#ofmanderley

“Hvitserk-“ Aethelred huffed, clear eyes wide and eyebrows to his hairline as he rounded the oaken desk with long strides, Hvitserk’s teasing smile in front of him.

There were days when these little antics amused him; the Viking had invited him in from the moment he stepped into his uncle’s court, all tilted smiles and dangerous eyes, strolling around as if he owned everything in the place. He had all but forced a place for himself in Aethelred’s rooms and heart, and the prince had found that he didn’t mind it when his unlikely companion would barge into his rooms and force him listen to whatever silly thing had caught his attention for the day, playing with his books and grabbing any trinket he might get his anxious hands on.

Aethelred didn’t mind. Mostly. Usually.

Except for today.

Today, Hvitserk had chosen to be annoying.

Aethelred rounded on him, stared at the Viking with all the might he could summon as crown prince of Wessex, praying to God almighty that he would maybe, maybe not act like a child for once and do as he was told. All the while, his friend smiled like a cat with cream, and every war lesson he had had in his life told Aethelred this was some sort of trap.

The prince hummed, leaning forward. His arms on either side of Hvitserk, hands on his hips, thumbs finding skin under the clean shirt Hvitserk wore to draw gentle circles. Eye to eye. One of them had to lead by example and be civil, after all.

“Give that back, now. I will even let you stay.”

“Give what back, huh?”

“The letter, Hvitserk. Give it back before you ruin it with your pagan hands.”

“You like my pagan hands,”

“Yes, I do. But not on my letters,” Especially when they were barely dry oh Lord.

“And where,” Hvitserk started, voice a purr, head tilted, “Do you like my hands on, prince Aethelred?”

Green eyes looked down, to Aethelred’s pink tongue as he wet his lips. The prince knew, then, that he could turn this into a victory for himself.