Finger
In the midst of the chaos of the last twenty-four hours, you decided to count some blessings:
- You could stop feeling guilty about your undeniable attraction to Doctor Strange.
- If Strange did end up developing feelings for you, Stark couldn’t stop anything from happening.
- You finally had some free time to try out a new face mask. It had coffee in it.
Through the day, your thoughts were fixated on those first two bullet points. Doctor Strange… His concern over you. Was it part of his hero complex, or something deeper? You’d interacted with all the Avengers plenty of times. It was part of your job description. It was a bit surreal to imagine any of them developing an intimate relationship with you, romantic or otherwise. But…Good God that man was pretty… If he wanted you, he could have you. Thusly, your thoughts circled. And circled.
Annoyed with your rumination, you made a pact with yourself not to think about how behind you would be at work tomorrow, or Loki, or Stephen, as you gave yourself away to a night of relaxation. You spent the entire day trying to be like the feminine woman your mother wanted you to be. You took a bath, painted your nails, did some yoga, and even shaved, masked, and plucked every socially expected surface of your body. By the time you were done, it was dark out.
Your favorite comedy was on in the living room. You watched it from the kitchen as you blindly chopped some vegetables that were due for sautéing, your gaze flickering between the TV and the cutting board. There was some line that made you laugh, and just like that, your hand twitched the wrong way to slice your finger. Warmth rushed over your fingers as the blood came out and you instinctively hissed. You couldn’t feel it yet, but you knew it was bad.
“Shit. Fuck.”
Deciding not to look, you clutched your hand against your chest and took a few deep breaths. The cutting board and vegetables were maroon, soaked. Well, there goes dinner. Yuck. The sight made you shiver, even without having a fear of blood, but you couldn’t look away. It looked like some avant-garde art piece. A statement on consumerism or societal pressures to eat healthy, perhaps. A heavy drop of blood hit the top of your left foot and goosebumps rolled down your arms.
Wait. Why were you just standing there?
You ran off to the bathroom and used your good hand to rifle through the cabinets, keeping your injured hand pressed to your shirt.
“Come on,” you said to your gauze and sterile pads, chewing on your lip. “I know you’re in here.”
But they weren’t there. It took you three one-handed searches through the bathroom and a half-hearted dig through your bedside table and under the kitchen sink to give up. You were bleeding pretty badly still, as evidenced by the wet splotch you felt growing over your chest. Not like you’d bleed out or die, but this thing needed a bandage ASAP to stop the gushing. Your apartment would be no help. It was time to leave. You had to settle with wearing slippers around the building, your phone ringing and sandwiched between your shoulder and your ear as you locked the front door.
The phone stopped ringing.
“Hello?”
“Margot? It’s me.” You were running to the elevator, determined to get fixed up as soon as possible. Your finger felt like it was vibrating and the sting was starting to set in.
“What’s up, Peach?” she said.
“Oh, dear God. You heard about that?” you said. The elevator dinged and you pressed the button for her floor, 95. The doors swooshed shut and there was a dizzying pull in your temples as the cab rose. You leaned your full weight into the back wall, anything to keep your knees from giving out. The more still you were, the more you could feel your nerves screaming.
“Yeah, me and the entire building. I’ll let you fill me in this weekend. Did you need something?”
“Yeah, actually. I’m coming over. I cut myself,” you said, panting. Margot gasped. “Not like that—I mean, I was cooking. My hand slipped. I need bandages.”
“Why don’t you just go to the drugstore up the street? Restock. I think they’re still open.”
“You bitch, now is not the time. My kitchen looks like a murder scene.”
“The store is in walking distance. Just buy what you need, dude,” she said. You could hear her shoving her hand into a bowl of something—chips or popcorn you guessed—before taking a loud, crackling bite. The crisp pops of her munching made your face hot.
“Meet me outside or I’ll hate you forever. I’m serious.”
“Fine,” Margot said before swallowing. You rolled your eyes and hung up the phone. Margot was probably your closest work friend. She appeared to work in reception, but she was actually the first line in security, so she interacted with most of the tower employees on a regular basis. This made her especially prone to gossip. Margot was fun, but immature. As the counter on the elevator panel ticked up to 87…88…89…, you remembered your first time going out with her. You’d shown up to her apartment in a classy outfit—a light pink silk tank top and a pair of high-waisted black slacks, and she took one look at you before saying, “That’s not going to do.” She’d thrusted you into her closet and said that if you’d be seen together, you could either wear a silver sequin dress that would barely cover your honor or a (slightly) longer red velvet number with a slit all the way up to the curve of your waist (making underwear a no-go). You’d opted for the velvet at the time, convincing yourself it was less revealing just to save from being uncomfortable.
She was easily the loudest woman in the bar that night and danced on any man who came near her. She scream-sang every song she knew and attempted some she didn’t. You rolled your eyes at the memory. Margot was so easily able to influence you in your earliest days as a Stark Industries employee when your desperation to fit in was at an all-time high. You tried not to think about how much your wardrobe was still influenced by her as the elevator opened up on the 95th floor.
Now your finger was really starting to hurt, despite the pressure on it between your chest and unscathed hand. Every muscle in your body was trembling, your stomach roiled, and you silently prayed that whichever entity was listening wouldn’t let you puke from pain again so soon. You barreled down the hallway, headed straight for Margot’s apartment which was at the farthest end of the corridor. You felt a twinge of resentment that she wasn’t outside already. She should’ve had enough time, but whatever. You’d probably find a way to purposely piss her off the next time she needed an urgent favor. It was only fair. You were nearly halfway down when you felt like you’d stepped back in time. You were running when a mop of rich black hair peeked out from a door on your left. Cue the internal screeching. You really couldn’t catch a break, could you?
Loki looked at you and you stopped moving. You were sure he would still be furious with you from earlier. How did he know you were out here? Did the guy have a freaking tracker on you or something?
“It’s you,” he said, head tilted in confusion.
“Apparently I’m going by ‘Peach’ these days,” you said, hoping to lighten the mood and distract from your fear.
“Well, ‘Peach,’ why are you stomping around out here? I could hear you from my bedroom.” He looked unusually casual, sporting some black sweatpants and a navy-blue tee shirt. He tucked some of the hair hanging in front of his face behind his ears, and for a moment, you could have been fooled into thinking he was just a regular guy, not a literal god. You took a couple steps forward, hoping to just pass by since you didn’t think you’d be able to get away with running.
“I’m here to see a friend. All is well. You can go back to bed. Sorry for disturbing you,” you said, inching past him with your back nearly to the wall on the other side of the hall. If you weren’t so close to collapsing, you may have tried harder to not sound so obvious.
“I wasn’t asleep, if you can imagine. I’ve had a rather stressful day,” he said, watching you through squinted eyes. It was as if he could sense your anxiety and was trying to decipher the cause. You chewed on your lip in nervousness, not wanting to deal with the confrontation. The unease was making you self-conscious, so you twisted the wrist of your injured hand inwards to cover the blood on your shirt, guarding yourself like a hurt animal. Loki noticed the movement and looked down. His eyes went wider than you thought possible.
“Who did this to you?” He rushed forward and pulled your hand away, visually searching the dark spot on your chest. His free hand pressed against your sternum and floundered. “Where’s the wound? Oh, Gods…”
Ah, so he thought you were stabbed in the chest. How darling.
“It’s my finger,” you said, a little too calmly. Your voice had taken on an airy quality without your permission. His brows scrunched together as he looked back to your hand. On instinct, you looked with him and instantly regretted it. Your hand was almost completely red, marinated in the blood that you’d smeared on yourself through the commotion. The skin was flapped open on your pointer finger from the middle knuckle down to the nailbed, revealing a burgundy-purple vein that pulsed and raged at you. It was still oozing blood, however slowly. It looked like a dying worm, like knotted string, the glob of it poking out now that your skin wasn’t holding it back. You heard yourself bark a single, sharp laugh before you shuddered.
“Here, here, it’s okay. I’ll take care of it,” Loki said. He pulled your hand in between both of his own. You jolted back. Your mind was in all directions with half of you wondering if he was still mad at you, trying to find an excuse to fuck up your hand even worse, and the other half wanting to avoid a reason to owe him more than you already did. Your inner cavewoman just didn’t want to hurt anymore.
“You really don’t have to,” you said. “My friend is coming.” You nodded and tried to take your wrist back.
“You need more than she can provide. I’ll help you,” he said. “Don’t be stupid.” You jerked back and whimpered, but he didn’t let you go, locking his grip around your wrist. “You won’t feel it.” Before you could try and fight him off again, he whispered something down at your hand. By the time you found the courage to look down, your finger was healed. You were still covered in blood, but it was like you’d never cut yourself. There wasn’t even a scar. Loki ran his thumb up the line where the slash was, inspecting his work, and you shivered. Somewhere behind him, a door clicked shut.
“Sweet Peachy?” Margot said with a laugh. You and Loki looked back at her and her jaw dropped, her olive skin practically turning green. She must have noticed all the red. “Oh shit, you were serious.”
Loki didn’t say a word as he walked back into his house. The deadbolt on his door made a small shuck as it fell into place.
You were in for a late night. The floors were smattered in rich crimson, the kitchen needed cleaning, your clothes would need a special soak to keep from staining, and you needed your third bathing of the day. So much for a relaxing day in.
The cleanup, however easy, left you exhausted as you laid back in bed. The room was quiet, dark. Your shoulders ached with tension. Through your thin bedroom curtains, you could see the blurry glow of the city and wondered which of those buildings Doctor Strange was sleeping in. You closed your eyes, determined to sleep, but saw the concern in Stephen’s brow when Loki was taunting you in front of everyone. The way he crossed his arms was so…protective. You grumbled, rolled to the side, and took a deep breath. You laid on the shoulder that you’d used to avoid Stephen’s gaze. That sternness of his voice when he was upset, though scary, made your heart flutter. You started counting backwards, from thirty, and realized you’d chosen the number of seconds it took Stephen to investigate and ensure your safety. He was so brave. So dominant. You could only imagine the anguish he must have felt when he did that for you, thinking he would witness…well…a rape. He did that for you. He was prepared to defend you even though your first extended interaction with each other was the night before when you were a blithering drunk. It was undeniable…You were warm, so warm, in the most unfortunate of places.
“Okay, fine,” you said. You rolled to your back and spread your legs under the covers, digging your heels into the mattress for leverage. One hand snaked down under the blankets, smoothing over your belly, and slipped under the waistband of your panties. Just one finger ran over your slit, a gentle, feather-light tease, and you could already feel your clit swelling. With a measured sigh, your two fingers pressed in just enough to open you, sliding, grazing, knowing better than to give your pearl the full pressure it craved. You thought of Stephen Strange, his warm, soft grip when you’d tumbled into his arms… The possessive way he’d guarded you when Loki invaded your office. Loki’s growl when he thought Stephen was hurting you. You moaned.
No. No, no. Stephen. Stephen’s voice. A deep, rich baritone. Yes… You sighed, remembering Stephen’s eyes, a gorgeous light blue that turned grey in the right lighting. How those eyes might look staring up at you from between your thighs. His broad shoulders would force your legs open, long black hair tickling your cunt as his face buried—wait, nope Doctor Strange’s hair was short. Ugh. Your hand stopped toying with your clit.
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to get too upset. You knew you wouldn’t be able to cum if you were distracted. You couldn’t fathom why your mind was so fixated on Loki. Back to Stephen, you thought. Your pointer finger swirled over the very tip of your nub, warming yourself back up. Your back arched into the touch and you thought of Stephen’s fingers collecting that peach juice from your chin.
“Oh, God…”
What if he’d licked it off like you knew he wanted to?
What if he’d had you alone in that conference room, locked the door, and sucked every drop of peach juice he could find from your skin? His large hand would encompass yours as he held it, thumb rolling a careful line over your pointer finger, sending a chill down your spine before bringing your newly-healed digit to his mouth.
The thought sent flames into your belly. Your breathing picked up, fingers moving a little faster as your back melted into the mattress.
His jade-colored eyes would stare at you until you burned as he lapped the peach juice from your fingers, from the very finger he’d healed for you earlier, the one you were using to play with yourself right now. Wait—
“God damnit,” you said. Your hand retreated. That was it. You were going to bed. The pressure that had built in your lower belly started settling into your pelvic bone uncomfortably, like your clit was flipping you the bird for not finishing the job. Traitorous little muscle. You laid in bed awake for what seemed like hours until the fatigue finally swept you under.
The click of your bedroom door shutting roused you from sleep. Your eyes snapped open, but you didn’t dare move, your pulse rushing in your ears. The room was dim, but you could clearly see a man stepping towards you. Adrenaline pulsed cold under your skin.
“It’s me,” Loki said, kneeling beside you. “You’re safe.” His shoulder-length hair was tucked behind his ears. Though you couldn’t see much in the dark, you could tell he hadn’t changed clothes since you’d seen him earlier.
“Loki?” you leaned up on your elbow, hoping he couldn’t sense the anxious thrum of your heart. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I had to come check on you,” he said, shaking his head with concern. His hand came up to cup your cheek. “Are you in pain at all?”
“No, no you fixed everything,” you said, heart practically vibrating from thudding so fast. It was mostly true. You could still feel the ache from your failed masturbation attempt rolling around in your groin, but you weren’t going to tell him that. He… How did he get in your apartment? You spoke before you could process the strangeness, the potential danger. “Thank you, Loki.”
“You know, as the God of Lies, I can sense when you’re being dishonest… Tell me the truth. Where does it hurt?” His murmur was low, gaze searing into yours, and it revived the warmth you felt before going to bed. Your pussy clenched.
Your heart skipped a beat as you fought to keep that heat from flowering between your legs. Your thighs pressed together before you tried to disguise the action as stretching.
“M-my belly,” you said. It wasn’t a complete lie. Loki raised a brow and smirked at you. He leaned in, skimming his nose up your neck.
“Ah,” he said, the heat of his breath against your pulse making you gasp. His hand slid under the sheets and rested over your tummy. “Is that so?”
You whimpered and nodded, your legs shaking in anticipation as you stretched them out again. Anything to keep your hips from bucking. He couldn’t know what you were feeling; you wouldn’t allow it. Loki used the very tips of his fingers to trace delicate circles over your abdomen and your eyes slipped shut. You couldn’t help but sigh. Every breath he took fanned out over the sensitive skin of your throat, covering you in chills despite the lava-like oozing in your pussy. You knew you were wet already, throbbing painfully, your body begging you to allow it some release.
“I’ll take care of it,” Loki said, pressing a kiss to your throat. You groaned. “Just tell me where to go.” He kissed your neck again, slipping his tongue out this time and nipping at the spot. Your hips writhed on their own accord and your face tingled with shame.
“Oh?” Loki said. “Is that what you need?” He nibbled along your jawline, savoring your gasps.
“Please,” you said, tightening your hands on the sheets. You were burning up, rolling into his touch. His hand dipped down, down, down, until he found that precious, tense little gem. The gentle touch was so torturous that it made you grit a pitiful whine into the indifferent blackness of your room. Loki chuckled lowly as his fingers eased over you. Your eyes squeezed shut and hands pulled at the sheets, breath becoming uneven.
“Shh, don’t want to wake the neighbors, do we?” Loki said, “Hmm…Perhaps we should wake them…Let them know all the ways I heal this body, how good I make it feel when I pull the pain from you. What do you think, Little Peach?”
You answered him with a moan and his fingers flicked faster. His hair tickled your neck as he placed his lips right next to your ear.
“That’s it,” he said, “Let it out. Let me know what feels good on this aching clit.” When your hips bucked again, Loki groaned and nipped your earlobe. It was like he was getting off just from your own pleasure. You were getting close. If he couldn’t hear it in your babbling or sense the pooling slick of your arousal on his fingertips, the tremble of your muscles gathering gave you away. He pressed his forehead to your temple as you grunted and whimpered. He snickered to himself before mocking moans of his own directly into your ear, spurring you on. Oh, oh, oh…Yes, ohhh…Your breath hitched and he growled pleasantly. You could feel your frame tightening as your body prepared to release. Pressure stacked low in your belly, searing hot, severing you from any control you once had over yourself. The heat mounting in your cunt was unbearable… You reached out and clutched at Loki’s shoulder, not saying a word but confirming every ounce of rapture he summoned through your cries.
Your orgasm crested and failed right as your alarm went off.
It was the first time in your life that you performed the cliché of sitting straight up in bed as you jolted awake, hand clutching your chest. What the fuck was that about? Oh no, no, no… Sure, it had been a while since you’d had sex with someone, but Loki? You’d never looked at him that way before. The guy was a menace. Your brain couldn’t even begin to wrap around the logistics and ramifications of so much as flirting with the would-be tyrant. God, not even twenty-four hours ago, you’d had to consider the idea that he might have taken advantage of you when you were drunk.
You chalked it up to your brain trying to process the ideas you’d been confronted with about the party and your alcohol-induced memory loss. That had to be it. It definitely wouldn’t happen again.
On your walk down to work, you saw a text from Tony telling you to skip the morning meeting and head straight to your office. You responded with a thumbs up and secretly hoped that he would make Margot fill in for you… She’d rather squirt lemon in her own eyes than sit still and be quiet for any extended period of time. Not only were you still pissed about her not helping you when the meat inside your finger was literally trying to escape your body, but you’d changed your mind and decided to blame her (at least in part) for the incident you were referring to as “The Dream Which Shall Not Be Recalled.” If she could have just been a good friend and shown up for you, Loki would have never had the chance to chat you up in the hallway. He found you when you were panicked, emotionally and physically vulnerable, and that obviously scrambled your upstairs egg (or, arguably, downstairs egg) enough to conjure that Unrecallable Dream. That was the only logical explanation… After failing to climax so many times, your veins were humming in frustration and expectancy, a gnarly little cocktail that would surely give you an attitude until you were able to coax yourself into submission.
Well, the reception desk was empty, so that must have meant your wish came true. Serves Margot right, you thought with a smirk. You could imagine her now, shifting in your seat, chewing on her lip just to keep from making any noise, picking at her cuticles to distract from the overwhelming boredom. Hah. Your shiny black pumps made sharp clicks against the tile as you sauntered into the office. The sound alone reminded you to walk with purpose. Your hips swayed, back went stripper-pole straight, chin lifted. You had to be on fire today, there was no other option. Considering that all of your coworkers either saw firsthand or heard about you at the party and the shoe-incident, your reputation was on the line. People had surely speculated enough already about your absence and Doctor Strange’s outburst. Though you couldn’t control what they said, you could control what they saw, and that would make all the difference. The way you saw it, it was much easier to believe character-damning rumors about a sniveling nail-biter than a manicured alpha-bitch.
When you found your office door, your hand lingered on the doorknob. There was an uncomfortable thrum in your temples as you remembered what happened the last time you were in there. Broken glass, relentless vomiting, arguing, and worst of all your legs. It wasn’t just the twist in your ankle seared into your memory but the persistent (albeit drunken) effort you’d made to keep your legs closed, the fear of misleading someone and jeopardizing your dignity… Ironically, the exertion was all for naught.
The energy inside that office would be oppressive. Actually…You suddenly wondered whether Stark would give you an extra day off? You could cash in that pity-induced week vacation he’d offered… No. You wanted to save that time for something good.
It took a few measured breaths and false starts to be convinced to go inside. You’d expected the crunch of glass under your feet, to smell the rancid sting of vomit, or feel the thick, greasy energy of unresolved conflict seeping into the walls as it searched for a way out of your office. Instead, the God of Lies turned out to have told the truth. The room was spotless. It was possible that Stark had sent someone to clean it, as there was a need for extra janitorial staff for the party, but guests were supposed to be in the main areas, not the offices... Would Loki have taken credit for the janitors’ work? Somehow, you didn’t think he would.