Empty Threats
synopsis: stranded in a one-room safe house overnight with Loki, you learn the consequences of teasing him.
pairing: Loki x female reader (sexual / romantic)
word count: ~6700
cw: swearing, tickling, making out, closed-door sex, innuendo and other sexually-charged exchanges, light bondage (with magic), less romance more fwb vibe? you be the judge
minors dni: this fic does not contain smut, but does contain steamy moments and closed-door sex between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.
note: horniest I'll ever be on main. future smut will be posted on nevermath.tumblr.com
The escape craft was some older thing. Ancient and rickety, by SHIELD standards. Definitely not built for an ice-storm.
You can't remember the last time you felt so unsafe in the air - and that included a handful of situations involving heat-seeking missiles, plummeting free-falls, and one especially memorable brush with a Chitauri cannon.
The turbulence knocks the controls hard to the left, you wrestle them back with a grunt, jaw tight, adrenaline burning under your skin. A flick of your eyes towards your passenger seat makes your blood pressure spike for an entirely different reason.
Loki looks bored.
Actually... worse; he looks vaguely amused.
He's lounging, one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled in his lap. Not a single hair out of place, nor muscle braced. Whether that means he trusts you to fly safely out of this storm, or simply doesn't care whether the damn thing goes down in flames, you're not sure. You don't ask.
You don't want the answer.
So when the radar pings a safe-house just a hundred clicks off-course, you make a hard turn toward it with zero apology.
The landing is rough. Metal groans as the craft slams down on a barely-visible patch of ice-washed earth. But she holds. Barely.
You unbuckle fast, tossing Loki a look over your shoulder. "Hope your highness can handle a night in a little mountain shack."
His brow raises. His smirk is slow, knowing.
You don't give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. You just shove the hatch open and duck out into the freezing sleet with a scoff.
You'd never usually leave a craft in the open like this, but the visibility is shit and the airspace is fucked; no one will be flying overhead - not even the combatants that'd been pursuing you fifty-odd clicks back.
The safe-house cabin appears like a ghost out of the storm, flickering through thick sheets of sideways rain. You reach the door, slap your hand on the bio scanner, and hear the click of the lock just as Loki falls into step and you both slip out of the weather.
The door shuts with a solid thud - and for the first time in hours, silence rings.
Peace. Safety.
Both of you stand still, breathing hard. You're not sure if it's the cold or the tension. Maybe both.
But it’s tranquil in here. Nice, even. Far from a little mountain shack.
You step further in, the dim lights automatically fading on, and you glance at the windows, which seem to be holding tight against the icy rain lashing against them. Wind howls through the trees and scratches at the glass like a leopard's claws, but the place seems solid.
No sooner had you stepped in further did thunder crack so close it felt like the gods were arguing just over the mountain-
Wait...
"That's not your brother, is it?" You look at Loki over your shoulder, half-joking.
"No," Loki's low, rich voice chuckles behind you. "Not nearly dramatic enough."
You're almost soaked-through from the dash, a chill threatening to settle into your bones, but you notice that, though isolated, the safe-house isn't freezing. The lights are low and warm, casting the room in comforting haze. It feels luxurious; hardwood floors, thick rugs, a fireplace in the centre of the wall, opposite to the kingsized bed draped in earth-coloured linens and furs and- wait. Fuck.
Bed. Singular.
You look around and quickly confirm the sheepish feeling sinking into you. This is a studio. Designed for one. Or for a couple.
Who... the fuck decided that only one bed was appropriate for safe house?
Instead of making it a big deal, you declare, "I'm going to shower to warm up."
Loki looks to the stone mantle and says "I'll make a fire."
But as soon as the word fire leaves his lips, the empty cavity hisses to life, flames beginning to spark and build. You bite your lip as Loki scowls.
"Spooky," you tease, twirling your finger to the ceiling. "The cabin must be haunted by helpful ghosts."
Loki swings that scowl on you, but softens it. "We do also have technology on Asgard, you smug little goblin."
You smirk and turn on your heel. "You keep calling me things like that and I'm gonna think you’re flirting."
"I am," he calls after you.
You don't dignify it with a reply. You also don't stop smiling as you close the bathroom door.
The bathroom, and the shower itself, match the quiet wealth of the rest of the place. Such a shame, you think as you let your shoulders ease under the spray, that this place must be empty most of the time. It's exactly the kind of place you can imagine yourself... being. Just relaxing, letting go. Preferably alone, considering the one-bed situation.
Your stomach pings in a cluster of nerves as you lather the fig and sandalwood suds over your skin, trying to scrub the tension from your shoulders - tension that, annoyingly, has less to do with the mission and more to do with the god in the other room.
Loki is… a menace. Not just in the field. Not just in battle. But here. In the quiet. In the glances. In the way he looks at you like he’s already peeled your thoughts apart and likes what he sees.
The bed is big, and it's not like you'd mind sharing it with Loki - you'd known since the first time you worked with the God of Mischief that you'd likely fall into bed together at some point or another - but this... it feels forced. Like two dolls some child is guiding into a kiss.
Soon you're standing in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth, wiping a path through the fog on the glass to look yourself in the eye and coach yourself mentally, as if you were a child: just because you're under the same covers does not mean you will have sex with him.
You feel your cheeks warm as you realise that Loki probably isn't thinking about any of this. At all. Even though he makes no efforts to hide his physical attraction to you, that doesn't mean he's... wanting, in the same way you are.
Besides, he's your mission partner. Your headache. Your shadow in the field. The beautiful thorn in your side when you're not under fire. Taking it further could make it messy.
You throw on some standard-issue lounge clothes; socks, underwear, sweat shorts, tank top, and a cloud-soft sweatshirt, all found in the bathroom's linen cupboard that must contain at least two dozen different size options.
When you walk back into the main area, the warmth instantly seeps into your skin like a gentle summer evening. One deep breath, and you've eased further.
Loki looks up from the couch where he's lounged with his head against the headrest, hands folded over his stomach. He's still in his tac gear.
"There's a change of clothes in there," you nod to the bathroom.
Loki's eyebrow lifts. In a slow pulse of green, his clothes change into a softer, yet seemingly still tailored, all-black set that covers his limbs entirely. It looks too good for something summoned out of spite. "Over my dead body," his eyes rake over you, critical on the surface, heated underneath.
With a roll of your eyes you make your way to the bed. "I'm tired," you say, seeing it in his eyelids. "Ready to sleep?"
"I'll tend to my needs and then take my rest here." He stands and heads towards the bathroom.
"Loki," you put a little casual laugh in your voice. He stops and turns his head. "The bed's huge. We can share it."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, and you're worried you've fucked it. That you've been presumptuous. That he's going to say something about how he'd rather die than share sheets with the likes of-
"Very well," he tilts his head in agreement, barely looking at you before he closes the bathroom door.
Internally, you're screaming. Outwardly, you're pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes, wondering if there was any possible way you could've made it more awkward.
You hear the shower spray and try to think about anything other than him in here.
Whatever. Whatever. You take a breath through your nose and slip under the sheets. The lights are still dim. You narrow your eyes, and test the cabin, saying "it's time to sleep."
The lights dim to nothing, the fire pulls back from roaring to gently crackling, creating a cozy atmosphere that's calling you to sleep. But the second you settle in, you get that sinking gut feeling that sleep isn't going to come easy. Your limbs are tired, your eyelids heavy, but your mind is still buzzing with adrenaline.
You're staring at the ceiling when Loki reenters, crosses the room, and slides into the sheets on the other side of the bed. And sure, the bed is big, but he's still less than an arm's length away. You didn't realise how close you'd feel until he was there.
"Sweet dreams," you say with a subtle teasing lilt to try and disguise your nerves, eyes still on the ceiling, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt.
You hear his head turn to look at you. Hear a small, faintly amused puff of air through his nose. "Try not to dream about me too vividly. I don’t want to wake to you whimpering." He turns, back to you, and settles in.
You bite your lip, the heat returning tenfold, but you chuckle. “Who's the smug little goblin now."
In an effort to get the adrenaline out, to help your mind complete whatever it feels it needs to, you start replaying the mission in your head. Every bullet, every chase, every snarky little jab Loki threw at you in that seductive voice, every- ... oh shit.
You almost forgot.
You press your smiling lips together, suppressing the giggle threatening to betray you. But it slips out anyway - a little puff of laughter in the dark.
That moment. The one that sent you over the edge.
Loki shifts beside you. "Don’t start," he warns. His words are a blade being drawn from its sheath.
“I didn’t say anything," you retort, now openly grinning at the ceiling.
"You thought it," he snips. He knows exactly what you're thinking about and hates it already.
You roll onto your side to face him, arm tucked under your head. "I'm just remembering a moment from today. A glorious one."
He exhales through his nose. "You truly have a death wish."
You grin wider. "You ate shit so hard on that slippery boulder."
The silence between you stretches like wire. Taut. Dangerous.
You keep going anyway.
"One second you’re monologuing, all broody Asgardian menace - 'You dare challenge me?' - and the next? Boom. Legs in the air. Splashdown."
You can feel the heat rising from his side of the bed. His magic pulses just faintly through the room. Static before a lightning strike.
"If you were wise you'd shut your mouth," he says darkly, "before I'm forced to shut it for you."
You laugh again - quieter this time, taunting. "Oh yeah? What’s the plan - another lecture about respect?" You prop yourself up on an elbow, searching the air for more sass. "Or... just another bout of empty threats and semi-inappropriate workplace banter?"
Loki turns. Slowly. He shifts to mirror you - rising on one elbow, lifting his face so you can see him in the flicker of firelight.
And fuck... he looks dangerous like this. Hot and dangerous. Hair damp and curling at the ends, shadows cutting beneath his cheekbones, pale blue eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s actively backing into a corner.
He tilts his head, and, with a devastating sweetness, he says, slowly, "Tease me again, and I’ll put you on your back and tickle you until you sob."
You blink. "Huh-what?"
Loki leans in just slightly - close enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth. "You heard me. One more snide little comment and I'll have you writhing. I will take my time. And you will not know mercy."
Your brain flatlines. Your mouth parts. You should say something sharp - should snap back, keep the banter going - but your body betrays you with a single thud of heat low in your stomach.
He sees it.
Of course he fucking sees it.
Loki's eyes narrow and you know - you know he’s cataloging every flinch, every breath. "It's the perfect punishment, wouldn't you agree?" he continues softly, dangerously. "Intimate, humiliating… leaves no mark. You won’t run to your beloved Captain Rogers with bruises. Just memories you can’t scrub off."
Your throat’s dry. You manage a single nervous chuckle. "You wouldn’t."
He smirks like the mischief he is. "We both know I would."
You go quiet.
Dead quiet.
Because the worst part is, you don't know whether you want him to or not.
And Loki - bastard that he is - sees that, too. He leans back slowly, satisfaction dripping from every hard line of his body as he settles into the pillow again.
You lie there, heart pounding, every nerve on fire. The storm still rages outside, but now it's got competition.
Loki chuckles deep and low, and it feels like thunder cracking beneath your skin.
"Wise choice," he murmurs.
And fuck, you hate him.
You hate him.
Well... no.
You don't hate him.
And you hate that you don't hate him.
You shift under the covers, giving an exaggerated sigh as you turn away from him. "Jeez. You're so fucking dramatic," you mutter under your breath.
A mistake.
"Oh, you poor little fool."
A catastrophic mistake.
Before you can even suck in another breath, his magic crackles through the air. It's an electric, humming snap that raises the fine hairs on your arms a second before you feel it.
The pillowcase under your head moves. It slides off the cushion with a treacherous slither, wrapping itself around your wrists with a speed and precision that makes your stomach drop. You jerk instinctively, but it's too late - your hands are caught, ensnared, pinned above your head, wrists bound together tight enough to be secure but loose enough to tell you this is a game.
His game.
You barely manage a grunt of protest before Loki’s hands are on you - turning you onto your back in a fluid, almost lazy motion, like he’s not even trying. His fingers are wickedly strong around your waist, holding you down just long enough for him to shift, knee pressing between your legs, swinging himself up until he straddles your hips.
You struggle, wild and panicked, kicking your legs and jerking your torso, but you’re half-covered in blankets and utterly unprepared for a fight - in soft sleepwear, no armour - and he’s bigger, heavier, faster, magical.
You buck hard, trying to dislodge him, but all it earns you is a low, infuriating chuckle from above.
"Is this truly the best you can fight?" he purrs, tightening his grip just enough to remind you who’s in charge.
"Fuck you," you scowl, jerking your hands against the bonds.
"Rude." He tsks, smirking down at you, his hips pinning yours to the bed with effortless control. "And after I warned you so nicely."
You twist again, but it's useless. You’re stuck. Fully at his mercy.
And the worst part?
You can feel the slow, deliberate shift of his body against yours - his thigh pressing against your bare skin, the long line of him caging you in - and it sparks heat low in your gut that has nothing to do with rage.
"You can’t seriously - Loki, come on," you start, trying to wriggle your wrists free, but the enchanted fabric tightens at his will, dragging a frustrated, helpless sound from your throat. "This is stupid and dramatic. You proved your point, now let me go."
He just tilts his head, studying you like a cat might study a bird fluttering with a broken wing.
"Tell me," he murmurs, voice dangerously low as he settles further, "did you really think that would go unpunished?"
His hands start inching forward.
You glare. "I really think you’re a dickhead."
His eyes gleam, a spark of delight dancing at the edges. "Mm. Defiant. I expected nothing less."
His fingers descend like vipers, darting straight for your sides, and the second they make contact... fuck.
You jerk so violently the bed frame gives a protesting creak.
You arch instinctively, breath hitching, but you refuse to laugh. Refused to give him the satisfaction.
"Nothing?" he muses, leaning closer, eyes flaring in delight. "Oh, you’re going to be so fun."
You twist under him, trying to wriggle free. The pillowcase tightens slightly in response. You grit your teeth as he drags his fingers up and down your ribs with merciless precision.
You hold on, digging your heels into the mattress, biting your bottom lip hard. His touch is devastating. Too practiced. Light one moment, firm the next, zeroing in on your most sensitive spots with surgical precision.
And still, you don't laugh.
Until-
"Ah," Loki says softly. His fingers found it - a spot just beneath your left rib, sensitive as hell, one you hadn’t even known would betray you.
Your body jolts. A tiny gasp escapes your throat. Then, like a damn cracking, a laugh punches from your lungs.
Triumphant, Loki’s smirk deepens - not cruel, not quite - something darker, warmer. Endeared, even. And utterly smug.
"There it is," he whispers, tilting his head. "I knew you’d be a screamer."
You flush, full-body and furious. "I hate you," you huff through gritted teeth, breath coming fast.
He clicks his tongue. "Then you’ll loathe what comes next."
And then he really begins.
You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You burst with laughter, loud and sharp, your body trembling wildly beneath his tickling hands.
And gods, he’s good at it - depravedly good. His fingers dance, spider-light one moment, then digging mercilessly the next, zeroing in on every little vulnerable spot like he’s been studying you for months.
Which he probably has, the bastard.
You shriek again, trying to twist away, but his weight on your hips keeps you absolutely pinned.
"You should’ve held your tongue," Loki drawls, his voice maddeningly calm over your frantic squirming. His voice drops. "Gods, you’re responsive."
"I swear I'm gonna get you for this- SHIT!" you gasp out between bursts of helpless, writhing laughter, but the threats fall flat - your voice breaking with each choked, humiliating giggle he wrings from you.
"You’re welcome to try," he murmurs, dragging one hand from your side up under your sweatshirt to your underarm, circling lightly where the skin’s thinnest, most sensitive.
You convulse so hard under him you nearly tip him sideways, but Loki handles it easily, smirking like this is all beneath him - like your thrashing and desperate yelps are just entertainment.
He skims the pads of his fingers lightly over your stomach, watching with lazy amusement as you shudder uncontrollably.
You kick your legs, trying to knee him, but he just rides out the bucking like he’s enjoying it, settling heavier against you with a rough grind of his hips that makes your brain white out for a second - makes you way too aware of how warm he is. How solid.
"You are such a dick," you gasp, breathless.
"No," he grins. "I’m your reckoning."
You whimper - actually whimper - as he attacks your sides again, fast and brutal, forcing desperate laughter out of you until you’re gasping between giggles, your whole body arching and twisting under him.
Loki only hums thoughtfully, shifting his weight slightly so his hips press more firmly against yours - deliberately - and the new friction is a whole fresh hell you’re not prepared for.
Heat spikes through you, brutal and wanted, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of his hands tormenting your skin.
He sees it.
Of course he fucking sees everything.
And the bastard has the audacity to smile wider. Slow, wolfish, knowing. His fingers skitter up your sides again, sending you into another fit of helpless, humiliating giggles.
"Fuck! This is so messed up-"
"You could have avoided this," he drawls, utterly unbothered. "All you had to do was keep that clever little mouth shut."
You grit your teeth, trying to focus. "This- this is petty. This is some villain-ass shit. No wonder Thor used to kick your ass when you were younger."
"Oh?" he says, digging his fingers against the fabric covering the soft space under your arms, dragging a laugh straight from your lungs. "You want to talk about childhood trauma now? In the middle of this? How very Avenger of you."
You throw your head back and laugh through gritted teeth, managing a whiny: "I really hate you."
He laughs. "You wish." His hands dive back to your sides.
"I wait- Loki- okay please!" you gasp, twisting hard, but the pillowcase tightens again, holding your wrists captive.
"Oh, now you beg?" Loki teases, fingers squeezing at your waist until your whole body bucks. "Where was this charming submission before?"
You shake your head wildly, laughing so hard your ribs hurt, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Every time you think he’s about to let up, he switches tactics - light teasing along your stomach, a wicked squeeze at your hips, brutal tickling up your ribs again until you’re choking on helpless giggles.
He finds the hollow just above your hip bone and presses - firm and slow.
You squeal. Actually squeal.
He grins wider.
"Oh, you sweet thing," he purrs. "I could do this all night."
You swear at him in every language you know.
He just chuckles darkly, slow and satisfied, like he’s feasting on your misery.
"Say you’re sorry."
You growl through clenched teeth, body trembling from the effort to wrench free.
"Never."
He pauses. Cocks a brow.
Then he leans down. Slowly. Until his nose brushes yours.
You take a shuddering breath in, still panting, now caught in a frantic freeze state. Like your base animal instincts are twisted into some weird belief that if you don't move he won't see you.
"Never?"
Your heart flutters at his low, commanding voice. The pure heat in it, so obviously intentional.
The pads of his fingertips and the faint graze of his blunt nails tease along the bare skin where your tank has ridden up. Your fingers tighten around the pillow case.
"Then I suppose..." he starts, sliding his hands higher. Palms smoothing against your sides, fingers trailing, taunting.
"You and I..." You feel the curve of his grin in his voice. "...will be here a very… very long time.”
You gasp when you feel his fingers press against the bare skin of your lowest ribs. "N-n-no-nnn-!"
But your protests are swallowed in laughter. Drowned in gasps and cackles. You're out of breath, out of threats, out of any form of resistance.
Loki's dark chuckle sings against your ear. Sends tiny sparks of pleasure down the skin of your neck.
And he keeps going - meticulous and devastating - drawing it out until you’re breathless, boneless, wrists still trapped high above your head, body burning with exertion and heat and something darker, something hotter, curling low in your belly and spreading like wildfire.
"Okay- okay okay!" You squeak, some high and helpless whine in the back of your throat. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry- please stop it!"
Loki finally slows, dragging one last, maddening trail up your side that makes you jerk involuntarily.
He sits back, straddling your hips lazily, surveying you. Admiring his work. His hair is wild around his face, his eyes bright with wicked satisfaction, incandescent with smug delight. His gaze stays locked on you, drinking in every breathless tremor.
You glare up at him, chest heaving, cheeks burning, completely at his mercy - and the way he looks at you, the way you feel under his hands... you can't show it.
"That..." you pant, "was an egregious HR violation."
"Oh dear," Loki rolls his eyes. "The paperwork."
"Oh, I'll show you fuckin' paperwork-"
"What shall it say, darling? How will you explain this? I'm so terribly fascinated by the prospect of our little tryst becoming immortalised in public record."
"That was not a tryst that was an attack and - hey, fuck you, untie me - it was uncalled for."
Perfectly in time with the raising of his brow, the pillowcase around your wrists loosen. But Loki makes no effort to get off you.
And you make no effort to push him off, even as you prop yourself up by the elbows, chin tilted back to look him in the eye.
"Poor thing," he soothes. And with that teasing edge, there's a softness. A devastatingly gentle thread of temptation laced through his voice. His smirk. His sheer fucking audacity.
He cocks his head to one side, pushing the damp curls back from his face, regarding you with a lazy challenge. "Was the big bad God of Mischief too hard on you?"
You lower your brow and pout, "Yes."
His head turns the other way. His smirk is devastating. "Do you need me to kiss it better?"
Every bit of heat in your over-exerted body goes to one of two places, and your lips part with a puff of air, almost like you'd been winded.
That small, insecure part of you whispers that this is a cruel trick. That he's having you on. He doesn't mean it, he-
Fuck.
Your breath hitches when the back of his hand finds your lower stomach. Your fists tighten as he trails his knuckles along the soft, exposed skin, his eyes not leaving yours. You swallow. He lifts a brow. A quiet question.
Your tongue slips out to wet your drying lips. "Maybe."
It's pitiful, but it's the only word you think you can say without it wobbling and-
Loki's shaking his head, shifting backward, lower. "I need a yes."
"Yes, then."
"And a please."
"Go fuck yourself."
He chuckles. "So sulky. What am I going to do with you?"
But before you can answer, his lips meet bare skin. Your back arches when his mouth brushes low across your stomach, just above the waistband of your shorts. He’s barely kissing - it's more breath than lips - but every exhale is warm and deliberate, as if he's savouring the feel of your skin against his mouth.
"You’re far too brazen for someone so soft," he murmurs. His fingers press just beside your hipbone, not quite pinching, not quite tickling, just enough to make your thighs twitch and your breath catch. "So easily undone, and still mouthing off."
His lips trail a slow line across your abdomen, kissing deliberately, as if each inch deserves reverence. Then- a single puff of air against your navel, followed by a nip of his teeth that makes your hips jerk.
You yelp. "Hey!"
He grins against your skin. "Thought you'd lost your voice for a moment."
The muscles of his shoulders dance under his shirt as he slowly pulls himself higher, chest brushing yours, hands planted by your head as he mouths a trail down your neck, grazing his teeth along the slope of your collar. Just enough to make your skin sing.
He lowers himself onto you carefully, hands dragging down your sides again, this time with full intention. His palms cup your waist, pulling you up into him.
The friction is electric.
Your chest heaves, thighs trembling under the weight of him - and he takes his sweet, unhurried time, moving over you like a storm in slow motion. He kisses the erratic pulse beneath your ear, nips, soothes, nudges his nose against your neck as your fists curl in his hair.
Your breath stutters when he finally pulls back enough to look at you.
Hair wild, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours like he wants to memorise every flicker of thought passing behind them.
He dips lower.
This time, his lips ghost over yours.
Once.
Twice.
Not kissing you. Not yet. Just tasting the shape of your mouth with his breath, taunting the final inches that separate you.
"Ask me," he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it.
Your jaw flexes.
"No."
He gives a dark chuckle. The sound brushes your lips. "Still so proud. Even now."
You glare, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.
He leans in again, mouth brushing yours. "You want me."
Your breath catches.
"You want me," you retort.
He smirks. Hums. Kisses the corner of your mouth.
Just once.
Then the other.
Teasing. Gentle. Laying claim with infuriating grace.
You feel your eyes flutter.
He lingers. Breath to breath. Lips agonising close to yours.
"Say it," he breathes.
And you can’t anymore.
You’re done pretending.
"Just-... kiss me," you rasp.
And Loki does.
Not rough. Not possessive.
Deep. Measured. Devastatingly thorough.
His mouth moves over yours with patience, with precision, like he wants to map every gasp you give him and drag them out for his own pleasure.
You groan into it before you even know it’s happening.
Your hands twist in his hair as he deepens the kiss, tongue teasing your bottom lip before claiming more, drawing it out, savouring the moment like a rare vintage.
You kiss him back harder.
Because gods help you, you’ve wanted this. For too long. Through too many missions and almost-maybes and can’t-haves and don’t-even-think-about-its.
And now he’s everywhere.
His hands are under your tank top, resting against your waist as he keeps you under him. His body presses down, moulding into yours, every inch of him demanding and anchoring and terrifying in the way it feels so right.
You gasp into his mouth when his hand skims higher, palm dragging heat up your side, sliding beneath the edge of your top without hurry. Not groping. Just... feeling. Claiming space.
Your hips lift without your permission, chasing friction, chasing him.
He groans softly into your mouth. You swallow it greedily.
Loki pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, both of you straining against the gravity of the moment.
Still not enough.
His hands tense with the last dregs of his self-control, his body pressing down as if to imprint the shape of you onto his bones.
"You want this?" He pants. “You want me?”
"Yes," you gutter out. "Gods, yes."
He smirks against your lips. "Swearing to gods now, are we?" One hand slides back down your waist, hooking under your thigh, hitching it up over his hip. "How flattering."
When the radio on your tac vest wakes you with an alert of incoming comms, the first thing you register is the cold.
Then the ache - deep, lazy, sated - a bruised exhaustion thrumming through every muscle. Your brain struggles up from a black ocean of sleep just as the radio, somewhere across the room, starts crackling to life.
Loki groans low beside you. You feel the movement - sheets slipping off marble skin, the faint stretch of long limbs - and you grunt, rolling onto your stomach, grinding your forehead into the pillow. Everything hurts in a way that makes your mouth curl into a smug little smile against the linen.
The night comes back in flashes. Sharp. Shattering.
Claws-in, teeth-bared, breathless destruction of all the tension that had simmered between you for months. You hadn't so much fallen into bed with him as wrecked each other - over and over again - until your bodies finally gave out, tangled in the wreckage.
Maybe an hour of sleep. Maybe two. Not enough to be functional.
You groan as you push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off your bare back.
Loki sits at the other edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his wild, tangled black hair. The dim morning light coming through the frosted windows slices across his bare shoulders, illuminating the faint, red half-moon marks you left raked into his skin.
You'd be smug about it if your legs would fucking work.
The radio then crackles with the pilot's message:
"Seven minutes out. Chopper can't land. Buckle in for hover extraction."
You swear under your breath, shivering as the cold air hits you. You stagger toward the pile of tactical gear you’d dumped near the fireplace, yanking on your thermals, combat pants, boots, shirt, jacket, ignoring the way Loki watches you, one arm braced casually on his knee, the other draped over his thigh.
Comfortable. Loose. Dangerous.
You grab your tactical vest and the climbing harness slung over it, trying to move quickly, but your hands are clumsy, your joints stiff and sleep-starved. The straps tangle. You hiss in frustration, tugging at them.
Then, you hear the bed creak.
You feel him stand.
You don't turn.
Loki approaches with slow, measured, deliberate steps across the wooden floor. Each one a promise.
The air crackles between you, sharp and bright.
By the time he stops behind you, you’re holding the harness out in front of you like an fool, still wrestling it into some recognisable shape. You can practically hear the smirk in his silence.
He reaches out and, without a word, takes the harness from your fingers.
You lift your chin, refusing to look at him.
His knuckles brush yours. Not an accident.
You glare at the wall in front of you as he circles, slow and lazy.
Then he kneels. Right in front of you.
Looking up, lazy and wicked, his hair falling forward like a curtain of night sky. His body is bruised, unbothered, utterly relaxed. It should be illegal for anyone to look that composed after what the two of you did.
His hands move to your thigh, looping the first strap around it with maddening care. He doesn't rush. Just smooths it in place and gives it a slow, tightening pull. You feel it bite into your skin, feel his fingers curl with precision.
"You seem... compromised," Loki says lightly, his fingers brushing against your bare skin where your pants gap slightly at the hip.
You narrow your eyes.
Another strap glides between your thighs. His hands are firm, his thumbs brushing near places he has no business touching right now, not unless he wants round two on the cold floor. Maybe he does.
"Compromised?" you repeat, voice scratchy with lack of sleep and and too many hours of sinning.
He flashes a slow grin, wicked and pleased with himself, fingers tightening the strap until it bites your hip.
"Fatigued. Shaky. Thoroughly plundered," he drawls. "Tell me, darling - whoever could be responsible for that?"
You snort, pressing your lips together hard to bite back the traitorous smile twitching there.
"Self-satisfied bastard."
He smirks. "I do take pride in my work."
He pulls another strap between your legs, adjusting the belt with slow, taunting movements that are absolutely unnecessary and make you grind your teeth.
You narrow your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
"Doing what?" His voice is all innocence, but his hands are anything but. "Making sure you don’t fall out of your harness mid-air? You're welcome."
His fingers ghost under the hem of your top, smoothing the waistband flat against your belly. Every touch is too much. Too slow. You hold perfectly still, trying not to tremble.
"You’re not subtle," you mutter, raising a brow as you feel your lips flush.
"Ironic," he muses in satisfied purr, "coming from someone who, not four hours ago, was screaming herself hoarse begging for-"
You kick him lightly in the shin. He catches your ankle with lightning speed, holding it aloft for a second, grinning up at you like the absolute bastard he is.
"Temper," he tuts, releasing you.
He finishes the rest methodically, hands sliding around you with the same precision he uses when breaking into a vault - like he already knows where you’re most vulnerable.
"You know," he says lightly, eyes fixed on the buckles, "I should do this more often. Watching you squirm while I dress you. It’s…" He clicks the buckle shut with a soft snap. "Endearing."
You refuse to shiver. Refuse to give him the satisfaction. But you're admittedly speechless.
When he finally sits back on his heels, looking up at you, his eyes are molten as he whispers:
“Perfect.”
You roll your eyes and lean down to grab the carabiner clips, but Loki beats you to it.
He stands.
One slow movement - shoulders rising, body unfolding to full height - and you suddenly feel too small in his shadow, the air sucked clean from your lungs.
He steps in close, smooths a hand over the centre strap down your chest, fingers dragging slowly. Then he reaches for the buckle at your waist and snaps it into place with a decisive click.
You feel the strength of it reverberate through you, far more intimate than it has any right to be.
And he doesn’t let go.
Instead, he curls his fingers around the central loop, just above your navel, and lifts.
Effortlessly.
You don’t even have time to react before your boots leave the floor. Your breath hitches. Your hands scramble for balance, but he just stands there - arm slightly bent, muscles slack, holding you aloft with casual strength, like you weigh nothing at all.
Your eyes snap to his.
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.
He just watches you - dark and still, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. His grip is unbreakable, his expression unreadable.
The air between you goes molten.
He holds you there for a full, punishing heartbeat. Then another. And another.
Then, finally - finally - he lowers you, so slow you swear he’s savouring every inch of contact as your body slides back into place.
Your boots touch the floor. Barely.
"Perfect," he murmurs again. "Safe and sound."
Your breath stutters. You feel warm all over. Unmoored.
"You done?" you rasp, not trusting your voice.
He chuckles, quiet and pleased. "Oh, not even close."
You exhale through your nose, clenching your fists at your sides to keep from grabbing him.
The radio crackles again: "On approach. Be ready. Thirty seconds."
You tighten your shoulder straps brutally, trying to focus. Trying not to think about how he still smells like smoke and sweat and you.
Loki finally magics on his gear, lazy and unconcerned, buckling himself in with casual grace. You want to slap him. Or straddle him again. It's really fucking hard to tell.
The storm had eased a little - less hectic wind but still smatterings of icy rain. The helicopter blades whir louder, slicing the air like a knife through satin, as you reluctantly leave the cabin behind and run, side-by-side with Loki, the short distance to the pickup point.
You clip yourself and him to the main retrieval cable, double-checking the lines with stiff, professional efficiency.
Your hands brush at the connection point. He catches your fingers in his and holds them just long enough to make your pulse stutter.
"You're trembling," he says barely over the wind, eyes glinting.
"Shut up," you mutter, clicking the radio twice to signal all is good. Pushing his hands away from the line so his skin doesn’t catch.
He chuckles, deep and low.
Above you, the cable jerks taut, the winch starting to pull.
You and Loki are yanked upward together, slammed chest-to-chest, bodies colliding with force as you're hauled into the storm-torn sky.
Your breath catches. Loki grins down at you, devilish.
"Another round when we get back?" he calls into your ear over the wind.
You narrow your eyes, baring your teeth in a wicked smile.
"Only if you leave your harness on."
He throws his head back and laughs - a wild, delighted sound ripped away by the screaming wind - as the two of you disappear into the storm.
.
.
