watched episodes 4-7 of BNHA. These doodles got away from me…
Thoughts so far: Izuku’s self destructive tendencies being encouraged by All Might is wild, Aizawa is hot, Bakugou getting angry over nothing is so funny, Izuku’s mom is cute
Idek if any of my moots have noticed but I haven’t really been active as much on here. I need help please. Ever since graduating high school last spring I’ve been in a depressive episode and I can’t tell if it’s getting worse or better. There’s a high chance I have level 1 ASD or adhd, but even after all the referrals and prompting I don’t have it in me to see a therapist or psychiatrist about it due to bad experiences in the past. Also, a few months ago, I finally came to terms with the fact that I am most likely lgbtq but I don’t know if I’m bi, pan or ace most days and I can’t talk to anyone about it because I live at home with a Christian family and my only irl friends are also Christian (I was raised in a k-12 Christian school community). Overall I’m extremely lost and I have absolutely no one to talk to about this I just really need help please.
synopsis; where the reader has a crush on Superman and Clark at the same time, unaware they are the same person.
an: I just had a lot of fun with this one honestly. There's a few silly moments here and there where i just wrote whatever tickled my fancy.
You weren't one for celebrity crushes. The idea of falling for someone you had never met had always seemed weird to you, but now, you understood. You could see the side of the girls falling over themselves for Elvis or preening for Matt Dillon. Because you were down bad for metropolises' one and only Superman.
Right now you were sat in the office grinning at your computer like a mad woman. You were watching a video of superman on YouTube, and wow...he sure was something.
"What's got you smiling like that?" Clark's voice rolls over you, snapping you out of your thoughts.
"Nothing." You slam your laptop shut, and instantly feel as if you've been caught in the act of doing something you shouldn't. But there's nothing wrong with watching a news report on your laptop. Nothing wrong with rewinding a few times just to see the dimples Superman has when he smiles. Right?
"She's got a crush." Jimmy calls from across the office, teasing.
Clark's brow furrows, "On who?" his voice deepens, almost as if he's concerned for you, though you don't know why he would be.
"I don't have a crush." You counter, but you can feel warmth creeping up your neck, heating your ears. Even if the others in the office can't see it, you know you're embarrassed.
"She has a crush on Superman, I've seen her watching videos of him constantly this week."
"Jimmy! Shut your trap!" you throw your pen in his direction, and it hits him directly on the forehead.
"Hey!" Jimmy makes an attempt at throwing the pen back but you dodge expertly, wheeling yourself out of the line of fire in your office chair.
"You have a crush on Superman?" Clark asks, and there's a small smile creeping onto his lips. He's going to make fun of you, you know it.
"It's not a crush." You defend, though you know too well that it is. "I just think that he's cool." You keep your gaze locked on the papers at your desk, hoping to defuse the conversation.
"Cool, huh?"
You don't answer him, and that in itself is all he needs to know.
-
The next day Superman saves three young kids from a three story fall, and you watch the reports fly in. Hero, savior, wonder. Words used to describe him as he brings the kids to safety on the sidewalk. The event is caught from multiple different angles, and you watch every one you can find in your researching, feeling your heart well with pride. But you don't know him, never have, so why do you feel so attached?
Clark pushes his way into the office twenty minutes later, never on time, and you look up from your laptop to smile at him. He smiles back, and his dimples flash, triggering a resemblance to something in your head.
"Morning," He greets, and the tone of his voice washes over you. He's happy today, and walks tall as he makes his way to the desk.
"Morning." You say it back almost instinctually, but you're stuck on the fact he reminds of you someone. The dimples. Superman has dimples. God, you're so down bad that you're seeing him in everything. You worry you're losing your mind the next time Clark grins at you, and again you see the similarity to the man you're obsessed with. Clark Kent looks like Superman, just a little. Not really. Who are you kidding?
You're just seeing what you want to see, which is a more attainable version of your celebrity crush. Still, you can't stop yourself when you say "I have never noticed those before." Clark turns to you, and you clarify. "Your dimples. I've never noticed them before."
It's as if you saying that short circuit's something in Clarks brain as he fumbles for a response. "I've always had them." He ends up blurting, as if you don't know that now. Then after a moment, his voice softer, like he's gone shy, "Do you not like them?"
It stuns you a little, because of course you like them. You've always had a thing for guys with dimples—superman included—though you can't say that to Clark. He's your coworker, your friend. "No, I do. I like them. They're cute." And you mean the words you say. Because Clark's dimples are cute, and so is Clark.
You're in serious trouble now. A crush on Superman, a public figure you may never meet or even see in person, is one thing. A potential crush on your coworker. Bad, Bad, BAD.
-
A week later and you wake up sweating. And not from any nightmare, no, from a very, very good dream. A dream about Clark. You are absolutely fucked.
“I'm sure it's not as bad as you think.”
Lois is trying to calm you down, but there’s nothing she can do. You are fixated on him, on your coworker Clark Kent. You'd called her after much deliberation on the topic, and after a near panic attack you decided you needed her expert council.
“I’m having dreams about him Lois! And they’re not PG rated!” You’ve got your head in your hands, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. Deep breathes, in and out. “Every time I see him, I'm gonna think…god, you know what I'll think about.”
Three days ago Clark had brushed past you in the break room, a hand on your back as he reached for the coffee machine. And you’d shivered at the touch, his touch. His hand was warm, gentle and big. And you’d be damned if you could forget about it. And he apologized profusely as if he'd felt your shiver in his heart, "sorry, i didn't mean—that was out of line, sorry."
You hadn't known how to tell him that it was perfectly alright, perhaps even more so than that, for him to touch you. In fact, you wanted him to, and that was something you hadn't felt in a long time.
"What the hell am I gonna do?" you manage to look at Lois across from you now, and you know that she has no reasonable answers for you.
"Maybe tell him how you feel?" she offers, which is a totally unreasonable answer, just as you'd suspected.
"He's my coworker! I see him every day, and if he rejects me I'll have to change my name and run off to a whole new country."
"I don't think he'd reject you." Lois says, and there's a knowing smile on her lips. But you don't quite catch her drift.
"You're right, he's too nice to turn me down. He'd go out with me out of pity, we'd date for years and then finally when we're old and dying he'll say "it's not you, it's me." and—"
"Woah, okay stop." Lois has taken a few steps forward and is crouching in front of you, her hands on your knees.
"Did it ever occur to you that he might like you back?"
"No. Well, maybe. I don't know."
Lois just smiles at you, and pulls you in for a hug. She's used to you, to your out of control thoughts, and she squeezes you tight. "It's going to be fine, it's just Clark, not the end of the world."
-
A day after that conversation, and it sure does feel like some kind of hell. Sitting across from Clark is like torture, especially when he looks at you over his glasses, smiles brightly. Those dimples. Damn him.
There's only one thing for you to do. One thing that can fix the landslide of thoughts. A dive so deep down a rabbit hole of Superman media that no man will ever compare. Yes, that's reasonable right?
You pull open your laptop, and type 'Superman' into the search bar. Videos and images of the man fill your screen, articles and interviews with him popping up in every corner. But there's a haunting presence surrounding so many of them. Interviews with Superman, reported on by Clark Kent from the daily planet. Articles about Superman's latest saves written and edited by the one and only. You peek over the top of your laptop screen, and find Clark with his head in his own work.
His curls fall effortlessly into his eyes, and you wonder how he can see anything he's reading at all. A sigh leaves your lips, blissful and dreamy, and you don't realize you do it until Clark looks up at you.
He blushes when he catches you already looking his way. "Everything okay?" he asks, and you allow the sound of his voice to envelop you for a moment. It's a voice that sounds familiar, not in the sense that you've heard Clark speak so many times before, but almost like you've heard a similar voice spoken by someone else. Someone with a cape and very similar dimples.
"Yeah," you can feel your brows pulling down into a frown as you look at him. "Yeah, everything's good." you've never been good at masking your feelings, and now must be one of those times, your expression the dead giveaway.
"What's on your mind?" Clark rolls his office chair closer to your desk, his paperwork long forgotten. You turn your laptop around to face him with an unknown confidence.
"You know Superman, right?" you watch as Clark's eyes scan over all the articles he's written about the hero in the past, before he nods with hesitation. "Yeah, sort of, I mean professionally speaking."
You don't know what comes over you then, but the words spill from you before you can properly think them over. "Can you get me in contact with him? Unprofessionally speaking?"
You're unsure if what you're implying is landing right in Clark's brain, but he seems to short circuit at the words. He readjusts his glasses, and grabs at his tie, as if to loosen it. "Yeah, uh, sure. What did you want to talk to him about?"
You turn your laptop back to face you, and begin typing something new into the search bar. "If I asked nicely, do you think he'd grab a coffee with me?"
Clark nearly chokes, or at least you think that's the case considering the strangled noise that escapes his throat. "You want to ask Superman on a date?" the words sound tight, and stressed coming from him.
"Maybe?" you glance up from your screen to note the look of shock that covers Clark from head to toe. His entire body language has changed, and it makes you shift in your seat.
"Do you think he'll turn me down?" you say at last when Clark fails to offer anything further in the way of conversation. Your question seems to tug him out of his stupor, though he's still sitting up straighter than usual, as if he's walking on thin ice that you can't see.
"I don't think anyone could turn you down."
-
Clark is reeling. He can’t quite believe it. You want to ask him on a date. Well, not him exactly. Superman. Who is also him. Fuck, this is getting complicated.
Clark had been falling for you for months now, unbeknownst to anyone in the office, and he had to admit that when he heard of your crush on Superman originally, he got a bit of a kick out of it. A confidence boost. Until of course he realised that it wasn’t really him, Clark Kent that you wanted.
It’s weird to feel jealous of yourself, but that’s exactly how Clark feels. The feeling of “what does he have that I don’t?” Is strange when you have everything said other has.
Still, Clark puts you in contact with ‘Superman’ because for him, it’s impossible to say no to you. I mean how could he? Every time you smile at him his knees go weak and that day when you told him his dimples were cute? He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.
So somehow, Clark is all done up in his ‘superman’ attire, ready to go meet you for coffee. But how does superman even have coffee? Should Clark get the same order he always does, or will you catch on if you recognise he has the same tastes?
Still, despite his doubts, he refuses to stand you up. He meets you outside the daily planet, standing tall just like he always tries to do when in this suit.
“Hey.” you greet him with such a wide smile, one that lights him up from the inside out, and he thinks in that mere second that maybe he doesn’t need the sun to heal, maybe he just needs you.
“Hello.” He extends a hand, formal despite the circumstances. “Clark has told me so much about you.”
“I was just about to say the same thing.” You answer, taking his hand to shake.
“So, shall we?” Clark gestures down the street, toward a coffee shop that he happens to appear at almost every day.
“We shall.”
-
For the most part, the date goes well. You talk about a plethora of things, and he makes jokes that have you red in the face with laughter. But there is something missing, shoes you don’t think even a superhuman man can fill.
Right now, you’re on the roof of a building taller than any tree, with the one and only Superman, looking over the city you love so much. And somewhere in that city, is a man you can’t stop thinking about. And that man, surprisingly enough, isn’t the one right beside you.
“What’s on your mind?” The voice covers you, smooth like stones washed up on the shore.
You look over at Superman, a singular curl coming loose in his hair from the wind that passes by. “You’re beautiful.” You tell him, before you can so much as think it over. “So beautiful, and kind, and funny, and a great listener.”
“Why, thank you.” He starts “I think of you the same way.” You know he means it, and that’s what makes it harder to say the next part.
“I’m going to sound like an asshole right now,” you preface, “but I know someone else, that is beautiful, and kind, funny, and a great listener. And he has these dimples that are just the cutest, and his eyes are so gentle and dreamy–“
Superman cuts you off, albeit politely. “I have a sneaky suspicion I’m being rejected right now.”
It makes you sick in your stomach to have to do it, but you nod, “I am so sorry.”
Superman is quiet for a moment, and then he smiles, soft and understanding. “It’s okay. But if you don’t mind me asking, who exactly am I being rejected for?”
You pause, and you know Superman isn’t pressuring or guilt tripling you in any way. You feel safe, and comfortable, to tell him the truth. Maybe that’s why he’s such a hero.
“Clark. Clark Kent.”
-
Clark’s heart stops in his chest. At least it feels that way when his name falls from your lips.
“Clark, like the Clark who set up this date?” The words tumble from him laced with confusion and doubt that isn’t an act. He almost says "who me?!" but manages to stop himself just in time.
“Yeah.” You heave a sigh, one that sounds heavenly and princess like. “Don’t tell, but I think I’m obsessed with him.”
That almost makes Clark break character. He can’t believe it. You like him, really like him, and he has a fucking shot after all.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s rude, and mean. We’re on a date and I’m talking about some other guy, what is wrong with me?
But Clark wants to know more, he’s begging for it internally. “No, no it’s fine. He seems like a nice guy.”
You smile subtly, staring off at the city around you. “He really is.” Clark is just about ready to pump his fist into the air.
"Why don't you ask him out?" he says instead.
You're quiet, and when you turn to face him the look in your eyes is anxious, unsure. "Because he might turn me down, and I don't know if I can handle that."
It's like a sucker punch to his gut, "I don't think anyone could turn you down." he mutters, losing himself in the look on your face. He watches, as your expression changes, shifts from one of nerves to one of confusion.
"He said the same thing." it's almost a whisper but he catches the words, despite the breeze trying to carry them away.
"Who did?" his own response is quiet too, as if you're telling each other secrets you don't want the air to hear.
"Clark. He said that exact same thing to me the day I asked you out."
-
It all comes together then as you stand there staring at Superman. His dimples, the curls in his eyes, the voice you know so well, the humor that is so familiar and kind. The touch of his hands, warm and gentle and big.
It's like a fog has lifted and you're unsure how you never saw it before. "Oh my god," you take a step back, wanting to cower in the corner from shame. You just gave the most embarrassing rom-com speech about Clark Kent, to Clark Kent. "Oh my god," you say again, your eyes scanning over every inch of the man before you. Superman. Superman. Superman. Except it's not is it? It's Clark, it's so clearly Clark that you feel stupid.
"What?" there's panic on his face, and you watch as he realizes that you know. That you see through him. "Oh," it hits him, and you watch as he also takes a step backward.
"You're Superman." you say, and it seems absolutely idiotic considering he's standing right in front of you in the red and blue suit, a giant yellow 'S' plastered on his broad chest.
He stays quiet, watching you closely. You take a step forward, and he stays utterly still, like a deer in headlights.
"You're Clark." you just needed to say it out loud. To fully convince yourself it's true. And it is. As soon as you say it, Clark—no superman—nods.
"Surprise?" he says it warily, daring for a soft and cautious smile.
-
Shortly after that conversation you beeline it out of there, promising to meet Clark later that night to really talk it over. But for now you need to sit with your thoughts, figure things out, and come to terms with the fact you just told the man you might be falling for exactly how you feel without knowing it.
To think you've had feelings for the same man twice, thinking that he was two different people? You have a type.
But you can't seem to get over completely exposing yourself and your feelings by rejecting Clark—for Clark. You pace back and forth in your apartment for an hour, maybe even two, before there's a knock at the door. You've run out of time.
"Hey," you groan as you open the door for him. He's in normal clothes now, out of the Superman suit, and he looks so unbelievably good. The white button up, the dress pants, the hair. His curls are set free, and you can almost feel your pupils dilate at the sight.
"Hey." his voice is soft, so gentle, so him. "How are you feeling?" there's genuine concern in his eyes, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he wants to reach out but refuses too.
"I'm okay, I guess. It's a lot."
He nods, and glances around your apartment, he's only been here once before for a staff party you held at your place last Christmas. He sat on the couch with you for most of the night, watching Jimmy dance offbeat to music you had coming from your tv. You think that might have been the first spark you felt for him, though you didn't know it at the time.
"So, about what happened on the roof."
As soon as he says it you want to crumble to the floor in shame. You keep yourself upright, though it's a struggle, as he continues, though he doesn't miss the way you wince at the topic of conversation.
"Did you mean what you said?"
You feel nauseous, but you nod. "Every word."
-
Clark can't help it. He tries to stop himself, but the smile grows, crawling across his face and clinging there. Stuck. "You said you were obsessed with me." he says through the smile, teasing, remembering.
He watches as you look away from him, your embarrassment endearing, sweet. "Did I say that? I don't remember saying that." the words tumble from you but he knows you're partly joking. You know just as well as he does what you said before.
He wants to laugh, wants to spin you around like a Princess, but he just takes a singular step forward, still grinning. "I distinctly remember you saying it." he adds, unable to take his eyes away from you. He's thrilled, excited, but also a little nervous. What if he made this all up in his head? What if it's just all one amazing dream?
"I'm a little obsessed with you too. For what it's worth." He adores the way you look up at him, the furrowed brows, making way for a smile of your own.
"Just a little obsessed?"
He feels the heat rising up his neck, "A completely normal amount of obsessed, I think."
That's the moment he reaches out, taking one of your hands in his own. He's hopeful that you won't pull away, be repulsed by the fact he isn't as human as you once thought he was. You stay with your hand in his own, and give his fingers a squeeze of reassurance before you speak again.
"So," you lower your head a little, "how many times did you laugh at me behind my back when I was watching videos of 'super-you' in the office?"
He pretends to think it over, look up at the ceiling contemplatively. He remembers those times, where he was almost jealous of himself. It feels so silly looking back now.
"Only once or twice." he answers, after a moment. "How many times did you almost figure out it was me?" He's been wanting to know since this afternoon, since you called him out. But there have been times in the past where he thought you already knew, where he thought maybe you were waiting for him to tell you.
"The dimples almost gave you away." You reach a hand up to touch his face, and he has to resist the urge to close his eyes in contentment. He nods, only slightly, not wanting you to move your hand away from his jaw.
"Unfortunately that is something I don't have much control over."
His eyes scan over every inch of your face, committing this moment and each of your expressions to memory. The smile lines and the way your eyelashes flutter. The purse of your lips as you try not to laugh. The lips he has a very strong urge to kiss right about now.
"I still can't get over the fact," he starts, "that you rejected me, for me." he leans in a little bit closer, as he says it, just to tease, and he revels in the roll of your eyes.
"Shut up, Kent." you say, right before you push up and close the rest of the distance between his mouth and yours. It's a not a perfect kiss, and his nose bumps with yours as he tries to hold you up to his height. He also can't stop smiling, so that doesn't help matters, and it might just be the messiest, most awkward kiss he's ever had. But it's also the best one. Because he's never felt this amount of joy before, never felt so at home in someone else's house, in someone else's hands.
So when you pull away, bashful and laughing, he brings you back in for one more.
Reblog and comment pretty pretty please!!
CLARK KENT TAGLIST: empty
GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @s00buwu
When you’re aspiring to establish a fanbase for your fanfiction and oneshots and the ONE popular post you still get at least 20 daily notifs for is the ONE time you wrote smut about your fictional crush you’ve had since you were 12 so you genuinely sit there like
Summary: In an alternate universe where you and Loki are on the run from the TVA, the two of you find refuge and comfort in the quiet of a safe house—and each other’s arms. Inspiration from CAS’s Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby and my love for gentle men :)
Disclaimers: 18+ mdni, tasteful smut, NOTHING EXPLICIT, mutual pining, implied slow morning sex, forced proximity?, established sexual relationship, consent kink if you squint, soft love, Loki yearning :) idk i was going for a Song of Achilles smut vibe iykwim
Word count: 1.8k
It's early when you wake up. The kind of early where everything is still a hazy blue—the sky, the sheets, the light spilling through the bedroom windows. Still, quiet, and untouched by the harsh reality daylight brings.
It's been six weeks since you last saw a minuteman's baton—eight since you escaped the TVA and their unjust claims. You found this safe house two days ago, somewhere in between 1952 and a time neglected from their supervision. Every passing minute presses down on your chest with a sense of impending doom—a death sentence.
You push these spiraling thoughts into the back of your mind and exhale through your nose, shifting under the protection of the sheets. You're warm. Not from the covers, but from him.
Loki's arm is draped around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, the steady rise and fall of his breath moving through you like the ocean tide. His palm rests just beneath your ribs, long fingers relaxed but steady. You don't open your eyes, you don't need to yet.
All of the feelings from last night surface to the forefront of your mind, dusting your cheeks in a warm pink, a smile spreading across your face. The velvet slide of Loki's voice, the ghost of his mouth at your jaw, the space between you gone. It still doesn't feel real.
Loki's hand shifts—slow and absentmindedly—grazing the bare skin of your stomach. You hum softly, just loud enough for him to hear. He stirs behind you, but doesn't speak right away. His nose brushes the curve of your shoulder, and his breath is warm against your skin.
"Still here?" He murmurs, voice slightly rough with sleep. You respond with a soft mhm, and he holds you a little tighter. "Good."
Eventually, you shift beneath the sheets to turn around and face him. You're met with a sight that makes your heart nearly swell out of your chest.
Loki's hair is a mess, his eyes soft. His left cheek presses gently against the pillow, but he doesn't seem to mind. It's the most human you've ever seen him—no walls, no tricks. Just Loki.
You smile. "You're staring."
"You're breathtaking," he says softly. You blink, taken aback by his unexpected reply.
He lifts a hand and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, the backs of his fingers brushing your cheek like you're something fragile.
"You say that like you mean it," you whisper. He leans in, forehead resting against yours. "I've never meant anything more."
You let your fingers rest on his chest, right over where his heart beats. It's quiet under your hand, but there. Steady. Real.
"Last night didn't feel real," you murmur. His lips quirk. "That's because you kissed me first."
You scoff, laughing into his throat. "You kissed me."
"I distinctly recall restraint," he teases. "You, however, were quite—"
You pinch his side gently and he gasps. "Alright—I yeild."
"God of Mischief, brought low by domesticity," you say mockingly.
"Mmm." His voice turns soft again. "Don't tempt me to keep you in this bed all day."
It's said like a joke, but his fingers find your hip beneath the blankets, his thumb lazily brushing the soft skin below your waist. The touch is slow. Intentional. Not exactly pushing. Just... asking.
Your body answers before your mouth does, curling a little closer. He exhales through his nose, pleased. And then he kisses your temple—slow and reverent. The kind of kiss that doesn't ask for anything back. You close your eyes in admiration.
His hand doesn't move right away. Just rests there, palm warm on skin. You feel him breathing against your collarbone now, the slope of his body fitting to yours like it was made for this—made for you.
His voice, low and brushed with sleep:
"May I...?"
You nod before he finishes. And maybe that's the dangerous thing, you suppose, because he second you say yes, he buries his face in your neck. You feel his mouth there—soft, open, barely grazing your skin, like he's studying the shape of you by touch alone. Like he wants to memorize you.
You tilt your chin instinctively, giving him more access. And gods, does he take it—not with a greedy heart. A sinner worshipping his divine creator.
He kisses the spot just beneath your jawline. Then lower. A trail so faint you'd think you imagined it if not for the way your breath falters. You feel his lips curve up against your skin.
"So sensitive," he murmurs. "You talk too much,” you quip. His laugh settles somewhere deep in your chest.
He shifts, then—presses you onto your back with care, like the weight of him might break you. But his body hovers instead, propped on an elbow, the blanket slipping lower. You feel his gaze sweep over you.
Loki looks down at you like you're some relic he was never meant to find, let alone hold. His hand grazes your ribcage, eyes searching your face. "Is this alright?"
You nod again, slower this time. "Yeah."
He kisses you—this time deeper. But not rushed. His mouth moves with purpose, like he's trying to tell you something through it—something language can't carry. You feel it in the way his hand curls at your waist, in the way his body tilts toward yours like he can't stand the distance. Your fingers knot into his hair. His breath catches when your knee brushes his hip, your legs no longer careful.
Nothing about this is frantic, it's deliberate. Laced with something slow burning, something whole. It's about wanting. Wanting to be close enough to feel each other, enough to stop pretending this connection is fragile.
You kiss him like you're allowed to. He kisses you like he never expected this to be real.
Your legs tangle.
His fingers tangle in your hair.
The world disappears a little. And maybe that's why it feels so good—because in this stolen stretch of the morning, nothing exists but him.
And you.
And the quiet between.
But then—his hand stills. His breath catches. You open your eyes.
Loki's just staring at you. Not lust drunk. Not quite overwhelmed.
You blink. "Is everything okay?"
His voice comes soft. Barely audible. "I think this is the first time I've touched someone... without wearing a mask."
That settles between you like something holy. You reach up, fingertips skimming his cheek, as if checking for some imaginary mask settled over his face. "You're not wearing one now?"
He shakes his head, a single chuckle escaping his lips in a huff of air. You kiss the corner of his mouth, so gently it's almost a promise.
"I like you like this," you whisper. A small sound leaves him—something like relief and disbelief wrapped into one. His forehead lowers to yours, his breath shaky.
"If we stay like this," he says, "I won't ever want to leave."
"We don't have to yet."
"But we will."
You nod. "I know."
Another kiss—this one slower, longer, full of everything you can't say yet.
He lifts his head, just enough to see your face. And you see him too—really see him. There's heat in his eyes, but there's also awe. There's something almost... sacred in how carefully he holds you. Like he doesn't know how the universe has allowed this. Allowed you.
His hand moves—gliding up your side with reverence. He learns your shape by touch, not out of lust, but devotion. Like a scholar memorizing scripture. Like you're sacred.
Your breath hitches when his palm finds the curve of your breast. You arch slightly into him, wordless encouragement. And that's all it takes—he exhales through his nose again, tension slipping from his shoulders as though you just gave him permission to exist.
You pull him closer. Not for heat, but for nearness. For communion.
When his hand skims higher, it's with infinite patience. Testing, retreating, returning. He explores like someone who's never been allowed to before—never wanted to so much. The hunger is there, but it's tempered by something older. Something deeper. Respect. Devotion.
Your lips meet again. Slower. Messier, this time, but still soft. You feel the way his body begins to shift over yours, but still he waits, hovers, one arm braced above you, one hand steady on your ribs, grounding himself in your breath.
Then, when your hand finds the back of his neck and your legs pull him in—then he moves.
His hips meet yours in a hush of heat. The intimacy is staggering and you both go still. Just for a moment, to just feel it.
Your heart. His breath.
The sheer weight of being known.
You tilt your chin, mouth brushing the line of his jaw. He groans—quietly—and buries his face in your neck, his lips finding your pulse point like he needs to feel that you're real.
"Okay?" he breathes.
You nod. "Yes. Yes."
So he begins to move. Barely. Just enough for steady paced friction, for rhythm, for the slow ache of closeness to bloom into something fuller. It's sacred and quiet and breathtaking all at once. His breath fans hot across your throat. Your hands press gently into the muscle of his back, skin to skin.
You rock together, wrapped up in nothing but body and soul and shared breath and something you don't dare name. And even as your bodies climb, chasing the hush of pleasure through the press of hip and thigh and reverent touch—still, Loki watches your face. Still, he slows when your eyes flutter. Still, he kisses you like a vow.
When you reach your release, it's not thunder. It's sunlight. It's everything that's been buried between you finally allowed to breathe. You unravel completely beneath him, and he joins you.
After, he lowers himself beside you slowly, as if the earth might drop out from beneath him if he moved too fast. When he pulls you into his arms again, you let yourself be held. His hand rests flat on your back, the other pressing against the warmth of your flushed cheeks. You can feel his heart, still racing.
You don't say anything for a long time. You just breathe—you just are. When he finally speaks, its out of reverence.
"I never thought it could be like this," he whispers, mouth against your temple.
You turn your head, eyes meeting his. Your lips brush his with a touch as soft as heaven.
"Me either."
Notes: hey guys I really hope you enjoyed this was my first time ever writing something “freaky” I won’t do this often but when I started writing this I was ovulating and I just find something so spiritual and artistic in sensuality and hopefully you guys will see this more as art than smut 🥲 anyways ily so big (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ
