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cleo-fox · 20 days

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Ahhhhh Saz, you are too kind!!! I was actually super worried about getting that balance right—it’s a very different dynamic from Surrender, but I still wanted it to have a little softness, so I’m really glad that came through!! Thank you so much for reading and for your kind words. Your reblogs always make my day!! 💕💕

Conquer

Part 1 of 3

Summary: The king intends to take a bride.

You just never thought it would be you.

(Soulmate AU where Loki won)

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, enemies to lovers, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex (fem receiving), teasing, p in v sex, vaginal fingering.

A/N: I’m kind of fascinated by the concept of a soulmate AU where Loki wins and this is just another take on that thought. If you've read my fic Surrender, this one is a different universe (an AU of an AU? Is that a thing?)

I am indebted to @infinitystoner, who was kind enough to talk me through some of my doubts about this fic. This one is for you, K. (Also, everyone should go read her work, it's fabulous).

The king intends to take a bride.

At first you think it’s just a stupid rumor, but with time, it becomes clear that it’s not merely a stupid rumor, but a true rumor about a stupid plan. He hasn’t found his soulmate; the speculation is that this is about producing an heir or something similar. Which is also stupid because he’s the one who took over your fucking planet. He can make new rules for succession if he wants to. He doesn’t have to make other people suffer.

You, like most people, still harbor a lot of anger and resentment toward Loki.

You don’t know who he’s going to rope into this plan, but you feel bad for her already. Imagine not only having to be married to that monster, but being in this weird second place to whoever is unfortunate enough to be his soulmate. Imagine having to fuck him, to try and have his kid, all the while knowing you’ll be discarded once he finds his soulmate. Imagine having to go along with all of this and never being able to say what you really think.

The only person you feel sorrier for is whoever turns out to be his soulmate.

Later, all of this will strike you as absurdly ironic.

But you don’t know any of that yet.

You took a job at the hotel because you needed a change of pace after Loki took over. It was just a front desk job—you checked people in and out, answered questions, and said “let me get my manager” whenever there was a serious problem with a guest. It wasn’t glamorous or fun, but it was straightforward and you never had to bring work home with you.

The one thing that you never really considered was whether you were inadvertently choosing a job that would bring you into closer proximity to the man you were trying so desperately hard to not think about at all.

You probably should have considered it—you knew when you took the job that he did a fair amount of travel. You never really understood why—he conquered the entire fucking planet, you think he’d be content to just chill in his palace or whatever. But no. He was constantly on the move, constantly showing up and demanding to be accommodated, and people put up with it because what else are they supposed to do? You can’t exactly persona non grata the guy that successfully took over your planet and made himself king. If that worked, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

You kind of assumed that he wouldn’t show up to your hotel—it wasn’t conveniently located to anything useful and while it technically had a five star rating, you didn’t think it offered the same caliber of accommodations as the places he was known to stay.

As it turns out, you were wrong on all counts. Hilariously wrong. Because now his steward is here in your hotel lobby. Or his…emissary? You’re not sure what this guy’s official title is. You recognize him from the news—he can often be spotted in the entourage of guards and staff that accompany Loki everywhere, but you don’t know his name. He is rattling off a monologue of sorts—the king requires accommodations, only the finest rooms, and so on. You feel as though you are having an out of body experience as you click through the booking software and confirm that the penthouse is available. You breathe an inner sigh of relief—it would have been manageable to evict whichever rich person had booked it, but it would have fucked up the cleaning crew’s scheduling for at least the next week and you know that corporate is already up Marisol’s ass about your location’s overtime.

You don’t really expect him to show up during this transaction. If you had, you would have said “let me get my manager” and washed your hands of it—you don’t get paid nearly enough to deal with self-proclaimed kings. But as you are booking the room (who the fuck are you supposed to list as the guarantor on the invoice? This wasn’t covered in your training), Loki storms in, followed by a cadre of guards.

You’re not really prepared to see him in person—that’s partly why you freeze. He’s so tall and well…real. It sounds stupid, but it’s jarring seeing him in front of you instead of on a screen or in a picture. He’s not exactly more frightening, but looking at him makes your pulse quicken.

He’s scolding the steward (emissary?) about something—you’re so distracted that you miss exactly what it is that has him so annoyed.

And then you realize that the mark on your left wrist is burning.

You swallow hard. No. Not him.

Loki looks up and his eyes lock with yours.

Fucking hell.

The wedding is a spectacle, to say the least.

Your dress is fucking ridiculous. Instead of the traditional white, you are draped in yards of green fabric covered in thousands of emeralds and diamonds and painstakingly embroidered with thread made of real gold and silver. It is very much a statement about who you are and who you belong to. You don’t care for it, but you don’t really have a choice—the details of the ceremony have been largely left to other people to decide. Part of you thinks they must have been planning for this for years, based on the number of things that are already prepared. Or maybe having access to magic negates the need for planning ahead.

You are much too angry to actually ask Loki about any of this. Not that you see much of him before the ceremony anyway.

You go through the motions of the ceremony, trying to keep your cool. It’s only been a week since he found you at the hotel, so the fact that you haven’t consummated your soulbond is more akin to an annoying itch than anything more disruptive, but when he kisses you at the conclusion of the ceremony, it's…intense, to say the least. The mild ache that settled itself between your thighs last week seems to swell, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core. When he slides his tongue past your lips, all you want to do is release a wanton moan directly into his mouth and rub yourself shamelessly against him. The fact that you’re standing on a platform while the entire world looks on is really the only thing that stops you.

The fact that this is your immediate reaction scares you a bit. You know it’s biology—soulbonds are meant to be consummated isn’t just a saying—but there’s part of you that feels like you should have a stronger handle on that impulse. You are mad at him, you remind yourself. He took over your entire planet, installed himself as king, and then had the audacity to be your soulmate. Focus. Be angry.

You wonder if your family and friends are watching. Your phone ran out of battery the night after he found you and you haven’t had the heart to charge it. You’re barely managing your own emotional reaction—you’re not ready to invite anyone else into it just yet.

The rest of your wedding day is a blur. You meet a bunch of important people and retain exactly none of their names or roles. There is an elaborate multi-course feast and you manage to eat without spilling food on your dress, which feels like a small miracle. You meet more important people and somehow retain even less information. You dance—a few dances with important people whose names you’ve forgotten, but mostly with Loki. The sun sets. They bring out an elaborate dessert course. You dance again. Loki’s hand on your waist fans the flames of desire that you’re trying so hard to ignore.

Finally, you’re whisked away to prepare for bed. It took three people to get you into your dress, and it takes just as many to get you out. They help you into a nightgown that you also didn’t get to pick out—and in fact, it’s the first time you’re seeing it at all. It’s almost too pretty to sleep in, though you suppose that’s the point—you’re supposed to fall asleep naked and sated in the arms of your new husband (god, it’s so weird that you have a husband). You’re not so sure that this is the specific fate that’s in your cards, but you anticipate the nightgown will be coming off at some point this evening. In the interim, you look stereotypically virginal in white lace and chiffon, a glittering emerald pendant resting in your cleavage.

You’ve been staying in a guest suite since he found you, but tonight, they bring you to his rooms. Your rooms, you suppose. Somehow, you doubt he’s the sort who believes that husbands and wives should sleep separately.

The lights are on, but it’s quiet. You wonder if he’s even here.

You approach the couch that sits in front of the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city. You can see fireworks and twinkling lights of different celebrations and your stomach clenches like a fist. It’s supposed to be in honor of you. Earth’s new queen. A title that shouldn’t even exist, let alone belong to you.

You turn away from the window and sit down on the couch. You stare at the wall, hands twisting the delicate fabric of your nightgown in your lap.

You hear a sound in the other room—his study, you think—and your heart leaps to your throat, practically buzzing with an emotion that feels like the strange cousin of anxiety and anticipation.

You keep your eyes locked on the wall as you listen to his footsteps draw closer.

“It’s customary to announce yourself when you enter someone’s quarters, you know.”

You pause for a moment before letting your gaze trail to him. It’s a conscious, obnoxious power play on your part—you are trying to show him that you still have agency, that he has not yet won your respect or admiration.

You’re not even sure that it registers, which only serves to irritate you further.

He is still wearing most of his wedding clothes, though he’s taken off the fine surcoat from the ceremony, exposing the soft tunic he was wearing underneath. He is smirking—that seems to be his expression of choice, you’ve noticed.

“Aren’t these my rooms too?” you ask. “Is it customary to announce myself in my own space?”

You are trying to be rude, but it doesn’t seem to matter: he simply laughs.

“You are spirited,” he says, looking you over appreciatively, stirring a wild and burning need in your hips, slickness collecting in the lacy white underwear that had been chosen for you.

“And you intend to break me, is that it?” you snap with more venom than is perhaps wise.

“Of course not.” His answer surprises you, though you are determined to not let that show in your face. “Your will is part of your appeal. I’d no sooner crush a rose beneath my boot.”

You are skeptical of this claim given the amount of damage he did to New York City, but your traitorous cunt throbs at his words nonetheless.

“I’m not happy about any of this, you know,” you say, hoping that your anger will act like roiling floodwaters on the firestorm of lust that’s continuing to build in your hips.

It doesn’t, of course. What’s worse: he laughs. Again.

“I’d gathered,” he says. “You are wonderfully unsubtle when you’re angry.”

“I mean, are you surprised?” you say irritably. “I didn’t even get to pick out my own wedding dress, for fuck’s sake.”

“This is the burden of the office, I’m afraid,” he says. “Your wants and desires are often secondary to the needs of the crown.”

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from screaming at him. “I think you’re missing the point.”

“I think you’ll find I’m not.”

You let out one long breath. “Are you trying to irritate me?”

Another smirk. “I’m afraid I simply have a gift for it.”

You finally give in and scowl. “Great. This is going about as well as I had expected.”

His eyes drift down the column of your throat to the emerald pendant resting in your cleavage and then to the bodice of your nightgown. “Perhaps it’s time we concern ourselves with activities that require less talking.” He licks his lips and brings his gaze back up to yours.

“I’m not entirely convinced anything would stop you from talking,” you say.

“I suspect letting me bury my tongue in your cunt might do the trick.”

For the first time today, you are entirely speechless. The fire burning low in your hips roars into an inferno, like someone has poured accelerant along your nerves and Loki has struck a match. You take in one shaky breath, your heart thrumming in your throat.

“That’s what I thought,” he says with a dark sort of smugness. “To bed, wife.”

You steadfastly ignore the way your stomach jumps when he calls you ‘wife.’ Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be hot.

You’re tempted to argue with him some more—you don’t like giving him even the vaguest impression that you’re following his orders or anything like that—but one smoldering look from him has your heart pounding and another wave of fresh arousal flooding between your legs. You follow him to the bed, trying to keep your expression neutral and indifferent.

He pulls you firmly against him and you wonder if he can feel your heart pounding in your chest. There’s no space between you—you can feel his stomach muscles expand and contract with every slow intake of breath, the press of his slowly hardening cock against your stomach.

He tilts your face up to his and claims your mouth in a devouring kiss, and this time, the moan that you’d held back during the ceremony slips from your lips almost immediately. He makes a low growling noise in return, his hands sliding to the row of small pearl buttons that hold up the back of your nightgown.

You suspect that beyond aesthetic and functional value, the purpose of these buttons is to facilitate a slow, sexy reveal; Loki undoes exactly two and a half buttons before roughly pulling the edges of the fabric apart, the remaining buttons snapping from their threads and pinging against the floor.

You pull away from him, immediately annoyed. “Do you make a habit of ruining other people’s things? What if I wanted to wear that again?”

He laughs, tugging the fabric off your shoulders. “Perhaps you forget the extraordinary powers I have at my command,” he says, staring greedily at your breasts as he tugs the nightgown down your waist, pulling it off your hips so it falls to the floor. “I could tear this gown off you every night and remake it every morning with no more than a click of my fingers.”

Fucking magic powers undercutting your goddamn fucking point.

“Yeah, well, you’re still a jackass,” you say sourly, unwilling to concede the point any further.

His smile is sharp in a way that makes you shiver and he slips his hand into your underwear, his smile growing as he feels how slick you are. “It doesn’t seem to bother you all that much, does it?”

You try to keep your expression stern, but his fingers find your clit and you can’t help the moan that falls from your lips.

“Your sweet cunt is so ready to come.” He slides a finger into you and you whimper. “It’s obscene how wet you are for me.”

You bite back a plea and kiss him instead. His mouth is rough on yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip, tongue plundering your mouth. He slides a second finger into you and you keen.

“Yes,” he groans against your mouth. “Take it like a good girl.”

You clench around his fingers and your hands seek purchase in his hair. You tug on it lightly and he growls with pleasure before he pulls away, his hands moving to the waistband of your underwear and tugging it off your hips.

“Get on the bed.” His tone brooks no arguments. “Now.”

It’s tempting to talk back, tempting to resist. You are still angry about every aspect of this relationship and this stupid fucking wedding. But you know you need this—the dull ache in your hips is only growing more pronounced with every passing moment and the brief feeling of his fingers on your clit was nothing short of heaven. Soulbonds are meant to be consummated and your body seems to be doing everything it can to propel you toward that end.

You kick your underwear the rest of the way off before sitting down on the bed and lying back on the pillows.

He pauses for a moment to look you over, his gaze trailing lazily over your bare skin, his hand absently moving to palm his cock through his trousers. “Spread your legs,” he says. You do and you catch a breath of a groan from him as he stares at you. Your cunt throbs in response and you bite your lip to keep yourself from whimpering.

He allows himself one moment before he crawls on the bed to join you. He kneels between your legs, staring greedily at your exposed cunt, running a thumb along the edge of your folds. Your hips rock upward involuntarily, chasing his hand, seeking friction.

“Such a pretty cunt,” he murmurs. “So soaking wet, so desperately needy for my touch.” He pauses again, licking his lips. “I think I might need a taste.”

Your breath stutters in your chest and he kisses the inside of your thigh, slowly licking and sucking his way upward in a tantalizing preview of what’s to come. You’re already soaking and you can feel yourself growing wetter as his sinful mouth draws closer and closer to your aching need.

You’re not entirely sure whether it’s a moan or a whine that passes your lips when he finally licks that first long, lazy stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit. He groans low and wanting against your cunt, his tongue rolling over your clit once more before he catches it between his lips and slowly begins to suck.

There is no getting around it: Loki is a pro at eating pussy.

It would be easier if he wasn’t, you find yourself thinking somewhere in the haze between orgasms. If he were mediocre, it would make it so much easier to be angry at him, to resent your current situation. This is not to say that you’ve abandoned your anger at all—you are still mad. But your anger feels so much less effective when he’s spent a solid ninety minutes with his head between your legs and you’ve lost track of the number of times he’s made you come.

He is—predictably—infuriatingly smug about all of this.

Your first orgasm arrives so quickly that it seems to take you both by surprise. And indeed, he lifts his head moments later, already smirking.

“That was awfully quick, wife,” he says. The glint in his eye tells you that he absolutely noticed how you reacted to that name earlier and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from scowling.

“Maybe you’re out of practice,” you say. Even as you say it, it doesn’t sound convincing (it doesn’t even make sense when you think about it later) and Loki laughs outright.

“I think not,” he says, carefully sliding one long index finger inside of you. “I think your poor cunt has been sorely neglected, either by you or some subpar lover you took to ease the ache of missing me.” He adds a second finger and you bite your lip to keep in a moan. “I think you’ll be begging for me before the night is out.” His fingertips press teasingly against that spot inside you and you take in a sharp breath.

He starts lazily moving his fingers in and out of you and while it feels good, you know it’s not going to be enough to get you there. You suspect, from the way that he’s smirking, that he knows this, too.

“Do you want my mouth again? I don’t think you’re done.”

“You’re trying to be a jerk and I don’t like it,” you say.

He laughs and draws his thumb briefly over your clit. “Darling, I only want you to tell me what you want.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I think you can understand the appeal of hearing a beautiful woman beg for your touch.”

His compliment immediately clashes with the suggestion that you begging for him is a possibility.

He smiles, catlike, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“You need my mouth again,” he says, fingers curling inside you. “You need more. I can feel how wet you are, sweet thing.” His thumb presses against your clit and retreats as soon as your breath hitches.

“I could keep you like this for hours. Days, even,” he says, lazily stroking his fingers inside you. “I could keep you right on the edge, begging for your release. But I don’t think you want that. Even I don’t want that. I think you want to come again right now and I think you want my mouth.”

“I’m not begging you for it,” you say.

“I’ve only asked you to tell me what you want,” he says. “I’ve merely expressed that I find the idea of you begging very appealing.”

You want to smack him. With your luck, though, that would turn out to be one of his kinks and then you’ll really be in for it. Your fingers flex against the sheets.

“Do you want to come, darling? Do you want my mouth again?” he asks with a feigned innocence that suggests it’s not a loaded question, even as the glint in his eyes tells you it is.

You’re silent for a beat and then his thumb returns to your clit, pressing and stroking as his fingers curl inside of you. Your hips rock with his hand and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from moaning aloud when he stops a few seconds later, his eyebrows raised like he’s expecting your answer.

This exchange repeats four more times. On the fifth, you finally break.

“Please,” you whimper. You sound more desperate than you would prefer, but your overwhelming need to come has quickly superseded whatever shreds of decency you have left.

“Please what?” he asks, radiating smugness.

You’re not quite so far gone that you can’t manage a scowl, which he only laughs at.

“I’m waiting…” he says, his fingers curling in a teasing way.

You know there’s no getting around this. “I need to come.”

He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, like he’s expecting more.

You resist the urge to sigh. “I need your mouth. Please.”

He barely spares a second for a wicked grin and a growl of praise that only elevates your need before he’s lowering his mouth again to your clit.

Your second orgasm is somehow even quicker than the first, only this time, you’re already whimpering for the next one as soon as you catch your breath.

Mercifully, he doesn’t lift his mouth from your cunt this time, though he does give you a wicked look that more or less says the same thing.

His fingers are wonderful, but you know they’re no substitute for his cock. And while he has made you come so many times already, the need to have him inside of you continues to grow, settling into a dull ache in your hips.

“I need you to fuck me,” you finally breathe as the aftershocks of your latest orgasm fade back to that ache.

He lifts his head for a minute. “I intend to, but I don’t think you’re done yet.”

Your eyes widen as he seals his lips back around your clit.

“I mean, I’ve just—fuck—I’ve just had more…c-consecutive orgasms than I’ve ever had before in my life, you’re—oh my god, yes—you’re not exactly leaving me wanting—oh fuck.”

He stays silent, but it’s because his tongue is working over your clit. You, on the other hand, are in the process of undercutting your own point. A few more strokes of his tongue and you are coming again, your hips jerking hard against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop after that, either—he draws more orgasms from you, groaning into your cunt when you pull on his hair.

Your pleas for him to fuck you become increasingly desperate with every orgasm, until he finally lifts his head.

“What was it that you wanted?” he asks with a smirk that tells you he needs absolutely no clarification whatsoever.

“Fuck me, please. I need to be fucked, I need your cock,” you say. You feel restless and desperate, the ache inside you growing with every passing second.

“Oh, darling, all you needed to do was ask,” he says, his tone overly cloying.

You’re not quite so far gone that you can’t manage a scowl. “I have been asking. Repeatedly.”

He laughs and begins to undress. You suspect he’s doing this to torture you—you know he could remove his clothes in one go if he wanted to.

He peels his shirt off first and your lips part involuntarily as you take in the firm expanse of muscle of his chest and abdomen, your fingertips itching with the need to touch him. You grip the sheets instead in the vain hope that it might make a difference (it doesn’t).

But even the enticing expanse of his chest is no match for what’s to come.

He removes his trousers with achingly precise slowness. You expect him to be hard; what you’re not expecting is the primal response that it invokes in you. His cock is long, thick, and hard, the head already slick with pre-come. It’s not just for you—it’s because of you.

You swallow hard as he turns to face you fully. You’re so distracted by his cock that you almost miss the smug smirk, which he makes no attempt to hide. He knows he’s hot, he knows he has a beautiful cock, and he knows that you are absolutely aching for him. It is profoundly irritating.

He wraps his hand around his cock, wetting his lips as he casually strokes himself once. “Do you want me?” he asks with the sort of tone and expression that tells you he absolutely knows the answer.

You could yell at him. The prospect is certainly tempting. But you’re not sure that it’s worth it, not with the way your cunt is throbbing with the need to be filled with his beautiful, thick cock.

“Loki, please.” It comes out as more of a whine than you’d like, but you decide that you can live with it.

You are treated to a particularly wolfish grin before he starts stalking towards you.

There’s a large part of you that expects him to flip you over and take you from behind, rough and fast and impersonal. But instead, he climbs on top of you and draws you into a kiss. It’s deep and slow and heightened by the heavy weight of his bare cock pressing against your belly, drops of pre-come smearing against your skin.

Your back arches and your right leg snakes around his waist, trying to pull him closer, urging him to finally ease the ache inside of you. But he takes his time, kissing you slowly, running his hands over your breasts and hips, rocking his cock against you, but not inside of you.

You don’t like begging—it feels too much like offering up a vulnerability—but it becomes increasingly difficult not to give into the urge the longer he stays on top of you like this.

“Loki,” you finally say when he starts peppering sharp, sucking kisses against your throat.

“What is it, my love?” he asks with a faux confusion that you can see through right away.

“You know what I want,” you say as evenly as you can manage.

“Mmm, let me hear you say it just once more,” he says.

“Please fuck me.”

You’re expecting another negotiation, another battle of wits, but instead, he gives you a rather sharp grin and adjusts his hips so he can rub the tip of his cock up and down the length of your cunt. And then, to your surprise, he lines his cock up at your entrance and slowly begins to ease inside of you.

There’s a part of you—a large part of you—that’s surprised by how careful he is. He’s gentle, slowly pressing into you, giving you time to adjust, his movements careful. He does this all in such a way that you might not notice if you didn’t think to look—he wants you to think that he’s not doing any of what he’s doing. He wants you to think he’s not thinking of you when he is, that the care and precision of his movements are merely a pleasant coincidence. You’re not sure how you know this, but you feel certain.

He waits to kiss you until he’s pressed fully inside you, and you realize this is another illusion, another cover so you don’t realize that he’s giving you another moment to adjust to him.

It’s oddly considerate—irritatingly so. The coals of your anger still burn bright in your heart, but they flicker for just a moment.

But then he begins to move and coherent thoughts flee your mind entirely.

He feels so good. You’re not sure if it’s the soulbond itself, the dopamine and serotonin, or if he just knows the perfect way to move, but the first thrust has your toes curling and that warm heat stirring in your belly. You’ve already come so many times tonight that it feels impossible that your body should be capable of more, but you know immediately that he’s going to bring you right back over the edge if he keeps moving the way he is.

And he’s showing no signs of stopping, either.

“Norns,” he breathes, pressing a kiss against your neck, “you feel perfect. So warm and tight.”

You shiver, your cunt clenching reflexively around his slowly stroking cock. He grins and presses his lips up against your ear.

“Do you like hearing how your snug little cunt fits me like a glove?”

You would prefer to be able to lie in this particular moment—instead, your body immediately betrays you and your legs tighten around his waist as your cunt shudders around him.

You can practically feel his sharp, hungry smile as he nips at your earlobe. “I can feel how much you do,” he murmurs. A devastating swivel of his hips has you uttering a gasping whine that you are not at all proud of.

“That’s it.” He’s swiveling his hips on every other thrust now and you know the moment he switches to that exclusively, it’s all over. “You’re so close,” he purrs with confidence that annoys you just a little, even in your pre-orgasmic stupor.

But then he swivels his hips again and you shudder before you can hide it and he notices…and does it again.

And again.

Fuck.

Your orgasm starts barreling toward you at an impossibly fast pace and his eyes glitter because he knows.

“You’re going to come for me.” It’s not even a command—it’s just a statement as he rolls his hips in those devastating thrusts.

You whimper, your back arching.

“Give into it. Let me feel you.”

One more push of his cock against that sweet spot inside you and you can’t fight it any more. Your muscles tense one last time and you cry out as you come hard on his cock.

“Oh, beautiful,” he groans, his eyes closing as he fucks you through it.

It seems to last a long time, drawn out every time the head of his cock drags against that sensitive spot that sent you over the edge in the first place. He pauses briefly to bring your legs up over his shoulders, which makes his cock hit a spot even deeper inside you that feels so good it pulls a strangled sob from your throat.

Loki groans, his pace increasing, one hand falling between your legs to rub at your clit. It’s so much, but it feels better than anything. You feel another orgasm rising in your hips and you whimper.

“Good girl, fucking take it,” he slurs. You can tell that he’s getting close from the way his thrusting is becoming more frantic, how he tips his head back and grips your hips even harder.

“Come for me,” he growls. “I’m going to fill your lovely cunt with my seed. Come for me.”

Your vision whites out and your back arches as you come. If you were capable of rational thought, you would be angry that your body simply obeyed this simple directive; as it is, it’s hard for you to process anything other than how good he feels inside of you.

You can tell he’s approaching his end and he’s utterly captivating to watch. His eyes are screwed shut, brow furrowed and lips parted as he lets out a low groan that makes your toes curl.

His eyes open in the final throes and he surges forward to kiss you. He moans softly into your mouth as he comes, his whole body shuddering.

You feel dreamy and sated as he slows to a halt, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. The restless ache inside you is finally quiet—at least for now.

You expect him to roll off you and fall asleep—the portrait of a cliche. Instead, he stays with you, the warm heat of his breath ghosting over your shoulder. You can feel his cock still throbbing inside of you.

You should push him away, reclaim the distance between you. You’re angry at him, after all.

But also…it feels nice.

It’s just the endorphins, you tell yourself. It’s hormones. It doesn’t mean anything.

You can feel the lie prickling at the edges of the thought, sharp and needling, like ground glass pressing against bare skin. It means a lot of things; you just wish it didn’t.

Be angry.

His lips brush against your shoulder. More of your muscles relax. It’s nice.

Be angry.

You’re tired though. It’s been a really long day and the bed is soft and the weight of Loki on top of you is oddly reassuring.

Maybe just for tonight. Maybe just this once you’ll allow yourself to fall asleep in his bed.

“I’m still mad at you,” you say. It feels too sharp, too strident. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. He doesn’t know you, though, not really, and so you can only hope that he misses the subtle catch in your voice, that little note of uncertainty.

“I’d expect nothing less.” His voice is slightly muffled against your shoulder.

Goddammit, why does this have to be so comfortable?

He shifts slightly, easing out of you. You feel the resulting mess vanish before it even hits your thigh. At least he’s considerate.

You scowl at the thought.

“Sleep,” he says after a moment. “You’ll need your strength to rage at me in the morning.”

“I can rage at you in my sleep,” you say as your eyes slide shut.

“I’m sure you can,” he says. “Sleep.”

And despite all your complicated feelings—your anger, the inherent feeling of ease you get from his embrace, your unease with your new title, your homesickness—you find that the pull of sleep is too tempting to resist and the world slowly fades away.

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cleo-fox · 20 days

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I just read this on AO3 and specifically came over to Tumblr to yell about how amazing it is because HOLY SHIT!!!!!

This knocked my socks off. The PINING. That alone would have been enough to do me in, but then you throw in a perfectly written Loki?! And beautiful smut?! I have been destroyed.

Totally delightful—I look forward to reading more of your work!!

Love at First Sight (or should I walk by again?) - Part 2

Everyone keeps pointing out the fact that Loki can't keep his hands off of you - but that's just the kind of guy he is, right?

Right...?

(or: Loki's mercurial mood sours, then sweetens. A lot.)

(aka - you bone)

18+ - contains p-in-v smut!!!

Chapter 2 / 2 - to read this on AO3, click here

You had to admit- Tony knew how to throw a party.

The 30-and-31st floors of the Avengers tower served as a multi-purpose room for most of your hosting needs. The elevators opened on the second-floor balcony to a magnificent, lofted room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. An enormous dance floor thrashed with bodies beneath you, bracketed on either side by plush leather couches, and the best-stocked bar in New York City was tucked under foot, bookended by two enormous winding staircases. The conference hall’s double doors were propped open to allow guests a quieter place to mingle downstairs, and a few hired staff appeared to have commandeered the Avengers-only briefing room to your right for storage.

The team rarely used these floors - you had all agreed that Steve had the nicest couches, because he and Bucky had spent weeks picking up old, overstuffed varieties off of Craigslist, so that was where you all gathered for small get-togethers - but the current crowd would never have fit in their living room.

Hundreds of agents, analysts and office workers swarmed the dance floor. Between Loki’s awkward departure and now, the rain had swollen to a raging thunderstorm that battered the windows fiercely - a deep contrast to the palpable heat inside.

Wanda broke off from your trio in search of Vision while you and Natasha made a bee-line for the bar, arms linked so you wouldn’t get lost in the crush. Tony waved you over from behind the counter, a bottle of what was no doubt an absurdly expensive tequila in hand.

Natasha’s hip bumped against yours. You could feel the knowing look she was shooting you on the side of your face, which you ignored by throwing back a shot. The taste of hot, spicy antiseptic assaulted your senses and you winced, flicking your glass down the bar. “What was that?”

Tony shrugged. “Doesn’t have a name yet. Bad?”

You wiped the back of your hand over your mouth. “It’s alcohol alright.”

“Well, they can’t all be porn stars.” Tony pushed a glass of sprite toward you, which you downed appreciatively. “Anyway, what did you do to Tall, Dark and Heinous over there?”

You glanced in the direction that Tony had nodded. You could just make out the shape of Loki’s shoulders through the writhing crush of bodies between you, unfolded languorously on a couch.

You would have expected him to be surrounded by people; he looked unfairly handsome, even in the dark, and you knew he reveled in attention. You weren’t the only person shooting an appreciative stare. Yet the angry set of his jaw seemed to be repelling any admirers with an impressive force, as if a dark cloud had settled over the corner he occupied.

“Why do you think I did anything?”

Tony and Natasha scoffed at the same time. He scrubbed his hands with a dish towel while fixing you with a truly unimpressed look. “Light of my life. Star in my sky. Have you seen him? He’s three seconds away from going Looney Tunes on you and growing hearts for eyes.”

“Loki would flirt with a paper bag if he thought it would swoon,” you grumbled.

“Yeah, but he’s so… mushy when he talks to you.”

Natasha reached over the counter and rummaged through his bottles. She plucked a jar of maraschino cherries out and pried the lid off. “Seconded. It’s disgusting.”

Tony nodded sagely. “The guy tried to kill me and now I have to watch him read poetry and fetch your drinks.”

“And feed you.”

“ And feed you,” Tony agreed. “And the touching. Why is he so into touching?”

Thor’s deep voice rumbled behind you. “Who is touching who?

“Your brother and our lovely little Avenger here.”

“Ah,” Thor said. “I’m afraid I have been sworn to secrecy on that matter.”

Tony guffawed. “He gag-ordered you?”

Thor nodded grimly. “If I say even a word, you might never see my handsome face again. Although, I’m growing quite tired of my brother’s theatrics. Who knows, I might make a very attractive goat. We won’t know until we find out, will we?”

So Thor opened his mouth. And-

He bleated.

Tony doubled over in raucous giggles while Thor scrubbed a tired hand across his eyes. “Go speak with my brother, please. Put me out of my misery.”

Natasha offered him a sympathetic grimace and held out the jar of cherries. Thor plucked one and popped it in his mouth. “You know,” he said. “On Asgard, that would be tantamount to a proposal of marriage.”

“Maraschino cherries?”

He shrugged, then wrestled the jar out of her hands and took a few more. “Hand-feeding. Courting couples are supposed to spend the first weeks of their betrothal serving each other.”

“Oh really?” Tony poured another drink. “I rest my case.”

Natasha nudged you with her elbow. Now or never, she mouthed.

You plucked Tony’s drink from his hand and threw it back before he could complain. For the owner of the Continental United States’ largest collection of liquors, he had an uncanny ability to make the least-drinkable-drinks you’d ever tasted - but it got the job done. You grimaced, pushed the glass across the counter, and slipped off into the crowd.

You shrugged through the crush of bodies on the dancefloor, throwing a friendly smile to a few of your friends as you passed. The wind picked up the rain, which sliced through the air at a sharp diagonal. A brief flash of lightning illuminated the room, casting a deep, dramatic shadow across Loki’s contemplative expression.

“I’m surprised you’re here all alone.” You had to shout to be heard over the music. “Normally you have a line around the building of people trying to get your attention.”

His eyes slid up to meet yours. He was all sharp edges, even in the dim club lighting. His dark shirt was crisply pressed, suit jacket forgone entirely in favor of a simple waistcoat. Tightly tailored pants accentuated the long line of his spread legs, which you took advantage of, sidling up so your shins touched the edge of his seat. One of Loki’s shoes bumped pointedly against yours.

“I’m afraid I’m not really in the mood for revelry tonight, pet.”

You watched him bring his glass to his mouth and take a long drink. His eyes never once wavered from your face. His head tilted to the side ever so slightly, eyes narrowed as he picked you apart at the seams, thread by painstaking thread.

One of his hands reached out to pinch the hem of your dress. It was short, but not nearly short enough for Tony’s approval ( It’s a party, honey, you can show a bit more leg than that!). Still, when Loki tugged playfully at the edge, you were hyper aware of how little fabric separated you from his prying eyes.

“This is nice,” he murmured. The tips of his fingers traced up the side seam of the dress, trailing along your thigh before settling heavily on your hip. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, though your attention was acutely focused on the lazily arch his thumb was drawing across your lower belly. “Green looks good on you.”

Thunder rumbled outside. You gestured to one of the cufflinks glittering at his wrist. “I don’t think I have to tell you how amazing you look.”

His mouth twitched upwards. “Tell me anyway.”

“Naughty.” Emboldened - in equal parts by Natasha’s pep-talk and the heat of Loki’s fingertips through your dress, you nudged his knee with yours. “Maybe a dance will make you feel better?”

Time was an endless stretch for him, a marathon you could never dream of keeping up with, so where any mortal’s patience might have snapped, where a silence may have grown awkward, eye contact uncomfortable, he simply languished in watching you. You felt a warm sweat begin to gather at the nape of your neck and you tried surreptitiously to wipe your palms off on your skirt. His voice was low. “You’d dance with me?”

You hummed coyly. “I could make an exception for one night, maybe.”

His brows knit together. He rolled the ice cube in his glass with a slow turn of his wrist. “My apologies, pet. I’m not interested in an evening of distraction.”

Your resolve wavered; you swallowed hard. “Please? Just this once? For me?”

Loki laughed dryly. “Not tonight, little one.”

Embarrassment washed down your spine. You stepped out from his legs and folded your hands over your belly. “Oh. Okay. Another time, then.”

“Perhaps.”

“Okay.” Another flash of lightning sliced across the horizon. “Later, then.”

You side-stepped the couch and slipped to the edge of the room. Your knuckles skimmed the fog of body heat that had settled over the glass, collecting condensation in big, fat beads until they grew too heavy and slid to the floor. You sidestepped a giggling couple and swallowed around a steadily growing knot in your throat.

You leaned against one of the balcony’s pillars and took a shaky inhale. For the first time all day, you found yourself hoping Fury’s voice would cut through the loud speaker - for some natural disaster to whisk you away to wrestle monsters or catch space pirates. You would gladly accept the mountain of paperwork that would come along if it meant you didn’t have to stew over the uninterested rumble of Loki’s voice as he tipped his glass back.

And maybe when you returned you could pretend none of this ever happened. You could continue going to Yvonne’s, and listen to Loki wax poetic about stanzas in a language you could never read, and look pointedly away when Loki did finally find a Manticore to slay for some other pretty thing.

Maybe you could ask Fury for a longer assignment in the morning. Maybe there were some kids in New Zealand that needed telepathy training. Maybe Tony was looking into building an apartment tower in Antarctica.

You rose up on your toes to try and spot Natasha’s shock of hair at the bar, but she and Thor had disappeared. Tony would definitely still be there, you supposed, but he had never been very good at giving pick-me-up speeches, and if he caught you slipping away - alone - he’d no doubt have FRIDAY lock your elevator privileges for the night.

“Hey,” a stranger’s voice interjected.

You turned to look at him. He was cute, in a boyish way, with pin-straight red hair that flopped in front of his eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was wearing a dark t-shirt, jeans, and an adorable pair of thick black frames. You thought you recognized him as one of the IT guys from one of the labs downstairs - Justin, maybe? You shot him a quick smile.

“Sorry, I saw you come in and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t say hi. I’m Jacob.”

You nodded, offering your name over the din of the crowd.

“You’re an Avenger, right? Crazy impressive.”

“Yeah, it’s an… interesting job.” You pushed away from your pillar. “Not exactly something you submit a resume for. Tony kind of just collects us like strays.”

Jacob laughed - maybe a little too loudly - and nudged your elbow with his. “You’re funny. Hey, before I lose my nerve - would you… would you like to dance?”

You grimaced. “Actually, uh…”

Before you could finish your thought, a tall, sharp figure slunk out of the crowd. Loki’s hand raked through his hair while his upper lip curled with distaste; he sidestepped your would-be suitor and drew you under his arm. “Terribly sorry. I’m afraid her dance card is full for the night.”

“Oh, sorry, man-”

The atmosphere swelled and sizzled. A green whip crack lit up the dark corner of Tony’s party when Loki flicked his wrist dismissively.

You sputtered as Loki frogmarched you toward the dancefloor. “You said you didn’t want to dance.”

He shrugged. “I changed my mind.”

The crowd did not part for either of you; Loki shouldered your way through the winding bodies until he found a space large enough to turn around and face you. His eyebrows were drawn together and his expression wholly unimpressed, and you were halfway to chewing him out before his hand curled around your shoulder and pulled you flush against his chest. Your knees collided with his inelegantly. This close, you could smell his cologne and the faint sweetness of the Asgardian liquor he and his brother were so fond of.

“You ass.” You blinked, mind reeling at the change in Loki’s mood. “Jealous, were we?”

His large hands maneuvered you to his liking, slotting one leg between yours so you were nestled tightly against each other from toe to chest. “I’m a god. What could I possibly be jealous of?” He pressed his forehead to the crown of your head, his face tilted toward yours so his warm breath fanned over your cheek.

It took you both a moment to find a rhythm; a few awkward moments passed where his hands guided your hips against his too forcefully, and your feet stumbled over his, but eventually you leaned into his chest at just the right angle that you could roll against him without tipping over, and his hands found purchase around your waist so he could slide them, hot and consuming, up and down your back.

You turned your face toward his. His head was bowed, eyes drawn to the way your bodies moved against each other. Your stomach swooped like the floor had fallen out from under you when your mouth brushed against his jaw - you were so close, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him, and you wanted him so badly that you physically ached. Part of you wanted to cry, to beg him to stop toying with you, but a much more vocal part of you wanted to roll over and let him eat you, bones and all.

You swallowed audibly. “Loki…”

He looked up at you expectantly. His eyebrows knit together briefly, something like dread crossing his expression before it smoothed out to cool indifference.

“Hi,” you finished lamely.

His jaw ticked. “Hi.”

You slid one hand up to cup the back of his neck. The other rested dangerously low on his abdomen, admiring the way his muscles shifted as he moved. He hissed out a sharp breath when you scraped your fingernails across the flat plane of his stomach through his shirt. He dragged your hips against his in retaliation, somehow both sweetly and a little mean, and then splayed his fingers out wide so the tips of them just grazed the lowest part of your back. One of his fine leather shoes bullied your feet apart so that he could slide you more securely up his leg, leaving you dangled precariously at his mercy. His open mouth hovered centimeters over the side of your neck, his breath hot and damp on your skin.

A thin sheen of sweat had settled over you. You felt flushed all over, acutely aware of the blazing paths his hand was carving up and down your side. You felt a groan roll through his body when you curled one finger through the gap between his shirt buttons. You pressed a dry kiss to the side of his neck, and the groan gave way to a breathy, broken moan.

“Loki,” you mumbled again.

His cheek dragged against yours; you felt the muscles in his jaw twitch into a smile. “Hi?”

You were quiet. He put enough space between your bodies to look at you. His expression was dark, his irises overwhelmed by a deep well of lust. Your eyes focused on his tongue when it darted out to wet his lips.

“Did you come to me for something specific tonight?” He asked. You nodded, nervous under his heavy gaze. Loki tutted and took your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You watched his resolve harden, his eyes flashing with some unknown emotion under the pulsing club lights. His throat bobbed, and his voice lowered an octave when he next spoke. “Tell me what you need, pet .”

“You.”

“Me? I’m right here.” He grinned that awful, arrogant grin of his. You shoved at his shoulders and he responded by grinding his thigh between yours meanly. His face twisted into a mock pout when you gasped, and he patronizingly petted one large hand over your cheek. “What do you need, hmm? You need someone to just… fuck it out of you?”

His thigh continued to press up against you, knocking you off balance into his chest. Your feet scrambled for purchase against the sticky dancefloor. You nodded against his shoulder and fisted his belt in one hand.

“Words,” he growled. “Be a good girl for me.”

“Yes. Yes, please.”

He sighed into your hair. For a moment he seemed to relax into you, all the meanness washing out of him, replaced by a terrible tenderness. The hand on your cheek grew fond as he traced a slow line across your temple.

“You have no idea how hard it makes me when you speak like that.” He growled, his voice pitched low and rumbling through his chest. “Though I suppose… you will soon enough.”

Calculatedly slow, Loki dipped his head down to press his mouth to your collarbone. You felt the dry brush of his lips, then the flick of his tongue against your skin. His hands found your hips and turned you so your back was against his chest.

“Walk, pet.”

You led him off the dancefloor. FRIDAY let you through one of the concealed exits toward the private elevators, and you and Loki spent an eternity waiting for the elevator to climb to the 30th floor. Your left hand closed around his hip to steady yourself. His right hand drew complicated knots along your elbow.

The elevator doors opened with a ding . The sound of your skirt rustling was deafening in the quiet hallway. You turned toward him awkwardly and watched as he jammed the button for his floor before turning to face you.

As soon as the doors closed, he was on you. His mouth slotted against yours while he backed you against the wall. His tongue slid along the seam of your lips. You must have taken too long to comply, because Loki growled against you, took your jaw between his fingers and pressed , coaxing you to open your mouth. His tongue glided against yours, teasingly at first, then demanding. His other hand moved over your hip to knead the flesh of your ass, then lower to cup the seam where it met your thigh. The tips of his long fingers slipped between your legs, just a scant few centimeters from where you were aching. Tonight, it seemed, there would be no inch of you left untouched. Unconquered.

You whined into his mouth, sliding one hand up the solid planes of his chest before settling in his hair. You used it to leverage yourself closer to him, threading your fingers through tousled curls. He pulled back and hissed, the movement canting his hips against yours. There was no mistaking the heavy weight of him against your belly, hot and hard.

His pointer finger grazed the seat of your underwear, drawing a slow line down your slit. You bit back a whimper, an action that had his hips jerking against you. “Touch me,” he gasped. “Touch me, please.”

You pressed the heel of your hand against the front of his slacks. He swore under his breath and rolled his head forward onto your shoulder. You continued to palm him through the rough cotton material, watching the numbers on the elevator display tick up over his shoulder.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a whisper, inviting you into the hallway of Thor and Loki’s shared floor. The door to Loki’s apartment was to the left, Thor’s to the right.

It seemed to take a great deal of effort for Loki to extricate himself from you. He pressed one last, fleeting kiss to your open mouth and then stepped backwards across the elevator threshold. He closed one hand over the elevator door to block the sensor and, still facing you, leaned over the panel of buttons and pressed your floor.

“Last chance to back out, darling.”

Your hands tightened around the railing at your back. Cool metal soothed your flushed skin. A thrill ran up the length of your body, slithering up your calves, your spine, the nape of your neck. Arousal throbbed between your legs, begging him to come back and continue ravishing you.

He looked only a fraction as ruined as you felt, and you wanted to fix that.

Slowly, achingly slowly, you removed your hand from the rail and offered it to him. He swallowed gravely. His hand accepted yours and drew it up to meet his lips. Even though his head was bowed, his eyes stayed trained on your face - almost predatory.

He stepped out of the elevator threshold and reeled you in, pulling you flush to his front. The doors slid shut with barely a sound.

“Tell me you want this,” he whispered against your mouth. His voice was tinted with desperation. You were keenly aware of the pressure of his warm hands through your dress. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you.”

Still, his mouth hovered over yours, skin just barely grazing skin. “Again. One more time.”

“Loki,” you whined. “I want you.”

He still didn’t kiss you. He pulled away instead, putting just enough space between the two of you that he could look into your eyes. Something dangerous burned behind them, something that pinned you in place under the weight of it. “Tonight you’re mine, understand? Just give me tonight.”

You took his face between your hands. “I’m yours. Please.”

He smiled, teeth glinting under the fluorescent hallway lights, and then he was tugging you into him and kissing you senseless. His hand was back on your jaw, maneuvering you how he pleased.

You felt the shift in the atmosphere before a wave of shimmering seidr rushed over his door, flinging it wide open. He frogmarched you backwards and then slammed the door shut with another flick of his wrist. He didn’t bother to turn on any lights, guiding you by the thin slivers of moonlight that sliced through his curtains.

You’d been in his apartment a handful of times, mostly to exchange books or drop off paperwork, but never his bedroom. Like Steve and Bucky, Loki had replaced most of the Stark-issued furniture with second-hand antiques. An overstuffed velvet couch; a dark wooden coffee table with curved, talon-like feet; a wall covered from floor to ceiling with paintings of various planetary origins. Tall, sturdy bookshelves were crammed full of books, stacked two-by-two in some rows, and knickknacks - shiny trinkets, jewelry, soapstone carvings.

His bedroom was the same - dark wood and deep jewel tones. He sidled you backwards until your calves hit his bed frame and pushed you into the plush black covers.

He bent over to pull his shoes off and motioned to your dress. “Off.”

You blinked up at him, a little dazed and more than a little distracted as he made quick work of his shoes and socks. He unfolded to his full height and started to work the knot of his tie loose. His eyes shone a brilliant green for a brief heartbeat before the bedside lamp flared to life.

“I gave you clear instructions, mortal,” he growled. His silk tie dangled tauntingly from his long fingers, and you felt the air begin to hum. “Is it a firm hand that you need?”

Hot, wet arousal pooled between your legs. His eyes, inhumanly green, bored into you as he worked one cufflink out of his shirt, flicking it in the direction of his bedside table. While he twisted the other, the smell of ozone settled heavily on your tongue. Crackles of light whispered across your skin. The second cufflink bounced off the wall with a tiny sound, turned deafening in the charged room.

You turned over on the bed so you were balanced on your knees and glanced at him over your shoulder, hoping your expression came off as coy rather than nervous. “Help me?”

He considered you for so long that you thought he was going to refuse. Maybe he would rip the dress down the back. Maybe he would just flip your skirt up and leave it on.

He sighed. Finally, he discarded the tie and reached out to soothe your zipper down. The dress slipped away to pool around your hips. Loki tapped the back of one of your legs, silently asking you to shift your weight so he could slide the material off. It fell with a quiet sound beside his shoes on the floor.

You turned over to face him. The single bed-side lamp was dim but warm, nearly softening the predatory expression on his face. He traced his pointer finger over the curve of your shoulder, sliding inch by painstaking inch toward the strap of your bra before hooking under it. His finger followed the strap before stopping just at the top of one lacy cup. His eyes, back to their normal hue, darted up to yours.

You swallowed audibly, then nodded. You felt the mattress shift as he leaned his weight on one knee between your legs. He tugged the cup down, exposing your breast to the cool air, before replacing it with his palm. He kneaded the soft flesh there, massaging his thumb in small circles over your nipple, and pressed his mouth to its curved side. His teeth sank into your skin before his tongue followed, soothing over the sting before he moved on to suck another mark just above the first. You scraped your fingernails through his hair, caught somewhere between delirium and ecstasy.

“Kiss me,” you gasped. “Please?”

He immediately complied, raising his head to slide his mouth over yours while his hand snaked around your back to undo your bra clasps.

You struggled to undo his waistcoat. With your clasps dealt with, Loki tugged the offending lingerie off and tossed it across the room. His hands replaced yours and tore the silk vest off before deftly unbuttoning his shirt. You had more luck with his pants, pulling his belt from his belt loops easily before working the button and zipper open. Loki bent down just long enough to tear them and his briefs off before he returned, capturing your face between his palms and kissing you soundly.

You sat there, drinking in the closeness of the other, for a long time. It couldn’t have been comfortable for him, curved over you as he was, but the contented little sounds that slipped from his throat whenever his lips connected with yours told you he didn’t mind. One of his hands drifted from your cheek to stroke mindless patterns between your neck and the curve of your elbow. You reciprocated by running your fingernails over his scalp.

Eventually the two of you broke apart. He was something resplendent before you, hair mused and curling, cheeks tinted pink, lips glossy with spit. They curved upwards in a wicked smirk as he sank to his knees before you. Your heart thumped painfully in your chest at the sight, simultaneously thrilled to have so wholly unraveled him but dreading the after, when he would inevitably bore of you without the chase.

“Lovely,” Loki murmured. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of one knee. “My pretty little human.”

He pulled one of your feet into his lap to remove your shoe. Both joined the growing pile of clothing at the foot of his bed.

He sat back on his heels, allowing you an unobstructed view of his naked body. His pale skin shone with a thin sheen of sweat, warmed by a flush that extended halfway down his chest. A thin trail of hair drew the eye from his stomach to his lap, where one hand lazily fisted his cock. His breath came in short, open-mouthed pants as his eyes roamed over you, flickering between your mouth to your breasts to the lace band of your underwear where it peeked out between your legs.

You teasingly dug your toes into the meat of his thigh. He tsked and snapped one hand around your ankle. “Behave,” he warned.

He pressed a chaste kiss to the delicate skin of your calf before leaning forward to slot himself between your knees.

“Hips up for me, love.” He hooked his fingers under your panties and slid them down your legs. His thumb ran slow, lazy circles across the skin of your inner thigh. “Now, do you promise to be a good girl for me?”

Your cunt ached, a sudden emptiness yawning in your belly. You nodded dumbly.

His teeth met the spot where your thigh and hip joined. “Words, mortal. Tell your god that you’ll be good for him.”

“Yes, Loki.”

His mouth slid a hair closer to your cunt. He pressed his tongue flat against your leg and licked a long stripe from mid-thigh to hip before biting down just hard enough to leave an indent.

“Please, Loki. Please, I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”

He cooed condescendingly before tugging you over the edge of the bed. The sudden jolt sent you sprawling flat on your back. Both of your hands fisted in his bedsheets for purchase.

His fingers dug into the meat of your hips and pinned you to the mattress while his shoulders pressed your legs apart. He lowered his face between your thighs and left a trail of loud, wet kisses until he reached your cunt. His teeth left a paling indent in the soft flesh of your thigh before his tongue flattened against you in one broad swipe. Your hips bucked against the iron bracket of his arms. You felt his cheeks tick up in a smile when a particularly sharp flick of his tongue pulled a thready sound from your throat, and then his cheeks hollowed as he wrapped his lips around your clit.

One of his hands reached out to circle your wrist. He placed your hand on the crown of his head and threaded your fingers through his hair. You tugged tentatively at his hair and delighted to discover that Loki was incredibly vocal; low, pleased sounds hummed in his throat with every scrape of your nails, and a particularly hard tug on his hair had him pulling your hips in tight and tilting his head for a better angle at your slit. He pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to your cunt with his eyes rapturously shut.

Your stomach clenched as a familiar coil of pleasure wound at the base of your spine. Your upper body arched off the mattress, and your free hand came up to curve around Loki’s ornate bed frame to ground yourself. You couldn’t help the gasps that tore from your chest under his care. You sighed his name, a prayer - for mercy or punishment, you weren’t sure - humming in the back of your mind.

His head shot up from between your legs, so abruptly that it jarred you back to Earth. His wide eyes scanned yours before he propped himself up to get his hand between your legs and then he was on you again, sliding his middle finger inside of you and lapping at your clit like a man starved. Your thighs clamped shut around his shoulders, but he pried them apart with a growl, not once letting up. You whined when his finger curled against that soft, sensitive spot inside of you while your hips moved on their own volition.

“That’s it, darling,” he said between sticky slides of his tongue. “Come now. For me, dove.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as pleasure crested and washed over you. You felt him groan against your cunt when you tugged his hair too tightly, but he didn’t let up until you went boneless, spent, at his mercy. His hand slipped out of you and soothed up and down the length of your leg. His cheek tipped to the side to lean against your hip, his eyes dark but crystal clear.

You scratched your nails through his hair lightly. He blinked slowly - contentedly - as he leaned into the touch.

“Come here,” you pleaded weakly. He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth before crawling up the length of your body, pressing the occasional kiss against your skin as he went. You whined when he reached you, already starved of his affection, and pulled him in for a slow, languid kiss. When you finally pulled away, you swept a curl out of his eyes.

He grinned. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Loki shook his head fondly. “You prayed to me.”

He laughed. He pressed his mouth to the corner of yours, not even a kiss really, and the sheer joy that radiated from the sound made you laugh too. Nevermind the fact that the two of you were naked, that his damp hair stuck to the side of your face, or that his cock pressed heavily against the crook where your thigh met your hip. Any embarrassment washed away when his left hand, elegant and featherlight, drew a languorous line down your neck to your shoulder. You tangled your fingers in his hair and tilted his head to the side to press a small, sweet kiss against his jaw.

Remind me to save that for later, you wanted to say. You let that thought go and continued to kiss along the line of his throat.

He let you love on him for a few long heartbeats, then stood to tower over you. His right hand closed around his cock and ran up the length in slow, lazy pulls. That same odd expression from the party settled over his face, though decidedly softer this time, as he marveled at the little human sprawled in his bed.

“You look magnificent,” he said. And even though he was the God of Lies, and his eyes betrayed him as something predatory, and he had you completely, utterly at his mercy - you believed him.

He tipped his head toward the headboard. You obliged, crawling up the bed so you were lying on your side length-wise with your head against the pillow. He followed, manually turning you on your back so he could hook your legs around his hips. Something deeper than arousal was pooling in your belly, nearly outweighing the near-maniacal need to push him to his back and take him then and there. You urged him closer, palms smoothing up his chest. “What an honour, to be fucked by a god.”

His lips curled upward. He slid a hand over your hip and maneuvered you to his liking. “Yes,” he purred. “Come along, then. Show your god your fealty.”

The blunt head of his cock glided against you. You felt him press teasingly at your entrance, then a firm pressure when he slowly slid in. The hand around your hip tightened as he pulled you in, working slowly until you were fully seated against him, impossibly full.

You dug your fingernails into the soft skin at the base of his stomach, marveling at the way his lithe body curved in repose. A sharp roll of his hips had your head falling back against the pillow, a gasp punched out of you. You heard rather than saw the smirk curving across his face, a proud sound that hissed through his teeth, punctuated by another jerk of his hips against you. You mewled, hands scrabbling, and rolled your hips up to meet him on the next thrust.

He fell into a slow, short rhythm, hardly pulling out before sliding his hips back to meet yours. The hand not on your hip brought one of yours up to his face so he could press two kisses to your palm. The first a brief, chaste brush; and the second hot and open mouthed, the tip of his tongue lightly flicking across the sensitive skin. Any other time and it would have been embarrassing, the kind of trick a schoolboy might play, but the way his eyes glittered left you feeling like a lecher.

You slid your free hand up his chest to his shoulder and tugged him down to you. He went obligingly, curling over your body so your chests brushed. His left hand slipped between the two of you so he could press the pad of his thumb to your overly-sensitive clit, drawing tight circles above where the two of you were joined. The press of it was a bit too firm, almost mean, but you reveled in it. You carded your fingers in his hair and drew his face to your neck.

“Keep - keep doing that,” you gasped. “Just like that, please. God, yes.”

“My sweet girl,” he cooed. His right hand - still holding yours - came up to trace his knuckles down your cheek. His voice had taken on a dangerous edge, something wholly chthonic that had your cunt clenching. “Taking your god so well. How about another prayer, hmm? I can be benevolent for you, dear heart.”

His teeth closed over the delicate skin at your pulse point. His rhythm was faltering, hips jerking a bit too roughly, sliding across that spongy part inside you with a delicious friction. A sharp sound ripped from his throat when you dragged your fingers down his slick nape.

He drew back on his haunches to look at your face. His eyes were wild. Lost as he was to the pleasure he chased in your body, he seemed less concerned with playing human. Sparks of magic glanced off his eyes, so brief they could have been mistaken for tricks of the light, and the smell of ozone settled heavy over the room. The lamp at his bedside flickered, casting long shadows across his handsome face. The coil and snap of his muscles as he drew back and thrust forward betrayed an otherworldly strength, each one punctuated by a rattle of books or trinkets as random bursts of seidr swept them to the floor.

He groaned through gritted teeth. Filthy words - not English, but some other language, too old for any human to know, made of lilting consonants and twisting vowels - tumbled from his mouth. He spoke mostly to himself, pressing each word into your knuckles as he continued to kiss your hand. Your eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed, as a familiar thread began to wind in your belly, a bobbin twisting impossibly tight, threatening to snap. His strange language tilted upwards at the end of a sentence - a question? - and you nodded, delirious, in response. A pleased hum reverberated through his chest. In English, he sighed: “Good girl.”

Your legs clenched involuntarily around his hips. Your fingers dug into the meat of his bicep as you hurtled toward oblivion. You focused on the sharp sound of his breathing, your only tether to reality, and mewled his name

He finally let go of your hand to take your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. He tipped your face to look up at him; his eyes focused on your face with a singular kind of rapt attention. He cooed, “ Darling. Little mortal. Look at me and come.”

And then, for a brief, incandescent moment - relief. The thread snapped, and your orgasm washed over you. Your ankles hooked behind his back, pulling him impossibly close. Warmth radiated through your body in soothing waves.

He said something in that lilting language of his. You dragged your fingers down his chest before sinking them into his hip, urging him on. Both of his hands curled around your waist, tipping your hips up to get a better angle while his hips jerked sloppily against you. He groaned above you, caught somewhere between pleasure and insanity.

Abruptly, he pulled out and sat back on his calves. His cock slapped against his belly with the movement. Your left hand - the one he had so lewdly kissed - reached out and closed around him. His hand came down and dwarfed yours, moving your hand how he wanted over his slick cock. His chest heaved, and his head tipped back on his shoulders when you tightened your grip infinitesimally.

He groaned your name as he came. Thick, hot ropes splattered across your lower belly. His eyes were screwed tight in ecstasy, mouth parted and slack, while a wounded sound clawed its way from his chest, broken up by a string of curses.

When his eyes finally blinked open, the first thing they sought was you. He watched you catch your breath through his sweat-soaked hair. You were surely a vision, with your limbs draped inelegantly over the duvet and his cum cooling on your stomach, but you found it hard to care when his eyes raked over you so hungrily - like he was committing you to memory. He twined his fingers through yours and brought your hand, still sticky with his release, to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Then to your wrist. Then to your inner elbow.

He bent over your body, bracketing your head between his forearms, and kissed you with a syrupy laziness that made you melt into the mattress. He licked at the seam of your lips before sliding his tongue along yours with a sticky, wet sound.

Sated, he curled up at your side like a cat - and began to purr like one, too. A pleased sound rumbled through his chest, broken by an occasional word in his strange language. His knee brushed your naked thigh while his hand drew a lazy pattern over your hip bone. You let your eyes slip shut for a moment, then sighed heavily.

“Loki,” you stage-whispered. He groaned and burrowed his face into his pillow. “I have to clean myself up.”

With the flick of his wrist, the master bathroom door swung open. A dry washcloth zipped through the air into his waiting hand, which he swept over your stomach and hand almost petulantly. “Done. Now be quiet, mortal.”

“Loki,” you whined. One of his eyes cracked open, fixing you with a glare. You pushed yourself up to a sitting position and didn’t miss how his eyes tracked the movement of your breasts.

“Fine,” he growled, burrowing himself more comfortably into the sheets. “Don’t take too long.”

You padded over to the bathroom on shaky legs. You busied yourself with wetting another cloth and wiping yourself off a bit more thoroughly, then washed your hands and splashed some cold water over your cheeks. A thrill swooped through your belly at the thought of Loki sprawled across the bed on the other side of the door.

You exited to find that the room in disarray. You hadn’t been paying attention when you got up, but now you could see the full extent of your tryst. Both of your clothes were in a heap by the foot of the bed. An entire shelf had been upended, hanging precariously from one anchor. Books and other shiny trinkets were scattered across the carpet and the lampshade was crooked on its frame. The blanket pooled on the floor, pulled halfway off the mattress.

At the centre of the chaos, Loki watched you through slitted eyes with his head pillowed on his forearm, a preternatural stillness warning you of his mounting displeasure. Dread settled in your stomach like a stone, chilling you to the bone, and a once-comfortable silence was twisting into something taut with tension.

“I trust I was satisfactory?” He intoned. “Got your mind off of whatever it is you mortals worry about for a little bit?”

Your eyebrows drew together. You shuffled across the room to pick at the pile of clothes at the foot of his bed. You pulled your dress over your head but didn’t bother to put anything else on, opting to awkwardly fold your underwear and bra up in one hand while cradling your shoes in the other.

“Sure.” You fiddled with one of your bra straps, smoothing it flat between your fingers. “Was I… satisfactory ?”

He tsked. You heard the blankets rustle as he rearranged himself on his bed, but he said nothing else.

A cold bolt of pain ripped through your chest. You scanned the room desperately for your bag - had you come in with it? You thought you might have dropped it at the door when the two of you arrived. “Right. Ok then. Thanks.”

He hummed.

You gave up on your bag - you would find it tomorrow, or next week, or never - you just had to get out of the room as quickly as possible before you started to cry. You thought back to the cold tone he’d used when referring to the barista who gave him her number earlier that day. I’m clearly not interested. How silly, to assume that Loki’s interest extended further than a night of worship to preen under.

You had really thought…

You cast one last glance at Loki, tamping down the agony that was clawing its way up your throat. Even in his cruelty, he was a vision; his pale skin was a compliment to the dark sheets, his black hair unruly, curling with sweat, fanned out across his forehead. His narrowed eyes followed you the entire way to the door.

Just before you could leave, his voice sliced through the silence. “He’s pathetic, by the way.”

You stopped halfway across the threshold. “Who is?”

Loki’s sneer was audible. “Your guy. ”

“What are you talking about, Loki?”

“The guy. The one you fucked me to forget about.”

You turned and stared at a point over Loki’s shoulder, your mind whirring. Indignation roiled hot in your chest. “Why do you think there’s another guy?”

“I came by, earlier. To pick you up - because I’m a gentleman - and you told Romanoff that you wanted to get over some… guy. To find someone you didn’t care about to have some fun with to get him off your mind. And she recommended-” He drew in a sharp breath and scrubbed a hand down his face. “And then… And then you went and found me.”

“You were listening to us?”

His eyes opened to slits to glare at you. “That should hardly surprise you at this point.”

Your mouth pressed into a thin line. “Touche.”

“It wasn’t that red-haired boy, was it? Because he could hardly look you in the eyes.”

“No, it wasn’t him.”

“I don’t know if that’s better. Anyone worthy of you should have been glued to your side all night. They should be courting you! Not,” Loki waved his hand vaguely between the two of you, “letting you go off with some washed-up, would-be villain.”

“Right. Courting me” He was a god, sure, but you were starting to wonder if you might be able to get one good hit in before he had you pinned against the wall. “Why does it matter to you, anyway? You got what you wanted, didn’t you? My undivided attention? One night of worship to boost your ego?”

His eyes slammed shut; his expression seemed to fold in on itself, anger imploding into raw grief. “Leave.”

You scoffed. “No, really, Loki. What would you suggest? How would you ‘court’ me?”

Loki’s voice rose an octave, livid. “What do you mean ‘how would I court you’?”

You wracked your memory, searching for the clue that would make this conversation make sense. “What would our notorious flirt, Loki Laufeyson, Mr. Clearly Not Interested, suggest?”

“I don’t have to speak in hypotheticals,” Loki snapped. “I have been courting you!”

You blinked. “What?”

“I have been perfectly clear with my affections for you.” Loki sat up. It should have been ridiculous, arguing fully clothed while he was naked, but the urgency that burned through your veins washed any humor from the room. “ The gifts? The excuses to spend time with you? The - I have been trying to woo you for weeks! And it drives me mad because I was a prince once, I could have given you anything you desired, in any realm, on any planet. I could have made you want me.”

“You flirt with everyone.”

“I gave you my knife,” he argued. “I’m- I’m purring. Can any man say the same? And all it got me was, what, a pity fuck? A romp while you wait for some idiot mortal like him to get his head on straight just long enough to take you on some silly, stupid, completely banal date? What does he have that I can’t give to you? What about me is so vile that you can’t even fathom wanting me?” His eyes shone. “Why did you have to choose me tonight?”

“Because I like you.”

“Yes, fine, you like me,” he sneered. “Your desperate pet. You could pat me on the head after a job well done and move on with your life. I’m supposed to just be happy that you like me when I think about the sound of my name in your mouth every waking moment of every day. I’ll just have to carry on living through the mundane torture of sitting next to you on that blasted couch and not being able to touch you. Truly pathetic. And weak. Piteous Loki, who has to live with the knowledge of what you sound like. What you taste like. While he-”

“Loki,” you crossed the room and knelt on the edge of his bed. “I like you .”

“You want to know how I would court you? If we were back on Asgard and I had any shred of reputation to my name I could have- I could have invited you to one of my mother’s silly parties and only danced with you. I could have taken you on walks through the gardens. I could have lavished you with stars and swords. I would have given you my signet ring.” He continued morosely, “and you would have… would have worn it on your thumb, if you had accepted it. If you had accepted me. It would have been the height of gossip, that silly, simple ring.”

His eyes found yours. An expression you’d seen a hundred times in the field crossed his face, calculating every possible outcome. He cradled your face in one hand and wound the other around your waist, crushing you to his front with that same inhuman strength you’d felt earlier. You pushed against his chest and tilted your face away; at the last second his mouth collided with the corner of yours. An angry sound hissed between his teeth as he maneuvered your face to look straight.

“I could have made you want me. Offered you a crown. I could have laid entire bloodlines at your feet.” His eyes had settled heavily on your lips, on the slight shine left behind by his mouth. True, raw anguish crackled behind every other word. “Just let me be good for you, please. Let me sleep at the foot of your bed. You might even learn to love me one day, and I will spend every waking moment of my life trying to be worthy of it.”

You didn’t respond right away, your mind stuttering to a conclusion as you pieced together what he was saying. You glanced around the room, at the tiny details you missed when he first reeled you in. To the stack of books you had traded him last week, dutifully dogeared. To the glittery trinkets he loved to collect when he was out in the field, many of which would inevitably end up in a dish on your bedside table. To the sparkling green dress on your shoulders, picked out so he might take notice, that matched the tie you helped him choose.

To the set of ornate knives on his dresser, tucked away in their leather roll, save for one which slept on your bathroom counter.

Your hands slid up his shoulders. His eyes squeezed shut when your palm pressed against his cheek and a great, shuddering breath wracked his lithe frame. You had been so sure that it was all a game, that he’d known all along how you felt for him and was reveling in the attention.

It never occurred to you that he might have been trying to garner it in the first place.

“Loki… You’re the guy. The one I was trying to get over.”

His body went still. Still like stone. Still like a cloudless sky. His lower lip trembled slightly before his eyes opened.

“Please,” his voice was hoarse. He seemed to be drawing from a well of grief only someone who had seen the birth and death of stars could fathom. “I know I don’t deserve it, but be kind to me.”

You shook your head, drawing your thumb back and forth over his cheekbone. “I really didn’t know. I thought it was all a game for you.”

He scoffed. “Even Stark noticed. He’s spent the past three weeks calling you my master. Asking me when I was going to get down on my knees and bark.”

You fell into an uneasy silence. You ran your other thumb over the ring on his left hand. It was comparatively quite plain - just a simple gold band with a round plate on top, engraved with some foreign sigil you didn’t recognize. Even still, the weight of his words - the intentionality behind the gesture - was worth more than any precious stone in the universe.

“I deserve it. To not have you. To suffer through watching you love another.” Loki blinked up at you through tears. “Oh, but I don’t want to. I’m selfish, I’m sorry.”

A watery laugh bubbled up in your chest. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize it sooner. I really did think this whole time that you just liked having me fawn over you.”

A long silence unfolded between the two of you. You met Loki’s stare and tried hard not to wilt under it.

“We really are fools, aren’t we?” He said.

You pulled his hand up to your mouth and kissed his signet ring. “It sounds lovely. Our theoretical life on Asgard, I mean.”

“I would wear my hair braided until we were married,” he supplied. “And we would eat breakfast together, and sneak into the library every chance we got because propriety would demand I only ever kiss your hand in public.”

“I’m sure that would get the gossip mill going.”

A smile curled his mouth at the corners. “Courtiers would only have to look at me for a heartbeat to know how lost I was for you. I was already the dread of the Asgardian gossip columns; they would have loved nothing more than to poke fun at the besotted second-born and his public displays of affection.”

Silence settled over the two of you. You drew a meandering line from his jaw to his elbow and then back. His eyes fixed on your sternum, though his mind seemed lost in thought. His hands idly toyed with the zipper pull at the small of your back.

“Do you mean it?” He whispered.

“Will you get me a manticore?”

A wolfish grin spread slowly across his face. His hands found the hem of your dress and began sliding it up your back. “Anything. Name it.”

You lifted your arms so he could pull it over your head. You heard it land with a soft thump in some corner of the room. His mouth pressed against the top of one breast, though he could hardly drop the grin long enough to properly kiss you.

Your fingers threaded through the damp curls at the base of his skull. You could barely contain your own smile; though you were sure it was still raining outside, your skin was warm and electrified, as if awash by the midday sun.

“Good thing I look amazing in green.”

And gold, you discovered. Especially when it was on your left thumb. Especially when it caught the light as your Prince took your hand in his.

Especially, years later, when you had a gold band to match it…. And so did he.

#foxy faves #loki x reader #loki smut #holy shit this was good

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cleo-fox · 21 days

Note

W for the asks!

W: What is your favorite pairing to write? Favorite pairing to read?

Lately, it’s been Loki/Reader for both reading and writing. However, I also love a good Loki/OC every once in a while.

(From the Fanfic Writer Ask)

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cleo-fox · 21 days

Text

This is so fun!!!! Great characterization and I am RIDICULOUSLY invested in the outcome. And Loki! I was giggling and kicking my feet like a goddamn school girl. Just swoon-worthy. Well done!

Love at First Sight (or should I walk by again?)

Everyone keeps pointing out the fact that Loki can't keep his hands off of you - but that's just the kind of guy he is, right?

Right...?

(Or: the one where Loki keeps giving you mixed signals and you decide to take matters into your own hands. To mixed results.)

Chapter 1 / 2

to read on AO3, click here

The office was empty and drearily dark; the sun had only barely crossed the horizon, bathing the 27th floor of the Avengers Tower in a deep purple haze. The early morning silence was tempered only by the sound of rain pattering against the window and the occasional rumble of the metro a couple blocks away. It was the kind of morning best enjoyed in bed under a mountain of blankets - not filling out cost-analysis reports.

Fury had had you out in the field for three weeks straight on consecutive missions, meaning you had returned home - bruised, exhausted, dreaming of clean sheets and hours of mindless television - to a veritable mountain of paperwork. Paperwork that you probably could have finished by now - or, at least, made way more progress on - if it weren’t for your resident distraction-on-legs.

Loki rearranged himself in the seat across from you; the toe of one of his meticulously polished shoes bumped against your sneaker, bullying its way between your feet to hook around your ankle. Your desk lamp cast a warm golden glow across his cheeks, accentuating the long line of his nose and the narrow cut of his jaw. His hair, usually so meticulously styled, was loose and curling wildly.

You signed off on the file in front of you, pointedly ignoring the warm flush that crept along the back of your neck, and added it to the mounting pile to your left.

Not twenty minutes after you’d settled in at your desk, Loki had strolled out of the elevators into the office. With all the magnificent theatrics he could muster, he’d thrown himself into the chair opposite yours - his chair - and plucked up the paperback he’d left dogeared a fortnight ago.

(Loki had a desk, kitty-corner to yours in the Avengers semi-circle. He seemed to prefer to sit at yours and complain about the lack of space.)

Not that it mattered where he sat. Your eyes seemed intrinsically magnetized to him; to the dark curls that brushed his jaw; to the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. You could spend hours watching the meticulous flick of his wrist when he crossed his t’ s, or the way his fingers deftly rolled his cufflinks free to turn his sleeves up.

Or, like you were doing right now; your pen hovered lamely over your paper while you admired him through the fan of your eyelashes, fixated on the way his index finger and thumb rolled the corner of one page as he read.

“Particularly interested in fourteenth-century extraterrestrial poetry, are we?” Loki intoned. Your eyes darted up to find that his were already on you, watching with a peculiar expression. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he wasn’t human, but up this close there was a preternatural edge in his eyes that pinned you in place.

“No,” You replied quickly. Flustered, you flipped a random dossier open and scanned it over, adding the appropriate signature on every other page. Loki’s eyes burned a hole in the side of your face - you could practically feel the patronizing arch of his brow. “Just tired. Zoning out. You know. What was the name of the knife you let me borrow?”

“Earthbreaker.”

“Right, thank you.” You jotted the name down under Resources Returned With. It was the only weapon you’d not lost in Shanghai; all your other daggers and close-combat tools had been dissolved by an alien gunk that ate through Earthly metals like sugar in water. Loki had sliced the offending creature’s head clean off its shoulders before flipping the knife around to you, hilt-first.

You did not, however, mention the pocketful of extra-terrestrial stones Loki had shared with you after the fact - but you knew from experience that Finance didn’t care about Loki’s magpie-like tendencies.

( These were very rare on Asgard. Courtiers sometimes sewed them into their sleeves as symbols of status.

They’re beautiful.

Yes, he’d agreed. But I think they’d look better against your arm, no?)

You finished off a comment on page seven and tucked your report into the Shanghai, Domestic (Earth) Threat folder. Despite Tony’s seemingly endless pockets, the Avengers finance department was meticulous about tracking your spending, which required an extreme detail when justifying any and all decisions made out in the field.

(It probably had something to do with the Berlin Incident, where a stray explosive arrow and a couple hundred tons of Hulk had cost Stark Enterprises a few hundred million dollars. Which, you would like to remind everyone, was not your fault. You were off a few blocks away wrestling mutant bat-dog-horses away from some celestial object intent on challenging Thor for his hammer.)

Loki materialized something out of thin air and slipped it between the pages of his book. “I think a break is in order, pet.”

“It’s only been forty-five minutes.”

He flicked an errant curl out of his eyes while leveling you with a truly magnificent pout. “Forty-five agonizing minutes.”

“You haven’t even done anything today.”

“I’ve been keeping you company. It’s exhausting work. Really - I have a sudden appreciation for the court jesters back home.”

“Well your jester routine could use some work.”

Loki gasped. “I’ll have you know I am a wonderful jester.”

With a syrupy petulance, Loki plucked the folder from your hands and handed it off to the little robot Tony had assigned to the bullpen - the Paperwork Assistant Lite, or PAL for short. PAL shot off with a chirp, zipping on his tiny treads, the security badge on his chassis swinging merrily behind him.

You tried to tug your foot away in retaliation but Loki was faster. His other foot slid along the side of your shoe until your ankle was trapped between both of his. You twisted in his grip but with a quick yank Loki had you teetering on the edge of your seat. He leaned across the desk and bracketed your forearms with his. “Yield.”

You blew out a breath and screwed your face up in mock defiance. “No.”

“Do not force my hand, mortal.” His eyes shone a brilliant green and a crackling bolt of seidr whispered across your wrists warningly. He plucked your pen from your hand and tossed it aside carelessly. “Yield.”

“You’ll run out of things to throw eventually.” You swatted ineffectually at his calf with your other foot.

“And when that happens, it will be you I put over my shoulder.”

He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You could hear the storm outside swelling; the rain was deafening, the wind rattling the glass in its frame. The desk groaned under his weight as he leaned in just a hair closer. Your breath caught in your chest as his mouth parted, lips shiny where he’d chewed them in contemplation. “You’ll yield one day, pet.”

The train rumbled along in the distance.

Twenty-seven stories below, a car horn blared.

Your pinky brushed the inside seam of Loki’s sleeve, and the whisper of skin on wool seemed deafening.

Loki fell back in his seat with a shove and loosened his grip. He slipped his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “What if I promise to leave you alone. On the condition that you let me buy you breakfast.”

You blinked at him. “Alone-alone? Or ‘alone for ten minutes before you blow up the coffee machine’ alone?”

He nodded grimly. “Alone-alone.”

You sank back in your chair. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes that the smarter, more sensible part of your brain cautioned you about. When you didn’t immediately respond, he offered his hand and wiggled his fingers enticingly.

“Fine.” As soon as you acquiesced, Loki unfolded from his chair and rounded the desk. He had already pulled your jacket off the back of your chair in the time it took you to locate your security badge and was holding it out for you. He helped you slip your arms in and straightened the collar so it lay flat across your shoulders. “But I fully intend on eating you out of house and home.”

He grinned. “Only the best for my little mortal.”

Loki stood at mock attention, his body ramrod straight but eyes slitted rebelliously, and offered you his arm. You rolled your eyes but did not deny yourself the luxury of folding your hands over his bicep.

Sleepy beams of sunlight filtered through the gaps between high-rises, drowned out by sheets of rain. The first few commuters were filtering along the sidewalk, heads bowed and shoulders up to block out the chill. Loki magiced an umbrella from nowhere and drew you in tightly. The cover it provided was cramped, giving you an excuse to tuck into his side.

The two of you made the three-block journey to your usual coffee shop in companionable silence. It wasn’t until he had deposited you safely under the store’s awning that he dropped your arm, only to usher you inside with a hand on your back.

The shop was a hole-in-the wall, the kind of place without any seating except for a few mismatched tables in the back. Narrow enough that you could almost touch either wall if you stretched hard enough. But the coffee was good and the food even better, and on freezing mornings like this it was a welcome distraction from the sharp cold outside.

Your usual barista, Yvonne, barely glanced up when you entered. Her dark eyes flickered knowingly between the two of you, lingering on the casual way Loki thumbed the seam of your coat sleeve.

“Morning,” She pulled open the pastry display and piled an assortment into a paper bag for you. “Coffee will be just a second. You want to try something new today?”

Loki was already nodding, sliding a stack of bills across the laminated countertop. To you, he said: “pick whatever you want, pet,” and then slipped to the end of the bar to wait for your drinks.

Yvonne dipped into the kitchen before returning with a little plastic container. “It’s a new recipe but we’re not sure if we’re going to sell it yet. Let me know what you think.”

You smiled and accepted the box, along with a paper bag containing your usual orders - a bagel for you and a couple of honeyed pastries for Loki. You and Loki were the only patrons in the shop, so you didn’t feel too bad lingering at the register. Yvonne leaned her forearms on the counter and poked your forearm. “So how’s it going with… you know.”

You took a forlorn bite of your bagel and cast your eyes to the end of the bar. Loki was chatting with the other barista, leaning over the counter to whisper something conspiratorially to her. She hung off of every word which, how could you blame her. He was, after all, charming and handsome and princely and a notorious flirt.

It was no secret that Loki thrived off of attention. When he had first arrived in his brother’s tow he’d been nothing but easy grins, sandwiched between Thor and Banner. It only took a week before Loki was grudgingly accepted after helping to stop the Bad Guy of the Week in a fishing town in New Brunswick, Canada and saving Natasha’s life, and it only took a year and another brush with near-death - which involved Loki using his seidr to literally hold Steve’s insides inside - for him to gain some leeway among the team.

Which he abused immediately.

He was a terror. He was unpredictable, constantly underfoot, and he and Thor spent just as much time brothers-in-arms as they did at eachothers’ throats. He flirted his way out of most scrapes and connived his way out of the rest. Meaning - he absolutely thrived.

You had all come to rely on having him in your back pocket for missions. He was a great strategist and an even better fighter - even if he gave Tony a run for his money in the obnoxiousness department.

And you liked him. You really liked him - liked his company, liked his dry sense of humor. You liked the way your stomach swooped every time you heard his voice from around the corner, and how your heart clenched whenever he shot you a private smile during briefings. He was a great sparring partner and he seemed to have a sixth sense for when you needed a pep talk. But his attention never settled on you the way it did on marks or pretty secretaries or baristas.

A larger-than-insignificant part of you understood that what Loki liked about you was how your focus never waned. He liked the attention - for his little mortal to fawn over him.

You’d thought he’d been interested at first, in the week after he’d saved Natasha.

The touching.

The pet names.

And then months went by and you watched him flirt with anything that breathed. And, on one occasion, something that didn’t.

“I still think he likes you,” Yvonne said. “He practically hangs off of you. Like one of those little baby sloths in a Dodo video.”

“That’s just Loki,” you said around a mouthful of bread. You’d confided in her a few weeks prior about your little crush in a moment of weakness and she, like Natasha, had taken to the cause like a dog to a bone. “He’s like that with everyone. I mean - look at him. He doesn’t really like me like that.”

The doorbell chimed, and Yvonne pushed away with a dramatic sigh. “He’s an ass then. Not worth it.”

“Who’s not worth what?” Loki sidled up beside you, coffee cups balanced in either hand. Yvonne shot you a look and waved the question away. You said a hurried goodbye and let Loki corral you into the deluge outside.

Heavy droplets of rain battered the pavement. Cars trudged along through broad trenches of water. Sliding his arm around your waist, Loki steered the two of you back the way you came. He held you tightly against his side to keep you both under the umbrella, so that your hips bumped with every other step and you could feel the heat coming off his coffee cup at your elbow. You took a sip of your own drink to distract yourself.

“Oh, I think you gave me your drink by mistake.” You pulled the cup away to check the label. Instead of an order, you found a ten-digit phone number scrawled in thick black marker.

“Terribly sorry, pet.” You didn’t miss how Loki’s grip tightened on your forearm when you strayed a little too far from the umbrella. He swapped your drinks, then made a disinterested noise. “I have to admire her bravery. I mean, it was clearly a stupid decision, but brave none the less.”

“Oh, be nice. The poor girl can’t help being charmed by your wiles.”

“I am devilishly charming, aren’t I?” Loki jostled you with his shoulder. You swallowed a sigh when he turned his nose into your cheek, his hot breath fanning over your jaw. “But I’m clearly not interested.”

“Loki,” you chided. “Your idea of clearly not interested is most peoples’ ‘oh god take me now’.”

“Preposterous. On Asgard we took courtship incredibly seriously. There were steps involved. A whole process. That,” he waved his hand, “was merely my enchanting nature.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jane told me that Thor offered her the head of a robot overlord he took down in Brazil.”

Loki pulled you to a stop to wait for the crosswalk sign to turn. “It likely would have been a stag on Asgard. Thor made do with what he could. Though I always imagined myself offering up a manticore, personally. Maybe a giant serpent.”

You hummed. “What a romantic.”

Loki shot you a curious look. “I spent much of my boyhood imagining how I might court my future mate. The gifts. The parties. I always imagined a woman at the edge of a dancefloor, how I might ask her to dance. She’d be dressed in my colours in a public declaration. Covered in gold. My sword at her hip…”

The crosswalk chirped. Loki drew you along, finishing lamely: “So no. That’s not ‘interested’.”

The rain was coming down harder, whipped up by the wind so it blew directly in your faces. A bead of water slid down your cheek; the umbrella only covered so much, and dark splotches were beginning to pepper the shoulders of your jackets and creep up the hem of your pants. A chill had settled over your skin unpleasantly… yet you couldn’t help but groan as you rounded the corner and the crisp steel contours of the Avengers tower melted into view.

Loki glanced over his shoulder, a boyish grin tilting his lips upwards. A few damp curls clung to the column of his throat. “Tell you what, pet. Why don’t I practice my court jester routine a little longer?”

Loki crowded you against the side of the Avengers tower, shielding you from the worst of the storm. He launched into regaling you about the book he was reading - a collection of alien poetry from sometime around Earth’s 14th century, found in one of Tony’s art collections gathering dust. ( We called them engagements on Asgard. Because suitors would often ‘forget’ them in their intendeds’ parlors as an excuse to return later. ) All the while, he drew the plastic container Yvonne had given you from your paper bag and pried the lid off. Inside was a collection of small pastries with cracked sugar shells on top - profiteroles, you thought. Loki plucked one and gestured with it wildly to emphasize his point, nearly upturning the entire box in his enthusiasm.

“Okay, that’s enough.” You took the container from him and held it securely in your free hand. “What were you saying?”

“I was quoting. I said ‘ If love was like an ocean, then mine was like a well.’”

“Deep and drinkable?”

“Hand-dug.” Loki popped the sweet in his mouth. His eyebrows rose comically. “That’s good. That’s very good,” he said around a mouthful.

You hummed and held out your coffee so you could try. Instead, Loki took another one out and held it up to your mouth.

You sputtered out a nervous laugh. “What? No, take my coffee.”

Loki tsked and prodded your lips with the dessert. He fixed you with a strange look, something coy but serious at the edges. A warm flush rose along the back of your neck under his scrutiny, growing so unbearable by the second that eventually you opened your mouth and let him place the treat between your teeth. Sweet cream burst out of crisp, flaky pastry and chips of hard sugar - he was right, it was delicious.

His narrowed eyes shone with mirth. “Good?”

Your breath stuttered when Loki pressed his lips to the pad of his thumb, licking away some sticky residue. His mouth pulled away with a wet peach sort of sound.

Your knuckles brushed the fabric of his shirt, warmed by his skin - a pleasant contrast to the cold, wet city air. You felt his muscles twitch under the barest touch.

His mouth tipped upwards; the back of your hand slid against his abdomen when he leaned his hand against the wall next to your head, dominating your personal space.

In a panic, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Do you have a date for the party tonight?”

“Oh sweetling,” he purred. “I thought you would never ask.”

You grimaced. “Very funny. I thought you would have already asked Emily from Accounting.”

Loki blinked down at you. “What?”

“Emily? Tall, big hair, legs for days?”

“Why would I ever ask her?”

You picked at the label printed on your coffee cup. “I don’t know. I just figured someone like you would…”

“Would…?”

You huffed out a sharp breath and glanced at him from the corner of your eye. A strange expression had crossed his face. You regretted asking at all; it wasn’t like you wanted to know the answer to that question anyway.

“Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’ll be fending people off left and right anyway.”

Silence settled over the two of you, decidedly less comfortable this time. His hand slipped from the brick wall and into his coat pocket roughly.

“Do you… Do you have a date tonight?”

“No! No, I…” You laughed uncomfortably. “No. No dates right now.”

Loki hummed. The furrow between his brows lessened but only slightly.

You pushed away from the wall a little awkwardly, still balancing the box of profiteroles in your hand. Loki followed a step behind, pulling the door open for you mechanically.

You rode the elevator up in silence.

When you reached the floor for the common office, you found PAL waiting dutifully outside the elevator. His little paper tray bobbed as he spun circles around your feet.

“You are entirely too kind to him,” Loki chided while you cooed down at his adorably square face.

“Maybe he’ll be my date tonight. What do you say, PAL? Want to dance the night away?”

PAL lead the two of you to your desk, where he waited for you to assign him another file. The city was shrouded in a thick grey haze behind the floor-to-ceiling windows and bright, early morning light had flooded the room - a far cry from the intimate room you’d left. You sighed and slunk heavily into your seat.

Loki loitered. He drew the tip of one long finger down the cover of one of your folders, flipping through a quilt of post-it notes. “Ok. I’ll keep my promise and let you work now.”

“Thank you.” Before he could leave you reached out and grabbed his sleeve. He startled, glancing down at your hand before his eyes flickered back up to yours. You rolled the seam of his coat sleeve between your thumb and forefinger, dropping his gaze when it grew too hot. “I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

Loki hummed. “I’ll be the one in black.”

You couldn’t help but feel like you’d said something wrong. His hand slipped from yours and into his pocket, his little book of poetry tucked under one arm. Your eyes lingered on the elevator doors long after he’d left.

—

You were in the process of deciding between two pairs of shoes when your front door slipped open. Never one for boisterous entrances, Natasha sashayed down your front hall into your living area, shoes and makeup bag clutched in one hand, and made a bee-line for your bathroom. You padded after her, adjusting your glittery skirt as you went.

It had become customary for you and Natasha to get ready together in your apartment, even outside of Official Team Events, so you didn’t bat an eye when she leant her hip against your counter and started pinning her hair out of her face. You hoisted yourself up onto the bathroom counter while she unpacked her tools, idly playing with a tube of toothpaste in companionable silence.

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad is the crisis you’re having?”

“How can you tell I’m having a crisis?”

Natasha waved her hand, as if to say international super spy, duh.

“Like a twelve,” you moaned. “I can’t do this anymore. I just get so… so awkward around him. And he gets off on it, I know he does. He amps it up to a hundred because he knows it makes me uncomfortable.”

Natasha leveled a look at you through the mirror.

“He called Lydia in the mail room ‘Enchantress’ for a week. He calls me his pet. ”

“Some guys are into that.”

You made a face. “He’s not a guy though. He’s a god. How could I ever live up to that.”

You heard the front door open. Wanda had promised to come by once she’d gotten dressed. You called out her name, then returned to your moping.

“He just- ugh - he makes me crazy, you know? I like him so much. I swear if he touches me one more time I’m going to burst into flames. Or cry. Or worse, say something embarrassing. Something needy like ‘I love you please oh please let me have your babies’.” You wailed and buried your face in your hands. “I just need to find a guy to fuck it out of me.”

“If you’re looking for sex, Loki would be more than happy to help you,” Natasha grumbled. “Even if he wasn’t doing the roll-over-and-show-my-belly routine for you - which he absolutely is - he’d jump at the chance to ‘fuck it out of you’ .”

“You are not being helpful at all.” You hopped off the counter and adjusted your skirt. You were beginning to regret your decision, but the dress was a beautiful shade of green that both Wanda and Natasha had cooed at over Facetime a week ago. “I’m serious. I just need some random guy to blow off some steam. Get my mind off of him.”

Natasha tossed her eyeliner pencil in her makeup bag and zipped it shut. “Maybe you’re selling yourself short. Maybe you’re way more of a catch than you think you are.��

“And maybe sleeping with someone who actually wants me will fix my ego problem. Maybe my problem is that I’ve been spending way too much time around super soldiers and GQ models. Someone in my league. Someone totally normal who won’t laugh in my face and pat my head like I’m a horny lap dog.”

Natasha tsked. “It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind. So, what’s the plan? You find some guy, take him home, ride him into the sunset and then… Go on pretending you’re not totally in love with-?”

“Don’t say his name! I’m serious, you’re going to jinx it or something.” You glared at her reflection. “The guy doesn’t matter. In fact, he shouldn’t matter. Someone I have absolutely no interest in, who I can spend one fun night with and then move on from. I just need to regain control over the situation.”

“Mhmm. I just don’t see why Loki’s not an option here. Plug this in for me.” You squawked indignantly while she handed over her curling iron. “Worst case scenario, he’s only ok and you never have to talk about it again. Maybe he has a tail or something. Horns.”

You tried to imagine her head exploding. Or stubbing her toe really hard. Tripping up the stairs. “It’s more complicated than that.”

Natasha hummed. She sorted through the belongings strewn across your bathroom counter mindlessly, straightening out your array of weapons leftover from when you stumbled home in the early morning. One of her manicured fingers traced the edge of an ornate gold knife. Earthbreaker . “Interesting choice for a telekinetic super spy. Abandoning quiet and calculated for something a bit more ostentatious, are we?”

“I’ve been meaning to return that.”

“Return what?” Wanda rounded the corner, a tote bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in another. “Cute dress.”

You smiled. “Thank you. What took you so long?”

“Oh,” Wanda sidled up next to Natasha and began pilfering through her makeup bag. “Nothing, really. I couldn’t decide between this dress or an old red one I found in the back of my closet. I came as fast as I could.”

“No, I mean, I heard the door-”

“She’s going to hook up with a stranger tonight,” Natasha interrupted.

“What? Shit-” Wanda dropped the kohl pencil she was using and licked her thumb, scrubbing at her eyelid. “Wait, why not Loki?”

“I never said I was certain,” you interjected.

“She’s worried he doesn’t feel the same way she does.”

Wanda pouted at her reflection, assessing the symmetry of her eyeliner. “Not to be dramatic but… does it matter? He’d say yes.”

“You don’t know that. Just this morning he turned down a barista when she gave him her phone number.”

“But with a little wine? A little dancing? He looks amazing, by the way, I passed him on my way here.” Wanda turned to face you, leaning her elbows on the counter. “He’ll say yes.”

“Speaking of wine, why don’t I-”

“Worst case scenario he’s only an okay lay. Loki will leap at the chance for a one-night stand. Why would you-”

“I don’t want to just fuck him, okay?” You cried. “I know he’d fuck me. But I want more. ”

You turned on your heel and fled to the kitchen. You had never gotten around to buying wine glasses - something Natasha loved to make fun of you for - so you pulled mugs down at random.

It was only your familiarity with Natasha that tipped you off to the fact that she’d joined you. You avoided her eyes while digging through your cutlery drawer for a corkscrew.

“Babe.” Natasha took you by the shoulders and tipped her head so you were eye level. “Hey. Tell me what the worst-case scenario is.”

You shrugged, a little pathetically. “I don’t know. He’s uncomfortable. Or- or he makes fun of me.”

“He already does that.”

“But not- not like this.” You scrubbed the heel of your palm over your eyes. “I really like him. And I don’t want to lose him as a friend.”

“I think you’re gonna lose him as a friend no matter what if this continues. And I think he likes you a lot more than you think. I- and you can never, ever repeat this - I think he’s a lot more empathetic than he lets on. Hell, his brother has tried to kill him multiple times and they live on the same floor.”

Her thumbs worked in small, soothing circles over your shoulders. You leaned forward to rest your forehead against her chest and sighed. “What if he says no?”

“Just ask him to dance tonight. If he says no then no harm, no foul.” She pushed you back by the shoulders and leveled you a look. “We’re master tacticians. We can seduce that stupid peacock. Now come on, come help me do Wanda’s hair. I curl, you pin.”

You took a deep breath in and held it. On the exhale, you pulled away. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You gathered up your glasses. Wine bottle in hand, you started to formulate a plan. A strategy. Something Peter might call Operation Get Laid if he didn’t blush every time a kissing scene came on TV.

You nodded. “Okay.”

#loki x reader #foxy faves

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