Unravelling
Loki was hopelessly intoxicated beyond repair.
Mortals talk about this moment. The moment. When you lock eyes with someone for the first time and the universe stills on its axis as you’re pulled into a person. The person. Everything slows for you to commit every detail to memory, because this moment is simply unforgettable.
It was the smile on her face, the singular dimple that followed. The flow of her hair as her head tilted. The crinkle at the corner of her eyes. The faint constellation of freckles that would be missed if you didn’t look close enough. All these tiny details of her burned into his memory as he thought, for the first time in his very long life: this is it. The moment. It’s all over.
He wasn’t sure if she had that moment too the first time they met. If she did, she never let it show. Sometimes, mortals say that the moment can happen after the first glance. That it’s not always immediate and painfully obvious. That it can take a few hundred interactions before it hits them. He’s going to make a point of asking her sometime, when the moment hit her. And hell make a point of telling her of when his moment was in some dizzyingly romantic haze that will either make her eyes roll or the corners of her eyes crinkle.
He never thought it would happen to him the way that it did. Thousands of years and a few hundred lifetimes, no one had ever led him to believe that the moment existed until her.
It was strange, that the first thing he remembered from meeting her was her smile. She didn’t offer it to him often, despite his efforts. It was rare, to be earned. He had no idea what he had done when he first met her to deserve it. Perhaps it was instinctual for her to give a friendly greeting. Maybe he said something charming that tugged at her chest. Maybe she was just in a good mood that day and her smile had nothing to do with him. No matter the reasoning, he found himself trying to collect more. More gestures that brought him closer to her until he inevitably fell in. More moments where he said/did/was something that made her feel enough emotion to let it show in her mannerisms.
He found that the roll of her eyes were cheap and given out freely, and they provided him with almost the same level of satisfaction. They said more than they were meant to. To him, they said that he had said/done/was something worthy of her attention. The dismissive flick of her wrist was worth slightly more; in that it required a higher level of emotion from her.
Now that they have both fallen into each other, he found himself collecting more mannerisms that he had only imagined he could have pulled out of her after the first meeting. The smiles came easier now. And so did the subconscious drift of her hand to find his. The satisfying slip of her breath under his touch. The instinctive pull on his shirt to bring him closer. He collected space. Discovering, revealing, and claiming pieces of her. Collecting inches of her skin with his hands, collecting the space in her lungs, collecting sounds from her throat.
He was always left wanting more.
It was, what she would call, a lazy Sunday afternoon. No obligations or tasks, just time to fill with whatever they pleased. He managed to keep her all to himself that day, tucked away in her room with no disturbances or interruptions. Her legs over his, tucked in close together under a blanket. Her nose was buried in a book, with furrowed brows of concentration. He kept one hand on her thigh, absentmindedly tracing delicate patterns as he held up a book of his own with his other hand.
He used to be unbearably restless, filling his time with meaningless side quests that inevitably gave him more grief than reward. He found no interest in this anymore, anything he was searching for in his restlessness was offered by her. There was nothing left to search for, no time to push through, no boredom to escape.
She stirred beside him, pulling his attention away from the book he was only half heartedly reading. He watched her find a pen and, with great concentration, lay its mark on the book she held delicately.
It was a beautiful habit of hers that he had always been interested in. Before they fell, he would analyze the marks on the pages in efforts to feel closer to her. To understand her better. The marked words were things that grabbed her attention, things that she wanted to remember, things that made her feel. He would trace his fingers over her writing to decide what each marked passage would mean to her.
“What did it say?” He found himself asking. He didn’t need to know in order to understand her anymore, she offered herself wholeheartedly to him. But he still found interest in the things that caught her attention. He always would, he figured.
She hummed before setting the pen back down, and answered in an even tone, “there is no unravelling us, no place where I end and he begins. There is no unravelling any of it. I am entwined with everything, from mayflies to the farthest star.” She smiled slightly as she read it, tracing a finger over the words delicately.
“Is that how you feel?” He felt a great sense of honour to be able to ask her about its significance, instead of having to decode and analyze it for himself.
She tilted her head slightly, “about which part?”
He met her eyes again, “all of it.” He wanted to know everything. To collect her thoughts.
She took a moment, unravelling her thoughts into appropriate sentences, “well, the short answer is yes, then. That’s how I feel. Everything is connected. And so are we. And now that were here, together, there is no unravelling any of it. I’m sorry to say that there’s no getting rid of me now,” she playfully nudged him with her leg, provoking a smile from him.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he was closer to her now, pulling her in. She let him, with complete vulnerability. The kiss was soft and open, where their lips barely touched as they breathed the same air. It left her longing, wanting more. More of the kiss, more of him, more of the flutter in her chest that it gave her. Slowly with gentle practice, she was moving until she was in his lap. His hands were just as careful, barely touching her skin as they moved up her hips and teased the hem of her shirt. She tucked one hand into his side, pulling at his sweaters fabric to urge him closer. The other hand traced up his neck, making him sigh with longing. She found herself wanting to hear more evidence that he was yearning for her, wanting to know that she could leave his mind blank with just the intoxicating need for more. The roll of her hips triggered a low sound of satisfaction to travel up through his throat, and she felt him tighten his grip on her hips; more.
She continued to move, feeling the friction between them grow deeper. She trailed her mouth down his neck, gentle at first. She wanted to hear him ask for more. She wanted to know that she could make him unravel with want.
He pulled one hand up from her hip to bury into her hair, pulling her face deeper into his neck. So deeper she went, leaving a bruise just below his ear. When he gave another low moan, she bit gently into the mark.
His other hand had moved from her waist to trail up her thigh, urging her skirt along the way. She moved again under his touch, warranting another rough sound from his throat. His hand grazed her underwear, painfully slow and careful, sending a deep moan through her mouth. He continued to urge her, with the same painfully slow manner. He wanted to know that he could make her unravel with want.
“What’s that, love?” He spoke lowly, urging her to ask for more, lightening his touch between her.
“please,” it was barely a whisper, dizzy with longing.
“Please, what?” He teased, lightly brushing against her again.
“Please, give me more,” her breath was hot against her neck, struggling to find the right words to ask for what she needed in her haze of yearning.
And he did just that. Pressing into her against her underwear, building pressure. Burying her head into his neck with a moan, she rocked against him.
When he stopped, she let out a whine, pulling lightly at his hair tangled in her hand in protest. He gave a low, teasing laugh, “so impatient, love.”
He undid his belt as she moved her hand down to help remove the clothing between them before reaching back down. She moved her hand over him, earning a moan, before moving her hips to ease down onto him. She bit into his shoulder as she rocked her hips, fucking him slowly to unravel him beneath her. His fingers pressed into her hips, likely leaving bruises. Each moan from him enticed her to move quicker, in a haze of pure pleasure. His dominant hand moved down between them, and she let out a whine as his fingers teased her clit.
His murmurs of lust were lost in the haze; you’re so good, love. So good. Just like that. Yes. Fuck.
The pressure built and she couldn’t control the sounds that repetitively fell out of her mouth, her legs shaking and the roll of her hips becoming sloppy with urgency. He sent her over the edge, “come for me.”
She let out a finalized whimper and she bit down on his shoulder again, easing herself back into reality. His hands, one still on her hip, the other in her hair, held her to him as he continued to fuck her from underneath the weight of her climax. She let out another whine and he continued to rock into her sore body. When he came, he let out a string of murmurs, his breath hot against her neck, so good for me, fuck. Yes. Fuck.
When he pulled out, she kissed him deeply and urgently. There was no unravelling them. No point where she ends and he begins. There was no unravelling any of it.