#david loki

You can’t pull away fast enough. Rejection burns in your ears. You can’t help but think you aren’t drunk enough for this.

You leave Loki’s tie loose, fingers numb and clumsy where they let go. “i’m sorry—fuck, shit—did I…”

“No,” he says softly, quickly. But there’s a subtle firmness to it. His hand catches your wrist, his big fingers encircling your wristbone. His warmth hits you a half-second late, your nerves lagging with the reeling of your head.

He smiles down gently at you, oddly enough. Huffs an almost-laugh through his nose. It lightens the flood in your chest, just a little.

“Hey,” Loki breathes, head dipping closer to yours. It’s electric in itself. “You didn’t do anything,” he tells you.

The words land slow in your chest. You swallow, throat dry. “I thought… I thought you were okay with,” you gesture to the scant, swaying space between you, “this.”

He blinks hard, twice, his pale blue eyes flicking to your mouth and back; like it’s an effort not to look too long.

You notice his other hand on your waist, not knowing when it got there.

“I was.” His thumb presses lightly, and you hear his breath hitch in his throat. “I am.”

“Then what…?” you start to murmur, searching Loki’s face.

There was a paradoxical unreadability about him. He had that tightness, that control, like a string pulled too-tight around his chest. But there was something else there, too. Something warm and boyishly nervous.

“I haven’t done this in… Christ. I just want to slow down.” He says, trailing off close to your ear. His pale blue eyes search yours, bracing for your reaction. “Yeah? That okay?”

Something about the low silk of his voice makes you shudder.

“…Yeah. Okay.”

You feel his hold on your wrist tighten, just slightly, his hand on your waist staying rooted. You’re close enough to smell his aftershave, breathe it in.

“‘m not good at doing it slow,” you slur against his neck, the words bubbling past your teeth easier than they should. You can feel him swallow, thick. His breathing stutters for a moment before he can rein it in.

You press a kiss to the tattoo on his neck, filing away the thought to ask him about it later. “Don’t mean to come on so strong.”

“You didn’t come on strong,” he murmurs. His hand leaves your wrist, then hesitates—hovering, reconsidering before it cups the back of your neck. The touch is steady, yet the choice behind it is far from effortless.

He tilts your head up, gentle, making you look at him. “You came on honest.”

“What do you mean?”

His hand slides up your waist, controlled, thumbing the hem of your shirt. “You know…” His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I deal with people aalllll day who hide what they want. You didn’t.”

“Then what? what’s your issue, mm?” You demand, hands fisting clumsily in his shirt, still buttoned all the way up.

You didn’t exactly bring guys home with you to take things slow.

His shoulders rise with a small breath. It almost reminds you of a boy scout, preparing for battle, or whatever boy scouts do.

“I’m just…” He shakes his head, sheepish in his own way. He blinks hard. “Slower than I seem. More straightforward. I haven’t, uh, done a lot of things.”

His thumb brushes back and forth, pressing lightly into your side. You can’t tell if it’s to ground you or reassure himself.

“And I’m a little drunk,” he admits, quiet smile playing at his lips. “So I’d rather say it now—when it’s easy—than do the whole… ‘we’re about to tear each other apart’ thing.”

“So.. slower,” you echo, your hand slowly finding the collar of his shirt. You feel his breath hitch. “That’s it?”

“…Most of it.”

You slowly undo the very top button of his collar, watching his body language. His shoulders square like he’s braced against something internal.

“And the rest?”

He blinks hard down at you, eyes flicking. You start to recognize it. His lips part for a moment, and he scrubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“The—uh… control. I don’t like when it’s, um, frenzied.”

He speaks like it’s a challenge to explain himself, even when his head’s floating with whiskey.

“You seem pretty in control,” you murmur, still working on unbuttoning his shirt. You take it slow, watching for discomfort. “Better than me, anyway.”

He chuckles breathily, a disbelieving laugh. “That’s generous.”

You hum, pressing a kiss to the revealed parts of Loki’s neck. You were starting to lose your patience, despite yourself.

“Tell me to stop,” you breathe against him. He shudders.

“I don’t want to.” His hold on your waist tightens. “I want to… feel it. Feel you.” He takes a deep breath, eyes skirting away, embarrassed. “Just without losing my footing.”

A slow, deliberate smile spreads across your face. “Okay,” you say. “We can do that.”

You can see the weight sighing off his shoulders, the relief in the way he blinks lightly.

“Yeah?” He breathes, drunk honesty making him need to hear it twice, that anchoring agreement.

You just slip your fingers into his hand, guiding. He startles almost imperceptibly at the contact, eyes flicking down to where you’re holding him.

“This way,” you say.

Understanding dawns on Loki’s face, and you hear him sigh through his nose. “Okay.”

You lead him down a short hallway, dimly lit. He follows half a step behind you, work-worn hand still in yours, and you can feel him grounding himself through the contact. The apartment feels warmer back here, softer somehow. The hum of the city fades.

When you reach the bedroom, you don’t turn on the overhead light. Just the lamp by the bed, waxy and warm like bleeding sunlight.

You stop just inside the doorway.

Loki lingers there, taking it in. The bed. The quiet. You.

“This is usually where things get…” He trails off.

“Fast?” you offer.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You step closer, still not crowding him. “Then we won’t do that.”

Something in his expression eases at that. His shoulders relax out of their rigid hold. “Thank you,” he says, low and earnest enough to make your chest ache.

You guide him to sit on the edge of the bed. He perches on your duvet, hands resting on his thighs like he’s not sure what to do with them yet.

It’s almost endearing to see such a big, stoic man almost nervous.

You stand between his knees, resisting the urge to touch him just yet.

“Still slow?” you ask.

He looks up at you, eyes warm and a little glassy. “Still slow.”

You lean in, honey-drip slow, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. The closeness alone makes his breath hitch, but then he melts.

Loki’s hand slides from your waist, fingers lingering before he lets go. He shifts on the edge of the bed, shoulders rolling once, drawing a quiet breath as he pulls away.

“Okay,” he murmurs. More to himself than you.

His fingers go to the buttons of his shirt, clumsy at first. He frowns faintly at them, the effort of concentration written plainly across his face. One button comes undone. Then another. He pauses, glancing up at you, checking.

You don’t rush him.

That seems to help.

He exhales, shoulders loosening, and continues. He moves with slow, careful movements, like he’s aware of every inch of himself right now.

When the shirt finally parts, he shrugs it off with a small, self-conscious breath, like he’s surprised he made it that far.

The tank top underneath sticks a little as he lifts it, catching at his ribs. He tugs it down again, embarrassed, not used to being watched like this. He tries again, slower this time. It comes free. He drops it beside him on the bed, ears faintly pink.

“There,” he says, quiet. Almost shy.

He looks at you then, really looks—eyes warm, searching, still a little unsure.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice low, steady despite the nerves humming under it.

“More than that,” you hum, easing your hands down his chest, laying him down.

You climb on top of him, straddling his lap, feeling his want mount in the growing bulge between his legs.

You slide your hands down his chest again, deliberately slow, eliciting a breathy haah that sounds like it’s been trapped in Loki’s lungs for a while.

He appears almost starstruck, looking up at you. Something about the red in his ears tells you that if he were sober, he’d be cold, distant stone.

But neither of you are sober.

He lifts up, kissing you again. Harder this time. His choice. His hands find their way back to your waist, like he likes it there.

You can feel the callouses seared into his palms as they slide under your shirt. They run back and forth over the soft, bare skin of your sides.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his hands passing over your chest. Reverent. Feeling you. “You’re… shit.”

“Hmm?” you kiss the corner of his mouth, down to his jaw, then his shoulder. Your hands slide down to his slacks, feeling the tent there. Its big—you can already tell.

Your hand thumbs at his belt. “Can I?”

You hear him stifle a needy noise that bubbles up from his throat—almost a groan. It makes you grin.

“Mmm—yeah. Mhm.”

You slide his belt off after fumbling for a moment, your open mouth searing wet, blooming bruises along Loki’s throat. Your hand slips easily down the front of his pants, palming his heavy, flushed length through his boxers.

“D’you want me to use my mouth?” you ask.

Loki shakes his head no, his eyes glassy with a restrained desperation you hadn’t seen yet.

“I just—can I—I just want to be inside you. I don’t—I’m not used to… shit like that.”

You make a mental note to show him what he’s missing later on. But you don’t want to push him too hard, not yet.

“Yeah. ‘Course you can,” you murmur.

You catch Loki’s mouth in a deep kiss, feeling his blood rush into the scent of you.

His hands grab and feel and worship every inch he can reach, far past thinking and deep into wanting.

.

.

.

“Oh, fuck,” Loki pants, one arm braced above you, the other holding your waist hard enough to bruise. Sweat beads on his forehead, his slick-backed hair falling messy over his face.

You’re mewling below him, breathy moans punching out of your chest with every thrust, dizzy with how deep he is.

You knew he was gonna be big.

But jesus, not this big.

You didn’t expect him to know how to use it, either.

“Shiitt—David, fuck!” You moan, hooking your arms around his neck.

“Do you need me to slow dow—aahn…” Loki groans, his head dipping into the line of your shoulder. The muscles in his torso ripple with every delicious, stirring movement of his hips.

You can feel every vein of his impossibly fat dick stretching you out, the space where the two of you meet all creamy and perfect.

“Don’t—mmmph—don’t you dare,” you gasp.

He nods breathlessly, his lips swollen from how hard he’s biting them to keep from groaning too loud.

The cord in his chest—the one he keeps coiled tight—starts to unravel faster than he can rein it in.

His hips snap up more and more erratically, small groans of pleasure escaping his lips as he holds onto your hips for dear life. “Jesus—fuck…!”

You rake your nails down his back, digging them into his skin and making him shudder hard.

You can feel his cock throbbing hard, his veins throbbing like it hurts so good. His hand on your waist moves to swipe sweat-slick baby hairs from your forehead, glassy eyes flicking between yours.

Without thinking, your hands come up to cup his face above yours. Your thumbs brush over his stubble, a breathless, too-tender gesture that makes you both seize.

“Oh, ah-haahh.. mmph..” You whimper, pulling Loki down so that your foreheads touch.

You watch as his eyes roll back into his head, his long eyelashes fluttering. The muscles in his shoulders tense as he gets close, his hips faltering and losing their rhythm.

“I’m gonna—fuck…!” Loki gasps, pulling out right as he cums. He spurts all over your inner thighs, his breath shuddery and panting.

He collapses next to you, blinking hard and breathing harder.

You share that blissful, unthinking moment where the adrenaline and breathless air crescendo into this.

“Fuckin’ A…”Loki sighs after a long beat.

“Mmm?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head.

You watch him sit up slow, with a carefulness that suggested too much movement would shatter something.

His breathing evens out, deliberate. Controlled again. Too controlled.

You notice the warmth drain from his eyes. They’re distant now, that open glassiness having shuttered back into the cave of his mind. Locked behind something practiced, careful, safe.

He must have sobered up.

“Are you—” you start to say.

“—I have to go.” He says it quick, avoidant, but not unkind. Like he’s stepped too far and cant backpedal fast enough.

He gets up, before you can answer. He shoves his slacks back on, buttoning his shirt to the top quicker than he could get it off. Precise, button after button.

Familiar armor sliding into place. He won’t look you in the eye.

“You just—what the fuck?” you blink, pulling your shirt back over your head. You’re still sticky with sweat and cum.

“Hey,” you try again, softer now. “David.”

He stills.

For a moment, you think he won’t turn around. Then he does — and there’s something naked in his expression that has nothing to do with his clothes.

“There’s a case—I have to… Someone..”

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. A shake of his head, like he’s frustrated with his own lack of honesty.

“Sorry. ‘M sorry.”

It isn’t a plea for forgiveness.

It beckons distance, pushes you away.

You follow him to your door anyway.

You stumble after him, trying to find the words to interrogate him, cuss at him, anything.

“Hey. What the hell?” You say, but it’s more of a plea. A sad one.

He pauses there, hand on the handle, like he’s bracing himself.

Then he turns back and cups the back of your head, forehead pressing briefly to yours.

His eyes are filled with something that makes your heart clench.

The kiss he leaves on your forehead is fierce and restrained all at once. Like it costs him something.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. The weight of it lands heavier than anything else he’s said all night.

David’s key turned slowly in the lock, a deep sigh escaped his chest. The door creaked open, and there he stood—tall, broad, every inch the detective the city expected him to be. But expectations were heavy, especially being the detective that solved every case.

David stepped inside, silent except for the low thud of his boots on the hardwood. No greeting, no shrug of his coat. Just the slam of the door behind him.

he didn’t have the energy to put on a brave face for you tonight. He was tired. The kind that sleep couldn’t fix.

You were in the kitchen, warming up his dinner. His eyes meet yours-and it wrecks him.

He reaches you in four long strides, and then he’s on you—face to your neck, arms around your waist, clutching you like you’re the only thing keeping him together.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t explain. He just needs.

Your hands move on instinct—into his hair, down his back, over the thick fabric of his coat. You can feel the way he trembles. Not with cold.

He said nothing for a long time.

But you felt everything in the way he held you.

Like he was trying to ground himself. Like he needed to touch something good and kind, to remember the world wasn't made entirely of horror.

His shoulders shuddered once—then again. And then he was quietly falling apart in your arms, his badge and bravado left somewhere between the crime scene and the front door.

You didn’t ask what he’d seen. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You just held him tighter.

As his silent tears dampened your shirt, your heart sank. You knew the darkness he carried, knew the things he had to see to protect others, to try to bring justice to this damn town. But you also knew how he carried his own trauma.

When he unlatched himself from you, his eyes were puffy and red and his bottom lip quivered just a bit.

You held his face in your hands, a simple gesture that meant I see you, I know you. I love you.

“Come here,” you whispered, helping him shed his jacket. You took his hand and led him to the couch.

He sat heavily.

“I’ll be right back with dinner. And a beer?”

He nodded.

“Whiskey?”

He nodded again, confirming his choice of drink.

You plated dinner and poured David’s whiskey and a glass of wine for yourself.

You curled up on the couch beside him while he ate. The show you put on was something mindless and didn’t require much attention- neither of you were watching it, regardless.

For a while- after glasses had been emptied, refilled, then emptied again- you just breathed together.

You didn’t need to fill the silence. It wasn’t empty—it was full of unsaid things. Of grief and guilt and too many hours spent on the job and not home with you.

You stood, gently taking the glass from David’s hand- setting it on the coffee table.

“C’mon. Hot shower make you feel better.”

He arose without protest, letting you lead him to the bedroom.

He sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off his socks while watching you scurry around getting him a fresh towel and washcloth. You even went as far as laying out his favorite pair of sweatpants and t-shirt.

He didn’t have a favorite pair of anything until you came around. The t-shirt had become his favorite the first time he saw you wear it. You had made the most delicious breakfast one morning- wearing nothing but his shirt. Then, after breakfast, he bent you over and took you right there on the kitchen counter. It had been his favorite ever since. The sweats were his favorite because you bought them for him- insisting he ditch the jeans and be comfy. He’d never been comfier.

You stood between his legs, trying to coax him into the shower.

He looked up at you with glassy, tired eyes- there was something in them you couldn’t quite read.

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Thank you.” He said, voice meek.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was slow. Full of ache. Full of everything he didn’t have words for.

He kissed you like you were the first clean breath he’d had in days.

He hadn’t meant to ignite anything—just wanted to confirm you're real.

But it lights something anyway.

You loosen the collar of his shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons, and he lets you undress him piece by piece. Not hurried. Not lustful. Just needy in a way that isn't about sex. Not yet. It's about skin. Warmth. Proximity. Something to soften the sharp edges still carved into him.

You pulled away slightly; reluctantly. You wanted nothing more than to comfort David, but you loved him too much to take advantage of him in any way.

Your face must have said what you were thinking before your mouth could.

“I want you, baby.” He said, voice still quiet, rough, “Need to know I’m still a man. Still human. Wanna..Make you feel good.” He said, his hands resting on your hips.

“I just want you to be sure. Don’t wanna..you know…hurt you. Want you to be in the right state of mind, to.. consent.” You mumbled, combing your hands through his messy dark strands.

“I appreciate you lookin’ out for me like that, honey, I do.” He said. “It means more than you know. But I’d never regret makin’ love to you…or just do it to make myself feel better..You’re everything to me.”

His words melted your insides. They were earnest and true and made you wanna give him everything he ever wanted. Not just your body, but your heart and soul- all of you.

Your eyes scanned his face as his hands skimmed your body. His fingers tracing your ribs, your hips, the dip of your waist, as if memorizing proof that you were real, that this was real.

“I’m alright, darlin’. I want you, if you’ll have me.” He murmured, voice rough.

Your eyes flickered to his lips and back up to his unyielding baby blues. “Of course I’ll have you. Always will.” The last words came out barely a whisper, but loud enough to be carved into David’s memory.

Always.

Within a moment, his mouth was on yours—hungry, uneven, the taste of desperation more potent than the whiskey he’d had just before.

Your clothes and the remainder of his were shed in frantic, clumsy motions, but not for the sake of lust alone—it was about stripping away the day, the blood and grit of the job until there was nothing left between you but skin. Until he could remember he was flesh and bone, not just the badge, not just the case files but yours. Yours to hold, to care for. To love.

The moment you were bare before him, he slowed. “So beautiful..” He muttered before sealing his mouth to your chest, sucking at your skin until you were putty in his hands. He wanted to taste every part of you, claim every inch, erase the bitter tang of violence with the sweetness of you.

His hands gripped and kneaded the soft flesh of your ass. He pulled you flush against him, his cock rock hard against you.

He then pulled you on into his lap and you began to grind your slick heat along his length, earning a moan from him that went straight to your core.

He held you- not as if you were something fragile-but as if you were something solid and grounding. And to him you were that- an anchor. His anchor.

He coaxed you out of his lap and onto the bed.

You gently laid your head on the pillow, watching David’s every move.

He climbed over you, eyes full of hunger and desire.

When you pulled him down closer to you, he followed like gravity itself bound him to you. He pressed his face to your neck, kissing, breathing, grounding himself in the rhythm of your pulse. Your hands traced the slope of his broad shoulders, the tension in every line of muscle, easing him open with touch alone.

“I’ve got you.” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “You’re here, with me.”

He groaned low in his chest and slid his hands along your body, wanting to memorize every inch. His touch was reverent, then hungry, then reverent again- balancing on a delicate scale.

When he finally pushed into you, he broke. His breath stuttered, his face burying into your neck.

“God—” he rasped, voice cracking, “—you make me feel alive.”

He clung to you, moving with a raw, aching need, every thrust carrying more than desire—passion and warmth. Love.

And you gave him everything: your hands gripping his back, nails in his skin to remind him he was real; your voice whispering his name like a prayer; your body grounding him in the here and now.

He muttered sweet nothings in between moans and curses as he thrust into you, eating up every moan and sigh you were giving him.

You felt the familiar heat curl in your belly, David’s cock hitting inside you just right. He wanted you to come undone under him, to feel you clench and spasm around him; to know he was making you feel good.

Every thrust was a plea, every gasp against your lips a confession he couldn’t voice any other way. He drove into you as deep as he could, angling his hips to hit your g-spot. It was too much- the way he was touching you, kissing you, holding you while the sound of skin on skin rang in your ears. It pushed you over the edge. Your body went taut as waves of pleasure crashed over you. David worked you through your orgasm, eating up every moan and sound like it were mana from above.

His body trembled with the effort of holding himself together, and yet in you, he unraveled—safe to break, safe to want.

Your moans tangled with his, the room filled with the slick sounds of your bodies moving in sync. He moved faster, harder, chasing the edge, but his eyes never left yours.

“Fuck, babygirl..Gonna-mm- gonna cum.” he panted, voice ragged.

“Give it to me David, I wanna feel you.” you whispered, clenching around him, pulling him deeper.

That undid him. With a strangled sound, he buried himself in you, thrusts faltering as release tore through him. His body shook, his face pressed to your neck as he spilled inside you, groaning your name like a prayer.

You held him through it, legs tightening around his waist, arms around his shoulders, keeping him anchored while waves of shuddering breaths left him spent against you. His heart pounded against your chest, heavy and real.

When the aftershocks faded, he stayed inside you, head on your chest, listening to your steady heartbeat. You felt him steady—stitched together by your hands, your lips, your love. Not perfect, not whole, but human. And that was enough.

David’s pleading blue eyes convinced you to shower with him. But you didn’t really need much convincing to begin with.

The bathroom filled with steam as the water ran hot.

For a moment, David just stood under the stream of water, in hopes it would wash his worries away.

It didn’t.

But it helped. You helped.

You ran the soapy cloth over David’s body with reverence, minding the little cuts and bruises he’d been collecting.

He just stood there, letting you clean him-enjoying your caring, attentive hands.

The simple act had him gazing at you like you were something holy; like you could wash his soul clean too.

You simply smiled under his heavy gaze and reached for the shampoo. David let out a something between a moan and a growl when you dragged your nails across his scalp. You continued to comb your fingers through his wet hair- making him feel good and scrubbing out the stubborn hair product he liked to use.

When you both were clean, he kissed you slow and easy, savoring the sensation of your warm lips and the hot water running down his back.

You were both slick with soap suds and water- the nonslip shower mat your only saving grace. His mouth found your neck again, pressing heavy, wet kisses and small nibbles all the way down to your breasts.

It was slower, sweeter than before. There was no rush, no urgency to reach the finish line. He was taking his time with you as if the water bill wasn’t due next week.

He lifted your leg up over his hip and slid into you in one slow motion, savoring the wet, smooth, heat.

Your moans echoed off the tile walls, the intensity of the sound drove him absolutely wild- in the best way.

He continued to kiss you deeply; all teeth and tongue. When his mouth wasn’t connected to yours, he was leaving little bite marks along your skin, not enough to bruise, but just enough to remind you of the moment in the morning.

David-who was thriving off your pleasure- thrusted into you faster now, driving you towards your second orgasm.

He hiked your leg up higher, singing your praises- how tight and wet you are, how pretty you look taking his thick cock.

“Thats it, sweet girl. Mhmm, takin’ my cock so good.”

And with that, a toe-curling orgasm came over you, sending electricity through your veins. He held you through it, his grip tightening as he approached his own climax.

Your orgasm sent David over the edge, with a few more thrusts he was spilling inside you again with a loud groan. You held him through this one too, gently coaxing him through his high.

Neither of you moved. He continued to hold you close while he gently lifted your leg off his waist.

“God, you’re perfect.” He whispered, stroking your wet hair. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” You mumbled into his moist skin. “So much.”

You embraced each other for a while longer. Water bill be damned.

-

When you and he crawled into bed, David curled toward you like a man seeking shelter from a storm.

You pressed your forehead to his. Let your fingers dance over his ribs, slow and grounding.

His hand slid under your shirt, not for anything more, just to feel skin-to-skin.

And when he finally fell asleep—deep, exhausted, and safe—you stayed awake a little longer.

Watching him.

Protecting him, for once.

You woke to the rustle of sheets and the sharp inhale of breath that wasn’t yours. In the dark, your eyes adjusted to the outline of broad, strong shoulders sitting upright on the edge of the bed, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to catch up with the world that had just torn him out of sleep.

“David?” your voice was soft, still husky from sleep.

He didn’t answer at first.

You slid closer, your hand brushing across his back, slow and deliberate, reminding him you were there. “nightmare?”

His jaw flexed. “Yeah.” A single word, gravel-low. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, like he could scrub the images out of his head. “I was sleepin’ so good too.”

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. He leaned back into you, just a fraction, like he couldn’t quite help it, like his body yearned for yours. (It did)

“It’s just us. Just the quiet.” You whispered.

His breath shuddered.

Slowly, you shifted around to face him, climbing into his lap so he couldn’t look away. Your hands cupped his face, thumbs smoothing the furrows between his brows. He finally lifted his eyes to yours

“Sorry to wake you up.”

You kissed his temple, lingering. “It’s alright.”

For a long moment, he just breathed against you, the sharp edges of him softening under your steady touch. His hands—those hands that were always gripping too hard, always fidgeting—slid to your waist and held on, not rough, not desperate, just grounding.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.,” he muttered against your hair, voice quiet but raw.

You pressed your forehead to his, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck.

“You never have to wonder. You’re stuck with me.” You chuckled slightly.

The tension in him broke. He smiled- small, but still there. “No one I’d rather be stuck with, baby.”

Eventually, when the silence settled, you guided him back down against the pillows. He resisted for a moment, restless energy still sparking through him, but your steady presence anchored him. You stayed close, one hand resting over his chest, feeling the uneven thrum of his heartbeat slowly begin to steady beneath your touch.

You didn’t tell him the nightmares would go away, because they might not. Instead, you offered what you could: quiet, warmth, the simple reminder that he wasn’t alone in the dark.

The slam of the front door is what first alerts you to his presence. You raise from your comfortable position on the couch and stretch, trying to ease the tiredness from your limbs before making your way to the entryway of your shared house. His back is turned towards you as he hangs his wet rain coat on the wall hook. You watch his muscles strain under the tight work shirt he's wearing.

"Hi there, detective." You greet him warmly, a small smile on your face as you wait for him to turn around. You see the way his shoulders are hunched forward, his posture a telling sign that he's carrying stress and tension deep in his muscles. He unholsters his gun and places it on the entryway table, along with his handcuffs that are always attached to his hip—both an extension of him at this point.

He turns to face you and that's when you see the darkness under his tired eyes. The appearance of his dark circles doesn’t surprise you. He was up before the first crack of sunlight even dared to seep its way into your bedroom, giving you a quick kiss against your hairline and whispering "See you later, baby. Sleep well." Before slipping out of your shared bedroom quietly to not disturb you. Even though the appearance of the dark circles don't shock you, they still make your heart ache for the man standing in front of you.

He gives you a sleepy smile as a greeting, not responding verbally. You close the distance between the two of you with a few small steps. You untuck his shirt from his trousers before beginning to undo the buttons on his light blue button down, starting at the buttons on the collar and making your way down to the very bottom button.

"Rough day?" You question him quietly as he shrugs the shirt off his shoulders then down his arms, leaving him in his white undershirt.

"Mhm," he mumbles, placing the shirt on the entryway table beside his gun and handcuffs where it will be forgotten until the morning when you do laundry. "Two little girls are missing. It's not looking good." He sighs, running a hand through his hair in quiet frustration.

"I see." You say softly, trying to approach the subject cautiously and considerately. Your hands find his belt, undoing the buckle and unthreading it through the loops of his trousers. "Well, they've got the best detective in Conyers looking for them. If anyone can find them, it's you, David. And you will find them, I'm sure of that." You tell him finally, freeing him from his belt before laying it on top of the discarded work shirt, black leather shining from the overhead light.

When you glance back up at his face, he's already looking down at you, a loving look in his blue eyes. A small smile appears on your lips, which he returns. You stand on your tippy toes to place a gentle kiss against his cheek before you're turning away from him completely, grabbing his hand in the process.

"Hungry? We've got that leftover Chinese food from Thanksgiving. I can warm some of it up for you." You offer, stopping in front of the entryway to the kitchen, still hand in hand. You feel him stop behind you, his body so close that you can feel the heat radiating from his chest against your back.

"No," he declines, placing a soft kiss against the top of your head. "Thank you." He tells you quietly, squeezing your hand gently in his own. He was always gentle with you. He appreciated having someone he could be tender with after long hours of putting on a hard front, interrogating men he knew should he locked behind bars for the rest of their lives.

You nod before you start to move again, your feet carrying you closer to your shared bedroom as he trails behind you, socked feet hitting the cold hardwood floors. Both of you know that he's exhausted, both mentally and physically, and needs some sleep before he finds himself outside in the cold November air again. It's the kind of cold that nips at your skin constantly and gives no reprieve.

You cross into the threshold of your bedroom before you squeeze his hand in return and let go of it, turning your attention to the bed. You pull the covers down as you order him to strip from his trousers, which he follows. The heat in the room has been turned up so it's nice and toasty for the two of you. You pat the bed as you sit down, signaling him to follow behind you.

He sits on the edge of the bed and you situate yourself so that you're sitting behind him on your knees.

"What're you doing?" He asks, reaching his hand back and grabbing at your pajama clad legs. Shushing him, you raise your hands to his shoulders, placing one hand on each shoulder. You begin to knead the tense muscles under your grip, digging your thumbs into the hard knots and circling them, trying to work them out of his shoulders.

You hear what seems to be a soft moan escaping David's lips as you continue the motions, which causes you to smile with pride. "Feels good? You're so tense, Dave." You tell him softly, concern laced between your words.

"Mhm, feels good." He manages to get out, his head hanging forward as you continue to work the tight muscles with your hands. You're both quiet for a few minutes as your hands work, soft groans slipping past his lips every now and then. When you're satisfied with what you've accomplished, you give his shoulders one last squeeze before leaning forward and placing a soft kiss against his right shoulder blade.

You wrap your arms around his torso, hugging him loosely from behind as you rest your chin against his shoulder. He places his hand on top of yours that's resting on his stomach, leaning his head to the side to rest it gently against yours. You allow yourselves a few moments of silence, enjoying each others presence.

"Let's lay down, yeah?" You finally say quietly, tapping your fingers lightly against his stomach. He nods in agreement, removing his hand from yours to allow you the space to move away from him comfortably. The two of you move in silence, finding your ways to your respective sides of the bed. David is always closest to the door, wanting to be able to protect you even while he’s unconscious.

Once the two of you are situated under the covers, you turn to face him. He's lying on his back, eyes on the ceiling. He's lost in his thoughts—something that's easy for him to do. It's dark in the room, but you can still make out the way his face scrunches, muscles contracting involuntarily under his skin, and the way his eyes blink hard.

Adjusting yourself so that you're on your side and able to reach over to him, you begin running your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp lightly as you repeat the motion consistently. His eyes flutter shut, and you swear you hear a soft moan of approval at your actions.

While David rarely, if ever, vocalizes it, you know that he loves to be babied by you. You know his job is hard. Long hours, physically and mentally demanding work that doesn't just end whenever he clocks out for the day. It's the type of work that follows him home, always sitting in the corner of whatever room he's in. It's presence heavy and constantly begging to be felt.

You figure babying him is the absolute least you can do for him.

"Get some sleep, baby," you whisper, continuing the movement of your hand in his hair. "I can wake you in a few hours." You finish, eyes still open and watching him.

He swallows, clearing his throat before he speaks. "One hour. Give me one hour and I'll be ready to get up."

Both of you know he needs more than one hour, but you don't argue with him. You know that his mind is only on those two little girls and one hour is all that he will allow himself. Just a short slumber to get his head straight. To think more clearly.

You're just grateful he's allowing himself to sleep at all.

"One hour. Then I'll wake you." You agree, pushing yourself closer to his body. He raises his arm from the bed and places it on your thigh, squeezing it lightly before rubbing his thumb against it slowly. A silent thank you—a thank you for putting up with his long hours, the time you spend by yourself waiting on him to return, taking care of him, the mental load, and just him in general.

"Don't know how I did this before I had you. I think I'd go crazy now if you weren't here with me. I love you." His voice is quiet, but it's filled with raw honesty as the sentiments fall from his tongue. The words hit you like a brick. Their force is strong and they're aimed right at your heart.

"I love you, David. Get some rest." Your reply is simple, but the words are truthful and hold weight.

You stay with him, fingers still scratching his scalp to lull him to a brief, but so desperately needed, sleep. You have no plans of sleeping with him, you'd rather spend your time with him watching as he drifts to sleep. Listening to his soft snores as his brain finally shuts off and watching his chest rise and fall with each breath he takes in and expels out.

David likes the night shift. 

It’s quiet, especially after 2 a.m. The peak hour for conflict is typically over, most people giving in to their exhaustion and choosing peace in the form of sleep. 

No drunks on the road. No heightened calls for domestic violence. No dead bodies. 

Just the dark and the silence. 

David takes a sip out of his coffee, his eyes shifting left to right as he watches the dark road in the confines of his police vehicle. He’s parked between two trees, tucked away and hidden, listening to the soft static of the radio. 

Most new cops were the opposite, hating how slow nights can be. It was less action, more babysitting, but David appreciated that. It gave him a moment to study for one of the many exams required to apply to get promoted to detective in the dead of night. 

He wasn’t social, not really, so he didn’t miss the social nuances the day provided. 

It also meant he wouldn’t get partnered with someone, few people assigned to the night shift. No trigger happy partner or chatty companion needing to fill up quiet voids with words. He could operate alone, in silence. 

He liked the night shift. 

It was peaceful. 

He’s looking down at the book he was currently studying, eyes flickering between the road and the creamy pages when he sees it. A flash of headlights, bright and iridescent casting shadows onto the road. They're moving fast….too fast. Fast enough to be speeding for this road. 

Shit. 

David stumbles, looking for his radar gun. He can’t find it in the half lit car, and he curses as he gives up on the action. Instead, he throws his car into drive, waiting for a second more before he turns his beams on. The car flies by and David’s off, flicking on his police siren and following in pursuit. 

He looks down at the odometer, jesus they were going 90 in a 45, and he’s grateful that whoever he was pursuing clocks that he's tailing them quickly, slowing down and pulling off to the side of the road. 

David exhales, it turns into a yawn as he puts the car into park. He steps out of the vehicle, the semi cool Pennsylvania air hitting his arms. He blinks, a series of three that happen in quick succession, as he reads the license plate, memorizing the series of letters and numbers to his brain just in case as he walks to the driver's side. 

Faint music is playing, something upbeat and catchy, and the driver rolls down their window, before placing their hands back on the steering wheel. 

“License and registration.” 

His voice sounds foreign even to him, hours of not talking making it raspy as he raises the beam of his flashlight to the driver who shifts their body, grabbing the necessary documents. 

When you turn back to him your eyebrows knit together, eyes flashing with surprise as you ask, 

“Loki?” 

David watches you for a beat, his mind scrambling to place a face with a name. It’s late though, he’s tired and so nothing registers as he repeats, 

“License and registration.”

Your eyes flash something, disappointment, as you pass along your documents. He checks your license first - face (a match), license expiration date, name….

Wait. 

He did know you.

“Y/N? Y/N Grant?” 

“Yes!” You laugh tiredly, falling back in your seat though you keep your hands on the steering wheel, in sight. David appreciates it. 

“You were speeding like a demon out of hell. Everything okay? Family all right?” 

His eyebrows knit together, concern laced in his eyes as he looks down at you. He knew your father, the man had been both of their history teachers and was admittedly David’s favorite teacher the four years he went to Manchester High School. If something had happened to him, he didn’t want to get in the way of that. 

“No, no everything is fine. No family emergency.” 

“So you were just speeding because you thought you could get away with it?” 

You gives a sheepish shrug, 

“I mean…it’s 2 in the morning. Also I left school later than I planned so I was trying to make up for time. And make it  to a bed - preterms killed me.” 

David knows he should drop it for what it was, didn’t need to pry but you were one of the few people in high school that was kind to him, talked to him. Despite being a popular girl, you never minded eating lunch with him, asking how he was doing, offering to study together. 

He had a small crush on you but figured he wasn’t your type so after getting his diploma, he pushed you away from his mind. Three years made it easy to do. 

“You’re driving from school? I thought you were going to Princeton.” 

“I was.”

“What happened?” 

“Even with a full ride scholarship, I’d still be 100k in debt when I graduate. Neither myself or my family can afford that. So I chose my safety school, Penn State. They also offered me a full ride.” 

“Sorry to hear that. I know that you were excited to get into Princeton.” 

“Meh. Penn actually has a decent graphic design program so it’s fine. And I’m closer to home so that’s been a bonus when I’m too broke for food.” 

David gives a curt nod, shifting his hands so his flashlight doesn’t shine in your eyes. You shift your eyes to his badge and ask, 

“So you’re a cop?” 

David shrugs, 

“I want to be a detective. Gotta work the beat to prove you're one of them to get on track.” 

“That makes sense. You were always good with puzzles. We need more good people in law,” you drink in his face, his body in uniform. “And you look great in blue.” 

David has had his fair share of women flirting with him, especially when he was in uniform. He wasn’t used to you flirting though, never clocked it in high school so he feels flattered by the comment. The way his lips tug at the corners doesn’t hide it either. 

“Are you flirting to get out of a ticket?” 

“No! I’m just giving you a compliment. You're still bad at taking them, it would seem.” 

You’re still beaming up at him and he gives a dry laugh, 

“Lucky for you, I can be swayed. I’ll let you off with a warning. Slow down okay. Lots of deer sightings on this road, better to be careful.” 

He hands you back your license, your registration as you ask uncertainly,

“Really?” 

“Yeah. Have a good night Y/N. It was nice seeing you.” 

He turns to move back to his car, mind wondering the time and if his shift is almost over. When you call for him, the sound of your 95 Honda Civic’s car door squeaking open, he's jolted back to the present as you get out of your car. 

His hand moves to his holstered gun out of habit, though he knows you don’t mean any harm nor were you dangerous as you shut your door, wrapping yourself with your arms. He shifts his hand away from his belt, not wanting to alarm you as you near, 

“Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I just…we haven’t seen each other in three years. Don’t you want to, I don’t know, catch up?” 

“It’s almost 3 am and I’m on duty.” 

“I’m on spring break and I’m wired off two Red Bulls. I have time. Also this road is dead so really you have time too.” 

David raises a brow incredulously and you sigh, 

“Are you really going to make me say it?” 

“Say what?” 

“That I had a crush on you. Back in school. I was always hoping you’d ask me out but you never did. Even though I was pretty sure you liked me too.” 

David takes in the information, another series of three blinks as you let out warily, 

“…at least I thought you did. Maybe I’ve misread this whole thing.” 

David slightly shakes his head, 

“No, you’re right. I did have a crush on you. I just thought you were always being nice to me. You’re a kind person. That’s why I didn’t ask you out.” 

That and the fact he was actively trying to do anything to get out of the Huntington Boys Home. After an incident with one of the priests in middle school, he worked diligently to stay off of anyone’s radar. Dating would’ve brought attention to himself. 

He chose safety over self pleasure. 

“Oh!” You brighten again as David deadpans, 

“Still doesn’t change the fact that it's late, early, whatever. And that I’m still on duty.” 

“You can take breaks though, right?” 

David gives a slow nod as you walk closer, stopping inches in front of him. 

“Have you taken yours yet?” 

“No.”

He rarely ever did. Especially because he usually always had dead time towards the end of his shift. 

“Good.” 

You lean up to press your lips to his, the kiss tentative. David’s stunned for a second, doesn’t move for a beat, until his brain catches up with his body and he kisses you back. 

It’s innocent, molded to each other and when you pull away you whisper, 

“Let me take care of you David.”

You push your lips to him again, this time firmer and this time he catches you, hands gripping your arms as he kisses you back. You're both illuminated by his car's headlights, shadow puppets, and he groans when you skim his lips with your tongue. 

He complies, opening his mouth allowing desire to take over, tongue battling dominance. You moan, falling into him easily as he wraps his arms around your waist. Your arms wrap around his neck, drawing him closer, liking the way he tastes like coffee, the faint smell of his cologne. 

When you shimmy your hips into him he groans, his erection biting into your stomach. 

David tries to latch onto something, anything, to gain control. His body is taking over, a lust fueled haze, and he tries to pull away from you.

He has to maintain control because this was insane, he was on duty, this wasn’t right. 

He pulls away from you, firmly gripping your waist as he breathes out, 

“Y/N wait. We should slow down.” 

“How long is your break?” 

“It’s 15 minutes.” 

“Perfect.” 

You grab his hand, dragging him to the other side of your car, the passenger side. He complies, a lust fueled haze unable to stop him as you push him towards the door, back hitting cool glass as your hands move toward unbuckling his belt. 

“Whoa! What are you doing?” His hand is back on his holster, the other over your hands and you give a sly smile. 

“I’m thanking you for not giving me a ticket.” 

“Y/N you don’t have too…I literally met my quota weeks ago and it’s really no bother…”

You move to push your mouth on top of his, effectively quieting him. When you pull away you murmur against his lips, 

“You worry too much. Relax, it's fine. Just let me take care of you. No one will interrupt us.” 

If David was better at taking care of himself, he’d be able to think straight and think through a practical solution for this. If he’d made time to try to date on occasion, maybe he wouldn’t be so eager for the way your hands were moving down the front of his shirt. 

If he had at least been better at rubbing one out more often, he couldn’t remember the last time he had masturbated let alone had sex, he wouldn’t be so responsive as you palmed his cock through his pants, desire winning. 

You unbutton his belt again, slowly, and this time he doesn’t resist. When you slide his pants down, gun and all of his equipment with it, he tries not to linger on the fact that he’s naked, unarmed both literally and figuratively.

It’s a fleeting thought, especially when you're pulling down his briefs, his cock springing out of the confines of the material, greeting the cool spring air as you move to your knees. You look up at him, a devious smile on your face as you move your mouth to cover his crown. 

He groans the last of any intelligent thought out the window. You barely had him in your mouth and he felt so good, the way your lips were sucking him, tongue flicking over his hole. He throws his head back, eyes staring up at the starry sky as you move your mouth lower, clocking the constellation canis major.  If he could focus he’d tell you something about it, like how it contains Sirius the brightest star in the sky, but he can’t. 

He’s a victim to your tongue, its all he can think about. 

You take your time with David, drinking in the way he moans, his breathing hitched as you move to his base. He’s bigger than you expected, girth and veins overpowering your mouth, and you inhale his scent as your nose finally meets his base. 

He’s trimmed but hair tickles your face, causes you to wrinkle your nose as you have him sit on your tongue, the back of your throat. You breathe steadily out of your nose, years of giving drunken head providing the muscle memory you don’t even think about. 

You missed sex, you hadn’t made time for any this semester or the last. You loved sucking a man off, loved having the power of their most prized possession in your mouth. It turned you on.  

David looks down at you, eyes heavy as you finally move away, slowly, until you're back at his crown and then you move down on him again, his tip touching the back of your throat. 

He loses it then, hand moving to your hair, hands tangling as he urged you on, 

“You’re doing so good, yeah Y/N, just like that.” 

You whimper, the sound reverberates around his member as you begin to move faster, hand going to his thighs for leverage. His voice is lower, sultrier, as you flicker your eyes up to him. 

He watches you in awe, at the way you take more of him, the way you gag around him. You’re practiced at this though, not dissuaded by his size, diligently keeping him in your mouth and he knows he’s not going to last any longer. 

It had been too long and you were working him like a professional.

He feels that sinking feeling in his abdomen, feels his balls tighten as he fists some of your hair, pulling hard. 

“Y/N, aw shit, Y/N I’m…..I’m….fuck I’m close.” 

You don’t stop, in fact it drives you to move faster, sucking him harder and he crumbles, his orgasm hitting him hard and fast. 

The relief of his seed falling into your mouth is the best feeling he’s had in months, years, and he shouts, breaking the silence of the night as he pumps into you. 

David’s cum is thick, you have to pace yourself as you swallow more of him, liking the way he tenderly held your head as you sucked him dry. 

When he’s done you smile around him, pulling away slowly until the only thing tying him to you is a trail of spit that breaks as you look up at him. 

His senses slowly start rushing to him - the soft sound of the police radio from his car, the eggshell beam of light that was highlighting your face, the cool air hitting his softening cock. 

“Holy shit.” He whispers as you let out a small giggle, moving up him and placing a soft kiss on his lips. 

“Have a nice break?” 

Right. He was still, technically, working. 

“That’s an understatement.” 

“Glad to repay you for your kindness.” 

David’s eyebrows furrow, lips pressing into a frown as he mumbles, 

“Wait, I didn’t…you didn’t-“ 

“David I’m going to touch myself and cum so hard when I get to bed, your taste in my mouth. Trust me, I’ll be taken care of.” 

David can’t help the blush that takes over his cheeks at your directness, watching you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“You should probably put your pants on.” 

“Fuck. Yeah.” 

He moves quickly, pulling up his briefs, his pants. He checks his belt, specifically his gun, cuffs, pepper spray and other items and when he feels that everything is in order, tucks in his shirt and zips up his pants. You wrap your arms tighter around you, Pennsylvania springs were still cold and flicker your eyes back to him. 

“I should probably head home. I really am tired.” 

He nods, unsure on what to say, how he should proceed. Should he ask for your number? Would you want to go on a date? Was that appropriate considering you sucked him off to kingdom come? 

He follows you to the driver's side of your car, opening it for you as the hinges squeak loudly. You slide back into your seat, snapping  your seat belt on. You start your car before looking over at him. 

“This was nice. We should catch up again.” 

David nods as you continue, 

“Are you here most nights?” 

“Yeah. Usually around this time.”

“Good to know. I’m in town for a week. I’ll be sure to bring dinner next time I’m caught speeding.” 

You wink at him, a teasing glint in your eyes and he gives a low laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re trouble Y/N. Next time I might not be so forgiving.”

“Something to look forward to then.” 

He smiles at you, hitting your hood and saying, 

“Have a good night Y/N. Try to stay at least five over.” 

“Whatever you say, officer.” 

You give him one last wink, before rolling up your window. He moves away from your car, walking back to his own mildly worried that the battery was dead from having his beams on. 

He falls into his seat, watching as your car moves back onto the road and into the night, and turns the ignition as the car roars to life and he's grateful it’s not dead. He makes a U turn, slowly driving back to his original spot, settling in and grabbing his book, his coffee now long cold. 

He doesn’t linger on the fact that his captain would ream him if he found out about tonight's extra curricular activities, or the fact he lost an hour of studying time. 

Instead he wonders if he’ll actually see you again, if you’ll make good on your promise. 

If so, David was happy he had the night shift. 

_________

JACK TWIST

— it happened when he needed you to help move the horses gear, and some of the fishing equipment to a different place since it was getting a bit colder and he didn't want the wind blowing out any fire or accidentally making it bigger than it needs to be

— he was trying to move one of the chairs and was talking to you but wasn't really able to see where you were since he was in a bit of a rush.

"yeah and that son of'a bitch don'—" the chair hit you smack dab in your face, most of it hitting your eyelid area.

the only noise he heard was the tiny 'ow!' and your hat hitting the ground.

— trying to get your hand off your eye, and saying sorry hoping you weren't absolutely pissed at him just for you to constantly say it's fine, and you were fine, and he didn't need to worry about it.

— he does not let that happen.

"c'mere.." he sat you down, finding a first aid which he was lucky he remembered he packed it. "shit doll it's swollen." his accent got thicker with worry while trying to take more of a look at it.

"it is? oh, that's okay i can–" "hush it." "okay."

ELWOOD DALTON

before retirement

— do not come up behind this man when he's stressed.

— probably has a little area like a basement he goes to train below or let off some steam. you were coming down to let him know that the food was ready but he was too drowned out to really hear you.

"el!" you tapped him, biggest mistake. he freaked out and punched you in the face thinking you were some robber or something.

— only freaks out even more, muttering a bunch of curses and saying sorry a shit load.

"move your hand i broke your fuckin' nose!" "no, no, it's okay i'll walk it off—" "move your damn hand!"

after retirement

— you worked in the bar and he was helping out clean the rest of the mess after cleaning out the guys who had messed it up in the first place.

— he was moving a bit of the tables and chairs and while doing that you came up behind him, unfortunately while he had been moving a table and it hit your face making you fall over.

"oh, my god i just hit you in your face, are you okay?!" he set the table down instantly just to see you shaking your head trying to get up on your own.

"it's alright, no issues!" "you're bleeding!"

DAVID LOKI

— poor guy, feels bad even after whether he shows it or not.

— got forced to move around some stuff cause some guy got fired and he needed help getting his desk cleaned out. for one , he was already mad , for two he was about to get even angrier and he did not have the time for that.

— was moving around some sort of box and you came out of absolutely nowhere.

"hey davi- loki, sorry, do you have the files for– ah!" "what the fuck..? oh, what the fuck!"

— took him a bit to realize, he forgot about moving the stuff and instantly came to your aid. was worried without the blood, got even more worried with the blood.

"shit, shit, shit.." "is it bleeding?" he had pulled you up to get you some sort of aid and wipe off the blood. could care less if you were fine, you were his boyfriend and he didn't want you to just be bleeding cause of him, accident or not.

— let you take about a five minute break before he had to get back to work.