A/N: This is my entry for Loki's Dirty Whispers' Winter 2013 fanfic contest. I didn't win or place as runner-up (sadface) but I'm posting it here anyway.
Due to the contest rules, there are 5 fragments contained within that aren't my own (the post on Tumblr makes it clear where they are), and I also couldn't name or describe my OC.
I consider everything contained within to be entirely consensual, but if dubcon is a serious trigger there's some discussion at the end that probably means this story isn't for you.
Resistance
It was said that when the King first took the throne, the people of Earth resisted him.
The Worshipful denied such claims. Loki was a god, a kind and generous deity who'd taken pity on mankind and freed them from the bonds of liberty. He'd created paradise on Earth and the world had welcomed him. He'd protected them from the ravages of the Chitauri and the wrath of Thanos, and all had fallen gratefully to worship at his feet. Those who said otherwise were liars, descendants of the corrupt leaders he'd deposed, seeking to chain humanity again.
She knew the truth. All Widows knew the truth.
"The King has asked for you."
She had little control over her body's reaction to the Chamber Mistress' announcement. It was hard to distinguish if the adrenaline flaring through her bloodstream was powered by fear or want; most likely some potent combination of both. The same could be said for the clench of her belly, the weakness in her knees, the tingle of her skin. The fear made her weak, yet it was perfectly natural when dealing with Loki. The desire was far more dangerous. It clouded her decisions, interfered with the instinctual need to bring him to his knees. Desire was a forbidden drug that she needed urgently weaning of.
She'd been expecting the call for days. Showing the King kindness, despite it going against everything she'd been raised to believe, had put her on a path she couldn't turn from. Catching his attention was never her intention. After all, the Widows had promised when she took the position of handmaiden that she did not fit his fussy tastes. It should have kept her away from his bed; instead, everything she'd done since taking the role had inched her closer to it.
"When?"
"Tonight. I'll collect you when it's time." The Mistress departed, leaving her alone in her small chamber. She supposed she was meant to prepare, though she'd been given no instructions how. She was no blushing maiden, but the King was known for his…unusual predilections. And afterward, she'd be a handmaid no more. That would be the end of her usefulness to the Widows. She owed them everything—she couldn't let them down now.
She retrieved her cloak, and felt along the wall for the loose panel, lifting it free so she could slip into the space behind it. The passages extended throughout the palace, placed there by builders who begrudged the treatment of their families. The Worshipful were wrong if they thought the resistance had been crushed decades ago. It lingered in the hearts of even ordinary people, who showed it in quiet ways. It allowed her to slip down to the kitchens, the realm of her childhood, unwatched.
At this time of day the functional areas of the palace were calmer, while the slaves rested between busy mealtimes. Only Sal could be found at one of the stoves. She took one look at her visitor and went to fetch the other Widows.
Their reactions were easy to predict: shock, concern, calculating thoughtfulness. They really hadn't expected her to be any more than a pair of watchful eyes in the throne room, allowing them to weave other plans and maneuver the right pieces into position. But she would be in Loki's own chambers, the closest any of them had come to the Tesseract in their lives. He kept the cube on him during the day, and only returned it to his quarters when he was in them.
"We must try to take it," Fran said. "With it we can complete the link to the Bifrost. Thor's army will come across and we'll be free of Loki at last."
"He won't allow me near the cube, and you know I can't take him on physically."
"Perhaps you don't have to," said one of the oldest Widows. "Men lose their minds when they are thinking with what's below. He'll be no different."
"I have something that can help," Sal offered. "A poison. You give it to him when he's distracted and it'll knock him out cold for a few hours. A few hours is all we need."
She returned to her chamber with the vial of poison and a needle concealed in a hidden pocket of her dress. There was nowhere else she could stash it, not if she were going to end up nude.
Then she waited.
The Mistress collected her after the evening meal, leading her through the main thoroughfares of the palace. All eyes watched her go, understanding where she was heading, speculating at what would become of her afterward. She didn't fit the profile of the King's usual plaything; would one of the Worshipful really claim her for their son, as they normally did for the handmaidens the King discarded? Was a slave a fit wife for a freeman's son, even if the King had found her suitable for bedding?
It didn't matter what they thought. She would either succeed tonight, or she would die in the attempt. There would be no in-between.
The Mistress rapped on the door of his quarters and departed.
"Enter."
Taking deep, steadying breaths, she stepped inside. She couldn't see the King, and crept forward to the center of the room, drinking in her surroundings. She'd expected opulence, and he didn't disappoint. The ceiling soared overhead, walls and coving painted in gilt patterns. The furniture was sparse, the room given over to overstuffed bookcases and a few plump armchairs. Instead of electric lighting, the King used candlelight, which cast a golden aura over everything. A cyan glow illuminated a glass case in one corner—the Tesseract in its cradle. She forced her gaze to track past it, as if she didn't notice it or understand its significance. It was easy to find another focal point. The bed dominated the room: so different to the pallet she'd spent her life sleeping on. Half the kitchen staff could have comfortably slept in it, and she was already imagining how the silk and furs would feel under skin.
She felt him before she heard him, a flicker of warning down her spine. "Welcome," he murmured, the word ruffling her hair, he stood so close behind her. The carpet rustled as he moved away, examining her. "This evening you may speak to me freely," he said, "and you may meet my eyes."
She nodded her understanding. He finished circling and came to stand before her. It was a shock to see him in so little clothing: usually he came garbed in layers of black leather, shining metal armor overlaying them, his viridian cape spilling over the gold of the throne. She'd seen him without his horned helm before, those many hours spent in the library, but this was the first time without all that armor. The cloth of his garments clung to the muscles below. Despite the way her mind was viewing the hours ahead as something to be endured, her body was in complete disagreement. This was to be savored.
"You are unaware of myself watching you, studying you. But tonight you will see how attentive I can be."
Panic sparked through her. If he'd watched her too closely, he'd have discovered things it would be disastrous for him to know. Reason calmed her: if he knew, she wouldn't be in his bedchamber, she'd be on a spike outside the palace. He meant he'd been watching her as she went about her duties, and that she'd known all along.
"Do you understand why you're here?"
"I believe so." He tipped her head back, palms either side of her face. They were colder than she expected, a welcome chill on her flushed cheeks. His scent was as cold as the rest of him, the freshness of iced mint spiced with something darker. His face filled her vision, lips looking plumper than she remembered, and as he spoke his breath fanned across her mouth.
"I'm going to fuck you." She dropped her gaze away from his and he chuckled. "So modest, though I doubt I'm your first. There is no need to play the coquette here. Your quickening pulse, your flushed cheeks, the longing in your eyes—they all betray your desire. You may try to deny it, but I will bed you this night, and you will take me—all of me—eagerly." He dipped his head to lightly brush lip to lip and she inhaled softly. The barest pressure, a stroke of gossamer, and already she was weak. "You see," he cooed at her response. Then he kissed her properly.
She'd expected many things, but kisses were not one of them. He was forceful, taking what he wanted, but he wasn't rough, and he demonstrated all the skill his long life had bestowed. He took her lips between his, teeth scraping gently when she hesitated, thumbs stroking at her jaw to coax her into more. The taste of him was even sharper than his scent. Her hands came to rest on his chest, unbidden, feeling the thunder of his heart below, the stutter of his breath. She didn't understand how he could seem unruffled when his body betrayed so much. She fought and failed to calm the storm inside her, pulling him deeper into the kiss.
When her knees failed her, he pulled away, a self-satisfied smile gracing his lips. He held her at arms' length, easily keeping her there. Immortal, endlessly stronger than a human—she hoped Sal's poison worked on him as it was meant to.
"This is how it will be," he said, the usual polish of his voice undercut by a rasp. "I will take you slowly at first, allowing your mortal form to adjust to me. Then, once I deem you ready, you will come to know the true depth of my passion."
She clung to him as he moved them from the middle of the chamber, her back hitting the wall beside the bed. She bit her lip to stifle a whimper as his fingers found her waist, curling possessively while he covered her mouth again. This was a promise of things to come—soft, then rough, always demanding. One of his knees kept her legs pinned apart, and as she moved against him in the kiss, she ground herself down. His fingers tightened, controlling the twist of her hips so she just couldn't get the pressure she wanted. She mewled in frustration, and he smiled against her mouth. He knew what she wanted. She knew what he wanted. But she would not, could not, beg.
His lips pulled free of hers, instead attacking her throat, her collarbone, the soft part of her neck below her ear. She arched, letting him in closer, knowing he would leave marks, allowing her nails to sink into the cloth on his back. Like for like.
One hand slid over her hip, ghosting down her thigh until it reached her knee. He tugged her leg up, wrapped his fingers around her ankle so he could slip her shoe off. His hand reversed its path, up, up, up, the bare skin of her leg, sliding the hem of her skirt higher until only an inch of thigh remained covered. He dropped her leg but kept the cloth trapped in place, then he repeated the whole tantalizing process on the other side. This time he kept her leg aloft, wrapping it around his waist, her other foot straining on tiptoe in the lush carpet to keep her balanced. His chilled hands forced her skirt up the final inch, then another, until the dress stayed bunched around her torso.
He ripped her undergarments away, tossing them aside to where her shoes rested, and she hissed at the sting. With her leg hitched as it was, she was open to him, and he wasted no time in skimming his fingers down to the wet skin between. She hated herself for the whimper that escaped; he teased once more, barely-there fingerfalls that she writhed into.
"I love the little noises you make as you attempt to keep yourself silent. Your hesitance will not last long."
He fell to his knees, letting the leg she held high drop to his shoulder. It put his mouth in a very particular place, his hands gripping her thighs tightly so she couldn't move. There was no teasing, this time. He covered her, precisely where she wanted him, and he was right about her attempts to keep quiet. She forgot about silence entirely as his expert mouth moved against her, lips and teeth and tongue combining in a way she'd never known they could. She'd experienced pleasure, mostly at her own hand, but this was another thing entirely. She hissed and swore and hummed; he seemed to know what she wanted before she did.
He peeled his lips away to kiss and nip at the skin of her inner thigh, and she keened her dissatisfaction. She'd been building to something, the edge of bliss, and the further away his mouth moved, the farther it slipped from her.
"Tell me, little one, tell me what you want."
"I want—I want you—" she panted.
"Say my name."
"Loki." He returned his mouth to where she needed him. "Ah! Loki." She was suddenly too sensitive, but her hands couldn't push him away, and then—
The world fragmented, splintering apart into shards of pleasure, leaving her quaking. Even as it reformed around her, it pulsed in time with the rhythm between her legs, the pounding of her heartbeat, the shaky rasp of her breath.
Loki was no longer on his knees before her, and she blinked, staring in confusion at where he stood across the room from her. He was in full armor again, his head tilted to one side as he regarded her. She tried to reach for him but couldn't pull her hand away from the wall. One glance told her she was shackled in place.
She opened her mouth to ask how, to ask why, but stopped. The knowledge in his eyes gave it away. This had all been a ruse; he'd probably known who she was all along. She was only thankful her skirt had fallen to cover her while she was in this position—and that the Tesseract was gone from its cradle.
She'd allowed herself to be trapped, too tempted by the promise of his mouth between her thighs. It should have been the other way around; if she'd taken him in her mouth, she could easily have nicked him with the needle while her hands were hidden from his sight. But so long as the Tesseract was secured, it was okay. She'd distracted Loki long enough for Fran to sneak out from the passages and take it.
His gaze followed hers to the empty case, and she watched the realization creep across his face. Any flush she'd coaxed into his skin drained away, and he turned to her with flexing fingers. Any moment now they'd find her throat.
Then it was gone. All the anger, washed away, replaced with contemplative amusement.
"Well played," he said. "No worry—I shall retrieve it before you do too much damage. It's rare that I am outmaneuvered. Here I thought I had your scheme all figured out."
"How did you know?"
"I witnessed you kill a man with your thighs. I must admit, that was a pleasant surprise. Most intriguing." She shut her eyes. He'd seen her kill the Worshipful. "It was also Agent Romanoff's signature move. Did you know that? I don't have all the answers but I can piece the rest together myself: she came here to the palace when the resistance was crushed, hiding in plain sight, and trained some of you. You've kept that training up, a little network of spies among my own slaves."
She stopped resisting the chains. She'd played her part; made her sacrifice. "Kill me. I'll never give you their names."
"Kill you? I think not. Not when you played such a very hurtful trick on me. Besides, I have no need for names or plans. I know what you intend to do. I know who you work with. No, first I think I will go seek out your friends and inspire terror in their loved ones. I will do everything I must to ensure the bridge remains broken—death, ruin, whatever violence inspires them to compliance best. Then, when I return here with the Tesseract safely secured, I'll begin the process of breaking you."
"I'm not afraid of torture."
"Who mentioned torture? You don't fear pain, and I appreciate that. Indeed, we'll have plenty of fun with that. No, I will take from you what you value the most: your own mind. You crave me already but it's ingrained in you to fight against me. I won't break you with pain, my dear, but with pleasure." He stroked one finger down the side of her torso, goosebumps erupting in his wake. "You will come to beg for this. Your body will betray your mind and you will fall on your knees in helpless submission, craving the lightest touch of my fingers. The very sound of my approaching footsteps will make you ache in anticipation."
"No." She held her ground, returning the amusement of his stare with hatred. She wouldn't show him fear. She would never succumb, no matter what he did.
"Oh, yes." He smiled and retreated from her. "Even if I fail in retrieving the Tesseract and lose my throne, I can ensure you I will return for you. Whichever forsaken corner of the universe I flee to, you will be with me, my willing slave. So enjoy your respite. We have much work to do when I return."
With the bright cape flaring behind him, he was gone, leaving her alone with the anticipation and fear of what was to come.
A/N: Thanks to my wonderful betas Twiggy, Lindsey and Rhi. Any remaining cock-ups are mine and mine alone.
There was a strict word limit for the contest of 3000 and unfortunately, when I started writing I found I had more plot than could be squeezed into that limit. Therefore an expanded version of this story will be posted soon which provides more back story to this world. I'll also probably name the character (I hate deciding names. Suggestions are welcome).