This position… it cuts both ways. He has more control but she can feel every little change in his body, the way he quivers like a taut bowstring about to snap at any moment. Natasha weighs the possibilities, as much as she’s able with his hips crashing down on hers, slap of their bodies obscene in the field. Does she need it?
Her body thrums the answer, insistent on yes, but she’s always been good at compartmentalizing. For a heart stopping moment she’s certain he’s let go of her — and then he slams her wrist back to the ground again and she snarls in his ear in return, turning her head to bite at the lobe and tug. Not hard enough to draw blood but certainly more than enough to get his attention.
“You need this,” she drawls, stuttered in between thrusts of his hips. “You ought to be begging me.”
He laughs, then, a sensation when coupled with the drag in and out of her body sets his nerves ablaze like lightning. His hips stutter, moving a little faster now. Yes, he enjoys playing the villain but enjoys it even more when someone is clever right back at him.
The Black Widow has always been clever. He has admired that about her, from a (usually) safer distance than this.
"I'm sure you will find the perfect way to exact your revenge." Which is to say, she's more than welcome to attempt to drive him insane next time. "But you're not wrong." A lick along her jaw, immediately followed by teeth. "So. Please, fucking cum again while I'm inside you, and I'll do what we both so clearly want."
Somewhere, dimly, she appreciates that he hasn’t kissed her on the mouth — there’s no escaping how they’re locked together, but it feels … better to be able to snap and snarl at him, to not feel as though this means anything. And when he’s not being so entirely, all consumingly distracting, she’ll have to think on what it means (a drug? a compulsion he’s had all along? how are they both here?).
Impossible to think about now with the next grind of his hips down on hers, his voice like silk washing over her. She doesn’t want to say it. She strains to find another way, some other clever remark to make him lose patience — she’s nearly gathered the threads of it when the increase in pace cuts through them.
Natasha whines instead, in a way she’d take to her grave if she weren’t already there. Hand on his hip scrambling, she digs her nails into his back through the fabric in the way. She’s so close - so close she can nearly taste it and feel her muscles bunch in her back and thighs and —
He pulls back again.
“Please,” it spills out, breathless and ragged. God, she hates him in that moment.
Loki doesn't laugh this time, instead letting out just a brief huff of breath to indicate his amusement, a grin sharp as knives. There's no denying he's a little impressed with her and while she's clearly angry with him for making her beg for it, well. What is sex if not an excellent outlet for such feelings?
They don't have to like each other for him to appreciate the tight damp heat of her body and catalog every sound she makes, hoarding them like precious stones. They don't have to like each other for him to accept and desire that this will likely keep happening between them until they manage to put some space between themselves and whatever is causing all of this.
He has suspicions of what the cause might be. However, he really cannot bring himself to care.
This time, when their bodies meet and he grinds against her, he simply stays, not withdrawing to thrust again until she makes a noise of frustration and fury buried beneath arousal at being denied what they both so clearly want, and then, he does laugh, and then, he moves his hand from her hip to settle between their bodies, and then, he rubs her clit between two long fingers as he pulls back and snaps forward sharply.
Twice, he does this, before she shudders and cries out, back arched and hand grasping at him hard enough that he knows there will be bruises. Another thing that should be an impossibility. Another item on the list titled Things Loki Should Maybe Be Worried About But Is Too Busy Fucking To Give A Hel.
"Thank you," he murmurs against her ear, not slowing down at all, not letting go of her swollen clit even as she shakes, even if she tries to arch away. Overstimulation is, apparently, the name of the game.
It happens remarkably quickly — the silence after her single plea, hanging in the air for a single moment — and then he’s ramming her, fingers toying with her clit and she’s lost. Similar to the first time, her vision blanks for a moment, body locking in an arch that makes her back scream as she shudders into his thrust until he bottoms out. Her muscles tighten around his cock, fluttering, and it makes the drag when he pulls out all the more sensitive.
She is, after so many years of hurried encounters in less than appropriate places, mostly silent. A gasp here, a strangled moan into his hair there. Natasha knows her grip on his back is too much to be comfortable and all she can manage to think is good.
Because he doesn’t stop there. He continues fucking into her at the same relentless pace he’d been holding back all along, each drive of his hips also shifting his fingers to rub her again and again. Oversensitive from coming, she’s pinioned by the length of his body pressing her to the ground — no escape, no way to move.
Thank you, he husks.
Is it any wonder that the aftershock is an earthquake in its own right? A second orgasm sneaking up so quickly on the first that she can’t be silent, she whines something incoherent in his ear again, body tightening around him.
There's a gasp when she tightens around him again and his fingers, very briefly, slip from their hold. Instead of pinching her again, he shifts his hand, pressing his palm against the soft hairs of her cunt. Uses his thumb to flick against her clit every time his hips meet hers.
He wonders how many orgasms he can wring out of her just like this before his own need overtakes him. If he'll tire and then she'll overpower him, or if her retribution will have to wait. Either way, the thought that she will get him back for this moment, for making her beg and then granting no reprieve, is almost as exciting as the drag and thrust of his cock in her body is intoxicating at this moment.
"It's nice, when you're..." A groan, a shudder. "A little louder. Let go, a bit. But telling you that just means you'll probably try to stay quiet, hmm?"
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.
Teeth graze along her jaw, behind her ear, chased by Loki's tongue on her skin. She tightens and shudders again and again and he simply continues, more than happy to learn which collapses first: her ability to remain cognizant or his ability to hold back his own insistent need to orgasm.
When she says his name he doesn't respond aloud immediately, opting instead to work a bruise into the skin at the side of her neck with his teeth and lips. His palm applies more pressure, causing more friction, limiting her ability to move against him even more. He can feel her body shift beneath his hand every time he enters her, muscles tightening and never quite relaxing again.
His breath on her ear is ragged and hot when he moves his mouth from her throat, tone clearly very pleased with himself. Asgardians are not human. Frost giants? Also not human. "Yes? Did you have something to ask of me?"
Her entire body is quivering now, thighs shaking, back shuddering — and he has to know it, no way to miss it with how they’re pressed together. She would have thought that his name would be enough to rouse him, to indicate something could be wrong. On the contrary, he doubles down, pressing into her with his palm hard enough that she can’t move and worrying at her neck. Fuck, at least the nice thing about being dead is not having to worry about hickeys.
And over, and over, and over - until the sensitivity is enough to make tears spring to her eyes, until the whines and whimpers sound equally inhuman to her ears, until her arm around his shoulders loses some of its strength and she’s nearly boneless against him.
“I can’t —“ An echo of what she’d said earlier, but faint. Another orgasm, and she nearly cries with it, smothering half a sob. Natasha knows she’s half coherent, she holds onto it with both hands and clings desperately. “Just … finish, you sick…”
Another laugh against her ear, the faint tickle of his nose against her cheek. "Soon," he tells her, though what is soon in the greater scheme of things now? He keeps his thumb where it is, spreading his hand out a little further, pressing down a little harder, grinding the heel of his palm against her body every time he bottoms out. "I promise."
Loki is not entirely sure that Natasha hears that last part; she tightens weakly through another orgasm and then goes slack before she responds. He pulls back enough to watch her face, curious if she's actually lost consciousness.
He's fairly certain she has; at the very least she makes no attempt to struggle, no response when he pulls his hand away from between them. That's not exactly a reason for him to stop, now is it? No. Instead, he leans back and folds her legs in towards her torso and watches, mesmerized, as his cock disappears into her cunt with each thrust. Lifts her a bit off the ground by her hips and loses any sense of control or finesse, bent over her and breathing heavy.
His own orgasm hits him hard enough to cause him to shout, hands moving from Natasha's hips to squeeze her breasts as he shudders against her. He's still aware of his arousal like a haze in the air, not exactly cleared out but a little less overwhelming.
For the moment, anyway.
He pulls out carefully, entranced by the liquid that pools between them. The way her chest rises and falls as she breathes. How her cunt glistens in the light. Sighs, pulls his pants up over his hips, and looks around. Well. There still aren't any people and there are, still, a fuckton of those flowers. But here, in that direction, is what might be... a large house or a small barn or something else entirely, he's not sure, but it's shelter, at the very least.
Perhaps next time they won't have to be on the literal ground for this.
Loki gets one arm underneath Natasha's legs, using the other to lean her torso against his. Shifts his hold in order to try to not jostle her overmuch, and sets out on foot.
She can feel him moving. It's not unpleasant, it's not painful, it's just a fact — like swimming underwater, the sensations are dulled a bit but she can still feel it. She feels it when he pauses, feels it when he lifts his hand away from between them. She floats, breathes, and when he finally comes with a shout, a part of her relaxes. Ah. It's over. Things can go dark.
Losing consciousness comes with the sensation of falling.
The falling is what eventually startles her awake, eyes snapping open as she's curled against his chest. Twitching, she clings to his shirt with a hard grip, attempting to sit up and likely throwing them both off balance, breathing hard. She was falling, she was going to hit the ground and then she would — It'd been the steady movement of his legs that she'd mistook for falling, the way he was carrying her.
Groaning, she sacrifices pride for convenience, buries her face in his shirt and shudders. She can still feel the heat, and worse — she's sticky between her legs, she can smell the aftermath of sex all over her and mingled sweat.
"Where are we?" In the moment, overall, the question of the hour.
She's awake, suddenly, and Loki has to adjust his hold on her not to overbalance or trip when she almost pulls herself out of his arms; it's just a small shift in his gait to do so but nonetheless.
He sighs and is immediately regretful, aware that he can smell the wetness from both of them that remains between her thighs as she shifts position. Plus the pollen. His cock twitches, faintly. Norse-damned flowers.
"I don't know," he admits, fully expecting that she won't believe him. Why would she? He's the star traveler amongst them, not to mention an intergalactic fiend of many sorts (sex fiend included); surely he would know if there were some planet or afterlife where everyone who arrived was driven to fuck each other insensate? The thing is, he doesn't know. He cares a little, in the way that not knowing means he doesn't know what's next, and he's never been good at that part.
Well. He does, kind of, know what's next.
"But there's a building this way. Hopefully they have running water."
It's immediate, muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Natasha knows it doesn't make sense, and she doesn't bother trying to make it. He'd died, five years or more ago. She'd died... an hour ago? Less? But somehow, this is his fault. Why else would he be here? And why would they be compelled to rail each other? (It's definitely not coming from her subconscious.) Pulling back, she rests a hand on his shoulder to steady herself, looking at the outbuilding they're approaching.
If he puts her down, she fears the slick will .. migrate. But him carrying her is humiliating. She's not entirely certain she'd be able to walk even if he did put her down, let alone check the building for hostiles. And everything breath she sucks in sends heat blooming through her stomach again, though her entire body hurts with the throb of it.
"You're dead." With exactly zero tact. He's Loki, no sense in trying to preserve his feelings. He knew her games well enough to not fall for them. She only has surprise on her side, if that.
"Did I, now?" Loki keeps his gaze on the horizon; if he looks away and then the building, he doesn't know, disappears or some other unplanned esoteric nonsense she'll blame him for that too, certainly. "And why would I? Why would I pick you, and here? Why not a glittering orgy with a buffet and several dozen courtesans? A party of some sort. That, at least, would be some semblance of fun."
Not that fucking her wasn't fun, on several levels, but it is different. He doubts she'll believe him either way.
You're dead, she says, and he snorts in annoyance but does look at her, albeit only briefly. "Yes, I know. I was there, just like every other time." He sucks his teeth. "Not certain if it just hasn't stuck or if something else has happened.
Should I presume, then, that you are also dead? Or do you not know?"
She turns her head back to stare at him, focusing all her energy (at least, the part that doesn't want to jump him again) on his face. He doesn't seem guilty — not shocking. But he doesn't seem overly gleeful either, not in the way she'd expect if he truly had done this. Neither does he seem certain, the way he might be if this had been something of his choice or even something he recognized. In a way, that's even more alarming.
Natasha has no idea where they are, or what this is. She'd been counting on him to know. And he doesn't. Which leaves them...
"It stuck. I heard from Thor," she says, quietly, still churning over the fact that he has no idea where they are. She'll just ignore the way he'd said you (look, valid), and here. Adjusting herself in his arms a bit, she clamps her legs together, wrinkling her nose.
"I ..." Dead. It conjures up the sensation of falling again, a flickering scene in the back of her mind — Clint, devastated look on his face. It's okay. Falling, falling, falling. Then — darkness. Nothing. It's not exactly surprising; she'd known when she'd leapt after him off that cliff where it would end. Except it hadn't been meant to end on a weird planet full of flowers with Loki.
"Yeah, I guess I am. We needed to get the stones..." It slips out before she realizes he might not know what she's talking about. Her mind scrambles to put the timeline together, the last five years blurring. When had Loki died? Before Thanos had the rest of the stones, before Wakanda. Six years ago, give or take?
Loki hums and frowns at nothing, shaking his head a little. He should ask a useful question, like how long had it been since she'd last spoken to Thor on the subject, or how his brother was doing, but neither of those seem important enough to voice aloud. Either he'll find out, or he won't.
Either they'll get off this planet, or they won't.
They'll just have to see.
"So I take it that the Mad Titan won a battle, but you were all aiming to circumvent the war." Time travel, probably, considering what all is involved. Not a bad idea by all measures. "Considering we are here and not in whatever void I had ceased existing in before we arrived, I'm going to presume it worked. Otherwise, there would be little point in reviving merely two souls when half the universe has been obliterated."
It’s tempting to want to keep blaming him. To say that he’d kicked all of this off, that if he hadn’t gone after the Tesseract then none of it would have happened. That the deaths of a billion beings, this universe over, are on his head. She can still find the ugly angry feeling — but oddly enough, she can’t summon the will to direct it at him. What does it matter, now? They’re both dead. It had happened.
Perhaps he’s right, and they’d done it. Steve, Tony, Bruce, Clint… they’d brought everyone back. They’d won. And that was what counted, wasn’t it? Whatever it takes.
“I don’t think I can be brought back,” she says, a little dazed. “There was a trade that had to be made.” A life for the stone. Her life. Irreversible. A fixed point in time. Stephen Strange, if he made it back, would probably be able to explain it in a way that made sense. And Clint — he’d need an explanation.
Her heart hurts, all of a sudden.
“You know, whatever version of hell I imagined, it wasn’t this and it wasn’t you.” She covers the vulnerability with a quip, eyebrows furrowing down as she glares at him.
"The Soulstone," Loki murmurs, and draws a deep breath. Well. If she is alive, if either of them are, he wonders just what that means. What it implies about the universe, about the nature of the Infinity Stones.
A puzzle, truly. One he has nowhere near enough energy or desire to sort out at the moment.
Her comment about Hell gets a raised eyebrow and a one-shouldered shrug. "And yet, here we are. Damned, apparently, to fuck each other insensate for the foreseeable future." Fun, isn't it? He refocuses his eyes on the building that is slowly looming closer in the near distance.
She flinches when he says it, hesitates, and then nods. God, if she blinks, it’s like she’s there again on that stupid planet, so far from home, Clint looking at her with that look on his face — Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, the hand on Loki’s shoulder digging into his skin through his shirt. It’s too soon, at least for her. And she doesn’t need to hear him picking apart her choice, not yet.
“Put me down,” she says, avoiding his statement with a sniff (a mistake, she gets a nose-full of pollen and shudders). If it’s not his presence alone or some kind of spell, it has to be the flowers — and they’re fucking everywhere. Maybe the building will give some relief. “I’m fine.”
She is not fine. Her thighs feel like one big cramp, her back already sore, and that’s not even addressing between her legs. But she can’t stand to be carried anymore — which means if he does put her down, she’ll stumble before catching herself, pushing him away.
Loki does put her down at her request, reaching out to steady her when she inevitably stumbles a little only to be distinctly pushed away. Well. Fine. Be like that.
He doesn't care.
"No. Not a soul." He does not comment on whether or not she's 'fine'. Neither of them are 'fine.' They're on a strange planet that they are unlikely to be able to escape any time soon with the biological imperative to fuck like rabbits. An imperative tat has not gone away at all.
He can't even sigh and take a deep breath, it'll just make it worse. Instead, Loki pulls a face and raises his face to the sky, which has not changed color even a little bit since they've arrived.
The building looms ever closer, and Natasha stalks toward it, barely sparing a glance over her shoulder to see if he’s following. She can feel the stickiness of cum drying between her legs, the disgusting line of sweat down whatever it is she’s wearing (white dress? nothing she’d have chosen for herself and she wishes for her jumpsuit). She needs a shower and to rest - preferably in that order.
“And you don’t recognize anything about this place?”
Now that they’re drawing closer, the building seems to be a falling down farmhouse of some kind. The door seems sturdy enough, but there are no other signs of life; dust (or pollen) stands an inch thick on the stairs, it’s no footsteps in it.
The fucking flowers bloom all the way up to the front door. Because of course they do.
"No, I don't." Why would he? There's nothing here, apparently, beyond dilapidated buildings and too much Norns-forsaken sex-crazed pollen. Well. There might be a city, in the distance, but how many days of stop-start fucking-fighting would it even take to reach it?
The barn has windows, but no screens. No air filtration system of any kind, that he can spot from here anyway. They'll be in slightly increased comfort, he figures, and hopefully, there is running water. Food, perhaps? Not that he's noticed a need to eat. (Worrisome, that. what if they aren't alive?) A bed, even, he would possibly settle for that.
"Do you need me to get the door?" He could break it for her, if necessary.
It’s a long shot — but he’s supposedly the galaxy traveler, or wherever it is that he and Thor come from. More of a likelihood of him recognizing something than her; she can’t even tell what kind of flowers they’re supposed to be. Taking the stairs, she smothers a groan as the big muscles in her thighs complain, her back twitching in displeasure. If she was dead, what was the point in getting sore?
Natasha glances over her shoulder at him, warring with herself over being annoyed that he thinks she can’t get the door herself and curious to see if he truly can do it. Curiosity wins out and she waves a hand as though to say by all means, stepping to one side on the landing
“Don’t hurt yourself. I wouldn’t count on there being any first aid kits in this place,” she warns, tone slightly bemused. The more she breathes, the more she can feel the pollen tickling her throat, and the heat —
It’s tolerable, for now. She can ignore it, in hopes of a bath or shower inside, a change of clothes, and maybe some clues about why exactly they’re here.
Here's the thing: Loki is occasionally an idiot. He tries lifting the door, and when that doesn't work, gently yanks (well, gently for him) with the intention of at least dislodging it from the entryway without rendering it completely useless. He has let go and begun bracing himself for an appropriate assault on such a blockade when Natasha looks at him cooly, reaches for the knob, and turns it.
The door swings open. Loki makes such a face, and follows her inside.
Where the furnishings are actually relatively nice? Nothing incredibly technologically savvy... or even very technological at all beyond the basics of lights and water. There's no communications array, no method of receiving or sending messages. Not even maps of the region.
Very annoying.
There is a very large bathroom, which Loki leaves Natasha to investigate while he wanders around the rest of the farmhouse and tries to ignore the steadily rising heat within him.
He finds some of what he presumes are shelf-stable foods in what passes for the kitchen. No spare clothes, that he can find. No vehicles to help them get to the city on the horizon.
One bedroom. One bed.
He rolls his eyes at it, and decides to go see what Natasha is up to.
As amusing as it would have been to allow him to struggle at length, she could see from her vantage point that the door wasn’t latched — a little struggle was good for him, but once it became clear he was about to do something drastic? Better to just open the door.
The farmhouse is well appointed. Dusty, but that’s probably to be expected — otherwise, it’s surprisingly clean. They both do the same sweep for anything that might be helpful, and (not shockingly) come up empty. She abandons him then for the bathroom, fairly confident he won’t find anything to truly get into trouble with.
The bathroom is fairly basic — a shower, a tub, a bar of soap and some towels that she can shake the dust out of. That’s all the invitation she needs to try the tap, finding the water freezing and then slowly warming to a tolerable temperature. Listening hard, she hears silence outside the door.
No time like the present. Stripping off the remains of her dress, she steps under the spray, making a noise of pleasure that (thankfully) has nothing to do with him. She’s occupied with the soap when she hears the door slide open, glancing sharply over her shoulder.
“I didn’t think I needed to hang an ‘occupied’ sign.”
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redhourglass) wrote2022-10-14 08:28 pm
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Her body thrums the answer, insistent on yes, but she’s always been good at compartmentalizing. For a heart stopping moment she’s certain he’s let go of her — and then he slams her wrist back to the ground again and she snarls in his ear in return, turning her head to bite at the lobe and tug. Not hard enough to draw blood but certainly more than enough to get his attention.
“You need this,” she drawls, stuttered in between thrusts of his hips. “You ought to be begging me.”
no subject
The Black Widow has always been clever. He has admired that about her, from a (usually) safer distance than this.
"I'm sure you will find the perfect way to exact your revenge." Which is to say, she's more than welcome to attempt to drive him insane next time. "But you're not wrong." A lick along her jaw, immediately followed by teeth. "So. Please, fucking cum again while I'm inside you, and I'll do what we both so clearly want."
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Impossible to think about now with the next grind of his hips down on hers, his voice like silk washing over her. She doesn’t want to say it. She strains to find another way, some other clever remark to make him lose patience — she’s nearly gathered the threads of it when the increase in pace cuts through them.
Natasha whines instead, in a way she’d take to her grave if she weren’t already there. Hand on his hip scrambling, she digs her nails into his back through the fabric in the way. She’s so close - so close she can nearly taste it and feel her muscles bunch in her back and thighs and —
He pulls back again.
“Please,” it spills out, breathless and ragged. God, she hates him in that moment.
no subject
They don't have to like each other for him to appreciate the tight damp heat of her body and catalog every sound she makes, hoarding them like precious stones. They don't have to like each other for him to accept and desire that this will likely keep happening between them until they manage to put some space between themselves and whatever is causing all of this.
He has suspicions of what the cause might be. However, he really cannot bring himself to care.
This time, when their bodies meet and he grinds against her, he simply stays, not withdrawing to thrust again until she makes a noise of frustration and fury buried beneath arousal at being denied what they both so clearly want, and then, he does laugh, and then, he moves his hand from her hip to settle between their bodies, and then, he rubs her clit between two long fingers as he pulls back and snaps forward sharply.
Twice, he does this, before she shudders and cries out, back arched and hand grasping at him hard enough that he knows there will be bruises. Another thing that should be an impossibility. Another item on the list titled Things Loki Should Maybe Be Worried About But Is Too Busy Fucking To Give A Hel.
"Thank you," he murmurs against her ear, not slowing down at all, not letting go of her swollen clit even as she shakes, even if she tries to arch away. Overstimulation is, apparently, the name of the game.
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She is, after so many years of hurried encounters in less than appropriate places, mostly silent. A gasp here, a strangled moan into his hair there. Natasha knows her grip on his back is too much to be comfortable and all she can manage to think is good.
Because he doesn’t stop there. He continues fucking into her at the same relentless pace he’d been holding back all along, each drive of his hips also shifting his fingers to rub her again and again. Oversensitive from coming, she’s pinioned by the length of his body pressing her to the ground — no escape, no way to move.
Thank you, he husks.
Is it any wonder that the aftershock is an earthquake in its own right? A second orgasm sneaking up so quickly on the first that she can’t be silent, she whines something incoherent in his ear again, body tightening around him.
no subject
He wonders how many orgasms he can wring out of her just like this before his own need overtakes him. If he'll tire and then she'll overpower him, or if her retribution will have to wait. Either way, the thought that she will get him back for this moment, for making her beg and then granting no reprieve, is almost as exciting as the drag and thrust of his cock in her body is intoxicating at this moment.
"It's nice, when you're..." A groan, a shudder. "A little louder. Let go, a bit. But telling you that just means you'll probably try to stay quiet, hmm?"
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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.
no subject
When she says his name he doesn't respond aloud immediately, opting instead to work a bruise into the skin at the side of her neck with his teeth and lips. His palm applies more pressure, causing more friction, limiting her ability to move against him even more. He can feel her body shift beneath his hand every time he enters her, muscles tightening and never quite relaxing again.
His breath on her ear is ragged and hot when he moves his mouth from her throat, tone clearly very pleased with himself. Asgardians are not human. Frost giants? Also not human. "Yes? Did you have something to ask of me?"
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And over, and over, and over - until the sensitivity is enough to make tears spring to her eyes, until the whines and whimpers sound equally inhuman to her ears, until her arm around his shoulders loses some of its strength and she’s nearly boneless against him.
“I can’t —“ An echo of what she’d said earlier, but faint. Another orgasm, and she nearly cries with it, smothering half a sob. Natasha knows she’s half coherent, she holds onto it with both hands and clings desperately. “Just … finish, you sick…”
no subject
Loki is not entirely sure that Natasha hears that last part; she tightens weakly through another orgasm and then goes slack before she responds. He pulls back enough to watch her face, curious if she's actually lost consciousness.
He's fairly certain she has; at the very least she makes no attempt to struggle, no response when he pulls his hand away from between them. That's not exactly a reason for him to stop, now is it? No. Instead, he leans back and folds her legs in towards her torso and watches, mesmerized, as his cock disappears into her cunt with each thrust. Lifts her a bit off the ground by her hips and loses any sense of control or finesse, bent over her and breathing heavy.
His own orgasm hits him hard enough to cause him to shout, hands moving from Natasha's hips to squeeze her breasts as he shudders against her. He's still aware of his arousal like a haze in the air, not exactly cleared out but a little less overwhelming.
For the moment, anyway.
He pulls out carefully, entranced by the liquid that pools between them. The way her chest rises and falls as she breathes. How her cunt glistens in the light. Sighs, pulls his pants up over his hips, and looks around. Well. There still aren't any people and there are, still, a fuckton of those flowers. But here, in that direction, is what might be... a large house or a small barn or something else entirely, he's not sure, but it's shelter, at the very least.
Perhaps next time they won't have to be on the literal ground for this.
Loki gets one arm underneath Natasha's legs, using the other to lean her torso against his. Shifts his hold in order to try to not jostle her overmuch, and sets out on foot.
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She can feel him moving. It's not unpleasant, it's not painful, it's just a fact — like swimming underwater, the sensations are dulled a bit but she can still feel it. She feels it when he pauses, feels it when he lifts his hand away from between them. She floats, breathes, and when he finally comes with a shout, a part of her relaxes. Ah. It's over. Things can go dark.
Losing consciousness comes with the sensation of falling.
The falling is what eventually startles her awake, eyes snapping open as she's curled against his chest. Twitching, she clings to his shirt with a hard grip, attempting to sit up and likely throwing them both off balance, breathing hard. She was falling, she was going to hit the ground and then she would — It'd been the steady movement of his legs that she'd mistook for falling, the way he was carrying her.
Groaning, she sacrifices pride for convenience, buries her face in his shirt and shudders. She can still feel the heat, and worse — she's sticky between her legs, she can smell the aftermath of sex all over her and mingled sweat.
"Where are we?" In the moment, overall, the question of the hour.
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He sighs and is immediately regretful, aware that he can smell the wetness from both of them that remains between her thighs as she shifts position. Plus the pollen. His cock twitches, faintly. Norse-damned flowers.
"I don't know," he admits, fully expecting that she won't believe him. Why would she? He's the star traveler amongst them, not to mention an intergalactic fiend of many sorts (sex fiend included); surely he would know if there were some planet or afterlife where everyone who arrived was driven to fuck each other insensate? The thing is, he doesn't know. He cares a little, in the way that not knowing means he doesn't know what's next, and he's never been good at that part.
Well. He does, kind of, know what's next.
"But there's a building this way. Hopefully they have running water."
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It's immediate, muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Natasha knows it doesn't make sense, and she doesn't bother trying to make it. He'd died, five years or more ago. She'd died... an hour ago? Less? But somehow, this is his fault. Why else would he be here? And why would they be compelled to rail each other? (It's definitely not coming from her subconscious.) Pulling back, she rests a hand on his shoulder to steady herself, looking at the outbuilding they're approaching.
If he puts her down, she fears the slick will .. migrate. But him carrying her is humiliating. She's not entirely certain she'd be able to walk even if he did put her down, let alone check the building for hostiles. And everything breath she sucks in sends heat blooming through her stomach again, though her entire body hurts with the throb of it.
"You're dead." With exactly zero tact. He's Loki, no sense in trying to preserve his feelings. He knew her games well enough to not fall for them. She only has surprise on her side, if that.
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Not that fucking her wasn't fun, on several levels, but it is different. He doubts she'll believe him either way.
You're dead, she says, and he snorts in annoyance but does look at her, albeit only briefly. "Yes, I know. I was there, just like every other time." He sucks his teeth. "Not certain if it just hasn't stuck or if something else has happened.
Should I presume, then, that you are also dead? Or do you not know?"
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Natasha has no idea where they are, or what this is. She'd been counting on him to know. And he doesn't. Which leaves them...
"It stuck. I heard from Thor," she says, quietly, still churning over the fact that he has no idea where they are. She'll just ignore the way he'd said you (look, valid), and here. Adjusting herself in his arms a bit, she clamps her legs together, wrinkling her nose.
"I ..." Dead. It conjures up the sensation of falling again, a flickering scene in the back of her mind — Clint, devastated look on his face. It's okay. Falling, falling, falling. Then — darkness. Nothing. It's not exactly surprising; she'd known when she'd leapt after him off that cliff where it would end. Except it hadn't been meant to end on a weird planet full of flowers with Loki.
"Yeah, I guess I am. We needed to get the stones..." It slips out before she realizes he might not know what she's talking about. Her mind scrambles to put the timeline together, the last five years blurring. When had Loki died? Before Thanos had the rest of the stones, before Wakanda. Six years ago, give or take?
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Either they'll get off this planet, or they won't.
They'll just have to see.
"So I take it that the Mad Titan won a battle, but you were all aiming to circumvent the war." Time travel, probably, considering what all is involved. Not a bad idea by all measures. "Considering we are here and not in whatever void I had ceased existing in before we arrived, I'm going to presume it worked. Otherwise, there would be little point in reviving merely two souls when half the universe has been obliterated."
So. Take some comfort in that, Natasha. Maybe.
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Perhaps he’s right, and they’d done it. Steve, Tony, Bruce, Clint… they’d brought everyone back. They’d won. And that was what counted, wasn’t it? Whatever it takes.
“I don’t think I can be brought back,” she says, a little dazed. “There was a trade that had to be made.” A life for the stone. Her life. Irreversible. A fixed point in time. Stephen Strange, if he made it back, would probably be able to explain it in a way that made sense. And Clint — he’d need an explanation.
Her heart hurts, all of a sudden.
“You know, whatever version of hell I imagined, it wasn’t this and it wasn’t you.” She covers the vulnerability with a quip, eyebrows furrowing down as she glares at him.
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A puzzle, truly. One he has nowhere near enough energy or desire to sort out at the moment.
Her comment about Hell gets a raised eyebrow and a one-shouldered shrug. "And yet, here we are. Damned, apparently, to fuck each other insensate for the foreseeable future." Fun, isn't it? He refocuses his eyes on the building that is slowly looming closer in the near distance.
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“Put me down,” she says, avoiding his statement with a sniff (a mistake, she gets a nose-full of pollen and shudders). If it’s not his presence alone or some kind of spell, it has to be the flowers — and they’re fucking everywhere. Maybe the building will give some relief. “I’m fine.”
She is not fine. Her thighs feel like one big cramp, her back already sore, and that’s not even addressing between her legs. But she can’t stand to be carried anymore — which means if he does put her down, she’ll stumble before catching herself, pushing him away.
“Seen anyone else?”
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He doesn't care.
"No. Not a soul." He does not comment on whether or not she's 'fine'. Neither of them are 'fine.' They're on a strange planet that they are unlikely to be able to escape any time soon with the biological imperative to fuck like rabbits. An imperative tat has not gone away at all.
He can't even sigh and take a deep breath, it'll just make it worse. Instead, Loki pulls a face and raises his face to the sky, which has not changed color even a little bit since they've arrived.
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“And you don’t recognize anything about this place?”
Now that they’re drawing closer, the building seems to be a falling down farmhouse of some kind. The door seems sturdy enough, but there are no other signs of life; dust (or pollen) stands an inch thick on the stairs, it’s no footsteps in it.
The fucking flowers bloom all the way up to the front door. Because of course they do.
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The barn has windows, but no screens. No air filtration system of any kind, that he can spot from here anyway. They'll be in slightly increased comfort, he figures, and hopefully, there is running water. Food, perhaps? Not that he's noticed a need to eat. (Worrisome, that. what if they aren't alive?) A bed, even, he would possibly settle for that.
"Do you need me to get the door?" He could break it for her, if necessary.
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Natasha glances over her shoulder at him, warring with herself over being annoyed that he thinks she can’t get the door herself and curious to see if he truly can do it. Curiosity wins out and she waves a hand as though to say by all means, stepping to one side on the landing
“Don’t hurt yourself. I wouldn’t count on there being any first aid kits in this place,” she warns, tone slightly bemused. The more she breathes, the more she can feel the pollen tickling her throat, and the heat —
It’s tolerable, for now. She can ignore it, in hopes of a bath or shower inside, a change of clothes, and maybe some clues about why exactly they’re here.
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The door swings open. Loki makes such a face, and follows her inside.
Where the furnishings are actually relatively nice? Nothing incredibly technologically savvy... or even very technological at all beyond the basics of lights and water. There's no communications array, no method of receiving or sending messages. Not even maps of the region.
Very annoying.
There is a very large bathroom, which Loki leaves Natasha to investigate while he wanders around the rest of the farmhouse and tries to ignore the steadily rising heat within him.
He finds some of what he presumes are shelf-stable foods in what passes for the kitchen. No spare clothes, that he can find. No vehicles to help them get to the city on the horizon.
One bedroom. One bed.
He rolls his eyes at it, and decides to go see what Natasha is up to.
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The farmhouse is well appointed. Dusty, but that’s probably to be expected — otherwise, it’s surprisingly clean. They both do the same sweep for anything that might be helpful, and (not shockingly) come up empty. She abandons him then for the bathroom, fairly confident he won’t find anything to truly get into trouble with.
The bathroom is fairly basic — a shower, a tub, a bar of soap and some towels that she can shake the dust out of. That’s all the invitation she needs to try the tap, finding the water freezing and then slowly warming to a tolerable temperature. Listening hard, she hears silence outside the door.
No time like the present. Stripping off the remains of her dress, she steps under the spray, making a noise of pleasure that (thankfully) has nothing to do with him. She’s occupied with the soap when she hears the door slide open, glancing sharply over her shoulder.
“I didn’t think I needed to hang an ‘occupied’ sign.”
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