II. Promise

Once I knew only darkness and stillness, my life was without past or future, but a little word from the fingers of another fell into my hand that clutched at emptiness, and my heart leaped to the rapture of living.

~ Helen Keller

Natasha stares at Loki in disbelief. Not only are the words he's just said completely baffling, but his appearance is a tragic mess. He looks younger somehow, but at the same time more worn and weary. His skin is still pallid, without its usual pinches of pink, and dark circles draw attention to his wide, pleading green eyes filled with a despair she knows all too well.

But what catches her attention the most is the gaping emptiness that seems to swirl around him like a black hole, because it sucks her in, and for a moment she feels hollowed out.

"What? Why?" is all she can think to say, her eyes locked on him.

"I haven't given you adequate reason?"

She finds it hard to argue that. "Why me?"

He shrugs. "We have a...history."

The shock of seeing him freezes her tongue momentarily. "I'm sure this is something you could do yourself. You want someone to talk you out of it."

"You misunderstand. We both get what we want: you get your chance to avenge Barton, and I...well, you know what I want." His expression is incomprehensibly sad for such confident words.

"Why? Why, all of a sudden, do you want to die-" She stops, horrified as the pieces click together in her head. She'd remembered hearing something about Thor's father passing away a week or so ago. And Loki is Thor's brother... Grief spills over his face, making him look like a lost child, and Natasha feels something plunge through her heart. "Oh God...I'm so sorry..."

Of all people, Natasha Romanoff understands loss. She might even consider it familiar company. To lose your family is to lose a piece of yourself.

Loki doesn't snap back at her with a refusal of her condolences. He doesn't frown or glare. He just looks...tired. When he raises his head, his eyes are wet and red. "You have your answer. Will you do this?"

She shakes her head. "No."

"No?" There's an upsurge of anger on his face now, poorly masking the pain still visible around the edges. "Have I not tormented you or your precious Barton enough to deserve death?" he growls. "Why do you refuse to kill a monster?"

"Because what you're doing is weak." She's not sure if she believes that or not, but if he's going to wage a battle, she will take up her sword as well.

To her surprise, he laughs wryly. "I suppose you're right, but if I desired an honorable death I would go about it differently."

Natasha thinks for a moment. Loki could kill her in a second, and if this is a ruse to do so, it's a damn good one. But his pain is almost tangible, his eyes hollow and lifeless. Natasha knows pain, and she knows when it's real. She tucks her gun into its place on the nearby bookshelf. "Come inside, and we'll talk about this."

He scoffs a laugh again, though he does as she asks. "What is there to discuss? Are you going to tell me I have oh-so-much to live for?" He snorts an angry breath, his arms folded over his chest.

She picks up on that, notices how he says so much when he's biting and sarcastic. "Your brother wouldn't want this."

Loki rolls his eyes and tries to look dismissive, but Natasha sees the subtle creases of pain in his expression. "Then this shall be the first time Thor does not get what he desires. I am finished being a slave to his whims."

This can't just be about Thor. Loki's had ample time to end his life if that's what he wants, and he didn't need to come to Midgard to do it. His father's death must have taken something away, something irreplaceable. But she doesn't want to reopen the wound by mentioning his father.

She watches him, concerned with the almost-unnoticeable way his lip quivers and his eyes house nothing but torment and guilt. Suicide is the ultimate act of control, and if it's control Loki wants...

"What do you desire?" she asks.

"I already told you."

"You want nothing more than your own death?"

"There is nothing more."

So, he'd lost more than just a father. He'd lost a whole future, a purpose he'd taken upon himself... "What if I gave you something?"

Bewilderment flickers on his face. Does she imagine the hope in his voice? "What could you give me?"

She risks a few steps closer to him. "A purpose." Something ripples through him for the briefest moment. She tries needling him again. "A reason to stay in the game."

Loki scoffs a weak and tired sound, but he moves nearer to her. "How do you intend to fill a hollow man, Miss Romanoff, when your own void is a gaping maw?"

He's close enough to her now that she can smell the enticing musk of him. "This isn't about me. I'm not the one who came here wanting to die."

"What panacea could you possibly offer me?" She's sure he intended to sound threatening, but the hostility just isn't there.

Natasha takes his face in her hands, and Loki lets her kiss him, lets her tongue brush over his lower lip and slide into his mouth. She feels him turn to stone in the second she responds to the shock of his cold skin against hers. His muscles uncoil when her fingers knot in his hair, crushing him against her as her mouth moves against his. The dig of her hips makes him groan, and fire rips through her at the sheer control she has over him, the way he's grinding weakly between her legs, needy and desperate, because he is, after all, still a man. A repugnant, arrogant, attractive man reduced to a hormone-ruled adolescent.

Loki moans around her fervent mouth, and she bites his bottom lip and rolls her hips against him. The feel of him hard against her makes her thighs squeeze together, a poor attempt to sate the slickened need between them.

He starts to respond to her, dominating their lusty quarrel by finding other places to kiss her: the corner of her lips, her jaw, the soft line of her throat. His hands entrap her, pull her against his body, and that makes the fire spiral out of control, blazing in her chest.

"Ugh, fuck, Loki," she groans, breathless as his mouth kisses and trails her skin. This isn't enough. Natasha wants his mouth elsewhere, his hands and hips around her in so many ways.

She reaches out to undress him, her fingers suddenly confounded by all the buttons and latches and zippers. He assists her with the task, nearly gliding out of his clothes, and she grits her teeth, hating that she's turned on by him. Because she shouldn't be. If the world worked the way it was supposed to, her fingers would be tracing the lines of Clint's stomach right now, her hands pulling Barton on top of her as she falls back against the mattress. But instead it's Loki: his inky black hair feathered in place, his complexion chalky pale, his features too perfect, like someone out of a classical painting.

Outside the window, raindrops trickle from a smoky, dark sky that hangs over the earth like a gloomy canopy; Natasha thinks it's too poignant for what she's feeling now, the wispy, cottony clouds an outward manifestation of the confused, hazy lust swirling dizzily in her brain. She hadn't planned on actually wanting him this way.

Needing him at her mercy again, she slips a hand between his legs, and he groans as her fingers wrap around him, her thumb rolling over the head of his cock. He growls the breath of an angry god in her ear, and she smiles, watching how his shoulders ripple and tense as her hand drags up and down. Control. Dominance. Power.

Loki isn't one to beg, and though he's so close, he can't let himself plead to be inside of her or to ask for her mouth around him. To do so would be to concede defeat, and Loki is all about winning. So he reaches down to where they meet and stills her hand with his, his gaze darkening as he stares down at her. "Take it off," he commands, his voice dripping with lust.

Natasha's lips curve into a smirk at this spoiled god above her, and her fist slides back against the hard planes of his pelvis. He moans, helpless, and his hips jerk instinctively into her hand. He grips the pillows behind her head, careful not to dent her bones beneath his fingers, and his traitorous hips thrust again, succumbing to the twist of her wrist.

She pulls his mouth to hers, impossibly smug as her fingers weave into his hair and trace the curves and ridges of his arousal. His teeth pull at her lips while she pulls the pleasure from him with a squeezing palm and nimble fingers. The soft, tiny whimpers he makes awaken the lust simmering in her belly, and it's a wonder she can hold it together when he breaks apart in her hand; the sight of this porcelain god coming undone because of what she's done is almost too much, and his defeated sigh around her mouth makes her squirm and shift beneath him.

Black anger smolders in his eyes at her victory, and Natasha slowly pulls her hand away to taste him on her fingers. He licks his lips at the sight, his eyes hooded with lust.

The next sigh Loki makes is nowhere near the needy, satisfied one from seconds ago, and he squares his shoulders, sitting up to look down upon her, his marble chest heaving. And then he does something Natasha doesn't expect: he laughs. The sound is deep and dark and terrifying, because suddenly she's caught off-guard, devoid of the control she'd had over him moments ago. Her throat swells in horror; without desire to blind him, she is literally at his mercy. And he has nothing to lose.

His perfect eyebrows arch in arrogance. "This is your offer?" he scoffs, his hubris returning as he drags an icy fingertip over the pulse in her throat. He's straddling her hips, and the feel of him against her is pure torment. "Did you think it would be that easy?"

For a moment she wonders if Asgardians have no need for a recovery period. Then she remembers how responsive he is when she tests him. "You're not sated?"

"I can see that you aren't," he answers, pushing her cotton tank up with unbearable slowness and trailing a finger over the newly-exposed skin. His touch is cold, and her flesh rises to meet his, making the corner of his mouth pull up into a smirk.

"I'm capable of...entertaining myself."

Loki considers that, smiling a little. "Oooh."

She deflects with weak humor, a trait she most likely picked up from Tony. "No, you can't watch." She wants to slug him in the stomach, but she also wants him alive, in every way she can have him, even if that means giving him conquest over her body.

"I don't have to watch, Miss Romanoff"-she secretly adores the way her surname sounds like a psalm from his lips-"because you wouldn't have started this if your...entertainment was enough." She lets him pull the garment over her head, and suddenly she's an insecure teenager again, burning beneath his gaze as his eyes drink in her form. His mouth meets hers again, quelling her retort, and his hands pull down her shorts. The chill of his skin against her thighs ignites the dormant need in her loins. Her hands reach up, twisting hard in his hair, because if he's going to get her off, the least she can do is mess up his stupid, perfect hair in a paltry act of vengeance.

His mouth finds other places to kiss her hungrily: the hollow of her throat, a spot beneath the hinge of her jaw, the line of her sternum. His lips trace over the curve of her ribs, and Natasha moans out "Oh God" as his mouth moves lower, and she silently curses Loki's ignorance of the spots that ache for his attention.

He looks up at her through hooded eyes. "You don't have to beg." She can see evidence of that fucking smirk at the corner of his mouth, but she takes solace in the fact that she's refraining from planting her foot in his face. All about control.

Loki's tongue drags across her skin as his wide hands explore her ribs, her nipples, her stomach, and all Natasha wants is for his mouth to replace his hands, because his teasing makes her swell and swoon and ache. Clint wouldn't tease like this; he would know when enough was enough, and he would be inside of her by now. But Loki isn't Clint, and Natasha isn't sure why that excites her so much.

A rolling roar of distant thunder sounds outside. Loki turns his head to the window in a subtle gesture, but Natasha sees the worry there and uses it to pry away his confidence.

"Maybe your brother doesn't approve?" she goads him.

She sees the twist in his features at the mention of Thor, the way his eyes tighten and his lips press into a frown, and for a moment she's won, regained control.

But it's a short-lived victory; her words are an indirect challenge, and Loki will be damned if he comes second to Thor here. He traces circles around her nipple with his tongue, reveling in her frustrated moans before he takes the bud into his mouth and nips at it with his teeth. She melts, her body rolling to give him more of her skin to engulf with his mouth. Her ankles hook around his waist, forcing his hips against hers, and she bucks needily between his legs when she feels his cock between her thighs.

Loki's voice is sweet and smooth at her throat, and she feels his words in her bones. "And you thought I was the desperate one? Look how you beg."

"Don't be a brat, or I'll finish without you." She tries to sound confident, but her words are weakened by want.

"Oh, but I'll linger," he says, his voice dirty, filthy as his hand slides between her legs, his fingers teasing her through the thin, damp cotton. "It won't be that easy to rid yourself of me."

She hisses beneath his touch, shoving her hips forward in a silent plea for more. He's so close to the spot that aches and pulsates for him, and she craves him there in any form he might take. She grinds against his hand for some sort of relief for the mounting need building inside of her as thunder rumbles in the expanse of the sky.

He lowers her panties down her legs, unable to resist the allure of triumph. He dips two fingers inside of her-but just barely-drawing out a broken moan from her throat, and he brings them to his lips to savor the command he has over her flesh.

Loki moves so slowly Natasha thinks that time has stopped; his mouth glides over her inner thigh, his hands curled behind her knees. She isn't sure of his plan-if he's going to keep winding her up or eventually grant her mercy-until she feels his hot breath there and suddenly hope and panic bubble up in her chest.

She's caught in a wild mix of fear and need, and that's when his tongue feathers over her swollen clit. Her head drops back against the pillow and a loud moan leaves her throat, her lips uncoupled and her fingers tugging at his hair, because it's all too much. She feels him smile, then he hums around her flesh, sending an electric sweep of pleasure zipping up her spine. She writhes against his tongue as it works slowly inside of her, dipping and pressing against her barest of skin. The breath shakes in her lungs, and she can't form words, spitting out fragmented obscenities in needy whimpers.

"Loki..." She gasps for him, and he likes the sound of her voice calling his tribute. The tip of his tongue traces shapes and circles against her skin, and her tensed and tortured nerves sing out in praise. She hitches her rubbery legs over his shoulders, his name a chanted prayer on her lips while he licks and sucks and savors the taste of her. "God, Loki... Don't stop..." It's not a request, she tells herself, it's an order, and that makes all the difference as she quakes from his touch, her toes curling and her body writhing.

Loki's teeth drag lightly over her clit, and just like that Natasha is gone, lost to the white-hot void, her body seizing with unbridled want. She cries for him, winded and breathy, and he holds her hips as she shudders. He stays there for a bit, his tongue still lapping between her legs, and she sighs, conquered by her climax, by him, by this conniving god and his silver tongue.

Loki chuckles against her skin and sits up, his hair tousled as he licks his lips with a self-satisfied smirk. She wants to call Thor to hammer some humility into him; Loki has absolutely no business looking this smug, and she'll never admit that he just gave her the best orgasm of her life. This secret will go to her grave.

"You will tell no one about this," she seethes through grit teeth as her chest heaves, humiliated at her defeat.

He crawls up her body, his mouth inches from hers. "What is there to tell? That I had you quivering and pleading beneath my tongue?"

She ignores the urge to smack him, knowing it would do more harm than good right now. At the very least, she's glad to see a genuine smile on his lips. She just smooths his tousled hair back with her fingers. The words tumble out of her mouth before she can stop them. "One day you'll remember him and it won't hurt. It does get better."

Loki stills, silent for a moment, then he shoves away from her, climbing off of the bed and pulling his clothes back on with swift, angry movements.

Panic stiffens in her chest. She knows she can't let him walk out that door. He's too fragile, too desperate. "Loki, wait. Please, don't go."

His back faces her, but she sees his arm brush over his face, as if he's wiping away tears. His hands freeze at his belt, his shoulders slumping in defeated sorrow.

Natasha wraps herself in a sheet, slides out of bed and moves closer to him. She feels too incompetent here, too out of control in a situation she doesn't want to relive. She had failed once. Never again.

"Loki," she pleads, and when he turns to look at her she can see the utter misery etched on his face, the lifetime of agony in his eyes. It's as if someone broke him into little tiny pieces. Natasha struggles for words to mend his heart or heal his soul but knows none exist. She wants to tell him about Gala, her best friend and almost-sister from the training academy. She and Gala had been about twenty years old; Gala came into Natasha's room one night after a particularly troubling mission and told her "no matter what, I love you."

That was the last time Natasha ever saw Gala alive. She did, however, see her dead, hanging from the ceiling fixture in her room.

But Natasha doesn't tell Loki about Gala. Too personal. Too raw. And in the face of his pain, her own would mean nothing.

"Loki, just promise me something, okay? Listen," she chokes out. He turns toward her, silent, waiting. "Come back and see me. If you ever feel like this again, if you ever want to die, promise me you'll come see me. I don't care how late. If I'm not here, have Thor find me, and I'll come to you." She sucks in a breath, not caring how desperate she sounds. "Just please, please don't give up, okay?"

He looks at her, his expression blank and impossible to read.

"Promise me."

He does.