His English Heart- A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction

Water

You wake up, before sunrise, as per usual. It’s a Thursday. Weather forecast called for nothing but sunny skies and dry, hot air. Something you expected in California.

In London, you would’ve grabbed your umbrella anyway, believing that the forecaster was only being hopeful about the sunny weather. Later that afternoon, you were sure the clouds would roll in and cover you in a downpour of cold, malicious rain.

Not in California, though.

You’ve woken up, but you haven’t gotten up. Something keeps you from doing that.

You roll onto your other side, swollen belly quite in the way, and see the still mask of your sleeping husband. He’d been overworked, even though he tried to play like he could go on for another twenty years at the same thing. His arm is draped over your side, his hand previously resting on your stomach. Now he’s moving, half awake/half asleep, and pulling you as close as he can, hand pressing firmly into your lower back.

He scoots closer and closer, finding that you’re a bit harder to move now than before, and his brows furrow until he’s up against you, drinking in your warmth.

You take your fingertips and brush them along his forehead, smoothing out wrinkles and worry lines. You trace the freckles that are dotted along the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks. You poise your index finger like a knife, cutting into the lines of his cheekbones and down to his lips. His mouth quirks into the tiniest smile imaginable as you bring your fingers to his hairline and run them through the short curls, untangling the knots and making the tufts of dark hair even wilder.

The two of you don’t need words to explain how you feel anymore.

The hand he’s got at your back slips forward, running across the fabric of your tight tank top and caressing the taut flesh underneath. He knows how good that makes you feel.

As if you’re trapped in the most wonderful feeling, but it’s like torture, burning between your legs. Especially when his hand moves lower, down to the lower portion of your tummy and cradles the weight of you and the baby inside. You let out the smallest whimper of delight and he hears it all too well.

“How are you today?” he whispers, his fingertips tracing patterns along your stomach in ways that you could never imagine.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, leaning into him, feeling his warmth spread through your body.

“I didn’t intend to,” he chuckles as he kisses your forehead.

“Tom, I don’t think you understand,” you groan, eyes closing in satisfaction.

His large, warm hand begins to crawl under your tank top, palm rubbing your swollen belly, “I think I do- a little.”

You stay that way, for what feels like hours, feeling his soft hands roam over you. It’s comforting, it makes you feel safe and secure- loved.

“I’d love to stay here all day, darling, but we do have jobs.”

Eh. Work. Movie sets. Bleh.

“The movie’s about you, they can wait-” you say as you open your eyes.

“Correction- it’s about Loki. And I have lots of make-up to put on.” You see his brows furrow. He didn’t like sitting in the chair for two hours, doing nothing but waiting. The music played in the trailer was supposed to help along with the process, but he felt it was becoming more of a chore.

The make-up part, anyway.

Actually delving into the action- the dialogue- the relationships- he loved more than anything, and you could see that yearning burning underneath the surface of his eyes.