On my mind , in my soul - 16
Prompt: “Love your work, On my mind in your soul!!! Prompts: A collar, a chair, and “Movement” by Hozier. Hope this works for you ♥️” That’s the words of a wonderful Anon whom I’ve decided will be the instigator to…well…you’ll see ;) Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Swearing as usual, loneliness, isolation, tiny bit of angst, jealousy, possessiveness, Jotun, lemons with “leashes”, some fluff ? A/N: All I wanna say is...it’s not my fault. Anon made me do it. Please reblog if you liked! You know the drill by now.
Of halves and wholes
You move silently, body tight and breath shallow as you navigate the halls of the Stark Tower on your own. Dressed in your own training gear (which Romanoff had picked up at your place – without being asked to or told the address) the plan is to locate the gym because sitting cooped up is starting to drive you crazy. It’s been ages since Loki left with most of the Avengers. More than a week at least! After a heartbeat to count, you correct the estimation: three. Days. Shit.
This is worse than expected. The tower isn’t your home, and not even a thirsting curiosity can distract you from the discomfort of being somewhere that takes your freedom and control away. Not to mention the people. Despite some shady backgrounds here and there, the Avengers stand for law and order and although they don’t put the letter of the law before the spirit of it…well, shared interests aren’t exactly plenty.
It’s more of a feeling than anything else that makes you duck into a spin where your water bottle is launched through the air. But instinct or not, the container nearly finds a target below the belt of the only one of the heroes you can talk to: Barton.
“Close call,” he mutters, but there’s a smile on his lips, “guess ye’re not much safer to sneak up on.”
You push to your feet, a bit frazzled. “At least I’m not carrying weapons all the time.” Yeah, I’m not gonna feel guilty about this.
“Anythin’ can be a weapon.”
Barton lops the bottle back in a gentle arch, probably confident that you don’t stand a chance at beating him. Which you don’t. But still.
“That sounded like the Russian duo.”
The smile breaks with a snort of laughter. “Only one’s Russian. Sorta. But yeah, I see yer point.” He walks on the way you’d been headed. “So, let’s see what else yer capable of other than tamin’ an Asgardian and throwin’ bottles at nice guys’ private parts.”
It’s all junk.
Silently appreciating that you’ve got a guide now, you follow the archer down a few levels and into the private and (according to Stark) little gym.
Little my ass. Filled with the best equipment money can buy, the place is bigger than any training center has a right to be and sports several pit-like areas which probably are meant for sparring. Of course there are also an actual boxing ring, several machines where the pins in the weight still are at uncannily high numbers…not to mention an actual stack of sandbags by the wall. Bikes, treadmills, you could go on and eventually not even know what to call the different options for physical exercise displayed before you. At least the smell’s like it should be. Musty leather, dry sweat, and sanitizer. Your nose wrinkle at the familiarity, and a bit of the alienation you’d felt seeps away into the floor, leaving you calmer than you’d been for…since I got here.
“Alrighty, what ye know already?” Barton has found sports tape and wraps while you were ogling and is now waiting for you to hold out a hand.
You gingerly extend your left. “In terms of…what?”
“Self-defence. Martial arts.” He’s obviously done this before because his fingers move nimbly and without hesitation.
What do I know? Sure, you’d taken a few classes and generally kept in shape enough to impress any common thug or rich client getting handsy. Then there was the stuff you’d tried to teach yourself like when Loki was…the memory makes you sigh quietly at the realization that that isn’t so long ago even though it feels like a lifetime. Things could have been so different now if you’d made other choices. Would your life have remained what it once was? Would it have been smarter if you’d run away…or simpler if you’d given in to the demands of the Asgardian? He would never have opened up to you, bared his soul the way he had done when he explained why the Avengers forgave him…
“Hey?” Barton’s voice breaks through the storm of thoughts. “Where y’at?”
Both your hands are wrapped comfortably. “Sorry,” you mumble, “uhm…no experience worth mentioning.”
“Cool. Blank slate.”
You follow him into the nearest pit, finding that the floor is slightly padded. “Tabula rasa.”
“…s’that like Hakuna Matata?”
… Loki’s PoV …
What use is a wizard if he will not even ensure the quickest travel? Finally out of the dreadful confines of the jet, Loki can feel his body thrumming with impatience. The Jotun part of him is itching to break free from the restraints of the illusion and to be only with people he trusts unconditionally. And no, Thor - who is hollering after the raven-haired brother - does not exactly fit that bill.
Long strides bring him to the door that leads to what can be considered Loki’s quarters when he has to stay at the Tower. The god prefers his own home, but even he is a slave to practicality sometimes. And this time? A part somewhere in his chest does not disagree quite as much with returning to this place.
Without knocking, he barges in and is met with nothing.
A second stretches like elastic as Loki takes in the surroundings, finding no signs of foul play. The closet is ajar, a pair of jeans slung across the back of a chair next to it which has [Y/N] shoes tugged beneath. The wardrobe itself is near empty because neither resident had brought a lot with them.
This time the steps are rushed and nothing but pure self-restraint keeps the god from breaking into a running pace. Self-respect. Dignity. Loki tempers the roiling desperation, not wanting to let anyone else know exactly how great the urge to hold his mortal in his arms really is. But where is she? Stopping, he realizes that he simply has stormed off in any random direction which is a perfect example on how not to search for anyone.
“Jarvis!” the god snaps, for once appreciating Starks love for the disembodied servant.
...
I still watch you when you're groovin' As if through water from the bottom of a pool You're movin' without movin'
The Asgardian supposes he should be thankful for the facts that [Y/N] is learning to defend herself properly and for the fact that it is Barton teaching her rather than any of the others. The two men do not have a friendship, far from, but the archer had been the first to accept that Loki’s actions on Midgard had not been entirely of his own volition. And so a sort of unspoken understanding keeps them on common ground. Still, looking at the way the two sweaty bodies collide and wrestle for dominance awakens a jealousy within Loki.
Why do I stay in the shadow? It would be simple, stepping forward and claiming the woman he has come to consider his. [Y/N] would be furious if I treated her as a possession…and the god stays in the shadows to watch. And what a sight it is.
With careful perfection, she copies the trainer’s movements. Already, her motions are fluid and lithe, a show of confidence that empowers the once-upon-burglar more than Loki thought would still be possible, and he could swear on the Norns that no other sight is as captivating. Sleek muscles dance under glistening skin of back, arms, and shoulders with each strike or block. Strong thighs (that have been wrapped around his waist as pleasure wrecks the perfect body) powers each step as [Y/N] drives forward in a tantalizing onslaught. Full of potency and with satisfaction showing on the curved lips. My warrior.
A change in movement, bodies too close for Loki’s liking as the archer wraps the woman in his arm before spinning her away. Only as Barton backs out of the sparring match, does the Asgardian realize that he has marched to the pit. He can feel the jealousy spread like ice over his skin but can hardly find it in himself to stall the transformation…and either way: the bowman is leaving already.
“Loki?” The female voices reaches him through a fog of rage. “What’s up?”
She is so soft in his clawed hands, so pliable as lips meet with a force that clicks their teeth together. “Mine,” Loki mumbles in between the hungry kisses.
“Mm!” He does not allow her to break away fully. “M’not…a thin’…oh…you own!” Even so, she is returning each demanding action with a vigour.
“Still…mine…” [Y/N]’s skin is scalding on his lips as he trails the elegant jawline before latching onto the tender spot below the ear. “My pet.”
Nails scrape against his scalp, sending shivers down Loki’s spine. “No pet…” she whimpers, arching into him in response to the hands stroking her body, “got no collar.”
Finally pulling back, the god is met with a lust-blown gaze. Mouth half-open and chest rising and falling rapidly, she looks so prettily ruined. “Oh, but my dear…you do have a collar.”
And as he speaks, it appears in a shimmer of sparks: thick, green velvet edged with gold and no buckle or joint anywhere for [Y/N]’s probing fingers to find. He sees the challenge rise in her eyes, but simply decides to scoop her up onto a shoulder and carry her away.
… Reader’s PoV …
Without anything sharp, there’s no way you can get the new accessory off and slung over the Jotun’s shoulder (Must be his “thing”) you really can’t do anything about anything. Instead you wait patiently. Almost patiently. With each step, Loki brings you closer to his room. With each step, he tells you all the dirty things you’ve been longing for while he was gone, making you squirm to prolong the contact as he massages your ass and legs, ghosting close to your clothed pussy when the nimble fingers explore the inside of the thighs.
But when the door finally does close, he doesn’t drop you on the bed, but perches you on a hard chair and before you know it, your ankles are tied to its metal legs and you wrists connected behind its back.
His face is so close you can recognize a turquoise shade in the sea of red. “I might not own you, love, but you’re still mine to do with as I please.” A large hand wraps loosely around your neck, thumb stroking the collar. “If you’re a good pet, I’ll reward you.”
I’ll show you “pet”. Like a dog wanting to lick its owner’s face, you try to rush forward but are stopped by resistance from the neckband. What the –? His smirk chases away the confusion – the bastard has tied the collar to chair too. You can’t move more than a few inches, leaving you completely at his mercy. There’s no doubt in your mind that he would set you free if you truly wanted him too…but you don’t.
When you move Honey, I'm put in awe of somethin' so flawed and free
Instead, you watch as he straightens before you, deliberately slow as he peels off one layer of clothes after the other before he stands naked.
“God,” you moan, following the ridged lines across his shape with your eyes.
His hand drops to stroke his growing cock lazily. “Correct. Your god, am I not?”
A nod is enough. And one more when he’s kind enough to ask if you want to taste him. Stretching as far as you can, you meet him with your mouth, tongue guiding him closer until you sit relatively comfortable again.
It’s messy at first, almost every lick and nibble along the shaft makes his erection bob up and down as if it too is nodding, but when Loki grabs the base the balance in power shifts slightly in your favour. Groans and subtle rolls with the narrow hips as your lips draw his cock in inch by inch until you nearly gag on it. Sure, size isn’t all and the dimensions of the Jotun erection can seem intimidating if it wasn’t for your intimate knowledge of how talented Loki is with it. Right now, however, you’re spellbound by the sinful sounds and twitches as you trace the ridges with your tongue and suck greedily to create a slobby vacuum.
“Such a…good pet…” His breath is ragged and thighs trembling as he dig the clawed hands into your hair for stabilization.
It’s hard to smile with a face full of cock and your jaws ache at the strain. “Mmmmm-mmm?” you hum before circling the crown with your tongue to lap up the salty taste of precum.
With a pop, he pulls out, stumbling back a step to take in the view of you there, drool dripping to your chin and a devilish grin because you may be tied up but aren’t powerless. Innocently, you bash your lashes up at him, making a deal out of admiring the athletic form. Damn, so fuckable. Your clit throbs with each heartbeat and you try to shift on the seat to soothe the need for some release.
Red eyes lock on the movement, glimmering with decisiveness. “Yes,” he whispers more to himself, “and good pets are rewarded.”
Falling to his knees between your legs, the cold of his body soothing on the hot skin, he kisses and licks the worst of the saliva from your face before tracing a path to the neckline of your top. Even through the layers of fabric, Loki can see the puckered nipples to bite them just hard enough for the sting to make you moan with want and distract you from the appearance of a blade. Rrrrrrrrp, and the front of your clothes splits to reveal your breasts and stomach. You would’ve scolded him if he hadn’t been so talented with his tongue and lips, making you arch your back and tilt your hips harder into the hand he’s holding onto you with.
When the god reaches the top of your shorts, there’s no denying the dangerous cold of the blade as it slips between skin and elastic fabric, but this time, you couldn’t care less that more clothes is ruined as long as it grants him access. Scraps fall to the floor, hand reach under your ass to lift and tilt your pelvis a bit and then…gooooods!
… Loki’s PoV …
Move me, baby Shake like the bough of a willow tree
Such sweet sounds with each stroke of his tongue, a danced melange of broad, slow, piercing, and fast until her lust is dripping onto the seat. [Y/N] has fallen back and her entire body is undulating with power that is building up within, like water behind a dam waiting to be released. Fine.
Never stopping the delirious torture, Loki only needs a thought to undo the bonds - although the collar stays (he likes the symbolism of it). And before she understands what is happening, he lifts her to the bed. Only then, as he lays down on his back, does his mouth leave her folds so he can see her captured in his grip above him. Perfect. Eyelids flutter and breasts rise and fall rapidly against the tension of being on the verge for so long, already the woman is reaching for some way to find release. Mine.
The Jotun physique is domineering and raw in its need, but Loki manages to move agonizingly slow as he lowers her onto his cock and then setting a snail-like pace for the next dozen thrusts until she whimpers in frustration.
“Pleeaase!” The mortal’s gaze is clouded with lust and desperation.
How can he deny her? Rutting upwards, the speed and depth of each stroke are increased, and the much smaller hands hold on with all they can to his much bigger wrists. Pretty cries fall from her lips, growing louder as a warning, together with the tightness of her cunt, of the impending ecstasy. There! All of [Y/N] seizes and shudders with bliss. Back arched, breasts pushed upwards, and the sight is beyond anything the god could ever want.
Rolling clenches of her core pushes him over the edge with such a force that everything disappears in a darkness where the only reality is the blurry shape of the woman. Her heat and his cold mingles, and Loki knows he must have cried out her name, but it is not until he comes to his senses with the mortal in his arms that he realizes it. Never another.
“Mine,” he whispers into her hair.
The god can feel her smile against his chest. “Yours.”
