#Unless it's part of their quest to eradicate fatness

[vamptastic]

wish that studies on weight gain and loss were more in depth especially on the patient's weight history and their families' statistics.

i think that, basically, there are lots of people that are naturally fat- their families are fat, they were fat for most or all of their life, and anecdotally people that have been lifelong fat seem to have better health wrt the standard stuff like cholesterol, heart disease, etc. and there are also life events that can lead to (usually smallish but enough to change BMI categories) weight gain that seems for most to be irreversible, like pregnancy. it's pretty well established that long term (5-year mark) weight loss is statistically rare, only 5-10%. essentially i wonder if there's some unifying factor for that 5-10% and my unfounded hypothesis is that it's probably people with endocrine and metabolic disorders whose 'set point' or 'natural weight' or what have you is lower than their previous weight but who experienced weight gain as a part of their disorder.

pretty impossible to actually ever answer my question though because long-term weight loss studies are pretty rare (because they're hard to conduct) and they never include data on weight before the study nor family history (because it's hard to gather). where the data can be found, it's an issue of like, a paper studying weight cycling doesn't bother with family history because it's not relevant to proving their hypothesis.

it could also very much be that people who lose weight longterm are just engaging in disordered eating. given that most diet programs are just that, and one generally regains weight when they quit an extreme diet.

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Eivor x Fem!Reader - Forced Penance

Summary: Eivor is enraged upon witnessing you, a young sapphic woman forced to repent for her “sin” by her town, brainwashed into believing it was egregious to love another woman. She makes it her mission to dissuade you from your perspective, learning that you lack both experience and knowledge in the more pleasurable aspects of life. Some of her tales have you waking up in cold sweat, and you find yourself torn between the faith you were taught and indulging in the warrior’s teachings. [explicit]

A necessary disclaimer: I'm not religious, but I have read both the King James Bible and the (translated) Qur'an. I set out writing this fic with the intention of handling the subject of religion and extremism with appropriate sensitivity, keeping things as historically accurate as possible while tackling the important theme of internalised homophobia brought on by indoctrination. The reader is portrayed as Christian (the dominant Saxon faith) of an unspecified denomination, but the initial perspective they possess is far from healthy, and certainly doesn't reflect the benevolence of the faith.

If religious trauma is something prevalent in your life, I would read this at your own discretion.

(The second half, I'd like to add, was written in one fat block between 5pm and 6am without a wink of sleep and a multitude of distractions, about four months after I started writing the first half. There may be an issue with continuity, for which I apologise.)

Word count: 7429

AO3 link here. Minors DNI.

Eivor had only ever loved the fairer sex.

It was never something she had been taught to be ashamed of. Women were softer, with tender hearts and beautiful spirits; the notion that loving them as another woman was a repugnance in the eyes of Saxons was baffling. While she had always respected people for their faiths, she could never eye a doctrine that deems her love for women as a sin with anything but scorn. So she silenced her heart, as severely as it ached, to avoid offending the English nobles in her quest for allegiance.

The moment she learned that women as herself were shunned into forced penance by the church for their love, her heart not only ached but seethed. For a congregation whose foremost rule was to “love thy neighbour” to shame people for their love seemed too cruel an irony. Alas, she bit her tongue as she met with lords in the houses of their God, despite every fibre of her being screaming at her to burn the blasted books sitting atop the churches’ lecterns. Or Leviticus, at the very least.

Still, the Saxon principle of sapphic love being a sin often made her wonder just how satisfying it would be to plow a devout maiden within the holy walls of a church. Eivor would never allow herself to kneel in a House of God, unless, of course, to worship a sweet virginal lady with her mouth as she wildly ground against her tongue, flooding her tastebuds with nectar as the darling little thing shook, wailed, palm splayed behind her against the stained glass window with the other hand gripping her hair—

“—here when her men have been eradicated. Any objections, Eivor?” The words of the town’s reverend sliced through her fantasy. Eivor coughed quietly, knowing full well she hadn’t been listening to a word he had said.

“Apologies, reverend, I was beside myself with thought. Could you repeat that?” she smiled, internally wincing at the holy man’s sigh of annoyance.

“I said, if the Sickle’s men could be…disposed of,” hushed, that part – wouldn’t want to advocate the breaking of the Ten Commandments under God’s roof, Eivor thought – as the reverend scanned for eavesdroppers, “as cleanly as possible, it would weaken her influence and allow for us to strike her with greater ease. Meet me here when the deed is done.”

Eivor nodded, allowing her eyes to drift back towards the object of her distraction: the maiden sat in prayer at the front of the church, clutching a rosary between her dainty hands with a veil of purity concealing her hair. Softly and shakily – with uncertainty – muttering, “—shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination. Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind…”

Frowning, Eivor turned back to the reverend, cocking her head at the praying maiden. “She has been repeating that for some minutes now. Is she quite alright?” she asked in concern.

He wrinkled his nose, head shaking solemnly. “That woman is greatly disturbed. The town suspects her of being of an ungodly persuasion, and so she repents, lest the consequences be dire.”

Eivor’s eyes widened in shock. “Repenting for a sin she may have not committed? That hardly seems Christian, reverend.”

“She is beguiled by heathen thoughts, Eivor. It is wise for her to be cleansed of such thoughts before she acts upon them.”

“I’m sorry, these rumours are not of an action, but a thought?”

“Thoughts plagued by the sin of Sodom. We fear she holds abnormal affection for fellow women, and we would not want her to be denied Heaven. A closer connection with our heavenly Father might cure her of her affliction,” he explained, head held high.

Eivor huffed. “I will not ridicule a holy man with his God’s teachings inside his own place of worship, although I recall your saviour saying, ‘Judge not lest ye be judged’.”

The reverend glared at her, nostrils flared with indignation. “Do not insult me, Raven-feeder,” he warned. Thankfully, before she could brashly retort, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the church.

Whistling, she glanced around the holy building; the mother and her son who had been praying when she arrived had left at some point during her conversation with the reverend, leaving the pews empty, save for the repenting maiden. The only sounds resonating through the stone walls were the cooing of pigeons, the rattling of prayer beads and the biblical passage that made her grit her teeth.

Of course, Eivor bore no anger towards the lady fiddling with the rosary. Her sympathy for her heightened tenfold when a faint sniffle caught her attention. Realising her fist was clenched, she relaxed her fingers, softening her posture before making her way over towards the front pew.

 - - - - - - - - -

By God, why did you have to cry? The reverend’s words were nothing compared to the spiteful, hate-filled curses of the townsfolk when the rumours of your affliction first surfaced. But he was a messenger of the Lord, and to receive His scorn would damn you for the life hereafter—

The pew creaked as a second weight sat down beside you. While your veil obscured your vision, you were almost certain it belonged to the Dane who spoke of death with the reverend barely moments ago. Swallowing the anxious lump in your throat, you grasped at the rosary in your hands tighter, opening your mouth to recommence your prayer.

“He’s gone, miss. You don’t have to keep reciting,” came the north-woman’s gravelly voice. The grip you had on the beads slackened just for a moment, but tightened once more as you scolded your weak-willed self. Only prayer will save you, you thought.

“It is rude to disturb a woman in prayer,” you squeaked, voice free of conviction.

The barbarian – Eivor, the reverend had called her – shifted beside you. “Devotion cannot be forced, and can you truly claim to pray without devotion?”

The beads shook with your fingertips. “I am devoted to our Lord in Heaven,” you managed through gritted teeth. “And He would not receive me if my head is ill.”

“That’s what they’re telling you, is it? That you’re sick in the head,” she tutted.

Frustration growing by the second, you angrily ripped off your veil, allowing the rosary to fall to the floor in the process. “I am sick,” you hissed at her, your own words cutting deeper than any knife could.

And you were. The reverend told you that your mind was diseased, and how could he be lying when the second you lay your eyes on the warrior beside you, your heart skipped a beat. Eivor was a rugged sort of beautiful, her skin littered with scars and ink and lightly kissed by the sun, her face sternly chiselled, jaw sharp and eyes sharper. You were sick to want to run your hands over her peculiar braid, to want to test the firmness of the muscle undoubtedly surrounding her broad frame.

“No, you aren’t,” she said, firmly, but not with anger. There was a sadness to her tone. Empathy; something you were disillusioned into thinking Danes were incapable of possessing.

Every fibre of your soul wanted to believe those words. You longed for their truth, but your mind knew better. This…savage’s words were sweet on the ears, but held no weight to God’s truth. As the scales of your heart struggled to balance, you brought your veil to your eyes, pleading internally that the whites of your eyes weren’t bloodshot enough to compromise your dignity as the cloth absorbed your tears.

“And I should take the words of a Dane over His holy book?” you frowned, hoping to muster a bitterness that fell flat.

“I know a few of its teachings, miss.” Eivor leaned forwards, resting her forearms on her knees. “Your god is loving of all, is he not?”

Without hesitation, you affirmed, “Of course.”

Eivor nodded, the devotion in your quip failing to present a surprise to her. Head hung in thought, she rung her hands together. You could see the quill in her brain hesitating as she tried to ink up an agreeable perspective.

“There is no benevolence,” she murmured after a pregnant pause, “in creating somebody with this ‘sin’ in their nature, only to punish them for it.” Her glacial eyes held a world of compassion as she spoke. “There is no evil in two women holding love for one another. Murder, rape, cruelty, those are evils. Not love.”

Breath quivering, you shook your head in denial. This pagan could not speak of good and evil.

No, this was but a trial. God had sent you temptation in the form of this dastardly, beautiful woman, with convincing words and kind eyes, to test your loyalty to Him! Yes, that must be it. You took a deep breath, battling the heat crawling across your cheeks and ears, and reached for the beads once more. “It is— It is against nature for two women to lie together. Lovemaking is for the creation of children—”

“Yet there are parts of a woman’s body that serve no purpose in procreation, but do so in lovemaking.”

Spluttering, you cast your eyes to the window to your left, hoping to hide your expression from the heathen beside you. “H-how would you know of such things?” you stammered. The words were so casual from her lips. Just how familiar was this pagan with debauching women against God’s will?

The heathen chuckled. “You’re a woman yourself. Are you that unfamiliar with your own body?” Gasping, you permitted yourself to glance in her direction. While her eyes were set on the lectern before her, there was a glimmer of mischief shining in her irises, as if she anticipated your reaction…as if she spoke to evoke said reaction.

“H-he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body,” you recited quietly, heart thudding erratically against your chest.

She smirked.

To lie to one’s self in the presence of God was surely a sin as any other. So you were candid with yourself: the smirk on Eivor’s face made you feel warm all over, even if she mused about your innocence. But the reverend said that God would help you overcome your plight. Any moment now, He would intervene and rid you of this heat.

“Are you preaching to me or yourself?” she laughed. You gripped the rosary with nearly enough force to crack a bead or a knuckle. If this was His trial, you were determined to pass.

“Purity is something you could stand to learn,” you huffed, lungs light in your flustered state. Although her lack of regard for the virtue made her far more intriguing.

“Perhaps, but it sounds terribly boring.” Lips still curved in her amusement, she bent down and retrieved your veil from the floor, folding the fabric neatly and placing it in your lap. The coarse skin of her palm brushed against your hand, and your breath hitched in your throat. “I won’t disturb your prayer any longer, but please don’t punish yourself for the affection you hold.” She stood from the pew, headed for the door.

Shakily, you called out, “I shall pray for your soul as well as mine!”

Eivor held up her hand in dismissal. “No need. I’m proud of my sin.” Then, she was gone.

I gathered as much. Proud to live a life without sanctity. It was wrong, hedonistic…yet nothing she said sounded wrong.

Frowning, you glanced at the Bible atop the lectern. Its open pages mocked you for your confused mind, for your hesitance to find truth in God’s word. The veil now resting in your lap felt heavy, dirty, and the prayer beads hollow as if riddled with rot. Deciding your conscience was too impure to pray, you rose from your seat and fled the church, trying desperately to forget the image of the pagan’s face and the warmth between your legs.

 - - - - - - - - -

God was supposed to guide you down a holier path, free from your heresy. Yet every night of the past week, you dreamt of braided flaxen hair, inked skin, blue eyes and rosy lips. You woke up in a sheen of sweat, damp heat taunting you from the junction of your thighs, the illusion of the north-woman’s gruff voice echoing in your mind. Lucifer whispered for you to touch yourself to the thought of her scarred lips caressing your neck. The nerves above the core from which came your monthly bleed almost throbbed, and you wondered if that’s what she meant by those words. Parts of a woman’s body that serve no purpose in procreation, but do so in lovemaking.

But you were a good Christian. You abode by your vows and ignored the devil’s wills, each and every night.

It was unbearable.

No woman had ever plagued your thoughts so indecently. She visited you each day in the church, taking the seat beside you, almost caging you in. What started as her attempting to understand your faith quickly became a cruel game: she would speak of nefarious deeds in the bedroom that set your cheeks aflame with bashfulness, asking which passages in the Bible prohibited them. You left the building with images floating about your mind that God would never approve of, and an ever-growing curiosity you feared only she could satiate.

Worst of all, Eivor would call you things a husband should only ever call his wife. Beautiful. Sweet. Darling. All with sincerity and a smile. Your better judgement told you to run to the reverend, begging for him to cast out the pagan who swore by her sin, but you never did, because her words never felt wrong.

Your change in attitude towards the warrior hadn’t gone unnoticed, though. Eivor was an observant woman. A fiendish spirit flickered within her soul whenever your eyes would linger on the stronger parts of her body as you conversed. It roared when you asked how two women could make love, and she delved into more elaborate detail than was necessary, watching as your eyes glazed over in wistful hypnosis, your thighs subtly pressing together. The image certainly spurred a more prurient fantasy in her head.

Most importantly, Eivor had helped you begin to realise that loving women was not a disease, even though the town cried otherwise.

“I suppose…there is no passage condemning women for being fond of one another, at least to my recollection,” you pondered on the seventh day after your initial meeting, veil and rosary in a neat pile on the end of the pew. Eivor smiled beside you, lessening the doubt in your heart.

“That is music to my ears,” she grinned.

“But—”

“Gods, don’t tell me there’s a ‘but’—”

“But,” you giggled at the exasperation on her face. The sound itself was enough to bring back her smile. “It is a sin to lust.”

Eivor rolled her eyes. “It is perfectly normal for people two desire one another, regardless of what that book says.”

“For a man to lust for his wife, yes. Otherwise—”

“Why would your God create people with the tools to lust, if it’s a sin to do so?”

“Because, it—” You stuttered, mind suddenly blank. A victorious smirk painted Eivor’s lips. Some peculiarly strangled sound escaped your throat. “To teach us self-discipline,” you frowned, the words coming out as a question.

“You’re talking out of your arse,” Eivor grinned.

Playfully smacking her arm, you gasped through a laugh, “By Christ, Eivor, mind your language!”

“All I’m saying is that it seems rather unfair to burden somebody with lust, only to say it’s a sin to relieve themselves of their lust.” Sighing, you folded your arms. There was reason to her words, as with most things she said, but to question His plan while sitting under the roof of a church felt…dangerous. Eivor’s impish expression faltered. She carefully took your hand, squeezing your palm. “Listen, no book written by man is infallible. You care for your god, and I’ve been told that he cares for his creations. I can’t see why he would condemn you to eternal suffering for something so natural,” she said softly.

A solemn smile tugged at your lips as her thumb rubs circles into the back of your hand. “Sometimes,” you began, taking a deep breath, “I struggle to tell whether He sent you to me, or Satan to misguide me. Your words are always wise, but they go against everything I’ve been taught, and you make me feel things that should be wrong.”

“What things, little dove?”

Dove.

Anxiously, you peered over your shoulder, conscious about onlookers. The church was empty, but sound carried well through the stone walls. Biting your lip, you looked up at Eivor. “Might we talk in the room behind the altar? We can speak freely there,” you asked. She nodded, standing with you in suit, hands still intertwined as you briskly guided her towards the room in question. You let out a long-held breath when Eivor closed the rickety door behind you.

“We shouldn’t be disturbed now,” she smiled.

“Good, because—” You nervously fiddled with the ends of your hair. “People wouldn’t respond kindly to what I have to say.”

“Go on,” she coaxed gently.

You inhaled deeply, hoping to calm your pounding heart. “Yesterday, you explained how women…make love.” Taboo, spilling from your mouth in a holy building. Your blood roared in your ears. “You made it sound so wonderful, and not at all abominable like the scripture says. I dreamt of you last night – well, every night this week, but last night…God, what am I saying?” Eivor didn’t want to hear this, you thought. Your lip quivered, tears pricking your eyes, as you feared you had ruined your relationship with the woman.

Unbeknownst to you, Eivor, however, was beyond ecstatic as your ramblings fell from your lips. Hearing you pause your thoughts in their tracks was torturous to the warrior. She wanted you to tell her every little detail of those dreams, how it felt to wake from them, and if you endeavoured to… No, you wouldn’t touch yourself, would you?

As her thoughts raced, you could have sworn her icy eyes darkened slightly. A mistake of the mind, surely, for Eivor brought your hand to her lips and dusted a chaste kiss across your knuckles. “Confide in me, darling. There’s no need to cry,” she murmured, wiping the stray tear that fell with her thumb. Her hand remained cradling your face, the curve of her palm fitting perfectly against your cheek.

Nodding slowly, you lowered your tone to a whisper. “In my dream, you kissed me. But there was nothing innocent about it, and I woke up this morning with such an ache between my—” Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, but as your eyes met hers, you saw a hunger lurking within the woman. Sinister wouldn’t be the right word to describe the smile on Eivor’s lips. It was more predacious, like a wolf cornering an injured doe, listening intently to its final whimpers before devouring its prey. “I need to know what it feels like, Eivor,” you pleaded.

“Kissing, or everything else too?” Her voice was low and mesmerising. You found yourself confessing to her without a shred of shame.

“If only just the once, God, yes—”

“Have you kissed before?” Eivor asked, perching on the windowsill with a sultry smile, guiding you by the hand until you were stood beside her. Shaking your head, you went to occupy the space next to her when she pulled you onto her lap, cradling your waist with her arm. You elicited a gasp at the firmness of her torso. She gently caressed your jaw with her thumb, and your eyes fluttered closed.

“Follow what my lips are doing, love,” she muttered.

Before you could nod again, a soft warmth captured your lips, slowly gliding over the skin. You sighed, trying to map the motion in your mind, too anxious to kiss her back in fear of doing something awkward. Eivor could feel your mental struggle, murmuring against your lips, “Relax for me.”

Clearing your mind, you started with the gentlest pecks against her lips, tension melting from your shoulders when you felt them curve into a pleased smile. She was warm and comforting, unhurried and sweet; it didn’t take long for you to fall into a sensual rhythm with her. You reached up to touch her face, running your fingers along the gnarly scar cutting into her cheek, then down to cup her strong neck. The tendons flexed underneath your fingertips as she deepened the kiss. In tandem, you got a little bolder, hands exploring the sculpted muscle hidden underneath her tunic while she held you close. Her lips began to tug at yours, suckling softly on the flesh, drawing the faintest of moans from you. Ordinarily, you would have been mortified, but you had all but forgotten you were in a church. You could kiss her for an eternity and the afterlife thereafter, and you would never grow tired of it.

When Eivor broke the kiss and detangled her arms from you, your lungs were thankful, but your heart froze. Panic set in, thinking you had been too forward. Panting, you asked, “What did I do wrong, Eivor?”

She unclasped her fur cloak from her shoulders, folding the weighty garment into a roll, setting it down on the patch of windowsill behind you. “Nothing, darling. I just wouldn’t want you to hurt your head,” she chuckled. You breathed a ragged sigh of relief.

“You would tell me though, wouldn’t you? If I did anything wrong.”

Eivor delicately pecked your lips. “There is nothing for you to do wrong.” An arm settled once more around your waist, her other hand smoothing over the fabric of your skirt. “But should you find yourself uncomfortable, tell me. I will stop the moment you say the word.”

Resting your head on her broad shoulder felt natural. Safe. “I simply wish I wasn’t so nervous,” you muttered, toying with the hem of her tunic that grazed her clavicle. “I promise I’m eager, Eivor.”

You felt her stiffen at the words, and your stomach felt shallow. She closed her mouth, inhaling steadily, something tugging at the corners of her lips. With visible effort, she fought it off. “Perhaps,” she started, the fingers on your leg trailing from your thigh to your calf, “you should tell me more about your dreams.” Her tongue darted out to damp her lips. You couldn’t rip your eyes away from the sight even if God willed it. “Let me kiss you exactly how you imagined it,” she purred. “Maybe you’ll find some phantom familiarity.”

There it was again. That incessant warmth, taunting you from between your legs. With every gravelly syllable, the heat throbbed, faintly quelled by pressing your thighs together but not enough.

A dozen different fantasies raced through your mind in an exhilarating blur, each with Eivor’s lips pressed salaciously against different patches of skin, her formidable frame pinning you against a plethora of surfaces, handling you with roughness, as a Dane would. You struggled to find words to encompass them.

“You would have me against a wall, or…” Images flooded back. A bed. A desk. The floor. “Wherever you wanted. I was yours to handle as you pleased,” you confessed quietly. “And it all felt so wonderful, except for that unbearable ache. I wouldn’t know how to describe it.”

Eivor’s brow upturned, almost pitifully, as her lips curved into an alluring smirk. “Of course you wouldn’t, sweetling,” she chuckled. Gently, she leaned forward with a hand hooked under your knee, lowering you until your head softly met her bundled-up cloak. She hovered over you, arms braced either side of your head. A knee found purchase between your thighs. “Am I somewhat on the mark?” she asked.

“Are your knees alright?” you squeaked, eyes flickering to where they met the stone of the windowsill.

Eivor light-heartedly rolled her eyes. Instead of answering, she tilted your chin with her hand as her thumb caressed your lower lip. The knee positioned between your legs slowly rocked forward, snugly pressing into your core. That dull ache momentarily alleviated, making you gasp, before returning stronger than before, only…sweeter, somehow. Instinct told you to roll your hips against the thick muscle of her thigh; your stomach twitched at the thought.

“Did you ever feel that in your dreams, dove?” she muttered, fiendish curiosity swirling in her dark eyes.

“No,” you half-whispered, half-whimpered. “That felt…”

She repeated the motion, firmer this time, the friction lingering just a second longer – long enough to elicit a strangled sound from the back of your throat. This time, you couldn’t resist the impulse to grind down against her. You felt wetness between your thighs, but were too consumed by desperation and fleeting pleasure to care.

Eivor leaned down, sealing the gap between your lips, swallowing the breathy moans that escaped you with voracity as you rocked against her. Her knee chased the junction between your hips, ebbing and flowing like the tide. Eagerly, you returned the kiss, hands moving to explore the broad, muscular expanse of the warrior’s back.

“Why does this sin feel so good?” you panted, breaking away as your lungs cried for breath.

“Because it’s not a sin,” Eivor murmured, working a trail of kisses into your skin from your mouth to your jaw before burying her face in your neck, her lips latching onto the first patch of skin they met. “It’s beautiful,” she rasped.

She suckled on the sensitive flesh, smiling wickedly as you arched your neck. She raked her teeth across your skin, pressing a dizzying map of hot, wet kisses onto every spot that evoked a tell-tale stuttered breath from you. You were overwhelmed by two different shades of bliss, unable to do anything but weave your fingers through Eivor’s flaxen locks and melt as the incessant aching of your core grew ferocious.

“Then why,” you moaned as her thumb grazed over your nipple through your dress, “am I feeling such a tenderness? Is this not my body punishing me?”

“Your body wants relief,” she rumbled into your neck. She rolled the peak of your breast between her fingertips, making the bud tingle sweetly even through the fabric of your clothing. “Part of me wants to wait until there’s a bed beneath us, so I can rid you of your clothes and devour every inch of you, to bring you that relief,” she avowed, dark, devilish, against the flesh. “But, more than anything, I want to give your god a show, and give you a taste of the heaven you speak of so fondly while he watches.”

The Eivor who respectfully debated your faith with you was gone. This woman was a demon starved, possessed by the need to corrupt the worldview of the maiden caged beneath her. God may have frowned upon your lack of will; He may have denied you a place in paradise the second you allowed your lips to touch.

Heaven be damned, you needed everything this heathen promised you.

“How does relief feel?” you whispered. Eivor bit back a groan at the dichotomy of your innocence and wanton interest.

She pressed one final kiss to your neck before lifting herself, lust-clouded eyes staring deep into yours. The warrior’s cheeks were ever so slightly pink, lips gorgeously kiss-bruised. “May I show you?” she asked. You could have sworn it a plea.

You nodded with urgency. “I’m yours, Eivor.”

“Spread your legs a little wider for me,” she cooed, smiling with satisfaction at your immediate compliance. The time for shame had passed; you were yearning.

With your knees bent either side of her frame, there was a vulnerability aloft in your mind, but Eivor was doting, tentative. Your comfort came before her cravings, if the pillow she fabricated was testament to anything. She may have been dangerous, but you felt safe in her care.

A hand meandered up over the curves of your body. The modest silhouette of your frock did nothing to conceal your shape as her fingers roamed, before they finally rested on your lips, delivering two feather-light taps to the plump flesh.

“Will you take my fingers in your mouth, darling? I want this to be as pleasant as possible for you,” she murmured.

It wasn’t necessary, of course – you could feel the slick of your arousal through your undercloth. But you wanted to be good for her. To hear her praise you, just to hear her call you sweet again. You parted your lips impulsively, drawing her fingers in as far as their length would permit without a word. A lewd instinct drove you to swirl your tongue around her digits and hollow your cheeks, coating them thoroughly with your spit. “Gods, you’re perfect,” Eivor groaned at your obedience. Wetness seeped from your quim at the words.

Gently, she eased them from your lips, admiring the sheen. She gazed down at you adoringly. “Beauty like yours should never have to wither away in forced penance,” she muttered. Your heart fluttered; perhaps this was the same Eivor who coaxed you from your punitive prayer after all.

Slowly, she snaked her hand underneath your frock, the side of her palm smoothing over your bare thighs before she reaches the junction between them. Eivor sucked in a sharp breath at the wetness she was met by.

“You poor, sweet thing,” she chuckled, delving her fingers between your folds, slickening them further with your honey. The pressure was pleasant, although it did nothing to appease the hunger burning inside you.

But then, she dragged upwards, until her fingertips met a pebble of nerves hidden above your quim. She rubbed a tiny circle into that spot, and for a fleeting second, the ache dissipated, replaced by the purest pleasure she had fed you so far. A breathy “oh” flew from your lips before you could stifle it.

Eivor smirked and set a hasteless pace, fingertips languidly circling the nerves. “How does that feel?” she purred.

Her ministrations melted into a steady stream of bliss, turning your bones to syrup and your throat to a lyre, producing melodious sounds for the blonde to marvel at. Warmth consumed your veins. Your skin prickled with delight. Your hips gyrated naturally into her hand, silently begging for more of her touch. It felt incredible, a pleasure that transcended anything you could describe.

“Good,” you managed – slurred, more aptly – whining as Eivor began to massage the bead between her fingers, stealing away your ability to think. “Oh, God—”

“So responsive,” she hummed in a tone teetering on the boundary between observant and mocking. She had every right to assume the latter stance: within moments, she had reduced you from a devout virginal woman of faith to a moaning mess within the walls of a church.

The blinding rhythm of her fingers stirred something far deeper within you. Something both palpable and intangible at the same time. A tightening, almost, in the pit of your core, growing more intense with each methodical circle Eivor rubbed into those nerves. The pitch of each breathy moan bleeding from your lips heightened, air leaving your lungs in pants.

“Eivor, t-that’s too good,” you stammered, grasping at the hand braced beside your head, half-lidded eyes searching for hers.

She hushed you, her cerulean irises glossed over, intoxicated by your rapture. “Focus on my hand and your body,” she softly commanded, keeping her tempo, infatuated by the shallow rising and falling of your chest.

Your eyes fluttered shut, neck arching back into the bundled cloak beneath you. Brow knitted in concentration, you pursued the peculiar yet euphoric tightening. Swiftly, you found yourself drowning in the heavenly sensation brought by the warrior’s attentions. “God, I—”

“That’s it, come for me,” Eivor cooed, never stopping.

The coil snapped.

Wanton blasphemies rolled off your tongue as the precipice of your pleasure devoured you alive, engulfing your skin in white-hot flame. Toes curling, legs trembling, hips bucking wildly, you cried out the name of the heathen who ravaged you, choking back a sob as she continued to toy with your bud through your peak. Her praises blurred together, all the ‘goods’ and ‘sweets’ and ‘beautifuls’ echoing in your mind in a gruff symphony.

As the intensity faded, you were suspended in a hazy warmth. Your eyelids felt heavy, but you managed to keep them open, watching as Eivor stared at you like an idol.

“Doesn’t that feel so much better?” she whispered, leaning down to kiss your temple as you nodded languorously.

“Thank you,” you breathed out.

In no hurry, your senses came about you with clarity once more. You began to ponder how Eivor would clean her hand: her trousers, in crude fashion, or perhaps she carried a handkerchief…

You never anticipated her bringing her drenched fingers to her lips, tongue curling around the digits doused in your essence. Mouth agape, you stared as she savoured your taste, helpless to the reignition of heat in your quim. An astonished croak was strangled in your throat.

She noticed your flustered, shocked state and smirked. “Your god wouldn’t bless you with such a delectable flavour if you weren’t meant to be tasted, now, would he?”

Of all the sinful nothings the woman had said in the week past, you were certain this would be the thing to kill you.

Eivor studied your thighs as they bowed inwards, pressing together to battle off the arousal creeping up on you once again. “Have I completely tired you, my dove?” she asked, languidly stroking your legs beneath your dress. You could see a nefarious plot weaving together in her mind, the outcome of which you found yourself craving.

“I don’t think so,” you murmured.

“Good,” she hummed, “because I can’t bring myself to wait to get my mouth on that sweet cunt of yours.” She paused, restraining herself. “If you’d allow me, of course.”

“Are you positive?” You gnawed on your bottom lip.

She grinned. “I find it one of life’s greatest pleasures, darling.”

There was enough confidence in her tone to convince you she was well acquainted with the act. She had described it once before, a few days ago, in enough detail to make your face burn with bashfulness. Back then, you hid your face in your hands, gasping at the debauchery of such an act. At the present, however, it had an appeal; the pulsing between your legs agreed.

You released your lower lip from your teeth. “In that case, will you help me remove my, uhm…” you faltered off, glancing down at your hips.

“Of course,” she chuckled, coaxing your hips off the sill, allowing her to shimmy your undercloth from its grip on your hips. The stain of your desire clung to the cloth, and you had to avert your eyes. “You’re still so shy, even after I brought you to peak?” Eivor mused. Before you could chastise her, she leant forwards, placing the cloth beside her and pressing her lips to a little patch of skin that had you half mewling for her earlier, mapped firmly into her memory. The scold left your lips in a heartbeat.

As she dotted light kisses and nips across your neck, she made an attempt to situate herself further down your frame, until her heavy boot collided with the stone wall. With a disgruntled huff, Eivor leered at the windowsill. She sat up between your legs, analysing your position on the stone. “Something tells me that church windowsills weren’t designed for plowing,” she grumbled.

Her candid frustration made you giggle as you propped yourself up with your elbows. The mild malcontent on her face melted at the sound, replaced with a smile at your bemusement. Beaming, she eased herself off the windowsill, opting to kneel on the floor instead. Without warning, she spun you in her direction. You laughed gleefully, and her smile widened in delight.

“Are you sure your knees are alright?” you jested, trying to stifle your grin. “You’re not able to pull that stunt this time,” you tittered, heart skipping a beat as you reflected on how her knee felt pressed against your heat.

Eivor traced her canine with her tongue, promptly reminding you of the pounding between your thighs. “I have other tricks up my sleeve,” she smirked, positioning your legs so they sat on her broad shoulders. She hiked up the front of your dress until it pooled in your lap, exposing your bare quim to her ravenous gaze.

“And what tricks are th-ose—”

With hands hooked around your thighs, she flattened her tongue against your dewy folds, the tip teasing at your entrance, before licking a flat line upwards. The strength, the warmth of her muscle was unlike that of her fingers – the pleasure it brought was rawer. Primal. And the moan, God, the moan, she relinquished reverberated through your flesh, enthralling your mind.

She first lapped up the remnants of your previous peak. Her tongue gently pushed into you, her nose nudging against the especially sensitive nerves hidden between the very top of your folds. You gasped, hips attempting to squirm away from her onslaught, but her grip was firm, leaving you wholly at her mercy.

Eivor knew that you needed more before you did. Experience told her that you were confused in your oversensitivity, struggling to determine whether it was uncomfortable or pleasurable, and that with a little push you’d be spiralling into ecstasy once more. So she broke away, allowing herself a breath of air, and repositioned her lips above your pearl. She allowed her spit to drip onto the nerves, momentarily soothing them before honing in on her target.

The sensation of her lips closing around the hood guarding the bundle of nerves had your head thudding back against the stained glass window behind you: a beautiful piece of art depicting Lucifer’s fall from grace. The irony was lost on you, however, as you cried out into the church, a hand flying to her head. Your nails lightly raked across her scarred scalp before you threaded your fingers through her hair, gripping a little tighter than you intended, not that Eivor minded. She groaned, sucking delicately on the hood.

“Fuck!” you moaned, feeling yourself throb against her tongue, unable to stop your heels from digging into her back.

Eivor redoubled her efforts, flicking her tongue in some sinister fashion to assault your pearl furthermore. Voracious and unrelenting, she worked you to the brink of madness with her lips. Barely a minute had passed before euphoria drew nigh. Torn between craving the feeling of another peak, but wishing this almost brutal pleasure would last an eternity, you could do nothing but mewl and clutch onto the warrior’s hair as she decided your fate.

You had to cover your mouth as something of a scream threatened to spill from your parted lips. One more suck was all it took for you to crumble, shuddering into her grip, bucking against her mouth. “Eivor—” you sobbed, eyes rolling back as she continued to fuck you with her mouth, her name resounding through your disoriented mind in a sacrilegious prayer. She grunted, watching as you shook in her hold, only pulling back when tears began to prick the corners of your eyes.

Panting, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and kissed your inner thighs, caressing where her hands could reach as tranquillity began to wash over you. “I’ve got you, sweetling,” she rasped, peppering your trembling legs with the most delicate pecks.

She rose from her knees and picked you up with her, strong arms encircling you as she sat herself back on the windowsill with you in tow. Her large hands coaxed a foggy afterglow into your skin. Eivor pressed her lips to the top of your head while she smoothed over you hair, whispering, “You were so wonderful for me.”

The church was silent, save for the calming of your pounding heart. It remained as such while you basked in the warmth of the woman who offered you a new light with which to regard the world. You were safe. God hadn’t struck you dead for indulging in what the reverend denoted Sodom. No bolt came from the sky, no hellfire erupted around your body, none of His divine wrath came to your reckoning.

Eivor was right, after all. A love for fellow women was nothing to be ashamed of, certainly not when making love was a thing of beauty.

Said heathen – not that you were entirely convince the term still applied – sat and relished in your steady breathing, curling the ends of your hair between her fingertips. Gently, she squeezed your shoulder. “Are you with me, love?” she asked.

Blinking your eyes open, you nodded into her shoulder. “Sorry, Eivor.”

She laughed softly. “There’s nothing to apologise for. I just wanted to know if you’re alright,” she smiled.

Boneless. That was a word, and it certainly described you in that moment. But there was a lingering question pertaining to the warrior who had utterly subverted your worldview:

What now?

Eivor had come to your town with purpose; one she had either already fulfilled, or was drawing close to fulfilling. Compared to that, you were surely inconsequential.

Your heart ached at the thought of being a conquest. Another notch in her belt, that she’d forget about within the month after leaving for whence she came, only to find another virginal woman in your predicament in the next Scire. At best, you’d continue to be shunned by the townsfolk, forced to kneel in reluctant prayer by the reverend until you, as Eivor had aptly worded it, withered away. Had anyone discovered today’s escapade, you’d surely be facing a fiery death against a stake.

It was a painful revelation, that this week was likely your only reprieve from a miserable life.

“Talk to me, darling. I can feel something’s wrong,” Eivor murmured.

Tears threatened to spill from your eyes. You squinted in a futile attempt to stop them. “When you leave,” you croaked, “I’ll spend the rest of my life thinking about how happy I could be, if I was allowed to be honest with myself.” You felt her breath still in her throat. “But I don’t have that luxury.” A drop fell from your eye to your cheek. “I’m the town’s pariah.”

Her thumb caught the trickling teardrop. “How much has the reverend taken from you?” she whispered.

“Too much,” you sobbed. “Far too much, Eivor. By Christ, my own family won’t speak to me.”

“Then come back with me to Ravensthorpe,” she murmured. “Find a new family amongst my clan. Be your uninhibited self.” Eivor kissed the top of your head. “I couldn’t live with myself without offering you a chance to be free from all this.”

“Can you earnestly say you’d have offered this, had I kept my mouth shut?” you asked, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Yes.”

God, lend me your wisdom, should this be deception to the ears—

“I doubt I’d be able to forget you if I tried, love,” she confided, reaching for your hand. “I’ve seen – I’ve felt – your soul, radiant as a summer’s day. You deserve to fall asleep warmed by furs and a hearth, to wake in a bed cushioned by something other than straw, to be fed berries in the morning and, by the gods, to live in a place where sin refers to atrocities and atrocities alone.” The tears now streamed steadily down your cheeks. “And I want to give you this and more.”

Hiccupping, you forced a small laugh. “I doubt I’d be a boon to your town.”

Eivor smiled, caressing the back of your hand. “I’m not convinced of that,” she assured you. “You mentioned you used to teach the town’s children to read and count, right?”

“Aye, before the reverend deemed me perverse.”

“Well, three children come to mind who could certainly use some schooling, to keep them occupied if nothing else,” she grinned.

“Oh?” Her smile was contagious, a mirrored expression fighting its way onto your lips.

“We can leave this afternoon, if you’d like,” she offered. “It’ll be a couple of days on horseback, but believe me, I have enough tales about the little shits to fill a week.” Her wink ripped a spluttered laugh from you.

Perhaps this woman is one of His blessings after all.