jgreye asked: For a Lokane smut prompt, I seriously saw this in a dream the other night. Loki and Jane, surrounded by darkness so you can't see their surroundings very well, it could be her trailer, or it could be his cell in TDW, we don't know. But as things start to get heated, he pulls her up into a sitting position ready to thrust inside, then she's gone. He's back in his cell, and incredibly pissed. She's waiting for that moment to feel him inside her, then she opens her eyes and he's gone.
Wherein Jane is at the mercy of her hormones and Loki can't concentrate. (PWP. Hard R or soft NC-17.)
Jane's having the dream. Again.
She understands why it happens. She does. She's an astrophysicist, not a psychiatrist, but it doesn't take Freud to get that wet dreams are inevitable when one's sole romantic entanglement is with one's hand-held showerhead. She's an adult woman who hasn't gotten laid in over three years. And estrogen doesn't care about vanished gods and broken hearts.
If the dream were only more satisfying, she might even welcome it.
Long, delicate fingers splay across her bare back, tracing tickling patterns along each dip and knot of her spine.
She's never gotten a good look at him — her hormone-crazed subconscious apparently doesn't feel the need for little details like faces, or voices, or locations — but his body she's become intimately familiar with. He's not slender, but he's not broad, either. Smooth hair, corded muscles, surprisingly soft skin. He's a little cold to the touch, too, like the cool side of a pillow on a summer night.
Except for his mouth. His mouth is hotter than hell.
That mouth is at work on her neck now, sharp teeth scraping against her collarbone. Jane moans — she likes that, and he knows it. (Of course he knows what she likes. He's in her head.) Sometimes when she wakes up she expects to see herself covered in hickeys as though she's sneaking home from prom.
One of his clever hands snakes down to grab her ass. Groping is a lost art, but this man seems determined to bring it back into fashion.
He's wearing… something, she can't tell what, but he's dressed, and he shouldn't be. Her pajamas had vanished in the first few minutes, as usual. "Off," she murmurs, tugging at his collar. It feels both rough and leathery, like a motorcycle jacket covered in burlap. No one ever said Jane Foster's subconscious understood fashion.
The man complies. His clothes disappear. (That's the convenience of a good dream — no laundry to do after.) Then his mouth is plundering hers with the kind of skill that only exists in bodice-ripping romance novels, one hand knotted in her hair and the other working its way between her thighs.
Let me have you, he whispers wordlessly, communicating his desires even though he doesn't make a sound. (No, she doesn't know how. He just does. Dreams are like that.) Those cool fingers dip into her heat, stroking slow and pressing firm. Show me your secrets. Let me have all of you, Jane Foster.
Hmph. He says stuff like that every time. "You're my fantasy," she snaps at him. (Kind of snaps. It's more of a squeak.) "I should get to have you."
And she shoves at his shoulders, pushing him onto his back.
She can feel his surprise in the way his breathing hitches. Which is weird — why should he be surprised? Yeah, this isn't the way their encounters usually go, but he's just a figment of her imagination. He should be able to keep up.
Well, up isn't a problem in at least one way. Jane lowers her weight onto him, pleased all out of sorts by the way he groans at the contact; his waist fits very nicely between her legs. She grinds her hips experimentally.
He sits up so fast she nearly falls off the bed.
Enough. Enough. He grabs for her, jerks her down onto his lap roughly. His voice-that-isn't-a-voice is strained with— what? Lust? Exertion? Concentrate. Focus for me. Show me what you are.
She feels him, hard and hot where she is slick and ready, and, and, and—
—and she's staring at the ceiling of her apartment, aching, sticky, and totally alone.
She woke up before the good part.
Like always.
God, she hates this stupid dream.
"For a fantasy man, you sure are a tease," she grumbles, kicking the covers back viciously and cursing the entire world — plus a few other worlds out there, just for good measure.
Time for another date with the showerhead.
When he jolts back to reality, it takes all of Loki's considerable willpower not to destroy every inch of his cell until nothing remains but shredded paper and splinters.
Influencing a mortal's dreams is difficult. Influencing a mortal's dreams across realms is nigh-on impossible. Influencing a mortal's dreams across realms from within the magic dampening dungeons of Asgard… well, that's certainly never been done. Not until now.
If he could just remain focused long enough to peel apart the layers of Thor's woman and discover what it is about her that makes her so valuable. If he could concentrate on her seduction without losing control and breaking the connection by accident. If she would stop distracting him.
Well. There's always their next encounter.
It's not like he has anything better to do.