If she were less observant, Natasha would be tempted to marvel at his complete lack of reaction. But she’s been trained for this (okay, maybe not literally this) — the subtle way men (and women) given themselves away. For Loki, it’s how he sucks in a breath, the rhythm of his thrusts just slightly disturbed, and how his vice grip on her wrist loosens for a moment.

Wrenching her hand free, she might have pushed him over. But he’s chosen that moment to change from a rub to a flick between her legs, and she shivers instead, draping her arm over his shoulder to pull him close with a desperate whimper.

She loses track after the third orgasm (technically fourth?), resolves to stop counting them altogether. The world, already so unfamiliar, goes a touch hazy around the edges. There’s just the beat, the reckless staccato of his hips and flick of his thumb, and she comes what feels like over and over again.

“Loki—“ She gasps not with love or wonder — warning, fury, and a strangled breath stuck in her throat. Another ‘please’ rises, smothered by the fact that she feels like she can barely breathe. Surely he must be close?

She’d never thought him as inhuman as she does now.