More Than She Can Chew
A gift fic for spyral81
He makes her so angry, sometimes. With his callous smirks and constant sly jabs and his pathological need to sow conflict and discord between everyone around them, living with Loki is like diffusing one landmine after another. The God of Mischief, the God of Lies, the Silvertongue...Jane has come to realize that every single alias Loki goes by is just shorthand for "God of Being an Unnecessary Pain in Jane Foster's Ass".
Sometimes, she wonders why she bothers fighting for a relationship with him. Outside of his horrendous interpersonal skills, he has dark days, days where the full implications of his past—the damage he's done, the lives he's taken—return to haunt him in full. Those are the days he lashes out at everyone, including her.
Yet those are the days Jane knows she's made the right choice, staying with him. Those are the days Jane remembers there's a man in pain behind that cruel jester's mask.
Perhaps it's not healthy. Actually, she's pretty sure it's not. But it's the choice she's made, and she'll continue to make it.
Because sometimes there are days where she gets to do this.
"Do you just intend to stare it into submission?" he's breathless and trying to hide it, grin unsteady on shaking lips. The inky hair at his temples is damp with sweat; tiny pearls of it bead on his forehead precious and rare as gems. His fingers flex restlessly around the narrow cords that bind his wrists to the bedposts; the bedposts he could snap in a heartbeat if he were not bound by the iron strength of his own pledge.
Jane frowns; she hates being rushed, and he knows it. At the same time, she can't help but feel her heartrate spike at the thought of his loyalty to her.
"I thought I told you to be quiet," she leans closer, ghosting one hand over the jumping pulse-point of his carotid. "You've done nothing but talk all day, and I'm sick of it. So unless you want to stay here all night," and she slides her hand down, down, down, skirting around where he most wants her touch, "you'll shut the hell up."
He nods, and shuts up.
Jane thinks that she never knew the truth of the phrase silence is golden until she met Loki.
She backs away, circling the bed where he's spread full-length, waiting for her in coiled quiet. He's so sensitive, muscles jumping when she bends to breathe over the shallow creases of his abdominals. She kisses him then, softly, and drags her tongue down and between the grooves between muscles.
He inhales raggedly and the bed frame creaks.
Jane slides onto the bed, straddling him, and sets her teeth to his neck. When she catches his skin and pulls, ever so slowly, he moans and turns his head, feverishly seeking her mouth. It's technically not against the rules—he's begging with his body, not his words—so she allows it, meeting his lips with hers in a sloppy kiss. Every time he tries to pin her down, drag her deeper, she pulls away.
Jane refuses to let him hurry this.
After a minute or two, she goes back to his neck, dipping down occasionally to suck at the hollow of his clavicle. She trails her fingers up his arms, from the ticklish spot right below the shoulder to where her tightly-pulled knots bind his wrists. He huffs, caught between arousal and amusement.
"Is this how you intend to torture me, Jane?"
"You know you love it," she catches his lower lip between her teeth and tugs. His quiet laughter veers swiftly into a moan. "And if I have to say "shut up" one more time, I'm walking out of here."
He whispers don't and immediately bites his lip, eyes wild. Jane smiles, swallowing his anxiety with a sweet kiss. She might talk a good game, but Jane's so slick she knows she'll hate herself if she leaves either of them unsatisfied.
She gives him a last kiss—hard enough to bruise—and rolls off the bed. It's taken her a lot of practice to do this next part—for some reason she's less nervous about sucking him off than undressing in front of him—but she manages to keep her expression calm as she methodically strips. Sweatshirt, tee shirt, jeans, socks...by the time she's down to her underwear Loki has almost stopped breathing and Jane could almost come from his rapt gaze alone.
It's very tempting to do just that. But Jane's never gone the easy route when she knows there are greater rewards that come with patience.
She's very good at patience.
She undoes her bra one hook at a time, the tiny rasp of metal nearly thunderous in the silence. When the cotton slides over her pebbled nipples she sighs, taking herself in hand for a lingering squeeze. Loki times his breaths with hers, almost gasps when she pinches her nipples and lets her head fall back.
He doesn't speak, but the restless twist of his body on the sheets is begging nonetheless. So she climbs back over him and holds her breasts to his mouth, inhaling sharply as his clever tongue laves first one, then the other.
His eyes never leave her face.
Jane's exhale is broken, stuttering, when his sharp teeth graze the very peak of her nipple. He soothes the sting and repeats, again and again until she's sliding against him, fingers digging deep into the mattress on either side of his neck. Jane feels herself tipping, hips surging in the pursuit of her pleasure, but at the last possible moment she yanks herself back.
"Clever boy," she smiles. His face lights up—free of sarcasm, spite, and doubt—at her praise. It melts her heart, how hard he works to please her. How careful he is. Somewhere in that meticulous mind of his is a detailed catalog of everything that makes Jane moan.
She knows, because valuable real estate in Jane's own brain has a similar list of his preferences.
That list is the only thing that gives her the courage to do what comes next.
Jane stands long enough to shimmy out of her underwear, shivering when her arousal smears between bare thighs. She's so close that if she pressed her legs together just right—
Patience. She swallows and forces herself further back from the edge. Her goal tonight is to watch him shatter, and if she times it just right, her own reward will be well worth the wait.
Loki's gone still again, rigid and tense from the waist up. The only thing that escapes his control is the little desperate hitch of his hips.
It grows more pronounced as Jane crawls up from the bottom of the bed to kneel between his legs. He opens for her without prompting; another display of vulnerability that makes Jane want to come on the spot.
She pushes the urge away.
He likes pressure; a slow, inexorable build of pressure. Jane wraps one hand around the base of his cock and squeezes. She doesn't let go, nor does she let her grip loosen. Her heart is hammering, blood raging in her ears, but there's a calm voice in her head that counts by tens, evenly and without fail. Every ten seconds, she increases the pressure by a hair. Every twenty seconds, she swallows him down until her lips meet her fingers.
Loki's gasping after a hundred. His nails draw blood from his bound wrists after two.
Jane backs off. "All right?" she whispers, pressing gentle, open-mouthed kisses from his belly button to his ear. "Okay?"
He shakes his head and replies, voice rough, "Don't stop."
God, that voice. That voice makes everything worth it. Jane has to take a moment, has to rest her burning forehead in the crux of his shoulder to get herself under control. It feels as though her heart might burst, not from what they're doing here, now; from everything they are—to each other, with each other.
She loves him. Loves him so goddamn much. It swells in her throat and sticks there; she could choke for want of saying it.
It's a coward's way out, kissing him instead of admitting the truth, but even with so much honesty in their naked weakness for each other, Jane still hides her fears. Loving an immortal was never part of her plan, and she's too smart to know that one day she'll lose Loki to the human frailties of mortality and time. Even if he stays with her to the end, the bitter truth is that she'll die, and he'll go on.
He'll go on, and one day she'll fade to nothing but a pleasant memory in his mind. A short dalliance that—after centuries—will ultimately mean little.
On most days, that unspoken knowledge just serves as a melancholy filter over her joy.
Today—and it's probably because Jane's already pissed; it doesn't take much to fan that flame again—it makes her fucking mad.
She bites him, nips him hard enough that she'd draw blood if he were human. But her teeth don't even darken that alabaster skin. His eyes open wide; this isn't part of their usual play.
Jane sneers. She may not be able to make a mark on his body, but she'll make damn sure she leaves one in his memory.
Fuck patience.
She reaches between them to hold him ready and sinks down, taking him all in one smooth slide. When her clit grinds against him she nearly shakes apart; it takes her a moment to clear the brilliant spots from her vision.
When she does, it's on.
She rides him fast, bracing her hands against his hips for leverage, panting and groaning. It's all too much and not enough. Her heart is screaming for something that her body just can't deliver, and Jane thinks she might go crazy if she can't scratch that itch.
"Fuck me," she commands him, she begs him. "Loki, fuck me."
The world lurches, spins, and she's under him in an instant. His eyes are wild, frantic, desperate in his desire to give her what she needs. He shifts so her knees rest over his shoulders; he's so tall that her ass lifts off the bed.
If she screams, the sound doesn't register. Her entire world is narrowed to the cleft between her legs, Loki's cock sliding deep, his fingers massaging just above.
She comes, choked-off curses and babbled nonsense spilling from her mouth as her brain flies to pieces. There's no refractory time, though time has become a nebulous concept. Before Jane can get a deep breath, Loki's worked her right back up to the precipice.
Then he holds her there.
Her whole body aches for what he's withholding, but she can't find enough air for the words to ask for release. Her lips move, soundless, pleas that he understands perfectly well. But he is lost in some thought of his own and cannot answer hers.
Slowly—so slowly Jane wonders how he can stand it—he turns his head, eyes fluttering closed as he kisses her knee. Without opening them again, he says:
"I love you, Jane Foster."
He does not wait for—or even seem to anticipate—a reply. Instead he puts pressure on her clit and thrusts hard; once, twice, and again.
Jane knows that one day she'll answer his love with her own.
But just then she's pretty sure she couldn't even say her own name.