A Match is Our Only Light
One flash of green silk is all it takes to turn his universe upside-down. Loki is behind the group, following in sulky silence as Clint and Tony make a few jokes, always turning to the girl for verification. The girl: Natasha, who is just as quiet among the laughter of her companions.
He wants to leave, go home, be alone. They're all beneath him. Loki's just about to do that and damn the consequences when it happens: Natasha twists to look at something in a store window. When she does his sharp eyes catch a flash of green silk, a Y of her lingerie over the ripped jeans she wears when she's not on duty.
Loki stutters to a stop, feels his breath catch. Images rifle past, Natasha in nothing but the green silk, his thumbs under the slender straps, her strong thighs bracketing his hips on the floor. One of the others shouts his name, asks if he's okay. Breath gone, he's leaning against a wall fouled with crude words and auto exhaust, flattened by the thought of her generous hips framed by slippery satin.
He catches himself, pretends to cough. It's a split-second of losing control and no one notices. Nobody - except one. Natasha's green eyes measure him with cool intelligence, and he knows she's guessed something has affected him.
When they return Loki rushes to the computer they've given him. It once was slow, but he's already figured out ways to combine his smuggled magic and basic knowledge of the ancient device so the thing has become lighting fast. Loki uses it to amuse himself by making connections he never intends to fulfill, amassing a new army, funneling funds into a hidden account.
It's that stolen money he uses now. With seven zeroes at his back he goes shopping, filling a virtual cart with colors that please him: whisper-gray, wave-blue, the red of tangled curls.
The first present is a pair of French-cut panties trimmed with real valenciennes. He hacks the video feed so the cameras are out, breaks into her apartment, and leaves the lingerie on her pillow. It's a calling card of sorts. Natasha will never know who put them there.
The next is an item called tap shorts, designed to skim the hip and flutter around her thighs. They're followed by garters and stockings, which will fit perfectly. Loki's already measured her with one glance, knows her shape with precision. It's invigorating to steal into her private space, deposit his gift on her tumbled pillows, and leave without a hint of his presence. The whole thing is addictive.
But when he returns from a secret meeting with a member of his army and finds someone has broken into his chamber…that's a different story. Loki knows at once. He can smell it, the slight disturbance in the air. First prowl shows him nothing has changed, not until he goes to lie down on the bed. There he finds them, the dark French-cuts under his sheets. His eyes widen. Yes, she has worn them – they are still warm from her skin.
A confusion of blood in his body, and Loki has his breeches unlaced, ripped off his legs. Already he is hard, stiffer than he could ever…ohhhhh. The feel of the lace wrapped around his dick, so soft and forbidden. He should stop. He should stop it now, before he falls any deeper, but it's too soft and too late, and with a shout he comes over his chest, the blue silk a blur in his hand.
Time is of the essence now. He needs to strike soon to secure his place on the throne. Everything's ready, waiting for his final command. Loki hums to himself as he steps onto the elevator, about to ride to the floor where he can sneak onto the roof. From there he'll survey what will soon be his.
The little box stops and Natasha enters when the doors open. She doesn't look at him, merely raises her chin a trifle. "Prince Loki," she acknowledges in her deep, intelligent voice.
"Agent Romanoff."
The space becomes different with her there, warmer and more intimate. He hears each breath as well as her heartbeat, relaxed as though she lies curled in a chair to read a novel. His blood races, undisciplined cells pounding through stiffening muscles. Loki stifles an exclamation, annoyed he can't keep control.
"Did you say something?"
"Of course not, Agent Romanoff."
She fiddles with her computer bag, swears when a file drops onto the ground. When she bends to pick it up he sees the pink and black of the garter-belt he gave her two days earlier. Loki feels his guts twist, his palms slick with sweat. He's about to say something, but with one smooth move Natasha stops the elevator, exits, and the doors close.
Everything is ready. Loki returns to his chambers, prepared to tap the final instructions into the social media carrying his message to the assembled band of followers. He'll return to Asgard in glory, prepared to give the old man his death blow.
She's already sitting there when he opens the door, typing away on her laptop. Loki tries to muffle his surprise, to leap in and strangle the weak mortal with one blow, when she raises one finger. "Almost finished," Natasha says. One final keystroke, and she closes the computer. "Now," she continues, "you're going to call off your plan. You're going to tell your minions you've changed your mind and don't want to start the glorious revolution after all. You'll delete their information and forget they ever existed."
Loki closes the door. He'll need privacy for the kill, and he gives the secret order to turn off the video.
"You won't kill me, either," Natasha continues in the same voice. She might have been ordering a coffee at the ridiculous café they dragged him to weeks ago.
His mind is a darting dragonfly, wondering How and Why. "No?" he drawls.
"No."
He takes one step towards the couch, and Natasha rises, plants both fists on her hips. "I'm wearing the Agent Provocateurs," she continues in the same, impassive tone. "You gave them to me eight days ago wrapped in gilt paper. They have an open gusset and bondage-style straps, as well as scalloped lace."
It's impossible to prevent his eyes falling to her jeans, ripped at the knees and covered with ink on one shin. "Breaking horizon," she continues. "You're going to pay for that, Loki."
With careful, economic moves Natasha replaces the computer in the case. She doesn't look his way as she rises, goes to the door of his bedroom. He's right behind her, swallowing as she unzips her pants, folds down the top so he can see bands of black lace against the cream of her skin. "You just lost the right to touch," she remarks, "but I'll let you see. I've had them on for the past hour, so it's all warm down there. If you're good I'll let you get close enough to taste."
Loki gasps, surges behind her, but she holds him back with one arm. "Give the stand-down order first," she says. "Now."
One side of his mouth curls. "But of course, Agent."
"No. I mean a real order. Call off the entire thing, Loki, or I leave right now and you get nothing." Her eyes hold his as she pulls down the jeans another inch, revealing more flesh and lace. "I can get you what you want," she continues, "if you really want a throne. Not with these awkward moves, though. Minions? Really? What are you, Dr. Horrible? But I don't think you want to be a king at all – you just want to rule because you thought you couldn't have it. It's a challenge, that's all. Do you really want to have to attend your subjects, listen to their complaints and petty arguments?"
One last shred of sanity flares at her words, and Loki growls as he reaches for her throat. "You know nothing, much as you like to pretend to be on top of us all. The perfect agent, always without emotion. You're the tiger in the corner of the room, watching as the silly cubs play, so much better than everyone. I will have my birthright, even if I have to break you to get it."
Natasha holds his gaze. "I'll gift you the throne if you really want it," she says. "Except we could go and play in the universe instead and create stardust, worlds mere kings could never consider. You have no idea of the mischief I can show you."
The merest hint of a smile at those words, and he's lost. Loki hears himself babble promises to call off his ridiculous army. Natasha waits as he runs to find his device and puts through the all-clear signal. When he reaches for her she sits, crosses her legs, tilts one perfect brow. His prick jumps, and he erases all information, any hope of forcing Odin to his knees. When it's all finished, at last she lies back on the sheets and crooks one finger.
He's allowed to take off her jeans. Underneath she's wearing the agent provocateurs, and at some point she's added a matching basque. Loki can't touch, just watches helplessly as she spreads perfect legs and lies back on his pillows. He sobs with lust when she holds his gaze, touches her neck, sucks her thumb and spreads the moisture over those plump lips. He rears back, falls against the wall when her long fingers frame her breasts, encased so beautifully in the black silk. And when she finally tilts her hips up, cants one hand and caresses herself under the crazy mesh ouverts, Loki shouts and spurts right into the leather of his pants.
She takes her time, brings herself off slowly. By the time she's finished he's on his knees, begging to touch. "You were very good," Natasha soothes. "I promised you a taste."
Her flavor is secret and new, an unimagined possibility.