#sigtryggr x you

[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.

[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.

[idksmtms]

Sigtryggr Masterlist

Series

Under construction...

Oneshots

Hostage Situation - (Sigtryggr x reader - coming soon)

During the siege of Winchester, you, palace maid, are called to speak to Sigtryggr. He sees your intelligence, knows you would have been quiet but would know lots of information about Edward and the royals. He doesn't expect you to be beautiful and so easy to fall in love with as well...

The Forgotten Princess - (Sigtryggr x Princess!reader - coming soon)

As negotiations begin for Winchester, you find that Edward would rather burn down the city than retreat for your life. Still, Sigtryggr won't let anything happen to you. You are his favourite captive after all.

AUs

Coming soon...

[paula-in-dreamland]

“But Daddy, I Love Him” is giving me hardcore Stiorra and Sigtryggr feels, fuck.

[sigmartell]

sigtryggr & stiorra in 4.10

[viking-chaos]

The Last Kingdom Fic Masterlist

Sihtric Kjartansson

Failed Hunt T Just fluff, nothing more, some very mild sexual content, equally very mild language Just you and Sihtric messing up a hunt. Why can't this be my life??? 😫😫😫😫

Sigtryggr Ivarrsson

Valhalla G Absolutely nothing If Sigtryggr and Ragnar met in Valhalla...

Sigtryggr/Stiorra

One Shots (see individual warnings)

My Mother's People (series) 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.

[oursoulsareodinsown]

Meanwhile, his wife…

@renaissancecat

everyone was like “oh, damn”. 

[whitedarkmoonflower]

Reunited 4

Part 4

Pairing: modern!Sihtric x reader with a side story of modern!Sigtryggr x reader

Authors note: it's probably a bad idea to post it today, but fuck it ... I'm having too much fun writing this. And don't tell me I didn't warn you - it's gonna be a ride 😅.

Warnings: heartbreak, use of alcohol, very suggestive (lowkey smut)

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

Word Count: 4,1 K

The whispers started small—a passing comment from a mutual acquaintance here, a vague mention in the industry gossip there. Gisela had done her best to shield you, brushing off any mention of Sihtric with a casual dismissal, redirecting your attention to new projects, exciting events, or people who would, in her words, "help you look forward, not back."

But eventually, the whispers grew louder, impossible to ignore.

You hadn’t been looking for updates on Sihtric, but it was almost as though the universe itself had decided that you wouldn’t be able to escape his shadow. It started with a model at a shoot, casually mentioning that she’d seen him out one night, barely able to stand, clinging to the arm of someone you didn’t know. The words "worse than I’ve ever seen him" lingered, simmering in your mind.

At first, you ignored it. Sihtric wasn’t your concern anymore, you reminded yourself. He had made his choices, just as you had made yours. But more stories came—different people, different places, each one painting the same picture of a man who was unravelling, barely holding himself together. The Sihtric they described was a stranger to you, and yet those stories struck a painful chord deep in your chest.

One evening, as you sat across from Gisela at your favourite café, her attempts to distract you from the topic finally fell short. You’d reached your limit.

"Gisela," you said, interrupting her as she rambled on about an upcoming exhibition. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

Her eyes widened, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. "Tell you what?" she asked, feigning innocence, though you both knew exactly what you meant.

"About Sihtric." Your voice was steady, but there was an underlying tension. "About what’s happening to him."

She sighed, placing her cup down with a slight clunk. “I didn’t think it was something you needed to hear. He’s not your responsibility anymore. You deserve to live your life without his shadow looming over you.”

"But he wasn’t always like this," you replied, voice barely more than a whisper. "I know him, Gisela. Or I thought I did."

Gisela reached across the table, her hand finding yours. "You did know him. But that’s not who he is now. Whatever he’s become, it’s because of his own choices."

“Gisela,” you said, setting down your coffee and looking her in the eye. “Do you think… Maybe my refusal to speak with him made things worse?”

Her brow furrowed, concern and frustration blending in her gaze. “What do you mean?”

“All these stories about him… spiralling,” you murmured, your fingers tracing the rim of your cup. “He just wanted to talk, you know. And I just showed him away in the worst way possible. I can’t help but feel that maybe, if I’d just been willing to listen to him, he wouldn’t have ended up this way.”

Gisela shook her head, her expression firm. “You can’t think like that. You have every right to protect yourself. Talking to him wouldn’t have changed anything. He’s responsible for his actions, not you.”

You glanced away. “But our last conversation, Gisela. I can’t stop thinking about it. The way I turned him away, how angry and cold I was. Maybe I was… too harsh.”

“You weren’t harsh,” she replied, squeezing your hand. “You were clear about your boundaries. You have every right to those, especially after what he put you through. Don’t start blaming yourself.”

Despite her reassurance, the memory of that day lingered in your mind like a shadow. That look in his eyes, the desperation just beneath the surface, how he had struggled to find the words. And how you had shut him down, leaving him standing alone on that set, without a chance to explain himself. It had felt empowering then, taking control of the situation, reclaiming your peace. But now… now, you weren’t so sure.

“Maybe,” you whispered, almost to yourself, “I should’ve just listened, if only to give us both some closure.”

Gisela’s gaze softened, but her voice remained steady. “Closure doesn’t come from reopening wounds, and that’s all he’d do. He’s gone too far down this path—he’s not the person you knew.” 

Gisela squeezed your hand. “You have every right to protect yourself. You don’t owe him anything—not after what he put you through. He’s doing this to himself, and I don’t want to see you dragged down because of him again.”

You didn’t answer. Wrapping your hands around the warm coffee cup, you stared into the swirling steam rising from the dark liquid. Why does everything have to be so damn complicated? 

That night, alone in your apartment, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Every time you closed your eyes, fragments of that last encounter on set replayed in your mind: Sihtric’s hesitant steps, the way his voice had cracked when he’d asked to talk, the look of devastation as you’d turned your back on him. You’d told yourself it was for the best, but was it really?

You picked up your phone, fingers hovering over the screen.

Before you could think it through, you sent a message to Gisela.

"Do you think I should try talking to him? Just once?"

The three dots indicating her reply popped up immediately, and then her response followed, firm and direct.

"No. That chapter is over. Don’t reopen old wounds."

You put the phone down, staring at the empty space in your living room as her words echoed in your mind. Gisela was right, of course. She had been there through it all, had seen you at your lowest, helped you pick up the pieces of your life, reminding you of who you were outside of him. But this wasn’t about reopening wounds. This was about understanding. For your sake, and for his.

With a steadying breath, you made a quiet decision. Tomorrow, you would reach out, you would go to the set and talk to him—not to rekindle what was lost but to speak out, to lay the ghosts of your past to rest. Maybe it would bring peace to both of you, to let you finally close the chapter for good. 

You arrived at the set the next morning with that quiet resolve still fresh on your mind, the familiar hum of voices and equipment doing little to settle your nerves. Today, you would finally speak to Sihtric. 

Maybe it wouldn’t change anything, and maybe it would leave you feeling just as hollow as before, but at the very least, it might ease the nagging feeling that had taken root since your last conversation. There was no script in your mind, no clear sense of what you would say. Just a need for… something. Resolution, maybe. Closure. Or perhaps, deep down, a glimmer of hope. What? No, shut up! You almost slapped yourself in anger. What hope?

As you waited, you glanced at the door every few minutes, each time your heart skipping a beat, only to settle back down when he didn’t appear. The seconds stretched into minutes, each one adding another layer to the knot forming in your stomach. 

You had run through a dozen different ways to start the conversation in your mind, but none of them felt right. How do you confront someone you’d once loved but had shut out entirely? What could you even say that would bridge the distance between you after everything that had happened?

You clenched and unclenched your hands, feeling more foolish with each passing minute. A part of you cursed yourself for not following Gisela’s advice, for not simply letting it go. “Leave it in the past,” she’d said, her voice filled with quiet insistence. And yet, here you were, waiting for a man who’d hurt you, hoping he’d arrive so you could dig into the buried pain between you both.

What was it you expected to hear? A confession, an apology, an explanation? The truth was, you didn’t know. You just felt as though you couldn’t move on with this weight still hanging over you, with the sense that you had played some part in his downward spiral. Was it really closure you were looking for, or did some part of you, a part you’d never admit aloud, still care for him, still believe there was something worth salvaging?

The chatter of the crew buzzed around you, but you barely registered it. Occasionally, you caught snippets of conversation—small whispers about Sihtric, talk of his “new habits” and frequent no-shows. The makeup artist mumbled something under her breath about his inconsistency, a sigh of exasperation barely audible. 

You stayed, doing your best to keep a composed front, pretending to focus on the tasks in front of you. But beneath the calm façade, a familiar ache simmered—a sinking disappointment, perhaps even a touch of anger, that he hadn’t shown up. You tried to tell yourself it was about professionalism, about the wasted time, the disrupted shoot, but deep down, you knew it actually wasn’t. You’d finally been ready to talk, to face the unresolved tension between you, and Sihtric had left you waiting, his absence a silent answer in itself.

As the hours stretched on and the last hopes of his arrival slipped away, the emptiness grew. The loss felt oddly profound, a quiet ache that lingered, as though something vital had slipped through your fingers, even if you couldn’t name what it was.

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

Just as you finished slipping on your heels and checking your reflection one last time, a soft knock echoed from the door. You opened it to find Sigtryggr standing there, a calm, admiring smile spreading across his face as he took in your appearance. His suit was impeccably tailored, the dark fabric accentuating his tall, lean frame, and his long hair was pulled back in a way that softened his strong features.

“Wow,” he said, his voice warm as his eyes lingered on you. “You look… incredible. Absolutely stunning.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips as you glanced down, a little flustered by the way he looked at you. “Thank you,” you murmured. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

He chuckled, reaching out to take your hand, and his fingers were warm and steady around yours. As you turned to grab your purse, he tilted his head slightly, studying you with gentle curiosity.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked softly, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your hand. “You seem a bit… distracted.”

You took a breath, glancing at him before looking away, feeling the weight of the day’s thoughts pressing down on you. “I’m fine,” you said, though the words felt weak even to your own ears. “It’s just… been a long day.”

Sigtryggr’s expression softened, his gaze unwavering as he searched your face. “If there’s anything you need to talk about, I’m here. No pressure—just… if you want.”

You felt a warm reassurance in his words, his genuine concern like a balm to your lingering unease. You managed a small smile, grateful for his presence. “Thank you. Really. I… I appreciate it.”

With a gentle squeeze of your hand, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “No need to thank me,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “Tonight’s about enjoying ourselves. Let’s make it a good one.”

You slipped your arm through his and offered him a small smile, feeling a comforting sense of calm settle over you. Sigtryggr’s quiet confidence grounded you, his warm presence lifting your spirits just enough to face the fashion show you’d agreed to attend with him.

The venue buzzed with energy, lights flashing as photographers captured the evening’s best-dressed attendees. You and Sigtryggr moved through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries with designers, editors, and models. 

The night felt almost surreal, as if you were floating through it, your worries temporarily forgotten as you lost yourself in the glamorous whirlwind of conversation and clinking champagne glasses. But then you spotted him.

Across the room, Sihtric was leaning against the bar, a glass dangling from his hand, his face flushed and his eyes somewhat unfocused. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair dishevelled, and his grip on the camera strap on his shoulder was loose, like he had already forgotten that he even had it. 

You froze as he caught sight of you, his gaze narrowing before flickering over to Sigtryggr. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, but then he began making his way toward you, his movements slightly unsteady.

“Is that him?” Sigtryggr asked, catching your tension. His tone was gentle but alert.

You nodded, unable to tear your gaze away as Sihtric approached, his expression dark and unreadable. The familiar ache twisted in your chest, but you straightened, bracing yourself for whatever he was about to say or do.

“So,” Sihtric sneered as he stopped before you, eyes flicking dismissively between you and Sigtryggr. “You didn’t waste any time, did you?” His voice was laced with bitterness, words slurring slightly as he swayed on his feet.

“Sihtric, don’t do this,” you said softly, hoping to defuse the situation, but he ignored you, his focus shifting fully to Sigtryggr.

“And you…” He tilted his head, eyeing Sigtryggr with disdain. “Think you’re so much better than me, huh? Perfect little prince, sweeping in and saving the day.”

Sigtryggr’s face remained calm, though you could feel the tension in him. “I think it’s best if we all take a step back,” he replied evenly, his hand settling on your shoulder in a reassuring gesture. “This isn’t the time or place.”

But Sihtric’s eyes flashed, his face twisting into a sneer. “You think you can just step in like I never meant anything?” His voice grew louder, heads turning as people began to notice the unfolding scene. “She was mine, you know. You’re just a cheap replacement.”

You felt Sigtryggr’s hand tense, but he kept his composure. “You’re drunk, Sihtric,” he said quietly. “Go home. Let’s not make this uglier than it needs to be.”

But Sihtric’s face hardened, his expression an unsettling mix of pain and fury. Before either of you could react, he lunged forward, his fist aimed clumsily at Sigtryggr’s face. His movements were sluggish, heavy with the effects of alcohol, and Sigtryggr sidestepped effortlessly, catching Sihtric’s arm and stopping him in his tracks.

“Enough.” Sigtryggr’s voice was firm, his grip on Sihtric’s arm steady as he pushed him back, keeping his own emotions in check. “Go home. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

The words struck Sihtric like a slap. He staggered, his face flushing with humiliation as he looked between the two of you. For a fleeting moment, you saw the vulnerability beneath his anger—the brokenness and regret lurking behind his bloodshot eyes.

“Fine,” he muttered bitterly, wrenching his arm out of Sigtryggr’s grip. His gaze lingered on you, the weight of everything unsaid filling the space between you. “Enjoy your perfect life,” he spat, his voice cracking slightly as he turned and stumbled away, nearly knocking into a nearby table on his way out.

The crowd, still buzzing with curiosity, watched him go, a hush settling over the room as people exchanged whispers and glances. You stood there, heart pounding, torn between anger, pity, and an ache you couldn’t quite shake.

“Are you alright?” Sigtryggr asked, his voice steady, his hand gentle on your shoulder as he guided you toward a quieter corner, away from the prying eyes.

You shook your head, you were far from being alright. Sihtric’s words, his reckless behaviour, the way he’d looked at you—it was like seeing a stranger in the shell of someone you once knew. The man who had stood beside you tonight was unrecognisable, and yet, the guilt still clawed at you, lingering in the pit of your stomach.

Sigtryggr’s arm slipped around you, as he led you toward the exit. “Let’s get you out of here,” he murmured, his tone soft and protective. 

You nodded, grateful for his presence  and the two of you walked out into the cool night air, Sigtryggr’s hand lingering at the small of your back, guiding you with an ease that felt natural. 

He turned to you with a soft smile. “It’s still early,” he murmured, his gaze drifting over your face. “Would you like to come to my place for a nightcap?”

As Sigtryggr's question hung in the air, a shiver coursed through you, both from the chill of the night and the deeper question his invitation held. His face, framed by the soft glow of nearby streetlights, showed only openness, yet your mind raced. 

Your heart quickened, battling with the silent questions tumbling in your mind. What did you want this to be? Sigtryggr was unlike anyone you’d ever met—a quiet intensity wrapped in kindness, the kind of person who saw straight through you, not as if judging, but as if he truly understood. A part of you had been starving for this kind of connection, so different from what you’d known before, but was it too soon? Could you let yourself open up to someone again, let him see the parts of you you’d worked so hard to piece back together?

And then, a thought cut through the haze, sharper, clearer: What would Sihtric think if he saw you now? A pang of anger flared beneath your skin, surprising you. Why should it matter? Even more so—why would he care? But the questions lingered, twisting like thorns in your mind. Why did he keep finding his way into your thoughts, haunting you with his absence, even though he was gone from your life for good?

Admitting it hurt more than you wanted to acknowledge. He was gone. The reality pressed down like a weight you’d been struggling to lift. This was the perfect moment to close that door, to step into something new, to let someone else in… Or, you could keep waiting, letting the ghost of him drift around you, keeping everyone else at arm’s length, forever just out of reach.

With a soft, steadying breath, you looked back at Sigtryggr and found him still there, watching with a quiet patience, not pressing or urging, but simply waiting. His expression held nothing but warmth, a silent invitation in his eyes that felt as gentle as it was genuine. His presence was calming, without expectation, without judgement. In that instant, the idea of stepping forward didn’t seem so daunting.

Your heart lifted, and you found yourself nodding, a smile tugging at your lips as you met his gaze. “I’d like that.”

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

Sigtryggr’s apartment was just as you’d expected—filled with art and an understated elegance that spoke to his style. Soft lights cast a warm glow over the room, and as he poured two glasses of wine, you took in the paintings lining the walls, the sketches scattered across his workspace, small glimpses into his creative world.

He handed you a glass, his fingers brushing yours briefly, sending a shiver up your spine. You took a sip, the wine rich and velvety, warming you from the inside. You could feel his gaze on you, intense yet tender, and when you looked up, the air between you grew charged, a subtle current building with each passing second.

“You know,” he began softly, stepping closer, “I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful you looked tonight. Or… how beautiful you look now.”

His hand reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering, fingers grazing your cheek. You felt your breath hitch, the gentle way he was looking at you sparking something within. Without overthinking, you leaned in, your lips meeting his in a soft, hesitant kiss.

Sigtryggr responded instantly, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and inviting. The wine glass slipped from your hand onto the table as his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. You melted into him, the heat between you building, his kisses growing hungrier, more insistent.

He led you toward the bedroom, his hands never leaving you, each touch filled with gentle urgency. When you reached the bed, he paused, his eyes searching yours, as if asking for permission, making sure this was what you wanted.

You answered by pulling him down to you, and he responded with a low, pleased hum, his mouth trailing down your neck as his hands found the zipper of your dress, sliding it down slowly, his fingers grazing your bare skin, igniting every nerve.

Clothes were shed, piece by piece, until you were both exposed, bodies pressed together, skin to skin. His touch was tender yet commanding, guiding you with an instinctive rhythm that left you breathless, each kiss and caress drawing you further into the heat of the moment.

Every brush of his fingers felt like fire, igniting sparks across your skin. His hands traced a path over you with a careful, reverent touch, as though he was discovering you piece by piece, memorising every curve and every reaction. His breath mingled with yours, soft and warm, as his lips explored places you hadn’t even known craved attention, gentle but unyielding.

You arched your back against the mattress and moaned loudly as he thrusted into you. Your fingers wove into his hair, pulling him closer, and he responded, his mouth tracing a path along your jaw, down your neck, igniting a trail that left you gasping, clutching him as though he were an anchor in a sea of sensation that you thought almost forgotten.

Sigtryggr moved within you with a steady, skillful rhythm, each thrust deliberate yet intense, his gaze locked on yours, simmering with a passion that left you utterly breathless. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, a loud moan escaping your lips as pleasure surged through you, erasing any lingering hesitation or self-consciousness. Whatever doubt or embarrassment you’d felt about revealing how touch-starved you were melted away, replaced by a powerful wave of heat and sensation that overwhelmed every thought, leaving you lost in the intoxicating bliss he brought with each movement.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss, his hands roaming over your body, igniting every nerve he touched. His touch was confident, demanding mixed with softness and careful attentiveness, his focus solely on you, on every little reaction he coaxed from you.

The pleasure inside you coiled tightly, building with each movement, each shared breath, and the way breathless moans spilled from your lips only seemed to spur him on. He responded with a low groan, his pace quickening as he drove you both toward the edge, his presence grounding you even as he unravelled you entirely.

When the two of you finally lay together in the quiet aftermath, limbs entwined, Sigtryggr pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his hand tracing soothing patterns along your skin. The silence between you was comfortable, his warmth enveloping you as you nestled into him, feeling safe and content in his embrace. Your breathing slowed, each gentle stroke of his hand pulling you closer to sleep. 

But as your eyes grew heavy, a familiar image intruded—a vision of Sihtric, broken and desperate, his face etched with the same raw pain and bitterness you'd seen at the event. His haunted eyes, full of anger and longing, stared back at you, and his words echoed in your mind, refusing to fade: “She was mine.”

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

Morning light filtered softly through the blinds, and you blinked awake, stretching slightly before noticing Sigtryggr’s arm still draped around you, his peaceful face turned toward yours. A small smile tugged at your lips as you remembered the night before, and you let yourself relax, sinking back into the moment. But just then, the sound of a key turning in the lock jolted you both out of the haze.

The door swung open, and a woman’s voice called out, her tone full of urgency and familiarity, sending a chill through you. “Sigtryggr?”

You froze, exchanging a startled look with Sigtryggr, who looked just as caught off guard. She called his name again, her footsteps growing closer as she moved through the apartment and toward the bedroom. Your gaze flew to Sigtryggr, wide-eyed with surprise, but before either of you could speak, a young woman appeared in the doorway, her eyes landing on you in bed with him.

With a yelp, you instinctively wrapped the blanket around yourself, heart racing as the reality of the situation hit you.

“Stiorra,” Sigtryggr started, his tone a mix of apology and guardedness as he sat up, tugging at the blanket to cover himself too.

[idksmtms]

The Last Kingdom Masterlist

Uhtred Ragnarsson Masterlist

Sihtric Kjartansson Masterlist

Finan Masterlist

Osferth Masterlist

Sigtryggr Masterlist

Ragnar The Younger Masterlist

AUs

Coming Soon...

[mommytauriel]

+ · 。~ favorite physical touch

pairing.uhtred, finan, sihtric, osferth & sigtrygger x female reader |genre. fluff, reactions? Idk what to call this | warnings. Touching and some kissing | wc. 692 |

synopsis. some sexy tlk men’s favorite physical touch with there girl

request. no

note. I got this cute idea when I was watching kitchen nightmares, weird right? i really want to write more for other characters, just need some suggestions 👩🏻‍💻 this is kinda short, but it’s sweet. Maybe I’ll make a part 2 in the future!

☆ UHTRED

laying his head on your chest

Uhtred loves laying his head on your chest, for multiple reasons. One, because it's very comfortable, being able to lay down and just close his eyes, feeling your warmth. The second reason is because he loves being able to hear the soothing beat of your heartbeat. He has lost so many people that he's loved in his life, so being able to have you close to him and knowing that you're there, that you're safe…that you're alive. It's very special to him. The two of you don't even have to talk, just lay in silence; in bliss in the bed, you two shares. It's very intimate. 

☆ FINAN

cuddling

Finan absolutely loves cuddling with you, he loves how close it makes the two of you become. It doesn't matter what position, as long as the two of you are as close as you can be, he's fine with it. Finan doesn't mind showing some public affection but the two of you mostly cuddle at home, in bed or his favorite place, the soft fur rug in front of the fireplace. Finan’s favorite part of his day is when the two of you wind down, and cuddle on the rug in front of the fire, drinking some ale and talking about your days. Sometimes he would even interrupt you to place a few kisses on your skin that was illuminated by the fire. It was peaceful, it was warm. 

☆ SIHTRIC

hugging you close

It was hard for sihtric to really find his favorite physical touch, there all his favorites. But the more he thought about it, he realized that hugging you was his favorite. He hugged you when he was sad, when he was upset, when he was happy. He loved hugging you; he loved being able to pull you close and wrap his arms around you. He loved the smile that would spread across your lips when he pulled you close to him, or how flustered and shy you would get when he would lean to whisper flirty comments in your ear. Either it was hugging you from behind or the front, he loved it. He also hugged you and left a kiss on your forehead before he would have to leave (and ofc a breathtaking kiss). There was just something about hugging you that gets him going. 

☆ OSFERTH

resting his head on you

Osferth is a shy boy, at first that is. He was too shy to show public affection towards you around others, so he left all that for when the two of you were alone. But he started noticing something that he did in public and private without realizing, and that had quickly become his favorite thing to do. And that was resting his head on you. When the two of you sat next to each other, he would rest his head on your shoulder and watch your side profile, taking in every detail about you that he could. He also liked resting his head in your lap, looking up at you or the sky, listening to you talk or just quietly relaxing to the feeling of you playing with his hair. He loved it so much; it was just so comforting to be like this with you. 

☆ SIGTRYGGR

kissing you

Okay, Sigtryggr is a very touchy lover, so it's hard to pick just one. But thinking about it more, he realizes that kissing you is his favorite physical touch. He does it quite a lot, like a lot. In the mornings he wakes you up by placing soft kisses all over your face and neck, he loves the way your nose scrunches in confusion and your eyes flutter open, only too sleepily smile when you realize what's happening. You would lose count with how many times he would kiss you through the day, on the lips, on the cheek and even on your hand. He likes to surprise you and kiss you on the cheek, alerting you of his presence. He likes grabbing your hand in his and kissing it gently as he keeps his eyes on you, he likes kissing your shoulder and neck from behind. And let's not forget the breathtaking kisses the two of you share. 

note: this was fun to write omg! This was my first time writing something for osferth, uhtred and sigtrygger. I want to write more for them, I have some ideas 👩🏻‍🍳

I’m honestly just re-falling in love with sigtrygger like omg 😩🤭

I know I haven’t gotten a full fic out in a whileee, but I just have been having trouble really focusing on a fic. But don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get my grove back!

Like I said at the first note, this is pretty short but maybe I’ll make a part 2 in the future.

I hope you guys enjoyed this!

Please comment and tell me what you think of it, I would love to hear your thoughts.

Likes comments and reblogs are very much appreciated!!

taglist: @clairacassidy @mads-weasley @bubblyabs @sihtricfedaraaahvicius

copyright © 2023, all rights reserved. you can't copy, translate, reproduce, repost my fic, use my plot or layout.

[sigmartell]

SIGTRYGGR & STIORRA in THE LAST KINGDOM, SEASON 5 EPISODE 6

[oursoulsareodinsown]

@ivarthebadbitch

““He drew his seax instead and nodded to Sihtric who still guarded Brida. ‘Let her stand.’ Sihtric stepped away. Brida hesitated, then suddenly scrambled to her feet and lunged at Sigtryggr as if trying to snatch the seax from his hand, but he held her at arm’s length with contemptuous ease. ‘You would have blinded my daughter,’ he said bitterly. ‘I would have given her wisdom!’ Sigtryggr held her with his left hand and raised the seax with his right, but Stiorra intervened. She touched his right arm. ‘She’s mine,’ she said. Sigtryggr hesitated, then nodded. ‘She’s yours,’ he agreed. ‘Give her the sword,’ Stiorra said. She still held Wasp-Sting. ‘Give her the sword?’ Sigtryggr asked, frowning. ‘Give it to her,’ Stiorra commanded. ‘Let’s discover who the gods love. Uhtredsdottir or her.’ Sigtryggr held the seax hilt first to Brida. ‘Let’s see who the gods love,’ he agreed.””

— Bernard Cornwell, Warriors of the Storm

[rebeccawangart]

Sigtryggr (2024) | The Last Kingdom

This is a graphite pencil drawing of Sigtryggr from The Last Kingdom, based on a reference photo of his official character portrait from Season 4. It was drawn on 9x12 inch (23 x 30 cm) heavyweight cold-press watercolor paper, which is heavily textured and you can kind of see that in the darker areas.

[willowbrookesblog]

"I'm afraid of you."

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson x Fem!Reader Uthred's daughter and Stiorra's older sister

Notes: This is my first fic about Sigtryggr so if you notice something out of character for him or some spelling mistakes, please tell me :) I'm also lowkey highkey scared to post this because I've never truly written anything to the public 😩 but I know that by practicing my writing will slowly get better as time goes on so please give me some pointers if you want it will be greatly appricated- anywho hope you enjoy~

warnings: talk of childbirth/death but its just one line and doesn't get talked about again.

Y/n sat in silence - head resting on her hands that were interlocked under her chin starring at a book Sigtryggr asked her to read to him blankly, knowing that her sister was okay and that no one would harm her, she wasn't worried about Edward's family as she had a feeling they were going to be used as pawns or something of the sort.

She had already talked to Sigtryggr and had told him everything he had asked for in return for the security that her sister wouldn't be harmed to which he had agreed - she couldn't deny the warmth that spread through her when he had promised that he would not let anyone hurt her or her sister.

In truth, for the past few weeks she had grown quite close with him, Sigtryggr even going as far as to let her see Stiorra herself to make sure she was alright. Sigtryggr managed to figure her out - something most men couldn't do, and that terrified her. She had built walls around herself so that no one could get close to her, she didn't want to lose anyone else and he managed to make his way right into her heart and made her walls crumble to the ground while she stood watching them fall and there was nothing she could do about it.

Sigtryggr silently watched her from the opposite side of the room a small smile playing at his lips as she sighed "What is it?" Y/n turned to look at him "This is so stupid, I'm bored, tired, and hungry, and I'm tired of reading, my brain feels like it's being tortured" Y/n scoffed before pushing the book away and leaning her head on the table.

She heard Sigtryggr chuckle at her and lifted her head "What?" Sigtryggr moved to sit in front of her, handing her some bread, his fingers lightly touching hers as she grabbed it "Well then, you shall take a break. Tell me more about yourself, you said you often thought of your future, tell me about it" He asked her, only for information and totally not just him wanting to learn even more about her or anything "I want to go on a couple adventures, maybe own my own bakery, I refuse to have children so maybe have a cat or two, and then live a quiet and peaceful life," Y/n says as she looked up at him

Sigtryggr smiled at her and tilted his head "No children? why is that?" Sigtryggr asked her curiously and Y/n scoffed at the question not hesitating to answer him "I have no maternal bone in my body, when I hear a child cry I do not feel the need to comfort it instead I pray to the gods that it shuts up, and when a child falls I have no feeling to comfort them in fact i find it rather amusing." Y/n leaned back "Plus i don't want to die giving birth, it scares me" Sigtryggr nodded "that's understandable" it got quiet for a few moments before Sigtryggr got called for by someone and he excused himself, gently touching her shoulder as he went by.

Y/n sat quietly by herself, his touch set her skin on fire and she couldn't help but think of what it would feel like touching all over her body, she quickly shook her head and took a deep breath in trying to calm herself but it didn't do much to calm the heat her body was forming.

-----

About another two weeks had gone by and her body craved him, she wanted him more than anything and that terrified her, she didn't know it was possible to want something so much, didn't help that she would make up so many excuses just to get him to touch her, it was almost pathetic, she felt herself falling for him and she couldn't stop herself.

Similarly Sigtryggr was having the same problem, every time she asked for this or that and he let his touch linger on her, he knew that he was falling for her, but he wasn't upset by finding out he was, he was just worried about what would happen to her.

She sat down at the table back facing the door when he walked in "I'm afraid of you, afraid of the feelings that you make me have. Of how tempting it is to make excuses just to feel your touch on my skin, of lying to myself. I'm afraid of the feelings that consume my entire being when you come around, or when i think of you. I'm scared about how much I feel for you. I can't hide it anymore- I'm tired of hiding it and being afraid of you rejecting me, Of being scared of what I want" Y/n says to him as she stands up turning to face him

Sigtryggr tilts his head to the side and slowly steps forward to stand in front of her, "And what do you want?" His voice is firm but gentle "I want you" she responded almost instantly "I want you so much it scares me" Y/n said again her voice slightly quivering

Sigtryggr looked at her and nodded his head "Then you will have me, I was just about to come and tell you a deal has been made. You will come with me to Eorforwic, I will give you everything you wanted, adventures, your own bakery, cats, and a peaceful, quiet life"

Sigtryggr gently holds onto the sides of her face "If you would be willing to go with me, will you?" he asks looking in her eyes "I would happily go with you, Sigtryggr" Y/n smiles and pulls him closer to her and lays a gentle kiss on his lips.

-----

Please 🙏 please tell me how it was, did you enjoy it? Any feedback helps and is greatly appreciated <33 Also before I forget Please reblog 😊

@valeskafics @sihtricfedaraaahvicius I'm tagging you both just because I wanna know what you guys think of this <3

[tovalhallaandback]

Vores Lille Dukke

Summary: A night at the club on All Hallows Eve turns into frighteningly intimate evening when you run into York’s undead King and Queen who offer an invitation that you’d be stupid to turn down. 

Pairing: Vamp!Sigtyggr x Vamp!Stiorra x Human!AFAB!Reader

Warnings: SMUT (18+), threesome, unprotected sex, p in v sex, oral sex (giving male/female, receiving male/female), lowkey dom/sub vibes (dom Sigtryggr, switch Stiorra, Stiorra is also a bratty sub lol, sub reader), minor rough sex, minor blood kink, minor praise kink, mentions of blood, legal alcohol drinking (but reader still able to consent), possibly more that I'm missing ?

Wordcount: 10.3 (Yeah...i went a little nuts..)

AN: So uh, happy belated halloween?! I have more to say in the AO3 ANs lawl.

Cross-posted on to AO3 since it's so long. Also if you want to skip to the smut, then skip to the bolded part.

There’s a luminescent glow in your favorite club tonight, black lights illuminating only whites and neons while casting everything else into eerie shadows. The bass from the speakers beats so loudly, you feel it in your bones, like a second heartbeat as you lean against the bar nursing a cocktail, watching your friends. You can’t help but laugh as one slaps another party goer across the face while the other seems like they have been starved from human touch for centuries with the way they try to devour their companion. At least, they both seem to be having fun, though you wish they had kept their promise of not abandoning you tonight when they forced you out of your apartment. 

The costumes tonight lack creativity - white bunny costumes as an excuse to where lingerie in public, skeleton body suits like a second skin, angels with far too salacious grins…Though creativity tends to get stifled when there’s only so many white and neon costumes to choose from for a halloween blacklight party. And besides, it’s not like your ingenuity is any better, spotting several other possessed dolls within the throngs of people on the dance floor, even if you had no clue that you’d be coming out tonight until four hours earlier when your friends arrived clad in costume, giddy with excitement as they announced a change in plans from your annual horror movie marathon. And for a last minute costume, you look damn fucking good.  

Sure you would have rather kept to your converse instead of the four-inch strappy stilettos one of your friends insisted you wear knowing far too well that  high heels, cobblestone, and alcohol are a lethal mix, but you’re still quite proud of the rest of your thrown-together costume. It’s a simple assemble - just a white pleated skirt with your favorite white tank top; both of which emphasize your favorite physical attributes in just the right way. Then of course, there’s the black leather jacket and white lace-trimmed thigh highs that add a little bit of edge to your look. But the cherry on top? Your make-up, so detailed and precise that it looks like a professional special-effects make-up artist completed it. So while tonight might not be your usual scene, at least you feel damn fucking confident in the way that you look. 

“What’s your poison?” You just barely hear a voice that can only be described as sounding as sweet and harmonious as Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Snowflakes” say over the blaring music, though still loud enough that your heels pop off the ground for a moment, still unable to shake the feeling of being watched that’s haunted you the last couple of weeks.  At first, you ignore it despite the voice’s alluring nature, like a siren in a storm, beckoning you to find its source. Plus, you’re certain they must be talking to someone else. But then it comes a second time, even louder and clearer, like the person has moved closer to you, “It looks really fucking good.” 

Your eyes flick down to the deep ruby red cocktail in your hands. The stranger’s right; it is fucking delicious, tasting mostly of sweet cherries and pomegranate. It’s one of those drinks that you could easily down five of in a row, completely forgetting there’s alcohol laced between the sweetness.

“I think it was called Dracula’s blood? Or something cheesy like-“ The words get stuck in your throat as you meet the deep dark eyes of the stranger, not quite able to discern their color under the blacklight. The petite lithe female looks like a walking goddess with her pin-straight dark chocolate brown hair falling almost to her waist and skin-tight little black dress that falls just to her mid-thigh. You instinctively swallow, licking your lips as she stares back at you, a sweet but tantalizing smile hanging off her lips.

“Like that,” you say finally, though it comes out almost like a whisper. But, it’s a miracle you were able to even finish you sentence with the way this young women has captured your attention. 

“Would you like another?” she asks as she waves down the bartender. 

All you can do is nod, still awestruck by how perfect her cream colored skin looks under the purple-hued lighting and how the dress she wears draws your gaze to the delicate slope of her breasts, then the curve of her waist. But on the bright side, she seems to hardly notice your blatant ogling (or she’s just used to it). 

Either way, you chastise yourself for such behavior, forcing your mouth that you didn’t even realize fell open closed. And somehow, you manage to remove yourself off the bar, the sleeves of your jacket making a squelching noise as they peel off the tacky ledge covered in God knows what.

As you reach into your pocket for your card, the mysterious female shakes her head, “It’s on me.”  With a gracious grin, you accept the drink from her then bring it your lips, allowing the sweet nectar to flow over your lips one more.

“Fuck that is good,” the young woman says. 

She adds something else, but you hardly register it, now enamored by the way the crimson drink drips off one of her canines (wait have those always been so sharp and pronounced?!) and onto her plush lower lip like she’d just sunk her her teeth into someone’s flesh. Then, you find yourself wishing for chance to taste the beverage on her tongue… And that’s when her costume finally makes sense - the little black dress with sheer black tights, the velvet choker around her neck, the smears of blood in odd places, the overly emphasized canines…she’s a vampire. 

“Great costume,” you splutter out then immediately close your eyes. Fuck?! Great costume?! If she weren’t still standing there, you’d probably be hitting yourself over the head for such a stupid fucking line. 

She smiles at your sweetly, like you’re a cub who thinks they can keep up with the lions. “Thanks,” her eyes do a once over your costume. “Big Child’s Play fan?” 

Your hand seesaws, “Yes and no. Mostly just the ones from the late 90s that are more comedy than horror. Let me guess - True Blood? The Vampire Diaries?” 

“Something like that.” 

Your fingers tap against your thigh as your eyes fall over the crowd again, rattling your brain for something more clever to say to the vixen then talk about your fucking costumes. You spot one friend, now practically fucking their companion on the dance floor as other people grind, jump, and fist-pump to the beat. You’re still scanning the crowd for the other when your eyes meet a different stranger’s gaze. The taller man leans across the far wall, a drink at his lips as he stares back at you and the vixen to your left. You’re certain that someone as devilishly handsome as him has to have his eyes on his clear counterpart, but then her glass clinks against yours as she whispers, “I think someone likes you.” 

But before you can counter her, she’s gone, unable to even locate where she disappeared too. Besides, it only takes two seconds to realize that she’s right as the other stranger’s eyes remain glued to you instead of following wherever the chestnut-haired stranger disappeared too. Heat rushes to your cheeks , and suddenly you’ve never been more thankful to be in a club with backlights. Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you finger waggle at the stranger, swearing you see the flash of a smirk as he takes another sip of whatever he’s drinking. 

Maybe if you were three or four drinks deep, you might have enough confidence to waltz over to the new stranger. But you hardly feel the familiar warmth or euphoria pulsing through your veins, still only on your second drink with the first having been nursed for almost an hour. Besides, there’s no fucking chance you’d have a chance with him. Right? 

For God’s sake he looks like fucking Mr. James Dean with the jeans, glowing white t-shirt, and mohawk…? (Really you’re just certain the sides of his head are shaven.)  But either way, he looks like the type of guy who need only wink and panties fall to the floor for him. (And that’s just in shitty lighting from thirty-feet across the room. Up close? He probably looks like a Greek fucking god.) 

Your other friend appears, swiftly dragging you by the hand as they weave through the crowd towards the bathrooms unintentionally saving you from embarrassing yourself a second time this evening. Their iron grip around your wrist disappears once in the sanctity in the bathroom, then your friends turns to face you. “You cool finding your own way home tonight?” 

Your friend glows pink under the neon sign mounted above the sinks reading, ‘Please Don’t Do Coke in the Bathroom’. There’s an odd coziness to the brick-walled bathroom with four onyx stalls and and a double vanity sink, like the owners of the club knew most people retreat to the bathroom for a moment to themselves as just the thrum of the bass beats through the walls now. It’s nice being able to actually hear your own thoughts and not need to shout to be heard. 

“Yeah. After you both promptly abandoned me the minute we got drinks, I figured that would be the case.” 

Your friend wraps you in too tight a hug, then places a gentle kiss on your temple. “We don’t deserve you.” 

“No, you really fucking don’t,” you say with a giggle as the edge of the countertop bites into your hipbones. It’s not the first time they both have pulled this move on you, nor will it be the last. But, you’ve never minded it, just insisted all three of you ensure your location-shares stay on and check-in that you’ve all made it home by lunch the next day. 

You listen intently as your friend rattles off to you all the details they have learned about their prospective companion for the evening, clearly elated by how the night has shaped out. Eventually, you get your chance to tell her about the two strangers who caught your eye, only to quickly deny any plans of leaving with them when your friend wiggles her eyebrows at you. There’s no way in hell you have a chance with either of them. Then with one more giddy hug, they leave you in the bathroom alone. 

The silence is comforting, appreciating how you can finally think straight as you try to decide whether to stay a bit longer or to leave. Plus, the bottle of pedialyte you guzzled in anticipation of the evening has finally made its way through your system. 

You jump in your heels when you reemerge from one of the stalls, having hardly heard the female stranger from earlier enter the bathroom. She sits cross-legged on the grey concrete counter top, the deep cherry red of the soles of her heels flashing at you as she uncrosses her legs, her smile widening, like she’d been waiting on you. She pops off the counter as graceful as a feline, her hips swaying as she glides effortlessly towards you like she’s barefoot instead of wearing at least four-inch black patent-leather Louboutin stilettos. 

“I got worried you left,” her musical voice says, sending a tingle down your spine. She smells like sweet vanilla, roses, and like she’d make all your dreams come true if you asked.

“Just needed to cool off,” you manage to mutter despite her proximity. If you just leaned forward half an inch, you’d finally find out what your chosen drink of the evening tastes like on her lips. 

“Do you mind if touch you? Fix a few things out place?” 

You shake your head. Of course you wouldn’t fucking mind if she touched you; she could do anything she wants to you. The graze of her knuckles against your own when she handed you your drink earlier, then again when you clinked glasses together, had sent a spark of electricity coursing through your veins, leaving you with wanting more.

Goosebumps erupt across your collarbone when her wine-red nails scrape across the tops your breasts as her fingers curl into the hem of your tank top. She shimmies it down a little lower, so the material highlights your cleavage a little better. Your chest rises and falls slowly when her hands move to your hair, then your face, making small adjustments here and there, until she finally grips you at your shoulders gleaming at you like you’re her masterpiece. “That’s better. Now, I do hope you at least say ‘hi’ to your admirer before you leave. I’m sure it would make his night.” 

You nod without quite realizing it, hypnotized by her scent…her charm…the way her breasts seem to strain against the bodice of her dress every time she inhales…. Up closer now, you swear she seems familiar, like this is not the first time that you’ve seen her. But, she seems young enough that you presume it’s from your job or university classes. 

“You two know each other?” you ask, cursing under your breath after the fact for the way your voice squeaked out the words. Fucking hell, you need to pull yourself together. 

“Something like that,” she says for the second time this evening, still seemingly oblivious to the way your mind drifts off wondering what it would be like to end up in between the sheets with her. 

You let the vixen guide you out of the bathroom, arm looped with hers like you’ve been besties your entire life. Thankfully, she deposits you back at the bar before sauntering away into the crowd again where she disappears within the sea of people as you berate yourself for forgetting to even ask her name. 

A bartender finally wonders back over towards you, but not take your order, instead just handing your drink of the night right to you. Just beyond the bartender at the other end of the bar, the vixen (wait when did she get over there?) blows you a kiss. This time when she rejoins the dance floor, you follow her with your eyes. She stops when she reaches the middle, leaning forward as she whispers into a tall burly blonde nearly twice her size, dressed like Fred from Scooby Doo. 

And then…fuck that’s fast. Then again, she is drop dead gorgeous and you too would probably follow her like a lost puppy if she asked you too. A pang of jealousy rips through you suddenly wishing you could be the man who gets to worship her this evening. But it’s only a momentary feeling, for seconds later the vixen’s cupping her hand around the male stranger’s ear from earlier. Then with a wink so clearly meant for you, she drags the other male towards the exit. Shit, and here you thought you wouldn’t actually have to follow through with the promise you made in the bathroom earlier, could just slip out undetected in a few minutes. 

Your eyes flash up to the ceiling then to the DJ then the bathrooms, desperately searching for anything that could hold your gaze instead of the handsome stranger’s eyes. It’s not that you don’t want him, because oh my fucking God, you would trade a kidney to even spend one night with him. It’s just that you’re not known for pick-up lines…And what if he’s just been staring at you because something is out of place with your costume? 

But a voice so tantalizing with its velvety smoothness and hint of an accent that it forces you to find its source trails over your ear, saving you from having to make any such moves. “You know it’s dangerous for a young woman like yourself to be out unaccompanied.” 

You don’t realize that your mouth has fallen open again till the owner of the voice reaches out and presses a finger beneath your chin till your lips meet. Of course the voice belongs to the handsome stranger from earlier in the evening; it matches him perfectly. 

Fuck, he is even sexier close-up…and also supposed to be a vampire? For a minute there when he smirked at you, he seemed to have the same over-accentuated canines like the young woman from earlier. Plus, there’s also those dark splotches at the hem and collar of his shirt… Regardless, the alcohol has thankfully finally begun to hit, just enough now that you feel your earlier trepidations with flirting disappear but still remain of sound mind and judgement.

So instead of dwelling on what exactly his costume is tonight, you say “Technically I did not arrive alone nor am I currently alone,” a giggle escapes your lips as he peers around you then looks behind his shoulder like he’s searching for a companion. “You’re here.”

His eyes are lighter than the vixen’s, but you cannot quite determine whether they are blue or green yet, nor can you figure out the color of the remaining hair on his head, braided down the center like you’ve seen in those medieval viking television shows. But, his jawline is so sharp it could cut steel and based on upon the way muscle ropes around his forearms and biceps, you’re certain there is a chiseled six-pack you’d love to run your tongue over hiding under that t-shirt. 

“Ah, but I’m a stranger. Could easily be a serial killer out to lure young women just like yourself under the guise of a good time.” 

A flash from one of the strobe lights flickers off of the array of rings riddled over his left hand as he brings his drink of choice to his lips. The golden ring implanted with a larger burgundy stone on his left finger intrigues you the most, reminding you of a class ring or perhaps a family heirloom with how worn it appears, like it’s been in his family for a very very long time. He looks oddly familiar to you too, but maybe he also attends your university. 

“Who says that I’m not the serial killer?” He chuckles at your lame deflection and you think you might just die then and there. “Besides, we won’t be strangers anymore if we exchange names.” 

The purple-hued light highlights his teeth when he grins in a frighteningly sexy kind of way sending a shudder down your spine, “Sigtryggr, and yours?” 

Sigtryggr…interesting. You’re pretty sure it’s Scandinavian, yet you get the feeling that it’s no longer a common name even for that region of the world. But then again, maybe it’s a family name passed down for generations. 

You tell him your name, then add “So, Sigtryggr, are you enjoying your evening?” 

“It seems like it’s on the uptake now.” Damn, he’s smooth. And before you can even think to respond, a scent that reminds you of drinking spiced apple cider in an evergreen forest during autumn washes over you all while his warm breath starts to tickle your ear, “You could solidify that outcome if you went home with me tonight.” 

Is it the most ingenious line to ever exist? Nope. But does it work? Yep. Yep, it fucking does. Because who would say no to an invitation like that from a man as handsome and sexy as him? 

Your thighs squeeze together as a rush of heat washes over you, desire brewing deep in your core at his prospect. Never in your life did you think we’re that easy to persuade, especially by someone you had only just barely talked too, and yet here you were letting this stranger lead you out of the club into the brick-walled lined back alley. 

A crisp autumn breeze sends an abandoned beer can rolling down the alley while leaves of browns, reds, and oranges skate across the pavement and a chill runs down your spine as you instinctively wrap your jacket further around you. Then there’s Sigtryggr with not even a singular patch of goosebumps in sight.

“You’re not cold?” 

“Where I’m from, this is warm. Here,” his hands feel like they’ve been resting in front of a fire as they rub up and down your biceps and oh - his eyes are a brilliant piercing blue, like a frozen lake… so easy to drown in…. “My place is only a couple of blocks but would you prefer to go back inside and wait for a taxi instead of walking?” 

“Don’t you mean an uber?” 

“Same thing. Question still stands.” Then that grin that makes your knees go weak beneath you appears again when you shake your head no, “Good, because I don’t think I can wait any longer.” 

His hands thread through your hair as he tilts your head back sending waves of desire crashing throughout your body. Your lips meet and you immediately taste iron. Fuck had you been so desperate that you had you bitten him by accident? Or maybe did he bite you? Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind. And before you can dwell on the thought, his tongue swipes across your lower lip eliciting a gasp that grants him access to your mouth. 

Your muscles begin to relax as you give into the kiss, letting your hands roam up over his broad shoulders to his head, the stubble from where he’s shaved the sides of his head prickling your fingers. The heat building at the apex of thighs begins to throb as the intensity and desperation between the two of you begins to climax. Fuck, you want him so badly that you’d drop your panties right now and let him fuck you against the brick wall, onlookers be damned. So what if you end up in jail or in the paper tomorrow? He’s fucking hot and so worth it. 

  You find yourself keening forward onto your toes, eyes still shut, when Sigtryggr’s lips suddenly disappear from yours, desperate for another taste of the bourbon laced with iron on his tongue. “Finished already, my love?” he asks. 

No, of course you’re not fucking finished with him. You two have only just gotten started, the heat pooling in your belly begging to be relieved by either his cock or one of those long ring-clad fingers of his. 

Your eyes pop back open when your back hits the cool bricks, breaking you of your daze like having a bucket of ice water dumped over your head. Sigtryggr’s hand rests gently on your shoulder, holding you firmly in place as you follow his gaze, finding the chestnut-haired angelic vixen from earlier striding towards you as she licks her fingers.

And that’s when you clock the glittering gold ring with a deep burgundy stone shaped like a flower, looking oddly… familiar. Then like a flash of a lightbulb turning on, it comes to you; it matches the gold one that you had written off as just family heirloom of Sigtryggr’s …like a coordinated set…both rings looking straight out of the early medieval section at the museum and worn on their left ring fingers… Then another headlight from a car passing by illuminates the two strangers; alright, they definitely are dressed like vampires…a matching costume…because they’re married. They are most definitely married. 

Fuck, you didn’t know that they were married, let alone married to each other. But, she practically pushed you into Sigtryggr’s lap, hadn’t she? Or maybe she was talking about a different stranger? And that wink had nothing to do with the promise she had asked you to make in the bathroom? 

Either way, you open your mouth to apologize, but the vixen beats you to it, her melodic voice gaining a vicious edge to it as she says, “Tasted too much like coke and fuck boy for my liking. But, I think she’ll taste much sweeter on my tongue.” 

“Too bad I’ve already claimed her for the evening.” 

“I saw her first. And you don’t mind sharing, do you?” Sigtryggr’s palms slide up and down your waist now, but it does nothing to help the fear rising inside of you as they both stare you down like two ravenous predators. Oh.. so she meant that question for you. 

You gulp, eyes shifting between the two of them as you sputter, “I-Are you two divorced?” Because, they have to be…right? It feels like the only explanation for what’s happening.. and shit, the vixen most definitely could kill you in a heartbeat.

“Nah that’s on my agenda for next century.” 

Sigtyggr’s head whips towards his wife faster than an elastic snapping back into place, “What?” 

“I’m kidding, sheesh,” the vixen says with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I file for divorce once when women finally earned the right when we were already due to update our marriage license and he’s still so fucking sensitive about it, as if we have not been together for the last millennia.”  Damn, they have a backstory for their costumes and everything. They must really fucking love halloween…or roleplaying…or both. Alright, so maybe being swingers isn’t totally out of the realm of possibility here…  

“My wife, the drama queen.” 

“And you fucking love it.” 

“I do.” Then suddenly, Sigtryggr begins conversing with his wife in a dialect you don’t recognize, some Scandinavian language probably. 

And that’s when you put together who they are or rather what they are… the eerily ancient rings, the pure perfection of their appearances, their enticing scents, the old yet modern ways in which they speak, the iron on your tongue…. 

Your thumb brushes over your lower lip, coming away clean. The only blood you can see on Sigtryggr is on his - yeah no, that’s definitely real blood on his clothes. And the vixen’s lips? Definitely not still stained from the cocktail… Plus those hyper-realistic over exaggerated canines are not some weird cosmetic surgery either…These aren’t some silly costumes.. Nor are they history fanatics or family heirloom hoarders…  They are history. They are…. vampires. 

But not just any vampires either. You’ve heard about a million different versions of the legend of the undead king and queen of York, more frequently as of late due to the season. Some hailed the hauntingly beautiful young woman in front of you as the secret queen of York, Sihtric Caech’s true love and mistress whom all his children were truly sired through, his marriage to Eadgyth only political. Others believed she was King Athelstan’s sister but changed her name along with the king of Northumbria as to not raise suspicion when they were believed to be dead. But your absolute favorite version of the myth told the story of a king so distraught, driven mad even, by the death of his first wife that he sold his soul to Hel in exchange for an eternal life with her. 

The beat of your heart begins to thrum in your ears, something deep inside of your urging to take the opportunity to run. But instead, your feet stay firmly in place, too mesmerized by the way the mated pair in front of you toys the line of arguing and flirting, expressions shifting between teasing smiles and exasperated eye rolls as the two lover’s quarrel. A flash of light from the headlights of a car reflect off the undead queen’s pearl white teeth momentarily when she smiles making your breathing halt, looking like some demonic mix of angel and monster. 

Monster. Right. Vampire. Right. 

Their love quarrel continues with you now certain it’s over who gets to sink their teeth into your neck then suck you dry till you’re just a cold limp corpse on the ground. Your chest begins to rise and fall thrice as fast as its previous pace. Vampires. They’re vampires, idiot. And what do vampires eat? Dumb little humans who fall for their charm…. You need to leave. Now. Before you become their next meal. 

A puff of dust erupts from the brick wall as a loud cracking sound that can only come from cement (or maybe bones?) splitting  echoes across the alleyway at the same time Sigtryggr emits a low primal growl from deep within his chest as he pins his wife to the structure. Your heels pop off the ground momentarily, but more from the suddenness of the gesture; honestly the motion should have terrified both of you and the queen with its intensity. But while the vixen just giggles playfully at her husband, you feel the deep ache from earlier makes itself at home between your thighs once again. Worst of all, you’re stuck ogling at them once more as she takes his bottom lip between her teeth, urging his lips to meet hers….

Right. Fuck. Vampires. Fuck. Want to eat you…even if they are hot and so lost in their lust for one another that you feel that pang of jealousy a second time that evening. So lost… they don’t even know you’re there anymore. So lost… they won’t even notice if you leave! Which you should definitely do…Now! 

Your feet finally begin to move beneath you as you attempt to tiptoe away from them, slowly turning towards your exit. But just as you think you’re free, your ankle begins to roll.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! They will definitely hear you eating shit on the pavement. Once again - fuck, your best friends and their insistence on stilettos with cobble stone. But before the edge of your foot even fully makes contact with the pavement, a firm grip lands on your shoulder, steadying you. Of course they fucking noticed before it even happened, even heard it happening, enhanced abilities and reflexes be fucking damned.

You still turn your head back even though you know exactly whose hand has just saved you from embarrassment. “Careful there. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt before we’re done with you, ” the vixen says with a wink. 

“Are y-you going to kill me?” you manage to stutter out. 

“Oh no, youre too pretty for that. We took care of that earlier anyways. We just want to have fun with you.” 

Fun?! What could they mean by fun other than killing you? What the fuck do vampires do to have fun? “Like go to an arcade or something?” 

“Were you planning on going to an arcade with my husband?” Shit, you said that last part out loud didn’t you? And no, you were planning to fu- Oh. OH. 

“So what will it be a yes or a no? My dear husband said I’m not allowed to make the decision for you, but you better —” 

“Stiorra,” the undead king chides. So, that’s the vixen’s name…Seems fitting for her as well. 

“So, if my answer is yes, how does this work? Are we taking turns or something? I mean he’s your husband so obviously you get first cho-” 

“Oh, don’t flatter my husband. He’s not the one being shared. It’s you.” Oh, fuck. You definitely did not see that in the cards for tonight.. And then Stiorra answers the question you didn’t even realize you still had, “Together.” 

Together…like a…like a threesome. Oh….Oh. “Yeah, I think that uh..I think that’s fine.” You say trying to hide the giddiness building inside of you. Isn’t the saying that everything can be solved with a threesome? 

Stiorra turns to her husband, a look that can only be categorized as ‘I-told-you-so’ clear across her features as he remarks, “Well, lille elskede, my wife gets her way once again.”

“No, that doesn’t fit her at all. She’s our…our lille dukke.” 

Not even fifteen minutes later, you’re tucked against Stiorra’s lithe frame, already feeling reluctant at having to eventually detach yourself from the warmth she provided you on the walk from the club to their apartment. Their flat is unsurprisingly the penthouse suite; what else would you do with a millennia worth of savings?

“This is your place?” Fuck, what another dumb fucking question. Did Sigtryggr not just use a key to open the door? 

“Quaint isn’t it? Wanted something more discreet and cozy as we’re here so infrequently and mostly for business.” Sure, the place could be considered quaint if you were used to mansions and castles - oh, right, you may not have confirmed it officially, but you’re still certain that they have to be the undead king and queen. 

You humbly accept Stiorra’s offer of water as your eyes scale the vaulted ceilings, the silvery white glow of the moon shining through the skylights. But, your time exploring their apartment is cut short as Stiorra practically yanks you down the hall, not even stopping when her fingers curl into the collar of her husband’s shirt to drag him along too. 

Their bedroom hosts a beautifully espresso-colored ornate four-poster bed (probably a California king) garnished with what looks like the most luxurious, soft, plush linen set in a deep navy that you’ve ever laid your eyes upon. The bright overhead light coming from a beautiful gold and crystal chandelier blinds you briefly before dimming down to a soft warm glow, just enough that you can see them clearly. Well, there’s clearly no time to run now seeing as you’ve officially ventured into the lions den. 

Butterflies dance in your stomach as the anticipation for the evening peaks inside of you. Your grip on the heavy crystal glass in your hands tightens as your hand begins to tremor. Sure, this might not be your first time, but it is your first threesome with thousand-year-old vampires who most definitely know what they are doing when it comes to pleasure. 

But then a gentle hand brushes the hair away from your shoulders, tickling the delicate skin there in the most delightful way. You turn towards the sensation, your eyes meeting the deep chocolate brown of Stiorra’s who beams at you like an angel as her husband trails kisses along her neck. 

“I’m going to kiss you now, okay?” The sweetness and sincerity in her musical voice soothes the trepidation inside of you, just enough that you take the step forward towards her to close the distance. The glass in your hands gets passed to Sigtryggr, disappearing almost like magic (though really it only seems that way as you’re too busy worrying your lower lip as you become enchanted by Stiorra’s beauty once more). 

Then finally, her lips are on yours, gentle and soft - like she’s easing you into the evening ahead. The taste of sweet maraschino cherries overpowers the lingering bits of iron from her earlier meal, but it’s the way her feather-light touch skims over your frame that makes you wobble at the knees. For a moment, it’s just the two of you underneath the most glorious clear night sky, the kind of night where you can see the milkyway in all its different shades of blues, purples, greens and grays. 

And oh my god, the way her tongue runs over the seam of your lips has you daydreaming about how glorious it might be to have her wield it between your thighs. She giggles when you whimper into her mouth, hands fumbling into her hair as you attempt to pull her as flush to you as possible. But instead, she shifts beneath your touch till one of your hands lands on something much harder, like granite. 

Your eyes flutter open, unveiling the new placement of your hand. Sigtryggr lifts your chin, pulling you towards him as your lips meet for the second time this evening. You can taste his wife on his lips and the faint remnants of bourbon. Melting into his touch, you keen forward onto your tiptoes as you pull him closer, nails digging into the sides of his head. 

A sharp nip at your neck has you inhaling sharply, but only for a moment as seconds later, your head begins to fall back as a tongue sweeps over the tender area. As you relish in the feeling, one of your companions hands slides up across your stomach till it lands on one of your breasts. Your back arches, pressing yourself further into their touch as they begin to knead the soft mound. Then a moan trembles of your lips when fingers find your nipple through the thin fabric of your tank top and bra giving the hardened nub a sudden twist. 

The sensations halt suddenly, a little whine coming from your throat as you hear the beginnings of a belt buckle loosening. Stiorra stands directly between you and her husband now. You watch, fingers brushing over your now tender and slightly swollen lips, as Stiorra quite literally rips away the king’s shirt, hands exploring the smooth muscle of his rock solid six pack then slowly descending lower and lower till one slips down past the waist band of his boxers. 

Sigtryggr’s head hits the wall behind him with a loud clang as he groans his wife’s name. You swear you hear her smirk right before she falls to her knees in front of him. And then there it is… just as rock solid as his abs…Fuck, he’s big. The queen runs her hand up and down the length of the steel rod, stopping ever so often to brush her thumb over the tip or give a little kitten lick to the underside as Sigtryggr steps his way out of his remaining garments. Arousal pools between your legs, yearning to know what it feels like to have the king’s cock sheathed inside of you….or even just get a taste. 

And then as if she can read your mind, Stiorra pulls you down next to her. “You want a taste of my husband’s cock, don’t you?” That playful little smirk of hers that promises nothing but trouble appears again after you somehow manage to nod while picking your jaw up off the floor as she adds, “He likes it when you take him deep.” 

Sigtryggr’s fingers rake through his wife’s hair in a sweet but possessive way commanding, “You’re going to need to show her, my love.” 

His thumb then presses at the hinge of her jaw, till her mouth falls open for him. Your mouth begins to water to the point where you might be drooling as you watch the king slowly guide his member into the mouth of the queen then keeps going…and going…and going… till only an inch or so remains. 

His hips rock forward as Stiorra remains still as a statue, eagerly and easily taking her husband’s cock in her mouth like it’s the simplest gesture in the world. Even when he holds her at the deepest point for a few long seconds, she hardly flinches. And, it’s not until he pulls her off him with a swift tug of her hair that the queen makes any noise beyond the muffled garbled noises from having her husband’s dick shoved down her throat. But even looking positively wrecked from her husband throat fucking her, the queen is still as radiant as ever, now just with mussed hair, rosy cheeks, and glistening lips. 

The soft mewling sounds emanating from Stiorra quickly morph into soft purrs when Sigtryggr’s hand moves to cup his wife’s throat. Her head then flips towards you, deep brown eyes now blown an onyx color, a wicked grin plastered on her face. She reaches out to you, brushing your hair off your shoulder before wrapping her hand around your jaw. Then slowly, the queen begins to guide the king’s cock into your mouth inch by inch. 

“That’s a good girl,” she praises as her fingers brush through your hair, slowly bobbing your head up and down for you. “Just like that.” 

Tears brim your eyes as Sigtryggr fucks you, each thrust hitting the back of your throat. Your nails dig into his arse, eager to please him just as his wife had done. Though, there’s no way you can do what she did, only able to tolerate most of his length. A growl emanates from low in Sigtryggr’s throat as he pulls himself all the way out. 

Air fills your lungs, your following gasp a little too loud for your liking. But neither one of your companions seem to notice as Stiorra leans into the hand that strokes her head, gleaming like an obedient pet whose just been praised for good behavior. There’s genuine love in the way Sigtryggr looks back at her, but there’s pride there too. It’s the kind of affection you only see between two people who would stop at nothing but to give the world to one another, so unbreakable that even death would only seem to be a new beginning, like a gateway to eternity. 

With one more deep inhale and a lick of your lips, you return to the work you started, this time relying more on your tongue as you run it underneath the entirety of his length then swirl it around the tip. The milky white bead his cock weeps burns your throat slightly when you swallow it. But, you ignore the slight discomfort, desperate to please in hopes of having the ache that now throbs between your thighs quelled by one of them…or both of them…really whatever they want to do. 

A delicate hand lands on your shoulder, then tugs backwards ever so slightly, just enough that you know they’re asking you to stop. Together, the three of you migrate to the bed, where Stiorra immediately shoves her husband onto his back. The mattress has a little give to it as you crawl a top of it, preparing to take Sigtryggr’s cock again. But just as you get into position, a vice grip entraps your ankle then yanks you towards the head of the bed. 

The sound of fabric tearing fills the room for a moment, the remnants of your lace thong fluttering to the floor. Then the king’s tongue is running up and down the length of your seam. You fall forward onto your hands, a moan immediately trembling off your lips…Fuck. Never in your life could you have imagined sitting on top of one the hottest men to ever exist as he wields his tongue in ways you did not ever think were even possible and yet…here you are….

Slow teasing passes turn into more deliberate strokes, then small flicks till he’s narrowing his focus onto the small pearl at the apex of your sex. You peel your tank top off of yourself, desperate to have every inch of you touched as you ride the king’s face. When he suddenly groans against you again, likely from the way the queen continues her magic on him at the base of the bed, your walls begin to tighten as your get closer and closer to reaching your high. 

It’s all over for you once he slips two fingers inside your cunt, alternating between scissoring the two digits and thrusting them against the second most sensitive point of your womanhood. Your chest rises and falls, faster and faster as an electrifying tingle begins to spread out from your core to the tips of your toes. And when your high finally comes, you cry out the king’s name, panting as you whole body begins to tremble. 

“Seems like our lille dukke is enjoying herself,” Stiorra muses as Sigtryggr moves you beside him, all while a rush of heat stains your cheeks crimson. Had you really been that loud? 

“Do I sense a bit of jealously, my love?” The king says as his hand makes lazy sweeps over Stiorra’s thigh. 

“Only that you got to taste her first.” 

Then like a lioness on the prowl, the queen crawls on top of her husband. Now clad in only a delicate black lace full lingerie set, a singular piece probably costing more than your entire outfit, you gawk at the vixen as if she is the prey being served to you on a platter, wishing to roam your hands all over her lithe frame. Alas, it’s the king who receives that honor first. 

Your arousal still clings to Sigtryggr’s lips and barely-there stubble as Stiorra captures her husband’s lips with her own, grinding herself against him. But she does not just clean his face of you, taking her husband’s fingers still glistening from your cunt into her mouth as she sucks them clean, a motion that immediately reignites your heady need to be ravished by the two of them. 

Sigtryggr’s hands palm at Stiorra’s arse then slowly roam up over her back, the straps her bra falling forward off her shoulders from the force of the elastic snapping open. It falls to the floor as the two mates continue to relish in each other’s touch, making you start to wonder if your time with them is over.

You’d already gotten much more than you had initially expected, thinking you’d mostly be pleasuring them then the other way around. But just as you’re ready to slip away, Stiorra sets her sights on you, the breathtaking lioness cornering you like prey. 

You taste yourself on her tongue as she rids you of your bra, hands massaging your sensitive mounds. Kisses then skate down across your neck, over past your collar bone, till she takes one of your pebbled nipples into her mouth. Your back arches into her as you pull her closer, your body aching for her to unravel you. A mewling noise releases itself when a couple of her fingers slip past your folds, dipping briefly into your cunt, your whimpers only growing louder when she pulls her digits away. 

“I think someone’s ready for you, Sig.” 

Then like she’s your lady-in-waiting, Stiorra helps you straddle her husband. You whimper again as the tip of Sigtryggr’s cock slides against your slickness, then slowly slips into you. Just like the queen had guided your head when your first took Sigtryggr into your mouth, she guides your hips, lifting you up and down. Your head falls back, the fullness alone driving you mad. But, it’s when Stiorra’s singular digit begins to draw circles over the hooded bundle of nerves that you start moaning out both their names. 

Sigtryggr’s hands replace Stiorra’s in roaming your body, fingers occasionally tweaking your nipple or sliding over your pearl as you ride the king. As you surrender to the slow build, your teeth sink into your lower lip, watching the queen slip her panties off her long curvaceous legs. 

Stiorra’s thumb brushes tenderly across her husband’s forehead as she places a gentle kiss to his lips. Fuck, if you were anywhere else, you’d be getting your camera out at how adorable the two of them look. It’s the kind of love you hope to find one day, one that earns the title of the greatest love story ever written or recorded. 

A growl reverberates from deep within Sigtryggr’s chest suddenly, as his hands fly to his wife’s hips, pulling her up on top of his face just as you had been early. Stiorra hums, grinding herself down against her husband. Then her chocolate brown eyes are on you again. 

She leans forward, a wildness alight on her features as she pulls your face close to hers. The kiss she gives you sends butterflies flipping in your stomach with it’s gentleness, almost like she’s telling you that she cares about you too. Your fingers lace through her silken hair, the scent of vanilla and roses overwhelming you once more. God, you could kiss this vixen for hours. 

Then, fuck, there’s that sharp twinge of pain mixing with waves of pleasure as the Queen suckles at your pulse point. A warmth trickles down your neck, bright droplets of cherry red dripping down Stiorra’s lips onto Sigtryggr’s chest. Her grin spreads across her face when you offer her your wrist next, needing to feel that sensation over and over again. She takes it eagerly, savoring a few mouthfuls before placing your hand back over your clit where she helps you draw small quick circles. 

A loud smack sounds through the room, though Stiorra only smirks, removing herself from her husband’s face. Then Sigtryggr lifts you off of him, like your weight is equal to a feather, before positioning you onto all fours as he climbs behind you.

“You’ve been greedy tonight, my love.”

Stiorra guffaws, “You started it. Besides, she tastes sweeter than candy.” 

“Perhaps, it’s time I take a taste as well.” 

Then for a moment, your back is flush to his chest, his teeth sinking into you as he finally takes a taste. You shudder beneath his touch, head lolling back onto the king’s shoulder as he drinks from you.  Another sharp pang at your wrist sends your eyes flying open, catching the reflection of the three of you in the windows. Sigtryggr’s hands explore every inch of your naked body, kneading and massaging his way up and down. Every nerve is on fire as you stare breathlessly at the reflected image, inciting a frenzy inside of you. But, it’s when the king and queen’s blood-tinged lips meet in a messy kiss as they share the taste of you that your core goes molten. 

You cry out as Sigtryggr suddenly sheaths himself inside of you, your hands somehow managing to catch you before you face plant. His pace is faster than yours had been, hips snapping into you over and over again. Moan after moan rolls of your lips, one after another, growing louder as every thrust hits you deeply, right at the second most sensitive spot of your cunt. 

The queen moves in front of you, her legs opening up to you as she puts her womanhood on display like an invitation to the most decadent meal. You lick your lips, leaning closer and closer till your head just hovers above her center. The queen’s hand threads into your locks, gently stroking across your scalp; she wants you too. 

Your first taste of her is sweet yet salty, twinged with the same acidity you had tasted on Sigtryggr, like it’s not quite meant to be experienced by humans. You dive in anyways, your tongue swiping up and down her seam, eyes flickering back up every so often to ensure that what you’re doing pleases the queen. She keeps her hand intertwined with your hair, tingles spreading from your head to your toe as she massages your scalp. Then, Stiorra finally hums when you spread her folds to kitten lick at her nub. 

You pause suddenly, spotting Sigtryggr’s hand reaching forward as his lust-ridden voice says, “She likes it when you’re mean.” Then his fingers pinch at her pebbled nipple, twisting it in a way that can only seem a little painful, “Don’t you, my love?” 

For the first time that evening, you truly hear the queen roar with pleasure as her back arches off the mattress, chest pressing further into her husband’s palm. With your new instructions, you return to your work, eager to make the vixen purr just as her husband had done. And when your nail accidentally scrapes at Stiorra’s pearl, you begin to piece together what the king had meant for you to do. 

Alternating between sweet strokes and small nips, Stiorra begins to squirm beneath your touch as her body sings for you. All the while, your own body begins to inch closer and closer to the edge, walls beginning to flex against Sigtryggr’s cock as he continues to fuck you. Your peak comes suddenly like a wave crashing over you, your whole body clenching then releasing in the most delicious way, barely able to continue your work with the queen. 

Sigtryggr carries you through your orgasm, letting you ride out every ounce of it till you’re a breathless mess. Then with a sigh, his movements halt suddenly, “I’m close, my love.” 

Like a trained pet, Stiorra’s legs snap shut as she rolls towards her husband, gently nudging you out of the way. 

With a wink she teases, “Dont want any babies with married man do ya?”

A loud smack reverberates around the room, the bed rattling beneath you so forcibly that you think it might break, when Sigtryggr’s hand lands on his wife’s ass, a slyful smirk on his lips.

But she hardly moves, keening forward ever so slightly on to her hands as a soft moan escapes her lips. “I think you’re losing your touch,” she teases, despite her wrecked voice and onyx-blown eyes indicating otherwise. 

Sigtryggr’s teeth sink into Stiorra’s arse, then his head disappears out of sight. Your thighs press together suddenly, hoping the action might hide the way desire now pools out of you as you watch the mated pair. Only seconds pass before Stiorra’s hands fist into the sheets at your feet, her head falling forward. Her shuddered breaths fill the room, slowly growing louder like till she can no longer hold herself back, her husband’s name falling off her lips in a cry.

The shine of Stiorra’s cunt glimmers off her husband’s fingers and barely-there beard as he reemerges. Sucking his digits clean, he says “Still think I’ve lost my touch?”

When the queen arches her back, wriggling her ass at him like a mouse being dangled in front of a hungry feline, you think you might shatter right then and there, wishing to both trade places with her and be her undoing. 

Then she says, “Hmm, I think you could learn a thing or two from our lille dukke ” making a rush of heat form beneath your cheeks.  

And by the way Sigtryggr grips his wife’s hips, a way that can only be bone-crushing to a human, then buries his cock inside of her in one quick snap of his hips, you are certain she’s driving him crazy too.

The heat beneath your cheeks deepens to the point that you’re sure if you looked in a mirror right now you’d be scarlet as you watch the king fuck his queen. Sigtryggr’s hands rake into his wife’s hair as he pulls her up against his chest, hips bucking into her at a pace far quicker and harsher than he had been with you. The muscles in his forearm flex beneath his flesh as he holds it flush against the chestnut-haired queen’s waist while his other hand moves from her hair to cup her chin, tilting it up and away till he can sink his teeth right beneath her ear. His wife squirms against him, a mewling noise trembling off her lips. 

You inhale sharply, tongue running over your lips as you watch the hand around Stiorra’s neck slowly descend down through the valley between her breasts then across her stomach, only stopping once it has reached the small tiny pearl at the apex of her thighs. Your legs squeeze together even tighter, the slickness of your arousal pooling out of you making your thighs slip against each other instinctually as you try to quell the throb you feel in your cunt.  

One of Stiorra’s arms snakes up behind her husband’s head, pulling him down towards her till their noses brush. There’s a tenderness in the way she kisses him, like it’s meant to show love not passion. More importantly, it’s clear as day now that they’re done with you with the way the two mates hold each other’s gazes, lost in their love and lust for one another once more.  

Somehow you manage to will yourself to move, needing to force yourself to look anywhere else but at them before your drool drips onto the sheets. But just when you’ve swung one leg over the edge of a bed, a delicate hand wraps around your wrist, then a voice that sounds prettier than a bird song floats over your ears, “Oh, don’t think we’re finished with you just yet.” 

Stiorra falls back onto her palms like a feline, releasing the grip of your wrist in favor the ankle still on the bed. Then before you can process what she’s doing, her hands pin your knees to the mattress, putting your glistening cunt on display. 

“I think somebody wishes we were rougher with her,” the queen smirks. 

Heat flushes your cheeks again, but your bashfulness is only short-lived for the queen’s tongue licking your inner thigh clean of your slickness as she trails closer to your center has you seeing stars. Unlike her husband, she plays with you, taking her sweet time as she nibbles and flicks her tongue  anywhere but where you seek it most. A musical amused giggle tickles your flesh, causing your hips to buck a second time; the first having been when the queen suddenly sank her teeth into your thigh. 

A loud smack sounds through the air at the same time Stiorra jolts. “Play nice with our lille dukke,” Sigtryggr’s husky voice chides. 

You catch Stiorra pouting as she looks over her shoulder to her husband whose palm twitches against her ass, his pointed look promising trouble if she continues with her antics. Then with a dramatic eye roll, the queen starts to lower herself onto her forearms, as if she’s finally about to give you what you need. 

But just as you feel her warm breath against your folds, you stutter “No it’s - it’s okay. I kinda liked it.” 

Stiorra gleams brighter than a neon sign, a smile that can only promise wicked things pulling at the corners of her mouth. Then after a quick flash of her tongue at her husband, she begins to reward you for your confession. 

Kitten-licks to the small bead at the apex of your sex turn to quick tight circles as you begin to fall a part beneath the queen’s touch. You’re back arches off the silken sheets, gripping them so tightly that your knuckles turn white. The Queen’s name trembles off your lips and just when you start to see fireworks, she plunges two fingers inside of your cunt. Together with her tongue, the queen’s fingers curl and pit patter inside of you bringing you higher and higher. You begin to tremble beneath her touch, toes curling while you beg for your release till finally, every nerve explodes with pleasure as your third little death completely destroys you. 

Your body goes limp as your peak comes crashing back down, chest rising and falling at a slower and slower rate as a warm hum begins to spread throughout your limbs. Never once in your life have you felt so satiated by a sexual encounter…felt so alive. 

When you finally find the energy (and will) to push up to your elbows, you find an endearing sight in front of you. The queen has her legs wrapped around the king’s waist as her hands cradle his head, kisses swallowing each other’s sounds of pleasure. Fuck, they even make finishing together look straight out of a twisted Hallmark movie as they whisper sweet nothings to each other. They really couldn’t be any more of a perfect couple. 

Moments later, Stiorra lands on the bed next to you looking like a giddy preteen about to have her first sleepover party as she kneels at your side. You catch the towel Sigtryggr tosses your way, wiping your body as clean as a dry towel will allow as Stiorra runs hands through your hair. 

“Can we keep her? Please?” Stiorra begs, stroking your forehead like you’re a…like you’re her new doll. 

“It’s not up to us, my love.” 

Stiorra rolls her eyes at her husband again then bites her wrist and offers it to you. “It’ll help you heal faster.” 

You nod, apprehensively bringing her wrist to your mouth. A rush of warmth flows over your tongue like you’re drinking warm honey instead of blood. You whimper when the wrist disappears suddenly, depriving you of the sweet nectar, only for a larger slightly rougher wrist to replace it as Stiorra grumbles “Hey!” 

“My blood’s stronger,” Sigtryggr teases, a smacking sound presumably coming from his wife shortly following the jab. “Alright, that’s enough lille dukke. Don’t want to bleed us dry.” 

A sheepish grin tugs at the corners of your lips as Stiorra tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “Such a good lille dukke.” Then with a sigh, she pulls back the covers, “Come let’s get you to sleep.” 

You open your mouth to protest, insist that you take a cab back to your flat, only to feel the rush of exhaustion weigh down your eyelids. You have your location shared with your friends. Plus, Sigtryggr and Stiorra don’t seem to want to murder you…yet. So perhaps, staying the night isn’t the worst idea in the world. With a yawn, you slip underneath the covers where Stiorra nestles herself between you and her husband, pulling you close to her as your scalp begins to tingle from her fingers stroking through your hair. Then, only moments later you succumb to the sweetest slumber. 

The bed is empty except for yourself when your eyes flutter open the next morning. A sharp pang pierces your heart as you look around the room searching for them. You’d think it had all been dream had you not woken up in someone else’s apartment. With a mournful sigh, your toes flex against the wooden floor as you push yourself to stand then go searching for whatever remains of your clothing. And that’s when you see it - a small pile of clothes and shoes that are not yours, a paper bag, a danish pastry, and a small note written in the most elegant calligraphy you have ever laid eyes upon: 

“Our driver will take you home whenever you’re ready to leave, just let the doorman know. We hope to hear from you soon, lille dukke.” 

Then in a slightly less elegant hand-writing, an addendum: 

“PS - Keep the clothes. I have plenty. What remains of yours are in the bag.” 

[aphroditesmoon]

in full bloom

sihtric kjartansson x reader

summary: you saved sihtric's life once, he repays you when the chance presents itself.

warnings: pregnant reader, some gore, weapons. s5 spoiler.

°°°

Some people found it confusing seeing a pregnant girl with the band of misfit warriors on their journeys.

And as embarassing as it was to admit, the reason Sihtric has sworn himself your protector, was because you've saved him from death once. No argument was to be had to him, He owed you his life and he shall give it.

You were naught more than a traveling beggar, a nobleman's daughter, banished by your own family after finding yourself with child. And the father of the child had refused to take responsibility for his own mess.

And as you slit the throat of two of Haesten's men after freeing him and his friends from captivity, he swears he's never met anyone braver.

Though at the time your pregnancy wasn't obvious, he could tell by the curve of your stomach. His lord Uhtred has inquire of your well-being and journey.

After rejecting silver from him, Sihtric insisted to his lord that you seek protection with them, especially with the sickness going around.

And since then on, you two were inseparable.

he found himself being very protective of you and your too trusting self.

it was a miracle that you have made it this far safely. he has always made sure that you'd safe and never and battle.

Though this time he couldn't be so sure that he has made the right decision leaving you with Finan's wife. It seemed that the Danes have raided your city.

Finan's wife has managed to push you out into safety before the danes have gotten too close, But now that they have returned they had no idea where you were. Only Finan's wife was there.

There was no time to look for you as slashing swords meets blood and dead bodies on the ground.

He screams for Finan's wife to look for you. he could not risk losing you. Not before you knew the feelings he held for you in his heart.

His focus was driven from him as the scream of your voice caught his attention. his eyes widen as he sees you being held at knifepoint by one of Sigtryggr's men.

He shoves the sword inside of the man in front of him before running towards you.

"Let her go or the knife you hold will no longer have a hand to hold it." He growls at your captor.

The man huffed and move his knife to slit your throat. your scream was drowned by Sihtric's own scream, as he slams the man onto a wall pushing his knife out of your way.

He pushes you to the ground so you will not have any pain be inflicted from any weapons before craning the man's neck and breaking it.

The man slumped down on the wall and he spares no glance at him as he rushes to lift you up from the ground and pulling you inside Finan's house.

His wife immediately lets you two in.

"Are you hurt?" He breathes out. When you shook your head with tears falling down. He nods and rushes back out as Finan's wife locks the door and rushes you to her room.

She makes sure to try her best to comfort you through the chaos and bloodshed for your baby's sake, calming you down with water and restricting all entrances.

You can't help but worry for your Sihtric. Though he's a fearsome warrior, he's but a man still.

You cover yourself in blankets through sobs as your friend paces back and forth, her own worry showing for her husband. It was an unexpected attack.

After 30 minutes or so, the atmosphere outside becomes quiet. A hard knock on the door makes both of you flinch.

The sound of Finan's voice relaxes the two of you. The door opens for them and you gasp at the sight of a bloody Osferth.

Finan lays him on the floor, begging his wife to help him. But it was a lost cause,

the warrior monk was no longer breathing.

°°°

That evening you sat outside with Cynlaef and Finan's wife, watching Sihtric and Finan gravely digging a hole for their friend's body.

You cried for the baby monk, for he was always kind to you, always caring for your unborn baby.

You offer to read the prayers for the short burial as Finan and Sihtric wept silently for their friend.

The burial was short as they had to rush to Lord Uhtred, Sihtric walks towards your tired body, kneeling down in front of your sitting self.

His hand splayed on your stomach.

"I need you to stay here, for your own safety." He speaks gently to you. Your eyes meet his and you nod understandingly.

His gaze doesn't leave yours as you notice his hesitatingly leaning in.

The hesitation disappears once his lips found yours.

Your hands move to wrap around his neck, one grasping his hair while his own moves to cup your face.

The kiss was soft yet passionate, he moves away first, breathing out a sigh of relief.

"Can't believe it took me almost dying for you to do that." You tease gently, making him snort.

A smile slowly graces his darkened face. The first smile since the day started.

"I'll make it up to you when I come back." He replies, his forehead againts yours as his palm traces your stomach.

"And I will love your child like my own." He vows. A rush of overwhelming feeling fills your lungs.

"You swear?" You whisper, voice cracking.

He leaves a gentle peck on your lips before taking your hand and wrapping it around his necklace in his fist and kissing it.

"Over Thor's hammer, I swear it."

He would return to you, he had too. And when he's finally back, you'd be here, waiting for him with your child.