Pathetic Little Mortal

by halfmetalbitch

Summary:

After a taxing mission with your infuriating partner Loki, you need to let out a little tension, and the empty Avengers Tower lounge is as good a place as any. What you don't count on, though, is Loki walking in on you mid-fantasy.

Chapter 1: Caught in the Act

It was silent as death in the Avengers’ Tower lounge, quiet enough to hear the whirring of appliances behind you and the hum of the air conditioner kicking on periodically. It was the small hours of the morning, but you and this time of night had become well acquainted. The light outside the tower was gray and watery, a thin veil of mist obscuring the other high rise buildings outside the windows.

You sighed and settled deeper into the soft couch beneath you, the ice in your glass clinking. Sunrise was still hours away, and there was no chance of you getting any sleep tonight. Between the nightmares that plagued you and the soreness of your bruised body—courtesy of your most recent mission—there was enough to keep you awake.

You pressed the cool glass to your throbbing eyes.

That fucking mission.

Once again, you had been paired up with Loki, of all people, despite your multiple requests to be paired with someone, anyone, else. God, you hated him. That shit-eating smirk. That infuriating attitude. The general air of self-importance that rubbed you with all the grace of a cheese grater.

And the snide goddamn comments.

Every time an attacker would slip past your guard, he would appear beside you in a flash of green light and twirl you out of the way, as though battle were nothing more than a waltz to him. Thought you didn’t need my help, he’d said as he disappeared with a wink in another swathe of green smoke.

And when another enemy snuck up on you from behind, Loki had teleported you away with him, blinding you with emerald light. Your back twinged at the memory of how you had landed hard against a wall, the momentum pressing Loki’s body into yours, his hands clasped around your wrists, both of you breathing hard.

You hated the solidity of his chest heaving against yours. You hated the crescents of his nails pressing into your skin. You hated the brush of his dark hair, slick with sweat, against your cheek. You hated the smell of him all around you, and the feeling of his gaze creeping from your eyes to your lips—like a bug you wanted to swat away.

But most of all, you hated the teasing lilt in his voice when he’d said, You’ll have to be faster than that, pathetic little mortal.

And now you scowled at the memory as your back ache persisted. You shook your head, trying to chase away the feeling of Loki pressing you to a wall.

The heavy weight of his body against yours… The thought of it made your skin burn, your chest tighten, a dull ache throb in your—

No. Were you seriously about to fantasize about Loki of all people?

It was just a physiological response, nothing more. It had…been a while. It wasn’t exactly easy to hook up when you were a very recognizable superhero. Not like you could just download Bumble and mosey over to any random person’s place.

So you usually had to take things into your own hands, so to speak. And, as a bothersome warmth smoldered deep inside you, it looked like tonight would be no different.

Your hand trailed along your stomach, playing with the hem of your bottoms before breaching them.

No one would be awake for a while. You were alone here, wouldn’t be bothered, at least not for a couple hours. And you certainly wouldn’t need that long.

As your legs spread and fingers teased sensitive skin, you tried to think of Steve. The flex of his muscles as he shielded you from an attack on the field. The warmth of his hand on your waist as he brushed past you when the Tower kitchen was full in the mornings.

No, no. Steve was too nice. Too gentle. The type to ask is this okay? And how does this feel?

You needed someone who would take what they wanted—someone like Bucky, maybe. Bucky, who regarded you silently with those dark eyes full of secrets as he towered over you.

You gasped softly, a finger swirling slowly over yourself.

Bucky would back you against a wall, yes. Place a metal hand against your throat.

But he wouldn’t tease you. He wouldn’t deny you. And he certainly wouldn’t degrade you, humiliate you.

With a frustrated huff, you paused and opened your eyes.

Pathetic little mortal.

You bit your lip at the memory of his words, how you had turned away so he wouldn’t see your skin flush at them.

Your fingers moved again, eyes closing.

Loki would take exactly what he wanted from you. He would crush your wrists in a bruising grip and hold them above your head. Press you so tightly against the wall that it hurt. Trail hot fingertips down the length of you, over your nipples, your hips, never lingering too long in one spot as he studied your reactions.

You unbuttoned your pants, pushing them down your hips. Your fingers moved more swiftly, finding their purpose, your left hand joining the right now, two fingers pressed only slightly into yourself, because…

Loki would deny you. He would tease you until you couldn’t bear it any more, until you were falling apart, before he gave you what you so desperately needed.

He would press his fingers to your entrance, feather light, sliding his fingertips along the slickness there.

He’d raise an eyebrow, eyes lighting with amusement as he’d say, it’s pathetic how wet you are for me.

You moaned under your breath, fingers still perched at your entrance.

Yes, yes, you were pathetic.

Please, you would beg him, shamefully quickly, Please, Loki.

Since you asked so nicely, he would say with a smirk before finally slipping long, slender fingers into you.

You slid your own fingers into yourself and threw your head back. “Fuck, Loki,” you moaned sinfully, tightness building in your core.

“What was that?” asked a familiar voice. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

Your heart leapt into your throat and you ripped your hands away from yourself. Before you stood the subject of your fantasy himself, Loki, dressed in sleep pants and no shirt. The sight of his pale, bare chest, built with lean muscle, was enough to drive you over the edge right then and there.

You watched with shame as he glanced from your disheveled hair, to your unbuttoned pants, to the wetness coating your fingers, his eyes darkening.

“I…” you stuttered. “I can explain.”

You could, in fact, not explain, but you didn’t know what else to say.

His darkened eyes locked onto yours, and your stomach clenched as he opened his mouth to speak. “I didn’t say stop,” he told you.

Chapter 2: Pinned Against the Wall

Loki leaned against the wall, your eyes catching on the tensing of his bare chest, the broadness of his shoulders, the slim taper of his waist.

“Go on,” he said, that infuriating smirk tugging up one side of his mouth.

You stared at him in confusion, frozen as your heart continued to pound in your chest. What was he asking of you? Did he really expect to obey him, to just continue touching yourself right there in front of him?

“Hands back in their positions. Pretend I’m not here,” he goaded with a grin. “Unless you’re scared.”

You scowled at him, and a soft laugh escaped Loki at the look on your face. Scared? You were scared of nothing. Slowly, so slowly, you reached into your pants again, hesitant to do anything further.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice a purr.

Your gut twisted at his praise. Your heart leaped as a moan left you, heat creeping up your neck at the lewdness of the situation.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, voice gravelly.

Should you lie? Tell the truth? Would he call your bluff?

“Bucky,” the lie slipped out of your mouth. You would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that the thought of him did anything to you other than aggravate your gag reflex.

Loki’s eyes narrowed at your answer. He tutted, shaking his head, then pushed away from the wall and took a step toward you. “That wasn’t what I heard you moaning just a moment ago.”

You watched as his soft footsteps brought him closer to you, until he was towering over you with a hungry expression. You craved his hands on your body, the heaviness of him against you, the crane of your neck to meet the heat of his gaze.

“I was thinking of pegging you,” you told him defiantly.

He laughed at that, a genuine laugh. “Now that I find believable. But,” –here he reached out, ran a thumb over your parted lips, along your throat and squeezed—“I don’t believe that’s what you were thinking of. Now tell me.”

Your skin screamed for him, each atom of your body betraying you and arching toward him in sick desperation for his touch. Your mouth remained closed, stubbornly refusing to give into him. Loki reached over with his other hand, ripping your shirt aside and baring your chest to the cool night air as you gasped. Your skin pebbled as he so softly drew his thumb across a nipple.

You gasped, loudly now, lips parting and eyes closing at the onslaught of sensation. “Fuck,” you whispered.

“Is that what you were thinking about?” Loki asked as he pulled away from you, crouching at the edge of the couch and offering you an innocent smile. “I can wait here all night… Until Stark shows up to make coffee. I can just imagine the look on his face when he finds you like this.”

The threat was clear: if you didn’t talk, he didn’t touch.

You bit your lip, huffing.

“You pressing me against a wall, fucking me with your fingers, telling me how pathetically wet I am for you,” you finally admitted, face burning even as the words left your mouth.

You met his gaze, and there was nothing there but lust.

One moment you were on the couch, the next you were standing. Loki’s fist wrapped around your shirt, lifting you with him as he searched your face. Your chest heaved as you stared up at him, refusing to look away.

You tripped and stumbled as he pushed you backward. There was a soft thud as your back hit the wall, and a sharp hiss from you at the pain of the bruises already lining your spine.

For a moment, he didn’t move, and the look in his eyes was murderous.

“Loki?” you asked, uncertainty flickering through you.

His hand moved from your shirt to your throat. “Shut up, you pathetic mortal,” he said, teeth bared. “Is this what you wanted?”

You bit your lip, nodding. “Yes,” you gasped.

With one foot, he kicked your legs wider. A hand trailed down your body, tickling the sensitive skin of your navel before dipping lower. He felt the wetness pooling at your core, then smirked.

“Desperate, aren’t you?” he asked, meeting your gaze.

Beyond shame, you nodded. “Yes,” you agreed. Then added, “Please, Loki.”

Loki snorted. “I like the sound of that. Say it again.”

You rolled your eyes, and he gripped your throat tighter, shaking you. “Please, Loki, I need you,” you rasped.

“So that foul mouth can do things other than spew trash,” he said.

You glared up at him, anger blooming deep in your chest at his mockery. “I hate you.”

Two long, slender fingers slipped into you, and your head fell back with a thud, your mouth falling open with a loud, vulgar moan.

“Tell me how much you hate me,” Loki said, so quietly it was almost a whisper, his lips pressed to the corner of your mouth.

His fingers worked you, slow and teasing and purposeful, driving you quickly to the edge of something.

You tried to think past the feeling of it. “I despise you,” you began, interrupted by your own gasp, “I wish they had never brought you here.”

“You can do better than that,” he said, just as his fingers found the perfect spot and you released a strangled cry.

“I hate that you’re my partner. You’re horrible—selfish.” You ground your hips hard against him, chasing your pleasure and he didn’t stop you. You were unraveling, close to coming undone. “And I… I… Fuck, Loki.”

“Not so horrible now, am I?” he asked, his hot breath fanning your neck.

You grasped at his chest, your nails biting into his bare skin as you overflowed. “Fuck, Loki,” you cried with such conviction that there was an ache in your chest. The lascivious moan that followed was so loud that Loki’s hand left your throat and covered your mouth, pressing so harshly that your teeth cut into your lips.

His hand slowed and stopped, pulled out and you were shocked by the hungry, aching emptiness that remained in its place.

Before you had even recovered, Loki stepped away from you.

“Maybe next time you can fantasize about me properly fucking you,” Loki said, walking from the room and leaving you staring after him in ripped clothing and shambles.

Chapter 3: A Good Knife

You slept. God, did you sleep. The dark, heavy, dreamless sleep that only comes from true exhaustion or the most sublime satisfaction. And for you, unfortunately, it was both. It annoyed you that Loki was able to scratch an itch so deep and unknowable inside you. It annoyed you that you awoke pleasantly sore, that the stretch of your muscles brought back thoughts of hands around your throat.

The day passed. You thought things might be awkward, but to your surprise Loki acted as though nothing had happened. He paid no more or less attention to you than he had before last night, and that annoyed you even more than the restful sleep and sore body combined.

You ached for him.

As he brushed past you in the kitchen, his skin sliding smoothly and tauntingly against yours. As you were surrounded by all the others in the common area, you burned so hotly that you thought everyone in the room must feel the heat inside you too.

“Everything okay?” Cap asked you as he poured coffee into a Thor mug, its painted design chipping away from time and use. Black. Simple, practical. Just like himself.

You realized you had been glaring at the tall, silent figure across the room, and you prayed that Steve hadn’t followed your gaze. “Just tired,” you answered him.

You ached as Loki walked past you in the halls and you kept your gaze proudly, stubbornly forward. As the strain of his muscles glimmered with a sheen of sweat while he trained silently beside you.

Now your skin prickled when he was near, like the moment before a lightning strike, and it chafed you the same as sandpaper along your sensitive skin. Your agitation grew until you were twitchy and irritable and snapped at all around you.

And when it came, as you knew it would, dread filled you like water breaching the hull of a ship. The assignment. You and Loki, partners, again. Partners, always. You could never escape him.

You just had to get through this mission. That was it. Then you could lock yourself in your room and not have to deal with looking at his infuriating face anymore.

You felt Loki’s eyes on you the whole mission, and it put you on edge. Normally he flitted around you like the demi-god he was, disappearing in a burst of emerald light and then slipping back into existence. But now he lingered too close to you—it was the only thing that gave away that things weren’t the same as before.

You didn’t see the knife coming for you.

Luckily, your partner did.

You felt the air part, the momentum of the blade’s edge sweeping toward you. Then Loki was there, face crumpled in a rage you rarely saw. He gripped your attacker’s arm, so tightly that the knife dropped from his hand. Quicker than you could see, Loki snatched it from the air, rehoming it in the man’s chest.

“Pay attention!” Loki growled, facing you. “It’s as though you want to be filleted.”

You snapped at the closeness of him, at the smell of his skin and sweat washing over you, at the shame you felt for having so stupidly missing an attack that could easily have ended you.

“I don’t need your help!” you yelled, shoving him with all your formidable strength.

He stumbled back, shock in his eyes that was quickly replaced with dark anger. He menaced toward you, but you refused intimidation. Instead, you felt tension bursting like ripe fruit in you, rising to the surface and demanding release.

You lunged for him, teeth bared. Loki grasped your arms and you fell backward together, rolling across the dirty ground, scrabbling over the body of the man Loki had just dispatched a moment before.

You gained dominance, pinning Loki with your weight, and pulled your knife from its sheath at your waist and pressed the point under his chin. A red pearl of blood beaded from the spot. “I don’t need your help,” you repeated slowly.

Heady lust shadowed his eyes, his lips parting.

Loki flipped you, ripping your top in the process, easily stealing the knife and pressing the edge to the fragile skin of your own throat.

You gasped, heaving for breath, head tilted back. There was no mistaking the hardness pressed against your core as your legs squeezed his waist. The knife bit your neck, the stickiness of blood wicking from your sweaty flesh. The pain of it peaked your nipples, and his eyes roved over you, noticed, pressed harder.

There was something so feral in his eyes, an animal, starving. As though he sensed your thoughts, his lip raised over his sharp teeth. God, how you wanted him to sink them into your throat, to rip it out, to make you hurt and bleed, to eat you alive if he was so hungry.

A wicked smile curved your lips and you pushed your hips against his, pulling a moan from both of you.

“Do that again and I’ll slit your fucking throat,” he growled.

“I dare you to do it,” you snarled. He glared down at you, unmoving. “You can’t. Coward.”

Bitter hatred filled his gaze, and you could tell then that he didn’t like to be called that word.

He dragged the point of the knife down your exposed chest, and the pain of its scrape shot straight to your core. The line he mapped across your skin welted and reddened, a thin slice of red following in its wake.

He dragged it lower and lower still, cutting through your tactical pants. Your breathing stuttered as he smiled up at you and paused the blade over your pubic bone. “Your mouth isn’t so smart now, is it?” he asked.

“Loki,” you whispered in warning.

“Don’t worry, I’ll only make you bleed if you ask me to.”

He flipped the knife, holding onto the top end of the handle instead of the blade, and rubbed the hilt over your sensitive skin. You watched him, transfixed, unable to say anything as he wetted the hilt. You pushed your hips down, desperate for any friction.

“You want this?” he asked, running a tongue hypnotically over his lower lip. The tongue, those lips, you wanted them. You craved them.

“Yes,” you said, voice scratchy.

“Beg,” he commanded.

“Please,” you said, breathy. “Please, fuck me.”

His gaze remained on yours, as if he couldn’t bear to miss a single expression on your face, and he slid the knife hilt inside you. Your mouth fell open at the thickness of it stretching you, the ridges of the grip filling you.

You moaned, long and loud, and Loki fell into a languid and teasing rhythm that was just out of reach of being enough. You panted under his gaze. Desperate for more, you reached for him, twisted your hand sharply in his hair and dragged him forward.

To your surprise, he let you. More than that, he leaned forward and placed his mouth on you. You shrieked your pleasure, and in a shamefully short amount of time your legs shook as they framed his face.

Pleasure rose in you, shocking in its intensity and force, and you sobbed under him.

You felt full to overflowing, and then you did overflow, fluids squirting down the knife. As you squirmed and shook, Loki slipped the hilt from you. You watched with hooded eyes as he licked the blade clean. Desire so deep and aching such that you had never felt quickened inside of you. It was unbearable now. It was painful.

“Fuck me,” you told him, desperately, stupid from pleasure and need.

Loki moved up your body, so close you thought he might kiss you, but instead he smirked against the corner of your mouth. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last person on Midgard, Asgard, or any other realm.”

Then he rose, leaving you alone.

Chapter 4: Three's a Crowd

Hatred.

Days passed and you radiated with it. The heat of it scorched your skin, turned the food you ate to ash in your mouth, drained all the throbbing lust from you and replaced it with something sharper, something more jagged and ready to cut.

I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last person on Midgard, Asgard, or any other realm.

The words rattled around your head, a stone in the toe of your shoe. They were a mantra you recited as you mutilated the punching bag every morning, pushing yourself harder than you ever had before, until your knuckles were bleeding from your fantasies of hurting Loki, your daydreams of making him bleed.

And those words were the dress you wrapped yourself in—tight, revealing—for Tony’s New Year’s party. 

Maybe Loki wouldn’t fuck you, but there sure as hell was somebody at this party who would. And you were going to find them and fuck them with all the vigor of a woman who had been edged for a month straight.

Tony’s party was extravagant, lined with shining tinsel and warm lights. Who would expect anything less of him, hedonist that he was? Waiters floated around the room, trays of champagne flutes and tiny, expensive looking hors-d'oeuvres in hand.

Outside it was frigid, flakes of snow drifting from the inky black sky. The chill didn’t touch the massive room, crammed full of people. Heads turned toward the sound of your heels clacking against the marble floors as you entered the room.

The roar of chatter hit a short lull. You felt eyes on you, the weight of the whole room baring down, everyone eager to get a glimpse of a real life Avenger. God, you needed a stiff drink.

Pushing through the crowd, people parted for you as you made a B-line straight to the one spot you knew you would be safe from being accosted by elbow-rubbers and press lackies. Your tension eased as you spotted a familiar figure holding up the bar.

The Winter Soldier leaned against the mahogany wood, his muscles straining against the material of his maroon Henley. Like he could sense your approach, his head turned toward you, long, dark hair falling into his face. You saw the metal muscles of his arm clench as you approached, the corner of his mouth turn up in an almost imperceptible smile. You settled beside him, breathed deeply of his leather and tobacco smoke scent - dark, heady, tempting. 

You watched his eyes track your movements, an almost unnoticeable flick down the length of your body. He was a gentleman if nothing else.

“You clean up real nice,” he said, voice soft and intimate, for your ears only. “What ya drinkin’, doll?”

You leaned back against the bar. “Whiskey sour.”

He grinned down at you. “A good choice.”

You stared at him a moment too long, and you hoped he didn’t notice. God, he was handsome. And you were just pent up enough to do something really stupid tonight.

Bucky motioned for the bartender to come over. “Whisky, neat, for me. And a whisky sour for this beauty.”

You felt the flush creeping up your chest toward your cheeks at his flirtatious manner. In the dim light, Bucky could see it and he chuckled and looked away.

“Didn’t take you for the bashful type,” he commented dryly.

You met his dark eyes. “I’m not,” you said, not looking away. You just weren’t used to someone actually saying something complimentary to you. Not being called pathetic and having a knife held to your throat was something new.

You opened your mouth to flirt back, but Bucky’s eyes focused on something behind you.

“I think someone wants your attention,” he said, a hint of tension in his voice.

You turned to see Loki staring at you through the crowd, his tall, slim form wrapped head to toe in silky black. This motherfucker. He wouldn’t fuck you, and here he was cockblocking you. What was his problem?

“Excuse me,” you said to Bucky, not waiting for his response before you disappeared into the crowd. That rage was taking over again, and now you’d found your target.

You followed Loki at a distance through the crowd until it thinned and dispersed, leading you deeper into an empty hall. A heavy weight pressed against you, pinning you to the shadowed wall. You gasped, pushing back against it.

Loki’s hard body caged you in. “Enjoying your time with the tin man?” he asked, petulance dripping from his voice.

You scowled at him. “So what if I was?” you asked, venom in your tone. His grip on you tightened. “What, don’t like the idea of someone else fucking me since you won’t?”

He slammed you against the wall again, lightly, taking your breath away for a moment. You didn’t relent.

“Don’t like the idea of Bucky—"

His hand went to your throat, pressing the sides lightly. “If you finish that sentence, you’ll regret it.”

You snarled at him. “What are you gonna do? Tease me and not fuck me? Oh wait, been there before. There’s nothing you can do to me, Loki.”

Fingers gripped your hair all the way to the scalp, and tugged sharply, pulling your head back. “Nothing I can do to you, hmm?”

You gasped softly. His tongue trailed your throat, up your jawline, and goosebumps formed along your arms.

“Let me go, you asshole,” you protested weakly, feeling your resolve slipping with each lap of his warm tongue.

Loki’s foot nudged your legs apart. His fingers dragged up your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress aside before delving between your legs. You choked on any words you might have said, lost to the pleasure of his skin against yours.

Too soon, he pulled his hand away, admiring the sticky threads coating them in the dim light. His eyes met yours, and you struggled not to whine at the hungry shine in his gaze.

“What would the others say if they knew you were wet as a common whore for someone who destroyed your city and murdered dozens?” he asked, hand returning under your dress.

You tried to hold in your moan, tilting your head back as he slicked his fingers with you.

“I think,” he whispered into the shell of your ear, “they’d finally see what a desperate slut you are.”

You gasped, wordless, as his fingers slipped deeply inside you. The ecstasy of it shocked you, and you moaned loudly.

Loki’s hand went over your mouth, and he shushed you. “Now, now. Wouldn’t want anyone finding us, would you?”

“Loki,” you mumbled into his hand as his fingers torturously moved in you, your wetness dripping down your quivering thighs.

“Imagine the news, pictures of me fucking you on the front page, you stupid with pleasure,” he said, hitting the perfect spot to make you sob. “What would Bucky think of you, then?”

You moaned, rolling your hips into his hand. “Please, I can’t take it,” you begged.

Loki growled under his breath, eyes darkening. “Fuck,” he cursed.

You whined as his hand left you, but when you heard a zipper come undone your heart leapt into your throat. You dared a glance down, panting at the sight of his hardness free and in his hand.

“There’s a lot of people left in a lot of realms, unless you plan on going on another murder spree,” you sniped.

His hand twisted sharply in your hair again, the other hand going to your thigh and hoisting it up around his waist.

“We’ll see how mouthy you are when I’m so deep in you, you can’t even think,” he said, and you moaned at his words.

You felt the thick head of him pressed against your core, and your heart hammered as everything in you throbbed. Slowly, he slipped into you, stretching your walls in a single, torturously slow motion.

The pleasure was so intense that blackness crept into you vision, and your head fell against his shoulder as you both groaned together. There was a moment of stillness before he pulled out, using your hips to leverage his next thrust. You cried out as he pressed into you again, finding that perfect angle that made you boneless. Your whole body tingled, unbearably pent up from all his teasing of you.

He picked up his rhythm, slightly faster than torturous, fucking so deeply into you until, just like he’d said, you couldn’t talk or think. You could only babble and plead for his mercy, to which he only laughed under his breath.

He slipped his hand between you, swirling a fingertip at your core until you saw blinding stars. Shamefully quickly, you felt apart, gushing over him with a splatter. As waves of pleasure crested, you bit his neck hard, all but screaming for him.

“Fuck,” he growled, spilling into you.

As you came down, you realized how quiet it was in the hallway, save for the sound of the two of you panting. God, you desperately hoped no one had heard anything.

Loki slipped out of you, and you whined at the sudden emptiness. Your knees wobbled, nearly collapsing on shaky legs, but he caught you against his chest and leaned you gently back against the wall.

“Are you all right?” he asked, pushing your hair back from your sweaty face. “You did so well, darling.”

You glanced up at him to see him watching you. It felt like this was the first time he had really seen you, and it seemed so disconcerting that you quickly looked away. It was strange for Loki to even care.

“Fine,” you said breathlessly, laughing a little. “Great, actually.”

He smirked. “Shall we go back to the party?” he asked, holding a hand out to you.

You hesitated a moment, then put your hand in his. “Let’s go,” you told him, smiling.

From the shadows at the end of the hallway, a figure watched.

A metal fist clenched.