Reined In
Author: starhawk2005
Fandom: Marvel's Avengers
Date: January 2013
Pairing: Loki/ Reader
Rating: Adult (18+).
Summary: PWP. Loki likes long hair. ;)
Disclaimer: Don't own His Horniness. Or The Reader. ;)
Author's Notes: Written for the naughtylokiconfessions Tumblr blog, specifically for spamberguesa, who requested: somebody please write fic involving a woman with long hair. Loki can do whatever the hell he feels like with it - pull it, brush it, use it to bind her hands.
You sit in front of the mirror, jaw open and staring in shock.
He's standing behind you grinning evilly back at you. He looks just like he did in the movie, except that's got to be impossible. Loki of Asgard is a fictional character, right?
You're losing it. You must be.
But then he speaks. "Such lovely tresses," he purrs, and he sounds just like he did in the movie, too, except his voice is low and seductive and makes you want to squirm in your chair. He moves forward gracefully, standing next to your chair, and plucks the hairbrush from your nerveless hand. You sit, still frozen, as he gently starts to brush your hair with long, smooth strokes.
It's kind of been a little project of yours, trying to see how long your hair will grow if you just leave it alone, and it's so long you can sit on it – barely – and you were actually thinking of finally getting a trim and-
He interrupts the train of your half-panicked thoughts: "Long hair such as this, have I never seen before on any woman. Asgardian or Midgardian," he muses, passing the brush over your scalp and pulling it, still gently, all the way through to the ends.
Loki of Asgard is brushing your hair. Loki. Of ASGARD. This has to be real, even though it can't be. Whoever heard of a hallucination of having one's hair brushed?
But Loki is still talking: "I have oft fantasized about binding a woman's hands with her own hair, I must admit. Perhaps, lovely mortal, you would consent to entertain my…curiosity?" He tugs gently at the hank of hair he's been working on.
You have to open your mouth a few times before any words actually come out. "Th-this is nuts," you finally stammer.
He blinks. "You think my request is beneath you?" his voice sharpens, becoming imperious, and his eyes darken. You scramble to clarify: "Um, no, I mean – you aren't real – you can't be-"
He laughs. "Am I not real, lovely one?" He leans down and spins you around, chair and all.
He wraps your hair around his hand, over and over until there's no slack, then pulls your face towards his, and he kisses you. Hard. If it's a hallucination, it's the best one you (or anyone!) has ever had. He tastes like wine, and he smells like leather, and when you clutch at him, his armour is cool and hard under your hands.
You don't care anymore how crazy all this is.
His tongue delves deep into your mouth, exploring, searching, and you groan and melt against him. In a flash, he scoops you up and carries you across the room, then lays you gently down on your bed. He rolls you over, and you feel him gathering all your hair up. You're surprised when he starts to put one side into a braid - you've never met a man who had the first clue how to do that – behind your ear.
He finishes that one and starts on the other side of your head. What's keeping the first braid from unraveling? You have no clue. He never asked for any hair ties, so how did he do it? Magic?
As soon as he finishes the other side, he nudges you until you turn onto your back. "Raise your hands above your head," he's purring right into your ear, and you obey automatically. But he must not like your position, because he cocks his head and studies you, then reaches around your waist casually with one arm, pushing you up towards the headboard with inhuman strength.
Your hands and head are right against the top of the bed now, and Loki smirks and feeds your braids up through the slats in the headboard. He wraps them each around a slat, then pulls them back down towards you, wrapping one around each of your wrists, and then securing them somehow.
You're held firmly, but not too tight. You can move, a little, but you can't escape.
He stands back to survey his work, then gives you that full-on, evil grin again. It's scary, but in a sexy way, if that's possible.
He starts to strip off his armour, climbing up onto the bed beside you, kissing you hard in between stripping off a bit here, a piece there. He stops when he's naked to the waist, and gives you his full attention. He runs his hands along your braids, then your wrists, down to the top of your nightgown, which he pulls lower to reveal your already-stiff nipples.
You're groaning and writhing even before he starts to nip, to lick, to suckle.
"Christ," you whimper.
"Loki," he whispers back, his eyes laughing up at you. He pushes the skirt of your nightgown up next, then eases your knees apart. He chuckles at how slick you already are for him, and he takes full advantage, sliding a few fingers in to work you to a slow-building frenzy. When his tongue starts to flick across your clit in time to the motions of his fingers, you arch your back and give in, his name wrenched out of your throat in a scream.
He strips down the rest of the way and slides himself deep inside you before the last shudders of your orgasm finish. He pushes hard into you, his eyes seeming to hold you as securely as your hair, drinking in every expression of pleasure you make.
He pauses at one point, confusing you. He grits his teeth, then makes an elaborate hand gesture, and your hair and hands are abruptly free.
He jerks himself out of you, and you nearly shout at the loss, but he's not done with you yet. He rolls you over onto your belly, and you feel him wrapping your braids around his hand. He pulls backwards until you have no choice but to go to your hands and knees, and he's pushing into you again, rough and fast. He's so deep inside you, using your hair like reins, holding you still, bowing your neck and head back. You can barely breathe, but you don't care. It's drowning of the best, most pleasurable kind.
He reaches around your hip to toy with your clit, and that's when you lose yourself again, coming apart in gasping, shuddering pieces around him.
He snarls incoherently and follows right after you, his grip on your hair viciously tight, but only for a moment, before he seems to remember that you're more fragile than he is.
He releases you and you collapse like a house of cards in a strong breeze. You're almost surprised when he lies down next to you. Somehow, you thought he'd be of the 'wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am' school of sexual encounters, teleporting out of here as quickly as he'd originally appeared to you.
He starts to unbraid your strands, slowly, lazily. "Swear to me, lovely one, that you'll never cut this glorious hair."
You manage a shaky grin. "Damn straight I won't."