#conquer

It might not be a good idea—you don’t know if he’ll mistake you for whatever he’s fighting and you’ve never even thought to wonder whether he can use magic in his sleep. But he begins to quiet the moment you wrap your arms around him. You pull him close and he burrows his face in the crook of your neck and you’re startled to realize his cheeks are damp with tears.

The dream hasn’t quite left him yet, so you hesitantly run your fingers through his hair. It’s a bit nerve wracking, like a roaring tiger suddenly turning cuddly.

“Shh. It’s okay,” you say softly. “It’s just a dream.”

It takes a moment for him to wake, like he’s slowly surfacing after being dragged down to the depths. Though he clings to you like you’re a safe harbor in a storm, you can feel an entirely different kind of tension spreading through him as he wakes, like he expects ridicule and mockery.

And you’ve known him long enough now that you know what he’s going to do, so you interject before he can speak.

“If you do that thing where you act like a raging asshole in order to distract from the fact that you’re showing a shred of vulnerability, I will throw you into a fucking lake,” you say quietly.

He exhales sharply and it gives way to soft, surprised laughter that rumbles pleasantly against your chest. “How do you intend to find a lake at this late hour?”

“I have an entire palace staff at my beck and call, do you really think it will be hard?”

“I’m very tempted to let you try, simply for the entertainment.” His body at last relaxes and the tension you are holding eases, too.

You’re both quiet for a moment. Somehow, you know that you’re going to have to be the one to inch this conversation forward.

“Does this happen often?” you say, absently winding a lock of his hair around your finger.

“It’s worse this time of year.” He doesn’t elaborate further and you know tonight isn’t the night to ask him to.

“Does waking you help or is there something different I should do?”

There’s another pause. “This helps,” he says quietly, his voice so much more uncertain than what you’re used to. “If you don’t mind.”

There would have been a time when you would have minded, when you would have gone off to sleep on the couch and privately reveled in his discomfort. But that particular rage has quietly eroded over the last several months to something gentler. You’re not really sure which version of you is the right one—whether you were too harsh then or too soft now—but you can’t help feeling that this moment requires a little kindness.

“No,” you say, “I don’t mind.”

He relaxes just a little more and you know that this was the right thing to say, even if you’re not quite sure what it means or where to go from here.

“You should sleep,” he says after a while.

“You should too.” You run your fingers through his hair and he sighs. “I’ll wake you if it happens again.”

He nods and after a while, you both drift off.

Every night for the next several weeks, you’re woken by Loki thrashing against a nightmare.

Each time, you crawl over to him and pull him close, murmuring soft assurances. Sometimes he wakes with a start, his heart pounding so hard you can feel it drumming against your own chest. Other times, it’s slower and quieter, a gradual lifting of tension that fades into a shudder.

Most times, he doesn’t want to talk and simply lets you hold him, his head resting on your chest while you stroke his hair.

When he does want to talk, it’s in quiet, heartbreaking fragments. He speaks of a mind that was not his own, of an insidious presence that crowded out his own thoughts and made his blood run too hot, drawing out fevers and madness that tore holes in the tapestry of his memory. He speaks of blood that still stains his conscience from deaths he doesn’t remember.

Over the course of these weeks, you realize that you are getting an entirely different picture of who he is, like stepping back and seeing that the disjointed dots you were looking at were actually a mosaic all along.

All the while, a question burns on your lips, until one night you’re brave enough to ask it.

“Why haven’t you shared this?” you ask as you hold him, his head resting on your chest. “Why do you let people think the worst of you?”

His laugh is bitter and brittle. “Who would believe the god of lies?” The sharp edges of his tone are rounded with a little bit of sadness and a deep kind of loneliness that makes your heart ache.

“I do,” you say quietly. “I could tell them.”

You feel him soften slightly. “You shouldn’t squander your good will on me.”

“I don’t know that I have much in the way of good will.”

“Public opinion polling would suggest otherwise.”

You sigh. “I can make my own decisions about what I do with whatever political capital I have. You don’t have to protect me.”

He props his head up to look at you. “I know you mean well, but you’d be giving them an excuse to tear you to shreds. They’ll say I’ve bewitched you and that you can’t be trusted. I cannot allow you to put yourself through that for my sake.”

He looks serious—like this actually matters to him, like he cares that they’ll try and hurt you—which you aren’t expecting. You weren’t expecting any of this conversation, to be honest. You smooth your thumb against the furrow between his brows. His expression relaxes slightly, but not completely and you find yourself wishing you could do more.

“I’ll drop it for now,” you say after a moment, letting your hand fall from his face.

He raises an eyebrow. “But not for good.” 

He always hears the unsaid part.

“Not for good, no,” you concede. “But I’ll give it some time before I try to revisit it.”

He sighs and rests his head back on your chest. “That’s annoyingly reasonable of you.”

“I still could throw you into a fucking lake. I won’t rule it out.”

His quiet laugh worms its way into your heart in a way it doesn’t normally. He’s a softer version of himself at night—more open, more honest, a sharp contrast from the bold and brash man who delights in teasing and needling you during the day. He’s different under the cover of darkness in the wake of his nightmares and you find that you’re a little different, too. Softer, perhaps. More forgiving. And in those moments, it almost feels like the two of you could be something more than what you are. Something different. Maybe something good.

It makes you question a lot of things.

Despite your best efforts and more caffeine than is probably good for you, the interrupted sleep starts to weigh on you after a couple weeks.

It’s not excessively awful—you’ve experienced worse sleep issues in your life—but when Loki catches you taking an unintentional nap in the library one afternoon, your rest becomes something of an obsession for him. There are black out curtains installed in your room that very evening and a selection of sleeping masks laid out on your bedside table. Your schedule is blocked off in the mornings so you can sleep late and your afternoons are peppered with time slots labeled Rest.

Much of his fretting feels unnecessary and overdramatic…but there’s a small, secret part of you that kind of likes being the focus of his attention in this way and sometimes you want to bask in it like a cat in a sunbeam.

You won’t admit this though—you hide it by sighing and telling him you have it under control or gently teasing him for being overdramatic. None of this deters him—and as the nightmares get worse, he grows only more insistent.

“You should cancel the meetings you have today.” It’s the middle of the night and he’s woken several times already, each time worse than the last.

“I’m fine.” You smooth his hair. “I don’t have anything until one.”

“It’s that ribbon cutting, isn’t it? Cancel. They can reschedule.” 

You roll your eyes. “I think you’re overreacting.”

“Why shouldn’t I be concerned?” he grouses. “You need your sleep.”

“So do you.”

He sighs. “Darling—”

“I am not having this argument with you in the middle of the night.” You run your fingers through his hair, dragging your fingernails against his scalp in a way that you know he likes. “Go to sleep, Loki.”

He relaxes, leaning into your touch, a pleased groan rumbling in his chest. “Oh, you’re not playing fair, you minx.”

You snort. “You’re just annoyed I’m co-opting your methods.”

He lifts his head to look at you. “Maybe I am bewitching you if you’re co-opting my methods.”

“I am perfectly capable of behaving badly on my own.”

His grin turns sly. “Oh, don’t I know it.”

You roll your eyes and shove him playfully. “I thought you were worried about me not getting enough sleep.”

“I am.” He hesitates for a second, then reaches for you, hand cupping your cheek. “I can sleep in the guest suite—I mean it.”

“Say it again and I’ll throw you into a fucking lake.”

That familiar flicker of warmth worms its way into your heart with his quiet laugh. “Noted.” He looks at you for a moment, thumb tracing your cheekbone. “Thank you,” he says. “For all of this.”

“Of course.”

He studies you for another moment before leaning in and kissing you.

It’s slow and tender in a way that he usually isn’t, in a way that makes you want more. You melt against him as you kiss him back. 

He settles himself in the cradle of your hips, his hands stroking your cheeks and throat. You can feel his cock twitch against you, but he seems content to kiss you for now.

He draws back before you’re ready. “You should sleep.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t finished.”

You tug him back down to you, drawing him back into that mind melting kiss. He’s still so slow and gentle and you can’t get enough of it—it’s never been like this before. There’s a kind of tenderness in his touch that feels addictive and makes you want him in a way you never have before. Desire smolders in your hips as you press closer. 

Your hands map the broad, firm muscles of his back, sneaking under his shirt so you can rake your nails up his spine. He shivers in your arms and you wrap your legs around his waist, rolling your hips tentatively against him.

“Loki—”

He draws back slightly. “Let me take care of you first.”

That sends a thrill through your body. “Okay.”

He sits up, kneeling between your legs, taking your hands in his and kissing each finger, ending with a kiss on the inside of your left wrist, his tongue tracing the line of your soulmark. Your entire body responds, your nerves buzzing with electricity and your stomach fluttering as heat pulses between your legs.

He drops your hands and pushes your nightgown up to your waist, hooking his thumbs around the waistband of your underwear and pulling it down your hips and off your legs with a practiced ease. He lowers himself to his stomach, dragging needy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh as he inches upward. He presses one chaste kiss to your slit and then he’s licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit.

This, too, is different than how you’ve done things before. His mouth is equal parts slow and sweet as he gently works you closer and closer to bliss. You moan his name like it’s a prayer and he reciprocates with caresses that feel like worship. He lavishes attention on your clit, kissing and coaxing and stroking until you feel like that entire bundle of nerves is thrumming in his mouth. His fingers soon curl inside you, moving in time with his tongue, stroking that tender spot and drawing still more slickness from you. You moan his name, one hand twisted in the bedsheets, the other in his hair, as if to anchor yourself for the release that you know is coming.

It only occurs to you right as you’re about to come that this is one of the first times—perhaps the only time—that he hasn’t teased you. He has responded to every whimper, every plea by giving you more, by curling his fingers just so or flicking his tongue faster against your clit. He’s giving you everything you ask for without making you beg for it first, without withholding anything, or bargaining or negotiating.

It’s rather beautiful, you think, right before you come with a sharp cry.

His mouth softens slightly as he eases you through the aftermath, stroking you in time with your pulsing cunt, but not quite as firm or frantic as before. It’s a delicate balance, one that he’s perfected since your very first time together. He knows the exact moment to start moving his fingers again, when to suck just a little harder on your clit and draw you back up to that soaring height until you come again, your fingers twining in his hair.

“Loki.” You’re still shaking with aftershocks when you’re able to form words and the first one that comes to you is his name. “Loki, please.”

If this were any other time, he might bargain with you to stay between your legs a little longer—he loves to make you squirm and bring you past reason with the power of his tongue—but he’s yours tonight in a way that he isn’t normally during the day and no argument materializes. He presses a parting kiss to your clit and crawls up your body to you.

“I need—”

“I know, my love.” His voice is soft and reassuring, almost tender.

Before you can tug at his pajamas, there’s a shimmer of green and they’re gone, along with your nightgown, only the heat of your bodies between you. His lips and tongue taste of you when he kisses you and you reach between your bodies to line him up at your entrance as you wrap your legs around his waist.

With one devastating thrust, he’s inside you, hot and throbbing and moving in a slow rhythm that makes your toes curl.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes. “Just perfect.”

He kisses you deeply and slowly as he rocks against you. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat when he finds an angle that you both like, one that makes you tighten on his cock. He doesn’t stop kissing you, not until the oncoming swell of your orgasm starts to leave you panting and gasping for air. He’s getting close, too, the sweat beading on his brow and the growing wildness in his eyes a sure tell. 

“I’m close.” You’re surprised you can get words out at all.

He increases his pace just slightly and tilts your hips just so and you suck in a sharp breath.

“Come for me,” he murmurs. “I need to feel you come.”

You whimper and your orgasm ripples through your hips and belly like a wildfire through a prairie during dry season. Your cunt squeezes hard on his cock and he lets out a deep groan as your end triggers the start of his. He thrusts hard and empties himself inside you, mumbling your name over and over until you stop his mouth with a needy, searching kiss.

It’s a long moment before he stills. You can feel his heart beating in a frantic tattoo against your chest.

“Will you sleep now?”

“Only if you do.”

Neither one of you wakes until morning.

Against Loki’s objections, you do make it to the ribbon cutting the next day, but you know right away that it was a mistake. It’s a fight to keep your eyes open, especially toward the end, and Sigurd has to wake you when you arrive back home. Loki is thankfully supposed to be in a meeting, so you’ll be able to skip his lecture and smug I-told-you-so’s and head straight for a nap.

Instead, Sigurd opens the door to your residence to reveal Loki waiting, arms crossed over his chest.

“Bed,” he says before you can say anything.

Despite your obvious exhaustion, your instinct is to push back. “I’m fine.”

Loki looks at Sigurd. “She fell asleep in the car, didn’t she?”

Sigurd doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, your majesty.”

“Sigurd!” you say with a scowl. “I thought we had an understanding.”

Sigurd is unmoved. “Apologies, your majesty.”

“Sigurd is rightly respecting the oath he swore to me as king,” says Loki, dismissing Sigurd with a nod.

“Well, when do I get staff who’s sworn to me?” you say grumpily.

“We’ll discuss it later. Right now you need to rest.”

Regardless of the new and confusing feelings that have been occupying your thoughts, you still don’t like admitting when he’s right, even when it’s over something relatively minor. You find yourself leaning into it even more now. 

“Loki, I’m fine—”

“You’re exhausted.” Before you can reply, he’s scooping you up in his arms and carrying you in the direction of your bedroom.

“You are way overreacting,” you grouse at him, even as you stifle a yawn and let your head drop against his shoulder. “And what happened to the meetings I saw on your schedule?”

“I rescheduled them, as you should have done.”

“So you’re allowed to make your own decisions about your schedule, but I’m supposed to listen to you about what I do with my time?”

“Well, I’m being reasonable; you’re being absurd.”

The blackout curtains are already drawn in your bedroom, giving the room a dark and cozy feel, even though it’s the middle of the day. There’s a shimmer of green and your clothes transform into a nightgown—one of your favorites. 

“I’m going to be such a pain in your ass if I ever get magic powers,” you grumble as he sets you down on the bed.

“Fortunately, it doesn’t work like that.” He sits down on the bed next to you.

“What are you doing?”

He lets out a soft laugh as he pulls you to him, spooning up against your back. “Do you really expect me to leave you unsupervised? You’ll be sneaking out of the room the second I left.”

“I wasn’t—” 

“Liar.”

Annoyed as you are, your body is starting to give into the comfort of your bed and the warmth of Loki’s arms.

“I want to state for the record that I’m annoyed with you and I think you’re overreacting.”

“I look forward to hearing about it after you’ve rested.” He pulls a blanket over the two of you and your body automatically relaxes. You know that you’re going to be asleep within minutes.

“Good. Because you will be hearing about it.”

He laughs quietly and kisses the back of your neck. The idea of arguing seems silly as your eyes grow heavier and finally, you give it up entirely and allow yourself to drift off.

Your sleep is so deep and dreamless that it feels like hours have passed when you wake. You’ve turned over in your sleep—you’re now pressed against Loki’s side, your head resting on his chest. He seems to be awake—he has a book propped open in his lap with one hand; the other is curled around your shoulders.

You’re surprised by how soft and cozy this is, how content you are to remain in his arms and quietly rest. 

“I know you’re awake,” he says after a long moment.

“Still waking up,” you mumble. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten that I’m mad at you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You know, we’re both getting the same amount of sleep, but you don’t see me haranguing you about naps and skipping meetings.”

“One of the few advantages of my unique biology is that I don’t need quite as much rest,” he says, turning the page of his book.

You scowl. So much for that argument.

“I do think I should sleep in the guest suite tonight,” he says, absently stroking your shoulder.

“You’re going to be sleeping in a fucking lake if you keep this up.”

He sighs. “Darling—”

“You are being ridiculous. I’m not going to let you exile yourself from our bed so you can have a miserable night by yourself.”

You realize too late that you’ve said more than you intended. This verges too close to those strange feelings you’re still trying to work out—things that aren’t ready to be spoken or heard quite yet.

“Is that not a just punishment for my crimes?” His tone is mild—curious, perhaps, but he’s not trying to pick a fight.

“We both know it’s not.”

There’s a strange kind of pause. It’s not necessarily awkward, just…different. Even though your anger toward him has mellowed these last few months, this particular truth still feels strange to acknowledge. He’s not a monster—you know that now. But you both know that saying that aloud changes things. You’re going to have to examine other truths that you’re not quite ready to face.

So you bury it and change the subject. “What are you reading?”

“One of your Midgardian plays.” He flips it over so you can see the cover. The Tempest. 

“What prompted that choice?”

He pauses and you get the sense that he’s weighing his words carefully. “An effort to understand.”

You’re not quite sure if he means you or Earth at large, but that new, warm glow is wiggling its way into your heart again. “That’s a good choice,” you say quietly.

There’s a pause again. “Perhaps you’d be able to suggest some others.”

He sounds so hesitant and careful and that warm glow in your chest expands. “I’d be glad to,” you say and you’re surprised to find that you mean it sincerely.

You close your eyes, intending to doze, but all you can think about is that book. It’s clearly a new copy, but some of the pages are dog-eared and something about that makes your heart feel like it’s about to crack open. How do you live through such profound hurts and still reach for understanding?

The pull of your soulbond is always relentless to some degree, especially when you’re this close, but you feel it now at a new level of intensity, a deep ache that makes you subtly press yourself closer to him. The desire for sex is certainly there, but it’s more than just that, though you can’t quite articulate why or how.

He shifts slightly and you automatically snuggle in closer to him, slipping your leg over his waist for good measure.

“You’re awfully affectionate,” he says, readjusting his arm around your shoulder.

You’re not quite ready to show your cards yet. “I’m just comfortable and sleepy.”

He hums. “One day, wife, you’ll remember that I can tell when you lie.”

You scowl. Goddammit.

“Perhaps you’d like to try that again?” His voice is rich with amusement.

You feel as though you are balanced on a precipice you never expected to be on. Your typical strategy in this scenario would be to snark back at him, to distract him with pointless arguing until it resulted in the sex that you’re craving, without ever having to acknowledge anything close to truth or vulnerability. But for the first time…you want something different. Something more.

And so, you take a deep breath. “I need you.”

“You need me,” he muses, running his fingertips down your shoulder. “How do you need me, my love?”

Your cheeks burn, like you’re admitting to some embarrassing secret. “Like last night.”

The book in his lap finally vanishes and he rolls on top of you, settling in the cradle of your hips. “Like last night?”

“Yeah, just slow and soft. It was…it was really nice.” 

Your cheeks are burning. His expression is unreadable and you’re expecting him to tease you a bit, but instead he leans in and kisses you. It’s slow and deep, not unlike the way he kissed you last night, and you sigh, wrapping your arms and legs around him like ivy.

“Like this?” he murmurs against your lips.

“Yes.”

Both of your clothes dissolve in a shimmer of green and his hand finds its way between your legs, stroking the length of your cunt. 

“You’re already so wet.” There’s a pleased growl in his voice that makes you shiver.

“I did say I need you.”

His lips curl into a smile. “Fair point.”

You reach between your bodies to guide him to you. You think he might tease you, but instead he slowly presses into you and you let out a soft sigh as that ache inside you eases.

“Better?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

His first few thrusts are slow, almost like he’s trying to get his bearings. He shifts his hips and suddenly he’s pressing deliciously against your clit on every stroke.

“Oh,” you breathe.

“Right there.” He rolls his hips with the perfect amount of slowness. “That’s what you need.”

“Yes.” You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Fuck. That’s so good.”

“Do you feel how we fit together?” he murmurs, running his fingers along the curve of your cheek. “We were made for this, my love.”

He’s looking at you so intently that for a moment, you want to believe he means more than just the physical satisfaction of the act, that there’s actual affection behind it, that he feels something real for you. It’s a startling thought, though not as scary as you once thought it might be. You should probably think about it more, but it’s getting hard to concentrate as the aching warmth in your hips begins to send you hurtling toward your climax. You resolve to think about it later.

Your fall is exquisite, a decadent and shivering rush of pleasure that renders you breathless before fading into a high pitched moan from the back of your throat. Loki keeps up his slow pace, watching you with a kind of wonder.

He lowers his lips to your ear. “Do you know how beautiful you are when you come?”

You gasp as the angle of his hips hits the exact right spot.

“I’d commission a portrait of you like this,” he says, pressing a kiss against your jaw, “but I can’t bear the thought of sharing you with anyone else. This is just for me to see. For us.”

There might have been a time when that sort of possessiveness would have raised your hackles, when you would have snapped at him. It doesn’t bother you now—maybe it’s the way that the two of you are wrapped up in bed together during daylight hours while the rest of the world spins on, maybe it’s the sight of that dog-eared book in his lap and the thought of the lonely nights he’s spent plagued by terrors, but something about those words soothe rather than rankle.

(You’ll eventually figure this out, but you’re not there yet).

The relentless motion of his hips is bringing you back to the edge again, a little quicker than you expect, but certain all the same. He raises his head to look at you, his gaze wonderstruck as he takes in the sight of you beneath him. But you recognize the signs that he’s struggling to maintain his control—the slightly unfocused eyes, the frequent gasps. He can last a long time when he puts his mind to it, but you don’t want that right now. You want to see him fall apart, to feel him succumb to you right as you give in to the inevitability of him.

You’re nearing the edge, but you have time to breathe out a plea. “Come with me. Please.”

He groans and increases his pace just slightly, and that’s enough to tip the scales for you. You cry out, surrendering to the rolling tide within you. His voice joins yours as he arrives at his own end, hips stuttering and then eventually slowing to a halt. He nuzzles your neck and exhales.

You lie there together for a long moment, his heart pounding hard against yours. It’s such an easy closeness and you’re reluctant to let it go or disturb the quiet. But an idea is percolating in the back of your mind and after a few minutes you open your mouth to speak.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

“What sort of deal?” His voice is slightly muffled against your shoulder. 

“You can add an afternoon nap to both our schedules on days like this and I won’t argue,” you say, tracing your fingertip in a figure eight on his back, “but in exchange, I don’t want to hear another goddamned thing about you sleeping in the guest suite.”

He lifts his head to look at you, a wry smile twisting his lips. “Or you’ll throw me in a lake?”

“Or I’ll throw you in every lake.”

His laugh is soft but genuine and he presses a kiss to your lips. “Very well. I accept your terms.”

You won’t know this until later, but this is the start of something new.