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.”
"What would the point of that be? I know you're in here."
He rolls his eyes, gently. What, exactly, is the purpose of being shy in this regard? Standing against the wall with his arms crossed, Loki looks around the room and sniffs at the scent of the soap. It's not the same as the flora outside, but it's not a neutralizing force, either.
She doesn’t bother trying to cover herself, doesn’t make any attempt that would indicate she’s embarrassed. That doesn’t stop Natasha from shooting him a withering look, especially as he investigates the soap. She’s cleaned the worst from between her legs, so now it’s just the sweat, dust, and whatever else that might be left from the pollen. Oddly, the water doesn’t seem to be helping in that respect.
Running her hands over her arms, she eyes him, using the opportunity to really get a good look at him. He looks .. functionally the same as the last time she’d seen him. Perhaps a little less … insane. But that was probably just as well.
Edited (300 icons and i picked the SAME ONE ) 2023-04-23 01:24 (UTC)
"Because I also would like to use the shower." Loki sets the soap down and goes to the window. He is not looking at her. His body language is all well-controlled edge and he is not. Looking. "Because I cannot stop thinking about the fractal variety of paths a single drop of water can take from your collarbone to the freckle behind your left knee." His jaw twitches and his nostrils flare. "It's not just... arousal. It is fixation."
He's already had his brain well and truly fucked with in her presence before. He doesn't like that he's apparently now made it a habit.
She’s got a quip prepared — and then he follows with that and Natasha stills entirely, not prepared for the throb that runs through her, or the way she’s suddenly picturing that same drop of water. It’s his fault. It has to be his fault, she had been fine, and then he’d come in here with his voice and that thought and now she’s thinking it too.
She wants him to use the shower. She wants him very far away. She wants him to ran his hands down all of the different paths a water droplet could take. She wants him to die a second, much more painful death.
Her jaw works, and she’d slam her fist into the tile wall if she thought it’d do more than hurt or make him wax poetic about her bruised fingers.
“You’re going to have to be careful.” Resigned, voice tight with the same control that he’s exerting over his body language.
"Careful with you?" He asks the window. He is still not looking. He is not sure he trusts what would happen if he did. "I do believe I could manage not to allow myself to fuck you until you are senseless." Still. He frowns, and swallows a little. "I am not human," he reminds her, and now he turns to meet her gaze.
He doesn’t turn. That makes it worse in a way, and she stops staring at his back to run her hands down her hips, lingering on places where his fingertips had already left marks. She’s pocked with them; on her neck, her thighs, all from him.
“Yes, with me.” Might as well confirm that point. Shifting under the shower spray, she sighs, loudly enough that he’s likely to hear it. What is he waiting for, an open invitation? He’ll never get that, not from her. But…
“Little late to worry about your humanity now.” His eyes are intense, and she’s caught when he stares at her, stock still in the headlights. Slowly, in a way that he can’t help but miss, she nods.
Loki nods in response and then shuts his eyes, briefly, before taking in a deep breath, knowing good and well it will do very little to settle him. "I suppose it is."
Some things cannot be avoided.
He pulls off his clothes and leaves them in a pile on the floor before stepping into the shower behind her. For a moment he just watches the water move across her skin, feels it on his own, and then, leaning forward, a scrape of teeth at the back of her neck, his hands at her hips.
There’s a stark difference in the way he is now and how he’d been that first time; he seems to be making an attempt to heed her words. At a minimum, he’s not frenzied. He steps into the shower with her and she adjusts to the feeling of him at her back, shivers at the sensation of him staring — and sighs when she finally feels him bracket her hips with both hands and lean in.
“How bad?” She asks, just barely able to be heard over the sound of the water. “It’s distracting, for me. But not terrible.”
Not like before, in the field, when she couldn’t hardly breathe.
"It's..." He grumbles, which is really just him trying to muffle a groan. Touching her is both better and worse; it brings it all up to the surface, where before it was just a constant churching in a sea that he was aware of but hadn't begun to directly flood.
"It doesn't burn and ache in the same way, yet." He wonders how long they were unconscious there before both came round more or less at the same time. He wonders if it matters. "It's present, and heavy. Like a smog. Less like a smog that is actively on fire at the same time."
He wonders if he'll be able to tell if/when he loses control, this next time, or if he'll justify it in a frenzy of need and want and the desire to win. His hands travel up her sides, around to her breasts, taking one in each hand and squeezing.
There’s a kindness to this that she’d not been expecting — a complete juxtaposition to their prior encounter. He’s almost thoughtful, mouth moving against her skin, and she tries to keep her focus on what he’s saying. The description is apt. A low smolder rather than a wildfire. She understands (she wishes she didn’t).
“Mmm.” His arms wrap around her, and she leans back against him until his chest is at her back and he’s fully holding her. Unable to stifle a shiver as he takes her breasts in both hands, her body betrays her - both nipples are perked, sensitive to his touch. Unintentionally, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, dragging the curve of her ass against his front as she does so.
Her shifting against him elicits a full-body shudder, and he brings his fingers up to roll her nipples between them. Drags his teeth from her shoulder up her neck. Grinds his cock against her ass. His right-hand lets go of her breast in order to press its way down her stomach, settling between her legs.
Two long fingers part the lips of her cunt, and the one between them flick rubs against her clit slowly as he grinds his hips into her ass again.
God, she’s on fire as he drags his teeth across her skin - in a way that has nothing to do with the warm water trickling between them. She can feel the length of him nestled against her, and her next grind back is not nearly as accidental as the first, her hands reaching back to grip and massage his thighs. If they’re anything like hers, they must be sore.
It’s a thought that strikes her as kind, which makes her still for a moment — just a moment, until his fingers circle her clit and she shivers, biting her lower lip against a whimper. Ridiculous.
“You can just —“ She tries for a neutral, stiff tone, and lands somewhere in the neighborhood of husky. His fingers hit a particularly sore spot and she jumps, one of her hands moving to guide him away — but not off her completely. “You don’t need to get me off.”
Loki makes a small noise against her skin; something like 'oh?' mixed with a soft snort. He doesn't believe that he doesn't need to get her off, not even a little, but...
But her physical discomfort is squarely his fault. And if he tries it her way and it doesn't work, that will still be preferable to ignoring her idea from the beginning, seeing as how she's likely to be insufferable about it.
So. "If you're certain." His nose is at the nape of her neck, his breathing slightly unsteady.
He didn't resist when she guided his hand away and instead refocuses on other kinds of touch. Massaging pressure to relieve the tension of muscles in her thighs (his are also sore, she is correct) while his cock moves against the swell of her ass and down briefly brushing the back of her thighs.
Loki can't tolerate it for very long, the touching without being inside of her directly. He encourages her legs a little apart. The head of his cock appears between her thighs and visible from the front, briefly, rubbing bluntly against her cunt, catching and the sliding away from her entrance. Once, twice, and then he shudders against her, in desire, not release.
The slide in is neither brutal or teasing. Just... very presentHe remains bottomed out for a moment, one hand traveling up to squeeze a breast again, shifting his hips back at the same time. "Tell me," he grinds out, "if it is too much."
He is not taunting. He does not rust his own ability to determine what would be too rough, right now.
She can practically feel his hesitation and it’s … surprising. It had been easier when he’d been fucking her without care before to imagine that this was all his fault or his fantasy. And that even if it wasn’t his doing that brought him here, he was certainly benefiting.
But why not leave her in that field? Or kill her (again)? Why care if he hurts her now when it’s in pursuit of his own desire?
It’s difficult to think about that when he slips inside her, a teasing stroke or two against her mound before he’s fucking into her in earnest — carefully. She sighs, a long low sound, getting used to the feel of him. There is a stretch, a bit of soreness - but honestly? She’s had worse after a bad workout.
“Keep going.” Natasha shifts her hips, one hand resting on the curve of his hipbone in return so she can try and pause him if it becomes too much. It’s not too much. It’s not enough.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redhourglass) wrote2022-10-14 08:28 pm
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
“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?”
no subject
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.
no subject
“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 subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.”
no subject
He rolls his eyes, gently. What, exactly, is the purpose of being shy in this regard? Standing against the wall with his arms crossed, Loki looks around the room and sniffs at the scent of the soap. It's not the same as the flora outside, but it's not a neutralizing force, either.
no subject
She doesn’t bother trying to cover herself, doesn’t make any attempt that would indicate she’s embarrassed. That doesn’t stop Natasha from shooting him a withering look, especially as he investigates the soap. She’s cleaned the worst from between her legs, so now it’s just the sweat, dust, and whatever else that might be left from the pollen. Oddly, the water doesn’t seem to be helping in that respect.
Running her hands over her arms, she eyes him, using the opportunity to really get a good look at him. He looks .. functionally the same as the last time she’d seen him. Perhaps a little less … insane. But that was probably just as well.
no subject
He's already had his brain well and truly fucked with in her presence before. He doesn't like that he's apparently now made it a habit.
no subject
She wants him to use the shower. She wants him very far away. She wants him to ran his hands down all of the different paths a water droplet could take. She wants him to die a second, much more painful death.
Her jaw works, and she’d slam her fist into the tile wall if she thought it’d do more than hurt or make him wax poetic about her bruised fingers.
“You’re going to have to be careful.” Resigned, voice tight with the same control that he’s exerting over his body language.
no subject
no subject
“Yes, with me.” Might as well confirm that point. Shifting under the shower spray, she sighs, loudly enough that he’s likely to hear it. What is he waiting for, an open invitation? He’ll never get that, not from her. But…
“Little late to worry about your humanity now.” His eyes are intense, and she’s caught when he stares at her, stock still in the headlights. Slowly, in a way that he can’t help but miss, she nods.
no subject
Some things cannot be avoided.
He pulls off his clothes and leaves them in a pile on the floor before stepping into the shower behind her. For a moment he just watches the water move across her skin, feels it on his own, and then, leaning forward, a scrape of teeth at the back of her neck, his hands at her hips.
no subject
“How bad?” She asks, just barely able to be heard over the sound of the water. “It’s distracting, for me. But not terrible.”
Not like before, in the field, when she couldn’t hardly breathe.
no subject
"It doesn't burn and ache in the same way, yet." He wonders how long they were unconscious there before both came round more or less at the same time. He wonders if it matters. "It's present, and heavy. Like a smog. Less like a smog that is actively on fire at the same time."
He wonders if he'll be able to tell if/when he loses control, this next time, or if he'll justify it in a frenzy of need and want and the desire to win. His hands travel up her sides, around to her breasts, taking one in each hand and squeezing.
no subject
“Mmm.” His arms wrap around her, and she leans back against him until his chest is at her back and he’s fully holding her. Unable to stifle a shiver as he takes her breasts in both hands, her body betrays her - both nipples are perked, sensitive to his touch. Unintentionally, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, dragging the curve of her ass against his front as she does so.
no subject
Two long fingers part the lips of her cunt, and the one between them flick rubs against her clit slowly as he grinds his hips into her ass again.
no subject
It’s a thought that strikes her as kind, which makes her still for a moment — just a moment, until his fingers circle her clit and she shivers, biting her lower lip against a whimper. Ridiculous.
“You can just —“ She tries for a neutral, stiff tone, and lands somewhere in the neighborhood of husky. His fingers hit a particularly sore spot and she jumps, one of her hands moving to guide him away — but not off her completely. “You don’t need to get me off.”
She thinks she’ll die if he doesn’t.
no subject
But her physical discomfort is squarely his fault. And if he tries it her way and it doesn't work, that will still be preferable to ignoring her idea from the beginning, seeing as how she's likely to be insufferable about it.
So. "If you're certain." His nose is at the nape of her neck, his breathing slightly unsteady.
He didn't resist when she guided his hand away and instead refocuses on other kinds of touch. Massaging pressure to relieve the tension of muscles in her thighs (his are also sore, she is correct) while his cock moves against the swell of her ass and down briefly brushing the back of her thighs.
Loki can't tolerate it for very long, the touching without being inside of her directly. He encourages her legs a little apart. The head of his cock appears between her thighs and visible from the front, briefly, rubbing bluntly against her cunt, catching and the sliding away from her entrance. Once, twice, and then he shudders against her, in desire, not release.
The slide in is neither brutal or teasing. Just... very presentHe remains bottomed out for a moment, one hand traveling up to squeeze a breast again, shifting his hips back at the same time. "Tell me," he grinds out, "if it is too much."
He is not taunting. He does not rust his own ability to determine what would be too rough, right now.
no subject
But why not leave her in that field? Or kill her (again)? Why care if he hurts her now when it’s in pursuit of his own desire?
It’s difficult to think about that when he slips inside her, a teasing stroke or two against her mound before he’s fucking into her in earnest — carefully. She sighs, a long low sound, getting used to the feel of him. There is a stretch, a bit of soreness - but honestly? She’s had worse after a bad workout.
“Keep going.” Natasha shifts her hips, one hand resting on the curve of his hipbone in return so she can try and pause him if it becomes too much. It’s not too much. It’s not enough.
(no subject)
(no subject)