Fic: More Than Bliss (Natasha/Loki, NC-17) 1/2
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.
Natasha has a whole floor at Avengers Tower set aside for her use, but she still keeps safehouses in the city, all run by elderly Russian landlords she knows from long ago. Paranoia, Clint calls it. He's not wrong, but it's not quite true. She loves her team more than she thought she could in just a few short years, yet Natasha is a solitary creature, and sometimes she just needs a break from Stark's yammering and her buried fear of Banner's hidden passenger. So, the safehouse.
This one is her favorite, a top-floor flat in a ragged old building, run-down but still respectable, in a part of town where she's never once heard a Soviet Russia joke. Out on the street, Natasha tucks her hair under her knit cap, and jimmies the lock to the lobby expertly; the landlord's kept it padlocked ever since the burglary six years ago, and Natasha still hasn't picked up a copy of the key. She steps out of the chilly fall wind and makes her way up the stairs, already looking forward to brewing some tea and curling up with a good book. As she unlocks her door, Natasha freezes instinctively. Something's wrong.
Her hands instantly go to her gun, and she holds it steady, scanning the room for intruders. Nothing seems out of place; her chair with the knitted afghan thrown over it hasn't been touched, the kitchen is pristine, as it was when she left it, and she can see nothing suspicious reflected in the mirror hung over the inoperative fireplace. Edging along the wall, careful to cover all angles, Natasha makes her way to the bedroom. Still just like she left it, covers a little rumpled, her maroon bedspread folded back to show the flowered flannel sheets beneath. She exhales, and very nearly relaxes, and then she sees the bathroom door. It's open.
Very quietly, Natasha makes her way to the door. There's a shadowy shape in there, vaguely backlit by the seashell nightlight plugged into a wall socket: a tall man in a long coat, looking at himself in the mirror, his hands clasped behind his back. He doesn't seem to have noticed her. Natasha sizes him up for a moment, then switches on the light.
She's expecting it, so she doesn't flinch, but his eyes were used to the dark, and he squeezes them shut for a moment before opening them and spinning to face her; that handful of seconds is all she needs.
"Loki," she says, keeping her voice even.
"Agent Romanoff," he greets her. He gestures to the gun. "Are you going to shoot me?"
"I'm considering it," she says. "What are you doing here?"
Loki says nothing for a long moment, only regards her with thoughtful pale eyes. She repeats herself.
"Don't you want to shoot me?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious. "Don't you want to kill me?"
"There's not many people I really want to kill," she answers, deliberately sidestepping the question, and he shakes his head, his lips quirking in a strange, sad smile.
"Here," he says, and to Natasha's astonishment, he shrugs out of his coat and begins to unbuckle his vambraces. "I'll make it easier for you."
Loki strips to the waist while Natasha stands there, frozen, trying to guess what the hell his game is, her gun trained on his chest. He is very pale, leanly muscled like a runner, a few thin scars scattered along his torso. Knife scars, she thinks, long and purposefully made. Done by an opponent, or by him?
"Some spells require the blood of the sorcerer performing them," he says, recognizing her pattern of thought. Natasha is a little disturbed by that. He taps his sternum. "Shoot me here. A bullet through the heart will kill me as surely as it would any mortal, I promise you."
"I'm not here to help you commit suicide," she snaps, "and I don't think that's why you're here, either. What do you want?"
"Ah, but would it be suicide, if I forced your hand? Or would it be murder on your part?" His eyes gleam in the artificial light. "Would it matter to you either way? You're already quite an accomplished killer, after all."
"Don't try to bait me," she says, her eyes narrowing. "It's not going to work."
"No." He frowns. "I suppose it won't."
For a moment, Loki does nothing but stand there, looking over her shoulder into the distance. Natasha advances a step, then another, careful to keep out of his reach. Experimentally, she makes a show of cocking the gun. Loki jumps at the click, and looks down at her, the frown line between his eyes deepening.
"This was a mistake," he says abruptly, and disappears, just like that, without even a flicker or a cloud of smoke. Natasha blinks, pointing her gun at her bathroom wall.
"Well, that was weird," she says aloud.
. . .
Natasha has every intention of calling it in the next morning, but when she wakes, she puts it off. Instead, she goes into the bathroom and stands in the same place she had last night, legs braced and gun raised, clad in her pajamas with messy hair and morning breath. Her memory of the night before feels strange, almost hallucinatory; she stands there, and thinks, Loki was here, just a few feet away. I was here, and Loki was there, and he didn't kill me.
No, he didn't kill her. He asked her to kill him. Natasha has spoken to suicidal people before. She's talked them off ledges, coaxed the knife from their hands, even been witness to the sickening sound of a gunshot and the scream of a loved one lost; she knows the look, how the desperation shines from the eyes, anguish lying heavy in the lines of the face. She doesn't think Loki was faking.
Natasha heaves a sigh, switches on the safety of her gun, and lays it down on the counter. While brushing her teeth, she goes over what she knows about Loki's whereabouts over the past few years: he'd broken out from Asgardian prison just a few months after he and Thor had left Earth, and gone underground, not so much as popping his head out until nearly a year had passed. Then he'd gone after Asgard - Thor had never shared details, and Natasha never asked for any - and later fled to Earth, seeking asylum in Latveria. (Natasha snorts at that; anyone who thinks Victor von Doom will help them out of the goodness of his heart is an idiot, but then, she doubts Loki remembers that people do that sort of thing, anyway.) There, he'd presumably helped Doom in exchange for accommodation, though S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't know how, and then…
And then he showed up in Natasha's apartment about eight months later, with nary a peep in the interim. That isn't what concerns Natasha, though. What's important here is that out of the many, many threats she and the Avengers have faced between the Chitauri invasion and now, none of them have had a thing to do with Loki. That's food for thought.
Natasha finishes washing up, dresses, eats breakfast, cleans the place. She locks up and starts the long walk back to Avengers Tower, her hands in her pockets. People joke about her stoicism, asking how long it took for Stark to program her, thinking she's some ruthless automaton who kills on command. She's not. Trust is difficult for her, true, and she knows her moral center skews slightly left of what most would consider normal, but she has friends, brothers-in-arms, people she loves. She believes in redemption; she believes in second chances. She's lived them, after all.
Natasha isn't going to tell Fury about Loki's visit. If the god drops by for another chat, she'll see what he truly wants, and depending on his answer, she'll alert S.H.I.E.L.D. then. Not yet.
. . .
A day goes by, then a week. Loki doesn't show up, and Natasha begins to wonder if their encounter was a fluke event. She's oddly disappointed by it; she had really wanted answers.
Ten days later, she decides to check out her primary safehouse, just in case he's been there. She doubts it; why wouldn't he come find her at Avengers Tower if he wanted to speak with her? But when she enters her place, the light is on in the bedroom, and she finds him without armor, stretched out long and lanky on the bed.
"That took you long enough," he says as soon as he hears her come in. His hands are folded on his stomach, and his eyes are closed. Vulnerable. Natasha suspects he's doing it on purpose.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she says in reply. Her gun is in her hands, safety off and ready to fire; she's forgiving, not stupid. "I must have forgotten to put it in my calendar."
Loki laughs, that same derisive chuckle she remembers from the first time they'd met. "So sarcastic. I like that."
He sits up suddenly and swings his legs off the bed. Natasha goes very still, and slides her finger over the trigger. Loki's eyes drop to her gun, and he tenses minutely, then deliberately relaxes.
"Do you know why I've come here?" he asks. "Why, out of all the billions of mortals on this little planet, I've chosen you to be my executioner?"
That's some assumption, Natasha thinks. Out loud, she says, "No idea. Why have you?"
"Very few people can match me in a game of wits," he says, examining her closely. Natasha nearly shivers under his gaze. "You are one of them. I underestimated you, it's true, but that only speaks to your expertise. You're quite the liar, Agent Romanoff."
"Why do you want to die?" she asks bluntly, and he flinches. Barely, but Natasha has a practiced eye, and she can see the brief fear in his posture before he covers it up with his usual affected sprawl.
"What reasons have you to prevent me?" he asks. "Your ledger drips with red, but mine overflows with it. Much of that is the blood of your own people, the people you're sworn to protect. Can you really look in the mirror knowing you've let their chance at retribution walk free?"
"That doesn't add up with what you've done here on Earth," she points out. "And you didn't answer my question."
He sneers at her.
"For all your pretty words, you still measure death in quantity, not value," he says bitingly. "And yet you're the worst of hypocrites; a thousand civilians could die at my hands and you wouldn't so much as blink, but if I laid a hand on Barton or Stark, you would call for my head on a pike."
Natasha stares at him. He's trying to manipulate her, obviously, but going about it from the wrong angle; a few years ago, this might have worked on her, but she's made her peace with her priorities. Her mind whirls, trying to make sense of this, and then it clicks.
"So that's it," she says. It's a leap, but she's nearly certain she's right. He frowns at her, and she continues, "Whatever you did in Asgard, you hurt someone, someone you care about, and you didn't mean to. And you regret it. You're guilty now because you've never felt guilty before, even for all those people you killed. They were just a number, but this person isn't."
She lowers her gun, sets it aside. "You want to die because you're not the monster you think you are."
His eyes are narrowed, his body so very still. Natasha shakes her head.
"I'm not going to kill you for that."
"I truly loathe you," Loki snarls, and goes for her throat.
He's heavy and freakishly strong, and for a moment Natasha's adrenaline spike turns into panic, but she quashes her fear ruthlessly; without his armor, he has as many weak spots as anyone. Natasha uses these to her advantage, jabbing at his groin and throat, twisting away from his grip, using his own momentum against him. Loki is incredibly skilled, but he was trained as a mêlée fighter with swords and spears, not in martial arts, and she suspects he's not putting forth the effort he normally would, anyway. She gets him on his back with her forearm pressed against the fragile curve of his throat, one knee digging into his stomach, her other foot and hand pinning down his wrists. He glares at her, but Natasha is unmoved.
"I know what you're doing, and it's not going to work," she snaps. Where in life did she go wrong that she ended up here, playing therapist to a Norse god? "I can assemble the Avengers right now, if you push me, but I'm still not going to kill you."
"Liar," he whispers. "You have no way of contacting them without letting me go, and if you do, I will kill you, I promise."
It was a feeble bluff, anyway. Natasha shakes her head slightly; she doesn't know what to do with him. She isn't lying when she says she doesn't want to kill him.
"What else do you want?" she asks him quietly. "Is it punishment you're looking for? I can give you that."
She means by turning him over to S.H.I.E.L.D., but Loki inhales sharply, swallows hard. Natasha blinks at the unexpected reaction.
"Could you?" he breathes. A mocking little smirk tugs at his mouth, but it's belied by his parted lips, his flushed cheeks. Suddenly, Natasha is thinking of the many methods of punishment and discipline she has in her repertoire, the kinds that emphatically aren't government approved.
"Is that what you want?" she asks him, her voice low. "Will that help you?"
Loki wiggles a little, and gets his wrists free from where she's pinned him. Natasha lets him, and slowly, almost hesitantly, he brings his hands to her waist.
"I don't know," he whispers, and it's the first honest thing she's ever heard him say. She slips her hand down to encircle the white column of his throat, and carefully squeezes, cutting off his airflow. Loki's eyes go very, very wide. He doesn't fight her, though his body trembles, his breathing raspy and short. After a long few moments, with Loki taut and shivering under her, Natasha lets him go. She rubs her thumb along his reddened skin, and Loki exhales shakily. He's going to bruise, she thinks, and finds the thought bizarrely pleasing.
"Decide," she orders him. Impulsively, she leans down and presses her lips to his ear, not so much a kiss as a promise. Loki shudders, and she likes that, too.
"When you do," she murmurs, "come and find me."
She sits up, resting her hands on his chest, and looks at him. He doesn't move, just looks back.
"If this is a game - " he starts, a threat in his tone, and she cuts him off.
"It isn't." At his guarded, skeptical look, she adds, "I promise."
"Why should I believe you?"
"You'll just have to trust me," she says, and stands up. Slowly, Loki props himself up on his elbows.
"You're leaving?" he asks, and she doesn't think she's imagining a disappointed note in his voice.
"For now," she says with a shrug, turning away. "You know where to find me."
He says nothing. At the door, with one hand on the doorknob, Natasha hesitates. She looks behind her to see Loki watching her, a long dark shape on the living room floor.
"I'll be back here in three days," she finally offers, and wonders if she'll regret it later. "Maybe I'll see you then."
"Maybe," Loki replies, his voice unreadable.
She shuts the door on his thoughtful face, and returns home. She checks in with S.H.I.E.L.D. to find she has no late-night assignments; she eats dinner, watches a movie with Clint, takes a shower. When she turns off the lights, she takes the memory of Loki quivering beneath her to bed.
. . .
He's manipulating her, and Natasha is playing right into his hands.
Of this she's nearly certain, by the time that third day rolls around. She's gone over the scenario a hundred times in her head, examining it from every angle, trying to get inside Loki's mind as best she can; she has a good track record so far, after all. None of it adds up completely, and that points to some sort of scheme on Loki's part. But Natasha cannot get the image of his face as she choked him out of her mind; there wasn't a single untruth in that expression, and of this, too, she is nearly certain. An untruth, however, isn't the same thing as a lie, especially from Loki, and to be safe, she hedges her bets; she tells Clint where she's going.
"You're giving me the location of your safehouse?" he asks, surprised, as they have drinks in a fancy bar on the other side of the city, undercover for the fun of it as a British couple gone holidaying.
"Yeah, well, it's not safe anymore," she says. "S.H.I.E.L.D. won't have my back this time. I need to know you'll be my backup if I need it."
"Of course I will," Clint promises. He doesn't ask any questions; they never do in situations like these, for they trust each other, but Natasha almost wishes he would. Using Clint as a cover to visit Loki doesn't sit right with her. She does it anyway. She's never been as nice as Clint.
On the day she promised to meet Loki again, Natasha very purposefully does not wear a scrap of leather or high-heeled boots. She's familiar with the traditional dominatrix costume, having worn it herself a time or two, and she appreciates the effect appearances have on people's perception of her, but Natasha doubts that the leather-and-latex would correlate to any Asgardian fetish wear, if there is such a thing. Besides, Natasha doesn't need or want a latex corset to be the one in control. It's a point of pride.
That is, of course, assuming that Loki isn't playing a game with her. Lightly, she touches her ear, and the hidden comm she's wearing just in case things go wrong, programmed to activate at her voice command; she'd taken care to make the code something she wouldn't say in regular conversation. She wonders idly if Loki would take offense, or if he'd be amused by her wariness. Both, maybe.
She doesn't have the chance to find out, because he's not there when she finally makes it to her flat.
Natasha stands in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips, faintly disappointed, and irritated with herself for it. There was a fifty-fifty chance that this would work out, anyway; maybe he failed to get what he wanted - Natasha is sure she told him nothing - and he decided not to come back. Why would he take the risk?
Natasha looks around one more time, then shrugs, turning to leave. No point in sticking around; this place doesn't feel like hers anymore.
"Good evening, Agent Romanoff," Loki says from the shadows, and Natasha jumps, pulling her gun from its holster and aiming it at his head in one fluid motion. Loki steps into the light, hands raised, a wry twist to his mouth. "This is becoming a habit of ours."
"Don't sneak up on me," she says, her heart pounding. She's more on edge than she thought she was.
"My apologies," he says, and sketches a little bow. Natasha raises her eyebrows, and slips her gun back in its place by her side.
"Apology accepted," she says. "I didn't think you'd come."
"Yes, you did." His voice is light and amused, his posture falsely relaxed, belied only by the instinctive way he keeps the wall to his back even as she circles him. All artifice. Natasha wants to strip him raw. "You knew I would. For the game, if nothing else."
"Is the game all this is?" she asks, and he shoots her a look, pensive, dark.
"What is it for you?" he counters.
Natasha studies him for a moment, and feels the corner of her mouth tilt in a small smile.
"I'm great at games," she says. "I always win."
"Do you indeed?" he laughs. "Come and play, then."
He spreads his arms in invitation, and Natasha takes his cue.
"Take off your clothes," she orders. He raises his eyebrows at her, challenging her already, and she stares him down. He holds her gaze as he undresses, all his many layers of leather and linen falling in a pile at his feet.
She could guess his body shape from watching him in combat and what she saw that night in the bathroom, but it's much different to speculate than to know. The scars on his chest she knew about, the almost unearthly pale glow of his skin, but the narrowness of his hips, the muscle of his back, the small runic tattoo on his instep is all new. His fingers, long and quick, his black hair, longer now than she's ever seen it, draping over his white shoulders. Natasha bites her lip, then lets it go hastily, not wanting to show even that little clue to her inner thoughts. Lust. She lusts for him, and it's been such a long time since she's felt the need so strongly.
Loki knows it, and he wears a little smirk as he lets the last length of fabric flutter to the ground, stepping from the pile of discarded clothes to stand before her, naked. He looks smaller without his armor, slimmer.
"Now what?" he inquires.
"What do you want?" she asks in return. He frowns at her, and she elaborates, "What do you want me to do to you?"
He shrugs. "Anything you want."
"You've got to give me something," she says. "Likes, dislikes, limits…"
Loki stares at her in disbelief, and then laughs, a sharp bark devoid of humor.
"Just what do you think this is, Agent Romanoff?" he asks her, circling her. Natasha shifts to the balls of her feet, ready to pounce, and feels the reassuring weight of her gun on her hip. "A child's game of sticks and stones? Playtime? Do you expect me to have a safeword?"
"I'm surprised you know what those are," she says, curling her hand into a fist, then relaxing. He stops at her side, and she doesn't have to look at him to see the sneer on his face.
"If I wanted a spanking and a few insults thrown at me," he spits, "I could have paid a whore for that."
That's enough. Time to give in.
Natasha spins with her quicksilver speed and strikes him, smacking him across the face with all of her considerable strength. Loki's head snaps to the side and he staggers back, falling against the wall. Natasha stalks up to him, and Loki stares up at her, a handprint blushing red on his cheek.
"I tried to do this the nice way," she says. "The right way. But you obviously don't want that."
He opens his mouth, and she cuts him off.
"And neither do I."
"Oh," he whispers. A smile flits across his face, there and gone as swiftly as his voice. "Oh, yes."
Natasha grabs him by his hair, winding it around her fingers, and drags him from the wall. He hisses in pain, but Natasha ignores it, flinging him across the kitchen floor, standing over him as he rolls onto his back, bracketed by her legs.
"I'm calling the shots," she informs him. "I'm going to do what I want, and you're going to do what I say. If you need me to do anything or to stop doing anything, say so, and if you toy with me I'll cut your throat."
Loki gasps, shuts his eyes, lets his head fall back against the tile.
"Don't move," Natasha warns him, and steps over him, going to the pile of clothes he left in the living room. Aside from magic, knives are his speciality, or so she's heard, and she finds several blades tucked away in slim sheaths, bundled in his rumpled cloak. She selects the one that looks least like a throwing knife, a sleek thing with a deadly curved blade and grooved, scissorlike handles, and goes back to the kitchen.
She takes in the view for a moment, leaning against the counter. Loki remains supine on the floor, his arms splayed and one knee tucked up; his fingers flex against the tile, his eyes still closed. He nearly opens them when she straddles him, but squeezes them shut before he can look at her fully. Sweet, but misguided.
"Tell me about this," she says, unsheathing the blade and tossing the leather pouch aside. Loki's eyes snap open, and go very wide when he sees what she's holding to his chest. He licks his lip.
"A dwarven-made knife," he says, hoarse. "Forged in the hearth of Eitri, a master of weaponry." A little smirk touches his lips. "I stole it."
"Why?" she asks, curious despite herself.
"I didn't want to pay for it."
She laughs, and he smiles, faltering only when she lightly drags the flat of the blade along his cheek; his breath catches, and he swallows convulsively.
"Did they catch you?"
His eyes shutter, blank and cold. "They sewed my lips shut."
"Hmm." She keeps her face neutral, and traces the curve of his lips with the tip of the blade. "People are cruel."
"Yes, so we are. I - ah!"
Loki twitches, and blood wells in the long slice she makes along his cheekbone, cutting through the mark her hand left there, a few fat red beads sliding down his cheek and dripping on the floor. His face - Natasha squirms a little at the look on his face, stunned and pained and aroused, and she eases down to lie flat against his chest, tucking her face into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. He makes a little pleading noise, and Natasha presses her thigh between his legs, his cock stiff and warm against her body. Gently, she presses down upon it, and Loki gasps and clutches her hips.
"I - Natasha," he says, shocked, and twists to look her full in the eyes. Warmth floods her at the sound of her name in his mouth.
"Yes, Loki?" She nips at his earlobe, kisses his neck, not sparing him her teeth. He bucks against her, and she smiles. "If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?"
"Possibly," he whispers, and shivers as she drags her nails down his chest, clawing red lines into his flesh. Sitting back astride his hips, she rocks against him, the denim of her jeans rough against his most sensitive skin, enjoying the little gasps she coaxes from him. Her underwear is soaked, her clothing too constricting; she's losing patience rapidly.
"Do you do this often? Submission, I mean, not sex."
"Oh, do you want to be special, Agent?" He laughs, a trembly little chuckle.
"I thought we were on a first-name basis."
"You only wish we were."
She slaps him again, not quite as hard, on the other cheek, and he shuts up. Swinging off him, she kicks off her boots, sliding out of her jeans and underwear. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Loki lick his lips, eyes gleaming in anticipation.
"You've got the right idea," she tells him with a little grin, and straddles his face. It occurs to her that he's going to bleed all over her thighs. It also occurs to her that she doesn't really care. His hands slide up her thighs to cradle her ass, drawing her down to his mouth. He laps at her once, twice, licking at her folds with slow, steady movements. Natasha runs her fingers through her hair, and sighs.
"Put your neck into it," she orders, and Loki does, arching closer to her, moving his head with the rhythm as he traces circles around her clit with his tongue. It's sinfully good, little jolts of pleasure racing through her nerves, coiling deep in her stomach. Bracing her hands on the floor, she pants, eyes half shut, and rolls her hips hard against his face. "Yeah, that's - fuck."
Natasha's body twitches as he sucks her clit into his mouth, teasing it with little swipes of his tongue. She thinks she hears him chuckle, and he wraps his arms around her hips to pull her tighter against him; moaning, she takes what she wants and just rides him, his tongue lashing her until she shudders and stiffens all over, her toes curling.
"Oh, god," she stutters, "oh god, oh - "
She rolls off him and lies flat on her back, gulping down air as her body quivers, and Loki smirks at her.
"Yes, I'm here," he quips, and it takes her a moment to put it together.
"That's not even funny," she says, smacking his shoulder, and he laughs. His face is flushed, shining with her slick, and his blood is smeared all across his cheek and jaw. The look suits him. Cupping his chin in her hand, she wipes some of the mess away before drawing her hand down, over his clavicle and the muscles of his chest and stomach, curling her fingers loosely around his cock. Loki whimpers at her touch, a true plea that makes her want to get back on his face and force him to go another round, and she tightens her grip.
"I like your cock," she tells him, stroking him slowly. Loki lies there and trembles, his mouth hanging open. "It's very nice. Has a good curve to it."
She rubs her thumb over the head of his cock, and Loki twitches and says in a tight whisper, "Stop."
"Really?" she asks incredulously, halting her movements. His mouth works, his eyes flicking around the room.
"No," he says. "Keep going."
"Good," she says. "I want to see you come."
This is true, but that moment of hesitation is intriguing. Natasha has a few suspicions about what it might mean.
"If I didn't," she murmurs, "if I told you not to come, that I would punish you if you did, what would you do?"
Loki inhales sharply, holds it, exhales, and says, "Punishment is the purpose of this exercise, is it not? How would it be any different?"
"This would be a different kind of punishment," she tells him. She keeps her strokes rhythmic and smooth, spreading his pre-come with her thumb, tugging lightly at his foreskin on the downstroke, twisting a little on her way up. Loki lets his head thud against the floor and pants, whining a little on each exhale. "Because if you jerked yourself off when I told you not to, if you came without permission, I'd just have to lock you up, wouldn't I?"
Loki makes a strangled noise, his heels bracing firm against the floor, and every muscle in his body pulls taut.
Natasha says, her breath against his ribs making him shiver, "I'd have to take away your rights to orgasm, I wouldn't even let you touch yourself - "
Loki's body jerks, and his hand flies up to cover his mouth, his come arcing across his stomach and over Natasha's hand. She sits back, wiping it off on a dish towel, as Loki uncurls, slowly sitting up.
"Interesting," she says finally, and he glares at her, the fury in his eyes taking her aback.
"Don't you dare mention this to anyone," he snarls, and she sees embarrassment there, too, fueling his anger.
"I have no one to tell," she points out. "No one cares what I do in my spare time. Or who."
A blatant lie, but Loki doesn't call her out on it. He stands, shaking still, and glances away from Natasha when she does as well.
"Look at me," she orders. He refuses, and she says again, her voice like a whip, "Look at me, I said."
Loki looks at her like he couldn't stop himself if he tried, and Natasha pulls him to her, curls her hand around the nape of his neck, and kisses him deeply, tasting herself mingled with his blood on his lips. He hesitates, then kisses her back, opening his mouth to her, resting one hand on her hip. Finally, she pulls back, lips swollen, her heart pounding.
"Meet you back here in three days," she says, and he nods, his body still stiff against her. Digging her nails into the muscle of his arm, she takes his lower lip between her teeth and clamps down on it until blood spills, metallic in her mouth, and feels him go loose in her arms. Pulling away, she takes in his heavy-lidded eyes and the relaxed set of his shoulders. A true masochist. She can't image that was an easy way to grow up, not in hyper-masculine, war-loving Asgard.
"Three days," she repeats, patting his arm, and steps back, bending down to gather her things. When she looks back up, he is gone, taking all his belongings with him.
No, that's not true; the knife is still there, his blood shining wetly on the edge of the blade. Natasha picks it up, looks at it thoughtfully. She wonders how much of his story is true, how much of anything he says is true.
"Only one way to find out," she says to herself, and wipes off the knife before tucking it in her coat pocket.
Three days, and she has shopping to do.
. . .
Two days later, she's sent on a mission to İstanbul. Natasha is good at compartmentalizing, focused only on the objective, her partner's survival, and her own, and she doesn't allow herself to think of Loki until she's on her return flight, tapping the rough draft of her report into an encrypted laptop. She'd missed their rendezvous. What will he be like next time she sees him?
She is certain she'll see him again; for better or for worse, he's latched on to her, and she doubts that standing him up once will take him off her scent. The only question is his reaction: will he be flippant or furious? He's unpredictable, and Natasha won't lie to herself; she finds him interesting. Dangerous, yes, but interesting. It frightens her. She poses a question to herself, and takes solace in the answer, in knowing that she wouldn't hesitate to cut him down, should such a thing become necessary.
She hopes it won't.
. . .
Early the next morning, on the outside patio of a pâtisserie she's sampling at Maria's request, Loki catches up with her. He slides into the seat across from her, clad in a dark suit cut in the English style, his tie a deep, dappled green, black leather gloves on his hands. A thin scabbed line arches over his cheek. Natasha peers at him over her bug-eye sunglasses; by habit, she tries not to attract attention in public, but so much for that.
"Did you really think I wouldn't find you?" he asks her pleasantly. "This would be the second time you've tricked me; no more."
"It wasn't a trick," she says, and slides the sunglasses down her nose, showing the livid marks along her eye socket, the swelling on her cheekbone. "I had an assignment."
Loki goes still when she bares her bruises to him, and when he plucks the glasses off her face, she lets him, seeing no threat in those sharp eyes. He takes in the sight of her, looking also at the new crook in the line of her nose, the abrasions near her brows, all courtesy of a pipe to the side of the face; those glasses weren't for show. His lips tighten.
"Who did this?" he asks.
"The head of a mutant trafficking ring," she answers, taking the sunglasses out of his hands and putting them back on. In their tinted darkness, he is less strange, no longer so stark against the earth tones of the café, caught in the early morning sun. She still feels the prickle of his gaze as he examines her with narrowed eyes. "I got him back for it, though."
"I expect you did," he says with a funny little smile, and, looking over her head, flags down the waiter. He orders something ostentatious and full of sugar, his pronunciation flawless. Of course. Natasha rolls her eyes, and Loki catches it when he turns back to her, though he misattributes its cause.
"Your choices are boring," he says, nodding to her feta-and-spinach croissant.
"I'm healthy," she defends. "You have a sweet tooth."
"So I do." He steals her coffee cup before she can pick it up, and leans back in his chair. "I like to indulge."
"Yeah, I've noticed," she says dryly, and snatches her cup back. She drinks from the same spot he did, and he notices, the slightest thoughtful twitch of his brow giving him away. They're both very detail-oriented; if Loki were capable of being loyal to others than himself, he would make a good spy.
The waiter sets his cake down in front of him, some ridiculously chocolaty confection that actually looks delicious.
"You can't have any," Loki informs her, seeing the way she stares at it. She sniffs at him and denies she even wants some, and he flicks a quick smile at her before eating. Natasha sips her coffee and watches him, marveling at the sheer amount of food he's able to put down in such a short time. It must be a god thing.
"This is weird," she says after a moment. Loki glances at her, inviting her to continue. She shakes her head slightly, unable to put her discomfort into words. Discomfort that she isn't discomforted, that this strange intimacy feels good, genuine, not the product of two rivals but of friends long parted, relearning each other's life. "Why are you even here?"
He pauses at that, dabs his mouth with a napkin, sets it in his lap.
"I came here to kill you, of course," he says, just as amiable as he's been so far. "Or maim you, at the very least."
"Because I didn't show up?" she asks, gone still and wary. That, at least, is familiar when around him.
"Because you grow complacent." Loki toys with the butter knife, running his thumb along its edge. "I have come to you thrice, allowed you to have me as you wished, and that makes you believe you have tamed me. You let your guard down. No," he continues, cutting her off as she tries to protest, "you have. You should have drawn your gun on me the instant I joined you today."
"I'll still slit your throat if you push me," she warns him. "That hasn't changed."
"Ah, but could you draw your blade in time?"
Loki's eyes flick over her shoulder, his lips curling in amusement, and she picks up her spoon as if to taste his dessert, instead using it as a mirror to look behind her. The waiter stands there, shocked motionless; she doesn't know how much he overheard, but just the last few sentences would be enough. Well, she didn't much like the food here, anyway.
"Come on," she says, slipping her wallet out of her pocket and tossing a twenty on the counter, keeping an eye on Loki. "Let's take a walk."
"Do you expect me to obey your every command?"
"No." She hesitates, considering her next words. "I expect you…to do whatever you want to do. Be exactly how you always are."
Ambiguous, she means. Unknown. Vexing. He can interpret it however he likes; she did it on purpose. Loki appears to contemplate that for a moment, then says, "I believe I shall take that as a compliment."
"I knew you would."
He stops her in the middle of the sidewalk, takes her jaw in his hand, and kisses her. Not a chaste kiss, not socially acceptable for the setting, but a kiss with tongue and teeth scraping across her lower lip. He tastes like confectioners' sugar, a trace of bitter coffee cutting through the sweetness. Apt. She curls her fingers in his lapels, and bites his tongue in retaliation. Loki breaks away from her with a surprised laugh, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Like I said," Natasha says, "let's take a walk."
Her safehouse is miles away, and for lack of a better place, they end up pressed against a wall in a side alley, tucked mostly out of sight from passing pedestrians. She has him with his back against the brick, her hands wrapped around his wrists, pinning them behind his back, her lips on his. He melts beneath her, giving in to her kisses, to the weight of her body, and it's wonderful, so wonderful. She pulls back to take off her sunglasses, dropping them to the ground before leaning into him again; they were cheap airport glasses, she doesn't care if they break.
Twisting his neck, Loki ghosts his lips over her bruises, then presses down with his teeth, sending a stabbing pain through her skull. She winces, pulls away, and he chuckles softly before exhaling over the bite mark he left. The pain dissipates, and so does the lingering throbbing from her other injuries.
"Did you just heal me with your breath?" she asks, mildly incredulous.
"You're welcome," he says, and smirks at her with lips swollen from her kisses. God, Natasha wants him, on his knees or on his back, naked, desperate. She cups him through the material of his trousers, and is pleased to hear his breath catch, to feel him hot and heavy in her palm.
"We're going to find a hotel," she tells him. "We're going to get a room. And then you're going to fuck me."
"Agreed," he whispers, wrapping his arms around her waist, ducking his head to kiss her again.
At the hotel, Loki pays for the room with a debit card, saving Natasha the hassle of explaining the charge on her account later down the line. Nothing is private for an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.
"Is there actually money on that card?" she asks him, panting as they slam the hotel room door behind them. Loki pushes her against it, kissing her neck, and she digs her nails into his scalp.
"Of course there is," he mutters against her skin, affronted. Natasha laughs, guessing the likelihood that he's telling the truth to be about forty-sixty, leaning in the direction of not very.
"Take your clothes off," she tells him, pushing him away, and he obeys with alacrity, glancing at her with something much like hunger in his expression. As he undresses, movements quick and methodical, she shrugs off her camel coat, tugs her shirt over her head. Loki pauses, watching her.
"Get back to it," she orders, and after a moment, he does, stealing glances at her as she unzips her boots, unbuttons her jeans. He's eaten her out but never seen her naked, she realizes, and this time when he stops, wearing socks, garters, gloves, and nothing else (a strangely attractive look, she discovers), she doesn't reprimand him. She lets him look his fill, drinking her down with his intense, pale-eyed stare. Finally, he moves toward her, crawling - Loki, naked and on his hands and knees for her, crawling for her. When he sits back on his heels and runs leather-clad hands up her thighs, she vividly remembers his tongue, his mouth, the way he worked her over so expertly, but she likes to try new things. Wrapping his hair around her hand, she pulls his head back, forcing him to make eye contact.
"Get to the bed," she says, her voice level and quiet.
"Only if you come with me," he retorts, and she yanks sharply on his hair, drawing a tiny, half-muffled yelp from his throat.
"To the bed," she says. "Now."
He goes. She likes that.
Following him, she waits until he's sitting down, then pushes him flat on the bed, swinging astride him and immediately stealing his breath in a kiss. Loki moans audibly, returning her kiss just as ferociously, running his hands over her body, squeezing her ass, coaxing little shivers from her as he brushes against her ribs, cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples with fingers sheathed in slick leather gloves. Once she's at the point where she's rubbing herself against his thigh, groaning into his mouth, she rolls to the side and drags him with her, flipping him over so he lies above her, propping himself up with his hands, anticipation in his eyes. Slinging her legs around his hips, she arches against him, and commands, "Now, fuck me."
So obedient, Loki is. He slams into her, knocking a loud moan from her mouth, and grabs her hips with bruising force. He fucks her deep, hard enough to move the bed, and Natasha can only wrap one hand around the nape of his neck, clench the sheets with the other, and move with him, little gasping half-screams tearing out of her throat.
"Don't," she pants, clawing at his neck and chest, "don't come, not until I say so, do you hear me?"
Loki snarls, his face contorted, and buries his face against her breasts.
"Yes," he gasps, "yes, I hear you," and fucks her even harder.
When she comes, her orgasm is practically forced from her, her body clenching and seizing before she's ready to be finished. It's one of the most intense climaxes she's ever had, and she nearly draws blood on Loki's back, scraping long grasping lines with her nails. As soon as she's stopped shuddering, Loki freezes, still inside her, trembling, his breath deep and rasping in her ear. She exhales as she relaxes, smoothing her hands down the lean lines of his back.
"Are you waiting for me?" she murmurs in his ear, and takes the desperate little noise he makes as an affirmative. Natasha arches her hips against him and purposefully tightens around his cock. Loki cries out and bites down hard on his cheek, breathing through his teeth, still hard and eager, unable to stop his hips from jerking. He's so, so close, and Natasha wishes she could keep him on the edge forever, but even gods have limits to their stamina. Easing back, she lets him slip out of her, and he whispers her name, pleading, dropping his head to rest on her chest. Natasha takes his hand, kisses his knuckles, constricting her grip on his wrist until her hand is shaking with the effort, his bones creaking beneath her fingers. Gently, she brushes his cock with her foot.
"Good boy," she whispers, "now you can come," and he keens and does exactly that, tearing through the sheets with one hand, the other balling into a fist even as she twists his arm cruelly. The pain just spurs him on, and he collapses, quivering, on top of her.
"Tonight," she tells him, stroking his hair as he tries to catch his breath, "I have something to give you."
Loki laughs, sounding exhausted.
"I rescind my previous estimation of your intelligence," he says. "I planned to kill you today."
"I always have a plan to kill you," she replies. It's only true insofar as she is always prepared, in the back of her mind, to fight for her survival. "I just haven't had to use it yet."
"So the Black Widow hasn't lost her bite," he hums, pressing a kiss to the side of her breast. He doesn't catch her lie. She feels him smile. "Somehow, I find that comforting."
Natasha has no reply to that.
. . .
The first time she and Clint met, they had been assigned by two different agencies to kill each other. She knew him by reputation; he had already earned the nickname of the Hawk by that time, and rumor had it he'd never once missed a target. Natasha never asked him what he had heard about her, but word gets around, and she knows it wasn't nice. Among assassins, that's a good thing.
They were meant to kill each other, but then she made a mistake, didn't take her shot, misjudged the situation, and Clint was the one to hunt her down, finding her injured and weeping as she watched the hospital burn from a decrepit high-rise a block away. Her body was blackened with soot, her hands too burnt to wipe away the tears and mucus on her face. Still she remembers looking up to see the Hawk with his bow in the building opposite, arrow pointed straight at her. She stared at him, dull and bleary, until he lowered his bow and disappeared, and then she waited for him to come kill her. That didn't last; Natasha has never been good at dying.
Clint caught her hobbling down the stairs, trapped her on a landing. She glared at him, gritted her teeth, and waited for the final blow.
Instead, he said, "I know an organization that could really use your skills."
It took her a moment to process this. Then she said, blankly, "I was going to kill you today."
"Yeah," he said. "But you didn't."
He held out his hand to her, and she took it.
Years ago, now. Natasha has changed so much from that person, grown so much, and she isn't naive enough to compare her and Clint's situation to the one she's in now, but there are parallels, in a way. Natasha has never had the luxury of having a conscience, but despite it all, she developed one anyway. Loki, it seems, has always had room for kindness, but he's never exercised it. Parallel, but reversed.
She can only hope the rest of their path won't be.
Part 2
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.
Natasha has a whole floor at Avengers Tower set aside for her use, but she still keeps safehouses in the city, all run by elderly Russian landlords she knows from long ago. Paranoia, Clint calls it. He's not wrong, but it's not quite true. She loves her team more than she thought she could in just a few short years, yet Natasha is a solitary creature, and sometimes she just needs a break from Stark's yammering and her buried fear of Banner's hidden passenger. So, the safehouse.
This one is her favorite, a top-floor flat in a ragged old building, run-down but still respectable, in a part of town where she's never once heard a Soviet Russia joke. Out on the street, Natasha tucks her hair under her knit cap, and jimmies the lock to the lobby expertly; the landlord's kept it padlocked ever since the burglary six years ago, and Natasha still hasn't picked up a copy of the key. She steps out of the chilly fall wind and makes her way up the stairs, already looking forward to brewing some tea and curling up with a good book. As she unlocks her door, Natasha freezes instinctively. Something's wrong.
Her hands instantly go to her gun, and she holds it steady, scanning the room for intruders. Nothing seems out of place; her chair with the knitted afghan thrown over it hasn't been touched, the kitchen is pristine, as it was when she left it, and she can see nothing suspicious reflected in the mirror hung over the inoperative fireplace. Edging along the wall, careful to cover all angles, Natasha makes her way to the bedroom. Still just like she left it, covers a little rumpled, her maroon bedspread folded back to show the flowered flannel sheets beneath. She exhales, and very nearly relaxes, and then she sees the bathroom door. It's open.
Very quietly, Natasha makes her way to the door. There's a shadowy shape in there, vaguely backlit by the seashell nightlight plugged into a wall socket: a tall man in a long coat, looking at himself in the mirror, his hands clasped behind his back. He doesn't seem to have noticed her. Natasha sizes him up for a moment, then switches on the light.
She's expecting it, so she doesn't flinch, but his eyes were used to the dark, and he squeezes them shut for a moment before opening them and spinning to face her; that handful of seconds is all she needs.
"Loki," she says, keeping her voice even.
"Agent Romanoff," he greets her. He gestures to the gun. "Are you going to shoot me?"
"I'm considering it," she says. "What are you doing here?"
Loki says nothing for a long moment, only regards her with thoughtful pale eyes. She repeats herself.
"Don't you want to shoot me?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious. "Don't you want to kill me?"
"There's not many people I really want to kill," she answers, deliberately sidestepping the question, and he shakes his head, his lips quirking in a strange, sad smile.
"Here," he says, and to Natasha's astonishment, he shrugs out of his coat and begins to unbuckle his vambraces. "I'll make it easier for you."
Loki strips to the waist while Natasha stands there, frozen, trying to guess what the hell his game is, her gun trained on his chest. He is very pale, leanly muscled like a runner, a few thin scars scattered along his torso. Knife scars, she thinks, long and purposefully made. Done by an opponent, or by him?
"Some spells require the blood of the sorcerer performing them," he says, recognizing her pattern of thought. Natasha is a little disturbed by that. He taps his sternum. "Shoot me here. A bullet through the heart will kill me as surely as it would any mortal, I promise you."
"I'm not here to help you commit suicide," she snaps, "and I don't think that's why you're here, either. What do you want?"
"Ah, but would it be suicide, if I forced your hand? Or would it be murder on your part?" His eyes gleam in the artificial light. "Would it matter to you either way? You're already quite an accomplished killer, after all."
"Don't try to bait me," she says, her eyes narrowing. "It's not going to work."
"No." He frowns. "I suppose it won't."
For a moment, Loki does nothing but stand there, looking over her shoulder into the distance. Natasha advances a step, then another, careful to keep out of his reach. Experimentally, she makes a show of cocking the gun. Loki jumps at the click, and looks down at her, the frown line between his eyes deepening.
"This was a mistake," he says abruptly, and disappears, just like that, without even a flicker or a cloud of smoke. Natasha blinks, pointing her gun at her bathroom wall.
"Well, that was weird," she says aloud.
. . .
Natasha has every intention of calling it in the next morning, but when she wakes, she puts it off. Instead, she goes into the bathroom and stands in the same place she had last night, legs braced and gun raised, clad in her pajamas with messy hair and morning breath. Her memory of the night before feels strange, almost hallucinatory; she stands there, and thinks, Loki was here, just a few feet away. I was here, and Loki was there, and he didn't kill me.
No, he didn't kill her. He asked her to kill him. Natasha has spoken to suicidal people before. She's talked them off ledges, coaxed the knife from their hands, even been witness to the sickening sound of a gunshot and the scream of a loved one lost; she knows the look, how the desperation shines from the eyes, anguish lying heavy in the lines of the face. She doesn't think Loki was faking.
Natasha heaves a sigh, switches on the safety of her gun, and lays it down on the counter. While brushing her teeth, she goes over what she knows about Loki's whereabouts over the past few years: he'd broken out from Asgardian prison just a few months after he and Thor had left Earth, and gone underground, not so much as popping his head out until nearly a year had passed. Then he'd gone after Asgard - Thor had never shared details, and Natasha never asked for any - and later fled to Earth, seeking asylum in Latveria. (Natasha snorts at that; anyone who thinks Victor von Doom will help them out of the goodness of his heart is an idiot, but then, she doubts Loki remembers that people do that sort of thing, anyway.) There, he'd presumably helped Doom in exchange for accommodation, though S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't know how, and then…
And then he showed up in Natasha's apartment about eight months later, with nary a peep in the interim. That isn't what concerns Natasha, though. What's important here is that out of the many, many threats she and the Avengers have faced between the Chitauri invasion and now, none of them have had a thing to do with Loki. That's food for thought.
Natasha finishes washing up, dresses, eats breakfast, cleans the place. She locks up and starts the long walk back to Avengers Tower, her hands in her pockets. People joke about her stoicism, asking how long it took for Stark to program her, thinking she's some ruthless automaton who kills on command. She's not. Trust is difficult for her, true, and she knows her moral center skews slightly left of what most would consider normal, but she has friends, brothers-in-arms, people she loves. She believes in redemption; she believes in second chances. She's lived them, after all.
Natasha isn't going to tell Fury about Loki's visit. If the god drops by for another chat, she'll see what he truly wants, and depending on his answer, she'll alert S.H.I.E.L.D. then. Not yet.
. . .
A day goes by, then a week. Loki doesn't show up, and Natasha begins to wonder if their encounter was a fluke event. She's oddly disappointed by it; she had really wanted answers.
Ten days later, she decides to check out her primary safehouse, just in case he's been there. She doubts it; why wouldn't he come find her at Avengers Tower if he wanted to speak with her? But when she enters her place, the light is on in the bedroom, and she finds him without armor, stretched out long and lanky on the bed.
"That took you long enough," he says as soon as he hears her come in. His hands are folded on his stomach, and his eyes are closed. Vulnerable. Natasha suspects he's doing it on purpose.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she says in reply. Her gun is in her hands, safety off and ready to fire; she's forgiving, not stupid. "I must have forgotten to put it in my calendar."
Loki laughs, that same derisive chuckle she remembers from the first time they'd met. "So sarcastic. I like that."
He sits up suddenly and swings his legs off the bed. Natasha goes very still, and slides her finger over the trigger. Loki's eyes drop to her gun, and he tenses minutely, then deliberately relaxes.
"Do you know why I've come here?" he asks. "Why, out of all the billions of mortals on this little planet, I've chosen you to be my executioner?"
That's some assumption, Natasha thinks. Out loud, she says, "No idea. Why have you?"
"Very few people can match me in a game of wits," he says, examining her closely. Natasha nearly shivers under his gaze. "You are one of them. I underestimated you, it's true, but that only speaks to your expertise. You're quite the liar, Agent Romanoff."
"Why do you want to die?" she asks bluntly, and he flinches. Barely, but Natasha has a practiced eye, and she can see the brief fear in his posture before he covers it up with his usual affected sprawl.
"What reasons have you to prevent me?" he asks. "Your ledger drips with red, but mine overflows with it. Much of that is the blood of your own people, the people you're sworn to protect. Can you really look in the mirror knowing you've let their chance at retribution walk free?"
"That doesn't add up with what you've done here on Earth," she points out. "And you didn't answer my question."
He sneers at her.
"For all your pretty words, you still measure death in quantity, not value," he says bitingly. "And yet you're the worst of hypocrites; a thousand civilians could die at my hands and you wouldn't so much as blink, but if I laid a hand on Barton or Stark, you would call for my head on a pike."
Natasha stares at him. He's trying to manipulate her, obviously, but going about it from the wrong angle; a few years ago, this might have worked on her, but she's made her peace with her priorities. Her mind whirls, trying to make sense of this, and then it clicks.
"So that's it," she says. It's a leap, but she's nearly certain she's right. He frowns at her, and she continues, "Whatever you did in Asgard, you hurt someone, someone you care about, and you didn't mean to. And you regret it. You're guilty now because you've never felt guilty before, even for all those people you killed. They were just a number, but this person isn't."
She lowers her gun, sets it aside. "You want to die because you're not the monster you think you are."
His eyes are narrowed, his body so very still. Natasha shakes her head.
"I'm not going to kill you for that."
"I truly loathe you," Loki snarls, and goes for her throat.
He's heavy and freakishly strong, and for a moment Natasha's adrenaline spike turns into panic, but she quashes her fear ruthlessly; without his armor, he has as many weak spots as anyone. Natasha uses these to her advantage, jabbing at his groin and throat, twisting away from his grip, using his own momentum against him. Loki is incredibly skilled, but he was trained as a mêlée fighter with swords and spears, not in martial arts, and she suspects he's not putting forth the effort he normally would, anyway. She gets him on his back with her forearm pressed against the fragile curve of his throat, one knee digging into his stomach, her other foot and hand pinning down his wrists. He glares at her, but Natasha is unmoved.
"I know what you're doing, and it's not going to work," she snaps. Where in life did she go wrong that she ended up here, playing therapist to a Norse god? "I can assemble the Avengers right now, if you push me, but I'm still not going to kill you."
"Liar," he whispers. "You have no way of contacting them without letting me go, and if you do, I will kill you, I promise."
It was a feeble bluff, anyway. Natasha shakes her head slightly; she doesn't know what to do with him. She isn't lying when she says she doesn't want to kill him.
"What else do you want?" she asks him quietly. "Is it punishment you're looking for? I can give you that."
She means by turning him over to S.H.I.E.L.D., but Loki inhales sharply, swallows hard. Natasha blinks at the unexpected reaction.
"Could you?" he breathes. A mocking little smirk tugs at his mouth, but it's belied by his parted lips, his flushed cheeks. Suddenly, Natasha is thinking of the many methods of punishment and discipline she has in her repertoire, the kinds that emphatically aren't government approved.
"Is that what you want?" she asks him, her voice low. "Will that help you?"
Loki wiggles a little, and gets his wrists free from where she's pinned him. Natasha lets him, and slowly, almost hesitantly, he brings his hands to her waist.
"I don't know," he whispers, and it's the first honest thing she's ever heard him say. She slips her hand down to encircle the white column of his throat, and carefully squeezes, cutting off his airflow. Loki's eyes go very, very wide. He doesn't fight her, though his body trembles, his breathing raspy and short. After a long few moments, with Loki taut and shivering under her, Natasha lets him go. She rubs her thumb along his reddened skin, and Loki exhales shakily. He's going to bruise, she thinks, and finds the thought bizarrely pleasing.
"Decide," she orders him. Impulsively, she leans down and presses her lips to his ear, not so much a kiss as a promise. Loki shudders, and she likes that, too.
"When you do," she murmurs, "come and find me."
She sits up, resting her hands on his chest, and looks at him. He doesn't move, just looks back.
"If this is a game - " he starts, a threat in his tone, and she cuts him off.
"It isn't." At his guarded, skeptical look, she adds, "I promise."
"Why should I believe you?"
"You'll just have to trust me," she says, and stands up. Slowly, Loki props himself up on his elbows.
"You're leaving?" he asks, and she doesn't think she's imagining a disappointed note in his voice.
"For now," she says with a shrug, turning away. "You know where to find me."
He says nothing. At the door, with one hand on the doorknob, Natasha hesitates. She looks behind her to see Loki watching her, a long dark shape on the living room floor.
"I'll be back here in three days," she finally offers, and wonders if she'll regret it later. "Maybe I'll see you then."
"Maybe," Loki replies, his voice unreadable.
She shuts the door on his thoughtful face, and returns home. She checks in with S.H.I.E.L.D. to find she has no late-night assignments; she eats dinner, watches a movie with Clint, takes a shower. When she turns off the lights, she takes the memory of Loki quivering beneath her to bed.
. . .
He's manipulating her, and Natasha is playing right into his hands.
Of this she's nearly certain, by the time that third day rolls around. She's gone over the scenario a hundred times in her head, examining it from every angle, trying to get inside Loki's mind as best she can; she has a good track record so far, after all. None of it adds up completely, and that points to some sort of scheme on Loki's part. But Natasha cannot get the image of his face as she choked him out of her mind; there wasn't a single untruth in that expression, and of this, too, she is nearly certain. An untruth, however, isn't the same thing as a lie, especially from Loki, and to be safe, she hedges her bets; she tells Clint where she's going.
"You're giving me the location of your safehouse?" he asks, surprised, as they have drinks in a fancy bar on the other side of the city, undercover for the fun of it as a British couple gone holidaying.
"Yeah, well, it's not safe anymore," she says. "S.H.I.E.L.D. won't have my back this time. I need to know you'll be my backup if I need it."
"Of course I will," Clint promises. He doesn't ask any questions; they never do in situations like these, for they trust each other, but Natasha almost wishes he would. Using Clint as a cover to visit Loki doesn't sit right with her. She does it anyway. She's never been as nice as Clint.
On the day she promised to meet Loki again, Natasha very purposefully does not wear a scrap of leather or high-heeled boots. She's familiar with the traditional dominatrix costume, having worn it herself a time or two, and she appreciates the effect appearances have on people's perception of her, but Natasha doubts that the leather-and-latex would correlate to any Asgardian fetish wear, if there is such a thing. Besides, Natasha doesn't need or want a latex corset to be the one in control. It's a point of pride.
That is, of course, assuming that Loki isn't playing a game with her. Lightly, she touches her ear, and the hidden comm she's wearing just in case things go wrong, programmed to activate at her voice command; she'd taken care to make the code something she wouldn't say in regular conversation. She wonders idly if Loki would take offense, or if he'd be amused by her wariness. Both, maybe.
She doesn't have the chance to find out, because he's not there when she finally makes it to her flat.
Natasha stands in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips, faintly disappointed, and irritated with herself for it. There was a fifty-fifty chance that this would work out, anyway; maybe he failed to get what he wanted - Natasha is sure she told him nothing - and he decided not to come back. Why would he take the risk?
Natasha looks around one more time, then shrugs, turning to leave. No point in sticking around; this place doesn't feel like hers anymore.
"Good evening, Agent Romanoff," Loki says from the shadows, and Natasha jumps, pulling her gun from its holster and aiming it at his head in one fluid motion. Loki steps into the light, hands raised, a wry twist to his mouth. "This is becoming a habit of ours."
"Don't sneak up on me," she says, her heart pounding. She's more on edge than she thought she was.
"My apologies," he says, and sketches a little bow. Natasha raises her eyebrows, and slips her gun back in its place by her side.
"Apology accepted," she says. "I didn't think you'd come."
"Yes, you did." His voice is light and amused, his posture falsely relaxed, belied only by the instinctive way he keeps the wall to his back even as she circles him. All artifice. Natasha wants to strip him raw. "You knew I would. For the game, if nothing else."
"Is the game all this is?" she asks, and he shoots her a look, pensive, dark.
"What is it for you?" he counters.
Natasha studies him for a moment, and feels the corner of her mouth tilt in a small smile.
"I'm great at games," she says. "I always win."
"Do you indeed?" he laughs. "Come and play, then."
He spreads his arms in invitation, and Natasha takes his cue.
"Take off your clothes," she orders. He raises his eyebrows at her, challenging her already, and she stares him down. He holds her gaze as he undresses, all his many layers of leather and linen falling in a pile at his feet.
She could guess his body shape from watching him in combat and what she saw that night in the bathroom, but it's much different to speculate than to know. The scars on his chest she knew about, the almost unearthly pale glow of his skin, but the narrowness of his hips, the muscle of his back, the small runic tattoo on his instep is all new. His fingers, long and quick, his black hair, longer now than she's ever seen it, draping over his white shoulders. Natasha bites her lip, then lets it go hastily, not wanting to show even that little clue to her inner thoughts. Lust. She lusts for him, and it's been such a long time since she's felt the need so strongly.
Loki knows it, and he wears a little smirk as he lets the last length of fabric flutter to the ground, stepping from the pile of discarded clothes to stand before her, naked. He looks smaller without his armor, slimmer.
"Now what?" he inquires.
"What do you want?" she asks in return. He frowns at her, and she elaborates, "What do you want me to do to you?"
He shrugs. "Anything you want."
"You've got to give me something," she says. "Likes, dislikes, limits…"
Loki stares at her in disbelief, and then laughs, a sharp bark devoid of humor.
"Just what do you think this is, Agent Romanoff?" he asks her, circling her. Natasha shifts to the balls of her feet, ready to pounce, and feels the reassuring weight of her gun on her hip. "A child's game of sticks and stones? Playtime? Do you expect me to have a safeword?"
"I'm surprised you know what those are," she says, curling her hand into a fist, then relaxing. He stops at her side, and she doesn't have to look at him to see the sneer on his face.
"If I wanted a spanking and a few insults thrown at me," he spits, "I could have paid a whore for that."
That's enough. Time to give in.
Natasha spins with her quicksilver speed and strikes him, smacking him across the face with all of her considerable strength. Loki's head snaps to the side and he staggers back, falling against the wall. Natasha stalks up to him, and Loki stares up at her, a handprint blushing red on his cheek.
"I tried to do this the nice way," she says. "The right way. But you obviously don't want that."
He opens his mouth, and she cuts him off.
"And neither do I."
"Oh," he whispers. A smile flits across his face, there and gone as swiftly as his voice. "Oh, yes."
Natasha grabs him by his hair, winding it around her fingers, and drags him from the wall. He hisses in pain, but Natasha ignores it, flinging him across the kitchen floor, standing over him as he rolls onto his back, bracketed by her legs.
"I'm calling the shots," she informs him. "I'm going to do what I want, and you're going to do what I say. If you need me to do anything or to stop doing anything, say so, and if you toy with me I'll cut your throat."
Loki gasps, shuts his eyes, lets his head fall back against the tile.
"Don't move," Natasha warns him, and steps over him, going to the pile of clothes he left in the living room. Aside from magic, knives are his speciality, or so she's heard, and she finds several blades tucked away in slim sheaths, bundled in his rumpled cloak. She selects the one that looks least like a throwing knife, a sleek thing with a deadly curved blade and grooved, scissorlike handles, and goes back to the kitchen.
She takes in the view for a moment, leaning against the counter. Loki remains supine on the floor, his arms splayed and one knee tucked up; his fingers flex against the tile, his eyes still closed. He nearly opens them when she straddles him, but squeezes them shut before he can look at her fully. Sweet, but misguided.
"Tell me about this," she says, unsheathing the blade and tossing the leather pouch aside. Loki's eyes snap open, and go very wide when he sees what she's holding to his chest. He licks his lip.
"A dwarven-made knife," he says, hoarse. "Forged in the hearth of Eitri, a master of weaponry." A little smirk touches his lips. "I stole it."
"Why?" she asks, curious despite herself.
"I didn't want to pay for it."
She laughs, and he smiles, faltering only when she lightly drags the flat of the blade along his cheek; his breath catches, and he swallows convulsively.
"Did they catch you?"
His eyes shutter, blank and cold. "They sewed my lips shut."
"Hmm." She keeps her face neutral, and traces the curve of his lips with the tip of the blade. "People are cruel."
"Yes, so we are. I - ah!"
Loki twitches, and blood wells in the long slice she makes along his cheekbone, cutting through the mark her hand left there, a few fat red beads sliding down his cheek and dripping on the floor. His face - Natasha squirms a little at the look on his face, stunned and pained and aroused, and she eases down to lie flat against his chest, tucking her face into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. He makes a little pleading noise, and Natasha presses her thigh between his legs, his cock stiff and warm against her body. Gently, she presses down upon it, and Loki gasps and clutches her hips.
"I - Natasha," he says, shocked, and twists to look her full in the eyes. Warmth floods her at the sound of her name in his mouth.
"Yes, Loki?" She nips at his earlobe, kisses his neck, not sparing him her teeth. He bucks against her, and she smiles. "If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?"
"Possibly," he whispers, and shivers as she drags her nails down his chest, clawing red lines into his flesh. Sitting back astride his hips, she rocks against him, the denim of her jeans rough against his most sensitive skin, enjoying the little gasps she coaxes from him. Her underwear is soaked, her clothing too constricting; she's losing patience rapidly.
"Do you do this often? Submission, I mean, not sex."
"Oh, do you want to be special, Agent?" He laughs, a trembly little chuckle.
"I thought we were on a first-name basis."
"You only wish we were."
She slaps him again, not quite as hard, on the other cheek, and he shuts up. Swinging off him, she kicks off her boots, sliding out of her jeans and underwear. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Loki lick his lips, eyes gleaming in anticipation.
"You've got the right idea," she tells him with a little grin, and straddles his face. It occurs to her that he's going to bleed all over her thighs. It also occurs to her that she doesn't really care. His hands slide up her thighs to cradle her ass, drawing her down to his mouth. He laps at her once, twice, licking at her folds with slow, steady movements. Natasha runs her fingers through her hair, and sighs.
"Put your neck into it," she orders, and Loki does, arching closer to her, moving his head with the rhythm as he traces circles around her clit with his tongue. It's sinfully good, little jolts of pleasure racing through her nerves, coiling deep in her stomach. Bracing her hands on the floor, she pants, eyes half shut, and rolls her hips hard against his face. "Yeah, that's - fuck."
Natasha's body twitches as he sucks her clit into his mouth, teasing it with little swipes of his tongue. She thinks she hears him chuckle, and he wraps his arms around her hips to pull her tighter against him; moaning, she takes what she wants and just rides him, his tongue lashing her until she shudders and stiffens all over, her toes curling.
"Oh, god," she stutters, "oh god, oh - "
She rolls off him and lies flat on her back, gulping down air as her body quivers, and Loki smirks at her.
"Yes, I'm here," he quips, and it takes her a moment to put it together.
"That's not even funny," she says, smacking his shoulder, and he laughs. His face is flushed, shining with her slick, and his blood is smeared all across his cheek and jaw. The look suits him. Cupping his chin in her hand, she wipes some of the mess away before drawing her hand down, over his clavicle and the muscles of his chest and stomach, curling her fingers loosely around his cock. Loki whimpers at her touch, a true plea that makes her want to get back on his face and force him to go another round, and she tightens her grip.
"I like your cock," she tells him, stroking him slowly. Loki lies there and trembles, his mouth hanging open. "It's very nice. Has a good curve to it."
She rubs her thumb over the head of his cock, and Loki twitches and says in a tight whisper, "Stop."
"Really?" she asks incredulously, halting her movements. His mouth works, his eyes flicking around the room.
"No," he says. "Keep going."
"Good," she says. "I want to see you come."
This is true, but that moment of hesitation is intriguing. Natasha has a few suspicions about what it might mean.
"If I didn't," she murmurs, "if I told you not to come, that I would punish you if you did, what would you do?"
Loki inhales sharply, holds it, exhales, and says, "Punishment is the purpose of this exercise, is it not? How would it be any different?"
"This would be a different kind of punishment," she tells him. She keeps her strokes rhythmic and smooth, spreading his pre-come with her thumb, tugging lightly at his foreskin on the downstroke, twisting a little on her way up. Loki lets his head thud against the floor and pants, whining a little on each exhale. "Because if you jerked yourself off when I told you not to, if you came without permission, I'd just have to lock you up, wouldn't I?"
Loki makes a strangled noise, his heels bracing firm against the floor, and every muscle in his body pulls taut.
Natasha says, her breath against his ribs making him shiver, "I'd have to take away your rights to orgasm, I wouldn't even let you touch yourself - "
Loki's body jerks, and his hand flies up to cover his mouth, his come arcing across his stomach and over Natasha's hand. She sits back, wiping it off on a dish towel, as Loki uncurls, slowly sitting up.
"Interesting," she says finally, and he glares at her, the fury in his eyes taking her aback.
"Don't you dare mention this to anyone," he snarls, and she sees embarrassment there, too, fueling his anger.
"I have no one to tell," she points out. "No one cares what I do in my spare time. Or who."
A blatant lie, but Loki doesn't call her out on it. He stands, shaking still, and glances away from Natasha when she does as well.
"Look at me," she orders. He refuses, and she says again, her voice like a whip, "Look at me, I said."
Loki looks at her like he couldn't stop himself if he tried, and Natasha pulls him to her, curls her hand around the nape of his neck, and kisses him deeply, tasting herself mingled with his blood on his lips. He hesitates, then kisses her back, opening his mouth to her, resting one hand on her hip. Finally, she pulls back, lips swollen, her heart pounding.
"Meet you back here in three days," she says, and he nods, his body still stiff against her. Digging her nails into the muscle of his arm, she takes his lower lip between her teeth and clamps down on it until blood spills, metallic in her mouth, and feels him go loose in her arms. Pulling away, she takes in his heavy-lidded eyes and the relaxed set of his shoulders. A true masochist. She can't image that was an easy way to grow up, not in hyper-masculine, war-loving Asgard.
"Three days," she repeats, patting his arm, and steps back, bending down to gather her things. When she looks back up, he is gone, taking all his belongings with him.
No, that's not true; the knife is still there, his blood shining wetly on the edge of the blade. Natasha picks it up, looks at it thoughtfully. She wonders how much of his story is true, how much of anything he says is true.
"Only one way to find out," she says to herself, and wipes off the knife before tucking it in her coat pocket.
Three days, and she has shopping to do.
. . .
Two days later, she's sent on a mission to İstanbul. Natasha is good at compartmentalizing, focused only on the objective, her partner's survival, and her own, and she doesn't allow herself to think of Loki until she's on her return flight, tapping the rough draft of her report into an encrypted laptop. She'd missed their rendezvous. What will he be like next time she sees him?
She is certain she'll see him again; for better or for worse, he's latched on to her, and she doubts that standing him up once will take him off her scent. The only question is his reaction: will he be flippant or furious? He's unpredictable, and Natasha won't lie to herself; she finds him interesting. Dangerous, yes, but interesting. It frightens her. She poses a question to herself, and takes solace in the answer, in knowing that she wouldn't hesitate to cut him down, should such a thing become necessary.
She hopes it won't.
. . .
Early the next morning, on the outside patio of a pâtisserie she's sampling at Maria's request, Loki catches up with her. He slides into the seat across from her, clad in a dark suit cut in the English style, his tie a deep, dappled green, black leather gloves on his hands. A thin scabbed line arches over his cheek. Natasha peers at him over her bug-eye sunglasses; by habit, she tries not to attract attention in public, but so much for that.
"Did you really think I wouldn't find you?" he asks her pleasantly. "This would be the second time you've tricked me; no more."
"It wasn't a trick," she says, and slides the sunglasses down her nose, showing the livid marks along her eye socket, the swelling on her cheekbone. "I had an assignment."
Loki goes still when she bares her bruises to him, and when he plucks the glasses off her face, she lets him, seeing no threat in those sharp eyes. He takes in the sight of her, looking also at the new crook in the line of her nose, the abrasions near her brows, all courtesy of a pipe to the side of the face; those glasses weren't for show. His lips tighten.
"Who did this?" he asks.
"The head of a mutant trafficking ring," she answers, taking the sunglasses out of his hands and putting them back on. In their tinted darkness, he is less strange, no longer so stark against the earth tones of the café, caught in the early morning sun. She still feels the prickle of his gaze as he examines her with narrowed eyes. "I got him back for it, though."
"I expect you did," he says with a funny little smile, and, looking over her head, flags down the waiter. He orders something ostentatious and full of sugar, his pronunciation flawless. Of course. Natasha rolls her eyes, and Loki catches it when he turns back to her, though he misattributes its cause.
"Your choices are boring," he says, nodding to her feta-and-spinach croissant.
"I'm healthy," she defends. "You have a sweet tooth."
"So I do." He steals her coffee cup before she can pick it up, and leans back in his chair. "I like to indulge."
"Yeah, I've noticed," she says dryly, and snatches her cup back. She drinks from the same spot he did, and he notices, the slightest thoughtful twitch of his brow giving him away. They're both very detail-oriented; if Loki were capable of being loyal to others than himself, he would make a good spy.
The waiter sets his cake down in front of him, some ridiculously chocolaty confection that actually looks delicious.
"You can't have any," Loki informs her, seeing the way she stares at it. She sniffs at him and denies she even wants some, and he flicks a quick smile at her before eating. Natasha sips her coffee and watches him, marveling at the sheer amount of food he's able to put down in such a short time. It must be a god thing.
"This is weird," she says after a moment. Loki glances at her, inviting her to continue. She shakes her head slightly, unable to put her discomfort into words. Discomfort that she isn't discomforted, that this strange intimacy feels good, genuine, not the product of two rivals but of friends long parted, relearning each other's life. "Why are you even here?"
He pauses at that, dabs his mouth with a napkin, sets it in his lap.
"I came here to kill you, of course," he says, just as amiable as he's been so far. "Or maim you, at the very least."
"Because I didn't show up?" she asks, gone still and wary. That, at least, is familiar when around him.
"Because you grow complacent." Loki toys with the butter knife, running his thumb along its edge. "I have come to you thrice, allowed you to have me as you wished, and that makes you believe you have tamed me. You let your guard down. No," he continues, cutting her off as she tries to protest, "you have. You should have drawn your gun on me the instant I joined you today."
"I'll still slit your throat if you push me," she warns him. "That hasn't changed."
"Ah, but could you draw your blade in time?"
Loki's eyes flick over her shoulder, his lips curling in amusement, and she picks up her spoon as if to taste his dessert, instead using it as a mirror to look behind her. The waiter stands there, shocked motionless; she doesn't know how much he overheard, but just the last few sentences would be enough. Well, she didn't much like the food here, anyway.
"Come on," she says, slipping her wallet out of her pocket and tossing a twenty on the counter, keeping an eye on Loki. "Let's take a walk."
"Do you expect me to obey your every command?"
"No." She hesitates, considering her next words. "I expect you…to do whatever you want to do. Be exactly how you always are."
Ambiguous, she means. Unknown. Vexing. He can interpret it however he likes; she did it on purpose. Loki appears to contemplate that for a moment, then says, "I believe I shall take that as a compliment."
"I knew you would."
He stops her in the middle of the sidewalk, takes her jaw in his hand, and kisses her. Not a chaste kiss, not socially acceptable for the setting, but a kiss with tongue and teeth scraping across her lower lip. He tastes like confectioners' sugar, a trace of bitter coffee cutting through the sweetness. Apt. She curls her fingers in his lapels, and bites his tongue in retaliation. Loki breaks away from her with a surprised laugh, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Like I said," Natasha says, "let's take a walk."
Her safehouse is miles away, and for lack of a better place, they end up pressed against a wall in a side alley, tucked mostly out of sight from passing pedestrians. She has him with his back against the brick, her hands wrapped around his wrists, pinning them behind his back, her lips on his. He melts beneath her, giving in to her kisses, to the weight of her body, and it's wonderful, so wonderful. She pulls back to take off her sunglasses, dropping them to the ground before leaning into him again; they were cheap airport glasses, she doesn't care if they break.
Twisting his neck, Loki ghosts his lips over her bruises, then presses down with his teeth, sending a stabbing pain through her skull. She winces, pulls away, and he chuckles softly before exhaling over the bite mark he left. The pain dissipates, and so does the lingering throbbing from her other injuries.
"Did you just heal me with your breath?" she asks, mildly incredulous.
"You're welcome," he says, and smirks at her with lips swollen from her kisses. God, Natasha wants him, on his knees or on his back, naked, desperate. She cups him through the material of his trousers, and is pleased to hear his breath catch, to feel him hot and heavy in her palm.
"We're going to find a hotel," she tells him. "We're going to get a room. And then you're going to fuck me."
"Agreed," he whispers, wrapping his arms around her waist, ducking his head to kiss her again.
At the hotel, Loki pays for the room with a debit card, saving Natasha the hassle of explaining the charge on her account later down the line. Nothing is private for an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.
"Is there actually money on that card?" she asks him, panting as they slam the hotel room door behind them. Loki pushes her against it, kissing her neck, and she digs her nails into his scalp.
"Of course there is," he mutters against her skin, affronted. Natasha laughs, guessing the likelihood that he's telling the truth to be about forty-sixty, leaning in the direction of not very.
"Take your clothes off," she tells him, pushing him away, and he obeys with alacrity, glancing at her with something much like hunger in his expression. As he undresses, movements quick and methodical, she shrugs off her camel coat, tugs her shirt over her head. Loki pauses, watching her.
"Get back to it," she orders, and after a moment, he does, stealing glances at her as she unzips her boots, unbuttons her jeans. He's eaten her out but never seen her naked, she realizes, and this time when he stops, wearing socks, garters, gloves, and nothing else (a strangely attractive look, she discovers), she doesn't reprimand him. She lets him look his fill, drinking her down with his intense, pale-eyed stare. Finally, he moves toward her, crawling - Loki, naked and on his hands and knees for her, crawling for her. When he sits back on his heels and runs leather-clad hands up her thighs, she vividly remembers his tongue, his mouth, the way he worked her over so expertly, but she likes to try new things. Wrapping his hair around her hand, she pulls his head back, forcing him to make eye contact.
"Get to the bed," she says, her voice level and quiet.
"Only if you come with me," he retorts, and she yanks sharply on his hair, drawing a tiny, half-muffled yelp from his throat.
"To the bed," she says. "Now."
He goes. She likes that.
Following him, she waits until he's sitting down, then pushes him flat on the bed, swinging astride him and immediately stealing his breath in a kiss. Loki moans audibly, returning her kiss just as ferociously, running his hands over her body, squeezing her ass, coaxing little shivers from her as he brushes against her ribs, cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples with fingers sheathed in slick leather gloves. Once she's at the point where she's rubbing herself against his thigh, groaning into his mouth, she rolls to the side and drags him with her, flipping him over so he lies above her, propping himself up with his hands, anticipation in his eyes. Slinging her legs around his hips, she arches against him, and commands, "Now, fuck me."
So obedient, Loki is. He slams into her, knocking a loud moan from her mouth, and grabs her hips with bruising force. He fucks her deep, hard enough to move the bed, and Natasha can only wrap one hand around the nape of his neck, clench the sheets with the other, and move with him, little gasping half-screams tearing out of her throat.
"Don't," she pants, clawing at his neck and chest, "don't come, not until I say so, do you hear me?"
Loki snarls, his face contorted, and buries his face against her breasts.
"Yes," he gasps, "yes, I hear you," and fucks her even harder.
When she comes, her orgasm is practically forced from her, her body clenching and seizing before she's ready to be finished. It's one of the most intense climaxes she's ever had, and she nearly draws blood on Loki's back, scraping long grasping lines with her nails. As soon as she's stopped shuddering, Loki freezes, still inside her, trembling, his breath deep and rasping in her ear. She exhales as she relaxes, smoothing her hands down the lean lines of his back.
"Are you waiting for me?" she murmurs in his ear, and takes the desperate little noise he makes as an affirmative. Natasha arches her hips against him and purposefully tightens around his cock. Loki cries out and bites down hard on his cheek, breathing through his teeth, still hard and eager, unable to stop his hips from jerking. He's so, so close, and Natasha wishes she could keep him on the edge forever, but even gods have limits to their stamina. Easing back, she lets him slip out of her, and he whispers her name, pleading, dropping his head to rest on her chest. Natasha takes his hand, kisses his knuckles, constricting her grip on his wrist until her hand is shaking with the effort, his bones creaking beneath her fingers. Gently, she brushes his cock with her foot.
"Good boy," she whispers, "now you can come," and he keens and does exactly that, tearing through the sheets with one hand, the other balling into a fist even as she twists his arm cruelly. The pain just spurs him on, and he collapses, quivering, on top of her.
"Tonight," she tells him, stroking his hair as he tries to catch his breath, "I have something to give you."
Loki laughs, sounding exhausted.
"I rescind my previous estimation of your intelligence," he says. "I planned to kill you today."
"I always have a plan to kill you," she replies. It's only true insofar as she is always prepared, in the back of her mind, to fight for her survival. "I just haven't had to use it yet."
"So the Black Widow hasn't lost her bite," he hums, pressing a kiss to the side of her breast. He doesn't catch her lie. She feels him smile. "Somehow, I find that comforting."
Natasha has no reply to that.
. . .
The first time she and Clint met, they had been assigned by two different agencies to kill each other. She knew him by reputation; he had already earned the nickname of the Hawk by that time, and rumor had it he'd never once missed a target. Natasha never asked him what he had heard about her, but word gets around, and she knows it wasn't nice. Among assassins, that's a good thing.
They were meant to kill each other, but then she made a mistake, didn't take her shot, misjudged the situation, and Clint was the one to hunt her down, finding her injured and weeping as she watched the hospital burn from a decrepit high-rise a block away. Her body was blackened with soot, her hands too burnt to wipe away the tears and mucus on her face. Still she remembers looking up to see the Hawk with his bow in the building opposite, arrow pointed straight at her. She stared at him, dull and bleary, until he lowered his bow and disappeared, and then she waited for him to come kill her. That didn't last; Natasha has never been good at dying.
Clint caught her hobbling down the stairs, trapped her on a landing. She glared at him, gritted her teeth, and waited for the final blow.
Instead, he said, "I know an organization that could really use your skills."
It took her a moment to process this. Then she said, blankly, "I was going to kill you today."
"Yeah," he said. "But you didn't."
He held out his hand to her, and she took it.
Years ago, now. Natasha has changed so much from that person, grown so much, and she isn't naive enough to compare her and Clint's situation to the one she's in now, but there are parallels, in a way. Natasha has never had the luxury of having a conscience, but despite it all, she developed one anyway. Loki, it seems, has always had room for kindness, but he's never exercised it. Parallel, but reversed.
She can only hope the rest of their path won't be.
Part 2