#tlkfff2020

"That shouldn't be allowed to travel with that cold." Sihtric sighed, changing position in his makeshift bed, trying to find a way to warm his body. 

"Alfred must be nice and warm in his bed." Uhtred added, his voice sleepy. 

"I am not sure, with Lady Aelswith in the same bed." You joked, making the four men laugh. 

You moved away from the fire, rubbing your palms to keep the heat. You laid down on the furs, trying to sleep. But the freezing air wouldn't let you rest. So after turning for the hundredth time to another side, you sighed. 

"Can't sleep?" Finan asked you, throwing a branch in the fire. All the others were asleep now and the Irishman had been assigned to feed the fire for the first part of the night. 

"I am cold." You explained, sitting on your bed. 

Finan turned his face to you and you could notice the smirk on his lips as the flames' light danced on him. 

"Come." He opened one of his arms for you to cuddle against him. 

You pinched your lips, considering the offer. Your eyes traveled on each of your sleepy friends. They were probably aware that you and Finan shared the same bed more than once but you liked to pretend it was a secret. 

You finally stood up to sit next to him. He put his arm around your shoulders, so his cloak was wrapping you as well. You rested your head in his neck, your fingers playing with the fabric of his cloak and his with a lock of your hair. His breath was soothing as you let your eyes lost in the flames. 

His arm left your shoulder and you caught the cape, so It didn't fall, tightening it more around you. Finan's hand wandered from your lower back to your thigh. Finally, it found its way to your waist, first to keep you closer, but soon his fingers searched to go under your clothes. You shivered when you felt his cold fingertips on your skin. 

You frowned and looked up to him, but you couldn't hide the smile on your lips as you already understood what he wanted.

"What are you trying to do?" You softly said, steam escaping from your mouth. 

"Warming ya." He smirked.

His lips were lightly touching yours, his beard tickling your chin. His hand continued to travel down your waist, his fingers leaving goosebumps trails. When he reached the top of your trouser, you fully kissed him, slightly sighing at the feel of his mouth against yours. With his other hand he undid your belt before resting it on your cold and red cheek.  

Your lips parted when he touched your inner thighs, a deep sigh escaping you. He moved away his face to put a finger on your mouth.

"Easy to say." You grumbled. "Now you said you’d warm me. And I am very cold." You added, your voice almost a whisper as you pressed your hips against his hand.

"Shh." He hushed you, smirking ear to ear, satisfied by the noise you made. 

He chuckled a little, before he leaned his head to kiss you again. His fingers started to move between your legs, touching sensitive parts and making your own fingers tensing up. Light moan escaped your mouth, covered by Finan's lips against yours. 

And as promised, the heat started to rise in your body by waves, your toes curling in your boots. Soon it was too hard to restrain yourself and remained the most silent as possible. So you left his lips to hide your face in his neck and wrapped your arms around it.

"Warm enough?" He teased you. 

You couldn't speak, your mind blurred, so you just shook your head, your breath heavy against his skin. He started to move his fingers faster until you reached your higher point, body shaking as you bit the fabric of his cloak, covering your moan of pleasure.

He removed his hand from your trouser and kissed the side of your head as you tried to catch your breath. 

"Better?" You could hear him grin in your ear.

"Much better." You straightened up to catch his lips, your fingers running through his thick hair.

After a moment, you let your arms fell at your sides. You cuddled more against him, your head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you and he rested his cheek on top of your head. His fingertips made shapes on your hand, appeasing you and making your eyelids felt heavier. 

And you finally fell asleep, your body warmed by the fire, Finan's body and cloak, and pleasure. 

Almost as if (y/n) sensed his gaze she looked up catching Osferth’s eye and smiling brightly at him. Her eyes danced with life. When he first met (y/n) when Uhtred and his men had rescued her from slave traders she was broken, terrified of men and the word trust was not in her vocabulary. She trusted no one.

Slowly Osferth being the least threatening one of the group gained her trust and they became firm friends but he had always wanted more.

“Well I’m calling that a night.” (Y/n) yawned, standing up and stretching. “I’m going to bed.”

This was his chance, one of the few chances he would get alone with her.

“May I walk you to your tent Lady.”

(Y/n) smiled “always the gentlemen Osferth”

“Hey I can be very gentlemanly when I want too.” Finan slurred, as he waved his arm drunkenly.

Sniggering (y/n) took Osferth’s arm as they left Finan talking to himself.

It was only a short walk to (y/n) tent but Osferth wished it could last forever. They talked the whole way and Osferth always felt like he could be himself with (y/n). When they finally reach (y/n) tent Osferth smiled sadly.

“Well this is me.” (Y/n) mumbled, waving her arm haphazardly at the tent behind her.

“Then I bid you goodnight, Lady.” Osferth said, bowing slightly before turning to leave.

“Osferth wait!”

Before he could turn round (y/n) was in front of him, pulling his face towards her as she pressed her lips firmly to his. Shocked, Osferth didn’t respond at first but soon began to relish in the moment kissing (y/n) back.

Her lips were soft and plump just as he had imagined. The kiss lasted longer than he expected and when they pulled away they were both breathing heavily.

(Y/n) smiled sweetly at him. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long but I’ve never had the courage to do it.” She confessed.

Osferth looked shocked. “You... you feel the same way.”

“How could I not. Your handsome and kind and funny and... Osferth I’m in love with you.”

“I love you too (y/n). Always.”

She kisses him again.

Stiorra felt a rush of heat to her cheeks as she caught herself thinking those words, laying on the floor of the room they’d been sitting in. Twenty-nine days with Sigtryggr. The number was not what caused the blush. 

“I’ll be back,” Sigtryggr had said. That was hours ago, and no one had been in since.

Not that she expected visitors. The only other people who ever came in the room besides Sigtryggr and herself were messengers - Danes who would try to lean over Sigtryggyr’s broad shoulders while they played the game she’d taught him or while she read to him. And Eardwulf, that one time, but he’d never be back now. 

“You do not need to lean,” she’d heard him say to the first messenger on day one. Sigtryggr had risen from the spot he was sitting and met Dane messenger eye to eye. “Say what you came to say.” 

He did this with every person who came to speak to him - told them not to lean over him, not to speak in a whisper. He only had to say it once for them to obey. Sigtryggyr had a commanding presence like that. 

It was not lost on her that Sigtryggr did not speak in secret tones with those who came to deliver news or ask advice. Everything related to the siege - how much food they had, where the defenses were being fortified, who was being held and where within the palace walls - he discussed all of these things openly in front of her at a regular volume. No hushes, no whispers. She heard every word.

After two days, she knew it was on purpose. He was showing her who he was. 

He wanted her to know.

On day three, he asked her to read from Alfred’s chronicle to him. 

“Why?” She kicked at the table leg, pretending not to notice the book he’d brought in.

Sigtryggr scooted toward her on the bench, placing his folded hands on top of the table they sat at, side by side. She felt his gaze on the side of her face as she pretended to look out the window. “Because I want to know about him. I want to understand.” He unfolded his hands and pushed the book toward her. “And because I can’t read English. You can.”

Stiorra quirked an eyebrow at him. She’d abhorred all those hours Hild and the other nuns had drilled at her to learn her words when she’d been a child, but now, she saw that perhaps this skill had a purpose. Made her valuable.

She reached for the book, opened it to the first page, and stole a quick look at Sigtryggr. He was smiling, and she mirrored a small smile back at him before clearing her throat. “Bring me water, and I’ll read all day.” 

He’d done just that. Brought her water, and sat and listened to her quietly, attentively. She’d read to him until the sun dipped beneath the horizon and the candles burned their wicks down to their pans. She’d gone to bed that night smiling.

Sigtryggr’s attentiveness was the most disarming thing.

On day four, she read to him some more. He’d crossed to the other side of the room and found a more comfortable place to put his feet up. Stiorra wondered if he was really listening to her, to each and every single word she was reading, or if his mind was wandering elsewhere. She glanced up from the page and saw him looking out a window. 

“And in the year 842, a great turd fell from the sky.” She deadpanned, using in the same tone she’d been reading in, making no show of the silly words she was choosing. 

Immediately, Sigtryggr’s eyes snapped to meet hers, brows knitting together as he narrowed his gaze at her. She ducked her back head down, making as if she’d not looked up from the page at all, but it was too late. He’d caught her.

“A great turd from the sky?” She could hear the grin in his voice again, could picture what it looked like on his handsome face as he took a step from the window. Stiorra kept her eyes on the page but couldn’t help but snicker - as she’d often done when making an off-color joke to the other young women at the abbey. 

She felt his eyes again, but hadn’t looked up to greet them. The bench shifted as he took a seat next to her and leaned back against the table. Hiding her face behind her hair, she heard the smile in Sigtryggr’s voice once again. He leaned toward her, close enough his breath caused her hair to move, but not so close as to touch her. “Tell me, Stiorra Uhtredsdottir. Tell me about this great turd from the sky.” 

Stiorra couldn’t stop herself from giggling onto the page then, unable to contain herself. He really was listening to what she was saying. 

The bench creaked as he reached across the table for the water jug.

“You have great wit,” Sigtryggr said, refilling her glass of water. 

“I do,” she responded, lifting her eyes to meet his. When she took the cup from his hands, their fingers brushed. A spark. “Thank you.”

“Keep reading.” He stood back up and resumed his stance by the window. “I am listening.”

Days four through ten had passed much the same. She read. Sigtryggr listened. 

She taught him to play a favorite game from her childhood and beat him so many times they stopped keeping score. They shared meals. He asked her questions about her father, her mother, her home. “What home?” she’d answered. It wasn’t Coccham, it wasn’t the abbey, it wasn’t Saltwic, and it certainly wasn’t Winchester. She had places she’d lived, but none of those places really felt like home. 

She explained it all. And still, Sigtryggr listened. 

Sigtryggr watched. 

Sigtryggr learned. 

On day eleven, they walked around the halls of the palace together. She’d told him she was tired of sitting, and he said he’d walk with her. Stiorra liked the way their elbows grazed each other when they rounded the first corner.

She wanted to go outside but did not ask. She was a hostage, but hadn’t thought of herself that way for a little while. Sigtryggr never called her that, never referred to her as one when he talked with other people who came into the room. No, the hostages were the nobles, Lord Aethelhelm and his daughter Aelfled, Alfred’s wife - the pious Lady Aelswith, and two children. The one she knew, Aethelstan - who she almost missed - and some other boy, who she did not give a rat’s arse about. Sigtryggr called them the hostages, his men called them the hostages. But not her. Sigtryggr just called her Stiorra. 

She didn’t remember she was a hostage until day eighteen, when she caught Brida’s pointed glare when they passed by her on a walk in the hall. The harshness of the other woman’s stare was powerful, her ire tangible, like tiny knives poking into Stiorra’s face. No, she could not ask to go outside. Not yet.

More reading. 

More games. 

More walks inside. 

More days. 

More time with Sigtryggr.

That was days one through twenty-eight. Today was day twenty-nine, and he’d been gone for hours.

She’d dozed off in the room without meaning to. She was woken by voices in the hallway, some Dane saying that Sigtryggr had gone to the ramparts as another silly volley of Saxons were attempting to rush the gate. It happened so frequently, Stiorra had stopped caring or keeping count of how many times this made. She’d woken up with tangles in her hair, and decided to work new braids atop her head. 

She thought about how she and Sigtryggr spent hours of each day together now. They’d fallen into a rhythm. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they played, sometimes she read from the chronicle and he asked her questions. Sometimes they just sat in the room, together but not. He’d puzzle over maps while she watched the Dane warriors sparring in the courtyard, idly carving runes into a piece of wood he’d brought her from outside.

But right now she was alone. 

She wondered when he’d be back. She took her hair down and brushed it out, marking the silence. There weren’t even birds singing outside.

After tying a new knot on top of her head, she pulled up a smaller section of hair and began passing one section over another, steadily bringing each piece to find its place with the next. The braid began to take shape, and with each new pass, each minute that went by, she began to understand that she missed Sigtryggr.

The shade shifted across the window, marking the passage of time. Stiorra pulled another section of hair to the opposite side of her head and began to work it into a second small plait to match the first. 

She thought for a fleeting moment, somewhere near the midpoint of the second braid, that perhaps she shouldn’t care about him or what he was doing, but the truth was that she did. By the end of the second braid, she resolved to feel no shame in that.

Too much time had gone by. He’d been gone for many hours now, she was sure. She needed something to do with her hands, couldn’t bear to sit and wonder any longer what was delaying him. Stiorra backtracked and began redoing the first braid she’d made after her nap. 

Sigtryggr returned to the room while she worked on a third braid, a plate of apples and fresh bread in hand. She hadn’t heard him, her back to the door as she sat by the window, fingers flitting in and out of the new braid she was making. 

He sat the plate on the table as quietly as he could. He didn’t want to interrupt her at her work. Sigtryggr knew how to remain quiet, how to wait until the right moment. 

Stiorra felt a breeze pass through the room, and with it came the scent of fresh bread. She turned to see where the scent came from and was both surprised and relieved to see Sigtryggr there, one hand on his face, his head cocked to one side as he studied her.

“Sigtryggr.” She dropped her hands from her hair and made to stand, pausing her work. Startled. Happy to see him. “You brought bread.”

A small shake of his head. “Do not stop.” 

Her eyes locked onto him, and he held her gaze as he crossed the room. How he could be so deft, so quiet, so graceful and so powerful at the same time - she wondered if she’d ever know. She swore her insides were melting with every step he took in her direction.

Stiorra sank back into the chair, disarmed by him as he moved toward her, catlike. She pieced together the remaining sections of her braid, her breath slow, not breaking his eye contact as he stepped to her. She searched for something to say, but no words came. Nothing but a lump in her throat and the slow cadence of her own breath, rising and falling.

He knelt to her eye level and held himself in a squat next to her. Sigtryggr faced her, but did not crowd her. He never crowded her. Not that first day, when she’d tried to cut herself and he’d disarmed her, both with his words and also with his hands - not when he’d stepped in to to protected her from Eardwulf, not when he sat next to her on the bench, and not now. 

She felt the blood rush to her cheeks as he placed his left hand flat on the chair next to her leg, gentle but solid. She knew her ears would be turning crimson, knew he’d be able to see the effect he had on her from this close. She briefly thought to turn away from him, to move her hair to cover the flush, but the way the air had collapsed around them kept her from doing so. Too locked into him and his brown eyes and his handsome face, she met him with her own studied look.

Sigtryggr reached his right hand up, keeping the left flat on the chair to the side of her leg, chaste but firm. His fingers ghosted over the side of her face, his thumb lightly brushed over her cheekbone. She felt him reach up and take hold of the braid she’d just finished. Her breath caught in her throat. 

Sigtryggr took the braid in his hand, running it between his thumb and forefinger, handling it like it was holy, the way she’d seen him touch Thor’s hammer around his neck. She could hear his own breathing, so close to her she thought she might burst into flame. She couldn’t stop from thinking about what it might be like to feel his even breath closer to her, over her cheek, on her neck, in the hollow of her collarbone, in her ear as he whispered her name. 

She gulped, feeling a new rush of heat to her cheeks and a warm tingle deep inside her chest. He was so close. So close she could see the fan of his eyelashes, the ridges of the scar on his face, proud and regal, the scent of fresh bread still in the air. 

“You must show me.”

“Show you?” she gulped.

“You must show me how you do this.” 

Stiorra blinked. Without warning, she scooted back in the chair, which caused Sigtryggr to lose his balance a little and force him to brace his hand on the ground as he caught himself. 

“Turn around, then,” she directed, her voice higher in pitch than usual but unwavering. “Sit.”

He laughed, eyes only briefly dropping to the floor with a sigh as he did as she asked.

Sigtryggr listened. 

He sat on the ground in front of her, between her knees. He crossed his legs and straightened his spine. 

“Can you see?” she asked as she reached for her brush.

“Yes,” he nodded, and his reflection in the window nodded back.

“Good. Now, this is called a braid,” Stiorra said, taking his hair into her hand, brushing it the way she’d done for herself, for Aelfwynn sometimes when she’d lived at Saltwic. She was surprised by the texture of his hair, of how much of it there was. It was softer than it looked like it would be, and it smelled like wood and wheat and outside.

“I know what a braid is.”

“This is not just any braid.” She began to thread her fingers through Sigtryggr’s hair, taking a small section from his temple into her hands. “This is the braid my mother would make for my father when he returned home from a long absence.”

Sigtryggr didn’t say anything. He sat still, but not stiff. She saw the rise and fall of his shoulders in the reflection of the window in front of them, marked the way his lips were parted while she separated the section of hair into three smaller pieces.

“Well, that’s what she told me it was when she taught me to do it.” 

She began to move one piece over another, and saw Sigtryggyr’s shoulders sag just a little, to relax as she began. 

“He’d come home after fighting some battle or settling some dispute somewhere, and she’d make him wash, and while his hair dried, she’d put this braid in his hair.” She worked steadily as she crossed the first few passes. A flock of birds passed by the window.

Sigtryggr said nothing. His breathing had fallen into an easy cadence, and she found herself mirroring it.

“To keep it out of his face,” she continued. “My mother couldn’t stand when his hair was in his face...” 

She trailed off briefly, remembering Gisela telling her this very thing time and time again as she’d worked a braid into Stiorra’s hair. And do you know, Stiorra, with every pass I made in your father’s hair, I weaved in my care for him? My hope for his continued safety? My joy for his return?  

Stiorra felt a lump of pride in her throat, a quick sting rising in her eyes. She didn’t want Sigtryggr to see that, though. It wasn’t for him - it was for Gisela, the mother she missed so much - for the life Stiorra and her family didn’t get to have, for the fear she secretly carried - the fear that she, too, would die young like her mother. 

He was looking at her reflection in the window, eyes open and eager. Not wanting to pull him into her sadness, Stiorra made another pass of Sigtryggr’s hair and quietly quipped, “I can’t stand when your hair is in your face, either. It always is.”

At that, Sigtryggr laughed, shattering the unspoken tension, bright and warm and alive. 

Stiorra smiled back at him into their reflections in the window. The warmth from the late afternoon sun shone on their faces, clear and bright in the window glass. She blinked back the sting at her eyes, happy to have made him laugh. She wanted to make him laugh like that more. 

With every pass, every placement, every strand, Stiorra weaved her own hopes into the braid she made for Sigtryggr that twenty-ninth day. Hopes that he’d stay safe. Hopes that her father was still alive out there, hopes that one day, there would be a world where it didn’t matter - being a Saxon or a Dane - hopes that she could be both, that she could be more. Hopes that perhaps, she and Sigtryggr could be more, together.

Stiorra continued working, sweeping the plait to one side of his handsome brow. She checked her work in the reflection and rested her hands on his shoulders, relished the sight of his peaceful face.  

“I am pleased,” he said. 

“Good,” Stiorra replied, fastening the end with a silver bead from her own hair. “It suits you.”

“But you did not show me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You did this for me, but you did not show me how to do this for you.”

The sun began to slip behind the wall of the courtyard. It wasn’t night yet, but it would be shortly. Stiorra beamed.

“You want to braid my hair?”

“Yes,” Sigtryggr answered. He rose from the floor and stood before her. He lifted her chin with his finger. “Yes, I do.”

So passed the twenty-ninth day. 

This work is largely inspired by a conversation I had with @jeynepoole​ about how much I can't stand Sigtryggr's wig in season four. I've started calling it his Hermione hair. It's poofy and ridiculous, and I can't be super sure, but I'm fairly certain he doesn't have a braid on the one side before the siege at Winchester begins, but I think he's got one by episode ten. I don't think it's out of the question that Stiorra could have braided his hair for him in that time. 

Once she’d been certain he hadn’t intended to harm her, she had asked if she was free to go. He insisted she was if she wished, her chambers evidently not well guarded if Eardwulf deep in his cups had managed to stagger served as proof enough of that. In that moment, though, she’d realized the entire city was full of men like that waiting beyond these walls, with nothing better to occupy their time than drinking and whoring and fighting in the streets. Besides, it was far better here than out there where she imagined Brida sat contemplating a thousand ways for her to die, and if she waited here, Stiorra knew somewhere deep down that her father would come for her. And until then, the stories Sigtryggr told were far more fascinating than listening to children whining or watching Finan and Sihtric playing dice for the thousandth time.

 Sigtryggr was an odd sort of Dane, Stiorra had to admit. He strangely seemed to have taken as much of an interest in scrolls and her stories as the sprawling palace and the chests of silver they had gathered from Winchester’s stores. Sometimes he would bring an object—a relic from the chapel, a platter with a verse inscribed upon it, a painting of a saint—from somewhere in the castle, or something to occupy himself, polishing his boots or scabbard, weaving together a hempen rope, the kind of work she’d expect a handmaiden to do, not a warlord, and he would sit and listen to what she had to say, whether it was telling him about the beliefs of the Christian faith, talking about her childhood, or teasing him about if Winchester had turned out to be all he dreamed. He entertained all sorts of her questions in turn, about his homeland and Irland and the sea and all he’d seen along the way, and she couldn’t help but be drawn into his tales of the world beyond the walls of Saltwic and Coccham.

 And she wasn’t blind either, regardless of what Brida threatened. It hadn’t escaped her attention that Sigtryggr was rather handsome, with his long hair and his armbands, clad in functional leather rather than a cape embroidered with gold or jewelry that served to do little other than belie exorbitant wealth. He looked so different from the shorn haired Saxons she’d been raised alongside, and perhaps most importantly, also unlike them he clearly washed.

 “Are you overcome with admiration?”

 She shook her head when she realized she must have been staring. “No. I’m bored.”

He smirked. Then there was that, too, those smiles that would have surely bewitched her in an instant had she been a weaker woman. “So I’ve heard.”

 She rolled her eyes. “My father’s stories made all of this seem exciting. And all that’s here is a list of dead men and their vassals and their lands and who cares.”

 “Lady Aelswith has assured me that her husband was a great man,” Sigtryggr said.

 “Oh, have you been spending a great deal of time with Lady Aelswith now?” She took her turn to smirk now, and then offered mercy at the look of bewilderment he wore. “He was, I suppose. He ruled with fairness and strength and love for his people.”

 “But?”

 She could not deny he was coming to know her well. “But it wasn’t as if he did these things all himself. He didn’t fight the battles, he didn’t bring in the harvests, he didn’t build the burhs. There’s scarcely even a mention of Lady Aelswith, either.”

 “Would there be? She tells me Wessex has no such thing as a queen. Aelflaed tells me different, of course.”  

 “Does it matter? Being a queen seems utterly boring, too.”

 The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Don’t all girls wish to grow up and become queen?”

 “No,” she shuddered. “I certainly didn’t. It seems awful, to do nothing but spend your days bowing and curtsying locked up in some palace. And I don’t want children, much less a kingdom.”

 “Oh? Have you discussed this with your intended?”

 She wrinkled her nose. “My intended?”

 “The man to whom you are betrothed. That’s what Saxons like to do, is it not? Find someone who can make them richer, give them power, or grant them lands, and marry their daughters off to them in exchange for their favor.”

 “Yes,” she admitted. It all sounded rather crude when he put it that way, and she supposed it was. Her mother had told her once of the man she’d nearly been forced to marry, her father’s cruel uncle who had stolen Bebbanberg, and how her brother, Guthred, arranged the match to solidify an alliance and receive reinforcements of men with no regard for his sister’s well-being or her wishes, and how her father had returned in time to disrupt the completion of the ceremony. Knowing her father, Stiorra suspected she left out some of the gorier details to make it fit for the ears of a child, but the passion of the act had always stuck with her, the reminder of the fierce devotion and the love they shared, and how so few were ever permitted to follow their hearts as they had. “Sometimes.”

 “So your betrothed…?” Sigtryggr prompted.

 They had spoken at length about family, hers and his alike, but this was the first time their conversation has strayed into this territory. “I don’t have one,” she said. “There’s no husband waiting for me. I’m not sure I even wish to marry, either.”

 “Ah, so you have preferred to take lovers instead, Stiorra Uhtredsdottir,” he said, winking.

 She felt her face flame. “No, I never even so much as… I’ve never taken a lover.”

Stiorra expected him to laugh, for him to look at her as a child just like everyone else, maybe to tease about her evident prudishness as she’d seen her father’s men rib each other often enough. But he only nodded, though he must have read her embarrassment, for he asked, “Are all Saxons so shy about these matters, too?”

 “I’m not a Saxon,” she said for what must have been the thousandth time, but this time she said it with a smile.

 “Then your Danish mother did not tell you of the joys that can be found with another?”

 “My mother died when I was still too young to talk of such things,” she said. “And the nuns and priests in Saltwic only droned on about purity and maintaining virtue… which makes Lady Aethelflaed herself quite the deviant if half of what they say about her and my father is true.”

 She grinned, though such a secret was scarcely one anymore, not for anyone who had seem them together with their own two eyes, and she flushed at the memory of how she had stumbled upon them kissing one time when she had come to bid him a farewell on his visit to Saltwic. Stiorra turned and ran before they noticed her interruption, and while it had been a bit awkward, she owed much to Lady Aethelflaed’s kindness and wished only happiness for her.

 “Lord Uhtred and Lady Aethelflaed? The daughter of King Alfred and Lady Aelswith?” Sigtryggr seemed amused at the prospect.  

 Stiorra nodded. “My father loved her, and she him. But they say before, she loved a Dane once. That he truly fathered her daughter, not Lord Aethelred.”

 She had never been bold enough to ask Lady Aethelflaed of it, but hearing of the tale had always excited her, and retelling it now was no different. She couldn’t help but think it romantic, despite its beginning and end and the loss of what could have been.

 “A smart woman, then,” Sigtryggr said. “Except if she loved your father, then why do they whisper he waits outside these walls when he could be the ruling Lord of Mercia?”

 “Lady Aethelflaed promised to remain chaste to placate the ealdormen and their god too, I suppose.”  

 He furrowed his brow in confusion. “Their god truly wants piety and obedience rather than free will and happiness?”

 “I don’t know what their god wants,” she shook her head. “For me to devote my life to a nunnery? Or am I instead to save myself for some repulsive old man and his bags of gold? Or some cruel lord with the right name and advantageous lands?”

 “You do not believe in their god?”

 She’d long ago lost faith in the god the Christians worshipped, the one King Alfred had tried to impress upon her to punish her father, but she’d also lost count of how many times she’d asked him, pleaded with the gods of her ancestors, begged anyone who was listening to free her from the boredom of first Coccham and then Saltwic, for someone to come along, anyone, and take her somewhere else, anywhere else, back to Winchester or Northumbria, and bring her adventure. Sometimes the gods had a funny way of showing their will.

 “I don’t want to believe in the existence of a god who takes that much interest in my cunt,” she said bluntly.

  He laughed, and soon she found herself laughing along with him.

 “It’s true,” she insisted. “I don’t care what they say about pagans, if we’re barbaric and wicked. At least our gods are not petty and selfish.”  

 “Our gods don’t care so much what we do so long as we entertain them,” he said.

 “Then they also must be rather bored with this siege,” she said, though she felt anything but now with the way she felt the air shift between them.

 Sigtryggr stood up and walked towards her slowly, nearing where she sat upon the table, books discarded at her side that couldn’t hold a candle compared to the way he seemed to study her now. “Then perhaps we should take it upon ourselves to amuse them?”

 She was struck by how he was even more handsome this way, stunning, strikingly. He was utterly compelling this close, tall, imposing with his scar streaking past his eye, and strong, her gaze following the muscles from his shoulders down to his forearms. At this distance, he was only himself, not a warlord, not more god than man as some of the others seemed to tell it.

 He hadn’t touched her since he’d taken the broken glass from her hand and talked her down from using it to mar her face, but she still remembered the way his skin felt against hers, warm and rough. He was even more hesitant this time as he reached first for her hand, and when she let her fingers thread through his, he brought the other up to stroke her cheek.

 It was nothing, really, no more than what perhaps a hundred other men had done to her, claiming they wished to admire her beauty or looking for a shadow of her father in her face or attempting to evoke a memory of her mother, yet the simple touch sent heat flooding through her.

 Stiorra wondered what he would do if she was bold enough to do the same to him, and gathering her courage, she decided to find out. She began with tracing over his scar, her fingertip lightly following the curved line, skirting around the edge of his mouth, skimming along his jaw, and then continuing over the hair that brushed his shoulders until her fingers slid against the leather covering his chest and curled around the hammer of Thor he wore.

 She found herself drawn to funny things this close: his eyelashes, the bob of his throat, the wisps of a beard gracing his chin, and when she had looked her fill, she brought her eyes up to meet his. She felt as though he saw her—not Lord Uhtred’s daughter, whether that was for good or for bad, not a captive or an enemy, and certainly not a child.

 “May I…”

“Yes.” She didn’t entirely know what she was agreeing to, nor did she care; she only knew that she wanted, anticipation thrumming beneath her skin.  

 The touch of his lips to hers was softer even than the feel of his hand on her cheek. It was strange at first, all of this, the way it felt, how he moved firm but gentle, slow and deliberate, even the fact that they stood in a room where King Alfred’s scribes had written of her father’s victories and the conquests of the Saxons.  

 It was nice, though, even as she wondered how she’d know, given she had nothing with which to compare it. She felt as though she was fumbling through the motions at first, merely attempting to mirror what he did, but then it smoothed into something even more pleasant, something synchronous as they found a sort of rhythm, and she paused only when she was certain she needed to breathe.

 This time she initiated as they resumed, one of her hands winding around his wrist, the other still entwined with his coming up to rest on his chest between them. Their kisses grew quicker, deeper, more desperate until he slowed the pace again.

 He lingered there against her, and seconds or minutes or hours could have passed, but Stiorra still was not expecting it when he pulled away, and it was so sudden she didn’t even have a chance to mask her disappointment.  

 Perhaps he’d stopped for an entirely different reason, though, and before she could stifle them, the words escaped. “Was I awful?”

 He grinned at her, his eyes darkened, and when he spoke again, his voice was deep, a low rumble in his chest, and it made her want more. “No. I simply find myself stricken.”

Stiorra nodded in understanding, her breath catching as his free hand slipped from her cheek to her hip. It had been just a kiss, but it didn’t feel like just anything as Stiorra reached up and swiped her finger over where his lips had touched hers. It felt like it could be something, could be everything.

Unlike the man you had locked eyes on across the field.

You had first met Sihtric years ago, he had walked into your camp and gained your lords trust with reports of the Dane Slayer. Then he had betrayed him, killed him with Uhtred like his time with you had meant nothing. Had the two of you not been friends? Had you not cared for him?

After that each time your paths cross the hostility between you continued to grow, glares had turned into snide comments, insults had turned to the two of you being pulled apart to keep the peace.

A tiny scar on the right side of your neck a constant reminder of your last encounter. Amongst the hot rage you felt towards Sihtric you could still feel the cold press of his dagger against your throat. Your only satisfaction was that a dagger of your own had nicked his arm, deep enough you hoped to leave a matching mark.

‘Which one will you take first Y/N? I think I will have ugly one with the crooked nose.’ You snorted a little, you had fought in many battles and before each Sigrud was by your side, asking you to choose which man was yours to send to Valhalla.

You choice today was simple. Obvious to the others in the way your eyes burned and your voice dripped with venom.

‘That one.’

The path your sword carved was clear, the tip pointing directly at Sihtric.

He had not seen you yet, but he would.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

You could not see the ground for bodies, bodies of men and women you knew as well as horses and Saxons. All were dead or dying, sent to their heaven or hell.

Or to Valhalla – the thought was almost welcomed. You were tried and defeat seemed inevitable, your lord would not be long for this world. The Dane Slayer may be a man of honour but you knew of men’s kindness, their mercy.

Despite the ache in your bones the sight of Sihtric on the ground, axe hurtling towards him and fear on his face, had you sprinting. He wasn’t meant to die by that oaf’s axe, he was yours.

With a fierce kick the man above him was sent sprawling to the clearing floor.

‘HE IS MINE!’ You spat the words from your mouth like arrows from a bow and your message hit its target, the warrior eyed you but did not protest – he would take another’s life instead, let the she-wolf have her way with the rat, he thought.

Sihtric scrambled from the ground, axe in hand and teeth bared. There was confusion in his wide eyes. You readjusted the grip on your blade, heart hammering as you stepped towards him. Each time the two of you had fought you had been evenly matched. But this wasn’t a alehouse brawl nor a swapping of sharp words – he was yours in this moment and your sword felt impossibly heavy.

You were so caught in the moment, the rush and the fear you almost missed the way his eyes flicked to your left and the raise of his weapon. Your eyes left his as your sword met Saxon steel, another blow following it, and another and the fight you were about to have with Sihtric was over before it begun.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

You did not see Sihtric again until you were paraded through the courtyard, chains around your ankles and your sword stripped from you along with any sense of dignity you had left.

Your lord’s demise had been laughable, you had heard through taunts that he had fought with as much fire in his belly as a priest. He had been weak in his last moments and the shame would be felt by you and his other warriors until you found a new lord, that is, if you were allowed to live.

The look in Sihtric’s eyes told you that living wasn’t a likely outcome.

They bound you to the wall by your wrists, your hands going numb as the blood rushed from your strung up arms. The room they kept you in was dark and separate from the others.

After what felt like hours you finally heard footsteps coming your way, and despite whatever implications you were desperate for human interaction. That was until Sihtric opened the door.

‘Are you hungry?’  You watched him drink you in, eyes languidly following your form from the shackles that bound you to your boots that barely scraped the floor. At your silence he scoffed and closed the door behind him. It felt wrong to be shut in with him, no one to hold you apart, no one to temper the desire to tear each other apart.

‘Do you need to piss then? Answer me-

‘Or what? What will you do Kjartanson hmm? You’re nothing but the Dane Slayers dog, a lost little puppy.’ The hurt you felt, the memory of his betrayal sharpened your tongue.

‘I am a warrior!’

‘Is that why I found you on your back in the middle of battle, what a threat you must be.’ You knew the mocking would rile him and you smiled with satisfaction as he strode towards you.

‘If I am no threat then why did you spare me, what sort of warrior does that make you?’

‘Release me from these chains and find out.’ His face was inches from yours, hot puffs of breath fanning your face as his eyes bore into yours. There was anger there, danger and challenge. You couldn’t help the way your eyes flicked to his lips, half curled in a snarl but no less inviting.

The desire in your eyes must have been obvious, Sihtric didn’t hesitate to smash his lips into yours. As your tongues danced you fought against your chains, the desire to touch him was overwhelming. His hands where everywhere, gripping, pulling, making life pulse through your veins when hours ago you had been so certain of death.

You pushed your body flush against Sihtric’s and took pleasure in the way he moaned. Despite your restraints you could feel his arousal staining against his breeches. With his hands on your breasts you rubbed yourself against him, groaning against his mouth at the friction.

It was not enough and Sihtric seemed to sense it, his touch becoming more demanding, tugging at your belts . You whined at the loss of his lips and gasped as he yanked your trousers down to your ankles, exposing the part of you that craved him most.

You watched with bated breath as he dropped to his knees, half growling as he pressed his face between your thighs. His hands pushed your legs apart and his tongue lapped at your core as if he was a man starved. The curses that fell from your lips only seemed to spur him on and once he found your clit the only thing that kept you up right were the shackles that chained you to the wall. You could feel your climax building, coming closer and closer with each swipe of Sihtric’s tongue.

He pulled away abruptly and you flailed your arms in protest, the sound of rattling metal merging with a frustrated whine.

He stood before you, chest heaving and eyes set ablaze. As he hands trailed over your exposed skin the question in his look became obvious. The heat and passion and hate melted away and for a moment you could see that it was not hate at all.

But you were still in chains and while you could cry with want, you would not back down from any battle with Sihtric.

‘I would have you beg for it.’ The words were whispered but heavy.

You watched his lips curl into a snarl once more. His eyes darted from your flushed face to his belts as he undid them in haste and then he was picking up and slamming you onto his cock. He filled you completely, stretching you, pushing in and out, giving you no time to adjust.

You wrapped your legs around Sihtric’s waist, digging your heels into his lower back  as he gripped your arse. Each time he pounded into you it was like the anger you felt towards each other came to a head, each threat, each insult all leading to this moment.

You were fighting each other once more, using pleasure as your weapon. The prize was to watch the other fall apart.

His head rested on your shoulder as yours was thrown back, his teeth scraped against your skin and you could feel the coil in your stomach begin to tighten once more. You clenched around him and he …stopped? You groaned and slammed your head against his shoulder, trying your hardest to drag yourself along his length.

You could feel him smile against your neck, his lips coming to brush against your ear.

‘Beg for it…’ He nipped at the shell of your ear before trailing his lips back to yours for a bruising kiss. When you broke apart you were wanton. ‘Beg. For. Me.’ He emphasized each word with a deep thrust.

And you did, as his pace resumed his name fell from your lips like a Saxon prayer. You came undone with a blinding orgasm, the call of Sihtric’s name echoed off the walls and your legs felt weak. Your whole body felt drained and all you needed was to see Sihtric come before you could allow yourself to embrace the bliss.

His face twisted in pleasure, you dared not close your eyes for fear of missing a second of it. He slipped out of you with a sigh, his forehead resting against yours.

‘What happens tomorrow?’ He brought his lips to yours briefly, softly.

‘I don’t know, Uhtred hasn’t said what he plans to do with the prisoners.’ He must have seen your face fall, you hadn’t meant for your fear to show but after feeling so alive, so liberated from the fight and the violence and your own hurt, to die now would be beyond cruel. Even for the Gods. ‘He is a good man.’

‘You know that for sure?’ He smiled at you then, pulling up your breeches and re-lacing them.

‘I do.’

He left then, his gaze lingering before he closed the door.

*-*-*-*-*-*

You slept until morning and at first light your arms were released and your ankles bound once more.

Uhtred and his men stood on one side of the courtyard, they stopped talking as the last of you arrived. You found Sihtric in the crowd, your body still fresh with the memory of him and your heart aching with something you’d never felt before.

Uhtred stepped forward then, his voice demanding every mans attention.

‘Your Lord is dead. He died a coward and a fool…Lucky for you the rest of you fought with bravery and for that I offer you a second chance. Some of you have skill and that makes you valuable. Join me, pledge yourself loyal to Uhtred of Bebbanburg. Your past will be forgiven, your lords shame forgotten and you will be welcomed. All you need to do is step forward.’

He smiled as he finished talking but the tension was heavy and you could feel your men’s eyes falling to you. You were respected, skilled and sound of mind. The weight of their expectation would have crushed a lesser warrior.

It didn’t matter. None of that mattered.

Your eyes had found Sihtric’s and everything else seemed to melt away.

Never one to miss an opportunity to mess with Sihtric, or anyone really, Finan had come up with the brilliant idea to gift Sihtric a new haircut as a ‘congratulations present’. Being too drunk to think of the consequences, Uhtred and Osferth agreed wholeheartedly. Using one of Sihtric’s own knives that he always carried, Finan started to cut his hair while he slept face down on the alehouse table.

“Cut that bit!” Osferth slurred drunkenly pointing randomly at a lock of hair, all the while Uhtred sniggered in the background.

Finan continued to cut what looked like random locks of hair from Sihtric’s head, until he finally stepped away with a final flourish, opening his arms with a proud smirk on his face. “Ta-da!”

Osferth finally seemed to sober up and stood staring at Sihtric’s new hair cut in horror. “What have we done?!” He asked, starting to panic, to which Finan and Uhtred laughed harder.

Tears were rolling down their faces as they laughed silently, chest heaving with the effort of trying to suck air into their lungs as they surveyed Finan’s handiwork.

“Well I think it is time to get Sihtric home to his wife, don’t you Finan?” Uhtred asked when he finally finished laughing enough to talk.

“Aye, let’s wake him up” Finan agreed, eyes sparkling in amusement.

Uhtred shook Sihtric’s shoulder to rouse him from his ale induced sleep. “Quite the night you have had, Sihtric. I hope we made it memorable in honour of your first child!” Uhtred said deadpan, while Sihtric rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear his head but still feeling very drunk. “Although I think it is time to get you home to your beautiful wife, yes?”

“Yes, Lord” came the slurred reply. It as lucky that Sihtric could not see Finan, who was barely containing his laughter while taking in every detail of the haircut.

Standing up on unsteady legs, Sihtric wobbled and Uhtred caught one of his arms to stop him falling over. Finan took Sihtric’s other arm and together they half carried, half dragged Sihtric home with Osferth training behind with a look of pure horror still etched on his face and unable to speak for the guilt, for he knew what Sihtric’s reaction would be in the morning when he saw Finan’s “congratulations present”.

It was slow progress back to the house that Sihtric and his wife shared.

Depositing Sihtric by his front door, Uhtred and Finan straightened up and watched with mirth as he struggled to stagger the few paces to the door.

“See you bright and early in the morning for training, Sihtric!” Finan exclaimed with unhidden glee at the prospect of seeing the haircut in daylight and the terrible hangover that Sihtric would have.

“Goo’night, Lord” slurred Sihtric.

As soon as the door was shut, Uhtred and Finan erupted into loud, raucous laughter once again, while Osferth mumbled panicked, indecipherable phrases about haircuts and angry wives.

“You worry too much, Osferth, everything will be fine!” Uhtred said cockily. He was not to know how wrong he was come the morning.

------------------------------------------

It was a bright, sunny day with the clearest of blue skies, not a cloud to be seen in the sky. Sihtric woke up to the sound of bird song outside, and the feel of his wife curled up in bed next to him. He smiled softly and kissed her cheek to wake her. Eahlswith slowly opened her eyes sleepily and looked at her husband. Her face quickly turned alert and... horrified? Why is she horrified? He thought.

“YOUR HAIR! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR HAIR?!” She screamed?

Now he was fully alert. He moved his hand to feel his hair only to find... not nearly as much hair as there should have been. He scrambled out of bed and to the bucket of water, and upon seeing his reflection, he too was horrified, for what greeted him was an utter monstrosity. His lovely hair had been cut into the worst haircut he had ever seen. He still had the hair at the front, but the rest had been cut to different lengths at odd angles, and was now much too short compared to the front.

His head was pounding from the ale he had consumed the night before, and his hair had been attacked. The worst part of it was that he had no memory of it happening, for he was sure he would not have agreed to it willingly!

Eahlswith had gotten dressed while he was still staring at his reflection and trying to comprehend his new hair cut. He could tell she hated it, too.

“What happened, Sihtric?, because I do not belive you would have done this to yourself...” she enquired with barely concealed anger, as she had a suspicion who was to blame. It could only have been Finan, because Osferth was the baby monk. He didn’t have a bad bone in his body. She had hoped that Uhtred should have had slightly more respect for his warrior too.

“I know not what happened, my love, but rest assured I will find out” Sihtric fumed as he went to get dressed for morning training.

------------------------------------------

Sihtric arrived at the training ground, little more than a patch of dirt a few metres square. Uhtred, Finan and Osferth were already warming up and sparring each other, when they turned at the sight of Sihtric.

“Ah good mornin’, Sihtric!” Finan called with a grin on his face at the sight of Sihtric’s hair. “I trust ye slept well”. Osferth had retreated to hiding behind Finan at the unamused look of Sihtric’s face and even Uhtred had the good grace to look at least partially ashamed. Sihtric was about to scold his ‘friends’, but he heard the sound of his wife’s voice behind him instead.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY HUSBAND’S HAIR?” Sihtric had never been more proud in his life when he turned to see she had followed him.

It was that precise moment that Finan knew fear like never before, not even the pre-battle fears every warrior feels before a fight, because he was on the receiving end of Eahlswith’s wrath. She was a woman of calm temperament, until someone messed with her husband, then she was she-devil herself and nothing could stop her.

Uhtred leaned towards Finan and whispered “Go! Now! I will delay her as much as possible.”

It was safe to say that Finan kept a low profile for a few days to avoid the ire of Eahlswith, even after she had fixed Sihtric’s hair to a somewhat acceptable style.

It is safe to say that the haircut was never mentioned again.

When she was bandaged to the best of his ability, he left her with the baby monk while he headed into town to find a suitable room for rent. The one he found wasn’t much. But it was reasonably clean and had a comfortable bed so after paying the landlord he went back to collect her.

“I can’t afford this,” she complained as he scooped her into his arms to carry her up the stairs.

“Don’t worry about it.”

She winced as he lay her on the mattress, looking even weaker now than he’d first thought. She needed food, water and he began walking away to find both.

“Finan,” she called after him.

He turned to look at her, “what’s the matter?”

“Don’t leave.”

A smile quirked at his lips, “I’m not leaving, I’m just gonna find something for you to eat.”

She nodded, sighing as she closed her eyes and settled into the bed.

When he returned she was sleeping so he placed the food and ale on the table and made himself comfortable on the floor. After so much stress and worry over the past few weeks, he welcomed sleep and fell into it easily.

It was just before dawn when he heard a soft voice whispering his name, lulling him gently awake but his dreams had not been so peaceful. They never were. He ripped himself from sleep with a start, hand reaching for his sword. He was on his feet and prepared to fight before his eyes had barely opened. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Eadith said, her voice no longer a whisper. 

“It's a force of habit,” he replied, dragging his hand over his face and rubbing his eyes. 

She watched him nervously and with a yawn he replaced his sword in his belt, “how are you feeling?”

“Sore,” her eyes flicked to the bowl and cup on the table, “hungry.”

“Winchesters finest,” he said, smiling as he handed her the ale. The bowl he kept, stirring the contents before settling beside her and offering her a spoonful. 

“I’m not completely lame,” she laughed, looking at the spoon of food in his hand.

“Of course not.” What was he thinking? Blood rushed to his cheeks as he quickly handed over the bowl. 

“So where will you go now that the fighting is over?” she asked, picking at her food.

“No plans as of yet.” He laughed nervously- “are you trying to get rid of me, Lady Eadith?”

“No, I-” her gaze focused on the bowl, she seemed to be trying to find the right words to say and he had time to wait. He had all the time in the world for her. 

“I suppose, I’m wondering how long you will stay. I do not wish to be here alone.”

“You’re one of us now, you don’t have to be alone again. Not on my watch.”

She nodded, meeting his gaze, her hand stretching across the bed towards him. 

Was it an invitation? 

He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, his fingers tentative as they brushed over hers. She didn’t move away, her hand clasped his and held him tightly. “I care about you too, Finan. I should have said it yesterday and I regretted not doing so.”

“You never have to do anything you’re not ready for with me.”

“I know,” she smiled, her hand slipping from his and her attention back to the bowl of food as if her words hadn’t changed everything.

He wanted to say more but he didn’t know what or how to say it. So he just smiled, resuming his place on the floor and staring at the ceiling as she ate her food and drank the ale. 

Over the next few days, her injuries healed while Finan spent night after night laying on the floor beside her, wishing he was in the bed. 

Now it was dark outside and before settling down for another night on the floor, he lit the last of the candles and took a seat on the bed.

“We’re thinking of heading back to Coccham soon, if you’re wanting to join us?” he said.

“Without you here, there’s no reason for me to stay in Winchester.”

He smiled, “I’ll have to tell Sihtric to find you a horse then.”

“And where will I live in Coccham?”

He knew what he wanted the answer to be and said it, even at the risk of being shot down. “You could live with me...”

“Good,” she said.

“Good,” he replied, surprised but pleased.

She looked like she was going to say something so he watched her with interest. But she changed her mind and soon they were both merely staring, silence filling the air. He opened his mouth to speak and shut it again when words wouldn’t form. The silence was beyond awkward now yet he couldn’t look away. 

He wasn’t sure who made the move, maybe it was both of them, leaning closer and closer until their lips were in reach and they settled into their first tentative kiss. Kissing was certainly better than talking or not talking. Kissing said everything they needed to say and it felt right.

Eadith was everything he dreamed. Her lips were soft and inviting and when he tilted her head to deepen their kiss she moaned happily, her arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.  

“Be gentle with me,” she told him and he swallowed hard.

Finan had been content enough just to kiss her. But her fingers began pulling the fastenings of her dress and it seemed she wanted more. Much more. “Always,” he managed to say, unbuckling his belt and letting his sword clatter to the floor. 

It was no secret Eadith had spent the night with Aethelred and it was no secret the former Lord of Mercia was a monster and a brute. Finan would never be like that, not with her, not with anyone.

Slowly they shed each other's clothes and he admired every inch of Eadith’s skin with fascination. So creamy and soft, barely a freckle or scar and her nipples delicately pink. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and perhaps he didn’t deserve her but he could not deny himself this treasure.

He let his calloused warriors touch stroke across her body, eliciting sweet sighs and moans. He hardly knew where to start, so he started at the bottom. His lips gently grazing her foot, her legs, her stomach, her breasts and then her lips. He could get lost in her sweet, perfect lips. 

“You’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted you,” he told her, cupping her breasts, his tongue swirling around the outline of her nipples before sucking them. 

They had all night and he intended to use it. He wanted to feel every part of her, to know every inch had been covered in the scent of his skin and the feel of his lips. With every kiss and caress, she grew more and more needy, writhing on the bed, gasping at every touch.

“I need… more. Please Finan.”

It wasn’t every day he had a woman begging for him and he wasn’t one to deny a Lady. He sank between her thighs, spreading them over his shoulders, angling her body so he could taste her sweet, wet cunt. He’d bet gold she’d never been kissed here before and he would be the first. Not some Lord or a King, him. 

“Finan,” she gasped as his tongue pressed against her. Swirling, flicking, settling into a torturous rhythm. 

The noises she made urged him and he couldn’t wait to feel how ready she was to take his cock. He slipped a finger inside, pumping in and out, in time with his tongue. She was deliciously wet and his cock throbbed desperately to replace his fingers.

With every flick of his tongue, he could feel her drawing nearer and nearer to climax but he denied her, he wanted to be inside when her walls tightened with pleasure. 

She moaned when his tongue stopped its rhythm and he smiled, crawling along her body to kiss her.

“Are you sure you want this?” he whispered, his heart hammering in his chest and his cock almost ready to burst with desire.

She opened her eyes and panted a breathy, “yes, yes, please.”

He smiled, kissing her again. It might have killed him to stop but he would have done it. For her. 

He rubbed his cock over her cunt, coating himself in her slickness before slowly inching inside. 

She was so soft and hugged him tightly, drawing him in. After he was fully sheathed he pulled himself almost all the way out so he could take her again and it felt just as good as the first time. 

“Jesus, Eadith,” he groaned, every thrust coiling pleasure tighter and tighter within him. Already it was almost unbearable to stop himself from releasing but he wanted it to last. He wanted her to feel better than she’d ever felt before.

Eadith’s legs wrapped around his waist and her arms clung to him as he drove into her over and over again. Delirious with the sounds she was making and the feel of her tight wet cunt. 

He kissed her, stealing the moans from her lips before commanding her to come for him.

She arched her back, her legs squeezing him tighter and her climax shuddering across her body with his name on her lips. 

He couldn’t stop himself now even if he wanted to, pressure released, his body jerking, squeezing every ounce inside her.

Breathlessly he settled his head onto her chest and she cradled him. It had been a long time since he’d felt this content. 

“Well that was a grand old time, wasn’t it?” he joked after a while, making light of the mass of butterflies he felt fluttering in his stomach. 

“Don’t feel you have to owe me anything now, Finan,” she said, worry creasing her brow.

“I don’t,” he replied, quickly, foolishly. “I mean-” he took her hand, “there’s nothing you’ll ever want that I won’t wanna give you.”

She smiled, her cheeks tinged with pink, “then perhaps… we could do more…”