This chapter contains minor violence, (trans)misogynistic, whorephobic, and homophobic language, sex, and brief references to drugs and abuse.
Characters are from Earth-616, save Steve, Sam, and Natasha, who appear in one scene in chapter 2 and are borrowed from Earth-19999/MCU. Ship inspired by the first issue of A-Force.
There is no racebending in this fic; Loki is depicted very often in comics with Inuit or east/southeast Asian features, including in a the-gods-are-human arc as explicitly Chinese. There's also a long explanation for why she's written as a trans woman, rather than any other option, like Ewing's "kind of gender fluid"; the tl;dr is that Loki's been coded transfemme since, like, ever, including pretty fucking explicitly (if transmisogynistically) in comics, and the more recent use of the gender essentialist "shapeshifters are inherently genderfluid" trope can go directly to jail, do not pass "go", do not collect $200.
Authors are an ace trans lesbian and an aro/ace cis woman. Beta and porn/plot assistance provided by an allo cis queer woman and an allo cis lesbian, respectively. All are kinky and disapprove of several decisions made by these characters. Also, certain unrealistic plot points are intentionally so, either in a plot relevant fashion or to maintain the tone of the fic.
While everything is consensual, and safewords are used and respected, consent is occasionally muddled by alcohol, a minor mutual attempted murder, and little-to-no negotiation of kink up to and including gunplay, bloodplay, and breathplay.
Chapter 1
They met in a bar in Vegas.
America had this consultant job, semi-legal, for a casino tycoon who'd pissed off some folks in low places. Why billionaires felt the need to make shady deals in the first place, America didn't think she'd ever know—it wasn't like they needed to skimp—but this was the first assignment she'd had in four months where she had fucking room service, so she was willing to overlook some things.
It was her last night in town, though the guy, grateful nearly to tears and probably trying to compensate for the fact a woman was taller and infinitely more badass than him, had given her an open offer for a weekend all-expenses-paid in the same luxury suite she'd been in for the past few weeks. She was meant to be taking it easy, but hours after a summer blockbuster-worthy showdown with half a dozen mafiosi her adrenaline rush had transformed into anxiety like pinpricks on her skin. Her heart was still racing, something in her hindbrain puffing up like a cat at shadowed alleys.
Some white guy, a tourist—accent said Kentucky, maybe, somewhere in the ambiguous Not Quite South—crowed triumphantly behind her, and in an instant she'd pivoted, gun half-drawn almost before she realized she was doing it. I need a fucking drink.
There was a bar on the first floor of her hotel in Hopperesque seamless glass, three exits but all of them interior. Not necessarily ideal, but — she looked at the crowd. Businessmen, mostly, in suits and loafers, a few in casual wear but parading thousand-dollar watches. Women in skirt suits and kitten heels; the odd cocktail dress, black or red. America, in her jeans, leather jacket, and—entirely by chance—the only bra she owned fancy enough it could pass for a top in the event her shirt was shredded by a mafioso, would be out of place, but the conversation was a mid-level buzz, and the music was low enough she couldn't feel the bass in her teeth. So, fuck it.
"Negroni sbagliato," she ordered, taking an empty seat at the bar beside a harried young woman in a gray skirt suit, jacket draped on the back of her chair, heels on the floor and replaced with ballet flats. There was a phone pressed to her ear. "I don't care if he's got fucking pneumonia, if he's not at the meeting, I'll—" She barked a laugh; took a sip of her martini. "Tell me about it," the woman said. "Thanks, Celeste. I'll shoot you an email."
The bartender reappeared with America's cocktail and she thanked him offhandedly, though he was already on the far side of the bar. She took a sip and winced: Prosecco, god, some people had no taste. She took another sip.
Laughter cut through the chatter, low, smooth, and tripartite, and she traced it on habit to its source: a woman several seats down, sitting canted with her back to America and one elbow on the bar, her full, doting attention on the guy she was with. She had straight black hair pinned up in an artful intentionally-messy updo, a just-had-sex look that had probably taken 20 minutes in front of a mirror. Her dress might, with a bit of luck, cover the essentials when standing, and the knobs of her spine jutted out above its plunging back. She'd crossed her ankles so that one bright red stiletto of her otherwise-black heels was hooked over the stretcher, the other on the chair leg. America hoped, but doubted, they were knockoffs; real Louboutins cost more than her rent, and she lived in NYC.
The guy was mid-50s, wearing a suit which was high-quality and clearly tailored, but pulled in a way suggesting he'd recently put on weight. There was a gold band on his ring finger which, judging by the familiar hand he'd just placed on the woman's bare thigh, neither of them were paying much attention to. Rich white guy like him, with a woman at least 15 years younger: usually that meant the wife was Eastern European. This lady clearly wasn't. So she probably wasn't his wife. Las Vegas indiscretions observed from half a bar down were about as far from a warehouse and weapons fire as you could get in this city, and more interesting than Celeste's coworker's opinions on midnight or sapphire blue for the new branding and tell him we prefer the softened edges; can we get this done by Tuesday?
"—And then the bitch threatens to cut up my credit card, you know, if I hit the limit again this month," the guy was telling his companion, right hand waving his nearly-empty highball glass around emphatically. The woman was making interested noises at all the right places, which, honestly, America found kind of impressive. "Which is fucking crazy. What's she even know about money. Crazy," he reiterated, practically snarling. "Fuckin' harpy. She wouldn't have shit if it weren't for me."
"Hideously unreasonable," the woman agreed, in pitch-perfect sympathy, apparently completely oblivious to the font of misogyny feeling her up. She had a half-finished Tom Collins with a little slice of lemon perched on the rim, and she was idly stirring a cocktail straw through it as she listened. The position showed off her black nail polish and her wrist cuffs — metal, delicately engraved, up and… was that an O ring? "You deserve so much better." Her voice was a smooth tenor, enunciation like she'd done stage work; it dragged on 'so' and pitched up like a question, and it was the queerest thing America had heard all day.
The world's worst husband tipped his glass up one last time and drained it, then leaned forward towards his conversation partner with a suggestive leer, nodding at her drink. "Quicker you finish that, the quicker we can get out of here, kitten."
The woman hummed thoughtfully and inspected her drink like it might hold the answers to life's greatest questions: the chicken or the egg, what happened to Schrödinger's zombie cat, and why she was currently putting up with the asshole in front of her. "You know," she said slowly, "I don't think I'm feeling it tonight." She straightened, removed his hand from beneath the hem of her skirt, and brushed the fabric flat. The drunken incredulity on the guy's face was honestly MasterCard priceless for about half a second, and then it slid sideways into anger; America watched him carefully, waiting for him to telegraph an attack before stepping in (and as drunk as he was, it would be very widely telegraphed).
"What'd you just say to me, you little whore?" The woman's head snapped back towards him and if she cringed it was so slow it only looked like she was stiffening in indignation. "If I'm spending this much money and you're not even going to put out, I might as well go on my fucking honeymoon again."
The grey-suited businesswoman beside America quietly picked up her heels with one hand and slipped out of the bar. Several other fine patrons suddenly became engrossed in conversation, heads turned fixedly towards each other. America took another sip of her drink and watched the conversation warily, wondering what the woman was going to do.
"You haven't spent anything yet," the woman said mildly. "You could always buy your wife some flowers. She won't hate you any less, but it might get you a pity fuck." She took her purse off of the back of her chair and began to stand up. The guy lurched forward with a steadiness America hadn't expected and clamped a hand on the woman's arm.
"You're not fucking going anywhere until I'm done with you, you ungrateful faggot."
They turned, then, and America caught her first glance of the woman's wide-eyed face. The other patrons of the bar were all in various states of studied non-involvement as the woman tried unsuccessfully to pull away from her asshole would-be client. America made a judgement call. She picked up her drink and slid out of her chair.
"You think you're too good for me, huh?" the guy was hissing at his captive audience. "You think you've got the right to say no—"
"There you are!" said America. Both of them turned to look at her, which meant the guy missed the quick, assessing look the woman gave her. Not quite as upset as she'd seemed a couple seconds ago. Whatever; too late to back out now. America gave the woman a friendly smile, projecting 'old acquaintance'. "I've been looking all over the hotel for you, got turned around at the elevators. Who's your friend?"
The woman gave her a brilliant smile at that, seemingly unconcerned about the hand still on her arm. America had been right; she was in her mid-to-late 20s. She was Chinese or Vietnamese, with a strong jaw, aquiline nose, and cheekbones sharp enough to kill a man. In her heels, she was a full head taller than America. "Oh, nobody, really. He was just leaving." Then, casually: "But if you wanted to kill him for me, that would be even better."
It was confident enough that for a split second, America didn't even think about it; she reached for her gun, tucked in her waistband at the small of her back, before she'd quite consciously registered that the woman was joking, and that she was off the job, in a civilian bar. She shifted her weight; took stock of the man instead. He seemed a bit less sure of himself facing two people instead of one. His eyes were glazed over: more drunk than she'd thought he was. That could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending.
The guy scoffed. "Listen, lady, I don't know how stupid you think I am. She's a hooker; she wasn't meeting any friend here today." He looked America over. "Unless you've got some kinda two-for-one deal. What's your name, sweetheart?"
America shifted so she was looming over him, just a bit. "How about this: you leave now, I don't break both your arms and toss you out that window there." She cracked the knuckles of one hand threateningly. The guy stepped forward as if to respond, stumbled, and then came up suddenly in a wild swing.
America caught his arm easily, shifted to put both hands in position, and gave an expert twist. The snap echoed loudly in the suddenly quiet room. America tossed the guy away from her, where he crashed into a bar table and kept going, toppling table and two chairs.
He was whimpering a little, as he slowly levered himself up from the floor. He glanced up at the two of them, then very visibly thought better of it. "Fuck it," he muttered. "Have fun with your fucking tranny. He's probably got AIDS anyway." The asshole started to move towards the door and then stopped and turned back, an angry triumphant light in his eyes. "You'll both be dead in a ditch in a week."
The woman's lips thinned, and she raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "You too, honey," she drawled, wiggling her fingers at his back as he shuffled painfully out of the bar.
Then, without missing a beat, she turned to America and gave her a bright smile. "My hero!" she said, hand to her heart and fake-swooning a little, but there was gratitude in her smile that offset some of the melodrama. She was wearing black lipstick—to go with the black dress, black shoes, black hair, black nail polish, and truly impressive black winged eyeliner, presumably—and she had piercings: spider bites on the right side of her upper lip and a labret, all metal studs. She emoted noticeably more with the left side of her face, so her smile was lopsided, nearly a smirk. It was a good smirk. America was into it. "Let me buy you a drink?" she asked. "Although… not here, probably."
The bartender was giving them a look sort of like he'd like to throw them out a window. America laughed. "Sure," she said. "I'm Andrea Garcia, by the way."
"Nikole. You know, that was pretty hot."
⁂
Nikole, as it turned out, was "...an accountant". She'd told America this after her second F-bomb (and America's regrettable first) at the nightclub she'd dragged her to after they left the hotel bar, smug grin daring America to gainsay her. It wasn't America's usual kind of hangout—unmarked entryway down a narrow alley littered with cigarette butts and discarded needles, bass heavy enough her whole body vibrated with it, and crowd the other sort of underworld—but Nikole was charismatic and fucking stunning when she smiled, like she'd just heard a joke and you might have been the punchline. Under the eerie UV light her skin lit up with sharp, geometric lines forming vertices snaking their way from fingers to shoulders and over her face, disappearing under her dress. The pattern continued presumably unbroken down her legs and feet. Blacklight tattoos: America had never seen one before. She looked like a digital construct; some kind of cyberpunk fae creature, not quite real.
Nikole had noticed her looking, and—unsurprisingly—not only hadn't minded but when they reached the bar to order drinks, she'd leaned across to call the bartender, drawing America's eye to her ass and legs, and, oh, she was showing off, America realized. During a lull, before the bass dropped again, America asked if she might want to come back to her hotel room with her. The answer came, laughing: "I was about to call you out on being afraid to ask."
"What if I wasn't planning on it?"
Nikole scoffed. "Yeah, right." She was practically preening. America had never seen someone preen before.
This was how they ended up in the elevator, on the way to America's suite on the 37th floor.
"You said you're a bodyguard?"
"Yep." It was kind of true, for a given value of 'bodyguard', which was why it was America's favorite cover.
"Do you have a gun?"
"I might."
"Nice."
The person next to them, some white guy in douchey red shades, shifted uncomfortably.
America was suddenly reminded of that question she'd been wondering about since Nikole had bought her a drink. "So, uh. You haven't mentioned… I mean, we never talked about—"
"I'm off duty." Nikole looked at her sidelong, appraising. "And I don't think you could afford me."
America glanced down at her thousand dollar shoes and privately agreed. "Hard limits?"
A pause, longer than America was happy with. "No scat," Nikole said, like that even meant anything, and she must have noticed America's look, because after that she added, "no gags, and nothing gets into my eyes."
Well, those America believed. "I don't do petplay," she said, "and I'll hurt you, but I won't hit you with anything but my hand."
The elevator stopped, and red-glasses shot out of it like someone was chasing him. Beside her, Nikole hummed again. "Stoplight?" she asked.
"Works for me. Are you clean?"
Nikole rolled her eyes. "Yeah. Got tested three weeks ago. And I'm on Truvada." America had the feeling she might have pissed her off, but she could suck it up, because there was no way she wasn't asking, in Vegas. "Are you?"
"Yeah. It's been a couple months, but I don't really—" do things like this. "—get out much. So."
⁂
Loki let herself be pressed roughly against Andrea's door once it'd closed behind them, let her purse slip out of her hand with a shocked little gasp, more genuine than she'd like to admit. Andrea was quicker than she'd expected and with better control, left arm braced and angled up, an unrelenting pressure at Loki's windpipe. It was entirely safe, which was adorable. Traditionally, now she ought to be struggling: that meant something very specific to Loki, but she grabbed Andrea's shoulders, fingers sinking into the leather jacket, and pushed halfheartedly instead of snapping her neck. She was nice like that. Andrea's free hand snapped up and caught both of her wrists; the pressure at her throat fell away as they were pinned above her head. Stronger than expected, too, and if she was as well-trained as Loki had the feeling she was, she might even make Loki break a sweat in a real fight. The thought was more appealing than it should have been, a hell of a lot more, and Loki hid her shiver. She didn't need to come off like she was that easy.
In her heels she was eight and a half inches taller than Andrea in her combat boots, and Andrea solved this logistical issue with a hand in her hair, yanking her head down roughly to kiss her. But Loki intended to go down fighting (ha), and when Andrea was suitably distracted by her tongue piercing she jerked full-body in an attempt to get her hands free and simultaneously bit down. It wasn't hard enough to draw blood—she wouldn't pull that with a one-night stand, especially one who hadn't gotten tested in, apparently, months—but Andrea stuttered like a scratched 78, grip painful in Loki's hair, and breathed shellac-noisy into her mouth. She let go of Loki's hair then, but kept her wrists pinned with her right hand; reaching around blindly as she worried Loki's bottom lip with her teeth (Loki deeply regretting her choice to wear a stud rather than a hoop), Andrea undid the neck of Loki's dress and pulled it down so the fabric pooled loose at her hips, trapped where their bodies met; pinched a nipple, digging her nails in as deep as she could. Loki whimpered.
Andrea mouthed her way along Loki's jaw and neck, sucking bruises into her skin, and Loki's hips arched up. "Are you really that desperate?" Andrea said into her neck, breath warm and humid on her skin. Proud.
Loki made a sound in the back of her throat.
"Your hands stay flat against the door. Move them and you'll regret it." She waited for acquiescence, and then she let go of Loki's wrists; when Loki obediently slid her hands to near-resting, palms flat to the wood, she stepped back.
That was the opposite of what Loki wanted.
Andrea dislodged the bunched-up fabric at Loki's waist, pushing it down past her hips; Loki took the hint and stepped out of the dress obediently, kicking it to the side.
"Do you have any toys?" Andrea asked.
"Ah," said Loki, standing there with her back to the door, naked but for her black lace panties and her heels. "Chain for the cuffs, and a vibrator. In my purse."
It wasn't a particularly large purse. Andrea rifled through it, finding the items easily, and she put them in her back pocket. Then Andrea was touching her again, her mouth at Loki's neck, fingers trailing down her ribs with only a trace of nail; her left hand went between Loki's thighs. Two fingers rubbed at her clit through the thin, soaked fabric of her panties, not nearly enough pressure or contact and Loki arched her hips, half-desperate. One finger snaked under the fabric, skimming her labia, before slipping the crotch to the side and finally touching her clit, a brief flick of Andrea's thumbnail which might have been accidental. Loki gasped at the contact, but Andrea kept away from the area, dipping her fingers between Loki's folds. When they met the shallow recess there, Andrea made a soft sound, and for a second, everything stopped. Oh, Loki thought, and waited for—
Then Andrea's fingers started moving again, small circles over her clit, and Loki resolutely pushed the issue out of her mind, dropping her head back to rest against the door and concentrating on the pleasure. She drifted after a while, world narrowing to the slick paint of the door under her splayed fingers and Andrea's ministrations. Then Andrea found a spot at the junction between neck and shoulder and bit, at the same time twisting a nipple hard between her fingers and pinching her clit between Andrea's thumbnail and the smallest knuckle of her forefinger, and Loki keened, digging her nails into the palms of her hand. She'd only barely processed the fact her palms had left the door before Andrea backhanded her, hard. Loki cried out, forcing her hands flat to the door rather than put her hand to her stinging cheek, and shuddered as she came.
She heard Andrea curse softly. There was a familiar series of clicks and the quiet slide of a drawer as she tried to catch her breath, and then Andrea started moving her left hand again, just running lightly along the sides of her labia. Loki tried to flinch away from the touch; in response, Andrea brought her hand higher, pinning back the hood of her clit with one fingertip and pressing in with her thumb in rough, agonizing circles. At the same time, Andrea brought her other hand into Loki's field of view, now holding a gun. It was a Beretta 92FS Brigadier Inox (9mm semiautomatic, 15 bullet magazine, a sharpshooter's handgun, goddamn), and as Loki's eyes raptly followed the gun she casually pushed the muzzle against Loki's throat, pressing against the pulse point and forcing her chin up slightly. "If you can't even follow an order that easy," said Andrea, "maybe you need better motivation."
Loki whined. Andrea kept the gun against her throat, seeming to admire the view, while her other hand continued its methodical, torturous movement. She couldn't— Loki's eyes screwed shut and she felt herself choke back a sob; would probably be weeping if she hadn't taught herself not to do that years ago.
She didn't know how long it was before Andrea shifted, sliding the gun up to trail the barrel along her jaw, which was clenched up so tight she could hear her mother berating her fourteen-year-old self about tooth grinding, you need to wear a mouth guard, Loki, after all of the money I've spent-!
She forced herself to relax her face. This was fine. Andrea was tracing the gun over her lips and Loki was fine and it didn't matter that she couldn't stop herself from shaking because she was completely in control of this situation and every other part of herself. She let her lips fall open, flicking a tongue out to taste. The gun had been fired recently, the sweet burn of nitroglycerin on her tongue, and that was — unexpected.
So was Andrea's breathy "Oh…"
That was when Loki got a truly fantastic idea. Keeping her hands carefully flat against the door, she tilted her head forward and closed her lips around the muzzle of the gun, sucking so her cheeks hollowed. Andrea's rhythm faltered, just momentarily, and Loki looked down at her through her lashes, noting blown pupils and slightly parted lips; very purposefully took the gun deeper into her mouth, until the trigger guard impacted her labret piercing with a metallic clink, and then she moaned around it. Andrea's fingers stuttered, and stopped, all her attention focused on Loki's mouth.
A small I win! crowed triumphant in the back of Loki's head.
Andrea's eyes narrowed, a 'challenge accepted' look if Loki had ever seen one, and she pulled the gun away.
Loki made a noise in protest. "You are no fun."
Andrea ignored her, pressing the barrel hard against Loki's cunt and her left hand came up to pinch a nipple. Loki hissed a sharp inhale through her teeth, legs still shaking and the hard ridge of the slide like a knife against her abused clit.
"Get yourself off."
"What?"
Andrea gave her an impassive look. "You heard me."
This was not the proper handling of a gun, Loki thought, as she gripped the barrel between her thighs and rolled her hips minutely.
"Cute," said Andrea. "Try again."
"I don't—"
A boot edged between her legs; kicked them open. Loki's feet slid sideways, and her fingers scrabbled at the door, only barely keeping her palms flat. Her weight fell hard on the gun which Andrea held firmly in place, and she couldn't contain her strangled cry. It took Loki several excruciatingly painful seconds to regain her purchase and hold herself a more tolerable distance from the gun, but Andrea's foot stayed beside hers, preventing her from closing her stance any further.
Andrea watched her struggle, unimpressed: "Any time."
Loki moved her hips jerkily; winced, and did it again. "This," she said shakily. Swallowed. "This is a—ah!—a method of torture."
Andrea knotted her left hand in Loki's hair and pulled her down to kiss her again, and Loki thought this was a very transparent attempt at not answering, but it also presented an opportunity. Loki was very experienced with making out, and equally fond of it: it was sort of like fighting, but with tongues, and teeth, although she was willing to admit those ended up involved in most of her regular fights, too. And Loki kissed to win. If Andrea hadn't realized that yet, well. Her loss.
Andrea edged her foot out by half an inch. Loki bit down on Andrea's lower lip, and it was only luck that kept it from breaking the skin. Andrea pulled away, and took the little vibrator she'd gotten from Loki's purse earlier out of her pocket.
Oh. That was cheating.
"I didn't say you could stop," Andrea said, pressing the toy directly onto her clit and then holding it there, following the unsteady motion of Loki's hips as she bit her lip and made herself keep rocking forward on the slick barrel of the gun, every movement and the constant shaking of her thighs changing the angle of the vibe just so and oh, fuck, fuck, this was needlessly cruel, she didn't deserve this. She realized, distantly, that she was moaning: a constant, low whine that she couldn't quite figure out how to stop. Andrea nudged her legs another half-inch apart, angling the vibrator so the edge caught under the hood of her clit, and Loki's whine became a choked-off shriek as Andrea forced a second orgasm out of her. Loki crumpled, trying uselessly to keep her palms flat to the door, and Andrea pulled the gun and vibe away quickly and caught her, lowering them both slowly to the floor. Loki clutched her arms and shook.
"Good girl," said Andrea fondly, and pressed a light kiss to the side of her mouth. Loki didn't bother trying to find the breath for a response. Instead she dropped her forehead onto Andrea's shoulder and gave a shaky laugh. Andrea carded her hands through Loki's hair for a couple of seconds, then gently pushed her away and stood up. "Kneel, then look at me."
Loki folded her legs under her and rested her hands on her lap primly, looking up at Andrea through her lashes. The corner of Andrea's mouth twitched up, just a bit. She slipped the vibe back in her pocket and held out the gun, tilting it so the light caught on Loki's slick covering the barrel. "You were gagging for this earlier," Andrea said, "so why don't you clean up your mess." It wasn't a question.
Apparently Andrea hadn't forgotten about that. She tapped the barrel against Loki's lips, and, when Loki didn't open her mouth, pried her jaw open with a thumb and two fingers and pushed the barrel in. Loki was mildly disappointed that the burn of the GSR was completely gone, replaced by her own taste. "Now, are you gonna suck it or do I have to do this for you?"
Loki adopted an expression that said she was considering the question; Andrea tangled her fingers in Loki's hair to hold her head still and shoved the gun in farther. Loki's tongue piercing clinked against the barrel, metal-on-metal, as Andrea fucked her mouth with it. Loki briefly considered helping, but honestly, after Andrea's lack of gratitude for the last show she'd given her, she didn't see why she should give her the satisfaction.
"I think you should take off my pants now," Andrea said after what couldn't have been longer than a minute, voice low and asphalt-rough. Loki was sure she had no idea why. "And then you can eat me out."
That, Loki thought, was definitely a plan. She worked at Andrea's zipper and buttons with still-shaky hands, pulling them down far enough to reveal plain cotton panties soaked all the way through. Loki smirked around the gun in her mouth; ran her fingers along the fabric to feel Andrea shudder above her.
Andrea pushed the gun as far in as it would go and held it there; Loki could feel it hit her soft palate. She relaxed her throat instinctively, breathing through it. "Stop fucking around."
Well, if she was going to be like that about it. Loki rolled her eyes and hooked her fingers in the panties' elastic, shoving them down Andrea's thighs. Andrea pulled the gun out of her mouth and used the hand fisted in her hair to direct Loki's movement. As if she needed direction. She didn't do anything, for a moment, in protest. Andrea had been just fine with waiting earlier. Finally, generously, she gave a single light lick along the full length of her labia, angling it so her tongue stud caught momentarily under the hood of her clit, and Andrea's quiet gasp was terribly gratifying.
She sat back on her heels.
Andrea, voice strained: "I swear to God, Nikole, if I don't come in the next thirty seconds I'm bringing the gun back."
Loki almost asked her what she intended to do with the gun when Loki had her head buried between Andrea's legs, but thinking over the last twenty minutes… Maybe there were some questions she didn't mind going unanswered. She took Andrea's clit into her mouth; Andrea jerked, muscles spasming, and her grip in Loki's hair tightened. Loki ignored her and hummed, digging her nails into Andrea's skin, scraping down the backs of her thighs.
"Shit," Andrea breathed, and then she was coming with a shudder and a drawn-out moan. Loki kept going. "Fuck, fuck, that's enough, you can stop."
Loki gave a final lick, and, somewhat impulsively, planted a quick kiss on her clit before withdrawing. She wiped her mouth, Andrea's come and the last of her lipstick rubbing off on the back of her hand.
Andrea offered her a hand to pull her to her feet. Loki took it, because that was polite, as was the way she used the hand to steady her when for a moment her legs didn't want to support her weight. Andrea probably liked to feel she was helping, was all, and Loki was selflessly obliging her.
She glanced at the bed, very obviously. "So about that cuff chain…"
⁂
In the morning, America had a new, vibrant collection of scrapes and bruises, and when she inspected herself in the mirror after her shower she wasn't entirely sure which ones had come from work or sex. She went to hang up the towel, considered for a moment, and then wrapped it around her body before she stepped out into the bedroom.
Fuck knows why she'd even bothered. Nikole was standing beside the bedside table, talking to someone on the room phone dressed in sunlight and nothing else. Framed with the window behind her, it caught on her unbound hair and made it look almost like she was glowing. "Yes, that'd be perfect… How about a little of every kind you have?" She caught America's eye then, and wiggled her fingers. She turned back to the phone. "Thank you so much… Oh, just charge it to the room."
She hung up and beamed at America. "Andrea! Good morning. I ordered us some breakfast, I've heard fantastic things about their biscuits."
"Uh-huh," America said. "You didn't think you wanted to ask before charging it to my room?"
Nikole's smile didn't falter. "I don't have a wallet on me." She gestured vaguely at her naked body. "Anyway, you know what they say: better to beg forgiveness than ask permission."
"Oh, you'll be begging all right." It was cliché, but it was also 7:30. Sue her.
She considered all her options, taking in the room, and Nikole's shamelessness, and, in particular, the private balcony off the room. Through the wide glass double door, America could see a sturdy metal railing, a small postmodern-chic balcony table with two chairs, and a view into and across the square courtyard the hotel surrounded — there were open curtains in several of the rooms, and a few people lounged with coffee and airport-kiosk novels in the brisk morning air.
Nikole watched her expectantly, eyebrows half-raised like she was mildly interested. The nerve.
"On the balcony," said America. "There's such a thing as basic fucking decency, and if you don't know that already then you need to learn that there are consequences for your actions." When Nikole didn't move: "Now."
Nikole shrugged and turned towards where her dress had been kicked carelessly against the wall.
"Without your clothes," America clarified.
"Yes, ma'am." She sketched an exaggerated bow, then sauntered casually through the glass door, not bothering to close it behind her.
America rolled her eyes and fetched her own clothes from the floor, as well as Nikole's wrist cuffs and chain. She took her time getting dressed before joining Nikole out on the balcony.
She hadn't had the gall to sit down in one of the chairs without America's permission, which was… honestly a bit surprising, but she also hadn't done anything else, just stood there with her hands resting at her sides. America figured that kneeling without being given an order to was a bit much to ask.
America held up the cuffs. "Here's how this is gonna go: I'm going to chain you to that rail, and then I'm going to have the coffee and biscuits that you decided I'd be paying for. You're going to sit at my feet like a good little slut, and maybe I'll decide to feed you. Unless you manage to fuck even that up."
Nikole's eyes widened. Shit, was that too far? America had stayed away from dirty talk intentionally the night before, not sure how Nikole would react or what her limits might be, or if the guy last night was representative of a typical client. She paused. "Unless you'd like to safeword out."
"Would—" Nikole started, and stopped, her voice rough and low. She cleared her throat, and continued, wry: "Would you like me to call you 'daddy' too?"
Well, apparently she wasn't safewording. "...That's— that's not necessary." America was off-balance, which, fucking hell, Nikole had done it again. America would really prefer if Nikole took her control issues out on someone other than her.
Nikole made a show of dropping to her knees with her back facing the rail, holding out her wrists with her hands in loose fists. She blinked up at America through her lashes. "Whenever you're ready," she drawled.
It wasn't worth engaging; America knew she was trying to get a rise out of her. She fastened the metal cuffs onto Nikole's wrists. She jerked Nikole's arms behind her back and quickly looped the chain through one of the bars of the railing. She checked the chain was secure, and then she heard a knock on the hotel room door through the open balcony door.
"Don't move," she said, unnecessarily, before walking back into the hotel room to answer the door It was a kid, pushing a cart with a steaming pot of coffee and covered plates. She opened the door wide to let him wheel it in; Nikole could deal. The kid locked the wheels of the cart and then glanced out to the balcony and froze, eyes wide. America followed his gaze to see Nikole sitting quietly on her shins, shoulders curled in and eyes fixed on the ground in front of her. America smirked a bit; not so cocky now, was she?
The kid left pretty quickly after that, telling America hurriedly that she could just call down when she was done with the cart. She pulled her laptop out of its case and balanced the coffee and plates on top of it as she walked carefully back to the balcony, depositing everything on the table. Then she grabbed one of the chairs and dragged it in front of Nikole so she could sit with the table beside her and keep an eye on her private show. She poured herself some coffee, ignoring the provided cream and sugar, and started idly removing the covers from the plates, inspecting the biscuits. She had to admit they did look delicious.
Nikole was eyeing her coffee mug with something like disdain. "That's disgusting," she commented blandly. "How can you even drink that?"
America put down her mug. They were doing this the hard way, then. "You're here to look pretty, not to run your mouth. I don't think I asked for your opinion." She looked Nikole up and down then, lingering on her legs. "You know, I'm not seeing very much of that body you're so fucking vain about, chica. Legs out from under you."
Nikole stared at her, not moving. "You told me to sit. I'm sitting."
"And now I'm telling you to sit differently. Or I'll move you myself."
Nikole scowled at her, but she began to slowly straighten her legs, leaning forward as much as the short give on her chain would let her and wincing as her shins and knees scraped against the ground from the bad angle, until she was sitting with her ass on the cement and her legs bent semi-fetal in front of her. America used one foot to kick her legs apart to give her a good view of her exposed crotch and, fuck, the dried slick flaking off white on her thighs from last night. Nikole made a quiet sound at the back of her throat, then pressed her lips together and looked away.
America had just brought her mug back to her mouth when Nikole decided to speak up again. "You know," she said, quietly smug, "you could have left the magazine in, last night. I wouldn't have minded."
America choked on her coffee. She'd made sure to eject the magazine behind her back, while Nikole was distracted. Her eyes had been closed. What, she'd recognized that by sound? Nikole still wasn't looking at her, but there was a note of satisfaction in her eyes and the turn of her mouth. Chained and on display for anyone who happened to glance over, and she was still playing this like it was a game she could win.
That was cute.
America took another sip of her coffee and hummed noncommittally. She flipped open her laptop, grabbed a biscuit as it booted up, and very pointedly ignored Nikole. She pulled up a few news sites and propped her feet up on the other chair, settling in. With the number of biscuits Nikole had ordered, this would take a while.
Nikole shifted her weight, the chain scraping over the metal of the railing, and tried again. "Are you actually going to eat all that yourself?"
America didn't even glance at her; took a bite out of her first biscuit. She wasn't going to eat them all, probably, but Nikole didn't need to know that. She could fucking wait.
She scrolled methodically through every single local and world news article, more thoroughly than she would normally. She was contemplating the sports page when she glanced at Nikole out of the corner of her eye. Nikole hadn't said another word, and hadn't closed her legs even though there was now an elderly white couple playing chess on the balcony two rooms down who could clearly see her should they bother to look over, which surprised America a bit given how uncomfortable she'd clearly been with the room service kid. She opened her email thoughtfully, catching up on communications she'd missed while she was on the job, and Nikole had been good for a while, so she made small talk. A snide comment about Bill de Blasio while she skimmed Newsweek led to the discovery that they were both from NYC, America in Tribeca and Nikole with a walkup in the Flushing Chinatown ("to get in touch with my roots, y'know," she'd said sarcastically, "fix the disaster that is my Mandarin, et cetera…"). America put her foot in her mouth and asked where Nikole was born, and got a flat "San Francisco," which. Yeah. Dick move. America lived 3 blocks away from the house her moms had raised her in, and should fucking know better.
Nikole's favorite color was green. It took maybe two minutes before America believed her, and then Nikole laughed so hard she lost her breath when America admitted she unironically loved the red-white-and-blue look. They traded questions and anecdotes, the sort of everyday, non-incriminating details that you share to break the ice, until America noticed Nikole's replies had started to come further and further apart, taking on the distant quality of someone starting to sink into subspace. Halfway through explaining to America why Harley Quinn was objectively the best character in DC Comics, Nikole trailed off, her voice sort of getting quieter until America couldn't hear it at all.
America looked at her full-on for the first time since Nikole had made that comment about the magazine. Her head was back against the bars and she was looking off to the side at nothing in particular. Without her makeup the shadows beneath her eyes were surprisingly prominent. America wondered how much sleep she tended to get. There were tiny white scars dotting the skin around her lips; more piercings she'd taken out, presumably. There were more scars, too, farther down. A jagged line across her ribcage on the left side. A thin white line circling her right ankle that almost looked like a tattoo. She was shivering minutely, goosebumps down her arms and legs and her nipples prominent in the early morning chill. Her knees and shins were scraped red-raw in places, and she had them loosely angled away from herself, relaxed in a way she hadn't been when America had first kicked her legs apart. Her eyes fell between Nikole's thighs — she shaved, or waxed, or something, which offered America a fucking stunning view of exactly how turned on she was.
Nikole blinked lazily, catching America's eye, and she followed her gaze, seeming to notice her own reaction for the first time. She swallowed (though she didn't tense up) and started to bring her knees in again to hide it. Fuck that, America thought, and leaned forward. She kicked Nikole's legs apart again, wider this time, since Nikole had decided to be self-conscious about it. Then she pressed her right foot firmly down against her cunt and left it there. Nikole made an aborted sound and stared at her with wide eyes.
"Problem?" America asked her casually, not looking at her foot or letting up on the pressure.
Nikole's mouth worked for a few seconds, and then she shook her head wordlessly. She didn't move her spread legs. Good.
The coffeepot was on a hotplate, America noticed, glancing back at the table. It should still be at a good temperature. And there were still six biscuits left, since Nikole had apparently ordered extra. She turned over the second mug.
"Coffee?" she asked.
Nikole licked her lips, and her "Please," came strained. America added cream and sugar as directed, and stared at the third fucking spoonful of sugar she was mixing in.
"Seriously?" she asked Nikole.
Nikole shrugged. "I occasionally feel happiness," she said, with some concentration.
America laughed. She blew on the coffee to cool it off and then leaned down to hold it up to Nikole's lips.
Tipping coffee into Nikole's mouth was an act that got easier with practice, but it only took a few tries before she found a workable motion. She broke off bite-sized pieces of one the remaining biscuits and fed them to her in between sips. At one point Nikole shifted position, moving ever so slightly underneath America's foot, and America pulled the coffee mug away from her lips.
"Don't even think about trying to get off that way."
Nikole stilled immediately, and America returned the mug to her lips as a reward.
It was a surprisingly pleasant way to spend a morning, America realized, as she poured Nikole a second cup of coffee and broke up another biscuit. Nikole was quiet and increasingly affectionate as the morning passed. By the time America popped the last piece of biscuit into her mouth, Nikole was curled forward with her chin on her breastbone, eyes closed and half asleep. America eyed the goosebumps covering her shoulders and arms and thought, a little regretfully, that they should move this inside soon.
Nikole roused quickly when America called her name, and bent forward so she could unhook the chain from the railing. America sent her inside while she stacked dishes and brought everything back inside.
⁂
"You know," said America as Nikole, freshly showered, pulled on her panties—discarded beside the bed last night—and a crop top, borrowed from America's own luggage. You could tell, see, because it was red, and covered in stars. Nikole had turned up her nose a bit at it, presumably because it contained actual colors. My favorite color is green, America's ass. "I thought you were serious, for a second, when you asked me to kill that guy."
"I was," she said distractedly, and examined a little plastic container of lingonberry jam. America wasn't 100% on what a lingonberry was, but Nikole seemed to like it well enough, because she'd already licked three of the things clean. "They didn't cut a pull tab into this one. That's cruel."
I was. America stared at Nikole for a few seconds, as Nikole pulled herself onto the bed to sit cross-legged and tried to rip the packet open with her teeth. Yeah, that totally seemed plausible. Cold-blooded killer, right there.
She'd been thinking, as Nikole had showered, about the last, what, twelve hours? They'd been fucking amazing, is what they'd been, and she couldn't help but wonder what might happen if she just. Stayed here, until her room expired. Two days was a long time, if Nikole was up for it.
"It's not actually my credit card that's paying for the room," she began, casually. Nikole glanced at her briefly as she leaned across the bed to throw the jam packet into the garbage. "I did a gig for the guy who owns the place just before I met you. He gave me the room for free. Plus the other stuff."
Nikole sat up, significantly more interested. "Really," she said. "Please, go on."
America crossed her arms and leaned against the wall beside the bathroom door. "The thing is," she said, "he gave me it for the next two days. No strings. You free for a couple of days?"
⁂
"You have fun, you hear me? And see if you can't bring her home." And to think America had wondered whether she'd be able to suddenly take a couple days off of work. Putting off a debrief, too. Apparently she had 'a fuckton of vacation days' and 'seriously, we're worried about you, use them'. So that happened.
"That's not gonna happen. But thanks. See you soon." She ended the call with a thumb flick and looked at her new roommate for the next couple of days.
Nikole was fiddling with her own cell, still perched on the bed. She glanced up as America slipped her phone back into her pocket. "Was that a chill boss or a chill girlfriend?"
America gave a little snort. "Boss. I don't really do the dating thing," she admitted. "It's not— It's never really worked out."
Nikole hummed in sympathy. "Ditto. Admittedly," she said, "I've also never tried exceptionally hard. It doesn't feel worth the effort."
America's last relationship had been kind of a clusterfuck, and she'd only been relieved when it was over. "Yeah, I know the feeling."
⁂
About an hour before they should probably be worrying about lunch, America had just started thinking about the clothing situation, and whether she should ask Nikole if she needed to go get something, when there was a knock on the door. Nikole bounced off of the bed to go answer it, and America watched with some bemusement as a tall, imposing white woman in a black suit, a poorly hidden gun, and black sunglasses wordlessly handed Nikole two large shopping bags and a small, unmarked box.
"Will you be needing anything else, ma'am?"
"I don't think so, no," said Nikole. When the woman kept standing there, she added: "You can go." She wiggled her fingers in a dismissive gesture, and the woman bowed deeply before turning to walk smartly down the hall.
Nikole brought the packages over to the bed, apparently oblivious to the fact that America was staring at her the whole way. She set the box to the side and began rummaging enthusiastically through the large bag, removing what looked like folded clothes.
"What just happened?" America asked, since it didn't look like an explanation would be happening otherwise.
"Huh?" Nikole looked up from where she'd been holding a green (huh) miniskirt up to her waist experimentally. "Oh, just one of my mother's underlings. I texted her earlier and asked her to buy a few outfits for me to wear while I'm here."
There were a lot of things to say to that. America started with possibly the easiest. "Don't you have a hotel room?" Presumably with her own clothes in it, no purchase required. And also: "Your mother?"
America had kind of assumed that Nikole wasn't in contact with her family anymore. She didn't have a reason which wasn't well, you're trans, your parents probably hate you, and that was a pretty fucked up assumption, honestly. Good on her, if she had a relationship with her parents! Her… very rich parents, apparently. With butlers. Armed butlers, who could be asked to run errands for their daughter, in Las Vegas, where America assumed they didn't live, given she had a hotel room. Armed butlers who fucking bowed to her.
Nikole waved airily. "There's nothing in my hotel room that can't be replaced, and it's all the way across the city. This way, I don't have to travel all the way back there. My mother will handle the cancellation, it's N-B-D."
America stared at her for several seconds. "When you say 'mother'," she said, slowly and a bit desperately, "do— do you mean your sugar momma? Or your domme…?" There was nothing about this situation that made sense anymore.
"No?" said Nikole, stepping out of her panties and replacing them with a delicate thong of indeterminate expensive material. "I mean my mother."
"So you're, like. A trust fund kid." Nikole was very clearly some kind of adrenaline junkie (not that America could talk). Maybe she put her life in danger on a regular basis for fun.
"Well. No. Look, my mom has a lot of money. She's, you know, important. And," Nikole's voice was briefly muffled as she pulled a mostly-sheer black top over her head, "she earned her money." It sounded like something she'd heard a dozen times. "So, as long as I do my part, she'll buy me pretty much anything,"—Nikole waved at the bag of clothes and the fancy designer label on the side of it—"but she doesn't trust me with cash. Which means she basically owns my soul."
So, no trust fund. No actual money at all. So Nikole not only had a job, but a pretty fucking dangerous job. For spending money? Because 'doing her part' couldn't mean her mother had her doing — what? Sex work for the family business? That was an episode of SVU or something.
"Oh, I almost forgot!" Nikole set the bag of clothes aside and turned to the suspiciously unmarked box. "I also asked for a few other things I thought might come in handy while we're here." She removed the lid and pulled out several small objects, most of which America didn't recognize. The ones she did recognize included a set of clamps and a small, but exotically shaped strap-on dildo. After that, Nikole pulled out a collection of brightly-packaged condoms, a small plastic bag with colorful tablets inside, and a note. Nikole unfolded it.
"Enjoy! X-O-X-O, Mom," she read out loud.
And, you know what? America didn't really need to know the details of her family life.
⁂
Lunch was at a cute sandwich store attached (of course) to the hotel, with cartoons illustrating the menus and umbrellas over the patio tables. Nikole ordered a BLT, extra bacon. She picked out and ate every piece of bacon, then moved on to the rest of the sandwich's contents. America chewed her meatball sandwich and watched Nikole scrape the mayonnaise off her bread and lick it off her fingers.
"She's just," Nikole was saying about her mother, as she started to strip the skin off of a tomato slice, "so concerned I won't find someone 'nice' to settle down with. That I'll be 'lonely'." America nodded, remembering Teddy's look of genuine concern the day she'd told him about her last breakup.
"And it's not like I don't appreciate it," she continued. "Her heart's in the right place. There was this whole," she waved the strip of tomato skin in the air, "thing, in the past, you know. She's always regretted not getting married. It's just. I'm not her."
"I have this friend," America told her, "sweetest guy you'll ever meet. He's got the most disgustingly romo marriage. Get them in a room together and they make fucking doe eyes at each other. And he kind of assumes that that's the ideal for everyone else too. Like. I've told him. I'm aromantic. I don't do that stuff."
Nikole fucking giggled. "'Romo marriage'. That's good."
⁂
"…and if you're married you get all the tax benefits. It's just unfair," Loki said, propping her head up on one arm and idly playing with a strand of Andrea's hair.
"System's fucking rigged," Andrea agreed dryly, and rolled over to stare up at the ceiling.
Loki was riding a wave of post-sex endorphins and she intended to enjoy it for as long as possible. Preferably without moving.
"There were those two celebrities, weren't there?" she mused. "Whatever their names are, I don't know. But they got married just for the tax benefits. It was very scandalous." She thought she remembered something like that, anyway. It wasn't important. What was important was the idea she'd just had. "Hey," she said, shoving Andrea's shoulder lightly. "Hey, Andrea. Pay attention to me."
Andrea hummed. "What?"
"What if we got married?"
"What?" she repeated, sounding much more awake this time.
"Listen. It's perfect. We're in Vegas, right? We could get married literally on the spot, anywhere. By Elvis if you wanted, or a fucking Jedi. We go back to New York with a convenient excuse for our lack of interest in dating, a tax break, and an excellent sex partner. No strings, no sudden expectation of romance, or commitment. We don't even have to move in together if we don't want to. Nothing has to change at all."
Andrea lifted her head and stared at her for several seconds, before flopping back down onto the pillow. "Oh, what the hell. Why not? It's Vegas."