There was something absolutely intoxicating about the quiet of her bedroom, post-bath, when everything had settled into the kind of hush that only existed between lovers who were comfortable. Familiar.

And yet Loki was not comfortable.

He was ravenous.

She had just stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in one of those ridiculously soft robes that never fully closed across her hips, no matter how tightly she tied the sash. He was already sprawled on the bed—lazily, deceptively relaxed, in nothing but those silky Asgardian lounge pants that hung low on his hips. His black curls still damp, cheeks a little flushed from the steam, eyes a shade darker than usual.

He watched her as if she were something divine. Not from Midgard, not from Asgard—something above both. Something his soul had never known to want until she existed.

And gods, her body.

Her thighs, thick and plush and always just barely hidden. Her hips, wide and soft like the curves of a crescent moon. Her belly, the way it peeked out when she shifted, the dimples above it, the rolls he adored kissing. Her arms, her back, her ass—so full and decadent, like the universe’s final rebellion against perfection: flawed, glorious, irresistible.

She didn’t try to be seductive. That was the worst part. She moved with ease, casually pulling rings off her fingers one by one, setting her jewelry down on the bedside table like she wasn’t being watched by a god on the verge of unraveling.

Loki shifted behind her. Sat up.

He reached out and grabbed—his hand planting itself right on the swell of her hip, fingers curling, pulling her back gently until she stood between his knees. He pressed his face into her belly with a low groan, arms wrapping fully around her thick waist like he needed to anchor himself there.

There was nothing delicate in the way he touched her. It was adoration. Desperation. The kind of hunger that came from denial and longing, all tangled up in something soft and holy.

She laughed softly under her breath, brushing her fingers through his hair, and he melted into the touch—but his hands didn’t move. One slipped around to grip the underside of her thigh, and gods, it made him whimper. So plush. So real. He wanted to sink his teeth into her like a man possessed.

He tipped his head back to look up at her, eyes wild and worshipful, voice hoarse with need:

"Darling… I swear to the stars, if you knew what you did to me—if you knew what it does to me, just to touch you… you’d never wear clothes again."