. Just his name, but he reacts like it's an order, and the look on his face cuts her to the quick. Torn between laughing and crying, delight and fear in his furrowed brow, his parted lips begging for her touch. If Natasha were a different kind of woman, she would swoon. Instead, she picks up the cat o' nine tails, and lets the knotted braids slither through her fingers.
"Ah," Loki sighs. "The carrot and the whip. I see how this goes."
"You did ask for punishment," she reminds him. He gives her a small smile, and jumps off the counter, turning on the spot and bracing himself against it. She chuckles. "You're leaping ahead a little there, aren't you?"
"Would you have me any other way?" he asks, cheeky. Natasha shrugs, smiles, knowing full well he can't see her, and drags the tips of the cat o' nine across his back. Loki shivers, and almost hides how he arches into the caress.
"This isn't going to be nice," she forewarns. "It's not going to be sexy. I chose this whip because it hurts."
"No games," he whispers. "Yes, Natasha. I understand."
Natasha bites her lip, draws back her arm, and brings the cat whistling down on his back.
She wasn't lying when she said it would hurt; this is a whip meant to draw blood, and the first blow leaves livid red lines, running diagonally across Loki's back. He cries out, and she kicks his legs apart, baring the gleam of the silver cage dangling there, before striking him again. This time Loki muffles his shriek in his fist, biting his knuckles hard, but when she whips him again, and a fourth time, he has to grasp the counter for support, pressing his forehead to the laminate, gulping down air in between his cries.
"I can hear you," she sing-songs, and delivers three bruising blows in quick succession. Loki screams, contorting his body to avoid the sting of the whip, but Natasha is merciless; she circles to his side, and lashes him again.
"Please, Natasha, cruel," he gasps, and she pauses.
"How much more can you take?" she asks, a little concerned.
Loki gives a gurgling laugh, and says, "How much more can you give me?"
Natasha bounces the cat in her hand, and thinks of what she's seen Thor take in the field. If Loki's endurance is anything like his, which she's sure of, then there's little she can do to seriously injure him.
Good.
She hits him again and again, carving vivid red lines into his skin, and Loki sobs, writhing in place. Natasha can barely breathe, the sight of him filling her with savage pleasure; she is soaking wet, exhilarated, and Loki is crying for her, bent over, cock locked up. Crying for her.
Natasha, cruel!
He has no idea how cruel she can be.
She traces the contours of his quivering thighs with the very tips of the cat, relishing his sharp, shallow panting, then runs her hand down the length of the braids, gathering them into a bouquet sprouting six inches from her fingers. Crouching down, she whips his balls without warning, and he screeches, clamping his legs shut. She bites him hard on the delicate skin where his thigh joins his buttock, and he whines before spreading his legs again. Natasha reaches down and tucks the cage out of the way, his pre-come dripping down her fingers.
"You like this, huh?" she teases, and nips him again. Loki shudders, and she pinches the skin of his scrotum between her nails before patting him lightly, then standing.
"Turn around," she commands, and he does, face tear-streaked and puffy, his eyes red, his lips swollen from the pressure of his teeth. Natasha lets the whip drop to the floor, kicks off her shoes, unbuckles her belt. Without a word, she turns and walks to the bedroom, shedding clothes as she goes. There are few things she's certain of when it comes to Loki, but this she knows: he will follow.
Stretching herself out on the bed, naked, Natasha spreads her legs for Loki, hovering the doorway.
"Come on," she invites.
He clambers into bed with her, already sore and made awkward from the whipping, and presses his entire body against her, decorating her chest and upper arms with kisses in half-hysterical passion.
"What do you want of me?" he asks her in a hoarse whisper.
"I want you to fuck me," Natasha orders.
Loki pulls back, bewildered, one hand stealing to the metal cage between his legs. Natasha raises an eyebrow at him.
"How - " he starts, and Natasha cuts him off mid-sentence.
"Use your imagination."
Loki stares at her, then makes a desperate, keening sound and flings himself against her again, his clever fingers finding her clit then slipping lower, thrusting inside her. He is whining and whimpering, tasting her skin, biting her hard and wide-mouthed, scraping his teeth across her breasts; he ruts against her like he really is fucking her, half-insane, his weight and his body and his sheer presence overwhelming Natasha, and then he presses another finger inside her, rubbing her clit with his thumb viciously, and Natasha shouts and comes, her legs scissoring tight around his waist. The minute she's done, she pushes him off her, and Loki crawls back to her, burrowing at her side, his legs splayed wide and his cock bulging against the confines of his cage.
"Please," he begs, and Natasha shakes her head.
"No," she says softly, and Loki screams into her shoulder.
"I hate you," he growls, "I really do, I - "
"I can go get the key right now, if you need me to," she reminds him, and Loki shakes his head violently.
"No, no, don't," he pleads, and Natasha is almost frightened by how thoroughly she's taken him apart. She sits up, and Loki curls into her lap, too tall for it, his limbs gangly. He grips her hard enough to leave deep blackened marks, and shudders against her.
"What have you done to me?" he asks, voice bruised and wondering. "Natasha!"
"Hey," she says, stroking his back, his sides, kissing his head. "Hey, Loki, talk to me, you're okay, you're okay." Aren't you? she doesn't add.
"Of course I'm 'okay'," he snaps. She hasn't heard him use human slang before, and it sounds faintly ludicrous, coming from him. "You think you can undo me so easily?"
His breath hitches, and he goes rigid for a long few seconds; she thinks he's trying not to sob again. Natasha is out of her league. All she can do is cuddle him and hope that her unstable god won't fall apart completely.
Fifteen minutes later, he loosens up, and curls up beside her, still needy but not on the verge of a breakdown. Natasha gets them both water from the kitchen, noting the semen stain on her floor, making a mental note to take care of that tomorrow. Loki sneers at his cup and says something disparaging about tap water; Natasha shrugs. She sees him drinking it out of the corner of her eye when he thinks she's not looking.
Twenty minutes later, they're stretched out on the bed, Loki on his stomach, Natasha on her side. She trails her fingers over the raw red marks she left on his back, barely touching him; the wounds where she broke his skin are already scabbing over. Loki pillows his head on his folded arms and watches her.
Thirty minutes later, Natasha falls asleep. She wakes in the middle of the night to find Loki still in bed with her, his breathing deep and even, his hand palm up on his pillow. She laces their fingers together and cuddles up to his side.
The next morning, she wakes up alone. She stumbles out of bed, bleary-eyed, and finds her kitchen clean, her clothes folded, and the only key to his padlocked cage laid out neatly on the countertop, threaded on a silver chain.
. . .
"I am," Natasha says to Bruce Banner, "in an incredibly stupid relationship that's going to blow up in my face at any moment."
Bruce blinks at her, looking a bit like a cornered animal.
"I'm sorry?" he says hesitantly. "Why are you telling me and not Clint? Or Tony? Or anyone else?"
"Tony can't keep his mouth shut, Steve is too, well…"
"Steve?" Bruce offers. She snorts in agreement.
"Yeah. Thor is out for a lot of reasons - " Just one extremely significant reason, really. "And Clint - " She shakes her head. "I can't tell Clint, either."
"So it's me by process of elimination," Bruce summarizes. There's that note in his voice she's learned to detect, equal parts resigned, angry, and sad. Natasha puts her hand on his arm.
"I trust you," she says, holding his gaze, hoping he sees the truth of her words. She fears the Hulk, but she likes Bruce. "I needed someone to tell, and I thought you were the best option."
Bruce nods a little, thinking this over.
"Well, thanks," he says. "I think. You don't want advice, do you? Because I'm really not the best option for that."
"I know," Natasha says. She sits next to him on his workbench. "I probably wouldn't take it, anyway."
"Well, that's good to know," he says wryly, and she nudges him with her elbow. It took her a long time to become used to casual physical contact with Bruce; now she does it whenever she can. She thinks it makes him feel liked.
"Can I stay?" she asks. He glances at her, startled.
"Uh, sure. I don't know how much of it you'll understand…"
He gestures dubiously to the scrolling equations and chemistry diagrams on the screens; Natasha peers at them, and estimates her understanding to be at about ten percent, fifteen at max.
"I might surprise you," she says, and toys with the key on its chain, suspended around her neck.
. . .
Her phone goes off in the middle of the night, the little trill that indicates a text, and Natasha groans, rolling over and tugging her pillow over her head. Sometimes she really wishes she lived a life that meant she could put her phone on silent.
The phone chirps again, and with a huff, Natasha picks it up. It's an unknown number. That alone would put Natasha on edge - very few people have this number, and she knows all of them - but when she scrolls down to read the actual text, she goes from tense to outright worried.
Need you urgently. usual place
this is no game, I promise you
In her hands, the phone beeps again, and a new text rolls across her screen:
Please
Natasha flings the covers aside and rolls out of bed. There's only one person who would phrase things like that, and even though she didn't think Loki knew how to use a phone, she's not going to ignore him. She nearly gets dressed in her civvies, then pauses; whatever frightens Loki that much is not something she wants to meet unprepared. Though it takes her longer, she wiggles into her bulletproof catsuit, straps her Widow's Bites to her wrists, her guns to her hips, extra ammo tucked in her utility belt. She fastens the red hourglass buckle with a snap, and slinks out the door. Unfortunately, she can't exactly catch a cab in this outfit, but she can steal one of Tony's cars, and she knows how to drive very fast very well. She makes it to the safehouse in record time, and leaves the car parked a few blocks away.
She cases the place, but there is nothing remotely unusual that she can see, so she scales the fire escape and slips in the bathroom window. Quietly taking out her gun, she creeps to the door, crouched low to avoid casting a shadow in the dim glow of the nightlight. She can hear noises, not sobs, but breaths too choked and shaky to be normal, and recognizes them immediately: Loki. She sets her jaw, and crawls into the bedroom, from there into the living room. Whoever has hurt him will regret it very much.
But there is no one there, only Loki, hunched over on the couch, staring down at his hands with wide, blank eyes. Natasha waits, listening for any indication of another presence, and hears nothing.
"Loki?" she asks, and he jumps, curling into himself protectively. Soothingly, she says, "It's just me. It's Natasha."
Loki looks up at her, his stance still wary, and Natasha swallows hard. Gold thread laces his lips, stitching his mouth shut, and she is briefly and horribly reminded of their conversation earlier: "Did they catch you?" "They sewed my lips shut."
"Oh, Loki," she whispers, and goes to his side, wrapping her arms around him. Loki leans against her hard, and there are those noises again, huffing sighs through his nose, flinching each time he nearly opens his mouth and the stitches pull.
"You're all right," she soothes. "I've got you."
Natasha is a problem-solver, not particularly good at comforting people, so she takes his jaw in her hand and turns his face toward her, examining the stitches. Underneath the caked blood, she sees that what she had mistaken for thread is actually wire, thin and grooved, inscribed with writing she can't read. She brushes her thumb across his chin, and holds his gaze, seeing the banked fury in his eyes, tinged with humiliation and fear.
"I'm going to take care of you," she tells him, instilling her tone with every ounce of certainty she has in her system. "Are these enchanted? Is that why you couldn't take them off?"
A nod.
"Will I get hurt when I try to take them off?"
A shake of his head, something strange in his eyes. She kisses his forehead.
"Stay here," she says. "I'm going to get the wire cutters."
She grabs a towel and soaks it in warm water on the way back. When she sits down again, Loki's entire body tenses, and she can tell he's trying not to flinch away from her. Skittish. She's seen this before, knows the feeling; torture is hard to shake off no matter how jaded you are.
Holding up the towel, she says, "I'm going to use this to blot away the blood and soften your skin, okay?" She waits for his nod to press it against his lips, cupping his back of his head with a firm hand. She keeps talking to him, a steady flow of reassurances, stories about her own injuries, jokes too dark for real laughter that take some of the grimness from his eyes nonetheless.
"Okay," she says finally, using the towel to get as much of the dried blood from the wire as she can. "I'm going to start now."
Loki closes his eyes.
Pliers like these aren't meant to be used in such a delicate area, and she catches his lip more than once with the very tip of the edged jaws. Loki winces, and she presses her hand to his chest, murmuring apologies before moving on, carefully snipping the golden wire. At last, it's all been cut, and she pulls each piece out as gently as she can, drawing fresh blood from his wounds and pained noises from Loki's throat. As soon as they're all out, he gasps, opening his mouth wide, and Natasha feels what can only be his magic collect in the air, an electric charge, making her shiver, the hair on her arms standing up. She can see the holes in his lips closing, fresh skin growing over the wounds. It's disconcerting, inhuman, and she has to force herself not to pull away.
When he's finished, Loki holds his fingers to his lips, pressing hard enough to turn the new skin white. Natasha watches him, saying nothing; she doesn't know what he needs, what he's like after trauma. Finally, he laughs, a hoarse, humorless chuckle, and leans his head on her shoulder.
"Depressingly unimaginative," he rasps. "Although I do give them credit for the binding spell; I hadn't thought they could manage it."
"Who are they?" Natasha asks, her voice low and cold. Not directed toward him, of course, but the bastards who thought they could get away with this in the first place.
"A trio of mortal magicians," he explains, and shakes his head ruefully. "I underestimated their recklessness. Had I known, I would have taken more precautions."
"What will you do to them?" She curls her fingers around his wrist, squeezes tightly, giving him an anchor; the trembling he's trying to hide fades somewhat, and he sighs.
"Something unpleasant," he mutters into her shoulder. "Why, do you want to avenge me?"
Natasha huffs a laugh. "It's in the name. Earth isn't the only thing we avenge." Loki lifts his head, suddenly alert; probably the wrong thing to bring up. "Mostly we protect Stark's ego from bruising."
Loki snorts. "Pitiful creature that he is."
Natasha holds her tongue, choosing not to debate the merits of Tony Stark right now. Instead, she strokes her thumb over his pulse point, glancing down to see the blue veins beneath his pale skin, and says, "I need you to tell me what you need right now, okay?"
Loki considers this, looking down at himself. His lip curls fractionally in distaste. "I need to bathe. This is disgusting."
"Yeah," Natasha agrees, raising her eyebrows at his blood-spattered leather and torn shirt. "I'm really glad you said that."
"Wench." He makes as if to slap her on the back of the head, and Natasha ducks the blow easily, pulling him to his feet.
"Hey, that's mean. I'm very insulted!" she says, deadpan.
Loki smirks at her. "Punish me, then."
She recognizes that look, agitated and trying to distract himself from it. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, she says, "Maybe I will," putting as much menace into her voice as she can. Loki laughs, and she tugs him to the bathroom.
"I only have a shower," she says, half in apology, and Loki shrugs.
"It will do," he replies, traces of the arrogant Asgardian prince showing through. Natasha ignores it, and leans back against the wall, watching him as he undresses. Glancing up and finding her still fully clothed, he quirks an eyebrow at her in question.
"I was wondering when you'd get around to it," she says, cool and firm, and steps away from the wall, holding her arms out to the sides. Something softens in his gaze, another layer of tension she had only barely noticed slipping away.
"So demanding," he says, his voice dropping low, and puts his hands to her waist. Slowly, he strokes her sides, running his fingers along her ribs, before unbuckling her belt and draping it carefully over the sink. Taking her zipper between two slim fingers, he pulls it down, the material parting with a hiss. Loki's eyes follow it, chasing every glimpse of her bared skin, and Natasha runs her nails along his arms, enjoying the tiny shiver she coaxes from him.
This isn't about sex, but about comfort, taking solace in the roles they're used to playing. Loki takes the key on its chain from her neck, handling it with unconscious reverence, then goes to his knees, peeling her out of her catsuit and taking off her boots with sure, competent hands. Natasha watches him, smiles at his hesitation when he almost presses a kiss to her calf, changing his mind nearly before he starts the motion. She laces her fingers in his hair and pulls tight until he sighs and rests his head against her thigh.
"I'm going to take care of you," she promises again, and he shudders slightly. "Do you believe me?"
A very long pause, then he murmurs, "Do you know, I think I do," and this time, he does kiss her leg.
In the shower, she cleans the blood from his face, touching the bruises on his torso lightly. Loki makes a face at them, and after another unsettling electric surge, they fade away just as the cuts on his lips did.
"I didn't know you could do that," she remarks, turning around and letting him rub shampoo into her hair. "I've never seen it before."
"I leave the marks you give me," he says offhandedly, and Natasha turns to face him. His hair is slicked back by the water, his skin flushed from the heat. He gives her a quizzical look as she drinks him down, then his eyes flutter shut as she rises on tiptoe and kisses his mouth gently.
"Good," she whispers, and feels him smile against her lips. He wraps his arms around her hips, pulling her close under the spray.
"Occasionally," he says quietly, his breath against her ear, his voice slightly tentative, "you might need to be taken care of as well."
"Yeah," she says, leaning against his chest. "Next time I'm in a scrape, I'll text you."
"You won't need to," he says, and his grip tightens, that dark edge coming into his voice again. "I will know."
"You know I trust you," she tells him, taking a risk, and Loki inhales sharply. She wonders how often he's heard that before, if at all.
"Natasha," he says, and nothing more. He holds her close, his face in her hair, until the water runs cold, and she is happy to stay in his arms.
She doesn't know how she feels about that.
. . .
Natasha wakes to a weight in her bed, arms curled around her waist, and she goes stiff with shock, reaching instinctively to the knife in her bedside table, before she recalls the night before. She relaxes, and Loki presses even closer against her, mouthing at her neck, his teeth just this side of painful. She can feel the cage digging into her thigh, his rocking hips as he arches against her, unaware of his movements.
"Afraid of me?" he murmurs, his voice hoarse from sleep. Natasha likes how it sounds.
"Should I be?" she asks in reply, and stretches, arms above her head, before she rolls to lie on her back, able to see Loki.
"Always the games," he says. He sounds pleased, and maybe a little wistful. "No, you need not fear me, not now."
"That's what I thought," she says, and props herself up on her elbows. Loki remains down, his head on the pillows, and she catches his jaw in a firm grip before kissing him, hard and insistent, her hair falling around them. Loki yields to her, opening his mouth, his hand sliding up to cup the nape of her neck. She runs her tongue along the curve of his teeth, giving no quarter, catching his throat in her hand and squeezing gently. His fingers tighten on her neck, and he muffles his moan in her mouth. Against his lips, Natasha smiles, leans away, relishing his glassy-eyed arousal, the contentment evident in the languid lines of his body.
"Oh," he breathes, licking his lips. Natasha parts them with her finger and strokes his tongue with the tip of her nail; Loki's lips curve, and he closes his eyes, sucks lightly until Natasha pulls away, drawing a light trail down his chin with his saliva. Marking him.
Her chest is tight, the smile on her face stubbornly refusing to leave, and she wants to kiss him again, to see bruises blooming on that fair skin, to have him kneeling at her feet, obedient, a hailstorm contained by her commands - to make him hers, wholly hers. She wants. It's never safe to want.
Loki opens his eyes, and she bites back those thoughts and says instead, "How are you feeling?"
"Fine." Loki blinks at her, his eyes wide and clear, the picture of innocence. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Oh, I don't know, possibly the torture from last night?"
"Torture?" Loki's innocent face is twisted by a sardonic sneer. "I've had worse."
"So have I," Natasha points out. A flicker of distress in his eyes before he glances away, she sees, and she wonders. "Still would call it torture."
Loki heaves a dramatic sigh, and shrugs. "If you insist, Natasha." He shifts, turning onto his side, draping an arm around her waist and pulling her close before nipping at her bare breast. Natasha leans into his touch. "I promise you I have made a speedy recovery from my heinous experiences of the night before."
Under the sarcasm, he's telling the truth, she thinks. Understandable; people like them learn to move on from these things. Natasha cradles his head in her hand as he sucks hard on her nipple, runs his hands along her hips, her thighs, her stomach, caressing her body as if smoothing lotion over her skin, determined to touch every last inch. In response, Natasha nudges his cock in its cage with her knee, and his fingers on her leg spasm.
"You know, you do look recovered," she says, a laugh caught in her throat, and with a little shove she gets him flat on his back. "I'm glad."
"Maybe you should show me just how glad you are," he purrs, his eyes half-lidded, and reaches for her. She twists away from him, and leans down, lifting the cage and baring his balls. Before Loki manages much more than her name, spoken in a shocked and pleased whisper, she nuzzles the soft skin, tracing the rim of the cock ring with her tongue, using her teeth ever so gently as his cock swells and hardens, constrained in its cage.
"Natasha," he protests, his voice going breathy when she licks his slit through the steel bars, sucking on the bare patches of skin.
"Comfortable?" she teases, and he groans.
"It's been three weeks," he says petulantly, whining and well aware of it. Natasha nips him in reply, right where his groin meets his thigh, and he twitches. "What more do you want of me?"
"Ask nicely," she orders, and he gives her a obstinate look, his lips pressing tightly together. "You're a brat, you know that?"
Loki half-rises, looking deeply offended, but Natasha straddles him in one swift move, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him flat again, leaning over him so her breasts brush his chest, and the irritation fades from his eyes. Quickly.
"You like it," he breathes, and Natasha grins.
"I do," she says. "Or you'd know it, trust me."
Then she proceeds to take him apart.
Natasha is an expert at sensuality, and she takes full advantage of her years of experience, using not just her mouth and hands but the weight of her body, the feather-light touch of her hair, stroking his pressure points and seeking out all of his most sensitive spots with her nails. She knows them well by now, something both unnerving and pleasing to think about. Loki writhes under her ministrations, gasping, and Natasha whispers in his ear, "Ask nicely."
Loki gives a breathless little laugh, and arches helplessly against her.
"Must I?" he asks, and twines his fingers in her hair. "You must know - "
"I told you to ask nicely," she repeats, and deliberately spreads her legs, rocking herself against his caged cock, smearing her wetness along the steel; the texture feels fantastic, catching her clit nearly perfectly, and she hums in pleasure. "Or maybe I'll just do it like this. It feels pretty good, you know."
"You're awful," he says delightedly, tugging hard at her hair, and moans loudly when she gyrates against him again. "Simply - awful, Natasha, I - "
"Yes?" she goads, tasting his skin, focusing on the way he trembles, his muscles spasming involuntarily, her rhythm rapidly building pleasure deep inside her.
He grins, his head tilted back, throat bared, vulnerable, weak, and asks, teasingly, "Do you love me, Natasha?"
She freezes, and he cranes his neck to look at her.
"Oh," he says, shocked. "Oh. You do."
"What makes you think so?" she manages. His words cut her, threw her off-kilter, but she is a spy and a consummate actress, and her voice is steady, lightly curious, a carefree inquiry. Loki sees right through it.
"Many things," he replies, catching her by the hips as she tries to pull away, his fingers digging deep into the muscle. "People are so transparent, so very easy to read. Even you, at times. My only question is why."
"Why?" she echoes, ceasing her attempts at escaping and instead staying very still, outwardly composed.
"Yes, why."
She shakes her head, denying it, but he looks at her thoughtfully, studying her with a dawning light in his eyes, a man who has finally found the missing variable in an unsolvable equation.
"Oh, I like this," he says decisively. "No, don't tell me; allow me to guess."
"Loki," she says softly, refusing to plead, but he overrides her.
"What is love, to one such as you?" he muses, watching her with a keen stare, cold enjoyment. "Surely more than the exchange of fluids, the bestial writhing of two bodies in the night."
She looks away, says nothing.
"Perhaps you like to think of yourself as my savior," he continues, a cat stalking a spider. "A guiding light to lead me from the void into the tender embrace of the good and the righteous. Is that a balm for your calloused heart, Natasha? The thought that perhaps you might do for me what Barton so kindly did for you?"
"Yeah, that's why I did it," she snaps, and twists hard away from him, but his is the strength of a god, and she remains where she is, trapped. "That's why this whole thing started. But that's not love, that's wiping out the red."
"So naive," he murmurs, his eyes sharp. "To think the deeds of evil men can be washed clean so easily."
"You're deliberately misinterpreting me," she accuses, and he gives her a narrow look.
"And that's not love, not for you," he continues, ignoring her, and tugs her a little closer. "Of course not. Our little games of master and slave aside, you much prefer equitability; the thought of being a shepherd to a lost sheep frightens you."
"Are you admitting you're lost?" she asks, her words striking him in the heart as she knew they would. Loki doesn't move, doesn't give any indication she's affected him, but his mocking, patronizing shield drops, something rawer and darker showing in his eyes.
"Perhaps," he admits. He shifts, licks his lips. "Is that it, then? Vulnerability? Ah, but that you have never once shown me, despite what I have given to you, and if this between us is love, Natasha, it must go both ways."
"What do you think this is?" she snarls, and bites her lip hard, so hard. She feels as if a passing breeze could make her bleed.
His voice had been bitter, harsh; now he cocks his head, that quicksilver anger fading, considering.
"I think you love me," he finally decides.
"Love is for children," she whispers.
"From where I stand, Natasha," Loki says softly, "you are very much a child."
"Stop playing games with me!"
Her voice is a hiss, full of anger and fear, the first true crack in her armor she's ever shown him. Loki jerks back, his eyes going wide and his grip loosening; she scrambles from the bed and stands there, hands clenched into fists. This is too frightening, she's too defenseless; if she admits what she feels, that makes it real, and she doesn't know if she can take that. Not if this is what she gets in return: scorn, derision, humiliation.
"Games," Loki says, still in that same, soft tone. He shakes his head slightly, a thousand thoughts flickering across his face, too quickly for Natasha to read, but his smile leans tender. He holds out his hand to her, beseeching. "I am a creature of mischief, Natasha. As surely as the thread of wyrd is spun, so I create chaos; so I play games. It is in my nature."
She waits, listening. He takes a deep breath.
"For you," he says, "I can stop."
Natasha, torn between standing her ground and running for the comfortable weight of her gun in her hand, feels her heart jolt. She stares at him, taken aback. "What?"
"For you," Loki says steadily, "I will stop. I will give you my oath to treat with you honestly. I shall not toy with you, I shall not use and discard you. This I will swear, if you ask it of me."
"You're serious," she says. As far as she can tell, Loki is; his hand is still held out to her, a trace of fear in his eyes, hidden under a veil of calm.
"Yes," he says. "I am."
Again she looks away. "I play games, too."
"It would be boring if you didn't," he points out, and she smiles unwillingly.
"I guess so," she says. She looks down. "You'd seriously give that up. For me."
"Not happily," he says with a shrug, candid. "But yes, I would." With a wave of his hand, he adds, "A mortal lifetime is nothing to a god."
"Wow, that was really sweet for a second," she mutters to herself, a smile tugging at her lips. Loki catches it, and sighs in triumph.
"So?" he asks. Natasha considers him, thinks of what she had told Bruce: it's going to blow up in my face at any moment.
S.H.I.E.L.D. could have arrested her the instant she took Clint's hand. When the Black Widow kissed the Winter Soldier for the first time, he easily could have killed her, turned her in to their handlers, strung her along to see if she'd crack. She sold herself to the Red Room to save the life of someone she loved. Natasha's life may have been constructed by others, but it all hinges on the decisions she makes for herself, the risks she's willing to take.
When Loki appeared in her flat, she didn't shoot him.
"You don't need to swear," she says. "I believe you."
Loki blinks in surprise, a pleased glow flushing his cheeks. He doesn't try to hide it. "Do you?"
"Yeah." In two quick moves she's on the bed again, kneeling over him in imitation of her earlier position. "Because you can't lie to me."
"Is that a challenge?" he asks, and his voice breaks on the last syllable, his eyes fluttering shut as she grips his throat.
"Did I say can't?" she inquires archly. "I mean you won't."
Of this, she is certain, and Loki smiles, a small, quiet smile.
"No, I won't," he promises, and then, just as she expected, that smile takes on a cunning gleam. "For now."
Good enough, Natasha thinks, satisfied, and leans down to kiss him. To prove her point, she digs her teeth into Loki's lip, and he sighs and trembles beneath her.
Perfect.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Natasha/Loki
Summary: The first time she sees Loki again, Natasha nearly puts a bullet in his skull. The second time, he threatens to kill her. By the third time, she has him on his knees and begging for her touch, and what's more, he likes it.
Content Notes: D/s, sadism/masochism, orgasm control, chastity devices, whipping, H/c, brief discussion of suicide (full policy in profile)
Word Count: ~15800 (total)
Author's Notes: My working summary for this fic was "Natasha and Loki find True Love via kink," and that still is pretty much what this is.
Part 1
Loki is waiting for her in the dark when she arrives, naked, perched on the kitchen counter, sipping on wine she knows she didn't buy. Natasha drops her bag on the floor and leans against the wall, taking him in. He walks the line between handsome and beautiful, and it's most obvious when he's like this, so slim, all angles and shadows, his long hair dark and spilling over his shoulders, hiding his face like a gossamer curtain. He holds the stem of the wineglass carefully, almost delicately, and Natasha suddenly remembers those fingers curled into a fist, slamming against the reinforced glass of his cell. In her mind, there's a distinct disconnect between that monster in his chains and the man sitting here now. She wonders if he feels it, too.
"Do you ever think about the Chitauri invasion?" she asks him, and he glances at her, just the tiniest twitch of his head.
"All the time," he says.
"Do you regret it?"
This time Loki brushes his hair out of his eyes and turns toward her, his eyes glowing in the dim light.
"Yes," he tells her, and she reads his dejection in the set of his shoulders, the sorrow in the whiteness around his pursed lips.
"Should I believe you?"
He laughs. "I don't know, should you?"
Always the games. Natasha picks up her bag and stalks into the kitchen, flicking on the light as she goes. She stands before him and spreads his knees, stepping into the triangle of his legs. Loki looks at her calmly, a thread of anticipation in the quirk of his mouth.
"Do you still want to die?" she inquires, and he goes very still.
"I still want you to kill me," he corrects, and that difference is not lost on Natasha. She wants to push him, to make him tell her more, but resists.
Instead, she says, "I promised you punishment, earlier." His eyes grow dark, his pupils dilating with desire. "And a gift."
"You'd think those would be contradictory," he says, watching her hungrily as Natasha takes a few items from her bag, places them on the counter. A velvet box, about five inches by four - his gift - a blindfold, and a nine-tailed whip, made of matte black leather with red strands laced through the braids.
"Mortification of the flesh," Loki murmurs, drawing out the sibilant. "I take it this is my punishment?"
"Clever boy," Natasha says approvingly, and he flinches, a flush on his high cheekbones. Embarrassment or arousal? Both, Natasha decides.
"And my gift?" he asks after a moment, clearing his throat.
This, Natasha was unsure of. Her instincts told her yes, though, and she usually listens to them. Taking the box from the counter, she opens it, and presents its contents to Loki. He stares for a long time, then picks up his gift, handling its component pieces carefully.
"Do you know what it is?" she asks him, realizing belatedly that they might not have this kind of thing where he comes from.
"Oh, yes," he says, and his voice has gone a little breathy. Natasha watches him avidly. "There is no such thing on Asgard. We see no need to police passion in such a manner."
"Sucks for you," she says. Loki is hypnotized by the steel bars of the cage, the silver padlock attached to the ring. Natasha clicks her tongue, getting his attention, and holds out her hand for the cage. He places it in her palm mutely. "Want to put it on now?"
Loki looks at her silently, helplessly, and for all that she's cut him, ridden him, threatened him with death, and ordered him not to come, she has never seen him look as exposed as this.
"Well," she says, giving him an out, "I want to, and I guess that's what matters, isn't it?"
Carefully, Natasha lifts his flaccid cock and balls, tucking the ring behind them, adjusting it in the front so his skin won't get caught in the clasp. Loki is staring down at her hands with his mouth hanging open; Natasha smirks. As she starts to fit the cage around him, though, his cock stiffens, flushing faintly red, and now she frowns.
"This is defeating the purpose," she points out, and Loki grips the counter's edge so tightly his knuckles whiten.
"I know," he says in a tight voice. "I'm - "
He breaks off, and Natasha raises her eyebrows.
"Were you going to say sorry?" She slaps his cock lightly, and Loki makes a little yipping noise and tries to scoot away from her. There's nowhere for him to go, and she does it again, a sharp tap with the back of her hand. "Because if you weren't, I don't think you deserve this."
"Damn you, whore," he hisses, and shoves her away with his foot. Natasha stumbles, and nearly loses her temper, real insults rising in her throat. She glares at Loki, and he meets her gaze with the same angry intensity, but behind that rage is…something else. Natasha narrows her eyes thoughtfully, and rethinks her method of attack.
"Lucky for you," she continues, as if that interlude never happened, "I don't hand things out based on what you deserve. I do it based on need." He's let her move closer again, so she's standing right where she was before, inches from his body. "And you do need this, don't you, Loki?" She runs her finger up the underside of his straining cock.
"Yes," he says, his voice low and hoarse, his entire body tense as if he's trying to keep as still as possible.
"Then fix this." Natasha nods at his erection.
Slowly, Loki wraps his fingers around his cock, pumping it once, twice, swirling his thumb over the tip with a small gasp. Natasha braces her hands on either side of his spread legs, watching his cock change in color from flushed pink to urgent red, the gleam of the loose cock ring nestled at the base, still waiting for the lock; she can feel his eyes on her face, gauging her reaction. Peering up at him, she meets his gaze and licks her lips deliberately, and leans down to grace the head of his cock with a little kiss. Loki mutters something fervent in a foreign language, and speeds his movements, making little animal noises in the back of his throat. Natasha steps back just in time to miss the spurt of his semen as he comes, curling in on himself.
"You'll have to clean that up later," she tells him, annoyed.
"Menial labor is for thralls," he says disdainfully. The effect is ruined a little by the shakiness of his voice. "And whatever I am to you, Natasha Romanoff, I am not your thrall."
"Slavery isn't my thing," she says, and leans in close, invading his personal space. "But you're still mine."
It feels good to let the words that have been haunting her mind finally spill from her tongue. Loki meets her eyes, not agreeing, but not disapproving, either. Natasha touches his face, runs two fingers along the steep angle of his jaw, along his lips; he shuts his eyes, kisses her fingertips, inclines his head. Yes.
"Good," she murmurs, and kisses him lightly on the lips. He seems caught between leaning closer and pushing her away, so she takes the decision away from him and goes to the sink, pulling two clean dish towels from the drawer. Running the faucet at the sink, she soaks one towel with warm water before coming back to him.
"And what is this?" he asks her, and she answers him by dabbing at his cock, cleaning him off with gentle hands.
"You have no idea how disgusting it can get if you don't keep these things clean," she says, jerking her head to indicate the cage. "I'll have to show you the best ways to do it later."
"I am a fastidious man. I'm sure I can manage," he says dryly. Natasha smiles, her face warm. After a pause, as she dries him off, he asks, "Do you do this often?"
"Do you want to be special, Loki?"
She means it as a joke, a callback to one of their earlier conversations, but as she picks up the cage to slip it back on, he stops her, looping his fingers loosely around her wrists.
"I want to kill every man you've touched before me," he enunciates. "And every man you will touch after me. I would see them all burn, and have you to myself."
Natasha opens her mouth, and finds no words. Loki releases her and leans back, inscrutable. She looks down at the cage in her hand. A lot of men have said similar things to her in the past, but she's not sure if any of them meant it as much as Loki does.
"Spread your legs," she orders. Loki exhales, tension leaving his body, and obeys. Natasha considers who he is, who she is, this whole situation, and acknowledges that she is being an idiot. She slides the cage on, wiggling it to seat his cock comfortably inside, and connects it to the cock ring. Picking up the padlock, she slips it through the part where they join, and clamps it shut. It clicks with a sense of finality, and she draws back to study Loki's reaction.
He touches the cage lightly, skimming his index finger along the smooth bars, chewing his lip every time he touches skin.
"Loki," Natasha says. Just his name, but he reacts like it's an order, and the look on his face cuts her to the quick. Torn between laughing and crying, delight and fear in his furrowed brow, his parted lips begging for her touch. If Natasha were a different kind of woman, she would swoon. Instead, she picks up the cat o' nine tails, and lets the knotted braids slither through her fingers.
"Ah," Loki sighs. "The carrot and the whip. I see how this goes."
"You did ask for punishment," she reminds him. He gives her a small smile, and jumps off the counter, turning on the spot and bracing himself against it. She chuckles. "You're leaping ahead a little there, aren't you?"
"Would you have me any other way?" he asks, cheeky. Natasha shrugs, smiles, knowing full well he can't see her, and drags the tips of the cat o' nine across his back. Loki shivers, and almost hides how he arches into the caress.
"This isn't going to be nice," she forewarns. "It's not going to be sexy. I chose this whip because it hurts."
"No games," he whispers. "Yes, Natasha. I understand."
Natasha bites her lip, draws back her arm, and brings the cat whistling down on his back.
She wasn't lying when she said it would hurt; this is a whip meant to draw blood, and the first blow leaves livid red lines, running diagonally across Loki's back. He cries out, and she kicks his legs apart, baring the gleam of the silver cage dangling there, before striking him again. This time Loki muffles his shriek in his fist, biting his knuckles hard, but when she whips him again, and a fourth time, he has to grasp the counter for support, pressing his forehead to the laminate, gulping down air in between his cries.
"I can hear you," she sing-songs, and delivers three bruising blows in quick succession. Loki screams, contorting his body to avoid the sting of the whip, but Natasha is merciless; she circles to his side, and lashes him again.
"Please, Natasha, cruel," he gasps, and she pauses.
"How much more can you take?" she asks, a little concerned.
Loki gives a gurgling laugh, and says, "How much more can you give me?"
Natasha bounces the cat in her hand, and thinks of what she's seen Thor take in the field. If Loki's endurance is anything like his, which she's sure of, then there's little she can do to seriously injure him.
Good.
She hits him again and again, carving vivid red lines into his skin, and Loki sobs, writhing in place. Natasha can barely breathe, the sight of him filling her with savage pleasure; she is soaking wet, exhilarated, and Loki is crying for her, bent over, cock locked up. Crying for her.
Natasha, cruel!
He has no idea how cruel she can be.
She traces the contours of his quivering thighs with the very tips of the cat, relishing his sharp, shallow panting, then runs her hand down the length of the braids, gathering them into a bouquet sprouting six inches from her fingers. Crouching down, she whips his balls without warning, and he screeches, clamping his legs shut. She bites him hard on the delicate skin where his thigh joins his buttock, and he whines before spreading his legs again. Natasha reaches down and tucks the cage out of the way, his pre-come dripping down her fingers.
"You like this, huh?" she teases, and nips him again. Loki shudders, and she pinches the skin of his scrotum between her nails before patting him lightly, then standing.
"Turn around," she commands, and he does, face tear-streaked and puffy, his eyes red, his lips swollen from the pressure of his teeth. Natasha lets the whip drop to the floor, kicks off her shoes, unbuckles her belt. Without a word, she turns and walks to the bedroom, shedding clothes as she goes. There are few things she's certain of when it comes to Loki, but this she knows: he will follow.
Stretching herself out on the bed, naked, Natasha spreads her legs for Loki, hovering the doorway.
"Come on," she invites.
He clambers into bed with her, already sore and made awkward from the whipping, and presses his entire body against her, decorating her chest and upper arms with kisses in half-hysterical passion.
"What do you want of me?" he asks her in a hoarse whisper.
"I want you to fuck me," Natasha orders.
Loki pulls back, bewildered, one hand stealing to the metal cage between his legs. Natasha raises an eyebrow at him.
"How - " he starts, and Natasha cuts him off mid-sentence.
"Use your imagination."
Loki stares at her, then makes a desperate, keening sound and flings himself against her again, his clever fingers finding her clit then slipping lower, thrusting inside her. He is whining and whimpering, tasting her skin, biting her hard and wide-mouthed, scraping his teeth across her breasts; he ruts against her like he really is fucking her, half-insane, his weight and his body and his sheer presence overwhelming Natasha, and then he presses another finger inside her, rubbing her clit with his thumb viciously, and Natasha shouts and comes, her legs scissoring tight around his waist. The minute she's done, she pushes him off her, and Loki crawls back to her, burrowing at her side, his legs splayed wide and his cock bulging against the confines of his cage.
"Please," he begs, and Natasha shakes her head.
"No," she says softly, and Loki screams into her shoulder.
"I hate you," he growls, "I really do, I - "
"I can go get the key right now, if you need me to," she reminds him, and Loki shakes his head violently.
"No, no, don't," he pleads, and Natasha is almost frightened by how thoroughly she's taken him apart. She sits up, and Loki curls into her lap, too tall for it, his limbs gangly. He grips her hard enough to leave deep blackened marks, and shudders against her.
"What have you done to me?" he asks, voice bruised and wondering. "Natasha!"
"Hey," she says, stroking his back, his sides, kissing his head. "Hey, Loki, talk to me, you're okay, you're okay." Aren't you? she doesn't add.
"Of course I'm 'okay'," he snaps. She hasn't heard him use human slang before, and it sounds faintly ludicrous, coming from him. "You think you can undo me so easily?"
His breath hitches, and he goes rigid for a long few seconds; she thinks he's trying not to sob again. Natasha is out of her league. All she can do is cuddle him and hope that her unstable god won't fall apart completely.
Fifteen minutes later, he loosens up, and curls up beside her, still needy but not on the verge of a breakdown. Natasha gets them both water from the kitchen, noting the semen stain on her floor, making a mental note to take care of that tomorrow. Loki sneers at his cup and says something disparaging about tap water; Natasha shrugs. She sees him drinking it out of the corner of her eye when he thinks she's not looking.
Twenty minutes later, they're stretched out on the bed, Loki on his stomach, Natasha on her side. She trails her fingers over the raw red marks she left on his back, barely touching him; the wounds where she broke his skin are already scabbing over. Loki pillows his head on his folded arms and watches her.
Thirty minutes later, Natasha falls asleep. She wakes in the middle of the night to find Loki still in bed with her, his breathing deep and even, his hand palm up on his pillow. She laces their fingers together and cuddles up to his side.
The next morning, she wakes up alone. She stumbles out of bed, bleary-eyed, and finds her kitchen clean, her clothes folded, and the only key to his padlocked cage laid out neatly on the countertop, threaded on a silver chain.
. . .
"I am," Natasha says to Bruce Banner, "in an incredibly stupid relationship that's going to blow up in my face at any moment."
Bruce blinks at her, looking a bit like a cornered animal.
"I'm sorry?" he says hesitantly. "Why are you telling me and not Clint? Or Tony? Or anyone else?"
"Tony can't keep his mouth shut, Steve is too, well…"
"Steve?" Bruce offers. She snorts in agreement.
"Yeah. Thor is out for a lot of reasons - " Just one extremely significant reason, really. "And Clint - " She shakes her head. "I can't tell Clint, either."
"So it's me by process of elimination," Bruce summarizes. There's that note in his voice she's learned to detect, equal parts resigned, angry, and sad. Natasha puts her hand on his arm.
"I trust you," she says, holding his gaze, hoping he sees the truth of her words. She fears the Hulk, but she likes Bruce. "I needed someone to tell, and I thought you were the best option."
Bruce nods a little, thinking this over.
"Well, thanks," he says. "I think. You don't want advice, do you? Because I'm really not the best option for that."
"I know," Natasha says. She sits next to him on his workbench. "I probably wouldn't take it, anyway."
"Well, that's good to know," he says wryly, and she nudges him with her elbow. It took her a long time to become used to casual physical contact with Bruce; now she does it whenever she can. She thinks it makes him feel liked.
"Can I stay?" she asks. He glances at her, startled.
"Uh, sure. I don't know how much of it you'll understand…"
He gestures dubiously to the scrolling equations and chemistry diagrams on the screens; Natasha peers at them, and estimates her understanding to be at about ten percent, fifteen at max.
"I might surprise you," she says, and toys with the key on its chain, suspended around her neck.
. . .
Her phone goes off in the middle of the night, the little trill that indicates a text, and Natasha groans, rolling over and tugging her pillow over her head. Sometimes she really wishes she lived a life that meant she could put her phone on silent.
The phone chirps again, and with a huff, Natasha picks it up. It's an unknown number. That alone would put Natasha on edge - very few people have this number, and she knows all of them - but when she scrolls down to read the actual text, she goes from tense to outright worried.
Need you urgently. usual place
this is no game, I promise you
In her hands, the phone beeps again, and a new text rolls across her screen:
Please
Natasha flings the covers aside and rolls out of bed. There's only one person who would phrase things like that, and even though she didn't think Loki knew how to use a phone, she's not going to ignore him. She nearly gets dressed in her civvies, then pauses; whatever frightens Loki that much is not something she wants to meet unprepared. Though it takes her longer, she wiggles into her bulletproof catsuit, straps her Widow's Bites to her wrists, her guns to her hips, extra ammo tucked in her utility belt. She fastens the red hourglass buckle with a snap, and slinks out the door. Unfortunately, she can't exactly catch a cab in this outfit, but she can steal one of Tony's cars, and she knows how to drive very fast very well. She makes it to the safehouse in record time, and leaves the car parked a few blocks away.
She cases the place, but there is nothing remotely unusual that she can see, so she scales the fire escape and slips in the bathroom window. Quietly taking out her gun, she creeps to the door, crouched low to avoid casting a shadow in the dim glow of the nightlight. She can hear noises, not sobs, but breaths too choked and shaky to be normal, and recognizes them immediately: Loki. She sets her jaw, and crawls into the bedroom, from there into the living room. Whoever has hurt him will regret it very much.
But there is no one there, only Loki, hunched over on the couch, staring down at his hands with wide, blank eyes. Natasha waits, listening for any indication of another presence, and hears nothing.
"Loki?" she asks, and he jumps, curling into himself protectively. Soothingly, she says, "It's just me. It's Natasha."
Loki looks up at her, his stance still wary, and Natasha swallows hard. Gold thread laces his lips, stitching his mouth shut, and she is briefly and horribly reminded of their conversation earlier: "Did they catch you?" "They sewed my lips shut."
"Oh, Loki," she whispers, and goes to his side, wrapping her arms around him. Loki leans against her hard, and there are those noises again, huffing sighs through his nose, flinching each time he nearly opens his mouth and the stitches pull.
"You're all right," she soothes. "I've got you."
Natasha is a problem-solver, not particularly good at comforting people, so she takes his jaw in her hand and turns his face toward her, examining the stitches. Underneath the caked blood, she sees that what she had mistaken for thread is actually wire, thin and grooved, inscribed with writing she can't read. She brushes her thumb across his chin, and holds his gaze, seeing the banked fury in his eyes, tinged with humiliation and fear.
"I'm going to take care of you," she tells him, instilling her tone with every ounce of certainty she has in her system. "Are these enchanted? Is that why you couldn't take them off?"
A nod.
"Will I get hurt when I try to take them off?"
A shake of his head, something strange in his eyes. She kisses his forehead.
"Stay here," she says. "I'm going to get the wire cutters."
She grabs a towel and soaks it in warm water on the way back. When she sits down again, Loki's entire body tenses, and she can tell he's trying not to flinch away from her. Skittish. She's seen this before, knows the feeling; torture is hard to shake off no matter how jaded you are.
Holding up the towel, she says, "I'm going to use this to blot away the blood and soften your skin, okay?" She waits for his nod to press it against his lips, cupping his back of his head with a firm hand. She keeps talking to him, a steady flow of reassurances, stories about her own injuries, jokes too dark for real laughter that take some of the grimness from his eyes nonetheless.
"Okay," she says finally, using the towel to get as much of the dried blood from the wire as she can. "I'm going to start now."
Loki closes his eyes.
Pliers like these aren't meant to be used in such a delicate area, and she catches his lip more than once with the very tip of the edged jaws. Loki winces, and she presses her hand to his chest, murmuring apologies before moving on, carefully snipping the golden wire. At last, it's all been cut, and she pulls each piece out as gently as she can, drawing fresh blood from his wounds and pained noises from Loki's throat. As soon as they're all out, he gasps, opening his mouth wide, and Natasha feels what can only be his magic collect in the air, an electric charge, making her shiver, the hair on her arms standing up. She can see the holes in his lips closing, fresh skin growing over the wounds. It's disconcerting, inhuman, and she has to force herself not to pull away.
When he's finished, Loki holds his fingers to his lips, pressing hard enough to turn the new skin white. Natasha watches him, saying nothing; she doesn't know what he needs, what he's like after trauma. Finally, he laughs, a hoarse, humorless chuckle, and leans his head on her shoulder.
"Depressingly unimaginative," he rasps. "Although I do give them credit for the binding spell; I hadn't thought they could manage it."
"Who are they?" Natasha asks, her voice low and cold. Not directed toward him, of course, but the bastards who thought they could get away with this in the first place.
"A trio of mortal magicians," he explains, and shakes his head ruefully. "I underestimated their recklessness. Had I known, I would have taken more precautions."
"What will you do to them?" She curls her fingers around his wrist, squeezes tightly, giving him an anchor; the trembling he's trying to hide fades somewhat, and he sighs.
"Something unpleasant," he mutters into her shoulder. "Why, do you want to avenge me?"
Natasha huffs a laugh. "It's in the name. Earth isn't the only thing we avenge." Loki lifts his head, suddenly alert; probably the wrong thing to bring up. "Mostly we protect Stark's ego from bruising."
Loki snorts. "Pitiful creature that he is."
Natasha holds her tongue, choosing not to debate the merits of Tony Stark right now. Instead, she strokes her thumb over his pulse point, glancing down to see the blue veins beneath his pale skin, and says, "I need you to tell me what you need right now, okay?"
Loki considers this, looking down at himself. His lip curls fractionally in distaste. "I need to bathe. This is disgusting."
"Yeah," Natasha agrees, raising her eyebrows at his blood-spattered leather and torn shirt. "I'm really glad you said that."
"Wench." He makes as if to slap her on the back of the head, and Natasha ducks the blow easily, pulling him to his feet.
"Hey, that's mean. I'm very insulted!" she says, deadpan.
Loki smirks at her. "Punish me, then."
She recognizes that look, agitated and trying to distract himself from it. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, she says, "Maybe I will," putting as much menace into her voice as she can. Loki laughs, and she tugs him to the bathroom.
"I only have a shower," she says, half in apology, and Loki shrugs.
"It will do," he replies, traces of the arrogant Asgardian prince showing through. Natasha ignores it, and leans back against the wall, watching him as he undresses. Glancing up and finding her still fully clothed, he quirks an eyebrow at her in question.
"I was wondering when you'd get around to it," she says, cool and firm, and steps away from the wall, holding her arms out to the sides. Something softens in his gaze, another layer of tension she had only barely noticed slipping away.
"So demanding," he says, his voice dropping low, and puts his hands to her waist. Slowly, he strokes her sides, running his fingers along her ribs, before unbuckling her belt and draping it carefully over the sink. Taking her zipper between two slim fingers, he pulls it down, the material parting with a hiss. Loki's eyes follow it, chasing every glimpse of her bared skin, and Natasha runs her nails along his arms, enjoying the tiny shiver she coaxes from him.
This isn't about sex, but about comfort, taking solace in the roles they're used to playing. Loki takes the key on its chain from her neck, handling it with unconscious reverence, then goes to his knees, peeling her out of her catsuit and taking off her boots with sure, competent hands. Natasha watches him, smiles at his hesitation when he almost presses a kiss to her calf, changing his mind nearly before he starts the motion. She laces her fingers in his hair and pulls tight until he sighs and rests his head against her thigh.
"I'm going to take care of you," she promises again, and he shudders slightly. "Do you believe me?"
A very long pause, then he murmurs, "Do you know, I think I do," and this time, he does kiss her leg.
In the shower, she cleans the blood from his face, touching the bruises on his torso lightly. Loki makes a face at them, and after another unsettling electric surge, they fade away just as the cuts on his lips did.
"I didn't know you could do that," she remarks, turning around and letting him rub shampoo into her hair. "I've never seen it before."
"I leave the marks you give me," he says offhandedly, and Natasha turns to face him. His hair is slicked back by the water, his skin flushed from the heat. He gives her a quizzical look as she drinks him down, then his eyes flutter shut as she rises on tiptoe and kisses his mouth gently.
"Good," she whispers, and feels him smile against her lips. He wraps his arms around her hips, pulling her close under the spray.
"Occasionally," he says quietly, his breath against her ear, his voice slightly tentative, "you might need to be taken care of as well."
"Yeah," she says, leaning against his chest. "Next time I'm in a scrape, I'll text you."
"You won't need to," he says, and his grip tightens, that dark edge coming into his voice again. "I will know."
"You know I trust you," she tells him, taking a risk, and Loki inhales sharply. She wonders how often he's heard that before, if at all.
"Natasha," he says, and nothing more. He holds her close, his face in her hair, until the water runs cold, and she is happy to stay in his arms.
She doesn't know how she feels about that.
. . .
Natasha wakes to a weight in her bed, arms curled around her waist, and she goes stiff with shock, reaching instinctively to the knife in her bedside table, before she recalls the night before. She relaxes, and Loki presses even closer against her, mouthing at her neck, his teeth just this side of painful. She can feel the cage digging into her thigh, his rocking hips as he arches against her, unaware of his movements.
"Afraid of me?" he murmurs, his voice hoarse from sleep. Natasha likes how it sounds.
"Should I be?" she asks in reply, and stretches, arms above her head, before she rolls to lie on her back, able to see Loki.
"Always the games," he says. He sounds pleased, and maybe a little wistful. "No, you need not fear me, not now."
"That's what I thought," she says, and props herself up on her elbows. Loki remains down, his head on the pillows, and she catches his jaw in a firm grip before kissing him, hard and insistent, her hair falling around them. Loki yields to her, opening his mouth, his hand sliding up to cup the nape of her neck. She runs her tongue along the curve of his teeth, giving no quarter, catching his throat in her hand and squeezing gently. His fingers tighten on her neck, and he muffles his moan in her mouth. Against his lips, Natasha smiles, leans away, relishing his glassy-eyed arousal, the contentment evident in the languid lines of his body.
"Oh," he breathes, licking his lips. Natasha parts them with her finger and strokes his tongue with the tip of her nail; Loki's lips curve, and he closes his eyes, sucks lightly until Natasha pulls away, drawing a light trail down his chin with his saliva. Marking him.
Her chest is tight, the smile on her face stubbornly refusing to leave, and she wants to kiss him again, to see bruises blooming on that fair skin, to have him kneeling at her feet, obedient, a hailstorm contained by her commands - to make him hers, wholly hers. She wants. It's never safe to want.
Loki opens his eyes, and she bites back those thoughts and says instead, "How are you feeling?"
"Fine." Loki blinks at her, his eyes wide and clear, the picture of innocence. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Oh, I don't know, possibly the torture from last night?"
"Torture?" Loki's innocent face is twisted by a sardonic sneer. "I've had worse."
"So have I," Natasha points out. A flicker of distress in his eyes before he glances away, she sees, and she wonders. "Still would call it torture."
Loki heaves a dramatic sigh, and shrugs. "If you insist, Natasha." He shifts, turning onto his side, draping an arm around her waist and pulling her close before nipping at her bare breast. Natasha leans into his touch. "I promise you I have made a speedy recovery from my heinous experiences of the night before."
Under the sarcasm, he's telling the truth, she thinks. Understandable; people like them learn to move on from these things. Natasha cradles his head in her hand as he sucks hard on her nipple, runs his hands along her hips, her thighs, her stomach, caressing her body as if smoothing lotion over her skin, determined to touch every last inch. In response, Natasha nudges his cock in its cage with her knee, and his fingers on her leg spasm.
"You know, you do look recovered," she says, a laugh caught in her throat, and with a little shove she gets him flat on his back. "I'm glad."
"Maybe you should show me just how glad you are," he purrs, his eyes half-lidded, and reaches for her. She twists away from him, and leans down, lifting the cage and baring his balls. Before Loki manages much more than her name, spoken in a shocked and pleased whisper, she nuzzles the soft skin, tracing the rim of the cock ring with her tongue, using her teeth ever so gently as his cock swells and hardens, constrained in its cage.
"Natasha," he protests, his voice going breathy when she licks his slit through the steel bars, sucking on the bare patches of skin.
"Comfortable?" she teases, and he groans.
"It's been three weeks," he says petulantly, whining and well aware of it. Natasha nips him in reply, right where his groin meets his thigh, and he twitches. "What more do you want of me?"
"Ask nicely," she orders, and he gives her a obstinate look, his lips pressing tightly together. "You're a brat, you know that?"
Loki half-rises, looking deeply offended, but Natasha straddles him in one swift move, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him flat again, leaning over him so her breasts brush his chest, and the irritation fades from his eyes. Quickly.
"You like it," he breathes, and Natasha grins.
"I do," she says. "Or you'd know it, trust me."
Then she proceeds to take him apart.
Natasha is an expert at sensuality, and she takes full advantage of her years of experience, using not just her mouth and hands but the weight of her body, the feather-light touch of her hair, stroking his pressure points and seeking out all of his most sensitive spots with her nails. She knows them well by now, something both unnerving and pleasing to think about. Loki writhes under her ministrations, gasping, and Natasha whispers in his ear, "Ask nicely."
Loki gives a breathless little laugh, and arches helplessly against her.
"Must I?" he asks, and twines his fingers in her hair. "You must know - "
"I told you to ask nicely," she repeats, and deliberately spreads her legs, rocking herself against his caged cock, smearing her wetness along the steel; the texture feels fantastic, catching her clit nearly perfectly, and she hums in pleasure. "Or maybe I'll just do it like this. It feels pretty good, you know."
"You're awful," he says delightedly, tugging hard at her hair, and moans loudly when she gyrates against him again. "Simply - awful, Natasha, I - "
"Yes?" she goads, tasting his skin, focusing on the way he trembles, his muscles spasming involuntarily, her rhythm rapidly building pleasure deep inside her.
He grins, his head tilted back, throat bared, vulnerable, weak, and asks, teasingly, "Do you love me, Natasha?"
She freezes, and he cranes his neck to look at her.
"Oh," he says, shocked. "Oh. You do."
"What makes you think so?" she manages. His words cut her, threw her off-kilter, but she is a spy and a consummate actress, and her voice is steady, lightly curious, a carefree inquiry. Loki sees right through it.
"Many things," he replies, catching her by the hips as she tries to pull away, his fingers digging deep into the muscle. "People are so transparent, so very easy to read. Even you, at times. My only question is why."
"Why?" she echoes, ceasing her attempts at escaping and instead staying very still, outwardly composed.
"Yes, why."
She shakes her head, denying it, but he looks at her thoughtfully, studying her with a dawning light in his eyes, a man who has finally found the missing variable in an unsolvable equation.
"Oh, I like this," he says decisively. "No, don't tell me; allow me to guess."
"Loki," she says softly, refusing to plead, but he overrides her.
"What is love, to one such as you?" he muses, watching her with a keen stare, cold enjoyment. "Surely more than the exchange of fluids, the bestial writhing of two bodies in the night."
She looks away, says nothing.
"Perhaps you like to think of yourself as my savior," he continues, a cat stalking a spider. "A guiding light to lead me from the void into the tender embrace of the good and the righteous. Is that a balm for your calloused heart, Natasha? The thought that perhaps you might do for me what Barton so kindly did for you?"
"Yeah, that's why I did it," she snaps, and twists hard away from him, but his is the strength of a god, and she remains where she is, trapped. "That's why this whole thing started. But that's not love, that's wiping out the red."
"So naive," he murmurs, his eyes sharp. "To think the deeds of evil men can be washed clean so easily."
"You're deliberately misinterpreting me," she accuses, and he gives her a narrow look.
"And that's not love, not for you," he continues, ignoring her, and tugs her a little closer. "Of course not. Our little games of master and slave aside, you much prefer equitability; the thought of being a shepherd to a lost sheep frightens you."
"Are you admitting you're lost?" she asks, her words striking him in the heart as she knew they would. Loki doesn't move, doesn't give any indication she's affected him, but his mocking, patronizing shield drops, something rawer and darker showing in his eyes.
"Perhaps," he admits. He shifts, licks his lips. "Is that it, then? Vulnerability? Ah, but that you have never once shown me, despite what I have given to you, and if this between us is love, Natasha, it must go both ways."
"What do you think this is?" she snarls, and bites her lip hard, so hard. She feels as if a passing breeze could make her bleed.
His voice had been bitter, harsh; now he cocks his head, that quicksilver anger fading, considering.
"I think you love me," he finally decides.
"Love is for children," she whispers.
"From where I stand, Natasha," Loki says softly, "you are very much a child."
"Stop playing games with me!"
Her voice is a hiss, full of anger and fear, the first true crack in her armor she's ever shown him. Loki jerks back, his eyes going wide and his grip loosening; she scrambles from the bed and stands there, hands clenched into fists. This is too frightening, she's too defenseless; if she admits what she feels, that makes it real, and she doesn't know if she can take that. Not if this is what she gets in return: scorn, derision, humiliation.
"Games," Loki says, still in that same, soft tone. He shakes his head slightly, a thousand thoughts flickering across his face, too quickly for Natasha to read, but his smile leans tender. He holds out his hand to her, beseeching. "I am a creature of mischief, Natasha. As surely as the thread of wyrd is spun, so I create chaos; so I play games. It is in my nature."
She waits, listening. He takes a deep breath.
"For you," he says, "I can stop."
Natasha, torn between standing her ground and running for the comfortable weight of her gun in her hand, feels her heart jolt. She stares at him, taken aback. "What?"
"For you," Loki says steadily, "I will stop. I will give you my oath to treat with you honestly. I shall not toy with you, I shall not use and discard you. This I will swear, if you ask it of me."
"You're serious," she says. As far as she can tell, Loki is; his hand is still held out to her, a trace of fear in his eyes, hidden under a veil of calm.
"Yes," he says. "I am."
Again she looks away. "I play games, too."
"It would be boring if you didn't," he points out, and she smiles unwillingly.
"I guess so," she says. She looks down. "You'd seriously give that up. For me."
"Not happily," he says with a shrug, candid. "But yes, I would." With a wave of his hand, he adds, "A mortal lifetime is nothing to a god."
"Wow, that was really sweet for a second," she mutters to herself, a smile tugging at her lips. Loki catches it, and sighs in triumph.
"So?" he asks. Natasha considers him, thinks of what she had told Bruce: it's going to blow up in my face at any moment.
S.H.I.E.L.D. could have arrested her the instant she took Clint's hand. When the Black Widow kissed the Winter Soldier for the first time, he easily could have killed her, turned her in to their handlers, strung her along to see if she'd crack. She sold herself to the Red Room to save the life of someone she loved. Natasha's life may have been constructed by others, but it all hinges on the decisions she makes for herself, the risks she's willing to take.
When Loki appeared in her flat, she didn't shoot him.
"You don't need to swear," she says. "I believe you."
Loki blinks in surprise, a pleased glow flushing his cheeks. He doesn't try to hide it. "Do you?"
"Yeah." In two quick moves she's on the bed again, kneeling over him in imitation of her earlier position. "Because you can't lie to me."
"Is that a challenge?" he asks, and his voice breaks on the last syllable, his eyes fluttering shut as she grips his throat.
"Did I say can't?" she inquires archly. "I mean you won't."
Of this, she is certain, and Loki smiles, a small, quiet smile.
"No, I won't," he promises, and then, just as she expected, that smile takes on a cunning gleam. "For now."
Good enough, Natasha thinks, satisfied, and leans down to kiss him. To prove her point, she digs her teeth into Loki's lip, and he sighs and trembles beneath her.
Perfect.