The Lion’s Lap
Title: The Lion’s Lap
Pairing: Mob!Thor x Female Reader
Summary: You're still his soft little thing but you’ve learned that sometimes, the way to soothe the lion is to climb into his lap and purr. Even if it leaves you shaking after.
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Smut, Thigh riding, Fingering, Established Relationship, Mob AU, emotional vulnerability/mild angst, Praise kink, Slight possessiveness/protective behaviour, Gentle D/s tones (soft dom, power held in check) Mentions of internal conflict.
A/N: Welcome to Lion and His Mouse (MobAU). This is set later in this pairs ‘timeline’ I will be writing a much longer multipart fic about these two origins story together. Big thank you to @crazyunsexycool who helped bring not only this story but this couple into creation!
Thor’s office was quiet, save for the faint tick of the clock above the bar cart and the low hum of the city filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The golden light of the cityscape spilled in, casting a soft glow across the sharp lines of his desk, the leather of his chair, and the outline of his massive frame sitting motionless behind it. It was late, past midnight, but you knew he hadn’t left that chair since the meeting with Loki went south. The tension hadn’t eased from his shoulders, not once. His jacket was slung over the couch, sleeves rolled up his forearms, white shirt slightly wrinkled at the collar, the buttons at the throat tugged open like even the fabric dared not push him too far. His jaw was tight. His knuckles, resting against the desk, were still a little red, like he'd been gripping something too hard, or maybe punching it.
You hesitated in the doorway, dress soft against your thighs, heart fluttering as you took in the sharp silhouette of him against the windows. Your hair slipped forward as you peeked inside, trying to gauge if he was too far gone to reach. He hadn’t looked up. You padded across the floor anyway, slow and quiet like always, hoping, praying, he’d let you close.
Your fingers brushed his shoulder first. Just a graze, a test. Then up, into his blonde hair, gently combing through the waves at the nape of his neck. You moved slowly, like he might spook. He didn’t lean into it. Didn’t speak. But he didn’t pull away either. That was something. That was enough.
“Hi,” you whispered, barely audible, the word trembling as it left you.
He made a low noise. Not quite a greeting. Not quite a warning. But when he shifted, legs spreading wider beneath the desk, his chair angling slightly back, making space- you knew what he meant. The invitation was silent, but it throbbed like a heartbeat beneath your skin.
You climbed carefully into his lap, knees bracketing one thick thigh, skirts rustling as you settled your weight, feeling the solid heat of him underneath you. He was so warm. So solid. His thigh was a stone beneath you, muscle tensed and unmoving, clothed in dark slacks that were already rumpled from a long day. You could feel the heat of him even through the fabric, the tension in his body radiating up through your own.
You held yourself still for a moment, unsure, resting your hands on his broad shoulders. Your fingers traced the firm lines of muscle under his shirt, thumbs brushing over the edges of his collar as you leaned in. You pressed a soft kiss to the side of his throat- tentative, reverent. Just enough to remind him you were there, that you were his.
"You’ve been quiet all night," you whispered, voice gentle, trying to coax him out of the steel cage he built around himself. "You don’t have to talk about it, I just... I didn’t want you to be alone in it."
Still no response. But you felt the twitch in his jaw. A flicker.
Your fingers slipped into his hair again, softly combing. "Loki doesn’t get to steal this part of you. Not tonight. Not from me."
Another kiss. Higher this time, closer to his ear. "You’re still mine, even when you’re angry. Even when you’re far away. I’ll still come find you."
You weren’t trying to seduce him, not really. That wasn’t what this was. You just wanted him to feel something besides cold fury. You wanted to soothe him. To be a balm to the storm raging inside him. And maybe, maybe if he let you, you could pull him back from the edge just a little.
But the friction was there.
You rocked your hips forward, only a little, just enough to close the space between you. Seeking warmth. Seeking him. Your movement was tentative, almost subconscious, a soft nudge of your body toward his, trying to remind him that you were there. That you were safe. That he could be too.
The pressure dragged sweet and slow between your thighs, catching on the fabric of your panties just right, and before you could stop it, a sound escaped your lips; quiet and needy, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.
Then his thigh flexed beneath you.
The shift was slight, but it lit you up like a wire to a live current. You gasped- quiet, instinctive- your breath stuttering as your hips responded before your mind caught up. You rocked again, just slightly, a soft grind to chase the flicker of pleasure that had flared to life so suddenly.
Your voice barely broke the silence. “S-sorry… I didn’t mean- ”
But you did. You did mean it, in that tender, aching way you always meant things with him, you wanted to help, to soothe, to touch. You didn’t want to press too hard. But you couldn’t stand the distance anymore.
“I just… thought maybe if I was closer, you’d feel better,” you murmured, words shaky, barely audible as you leaned your forehead to his temple. “You always feel better when you’re touching me.”
A slow exhale through his nose. Then, finally, his hands came to rest on your hips. Heavy. Guiding.
You turned your head slightly, voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t think. Just feel me.”
There was a pause. The weight of it sank into your bones, but this time it felt like a settling, not a silence. Like you’d reached him. Like the part of him that only ever opened for you was stirring, just beneath the surface.
His head tilted slightly. The faintest smile, not quite playful, but warm, touched the corners of his mouth as he murmured, “When did my mouse become a lion tamer?”
Your cheeks burned. But you rocked forward, shy and slow. The pressure was everything. His thigh, thick and unyielding, slotted between your legs perfectly. The friction dragged against your panties with each movement, heat blooming low in your belly.
His hands didn’t move. Just held you in place as you worked yourself on him, breath catching with every grind, every desperate little roll of your hips. You could feel everything, how hard his thigh was, how rough the fabric dragged across your soaked panties, how perfectly he fit between your legs. You were so wet it made a soft sound each time you rocked forward. Sticky. Messy. Shameless. And yet, you didn’t stop.
Though you would’ve never imagined doing something like this, not with anyone else, never. But this was your lion. The only man whose silence didn’t scare you. Whose control didn’t make you feel small, but protected. He wasn’t just your man. He was your entire world.
You rutted softly against him, need spiraling tighter with every slick pass of your heat over his thigh. You wanted to please him, show him how good you could be. How well you knew he liked it, seeing you fall apart on nothing but the muscle under his suit.
He looked down, eyes hooded, gaze pinned to the growing wet patch you were grinding into his slacks. “You'll ruin my pants again, little Mouse.”
You whimpered, embarrassed and breathless, your hips stuttering against him. You couldn’t look up at him. Could only cling tighter to his shirt, hiding in the safety of his chest.
“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmured, voice a low rumble.
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were too close already, thighs shaking, every roll of your hips sending a pulse of heat straight through your belly.
He let you chase it. Let you grind harder, faster, as the tension coiled and snapped inside you. Your breath hitched. Your whole form trembled with release as you came with a soft, strangled cry, burying your face in his shoulder, panting and needy.
Still, he didn’t lean in for a kiss. Didn’t offer a real smile. But his hand smoothed gently over your back, broad palm grounding you as your body shivered in the afterglow. His touch lingered, slow and steady, like he was anchoring himself to you. You could feel the tension beginning to ebb from him, not all at once, but enough to know you were helping. Enough to know you were still his calm in the storm.
You lifted your head a moment later, lashes damp, fingers trailing down his chest, hesitant. You traced the buttons of his shirt, then lower, fingertips skating the hard lines of his abdomen beneath the fabric. You didn’t need more for yourself. You just wanted to give something back. To soothe him the way he always, instinctively, soothed you.
“Can I…” you swallowed, your voice catching slightly. “Can I take care of you?”
Your hand moved lower, tentative and sweet. You ghosted over the thick, straining heat beneath his pants, barely brushing it. Just enough to let him know what you meant. That you weren’t afraid. That you wanted to be his in this way too.
He caught your wrist instantly.
“No.”
One word. Firm. Final. But not cold.
His thumb stroked softly over your pulse, his voice gentler when it returned; measured and low.
“Not until I’ve dealt with Loki. Not until I know I won’t lose myself in you.”
You sighed, this time not from rejection, but from the depth of his words, the ache behind them. From the way he said lose myself, like it was inevitable. Like it terrified him more than whatever fight waited outside this room.
And still, he held you close. Like even though he couldn’t give you all of him tonight, he wanted you to know he would.
He leaned in, brushing his nose along your cheek, lips at your ear before he nipped the lobe.
“But -” he let the word hand, a consolation. “I’ll let you come again. On my fingers this time. Would you like that?”
You nodded, already shivering.
His hand slid slowly down your thigh, warm and deliberate, fingers spreading wide as he traced the shape of you. Then he hooked your leg over his other thigh, opening you gently but firmly, baring you in the low lamplight with a quiet authority that made your breath catch.
You flushed, trembling under his gaze.
Thor ran a knuckle along the soaked material covering your sex slow and maddening. Teasing. Drawing a sharp little sound from your throat before he did it again. And again. Until your hips were rocking into it, chasing more.
Then, finally, your lion slid your panties aside.
One thick finger pushed in slowly, stretching you open little by little. He didn’t look away. Didn’t speak. Just watched your body twitch around him, the ghost of a smile brushing his lips again at that helpless little expression you wore whenever he breached you; any part of him.
He took his time, dragging that finger out nearly all the way before pressing back in again, slow and steady. You mewled at the sensation, soft and aching, your hips lifting slightly as you tried to draw him deeper.
He wasn't focused on your face- couldn’t be. Because the moment he saw how wrecked you looked from just one finger, something in him might snap. But you watched the heat in his eyes flickered- hunger buried just beneath restraint as he focused on his own hand,
Still, he took his time.
Carefully, deliberately, he worked his second finger in beside the first. The stretch burned, but not badly. Not with the way he moved, so patient, so in control. The rough pads of his fingertips pressed against your inner walls, thick and unrelenting, sliding into warm, wet velvet.
You whimpered, your hands fisting into his shirt, clinging tight, needing to ground yourself, to keep from floating away under the pleasure blooming deep in your belly. You rocked into him instinctively, hips tilting forward to chase every press, every curl.
Thor found it- that spot. That aching, electric place inside you that made your spine straighten and your breath catch, vision briefly blurring as sensation surged through your veins like fire.
Your thighs quivered, voice dissolving into a string of helpless little mewls and soft sighs as he began to work that spot with purposeful control, curling his fingers just right. Each stroke coaxed a new shiver from you, a fresh pulse of wetness that only encouraged him to keep going.
He watched you fall apart, his gaze heavy with something darker now, want, restraint, reverence. The flickers of hunger in his blue eyes told you everything: that he wanted more. That he didn’t trust himself with more. Not yet. Not when you were already this undone.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and reverent. “Let me take care of you.”
You came again, quicker this time, your body overwhelmed and pliant in his hold. He didn’t look away, didn’t waver, just stayed with you through the waves of pleasure until your breathing steadied, until the trembles eased into something warm and boneless and quiet.
And then his hand shifted, broad and warm as it cupped your cheek, thumb stroking the edge of your jaw. He made you look at him. Really look. His eyes, had softened, something warmer flickering through the storm. But he wasn’t on the other side of it.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “My anchor. My peace. My Mouse.”
His fingers slipped free with a slow drag, coaxing one last whimper from your lips. You were still buzzing, breathless and pliant as he carefully fixed your dress, tugging it down with reverence, not a trace of the earlier tension in his hands.
He kissed your cheek. Then the other. Then your forehead. Each press of his mouth was soft, grounding, grateful. His hand never left your body, sliding gently up and down your back in long, calming strokes, the kind meant to say I'm here. The kind that let you sink into him without fear.
When he pulled back, there was a look in his eyes you didn’t often see- regret. Not for what he’d done, but for the distance he’d put between you earlier. For letting the weight of the world carve space between you and the one place he felt safe.
Your hand came up to touch his jaw just as his thumb brushed across your lower lip. Both of you petting, soothing, not ready to let go of the moment just yet. He studied your face like it steadied him, like the sight of you was the only truth he could still hold onto.
“One day,” he murmured, fingers brushing behind your ear, “you’ll realize how dangerous it is to be the only one I listen to.”
You melted further into his chest, boneless and safe, letting yourself breathe as he held you through the aftershocks. You felt him shift just enough to nudge your nose with his, eyes half-lidded, voice tender.
“I still have to deal with Loki tonight,” he said softly, like the words tasted bitter. “But tomorrow… you can show me the way home.”
