Chapter Text
The rain over Washington D.C. did not simply fall; it executed the city.
It was a cold, lashing November rain that hammered against the floor-to-ceiling bulletproof windows of Senator Loki Laufeyson's corner office. It turned the lights of the Capitol in the distance into blurred, bleeding splashes of color that ran down the wet glass like tears.
Loki stood at the window, his back to the room. He took a tiny sip of his 45-year-old single malt, letting the amber liquid roll over his tongue and savoring the burn. It was the only real feeling he had allowed himself today.
"You can go, Miller," Loki said quietly. He did not turn around. He did not need to see the man's face to know what it looked like: a mix of wounded pride and pure relief.
"Senator, I must protest," stammered the voice behind him. Miller. A former Secret Service man with the charisma of a damp towel. "The protocol requires a handover. The threat level is at red. You cannot remain unguarded."
Loki slowly turned around.
He was wearing black today. A three-piece suit by Tom Ford, so sharply tailored that one could cut oneself on the silhouette. The shirt was made of emerald green silk, the collar tight and stiff. He felt like he was in armor. Very expensive, very tight armor that held him together while the world outside tried to tear him apart.
"Miller," Loki said, stepping closer to the large mahogany desk. He set down the crystal glass. The clink was the loudest sound in the room. "You nearly knocked me to the ground at the gala last night because a waiter dropped a bottle. You got champagne on my shoes. Those were Italian bespoke."
"I reacted to a sound, sir. It sounded like a gunshot."
"It sounded like incompetence," Loki gently corrected. A sardonic smile curled his lips. "I don't need a nervous terrier pissing under the sofa at every thunder. I need professionals. And you... well, you're fired."
He watched as Miller's jaw clenched. For a second, he saw the hatred in the man's eyes. Loki relished it. Hatred was honest. Hatred was a currency he could deal with, better than this false concern.
"Get out," Loki added, as if the man were a bothersome insect. "Before I ensure you find your next job as a department store detective in Idaho."
Miller left. The heavy oak door slammed shut.
Silence.
Loki exhaled. He relaxed his shoulders, but only slightly. He was alone. Finally.
The solitude in the vast office was like a drug. He knew it was foolish. He knew the death threats were real. The letters with the cut-out letters, the dead animals in his mail, the emails with detailed descriptions of how they would skin him – all of it was real.
But the surveillance was worse.
That constant gaze in the back of his neck. Those men in cheap suits tracking his every move, treating him like a precious but dumb exhibit. He hated being controlled. It made his skin itch. He reached for the remote on his desk and dimmed the lights further until the room was almost illuminated only by the glow of the city. He felt powerful. Untouchable.
The intercom on his desk buzzed.
“Senator?” The voice of Heimdall, his chief of staff and unofficial security advisor, crackled through the loudspeaker. Heimdall was the only one Loki respected. Most of the time.
“What is it?”
“The replacement is here.”
Loki rolled his eyes. “Send him away. I don’t interview anyone until morning. I intend to get drunk and listen to Wagner.”
“He’s coming up now, Loki,” Heimdall said. The tone was different than usual. More serious. More cautionary. “And do me a favor: don’t try to break this one. He’s… different.”
“Different,” Loki muttered under his breath as the connection cut out. “They’re all the same.”
He walked back to the window, studying his reflection in the dark glass. The pale face, the sharp cheekbones, the carefully slicked-back black hair. He looked perfect. Unapproachable. He heard the door open. Loki waited. He was taking his time. It was his game. He set the pace. He would turn around in a moment, dismantle the newcomer with a single, devastating sentence, and then go his own way. He took another sip of whiskey. Then he felt it.
It wasn't a change in temperature, but it felt like it. As if the air pressure in the room had suddenly dropped, like just before a thunderstorm. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. An instinctive warning signal from his body, unrelated to his intellect. Someone was in the room. And this someone was taking up a hell of a lot of space.
Loki turned slowly, the glass casually in his hand, a bored smile poised. The smile died on his lips. The man standing in front of the closed door wasn't a bodyguard. He was a siege weapon.
He was enormous.
That was the first thought that shot through Loki's analytical mind and lodged there like a splinter. Enormous.
The man must have been at least 6ft 3 inches and between 220-230 pounds. He wasn't wearing one of the usual black polyester suits. He was wearing dark cargo pants, heavy boots, and a tight gray T-shirt, over which a wet leather jacket hung open. He was wet from the rain. Water dripped from his blond, shoulder-length hair, which he had pulled back tightly in a half-bun, onto the expensive Persian rug.
But it wasn't the clothes that bothered Loki. It was the body underneath. Loki was used to men who were ripped. Gym muscles. Pumped up and vain. This man was different. He was as wide as a barn door, but it didn't look like a cosmetic physique. It was functional, compact mass.
His thighs strained the fabric of his pants. His arms, hanging loosely at his sides, were crisscrossed with thick veins that ran like cables beneath his tanned skin. He looked like someone grinding stones with his bare hands, just to calm himself. And he was staring at Loki. No nervous blinking. No deferential downward glance. He had two eyes, and they were both such an intense, stormy blue that it seemed almost unnatural. It was as if two spotlights were focused on Loki. A gaze that concealed nothing and missed nothing. He fixed Loki like a crosshair.
Loki felt his mouth go dry. His heart skipped a beat, then sped up. Anger, he told himself. He was angry at this disrespectful behavior. But deep down, in the darkness of his gut, something else stirred. A hot, painful tug. A reaction to the sheer, overwhelming masculinity that had just invaded his territory.
"Are you lost?" Loki asked. His voice was smooth, cool, controlled. He was proud that she wasn't trembling. "The delivery entrance is in the basement."
The man didn't move. He stood there like a rock in the surf. He studied Loki. He let his gaze slowly slide down Loki's body, from the polished shoes, over the narrow trouser legs, the tight vest, up to her neck. It wasn't a lustful look. It was a scan. Clinical. Cold.
And yet, Loki felt as if the man had just groped him with large, rough hands. His skin prickled beneath the silk. His nipples hardened reflexively against the fabric of his shirt, and Loki instantly hated himself for it.
"Odinson," the man said. His voice was a deep growl. A bass that resonated more in the chest than in the ears. "Thor Odinson. Heimdall sent me."
Loki raised an eyebrow. He walked around his desk, sat on the edge, and crossed his legs. He tried to gain height, but even sitting on the desk, he felt small compared to this giant.
"Thor," Loki repeated the name, as if tasting something unpalatable. "How... Nordic. And subtle." He gestured with his glass toward Thor's elevator. “Tell me, Mr. Odinson, do you think you’ll be allowed into the Senate in that outfit? Or are you planning to scare off the assassins with your body odor?”
It was an insult. A provocation. Loki wanted a reaction. He wanted to see if the giant would get angry. Anger was easy to manipulate. But Thor didn’t even flinch. His eyes remained steady, almost frighteningly focused.
“I’m not here to browse fashion catalogs,” he said calmly. He took a step into the room. His boots squeaked softly on the parquet floor. “I’m here to keep you alive. Apparently, that’s a full-time job, since you fire your security detail like other people throw away tissues.”
“Miller was incompetent,” Loki snapped.
“Miller was soft,” Thor corrected. He moved closer.
The distance shrank. The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with ozone and testosterone. Loki had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. The scent hit him now. Rain. Wet leather. And underneath it, something bitter, sharp. Sandalwood and old sweat, but not unpleasant. It smelled like a man.
"And you?" Loki asked softly, almost defiantly. "Are you tough?"
A tiny, almost invisible smile twitched at the corner of Thor's mouth. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Don't test it, Senator."
Loki shifted uneasily on the edge of the table. The ambiguity hung heavy and sticky in the air. He suddenly felt very warm in his vest. He wanted to slap this man. He wanted this man to grab him. The dissonance made him dizzy.
“I haven’t agreed to hire you yet,” Loki said, reaching for his last weapon: his authority. “I need references. Background checks. I’m not letting some scruffy vagrant into my life just because Heimdall has a thing for lost cases. Were you in the military? Navy? Marines?”
“Classified,” Thor said.
“I have the security clearance to find out.”
“Not for my file.” Thor stopped two meters away. He folded his massive arms across his chest. The movement made the muscles beneath his wet T-shirt flex, stretching the fabric across his biceps. Loki stared for a second too long before looking up again.
“You’re arrogant,” Loki stated.
“I’m qualified,” Thor countered. “And you’re a target.”
Thor’s gaze swept across the office. His blue eyes moved with precision, scanning the windows, the doors, the ventilation shafts. Nothing escaped his notice.
"Level 4 bulletproof glass," Thor muttered, more to himself. "Good. But the angle from the opposite roof isn't ideal. If there's a sniper up there, your desk offers no cover."
He looked at Loki again. Both eyes were fixed on him. "Stand up."
It was an order. Loki blinked. No one was ordering him. He was an elected representative. He was rich, powerful, and feared. "Excuse me?"
"Stand up," Thor repeated, louder this time, more impatiently. He took another step closer, encroaching on Loki's personal space.Loki slid off the desk. He wanted to protest, wanted to fire this Neanderthal before he'd even started. But his body obeyed before his mind could object.
He stood before Thor. The difference in size was absurd. Loki was tall, slender, elegant. But Thor was like a wall. Loki had to look up at him, and the feeling of inferiority—physical inferiority—sent a shiver down his spine so intense that he had to squeeze his thighs together. He hated it. He hated his body for reacting so cheaply to brute force. He was an intellectual! He was above such instincts. And yet…
“Spread your arms,” Thor said.
“Go to hell,” Loki hissed. His heart was racing. “I don’t carry weapons.”
“I need to make sure you’re not wearing any listening devices. Or transmitters. Your last security firm was compromised.”
Thor didn't wait for permission.
He placed his hands on Loki's shoulders. Loki flinched as if he'd been burned. Thor's hands were enormous. Heavy. And hot. The heat penetrated the fine fabric of the jacket, the shirt, and went straight to Loki's skin. Thor turned him once on his axis, roughly, efficiently. Then he began to feel him out.
It wasn't a gentle caress. It was a search. Professional, but with an intensity that was anything but detached. Thor's hands moved down Loki's sides, firm, pressing. He felt the ribs, stroked the hip bones. Loki held his breath. He stared at the dark wall in front of him, unable to move.
Every touch was like an electric shock. He could feel the calluses on Thor's palms through the fabric. He could feel the power in those fingers. Thor could break him if he wanted to. He could lift him up with one hand and push him against the wall.
The image flashed through Loki's mind, unwanted and sharp: He could break me. And God, a part of Loki wanted to be broken. Thor's hands moved lower. Over his buttocks. He squeezed, checking the pockets. Loki gasped softly. It was an indignant sound, but he sounded suspiciously breathless, almost whimpering.
"This is harassment," he gasped.
"This is a job," Thor growled in his ear. His breath hit Loki's neck, warm and moist.
Thor squatted down. His hands slid down Loki's thighs, to his ankles, feeling along the hems of his trousers. Then back up. The inside of his thighs. Thor ran his fingers firmly along the seam, his fingers dangerously close to Loki's crotch.
Loki closed his eyes. He felt dizzy. His entire body was taut, like a bowstring. He was half-hard, trapped in the tight suit trousers, rubbing against the expensive fabric. The fear that Thor might notice mingled with the perverse desire that he would.
He wanted those hands to linger there. He wanted them to grab roughly. For Thor to lose his professional detachment.
Get a grip, he screamed at himself internally. You're Senator Laufeyson. This is staff. Thor stood up again. He was now behind Loki. So close that Loki could feel the warmth of his massive body all over his back. Thor radiated heat like a furnace. Thor leaned forward, his mouth right next to Loki's ear.
"You're clean," Thor said softly. The vibration of his voice sent shivers down Loki's spine. "But your pulse is racing, Senator. I can see it in your neck. 120 beats per minute."
Loki whirled around. He pushed Thor away—or tried to. It was like trying to knock over a tree. Thor didn't budge an inch. Loki backed away, his back hitting his desk. He was cornered. His face burned. He felt exposed, analyzed, and humiliated.
"I'm angry," Loki lied, his eyes flashing a toxic green. "Angry about this invasion. About your insolence."
Thor studied him. His blue eyes were unfathomable, dark in the dim light. He looked at Loki's chest, which rose and fell rapidly. He saw the faint flush on Loki's cheeks. He saw the bulge in his trousers, barely concealed by his jacket.
He knew.
Loki was certain he knew.
"Anger is good," Thor said dryly. "Anger keeps you awake. Fear is better."
Thor took a step back, finally giving Loki room to breathe. The sudden cold was almost as bad as the heat had been. Loki felt strangely abandoned.
"I'll take the job," Thor said, as if Loki had no say in the matter.
"I didn't hire you!" Loki shouted, his voice an octave higher than he intended. He nervously straightened his jacket, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, desperately trying to regain his dignity. "You're a brute. I'm going to call Heimdall and—"
"Heimdall has already authorized me," Thor interrupted calmly. He went to the window, drew the heavy velvet curtains, and blocked out the view of the city. The room became darker, more intimate. A cave. "From now on, I'm in charge of protocol."
"We'll see about that," Loki hissed. "I won't let some glorified doorman tell me how to live."
Thor turned around. The light from the table lamp cast harsh shadows across his face, making his eyes glow like two blue flames.
"You have two options, Loki," Thor said. He used his first name. Disrespectful. Direct. "Either you cooperate, or I'll carry you out of the danger zones over my shoulder, and believe me, I don't care how many cameras are watching or how much you struggle."
Loki stared at him. The image of Thor throwing him over his shoulder, dominating him, rendering him helpless... it seared itself into his brain like a brand. He pressed his lips together to suppress a tremor.
"You're fired," Loki said weakly. It was a final, defiant gasp. A joke no one was laughing at.
"No," Thor said simply. He pulled off his wet leather jacket and threw it over one of the armchairs. Underneath, he wore a shoulder holster with a weapon almost as long as his forearm. "I'm hired. Go to sleep, Senator. We have a long day tomorrow."
Thor sat down in the armchair, stretched out his long legs, and folded his arms. The muscles in his upper arm strained against the gray T-shirt, almost to the point of tearing. He closed his eyes as if he were asleep, but Loki knew he was awake. That he heard every sound. That he registered Loki's every breath.
Loki stood there for another minute, uncertain, furious, agitated beyond belief. He had lost control. Completely. In his own office. He reached for his whiskey glass, his hand trembling slightly. He drank the rest in one gulp, the alcohol barely stinging the fire in his blood.
Then he turned and walked to the door of his private relaxation room, which adjoined the office.
Before closing the door, he glanced back. The massive shadow in the armchair remained motionless. Thor was a constant. A threat. And a promise. Loki closed the door and leaned his forehead against it. He took a deep breath, still smelling the scent of rain and leather on his own clothes, as if Thor had marked him.
He closed his eyes, and his hand slid slowly, almost against his will, down his trousers to his painful hardness. He pressed against it, imagining it was Thor's hand. Large. Rough. Demanding.
"Damn," he whispered into the darkness.
This was going to be hell.
And he couldn't wait.