Disclaimer: I don't own The Avengers, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.
Bones
A/N: Post-Avengers; follow-up to "Misery Loves Company."
How she ended up here, warm and pressed against the handle of the door as the cab driver swears, Natasha can't quite recall. It had been a joke, a means with which to see if she could push him, get him to snap, lose the composure she's seen him cling to. Men like him don't appreciate women like her, sassy and marching to the beat of her own drums. She's sure he doesn't like her, would kill her about as quickly as he could throw her into the nearest intersection. But everything in the moment says otherwise, particularly the way as the god plays at the neck of her dress as the driver slams on the breaks outside her apartment complex and demands that they get a room.
She sees that nasty look in his eye as he turns to the red-faced man, kicks open the door with a heel and yanks him into the cold before he can do something stupid. He's an impulsive bastard, she thinks, and pushes through the doors, hurrying towards the elevator as she wonders how in the world Thor turned out so well while Loki came out a brat. He pulls her back and towards the stairwell, the bracelet on her wrist jarring. A moment of weightlessness and she falls, catching herself against the handle of her front door.
Natasha scowls. She'd forgotten that he likes to play his games with magic.
The key is in the lock and the door springs open, kicked shut as he pushes her through, without even a though to the possibility that there may be others lingering in the hallway. She casts the coat to the floor, dances just out of reach and settles on the couch, watching him with bedroom eyes. He says nothing, stands quietly by the door and shifts. Natasha can hear the audible cracking of his bones.
She hooks a finger in the strap of a heel, waits a moment, and asks, "On or off?"
Loki makes a face, the same sort that his brother made the first time she'd told him, over shawarma, that the Internet was not mortal magic, but technology. The assassin decides that the idea alone is wasted on him as she rolls her eyes, yanking the heels off and throwing them towards the hallway. Apparently, Asgardian men aren't adventurous in the same manner as mortal men are. And it brings her to wonder which of the two are more fun to have around. So far, she notes as he leans against the wall, the gods aren't doing too hot.
This was all his bright idea to begin with, starting with that stupid little staring contest and surely ending, as they both know, in a tangled mess. And now it seems he doesn't want to play anymore.
Natasha sucks in a deep breath and stands, stalking across the room and grabbing him, shoving the damned coat to the floor. Defiance brims in his eyes, as he's probably not very good at taking orders, and Loki pushes her back as Natasha watches him bite the inside of his lip. She stumbles, has half a mind to raise her hand to him, but thinks better of it. Instead, she shrugs, stepping back across the carpet and settling onto the couch again, lifting a leg up onto one of the cushions as she takes to removing her tights.
She takes pleasure in watching as his eyes grow wide, jaw slack, his form now lacking the irritating arrogance he'd held mere moments before. Natasha makes a show of it, looking away and focusing as though he's not even there, humming under her breath as she goes. The fabric falls to the floor, and she leans back, raising her legs and crossing them at the ankle. The assassin makes a face, smiles, curious as to how he's faring after that little display. She looks up, shocked to find that he's gone and shakes her head. Just like a man, to skip out once he's determined that he doesn't want to commit. Even for one lousy night.
The sound of a zipper alarms her, realizing that he has a hand about her throat, struggling to rid her of the dress. She can almost see the determination on Loki's face as he growls, probably thinking that Asgardian women are far easier to undress. Natasha can't imagine how though. Particularly if they adorn themselves with the same manner of clothing that he and Thor do. She scowls, turns to try and slap him as the fabric tears, remembering that this was the dress that she and Clint had decided on together before the last extravagant Stark party. She stands and Loki steps back, looking increasingly satisfied with himself as she glowers, and he spreads his arms as if to welcome her oncoming assault.
The assassin grabs him by the collar with one hand, the back of the other flying across his face with a distinct sound. He growls and her foot moves behind his with a jerk, sends him backwards to the floor, straddling him. Not a word gets out as she leans over, folds her tongue into his and smiles, lifting a blade from within her bra to slice through the buttons of his shirt. Loki snarls and she almost laughs.
Fucking hypocrite.
Natasha shifts, tears through the rest of her dress and discards it, noting that it's not like to matter anymore, damaged as it is. Besides, material things can be replaces. Moments like this, in which she intends to make a god squirm, cannot.
He shoves her away, swiping at his mouth with the back of a hand and glaring. She raises an eyebrow, not at all aware that she'd gotten carried away with that thought enough to bite him. Clint, she thinks, would have laughed and given it right back to her. Leaning back, Natasha takes to removing her undergarments, her backside easily becoming accustomed to the texture of the carpet as she sits, hands thrown over her knees and ankles crossed. Loki looks her in the eye, as if expecting her to come to him. Natasha smiles. This is not Asgard. The women of Earth do not wait on men hand and foot to quell their desires.
At least, she doesn't.
She waits, watches as he slides across the floor, taking hold of her wrists and pinning them behind her back with a hand, his other arm wrapping around her middle and forcing her squarely into his lap. Natasha smiles and rocks back, snickering at the sound he makes. Her head falls, and she can swear he's purring, nipping at the side of her neck, and she can feel that damned smile of his.
"Get on with it," she wants to tell him, wants to feel her hands roam and torment him as Clint is presently occupied elsewhere on official business, and thus unavailable for a good time. Unless he stops playing these damned games, she'll fall asleep long before they reach the good part.
The assassin flinches, feels fabric disappear beneath her, and remembers just how much he likes to play with magic. She should have expected something like this from the start. Natasha is spun around and pushed back, head hitting the carpeted floor as his tongue slides between her teeth, Loki's hands framing her face as her fingers move to knot themselves in his hair. Purposely she pulls, hard, and he growls, giving her satisfaction as a hand slides between them. Natasha can feel his eyes burning behind closed lids, excitement evident in the way he bites her lip, sinking into her palm as she plays.
"Wench," Loki hisses as she forces her hips up, locks her ankles behind his back.
She smiles, gives him a playful slap. The god laughs.
"Now you're just being rude." He presses her hard into the floor. "Or, perhaps, you enjoy this. Being made a player in my game."
"Your game?" she retorts, rocking her hips up again. Loki makes a face. "You wouldn't have one to play if I hadn't let you in before."
Stars blink in her eyes, his hand thrown across her mouth. She can feel her chest rise and fall, hear his breath hot and heavy in her ear. Natasha twists up her face in a scowl, trying to recall just how in the hell she had felt the last time Clint had done this. Caught in the sheets, she thinks, his hands doing all manner of things to her before getting down to the grit. But with this, there was no real foreplay, no snide remarks or tricks he rid her of her dressings. Maybe, she thinks, this is part of it. Maybe his play is to make her question Clint, doubt him. Loki is a god, after all. Pompous bastards don't rate any higher on the scale than him, though Tony does come rather close.
She squirms as best she can with her ankles locked in place, claws at him as his hand moves to press hard against her throat. They aren't stars anymore, though her body rocks hard enough that they still should be. Natasha feels light-headed, barely hears him as he moans through his teeth, forehead pressed to hers and steadily beading with sweat. She fears she might break, realizing that, as a god, he must have far more stamina than she; imagines that, as a prince of Asgard, he's likely been spoiled, drained many women of their virtue long before setting his gaze upon her.
Breath settles back into her lungs, his ragged breathing the only sound in her ears as she realizes that, despite the obvious chill in the air, her legs are warm.
"Stupid bastard," she wheezes, reaching up to catch the corner of a blanket. It falls from the couch, covers her, and she opens her eyes looks to where he ought to be, and scowls.
He's gone again, but she can hear him across the room, picking up his coat and likely having magicked his clothing back on, muttering to himself about how sloppy humans are, how they run about and just toss things to the floor without a care. Natasha smirks. As if he's really one to criticize her about throwing things on the floor after all he's just done.
She drapes the blanket about her bare body and turns, satisfied to see that he's rather stiff, one hand pinching his shoulder. Loki looks to her and smiles, though she can see that it's with some difficulty. There's a thin red line on his lip.
"Leaving already?" Natasha says, taking to her feet.
He smiles briskly as she approaches, making no move to return the gesture. Loki must know she's taunting him again.
"I've wasted far too much time on you already, Natasha."
The assassin raises a thin brow, comes to lean herself against him on shaky legs. The god stumbles back.
"'Wasted?'" she repeats, shaking her head. "Didn't sound to me like you were particularly adverse to finishing our little game."
He scoffs. "'Our game?' You think you can take credit for all this, do you?"
"Well," Natasha says quickly, "it is my house, my... carpet."
Loki snickers, breaking off as she moves a hand to his groin through the blanket. He steps back, steadily becoming transparent as he smiles. "That it is. Perhaps, the next time we play, it should be on neutral ground."
She rolls her eyes as he vanishes, still hearing that snarky laughter in her ears as she settles herself back onto the couch. She will stay here until dawn, Natasha decides, playing it over in her head, even as she sleeps, laughing to herself at the obvious way the great God of Mischief had lost all his precious control to a mortal woman.
It's just a shame, she thinks, that Clint and the others can never take satisfaction in seeing that same look on his face.