FIC: A Rogue and Peasant Slave (Avengers, Loki/Natasha non-con, NC-17, 2700 words)
Title: A Rogue and Peasant Slave
Fandom: The Avengers (movieverse)
Pairing: Loki/Natasha (non-con), implied Loki/Clint (non-con)
Summary: Asgard's most treacherous son needs mortal assistance. It can't end well.
A/N: A gift to my best guy, who loved the idea of some Loki/Natasha non-con.
Apologies to Clint for making him the damsel in this. CLINT I PROMISE YOU WILL GET ACTUAL THINGS TO DO IN MY FICS SOON.
Read A Rogue and Peasant Slave on AO3
"Why do you think you were the one called away specially? I want you for this, Agent Romanov. You, and only you. And I think you will do as I ask."
Natasha knows Loki wouldn't say that without all four aces and a royal flush or two up his sleeves, but she just folds her arms and continues to glare at the screen. "Might want to be less sure. You don't have your brain-eating scepter any longer, Cold Miser."
"Oh, but I have something just as useful," Loki lilts.
Here it comes. "I'm sure you can't wait to tell me what it is."
"Your good friend Agent Barton. I have him. Which of you presently owes the other a life debt this week? I keep losing track."
She betrays nothing, not to this piece of shit. "You're one to joke. He's going to have to get a bar code on his back, the way you keep borrowing him from us. You got a crush or something?"
Loki's manic grin deepens. "Would it distress you to know I've tasted him? For a mortal, he does have his charms. Perhaps I'll keep him as a pet this time. Perhaps I'll scatter his immolated remains over my mother's gardens instead. Would you like to have a say in which?" he hisses.
"I think you skipped over the point where you give me proof that you actually have him, motherfucker."
"Oh, did I miss that?" Loki's dismay widens his eyes; she wishes she could find it comic. "It would be most unfortunate for me to dismiss such an important step. Such a pity he took that mission to Delhi alone. Has no one really reported him missing yet?"
Loki lifts his hand. Natasha sees what's dangling from it.
Ah. Well, she shouldn't blame herself for hoping it had been a bluff. This was Loki, after all.
"Have we reached the step," Loki asks, "where you threaten me with gruesome and prolonged murder if I've hurt your precious friend? I do wish to be sure we're doing everything, I believe the expression is, by the book."
"Get to the point, asshole. What the hell do you want?"
He tells her.
Two hours later, she's seated as far away from him as she can get in the spacious passenger compartment of a limo. She's unfamiliarly underequipped; usually she'd have no less than six knives and two firearms concealed under the confines of the little black dress she's wearing; Loki wouldn't allow her to keep a single weapon, much less any of her explosives.
"You're enjoying this so much, aren't you?"
"I thought foolish rhetorical questions would be beneath you, Agent Romanov." He flicks an invisible speck of dust off his immaculate jacket sleeve. Son of a bitch wears semi-formal too damn well. "I can think of ways I might enjoy it still more. Why don't you come a bit closer?" he says brightly. "I haven't had a mortal woman in far too long, and certainly few as lovely as you. This conveyance seems to be comfortable enough for a quick dalliance." He prods the seat next to him experimentally, then pats it in invitation.
Natasha doesn't move. "If I'm going to help you get your damned Olympic Medal--"
"Ouroborous Medallion," he corrects.
"If I'm going to help you get your fucking Maltese MacGuffin, you're going to have to be content with success. Don't push it."
"But I do demand more." He leans toward her. "I demand you be sweet. Else I may reconsider our terms."
He startles a laugh out of her. "You don't really think I'm going to lie down and just let you fuck me, do you? You think I'm, what, curious to see if I stick to your dick?"
"If I insist, why, yes, I think you shall," Loki says pleasantly. "I think I have quite the hold on you at present, and if I demanded you give up your pretty red-fringed oyster to me on this very surface, if the cost of Barton's life hung in the balance, why, I imagine you would do so passionately. The thought is most satisfying. Shall I see?"
"Do you want there to be another famous one-eyed Asgardian? I'd be so happy to oblige."
"Spirited little mortal. I suppose that's why I'm so fond of you and Agent Barton both." He looks away, peering through the window. He doesn't say anything more, but Natasha knows better than to think the subject's abandoned.
The elegant couple they make waltzes in through the front entrance of the museum, past security and into the party crowd. She could have taken this place through the roof in her sleep, and so could Clint if Loki had had something to force him with, but Loki wanted it done in front of the crowd, before the midnight deadline.
It's cake, it's candy from a baby, it's any number of clichés for her to make the switch through three panes of alarmed glass and in front of everyone without a hitch or a single person noticing a thing; she's not a thief by trade but she's fantastic at letting others see what they want to see, and she imagines that's why Loki chose her. She doesn't trust Loki's excuses why he couldn't take it himself, or the deadline, or why the medallion would be worthless if any violence arose in its taking, but she knows she doesn't have to. He's laying out the steps, and she only has to dance.
She doesn't let him get her into the limo again. Once they're outside, she ducks under the stairway railing and drops down into the concrete walk that leads to the museum grounds, now dark and deserted. She moves ahead swiftly, knowing Loki will follow her, and he does. There, now she's on better ground. Her kind of ground.
She turns to face him, holding up the medallion. It's hot in her angry hand.
"We've reached the step where you don't get your hands on this until Barton's free." She takes a step back. "Unless you'd like to fight me for it. You did say something about violence making this thing useless?"
"Please don't make yourself ridiculous." Loki gestures, and the medallion disappears from her hand to reappear in his. He examines it. "Ah. The correct one after all. I must crave your forgiveness for doubting you; I had the suspicion you would betray me with a double switch and leave the original in the cabinet."
She'd thought about it. She should have done it. No, that's not true; she doesn't care about some trinket or what Loki does with it. Not when Clint's life is at stake.
Loki gestures again and the medallion is gone, slipping away as if into a pocket of air. "There. Secured, and under my ownership. Now I have no fear for violence affecting its transfer."
"Well, aren't you the clever little frost giant." She circles around him slowly. He expects her to keep him talking, so she fulfills his expectations. "Are we done here? You let Barton go?"
Loki cocks his head. "No," he says after a moment, as if the idea has just come to him and he's rolling the taste of it about on his tongue, considering. "I believe I do wish to see the color of the hair between your legs, Natasha Romanov. Shed that fetching raiment of yours, and get on all fours. Generosity will come more easily to my hand afterward."
Natasha smiles. "You know, I think my line here should be, 'I'm sorry it has to be like this,' but believe me, I'm not."
Loki expects her attack, so she begins by spinning away, which means he misses his first blow and her first strike takes him on the back of the neck. Which would be wonderful if Asgardians didn't have bones like steel. She's got some work ahead of her.
They couldn't be a more unequal match, the hand-to-hand assassin and the Asgardian sorceror, and yet there is no way to say which of the two of them has the advantage. Natasha leaps and lashes out and Loki dodges and drives, and flesh strikes flesh and comes back to strike again. Both of them act, both of them give no quarter and both of them connect. Yet neither goes down. It's a scuffle, which favors Natasha, then it's a duel, which favors Loki. And back again and back yet again.
But the outcome couldn't have been in doubt. Loki has the one thing that can defeat Natasha.
"Yield!" Loki demands in the middle of one very showy but maddeningly effective slice.
She doesn't waste breath answering him. This isn't some battle of honor.
"Yield or suffer!" Loki barks, "You know in what coin I will make you pay, Natasha Romanov, you know full well! Yield to me or he dies!"
"Go fuck yourself!" Natasha yells even as she aims another blow, but Loki's words have already done their damage; she's sickened to realize she's pulled her punch, and that's all Loki needs, turning with the blow and catching her wrist. In a heartbeat her arm is swallowed up in an iron grip behnd her back, and his leg is between hers, sweeping her off-balance. Down she goes.
His weight is a tank on her back, his hands trapping her arms. This shouldn't be a position that can stop her but this is not a man, this is Loki, Thor's brother, and he's stronger than anyone she's had to fight. Strong men, even inhuman ones, always have their vulnerable spots but she can't get a limb free to find his. She goes limp beneath him, waiting for him to shift in anticipation so that she can take him by surprise. He doesn't. She can't. He presses the weight of his legs into the space between hers and pushes them apart. She drives her sacrum hard into his groin and he doesn't even grunt.
He has both her wrists in one hand; the other slides beneath her, clutching at one breast, bruising it in a grip that feels like he wants to crush it to atoms. Then that hand moves lower. Her skirt's too short to be any barrier, rucked up about her hips, and when he tangles his fingers in the scrap of thong she's wearing and tears it away she's sure he does it just for the sheer delight of ripping it from her; it could hardly have been in his way.
She still isn't ready to resign herself to this. He's going to need to move something to actually fuck her; she's counting on having that as her chance. And then, as his hand comes around to grip her jaw, she hears that biting hiss slithering through her hair: "If I am not inside you by the count of ten, he will die. I promise you."
Loki lies. That's what he does. But only when it suits him. Natasha thinks he would take great pleasure in keeping that promise.
He doesn't count aloud. He has his clothing open and his cock inside her before her own internal count can reach three, and she breathes through the brutal tearing thrust of it, cold and hot as any knife wound. He thrusts again--the violation is dragging up buried, too-familiar memories even as they dig in their claws to stay buried, ripping fresh furrows into her psyche, and her impulse to fight is almost impossible to smother. But only almost.
She doesn't think about Clint during this. She wants him to have no part in this memory.
The only mercy is that Loki doesn't draw it out. He gets a rhythm and uses it, panting like any human male in rut as he drives himself to climax, his free hand preferring to enmesh itself in her hair as he does, dragging her head back until her cheek is touching his face, at that moment a more repulsive contact than the rape is. Then he's spurting inside her, the noise he's making a sigh of obscene delight, grinding into her for a long minute as he buries her against the earth.
Being the not-completely-stupid bastard that he is, when he does get off her he instantly gets himself well out of her reach, and into a ready stance. "How very entertaining that was." He pushes a damp lock of hair back from his forehead as he watches her push herself up. "A most satisfying evening. And that may be only the beginning of the entertainment." He throws out a careless hand. "Perhaps you'll swell with my child. It's been known to happen. What an honor that would be for you, Natasha Romanov."
She's not even going to go there. Not even.
The asshole still isn't saying anything about releasing Clint.
Natasha knows he tore her, and that the stinging warm wetness on her cunt is blood as well as his semen. She pushes herself onto hands and knees and then gets up, misstepping only a little as she plants her feet.
She comes toward him slowly, not bothering to push her skirt down. One hand drifts down to her thigh and she wipes at what she finds there. Yes, blood. Good.
Loki stands his ground as she approaches, his mouth twisting into a deeper grin the closer she gets. When she gets within arms' reach he tilts his head again as if to ask and what will you do and say now that will turn back the events of this night?
She lays her blood-wet hand on his cheek. Not a slap, not a punch, just the flat of her fingers smearing the mixed blood and semen over his mouth. He allows it, with an expression that shows, how about that, she really has surprised him. "We're done. Give him to me." If there's one thing she's betting Loki understands, it's ceremony. "I bought him with blood. Now give him to me."
Loki inhales, as if savoring her daring, savoring the tainted smell on his lips. "Indeed," he says slowly, "I do believe we are even."
Then her throat is under Loki's hands, seized, cupped between them. "But Loki, my dear foolish mortal, is not ever satisfied to be even. I will be owed." He pulls her closer, as if he would smear the wetness back onto her lips with his own. "If I am to release your equally charming friend and have nothing left to me for sport, I must have something to which I may look forward. I will release him. And in return, Natasha Romanov, Agent Romanov, she who pays her debts--you will pay me one more." One hand moves from her throat to clutch the swell of her ass, dragging her against him. "I will have you again. The time and circumstances will be of my choosing. And when I do choose them, you will submit to me. Servile and sweet, oh, yes. I shall have all of you. Mouth, fundament--if I am not satisfied I will bore a new orifice into you and take that." His fingers release her throat altogether and brush over her cheek tenderly. "But you will not provoke me, will you? Nor deny me. Not if it is your debt."
He's probably going to demand to do it in front of Clint. Or maybe Fury. Fuckheads like him are just so predictable.
"Keep your end of the bargain," she says slowly, "and I promise you, you'll be the one begging to be let off by the time we're done."
His smile curls even more deeply. "I shall anticipate it." He releases her at last. "Good night, Natasha Romanov."
He turns, slipping away between the glints of the faint streetlight in the distance. Asshole knows the value of a good exit line, she'll give him that.
She lets herself give in to a long shaky exhale (not a sob, never a sob), puts her hands to her mouth to stop their trembling.
Then she smooths down her skirt, and goes to find a phone.