(This is a fan fiction of Loki X female SHIELD Agent, “ You” refers to the Reader.)
You didn’t want to be here.
Not on this ridiculous private island. Not sipping Piña Coladas under palm trees like some Bond girl on involuntary sabbatical. And certainly not in Loki’s magnetic radius—the very god you nearly shot between the eyes on a rain-slicked rooftop in Prague.
But Fury, smug bastard that he was, had signed off.
"A diplomatic gesture," he said.
"Resolve the tension," he smirked.
He had no idea.
The villa Loki picked was designed to infuriate. A decadent fever dream of old-world opulence and Asgardian arrogance. Sunset gilded everything in gold. The walls practically purred with enchantments—responsive to him, bending like lovers under his touch. The pool glowed at night like liquid starlight. Even the mirrors obeyed his whims.
You hated it.
You wanted to crawl inside it.
You were perched on the edge of a lounge chair, legs still kissed with salt and sea. Your bikini top clung to your damp skin. Your SHIELD-issued sunglasses were slowly being buried by the breeze somewhere in the sand.
From the villa’s doorway, he watched you. Shirtless. Barefoot. Hair still wet. A dark green sarong slung obscenely low, tracing the Adonis line of a god who didn’t need to look like sin... but absolutely did.
“Is this the part where you kill me, Agent?” he drawled, eyes trailing down your legs like a velvet rope. “Lure me with tropical luxury, then slit my throat with a cocktail straw?”
You didn’t look at him. “Don’t tempt me. I have enough rage bottled to fund three civil wars.”
“And yet,” he said, voice like dark chocolate melting, “you’re here…"
You didn’t move as he walked closer, barefoot in the sand, shadow swallowing yours. You felt the energy shift. His magic crackled subtly, like static in the air before a lightning storm.
“You’re cocky,” you said, tilting your head just enough to catch the glint in his eyes, “… Even without your illusions.”
“I’m Loki,” he dropped to one knee before you, lazy and deliberate. “Cocky is my default state.”
His hand brushed the inside of your thigh, and despite every trained instinct screaming at you to move, you didn’t.
“You have a kill order,” you whispered.
“So do you.” His lips barely touched your knee. “But here we are.”
Your fingers tangled in his wet hair, not pulling, not quite gentle either. His lips moved higher. His breath was cool, his skin felt impossibly warm. Then he surged forward, crashing his mouth into yours. Your thighs caged him. His hands dragged you closer, pulling you to the edge until your heat pressed against the thin fabric of his sarong, and he groaned like he hadn’t touched anyone in centuries.
His mouth moved to your neck, his teeth grazing the place where your pulse thundered. You dug your nails into his back.
“Say you hate me,” he panted.
“I do,” you snapped.
“Liar,” he growled, sliding your swimsuit aside. “You ache for me.”
You pulled him up by the hair, kissing him like a punishment, like a command, like you wanted to burn him alive.
And Loki, bastard that he was, moaned for it.
The pool shimmered like liquid moonlight, endless and blue. You stepped barefoot onto the edge, fingers tugging your sarong knot loose, the fabric already damp from lounging too long in the sun. The water lapped at your back, warm and scented with something floral. The pool stretched out over the edge of the cliff like a dream—or a trap. The entire wall of the villa behind you was glass, enchanted to stay fogless. Every move, every breath, every look reflected at you.
And behind you, Loki moved like a slow-moving storm.
You had tried to regain control. Pulled away from him after that kiss on the lounge chair, mumbling something about needing to “cool off.” He had only raised a brow, then stripped off the rest of his sarong and joined you in the water with that signature smirk with equal parts amusement and hunger.
Before you could slide it off, he appeared behind you—silent as a shadow, as always.
"Allow me," Loki's hands reached out to untie the knot of the sarong.
His fingers deliberately brushed your waist. The knot came undone with the slightest flick, and the black silk sarong slipped down your hips like it wanted to stay on you. Like it didn’t want to be separated from the heat of your skin.
But he wanted to see.
He let it fall.
The black bikini you wore underneath was one you hadn’t picked for practicality. It was all sharp angles and sinful detail. A halter-neck triangle top—slim strips of fabric held together by thin golden rings at the center and on the straps. The bottoms were minimal coverage, the sides tied with delicate gold cords that glinted in the light.
He inhaled slowly. “Darling, is that armor? Or are you trying to kill me slowly?”
You didn’t respond. You only smirked and stepped into the water—hips swaying with intention. The warmth of the pool enveloped your legs, up your thighs, until you sank in fully, arching slightly as the water kissed your skin.
You thought that was the end of it.
But the mischief doesn’t end with Loki. It begins in the quiet.
He followed you in. One moment, he was a step behind. The next, his hands were already on you underwater. You turned, but he was already pressing into you, his chest against your back, lips at your shoulder. His hands… exploring.
A flick.
One of the gold cords at your hip loosened.
You gasped. “Loki—”
“Hmm?” His mouth ghosted your neck. “I thought you liked being untied.”
Another tug—the second cord gone. The water made it slow, dramatic, the untied bikini bottom slipping free, swirling slightly as it floated away like an offering.
You gripped the pool edge, breathing fast. “You’re impossible.”
He hummed, and his hand slid around your front, palm resting against your bare lower stomach, thumb brushing lower. “Inevitable, darling, " He smirked.
And then he moved to your top.
His fingers slid beneath the water, tracing the gold ring between your breasts. You could feel the heat of his skin against yours despite the water. His fingers tugged the halter tie.
He turned you, eyes drinking you in like he was parched.
Your top loosened, floated up slightly—held only by your body and his hand now pressed over your heart. You didn’t stop him. You couldn’t.
He turned you to face him, both of you submerged from the chest down, but close—so close. His eyes dropped to your now-bare shoulders, your collarbone gleaming with water.
And then he let the bikini top slip off completely, drifting away like silk petals.
“There,” he said, low and hungry. “Now you’re art.”
He looked at you like you were a relic he’d crossed centuries to touch. His hand found your thigh under the water, gliding higher.
“Still think you’re in control?” he asked.
You reached down, gripped him through the water, and smiled. “Let’s find out.”
You turned in the warm water, facing him now—nude entirely. The moonlight, filtered through jungle leaves above, scattered silver across your skin, turning each droplet into a jewel. Your body glistened like molten honey under starlight, water clinging to your curves as though even it couldn’t bear to let you go. Your hair, slicked back and soaked, framed your face like a crown of liquid obsidian, and the fire in your eyes struck him harder than any blade forged by dwarven hands.
Loki halted mid-step.
He—Prince of Asgard, son of Jotunheim, chaos given form—was struck silent.
His breath stilled. His pupils dilated, swallowing the green. His eyes didn’t just linger. They devoured you.
You tilted your head, and you murmured, “I thought gods didn’t get flustered.” Your fingertips ghosted up the swell of your stomach, slow, teasing, letting the rivulets of water trail between your breasts like he was invited to watch every glistening inch. “You’re staring, Laufeyson.”
His throat worked, like even speaking required willpower. “You’re cruel,” he breathed, his voice was hoarse and reverent.
A smirk curled on your lips. “And you like it.”
The air between you was thick with steam and something more ancient—hunger, lust, the unbearable gravity between predator and prey who can’t decide who is who.
You moved closer, until your bare chest pressed against his, nipples taut against his cool, damp skin. Your mouth brushed his—never kissing, only boldly grazing.
One hand slid underwater. He seemed tensed. Your fingers found him. Hot. Hard. And already aching. You wrapped around him.
One slow, devastating stroke.
Loki’s eyes fluttered shut. His jaw was clenched. A ragged, helpless sound caught in his throat.
“I could ride you until the sun burns out,” your voice felt like velvet dragging across fevered skin, “but I like you like this—desperate. Starving…and chained by your own need.”
His groan was more beast than god. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”
“Oh,” you whispered, eyes gleaming, “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Your thumb traced lazy circles over the head of his cock, your grip just tight enough to steal sanity. His hips jerked forward—reflex, need, surrender. You stroked him like you were the goddess of his undoing. Every gasp, every twitch of muscle and soft hiss from his lips was fuelling the ache pooling inside you.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, trailed your tongue down his jaw, bit the curve of his neck—light, then harder—whispering filth into his ear as your hand moved with ruthless rhythm. And just when he teetered at the cliff’s edge—when his entire body clenched beneath your touch— you let go.
You pulled away.
His eyes snapped open. Wide. Wild. Wounded.
“Beg,” you said softly.
He swallowed, hard. “You’re not serious.”
You stepped backward through the water, the goddess of every wet dream he’d never admit to. Each step away was a punishment.
“I’m going to lie on that chair,” you said, nodding to the lounger by the pool. “I’m going to touch myself. Slowly. And you’re going to kneel on the tiles and watch like a good boy. If you so much as twitch your cock, I’ll tie you to that palm tree and edge you until Ragnarok.”
His magic sparked out in a flare of green rage and need—but it sputtered uselessly, crashing against your will like waves against a mountain.
“You can’t do this to me,” he growled.
You arched a brow. “I already am.”
He stood there, glory incarnate, trembling with restraint, every line of his body thrumming with power held barely at bay… and then—
He knelt.
At the edge of the pool.
Breathless. Rock-hard. And entirely yours.
You climbed out, droplets sliding from your thighs like a lover’s kiss, water running between the swell of your breasts, and your hips swaying. You spread your legs wide on the lounger, fingers slipping between soaked folds, lips parting as the first flick of pleasure rippled through you.
And he watched.
Helpless. Hard. Hungering.
“You enjoy this far too much,” you murmured between moans, fingers lazily circling your clit, teasing your entrance with a cruel slowness.
“Oh, I do,” he purred, voice like heated wine. “But not in the way you think. I enjoy watching you think you’ve outmatched me. There’s something…”—his tongue flicked across his lower lip—“utterly delicious about a mortal believing she’s tamed a god.”
You narrowed your eyes, breath still shallow. “On your knees. Silent.”
His eyes flared—a storm of green and wildfire—but he obeyed.
For a moment.
Then—snap.
The air shimmered.
And suddenly—he was behind you.
Wet. Hard. Ravenous. His cock pressed hot against your lower back. His voice spilled like poison and poetry at your ear.
“Shall I tell you a secret, darling?” he murmured, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. “I could break free of your little spell with a flick of thought. Bind you in ribbons. Have you screaming my name so loud the stars would tremble..”
“But you haven’t,” you whispered, eyes still closed, one finger sliding back inside you. “Because you want to see what I’ll do next.”
He exhaled, harshly. “Gods are gluttons for madness.”
You rolled your hips back against him, slowly, wickedly. “Good. Because I plan to drive you insane.”
Your rune flashed.
And in a surge of power—he froze.
His arms jerked behind him, bound in invisible magic, green lightning crackling around his wrists.
His smirk faltered. Then returned, tight with tension.
You stepped around him, kneeling between his spread legs, hand curling around his shaft once more—this time slow, deliberate, a punishment and a prayer.
“I should leave you like this,” you said, stroking him with lethal grace. “Dripping. Helpless.” You raised your hand, let a bead of his precum glisten at your fingertip. You held his gaze. And with slow, decadent purpose, licked it clean.
“Do it,” he hissed.
You leaned in. Mouth hovering over his tip. Hot breath dancing on him. No contact.
“You’re that desperate?”
His voice was a growl. “I’m Loki. Desperate is what I make others.”
“Not tonight.”
You licked—just once.
He trembled.
And then you pulled back.
His groan tore from his throat, ragged and furious and helpless.
“Say it,” you whispered, power radiating from your skin like fire from coal.
He met your gaze. “Say what?”
You smiled. Slow. Sharp. “Say you want me. Say I’m your favorite game. Say no illusion you’ve ever conjured comes close to the ache I put in your soul.”
He held out. For a heartbeat.
Two.
Then he cracked.
“I want you,” he ground out, voice low, wrecked. “You’re my favorite obsession. You’ve cursed me, haunted me. You’ve taken root under my skin. And I’ll burn the next man who makes you laugh like you laugh with me.”
You stilled. Your breath hitched. That voice. That confession. That Loki-ness.
And just as he leaned in—just when he thought you’d finally— you rose.
Again.
A soft, cruel laugh as you turned from him, hips swaying like flame in a hurricane.
“Good boy,” you said over your shoulder. “Maybe I’ll let you come tomorrow.”
Behind you, he growled, “I will make you beg, mortal.”
You didn’t even look back. “And I’ll make you enjoy it.”
Somewhere above, thunder cracked—sharp and sudden—over a sea lit by moonlight.
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