#sigtryggr imagine

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Little Warrior

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson (The Last Kingdom) x F!Reader Warnings: Canon typical violence and death, kidnapping, slight Stockholm syndrome, attempted sexual assault, sexual tension, coercion, corruption kink, talk of religious beliefs, female masturbation, loss of virginity, smut. Word count: 4.6k

Summary: When Sigtryggr and his men seize Winchester he takes a special interest in one of their captives (I have essentially yeeted Stiorra from the story and adapted the storyline of how her and Sigtryggr become an item to suit my own). Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

They come in the night. As Winchester sleeps, the Danes descend upon it.

She is woken by the blood curdling shouts and screams of the townspeople, accompanied by the acrid stench of smoke from nearby burning buildings.

Her heart lurches in her chest, panic causing bile to rise in her throat as she acts purely on instinct, scrambling from her bed and out of the house wearing just her nightdress. The only thought in her mind is that she doesn’t want to die trapped in her home as it’s burned to the ground.

Once she is outside, she watches wide eyed with horror at the destruction around her. Buildings are ablaze, people lay dead and dying upon the ground, the thick coppery scent of blood makes her want to vomit.

It’s only when the coolness of the night air begins to chill her skin that she realises just how perilous her situation is - a thin layer of cotton is all that separates her flesh from the horrors around her. She worries about what these Heathens will do to her if they see her in such a state of undress.

She trembles at the thought, dread gnawing at her insides. It’s too risky to go back inside, her only option is to hide. She takes her chances beneath an overturned farmer’s cart, crawling beneath the gap and cowering, waiting for the chaos around her to die down.

Clutching the cross around her neck, she sends up a silent prayer to God to keep her safe. Her destiny is in his hands now.

The aching in her joints for having been crouched for so long is beginning to become unbearable when the noise eventually quietens. She wonders if the Danes have left, if King Edward will return to rescue Winchester or if they have managed to capture it in his absence. Where are the Wessex guard?

She freezes when she hears the sound of approaching boots upon the ground, her heart hammers wildly against her ribcage when they come to a stop in front of the cart she’s hiding under.

“I can see your feet, Christian”, comes the voice of a man. He speaks softly and quietly, and it sends shivers down her spine.

Too paralyzed by fear to do anything, she remains as she is, her breaths coming quick and shallow, a rapidly dying hope in the back of her mind that he might give up and leave her alone. But there is no such luck.

“You will come out,” he commands, “or I will drag you out, the choice is yours.”

She clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the frightened whimper that escapes her, attempting to force herself further back against the wooden confines of her misguided hiding place.

A large hand appears beneath the cart, reaching towards her before wrapping itself around her ankle.

She shrieks, thrashing against the hold it has on her as she’s dragged out. She lays wide eyed on the cold earth, her breathing erratic, as she looks with terror upon the Dane that towers above her prone form.

His long brown hair is wild and unkempt, half of it pulled back, and a ragged scar runs the length of the left side of his face. He regards her with mild amusement and she becomes aware again of her state of undress.

The thought that he might rape her sends her senses into overdrive, pure adrenaline driving her decision making. She knows she’s in no position to run, her only other option is to fight him, so as he crouches down towards her, she lunges upwards, slapping and scratching at his face and shoulders.

He is quick to overpower her, pulling her to her feet and twisting her arm behind her back.

“A fearsome little warrior, she is,” he chuckles, keeping her arm taut behind her as he gently urges her forward. 

He guides her towards the front steps of the King’s estate, where several people are kneeling before a group of Danes. As they draw closer she recognises a few of them; King Edward’s sons and a few of the Wessex guard.

She is certain she’ll be killed. The man presses on her shoulder, urging her to kneel beside the other captives. She takes up her position, the stone step is hard against her knees, and she is all too aware that she is the least valuable of everyone gathered there.

“Send them to where they keep their dead King,” the man says, looking at Edward’s children and then nodding towards the chapel.

“We need to send a message to Edward,” a dark haired, heavily pregnant woman says, as two of the Danish men pick up the boys and carry them off. “We must force him to yield Winchester to us.”

It makes her shudder to think that this woman will be a mother, when she is capable of such atrocities. 

“And what do you propose, Brida?” He responds.

Brida regards her with a look that makes her blood run cold. She has never seen anyone look at her as though she is worth less than nothing, her brown eyes are filled with utter contempt. “Send him her head,” she tells him, “it is more shocking to Christians when you are prepared to kill women and children alike.”

She gasps audibly, stricken by terror at the notion that they intend to behead her, until she feels his hand upon her shoulder.

“You will not touch her,” he says cooly, “slaughter the men, but she stays with me.”

“And what will you do with her?” Brida asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That is for me to decide,” he responds dismissively.

He makes a cut throat gesture at the Danes that flank Brida, then nods towards the kneeling guards, before pulling her back to her feet and directing her inside of the King’s estate.

She winces as she hears the sound of blades making thick, wet impact upon flesh, followed by dying screams of agony. Despite her shock and disgust, she cannot help the twinge of relief that lightens the feeling in her chest that that is not what destiny has in store for her, at least not yet.

The room that he brings her to is what she assumes is a study. It is filled with books, maps and writing materials, the space is occupied by a wooden writing desk, a chair and a settee.

As her eyes travel around the room, taking in her surroundings, she’s startled out of her reverie when her gaze settles back upon him. He is standing so close, silently observing her, his expression unreadable.

Once more she is reminded of how little she is wearing, and now that she is alone with him, fear of what he might do to her returns in earnest.

“S-stay back,” she stammers, backing away, eyes scanning the room for something, anything, that she can use as a weapon.

He smirks, unmoving, as he looks her over from head to toe. “Be calm, little warrior. Do you know who I am?”

Her face contorts in confusion. “No…”

He straightens, tilting his head slightly, clasping his arms behind his back. “I am Sigtryggr Ivarsson. I am a Dane. If I wish to hump a woman I do not need to do so by force.”

She softens slightly, fear does not grip her heart quite so icily as before. His name is meaningless to her, but she is relieved that he means her no harm.

Sigtryggr leans in, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. “But make no mistake, little warrior, I will have you, and you will beg me for it.”

She draws back quickly in disgust - not at his words, but at the reaction they elicit from her. The way warmth pools in her lower belly fills her with immense guilt. This man has invaded her home and killed people she knows, people she loves, she should despise him.

Swallowing thickly, unease prickling at her, she elects to change the subject. “What have you come here for?”

“To take what I am owed,” he says simply.

“And what is it you believe you’re owed?”

“Land. Your people drove me from mine,” he explains, anger lacing his tone, “your boy King will give back what he stole, or I shall keep Winchester and send him the heads of his children.”

She inhales shakily, feeling like she wants to cry. “A-and…how do I factor into all of that?”

He softens, shrugging slightly. “You don’t, but I can’t imagine your King will yield quickly, and it is always nice to have company. You are brave, for a Christian.”

“So I am your prisoner?”

“No, little warrior. You are free to leave any time you’d like, and take your chances with Brida.”

The implication is not lost on her. Her freedom is an illusion when the alternative is death. Sigtryggr is her only guarantee for safety.

“Shall we find something else for you to wear?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

She looks down at the thin material of her shift, seeing how dirty it is from having been crouched beneath the cart, dragged out and then forced to kneel on the steps of the estate. Her cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Yes, please,” she whispers.

He nods. “Wait here.”

Sigtryggr leaves her alone in the study, not bothering to lock the door behind him - a sign of his confidence that he knows she won’t try to escape.

He returns a few moments later with a white cotton shift that is similar to the one she is currently wearing, She assumes it belongs to Ælflæd, something he has found within a bedchamber.

“Where is the rest of it?” She asks.

“What do you mean? It’s the same as what you have on, and it’s clean,” he says simply.

“Yes, but this is meant to go under–” she sighs, “nevermind.”

She takes the shift from him and begins to change, noting the way that he turns from her, keeping his eyes fixed on the shelves of books that line the walls of the room. The small mark of respect makes her smile. She had not anticipated such manners from a Heathen.

He pulls a book from the shelf when she is finished, flipping through its pages. “Can you read?”

She nods and he hands the tome to her.

“Read to me.”

“Can you not read?” She asks with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I can,” he says with a smirk, “but where’s the fun in that?”

She sighs, settling into the chair in front of the writing desk, while Sigtryggr sits upon the settee a few feet away, and she reads to him.

Over the next few weeks their days are spent much like this. She reads aloud to him, though none of the books are particularly interesting, mostly religious texts and historical records of Wessex. She’s not convinced that he pays any particular attention to the words, but he seems to enjoy the sound of her voice.

They find a Hnefatafl board and Sigtryggr teaches her how to play. They while away hours strategising ways to remove each other's pieces from the board. He has a sharp mind, is calmer and more analytical than any other Dane she’s ever met. He bests her with his cunning multiple times, until she finally begins to get the hang of it and he begins to lose to her.

“Another game?” She asks. “How many have I won now?”

He shoots her a sideways glance, a faint smile upon his lips. “I am not keeping count.”

She giggles. She is beating him, but he does not seem to mind.

They sleep upon furs and blankets that Sigtryggr has brought down to the study and fashioned into a makeshift bed. Her stomach flutters at laying in such close proximity to him, but true to his word he never touches her. Shame blooms hotly in her chest as each of the days pass and she finds herself yearning for it.

He brings her food, and the hopelessness of the situation looms over her as with every meager meal the bread tastes more stale.

“Read to me, little warrior,” he requests, reclining on the settee, his forearm slung over his forehead.

She grouses, hunger pangs causing her stomach to rumble painfully. “I cannot concentrate,” she whispers.

“What is the matter?” He asks, sitting up to look at her.

“I am hungry. I’m always hungry.”

He nods, stepping towards her and offering her his share of the bread.

She looks from his outstretched hand to his face uncertainly. “What will you eat?”

“I will manage, and you will read to me,” he tells her, as she takes the offering and he settles back down.

She smiles to herself at the gesture, warmth spreading throughout her. So she eats, and she reads to him.

Sigtryggr disappears each day, leaving her alone in the study. She only leaves to bathe and to relieve herself, but she is perfectly happy to stay put and await his return, especially when she is all too aware of the alternative.

Each day when he returns he brings news of the continuing siege. King Edward and the Wessex guard surround the walls of Winchester, but will not attack as his sons are being kept captive in the chapel. They have yet to yield to Sigtryggr’s demands for land.

She fiddles with the cross around her neck, eyeing the Mjölnir that sits around his carefully. “Can there not be a peaceful resolution?”

"It is more difficult to live peacefully with enemies than to fight them,” he tells her.

“But we live peacefully,” she retorts.

“We are not enemies, little warrior.”

The sentiment makes her heart flutter, though there is the lingering question in the back of her mind; what are we?

He leaves her alone again as usual one morning and she busies herself poring over maps to pass the time.

She turns when she hears footsteps, expecting to see Sigtryggr but instead it is a man she does not recognise. He appears Saxon, so she cannot understand why the Danes have allowed him to move around the estate so freely.

The stench of ale upon him as he draws closer is nauseating. His eyes hold malicious intent as he advances towards her, and her blood runs cold at the sight.

She stands, backing away from him. “Whatever you are planning to do, please reconsider,” she pleads, “Sigtryggr will punish you if anything happens to me.”

“I have allied myself with the Danes,” he slurs, “but at what cost? They treat me like a dog, while Sigtryggr coddles you. Tell me, whore, is your cunt really that good? Perhaps I ought to find out for myself.”

She yelps as he lunges for her, grabbing her and pinning her against the desk. Fury flashes through her as she struggles against him, attempting to free herself from his hold.

“Whatever treatment they give you, you have brought upon yourself, traitor,” she spits.

Her head snaps to the side, a sharp sting spreads across her cheek as he strikes her.

She barely has time to adjust her focus before she feels him forcefully being pulled off of her.

“Eardwulf!” Sigtryggr snarls angrily. “Fucking coward!”

His fist makes impact with Eardwulf’s face knocking him to the ground, before he is dragged away.

She curls up on the furs, shaking as tears stream down her cheeks, waiting for her heart rate to calm. What could have happened to her if Sigtryggr had not returned when he did doesn’t bear thinking about.

She is unsure of how much time has passed when he returns.

“Are you alright?”

She turns towards the sound of his voice, gasping when she sees he’s covered in blood. Rushing towards him, she places her hands upon his face. “You are hurt…”

Softly he grasps her wrists, keeping her hands where they are. “This blood is not mine, and Eardwulf will not hurt you ever again.”

Her lips part in shock at the thought that he has killed for her, saved her life twice now. She studies his face, taking in the stormy blue of his eyes, the fullness of his lips.

She allows her gaze to linger there for just a moment too long, embarrassment making her hot, eager to distract herself. She traces a finger over the scar that runs the length of the left side of his face.

“How did this happen?”

“A man tried to take my eye during battle,” he explains softly, “so I took his life.”

“But you were hurt.”

“Injured, yes. Left with a scar, yes. But very much alive.”

“As am I, thanks to you.”

She drops her hands from his face and he steps away from her, pulling off his blood soaked light armour and clothing.

She feels her throat run dry at the sight of his bare torso, all lean, lithe battle hardened muscle, adorned with scars. She longs to trace her fingers over each of them.

Looking away, she feels ashamed for harbouring such thoughts and desperately tries to ignore the throbbing ache in her core.

As night falls and Sigtryggr lays asleep beside her, the feeling that lingers between her legs has yet to subside. It is maddening, robbing her of rest. Every time she closes her eyes the image of him stood bare chested before her enters her mind.

She has never touched herself before, it is impure to do so, yet she needs relief or she is sure she will go mad.

Sparing a glance in the darkness towards Sigtryggr, she makes sure his eyes are closed before reaching a tentative hand between her legs. She lets out a shaky sigh as her fingers make impact against the sensitive flesh.

She is not quite sure what she is supposed to do, but finds that a combination of rubbing the area and bucking softly against her hand feels most pleasurable, so continues to do that, holding her free hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds she makes.

There is a feeling that builds within her, a zenith that she feels she must press towards, so she continues in earnest, until finally she feels something within her release and her entire body shudders, a soft moan stifled against her lips as white hot pleasure rolls through her body.

Laying there afterwards she does her best to calm her breaths, feeling guilty for having done something so depraved.

She is startled by Sigtryggr’s voice beside her. “If only you’d beg, little warrior, I could do that for you.”

Her breath hitches and she quickly turns away from him. Not knowing what to say, she feigns sleep, clutching her cross and praying silently that he’ll forget.

She is grateful when he speaks of it no further, and life goes back to normal, or at least what normal is for them.

That is until a couple of weeks later when Brida storms her way into the study, clearly having grown impatient with the lack of progress being made.

“It has been more than thirty days since we captured Winchester, and your negotiations with the Saxon King are not working, Sigtryggr,” she glowers at him, “the time for talking is over. We are killing more captives.”

She does not miss the way that Brida’s eyes linger upon her as she says this, a shiver of fear causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh.

“I will choose who we execute, not you,” Sigtryggr tells her.

“You cannot protect this Saxon forever,” Brida retorts.

“Oh, but I can,” he says, placing himself protectively between her and Brida. “She is mine, and I will decide what happens to her.”

Brida scoffs, turning and leaving. Sigtryggr follows, leaving her alone to ponder the fact that he has once more saved her life.

When he comes back several hours later, he looks so tired. The expression he wears is one of defeat and she feels her heart ache for him.

“Read to me,” he says softly, sitting heavily upon the settee.

She regards him quietly, she wants to comfort him. She wants to comfort herself. She has grown weary of denying him.

Before she has time to think about what she’s doing, she crosses the room, and places herself upon his lap, her thighs astride his.

“What are you do–”

His words are cut off as she presses her lips to his eagerly, before pulling away. “I’m begging, Sigtryggr, please. I–”

He surges forward, kissing her again, his mouth possessing hers hungrily as he grasps her hips, lifting her as he stands to deposit her onto the makeshift bed upon the floor, his body caging hers in against the furs.

“I knew you’d give in, little warrior,” he whispers against her neck, kissing his way down her throat to her collarbone.

His fingers toy with the hem of the shift she wears, a silent plea for consent in his eyes as he looks at.

She swallows thickly and nods, nervousness and excitement fluttering ceaselessly in her stomach.

He pulls the garment over her head, throwing it to the side before sitting back on his haunches to admire her.

“Gods…you were worth the wait. So beautiful,” he whispers reverently.

She squirms beneath his gaze, turning her head away at the intimacy of the gesture, feeling shy and uncomfortable.

“Look at me,” he tells her softly. His fingers grasp her jaw, turning her face back to him.

Slowly he undresses, until he is as naked as she is. She feels the familiar ache between her thighs as she drinks in the sight of him, chiseled and battle hardened.

“Now we are equal,” he reassures her.

He reaches for the cross around her neck, toying with it between his fingers, before giving a quick, hard tug, causing the cord to give way. “What we are about to do is no business of your nailed god,” he tells her, tossing it to one side.

He kisses her once more, slower this time, their mouths saving the feel of the other’s against it. Trailing featherlight kisses down her body until he reaches her breasts, he wraps his lips around one of their hardened peaks, sucking gently.

The sensation causes her to moan, a pleasurable sensation shooting through her body, pooling into wet warmth between her legs as she arches against him. 

Sigtryggr repeats the motion on the opposite breast, before descending further down, leaving wet kisses in his wake.

She freezes up when he grips her thighs, placing them over his shoulders so that his face is level with her most intimate of parts.

“What…what are you doing?” She asks anxiously.

“I’m going to taste you,” he says matter of factly, making pointed eye contact.

“You cannot do that,” she protests weakly, “it is an unclean thing to do.”

He grins at her, shaking his head slightly. “Christian,” the word leaves his mouth as a half hearted insult, before he presses forward.

The first swipe of his tongue against her folds causes her to gasp, her hands burying themselves in his hair as he uses his grip on her thighs to pull her closer, his tongue moving against her firmer, deeper, faster.

A groan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, the vibrations causing her insides to clench as she bucks against his face, chasing the edge of oblivion that his tongue is pressing her towards.

He sucks at her pearl, before laving his tongue over it and she cries out as she spasms against his mouth, ecstasy numbing all of her senses as he continues to lap at her.

Once she relaxes, he pulls away, sitting back between her legs, his chin slick with her juices. His fist runs over the length of his cock as he takes in her blissful state and her eyes widen as she sees the size of him.

He is thick, long and slightly curved. She has never looked upon anyone’s manhood before and she trembles as she wonders how it will possibly fit inside of her.

Sensing her trepidation, Sigtryggr caresses her cheek with his palm. “Relax, little warrior, I have prepared you well.”

He presses the head of himself against her entrance and she braces herself, but then he stops. Her eyes flit to his questioningly.

“Beg for it,” he whispers.

She whines, wanting to hide her face in furs that they lay upon.

“Beg,” he says again, more insistently.

“Please,” he pushes forward, aided by her arousal and release, “please,” he pushes forward again, more of her swallowing him up, accompanied by the sensation of stretching and the slightest of stings, “please,” he pushes forward once more, finally sheathed fully inside of her.

She realises as he settles on top of her, giving her a moment to get used to the feeling of him, that this was merely a means to distract her so that she wouldn’t focus on the possibility of it hurting and grow tense. She smiles, stroking the wild tresses of his dark hair. Always so cunning.

He withdraws his hips slowly, before carefully pushing forward again. He repeats the motion several times, watching her face carefully.

As her breathing quickens, her brow relaxing as her jaw begins to slacken, he increases his pace, hips snapping against hers faster and faster, their kisses frenzied as they pant into each other’s mouths.

She feels him throb inside of her, the sensation pushes her back towards the precipice she’d fallen over earlier, but before she reaches it he is pulling out, spilling pearlescent ropes of spend across her belly.

He wipes her clean with a blanket, discarding it before laying down beside her and pulling her into his arms. A satisfied ache settles within her, she feels she could fall asleep like this, but his voice lulls her back to full consciousness.

“I have released the King’s sons back to him,” he tells her quietly.

“What will happen now?”

“He is sending a warrior named Uhtred into Winchester to negotiate terms, if I accept those terms then my men and I will move on.”

Her heart sinks. She cannot bear the thought of him leaving, not now she knows what it’s like to be in his arms. “Oh,” is all she is able to muster, pressing tighter to him.

They fall into a quiet doze, until he gently squeezes her shoulder. “I must go and speak with Uhtred.”

She watches sadly, quietly, as he dresses. He leans down to kiss her before he leaves and she pushes her lips eagerly to his. If he is to abandon her then she will cling to every last moment until he does.

When Sigtryggr returns later, she is dressed in her shift again, though her cross remains discarded. She is seated by the window, staring listlessly out of it.

He carries a bundle of clothing in his arms and she looks at him curiously.

“To keep you warm,” he explains, deepening her confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I have discussed terms with Uhtred and we have reached an agreement. I will leave Winchester, on the condition that you accompany me…not as my prisoner, but as my woman.”

She grins, running into his arms and wrapping her arms around his neck.

As they ride away from Winchester, side by side on horseback, she does not feel as though she is leaving her life behind. On the contrary, it has just begun.

[viking-chaos]

Of Irland, Chapter 26

Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 25 \\ Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 26: Light the Fire!

Chapter Warnings: Burning (people), trying to burn people, flying axes, cursing, chair throwing, ivar being ivar, everyone being everyone Words: 1655 A/N: It has been seven/eight months since I last posted a chapter of this. I just wanted to get it out so it hasn't been beta read or anything (sorry to my beta reader, truly this thing was driving me nuts just sitting in my drafts) AO3

The crowd pushed and shoved below the dais, each person hoping to get a better view of the gruesome ‘entertainment’ that would be occurring on the stage. It made Stiorra sick to her stomach. The idea that people found execution and torture entertaining was just horrible. 

But then again, she had once been one of those people, pushing and shoving, eager to catch even a glimpse of what torture was being done. Now, after a Blood Eagle, and watching the way Ivar looked at his own brothers like he wanted to kill them (which he did), she saw things differently.

Sigtryggr squeezed her hand in a small gesture of comfort. She squeezed back, no less horrified. 

Things happened so quickly in Dyflin. One moment, Sigtryggr’s nephew, Anlaf, and Hermund were being dragged off a ship, the next they were interrogated in the backrooms of the Great Hall, to being pushed up on a stage the next day to face their punishment.

Sigtryggr had ended up staying with his brothers and Drifa late into the night discussing what to do with them both and when. He’d only told her when he slipped into bed behind her long after the fire had died down.

“It will happen in the morning,” he said softly, sliding under the furs. “Both will be burned on a stake in the square.”

Stiorra sighed, half-asleep, as he wound an arm around her waist, pulling her into his bare chest. it was a nice feeling, one she hoped to feel more. And perhaps in different circumstances too, perhaps with less risk to both their lives.

Then his words sunk in.

She turned around in the bed to face him. He looked… lost. There was a sadness in his eyes that dimmed the light that usually glimmered in them.

“Why?” she breathed.

Sigtryggr shrugged, still not looking at her. “Ivar will be Ivar.”

Stiorra sighed heavily. She knew Ivar had no love for his half-brothers, but for him to not even have the slightest shred of compassion for his own nephew? What was it with this family that seemed to make them want to kill each other.

She reached out a hand to brush away the thick hair that had fallen in front of his face. He turned away from her touch, but not before she saw the tears gathering in his eyes.

“Oh, Sigtryggr,” she whispered, taking his face in her hands, leaning in to rest her forehead on his.

“There was nothing I could do to persuade him,” he murmured, his voice trembling with ever word. “Not even Drifa could persuade him.”

Tears were pouring down both their cheeks now, sliding across their faces and onto the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”She tugged him closer, and his apologies were muffled as he wept into her shoulder.

She stood on the dais next to Sigtryggr. A small crowd had gathered a short distance from what was little more than a wooden stake surrounded with little twigs and hay.

Stiorra turned her face away as Hermund was dragged to the pole. She didn’t watch as he was tied to it, struggling grunts being all she could hear. 

His sentence was read out and Ivar yelled, “Light the fire!” and after that, the cheers of the waiting crowd covered the man’s screams as the fire consumed him.

That is, if he even screamed. The crowd's cheers died down after they realised the Berserker’s screams of pain were absent. In fact, he was eerily silent.

Sigtryggr tightened his grip on her.

The crowd's cheers turned to murmurs. A quick glance at Ivar confirmed his mask of rage was plastered on his face. Stiorra shivered at the sight.

It felt like forever before the flames died down and they finally moved on to punish Anlaf.

He stumbled down the steps towards the second stake, the first still smouldering with the remains of the once enormous man still tied to it.

His shoulder’s shook, though whether it was from sobs or shivers of fear, it was impossible to tell. The crowd jeered, though, seeing the shake.

This wasn’t right. Anlaf was just a boy. And his own family. Even Drifa held an expression of sheer disgust. Stiorra wanted to scream and shout, but doing so was unlikely to help, even make things worse. Despite what her heart said, she remained silent, standing next to Sigtryggr gripping his hand so tightly she was sure she would break his fingers.

Anlaf was pushed and shoved by the teeming crowd. Some threw rotten food at him. He was dragged by guards to the stake. He did not fight them. Just stared at the ground, defeated.

He was pushed up onto the stake, tied to it.

Stiorra had to look away. This wasn’t entertainment. This was Ivar’s cruelty. It was to make everyone afraid of him.

She didn’t watch as the fire was lit. Anlaf, to his credit, did not cry out. Yet.

Suddenly, there was a whooshing sound, then a thud. Stiorra whipped her head back to the stake.

An axe was embedded in the wood. The rope ends fluttered in the breeze. Anlaf was nowhere to be found.

The crowd was shifting, murmering.

Stiorra looked to Sigtryggr. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

Their gazes caught on the parting crowd to the right. Sigtryggr moved in front of her, shielding her. She put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off.

All she could see was a big man walking through the parted crowd. To say he was ugly was an understatement. His face was a mess of blond beard and wicked scars, like someone had tried to carve him out of wood, but only had a rudimentary knowledge of how a human looked.

Sigtryggr muttered some sort of Irish curse under his breath. She reached for him again, but he pulled himself out of her grasp.

Ivar, to Stiorra’s astonishment, was not angry at the man. In fact he was laughing, greeting him like an old friend. She couldn’t hear what they were saying from here, but from the expression on Young Anlaf’s face, she knew it couldn’t be good.

A look passed between Sigtryggr and Drifa. And in the same moment, hands gently grasped Stiorra’s arm and started pulling her away.

“Don’t fight,” a voice said behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she instantly recognized the warrior as one of Drifa’s horde. She’d seen them training. He tugged away from whatever it was going on down there.

He brought her back to the Great Hall, refusing to answer any of her questions. Just telling her to stay put, before he left, presumably returning to the square.

Stiorra did not have to wait long though, as footsteps soon sounded outside. The door opened, revealing Sigtryggr. He looked furious. She’d seen anger on him before, but not like this.

Drifa quickly followed him inside. They appeared to be arguing.

“I did not know he would do this!” she fumed. “I also did not know that bastard was back.”

‘That bastard’ had to be the scarred man that threw the axe.

“I did not think Ivar would be so foolish,” Sigtryggr rebuked.

The two of them were so engaged in their argument that they did not see Stiorra standing there, until she stood between them before hands could be thrown.

“Would you please stop arguing,” she yelled, “and one of you tell me what is going on?”

The two warriors, one descended from the greatest of their time, the other perhaps considered the most powerful on Earth froze and stared at her incredulously.

________

Sigtryggr froze mid-sentence. He’d never heard Stiorra yell before. For some reason, he liked it.

Perhaps he could make her do that again.

Drifa just stood there looking like she had no idea who Stiorra was. I guess she’s never heard her shout either.

Stiorra seemed to notice the surprise. She huffed, and repeated, pointedly, “What is going on?”

Still neither of them answered.

Stiorra huffed, clenching her jaw.

“Who was that man?” she asked.

Sigtryggr sighed, frowning. Today was not a good day.

“His name is Skoll Grimmarsson,” Drif answered for him. “Grim as his name, and Ivar’s trusted friend.”

“If friend is how you want to describe them,” Sigtryggr scoffed. “Ivar once said to me that Skoll was more his brother than I, and that he understood the meaning of loyalty.”

Of course, Skoll just wanted power, and land, and the freedom to do as he wished. He did not care for anyone but himself. And Ivar allowed all of it.

Stiorra nodded, pursing her lips. “They just encourage each other’s…” he paused, searching for a word that could possibly begin to describe the kinds of things they got up to. Alone, they were a threat. Together, nothing would make Ivar back down.

Drifa hurled a chair halfway across the cavernous room, yelling some curse (or at least, that is what is sounded like).

Outburst apparently over, the Jarl straitened, breathed in deeply, and marched towards the healing quarters, leaving Sigtryggr and Stiorra staring after her.

After a moment, they turned to look at each other.

“Well, then,” Sigtryggr said. “That was something.”

Neither of them could hold in the laughter rising up.

They both fell in each other’s arms from the force of this laughter. It was needed. Today had not been a good day. Perhaps now it could be better.

Panting hard, laughter finally over, he cupped her face between his hands. The skin was so soft as he stoked it.

“Stiorra,” he said solomly, “I do not think I need to warn you to stay away from Skoll, but still, he is dangerous.”

She reached up, holding her palm to his left cheek, tracing the scar there.

“I know,” she assured. “You and Drifa have trained me well.”

“That is another thing. Your training resumes tomorrow.”

Stiorra groaned.

[icarusignite]

Hey Author, I wanted to ask if you could maybe write a story about ! Sihtric x reader! Could you perhaps write something where the reader is the younger sister of Ragnar, Uhtred and Thyra. In sihtric's age.

Maybe she could have met him in the forest when the two were children and became best friends from that day on. Nobody knew about it because the families are no longer good. Years later, when Kjartan kills the parents of the reader and Uhtred. the reader goes with him and Brida. She is younger than Uhtred and brida maybe Uhtred could teach his little sister to fight and she will be a shieldmaid maybe even the best!!!

When sihtric joins uhtred, the reader is very happy. Sihtric loves the reader, but thinks she would never want anything from him, so he marries his wife from the series

The relationship between the reader and sihtric becomes very bad due to the married

The reader is angry because she doesn't like his wife, she’s jealous and she is very hurt. And she makes him feel her anger!!! Maybe we could have a little fight with his wife, that would be cool.

At some point I don't know how they could confess their feelings for each other.

I love drama in story’s like that. I hope you like it too and it gave you ideas to write it. Maybe you could say if you write it.

Thank you, your reader 🫶❤️

#drama #brokenheart #anger #bestfriends #love

I am so jealous that she is his wife. I just don't like her😑

I have to put my cell phone away, otherwise it will be broken later

I wrote a similar request to another author, but I thought I could also ask another one, hope it doesn't bother you! 🫶

Heyyy finally got this done. It is longer than I expected lol cuz I wanted to give them a shared background story lol. I tried to add all the requested components but his wife just isn't his wife yet so he was planning to marry her but then ofc he changes his mind after the reader rages at him. I love angry confessions lol.

Cheers, hope you enjoy the story 🫶

Word Count: 4.8k | AO3

In the heart of the forest, the sun shone through the canopy of leaves and the birds sang a merry tune. A group of children ran through the underbrush, their laughter echoing through the trees.

"I saw a wolf, Uhtred, I saw it, it had sharp teeth and yellow eyes!" Brida shouted excitedly, brandishing the branch she held in her hand as a pretend sword.

"Brida, Uhtred, don't let them get to me," Thyra shouted from the platform the children had built in the trees. "And protect my little sister!"

"I am a warrior like Father and Young Ragnar. I don't need Uhtred to protect me!" you shouted back at Thyra, who only rolled her eyes at your childish antics. 

"Father and Young Ragnar are much bigger than you, you cannot possibly be like them!" Uhtred laughed.

You crossed your arms and glared at him until he raised his hands placatingly.

"Now then, what shall we do about the wolf?" you grinned. "I say we skin him and gift his pelt to the lady of the hall."

Your hair whipped around your face as you fought your imaginary foes, eyes bright with determination and a fierce sense of bravery. You took careful steps, your feet moving in sync with your makeshift sword, as you circled around the supposed wolves who were coming for your sister. Suddenly you heard the sound of branches snapping and twigs crunching underfoot, signalling the approach of another person to your little corner of the forest. You instinctively raised your branch in front of you, ready to defend yourself and your friends against any potential enemies. 

"Did you see that?" Uhtred's voice wavered and everyone's necks turned in the direction the noise originated from. 

A figure stepped out from behind the trees, making Uhtred and Brida freeze. 

"Uhtred?" Thyra's panicked voice came from her spot in the trees. "What is happening?"

"Stay up there!" he warned, grabbing your hand along with Brida's and pulling back a few steps. 

 "It's Sven, Kjartan's son," Brida breathed.

"Sven?" Thyra's voice shook.

"He won't hurt you," Uhtred reassured.

You pushed Brida and Uhtred forward, "But he'll kill you, so go!" 

"What, we're not leaving you!"

"And I will not leave my sister. Just go, please."

Several other young boys, Sven's friends presumably, tore out of their hiding places, giving chase to Brida and Uhtred as they sprinted away. One of the larger boys made his way toward the tree Thyra was in. You ran after him, hoping to get to him before he reached your sister. You tackled him to the ground but he easily threw you off to the side before going to haul Thyra out of her hiding spot and toward Sven.

"Don't touch her. Don't you dare touch her!" you shouted, and another boy grabbed you by the hair and yanked your head upward.

"Shut your yapping mouth or you'll be next bitch," he murmured into your ear.

Thyra whimpered as Sven cornered her against a tree, sword in hand. 

"Uhtred! Uhtred!" she wailed and it made your heart race. 

You knew Sven was going to do something to her, you could see it in the smirk he sent your way just before he reached forward and ripped the top half of Thyra's dress off her shoulders. A broken sob escaped her mouth and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to make herself small. The sight set your nerves on fire. With an animalistic screech, you headbutted the boy who was holding on to you. When you slammed your head against his nose, you heard a satisfying crunch and he howled in pain as blood gushed down his face. You gave another holler before you ran and threw your entire weight onto Sven, forcing him away from your sister and managing to knock him onto the ground.  You watched out of the corner of your eye as Thyra fled the scene, screaming for Uhtred and Brida to come to your aid. One of Sven's friends pulled your small frame off him easily, and dragged you deeper into the forest, pinning you against a tree with his arm across your neck, suffocating you. You twisted in his hold and kicked him between the legs, making him drop you so that you could crawl away. Sven was right there though, and he grabbed your jaw, turning your head so that your eyes met his. He was several years older than you and now you were frightened. 

"Hmm, you're not as pretty as your sister, but I suppose you'll do," he snickered.

You closed your teeth around his arm, biting down until you tasted blood. He swore and when he went to pull you off, you drew back to punch him. And then you were raining blows down frantically upon him before he had a chance to get up. His hand scrambled around for his sword and brought it up in a deadly arc across your face. You flinched at the burning sting and he used it to his advantage in order to throw you off him. He stood there frozen for a moment, just watching your crouching form on the floor, your hand pressed tightly to your cheek as you took in deep shuddering breaths and blood seeped from between your fingers. Perhaps he then remembered who your father was because he turned and ran, his cruel friends following close behind. 

"Are you...are you alright?" came a timid voice after a while, and it made you jump. 

"Who-Who's there?"

You blinked through teary eyes to spot a young boy around your age step forward from behind a nearby tree. He looked at you with concern, his eyes taking in your injury.

"Are you okay?" he asked again softly.

You shook your head, fresh tears streaming down your face. You were terrified, hurt, and you couldn't quite remember the way home so you were also lost. 

The little boy took a step closer, his eyes reassuring, "Don't worry, I'll help you."

You cringed away from him, "Who are you."

"I am Sihtric. I won't hurt you."

"Can you help me find my way back home, I don't remember the way," you whimpered.

Sihtric took your hand and started to lead you out of the forest. You clung to his hand tightly as he led you through the forest. You were still scared, but somehow his presence brought you a sense of comfort and safety. As you emerged from the dense cluster of trees, you could see your home in the distance. Your heart leaped with relief, and you began to quicken your pace, Sihtric keeping pace with you, never once letting go of your hand. As you drew closer, you saw both your parents standing at the door looking out anxiously. When your mother caught sight of you, her eyes lit up and she rushed towards you, scooping you up into her arms. You winced, your left hand still pressed up against your face. She let out a gasp and carefully pried your hand away, and showed the angry red line, that ran from your cheekbone to your chin, to your father. Earl Ragnar swore loudly before taking up his sword and leaving the house in a fury to confront Kjartan and his son, already having been told the story of what happened by the other children. 

"Is-is Thyra okay?" you whispered to your mother, making her smile affectionately.

"Oh my darling girl, look at the state of you, and you're still worried for your older sister. Thyra is perfectly fine, she just had a bit of a fright, now let's get you inside and cleaned up hmm?"

Sihtric lingered outside your door, uncertain of what to do. Your mother noticed him standing there and approached him, still clutching you in her arms.

"Thank you for bringing my daughter home," she said, her voice kind. "You're a very brave young boy."

Sihtric just shrugged, looking a little embarrassed, "It was nothing, I'm just glad she's okay."

As he turned to leave, you grabbed his hand. 

"Wait," you said. "Will I see you again?"

"If you like...?" he gazed up at your mother in hesitation. 

Your mother nodded, her lips turning upward, "You are welcome here anytime."

You grinned shyly, the memory of your adventure already fading into the background, "We can explore the forest together then, just like real warriors."

With a wave goodbye, Sihtric turned and disappeared back into the woods, leaving you with a newfound sense of wonder and the excitement that comes with making a new friend. From that day forward, Sihtric became one of your closest companions, spending endless afternoons exploring the forest and getting into all sorts of adventures. You always looked out for each other, and the bond you forged that day in the woods never wavered. Even though his father had been banished by yours, he continued to find ways to meet with you in the forest, a place where he didn't have to be Sihtric Kjartansson, a bastard child of Kjartan the Cruel. He was just Sihtric, your friend, and perhaps more, judging by the lingering glances you both often exchanged.

This continued up until that fateful day when your entire world was burnt to the ground. You had lost everyone, your parents, your grandfather, and your beloved sister. Your older brother Ragnar the Younger had been away and you felt yourself all alone in the world, that is until Uhtred and Brida took you in. Uhtred felt a strong sense of responsibility for you, being one of the last surviving members of the family that had so lovingly raised him. He had been unable to save Thyra from being taken but he swore to himself that he'd never let harm come to you. 

As the years went by, your childhood wish came true. You had indeed become a fierce warrior, and Uhtred made sure that you knew how to protect yourself and others. You fought in the Battle of Edington against Skorpa and made a reputation for yourself, but the young boy with whom you had spent your childhood days remained a fond memory you found yourself often reminiscing. 

______________

It was in King Guthred's camp in Cumberland where Sihtric finally found you again. He had been sent there to infiltrate the camp and abduct Uhred but when his band of spies attacked, you were the first one there to save your brother, along with Hild, Halig, and Clapa. He had recognized you immediately, the fierce young woman with sharp piercing eyes reminded him of the little girl in the forest whom his half-brother had maimed. However, when you first saw him, you had only looked at him with disdain. He was just another miscreant to you, sent to harm your brother, and you could not imagine him as your childhood companion. He felt his heart sink at that, at the malice in your eyes, at the fact that you did not seem to remember him at all. 

Once he had sworn his allegiance to Uhtred, he made his way to the great hall, where you sat conversing with Gisela. He wanted to talk to you, to hear you speak. Gisela caught sight of his yearning gaze on you and gave him a knowing look. She excused herself and left you sitting there all alone, giving Sihtric an opportunity to take her spot. He settled himself beside you, taking a moment to map out the planes of your face. He had waited years for this moment, to see you again, but now that it was happening, he was unsure how to proceed.

You looked at him and raised an unimpressed eyebrow, "I hear that you will fight for Uhtred now?"

Sihtric nodded.

"You better not betray him, or I'll stick a knife in your throat while you sleep."

A laugh burst out of him and he looked at you with soft eyes, "You are exactly as I remembered."

"Am I now?"

"Do you not remember me?"

You sighed, "Of course, I remember you. How could I ever forget?"

"Well the way you were looking at me like you wanted to take my head off, certainly didn't feel like you remembered me."

"You know you did try to hurt my brother."

"Right...I'm sorry for that by the way. You have my word, I will never betray him."

You twirled your dagger between deft fingers, "I'll hold you to that."

Sihtric laughed again, "Gods, I've missed you."

Your heart skipped a beat. You had always felt something for him but never dared to act on it.

"You did?" you asked, surprised.

He nodded, "I thought about you all the time, wondering where you were and what you were doing. If you were well. And then I heard the stories, of your brother's victories, and they always spoke of his brave sister who fought beside him."

You felt your heart swell with happiness. For the rest of the day, you and Sihtric continued to converse, your exchanges growing more relaxed as you fell back into the familiar comfort of knowing each other. You both shared stories of what you had been doing since you last saw each other.

Sihtric hesitated for a moment, then gathered up his courage to ask you the question that had been weighing on his mind ever since you had been separated, "Are you perhaps with someone now?"

"Why, are you asking because you're interested?" you gave him a playful smirk.

Sihtric's cheeks flushed red as he stumbled over his words, "I... well... I mean... that is to say..."

"Relax, I'm just messing with you. And gods no, me with someone? What an absurd idea. Although... I might be open to offers."

You winked at him.

His eyes widened in surprise and he cleared his throat nervously, "I, uh, I wasn't... I didn't mean..."

"My brother does enough of that for the both of us. Someone's gotta stay sensible and keep him out of trouble, especially since Brida isn't here to do it anymore."

You chuckled at his discomfort and reached out to touch his arm. 

Relief washed over him, and he smiled shyly, "That's good to hear."

You shoved his shoulder, "Good to hear? I am glad my lack of companions brings you such joy Sihtric."

"That is not what I meant and you know it."

"Oh really, so what did you mean then?"

You bat your eyelashes playfully and he rolls his eyes. 

"You haven't changed one bit."

"Perfection doesn't need to change Sihtric."

"Oh very funny."

What he didn't say out loud was that you were indeed perfect. To him at least. He had spent the past few years of his life missing you and he couldn't bear the thought of losing you again. He kept his admiration to himself as he listened to you speak, feeling a deep yearning in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to tell you how he felt, to take you in his arms and never let go. But he was afraid. Afraid of ruining the friendship he had just rekindled. Afraid of the disappointment he would feel if you rejected him. He wondered if you knew how he felt. Did you have any idea of the effect you had on him? He doubted it. After all, you had been children when you had last seen each other. Maybe you had moved on and found someone else. Maybe you didn't even remember him the way he remembered you.

As the next three years went by, you fell into an easy routine with Sihtric. He was part of Uhtred's inner circle and you were his beloved sister so the two of you were seldom separated. Your teasing banter and friendly competition entertained everyone in the group and soon they were all making bets regarding which one of you would be bold enough to confess to the other. The feelings you two had for one another were obvious to everyone, everyone except you and Sihtric it seemed. Even your brother often sent teasing smiles your way when he paired you with Sihtric for tasks. Perhaps this was why the entire group was flabbergasted when Sihtric asked for Uhtred's blessing to marry. 

Uhtred had mentally prepared himself for Sihtric to eventually ask for your hand. He would ask you for your opinion of course and if you were agreeable, he would have been more than happy to bless the union. 

"Who is it that you wish to marry Sihtric?" he raised an eyebrow.

Finan sniggered behind him, sure that his companion would utter your name. You were all on the road back to Winchester and it had been a dull journey so far so he was curious at this new turn of events. You had to admit, you found your heart racing at his request as well. You held your breath, not daring to hope. 

"Sidgeflaed, Lord," Sihtric replied.

"Sidgeflaed? The whore in Winchester you've been spending a lot of time with lately."

"She says she loves me, Lord."

Finan snorts and Sihtric squared his shoulders defensively.

"I swear, she says she loves me!"

"She would. Sihtric she's a whore," Finan chuckled. "What she loves is your silver."

The entire group burst out into laughter.

Sihtric kept his attention on your brother, "I wish to marry her. She says she loves me and I love her."

Uhtred noticed your rigid form out of the corner of your eye. Your knuckles were white from how hard you were gripping your horse's reigns and your jaw was clenched tightly. He could tell that something was bothering you and he had a feeling he knew exactly what it was.

"I will speak to Gisela when we arrive at Winchester and then perhaps I will let you marry your girl. But in the meantime, you are to give her no more of your silver."

You felt a pang of jealousy and sadness at his words. He had chosen someone else. You thought that perhaps now since you had been reunited, he might've chosen you. You kept your emotions in check long enough to flash Sihtric a strained congratulatory smile, but inside you struggled to hold back tears. And then your sadness turned to anger, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of betrayal. How could he marry someone else when you had loved him all along? You wanted to scream at him and ask him why, you wanted to beg him not to marry this other girl, you wanted to run away and never see him again, you wanted to see him every day of your life. Instead, you kept a placid smile on your face and once you all reached your destination, you were the first one to bolt home, leaving your brother to deal with your horse. 

Gisela looked up in surprise when you burst through the door and rushed to your room, the door slamming behind you. Once you were in the private confines of your chambers, you let the tears flow freely. A few moments later, there was a soft knock on the door. You quickly wiped your tears and tried to compose yourself as your brother's wife, entered the room. She had been there for you ever since she married Uhtred, almost like a second mother. 

"Oh, my darling, what's wrong?" she asked gently, placing her arm around your shoulder.

You sniffed morosely, "Nothing, I'm fine."

"Well, you don't look fine."

"It's really nothing. I am just being immature, it's no big deal."

Gisela's lips turned upward as she ran her fingers through your hair, "I have two kids under the age of seven. I think I can handle immature."

You just shook your head and leaned against her, allowing her to pull you into a tight embrace, her comforting scent calming you down. Just then, someone cleared their throat loudly and Gisela looked up to see her husband smiling down at her.

"Am I interrupting something?" Uhtred asked.

She shook her head, "No, your sister is just upset, but she refuses to tell me why. Perhaps you can shed some light on this matter?"

"No, you can't tell her. She's going to think I'm being childish," you whined from the crook of her neck.

Uhtred sighed in fond exasperation, "Sitric has asked for my permission to marry."

Gisela's brow wrinkled in confusion. Shouldn't you have been happy if that was the case? She had watched you become close to him over time and she knew how fond you were of him. 

"To marry someone else," Uhtred clarified.

Her eyes widened in understanding as she rubbed soothing circles on your back, "It's okay love. It's okay to be upset. You are a strong and resilient woman and you can get through this." 

"Shall I refuse him?" your brother asked, making you shake your head frantically.

"No, I am just being selfish. I want him to be happy, and if... if that other girl is the one he loves, then I will try and be happy for them. I don't want to get in his way."

"If you say so."

After Uhtred left you alone with his wife, you wrapped your arms around her once more.

"Thank you, Gisela. You're always so kind to me."

Gisela smiled at you warmly, "Of course, my dear. That's what family is for."

Over the next few days, you made it your priority to avoid Sihtric at all costs, going out of your way so that your paths didn't cross, and when meeting him was inevitable, you made sure that you interacted with him as little as possible. Your tone when addressing him was cold and clipped, only saying what was necessary. It was obvious to everyone that you were trying to distance yourself from him and eventually even Sihtric picked up on your strange behaviour.

He had been trying to find a chance to talk to you alone ever since his first announcement regarding his matrimonial plans. He sensed the strained tension that lingered in the air whenever you were around him, and it filled him with a sense of despair. He was doing this all for you and now you wouldn't even look at him. He thought that by marrying someone else, he would be able to take his mind off you. He didn't want to push you into something you did not want and ruin your friendship by confessing his feelings but now it seemed that he had only made things worse. He had to make things right again somehow. As luck would have it, he spotted you walking down the street alone one day. He called out your name, hurrying to catch up to you. 

When you turned around and saw him coming towards you, you tried to quicken your pace, hoping to avoid him, but he was much too fast. He grabbed your arm and pulled you into a nearby alleyway, away from prying eyes. You aggressively yanked your arm away from him and glared. 

"What are you doing, Sihtric?" 

"I had to talk to you," he responded, his voice low and urgent. "You've been avoiding me, and I need to know why."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," your voice was flat as you fixed your eyes on something over his shoulder, avoiding eye contact. 

"Damnit would you at least look at me when I'm speaking to you."

"No."

"Why are you acting like this? Would you please talk to me."

"Just leave me alone Sihtric. Go spend time with that whore you've been humping. You should get to know your future wife some more," you spat out.

Sihtric flinched at the venom in your words. Your entire body was tensed and you blinked rapidly a few times as if to hold back tears.

"I can't leave you alone," he said, his voice rising. "You're my friend. I care about you. I need to know what's going on."

"I am not your friend, don't you dare call me your friend. You do not care about me at all!"

"How can you say that? What have I done? Would you at least tell me?"

Your face hardened, "If I was really your friend, you would have told me about Sidgeflaed. You never even mentioned her."

"Is that what this is about then? You're upset that I told your brother before I told you? If that's the case then I'm sorry you had to find out like that," he approached slowly, arms reaching toward you.

You shoved him away, "You don't get it, do you? You still don't get it."

"Then explain it to me... please."

"You're marrying her! How could you marry her? If you really cared about me, you wouldn't be breaking my heart like this!" you screamed at him then, and tears streamed down your face. 

"What?"

"How could you marry someone else Sihtric? How could you do that to me when you know how I feel about you? Do you expect me to attend your wedding with a smile on my face? Congratulate you for every child you have with her?"

"What do you mean I know how you feel about me?"

You turned to walk away, and Sihtric couldn't hold back any longer. He grabbed your arm again and spun you around to face him, pushing you against the wall, his face inches from yours. 

His voice rose in anger, "You know what, no! You don't get to say something like that and walk away from me. What did you mean when you said I know how you feel?"

"You know very well what I meant. Do not humiliate me any further," you gave him a weak laugh.

Realization dawned on his face as his eyes widened.

"You have feelings for me?"

You shrugged nonchalantly, "What does it matter? It's not like you feel anything for me."

Sihtric scoffed derisively, "That is the furthest thing from the truth."

"Huh?"

"Don't act like you don't see it. Like you never saw the way I've always looked at you."

Your eyes narrowed in anger, "How dare you? You never once told me how you felt. How dare you blame this on me?"

"I'm not blaming-" he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry okay. I'm sorry I hurt you."

"That doesn't change anything. You're still marrying her."

Your voice broke at the last word and Sihtric's heart clenched at the sight of your melancholy expression.

"I'll try to be happy for you. I swear it. You-you should be able to be with the person you love most and I will make my peace with the fact that it will never be-."

"I don't want to marry her!"

"But-"

"I thought that by marrying someone else, I could forget about you. I was wrong. I can't forget about you."

"Oh don't pretend to care now."

Sihtric tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear and ran his fingers down your jaw. 

"I care about you more than anything," he whispered, stepping infinitesimally closer. "I love you."

"You do?"

"Weren't you listening silly girl? It's you I love, it's you I wish to choose."

"I don't appreciate being called silly," you sulked. "And you're really not going to marry her then?"

"No. No, I can't keep lying to myself."

"You really hurt me you know."

"I know, and I'm sorry," Sihtric begged, his voice pleading. "But please, just give me a chance to make it up to you. I love you. I always have, ever since we were children, and even when I couldn't see you, I never stopped thinking about you. I just didn't want to ruin what we had by telling you."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. You had always secretly hoped that he felt the same way, but had convinced yourself that he didn't. Now, standing in front of him, you could feel the tug of your shared history and the depth of his emotions.

"Please, just one chance. Let me show you how much I care about you. I promise to never take you for granted again," Sihtric continued sincerely.

"Okay," you murmured, your voice softening. "Okay, I'll give you a chance but if you hurt-"

"Never. I will never hurt you again."

Sihtric brushed the remaining tears from your eyes tenderly and smiled, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. He couldn't resist the pull he felt, because then he was leaning in and pressing his lips gently against yours, unsure if you would reciprocate.

You were caught off guard by the suddenness of the kiss, but as his lips moved against yours, you felt your heart stutter in your chest. You closed your eyes and kissed him back, allowing yourself to be swept away by the rush of affection you felt for him. 

You both stood there for a few long moments, lost in each other, oblivious to the world around you. When he pulled away, Sihtric grinned.

"I suppose I'll have to ask your brother's blessing again," he looked into your eyes hesitantly. "That is if you would do me the honour of allowing me to be yours?"

"Yes. Yes of course."

"Thank you."

He pressed a delicate kiss to your scar and then you were pulling him back towards you by his collar, mouths pressed in a passionate embrace as you both gave in to the undeniable attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface for years.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he mumbled against your skin like a prayer. 

[rhaenyrathecruell]

Fuck me please

[breanime]

Bre's Random Thots: HOTD and TLK Edition

In relation to this poll-- don't forget to vote!

Warning: Steamy, NSFW, yandere tendencies, if you know what I am, you know what this is gonna be lol

Characters: Aemond Targaryen, Sihtric Kjartansson, Finan the Agile

I'm considering writing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson, Uhtred Ragnarsson, Cregan Stark

Obsessed Arranged Marriage--Aemond Targaryen

Aemond found no sleep the night he was told that his hand had been promised to you, afraid if he closed his eye, he would awaken from this dream. You were to be his. You, with your sharp wit and bright mind and pretty face and soft-looking, plump lips. Aemond had spent months pining for you, fixated on his sister's pretty new friend, wanting nothing more than to touch you, hold you...

Claim you.

And now, you would be his, bound to him by law and vow, promised to him through weeks of negotiations that neither of you had been privy to. He had spent the first part of the night pacing, thinking of all the ways it could go wrong. What if your family withdrew and broke their promise? What if, after the vows had been said, you did not accept him? What if you never loved him? Aemond's pacing had ceased at that thought, his stomach churning in a swirl of despair and rage at the idea of you rejecting him. But then, as he pictured you, his mind supplied him with an answer to his silent question. What if you never loved him?

He would have you still.

Aemond stood, silent and tense, as he pictured you, his pretty wife, bound to him until death took you both. Even if you never loved him, he would have you. You would be his, and he spent the next portion of his evening imagining, in great detail, all of the ways he could claim you. He pictured the way your mouth would look around his cock, stuffed with him, eyes wide open and gazing up at him as you sat on your knees. He thought of the sounds you would make as he fucked you--no, made love to you--no. Fucked.

The last of the night, until the sun rose and his body, already dedicated to pleasing you, sagged with exhaustion, was spent fucking his fist, pretending it was your mouth, your cunt, your tight, tiny asshole, until Aemond had emptied his balls.

And still, he wanted you.

Aemond watched the sun rise over King's Landing, heard the low grumbles of Vhagar rising in the distance, and sighed. His hand was still feebly wrapped around his now soft cock, abused to exhaustion at just the thought of you, his wife to be.

He felt himself twitch in his hand, tempted at the reminder of what you would become to him--his wife, and Aemond couldn't help but smirk, amused at his own desperation. You were to be his, and his alone.

He would have you.

Sihtric Kjartansson--Modern Jealous

Sihtric had an Instagram for two reasons: one, because Finan said it was weird not to have one, and two, because you had an Instagram.

He scrolled through his feed, ignoring most of the posts, but taking note of a few. Edward posted a picture with Uhtred at some conference the latter had been forced to go to, using Sihtric's friend to gain clout, no doubt. Meanwhile, Uhtred posted a story--tagging Sihtric, of course--showing the guys going absolutely insane at the bar last night. Sihtric bit his lip as he watched the story, his mismatched eyes immediately finding himself in the background, even with Uhtred's shaky camerawork. Sihtric was easy to find, after all.

He was always standing next to you.

In the video, Uhtred was showing the crowd to the camera, grinning widely with Finan at his side, gesturing to a very drunk Osferth off to the side, clearly flirting with some girl while another watched, arms folded. Aldhelm was there as well, smiling shyly, eyes on his cup, as Aethelflaed, always that much more affectionate when tipsy, laid her head on his shoulder. Sihtric smiled warmly for a moment at the memory--it had been a good night, last night. The smile, however, quickly slid into a smirk as the images flashed in front of his eyes, documented by Uhtred. Sihtric saw himself, his tattoos glistening against his skin, holding you to him, his large hands on your waist. You were laughing, and Sihtric could almost hear the sweet sounds of your pleasure over the music, could see the way the sweat slid down your neck as you laughed. Even now, he felt himself stiffen, his cock rising at the thought of your neck, exposed for him, covered in his kiss, his bite. He had experienced a similar thought last night, and Sihtric watched as he acted on it.

In the video, Sihtric pulled you that much closer, one of his large hands gripping your ass, his tattooed fingers curling into your soft curves until his face was buried in your neck. He watched himself latch onto you, and his eyes widened as he saw, for the first time, the face you made when he did that. Sihtric grinned, teeth bared like a wolf, as he watched the way your face contorted; your cute little nose scrunched up as your pretty mouth fell open in a gasp, how your tiny little hands clung to him, wanting him closer, and Gods, Sihtric couldn't wait to see you again and get you closer, fuck, the way you looked, he just--

--the video morphed into the next slide, and Sihtric was reminded that this was Uhtred's story, as vivid as the memories were, what he was looking at now (a scowling Brida flipping off the camera while Cnut, red as a tomato, raised his empty glass in a toast), was public. Anyone could see it.

Anyone.

Could see it. You. Your sexy, beautiful face alive with pleasure.

Sihtric scowled, suddenly frustrated. That face was for him, and him alone. It wasn't fair that others could see it, would see it... but then again, Sihtric thought, barely registering the next slide of the story being shown-- Osferth with a third, different girl--maybe this was too his advantage. Sihtric enjoyed marking you up, displaying his claim on you. He liked to touch you too, keep an arm on you or his hand on your thigh, so everyone around could tell that you were his girl. And so now, with this video, that fact was broadcast that much further. really, he should be thanking Uhtred. Because now, everyone who followed him (which were a LOT of people, it was insane), could see those few seconds on his story and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were Sihtric's woman. The story flashed twice more, depicting Finan and Uhtred teasing Aldhelm-- about his crush on Aethelflaed, Sihtric knew, and then a video of a fondly exasperated Hild in a Sihtric-Uhtred-Finan bear hug while Osferth could be seen making out with a fourth girl in the background, before the story--and Sihtric's temper--flashed again.

The next image was of you and Uhtred. This did not spark Sihtric's temper at all; he loved how close you were with his friends, they all adored you, and Sihtric felt he could trust any of them to look after you if he was ever gone. In fact, the picture was cute. Sihtric took a screenshot so he could keep it. You stood beside Uhtred, posing the same as him, your face smug and proud in a perfect imitation of his brash friend. Since you were copying Uhtred, you were standing like him, feet apart, face forward, chest pushed up, that cute expression on your face making Sihtric's heart swell with affection. Immediately afterwards, Uhtred's story switched to a text box, and Sihtric saw that Uhtred had tagged him in it. The text read: "Stop asking about her, she's with @Sihtric" accompanied by an emoji rolling its eyes.

And that'd when the jealousy went from mild to... something else. His thumb moved as quickly as his mind did, until he was hearing a ringing tone followed by Uhtred sighing, "Yeah, Sihtric?" He already knew where this was going.

Sihtric knew he was being ridiculous, overprotective, and unnecessarily possessive, but he didn't know how else to be. You were his, and his only, and he thought he has made that clear. He answered Uhtred with a low voice, eyes narrowed.

"Who's been asking about my woman?"

Waking Up Together--Finan the Agile

Finan loved waking up with you. He loved how you cuddled into his chest, loved the way his big arms engulfed you, loved how soft you felt against him. He almost always woke before you did, a habit of his warrior lifestyle and constantly being on the move. He didn't mind it so much now, though, because it gave him some quiet time to reflect before the day took his mind away.

He loved you.

Carefully, because even after all this time, Finan still secretly feared he might somehow hurt you, he ran his fingers down your arm. Your skin was warm under his touch, and Finan smiled to himself as you nuzzled into his broad chest. He found himself kissing your hairline, his eyes fluttering shut as he breathed in your scent. He had humped you on the riverbank last night, his forehead pressed against yours as he fucked into you. Finan sighed at the memory, his cock, already half-hard simply from being near you, growing even harder as he recalled the feel of your wet pussy pulsating around him. He kissed your forehead now with a tenderness that would have surprised many if they knew about it. But you did that to him, brought out his softer side, his need to protect you, to take care of you, to bring you pleasure and security and to love you.

But then again, you brought out another side to him as well.

Finan smirked, kissing down to your nose, as he thought back to earlier the previous day, sometime after him having you for breakfast, his strong hands keeping your legs open as he licked into you and before him pressing against your round ass, his cross slapping into his chest with every thrust shortly after he fucked you on the riverbank, to right after suppertime.

Finan held you close now as he thought back to the way he had slammed you on the table, tearing your dress, grinning wildly as the fabric ripped, exposing your perfect breasts to his probing tongue and hands. He had his face buried between your tits then, biting into your supple flesh and then soothing it with his dripping tongue. He had no patience then, and he took you hard and fast, much to your mutual satisfaction. Finan had fucked you like a beast, hands gripping your hips and pulling you to him as you laid on your back, legs in the air, head thrown back in pleasure. You always took him well, and Finan adored the way you loved a rough fuck. He was so big, so thick, he loved the way you would tremble taking him.

Now, Finan was fully hard. He wanted you, and he sighed sweetly as he held you, lips brushing against yours. Your nose twitched at the feel of his beard against your soft face, and Finan chuckled. He leaned forward, the mattress moving beneath him as one large hand fell to your ass, cupping it firmly as he pushed you even closer, his hard cock pressing against your soft tummy. He felt your lips pucker, and he knew you were waking up. He kissed you, soft and slow, his mouth pressing into yours with a low groan, moving against you until your lips parted. His tongue slid into your mouth easily, and he rolled on top of you, smirking when you spread your legs to make room for him.

"Good mornin' to ya, love," he whispered, his accent thickened from waking up and from the deep, insatiable desire he felt for you, "Can I fuck you?"

************************************************************************

Okkkkk goodnight! Please let me know what you think, how you feel, which one you liked best. I wrote this all at once just now, so please know that NONE of these are WIPs (Work In Progress), I just was inspired by the awesome fics I've been reading lately, and @fvckthisbxtchup specifically got my engine revving today, so if you did like any of these, thank her! Love you babe!

Again, please let me know what you think of these. I haven't written in a long time, I'm rusty, I admit that, but I also had so much fun writing these, and I wanna interact with these fandoms more so... this! This is my third time writing Aemond and my first time wiritng Sihtric and Finan, so let me know how I did! :D

I did this poll regarding some more snippets or fics or drabbles or whatever I may do in the future, please vote if you haven't already!

Thank you for reading! I really appreciate it!

[tovalhallaandback]

A Game of Revenge and Loyalty

Pairing: Stiorra Uhtredsdottir/Sigtryggr Ivarson

Summary: The career academy may have taught them how to win the Hunger Games, but nothing of how to win the game of love. A forbidden love becomes more complicated as they quickly learn, the Hunger Games were not the only thing they signed up for when they decided to volunteer.

AKA - It's a Hunger Games AU! Mentor/Mentee vibes. Career vibes. - But not in the way you might imagine! TONS of angst but a promised happy-ish ending.

Trigger Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!! HG Canon typical violence and atrocites. TLK Canon typical violence and atrocities. Better tags on AO3, with each chapter having a content warning drop down for those who do not wish to be spoiled.

REPLY TO THIS POST OR SEND ME AN ASK IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE ADDED OR REMOVED FROM THE TAGLIST

Read the first three chapters on AO3, or try the first chapter in full below the cut:

Falling in love with Sigtryggr Ivarson might just be the biggest she has ever made, but there’s no space to think about that right now - not when she’s leaning into the crook of his shoulder, not on a night like tonight. 

All around her, the voices of her classmates from the Career Academy rhythmically shouting “Speech!” echo off the surrounding boulders as they gather in celebration of District Two’s next champions. She and her boyfriend stand closest to the high rock wall where a few wooden pallets form a makeshift stage. A wall of red stone wraps around them like an amphitheater, opening up into a landscape of sand, cacti, and boulders of assorted sizes. With his arm already wrapped around her waist, he pulls her closer to his body, their gazes never breaking as chocolate brown eyes meet ice blue. Her smile widens, dimples deepening as he leans down, placing a soft kiss on her forehead before turning to the crowd.

“You want a speech?” His gaze scans over the crowd, a glint of mischief awakening in his eyes as the surrounding rocks amplify his voice. The laughter of the gathered crowd bounces off the walls, a unified “Yes” quickly following. As they begin to shove him towards the pallets, his grip tightens on her, pulling her along with him onto the stage as the whole quarry vibrates around them from the music and cheers. 

Since the first graduates of the Career Academy came of age to volunteer, it has become tradition to send off the next tributes with one last party. While District Two often produces a victor, there could only ever be one who returns. But even as their champions celebrate their last nights, sorrow never tinges the atmosphere (at least, no one lets their sorrow be known). They are proud, honored even, to be offering this sacrifice to the Capitol (at least, that’s what they tell themselves). And so, they feast and drink to their hearts’ desires, giving the next tributes one last night of memories. And tonight, the party is for her boyfriend - District Two’s next male tribute. 

Sigtryggr clears his throat, silence suddenly falling around them. A coy smile plays on his lips as she brushes her hand over his chest, her doe eyes peering up at him. “Tomorrow, Skade and I will volunteer with a promise to bring District Two back to its glory.” Two hasn’t had a Victor since his older brother, Ivar, won seven years earlier, while One, a fellow Career District and their rival, has had three more since his brother's victory. “No longer will we allow our power to be doubted. When we fight, we fight for all of you and show no mercy. But tonight…” His eyes meet hers once more as he offers her a small wink, “Tonight, we drink.” She suppresses the urge to giggle at his antics - he has always had a way with words. Then with a raise of a beer to the crowd, he finishes his speech, “May the odds be ever in our favor!” 

As the crowd erupts into cheers once more, he leans down capturing her lips with his own earning a few whistles amongst the applause and jubilation. A smile etches itself across her lips as he deepens the kiss, dipping her backwards until her long deep brown hair grazes the ground, briefly catching him throw a vulgar gesture towards the whistlers - Wolland, his brothers, and a few other snickering classmates of his. But, she hardly hears their jokes or even the rumbles of the crowd. Because for a brief moment, she finds herself forgetting their location and the reasons for this party. 

But as quickly as the moment has started, it disappears, suddenly tugged back up and released, the chants of his name intensifying. She gnaws on her lower lip, fiddling with the label on her beer as she watches him burst into his infamous battle cry. Reaching into the crowd, he yanks Skade up onto the pallets with them, then the two tributes raise their clasped hands victoriously into the air as the cheers become the primary resounding noise in the abandoned quarry once more.

As District Two’s newly crowned champions bask in their glory, Stiorra slips off the stage wandering towards one of the quieter corners of the humming party. Taking a moment to sip her drink, a smile finds itself on her lips again as she gazes at him from a far - blue eyes aflame with hunger and excitement. 

A year an half ago almost to the day, she complained to her brother about the stagnation in her melee skills. Daggers, throwing knives, and bows continued to be pushed upon her by the trainers, but in the small chance that none of those weapons became available in the arena, she decided that she needed to master all potential weaponry if she wanted to win. Upon hearing her doubts, her brother suggested she ask Sigtryggr for help.

Sure, she had always had a crush on her brother’s classmate, practically since her brother’s first day at the Academy. And, Sigtryggr had seemed nice enough - always polite in their brief exchanges, intervening when Skade went after her older brother…He had also always been a great fighter, ranking number one in his class since his first year. But, she didn’t need a tutor; she just needed extra practice. Of course, her brother, trying to be the helpful kind older brother that he is, did not see it that way, nor did he seem to get her message (she very clearly growled at him for even suggesting she ask Sigtryggr for help), so next thing she knew, Sigtryggr was asking her to train with him. 

For weeks, she fought the feelings that built inside of her. She denied that her temperament changed when he was around - denied that it killed her when the trainers forced them into individual studies. Told herself that the butterflies in her stomach were just from a questionable meal. But that all changed the day he pinned her to the ground after she refused to yield, even after losing her sword. 

His ash-brown hair, almost chestnut brown under the winter sun, created a curtain around them, providing an illusion of privacy. For a moment, it was just the two of them as his ice blue eyes blinked back at hers. Before she could even try to wiggle free from his control, his lips were on hers sending shockwaves throughout her entire body. “I win,” he had whispered by her ear before releasing her from his weight and helping her to stand. 

They both were punished for the incident, sent to their dorm rooms without food for the next twenty-four hours. Though, the kiss he gave her the next day when he yanked her into one of the darker corridors outside of the main training gym confirmed everything she had been trying so hard to deny. And after that day, she could not go a single day without seeing him. Too bad, she is about to lose him. 

Despite the dark shadow that looms over his number one class ranking, she remains the proud girlfriend. Or at least, she tries to for him. For every time she showed even a drop of sadness for his future fate, he would dial back his intensity at the Academy, taking blows during matches that he typically would have seen coming, allowing for the opportunity for someone to displace him. But his blue eyes always remained stormy, instead of like the sky on a clear day, even with his insistence that he didn’t care whether or not he ranked first in his class and gender. She couldn’t blame him though - it is in his blood. His grandfather, uncles, and two elder brothers had not only volunteered, but had won. Plus, it didn’t help that it would likely be his best friend, Wolland, taking his spot. So, she does what any good girlfriend would do - puts on a brave face and pretends to be excited for him. But with reaping day less than twenty-four hours away, the act grows harder to maintain with each tick of the clock. 

Eighteen months. Only eighteen months of stolen glances across the training gymnasium, lingering kisses in janitorial closets, scaling across ledges to dormitory windows…

They didnt have to hide it, not technically - more of a precautionary choice if anything. But, Academy leadership did find ways to discourage it - mostly by identifying it as a weakness to be culled. In the eyes of leadership, loving someone meant caring about his or her survival more than one’s own, an Achille’s heel in the Games. And to District Two, death will always mean dishonor. Dishonor to the district, but worst of all, dishonor to the families of the tributes who promised their people glory and wealth. Plus, there is the issue of her father who might just have a heart attack then and there if he finds out his little girl might not be a little girl anymore, especially once he finds out she’s dating a boy two years her senior.

But, love is a fickle thing that is not easily ignored. So in the end, their primal need to love and to be loved won, even with all the programming from the Academy. And instead of trying to shove it behind a locked door, they made the decision to be together, even if it meant keeping it a secret. 

Only eighteen months, and so very close to making it. And now, eighteen months quickly slips through her fingers, faster than sand in an hourglass, every effort made suddenly feeling meaningless. Leadership is right - she should have never let herself fall in love. Not with him, at least. Not with the Academy all star.. 

But, she told herself she wouldn’t dwell on that notion tonight. Taking a large inhale of the warm dry air, Stiorra stares up to the sky where the stars are starting to reach their brightest, imprinting the memory of him - joyful and spirited and wild - into her brain one last time. 

Life at the Academy is hard, and would only continue to become harder without his presence there to distract her. Constantly pit against each other, their rankings become their entire personality, dominating everything from their social status to their dorm room. If they are anything but a perfect machine, then they might as well end their life then and there. As a result, graduating classes never top more than twenty graduates despite the hundreds of children the District has to offer as tribute to the Games. And so, they all find themselves relishing in these moments when they could just be teenagers rather than robotic killing machines. Teenagers who deep down are just as afraid of dying as the other Districts. And yet, relishing in the moment is the exact opposite of what she wants to be doing tonight. 

“And here I thought you’d be front and center this evening.” 

She gazes over towards the source of the sound, her older brother’s voice rousing her from her peace. While her lips still brim with a smile, her eyes speak differently as they cast downwards towards the ground. By the elation clear across his features, she figures he has simply come to jest with her about the party, a habit they formed when they were young children attending Capitol parties with their parents. But, tonight of all nights - she cannot bring herself to join him in his delight. 

Her voice is barely a whisper as she makes her confession to one of the few people that can see through her mask and to the only person who might understand her trepidation, “What if he doesn’t come back?”

Young Uhtred places a gentle hand on his sister’s shoulder as he speaks, “I have known Sigtryggr since we were eight years old. And since the first day we entered the Academy, he has ranked first in our class. If his superior melee skills do not win, it will be his brain. He’s outsmarted previous victors and trainers countless times.” 

The small squeeze of his hand on her shoulder paired with his words is sweet, but it doesn’t help much. With a drop of his arm, he joins her against the boulder, taking a swig of his beer. Filling her lungs with the dry air again, she straightens her posture, trying to initiate a shift in her demeanor as the feelings of dread and worry continue to fester inside of her, haunting every thought. The darkness once overtaking her eyes fades into a small twinkle as she attempts to pester her older brother hoping a change in subject helps, “Father still giving you the silent treatment after your little display in front of Edward at graduation?”

At graduation, each graduate announces their post-graduation plans - volunteering, joining the Peacekeeper Academy, joining the Weapon Manufacturing Division, or joining the Quarry. Seeing as only two can volunteer, the rest typically make the decision to join the Peacekeeper Academy while one or two decide to join the Weapon Manufacturing Division. But, no one ever chooses to work in the Quarry. Not until her brother.

Young Uhtred rolls his eyes, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “I think we would see an end to these Games before Father ever speaks to me again." She swallows as she watches the agony transfer from her eyes to his, achieving exactly the opposite of what she intended. 

With their father serving as President Edward’s Minister of Defense, everyone expected her older brother to proudly declare his intent to enroll in the Peacekeeper Academy. As children of a Capitol representative, it is their duty to model loyalty to Edward and the Capitol, but Young Uhtred might as well have spit in the young President’s face by joining the Quarry instead of his Majesty’s precious army. At least, that’s how their father seemed to see the action. 

But, Young Uhtred had not made the choice to be defiant or radical. Not only does her older brother always avert his eyes whenever the next tribute death proves imminent, he also ranked dead last in his class - two facts their father has seemed to overlook entirely. He’s just not meant for the life of a Peacekeeper or to manufacture weapons of mass destruction. In fact, it remains a miracle that the Academy even let him graduate with the remainder of his class earlier in the week. It’s just not who he is, nor who he ever will be. 

Seeking the return of his light, she nudges at his shoulder with her own. “You’ll be the best Quarry worker that District Two has ever seen!” She matches his expression as the smile that had been briefly lost begins to return to her brother’s face. “Besides, I already told Father that if he doesn’t start speaking to you by the beginning of the Games, that I’ll drop out of the academy and join you.” 

Young Uhtred nearly chokes on his mouthful of beer, snorting at her declaration,“At least he will still have Osbert. That kid terrifies me.”

“I think Osbert will be the first to win the Games in a day,” she says with shutter. Having only been enrolled in the Career Academy for two years, Osbert has already made a name for himself due to his tendency to leave training dummies unrecognizable when practicing his melee skills. And, it definitely doesn’t help that he names them after his classmates. So once he inevitably volunteers in eight years, she’s certain her position as favorite child will be challenged. 

“Nope, not even a day. One hour,” Young Uhtred quips, causing the image of her ten-year-old brother, coated in the blood of twenty-three bodies to overtake her imagination. Luckily the sigh her brother takes as he steps away from the boulder frees her, “I’m empty. Do you want anything else?” Stiorra shakes her head. He lingers for another moment, cocking an eyebrow at her, “Do you need anything else?” She shakes her head again.

Her gaze travels past her brother into the distance where she spots Sigtryggr in the middle of an unassisted keg stand. Eyes rake over his half-naked body trying to commit the look of his flexed muscles to memory. Still lingering, Young Uhtred turns, following her gaze to the blue-eyed young man falling into the arms of his brothers. “That is going to be one killer hangover,” he says. 

When he looks back at her, she rolls her eyes with a giggle then nods her head in the direction of one of the bar tables sending him on his way. Finishing her beer with one final chug, she keeps her focus locked on his mess of dirty blonde hair as her older brother moves further and further into the crowd until disappearing completely. 

Alone again, she fidgets with the label on her bottle, prodding at it with nimble fingers until it comes off cleanly. As she smiles at the perfection of her work, she feels the tears begin to come. A frustrated sigh escapes her lips causing her to viciously tear the small label into pieces in hopes of quelling the emotion. When that does nothing, her hand grips the bottle until her knuckles turn white. She then turns herself towards the scattered sets of rocks and desert behind her. Wielding her arm back as far as her flexibility will allow, she hurls it forward sending the bottle into the night sky where it disappears. The accompanying crackle of glass in the distance acts as her only indication that it has landed. When even that action does not free her, she digs her nails into her palms and inhales deeply trying to regulate her racing heartbeat as her blood pumps loudly in her ears and her chest heaves over and over again. Her teeth dig deep into her lip as she suppresses both the scream and tears that beg release. 

Eighteen months. They only had eighteen months together. She wants more. She needs more. Every year. Every day. Every second. Even if he’s the most skilled tribute that District Two has ever laid eyes upon, there are always ringers from other Districts. Hell, even District Twelve got its first victor eight years ago. Besides, it has never been the other tributes that arouse fear inside of her. She has seen the best of tributes be taken down by the Capitol’s muttations, and even worse - starvation and illness. At the end of the day, it is a game of a chance not skill. 

Her hands begin to shake as a sob tries to break free, her true emotions slamming at the walls of their prison like a dam ready to burst. Just as she prepares herself for the breech, she hears small rocks tumble behind her. She welcomes the distraction, using it to quell the wild fire raging inside of her. 

“Sorry I’ll be pushing a dagger through his heart in a week’s time,” the sound of the small blonde’s voice dripping with acid has Stiorra retracting her earlier sentiment - she would much rather face her pent up emotions than deal with her intruder. Skade has always had a way of leeching herself beneath the girl from Two’s skin. With a roll of her eyes, Stiorra turns to face Skade, finding her perched on top of a large boulder picking at her nail beds, looking up only to offer the raven-haired girl a wicked smile, teeth gleaming in the moon light.

This year’s female volunteer’s smug grin sends waves of heat through Stiorra, igniting the embers beneath her skin. As flames consume her, Stiorra digs her nails into the heels of her palm, teeth clenching together viciously as she inhales slowly, holding the breath for three counts, then releasing it.

More level-headed now, Stiorra manages to snicker back, “I bet he kills you before you even reach the cornucopia.”

Once upon a time, she had considered Skade a close friend, seeing as they basically grew up together with Skade’s father a Sergeant Major in the Peacekeepers. But by the time they were twelve and fourteen, close friends became enemies - first because of the rigorous nature of the Academy and second because of boys. In fact, the small blonde had been the first to insult the brunette when news spread that she was dating Sigtryggr. 

Skade’s nostrils flare, eyes like the ocean freezing over. Hopping off the boulder, the snake closes the distance between the two of them in three quick strides. Breath hot on Stiorra’s ear, she whispers viciously, “Maybe I’ll do it in his sleep while his arms are wrapped around me. Those nights sure do get cold and lonely.” 

The villainous smile plastered on Skade’s face quickly turns into a scowl as Stiorra erupts into laughter, used to the snake’s attempts to invalidate her relationship. She began dating Sigtryggr when she was fourteen and half, the half having been quite important to her at the time. When rumors spread about the two of them, so did the vitriol with Skade leading from helm of the I-Hate-Stiorra ship. Almost everyone thought the Minister of Defenses’s daughter was too immature for the sixteen-year-old Sigtryggr, so she claimed the half year as if it made a significant difference. 

'He’ll leave you once the games begin’ is their favorite. ‘He’s only with you for your father’s status' is hers. But even before she had started dating Sigtryggr, her classmates have tried to use her father’s status to discredit her - a feat also lead by Skade. Little did they know, Edward would sacrifice her entire family without hesitation if it meant maintaining his power.

Eventually, she learned how to wield more than just a few months added to her age against them. A small smile creeps over her lips at the memory of threatening some of their classmates when she had enough of their vitriol. Liv and Dagny had gone pale as a sheet when she taunted them with the threat of poisoning - so easy to slip a couple of drops from the deadliest berry in the country into their morning juice. Both girls avoided all beverages - juice, coffee, tea, even water - for the next few weeks. Then, there was Skade and her posse - much harder to terrorize, but still eventually received the message…once Stiorra threatened to tell everyone about how Skade wet the bed till she was seven, of course.

Skade inevitably changed her tactic - deciding to openly pursue Sigtryggr. One time last year, Sigtryggr received a chest wound during a sparring match. As it was minor, the trainers decided to take the opportunity to turn it into a lesson, showcasing how allies could be of use. Skade waltzed up in front of the entire upperclassmen, volunteering before even asked. Reaching for the gauze, eyes glinting with amusement, she stared Stiorra down as her hands roamed over Sigtryggr’s chest, drawling, “My, my someone hasn’t been missing upper body day.” Then taking one finger, the small blonde dragged it underneath the narrow five inch slash across his upper peck, wiping away the blood that had begun to trickle out, completely ignoring how Siggtryggr’s muscles stiffened and eyes fell shut underneath her touch. 

When his eyes reopened moments later, a deep onyx eclipsed the sunny blue as he turned towards the trainers, “Isn’t it better if I do this myself? This won’t be the injury that kills me nor does it require assistance to bandage.” Giggling in triumph as the trainers insisted she continue, Skade took her blood-coated finger into her mouth then licked it clean before finishing the task.

He didn’t let Skade get away with it though -  tutting every time she reached for the wrong item, ridiculing her technique, dissecting every choice till the snake was a bright-red fumbling mess. Their classmates chagrin became uncontrollable, laughter bouncing endlessly off the walls, only growing louder as the trainers tried to help the small blonde. But the icing on the cake? Immediately following the demonstration, her boyfriend threw his ruined training shirt at Stiorra with a wink while all the other girls fawned over him. Making his point clear, he would always choose the Minister of Defense’s daughter. 

“How many times has he chosen me over you? What was the tally again?” Stiorra snipes back. 

Skades spits her next words like venom, “I’ll be sure to bring you back a lock of his hair when he lets his love for you blind him. Maybe I’ll get lucky and your daddy will ask Adhelm to send a particularly vicious muttation designed just for him.” 

Flames explode into an inferno as the brunette shoves the blonde with all her strength. Laughter escapes Skade’s throat when she staggers back a few steps, “Is that all you got? I can’t wait to see you die within the first ten minutes in two years.” 

The small blonde stalks back towards Stiorra, the malevolence in her gaze taunting. Curling her hand into a fist, the raven-haired girl launches her attack, but a stronger hand catches her wrist stopping it midair. 

“Fuck off, Skade. Don’t you have some blood ritual to preform to ensure your victory?” Wolland barks. With a snicker, Skade makes her retreat as Wolland slowly releases Stiorra’s wrist from his grip. He sighs as his voices lowers, replacing the malice with tenderness, “Why do you let her get to you?” 

But instead of answering, Stiorra shoves past him, the table littered with bottles containing an assortment of different colored liquids her target. As she reaches her destination, she grabs the closest open bottle of clear liquid. Her nose wrinkles as the fumes sting her orifices. Squeezing her eyes closed, she brings the opening of the bottle to her mouth, leans back and then chugs.  Slamming it back onto the table, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand disregarding the burning sensation that radiates from her throat as Wolland marches towards her.

Practically tasting the displeasure and sarcasm on his tongue, he says, “Ah yes, the perfect solution. Shall I offer you some nightlock instead next time?” 

Stiorra’s gaze incinerates the back of the small blonde’s head, watching closely as she pushes her way back to the front, wishing she could slip some of the juice from the small dark deadly berry in reference into the snake’s morning tea. Hands curling into fists at her side, she says “She’s going to find a way to cheat, Wolland. I know it.” 

“You know the Gamemakers are too smart to allow that to happen,” he says gently, arms crossing over his chest accentuating the muscles of his biceps. If it isn’t Sigtryggr trying to reason with her, it’s his best friend. But, the sorrow in Wolland’s eyes speaks the truth - it’s not the Aldhelm and his fellow Gamemakers who are in control.

“They want a show, Wolland. Besides, all Skade has to do is tell her father that Sigtryggr’s family are conspiring rebels. Next thing we know, his own personal muttation is in the arena.” 

Licking his lips, the silence grows heavy between them until he quietly mutters, “I’ll take care of it.” 

Stiorra’s gaze softens - she hadn’t meant to drag him into this, not after all the punishments he’d endured with Sigtryggr to help keep their relationship secret. He’d done so much for them over the past year and half already, that it felt unfair for him to rescue them yet again. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look. You think I want to see him die either? For all I care, the bitch can rot in hell. You two aren’t her only victims,” he says with a roll of his eyes. 

“Thanks Wolland,” she whispers. Sure, she hadn’t intended for him to get involved, but he is right - this is bigger than her relationship with this year’s male volunteer. As the flames begin to retreat back into embers, she leans into the table, changing the subject, “When do you enter the Peacekeeper Academy?” 

“The day after tomorrow,” he says with a frown.

“Does Hella know?” Stiorra’s voice is soft as she gently probes at the subject. As Stiorra’s best friend, Hella has also gotten looped into preserving the secrecy of her relationship. As a result, Wolland and Hella grew equally close to one another, even sparking their own dating rumors up until recently, when Wolland suddenly found every reason to avoid the girl.

Casting his gaze downwards, Wolland begins to shift his feet, “No.”

“Wolland, you have too. You can’t just leave her.”, she pleads. 

Smoke clouds of sand erupt at their feet as he kicks at rocks, “I don’t know how, Stiorra.”

Joining the Peacekeeper Academy hadn’t been the first on Wolland’s list, not after he met Hella at least. He had told her and Sigtryggr that he planned to surprise the blonde after graduation with the news that he would be joining the Weapons Division. But three weeks before graduation around when Wolland started avoiding Hella, Stiorra’s father suddenly asked her about her boyfriend’s best friend, intrigued by his Academy stats. Confronting the tall burly young man, she learned the heartbreaking truth - the Weapons Division was no longer an option for him. Sworn to secrecy, it absolutely gutted the brunette to have to watch her friends suffer. But maybe if she couldn’t have her happy ending with Sigtryggr, maybe her best friend could.

“Tell her tonight. Have one last night with her. All you have to do is tell her the truth. She thinks you don’t feel the same way anymore. And, maybe I can persuade my father to let you be stationed here.” He raises his eyebrows, staring her down. “Okay, maybe I can’t do that but she’ll understand, especially if you tell her about needing the money for your mom’s treatments.” 

Wolland sighs as he brushes a hand over his face, “Fine. I’ll do it.” But then, he looks back up at her, eyes blazing as a finger digs into her chest, “But, you need to tell him that you love him.” 

Stiorra fights the urge to roll her eyes - of course Wolland knows that she and Sigtryggr still hadn’t exchanged those words, despite how evident their feelings for each other seemed to be. But that was the point - they didn’t need to say the words.  Even with all the attempts to discredit their relationships over the years, she has never doubted Sigtryggr’s love for her. Time and time again, he proves it. He is the one who wants to tell her father about their relationship. He, who saw no harm in them being open about it tonight - he’s a graduate now, after all. Better yet he continues to talk of their future even though he plans to volunteer for the 68th Hunger Games tomorrow. 

And, she loves him too - more than anything else on this planet, so much so that even just the thought of losing him is enough to make her palms clammy, head dizzy. But saying the actual words… Measly words wouldn’t suddenly change their pre-existing feelings nor would it change their fate. 

So she opens her mouth to protest her boyfriend’s best friend’s request, while he holds up his flattened palm signaling her silence, “He needs to hear the words before he leaves.”

But, there’s no point in arguing with that this time, because he’s right - this might be her last chance and when he inevitably dies - at least he knows with certainty that she loves him. So with a groan, she grasps his hand solidifying their deal.

Just as their hands release, Stiorra feels two new ones suddenly slip around her waist, pulling her close. A tender kiss presses into her temple, then a chin rests on her shoulder, carrying the scent of honey swirled with mint, instantly making her smile. “I heard you tried to punch Skade,” he says. 

“And, I heard you tried to beat Ivar’s record,” she teases, referencing her boyfriend’s elder brother’s infamous forty-second keg stand record from the night before his reaping almost ten years ago. 

A soft laugh tingles her ear, “First, I beat said record by an entire thirty seconds. Second,” - he tickles at her waist coaxing laughter out from deep in her belly as she turns in his arms,  releasing her from his torture once they are eye to eye - “I beat it last year. My little charade with the keg tonight was to get out of talking to Skade and her friends.” 

Wolland leaves with a roll of his eyes, muttering something under his breath, probably a mocking insult. On most days, she’d throw one right back at him with a teasing glint in her eyes, but the scent of alcohol crashes over her, dulling the honey-mint as it pulls her attention back to her boyfriend. Eyebrows knitting together, she tries to recall if she’s ever seen her boyfriend this inebriated. Before she can find her answer, Sigtryggr leans forward, putting most of his weight onto her causing them to stumble a few steps back as teeth crash together, then catch her lower lip. Clumsy kisses becoming sloppier with each attempt as he pulls her closer, laughter rumbling low in his chest. 

“Someone’s a little drunk,” she murmurs as he finally settles for gentle kisses on her nose, cheeks, and forehead. Her hands explore the smooth muscles of his chest, rising slowly until they entwine themselves behind his neck as she makes a mental note to thank whoever rid him of his shirt. Tilting her chin upwards a notch, molten chocolate eyes meet eyes like dancing blue flames. 

With a flick of his tongue over his smug grin, his mouth drifts towards her ear, warm breath tickling her and dripping with a velvety coyness as he says lowly, “I may be responsible for this party suddenly becoming dry.” Stiorra lightly swats at the top of his left shoulder - or at least tries, the edge of her hand catching the edge of his shoulder. A small giggle flutters from her lips, as a warm buzz begins to overtake her senses - the aftermath of chugging white liquor finally catching up with her. “Happy Hunger Games, my love.” 

Her hand misses his face entirely as she goes to brush the hair out of his face, still giggling as she asks, “Was getting this drunk Rognvaldr’s idea?” 

“I could ask you the same question, my love.” She pouts at his non-answer, causing him to run his thumb over her lips.  “It was actually Guthfrith’s idea.” Of course, it was his eldest’s brothers idea - his younger brother, Rognvaldr, may be the drunk but Guthfrith has always been the instigator, at least that’s what Sigtryggr always made it seem like. Really, she only knows Rognvaldr as they are in the same year at the Academy. But, she has exchanged a few words with Guthfrith when he’s visited the Academy with other Victors, and as for Ivar - he keeps to himself these days, hardly ever talks with his family anymore. “Something about carpe diem,” Sigtryggr finishes.

With a small nod, she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth as she gestures with her eyes to his bare chest, “I see. And the shirt?”

“Rogvaldr. Thinks he can sell it at the market for a high price.” 

She resists rolling her eyes, imaging his younger brother at one of the weekend market stalls, spinning tales about the t-shirt. Though, she has to give the imbecile credit - if Sigtryggr wins, he’ll probably get a hefty price for it. Her heart constricts again at the thought of losing her boyfriend, killing the playful mood instantly. Woefully, she strokes a few pieces of his shoulder-length ash-blonde hair, streaked with red from the summer sun, away from his eyes successfully, then breathily whispers, “Don’t let them cut it.” Next to his eyes and smile, it’s one of his best features - wild and untamed just like him. 

As her hand recoils, he grabs it, bringing it to his lips to place a gentle kiss upon her palm before placing it back over his heart. “I’ll start the next rebellion if they do,” he teases. At least, one of them has not yet lost their joy. But, he wants to volunteer, just like she wants to in two years…maybe…she isn’t quite sure anymore since meeting him…But, it’s one of the first things they had in common - a ferocious hunger to be the best the Academy had ever seen. So, she tries to find the spark of joy buried deep inside of her again, hoping the fog of the alcohol helps. 

Pressing herself up onto her tip toes, slightly swaying, her lips reach for his. Only millimeters a part, a roar of an engine tears them apart. A white vehicle rolls to a sudden stop, five Peacekeepers quickly exiting it. Forming a line, their guns take aim at the crowd. 

“Return to your houses immediately,” the middle one roars - sounding eerily like Haesten, the Head Peacekeeper of District 2. He’s typically pretty easy going, letting most law violations slip by unnoticed - unless of course, Edward or other Captiol advisors are around. So if he’s actually doing his job for once, it must mean Aethelflaed, their District's escort and older sister of Edward, must have arrived earlier than expected. 

Without a moment of hesitation, the crowd disperses, stampeding past the line held by the Peacekeepers. Sigtryggr tugs Stiorra behind him as they begin to join the crowd in fleet. They run for several minutes at full speed, stumbling occasionally with the alcohol still fresh in their system. Only slowing down once they reach the stone white buildings of downtown. Coming to a full stop with his hand still firmly gripping hers, he peaks around a corner. Her blood hums in her ears, adrenaline mixing with the alcohol in a way that lights her blood on fire. Coast clear, he keeps them moving until they come upon an alleyway. 

Abandoned metal scraps, wooden palettes, shattered pottery pieces, and other random misplaced objects lay scatted across the backstreet like a mine field. Creeping around the debris, he releases her hand suddenly, then jumps a top of a nearby dumpster. Then, he jumps again, grabbing the bottom rung of a latter that clatters down after a few tugs. Dusting his hands off of each other, he gestures towards the old rusty fire escape. With a smirk, she glides over to it, beginning their quiet ascent of the eight story building. 

A smile lightens her face when they reach the edge of the rooftop, coming upon her favorite spot, now their favorite spot. In a monotone world of white and grey stone, hidden treasures like the rooftop garden are a rarity. Her mother created the oasis when her parents first moved to District Two back when her father was still a low-ranking Peacekeeper.  But after catching the eye of the former President Alfred, her father, Uhtred, was quickly promoted prompting their move to the wealthiest area of the District. Knowing the garden meant something to his wife, Uhtred bought the building with his new wealth to ensure it could never be destroyed. But after the death of her mother, Gisela, he abandoned the building, evicted its tenants then left it to rot. It remained this way until the last year when she worked with her older brother to restore it to its former glory. 

Landing on the gravel, she closes her eyes, letting the sweet heavenly scent of the garden invade her senses, beginning to clear the fog of alcohol from her system. Wooden paths lead to a larger circular patio at the center of the rooftop. Vases and beds of pink roses in full bloom line the pathway with small fairy lights stringing along the posts. As Stiorra walks slowly towards the center, the lights suddenly flicker on. Waiting with her hand out stretched, Sigtryggr strides back towards her from the voltage box near the fire escape then grasps it firmly. Her head lolls to the side, leaning into his shoulder as they walk towards the center only for the sight ahead of her to make her pause. In place of the intrinsically patterned black iron table and chair set, there is a small makeshift tent instead. 

When they agreed to come here after tonight’s party, she pictured only sharing a brief private moment, one last night private goodbye in peace - then they’d separate till the morning, sleeping in their own beds. But, it seems he had his own plans for the evening. 

Turning towards him with a glint in her eye, she says, “You know. I’ve seen archives from the old world in my father’s office telling horrific stories of these scenarios - ‘Handsome young man lures naive young woman to her death’.” 

A small chuckle reverberates from his chest as he slowly runs a hand over her hair, a smile forming over his lips, “Really? I thought the headline read ‘Handsome young man gets knife to chest after luring young woman to death’”. 

Blue eyes enchant her, knees weakening beneath her as his thumb brushes over her cheek then tugs her upward by her chin. Lips meet in the middle, hands skating across his chest to tangle into his hair. Calloused hands slip under her crimson t-shirt as they graze the smooth skin of her stomach, sending shivers down her spine, pooling heat in her belly. A small gasp grants him the opportunity to tease her bottom lip with his tongue, then a low growl escapes his throat as his hands find the hem of her shirt. Slowly, he pulls the material upwards, kisses trailing from her mouth to her jaw, and finally to her neck. 

Parting only briefly to toss the shirt to the side, their lips find each other again as he effortlessly pulls her into his arms. Hands cup his face as he approaches the tent, then… she’s lost to the moment, barely able to hear the rumble of patrolling Peacekeeper vehicles as the night starts to feel less like a goodbye, and more like a new beginning…

Falling in love with Sigtryggr Ivarson may have been the biggest mistake she has ever made…. But as their bodies say all the words they can’t, she reckons - it also may have been the best decision she’s ever made. 

TAG LIST: @ladyaldhelm @holy3cake @arcielee @kingslionheart @whitedarkmoonflower // If you are tagged it is because you demonstrated interest (?) But happy to remove for future chapter postings! Also zero pressure to read <3

[whitedarkmoonflower]

Reunited 5

Pairing: modern!Sihtric x reader (female)

Authors note: So this is it. The journey has come to the end and I'm a bit sad but also very happy. This fic has a lot my own struggles within it and it has helped me to think over and let go of certain things that had accumulated. But before Sihtric and reader can look forward into the bright and shiny future they have to resolve some unsorted questions. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Warnings: it's emotionally tense with some angst and self reflection but still sweet

Summary: It was supposed to be a short two week trip that turned into five long years apart, just because your best friend couldn't keep her mouth shut. Will the reader and Sihtric manage to repair their broken relationship and find their way back to each other? Or will the reader decide to stay with the handsome and talented Sigtryggr?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Word Count: 7,8 K

Please remember that comments and reblogs are two things that make writers smile and keep us motivated.

You felt a surge of betrayal twist through you, an uncomfortable déjà vu that made your stomach drop. The whole scene was surreal, and your mind spun, trying to piece it all together. But before you could say a word, Sigtryggr's hand found yours under the blanket, his grip firm and panicked.

“This—this isn’t what it looks like, I swear,” he stammered, his face pale and clearly horrified by the scene unfolding. He scrambled to sit up, looking between you and the woman standing in the doorway. “This is… this is Stiorra, my ex-girlfriend.”

Stiorra crossed her arms, one eyebrow raised as she regarded him with a mix of annoyance and disbelief. “And in case there’s any doubt,” she interjected, “I’m the one who threw him out.” Her eyes flicked to you, and a slightly sheepish smile softened her expression. “Told him to never come back, actually.”

Sigtryggr winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not exactly a high point in our relationship,” he muttered. Then, as if desperate to regain some semblance of control, he gestured toward the kitchen. “Stiorra, why don’t you, uh… wait in the kitchen? Give us a moment?”

With a sigh that suggested she was equally exhausted by this awkward situation, Stiorra shrugged. “Fine. But we’re talking after,” she said, shooting him a look that clearly communicated there was unfinished business between them. She turned on her heel, retreating to the kitchen and leaving the two of you in a tense silence.

You exhaled, still feeling the sting of surprise. “So, let me get this straight. Your ex-girlfriend who kicked you out now has a key and comes barging in?”

Sigtryggr’s cheeks flushed as he stumbled over his words. “It’s… complicated. We broke up months ago. She kept the key for emergencies, but I didn’t think she’d actually use it. I mean, she made it pretty clear she never wanted to see me again.” He shook his head, his eyes wide with a mixture of embarrassment and desperation. “I had no idea she’d be coming by today, I swear.”

You let out a breath, half-amused by his genuine horror at the situation. Despite everything, there was something undeniably ridiculous about it all. Here was this cool, collected artist, now completely rattled by his ex-girlfriend unexpectedly showing up while he was in bed with someone else.

You finally cracked a small smile. “You couldn’t make this up if you tried.”

He groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. “This really isn’t how I imagined our morning together going. I’m sorry.”

Before you could respond, Stiorra’s voice called from the kitchen. “I’m making coffee. There’s milk and sugar somewhere—if Sigtryggr actually bought groceries this week, that is.”

Sigtryggr’s eyes met yours, full of sheepishness, and you couldn’t help but laugh, the tension starting to dissolve. “I’ll take that as a hint to get dressed,” you said, sliding out of bed and grabbing your clothes, feeling his gaze following you apologetically.

“Take your time,” Stiorra called again, her voice faintly dripping with irony. “I’ll try not to make it more awkward.”

As if more awkward was even possible, a stifled laugh escaped you as you slipped into your clothes, feeling like you were in some strange, twisted sitcom. Sigtryggr joined you, tossing on his shirt and jeans quickly, his eyes darting nervously between you and the kitchen.

Once you were both dressed, you headed to the kitchen. Stiorra was there, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, her lips twisted in a wry smile. She looked at you and Sigtryggr with an expression that was part curiosity, part thinly veiled irritation. Two other steaming mugs waited on the counter and you grabbed one like a life saviour.

"Well," she drawled, swirling her coffee. "I see you’ve wasted no time finding a replacement." Her gaze flicked from you to Sigtryggr, her tone razor-sharp. "Or were you just waiting for the perfect moment to jump into someone else’s bed, Sigtryggr? Good to know you’ve been so… resilient."

You saw a flicker of hurt cross Sigtryggr’s face as he tried to respond, his gaze darting briefly to you before returning to Stiorra, as if caught in some unresolved pull. He shifted beside you, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Stiorra," he managed, his voice tight, "you know it’s not  like that. It’s been almost half a year..."

But she didn’t give him room to explain. She looked down at her coffee, a hint of sadness breaking through her sarcasm as her fingers tightened around the mug. "I didn’t come here to make a scene," she murmured, her tone softening. "I just… I thought I wanted to move on. But maybe I was wrong."

You swallowed hard, your eyes darted from Sigtryggr to his ex-girlfriend and truth be told the only coherent thought was the increasingly intensive wish for the earth to open up and swallow you whole. Facing lions in the Colosseum would have been a more appealing option than drinking coffee in what you’d thought was your new boyfriend’s kitchen, watching it turn into a stage for a soap opera. Whoever said, "If something looks too good to be true, it probably is," had clearly known exactly what they were talking about.

Stiorra lifted her gaze to meet Sigtryggr’s, her defiance melting into something softer, tinged with regret. 

"Siggy, baby, I’m so sorry!" she blurted, her voice cracking as her teary eyes searched his. The sudden burst of emotions startled you both, leaving the room steeped in uncomfortable tension. "Leaving you wasn’t what I thought I wanted," she continued, the words tumbling out, unrestrained and unguarded. "It was the biggest mistake of my life, and I just hoped you… you might feel the same. I couldn’t wait any longer—I just needed to tell you this." Her gaze darted back to the steaming coffee in her hands, as though she couldn’t bear to face him anymore. “I never imagined you’d move on so fast, not after everything we had together.”

You glanced over at Sigtryggr, who looked as if he’d just been slapped with a cold fish. The usual calm, steady demeanour he carried so effortlessly was gone, replaced by a vulnerable uncertainty you hadn’t seen before. His mouth opened as if to respond, then closed again, his mind clearly spinning in too many directions to form coherent words. He looked at you briefly, but his attention was drawn back to Stiorra, as if caught by an invisible thread that still connected them.

His eyes softened, a hint of that old, unguarded affection surfacing as he stammered. “Stiorra, I… I didn’t expect this. I thought… we were over. I thought you’d moved on.”

The longing in his voice was unmistakable. You felt an odd pang, a mixture of empathy and unease as you watched him struggle. The way he looked at her, his gaze clouded with both confusion and something undeniably tender, told you more than his words ever could. And strangely you didn’t even feel betrayed. You felt a deep understanding, even sympathy kindling within you. 

It was clearly time to make an exit before this scene turned into a full-blown tragicomedy. But before you could even think of a polite way to excuse yourself, Stiorra’s gaze shifted to you, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“Oh, I know who you are,” she said, her tone casual—almost too casual. “You must be the mysterious girl who broke Sihtric’s heart. I’ve seen your picture, actually. He still keeps one in his wallet.”

“What?” The words hit you like a frying pan to the face, and you nearly dropped your coffee mug. This was beyond surreal; it was a nightmare layered with unwanted revelations. You glanced around, looking for any possible way to evaporate from the room as a wave of nausea crept over you.

Stiorra caught your reaction, her gaze sharpening as if sensing your unease. “No,” she said, her eyes assessing you calmly. “Not like that. Sihtric and I were never… involved.” She gave a casual shrug, one that seemed both reassuring and indifferent. “But I know him well enough. He worked for my father, Uhtred, for quite some time. And we have some mutual friends—Finan, Osferth. They’re close, practically brothers.”

You swallowed, still processing the shock as she spoke, and noticed the way her gaze flickered, slightly more empathetic now. Sigtryggr shifted beside you, clearly uncomfortable with where the conversation was heading, his gaze moving between you and Stiorra.

“Stiorra,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice a mixture of discomfort and quiet insistence, “I think we’re all getting a bit caught off guard here.”

Stiorra shrugged, but her expression softened as she looked back at him. “Maybe,” she admitted, voice gentler now. “But some things are better said than left hanging.” She turned her attention back to you. “Haven’t seen him in a while, but… he never really got over you, you know.”

The words landed like a stone in your chest, and for a moment, you felt the weight of everything you’d tried to put behind you pressing in. 

“Wait, hold on!” you blurted out, the words escaping faster than you could stop them and surely much louder than you wanted. “I broke his heart? What the hell are you talking about? He was the one who found someone else less than a week after I was out of sight.”

Stiorra’s eyes widened at your outburst. She hesitated before responding, her voice softer, almost cautious. “Wait… really? I don’t know all the details,” she admitted, glancing away briefly, “but I know for sure that Sihtric has been a mess since you left. Osferth and Finan have been trying to get him back on his feet, trying to knock some sense into him. But he’s just… shut everyone out, suffering in silence.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but something in her expression stopped you. There was a subtle reproach that made you falter.

Her words stung. You knew them—Osferth and Finan—Sihtric’s closest friends. Meeting them had felt like a significant step, almost as if you were meeting his family. Sihtric barely spoke about his parents or any siblings, but these two were an inseparable part of his life. The night he’d introduced you to them still lingered vividly in your memory.

Finan had taken to you right away, looking at you with an approving grin, clapping Sihtric on the shoulder and saying, “Finally, he’s found someone who might actually keep him in line.” His easy laughter and quick wit made you feel like you’d known him for years, and there was a warmth to his acceptance that had meant more than he probably knew.

Osferth, meanwhile, had been a bit more reserved, a touch of shyness in his gentle eyes. But there had been a sweetness in the way he’d talked to you, always quick to ask if you needed anything, checking that you felt included. You’d quickly learned he was the steady, caring presence in their group, looking out for both Sihtric and Finan with a brotherly devotion.

Those early evenings with them had been filled with laughter and endless stories from their nights out. You’d felt embraced by the friendship, a part of the easy bond they all shared. But when Sihtric walked out of your life, that sense of belonging had vanished too. They had been his friends, not yours, and your connection with them had ended as abruptly as your relationship with him.

“Look,” Stiorra continued, her voice pulling you back from your thoughts, “there are always two sides to a story. But only one truth. If you want to know more, maybe… maybe you should talk to Finan and Osferth. They know him better than anyone and could probably tell you more than I can.”

Without another word, you stood up, the urge to leave overpowering any sense of decorum. Sigtryggr reached out, his face a mix of surprise and worry as he tried to get your attention. “Hey, are you okay? What’s going on?”

You shook your head, barely able to meet his gaze. “I just… I need to go. I need…” The words trailed off, but you didn’t even bother to finish the sentence as you hastily grabbed your purse and headed to the doors without a single look back. 

You knew that Osferth worked as an assistant stylist at one of the top fashion studios, and Finan had a reputation as a brilliant set designer, always moving between shoots with an infectious energy. They were well-known figures in the industry, so it didn’t take long to track them down at a nearby studio where they were scheduled to prepare for an upcoming campaign.

The studio was bustling when you arrived. Assistants hurried about, racks of clothes lined the walls, and the hum of people preparing for a major shoot filled the space. You spotted Finan first, standing with his hands on his hips, joking with a lighting technician, his signature grin lighting up his face. Beside him, Osferth was focused on arranging a set of accessories on a table, his usually reserved expression serious as he worked.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, and Finan caught sight of you. His grin faded, replaced by surprise that quickly gave way to guarded curiosity. He nudged Osferth, who looked up in shock, the familiar softness in his eyes now laced with uncertainty and distance you hadn’t expected. The two exchanged a look before approaching you, their movements careful, almost wary, as if they were unsure of how to greet you.

“Hey,” you managed, your voice catching. “I… I need to talk to you. About Sihtric.”

“Well,” Finan said, crossing his arms, his voice lacking its usual warmth. “If it isn’t the ghost from Sihtric’s past.”

The jab landed harder than you’d expected, his accusatory tone sinking into you like a heavy stone.

Finan’s gaze was steely, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he fixed you with an unforgiving look. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him?” he said, his voice thick with frustration. “Twice now, you’ve come crashing into his life—first, tearing him apart, and now, strolling back in like a stranger, as if he doesn’t deserve even a shred of understanding for everything he’s been through. The least you could do is thank him for what he did for you.”

“What he did for me?” you repeated, your voice barely a whisper, caught in a haze of disbelief. You couldn’t even process the meaning behind his accusations, feeling as if you’d just walked into an ambush. You regretted coming here, every instinct screaming at you to turn and leave, to escape this room and the anger that pressed down on you from all sides. Blinking back tears that threatened to spill, you took a shaky step back, but Finan didn’t relent.

He moved closer, his gaze piercing, his voice unyielding. “Do you know how long it took him to get his life back together after you left?” he continued, his tone unwavering. “To even begin piecing himself back together? And then you show up out of nowhere, with no idea what he’s been through, and somehow make him fall all over again.”

Stunned, you stared at him, but he wasn’t finished. “We’ve been trying to help him move on for ages. Osferth and I—do you know how many nights we’ve spent picking him up after he shut everyone out, barely holding on? He’s been carrying this burden alone since the day he let you go.” Finan scoffed, his voice low and dark with exasperation. “And you—you have the nerve to walk back and judge him?”

You wanted to move but you felt rooted to the spot as you couldn’t keep the tears from rolling down your cheeks anymore. “Thank him? For what? For dropping me and finding another less than a week after I wasn’t in sight? For ruining my life, leaving me gathering the shards?”

Finan drew a deep breath, but Osferth interrupted him, placing a calming hand on Finan’s arm, though his face still held traces of disappointment as he looked at you. “Finan wait. Something’s not right there.” His eyes shifted to you, his expression softening, but only slightly. “And that’s all you know about what happened?”  he asked, his tone measured but no less serious. 

“What else is there to know?” you snapped, frustration simmering in your chest. “I thought he loved me, and the next thing I know, he’s moved on like I never existed. I think I have a right to be a little angry.”

Finan exchanged a glance with Osferth, as if confirming something, then sighed, rubbing his temples. “So, Gisela never told you why he did it?”

You felt your stomach clench at the mention of Gisela. Confusion gave way to a creeping unease, your mind racing to piece together what they were trying to say. “Gisela?” you repeated, barely masking the surprise in your voice. “What does she have to do with any of this?”

Osferth shifted uncomfortably, his gaze turning thoughtful. “Gisela came to him. Said it would be better if he… stepped aside. She told him about that offer you got, the scholarship and the contract – that once in a lifetime opportunity for you. She’s the one who convinced him to let you go. She told him it would be best for you to focus on your future, that he was holding you back.  And Sihtric… well, he thought he was doing what was best for you.”

“Best for me?” The words felt hollow, ringing with an irony that cut deeper with each syllable. You felt a wave of disbelief crash over you, your stomach twisting as you processed his words.

Osferth nodded, his gaze sombre. “He figured if he just… cut ties, you’d have no reason to look back. He tried to bury how he felt, make you believe he’d moved on. But we both know it tore him apart. He’s never been the same since you left.”

You felt your knees weaken, the ground beneath you seeming to tilt as the truth settled over you, each piece of information landing like a blow. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal—all of it twisted into something else, something that left you feeling hollow. Your legs gave way, turning to jelly, and you would have surely hit the ground if Finan and Osferth hadn’t steadied you from each side.

“Easy there!” Finan’s voice had softened, a warmth returning that you hadn’t expected as he guided you, his anger replaced by concern. He quickly waved to a set assistant walking nearby. “Get a chair—and some water!” he called, his tone firm but urgent.

You barely noticed the assistant rushing off. A chair was brought over, and Finan and Osferth eased you into it, the world around you blurring as you tried to comprehend what you just heard. Osferth knelt beside you, his eyes steady and full of sadness as he handed you the water.

“I… I didn’t know,” you stammered, the words feeling small, inadequate. You looked at them, your voice cracking. “I thought he… I thought he didn’t care. I thought he wanted me gone.”

Finan shook his head, his gaze softening as he met your eyes. “It was never about him not caring. He thought he was doing the right thing—for you.”

“He’s been living with that choice,” Finan added quietly, his eyes meeting yours, “because he thought it would give you a better life.”

Osferth placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, his tone gentle. “Sometimes people make the hardest choices for the ones they love. Doesn’t mean they don’t hurt just as much.”

“Maybe… maybe it’s time you hear it from him,” Finan said softly, his tone no longer accusatory but understanding.

—---------------------------------------------------

The worry gnawed at you, growing with each unanswered call, each message left unread. Sihtric had vanished after the fashion show, and as the hours without a word turned into an entire day, you found yourself pacing around your apartment like a caged animal, restless and frustrated.

You hadn’t wanted to go to his place—not at first. The idea of stepping into his space felt like giving up the neutral ground you’d hoped to keep. But as your concern deepened, it became clear that there was no other option. With a resigned sigh, you grabbed your things and headed out, finally making your way to his apartment.

When you arrived, you looked up to see a warm glow coming from Sihtric’s window. Relief flooded over you—he was home. You exhaled deeply, feeling the tightness in your chest ease, if only a little. You deliberately chose the stairs over the elevator, hoping the walk up would give you time to gather your thoughts. But even with the extra moments, your mind remained frustratingly blank, and your heart raced like a drumbeat in your chest.

Standing in front of his door, you raised your hand to the doorbell, trying to ignore the nervous twist in your stomach. But instead of ringing, you pressed your palm and ear to the door, straining to hear any sign of movement on the other side. Come on, you can do this, you urged yourself, taking a deep, steadying breath. Finally, you lifted your hand and pressed the button, feeling your pulse quicken as you waited for him to answer.

A sinking feeling twisted in your gut as there was only silence on the other side but you refused to give up. You pressed the doorbell again, then again, determined to get some response. Still, nothing.

“Sihtric,” you finally called. “I know you’re in there. I can see the light. Please, just talk to me.”

Silence stretched, pressing down on you. Frustrated, you balled your fists and pounded on the door, the echo of each hit ricocheting down the empty corridor. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open, and you glanced over your shoulder to find a pair of curious, disapproving eyes peering at you through a crack. But you were beyond caring about nosy neighbours. Ignoring them, you turned back to Sihtric’s door and knocked again, your voice catching slightly as you called his name once more.

Just as you felt the last shimmer of hope begin to slip away, you heard a faint shuffle behind the door, the sound of hesitant footsteps drawing closer. Relief flickered through you, only to fade as his voice, rough and bitter, cut through the silence.

“Just… go away,” he muttered, his tone carrying a heaviness that felt like a punch to the chest. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Sihtric?” you called, pressing a hand against the door. “Please, open up. I just want to talk.”

Silence. But you knew he was there, so you waited. A bitter, muffled voice finally answered. “Why? There’s nothing more to talk about,” he replied, his tone rough, barely masking the exhaustion in his voice. “Just… leave me alone.”

Ignoring his dismissal, you leaned closer, unwilling to let him shut you out. “Sihtric, please. I was wrong. I was wrong not wanting to listen to you, shutting you out. Please open the door, so we can talk. I just… I need to understand.”

He scoffed from the other side, the bitterness in his voice cutting. “Understand? You want to understand now? Why? You have your perfect little life, your perfect job, your prince charming.” His words were laced with sarcasm. “You want to judge me? I already gave you the chance for that at the show. I saw it on your face. I don’t need more of that.”

You pressed your forehead against the door, your heart pounding as you tried to will back tears slowly gathering in the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry. Sihtric, can you hear me? I’m so sorry. And I wasn’t judging you, Sihtric. I was just… surprised. I’m not here to make things worse. I came because I care.”

On the other side of the door, Sihtric stood still, barely breathing, his entire body tense. He could feel the ache in his shoulders and neck, the result of hours spent tossing and turning through a sleepless night, haunted by thoughts of you and his own spiralling decisions. Every muscle felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, regret and anger.

He wanted to open the door. Part of him ached to see you, to hear your voice without the barrier between you. But another part—larger, stronger, the part that had convinced him to let you go years ago—held him back. That part reminded him of everything he’d become, the mess he’d made of his life since then, and the humiliation of his drunken, jealousy-fueled outburst at the fashion show. He clenched his fists, fighting the shame that burned inside him, wondering if he could ever face you again.

His heart pounded, each beat reverberating with the bitterness that had taken root within him. What did he have to offer you now? He was broken, he knew that much, and he’d spent too long building up his defences to believe someone would want to come close enough to help him pick up the pieces. Especially not you—the one person he’d hurt most by pushing you away.

Drawing a deep shaky breath he slowly slid down to the ground, resting his back against the door. His elbows propped on his knees he buried his face in his hands, the world reduced to the darkness behind his closed eyelids. 

The memories of the fashion show flashed in his mind—your face when he’d approached you, the shock and disappointment in your eyes, the way he’d stumbled through his words, lost in a haze of jealousy and alcohol. The regret was a deep wound now, throbbing with every word you spoke on the other side of the door.

What could he say to you? That he was sorry? Sorry didn’t even begin to cover the tangled mess he’d made of things. 

The sound of your voice, pleading, coaxing him to open the door, tore at him. He could feel you there, so close, and it made everything hurt more sharply. Sihtric let out a shaky breath, feeling the first sting of tears pressing at the corners of his eyes, but he held them back, unwilling to let himself break down, even now.

“Why are you here?” he muttered under his breath, as much to himself as to you. His voice was rough, barely hiding the bitterness he felt, not even toward you but toward himself. “What good can come from this?”

He sat there, torn between the urge to stand up, unlock the door, and reach for you, and the dark, cynical voice in his mind that told him to stay hidden, that he didn’t deserve whatever you were here to offer.

And yet, through it all, he couldn’t help but listen, couldn’t ignore the hope in your words, the softness in your tone. He could almost feel you on the other side, feel the warmth you brought, a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. 

But that hope was terrifying. Because if he opened the door, if he let you in… The very idea of you seeing him like this—broken, regret-filled and barely holding it together—filled him with shame. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to do that. He probably wasn’t. 

Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Sihtric’s breathing grew uneven, and for a moment, you wondered if he’d even heard you. Then, his voice cut through the quiet, rough and worn, tinged with a bitterness that struck you like a physical blow.

“I don’t need your sympathy,” he muttered, the words laced with frustration. “I don’t need anything from you. Just leave me alone—I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Sihtric,” you called softly, pressing your hand flat against the door. “Please… just open the door.”

When he didn’t respond, you clenched your fists and banged against the door, louder this time, not caring who heard. “Sihtric, I’m not going anywhere! You don’t have to shut me out. I know… I know what you did for me. I know why you left.”

There was a pause, so deep and tense you could hear the faint sounds from the street outside, muffled and distant. Finally, his voice broke the silence, barely audible, fragile. “Who told you that?”

You took a steadying breath, hoping he could hear the sincerity in your tone. “Finan and Osferth,” you replied. “They told me everything. How you thought leaving was best for me, how you made it look like you’d moved on just so I wouldn’t come back… how you suffered through it all because you thought it was the right thing.”

There was another pause, and then he laughed, a hollow, defeated sound that twisted painfully in your chest. “So, what?” he said, his voice wavering, barely holding steady. “You came here to pity me? To see what a mess I’ve made of myself?” He sounded tired, as if the words themselves were an effort. “I don’t need your pity either.”

For a moment, all you could hear was his unsteady breathing. You imagined him, standing just on the other side, close enough to touch if only he’d open the door. It was driving you mad—having him so close but so far away at the same time. You silently cursed yourself for turning him down, for refusing to listen when he had tried to talk to you before. Why had you been so cold? Why had you let fear take over?

But it wasn’t just your fear that had brought you to this moment. Gisela. The thought struck like a dagger, bitter and sharp. Why had she meddled? Why had she pushed Sihtric into making that choice without ever telling you? All those times she’d been there, comforting you, assuring you that moving on was the right thing to do—she had known. She had known the truth and had kept it from you. Why, Gisela? you thought bitterly, your hands balling into fists against the door. Why did you do this to me? To us?

You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead against the door, the whirlwind of emotions inside you felt unbearable, but amidst the chaos, a single thought began to crystallize with startling clarity. I’m not letting this go. Not this time. You had spent too long blaming others for what had happened—Sihtric, the universe, now Gisela. Too long nursing your pain, placing it on a pedestal like some kind of shield to justify not moving forward, not letting yourself feel again. But you couldn’t hide from the truth anymore. This wasn’t just pain or regret—this was love. It had never stopped being love, and it was time you faced it.

You straightened slightly, you weren’t going to let the past define what was left of your future. This was your chance, and you weren’t going to let fear or pride hold you back any longer. Sihtric deserved the truth, and so did you. He needed to hear it, to know that you still loved him—not the sanitized, half-forgotten version of love you’d pretended to bury, but the real thing. The kind of love that ached, that fought, that refused to let go.

And he needed to know the part you’d played in letting it all fall apart. The anger you’d clung to, the walls you’d built to protect yourself, all of it had driven you away from him when you should have stayed and fought, and you needed to own that. 

“I’m not giving up on this,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, though you hoped he could feel the determination in your voice. “Not this time, not again.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the door as your only support as you leaned against it. “Sihtric,” you began, your voice trembling, but there was no hesitation in your words. “Please, just listen to me. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Please, I’m begging you just hear me out. I’m here because… because I never stopped loving you.”

You could feel his breathing hitch on the other side, but he didn’t say anything, and you went on, needing him to hear everything.

“I wanted to hate you,” you confessed, your voice breaking slightly. “I tried. I thought that if I could just hate you, it would be easier. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t hate you, not really. Even when I tried to move on, to make a life without you… I couldn’t let go of you. No one else could replace what you mean to me.”

On the other side of the door, Sihtric let out a ragged breath, his hands covering his face. 

The weight of your own words took their toll, and slowly, your legs gave way. You slid down to the ground, sitting with your back pressed against the door, your head resting against the wood as you stared at the empty hallway in front of you. 

“When you wanted to talk to me that day at the shoot… I was so cold because I was scared, Sihtric,” you whispered, the confession falling from your lips before you could stop it. “I was afraid that if I let you in, even a little, I’d break. That all the walls I put up to protect myself would come crashing down.”

Sihtric listened, his face buried in his hands, feeling every word you spoke burning holes in his soul. He wanted to reach for you, to say something, but something kept him still, the knowledge of everything he’d put both of you through holding him back. His breath was shaky, his heart pounding as he imagined you there, only inches away.

“I tried to move on, Sihtric,” you continued. “I tried to make a life without you. I even tried to love someone else, to find what I had with you with someone new. But it didn’t work. No one… no one ever felt like you.”

Sihtric’s hands dropped from his face, and he pressed his palms flat against the door, his fingers splaying out as if they could reach you through the barrier between you as he felt his resolve breaking, his walls crumbling bit by bit.

“I thought letting you go was the best thing I could do for you,” he murmured. “I thought that if I hurt you enough, you’d decide to leave me behind… and you’d never look back. I wanted you to be successful and happy, even if it meant I couldn’t be.”

A tear slipped down your cheek as you listened, your heart breaking all over again. “Don’t you see?” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “I was never happy without you. I kept telling myself that I could be, but deep down, I knew… I knew I’d never feel whole again.”

For a moment, the two of you sat there, separated by inches of wood and miles of unspoken feelings, both of you held captive by the same painful memories and buried longing.

“You don’t understand…” he continued, his voice breaking. “I’m not who I used to be. I’m not… I’m not enough for you, you need someone better. I don’t even know who I am anymore. You should be out there, living that life you’ve created and earned, not here… with someone like me.”

You swallowed hard, tears pooling in your eyes but refusing to fall. “I don’t need someone better, Sihtric. I need you,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “The real you, flaws and all. I can’t pretend anymore that everything’s fine without you in my life. I don’t care about perfect, Sihtric. I just… I just want you.”

The silence behind the door was deafening, stretching longer than you could bear. Your chest tightened, every second dragging on like an eternity. You strained to hear anything��a shuffle, a breath, even the slightest indication that he was still there—but there was nothing. The hollow quiet seeped into your heart, threatening to shatter it into a thousand pieces again.

Was this really the end? The thought weighed heavy, pressing against you until you couldn’t sit upright any longer. Slowly, you laid your head down on your knees, clutching them tightly as if to hold yourself together. You felt the sting of finality creeping in, the cruel certainty that you had done everything you could. It was time to stand up, to walk away, and this time, not look back.

But just as you started to gather the strength to rise, a faint, almost imperceptible sound reached your ears. A click. Your breath hitched as the unmistakable sound of the lock turning echoed softly through the silence.

You turned your head at the sound of the door creaking open, and there he was. Sihtric stood in the doorway. He looked exhausted, dark rings encircling his beautiful large eyes, face shadowed and tired. His hair was disheveled, and his shirt was rumpled, hanging loosely on his frame, but you didn’t care. All you could see was him, standing there, finally letting you in.

You jumped to your feet, propelled by a wave of relief and emotion, and lunged at him before you could think twice. The sudden movement caught him off guard, and the two of you stumbled backward into the apartment, the door swinging shut behind you. Your arms wrapped tightly around him, holding on as though he might disappear again if you let go. Tears streamed down your cheeks, soaking into his rumpled shirt as you buried your face against his broad, muscular chest.

For a moment, he stood frozen, his hands hovering uncertainly by his sides. Then, slowly, hesitantly, his arms came around you, pulling you closer. He let out a shuddering breath, the tension in his body giving way as he held you tightly, like he was afraid this was just another fleeting dream.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice muffled against him, trembling with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry, Sihtric. For shutting you out. For not fighting harder. For letting my anger win.”

His chest rose and fell beneath you as he struggled to steady his breathing. His voice was rough, as he finally spoke. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It was me… all of it. I pushed you away. I thought it was the only way.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. 

“I should’ve fought for us,” you said, your voice breaking. “I should’ve seen through it, through what you were doing. But I didn’t.”

His hand came up to cup your face, his touch tentative, almost disbelieving. “You couldn’t have known,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I made sure of that. I wanted you to move on, to be happy.”

“I wasn’t happy,” you said, shaking your head. “I could never be happy without you.”

He closed his eyes, his forehead resting against yours as a tear slid down his cheek. “I don’t know if I can fix this. If I can fix me.”

You reached up, your fingers tracing the stubble along his jaw as you steadied your voice. “You don’t have to fix anything. We’ll figure it out together. Just, please, don’t push me away again.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He just held you, his hands trembling slightly as they clung to you. Then, he leaned in and his lips brushed yours in a soft, lingering kiss that carried the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

Sihtric's lips trembled against yours, as you pressed into him, your hands clutching harder the fabric of his shirt, silently telling him that you were here, that this was real. You kissed him back pouring all your emotions into that one single gentle touch of lips, getting more heated and desperate with each passing moment.

When he pulled back just enough to catch his breath, he began to press a trail of kisses across your cheeks, your forehead, the bridge of your nose. 

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses, his voice rough and low. “I’ve always loved you. Even when I tried to forget… when I tried to move on, I couldn’t.” His lips found yours again, more insistent this time, as though he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t hold back the flood of emotions he’d kept buried for so long.

“I tried to find someone else,” he admitted, his voice breaking as he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breath was warm and unsteady. “I thought I could replace what we had. But it was never the same. No one could ever be you.” His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, his grip firm but gentle. “I don’t want anyone else. I can’t. It’s always been you, and it will always be you.”

Without warning, he scooped you up into his strong arms, holding you effortlessly as though you weighed nothing. You gasped softly, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he looked down at you, his eyes filled with something raw and unrestrained.

“I need you,” he said, his gaze locked on yours. “I need you in every part of my life. And right now… I need to show you how much I love you.”

You smiled through tears, you fingers tangling in his thick, disheveled hair. You pulled him closer and with a low almost desperate growl his lips captured yours again as he carried you further into the apartment.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

The soft hum of voices and the gentle clinking of glasses filled the air as you arrived at the exhibition, a feeling of anticipation settling in your chest. Gisela was waiting for you near the entrance, her ever-poised demeanor slightly off-kilter as she scanned the crowd. When her eyes landed on you, a flicker of something—relief? Concern?—crossed her face, and she hurried over.

“There you are,” she said, taking your hand as though to steady you. Her tone carried an edge of urgency, and you could tell she was gearing up to say something important. “I’m glad you came. But listen, before you go inside, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Her voice lowered conspiratorially as she leaned closer. “Sigtryggr… he’s here. And he brought someone. A girlfriend, apparently.” Her words were careful, but her gaze flickered with unease, clearly gauging your reaction.

You raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement rising in you. “That’s fine, Gisela,” you said, squeezing her hand lightly. “Sigtryggr and I… we weren’t meant to be. I’m happy for him.”

She blinked, slightly taken aback by your calm response, but pressed on. “Well, I thought you should know. But I also have someone I want you to meet.” Her voice brightened slightly, as though trying to distract you from the potential awkwardness waiting inside.

You tilted your head, an affectionate smile creeping onto your face. “Actually, Gisela, I have someone I want you to meet first.”

Before Gisela could respond, Sihtric stepped forward from behind you. He wasn’t dressed to blend into the crowd of sharply tailored suits and polished shoes that filled the gallery, yet somehow, he looked effortlessly striking. 

A dark, fitted leather jacket hung perfectly over his broad shoulders, paired with a simple, black t-shirt that clung to his lean, muscular frame. Fitted jeans and scuffed boots completed the look, adding a touch of ruggedness that made him stand out in all the right ways.

His dark hair was neatly tied back, but a few rogue strands fell across his sharp cheekbones, softening the intensity of his piercing eyes. He looked effortlessly cool, the kind of man who drew attention without even trying, and the subtle smirk on his lips only added to the effect.

Sihtric slipped his hand into yours, your fingers intertwining, and the look on Gisela’s face was priceless. She was frozen, her gaze locking on him as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her usual poise faltered, and for the first time, she seemed genuinely at a loss for words. Her eyes flicked between you and Sihtric, wide with shock, her mouth opening and closing slightly as though searching for something—anything—to say.

“Sihtric,” you said warmly, your voice filled with affection as you glanced up at him. He responded by slipping his arm around your waist, his hand resting at the small of your back.

Gisela finally found her voice, though it was a touch higher-pitched than usual. “I… didn’t realize…” she stammered, her gaze darting to you as if silently questioning how, when, and why this had happened.

You cut her off with a gentle but firm nudge to the side, brushing past her with a smile. “Gisela, we’ll catch up later. Right now, there are a few people we’d like to say hello to.”

Sihtric’s arms wrapped securely around you as you walked into the exhibition together, his warmth grounding you. You caught sight of Sigtryggr and Stiorra in the center of the gallery, standing close, their heads tilted toward each other as they shared a quiet laugh. Whatever lingering awkwardness might have existed between you and Sigtryggr seemed to dissolve as you approached, Sihtric at your side.

“Sigtryggr,” you greeted warmly, your smile genuine. “It’s good to see you.”

Sigtryggr turned, his expression flickering with brief surprise before softening into a polite smile. “And you,” he replied, his gaze briefly darting to Sihtric before settling back on you. “I see you’ve… moved on as well.”

“Seems like we’ve both found where we’re meant to be,” you replied, your tone light, though the weight of those words resonated deeply within you.

Stiorra raised her glass with a mischievous grin. “Well, well. Isn’t this a picture-perfect reunion?” she quipped, her tone teasing but kind.

Sihtric’s arm tightened around your waist as he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “A reunion, maybe,” he murmured just for you, his voice warm and low. “But what matters is where we go from here.”

And as you stood there, surrounded by art, by people who had once been tangled in your past, you couldn’t help but smile as for the first time in a long while, the future felt beautifully, wonderfully yours.

[lady-wyrd]

I like to imagine Stiorra and Sigtryggr finding each other in every lifetime 🖤

[idkyetxoxo]

Twelve | Vagabond | The Last Kingdom

"Keep your filthy hands off her!"

"You are impressive... and extremely flexible,"

<- prev || masterlist || next ->

─── ✦⋅ ☆⋅✦ ───

We had narrowly evaded Lord Eardwulf and his men, skirting perilously close to capture. Now, there was cause for celebration. The news that Uhtred had accepted the offer to become the new king of Mercia filled the air with a newfound sense of hope. For once in my tumultuous life, I dared to imagine a place I could call home within these lands.

"Here's to Uhtred," I declared, lifting my cup amidst a chorus of clinks as others joined in, their voices ringing out in unison "And to Osferth, for not killing Aelfwynn," Finan chimed in.

As swiftly as our revelry had begun, it came to an abrupt halt with the revelation that Uhtred had relinquished his claim in favour of Aethelflaed. An undercurrent of disappointment swept through me at the thought of Uhtred's sacrifice, a nagging sense that he deserved the power and respect just as much as any other.

However, the unease that had gripped me dissipated as swiftly as it had come. Learning that one of my dearest friends had finally achieved something she had longed for brought a sense of contentment that washed over me. If anyone else deserved the title, it was her.

"I know you believe we've lost out on wealth and power," Uhtred began returning to the celebratory table, his voice steady and earnest "But we have something far more valuable."

"Do not say our friendship" Finan interjected, his tone filled with playful exasperation, eliciting laughter from around the table. In that moment, any lingering reservations and disappointments melted away.

── ✦⋅ ☆⋅✦ ──

We now found ourselves in Tacham, tasked with setting up camp for Lady Aelswith, who promised prayers of thanks on our behalf upon her arrival in Bedwyn. As we tended to the fire, I couldn't help but vent my frustrations to Finan.

"If I have to endure her prattle much longer, I'll fling myself off a cliff," I muttered, nodding towards Aelswith, who stood nearby, her back turned to us. Finan chuckled in response, prompting me to recount my past grievances with the lady.

"She branded me a witch upon learning of my history thanks to Uhtred," I explained, though Finan's amusement only deepened, earning him a playful shove from me. "It's not funny," I insisted, though the shared moment brought a fleeting smile to my lips.

Our banter was abruptly cut short by the rustling of nearby foliage, sending us into a tense alertness. Before I could draw my sword, a knife pressed against my neck as a body enveloped me from behind, and a familiar, gruff voice pierced the air.

"Uhtred and his pretty boys," Haestan chided and I sighed, rolling my eyes as I caught sight of Aelswith positioning herself protectively with Stiorra and Aethelstan. 

Haesten delivered news of Sigtryggr's arrival from Irland, his intentions to rally the Danes, and the capture of Winchester by Brida and him where Haesten planned to take Aelswith, Aethelstan, and Stiorra. 

"Tie them to the trees where they can die slowly," Haesten's voice dripped with malice as his men obediently set about binding Uhtred, Finan, Sihtric, Osferth, and Pyrlig to the sturdy trunks that surrounded us.

I fought against the brute behind me, his grip like iron as he pinned my arms painfully behind my back "And what of her?" his voice slithered in my ear, laden with contempt as he gestured toward me with a sneer.

Haesten turned, a twisted grin etched across his face as he regarded me. "Ah, female warrior," he jeered, his words laced with mockery.

"Shall we take her as well?" he goaded his men with his vile suggestions. "Shall we leave her to rot alongside the men, or perhaps," he paused, his tone dripping with lechery, "shall I have my way with her, right here, with all of you as witnesses?" The air was thick with the raucous cheers of his cohorts.

"Touch me and see what becomes of you," I snarled, my words cutting through the charged atmosphere as the man behind me tightened his hold tauntingly gripping my body with a smirk. 

"Didn't you once express pity for all the women who fell beneath me?" he retorted, "Well, how about we make you one of them?" he hissed hatred blazing in his eyes.

"Do that, and I'll ensure you never have the chance to wield your wretched cock again," I spat, the words seething through clenched teeth, though my threat was met with only cruel laughter.

"Leave the bitch to meet her end alongside the men," Haesten commanded, his words dripping with contempt as his minions set to bind me, suspending me upside down from the gnarled branches above.

A shroud of discomfort enveloped me as Haesten closed in, his presence ominous as he approached. His fingers grazed my cheek, and I recoiled instinctively, but his grip on my hair was unyielding, forcibly turning my head to meet his chilling gaze.

With a cruel whisper, he uttered words of malice, his touch sending a shiver down my spine. "I hope you die a slow painful death" his breath ghosted over my skin as his hand trailed down my neck and then chest keeping a firm place there tauntingly, a sinister caress that made my skin crawl.

"Keep your filthy hands off her!" Finan's voice cut through the tense air, his anger palpable as he finally intervened, though Haesten merely scoffed in response.

"What you're with the Irishman now?" Haesten's words dripped with disdain as he turned his attention to me, but my only response was a defiant spit in his face.

He shoved me away harshly, wiping the spit from his cheek with a disdainful sneer before retreating to his horse. "Now you'll witness just how tough she truly is," he declared, issuing orders for two of his lackeys to remain and keep watch over our impending demise as he rode away.

"Calm down Sihtric you will need your energy," I urged, watching with growing concern as his condition deteriorated, while the two men assigned to watch over us chuckled callously from a short distance away.

Unable to bear the thought of succumbing to such a grim fate, I whispered urgently, catching Finan, Pyrlig and Uhtred's attention. "Let me know when one of them turns our way," I instructed, determined to seize any opportunity for escape.

Without hesitation, I summoned every ounce of strength within me, stretching upward to reach the knot binding my feet, practically folding my body in half. With gritted teeth, I meticulously unravelled it, painstakingly freeing one leg from its restraints. 

"Now," Uhtred's voice pierced the tense silence, prompting me to return to my hanging position before continuing my efforts. Each movement felt like a herculean feat, the strain on my muscles unbearable, but I pressed on, driven by sheer determination.

Finally, the last knot gave way, and I plummeted to the ground with a resounding thud. With no time to waste, I sprang into action, facing off against Haesten's men who rushed towards me with malicious intent.

Despite the disorientation, I fought with fierce resolve, using every ounce of skill at my disposal. A flurry of blows ensued, culminating in a desperate struggle that saw me pinned beneath one of his men as the other suffered a severe head injury.

But with Finan's encouragement ringing in my ears, I summoned the strength to retaliate, delivering a fatal blow with my dagger pushing him off me.

I ran towards Sihtric beginning to cut off the rope suspending him and freeing him from his bonds.

"Hurry!" Uhtred's urgent cry pierced through the chaos as Sihtric collapsed to the ground, his strength waning. "Behind!" Finan's voice echoed, and I instinctively ducked, narrowly evading the lunging attack. We tumbled to the ground in a tangled heap, his weight bearing down on me, threatening to crush any hope of escape.

"Get him, Sihtric! Kill him!" Finan's rallying cry spurred him into action as I strained against the weight pinning me down, desperately trying to fend off the looming threat of the dagger poised menacingly close to my face.

Then, with a sickening sound, Sihtric's blade found its mark, burying itself into the back of the man's skull. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc, splattering across the forest floor, some even finding its way into my mouth, a bitter reminder of the brutality of our struggle.

As Sihtric rushed to assist Pyrlig and Osferth, I seized the opportunity to cut through the ropes binding Finan and Uhtred with trembling hands. Yet, amidst the triumph of our escape, the taste of blood lingered in my mouth, a nauseating reminder of the violence we had just endured.

"You are amazing," Finan's words were a mixture of admiration and concern as he gently grasped my face, his touch a fleeting reassurance amidst the turmoil raging within me but as the realization of what I had unwittingly ingested washed over me, my stomach churned, and I doubled over, retching uncontrollably.

"I drank his blood... Oh God," the words spilt from my lips in a rush, my horror palpable as I wiped the remnants of the gruesome encounter from my face with shaking hands.

Finan offered me a canister of water, and I gratefully accepted, though the act of swallowing felt like an impossible task. "You are impressive... and extremely flexible," his whispered praise brought a faint grin to my lips.

"We need to get to Stiorra," Uhtred said and I straightened up, I forced myself to push aside the overwhelming sense of exhaustion and fear. 

Despite the victory we had achieved in the moment, the safety of Stiorra remained our paramount concern.

─── ✦⋅ ☆⋅✦ ───

Uhtred and his pretty boys 😏

Tag list - @jasontoddorjasongrace

[viking-chaos]

Of Irland, Chapter 25

Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 24 \\ Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 25: The Prisoners

Chapter Warnings: Smut, Threat Words: 2152 AO3

“Stupid children,” Stiorra muttered to herself angrily as she entered the Great Hall. They’d been running around her feet all morning as she tried to find the things Drifa had asked for, eventually tripping her up, causing her to drop the precious herbs, expensive ones too. Drifa would not be happy. 

Someone suddenly caught her waist and yanked her into a deep, passionate kiss. She grinned into it, recognising who it was immediately.

“And what exactly is it about children that is stupid?” Sigtryggr asked when he broke away to breathe.

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” she explained, “it’s that they don’t pay attention to their surroundings, and sometimes that causes problems.”

“Any I know?” he asked. “I could talk to their parents, make them apologise.”

She smiled, and shook her head. It was typical of him, always trying to find ways to be helpful. “No, there’s no point. They pushed into me while I was on errands for Drifa. I’d rather it was me facing her wrath than small children who would cower at the sight of her, small as she is.”

Sigtryggr laughed, and Stiorra had never heard a more beautiful sound. “Even the tallest of us tremble in her tiny presence.”

“But as she says, size doesn’t matter, only your honour and courage.”

He chuckled and kissed her again, his lips so soft on hers.

He suddenly picked her up in his arms, bringing her legs around his waist and carrying her off somewhere, all without breaking the kiss. She giggled slightly as she clung to his shoulders. He put her down on something hard and wooden, and moved his lips to her neck, sucking small marks as he went. She opened her eyes, realising that they were now on the high table, in full view of anyone who might walk in. 

“Sigtryggr,” she giggled, “here?”

“Why not here?” he murmured as his lips brushed the flesh below her ear.

“If anyone were to walk in-”

He pulled back, “Then they will see a man worship his woman as she should be worshipped,” he said, bending down on his knees.

He pulled down her stockings, kissing a trail up her legs.

Stiorra wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. She cursed her own inexperience, and waited to see what he would do.

He stopped for a moment, noticing her apprehension, and smiled reassuringly. Then he resumed his route, placing open-mouthed kisses up her thighs.

“Sigtryggr,” she whimpered, knowing what he was doing now, and desperate for him to just get on with it. She was soaked.

“So desperate, aren’t you?” he muttered, his lips hovering mere inches away from where she needed him the most. “Say it,” he whispered, the brush of air on her core making a soft whimper fall from her lips.

“Please,” she begged.

He smirked. that bastard smirked. “Please what?” he teased, moving a small faction closer to her weeping core. “Use your words.”

“Please,” she whimpered, “please use your mouth.”

And use his mouth he did.

The tip of his tongue softly licked at her pearl. She clamped a hand over her mouth, attempting to stifle the moan threatening to let itself out of her. He paused for a moment and said, “There is no-one here to hear us. Let me hear you.”

He dove back down between her thighs, almost tickling  her with only the very tip of his tongue.

And it felt incredible.

His little licks became steadily more vicious as she grew wetter by the moment. The little wispy thing on his chin he called a beard tickling her thighs making her squirm. And he suddenly licked a broad stripe across her folds with the flat of his tongue. 

Following that was a mixture of sucking on her pearl and licking more of those broad stripes. Stiorra wound her finger in his long wild hair, tugging on it to bring him closer. A particularly vicious yank (after a particularly harsh suck) had him outright moaning into her. 

So lost in her pleasure as she was, she barely registered when he inserted one of those gorgeous long fingers of his into her core. And then another. Crooking them within her and giving her the most blinding pleasure she may have ever experienced. It did not take long for her to see stars.

He pulled back grinning while rivulets of her juices ran down his chin.

He stood up slowly, wiping away the fluids from his chin. She could have sworn she watched him suck on his fingers, savouring the taste of her.

“Delicious,” he smirked.

He didn’t give her much time to recover from her climax before his lips were on hers again. She could feel his hardness poking at her thighs through his breeches. 

“Tell me,” he panted, “tell me you want this.”

“I want you.”

Her hands made quick work of the ties confining him. He pushed her back on the table and gripped her hips, pulling her as close to the edge as he dared.

He entered her suddenly, giving her little time to adjust. But she wanted him so badly, she didn’t care.

His hips snapped at a relentless pace as he pulled back up to him. He sucked on her neck, possibly leaving marks. She knew he would not last long. He must have been hard for her since she entered the Great Hall. He must have realised that too, as he started rubbing on her pearl with renewed vigour, desperate to get her to her peak before him. 

She pulled him back from neck, eager to claim his lips with hers as she felt her peak approach. She moaned deeply as it washed over her in waves, and he sighed as he spilled inside her. 

They stood like that for a moment gathering themselves, when the door banged open suddenly, and the two sprang apart. Ivar stormed in, a furious expression painted on his face as always. one that seemed to grow redder as his gaze landed on her and his brother. 

“What are you doing?” he thundered, still stomping like a child.

“Nothing,” Sigtryggr answered. 

Ivar growled. “DRIFA!” he yelled. “Where are you, you dumb little-”

Drifa walked in at that moment whistling a tune. “I’d be careful what you say about me, Ivar Ivarrsson. I am older than your father.”

Sigtryggr sniggered. 

“Let’s go,” Ivar grumbled.

Time to interrogate some prisoners. The small group went into the room behind the Great Hall known as ‘the war room’. Ivar signalled to a guard and Anlaf was brought in, still in the same grimy armour. His hair was damp from the cells, and his armour was tinged green, most likely from his time on the ship. He looked miserable, but then, Stiorra supposed anyone would feel miserable after a night in those cells. She shivered remembering her own time in there, not knowing if she was going to live or die.

She didn’t even think she was supposed to be in there. But as she began to slip out, Sigtryggr gripped her wrist. He nodded, telling her she could stay. 

Anlaf was pushed into a kneeling position on the floor as Ivar sat in a large carved chair that looked more like a throne. His gaze raked over Anlaf, as if he was observing a slave in the market. The last time either of the brothers had seen their nephew had been five years ago. 

The door opened again and Rognvaldr slipped in. No-one paid him much attention, other than Drifa, who nodded in greeting.

Ivar, seemingly finished glaring at his nephew, signalled Drifa to start. 

“Five years ago,” she began, “you, Anlaf Guthfrithsson, left Dyflin to find your father. Is that correct?”

“It is,” Anlaf answered.

“And from the looks of things, you found him?” she asked.

Anlaf nodded.

“So, my brother is still alive then?” Ivar questioned.

“He is,” Anlaf confirmed, “old, but alive and well.”

“You went with your friend Hermund Grimmarsson, yes?” Anlaf nodded. “And he is now a berserker. What happened?”

Anlaf took a few breaths. It was clear this was not something he wanted to talk about. But everyone stared at him expectantly. He had no choice.

“I don’t know what happened to him. When we arrived, we found out that my father had found and joined Barid. We were told we had to stay with them, as they didn’t want anyone to find out where they were. Hermund found another friend while we were there, but never told me his name. He started to spend more and more time with this man. We barely saw each other at all. Then he vanished. I did not see him for months. Then, my father took me on a raid with him and Barid, and a berserker came smashing through the village. I saw him doing horrible things there. And then he turned, and it was Hermund, except he was covered in berserker markings. He seemed happy to see me again, but I could hardly recognize him. He could outdrink anyone at the alehouses. He seemed to relish in the raids. I was disgusted at how anyone could do something like that. “And then we sailed up a river in Wessex. Or Mercia, I can’t remember. And we saw a ship. It was sizable, a trading ship. We didn’t see the flags, and Barid ordered us to raid it. I saw him and my father arguing about something, but it was too noisy with the men gathering their weapons and shields. After we were done, my father ordered us to leave the plunder. Hermund complained, but he told us it belonged to the seer, Drifa. And us raiding was not going to end well for us. She would come with her magic and spells and curse us all.”

He glanced at Drifa, who was smiling and shaking her head. “They tell such fanciful tales about me.”

“Perhaps you should curse them,” Sigtryggr suggested. 

“Quiet!” Ivar barked. “Let the boy finish.”

“He asked me and Hermund to turn ourselves in at the village behind us, until a boat came to take us to wherever the Seer was. So we turned ourselves into the local Lord, who happened to be Uhtred the Dane-Slayer. When Hermund learned that, he tried to kill Lord Uhtred, but was caught. I was treated more as a guest, until the other ship came. And then we came here,” he finished. 

There was silence after he completed his story. from the sound of things, Anlaf hadn’t done the right thing, perhaps he had grown since the last time he was in Dyflin. But Stiorra was in no position to judge. She didn’t even know Sigtryggr had a nephew until the ship carrying him arrived in Dyflin.

“We will decide what to do with you later,” Ivar said, breaking the silence. “For now, we will talk to your friend.” He signalled the guards to take Anlaf away again.

“From what he said, he didn’t really do much,” Sigtryggr said.

“He left Dyflin and sided with a traitor,” Ivar retorted.

“He came back,” added Rognvaldr. “Willingly, too.”

“You truly think he came back willingly?” Ivar conterred. 

The argument was interrupted by the arrival of Hermund, dragged in by two of Ivar’s men and Sigurd, a berserker himself. Even Sigurd was dwarfed by Hermund’s sheer size. But then, size wasn’t everything. Stiorra had little doubt that if Hermund so much as thought about trying anything, Drifa would be on him like a cat on a rat.

Hermund proved to be less talkative than his so-called friend, preferring to stare menacingly at them, stubbornly remaining silent. In the end, Ivar had to send him back to the dungeons.

“So,” Sigtryggr began, “what do we do with them now?”

A silence fell between them. 

Even Drifa seemed to have no clue.

“They have to be punished,” Ivar pointed out.

“Yes, but how?” Drifa questioned. “Anlaf confessed to the crimes he did commit, but none of them felt serious enough to execute him. He accused Hermund of crimes that we would execute for.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what we should do.”

“I say we kill Hermund,” Rognvaldr said. Everyone stared at him. He never made a lot of contributions to these sorts of discussions. “What? Am I not allowed to have an opinion?”

“No, Go on,” Drifa encouraged. “We kill Hermund.”

“And perhaps he can have Anlaf beaten,” he suggested. “Not too many times, of course.”

“I like this plan,” Drifa agreed.

“As do I,” Sigtryggr concurred. Even Ivar nodded.

“I suppose that would work. I…” he stopped and stared at Stiorra as if he had only just noticed she was in the room. “What is she doing here? What are you doing here? Get out!” He yelled.

Stiorra left without complaint. Perhaps it was best not to tempt luck any further today.

[icarusignite]

Just finished The Last Kingdom, and I am absolutely blown away. Feeling abit inspired so would y'all be interested in some tlk fanfics. Probably mostly for sihtric since that's my new hyperfixation, lol, but I can do others too. Maybe like a series of short stories idk, thoughts and opinions are welcome :)

[mrsarnasdelicious]

The Last Kingdom Master List

Band of Bebbanburg [I] [II] [IV]

House full of Heathens [I]

Sihtric Smut [I] [II] [III]

Poly Headcanons [I] [II] [SFW]

Christmas with [Aelfwynn] [Aethelflaed] [Aethelred] [Aethelstan] [Aldhelm] [BoB!Cookham Four] [Cynlaef + Aethelstan] [Cynlaef] [Eadith] [Erik] [Finan + Osferth] [Finan + Sihtric] [Finan] [Hild] [Leofric] [Osferth] [Pretty Boys] [Ragnar] [Sigtryggr] [Sihtric] [Skade] [Steappa] [Stiorra] [Uhtred] [Young Uhtred] [In Bebbanburgh]

Doggy Style [Finan]

First Kiss [Finan] [Osferth] [Sihtric]

Riding Him [Sihtric]

The Adoption of Aethelstan

That Thing About Fertility

Imagine Your OTP

[breanime]

14, 21 and 22

14. Save Aethelwold or Aethelred

Oof... save Aethelwold, but only so Uhtred or Brida can kill him. I would stand there and watch Aethelred die while eating an apple if I could.

21. Break Finan's heart or break your loyalty to Sigtryggr

FRIEND, THIS WAS CRUEL. Goddddd, um... FUCK, this is so hard. Cause the thought of breaking Finan's heart breaks MY heart. Like, I'm just picturing the face he made and the way he stared at Eadith when she said everyone who cared for her is gone, and I can't do that to him. But THEN I think of Siggy's face when his brother betrayed him and that hurts toooooo 😭 FUCKKK. Um, ummm... Betray Sigtryggr's loyalty, but If try to get back into his good graces afterwards 😭😭😭

22. Save Eric or save Ragnar

My heart says Ragnar due to my love for Uhtred and Brida, but I would have LOVED for Eric to live and see what becomes of the plot. Also, I love the idea of someone honorable owing Uhtred a debt, because unlike a lot of the Saxons (aka Alfred and his line), I feel like Eric has always respected and honored his word when it comes to Uhtred, and I think he would have been a fantastic ally. Also imagine Eric being able to raise his daughter as a Dane. Imagine him not being satisfied until he sees Aethelred dead for abusing Aethelflead. Imagine Eric and Aethelflead on the battlefield together, fighting alongside the Coccham Squad! Eric being fond of Sihtric from his time as a spy in Eric and Sigefrid's camp, GAWD!

So in short, Eric.

@songtoyou What about you? Same questions, what are your thoughts?

[tovalhallaandback]

A Game of Revenge and Loyalty - Chapter 5

64.media.tumblr.com

GIF by divineandmajesticinone

TAG LIST: @ladyaldhelm @holy3cake @arcielee @kingslionheart @whitedarkmoonflower // If you are tagged it is because you demonstrated interest (?) But happy to remove for future chapter postings! Also zero pressure to read <3 And happy to add tags!

Pairing: Stiorra Uhtredsdottir/Sigtryggr Ivarson

Summary: The career academy may have taught them how to win the Hunger Games, but nothing of how to win the game of love. A forbidden love becomes more complicated as they quickly learn, the Hunger Games were not the only thing they signed up for when they decided to volunteer.

AKA - It's a Hunger Games AU! Mentor/Mentee vibes. Career vibes. - But not in the way you might imagine! TONS of angst but a promised happy-ish ending.

Trigger Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!! HG Canon typical violence and atrocites. TLK Canon typical violence and atrocities. Better tags on AO3, with each chapter having a content warning drop down for those who do not wish to be spoiled.

Sneak peak below the cut, full chapter posted on AO3 :)

A booth full of handmade jewelry run by an older woman with greying hair currently holds the raven-haired young woman’s full attention, chocolate eyes scanning over the mixture of jewels and treasures in search of one piece in particular. About a year ago, Stiorra fell in love with a small golden ring with a quatrefoil-shaped setting filled with a deep-burgundy stone, the knotted gold trim surrounding the setting along with the small golden circle in the middle making it reminiscent of a flower. She had tried to purchase it twice, the day she discovered it and then the following day with Sigtryggr, but the older woman is a tough bargainer and Stiorra was short on Panars. Unfortunately when the young woman from Two returned for it with the proper amount of Panars the following weekend, the ring had vanished from the collection. 

Though likely a lost cause a year later, she brings the ring up every time she sees Helga, but the older woman always brushes Stiorra off, trying to persuade the young woman to buy similar items. When Stiorra asks if the vendor makes custom pieces, the older woman shakes her head side to side. It’s pathetic at this point - going there over and over again, denying it must have been sold, hoping the older woman will make a twin or have it suddenly make a reappearance.

But, the ring reminds Stiorra of her mother, especially when her father remains firm on his decision to wait until Stiorra is 'just a little older' to gift her any more of her mother’s belongings. Of course, ‘just a little older’ seems actually to mean ‘never’ based on how many times her father has used the phrase since her mother’s passing when the raven-haired young woman was six years old.  She does not blame her father though; with every passing day, her reflection in the mirror resembles the ghost of her mother, her father’s living nightmare. She reckons allowing her to wear and use those items might just be the nail in the coffin for the man. 

And, it’s not just that the small piece of jewelry reminded the young woman of her mother. The ring also had appeared before the young woman from Two right around the time she began to realize how much she loved the young victor from Two, how much she craved a future with him. So when she discovered the ring, it felt like a giant sign - maybe marrying Sigtryggr one day would not be a terrible fate to endure; maybe it would even make her happy to spend the rest of her life with him. 

[destinyisall-tlk]

I have a couple of thoughts on the Stiorra/Aethelflaed stockholm syndrome thingy.

I don't think Stiorra had any stockholm issues at all, I'm pretty sure Sigtryggr would have told her outright what her role was in being kept captive pretty early on for negotiations, and I think he knew the way to get Edward to hear him was through Uhtred - especially if Stiorra spoke of all he did for Alfred.

Also Uhtred see's A LOT in people and their connections (Aethelstan and Ingilmundr for example) so if he didn't believe Stiorra's reasoning for wanting to go with Sigtryggr he would of put his foot down and not allowed it at all.

As for Aethelflaed, I think the cruelty she was suffering at the hands of Aethelred not just in physical treatment but mental as well I imagine being kidnapped by a group of people she's been told are nothing but mindless brutes that actually listen to her demands, Erik asks her to eat nicely (unlike her husband who ridiculed her), let her bathe in some kind of secure way, didn't punish her for using self defence, and then let her get some air without a full guard showing that in some degree he trusted her not to attack him - I could see why she would lean into Erik's affections.

But I also think Uhtred only agreed to help her with Erik because he saw it as a better option than her staying locked in a room surrounded by others that would harm her and being used for a ransom for a huge army and war that would of ravaged the country.

Lengthy I know I'm sorry

interesting points. i do agree that if uhtred even for a second thought sigtryggr would harm stiorra, or if stiorra's reason was somehow "forced" upon her by sigtryggr, he wouldn't have let her go.

as for aethelflaed, i can only imagine how after being abused and treated horribly by aethelred, seeing erik - a dane - be respectful and protective (even though he didn't have to) would have made aethelflaed have some sort of affection for erik.

thank you for sending in your thoughts on the topic. x

[cambion-companion]

i saw you reblogged sigtryggr from the last kingdom a while ago and idk if you watched the show but he is what I imagine Aemond to be with his wife - he respects her, heeds her warnings and listens to her advice and cherishes her opinions (and loves her immensely and would die for her, of course 😄) he and his wife Stiorra are literally goals and my favorite ship of all time (dont mind that they only got like 5 minutes of screentime together), i dont remember seeing this kind of relationship in any media

it's what you write in your fics, basically, and i fall for it every time, love your work 🤍 thank you

This post!

I've never seen the show and have no idea who those people are (but dang he's hot) and I immediately was like "that's Aemond 100%" haha

Love that you get that vibe from my writing! That's a major win 💚 thank you!