What he does next is probably the most Loki thing she could imagine — and it's a bit of a relief, frankly. He laughs, the vibrations of his laughter spreading across her skin, and she twitches at the sensation. She pulls his hair again, as though affronted that he would dare laugh at her at a time like this, noting the way that he jumps in her hand and presses his hips greedily into her palm.

His thumb is too rough, the sensation too much, and Natasha shudders as she tries to shift her hips to escape the press, only succeeding in pushing him a bit deeper. She smothers a moan in her throat, biting down on her lower lip rather than giving him the satisfaction of hearing it.

"Fuck you," she spits, but the venom isn't there; it's chased away by the breathlessness, the way she seizes his length eagerly once his pants aren't in the way and strokes him firmly — not rough enough to hurt, but not with any real finesse. It's clear she knows her way around a male body; she might be rough on the shaft, but gentle as she swipes her thumb over the sensitive head, collecting pre-cum and spreading it down his cock to ease the friction of her palm.

Every bit of wriggling her hips drives him deeper — he's got her pinned underneath him, and it's only a fraction of a second longer before a treacherous noise slips out, something half a moan, half a growl.