A/N: A huge thanks to those reviewing so far! I'm so sorry to no have responded yet, has time limits for new authors etc. And to all guests, so appreciative, thank you!
I thought we might need to check in on Loki…
His night has been…long.
First he'd been attending several political parties, quietly infiltrating and planting seeds for future use. Midgard was easiest taken with a silver tongue over blue cube, and he was pleased to shuck the chains that Thanos' torture had left around him. No control, not now; now he was free to go about things his way.
Hard won as it had been.
The last of them had been less of a political party and more of a study in human interactions. The alcohol, though not as strong as on Asgard by far, had been plentiful. He'd enjoyed exploring the various spirits created by Midgardians, watching as expensive men and women seduced and laid plans to destroy powerful women and men.
So base, so quick to be torn to pieces over the hint of a taste of ecstasy.
He's not sure whether he reviles them or envies them. The simplicity of it is stunning.
He'd had no shortage of attempts on his own body, well aware of the power in a well-tailored suit and easy smile. Sly smiles from equally handsome men, sultry stares from women clad in silk dresses and silkier perfume. Several attempts met with various levels of politeness, and the occasional quiet suggestion. More traps laid, more plans set in motion.
Wedding rings slipped off so easily.
The last had been younger, the woman giving him a faux shy smile that still required work should it ever be effective. By then the alcohol had warmed his blood enough that he was willing to assimilate appropriately, allowing her to lead him to a dark corner.
He'd permitted the over eager fingers skimming his lapels, the breathy words uttered while sharp eyes had watched him every move for a potential advantage. Money, power, accommodation…the wants were clear.
So clear, so very blatant and easy to discern. Alternating between faked shyness and heady seduction, everything an act played out throughout the room.
And now here.
He'd stepped back, hands in pockets, and swayed while he regarded her blonde curls and ample curves. Brown eyes looked at him in confusion, and not a small hint of desperation. She'd opened her mouth to question him when he'd leaned forward, fingers twining around a single golden ringlet before stroking a thumb along her collarbone.
She'd shivered. "Your hands, they're so cold."
"But you figured I'd come?"
Her voice is low, husky, deliciously cool and well removed. He turns, enjoying the sight of her. Barton's description had done her no justice, not when green eyes flashed and full lips formed a firm line. Not with that hair.
"After. After whatever tortures Fury can concoct. You would appear as a balm, as a friend, and I would cooperate."
He lets her see his disdain for her.
Later, as he asked for a drink, he watched her. Slim fingers clasping the sceptre, eyes flashing as she surveyed the damage left over the city. Green eyes taking in his lack of conviction, the tiny knife he'd stabbed into his brother, the awareness of Selvig's fail safe.
He'd been a fool to underestimate the spider, and he'd paid dearly for it.
He couldn't say he minded.
Another ringlet touched gently, and he shot her a pitying smile. "Wrong colour."
The alcohol had heated his blood and set his heart beating in a strong, deadly rhythm. The thought of sharp green eyes revealing nothing, of words webs laid out for him to trip up on, of her delicacy and finesse in wringing his plans from him.
He needs more.
Running, always running. Hiding, disguising, adapting and adjusting. Asgard watched over by a Simulacrum created in his father's likeness. Capable of independent actions, guarding his position as he traversed the other worlds, sought out what he needed for the next stages.
He'd disappeared, leaving behind the confused blonde in her expensive clothing and fine jewels, only to find himself here.
And what he had found…
Watching her pad quietly to the kitchen, a brief moment of balletic ability, playing out like a faint memory before she'd found her cool treat in the freezer. Smirking to himself as she let out moans of pleasure, cool glass against her skin in the stifling heat that must be unbearable for mortals.
He wonders if she knows about all the marks she's left on in, carved into his everything.
Wonders if she'd be adverse to being marked.
"I don't connect with dead men."
It's all laid bare and he knows, she knows, they know. His anger runs hot and violent, all too aware that these plans are too delicate to be meddled without, furious that he'll be dealing in death instead of discovering the way her face looks when she comes.
Ready to snap her neck when suddenly things change, tables turn, and he wonders why steam doesn't rise from her skin where he touches her.
Watching her become unmade and welcoming it, unashamed as he threatens to expose her to her teammates, surprised by her lack of response.
"And why won't I?"
She's bare now, unadorned by any clothing, any jewellery, any makeup. Completely naked before him, skin slick with sweat, breath still slightly ragged from the climax he'd wrung from her. She looks slimmer, and he's not sure he remembers her being so small.
From where she's crushed against him, knife and ample pressed equally firmly, he can see dark bruises forming on one hipbone. His erection twitches at the sight, enjoying the vision of marks left against her skin, of ownership.
No finery, no uniform, no jewels or weapons but for the blade she might be able to slow him down with briefly. Porcelin skin slick with sweat, flawless in some light, riddled with tiny scars in others, a roadmap of a dark life.
The heat of her is unlike anything he's ever felt, the weather in Manhattan leaving the island sweating and heady. She's utterly bare and unembellished and he's fairly sure he's never seen anything more exquisite in his entire, very long life.
Perfect.
The way her body responded, back bowing and fingers grasping for purchase, bucking against him without shame or modesty. The sounds she'd made, throaty and deep, pleading mewls and a final keening cry that would haunt him until the day he was marched through Hel.
He wants to taste her, wants to savour the sweat on her skin, wants to bring his fingers to his mouth and strip them bare of her spendings. He wants those lips, that neck, needs to see those breasts bouncing and feel the heat of her sighing and bending into his ice, all too aware he won't melt.
He needs to see her unmade and welcoming it.
She crooks a finger in a come hither motion, and he finds himself moving downwards, desperate to taste those full lips.
Her voice is like honey, throaty and breathless.
"Because, Loki," she grazes her teeth across his earlobe, and he feels himself jerk slightly, hands planting either side of the counter she's pressed into. The way her lips slip over his name makes him desperate to see them around his cock.
She continues, "We're not done here."
One hand moves to the impossibly small dip of her waist, chilling the smooth skin, tightening when the knife twitches against his leg.
A reminder.
He relishes the bruises this is likely causing her almost as much as the way she shifts tighter against him at the touch.
Needs to see her unmade, and welcoming it from him.
His voice sounds rough and ragged in his ears, all too aware that he's stepping into a trap and finding himself unwilling to care. "No?"
She leans back slightly, lips almost grazing his own as her eyes flash.
"I haven't screamed your name, yet."