A/N:
I suppose this is NSFW, but there's no smut in here, really.
Mature Audiences Only!
It's a Loki/Reader POV story - which I don't do often. I always fuck up the tenses. So don't be surprised if you encounter that. And I wrote it in about 20 minutes, so typos will probably also abound.
This came to me last night while I was taking a break from doing . . . other things . . .
I'm no artist, but the picture of him crouching down at the end of the bed was what I saw - rather than the story of that picture, which is usually what I get. It was quite vivid and I've described it as closely as I can in the fic.
Anyway, short one shot.
Erotica, Smutty Smut Smut, Bearded!Loki, Dom!Loki, D/s, Military Uniform, Fluff
Loki is at your head, which is right where he guided it to moments ago - at the end of the massive bed in his private quarters on Asgard. You try to be good, try to stay still - knowing from previous experience that that is what is expected of you and also knowing that he is already using his magic to restrain you. But he always leaves you a little wiggle room - just enough for you get yourself into trouble, of course - while tantalizing him in the process - and it's damned hard to refrain from testing your bonds and fidgeting nervously when you're completely, vulnerably nude in front of him, on your knees, cheek pressed against the mattress, bottom lifted - presenting yourself obscenely to him to do with as he pleases.
To say nothing of the fact that you know that every single thing he's going to do or say will be calculated to get you as wet and wanting as possible - not that you aren't already, to your deep embarrassment.
And this man - this God - knows you entirely too well.
He's even changed his attire; he's not wearing what he almost always does when he takes you - because he knows what it does to you to be yanked helplessly back against the full length of him, unable to ignore the potent threat of his undeniable desire poking rudely into your back - even when covered by all that leather and metal.
Instead, he's once again proven - subtly - just how much attention he pays to you at all times, and his somewhat more defined than usual physique is clad in a way that is as unusual as it is sizzling hot.
His hair is long, well past what a Midgardian military would consider to be regulation length, but he knows how much you love it that way, just about to his shoulders and black as his soul can sometimes be. Were he truly a Midgardian soldier, he would not have been allowed his beard, either, but he also knows that he isn't about to miss out on the way you so sweetly, desperately beg him not to, then how you always whimper and cry softly when he drags it roughly down your groove. Just thinking about it is very nearly enough to cause him to lose complete control of himself - and you already.
Those muscular arms and chest are covered - or rather nicely displayed - not by anything royal or even anything Asgardian - but rather by a just slightly too tight Army green tank top that stretches and clings lovingly to every chiseled angle of his torso - so tightly, in fact, that you can clearly see those tiny nipples threatening to tear through the fragile fabric, as well as every contour of his pecs and six pack abs.
He's crouching down, his head still above yours, though, those strong, impressive thighs encased in what you recognize as the bottom half of BDUs, more commonly known as cammies, or camouflage pants.
And here you thought you'd hidden your addiction to watching that Navy Seals BUD/S Class 234 miniseries - on permanent continuous play - pretty well.
You should have known he'd noticed and would incorporate your interest into your play somehow.
Nothing but nothing about you gets by him.
Mostly, that was amazing - you'd never felt like the center of someone's complete attention before - and being watched over like that by a God . . . well . . .
Sometimes, though, it wasn't so great - you couldn't seem to hide anything from him - and yet he could conceal everything from you.
But in bed, when he turned all of that - especially - dark, almost but not quite sinister intensity on you . . .
In a word: devastating.
It wasn't at all unusual for you to wonder baldly if you were really going to live through it, and you always came to the conclusion that this wasdefinitely the only way you wanted to go.
He could - and did - wreck you totally, and with an ease that was - if you bothered to dwell on it (and you very carefully didn't) - totally terrifying.
Despite his unusual choice in uniform, his face is warm and loving as he looks down at you, one long fingered hand coming up to bury itself in your hair, then use a feather light touch to brush the stray strands gently away from your neck as he bends down to press a kiss to the vulnerable spot he's just bared.
"Do you trust me completely, my dearest heart?" he asks in a throaty purr, as if he's already anticipating whatever it is that he has planned for you.
You shiver, gooseflesh rising everywhere, nipples tightening painfully where they're pressed into the mattress. You wish you could reach out and touch him, but you know he'll not allow you to do that.
"Yes, Sir," you murmur, with no small amount of trepidation.
His response is nothing less than you've come to expect from him - a wide, unapologetically devilish grin.
Another shudder seizes you as he rises in a fluidly elegant motion to tower over you, his almost too soft words wafting lazily to your ear.
"Let us begin, then."