#prisoners

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.