AN: Based on a prompt at AvengerKink on Livejournal, written to ease frustration for "Remembrance." The prompt: It turns out that Asgardians are much better at controlling their sex drives than humans. Sure, they can have sex and enjoy it, but it's up to them to decide whether or not they want to be aroused. When Loki came of age, he very quickly reached the conclusion that sex was an unnecessary distraction and turned to "worthier" pursuits. Then he gets turned into a mortal. Enter some very distracting human hormones and an even more distracting Natasha Romanoff. Bonus if there's a scene where Loki awkwardly attempts to go to Thor for advice (after all, he was mortal for a short time as well). And, um, anon wouldn't mind some inexperienced!Loki when they get to the sexing either, but if not that's okay too.

Instinct Blues

Part One: An Apple a Day

By Wynn

The first thing that Loki notices about his human form is his penis. Not the size, which he deems acceptable given his previous state as a god.

The sensitivity.

The journey through the Bifrost to Midgard nearly brings him to his knees, the energy tossing Loki, and his penis, about without care for friction or restrictive leather pants. Gritting his teeth, he places a hand over the now tender portion of his anatomy to try to still the sensations, yet even the slight pressure from his hand causes his breath to hitch in his chest and his eyes to roll back in his head.

And this is how the Bifrost spits him out at the top of Stark Tower: Loki, flat on his ass, his hand on his dick, right at the feet of Natasha Romanov.

A beat passes in which she stares down at him and then she raises one brow, whether in amusement or disgust Loki doesn't know. He stands with all the dignity that a former god can muster, brushing the dirt from his pants, careful to avoid that area. She notices the evasion, of course she notices, yet she refuses to turn to grant him a moment of privacy. His soul twitches in rage at the humiliation and then his penis twitches as a wicked smirk appears on her face.

"I'll let the others know that you're still… adjusting to the transformation," she says as she turns away.

A thousand cutting retorts evaporate at the sight of her hips swaying in her jeans as she walks back into the Tower.

...

When he adjusts, or as much as he is able for the moment, Loki follows Natasha inside. He finds the merry band awaiting him there, cast in a loose circle around the door. Barton glares at Loki so hard that Loki wonders if his head will explode from the pressure; the Captain regards him quietly, stoic and unflappable; Banner hovers at the back of the room, still uncomfortable in his skin, and Thor stands by the door, anxiety crackling from him as crisp as the lightning he conjures.

Immediately before Loki stand Stark and Natasha. Stark gives no indication that he knows the particulars of his arrival, for which, he supposes, Loki should be grateful. He looks at Natasha now, and he feels his heart rate increase at the knowing look she sends his way. He holds the stare, unwilling to relent, unwilling to reveal her effect on him, though the longer the stare persists, the stronger the discord grows within him.

Thankfully, Stark starts yammering about rules and rooms, and Loki turns his attention to him. Or he turns his eyes. His mind he allows to wander. Would this be his life as a mortal: an endless war with his dick? Loki shifts, uncomfortable with the notion, with the placement of said dick in his now heinously tight leather pants, and especially with the fact that Natasha watches him, the smirk still on her face. The uproar that her stare creates inside him causes Loki to panic. He had not reacted like this to her before, though he took great pleasure from their encounter at the cage. Was this just Natasha, or was this how he would react to all women he encountered now? If the first, at least he wouldn't be subjected to her presence much longer, she, along with the rest of the team, sure to keep their distance. Why wouldn't they, after what he—

But at that moment, something Stark says registers within Loki. "What did you just say?" he asks, the discomfort within him growing.

At his question, Stark sighs. "Great," he says. "You're deaf as well as evil."

"Stark," the Captain warns.

Stark rolls his eyes at the admonition. "I said," he begins, looking at Loki, "that Agent Romanov has been assigned to be your keeper—"

"Handler," Natasha corrects.

"Babysitter?" Stark counters. He relents when Natasha turns to glare at him. "Fine. Handler. The point is, Pinocchio, she'll help you adjust to life as a real boy." He pauses then, and a nasty smile appears on his face. "I don't think we have to tell you what happens if you don't play nice."

Loki narrows his eyes. "You'll transform me into a toad then?"

"No, I'll throw you out the window. And trust me, you won't like the landing."

Loki returns Stark's smile. "You may try—"

"Okay," the Captain says, stepping between them. "Enough. This has been a hard day for all of us."

"Yes, it has," Natasha murmurs, just loud enough for Loki to hear.

He glares at her, but she keeps her gaze fixed on the Captain, who says something; Loki ignores him as he had Stark. He shifts again, his unease with his new form growing. He feels hot and he itches and even now he can feel his body dying, only seventy more years before him if he lives the full life of a mortal. The thought of those last few putrefying decades makes him sick, or maybe that was the Bifrost, or extended exposure to Stark and his face. Was Loki hungry? His armor weighed so much now. And the gravity of this realm felt strange, too light, or maybe that was Loki. He—

"Loki."

Loki starts. He realizes he is alone with Natasha, the others having left during his rambling inner monologue. How did these people triumph over him if they possessed the attention span of a gnat, thousands of thoughts swirling inside such tiny minds?

He looks at Natasha. She peers at him, studying him. Loki strives to keep his face blank, refusing to give her anything, even the slightest advantage over him. Her eyes flit to the door and then back to Loki, but she refrains from comment, merely turning and saying to him, "I'll show you to your rooms."

Loki nods and follows, pausing a moment to throw up in one of Stark's plants before they leave.

...

Three rooms compose his new quarters, a parlor, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The three in total are smaller than even the tiniest room in the palace on Asgard, but the bed is of serviceable size, the windows on the far wall in the parlor and the bedroom afford Loki a decent view of the city that he had tried to conquer, and the bathroom contains a shower large enough for him to try to successfully wash off the grime of mortality.

Natasha leads him from the bathroom back into the bedroom. She points to a closet by the head of the bed and says, "There are some clothes in there if you want to change. Nothing remarkable. Just a few items to get you through the week. Once Asgard and S.H.I.E.L.D. settle on a budget for you, we can buy more."

We. The thought agitates him. Then his agitation agitates him. Loki paces the length of the room, waiting for Natasha to leave, but she does not. She stays where she stands, examining him once more. He cannot read the look in her eyes, and at that, his respect for her rises, her ability to remain impassive given the chaotic nature of the human form remarkable. And irritable, given Loki's inability to do so.

"Is that all?" he asks, testy. And horny. And queasy again, and maybe hungry, too.

Natasha raises a brow. "Yes," she says. "For now. If you need anything, tell Jarvis and he'll alert me. My rooms are down the hall—"

At that, Loki stills. "What?"

"So you weren't listening to Steve either," she says, a small smile on her face. "I thought so."

Loki refuses to confirm her suspicions. Instead, he narrows his eyes and takes a step toward her. Fear, he has found, is the most successful of diversions. "Does it unsettle you, Agent Romanov, knowing what will lurk mere feet from where you slumber?"

"Does it unsettle you?" she asks, far from afraid, glancing down at his traitorous penis with an arch of her brow.

Loki glares at her for that, which elicits another smile from Natasha. She turns toward the door, glancing back at him before she leaves. The glance agitates him further. "Pleasant dreams," she says, shutting the door softly behind her and finally, blessedly, leaving Loki alone.

...

He does not dream that night, but he does christen the bathroom the next morning, Natasha on his mind and his hand on his dick as he comes in the steam of the shower.

...

"Why her?" he asks a few hours later.

Fury looks up from the pile of paperwork spread on a table before him: the terms and conditions of Loki's term on Earth. "Why her what?" he asks, annoyed at the interruption.

"Why has Agent Romanov been assigned to monitor my activities on Midgard?"

Fury stares at Loki trying, he supposes, to discern the motivation behind the query. Again, Loki keeps his face blank, denying him access. After a moment, Fury sighs and says, "Agent Barton volunteered, but we figured that was probably so he could kill you while you slept. Nobody trusted Stark to actually teach you anything worthwhile. Thor and Rogers know about as much about life on Earth as you do, so that would be the blind leading the blind. So that left Banner and Romanov, and you'd probably piss off Banner enough to make him turn into the Hulk in about five minutes, and I doubt you want that, especially with you being all fragile and human now."

Loki can find no flaw in the logic, but the doubt lingers in his mind. Natasha must be a secret form of torture for him; why else would his mortal form react the way that it does around her?

"Why?" Fury asks him now. "Is there some reason you don't want her around?"

Something in his tone makes Loki think that Natasha told him everything about Loki's arrival the day before. Straightening his shoulders, he says, "No. She's perfectly adequate."

At that, Fury stands and hands him the pen. "That's funny," he says, waiting for Loki to sign the papers. "She said the same thing about you."

...

The torment begins in earnest later that day. Natasha meets him at the door to his rooms to give him a tour of the Tower. She still wears her nefarious jeans along with a pair of tall boots and a purple sweater. Loki follows her, his brain attempting to focus on her words as she indicates where he can and cannot go according to Stark's inane rules, but other parts of his anatomy demand his attention be placed elsewhere. Her hips. Her legs. The dip of her waist and the arch of her neck.

Breathing in, Loki keeps his focus fixed at a point about half a foot above her head. He may no longer be a prince, either to Asgard or Jotunheim, but he will not be a slave to ridiculous human hormones either. Especially not in front of or due to Agent Natasha Romanov.

...

When they return to their floor, Natasha turns right and indicates for him to follow. She enters the next door down the hall, leading him to a kitchen. He pauses in the entrance, staring down the hall to the last door, the door that he knows leads to her rooms.

"Do you want to see them?" she asks.

Loki grits his teeth. "No."

Yes.

Amused, she begins to explain the various contraptions used by Midgardians to prepare meals. Most of the food in the refrigerator requires little effort, made for her in advance by S.H.I.E.L.D. The device to make coffee intrigues Loki, as do the neat bottles of alcohol in one of the cabinets.

Natasha catches him eyeing the liquor. "You can eat whatever you want," she says, "but if you eat the last of something, tell Jarvis so he can order more. If you order something just for you, and I find it first, I'll probably eat it, so you should order enough for the both of us. Also, I'm not your cook. If you want food, you make it, but I won't fix something just for you. I'll share with you if I'm making food. I expect you to do the same."

"Do you now?"

"Yes."

At that, Loki smirks. "What if I dislike sharing?"

The smile that spreads across her face snatches his breath and sends most of his blood shooting straight to his dick. Natasha starts toward him, and Loki holds his ground until he realizes that she doesn't intend to stop. He retreats, trying not to reveal his fluster when he bumps into the counter mere seconds later. She stops before him; Loki knows that space exists between them because he doesn't feel her against him, but he cannot see it.

"I think you'll find the benefits of sharing easily outweigh the detriments," she says, peering up at him. The light shines on the gloss covering her lips, and he stares, mesmerized, then horrified by his fascination. He is a god. He was a god. Oh god, now she's leaning in. His hands clutch the counter as her right arm slides by his body to reach for something behind him; she is careful not to touch him, but that, Loki finds, the lack of a touch, is worse.

Seconds pass, or hours, Loki cannot tell, before she pulls back. "Apple?" she asks, mischief clear in her eyes, holding the round, ripe fruit before him.

The light shines on the fruit as it shone on her gloss. He wants to seize the apple and smash it in her face; he wants to fluster her and press her back against the counter. Before he can do either, the intercom crackles and Jarvis says, "A phone call for you, Ms. Romanov. Director Fury to inquire about your progress."

"Thank you, Jarvis. I'll be there in a minute."

Loki waits for Natasha to leave so that he can breathe and adjust and then retreat to his room to work through the temptations of the day, but instead she remains, her eyes on him. "How is my progress?" she asks after a moment, the apple still in her hand.

Loki looks at the apple and then at Natasha, and he narrows his eyes. He will not bow. He will not give in. Not to her. "Perfectly adequate," he says.

His response elicits another smile from Natasha. She lifts the apple and takes a bite; juice catches in the corner of her mouth, and his knees nearly buckle as her tongue darts out to lap the drop. She leans in and places the apple on the counter behind him and then she says, "Good to know," before turning to leave the room.

...

The next day she arrives to teach him about contemporary electronics. She hands him a stack of plastic and glass objects, the largest, according to her, a computer— a laptop— provided to help him learn about the realm. The others she designates as a tablet and a cell phone, the latter to be used only for emergencies.

Loki follows her to the desk before the window in his parlor. She wears a t-shirt emblazoned with a S.H.I.E.L.D. logo today; Loki found a stack of those monstrosities in the closet beside his bed. He had contemplated tossing the shirts out the window in protest, but the pull of the cotton across her breasts makes him reconsider.

He manages to drag his eyes away from her chest by the time Natasha turns to him and indicates for him to sit at the desk. He watches as she activates the computer, as she demonstrates the various parts and their functions. As she explains, he detects some scent, not perfume, but soap, clean and fresh, and the thought of her in the shower makes his head spin. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, determined to remain calm, the superior to his body, but he feels her move beside him, and he remembers the tip of her tongue, as red as the apple, and the look in her eyes as she stared at him the day before, as she tempted him, and he cannot breathe, his blood burning at the thought of her, but he needs to breathe, his chest burning for air, but he cannot breathe, the scent of her dizzying, but he needs to breathe, black spots appearing now in his vision, but he cannot breathe, but he needs to breathe, but he cannot—

She touches his wrist, her palm warm, and at the touch, Loki shoves back from the desk and strides from the parlor, slamming the door shut behind him.

In the bedroom, he paces. In the bedroom, he seethes. In the bedroom, he fidgets and he listens and he frowns and he kicks at the bed and then gasps at the pain in his foot before flopping back onto the bed, exhausted, tormented by her, by the perpetual rush of humanity, by the thoughts and the needs and the desires and the drives within him, insistent, relentless, and ruthless.

Through the door, Loki hears Natasha approach. He could escape to the bathroom, but she would only follow there, too, insistent, relentless, and ruthless, so he closes his eyes and waits. After a moment, she opens the door. Loki expects her to speak, but she does not; her silence frustrates him, the examination it implies, the judgment, too much. Opening his eyes, he looks at her; she leans against the frame, her arms folded over her chest, her face impassive. Her composure irritates as much as her silence.

"I hate you," he says, his voice hard.

"I know," she says. "I didn't think it was the computer."

"I don't like that either. The glare vexes."

Her mouth twitches at the criticism, but rather than galling him more, the hint of a smile soothes. The soothing, though, nettles him, further proof of her ability to affect him. Pushing off the bed, Loki resumes his pacing, his eyes fixed on Natasha. She holds his gaze, her face still impassive, the calm center to his frenzied orbit.

"Does nothing affect you?" he asks after a moment.

"Things do," she says.

"Such as?"

His question prompts a raise of her brow. "Why?" she asks. "Do you want to affect me?"

Loki stops now and turns toward her. "I should ask you the same question, Agent Romanov. An apple? Really? Even I am aware of the symbolism."

Natasha merely shrugs in response, the beginnings of a smile on her face, but her delight in him infuriates him now. He closes the distance between them. Natasha straightens as he approaches, but she stands her ground. Looming, his voice low, Loki says, "I may no longer be a god, Agent Romanov, but I am still me, and you tread on dangerous ground."

A beat passes in which they stare at each other and then Natasha smirks. "When haven't I?" she asks, her eyes on him. The boldness of her gaze intoxicates Loki and infuriates him. He does not know what he wants to do more: slay her or seduce her. In his indecision, she eases back. His hands clench by his sides, but he allows her to retreat, exercising, at least, a modicum of self-control.

Natasha stops in the middle of the parlor and holds out one hand toward the desk. "Jarvis will monitor your online activity, report anything suspicious to Tony," she says and then she pauses. Her gaze drops to his pants, and her smirk widens into a grin as she turns to leave. "So I would avoid the porn," she says. "At least for now."

...

Loki avoids the porn, but not his first dream about Natasha.

He waits in the cage in the Helicarrier, and she comes to him as she had before, but this time she wears her diabolical jeans and a S.H.I.E.L.D. t-shirt instead of her uniform. He watches as she enters the cage, that wicked smirk that he loves and loathes on her face. She stops before him and his clothes vanish. His helmet, though, remains, but now on her.

Natasha inspects him, her gaze a slow caress. This time, Loki allows her to look. Once finished, she meets his eyes and says, "Perfectly adequate."

To which Loki replies, "Kneel."

And she does. His hands settle upon the horns and then—

A distant siren yanks Loki from the dream. He wakes, shaking and hard, the image of Natasha on her knees still in his mind. Swallowing, he tumbles from the bed, his legs tangling in the sheets and blankets, and then he lurches to the bathroom, to the glorious shower, in order to rectify his unfortunate, and in no way merely adequate, situation.

...

Later, he sits in the parlor, and then he stands, and then he paces the length of the room, waiting for her. She will come, he knows. Though this is only the third day, the pattern has already been established. Loki wakes, Natasha arrives, and then he spends the next few hours waging war with his body, this form acute in its desire of her.

At that, Loki grimaces. Not his body. Him. He had desired her before; he had merely controlled himself then. Now, he cannot. But the desire is the same. But why wouldn't he desire her? Natasha is beautiful, but more than that, she is devious, and this, this he cannot resist. From the moment Loki arrived, Natasha pressed the new advantage that she acquired over him, and if he were in her position, he knows that would do the same. But Loki is not in her position. He is in his position, and his position demands resistance. He will not submit, he cannot submit, not to this form, not to this realm, and especially not to this inane punishment devised for him by Odin.

Therefore, he cannot submit to Natasha.

Though the thought appeals.

Intensely.

She knocks then, a swift rap in the center of the door. Loki glances down at his dick and sighs. Already it stirs. Shaking his head, he crosses to the door, opens it, and then promptly shuts it, turning away. "This is beyond devious," he mutters, beginning to pace again. "This is fiendish. This is contemptible. This is—"

"A dress," she says.

Loki turns. It certainly was. An elegant black, slim but not tight, with a thin gold belt. The front narrows to a deep V between her breasts. Loki tries not to stare, but he can he not? She wears diamonds in her ears and heels instead of boots, and, as she moves into the room, he breathes in something that smells like perfume.

"Why?" he asks.

Natasha quirks a brow at the detectable strain in his voice. "We've shut down an entire Saks so that you can buy some clothes and other things you might need. One of us, at least, should look like we have the money to do that."

She eyes him then and so does Loki. He wears now an odd mixture of his armor and the clothes provided for him by S.H.I.E.L.D., unable to bear the weight of all that he wore from Asgard. Next to Natasha, he feels slovenly, a fool before royalty.

The notion burns.

Turning from her, he strides from the room, resisting the urge to slam the door again behind him. What good would it do when she has no choice but to follow? At the elevator, he punches the call button and waits, both for the elevator and for her.

The door to his rooms opens and then shuts. Loki hears Natasha walk down the hall toward him, but he does not turn. She stops beside him, and he waits for her to speak, for her to unleash some arch and vexing comment designed to drive him mad, but when she speaks, her voice lacks any hint of mockery or scorn. Instead, he detects sympathy when she says, "I wore a bloodied dress for about a week when I first came to S.H.I.E.L.D."

Loki turns to her then; he finds her peering at his shirt, a small smile on her face. "I would have killed for a t-shirt," she continues, glancing up at him, "which is probably why they left me in the dress for so long."

Loki sees mirth in her eyes, genuine delight rather than the previous amusement taken at his expense. The sight again soothes and disarms, flusters and beguiles. The elevator arrives, and she steps inside, and Loki watches as she turns, a graceful spin on her toes, to press the button for the ground floor. After a moment, he follows, pulled behind, a wave to the shore.

...

The store is empty save for them, a salesman, and a few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents standing discreetly by the exits. Natasha escorts him to the back of the store, to three racks of clothing beside a small room concealed by a curtain. Loki watches as she sits in a chair beside a mirror and pulls a phone from her bag, presumably to message Fury of their arrival, then he turns to the clothes and begins his search.

He anticipated an endless slog through heinous Midgardian fashion given the atrocious attire worn by Stark, Banner, and Barton, but the selection before him immediately appeals. He finds suits similar to those that he wore before as well as a variety of separates, soft sweaters in grey and blue, pants in wool and gabardine, boots, gloves, and even scarves. As his hand hovers over a crisp white shirt, he feels Natasha watching him; he meets her gaze, and it is then he knows that she chose the array before him.

"Do you approve?" she asks before he can determine his feelings regarding her keen assessment of him. "Or do you find them to be merely adequate?"

Amusement again brightens her eyes. Smirking, Loki lifts a few items from the racks. "They suffice," he says, turning for the room to change.

Before the mirror, he removes the shirt from S.H.I.E.L.D., discarding it behind him with a flick of his wrist. He hesitates at his boots and pants, remnants of his armor, of his life before. He does not mourn Asgard, only the loss of capability, centuries and realms reduced now to decades and rooms. Loki supposes Odin would restore him if he repented, if he reformed, but the thought of supplicating before the All-Father sickens him, so he bends over and begins to unlace his boots.

Better defiance in hell than servility in heaven.

Better Natasha as jailer than Heimdall or Thor.

At the thought of Natasha, Loki closes his eyes. He cannot read her or her intentions toward him. She assists him because she must, he knows, but at times he detects sympathy for him. At other times, though, he detects pure evil, a desire to torment him into insanity. If he were as he was, he could clarify her obscurity, but if Loki were as he was, there would be nothing for him to clarify, loathing the only intent that she would have for him.

Swallowing at that, unwilling to examine the thought, Loki dons the suit, grey, with the white shirt over which he paused before. The shirt fits, but the jacket hangs loose around his shoulders. Loki turns to alert Natasha when the curtain opens and she steps into the room. She closes the curtain again behind her and hands him the shoes that she holds, then she inspects the suit, her eyes narrowed. The pants and the shirt pass without comment, but Natasha frowns at the jacket. Her gaze fixed on the collar, she takes a step toward him and says, "Can I check the size? I want to pull another."

Loki nods. He watches as she closes the distance, her hips swaying in the dress, and it is then, in her distraction, in his moment of maximum advantage, that he leans down and kisses her.

Natasha stills beneath him. Loki raises a hand to her face, tilts her head back, and draws on over nine hundred years of experience to make her as flustered and bothered as she has made him. He parts her lips and tastes the gloss that so dazzled him before. Her breath catches in her chest and her pulse quickens, and Loki would smile were it not for the pounding of his heart at the warmth of her skin, how his head spins from the scent of her perfume.

He pauses to draw in breath, and in the pause, Natasha moves, pushing up into him and into the kiss. Loki bites back a moan as she bites his lip, as her tongue touches his. Nothing matters but her fingertips that travel down his back and whether or not they tremble, and all that matters is his fingertips that caress her arm and whether or not they tremble, because he cannot submit, he cannot yield.

She must.

Footsteps approach. Natasha eases back, but she does not release him; Loki opens his eyes, and his hand convulses at the sight of her, her lips slick, her skin flushed. She looks at him, and he sees the gleam in her eyes, the challenge. He meets her gaze and raises a brow.

He will not submit.

He will not yield.

She will.

They step apart as the footsteps stop outside the curtain. "Ms. Rushman?" the salesman asks, his voice cool and decorous.

Natasha smoothes a hand over her hair as Loki straightens his shirt. He turns to the mirror as she turns to the curtain, then he adjusts his dick, aching at the thought of her, from the feel of her, as she opens the curtain to the salesman.

"Yes?" she asks.

In the mirror, Loki sees the salesman eye him and then Natasha, but the prospect of a sale halts any comment. He says instead, "Does the gentleman approve?" turning to her.

A beat passes and then Natasha lays a hand on the salesman's elbow. "Yes," she says as she leads him from the room. "I believe that he does."

...

Part Two coming soon.