Forever mine
Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)
Authors note: I'm not gonna lie this didn't come easy but I'm glad I managed to write it. It's somewhat like a first step back to writing and it's S2 Sihtric again as he is my absolute comfort character. @volklana it's for you darling for inspiring me to write again.
Warnings: angst, fluff, SMUT 18+, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, Sihtric being a sweetheart as always
Summary: A young Dane awakens something long buried in you, but the truth threatens to shatter your stolen moments. Can love survive built on lies?
Word Count: 7,8 K
Pain had always been a constant in Sihtric’s life—a relentless reminder that he was still alive. He had learned to endure it, to push it aside and keep moving. But now, with every laboured step, he knew it was different. A heavy grunt escaped his lips as he stumbled, the growing heaviness in his limbs warning him that the injury was far worse than he’d initially thought.
Warm, sticky blood trickled through his fingers as he pressed his hand harder against the wound in his side, trying to staunch the flow. The gash throbbed with a fiery intensity, each pulse sending fresh waves of agony through his body.
The scouting mission had gone terribly wrong, and he had only himself to blame.
Slipping away from the camp, determined to prove he was the best scout among them, had been reckless. But he wanted – no, he needed – to prove himself to his new lord, to show his worth, to show he was more than just a follower, more than a shadow.
Yes, he had found the Danes, but they had found him too. Now, the burning pain in his side served as a cruel reminder of his foolishness.
Each step harder than the last, the forest around him slowly turned into a blur of green and shadows as his vision dimmed. Sihtric clenched his jaw, forcing himself forward – if he could just make it back to camp, if he could just hold on a little longer.
Was he even heading in the right direction?
Sihtric stumbled, his legs barely able to hold his weight, and this time, he couldn't catch himself. He crashed to the ground, the thick moss cushioning his fall, but the sharp, searing pain that tore through his side forced a strangled moan from his clenched teeth.
He lay there for a moment, sprawled on his back, chest heaving. Above him, the thick canopy of leaves let in slivers of golden light, the first signs of dawn breaking through.
The sun was rising, marking the beginning of a new day, a day he might not live to see the end of.
Yet, he felt no regret.
Even now, with life draining from his body, he would make the same choice again. If this was where it ended—alone in a forest, bleeding out into the moss and leaves—so be it.
He had chosen this path.
For the first time in his life, he had given his oath freely, not out of fear or obligation, but out of loyalty and honour. He wanted to serve, to be worthy of Uhtred’s trust, to prove that he deserved his place, that Uhtred had made the right decision accepting him. That was worth any pain, any price.
His vision blurred, but Sihtric kept his eyes fixed on the shifting patterns of light above, with a shuddering breath he rolled over and slowly forced himself up on his knees.
He had no intention of dying here, not yet. He still had something to prove.
There it was: the small, crooked house that resembled a giant mushroom, leaning precariously against the mighty oak tree beside it.
The villagers called it the Witch's Lair. The old house greeted you silently, as it always did, the only constant in your ever-changing life.
Perched on the outskirts of the village, right at the forest’s edge, the house was hidden from sight by a tangle of towering trees and dense bushes.
It had stood empty for years, and no one could remember who had last lived there. Its roof was thick with moss, the window shutters hung crooked, some hinges rusted and loose, and the steps leading to the entrance were so rotten they had collapsed the first time you set foot on them.
You remembered every word of the gruesome tales whispered around the village fires—the stories of the witch who had lived in the house, stealing children and casting curses on anyone who dared to approach.
They said her ghost still haunted the place, luring in unsuspecting travellers and never letting them leave. On nights of the full moon, it was said you could hear their cries, calling for help that would never come.
No one dared to approach the cursed house, let alone step inside. Perhaps that was the very reason you had chosen it as your safe haven, your refuge.
This was the one place no one would ever dare to look for you. Of that, you were sure. Yet, as you approached, the house looked so peaceful, so calm, almost as if it were inviting you in.
You pressed your palm against the weathered wood of the outer wall, feeling its roughness under your skin, and listened to the quiet.
The sun hung high overhead, but its light barely penetrated the thick canopy of trees that loomed over the house like ancient guardians. Their tangled branches stretched out, like strong veiny arms, casting long shadows and shielding the house from the outside world.
A strange sense of peace settled over you as you pushed open the door. It creaked loudly in protest, a long, drawn-out whine that echoed in the stillness but yielded to your touch.
For a fleeting moment, you wished the stories were true—that you could disappear behind these doors and never have to face the world again.
Inside, you moved with practised ease, avoiding the sagging floorboards that threatened to collapse underfoot. You crossed the dimly lit room, heading for the large, dusty cupboard by the window.
It held your most cherished possession: an old, leather-bound Bible, the only thing you had managed to save from the fire that had consumed your home, your past, your life.
The weight of the book in your hands was familiar, a comfort that pulled you back to memories of a time before everything had changed. You held it close, the leather cool against your skin, savouring the past swirl around you – a fleeting, almost forgotten feeling of a home, of a place to belong to.
But today, something felt different.
A faint sound reached your ears—a muffled moan, barely audible, coming from the other room.
You froze, your heart pounding, a chill running down your spine. Your legs felt weak, as if rooted to the spot, even though every instinct screamed at you to run.
“Who’s there?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, trembling in the silence, yet the sound hung in the air, sharp and intrusive, like a blade slicing through the stillness, violating the house's sacred peace.
There was no answer.
Just silence, thick and suffocating.
A shaft of light broke through the dust-laden air as you placed the Bible on the table by the window. The book landed with a dull thud, and at that precise moment, you heard it again—a moan, clearer this time, unmistakable.
Panic thundered in your mind, urging you to run, to flee before it was too late. But instead, to your own surprise, you turned and headed directly toward the other room, the source of the sound.
The deafening cry you let out as the mountain of blankets on the bed suddenly came to life, sprang to its feet, and tried to grasp your arm, would have made anyone in the village run for their lives. But here, in the eerie silence of the old house, it only seemed to echo back at you, swallowed by the dark, empty rooms as you fought to pull away.
You drove your fist into the stranger’s stomach with all the strength your fragile frame could muster.
He doubled over, and you yanked your arm free, sprinting towards the door.
Behind you, there was a loud thud as his body hit the floor, followed by an agonised moan.
“Please, help me,” the stranger’s voice, unusually soft and melodic, was laced with desperation, making you stop and turn back.
The crouched figure on the floor was a young warrior, clearly a Dane judging by his distinctive haircut and clothing.
As your eyes widened with growing fear, you took in the scene: his hands pressed tightly against his side, his face contorted with pain. He made no effort to stand.
“Please…” His whisper trailed off into a groan.
Driven by an inexplicable urge, you took a cautious step toward him.
“I’m no threat. I will not harm you. Please, help me!” Each word came out with difficulty, mingled with ragged breaths. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his body trembled.
You crouched down, raising your hand slowly.
The young Dane flinched, instinctively trying to pull away, but the movement only made him wince in pain. His eyes—one a striking blue, the other a deep brown—watched your hand with a mix of fear and uncertainty as you gently placed your palm on his forehead.
It was burning hot.
“We need to get you back into bed,” you said with unexpected certainty, surprising even yourself.
There was no rational reason to help someone who might, at the next opportunity, return to burn down your village. Your mind screamed to run and alert the others, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
“Hold on to me,” you murmured, slipping the stranger's arm around your shoulders as you tried to help him to his feet.
Each step drew a muffled whine from the young Dane. He struggled to keep up, dragging his feet with great effort, his breaths growing more laboured with each movement.
He collapsed onto the bedside and sank back into the blankets, exhausted.
Your eyes wandered over his lean, almost gaunt frame, the muscular arms exposed by his sleeveless leather armour, and his strikingly handsome, youthful face.
What was he doing here, in your secret hideout?
A pained groan pulled you out of your thoughts, your eyes drawn to the blood staining the blankets.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back,” you said, already moving toward the door.
You chuckled at your own foolishness.
“As if he has a choice in his condition,” you muttered to yourself.
The hearth hadn’t been used in ages, and it was a miracle no birds had nested in the chimney. After a few failed attempts, you finally managed to light a fire, and soon the water in the kettle began to bubble.
Finding clean rags proved to be more of a challenge. You’d decided against returning to the village to avoid awkward questions and there was in fact no time for that, which left you with only one option—to sacrifice your underskirt.
You returned to the room, your makeshift rags in hand. The young Dane was still lying on the bed, his breathing ragged and uneven. His eyes met yours, filled with pain but also a hint of trust, as if he had decided to place his fate in your hands.
“We need to get you out of this armour,” you said softly, kneeling beside him.
His face tightened in a grimace, but he nodded, his jaw set in determination.
Gingerly, you began to unbuckle the leather straps of his armour, your fingers moving quickly yet carefully with a practised ease. Each movement was met with a wince or a sharp intake of breath from him, but he made no sound.
You bit your lip as you peeled back his tunic, revealing the wound. A deep gash ran along his side, the skin jagged and torn. Blood oozed slowly from it, staining his skin and pooling onto the bed.
“This is going to hurt,” you warned, your voice trembling slightly.
He merely nodded, his eyes meeting yours with a steady gaze.
You cleaned the wound as best as you could, using the rags and hot water from the kettle. His muscles tensed beneath your touch, and his breathing grew more laboured, but he didn’t flinch. He endured it silently, and you could only marvel at the self-restraint the young Dane showed, holding himself with a stoic resolve and refusing to cry out.
Next came the stitching.
You had never imagined that your sewing kit, meant for mending your best dress—now faded and threadbare—would be used for something like this. But here you were.
You threaded the needle with steady hands, even as your heart pounded in your chest. You had never done this before, but now was not the right time for uncertainty.
The first stitch drew a low hiss from his lips, his eyes squeezing shut. You kept going, each pull of the thread through his skin accompanied by a muffled groan or a shuddering breath. He clenched his fists, gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white, but he didn’t move, didn’t protest.
Minutes passed, feeling like hours, until finally, the wound was closed.
You wiped away the last traces of blood, bandaging his side as carefully as you could. He was sweating, his face pale, his eyes glazed with pain, but still, he managed to look at you.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.
As the words left his lips, his eyes rolled back, fluttering closed, and he collapsed against the pillows, losing consciousness.
You sat back, releasing a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, and your hands shook slightly, adrenaline still coursing through you.
What on earth were you doing?
The thought pierced through your mind, sharp and unrelenting. This was madness—helping a wounded Dane, an enemy.
And yet, as you watched his chest rise and fall, the tension slowly leaving his chiselled, muscular frame, you couldn’t deny the strange sense of relief that washed over you. Against all reason, you felt a flicker of accomplishment, knowing you had saved his life, at least for now.
None of it made any sense.
The moment he opened his eyes, Sihtric’s first instinct was to run, but his body refused to cooperate. His limbs felt as if they were filled with lead, collapsing under him after just a few steps.
Memories returned slowly, emerging from the fog clouding his mind like fragmented images.
He had been injured, certain he was going to die.
The solitary house on the edge of the forest had seemed like a possible refuge, even though it looked empty and abandoned. As his strength faded and the cold seeped under his skin, the bed with its old, tattered blankets had seemed so inviting.
He heard footsteps approaching and turned his head towards the sound. His eyes found you—the face he recognized now.
The beautiful, slightly pale face, the gentle voice, the big, fearful eyes brimming with determination and warmth. He remembered the way your fingers had trembled as you held the needle. He remembered everything, yet none of it made sense.
Why had you saved him? A Dane, a stranger, an enemy. And yet here you were, holding a steaming bowl in your hands, concern evident in your eyes.
“Take it easy,” you said with a soft smile, one that made Sihtric feel like he was losing himself in its warmth. “You need to eat to regain your strength. Let me help you.”
As much as Sihtric hated to admit it, he was in no condition to even hold the bowl himself. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he accepted your help, allowing you to feed him.
The real trial, however, came when you returned with clean wraps, clearly determined to change his bandages.
Sihtric's eyes widened as you approached, a wave of discomfort washing over him.
“You don’t need to do that,” he said quickly, his voice betraying a hint of panic.
He tried to sit up straighter, but his body protested with a sharp jolt of pain, forcing him to lie back down.
“What’s your name?” you asked, your hand gently resting on his forehead to check for fever.
“I’m called Sihtric, lady,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse and barely audible.
He felt himself melt into the unexpectedly comforting tenderness of your touch. It had been so long—he couldn’t even remember the last time someone had touched him with such gentleness and care.
“Nice to meet you, Sihtric,” you replied, as simple as that.
No questions, no suspicious inquiries, just another soft smile and eyes filled with compassion, tinged with a hint of sadness.
If not for the persistent pain in his side, Sihtric might have believed this was all a dream.
“It’s alright,” you replied softly, setting the linens down beside the bed.
“You need proper care if you’re going to heal.” your voice was strangely calm as you furrowed an eyebrow as if sensing his unease although you couldn’t quite grasp the reason for it.
Sihtric swallowed hard, his gaze shifting away.
“I can manage,” he insisted, though the strain in his voice betrayed his struggle.
You sighed, a gentle smile playing on your lips.
“I know you’re strong, Sihtric. But even the strongest need help sometimes.”
You moved closer, your hands reaching out to remove the old, bloodstained bandages.
His body tensed, and he mustered enough strength to grasp your hand, holding it tightly.
“Why are you so kind to me? Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice low as he drew a deep, shaky breath. “I could have been your enemy.”
The question caught you off guard. You tilted your head slightly, studying him—the handsome young man before you, his large, expressive eyes locked on yours, searching for answers.
Could you admit that you’d been asking yourself the same question over and over? Could you confess that, in saving him, you had unknowingly saved yourself from the emptiness of your own life—given it purpose, given it meaning?
“Maybe,” you replied softly, “but you’re not my enemy. You needed help, and I was here. Sometimes, it really is that simple.”
The moment of silence stretched on.
Sihtric didn’t release your hand, his grip tightening briefly as if holding on to some last bit of resistance. But then, with a heavy sigh, his defences crumbled, and he loosened his hold, surrendering to your care.
Gently, you reached out and began undoing the bandages.
Sihtric’s gaze followed your movements, a blend of curiosity and something deeper—gratitude mixed with a hint of awe.
“There,” you said softly, tying the last knot. “All done.” You looked up and met his eyes.
The coolness of the fresh bandages against his skin seemed to ease his tension, and he exhaled, the pain dulling under your careful touch.
Sihtric cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “I’m not used to this,” he admitted, his voice low. “Being taken care of.”
Your expression softened as you met his gaze. “Everyone deserves to be cared for,” you said gently.
He looked down, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “You’re kind,” he said, after a moment. “Kinder than I deserve.”
You shook your head, dismissing the doubt in his words. “You deserve kindness, Sihtric,” you replied firmly. “Just like anyone else.”
Sihtric’s fingers brushed yours, hesitantly, as if waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t. Sensing your acceptance, he took your hand in his, slowly lifting it to his lips.
The kiss he placed on your palm was tender, almost reverent, and lingered longer than you expected.
He wanted to say more—to spill everything he was feeling, to let you know how your kindness had shaken him to the core. He had never met anyone like you.
There was such a beauty in your warmth, in the way you looked at him, in how you cared.
He wanted to tell you that he would give everything he had, even his life, just to see your smile again. To feel deserving of your compassion.
A small, tentative smile finally curved his lips—the first real one you’d seen since he woke. “Thank you,” was the only thing he managed, his voice rough and unsteady, eyes dropping to the floor again.
A week had passed since the young Dane had stumbled into your life.
You had feared he wouldn’t make it.
His sleep was restless, plagued by fevered dreams. He tossed and turned, drenched in sweat, painful moans escaping his lips.
The fever refused to break, and the greedy midwife had demanded a small fortune for a potion that promised to reduce the fever and ease his pain. You paid for it anyway.
Sihtric was incredibly sweet, reminding you of a big child—a big, neglected child, you had to admit.
The first thing he did upon waking was try to leap out of bed, but he didn’t get far, stumbling after the first unsteady steps. You couldn’t help but notice the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks as you helped him back into bed.
The crimson in his cheeks deepened every time he had to accept your help, whether it was eating the broth you prepared or when you insisted on changing his bandages.
He seemed so confused, even lost, his eyes never leaving you as you moved around the old house. You could feel his gaze, a blend of curiosity and wariness, as if he were trying to make sense of this unexpected sanctuary and the stranger who had offered it.
Yet beneath the confusion, there was unmistakable gratitude and awe in his eyes, and you clung to it like a drowning man grasping a plank in a stormy sea, letting it become your anchor, something to wrap around yourself like a warm scarf, shielding you from the coldness of the night.
You didn’t ask any questions.
Part of you was too afraid to hear the truth—who he really was, where his injury came from. And another part of you dreaded being asked the same in return.
It was he who eventually broke the silence, telling you that he was Lord Uhtred’s sworn man, wounded during a scouting mission.
Did you believe him? No, not really. But you didn’t let it show.
It was easier this way—two strangers brought together by the unpredictable currents of fate, waiting for the next tide to carry them apart again.
And yet the questions came.
“You know about me,” Sihtric began, his voice tentative, “but I hardly know anything about you. Tell me about your family.”
You hesitated, your hands pausing over the cups with herbal tea you were making. You forced a smile and turned to face him.
“Oh, there’s not much to tell,” you said lightly. “I come from a big family. My father runs the mill in the village and often works late, so I have to help my mother with the household and look after my younger brothers and sisters in the evenings. It keeps me busy,” unable to explain to yourself why it mattered at all, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell the truth.
Sihtric nodded, his eyes softening with understanding.
“That must be hard, all those responsibilities. But it must also be nice to have such a big family.”
“It is,” you replied, feeling a pang of guilt for the lie. “There’s always something happening, and never a dull moment.”
He smiled, and for a moment, the room seemed to brighten. “It must be nice to have so much noise and life around you. I never had that.”
You nodded, looking away to hide the conflict in your eyes.
“It has its moments,” you said, keeping your tone casual. “But it’s nice to have a bit of quiet now and then, too.”
You knew this couldn’t last.
It felt like a dream—one you dreaded waking from each morning as the first rays of sunlight touched your closed eyelids.
Suddenly, your lonesome refuge had become a home, a place to return to, something to care for. You were needed.
Each morning, it was as if your feet had grown wings, carrying you swiftly to that old, decrepit house. And each evening, as you reluctantly left Sihtric behind to return to the village, your heart sank with the fear that he might be gone by the time you returned the next day.
Deep down, you knew that day was coming, faster than you wanted to admit.
It was one of those evenings when the moon hung low, perched on the treetops, so large it seemed as though you could touch it if you just stretched out your hand.
Sihtric had been unusually silent all day, and as you prepared a simple meal in the kitchen you struggled to hold back the tears threatening to spill.
He didn’t need to say anything; you could feel it.
The wound on his side had healed remarkably well, thanks more to his youth than your limited healing skills.
“I... I need to…” Sihtric’s voice came from behind you, hesitant.
You paused, hands stilling over the vegetables, and quickly wiped away the salty tears that had slipped down your cheeks. Forcing a smile, you turned to face him.
He stood in the doorway, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
“I know,” you said, your voice was calmer than you felt inside. “It’s time. You’re well enough now.”
Sihtric nodded, his expression softening. “It is,” he murmured.
There was nothing more to be said.
You nodded, turning back to the table in an attempt to hide the conflict swirling in your eyes.
You didn’t want to cry.
It was foolish, really.
You had known from the start that it would end this way. You were strangers from different worlds, barely knowing each other.
Yet, the ache in your heart told a different story.
You heard Sihtric move closer until he was just behind you, so close that his warm breath grazed the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.
Your grip tightened on the knife as you resumed chopping the vegetables, forcing yourself to focus on the rhythmic movement. Up and down. Up and down. The blade moved faster in your hand, each swing becoming more erratic as your emotions tangled.
Suddenly, two large palms closed gently over yours, halting your frantic motion.
Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to steady yourself. Tears welled in the corners of your eyes, and you blinked hard, willing them away.
“You’re different,” Sihtric’s voice was soft, his thumbs lightly brushing against your hands. “You could have turned me away, but you didn’t. I owe you my life.”
Warmth blossomed in your chest, but whatever words were forming on your tongue dissolved into a silent sob that you quickly masked with a sharp inhale.
Sihtric had never been this close before, never intruded into your space so intimately. His muscular frame pressed gently against your back, steady and comforting, but what caught your attention most were his hands—his hands were trembling, just as yours were.
“I don’t know how to repay you,” he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur, filled with something raw, something that tugged at your heart. “But I want to.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, willing yourself to remain calm. You could feel his warmth against your back, and every part of you wanted to turn around, to face him, to let everything you’d been holding back spill out. But you didn’t.
You couldn’t.
“There’s nothing to repay,” you said softly, your voice almost breaking. “You don’t owe me anything, Sihtric. I helped because you needed it. That’s all.”
The sensation of Sihtric’s right hand slipping away from yours, travelling slowly up your arm, sent your heart racing wildly.
There were no delicate butterflies in your stomach—there were frogs, leaping and tumbling inside.
His trembling fingers brushed your loose hair aside, revealing your shoulder and neckline.
You sucked in a sharp breath as Sihtric’s warm lips grazed your sensitive skin.
You closed your eyes, a soft whine escaping your lips, mingling with your uneven breath as you involuntarily tilted your head, giving him better access to your neck. A strange heat consumed your senses, making it impossible to focus on anything but his touch.
Sihtric’s breathing quickened, his body pressed more tightly against yours.
You steadied yourself, bracing your hands against the table to keep from losing balance.
“Sihtric...” you breathed, a surprised whimper slipping out as you instinctively pushed back, only to feel the unmistakable hardness of his growing arousal against your body.
Sihtric instantly pulled away, and you finally turned to face him, his hands slipping away as embarrassment flickered across his handsome features.
It wasn’t a conscious movement on your part, but more an instinct—driven by the fear of losing this moment, of letting go of something you had both craved and feared all along. Without thinking, you reached out, grasping his hand and pulling him closer, your other hand reaching for his chin as your foreheads gently touched.
“I... I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sihtric whispered, his gaze dropping as his breath warmed your skin. His voice was hoarse, raw, and even somewhat trembling. “Please, just tell me to stop. Tell me I’m a fool for wanting something I have no right to.”
“Sihtric, look at me,” you murmured, biting your lip as the ache in your chest grew.
Slowly, you reached out cupping Sihtric’s face in your palms, gently guiding his head back toward you. You didn’t speak, but your thumb traced the curve of his lips, silently urging him to understand that you felt the same pull, the same desire.
“I... I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to...” he stammered, uncertainty rippling through his tense body and before he could pull away or before doubt could grip you both, you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his, cutting off the words that never came.
A soft, involuntary moan escaped him, melting into the kiss.
You had imagined this moment so many times.
Foreign hands roaming your body, bruising demanding, you had dreamt of this gentle, hesitant kiss like a promise waiting to be fulfilled, soft and filled with reverence you hadn’t expected.
It was everything you’d longed for, and more.
As the kiss deepened, the sweetness gave way to something more urgent, more consuming. Sihtric's initial surprise and hesitation melted into raw passion.
Your fingers tangled in his braided hair, pulling him closer, drawing another delicious moan from his lips.
His rough, calloused fingers caressed your back, tracing slow, deliberate paths along your spine, his breath growing heavier, more rugged, betraying his youthful eagerness.
You knew this would be the last time you’d see him. There was no future for the two of you—just this fleeting, fiery moment.
The thought twisted in your chest, knowing it would leave your heart aching, raw with longing for what could never be. But it didn’t stop you. It only made you crave him more.
It was anyway more than you could dream of, more than someone like you deserved.
You didn’t care anymore about keeping up the charade of the modest miller’s daughter. At this moment, it didn’t matter.
You were who you were, and you craved him—this young, handsome and strong, yet sweetly hesitant man who touched you as if you were made of fragile glass. You wanted this to be a memory worth keeping, for both of you.
With a confident tug, you hooked your fingers into the hem of his breeches and pulled him flush against you, crushing your lips to his in another kiss that was hungry, deep, and filled with all the passion you had kept inside.
In a swift, determined motion, you turned him around, pressing him against the table.
He let you.
Sihtric would let you do anything. His world was spinning.
From the moment he’d first opened his eyes and met your gaze, filled with warmth and care, he had craved you. He had craved this.
Even the dull ache in his side couldn’t stop the way his body responded to your touch, how his breeches grew tighter each time your hands brushed his skin while tending to his wound, his blood staining your fingers.
He had nothing to offer in return for your kindness—no riches, no freedom. And yet, if he could, he would pull every star from the sky and lay them at your feet.
But even himself, he could not offer. Bound by his oath to Lord Uhtred, he was not free.
He was sure you wouldn’t accept him anyway. After all, he was a Dane, a bastard and a warrior, and you—a Saxon maiden, with a life rooted in the stability and safety of your village. A life where there was no room for the uncertainty that would surely follow if you were bound to him.
It was a mystery to him why you were even tending to him, why you were here at all.
And now, your lips on his had set his mind spinning in a whirlwind of emotions he had never felt before.
Sihtric’s wide eyes tracked your every movement, his breath catching in his throat as your hands skillfully untied the laces of his breeches.
“Oh, gods,” he hissed, and you couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you watched him shudder, his sharp breath filling the air between you as your hand boldly slipped inside, stroking his fully hard length before freeing it from the confines of his breeches.
You kept stroking it, slowly, teasingly from root to tip, as you licked your lips, listening to the soft gasps, escaping Sihtric as his beautifully formed and thick cock twitched and pulsed under your touch.
You leaned in, rolling up his tunic as your teeth lightly grazed the hard muscle of his abdomen.
A heavy moan escaped him, and you felt him suddenly hold his breath.
Smiling, you let your lips trail further down, but just as quickly, his hands shot out to grasp yours, stopping you.
“Wait... no, let me...” he murmured, his voice thick. "Let me take care of you."
In one fluid motion, Sihtric pulled you back to your feet and spun you around with such ease, it stole the breath from your lungs.
You had always suspected he was strong, despite his slender frame, but the way he handled you like you weighed nothing sent a shiver down your spine.
Sihtric’s fingers brushed along your jawline, his rough palms framing your face with a tenderness that nearly broke you and you blinked back the tears threatening to blur your vision.
“Will you let me have you?” his voice was soft and pleading, eyes dark with lust, searching yours for an answer.
Suddenly unable to find your voice you just nodded, letting your teeth graze your bottom lip as your fingers slipped under his tunic, eager to explore again the tight planes of muscle beneath his skin.
This time, your touch wasn’t filled with the care of tending to his wounds, but with burning passion, with unrestrained desire.
You needed him closer—needed to feel his breath mingling with yours, his lips on your bare skin. You longed to hear him moan your name, to feel his breath hitch as he made you his, even if it was only for this brief moment of shared bliss.
A low hiss escaped your lips as Sihtric’s hands began to hurriedly bunch your dress up your thighs, his calloused fingertips grazing your skin. His eyes flicked up to yours, questioning, as if giving you a moment to reconsider—to stop him.
Impatience coursing through your veins, you took over, pulling the dress over your head and discarding it carelessly on the floor. The same urgency drove your hands as you pulled his tunic off and helped him get out of his breeches, leaving nothing between your bodies.
Sihtric’s large hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly and setting you down on the table. The half-prepared supper clattered to the floor, forgotten, as he hastily cleared the space for you.
You spread your legs, inviting him closer, craving the warmth of his body against yours.
“Please, let me taste you,” the raw, husky tone of his voice made your core clench around nothing.
“You can do whatever you want with me, Sihtric. I’m yours,” you whimpered as you let him urge you down until your back met the rough wooden surface of the table.
You felt his hot breath on your skin as he placed a wet, open-mouth kiss on your ankle.
You closed your eyes, shivering in lust, as his lips travelled up your leg. You gasped loudly, feeling his lips getting closer to your pulsing core, placing a lingering kiss on your inner thigh.
His hands took hold of your hips and then with a soft whimper he licked over your slit.
You moaned, your hands gripping the edge of the table, back arching against the wooden surface. It felt so sinfully beautiful, like a forbidden pleasure you knew you shouldn’t want but couldn’t resist, like tasting temptation itself and craving more with every breath.
Each lap of Sihtric’s hot tongue against your pearl drew another loud moan from you.
You slid your fingers into his hair and pulled hard on them.
Sihtric hissed, not letting go of you, as his tongue started to circle your pulsing bundle and his lips nipped and sucked at it, making you squirm and whine as stars exploded behind your tightly closed eyes.
He took you gently, slowly, almost hesitantly pushing forward into you, his eyes locked with yours, his sweaty, shaky palms, pinning your hips down on the rough surface of the table, betraying his nervousness.
You gasped, feeling his length stretching and filling you, your core throbbing with a greedy need.
Sihtric moaned as he finally sheathed fully inside of you. He stilled. Eyes locked with yours he savoured your walls taking him in and clenching around him.
The feeling of him buried deep inside of you made your walls flutter in arousal and need, you dug your fingers into his flesh, pushing your hips against him, begging for more.
And he gave you more.
Sihtric pulled out, before pushing forward again and then again, his movements tormentingly slow but thorough, driving you mad with want and desire.
Spurred by the lewd sounds rolling over your lips, his thrusts started to pick up pace until he was pounding into you, his hips meeting yours with every move.
“Oh god, Sihtric, you feel so good, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you mewled, clawing at his skin.
You glanced up at the young Dane through your lashes, taking in the sight of him as he thrusted into you—his flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes rolling back into his head, breath catching and lips parted in deep, intoxicating groans—worshipping you like you had never been worshipped before.
He was completely entranced by you, utterly under your spell, and the sight of him like this—vulnerable and beautiful—was one you knew you would never forget as you cursed and thanked fate in equal measure for bringing you together in this secluded, forgotten place.
“Please, don’t stop, don’t ever let go of me,” you whispered, barely aware of the words escaping your lips, lost in the moment, already too far gone, too close to the edge.
“I won’t. You’re mine. Forever mine,” Sihtric’s voice reached you through the haze clouding your mind, his words wrapping around you like a promise, solid and unwavering, making your walls start clenching around him.
Sihtric pulled you up, pressing his forehead against yours as he continued to thrust into you, his strong arms holding you close, securing you against him.
His lips found your neck, kissing, sucking and bruising your soft skin with his teeth, his breath panting and his moans growing stronger and heavier with each thrust, mingling with yours.
“Forever mine,” he breathed in your ear, the sweet promise in his words adding the last weight to tip the scales and sending you tumbling over the edge.
Your climax hit you with a force of a tempest, filling you with pure bliss as tears welled up in your eyes.
Thighs trembling and head spinning, your whole body shook while hot waves of pleasure washed over you as Sihtric fucked you through your peak, his panting breath, laced with strained, twitching moans, hot against the skin of your neck as he came only a few moments later.
You knew the old house would be empty, greeting you with the same heavy silence it always had. And yet, as you pushed open the creaking wooden door, you held your breath, a flicker of hope still lingering in your chest.
“I will come back. You’ll see. There’s nothing in this world that can keep me away from you,” he had whispered, holding you tightly against his chest.
“Not even your oath?” you had asked, lifting your gaze to meet his.
He didn’t reply at first, his mismatched, searching eyes darkening as he looked down at you. Then, almost hesitantly, he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you.
His embrace was strong but gentle, as if he still feared you might pull away. But you didn’t.
You leaned into him, feeling his heartbeat against yours, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill that had settled in your bones.
“Not even my oath,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair.
Did you believe him? No, not really.
Now, your footsteps echoed through the empty rooms, a hollow ache settling in your chest as the crushing truth hit you.
Your gaze fell on a single, delicate white flower in a vase on the table. It stood out against the emptiness, a painful remainder of something gone, something lost forever.
Slowly, you sank to the floor, the weight of it all breaking you. Uncontrollable sobs shook your body as a loud cry tore through you, the tiny shimmer of hope you had clung to slipping away with each tear.
The tavern buzzed with activity that evening, a small party of warriors having stopped in the village.
Their presence initially sent villagers into their homes, shutters drawn tight in fear. But the clink of silver flowing freely from the warriors' hands as they ordered food and ale quickly spread, and the fear began to dissipate.
Curiosity took hold, and soon the tavern filled with villagers eager to strike a bargain or sell their wares. It promised to be a profitable night for everyone—especially the tavern’s ladies.
Hearing how generous the strangers were, you had pulled your best dress from the old chest, carefully checking for any loose stitches before slipping it on.
The voices and laughter from downstairs grew louder as you descended into the bustling, lively room, mingling easily between the tables, your eyes scanning for the strangers in hopes of catching their attention.
A booming voice cut through the din, drawing your gaze to a table where several men sat, one of them clearly the leader.
The girls had whispered that the others called him "Lord."
You mustered your most enticing smile as you neared, eager to catch his eye—until a snippet of their conversation froze you in place.
Your eyes went wide, shock coursing through you, the noise of the tavern fading as the weight of what you were hearing settled in.
“Sihtric, you did what you could. Sometimes you just have to accept things as they are,” the man said, stepping aside and placing a hand on his companion’s shoulder.
“There isn’t even a mill in this village. There’s no point in asking for the miller’s daughter. She didn’t want to be found.”
“It can’t be,” Sihtric’s voice trembled, his grip tightening around the ale mug. “She told me... she said she loved me. The night before I left, she said she loved me.”
"Maybe she loved your cock,” came a mocking chuckle from a bearded man with a thick Irish accent, earning a desperate, angry glare from Sihtric.
“Sihtric,” Uhtred interjected, his tone gentler now, "none of what she told you about herself or her family was true. I spoke to the innkeeper. You need to forget her."
Sihtric’s gaze lifted slowly from the floor, his cheeks flushed with the weight of shame and disbelief. As he turned to face Uhtred, his eyes caught the figure of a young woman standing nearby, unmistakably one of the tavern's whores.
You wanted to run, but your body refused to obey. Your feet felt rooted to the floor as you watched recognition and surprise flicker in Sihtric's eyes as he stood.
It seemed impossible, yet it was true—your dearest dream and worst nightmare had collided into reality.
With the last remnants of your strength, you forced yourself to turn away. Your legs wobbled like jelly as you stumbled toward the door, using the tables for support. Behind you, Sihtric's voice called your name, spurring you forward.
You reached the door, shoving it open before tumbling down the steps outside. You hit the ground but scrambled back to your feet, desperation driving you. Shame and embarrassment burned at your heels as you broke into a run.
"Wait! Please, stop!" Sihtric’s voice rang out behind you.
Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back against a broad chest.
You fought against it, struggling to free yourself, pounding your fists against the leather armour covering him. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks.
"Let me go!" you cried, your strength and resistance fading as his unyielding grip held firm. "Now you know!" you sobbed, your voice cracking. "Now you know everything. Just... please, let me go."
Hurt etched across Sihtric’s handsome face as he loosened his hold, but your strength had left you.
Without his support, you sank to the ground, trembling with sobs.
"So it was all a lie?" you heard him ask, his voice strained. "You didn’t mean it? But why?" His voice nearly broke with the question.
"Why does it matter?" you cried, burying your face in your hands. "You'd never want me if you knew who I really am."
"But you know that's not true," Sihtric said, crouching down beside you, his hands grasping your shoulders. "Look at me. Please, just look at me," he pleaded, his voice so full of emotion it made your chest ache.
Slowly, you withdrew your hands from your face, tears blurring your vision, as you reluctantly met Sihtric’s gaze.
His eyes, though pained, were full of something you hadn’t expected—understanding. His hands tightened gently on your shoulders, steadying you as you trembled.
“Do you think I care about that?” he asked, his voice soft but firm.
Your breath hitched, disbelief swirling in your chest. “But I lied to you, Sihtric. I told you things that weren’t true. I’m not who you thought I was.”
He shook his head, his grip on you firm and unwavering. “You are exactly who I thought you were. You’re the woman who saved me when I had nothing, who didn’t judge or despise me for what I am, who cared for me when I was weak. You’re the woman I can’t stop thinking about.”
His words sent a wave of warmth through you, but you still felt the weight of shame dragging you down. “But I’m not the miller’s daughter. I’m no one. I’m just...”
Sihtric cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle but insistent. “You are everything to me,” he whispered, his forehead pressing lightly against yours. Sihtric’s fingers gently trailed the contours of your face, his thumb lightly pecking your lips, as he lifted up your chin.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop. The hurt, the shame, the fear—they all melted away under the weight of his words. His touch was steady, his presence grounding. You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of him soothe the storm inside you.
“I don’t deserve you,” you murmured, barely able to voice the words.
“Maybe I don’t deserve you,” he countered softly, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek.
His lips met yours in a kiss so gentle, so tender, that it sent a wave of warmth through you, stirring something deep inside—a longing so powerful it left you breathless.
With trembling fingers, you cupped his face, pulling him closer, as if you couldn’t get enough of him. And when you finally pulled away, a sense of lightness washed over you, as if a burden you had carried for far too long had suddenly lifted.
“What now?” you whispered, your voice trembling with both hope and uncertainty.
“Don’t you remember?” Sihtric chuckled softly. “You are mine, forever mine.” His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.
Did you believe him? For the first time, yes, you did.
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