rosemary

loki is in a harsh state of denial and for someone who can wear a hundred faces, he tries very hard not to face this one, starting to convince himself the child won’t survive. not because you’re weak—but because everything he touches turns to ash eventually. he pretends it doesn’t matter, disappearing for a few days leaving you alone to contemplate by yourself, leaving the bitter sting of 'you're better off without me's' and 'it's not mine, it can't be.'

but he does return and when he does, oh, he’s gaunt and hollow-eyed, smelling like smoke and sorrow, kneeling before you not to beg but to surrender.  He reads the rights of his wrongdoings, falling at your feet as if you were to strike him— and at this point he wouldn't blame you. but instead, he rests there, vulnerable and teary-eyed, "I’ve ruined everything I’ve ever touched. But if you’ll let me… I’ll try. For you.”

and try he does.

he may have started closed off, and to the outside world part him always will be, but not to you or the baby. and once he begins to overcome this, he is hypervigilant to the point of insanity. tracking your symptoms obsessively, trying to control everything, and when he can’t, it drives him mad. he means well, but he is still himself of course. reads every mortal and immortal text on pregnancy, even at one point asks Dream (awkwardly) what dreams the unborn dream. (“The child dreams in riddles. I hate riddles.”) and Loki just grins.

you catch him staring at your belly sometimes when he thinks you’re asleep, leaving magical protections around the place you with an expression like he’s trying to memorise something he’ll never get to keep. but he won’t touch your belly at first, not until you take his hand and guide it there. and when the baby kicks? He flinches like he’s been stabbed.

“It’s real,” he whispers. “It’s real, and I didn’t run.”

and when he becomes attached, more stable than he ever should be? oh he is possessive in a way that is visceral. like primitive god-magic kind of possessive. you’re carrying his child now—his second chance, and the idea of anyone threatening you? he would make the stars bleed.

doesn’t let you lift a single damn thing. you reach for a cup? it floats to your hand, you try to tie your shoes? they’re tied with a snap of his fingers, you sneeze? he materialises by your side in full panic-mode: “Was that a mortal disease? Do I need to summon a plague spirit to punish whoever breathed near you?”

he walks behind you in public like a shadow with teeth, one hand always hovering at your lower back, the other ready to hex everyone. the bump becomes sacred to him and not just in any way, no in a“this is my heart growing inside you and I don’t know how to handle that” way. he whispers to your stomach in Old Norse at night, sometimes you wake up and find him curled around you, palm on your belly, tears dried on his cheek.

now, he turns darker on the outside world, as if he hasn’t already, and absolutely thinks someone will come for you or the baby. or both. whether it’s Odin, the other Endless, or some vengeful deity from a forgotten pantheon it doesn’t matter, he already knows that a God of his standing and with the bounty on his head, you’re sure to be under watch.

he wards your body, wards your food, wards your bloody slippers. he’s on top everything. “Why are my shoes glowing, Loki?” “To warn me if you fall. Obviously.”

even Dream is like, “…bro. Chill.” and Loki just hisses, “Touch them and I’ll tear your castle down brick by metaphorical brick, Dreamling.”

insatiable, that’s one word to put it. and yes, he knows he should take it easy on you, but something about you swollen with his child? carrying him inside you? It unravels him. he’s always been mad for you, but now, he growls like he’s barely keeping it together every time he touches you. kisses your belly mid-act, murmuring things like, “You're so full. So perfect. Mine.”

the sight of you riding him, belly round, your hands in his hair? he loses his damn mind, not knowing where to look—your breasts, your lips, the life you’re carrying—it overwhelms his senses in the best way.

sometimes the sex is slow and worshipful—like he’s praying with his mouth between your thighs. other times? it’s animalistic. like he needs to mark you all over again. and he does—neck, thighs, hips, anywhere skin stretches with new life.“You shouldn’t want this,” you whisper, flushed and breathless. Loki with teeth to your pulse,“I’ve never wanted anything more than I want you like this. Glowing. Heavy. Untouchably mine.”

and post-sex and smug, he traces runes over your belly with feather-light fingers, not spells—just… names, symbols of protection. love. hope. and fear.

“I am a liar,” he says softly. “But I swear to you, this is the truest thing I’ve ever made.”

when the baby is born however you both somehow know it is different. this one wasn’t meant, not a bargain, not as punishment, or a symbol or prophecy or mistake. this one was love, born from laughter and longing and late-night touches when the world was quiet. and that terrifies Loki more than anything—because this time, if he loses them, it won’t be fate, it’ll be his fault. and he doesn’t think he’ll survive that again.

he’s quiet, deathly quiet at that, so much so, you think he’s detached again—but no, he’s just afraid to breathe. when the baby cries for the first time, something inside him snaps open like a ribcage splitting with light. he holds them, always bare hands, no glamours, no tricks. Just trembling fingers and salt-stung eyes.“Hello,” he coos, “You’re small. But I think you’ve already bested me.”

the little things come in waves like when he gets jealous when anyone else holds the baby too long. yes, even you. or when he paces like a panther outside the nursery, making protective charms out of shadows and silk, standing “watch” even when you urge him to bed. and the way he kisses their forehead like he’s apologizing for every sin they’ll never know he committed.

You already knew the troubles a girl, or it should be said a Lady, would face being here at such an hour— the hour of the owl to be exact. But all of your duties had been undertaken, precisely day in and day out, everything asked of you without a moment of peace until now. So you knelt, shins pressed into the cold flooring without a care in the world, your skirts bunched up around you as you placed your elbows upon the altar. Your eyes pressed tightly together, only the flickering of orange behind your eyelids except the darkness and you began to say prayer, well, you tried. Word spoken only between you and the Gods, one for the fallen, one for the sick, one for the lesser noble and another for your mother, ‘may she rest.’

But other thoughts crept in, the ones of the Lord your father is pushing you against, ever since she’d been gone and since you reached your eighteenth nameday, marriage was the only answer. “For your house, for your honour, and for your family.” He had told you many times over, much to your protest, and now it has gone on long enough, you are without choice. 

A Tully boy of your age, sweet and boyish enough but he was immature, ‘dumb as a pike’ as you’d called him, earning a few laughs from your chambermaids and a squire, but your father had had enough. “Many young ladies of your age would already be with child by now, you can do your house the grace of accepting this union.”

“But he is-“, you began to protest as he stood across from you. “But he is nothing, and to be your husband no less. A young, fine boy which will solidify our rank with the Riverlands. I have known Lord Tully since I myself was a boy, I have no doubt this will be reasonable.” He argued, eyes burning into yours as you looked away, before snapping your head up.

“You are to have me married off over war matters, this is madness.” You barked, standing beside your bed as he dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand, and he came closer, standing before you, holding your hands in his. Reaching one hand to cup at your cheek, “These things are not always so simple, my dear girl, but this is how we survive in this world, very few find such happiness so easily. Not even the Queens nor commoners lead such simplicity, but with this union, you will be safe, perhaps find your own happiness, love.” Love. The last word let a bitter taste in your mouth, questions running around your head beyond just the anger, the fear— “Did you find that with mother?” It seemed to leave your lips without another thought, and his face hardened, eyes flicking down between you at the floor and back to you before smiling softly, 

“In time, very much..” This was no lie, but something in his voice pushed duty over any concept of love, of something worth fighting for more than just arrangement. “And you will too.” “Father-“ You called back as he pulled away, the soft moment forgotten. “Father nothing, it is already settled.”

The creak of the door went on deaf ears as a cough rang out through your chambers, “My Lord, you have been called upon in the council.” That familiar voice made you look, as you hung onto your bedpost, creeping around the corner as your father gave you a final look before turning away, uncovering the face. Ser Gwayne Hightower. The knight, the warrior that had manned your gates and guarded your city’s walls from the horror that creep in in the night, the soft smile that would always greet you in the halls and the boy at only a few years older who would hold you at every upset, proclaiming with his shield and sword he would protect you.

Those same eyes met yours across the space of the room—older now, wearier, but still holding that same quiet sympathy. That same yearning, barely veiled, the one you’d always sensed but never dared name. You two hadn’t been close, not really, not long enough to talk as you’d liked to. But you’d known him long enough to read the shift in his stance—the way time had leaned heavier into his bones, how even stillness sat like a burden on him now. He stood taller than you remembered, more solid, yet worn in the way a knight grows worn—not broken, but tempered. His armor caught the light in sharp angles, muscles shifting beneath the steel like a memory of youth.

He was handsome. You’d known that from the start, you had even once joked—boldly, perhaps too boldly—that he was far too pretty to waste behind a helm, that noble sons weren’t meant to bleed. He'd overheard, of course. Said nothing, but smiled in that way that betrayed more than words. You hadn’t known what it meant then, but in this time you believe you do.

He may have stepped in where he shouldn’t have—drawn attention, made himself part of a fight that wasn’t his. You were mid-argument with your father, when he pressed his ear beside the wood, slyly listening to your voices raised over the marriage he was arranging, and when he heard you— you said no—twice, then louder. And then and only the had Gwayne had moved through the doors, not a word spoken, not a challenge issued but just the sharp clatter of his armour as he announced himself.

It wasn’t for pride. Not even for honor. But because he knew—knew you didn’t want this, knew they were pushing too hard, too far. He didn’t speak another word to you as your father used past him, but he didn’t need to. You felt the truth in his silence, the weight of it, knowing that he’d been watching. Listening. Wanting.

And you knew, even then, that he didn’t want that fate for you any more than you did.

You’d come to the sept for silence, but it offers none, not tonight, even with your head bowed and hands steepled, your thoughts refuse to settle. You try to summon reverence, gratitude—something holy—but all that comes is the dull throb of resentment. Weeks. Maybe months, if you're lucky and then it’s over. A marriage sealed in parchment and gold, to a boy with empty eyes and no words of his own. And freedom—your freedom—slips further from reach with every nod of your father’s head.

If only they’d given you time, a little more time to patch your wounds, to shape your own path and maybe you’d have found a lover—someone with sharp wit and slower hands. Someone who read poetry or rode recklessly or kissed you like he meant it, and perhaps he wouldn’t be noble, maybe he’d be a knight, one you could trust your secrets to in the dark.

And maybe… maybe it’s foolish to be kneeling in a sept praying for another fate, foolish to long for someone not written into the path the gods laid for you. But you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t one man you’ve thought of more than the others.

Gwayne.

Charming, disciplined, maddeningly polite Gwayne Hightower. Always standing just far enough away, always watching. Always choosing silence when you wished he’d just speak. And still—when he looked at you, it burned. No words, no gestures, just those eyes, as if he already knew the shape of your longing.

Your thighs press together as you shift slightly on the cushion, half on the warmth and half on the hardened floor. It’s unseemly—blasphemous, maybe, but you don’t stop. Because when your mind drifts now, it isn’t to holy vows or golden rings, it’s to Gwayne’s hands braced against the altar. His mouth at your throat, the sheen of those rosy lips against yours. His armor cold against your bare skin.. If he touched you here, would the gods forgive it?

Or would they watch?

He took the stairs two at a time, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Steel clanked at his side with each step, the weight of his sword more irritating than reassuring. The sept loomed ahead, lit by thin, flickering lines of candlelight leaking through its tall windows, and still he climbed—like absolution waited for him at the top.

It didn’t, and he knew that.

He was cursing himself quietly, rhythmically. Not in the way soldiers did, not brash or loud, but tight and quiet, the way his father might’ve done when politics went sour. His boots struck stone harder than they needed to and his hands itched to curl into fists.

The council had been intolerable. Old men in silk arguing over troop placements and taxation with not a single ounce of understanding for what war cost in blood, in bone. And when he’d tried to speak sense—when he’d dared to voice concern for you, for the marriage being forced upon Lady Y/N—they’d dismissed it as sentiment. “A knight ought not concern himself with maiden woes,” one of them had said, smug behind his wine cup. And there and then he’d nearly broken that goblet over the bastard’s head.

Training only made things worse, nothing worked today, not when his blade felt heavy and his thoughts felt heavier, swinging at his opponent with too much force and not enough form. The younger squires noticed—he could feel their eyes. And he let them. Let them think him unhinged, because he was. He hadn’t meant to go to the sept, not really, but he’d found himself walking that way anyway, as if his body had made the choice for him. And maybe it had. Maybe the only place quiet enough for what clawed in his chest was a place where the gods would judge him for it.

Or forgive him.

And still he climbed.

Each step felt heavier than the last, not from the weight of his armor but from the thoughts he couldn’t shake. He huffed through clenched teeth, jaw tight, every breath a curse spat under his breath—not just at the day, but at the council, the kingdom, the way they’d all spoken of you like you were a pawn to pass, and not a person to protect.

They talked down to you in that chamber, voices like knives masked as reason. Dismissed your voice. Laughed when you walked out. And when he tried to speak—tried to defend you—his words were waved away like smoke.

“The girl needs a match, not a sword at her side.” “Too soft on her, Hightower. Mind your place.”

He should’ve struck someone. Would’ve, if it wouldn’t have turned the council into chaos. And still… still it wasn't just rage in him.

It was you.

The memory of your voice still rang in his ears—low, sharp, velvet-lined with fury. The way you held your chin high even when your father shouted, the flash of your eyes when you dared him to speak, and the way your lips pressed together when he did. And worse than that…The way you’d looked days ago—laughing in the gardens, sunlight on your throat. The way your bodice shifted when you leaned too close over the council table, the curve of your spine when you turned from him. The way his hands burned just thinking of touching you there, right where silk met skin.

Gods forgive him, but he wanted you.

Not gently. Not chastely. He wanted you bent over something sacred. Wanted to ruin the pretty way you spoke his name. Wanted to rip open your perfect courtly life and give you something real. Someone real.

And fuck, he wanted it to be him.

He reached the giant wooden doors of the sept then, heart thudding like a drum in his chest. Somewhere between salvation and hell, that strange place only men with shaking hands and bad intentions find themselves. He wasn’t looking for prayer, just some sort of stillness.

He just needed a moment to forget— And when he opened the door, there you were.

Your eyes drifted shut again, following the flickering light of candles behind them, letting your thoughts scatter. You sat still, unmoving, lost between prayers and wishes that the Gods would never grant you. But something shifted.

The silence cracked.

A low creak, the groan of weight against the sept’s wooden doors and your eyes shot open. Hand braced against the wax-slicked stone, your spine straightened but you didn’t turn. No one ever came this late. Only you. The wind slipped through the stained-glass slits, curling the cold against your exposed back with a heavy breath. Then came the dull thud of the doors shutting once more, not in a hurry—slow, deliberate, almost cautious.

A shadow moved. Long limbs, squared shoulders and a cloak trailing behind like spilled ink, all you could make out, a deep shade of green. You turned your head, just barely. Enough to confirm what your heart already knew.

Gwayne.

He stopped as though struck, frozen mid-step with one boot still lingering on the stone behind. His brows drew in, squinting at you through the dark, “Gods—“ he muttered low, not even sure if he’d said it aloud or just in his mind. "I didn’t mean to—“ He swallowed the rest. And you turned fully, facing him with your body still folded low near the altar. He looked away quickly—out of courtesy or control, you couldn’t tell, maybe both.

"I didn't think anyone would be here," he added, voice rougher than usual. Tired from training, from the noise of council, from the ache in his arms and the deeper ache gnawing in his chest. He wanted to say more, but instead you offered a soft smile—mysterious, perhaps even merciful. "Neither did I."

There was a beat. A pause that wasn’t quite silence, heavy and warm and pulsing like a held breath between them.Your gaze lingered on him, how his chest rose and fell like he’d been running. His hair was messy, lips parted, the faintest shadow of a bruise along his jaw. Whatever had riled him today, it clung to him still—like dust from a battlefield.

"Would you sit with me?" you asked, voice low, a whisper carved from soft stone.

His eyes finally met yours, then dipped lower. Slowly. With reverence and something else… something darker. They trailed over your face, your mouth, your bare shoulders where your nightgown hung low, down to where your hands rested in your lap. He nodded, eyes flicking back up to your own, though his legs didn’t quite obey at first. And when he did move, it was cautious. Careful. As though getting too close might undo him completely.

He lowered himself beside you, bending at the knees as he settled on the floor, just close enough to feel. The coolness of the steel grazed your thigh and you gasped, and Gwayne pulled back slightly.

You laughed lightly, covering your bare skin with the silk, “Must you wear that all the time?” He only hung his head chuckling just enough it rumbled beside you. “It is duty my Lady, if it were choice, mayhaps not.” The smile on his face crept into a smirk, tilting his head as he looked at you, the light bouncing off of his face and his eyes narrowed. Contemplating for a moment, “Though if I can ask, what brings you here at this hour. If you would like I could escort you back to your chambers?” You rocked your head back, slumping a bit where you sat as you let out a loud sigh, shaking your head a little, “It won’t be needed, I only came here to breathe.”

“You cannot breathe in your chambers?” He remarked, a certain cheek in his tone still, seemingly already knowing your reason, the meaning behind your escape, and you knew he did. Even in passing, he’d been just as against this whole ordeal as you, perhaps even more. Your hand slung out to gently push at his chest in protest, only meaning to be playful. But when you did, he winced slightly through his chuckle, and you notice— the way he rotates his shoulder like it aches, the way his jaw flexes and eyes stay forward. He’s trying to be still. Proper. Holy.

But the air has already shifted and the light hits his chest plate just right.

“You’re bleeding.”  You murmur, catching sight of the thin line across his arm, just where the steel reveals his tunic.

“Just a scrape my Lady, nothing more.” He replies brushing it off as he runs a shaky hand through his hair, like he does with most things. Though he turns then, meeting your gaze and seeing your almost concerned expression his face softens, tightening again.

“A long day?" you ask, half knowing.

He huffs a bitter laugh, looking down at his gauntlets, “You could say that. I got paired with a fool twice my size and half my discipline, swung like an ox. Took it all out on me.” His hands twitch as he starts to undo the leather bindings of his forearm guards, rambling as he does so, contemplating of doing such a thing in front of you, let alone here of all places. And you catch the way his fingers tremble—not from pain, but something else, something you can’t quite read. 

“Here,” you offer, cutting in as you see him falter a little, kneeling slightly behind him, hands already moving to the straps at his shoulder.

He flinches under your touch, and his breath quickens—just barely—but then leans into it like a man who’s carried too much too long.

“You don’t have to-“ 

“You came here for peace did you not,” you interrupt gently. “Then let me help.”

You work in silence. Strap by strap. Piece by piece. The pauldrons come first, your fingers grazing the hot metal where it meets his skin, then the chest plate, heavy and reluctant, slipping away to reveal the thin linen beneath—damp with sweat, clinging to muscle, stained faint with bruises earned in the yard.

Your fingers linger a moment too long, tracing the lines along his chest where the shirt opens.

And he feels it.

He doesn’t dare look at you—not yet—but his breath stills all the same. Your touch ghosts over the edge of his collar, innocent only by inches but his mind twists—prayer unraveling into want. You’re too close. You’ve always been too close. And now, the scent of you is tangled with incense and smoke, your breath soft near his ear as you shift.

He swallows hard. Steel and cedar—that’s what they say he smells like. But if you asked him now, he’d say he smells like sin. Like something barely held back. You notice him watching, you’ve noticed before. In the yard. In the quiet. In the press of his hand against yours for a breath too long. You’ve imagined it—fantasised, even. The way his body moves, the strength in his hands, the tension in his jaw when he’s holding something back. The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips when he's deep in thought. You’ve seen it all. And maybe you’ve wanted him to see you too.

Now, in the hush between words, his neck is craned at you, sitting there, more bare than before. You continue to face him, your voice quiet but unflinching.

“I know you’ve looked,” you say. “So have I.”

His breath catches, but he doesn't deny it. “I’ve felt it,” you edge onwards, “something like fire beneath my skin. I’ve prayed it away. Washed it clean. And yet…” You reach for him, let your fingers ghost over his shoulder carefully, dangerous as a curse.

“I used to wonder,” you whisper. "Wonder what?” he asks, voice low—darker now, as if part of him already knows. Your mouth is dry, but you say it anyway, beyond your pride.

“What it would be like. If you ever touched me… like I wasn’t a nobleman's burden.”

His hands twitch and his jaw clenches, yet he still doesn’t move. Gwayne’s eyes darken, raking over you with a hunger he’s tried so hard to bury under oaths and armor and obedience. But that armor between you—it’s scattered, cast aside on the floor.

“Gods,” he breathes, the word falling from his lips like a plea, not a prayer. His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—until it cradles your cheek, his thumb grazing the softness beneath your eye. You feel how hard he’s trying not to tremble, as though touching you might break the last thread of restraint he clings to.

“I’ve thought of you,” he admits, voice raw. “Here… in this very place.” He swallows, jaw clenched. “Every time I’ve tried not to.” You don’t speak or move, just breathing in tandem with him, feeling his forehead brush yours, hot and damp with want and guilt and all the weight of him. He lingers like that, caught in the torment of it, his nose brushing yours. And then—his hand slides down. Over the line of your neck, the shape of your shoulder, toward the hem of your gown, fingers hesitating as they ghost over the curve.

“Do you know what it’s like…” His voice is a whisper now, cracking under the weight of confession. “To kneel in prayer, so hard, because you smiled at me the night before?” A quiet gasp escapes you, but you don’t retreat, you only draw nearer pushing back into his touch ever so slightly.

His thumb moves to your mouth, dragging along your lips as though blessing them.“I’m not holy,” he murmurs, looking down to them. “Not with you.”

You look up at him, eyes shining in the candlelight. “Then don’t be.”

That breaks him.

With a sound caught between a curse and a groan, his hands grip your waist. The gentleness doesn’t vanish—it sharpens, becoming focused. Reverent still, but no longer afraid. He lifts you with surprising ease, hooking his hands up underneath your legs, bringing you chest to chest, setting you atop the cold stone altar. No words now, just breath, just movement. Your legs part slightly, and he steps between them, his hands bracing either side of your hips.

“Gwayne—” Your gasp cuts the quiet. But his mouth is already on your neck, desperate and warm. His hands press into your thighs, pulling you to him. He kisses you— dropping his head to the crook of your collarbone. Leaving a trail of kisses along the delicate skin there, the kind of kisses that make your back arch and your hands grip his shoulders. He grumbles something you don’t catch, something low against your skin as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your gown slowly upward, inch by inch, as though revealing sacred ground. His lips follow downward, at your shoulder and down to your breast, meeting his hands at the round of your waist.

His prayers have turned carnal. And now—he worships you.

The neck of your nightgown falls revealing your chest as his hands work behind you, beginning to unlace the top with delicate fingers, before stopping himself, eyes flicking up to yours, parting from your skin. “Are you certain you want this?” He asks, the look in his eyes hungry but enamoured, as if, had he made the wrong move he’d lose you entirely. You nod, pulling him closer, arms wrapping around his middle as your legs push onto the backs of his own, the cold metal of his leg armour hitting your soft calves. “More than anything..” And thats all he needs, and he is tugging at the back of the silk in one swift motion, down and down until it pools at your hips. 

Gwayne stands before you, his eyes roaming over your body greedily, naked and bare in front of him, the cool air hits your skin and your cheeks flush, darting your eyes away suddenly.

 "You are beautiful," he breathes, reaching out to trail a finger along your jawline, tilting your chin just enough to meet his eyes once more. And without protest, he leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delves into your mouth, tasting you deeply. Slowly, reverently, he slides the straps of your dress down your hips and past your legs, letting it hit the floor atop his discarded chest plate. His hands trace your collarbones, thumbs brushing the tops of your breasts.

"Perfect," he rasps, cupping your breasts in his large hands. He kneads the soft flesh, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble under his touch. Leaning down, he takes one into his mouth, suckling gently and you arch into him, a moan escaping your lips.

His hands roam lower, and he groans at your moan vibrating your skin just enough, skimming over your stomach and coming to rest on your hips. He grips them firmly, pulling you closer to the edge of the altar, closer to him. Your hands go up to the opening of his shirt, undoing the worn buttons with ease, your fingertips gracing over the hard muscle and he stutters, pinching your thigh. Once it falls open, you push it off his shoulders, letting it rest at his feet. His torso is on full display, trousers hanging low on his hips, and the outline of his cock pushing at the seam. The blush on your face grows darker, and hands move without a thought tracing the defined lines of his abs. He shivers under your touch, a soft growl escaping his throat.

Gwayne's fingers dip between your legs, brushing against your slick folds through your underskirt, removing it gently, the mix of silk on steel, the only things between you, now gone. You gasp, hips jerking forward. "Soaked already, sweet girl?” he croaks, running a finger along your slit. "And ready for me."

He drags his fingers lower, slow and taunting, tracing the slick heat between your thighs until he finds your clit. A teasing, featherlight circle. Once. Twice. Just enough to make your breath catch and your hips twitch, chasing him. But he pulls back just slightly, his breath trembling against your neck as he watches you unravel. "Already," he mutters like a confession, like a man on the edge of something holy and wicked all at once. "You're already aching for me, aren't you sweet girl?"

Your only answer is a whimper—soft, helpless—and he groans, the sound pulled from his throat like it hurts. Then he slides a finger into you. Slow, and deliberate. He curses under his breath at how tight you are—“Seven hells”—his voice ragged with restraint, and his jaw clenches like fighting off every thread of control. He begins to move it—gently at first, stroking that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and your head tips back, lips parted, the air thick with the sound of your breathing and the distant flicker of candles.

Your hips rock forward, seeking more, desperate, and he listens. Oh, he listens. He adds a second finger with a hiss between his teeth, and this time he curls them just right. "That's it," he murmurs, voice low and reverent, like he's praising you, and he is. "Take it, my girl. Let me hear you."

And gods, do you.

"Oh god," you moan, gripping the edge of the altar, one hand bracing his uninjured arm.  He picks up the pace, fingers plunging deep and fast, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles. Pants come from your mouth as he holds you, pleasure coiling tight in your core.

"That's it, let me hear you," Gwayne growls, fingers moving relentlessly. Your moans echo off the stone walls, mixing with the wet sounds of him finger-fucking you. It's filthy and erotic, stoking the flames of your desire higher. He keeps curling his fingers just so, stroking deep, slow, rhythmic—like he knows your body better than you do. His palm grinds against your clit in maddening little presses, never rushed, never sloppy. He's watching you like you're a vision he was never meant to touch, and yet here you are—wet and open and pulsing around his fingers.

“That's it,” he coaxes, lips brushing your jaw. “I can feel you fluttering, trying to pull me deeper. Gods, you’re everything.” You try to answer—try to say his name, beg for more, anything—but the words dissolve into moans as your stomach tightens, that electric wave building fast and hard.

His voice drops to a growl as he leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t fight it. Let go for me. Come on my fingers dearest.”

And that’s it—that’s what snaps the last thread of restraint. You cry out, body clenching around him as your climax rips through you. Your thighs tremble and your hands clutch his chest, fingernails biting into his shoulder where the armor has fallen away. Your walls pulse wildly around his fingers, drawing him in as he groans low and long, mesmerised by the sight of you undone. When your hips finally still and you collapse back against the furs, panting and trembling, he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth without breaking your gaze—sucking them clean with slow, deliberate reverence.

“Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says, voice rough and ruined, all nobility long gone. And he’s still hard, still hungry. Still watching you like he's only just begun. The only sound is your breathing—ragged and high—only his eyes roaming your body, taking in the way you shake, the flush painting your chest, the way your thighs still twitch in aftershocks.

“You’re not done with me,” you whisper, voice wrecked but daring, his gaze snaps back to yours. “No,” he rasps, eyes dark and dilated, possessive. “Not even close.” Your fingers wrap around his neck, your voice lowering to a whisper, “Then stop holding back, Gwayne.” His jaw ticks at that, and you can see him fighting it—see the knight warring with the man—but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open again, and his mouth crashes to yours, messy and hungry and real.

“I’ve waited,” he says against your lips, voice low and shaking. “Gods, I’ve waited for this. Thought of it every time you smiled at me. Every time you walked away, “ Forehead against your own, your noses knock together and his eyes flutter shut, “But I don’t think I can be gentle anymore.”

“Then don’t,” you breathe, abandoning every repercussion, just as he abandons duty, abandons his own oath. “I don’t want gentle.”

With a choked sound, he guides himself to your entrance, pressing the head of his cock against your slick heat. The stretch is slow but then he grips your waist and pushes in with one firm, fluid motion. Your mouth falls open—no words, just a sharp gasp as he fills you, all of him, deep and claiming, your head resting at his jaw as it hangs low. “Fuck—” he grits, buried to the hilt, voice barely human. “Made for me.”

And he lets go. He thrusts, deep and hard, knocking the breath from your lungs, swallowing your moan with a kiss so desperate it borders on violent. There’s no distance anymore. No restraint. Just Gwayne, skin against skin, body pounding into yours like he means to etch himself into your bones. “I’ll never let anyone else have you,” he groans, voice hot against your neck, teeth bearing and messy. “You’re mine—mine.”

“Yes,” you sob, body trembling. “Yours—please—don’t stop—” He doesn’t. He fucks you like it’s a vow, like its sacred, like he’s finally found heaven and he’s never leaving it again.

His thrusts are steady but brutal, dragging along every swollen, soaked inch of you like it’s familiar—not soft, but worshipful in the filthiest way. Every time he pushes in, it’s like he’s sinking deeper into devotion, losing himself between your legs, in your cries, in the sacred ruin of your body under him. He pants against your mouth, words breaking apart like his restraint, knees pushing against the hard stone without a care in the world. 

“This— this is what I wanted,” he grits through clenched teeth, fucking you int you, starved. “Not the throne. Not the title. Just you. Spread open and mine.” You whimper, hands clawing into his back, your body arching for more—greedy, like him. Your walls flutter tight around him, and he feels it—his hips stuttering, his rhythm briefly faltering before he slams back in with a growl, brow knit in absolute, trembling desperation.

“Don’t do that unless you want me to come,” he warns lowly, shaking, forehead pressed to yours. You cry out his name, not in warning, but in challenge. And he bites down on your shoulder as he fucks up into you harder, no finesse left now—just raw, maddened need. You can feel him unraveling—every muscle straining, every breath hitching, trying to last, trying to give you every drop of what he’s denied himself for so long. But the rhythm gets sloppy, the only thing holding it together is the way he grits, “Come with me—Y/N, love, please—I need—”

One more thrust.

One more drag against that sweet spot inside.

And you're both gone.

The sound of them echoes through the room—low, ragged cries tangled with skin meeting skin, a frantic chorus of breath and the whispers of your name. The air is thick with it, humid and golden like honey under candlelight. He doesn’t stop when he comes, he stays buried deep, shuddering, his whole body locked over yours like he’s shielding you. Not war, not fire, not gods or men—just the truth of what you've done. What you are.

His forehead rests against yours once more, slick with sweat. His breath trembles as he exhales a broken sound, not a moan, not a word. Just a huff. Some soft, splintered echo of a man who’s tried to be noble for too long and failed, at last, beautifully. You’re trembling too, not just from aftershock, but from the sheer gravity of it. Your cunt clenches around him, feeling every twitch of him as you rest against his chest, his arm hooked around your back keeping you up. The weight of his body leans against you, the stubble burning you collarbone where his mouth pressed, the damp linen crushed under you hips. It all feels lived in. Not like a tryst. Not like a mistake.

Like home you weren’t supposed to find, but did anyway.

“I should stop,” he whispers. Not moving, not pulling out. Still sheathed so deep in you his voice cracks. “I should let you go. I should’ve walked away before I—before I took you like this.” But he still doesn’t move, his arms only tighten, and his mouth finds the side of your throat, fervently. “You should’ve,” you breathe, fingers in his hair, anchoring him. “But you didn’t, and I didn’t want you to.”

And that’s the truth of it, that continues to undo him because he knows it’s true.

He moves again. Not sharply—not chasing a second high. Just slow rolls of his hips, like he’s trying to feel everything.Like he can’t bear the thought of leaving your body yet. His lips drag across your jaw. “I love you,” he says, so low you almost don’t catch it. “Fuck, I love you, Y/N.” And you break. Not just from his words, but from the way he says them, like it’s the only honest thing he's said in years. Your hands clutch his back, pressing your mouth against his temple, and maybe you gasp something back that might’ve been “I love you too,” or maybe it was just his name.

Either way, it’s all Gwayne needs, because here? Here, he has you.

He begins to move with more purpose now, delicately through the shocks, but fierce. Like relearning your body after all these years of watching, waiting, aching.

“Look at me,” he groans, pulling back just enough to see your face. “I want to see it—I want to see you when you fall apart.” Your eyes are locked, pupils blown, and neither you look away, dragging every thrust into your g-spot so much it burns, the coil in your stomach reaching it’s edge. His hands smooth over your thighs dragging them around his waist, and he groans into your mouth. The tension in you coils like a bowstring, drawn so taut it quivers. He grinds deeper, harder, and your spine arches off the altar.

“Gwayne—”

“I’ve got you,” he growls, cupping the back of your neck, lips brushing yours as he thrusts again. “Come on, sweet girl. Take it. Take all of me.” And you do—with a cry that tears from your throat, broken and raw, your climax washing through you like a tidal wave as your nails rake his back. Your walls flutter and clench around him, pulsing, demanding. He chokes on a sound, lost in the tight heat of you, buried so deep he forgets how to breathe. “Fucking… gods—” he gasps, stammering into his release, shuddering hard as he spills inside you, rutting through it like he’s worshipping at the altar of your body, not the one beneath you.

For a long moment, neither of you move—just the sound of your mingled breath, the faint echo of moans still trapped in the stones above, like a secret the gods were never meant to hear. His weight is still on you, heavy and perfect, chest heaving against yours. Gwayne’s brow rests to your temple, his lips brushing just beneath your ear like a benediction.

“…Are you alright?” he murmurs, barely audible.

Your fingers twitch, still curled against his damp back and you nod, a soft noise escaping—more breath than word. “Yes. Yes, I just—” You give a breathless laugh, dazed. “I think you broke me.” His head lifts to look at you properly, eyes glowing like a knight kissed by sin, and reverence, and something close to forever. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life putting you back together.”

Your throat tightens and his words settle in your chest like something eternal, something vowed. You cradle his jaw with one hand, thumb brushing his cheek.

“I love you, Gwayne,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to, not like this—not all at once, not this much. But it’s already too late.” His mouth finds yours in a kiss that doesn’t try to start anything—it only holds. It's soaked in devotion.

“I loved you the moment I saw you dancing at court,” he says, voice thick. “And I hated it. Hated that you looked like sunlight and moved like a promise. I knew I’d never get free of you.”

You smile and your eyes glow with softened heat “Good.”

He laughs under his breath, nudging his nose along your jaw. “You ruin me.”

You hum. “And you ruin me right back.”

His arms gather you close, both of you still half-dressed, your body a mess beneath him, filled and flushed and fragile. But it’s quiet now. Still. Sacred.

Outside, the stained glass throws wild colors over the pews. Inside, the altar has been christened by bodies that know nothing of restraint when it comes to each other.

And for a little while longer, you just lay there. Breathing together. Holding each other like salvation, leaving one thing on your breath.

“The gods will never forgive us.” “Then let them watch.”

The chaos is shared and curated. You'll wake within a new realm, in depths of snow or surrounded on a bed of cowslips, alone and curious as Loki watches from a distance, and he'll never admit to you as to why- though whispers on the wind say it reminds him of when you once met, unknowing and unexpected. He crafts illusions the way poets write stanzas, soft, strange things. A kiss that tastes of something long forgotten from your childhood, and a version of himself that lets you go, just so you'll crawl back.

Loki doesn’t want to hurt you. He wants you haunted by him. Touched in places no one else can name. Softened. Unmoored and made beautifully unhinged. He’ll let you think he’s being kind— a warm bath, a moonlit picnic, a whispered “I’m here” after days of silence—but look again.

You’re not in your bed. You’re not in your world. You’re not alone.

The pet names are layered and sometimes somewhat ridiculous, ever changing at that; “My desecration”, “Love”, “Darling heretic”.. "Serpent hearted dove" was one once, and he's never let it go, chuckling at every chance he gets. The list may go on, but you don’t just get a ‘baby’, you only get riddles in the shapes of names.

He hates boredom. So if you seem too... settled? He’ll stir something up. Seduce someone in front of you, though it means nothing. Whisper in your ear that he could leave, just to see how you’ll react.

But gods help the one who hurts you. He’ll dismember them with a grin, his hands stained and his voice sugar-slick:

“You belong to me. Not them, as I do you.”

He is stunningly vain- but wants your worship to be secret. Whispered and sacred. He knows what he looks like in the moonlight, the way the voice reaches every core of your being as he drops it an octave. But what wounds him—deeply, quietly, behind the illusions—is when you don’t look. When your gaze lands elsewhere.

When your fingers trail over someone else’s wrist for too long.

He doesn't show it. Not directly, but he goes cold. Still. A little distant.

Until finally—

One night, he finds you in the bath, the water rippling deep in the candlelight, your face drowsy and content at the warmth and sweet scent of lavender. You feel his presence before you see him, kneeling beside the tub, shirt unbuttoned exposing his chest and sleeves rolled, and that familiar glinting in his eye. You tilt your head taking him in, “What is it?”

He leans in close, fingertips pressing the white tile, eyes glistening but voice controlled. “You used to look at me like I’d hung the stars, now you barely look at me when I walk in the room. Have I become.. ordinary?” The question punches at your chest, and you blink. Once, twice. You rise slightly, water dripping from your arms as you cup his face. 

“No,” you whisper. “You’re the curse in every myth. The echo in every temple. You are never ordinary.” His throat bobs and his lashes lower. You press your lips to his cheek, then down to his jaw. “I don’t always say it,” you murmur. “But I watch you like I’m starving. Even when you’re not looking.”

He lets out a breath, like that was what he’d been waiting for.

Then his voice—quiet, raw:

“Say it again.”

So you do. Again. And again. And again. And that night, he worships you like the one thing in the universe he cannot outshine.

Loki lies to you, flippantly, as he does. “To keep things interesting.” Hm. To test your patience, perhaps make you jealous- and oh how it works, he likes that venom you carry, drinks it in even, so much so he can’t get enough of it. But just as frequently as he lies, when he tells the truth? It’s tender, almost painful. “I love you, that’s the problem.”

DARKER TIDES — POWER, POSSESSION, & A GOD’S WRATH

He loves your mind, and makes it known obsessively. That sharpness you have that rivals his wit, the defiance at his advances, the teasing of that chase that he is constantly keeping up with, and that defiant belief of yours that he can be better. Loki studies it, watches you attentively like you’re the only one in the world. He hates it some of the time, how you could frustrate him and entice him so simply, he needs it.

Loki doesn’t get vocally jealous, he gets violent. Quietly. Strategically. That admirer that flirted with you down the hall? Disappeared. The person who lingered their hand on yours a little too long when opening a door? Packed their bags and moved halfway toward the equator. Now he isn’t always that dramatic, but it’s rare he isn’t, but one thing is for sure, you’re guaranteed not to be seeing them again.

Some may question his advances, the looks from the other Gods and the Endless often frown upon him however most of it, stems from fear. His worst fear may be boredom, but that deeper fear? Losing you. Be it someone else takes you away or for nothing at all, peace or a mortal life. “Don’t you dare become ordinary.” He hisses once when you mentioned something of still, a new house maybe it was. It wasn’t that Loki meant it horribly, well maybe a little insulted, but he wants nothing but the best. You both make peace in the chaos, not settle for it.

Okay, now onto the bedroom… or wherever you two end up.

He has a worship kink. But this isn’t your average “good boy” energy no. He wants you to curse his name as you fall apart around him, to praise him like it’s blasphemy.

“Say it,” He snarls fucking up into you, “Tell me what I’am to you.” You’re straddled around him, legs hugging tightly around his back as your nails dig in at his shoulders, your head lazily falling against his collarbone. And oh you do, again. And again, until your legs are shaking and your brain is but air. 

Much akin to worship, as much as he revels his name on your lips its nothing if he didn’t return the favour. The things he can do, spend hours beneath you, kissing, biting, licking. A man starved has nothing on the way he licks into you, or pushes so deep the flip in your stomach aches, your sounds and moans are the only things he wants to hear for eternity. Often trapping the delicacy in some capsule, to keep.

Biting everywhere. On your thighs— on your neck. At your ankles and your shoulder, anywhere he can to put his own claim. His teeth are always too sharp, and you’re certain he does it on purpose because there are always marks and oh good, he wants you to feel it days later.

Illusions in bed. He’ll change his shape mid-thrust—tongue shifting, his eyes are glowing and his voice now echoes around you, ringing in your ears. You never quite know who you’re touching, but you always know it’s him, no matter the form. Sometimes he shows you versions of yourself: you begging, breaking, laughing manically. He whispers to you in a taunt, “That’s who I’ll make you.” He lives to watch you break, to come apart just for him, and he preaches more than a promise.

Now Loki knows no bounds, except your own. Despite the urge and push to your edge every time, one thing he respects if not himself— its you. You are his love, his own ruin, hurting you, if it isn’t punishing you, is out of the question. After all there is a reason so many people seem to go missing if they come even close to doing the same. You are his exception, through the teasing and the stress he seems to bring to any situation, simply because he can, that is one thing he won’t stand for. So if something is a no, he may question with that shit-eating grin on his face, but he only cups your chin and kisses you afterward, with a simple “I know darling.” 

He’s an exhibitionist, living to show you off, as well as himself of course. He’ll press you against stained-glass windows in temples that don’t know your name. He’ll ruin you in dreams where gods are watching, perhaps the Lord of the Dreaming himself and he knows it . He wants to be caught. “Let them see,” he roars against the shell of your ear. “Let them weep for what I get to have.” 

When he’s jealous, the sex gets mean. Not cruel— but sharp. Intentional. He’ll pin your wrists, fucking you deep and slow, taunting:

“Did they touch you like this? No, they couldn’t. You’d still be screaming their name if they had ever dared.”

Blood, now this is obvious no matter who it is, maybe his teeth draw blood when he bites, or he alludes a claw long enough to stretch open your skin, sometimes it’s a silver dagger, sharp and sleek that glints in the light. He’ll drag it down your thighs and across your stomach, gently before breaking the skin just enough. The hot sting pours through your body as you tremble, and his mouth is already on you, tongue teasing the thin red line like a fever, suckling at the acrid substance like its liquid gold. And he never forgets to press a kiss as it heals, leaving the small scars across your body, and if you do the same? He wears each and every one like the honour it is.

Now the aftercare is soft and delirious, and possessive. You say you’re tired? He sighs and grumbles but snaps his fingers just as fast, and now the silver moon hangs half in the sky and it stills, the sky now a deep magenta.”There, now come. Rest on me.” He’ll lie beside you in silk sheets that weren’t there ten seconds ago, one hand tangled in your hair, and murmur things like:

“You’re the only one who’s ever seen me like this.”, “You’re mine now. I won’t let the world have you.” “Sleep. I’ll keep the nightmares.” And he does.

Some softer things I believe between you two, that only you’d ever know, because even the God of Mischief and deception has feelings.

Loki carves your name in the bark of a tree he made himself, twisted and giant with reeds for branches that sweep the floor with every windbreak, sigils sit guarding your name, he visits it often, sometimes with you, sometimes without. Your own shrine, for him.

He lets you see his real form once, and only once. Just for a moment. It hurts to look at, but he lets you anyway. And as it happens he threatens to never allow it to another again, but he has trust in you, whatever that is to him. He lets you hold him, take him in, as he does you, every moment. An intimate moment even he wouldn’t forget.

One day he gifts you a crown of illusions, stating that, “If the world will not worship you, then I will bend the world.” You and Loki are an equal, no matter your being, and that is something he has made clear, to you, to the Endless, to time itself.

He’ll kiss your scars like they’re scripture, making love to every one of them, tracing them with his fingers and his eyes light up every time he gets to touch them, staring intently, “Each one’s a secret. A story. A spell etched on your body. I’ve read them all.”

Now if anyone were to ever hurt you, in any sense, Loki will make up for it in penance. Blood appears on your hands in a flash, and you try to wash it off, scrubbing harshly as the door clicks behind you. He’d been gone for hours and he strolls in like nothing ever happened, but the blood on your hands mirrors his. You ask him what happened, quirking a brow and he just shrugs. “They hurt you, I hurt them worse.” He pauses and dons that wicked grin, the blood disappearing from the both of you as he kisses you, pulling back just enough. 

“I saved their tongues though, in case you wanted to hear them beg.”

He sees everything. And he knows when something’s wrong. You’re smiling, but your hands tremble in your lap, or the smile doesn’t quite meet your eyes Loki is across the room, glaring lovingly and intentionally working down every wall, because just as he is a tease, he is as attentive.

“You smiled wrong,” he says without turning. “Who hurt you?” And when you finally tell him, softly, shakily, he doesn’t promise revenge, he just stands. And smiles.

He will try, anything he can, say or conjure what he can to make you happy. You say you wish things were simpler, that you could walk hand-in-hand through a market without the world shuddering, that maybe, just once, you could be loved without consequence.

The next day, you wake up in a dream. It's a soft one, and the two of you are in a little cottage by a lake that doesn’t exist. He’s cooking eggs (more like burning them, hilariously), wearing nothing but a linen shirt, and you come up behind him kissing his shoulder. He doesn’t say it’s a dream. Instead, he lets you believe, even if just for a little while, as he closes his eyes backing into your touch.

“You said you wanted peace,” he says, eyes unsure. “I tried.” Even if he doesn’t know what that is, sometimes he wishes it too. 

But one thing despite it all? He is devoted, no matter the disguise. He never really says I love you, not the normal way or the mortal way he’d say. But he leaves marks where no one can see, inscribing runes of protection on the soles of your shoes, putting charms in your coat pocket—things you don’t find until the day you need them most.

You may confront him once, frustrated, questioning why. And he just tilts his head, that expression unreadable.

“You are not my thing,” he says. “You are my weakness. That’s worse.”

Then he kisses you so gently you forget what you were angry about.

You did worry for your husband when the isolated nights drew long and silent. You had faith in him and the gods you were so devoted to. Gwayne was as good with his sword as he was his words. He had never once failed to return to you in one whole piece.

Slumber welcomed you with open arms, and your mind rested on the thought of seeing him soon.

The Hightower was cloaked in moonlight as the night dragged on. It was silent, save for the fluttering of curtains of the window you had left open. The cool air nipped at your throat, but it was the gentle clack, clack, clack of steel that roused you. It was a sound you had grown to know quite well ─ the sound of armor. Your fists clenched the silken bedsheets below you, and your eyes remained squeezed shut. Your heart fluttered, a light and airy thing within the confines of your ribcage. Gwayne had returned far earlier than what was expected. You waited in silence, feigning sleep as you did so, and anticipated the sound of shedding armor and the shift of the mattress as his weight met it.

Only, those sounds never came. You could feel his soft breath against the nape of your neck, and his fingertips - hands freed from his gloves - tickled your skin as he brushed your hair over your shoulder. Your back was facing towards Gwayne as his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck, and you could not stop the breathy sigh that escaped your lips.

A knowing smirk spread across his lips. Gwayne knew his wife far too well for her liking ─ he knew you had not been sleeping, your breaths too quick for such a thing. His mouth traveled lower, down the slope of your shoulder that had been exposed by the slip of your shift. He gripped at the quilted duvet that covered your form, inching it lower and lower as he went. His final destination was on his knees, hands grasping at the softness of your hips. The soft fabric of your shift bunched around his fingers, wrinkled from your slumber. Your body, now exposed by the lack of bedding and practically glowing in the moonlight, shivered beneath his gaze.

“What are you doing?” Your voice was a hushed whisper, hoarsened from your rest.

“Worshipping my wife.” Gwayne's voice was smoother, rich with a lilt that made your tummy flip. His hands smoothed up and down your calves. “As she deserves.”

The time apart from you had left him needy and hard within his breeches. His nights had been spent similar to your own when time allowed it, dreaming of the warmth of your skin, and the taste of you on his lips. Gwayne had foregone the task of ridding himself from his armor and swordbelt, favoring the sweetness between your legs.

His wrists wrapped around your ankles, his thumbs brushing over the delicate bone beneath the skin, and with a practiced ease, he tugged you closer to the edge of the bed. The sheets ruffled beneath you, and a little yelp of surprise slid past your lips. Gwayne's strength never failed to arouse you, even with the years you had known him. It was such a simple thing. He gazed up at you from beneath tousled strands of copper hair, his gaze locked on your own. His mouth found the inside of your knee, trailing open-mouthed kisses up the expanse of your inner thigh.

Your chest heaved, one hand reaching down to thread through his locks as you propped yourself up on your elbows. With the growing pit of warmth in your core, and the abundance of wetness pooling in your smallclothes, you found your voice. “How… how was your journey?” You sounded breathless, still trying to bring your concern for him to light.

“Long,” Gwayne answered simply. He nipped at your soft skin before he soothed the bite with his tongue. He switched to the other thigh, coating it with kisses and licks and nips. “It was a laborious affair,” he spoke between breaths, “and quite dull in nature.” His head dipped closer to where you needed him. You could hear him inhale deeply, heat of embarrassment rushing to your cheeks and neck. A playful scold died on your lips as his mouth met your cloth-covered cunt. He placed a kiss upon your clit, and he groaned at the wetness he could feel through your smallclothes.

“Gwayne-!”

The fabric was shimmied down your legs with a swiftness that left you gaping. His hands grasped at your hips with a need that was unbecoming for a man like Gwayne, and he tugged you ever closer. Your thighs were thrown over his shoulders, his pauldrons digging into the soft flesh. You shivered at their coldness, your grip in his hair tightening. With the lessened proximity, you could smell him. “You reek,” you announced breathily, “of horses and steel and… blood.”

“Not mine own.”

Gwayne's head of red hair disappeared beneath your shift, his tongue delving between the slick folds of your pussy. His hands gripped at your hips, stilling the way they threatened to twitch and buck. He flattened his tongue, lapping through your slit and savoring the familiar taste of you. His eyes fluttered shut as the tip of his tongue circled your clit, feeling the little bud throb and swell. His lips closed around it, encouraged by the whines that you made, sounds that made his cock twitch with need and greed. He suckled on it gently, moaning against your cunt as your thighs clamped around his head. Any thoughts of worry for your husband had been placed on hold, pleasure curling in your gut like a spring about to snap. His mouth moved with practiced ease, born of the many nights spent together.

“Gods, you're so-” you choked on a moan, tugging on his hair to keep him close, “too good. Too good, husband.”

Gwayne sucked and licked, his tongue circling over your entrance before he pushed it inside of you, lapping at the depths of your core. His nose nudged against your pearl, and the hands upon your hips had tightened, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your thighs trembled on either side of your head, your noises growing in pitch and volume as he fucked you with his tongue. Unable to stand the ache in his loins, Gwayne moved. His hips rutted against the mattress like a dog in heat, the featherbed creaking in time with his rhythm. The grip he held on your flesh had loosened, arms wrapping around your thighs to lift your weight off of the bed.

With a squeal of pleasure, both of your hands found purchase in his hair, and you rocked against his face. Gwayne whined against your cunt, encouraging your movements as his hips began to stutter, nearing his own orgasm.

“Gwayne, I'm-” the warning died on your tongue, and with a particularly firm suck on your slickened clit, you threw your head back with a shout. Your husband eagerly drank up your release, working you with his mouth until you were shaking and whining. With one final thrust, and a sharp grunt, he spilled himself within his breeches.

Gwayne felt your body grow pliant, melting into the bed as your thighs grew lax upon his shoulders. He pulled back from between your thighs, your hands slipping from his hair. A languid grin grew across his wet lips, his chin coated in spit and your slick. “That was quite enjoyable, wife.”

You flung an arm across your face, shielding yourself from his view as you tried to catch your breath. The kiss he planted to your thigh had your legs jolting again, and you could nearly see his grin widen in your mind's eye. His touch, gentle and firm, slid your thighs off of him, and settled you back into your previous place in the bed. You could hear the clinking of plates of armor as he rose, and the subsequent shedding of those layers before you slid your arm away. You watched Gwayne in silence as he undressed, eyes honing in on the stain of his breeches. The light filtering in through the window offered just enough to see.

“It seems you have missed me dearly,” you teased - or tried to, if it weren't for the breathlessness of your words. Gwayne turned to you then, and his gaze softened. Stripped down to his tunic and trousers, he cradled your face in his hands as he hovered over you.

“As always, my sweet one.” His lips met yours in a dance as old as time. It was wet and filthy, it was slow and sensual. Gwayne sighed softly as your hand slid into his hair again, carding through his copper locks. He broke the kiss to gaze down upon you, a string of saliva still connecting your lips. His touch was reverent, as was the look in his eyes, as he brushed a wayward strand of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “It would be wise to get comfortable. I am nowhere near done with you after such an arduous time away.”