Regarding 400 follower requests! I'll need some time to get the Dragon Age requests done, then I'll post an update for the next request session. I'm thinking I'll need a couple weeks before then, just to keep you all updated. Also I need time to make it as epic as possible ;)

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

A Loki Lemon -- Infinity Is Here

Character: Loki

Fandom: The Avengers

OC: Reader-Insert

Inspiration: It gets mushy at the end.  Dunno.  Was listening to Cloud Atlas Sextet when I wrote it, so that's probably why.  Highly recommend watching Cloud Atlas, it was so freaking beautiful.  Oh, and if you've emailed me within the last week or two, I'll be answering emails soon I promise whkefkjndf I've been a lazy cunt lately


It isn't as if you really planned for it to happen.  The dress had maybe been a little provocative, but no more than usual.  And besides, it's the normal style in Asgard.  Draping skirts, backless gowns, sheer fabric.  You looks the same as any other high class female attending a high class dinner.  The only difference is in the looks you enjoys sending his way.
Loki enjoys those looks, too, because he can decipher them correctly.  He knows the narrowed eyes and the daunting smirk hint at specific, aching desires.  He knows what the twinkling, mischievous eyes mean.  He also knows that, when you flirt with the men around you, it is for his benefit.  It's also for yours.  You happen to enjoy his jealousy, especially when he punishes you in a more carnal manner.
"You have a talent for getting under my skin, wench," he hisses in your ear.  You are conveniently located under a pillar, half out of sight.  Before you, people are dancing rather drunkenly.  The warriors of Asgard are loudly exchanging stories a few tables over.  The music drifts in and out of existence, stifled here and there by bouts of roaring laughter and the sound of plates and glasses being banged onto wooden surfaces.  It is the perfect cover for swapping words, and maybe other things too.
You allow a brief, almost uninterested smile to cross your face.  Loki doesn't look at you directly, but he sees it pass from the corner of his eye and he narrows his gaze.  He looms at your side, a head taller than you and quite imposing in his dark green robes.  You think he looks imposing wearing nothing at all, but you tuck those thoughts away for later on.  It's no fun getting right to the point.  Not when conversation with him is so scintillatingly lovely.
You hum and send him an amused, sideways look, as if silently telling him that it's your job to get under his skin.  And his sheets.  And his robes.  If he gets the message (he undoubtedly does), he doesn't respond to it.  It's no fun, after all, no fun at all unless he allows you to drag things out.  Then he'll make you pay.  For the torture of tonight and for a great many other things, too, that aren't important unless he's looking for a reason to undress you.
A small little laugh trickles into the air and you drawl, "I can't imagine what you mean, my Lord.  I have followed all the social conditions that a maiden of my standing ought to adhere to."  And you have, for a lady of Asgard.  Which means you have used all the liberties you've been afforded, including flirting, dancing, and speaking profusely with other men, mainly Thor.  You both know that this was done on purpose.  It is not that you are breaking any social rules: many Asgardian women are allowed to do the same at large gatherings, so long as they keep their priorities straight by the end of the night.  But if Loki has anything to say about said priorities, he will not just set them straight - he'll completely bend them to his own will.
His lip curls in disinterest at your words, particularly at your usage of a more formal title for him.  You've called him things much less dignified in the past and he knows that this, too, is a part of your little game.  You don't care that he sees right through you. 
"Your gown is particularly … striking this evening.  And you have danced nearly every dance with those disreputable, mindless warriors."  His tone is so uninterested that you almost see his words as a simple statement meant to be idly skimmed over.  But you know him well enough by now to notice when his jealousy appears.  You smile.
"Those mindless warriors happen to be very fun to dance with," you reply with a shrug, and it's true.  Dancing with them is fun, especially when they aren't terribly drunk.  Dancing is also an integral part of these gatherings, and everyone knows how to do it.  Warriors are not exempt from it.
He clearly doesn't appreciate you standing up for his brother's friends, even if it is done to get on his nerves.  He sends you a glower that makes your skin feel achingly cold, and suddenly you want his hands all over you, fisting into your dress and making you pay.  Desire flashes through your eyes.  Loki watches it kindle there, and then promptly scoffs and mutters, "You're playing a very dangerous game, my Lady."  A game that he happens to be highly adept at.
You smirk and turn away from him, leaning on the pillar for a moment before saying lowly, just low enough for his ears only, "I'm only waiting for you, Loki.  Just tell me when."  Tell me when to disappear, to meet you somewhere else, to let you dole out that lovely punishment that you are so clearly festering.  The rest of your words hang in the air between them, as precarious as the low cut of your backless gown.
He doesn't make any notion that he'd heard you, but then again you don't expect him to.  Loki is painstakingly patient, almost too much so.  He will make you suffer in silence before he allows you  any form of reprieve.  Which is why he just stands there in his tall and imposing way, arms crossed and looking particularly stubborn.  You pretend not to notice and just watches the dancing, but after a solid minute of this, you decide that your lover could use a little push.
Your eyes land on one of the warriors, who is standing by the main table across the room.  Before you even think your words through, they are bolting from your mouth like a deer from a hunter.  But it is not fear that drives you, only shredded anticipation and the eager desire to be caught. 
"If we're finished here, I think I'll see if Frogar would like to dance," you say, and Loki stiffens.  His reaction doesn't extend past that slight movement, but you can tell that he'd very much like to show something more, to react to you in a more dominant, possessive way.  Frogar is one of Thor's friends and is particularly mindless, but he knows how to dance at least.  You are quite aware that Loki absolutely loathes him.  You are also quite aware that you're in the midst of digging yourself a very deep hole, for which you will undoubtedly have a difficult time getting out of.  But you like to push his buttons and see how far you can make him bend in public, because you know that in private, you'll be the one doing the bending and you want to make the most of it.
You take one step away from him and Loki’s hand snatches out and curls tightly around your upper arm.  He drags you forcefully back into the shadows of the pillar and shoves you up against the stone.  His movements and expressions are angry, but there is a flicker of something else in his eyes too.  Amusement.  He likes this silly jealousy game.  Well, he likes this part of it at least.
His mouth crushes over yours very quickly and very dominantly.  You immediately respond, clutching your hands in his robes and tilting your body into his.  But he doesn't let you enjoy his touch any longer than you deserve, and after a too-short moment, he pulls away and presses you angrily into the hardened pillar.  You aren't nearly as out of the way as you'd like to be, after all, and Loki would hate to draw unwanted attention to you.  He's got more interesting plans for the night and they've got nothing to do with listening to his father scold him on the social constraints that his title demands.
You pant and shiver into the stone.  When it all comes down to it, you're not nearly as mischievous or sure of yourself in the face of this powerful passion.  You close your eyes and try to smirk, but it comes out as more of a gratified smile and doesn't even have a shred of the impish light you'd intended for it to have.  Loki's smirk, on the other hand, is evil incarnate.
"I do believe, my Lady, that you're looking rather ill," Loki drawls, dragging out the word 'lady' as if he is doubtful that you really deserve the title.  He'd prefer calling you 'vixen', or 'hellcat'.  It suits you better.  "Shall I escort you back to your room?" he inquires with a heady smirk.  His words are polite but his tone is edged with dirt and gravelly desire and aroused, lustful promises.  You think it sounds lovely.  Against your better judgment, you accept.
It isn't that you don't want to be alone with him.  It is simply that you know he will torture you a little bit before he lets you feel pleasure, and while you're looking forward to it, you also just wants to get right into it tonight.  Hours spent staring at his dashing figure, the intricate robes, the mischievous lingering gaze has made you endlessly aroused.  You don't want to admit it, but you've been aching something awful for at least half of the night, when in your boredom you'd begun to daydream about certain acts better left for darkened corners.
But you find yourself surprised when, minutes later in the darkened hallway, Loki presses you hard into the wall and you feel him.  Perhaps he has been suffering from similar desires throughout the night, because the hard bulge between his legs leaves you gasping.  His robes are good at concealing what feels like a very uncomfortable erection.  You're not surprised that you hadn't noticed: Loki would never allow himself the shame of being found out at the middle of a dinner.  After the dinner, however, is another story entirely.
You aren't very far from the great hall, but Loki has pressed you into a small little alcove that offers a decent amount of protection.  You're just about to wonder if he'll drag you back to his rooms, but your thoughts soon abandon you.  He hungrily kisses you, devouring your mouth with his and rubbing his body luxuriously against yours.  The fabric of your elegant robes hold you back, but it still feels rather delicious.  Especially when his hands careen down your bare back and dive into your gown to clutch at your rear.
You are wearing nothing beneath the gown.  If this surprises Loki, he doesn't show it.  He just 'tsk's and mutters darkly, "Naughty girl."  He doesn't have time to say anything else, because you won't let him.  You want his kisses, want the bruising force of them against your lips, want your head spinning and your body numb with pleasure.  He growls and forces you back into the cold stone wall, his hands roughly clenching and unclenching your ass, spreading you and massaging over your curves.  Then, before you have time to anticipate his next move, Loki is rubbing two fingers along the cleft of your bottom and down around your clit.  He jerks them over your wetness so quickly that you can only gasp and moan out a complaint.  You wish he'd go slower, but then again this is supposed to be your punishment, so you shouldn't be surprised.
You muffle your annoying reaction with a breathless laugh, “Are you so bold that you would take me in this dreary hallway?  I believe I deserve some manner of respect, at least.”  Your nails digs into his shoulders tightly when he drags those fingers over you again, but this time there is a certain calculation to his movements that make them less careless and more thoughtful.  He is testing you.  Deciding if you truly are worthy to lie with him in his bed.  So you hold tightly to your moans, bundle them up against your throat before they can spill into existence, and waits for the verdict.
It comes soon after, though perhaps not in the way you expect.  Loki drags out a quiet, “Hmm…” and his hands smooth up your ass to pull you roughly against him.  The next moment, the world around them fades away and is replaced by Loki’s magic as he transports them to the one place you eagerly await.  You push down a smile.  It had been relatively simple to convince him, which means that he either wants you very badly or just wants to continue teasing you in a more private setting.  Maybe both.
“Is this better, my Lady?” he murmurs, his voice low and scraping over the grave tones of his lust.  His words are almost a purr, and they pucker over your skin like a shivering array of individual promises.  You try very hard to remain still and not convulse into the quivering mess he is making you into, but you doubt your efforts are very effective.  He’s smirking something awful when you lean back to look up at him.  You smile, too, at your own transparency, and chuckle, “It’s much better, prince.”  And it is.
His rooms are a curious mix of royalty and commonality, pushed into existence with emerald additions.  The floor length, luxurious satin curtains were half open, allowing for a sprinkle of moonlight to light up the mahogany floors.  The moonlight creates a subtle path that traverses, drips, skids all the way to his bed: a massive emerald mass that all but shrieks ‘luxurious comfort’. 
“Perhaps a little light would be welcome,” Loki murmurs, flicking his hand into the air with a smooth swish.  Immediately, the room brightens as if a shard of the sun has been captured and exhibited there.  The brilliancy quickly dims down to a duller glow.  You peer up at your mischievous lover and raise your eyebrows.  He merely smirks and allows is gaze to drift over you, appeased with the lighting because now he can see everything, or at least everything he has done to you.  But the gown you wear still clings to your figure, and he steps forward to deal with the annoying fabric that barricades his view of you.
You let him touch you, let him slowly drag the skirt of your dress up your legs, bundle it at your hips, then flourish it up and away.  It lands as a cloud might land, grazing the floor with a brilliant sashay of wispy details before settling.
You aren’t wearing anything at all beneath the gown, and so you stand there naked in the center of his room in only a pair of delicate creamy heels.  His gaze in a calculating mass of well hidden affection as he slowly takes you in.  After a long moment of his staring, you tilt your head and give him a tiny little smile that somehow turns your eyes to mischievous diamonds awaiting judgment.  Said judgment comes in the form of Loki gesturing fluidly to the bed and saying very calmly, “Sit down.”
You sit, cross your legs, stare.  He stares back as he slowly begins to remove his robes.  The outer one falls to the floor with a heavy swish.  The inner follows soon after, and then he too is bare and stepping forward, and you’re meeting him on the edge of the mattress and pulling him into an immediate kiss that is a perfect blend of your fire and his serenity.  He pushes you down with a chuckle and promptly follows, his lips ducking back to yours quickly as he loops his arms over your head.
Lying beneath him as his mouth utterly ravishes yours is like transcending the limits of mathematical restrictions and flying into infinity.  His lips are gateways into an entirely new universe.  His kisses make you feel as though you are more than simply living, but rising and sinking like a rowboat in a heavy storm, always fluctuating between two halves of a greater whole.  He is the other half, his body the vehicle of this union that mobilizes the stark workings of your heart.  And you would drown in that storm just as long as he was the boat which carried you to the bottom of the sea.
“Impatient, are we?” Loki says against your very eager lips.  His mouth curves into an amused smile as his long fingers reach for your wrists.  He pulls your roaming hands away from his chest and instead thrusts them above your head.  His smile turns into something darker, more of a smirk that loosely catches the transience of wicked abandon.  It suits him so well and looks so good on his handsome angular face that your core aches with a fierce melodramatic insistence impossible to ignore.
“Always,” you whisper, kissing him back with lustful intent.  Yet it is not only lust that drives you.  It is also the familiarity between two souls clashing yet again; the knowledge behind his passion and yours.  It is something, you think, that leads to greatness.  To love, perhaps.  You don’t know, you can’t consider such things now.  All you know is the way Loki kisses you feels infinite, breathless, beautiful.
He smirks and kisses you again.  It is a languid lazy kiss.  A kiss that makes your toes curl.  A kiss that has you arching and sighing and trying to keep up with him and the powerful emotions that run their course beneath your skin.
“Mmm…Loki…” you whisper, almost whine, and he kisses you deeper as if trying to swallow each and every word, each breath, the very essence of who you are. 
His hips roll down against yours, and with an impatient growl, he pulls away to grab your thighs.  A moment later he’s heaving them apart, making room for himself against the warmth of your body.  He nestles there, pressed against the entirety of you, and leans down to kiss you again.  This time the kiss is accompanied with the drag of his hips as they shimmer against yours.
Another whine leaves your throat.  You’re eyes flutter.  Your fingers curl into him, clawing at his back.  You wrap your legs around his waist and pull yourself closer to him, grinding your wet core against his hard length.  His tongue sneaks over yours, and in a fit of playfulness you seal your mouth shut.  The narrowed look he sends you makes you shiver in excitement.
“Naughty,” he tells you, before promptly biting your bottom lip with no small amount of grace.  You jolt against him and a note of distress leaves you, but he swallows that too, and every shift of his tongue takes you deeper deeper deeper.
Fingers tangle into his hair.  The air subtly changes between you from rough and playful to astoundingly beautiful – in ways you cannot explain and can’t even fully understand.  All you know is that being with him unlocks you.  Transforms you.  And suddenly you are both susceptible to every flaw and timelessly transparent to every strength.  You do not know if that is what love is; you doubt you’ll ever know.
He sighs out into the kiss and you breathe him in, lips molded together but not moving.  Everything slows.  He lifts his head millimeters away.  His green eyes look like dark emeralds in the dim light.  You trail a hand over his cheek, fingertips brushing over his sharp cheekbone and then down to his lips.  He watches you, the corner of his mouth tilted up into a devilish smirk, and murmurs, “Are you quite finished admiring me?”
You smirk back, circle your hips just a little, and watch an almost pained expression flutter over his face.  “I’ll never be finished admiring you,” you tell him quietly as he grapples with the intense desire you instill within him.  His eyes slice you into millions of pieces and you ghost over every one of them just to get to him.
He hums, a low thrum of dark noise that makes your entire body light up.  “Good,” he growls, kissing you firmly before pulling back and sitting on his knees.  “Now let me admire you.  Sit up and come here.”  He shifts back and you slowly sit up.  You don’t expect him to settle himself at the top of the large bed, but the sight of him idly sitting there in all his glory makes your mouth water.
“Oh?” you wonder, crawling toward him.  “My prince must be getting lazy.”  You smirk.  He just raises a dangerous brow and pats the top of his thighs.
“Get over here, wench,” he snarls, but there is no bite behind his tone.  You huff but obey, sliding over his body until you’re sitting in his lap.  His hard shaft presses between you and you gently slide over it, shivering when you spread your outer sex over him.
He makes an indulgent purring sound and grips your thighs tightly, heaving you closer with a vengeance that makes you breathe out eagerly. 
“Now who’s impatient?” you ask lightly, even though ever part of you is screaming in the agony of this close-not-close-enough vexation.
He slaps your rear with a smirk and you have to bite your lip to hold in your moan.  God you love it when he gets like this.  It’s sexy as hell.
“Tsk,” he murmurs, shifting his long fingers up your back.  “Don’t push your luck, my lady.”  The words are, as always, playfully wicked and so very tempting.
No, you won’t push your luck.  You haven’t got much of it left anyhow.  For now all you want to do is fuck him until every bit of your common sense vanishes.  And so before Loki can say anything else, you take his cock between eager fingers and pump him slowly through them once, twice, several more times – and then you line him up to your core. 
His expression is tight as he watches this, eyes dangerous and narrowed.  When you start to slide down on him, he closes his eyes briefly before opening them to look at you, watching you take him.  You get halfway before you start lifting your hips again, trying to ease him inside you – but Loki is impatient.  He digs his fingers into your hips and slams you down on his shaft, quickly and efficiently making you take every single inch of him.  You gasp, partly in pain but mostly with the delirious passion that comes from how much you love his manhandling of you.  You’re probably a little masochistic, but at least you have the decency to pretend like you aren’t…not that it does any good.
“Loki!” you exclaim, hoping your voice doesn’t sound a breathless as you think it does.  “You can’t just - what if I wasn’t ready – “
He growls and jerks his hips just a little, as much as he is allowed in his current position.  He’s completely hilted inside you.  His pelvis is pressed against yours.  “I know you love it,” he murmurs silkily, nipping at your throat with those quick lips of his.  “Stop pretending that you don’t.  Now fuck me already.”
Your head tilts back and a moan whimpers past your throat.  His tongue laps at the mark he’s made on your pale skin but you hardly notice.  You’re too caught up in the sudden desire that breaches up within you like a tidal wave.  You thrust.  Thrust again.  Again.  Again.  Every drag of his cock makes you shudder as new waves of pleasure overcome you.  Before long, you’re bouncing in his lap and reveling in the slapping sound of each movement – and Loki’s kisses, and his hands as they roughly pull you into him with every downward thrust.
You’ve got a feeling that you’re going to be all bruised by the morning but you don’t care.  You care about nothing but him.  His tongue that flicks at your breast, his hands that clutch you, the wayward finger that presses at the top of your clit that makes you see stars –
“Loki,” you gasp, blinking brightly.  You go faster, grasp his broad shoulders and tilt your head back.  His lips immediately start kissing and nipping your neck, adding colorful marks to your skin as a painter might outline his desires onto a blank canvas.  One hand grips your lower back tightly, the other remains curled around your hip, continually pressing at your clit.  Every pass of your lower body sends delicious shivers running through you.  It seems the feeling is mutual, because after a while Loki just buries his face into your neck and silently holds you, the whiz of his fingers his only movement save for the harried gasp of his breath.
“Oh fuck,” you moan, tangling your hands into his dark hair and resting your chin against his forehead.  “Fuck Loki!  Oh Loki – “ His name continues to roll off your lips, until suddenly both his arms clench down around your waist and he halts every movement.  You frown in confusion and look at him, only to see that his eyes have turned darker and his skin is shifting color – almost –
“Get off,” he snarls.  This time there is a bite to his tone.  You know better than to disobey that voice, even when you’re brain is thoroughly muddled with the faded edges of what would have been the most gratifying orgasm you’d ever had.
You clamor off him, holding back your moan when you feel his hard length slide out of you.  He pushes you down and turns away from you, taking a deep, shaky breath and exhaling slowly.  His skin turns pale once more, void of any hint of blue.  But the moment has shattered, and with it his confidence.
It’s hard to believe that a man like Loki could ever be under confident.  He holds himself so proudly, but it’s only a mask.  And that mask crumbles in the face of his true nature – something he absolutely abhors no matter how many times you tell him it doesn’t matter.  Not to you.
“Loki…” you whisper, putting a hand on his shoulder.  He’s tense and doesn’t look at you, only glares at the wall with such force that you wonder if he’s trying to break right through it with his gaze alone.  You press your forehead to his shoulder, near your hand, and breathe out.  “You know it doesn’t matter to me.  I want you because you’re you – “
“It matters to me,” he snarls.  You don’t recoil.  You know he’s not angry at you, but at himself.  You just kiss the back of his neck and trail your hand down his arm. 
“I know,” you breathe, eyes closed.  “But I love you regardless, and that isn’t going to change.”  The words have been spoken before, but rarely.  When he hears that one specific word, Loki stiffens, hesitates, then exhales loudly.
He closes his eyes tightly and whispers, “Say it again.”  His voice is hoarse, tired almost, like he’s suddenly exhausted and ready to surrender to that exhaustion.  It is exactly what you’re waiting to hear.
You crawl around him, facing him.  His eyes slowly meet yours.  The mask is still there, but it has weakened, and you can see the disquiet plea that graces the edges of his eyes.  You push your forehead to his and run your hands over his chest, settling back into his lap.  He doesn’t make a move to stop you.
“…I love you,” you tell him.  He shudders, as if the very words are shards that cut him deeply.  Yet at the same time there is an efflorescent happiness in the contours of his face, and you hurry to whisper again, “I love you Loki.”  Your lips touch his, hesitantly at first but more firmly when he doesn’t move away.  “Always you, it’s always been you – “  And everything finally breaks into millions of beautiful cavalier pieces.
He kisses you hard, one hand tangling into your hair and pulling you tight to him.  The dominance of his kiss sends you reeling – as does the suddenness of his body as it bends yours onto the mattress.  Before you even know what’s happening, he’s hovering above you kissing you with all the desire he has.  It’s so lovely that you can only curl your legs back around his waist, push your aching core to his, and kiss him back with every inch of your own passion.
“I love you – “ you murmur in between kisses.  The words are muffled, swallowed, devoured, and his response is in every crevice of his breath, his touch, his love.
He sinks back into you without warning, but you don’t need one anyway.  You’re waiting, waiting, waiting, until he finally comes back to you.  And when he does, everything turns bright and beautiful and so relieving.
“Ahh…” you moan, shifting your hips into his.  He caresses you slowly, lips still moving against yours.  Each thrust is a surge of messages that you innately understand.  And before long, you’re arching into him and moaning his name loudly and the orgasm that had faded away before returns at full force.
“Loki!” you cry, hips moving erratically against his.  He pins you down and thrusts into you hard, dragging your finish out like the tapered ending of some great piano piece – shifting keys from desolation to destruction in its finest form.  He does destroy you, he always has, but you yearn for the transformation like a plant yearns for sun.
He follows you quickly, letting out a grunt that somehow makes you want to start all over again, because he never makes any noise during sex at all.  You watch him come, watch his face as it crumbles along with the rest of him.  But this crumbling is different from the last, and you think it’s wonderful to witness.
He pants, stills, covers your body with his.  The weight is comforting, but he rolls off of you against only a few moments and immediately drags you into his side.  You wrap your arm around his waist and bury your head into his shoulder and sigh. 
“Say it one more time,” you hear him murmur, just as the edge of sleep threatens to succor you into its depths.
“I’ll say it a thousand times,” you whisper sleepily, then press the words into his skin and then his lips, over and over until the mantra has become as much a part of him as the heritage he so solemnly wishes to deny.
~~~

6 comments:

  1. I've been waiting for a Loki one haha
    This was amazing!! Every last bit of it was so good!!

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  2. Finally a Loki Lemon!! Thank you it's amazing!! Can you do another Bruce Banner or Captain America or maybe another Winter Soilder

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  3. Man, that was awesome! You got his character down perfectly. I liked that pause during the sex when he starts taking on the appearance of a Frost Giant. Very creative! Keep up the always wonderful work! <3

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  4. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS. Just... Thank you.

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  5. Absolutely loved it! Loki is certainly one of my favorites :) Could you do one for Zero from Vampire Knight? That would be awesome <3 Absolutely love your writing, I wish I had such an incredible talent as you.

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  6. Lovely as always! Good job on capturing Loki and his character. So hot, believable and eloquent! ������

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