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puck-luck · 7 months ago

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with a bang | nico hischier

warnings: dom!nico hischier, choking, masturbation (fem), voyeurism-ish? you'll see. , fingering, unprotected p in v, pet names and one use of "brat", hair pulling (mmmmmm), slight use of restraints, nipple play fs, SLIGHT dumbification pairing: nico hischier x fem!reader summary: nh comes home after a loss and gets out of his head by taking fem!reader out of hers wc: 3805

Two months ago, you got bangs. They were cute at first. When your hairdresser blew them out and styled them, the bangs looked great. When you wrapped your bangs around a curler overnight, they looked good. When you blow dried your bangs, they looked fine. Sometimes, though, you don’t want to style your bangs. You don’t want to deal with them.

Today is one of those days. You’re in the middle of doing housework on a lazy Saturday. Nico has a game in the early afternoon, so he’s not home. You’d normally go with him to hang with the other WAGs and enjoy his performance, but you’ve been putting off a deep clean of the bathroom for weeks and if you don’t do it now, you know you never will.

At first, you tied your hair back into a ponytail, but your bangs came loose and have been tickling your skin while you scrub at the tiles. Gradually, you became more and more frustrated and overstimulated with the strands of hair. You want them gone.

Your temporary solution, which turned out to work well, was to separate your hair and retie it into pigtails. Your hair hasn’t moved since you threw it up into these matching clumps of hair and you’ve been able to scrub the tiles clean. You were even so satisfied with that that you’ve moved onto the kitchen.

You deep cleaned the oven. You deep cleaned the fridge. You’re cleaning all the counters now. You don’t realize how much time has passed until Nico returns home after the game.

You’re wiping at a particularly tough spot on the counter, your arm aching from how much it’s been working today, when Nico wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in the side of your neck.

It makes you jump. You’re wearing headphones, so you hadn’t heard him come in. You take one of the headphones out of your ears and slip it into the pocket of your sweats.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you greet. “How was the game?”

“We lost,” Nico replies, frown evident in his voice.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say. “You’ll get them next time, baby.”

“Don’t want to think about it.” Nico smooths a hand down your front, toying with the string of your sweatpants. “Can I take care of you?”

After so much time together, you know exactly what Nico means. Sometimes, after disappointing games, Nico has to get out of his head. There’s no better way for him to do that than to channel his disappointment and anger into his infinite drive to make you come. He uses his negative feelings to channel a headspace where he’s entirely in charge of what happens. He gets out of his head by taking you out of yours– by taking care of you and making you submit to him completely.

“Can I finish the counters first?” You ask, turning in his arms so that you can face him. “You know how I get about not finishing something I’ve started. It would bother me all evening.”

Nico smiles softly, nodding at you with eyes full of admiration and love. “Of course, perle. Do you want help?”

You shake your head. “I have a method. I think you’d get in my way, stinkerli. Go take a long, relaxing shower, Nico. I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done.”

Nico scoffs at the deprecating term of endearment. “Hate it when you use my own language against me,” he complains, although he plants a sweet, chaste kiss on your lips.

“Little stinky one,” you tease, patting his chest.

Nico pinches your side in warning before pulling away. “You gonna dress up for me?” he asks. “That pretty lingerie I got you for your birthday?”

You smile, a pretty blush spreading over your cheeks. “Yeah, baby. I’ll wear something pretty for you.”

Nico grins, nodding at you in approval. He takes a few steps toward the bedroom. You’ve just gone back to the counter when he calls out an instruction over his shoulder. “Keep the pigtails,” Nico says. “I like those, too.”

You snort out a laugh, continuing to wipe over the counter. You clean the sink because it’s part of the counter, then you turn to clean the island. All in all, it takes about five minutes. You might be rushing a bit, eager to get into bed with your perfect boyfriend and stop thinking for the night. Nico’s “long showers” are only fifteen minutes, though, so you have to rush if you want to be pretty for him. You don’t have to touch your hair, but if you’re honest, you haven’t touched the lingerie he bought you for your birthday. It might take you a minute to make the fabric work with you the way you want it to, so once you toss your cleaning rag in the closet that houses your household laundry, you head to the bedroom to get ready.

From the back of your closet, you pull out a red negligée and the matching bralette and panties. You feel like Sabrina Carpenter. Nico loves seeing you in red– it has to be some subconscious bias towards the color. Everything he loves is red– Switzerland, the Devils… even love and sex have red connotations. Red is passion. Nico thinks that you are made for the color red, to be someone for him to love.

The set comes with thigh-high stockings. You don’t need a garter belt to wear them, which is exciting. You’d always thought that garter belts were tacky. You’re not even sure if you’ll wear one at your wedding– although Nico would probably love to do a garter belt toss. His teammates would whoop and celebrate and try to catch the thing like eager-to-marry women with a bouquet.

After donning the outfit, you lay out on the bed.

While waiting for Nico to get out of the shower, you stare at the door. It’s cracked open and you can see Nico’s foggy reflection in the mirror. His body is so broad and strong. He’s always been tan, but he looks even more tan than you’re used to because he’s still got traces of summer on his skin.

Your hand drifts lower. Before you know it, you’re touching yourself. Well, barely– you’re just skimming your fingers along the hemlines of your panties, then touching the lace that adorns the fabric between your legs. You’re really just tracing the flowery design on the delicate underwear.

That’s not how Nico sees it.

“What are you doing?” Nico asks curtly when he exits the bathroom, towel wrapped lowly around his waist. Your eyes are drawn to the dark hair that connects his belly button to his groin, then to the thatch of hair between his pecs.

Catching your mistake, you take your hand away from your core. When you entered the bedroom and got ready for Nico, you entered a binding contract with your boyfriend. Only one word can breach the contract– your safe word– and without that, Nico is going to take care of you. He’s going to render you stupid, starting now.

You already did something punishable. You touched yourself without permission.

“It didn’t feel good,” you tell him, trying to justify your actions.

“I don’t care if it didn’t feel good,” Nico says, just like you knew he would. “You touched what’s mine.”

“I’m sorry,” you reply with a purposeful jut of your bottom lip. Sometimes, your innocent face is enough to put Nico on a sweeter path; a path that involves drawing the thoughts out of you slowly with slow orgasm after slow orgasm rather than beating them out of you with harsh spanks to your behind, a strong hand around your throat, and degrading language.

Not today.

“Sorry isn’t good enough.” Nico shakes his hair out, drying it with a second, smaller towel that he drops to the floor when he’s done. Then, he leaves the bedroom.

You’re left alone, confused. Is this some sort of punishment in and of itself? Being left alone after thinking that Nico would positively ravage you for disobeying the rules that you know all too well? He’s never done this before. It’s not a bad punishment, but usually Nico tells you what he’s doing before he does it. He cares, even when he’s dominating the bedroom, and that’s how he shows it. So, why did he leave without a word?

You’re just pushing yourself up into a criss-cross applesauce position on the bed when Nico comes back. He muscles through the doorway, carrying the armchair from your living room like it’s not heavy at all. Your mouth opens, shocked and incredibly turned on by the feat of strength.

“What are you doing?” You dare to ask.

Nico places the chair opposite the bed, against the wall. He drops the towel from his waist, tossing it into the corner of the bedroom, near the towel he used to dry his hair. You’re met with the delicious sight of his half-hard cock. He sits. He spreads his legs in the chair, manspreading in a way that normally acts as an invitation. You’re ready to crawl towards him when–

“Lay back,” he commands, settling his forearms on the respective arms of the chair. His hands curl over the edges, relaxing against the piece of furniture.

You scramble to obey.

Once you’re positioned adequately, Nico speaks again. “Since you want to touch yourself so badly, you have to give me a show. Then, if your performance is good enough, we’ll go back to our night. How’s that, schatzi?”

It’s– it’s hot. You want to do that for him. You hadn’t thought about it before, but you love the idea of putting on a show and touching yourself just for Nico to see. The tension affects you just as much as it would if you were bent over Nico’s knee, under his heavy hand.

You spread your legs slowly. You bring your knees up, framing Nico between your thighs.

He keeps his dark eyes on your face, expression impassive and unreadable. There’s only a hint of challenge in the clench of his jaw and the quirk of his strong brow.

You look over him. His hair falls elegantly. He’s got a shadow of a beard growing in. You love Nico’s hair– the hair on his head, his mustache when he lets it grow, the dark hair along his arms… best yet, the fine hair on his legs. You love touching his thighs, petting over the skin there.

You’re wet, surely darkening your panties. The sun, falling in the sky, filters through the blinds and casts shadows over your body. The same is true for Nico– when you look at him, you think about a tiger stalking his prey and calculating the right moment to pounce.

Your nipples are hard, poking against your bralette. One of your hands drifts up to your chest hesitantly, like you’re testing if Nico was being serious or not. Perhaps it’s a test– he doesn’t really want you touching yourself, but he’s waiting to see if you fall for it.

He doesn’t move, even as your thumb and index finger pinch the peak through the thin fabric. You rock your hips forward slightly at the sensation, rolling them into the air. You pinch again. Your other hand finds your other nipple, mirroring the sensation in tandem until you let out a quiet moan.

Overeager and fueled by the fact that Nico isn’t jumping in, isn’t stopping you, you palm one of your tits and knead the skin. Your head falls back, eyes closing. You’re able to imagine that it’s Nico’s fingers against you, trailing down your stomach until the pads of his fingers graze over your clit.

But they’re not Nico’s hands touching you. They’re your own.

You leave your breasts behind to tug at the sides of your underwear, adding pressure to your core when you grind your hips up into the air. You touch yourself again, letting your palm connect with your core in a delicious pass that just isn’t satisfying enough. You’re teasing yourself, just for the show.

You blink your eyes open, finding Nico again, hoping that he’s impressed.

He hasn’t moved from his original position. He lifts his eyebrow again, as if to ask, “Really?”

You blush. You might be just as red as the lingerie that Nico chose especially for you, especially for tonight. You feel small under Nico’s gaze– he’s gigantic, a huge presence, even though he’s said absolutely nothing since your performance began. You squirm a bit under his gaze.

The intermission is over. You go back to your show.

You inch your panties to the side, just so that you can reveal your wet slit to Nico. You want him to see how wet you are as you toy with your clit and your nipples. You bore of your nipples after a few more minutes of pinching and twisting; instead, you use that hand to trace the lines of your neck. You run your knuckles over the length of the column before allowing your fingers to splay over the front of your throat. All you do is hold your hand there. If it was Nico, he’d be squeezing.

There’s a rustle.

Nico shifts in his chair, sinking lower in the chair and tilting his head to the side. Your eyes are drawn to his cock, which has grown fully hard. He’s moved a hand from the armest so that his fingers circle the base of his shaft, holding his cock.

You’re suddenly overwhelmed by the need to take it in your mouth. Fuck, how you want him to gag you with the thick member– but your show has barely started.

You press a finger against your hole, dipping into the heat just enough that Nico can see your fingertip disappear.

Like revenge for going farther, Nico releases his base and cups his balls, giving himself a squeeze that makes you gasp before he returns to his base. Now, he’s smirking.

“Nico,” you breathe out, bringing your hand back to your tits.

He hums in response. It’s barely anything, but you’ll take it.

“Please,” you beg, kicking a leg out farther so that he can see the way your finger has fully slid into your pussy, how your hole hugs the digit. “Want you to touch me.”

“Then why would you do it yourself?” Nico questions. “I was so close to joining you, baby. Why weren’t you patient?”

“Please,” you repeat. You have no good answer for his questions. It just happened. You didn’t mean to touch yourself like that, without his permission. You were just looking at your pretty boyfriend and his sexy body, and then all of a sudden, your fingers were on your clit.

“Please,” Nico mocks. “If you want anything from me tonight, you’ll stop begging and give me what I want. Make yourself come.”

“Nico,” you insist.

“God, you brat,” Nico spits, his beautiful face marred with a frown. “You want me to touch you? Fine. Get on your hands and knees. Face the headboard.”

You shoot into position, rolling to your stomach and scrambling up. Your panties are still pulled to the side, showing off your glistening, and now-empty, cunt. You don’t dare look back, knowing that it will only cause you more trouble. You expect Nico to bring a hand down on the globes of your ass, making the skin just as red as the lace on top of it.

What you don’t expect is for him to thrust two thick fingers into your heat. It knocks the wind out of you as he moves his fingers inside of you, unrelenting and pulsing. Your head dips, forehead touching the pillows below you.

Nico does another thing you don’t expect. He wraps your pigtails around his hand like a boxer’s knuckle tape and pulls your head up until your scalp is screaming in pain.

“Face the headboard,” he hisses. “Was I not clear enough, dummerli?”

You moan as his fingers bump against your g-spot, your breath hitching and breaking as he undoes you with his fingers. It’s so much better than your own touch– you can’t even imagine why you’d ever want to touch yourself when you have Nico. He’s exactly right. Nico ought to be the only thing you need.

“Answer me,” Nico commands with another tug to your hair.

“Yes,” you say on instinct, having already forgotten the question. You’re lucky that it’s the right answer, that Nico was clear enough, because you’d be in for it if you talked back.

“Good,” Nico replies, pulling your hair so that your back arches. He leans down and kisses the back of your head to reward you for obeying him. “Now, come all over my fingers. We have to make sure you’re nice and wet for my cock, right?”

You babble out another affirmative word or two, clenching down and rocking back against his hand.

Nico releases your hair in order to circle his fingers around your neck, pulling you up and meeting you halfway by draping himself over your back. Your core tenses with the effort to stay in exactly the position that Nico wants you to be in, spurring your orgasm further.

“Come,” he growls in a low voice next to your ear, his fingers digging into the sides of your throat.

You let go, your pussy contracting and tightening around his fingers. Nico continues to piston his digits into your cunt, sending wild jolts through your body with every touch. He fingers you through the shocks of your orgasm, the low cries and whines that leave your lips. You turn your head towards his, your eyes squeezed tightly shut as you come. Nico presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, lightly petting over your neck in a comforting motion as you come down.

“Good girl,” Nico coos. “Look at you, giving everything to me. That’s my girl. Mi ängeli.”

“Nico,” you murmur, reaching a hand around to grab at his hair. You lean back into his touch, letting him hold you up. “Your cock.”

“What about it?” Nico teases. He rolls his hips against the curve of your ass. “It’s big, huh?”

“Fuck me,” you plead, twisting the strands of his hair between your fingers.

“Tell me you want my big cock to fill you up,” Nico says, rolling his hips again. He maneuvers you onto your back again, crowding your space and laying atop you. He kisses over your neck, rocking his cock against your dripping cunt, but never penetrating you. His hands find your wrists, gently bringing them up above your head. He presses your wrists into the pillows, shifting so that they’re confined by his left hand. With the other, he grabs his cock and guides the head through your folds over and over, nudging your clit.

You moan as his tip touches you, mixing his precum with your own slick and previous release.

“Say it,” Nico encourages, his breath hot over the swell of your lips.

“I want your big cock to fill me up,” you reply, following his direction exactly. He doesn’t get upset with you, despite the fact that he had to ask twice. No, he’s punished you enough. Now, he wants to make you feel good.

Nico smiles, touching the tip of your nose with his before kissing you– the first time his lips have completely met yours since he returned home. He takes his time shifting into you, letting his bulbous cockhead enter you with a satisfying pop. You try to suck him in, clenching down and grinding into him, but Nico goes at his own pace. Once his cock enters you, his hand turns to your chest.

He takes your already sensitive nipples and bullies them with touches that have you arching into his hand. He pulls keens and whimpers from you, stealing the breath from your lungs with each kiss. He consumes you completely, stealing every thought from your head and making you submit to him entirely.

It’s exactly what he needed tonight, after that loss. In moments like these, Nico feels like he’s vindicated. It’s a further confirmation of his truth– that he knows, truly knows, that if soulmates are real, you’re his. Even if soulmates aren’t real, he swears that you were made for him.

“Come,” Nico encourages from under his breath. He’s ready to shoot off, but he wants you to come first– well, for the second time.

You don’t make him wait. It’s only a few more thrusts before you shatter underneath him, rising off the bed and rocking your hips to make the most of the orgasm.

You’re fully fulfilled when Nico comes inside of you, still gripping your wrists and tweaking your nipple while his cum paints your walls white.

Nico touches you as you both ride through your climaxes, keeping his fingers splayed along your ribcage and hip. Although your wrists have been released, you keep them fixed above your head until your breath evens out. You touch his hair again, carding your fingers through it.

Nico kisses down your body soothingly, not trying to start anything new.

“I love this set on you,” Nico murmurs. “I was right about it looking pretty.”

“You always think I look pretty.”

“Well, I’m always right.”

Nico nibbles at your neck, making you shiver. He pulls out of your heat slowly, covering your core with the crotch of the panties. They’ll need to be washed thoroughly, but you like that his cum is trapped inside of you because of the fabric.

“You’ll have to buy me more lingerie, since you think it’s so pretty.”

Nico laughs. “Greedy girl.”

“You’ve been lacking on your sugar daddy duties lately,” you reply, smiling up at him. “I thought you liked buying me things.”

“I’ve been busy,” Nico says, defending himself. “It’s hockey season!”

“Hockey, hockey, hockey, that’s all I hear from you,” you tease.

Nico rolls his eyes and doesn’t deign you with a response, instead deciding to kiss you and wrap his arms around you. He rolls to the edge of the bed and finds his footing on the ground, lifting you and walking to the ensuite bathroom.

He sets you down on the ground, smacking your ass gently. You stand on your tiptoes to continue kissing him, feeling bouncy and satisfied after getting his dick inside of you.

“Bathroom, baby. Then I’ll make you a late dinner, hmm?” Nico kisses the tip of your nose, his big brown eyes twinkling as he looks at you. He pats your ass again, stepping away. “I’ll try not to ruin your clean kitchen.”

“You’d better not!” You call after him as he walks away. “I worked hard on cleaning that room today!”

note: this was inspired by me wearing pigtails at the end of the summer at the camp where i worked, and one of my guy friends came up behind me and pulled my pigtails really hard :) i don't think he understood the ramifications of that moment and i have found him slightly hot ever since :) despite not being attracted to him ever before.

#puck-luck's fics #andy writes anything🍄#nico hischier #nico hischier smut #nico hischier fanfiction #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier x y/n #nh13 #nhl fanfiction #nhl smut #nhl fic #hockey smut

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sich-sehnen · 3 months ago

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Eternally Bound

Synopsis - After days at sea, the pirates that plucked you from your small fishing village force you to walk the plank. You were meant to appease the irascible sea God, König, but the fates has other plans for you.

Category - I don't know how to categorize this. There will be notes of fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, and smut throughout the small series. It's just a melting pot of plot and romance. But for this part, it's mostly angst if you could call it that?

Warnings - fem!reader, loosely based on Greek myths and the like, Canon typical violence, misogynistic language, multiple parts will tag accordingly once the story is finished, kidnapping, debasing, inhumane behavior, octo!Konig, fantasy!au, deity!Konig, sacrifice!reader, appeasing the gods,

Notes- This story is based on the images I found on Pinterest. On the same note, there is a fic on a03 by the name of Meine Perle that is based on the first image. I highly recommend reading it if you haven't already, so good! (I tried to make this as different as possible but I won't lie and say this isn't at least somewhat inspired by the fic)

Wordcount - 1,710

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

The world rocked around you, sometimes as gently as a mother would her babe. Other times, more often than not, it swayed violently. Waves crashed against the walls of your prison, and rolling thunder echoed somewhere outside; the sound as raging as your thundering heart.

You missed the open air of your village and often dreamed of being back there. When you wake up though, you are forced back into a reality you didn't want to accept.

No amount of pleading swayed your captors into letting you go. No amount of screaming or cursing gained you anything but wicked laughter and a face full of spit.

They had hauled you below deck, and your last free gulp of the salty air was wasted on a panicked sob. They stripped you of your clothes, dressing you in a thin white sleeping gown instead. Your plait was ripped out in favor of the unbound mess your hair was now. No longer were you your mother's daughter, sister to your three small siblings, and friend of the village. You were widdled down into a shell of who you once were. Stripped of not only your clothes but your dignity.

At first, the constant swaying of the ship churned your stomach, the corner of your cell still reeking of the three-day-old vomit. They fed you once a day; a measly meal of watered-down potato stew and a stale piece of bread.

The only solace to your despair was the quiet hours of the night when the moon would shine through the small porthole across from your cell. Most nights you prayed she'd see your desperation and return you home, but the gods weren't known for being kind.

"When are we gettin' rid of'er Capn'? It's bad luck to have a wench on deck."

You hear gruff voices from above, the soles of their boots visible through worn planks of the deck. One shoves the other, his body stumbling but remaining upright as the two of them approach the brig's door.

"Bad luck is nothin' if we don't appease König."

"Why're we even-"

The insolate one was slammed into the wall, their bodies just past the threshold but out of her eyesight.

"Because ya bilge rat, if ya want the fuckin' treasure we can't have an irritated sea god gettin' in the way. If we give him a present first, maybe he'll be more forgivin' to our adventures."

Your heart drops to the bottom of the sea.

They round the corner, gruesome grins stretching their faces. The Captain, you assume, gets the closest your prison bars allowed him to.

You scurry back against the wall, putting as much distance as you can between you and your captors.

The Captain slams his hand against the bars and laughs at the flinch it jolts out of you.

"Please,"

You plead weakly, your body shaking from fear. It didn't help that you were starving, your stomach growling with a pinching pain every time you thought of food.

"Please, let me go."

They chuckle, the sound dark and wicked.

"Oh, we'll let'cha go alright. Just a couple more days and we'll be outta your hair."

In a desperate fit of rage, you kick day-old watery stew towards him, the force of it sending the contents splashing against his boot. You muster up any saliva your dry mouth can and spit a glob of it in his direction.

It doesn't even reach him, but by the snarl on his face, you assumed he got the gist of what you intended.

"Yer a lucky bitch to be locked up like this, else I'd stomp that fire out real quick. Even luckier König don't like his gifts dead."

The other man saunters up, leaning his face against a rusty bar.

"König wouldn't mind if his fruit is a little bruised would he?"

"Nah,"

The Captain steps back and puts his hand on his subordinate's shoulder, the grip tight from what you can see.

"It would be best to leave her untouched by pain. Let König deal with her."

The two of them leave without another word, walking out into the fresh air you so desperately crave. You lurch forward, as far as your chains allow, and curse them. You prayed upon their demise, begged the gods to bestow bad luck and karma, and wished with every ounce of your being that if you didn't make it out alive they would suffer the consequences.

All that responded were joyous chanting and drunken laughter.

Days bleed together in a blur of flavorless meals and taunting. Nights were your only comfort when the sound of snoring pirates replaced the shanties and crude comments.

The ever-waning moon looked down on you, its soft beams of light comforting you like a mother's touch. When you could see her, with each passing phase, you'd pray.

For solace, for mercy, for a painless death.

Each night your murmered prayers changed the longer you remained captive. No one but the squeaking rats responded. You grew jealous of the vermin for they were free, able to move around where they wished.

When the moon's face was bright and full, you finally heard the brig's door open once again. Your relief of human contact immediately turned sour the moment he opened his mouth.

"Get yer sweet ass up, it's time to die!"

The man, a new one this time, slammed the blade of his sword against the bars of your cell. He had a crazed look in his eye, one that was only brought in moments of greed.

There was no getting out of this.

And if all hope was lost, you might as well go down swinging.

You wait until he uncuffs you, his grip on your arm solid as the putrid stench of his body assaults your nose. Reeling your head back, you slam your skull against his, adrenaline forcing you past the splitting pain.

You pick up the coins and straddle the crumpled pile on the floor. A sick glee flows through your veins as you wrap the thick metal loops around his neck.

"What the fuck-"

He writhed, trying with all his might to buck you off him, his hands clawing at yours. But whatever divine power you'd been praying to all those sleepless nights offered you the strength to hold him down until his lips turned purple and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

You felt his body relax, your grip on him only tightening until you were hoisted into the air. The man on the floor gasped as you were pulled off of him, the arms around your body keeping you high enough that you were unable to do anything other than kick and scream.

"You can be as mean as you want, lil lady, no one can save you now."

Your fight was doubled ten fold as you scrape and claw at the arms holding you.

"You'll never get away with this!"

Only laughter met your frantic curse as they dragged your wiggling body up the stairs and into the night air. Crisp cold wind met you, whipping strands of hair every which way.

Choppy waves rocked the ship violently as storm clouds brewed in the distance, and soon the moon's comforting light was overshadowed.

There was no land in sight, only pitch-black waves. Some were higher than trees, their crests touching the clouds as if they, too, were seeking solace from the gods. Lighting struck, and its spindly tendrils struck the water with a loud roar.

You were thrust forward, tossed onto the wet wood of the deck surrounded by sneering men. With the impact, your hands and knees shred, blood welling up and sliding down your skin.

No longer held, you book it for the only opening in the sea of bodies you could see. You run, and dodge, and hide. But there are only so many places you could escape to on a ship in the middle of the sea.

The boat tilts, your balance tipped as you struggle to regain your footing. The men crowd you now, corralling you towards the plank and ultimately your demise.

You had no choice but to step forward, afraid of what they'd do to you if you were caught by their hands again. Maybe the gods' would bestow you mercy and offer you a quick death at the hands of the sea. Maybe, you hoped with all your breaking heart, that you were saved from the maw of König.

One man unsheathed his sword, the metal whining as he held it out towards you, the sharpest point aimed at your back.

"Move!"

He shouts, pressing the blade into your skin hard enough that you step forward just enough to escape it. But he followed, pushing you across the deck and onto the wood that hung over the unforgiving water.

You couldn't see where the water even began, the night sky blending perfectly into the midnight waters. As rain pelted down on you, streams of water mixing with your tears, you stepped up to the edge.

A prayer was on your lips, one last chance to save your mortal soul from a pain you fear the most when cruel hands shove you over the edge. You dove into the abyss, a scream clawing out of your throat, hands grasping for something to grab hold of.

The water was cold, so cold you felt every nerve alight with shock. You try and swim up but the vengeful waves keep you just below the surface.

Your limbs grow stiff with exhaustion. Your lungs burning, begging for air. A serene kind of calm washed over you as one by one your senses disappear.

You stop feeling the biting cold of the water around you.

You stopped tasting the salt that had forced itself through your nose and into your lungs.

You stopped hearing the muffled echo of thunder rolling through the sky.

You didn't know when your vision would fade away aswell, or if it had gone already. You sank deeper, your body suspended in numbness as you succumb to the ocean.

Just when you could feel the other side calling, the reaper's soft touch caressing your cheek, two glowing eyes open in front of you.

#konig x reader #konig x you #könig call of duty #könig cod #fantasy!au #octo!könig #deity!König #human sacrifice #greek mythology #ish #sorta #kind of #if you squint

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drdemonprince · 2 months ago

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i never know if i really should entertain it when people send me those like really intensely hand-wringing self-hating moral OCD kind of asks. like what good am i actually doing telling a person that I think it's okay for them to...have feelings and thoughts? am i not still feeding into the notion that they need outside approval or forgiveness? would it be better for me to just let people sort their own shit out instead of making appeals to perceived authorities? chasing after approval or searching for an exact moral ruleset that permits them to exist obviously doesnt work for that kind of thinking. so should i just, not? should i go full libertarian fritz perls "you are not on this earth for me and i am not on this earth for you and if we find one another it's beautiful if not it cant be helped"? honest question.

#i never answer the most extreme ones #there are constantly ppl in my inbox asking if its like okay for them to breathe & have a brain that generates associations between stimul

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sanb3rry · 1 year ago

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hey san !! i love your writing specifically the sae reaction to edits, can we get some more hx's like that but for rin and kaiser ? hope your doing well btw <3

hi nonnie !!! tysmsm and i'm doing pretty good, hbu?

rin accidentally got a peek of your folder filled with edits of him when you guys were just hanging out in your bedroom.

"you're actually insane." he murmured as he got a closer look at the folder, furrowing his eyebrows in complete disbelief. he's one hundred percent sure he's seeing things, over 200 edits is deranged and he means that lovingly.

"i'm afraid i don't get what you mean." a sweet smile plastered on your face, some could even say you were admiring your collection.

he's beyond flattered, of course, but this is concerning. he looked back up at you slowly, "i don't- why do you- over 200?" he asks, unsure of what to question first. although to question nothing is probably the best idea.

"yea! hold on, i'll show you my favourites." you said giddily and just as those words escaped your mouth, rin itoshi's whole face turned to a deeper shade of a tomato (if that's even possible).

"no." he said before walking out the room to go calm down and definitely fan his face like a princess from the 1800s being wooed.

"what is it that you're doing, meine perle?" kaiser asked you, his arms caging you on the couch. but still, you were persistent on not showing him what you were doing on your phone.

usually he wouldn't bother you as much, he respects your privacy and most of all he trusts you.

this instance however is different. why? well, he saw you fangirling. it's the same look you have when you see him on the field or god forbid the look you have when you see an actor or idol you love.

"i'm not doing anything, what are you doing?" you pursed your lips. he narrowed his eyes at you. he knows you'll break, i mean, it's him.

"fine, okay, look for yourself." you groaned, turning the phone towards him. an edit of him played, once, twice, then thrice. kaiser wasn't able to speak for as long as minute but it felt like an hour to poor old you.

a smug smile was on his face, well, it's kaiser. "my darling was fawning over an edit? not just any edit but an edit of me? i'm incredibly honoured." he teased, squeezing your cheeks together and pecking your lips.

"leave me alone." you whined, shaking your head. you couldn't help but giggle a bit, kaiser is pretty cute.

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hydrangeapartridge · 6 months ago

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In Sickness and In Health

Summary: Emmrich gets sick but Rook and Manfred are here for him.

Part of my EmmRook post game short stories (Cross-posted here on AO3 or check the EmmRookvtag on my page for other stories)

Warning for potential end game spoilers and angst (but with comfort)

Enjoy!

Emmrich was an early riser. To her chagrin, it wasn’t often that Rook got to wake up next to him. There were still benefits to her lover’s waking hour of course, namely that she was often waken up by the lovely scent of breakfast and a gentle caress or kiss from her lover, all fresh and dapper and smelling of lotion and cologne.

Their morning routine was so unchanging that Rook was surprised on, one particular morning, to find Emmrich still sleeping beside her. Especially when she remembered he was supposed to meet with a student very early. One look to theposition of the sun outside and she knew Emmrich was late. Except Emmrich was NEVER late. He could, on rare occasions, be fashionnably tardy, but never hours late.

Emmrich grunted in his sleep, and Rook noticed his eyebrows were drawn together in an uncomfortable grimace and that sweat was perling down his forehead. He was probably having a nightmare. How sad that he overslept only to be faced with unpleasant dreams. Rook pressed a hand against his shoulder and gently called his name until he opened his eyes with a disgruntled noise. But his expression softened the second he saw Rook’s lovely face.

“Darling” He greeted her, voice hoarse from sleep. “Good morning” He groggily told her with a lazy smile.

“Good morning my heart” Rook chuckled before her smile dropped as she was saddened to inform him of how late it was. “I’m sorry I woke you but I thought you told me you were supposed to meet with a student in the morning? Have your plans changed?”

Rook was barely able to finish her sentence before Emmrich bolted out of bed. “Goodness! Why didn’t I wake up sooner!”

Rook watched her lover make one step barefoot out of bed before he wobbled and had to slow down. He caught himself on the nighstand and Rook was quick to rush to his side.

“Oh dear” Emmrich mumbled, out of breath from the bare effort of getting up.

“Emmrich are you alright?” Rook asked, worried, her hand coming to rest on his arm, ready to support him is needed.

“Well, I feel a little dizzy.But I’m sure it’s only because I didn’t take the proper time to get out of bed” He tried to reassure her.

However Rook started noticing his silken pajamas were drenched in cold sweat. She stretched until she was able to place a hand on his cheek, then his forehead to confirm her suspicions.

“Emmrich you are possitively burning up!” She exclaimed.

“Oh I do feel a little hot. And I have a headache from reading too much last night” He said. “And I’m not sure what we ate yesterday agreed with my stomach.” The more he went on, the more Rook stared at him in disbelief. “But nothing a good cup of tea can’t fix” He concluded.

He tried to take another step. “How sweet of you to worry for me dearest but I assure you I feel fine. Now I do need to hurry, I have to.. hum I need to…”

Emmrich seemed lost, his thoughts scrambled in his head. No doubt from the fever he was so sure he didn’t suffer. Rook stepped in front of him to prevent him from going any further.

“No no, you’re not leaving the bed today my heart” Rook told him as she gently pushed him back onto the bed.

Her light touch was enough to make him lose his balance and fall back onto the covers. Rook knelt on the bed and proceeded to unbutton Emmrich’s pajama shirt, aiming to rid him of the damp fabric and help him change into clean ones.

“Oh my, so bold in dragging me back to bed” Emmrich exhaled as he watched her nimble fingers undress him, mesmerized. “Darling as much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, I think I have somewhere to be.. “ He visibly racked his brain for the exact detail “I have many things to do… though I’m not sure what exactly”

“Emmrich, you are visibly sick and need to rest” Rook seriously told him. She was starting to feel like he would be a bad patient.

“Nonsense. I haven’t been sick in years. I exercise, mind my hygiene, and take tonics during the colder months to prevent disease”

While Emmrich blathered, he let Rook get him out of his pajamas and into new ones. Once she was done, she pressed him into the mattress with a hand splayed on his chest, placing one free finger to his lips to stop his rambling about prevention of infections and means of desinfection.

“Close your eyes and sleep my love” She gently ordered him, and when she moved her hand over his burning forehead, he complied with a tired sigh. “I’ll call for a healer and you will be back on your feet in no time”

- - -

The healer stopped by in the afternoon. He diagnosed Rossalia, a fever usually contracted by young children, that immunized them for the rest of their lives if they survived. The disease was often benine in children, but more severe in adults who never came in contact with it before. Given he was taken in by the Watch quite young, and lived most of his childhood in the aseptic environment of the Necropolis, without many contacts with children, Emmrich had probably encountered the disease only recently. It found him weakened by overexertion (from Manfred’s extra curriculars, to the three thesis he had accepted to supervise, and the approaching deadline for a publication of his recent researches), and now it was taking a toll on his body.

The fever was high, but the healer was not worried, it was a natural mean of defense agaisnt the infection. He gave Rook embrium to ease the breathing, and a potion of garlic and spindleweed to lower the body’s temperature; both to take thrice a day and into the night if needed. Emmrich was barely conscious during that exchange, too tired to move or talk. The fever was supposed to alleviate overnight, and the healer asked Rook called for them again if Emmrich didn’t get better in the two following days.

Rook diligently applied the prescription, part of her wishing she had studied healing magic. Nevarran medicine had similarities to that of the dalish, but wasn’t exactly identical, and she wished she could ask a dalish keeper for advice. But she couldn’t; she was far from home, had been for a long time. Yet her roots still called to her in times of doubt.

In the evening, Manfred came back from the Necropolis and immediately asked about Emmrich’s condition. In the morning Rook had convinced the spirit to leave without Emmrich so he wouldn’t miss any lessons. She thought that was what Emmrich would have wished, but she now realized that Manfred had been preoccupied all day.

“Sick?” He asked, not quite grasping the meaning of it while Rook prepared some tea mixed with embrium. Emmrich hadn’t been this sick since she knew him, and probably since he took Manfred as his assistant, which explained the skeleton’s suprise. It was one thing to learn about the theoretical aspect of illness, but it was another to be confronted with a sick loved one.

“Yes. It’s an infection. There’s something attacking his body but he’s fighting it off with fever” Rook explained as best she could. But she didn’t have Emmrich’s patience and knack for teaching.

“Like blight?” Manfred asked and before Rook could reply, he added. “I learned sick people die”

Rook froze, then turned to the skeleton.

“No Manfred, he’s not going to die. It’s just Rossallia. I caught it as a child and I’m still here! The healer said he would be fine” She tried to reassure him, coming closer and placing a hand on his scapula.

“Good” Manfred perked up. “Don’t want him die”

“Me neither” Rook said, a strained chuckle escaping her. It seemed Emmrich’s fears were contagious, and bled on them as the years passed.

Rook went back to the tea when Manfred called her name.

“Rook?”

“Yes Manfred” She distractedly replied.

“What do I do when Emmrich die?”

The cup she was holding escaped Rook’s grip and crashed onto the floor, the porcelain breaking in a million pieces. She barely heard Manfred announcing “I’ll clean” because of the ringing of her blood beating in her ears.

While Manfred used the broom to dispose of the debris on the floor, she took a few shaky breaths. Deep. Slow. Like he told her she should when distressed. Emmrich. Her sweet and patient Emmrich. Her older, mortal Emmrich.

“Rook?” Manfred came to stand next to her when he was done. “What about tea?” He asked, unphazed, like he didn’t just ask a simple and innocent question that sent her spiralling into a near panic attack.

“Yes, yes I’m on it” Rook told him, gulping back the dread struck in her gut and around her heart.

“I help!” Manfred offered, pouring the tea from the teapot into another cup and placing it all on a tray.

Together they climbed the stairs to the bedroom and tended to Emmrich without another word.

- - -

That night, lying on the couch to leave the bed for Emmrich, Rook couldn’t sleep. Her lover’s condition hadn’t improved but it hadn’t worsened either. She knew healing took time, but there, alone in the silence of the huge empty living room, an irrationnal fear seized her heart. It was stupid, but uncontrollable. A fear that was unjustified, but that she understood came from the conversation she left unfinished with Manfred. It was less a worry for the days to come than an anguish for much later; for gloomy occurrence that she couldn’t forsee and yet was inevitable.

In the darkest hours of the night, Rook found herself fearing for Emmrich’s death more than she ever did. More than when the world was ending. More than when they directly risked their lives facing dragons and gods.

She remembered Emmrich had described it well, that fear, back in the Necropolis’ gardens. Back then she had been smitten with his humanity, touched by his words but too distracted, too young and bright to truly grasp their meaning. She hadn’t tasted the peace of their domestic intimacy yet; the true bliss of living by the side of a kindred spirit.

This fear that couldn’t be reasonned with, or soothed over, plagued her rest; raw and strangling, nested somewhere deep past her heart.

She did her best to control it, but spent the night in its company, like Emmrich probably did many times before her.

- - -

The following day brought no progress towards Emmrich’s recovery. In the early sunrise, Rook found her lover drenched in sweat again, tossing and turning in an agitated fever dream.

He hadn’t spoken to her since she put him to sleep the previous morning, and she was already missing it.

With Manfred’s help she changed his clothes and helped the medicine down his throat. Rook stayed by the bed a few hours, hoping the treatment would lower the fever, but by noon Emmrich was still burning up and started coughing too. Rook kept encouraging him as she caressed his hand between hers, telling him how strong he was, and how he would get better soon. After a particularly dire coughing fit, she pondered calling for the healer again. But she decided against it, reasoning with herself, grasping onto her limited scientific knowledge. Emmrich was is no immediate danger; she had seen people on the verge of dying, and he was not in that state.

Rook was carefully wiping Emmrich’s sweaty forehead when Manfred entered with afternoon tea and biscuits. She realized then that she had missed lunch. She wasn’t feeling hungry anyways.

She thanked Manfred for the tea but left it untouched. When another coughing fit seized Emmrich, wheezy and painful to hear, Rook stood up and rummaged through the drawers of her dresser until she retrieved a small cream jar.

Manfred curiously looked as she opened it and proceeded to spread its content on Emmrich’s bare chest. The strong mint and camphor scent reminded her of her childhood, when her mother would sing her hushered lullabies to get her to sleep despite her sore throat and muscles.

“What this?” Manfred asked.

“A poultice. A recipe from my clan. It helps breathe better” She explained, focusing on the task at hand. She felt less powerless as she applied the treatment, and hoped the medicine from her people would help him like it once helped her.

Emmrich’s coughing visibly receeded, but he was still agitated, his sleep non-restorative.

“I help too” Manfred said, and Rook soon felt flickers of magic prickling her skin.

Light emanated from the spirit’s hands, and he slowly moved them over Emmrich’s face, careful and focused. Rook recognized a basic healing spell. She often forgot that necromancers of the Watch were almost as apt at healing as they were at handling corpses.

Emmrich’s contorted features relaxed under Manfred’s spell, and he fell back into a peaceful slumber in a deep relieved sigh.

“Well done Manfred. Thank you” Rook praised him with a genuine and pure tenderness, coming from the bottom of her heart.

“Don’t like sick” The skeleton declared and Rook sighed in exhaustion.

“Me neither…” She told him, her shoulders hunched under the weight of her worries and the lack of sleep.

She turned to look at the spirit that she sometimes liked to playfully call their son, just to make Emmrich flustered. She liked to jest about it, but she truly felt an indiscriptible affection for this curious being. She couldn’t rival the bond Manfred shared with Emmrich, but she loved the skeleton none the less. With all her heart.

“Manfred, about what you asked me yesterday” She started, hands tightly clasped together. “I think it is best you discuss it with Emmrich directly. When he’s better of course, don’t go dropping this on him too soon, or you’ll truly end him” Her jest had always been a protection, but right then it felt weak and wobbly. Rook’s vision blurred. She couldn’t look Manfred in the eyes as she whispered “But for what it’s worth, I’ll be there for you if you want me. For as long as I can”

Two bony arms drapped around her. It felt weird to be hugged by a skeleton she thought; but in that moment, it was all the comfort she needed.

- - -

In Rook’s dreams, she was with Emmrich. Always. She was faithful to him, and drawn to him even in her nightly escapes. He was calling her name, gentle and sweet; sleepy, like they had just awakened together on the lazy morning of a blissfully unbusy day.

“Darling” He said as he pat the top of her hair, scratching the way she liked it. She never wanted him to stop.

He hissed in delight then.

Wait. Emmrich did not hiss.

Rook opened her eyes and found herself kneeling by the bed, her cheek resting on her folded arms, drool on the corner of her mouth.

“Darling you’re awake. Good morning”

Upon hearing his voice, she straightened up at lightning speed and surveyed her surroundings.

Emmrich sat on the bed, dishevelled and still coughing, but his complexion looking far better than the day before. Beside him, Manfred was placing a tray full of breakfast material: tea and bread, butter and fruits.

“Emmrich” Rook could only sigh his name in longing, so happy to see him better that it brought her to tears. Her worry had been such that her relief was crushing.

“Dearest, are you alright?” Emmrich asked, tone laced with worry, but Rook shook her head and smiled.

“I am now that you are” She replied, and climbed onto the bed to nestle by his side.

Emmrich took her in his arms and kissed her forehead. “Thank you for watching me dearest”

She pressed closer against him and he chuckled, the sound turning into a small coughing fit. The Rossallia access was receiding but not over yet and he musn’t overdo it.

“Are you sure you want to cling to me like that, I’m all sweaty, it is positively appaling” Emmrich sighed but Rook didn’t move an inch.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Manfred leaning towards the bed, knees bent, brushing the bedding but not quite climbing on it; hesitant.

“I’ll help you clean up soon, but for now, you must indulge us” She told her lover, and then motionned for Manfred to come closer. “Come on Manfred. Time for cuddles!”

A thrilling wistle escaped the skeleton before he pounced on the bed and hugged Emmrich from the other side, where despite an outraged sigh, he was welcomed with opened arms.

The fear was gone for now. It would return, and it would be fine. The happy moments easily outweighted those of doubt. And in the end, what was fear of a loved one’ death if not only a side effect of a love too deep, too strong for such an imperfect creature as a mortal being.

#emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook #emmrook #rook x emmrich #veilguard fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age veilguard #da veilguard #dragon age : the veilguard #emmrich the necromancer #emmrich romance #emmrich dragon age #manfred the skeleton #manfred dragon age #da manfred #rook dragon age

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whitedarkmoonflower · 4 months ago

Text

Blood brother

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Authors note: I kind of hate it. It's so long since I wrote something and it feels like first time again. I have wanted to write it for a while already but never got to it. It's a wonderful idea planted into my head by the lovely @thenameswinter99 in one of our chats but I know I made it different, so I hope you'll not be angry with me.

Warnings: actually none. Some description of violence but nothing very graphical

Word Count: 8,7 K (sorry 😅)

Summary: having lost everything and thinking she's been abandoned by everybody, even her best friend Sihtric, reader on her quest for revenge founds out that life can be full of surprises and that there is always space for hope

The night was dark, the feeble, pale light of the new moon barely illuminating your path through the woods. You shuddered as if trying to shake off the cold, the chill air biting your cheeks and each exhale leaving a shimmering, silvery fog in the air. Yet you didn’t stop, didn’t turn back. Just the opposite.

Your small feet quickened their pace, finding the path beneath them with the assuredness of a cat on the hunt, and with each step you took your eyes adjusted further to the darkness and to the eerie shadows and flickering shapes the moonlight made dancing around you.

You should have been scared, a small girl alone in the middle of the forest, the familiar and warm lights of your home far behind. But you weren’t, not anymore.

You pressed on, ducking under the bony, outstretched arms of thorn bushes and leaping over moss covered, fallen trunks. Yes, there had been fear, but that was before. Before this forest had become your home, your secret ally, the protector of your dreams. Before you had learned to become one with it, to listen to its whispers, to feel its heartbeat in the quiet rustling of the leaves.

Before you had met him.

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

The sun was slowly dipping behind the horizon, making the shadows grow longer, and a distant crack of a twig sent your heart racing. You had never been so scared before in your whole life.

You had been picking berries, one step leading to another, each shiny little red perl hidden in the green tapestry of shrubs inviting you further and further from the familiar path until there was no path at all, only an impenetrable thicket of trees and bushes all looking alike.

You clutched the small basket you had been carrying as if it could shield you.

That was when you heard that low, unmistakable growl behind you.

You spun around and froze, your legs refusing to obey your desperate need to run. A wobbly step back sent you tumbling to the ground, a loud shriek escaping your lungs.

Wolf, as if stepped out of the fairy tales your grandma told you before sleep. You had never seen one before but there was no doubt, your grandma had always been a vivid teller of stories.

Eyes wide open you stared at the majestic animal before you and waited. Waited for the end to come.

“Don’t move,” a soft and strangely calm voice reached you as a small silhouette of a boy probably the same age as yourself suddenly stepped between you and the wolf. “It can feel your fear.”

“I’m scared,” you whispered, as tears started to stream down your face.

“I’m not,” he said simply.

The wolf snarled, shifting its weight as though preparing to pounce but the boy didn’t flinch. Instead, he crouched slightly, meeting the animal’s gaze head-on. A strange, low sound rumbled from his throat—a growl, so very similar to the one the wolf had made just a moment ago that you couldn't help but shudder.

The wolf’s ears twitched, and for a while they just stood there staring at each other. A soft whine escaped you from the burning feeling in your lungs as you realised you’d been holding your breath, and you felt wolf's gaze shifting between you and the boy as if considering his chances.

The boy leaned forward slightly, his thin frame taut like a drawn bowstring. The wolf snarled, its hackles raised, but there was a slight uncertainty in its posture now. The boy didn’t waver, his eyes locked with the creature as he bared his teeth.

The wolf hesitated, its tail giving a flick of irritation, and then with a final growl, it broke eye contact, lowered its head and started to step backward. Its movements were slow, reluctant, as if it hated admitting defeat, but after a few steps it turned and with a few leaps disappeared into the shadows.

The boy straightened, his small chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, and for the first time, he turned to you, “It’s gone,” he said simply but you just continued to stare at him, your ability to speak stolen from you both by fear and awe plainly written on your face.

The boy was thin and malnourished, with bruises on his arms and legs, clothes hanging off his bony frame and the dirt smudged on his face, his bare foot rustling against the soft forest ground.

He looked fragile, even breakable, but it wasn’t his disheveled appearance that struck you most, it was his eyes. One was a piercing blue, while the other earthy brown, shining with an inexplicable mixture of defiance and warmth.

“You shouldn’t wander this far into the woods alone,” he added, tilting his head and observing you with open curiosity, and you noticed how melodic and soft his voice actually was. “It’s not safe.”

It felt like a dream. He extended a hand to help you up, and you took it, your fingers trembling against his. His grip was surprisingly firm, grounding, and you couldn’t help stealing glances at him as he led you back to the path, your hand safely in his.

You both reached the edge of the forest in silence where he released your hand reluctantly, his fingers slipping away so slowly as though they didn’t want to let go. The boy's large, expressive eyes followed you as you stepped into the meadow, and it suddenly struck you that you had not the slightest idea who your mysterious saviour was.

“What’s your name?” you asked, turning around and finally finding your voice even if it still sounded shaky.

He hesitated, his gaze shifting back toward the trees, as if unsure whether to answer or rather retreat. “Sihtric,” he said at last, his tone strangely wary, eyes darting to the ground. “Sihtric Kjartansson.”

“Will you come back tomorrow?” you asked.

His lips curled into a small, almost shy smile. “Maybe,” he finally said, but the faint glimmer in his mismatched gaze told you he would.

The next day, you returned with fresh bread and a small portion of ham tucked neatly into your linen shoulder bag. You weren’t sure if he would really come, but you hoped, and as you crossed the meadow, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, leaning casually against the trunk of the great oak.

“I brought you something,” you said as you stretched out your hand to offer the loaf of fresh bread. He hesitated, his gaze flicking between your face and the bread, his beautiful eyes mirroring a quiet surprise. It seemed as if he wasn’t used to kindness.

“You saved my life,” you added. “Please, let me thank you.”

Sihtric’s fingers slightly brushed against yours as he took the bread, and the brief contact sent a surprising rush of warmth to your cheeks, forcing you to look away, as you suddenly became aware of the heat rising in your face.

“Thank you,” he said at last as he held the loaf carefully, almost reverently, as though it was something precious.

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

You stopped, listening to a call of an owl echoing through the stillness of the night, before resuming your run. It was the signal and you were late.

“And I already thought you’d chickened out and wouldn’t come,” a familiar voice greeted you as you stumbled into the small clearing, a faint taunt lacing the words.

“Mom stayed up late with her sewing,” you replied, breathless from your relentless sprint through the woods. “I couldn’t sneak out before she went to bed.”

A small figure emerged from the shadows of the nearby trees. Without hesitation you grabbed the hand outstretched towards you and let it guide you to the center of the clearing with a makeshift arch formed by a strip of turf propped up by three spears.

“Sihtric, where did you get these?” you asked, your eyes widening as you admired the haphazard construction.

“Everyone’s busy packing and fussing around,” Sihtric replied almost nonchalantly. “It was easy to grab a few things and sneak away. But I’ve got to bring them back before dawn, or I’ll get the shit beaten out of me.”

You shuddered, turning to look at the boy beside you. Sihtric’s voice was steady, but there was that subtle set of his jaw and the faint quiver in his grip.

“Stay,” you said. You wanted to sound confident, resolute but the way the word trembled on your lips, that sudden crack in your voice, it all betrayed your desperation. “Hide in the woods, and when they’ll be gone, come to my house. My father won’t turn you away if I ask him to take you in.”

But you already knew the answer.

“I can’t,” he said softly, his response almost a whisper. “I can’t leave my mom. She needs me. I have to take care of her.”

You squeezed his hand tighter, wishing there was something else you could do, something else you could say to make him change his mind. You knew there wasn’t. Your small world was falling apart, and there was nothing you could do about it.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” you said, withdrawing your hand and reaching into the small linen bag slung over your shoulder. “I brought fresh bread. Mom baked it just yesterday.”

Sihtric smiled faintly, just a shadow of his usual mischievous grin, but his gaze returned to the arch.

“Let’s do it first, if you are still sure about it,” he tugged you gently toward the arch.

You nodded, swallowing hard. You wanted to smile, but your lips trembled. “Of course I am. ”

“Alright.” Sihtric let out a shaky breath, and crouched down to retrieve a small knife he’d hidden in the grass beneath the arch, its blade a bit dull but still usable.

Without any further hesitation he drew the blade lightly across his forearm. The cut was clean and straight, a thin red line beading quickly with blood. He hissed softly at the sting but held steady, extending his arm to you.

“Your turn.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you took the knife, not that you were afraid of the pain. It was the significance of the moment that made your heart hammer in your chest. Sihtric watched you carefully, something like concern flickering across his face.

“You don’t have to do it if you’re scared,” he said quietly.

“I’m not scared,” you scoffed at Sihtric, tightening your grip on the handle and pressing the blade to your forearm, but your hand slipped slightly, and the cut ended up uneven and jagged. You gasped at the sharp pain, your free hand instinctively reaching out to press against the cut.

“You alright?” Sihtric asked, alarm evident in his voice.

“Yeah,” you whispered, blinking back tears. “It’s fine. It’s just... shit, it’s so crooked.”

He gave you a small, encouraging smile. “Doesn’t matter. It still counts.”

Sihtric held out his arm, his bloodied cut facing yours. You looked up, trying to read the expression on his face before pressing your wounds together. Sihtric wrapped a strip of fabric around your joined arms, and you helped him to tie it tighter.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice firmer now. “Now we have to say it.”

You both spoke at the same time, voices barely above whispers but full of determination.

“Our blood is one,

joined under the moon and stars.

Brother and sister for life and beyond.

Your pain is my pain; your joy – my joy.

Wherever life leads you,

You will not walk your path alone.”

The world around suddenly felt still, as though even the forest was holding its breath because you both surely were.

You looked down at your bound arms, a small but proud smile touching your lips.

“Remember the wolf?” you suddenly asked, breaking the quiet.

Sihtric glanced at you, a small, knowing smile brightening up his eyes. “I wasn’t scared,” he said, his voice teasing.

“Liar,” you said, nudging him with your shoulder. But deep down, you knew it was true.

He reached out to ruffle your hair with his free hand, and you couldn’t help but lough. “Come on, sister,” he said. “Let’s eat that bread before the night gets colder.”

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

The door closed with a quiet thud behind you as you slumped your back against it, fighting to steady your frantic breathing, to silence the voice in your head, screaming that this wasn’t right, that it wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Raising your trembling hand, you let your fingers hover over your burning lips. Your very first kiss. Light like a feather, hot like a fire. You hadn’t planned this. You didn’t even fully understand how it had happened.

It was just that strange feeling as Sihtric’s fingers had hesitated to let go of your hand just like that first time you had met, that haunting look of regret and sadness in his beautiful, mismatched eyes and the heaviness in your own chest. It all had been too much to bear for your small, fragile heart, so you just did it. The only thing you could think of.

You rose onto your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his.

And then you ran.

You ran as if your life depended on this, as if a hundred wild beasts were chasing you down, the touch of Sihtric’s soft but slightly chapped lips against yours burning in your mind.

Your very first kiss. A good by. A farewell. A promise.

You’ll not walk your path alone.

___________________________________________

You shifted carefully, stretching your numb legs one at a time. The night was cool but thanks gods – dry, a welcome change after an endless week of steady mizzling. That annoying faint drizzle was capable of seeping through every seam of your leather armour, soaking through all layers down to your undergarments and drenching it until there was not a single dry thread left.

The Danish camp lay just beyond the treeline, its fires casting flickering shadows across the ground. You had been following them for weeks – them and other groups travelling from and to Dunholm.

Your breath was slow and even. This was far from being new to you. Nights spent on the hard earth under the beautiful blanket of stars had long become your way of life. You didn’t complain, you had learned to endure, to let the numbness creep into your body without letting it dull your mind.

You shifted again, crouching closer, trying to get a better view on the fireplaces and to be able to catch glimpses of conversations. The underbrush rustled softly, and you froze, waiting for any sign that you’d been heard. Nothing. The camp remained busy but apparently oblivious of your presence.

Your fingers instinctively checked for the hilt of the dagger at your hip. All you wanted was to sneak through the bushes right into that nest of wasps, taking one life after another, quiet and deadly. But it was not yet the right time for that.

You had dreamt of it for years. Of being here. Of finding your way into that damned fortress. Of wiping the name of the man that had taken everything from you from this world and any other worlds that possibly existed whether they called them Valhalla or Heaven.

There hadn't been a single night that you haven’t woken up covered in sweat from the scattered images of the smoldering ruins of your home dancing before your closed eyes as clearly as the stars above you now. It was as if you could still smell the acrid stench of burned wood and flesh.

Every fiber of your being longed to storm through Dunholm’s gates, to plunge your blade into Kjartan’s heart and to burn it all down to the ground as they had done to you. But you knew too well that this was not possible, that this would only lead to your own doom and not theirs. You had to wait and lurk in the dark, searching for a way that would ensure their ruin. You had waited years for this. You could wait a little longer.

“Distracted, are we?” a soft voice murmured near your ear, calm and quiet as in the same moment you felt a cold steel pressing against your throat. Your body tensed up and your fingers slowly wrapped around the hilt of the dagger, readying for the strike.

“Move, and you’ll lose your head,” the voice continued, the blade pressing just a fraction closer and a hand landed on your shoulder, keeping you in place.

You cursed yourself silently, the threat was as calm as it was deadly.

“Drop your weapon,” he ordered.

You hesitated, your mind weighing the odds.

“Now,” he snapped, his tone sharpening.

“Fine,” you said, slowly pulling out the dagger and then you felt it – a shift in his grip, the tiniest slackening of pressure. It was all you needed.

You twisted sharply, pulling away from the blade while driving your elbow backward into his ribs. His grunt of surprise was satisfying, but you didn’t stop. Spinning on your heel, you unsheathed your dagger completely and brought it up between you.

The two of you stood frozen, knives pointed at each other’s throats. It was too dark to see the man clearly. The firelight from the camp didn’t reach your hideaway, and the moon was new, just a small slice in the dark sky, casting only fleeting, shifting shadows over his face.

All you could tell was that he was young, well built and lean, unmistakably a Dane and a warrior. You were pretty sure he didn’t belong to the camp you were spying on as you knew by now all the men there – an observation that did nothing to calm you as he still could be an enemy.

His grip on his own blade was steady and his breathing even. If he was surprised by your sudden move, he didn’t show it, and there was a sharpness in his gaze that kept you on edge.

“Who are you?” He was the first to break the silence.

You tightened your grip on your dagger: “That depends on what your intentions are.”

“That depends on what you’re doing here,” he shot back, and for a split second you thought there was something strangely familiar in his slightly mocking tone.

You hesitated, your mind racing for some plausible reply as there was no way of revealing your true purpose. “I’m just passing through,” you said finally, knowing that the simple answer will not satisfy, but you needed some time to decide on your next move.

“Passing through?” the young warrior snorted. “Near a Danish camp, armed, and skulking in the shadows? Whom are you trying to fool?”

“And what about you?” you countered, trying to mask your nerves with defiance. “What are you doing here?”

But before you could continue the exciting conversation a distant shout shattered the stillness.

“Someone’s out there!”

Your breath hitched. The sound of boots hurriedly stumping against the ground grew louder, accompanied by the glint of torchlight weaving through the trees. The young Dane glanced toward the noise and then back to you as if weighing his options.

“They’re coming,” he muttered, pulling his blade back. “We can’t be found here.”

You hesitated, your instincts screaming to keep your guard up but the sound of the approaching Danes left little choice, and you carefully lowered your own weapon.

“Fine,” you said through gritted teeth. “But if you try anything—”

“Save the threats,” he snapped, his eyes briefly meeting yours. “Let’s go.”

He grabbed your wrist, and before you could protest, he was leading you through the dense forest. You stumbled after him, the sounds of pursuit growing fainter with every step. He moved like a shadow, his pace quick but deliberate, his grip firm enough to keep you close without hurting you.

When you finally stopped, your chest was heaving, and your lungs burned from the frantic run. It seemed that you had shaken off the pursuers at least for now.

“Now,” he breathed, trying to catch his breath, “who are you really? And why were you watching the camp?”

He didn’t seem like a raider nor one from Kjartan’s men but he was clearly dangerous, and trusting him was a risk you couldn’t afford to take.

“I’m no one,” you said softly. “Just someone trying to survive. I’m no threat to you. You were not keen to be discovered by the Danes in the camp, nor am I. Let’s just part in peace.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Survivors don’t spy on camps full of Danes. And they certainly don’t carry daggers like yours.”

You glared at him, your fingers itching to draw the weapon again. “And what about you? You’re not exactly a farmer out for a midnight stroll.”

The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Fair enough,” he said, crossing his arms. “Let’s just say I have my reasons.”

“Then maybe we should leave it at that,” you said with a sly smile.

He tilted his head, studying you in the dim light. “For now,” he said slowly. “But don’t think I trust you.”

“Likewise,” you shot back, even as a small part of you couldn’t ignore the strange pull you felt toward him. There was something about the way he carried himself, the quiet intensity in his voice, that spoke to you, that reminded you of something, making shivers run down your spine but before you could give it another thought a distant shout broke the moment.

“We need to keep moving,” he said, his tone all serious again. “They won’t stop searching until they’re sure the woods are clear.”

You nodded reluctantly as the distant shouts grew louder and suddenly the torchlight started weaving through the trees like restless fireflies. Both of you tensed, instinctively drawing your blades and exchanging a sharp glance. An unspoken agreement passed between you: survival first, questions later.

Then the Danes burst through the trees.

“Over here!” one of them roared, his axe glinting in the firelight, and more followed.

The man beside you—lean, quick, and deadly—moved before you could think. His blade flashed in the dim light, cutting down the first attacker. You followed, blocking a strike aimed at your side and countering with a swift slash to your opponent’s arm. The Dane howled in pain, but there was no time to celebrate your small victory as another man charged at you, forcing you to dodge and roll, barely escaping his axe as it came down.

You fought together as if you had had years of practice behind. You couldn’t help but admire the way the young warrior moved, his movements fluid and practiced, filled with wild ferocity. The two of you were a perfect balance as if this were a dance where each movement needs to be attuned to the other, seamlessly covering each other as the Danes closed in.

But there were too many of them.

A sharp blow caught you off guard, knocking the dagger from your hand and making you stumble. You groaned in pain as a Dane’s boot sank into your stomach, sending you sprawling to the ground. Before you could recover a blade was pressed against your neck.

“Drop your weapon!” the man yelled, jerking you to your feet and wrenching your arm behind your back.

“Drop your weapon, or she dies,” the Dane repeated, his eyes narrowing at your companion.

You snorted loudly, the sound sharp and defiant, despite the blade pressed against your throat. “You think that’s a threat?” you spat. “He doesn’t even know me.”

You looked over to the young warrior, frozen for a moment, his knife and axe still in his hands, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Something flickered across his face – annoyance, or was it concern as he turned, his eyes fixed on you for a brief moment before shifting to the man holding you.

You could clearly see the hesitation in the young warrior, his jaw tightening, his movements deliberately slow as he scanned the Danes around all ready to resume the fight. And then he did something you hadn’t expected. He raised his hands slowly, letting the weapons fall from his fingers.

“I surrender,” he said with a steady voice. “Let her go.”

The words hit you almost like a blow. Why would he do this? He could have fought his way out and fled. You were a complete stranger to him.

The Danes exchanged glances and one of them stepped forward, pointing his axe at the stranger. “You’ll come with us, both of you.”

Before either of you could respond, rough hands shoved you forward, the blade leaving your neck but replaced by the iron grip of two men dragging you away. Your companion was similarly manhandled and brought to walk next to you.

You risked a hidden glance at the young warrior beside you, as you still couldn’t grasp why he had done this. What was his plan?

“What are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, unable to keep the confusion out of your voice.

“Saving your neck,” he replied quietly, meeting your surprised gaze for a brief moment.

And that was when you saw them – his eyes. The light from the torches caught him just enough for you to see the young man’s face clearly for the very first time of your hectic encounter. But you didn’t pay attention to anything else apart from the eyes. They were of different colour. One blue, one hazel brown.

Your breath caught in your throat. It wasn’t possible. It simply couldn’t be.

You turned away as quickly as you could, stumbling over a tree root. The grip on your arm twisted behind your back painfully tightened but you almost didn’t notice it, your mind too busy trying to reconcile the image before you with another one.

The mismatched gaze of a boy you had trusted, the boy who had stood beside you beneath a makeshift arch, who had held your hand as your blood mingled. The son of the man who had destroyed everything – your life, your family, your dreams. Your entire world, reduced to ash and bitter memories, and he had been part of it, whether by blood or by silence.

You shook your head in a silent dialogue with yourself, your pulse pounding in your ears. It can’t be him, you told yourself. It isn’t him. But even as you repeated the thought, a part of you still whispered that it might be. And if it was, you didn’t know whether to feel relief, rage, or something else entirely.

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

The coarse rope bit into your wrists with each futile struggle trying to loosen it. You sat with your back pressed firmly against the rough bark of the tree. The Danes had done a thorough job, binding the two of you on opposite sides of the same tree so tight to make even the smallest movement uncomfortable.

Your companion on the other side of the tree, if one could call him that, had been absolutely silent all this time. Being a bit uncooperative when it came to letting himself be tied, he had earned several heavy blows to his abdomen and a split lip.

You shifted slightly, testing again the ropes that bound you both, and hissed as the fibers just dug deeper into your skin. It all just made no sense. It just couldn’t be him. The Kjartan’s men, you’d been spying on, were out to kill him and had tied him up without hesitation. They hadn’t recognized him as one of their own, as Kjartan’s blood.

You bit your lip, trying to coax both your body and mind to relax.

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

Sihtric leaned his head back against the tree. The sharp ache that radiated from his ribs almost made him groan. The blows he’d taken were nothing new; the pain being a constant companion in his life had long ceased to bother him. But this - being tied up, unable to move freel - this clawed at something deep inside him, making his skin crawl.

He clenched his fists against the rope, hoping that the sharp pain in his wrists would stop his mind from wandering back to the dark days under Kjartan’s roof, where being bound wasn’t just punishment but a lesson in submission, a lesson in unworthiness of his life to his own father.

He had vowed to himself long ago never to let anyone have that power over him again. Yet here he was, beaten and bound like a dog because he had been foolish enough to be distracted.

He cursed himself for his carelessness. He had seen the torches, heard the shouts, he knew the risk, he should have just left and run, yet he had lingered, drawn to you like a moth to flame. Why on earth had he decided to draw you with him?

There was something about the woman who now sat on the other side of the tree, that tugged at a part of him he didn’t understand.

Sihtric closed his eyes, trying to force the thought away, but it lingered. With a loud scoff he hit his nape against the bark of the tree in frustration just to wince in the pain. It had been stupid, yet he knew he would do exactly the same all over again.

He felt you shifting, straining against the ropes, testing their strength over and over again. It must be painful, he thought, yet you didn’t give up, you must have been scared.

“Hey, survivor, are you afraid?” he suddenly found himself asking, somewhat surprised by the hoarse sound of his own voice. “Spare your strength. You’ll need it. You’ll see, I’m getting us out of here.”

The silence around the both of you stretched, broken only by the distant murmurs of the Danes, sitting at the fire. You just snorted at the stranger's question.

Afraid? You couldn’t even remember the last time you were afraid.

People are afraid if they have something to lose, something they care about. You had nothing. The last faint hope had left you as the rumors reached you that your brother Ragnar – the only one from your family who was not there on the night of fire – had suffered a shipwreck at the coasts of Ireland.

You were alone in this world, you had nobody to care for, nothing to lose. You had nothing to live for apart from revenge and that was not a reason enough to fear death, to fear anything.

“Why did you do it?” you finally asked after what seemed like an eternity of silence. “Why surrender yourself to spare me? You don’t even know me.”

Sihtric tilted his head, staring at the dark canopy above. Here it was. He had wanted to calm you, to reassure you, to give you something to hold on to and you came back with questions. Questions he had no real answer to.

“Are you complaining that I saved your life?” he said, his voice almost hollow.

There was a pause, and he could feel you shift against the ropes again.

“No,” you whispered back. “I … I just don’t understand.”

Sihtric closed his eyes briefly, a sigh slipping past his lips. “Sometimes it’s just like that. It just… felt like the right thing to do.”

“You risked your life because it felt right?”

He let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “You make it sound foolish.”

“It is foolish,” you exclaimed, unable to hide the bewilderment in your voice.

“Then you owe your life to a fool,” he countered quietly.

You opened your mouth to reply but found no words and before you could think of something more coherent to reply you were interrupted by the crunch of boots nearing the both of you.

“Get up,” the Dane barked, crouching down to slice through the ropes binding you to the tree. The sudden release sent a jolt through your stiff limbs, but you barely had a moment to process it before his hand clamped around your arm, dragging you to your feet.

“Hey, where are you taking her?” Sihtric’s voice was sharp and there was an edge of worry beneath his tone, impossible to miss, as he struggled fiercely against his own bindings. His movements were desperate but ultimately futile, the ropes biting into his skin.

“Not your concern,” the Dane snapped, his grip on your arm tightening as he gave you a rough shove forward.

You stumbled, barely catching your balance, his bruising grip forcing you to move forward. The Dane dragged you toward one of the larger tents near the camp’s center, and your heart pounded against your ribs as you sensed your chance of escape nearing. You clenched your fists so tightly that your nails dug into your palms, the sting of it forcing you to regain focus.

Behind you could hear the young warrior’s voice, louder this time, laced with barely restrained fury, but it only made your captor laugh - a low, cruel sound that twisted your stomach in disgust.

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

The Dane’s body hit the fur laden ground with a soft thud. You crouched down as you listened, fingers wrapping tighter around the hilt of the dagger you had snatched from the sheath strapped to his back.

“Men,” you muttered under your breath. “Cocksure arselings.”

You froze ready to leap, the faint rustle of the tent flaps catching your attention as a figure burst into the tent. You were ready to strike just to stop at the last moment as you recognised it.

“Shit,” you hissed. “I could have killed you.” But the wide-eyed completely dumbfounded expression on the young warrior's face caught you off guard and made you let out a soft laugh.

You always preferred a fair battle over the stealthy death in the shadows, but this time you had no choice. The majority in the camp were too drunk to notice anything at first and when they did it was already too late.

You met the young warrior at the fireplace, both slightly panting, the blood covered hands and the eerie silence around you the only signs of what had happened.

“Are you hurt?” he finally asked, his large eyes flickering with the same resentment that churned in your stomach.

“I’m fine,” you returned, only now noticing the raw and bloody red lines around his wrists where the ropes had dug into his skin, betraying his earlier struggle.

“You want me to clean them?” you asked, your tone more calm as the adrenaline of the moment ebbed away.

He blinked, seeming surprised by your offer, then nodded slowly. “If you can spare the time,” he murmured, his voice low, almost uncertain.

“Hey, you saved my life. Please, let me thank you,” you murmured, reaching into the pouch at your belt and pulling out a strip of cloth, a small flask of water and a tin of salve, and you didn’t even notice the warrior's eyes widening at your words.

“Sit,” you said, gesturing to clogs at the fireplace. He hesitated before lowering himself, casting a few more surprised glances at your side.

Gently, you poured water over his wrists, watching the dirt and blood wash away. He flinched at the sting, but said nothing, his eyes following your every move.

“You shouldn’t have struggled so hard,” you chided lightly, trying to focus on the task but being constantly distracted by the sight of his muscular arms highlighted by the sleeveless cut of his armour.

He let out a quiet huff. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. Didn’t expect you to be so quick to deal with him.”

You smirked, dipping your fingers into the small tin of salve and smoothing it gently over the raw, red marks on his wrists. “Guess you’ll think twice next time about underestimating me.”

As you reached to wrap a strip of cloth around his wrist, he pulled his hands back slightly. “It’s enough… thank you,” he murmured, his voice trailing off awkwardly.

You raised an eyebrow, noting the faint flush creeping up his neck. “Are you embarrassed to let me help you?”

“No,” he said quickly, though the way he avoided your eyes and rubbed the back of his neck betrayed him. “I just… it will hamper me if it comes to another fight.”

You took his hands firmly yet gently, pulling them back. “Hey, don’t be foolish. It will not disturb you more than those,” you nodded toward the thick golden arm rings on his upper arms. “But it will definitely hamper you if these get infected and swell. Hold still. ”

He sat stiffly, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, clearly unsure where to look. “I’m not used to—” he started, then cut himself off.

“Not used to what?” you prompted, glancing up as you tied the bandage securely.

“Being… taken care of,” he admitted quietly.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” you smirked. “Even warriors need someone to patch them up sometimes.”

“You’re good at this,” he muttered a mixture of gratitude and shyness in his voice, and you smiled, catching the faintest trace of a blush appearing on his cheeks.

You had no idea why you agreed when he suggested spending the rest of the night in the camp. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to run, to leave it all behind and never look back, but you just nodded and followed him to the bigger tent in the middle of the camp.

“I’ll keep watch. Get some sleep, survivor,” he smirked, showing you toward the keep of furs.

A hundred times, you wanted to ask it, to ask for his name, and a hundred times you swallowed back the question burning on the tip of your tongue. You wanted to know and you didn’t. You didn’t know what to do with the truth. You had been angry for so many years, partially blaming Sihtric for what had happened, questioning why he hadn’t warned you, why he hadn’t come for you when everything fell apart.

You had no idea what you would do if this young, strikingly handsome, strong and deadly warrior was indeed the same wide eyed boy you had kissed on the edge of a meadow, your blood brother, the oath breaker.

You hadn’t realised how tired you were until you settled down into the softness of the furs. You wanted to stay awake, to keep an eye on him but the uneven struggle ended far too quickly and your eyes fell close.

Sihtric settled himself near the entrance, picking up the only task that made sense - sharpening his blades. Not that they really needed sharpening but he needed something to focus on – the repetitive rhythm of the movement, the sound of stone gliding over the blade, the simple feeling of purpose in what he was doing.

Not that it really helped this time as his attention kept straying, his eyes constantly drawn back to you.

He couldn’t explain it, that strange pull he felt toward you, that familiarity, that sense that he had known you for ages, that thrill and the way his heart had jumped in his chest when your fingers brushed against his skin.

You suddenly moaned in your sleep, your breathing turning shallow and uneven as you twitched and shifted. Sihtric stilled, his brow furrowing as he slowly set the blade aside.

He knew this all too well - the restlessness of the nights, the fear of closing his eyes, the helplessness of being dragged into the realm where will withdrew and dreams took over. And for all your courage, fierceness and confidence in waking life it seemed that in that realm you were hopelessly losing your battle.

“Hey,” he whispered, slowly crouching closer and placing his hand on your shoulder. You stirred, but didn’t wake up. “You’re alright. It’s just a dream.”

For a moment Sihtric just watched the shadows dancing on your face, hoping that you would calm down, but your breathing grew more ragged and another whimper rolled over your lips.

He didn’t know whether it was a conscious decision or something else more primal, more instinctive as he carefully laid down next to you and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his chest.

You were ripped from your sleep by the feeling of two strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you into a tight embrace. You instinctively froze, willing your breath to even out and preparing yourself to reach for the blade.

“It’s just a dream,” the soft murmur of his voice caught you by surprise. “You’re safe now.”

The moments passed on but nothing happened, he held you just like that, his muscular chest pressed against your back, his embrace steady, firm but at the same time so gentle and protective. You couldn’t even remember the last time someone had held you like that. Closing your eyes, you feigned sleep, somewhat ashamed for having expected the worse.

He let out a quiet sigh of relief, feeling your body relax and your breathing calm down, but his hold didn’t loosen.

“You could be her…,” he whispered, his voice almost too faint to hear. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you are her.”

You felt his frame tremble slightly and unable to pretend anymore, you shifted in his arms and turned to face him.

“I could be who?” you asked, holding your breath.

“Hey, I didn’t mean any harm,” Sihtric was quick to let you go, embarrassment flickering over his handsome face.

“It’s alright,” you whispered. “Please… just hold me again. Can you?”

“If you want me to…” he murmured and his strong arms wrapped around you once more as you hid your face in his broad chest.

He nuzzled softly against your hair, his arms tightened slightly around you, as if clinging to some distant memory.

“I was just a boy when I met her,” he continued and you could clearly hear a faint quiver in his voice. “She saved me. She saved me in so many ways, it’s even hard to explain. The only person who looked at me like I was something worthy, who laughed with me, who shared bread with me.”

Your heart almost stopped beating as you listened, your nose buried in Sihtric’s chest, fighting back tears.

“But I couldn’t save her. I was there but I couldn’t save her. My father found it amusing to let me watch. He probably knew I would try to warn her, so he took me with him just to tie me up and let me watch how he burned down her house.”

“You look so much like her. The way you move, the way you speak…” Sihtric’s voice trailed off but then he suddenly continued: “Tomorrow Dunholm will fall,” he said with such certainty in his voice that you raised your head to look into his mismatched eyes.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I thought you’d want to know. I think you are here for the same purpose I am. The same purpose my lord Uhtred and his brother Ragnar are here for.”

You kept looking at him, unable to avert your gaze.

“I’m not a complete fool. Even if you might think otherwise. There must be a reason you’ve been watching the Danes come and go around Dunholm. I’m guessing your reason is the same as ours - Kjartan.”

You wanted to speak, to ask more, but the lump in your throat made it impossible. Your whole world had just turned upside down. Uhtred and Ragnar were alive. It was impossible. Sihtric was here, there couldn't be any doubts about that anymore, holding you in his arms. That was even more impossible.

This must be a dream, you thought, shifting closer to the muscular frame of your long lost friend, and if it was so, you certainly didn’t want to wake up from it, not now at least.

You waited and waited to be awakened from this strange dream, but the longer you waited the more you realized it wasn’t a dream. You felt Sihtric’s breath eventually evening out as his grip on you loosened and sleep finally claimed him, though his arms still rested around you.

It was when the dawn finally broke that you slipped out of his grasp, careful not to wake him, and left the tent quietly.

Sihtric woke not long after, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes. He had slept surprisingly peacefully but the drowsy smile on his lips faded the moment he realised the space beside him was deserted. He sat up quickly, his eyes scanning the tent for you, but it was empty.

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

You adjusted the helmet you had taken from one of the dead Danes in the camp, your face carefully smeared with mud. Just in case. You didn’t want to be recognised, at least not yet, not before you had found out what was happening, before you knew that Sihtric’s words were not just some cruel game, as you still couldn’t make yourself believe they were true.

It wasn’t hard to find Ragnar’s forces and slip between the warriors just a few moments before the assault started.

Eyes wide open you watched the massive frame of your brother, leading the suicide attack on Dunholm’s gates. What was he doing? Had the whole world gone mad? Had the Norns chosen you to entertain themselves, letting you find your brother only to see him heading into certain death?

Your surprise grew even bigger when the impenetrable gates of Dunholm suddenly cracked open, leaving the fortress to the mercy of the attacking Danes.

From that moment on nothing else existed apart from the deafening roar of war cries, the clang of weapons and the frenzy of battle. You fought like a demon, too immersed in the intoxicating feeling of being invincible, unstoppable, the harbinger of death and justice. You had never felt like this before.

You were reckless, drunk on the bloodlust and adrenaline, and it would have cost you your life if a pair of steady and strong arms hadn’t yanked you aside, burying an axe in the chest of a hulking, red faced Dane.

“Trying to survive, huh? Try harder!” Sihtric shouted, sinking his foot in the gut of another Dane about to swing his blade at you.

It was all over far too quickly, your head spun and you had to steady yourself against a pillar as you watched Ragnar butchering Kjartan, as you saw Uhtred pulling him away from the mutilated corpse and Thyra emerging from the back of the yard.

And then among all the chaos there was Sihtric, standing in the front line and watching the death of his father, triumph and satisfaction in his face fading into disgust and resentment.

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

“Here you are,” you exclaimed as you found Sihtric sitting motionless on a hillock outside the fortress.

He didn’t respond, didn’t turn your way, his eyes fixed somewhere ahead on a small pile of stones.

You hesitated. Maybe this wasn't the right time, maybe he needed space, and yet you couldn’t wait, you couldn’t leave him like this.

“I was looking for you all over the place,” you said as you reached him, placing your hand on his shoulder.

Sihtric flinched at your touch, a faint shudder coursing through him, but he still didn’t turn to face you.

“You found me,” he said at last.

You lowered yourself beside him, your hand still on his shoulder. “Hey…” you began, but he didn’t let you continue.

“They’re all gone,” he murmured, as if speaking more to himself than to you. “Every single one of them. They’re all dead.” His voice cracked, and his fingers dug into the dirt beside him.

“I’ve had my revenge. And what? It didn’t bring them back. It didn’t make it easier.” He paused, his jaw tightening before he finally turned to face you. “There’s nothing left for me. No family, no purpose, nothing.”

“That’s not true,” you said, your trembling fingers squeezing his shoulder.

“You don’t understand,” Sihtric interrupted you angrily. “I couldn’t save them. Not her, nor my mom. The only two people to ever care about me, and both ripped from this life by the man whose blood runs in my veins. And nothing I do - nothing - will ever bring them back.” Sihtric’s gaze shifted back to the pile of stones in the distance.

“Sihtric, please listen to me,” your voice quivered as you reached for his hand. He didn’t protest, didn’t pull away. He didn’t even seem to register that you’d called him by his name—something he hadn’t shared with you.

“I … I have to tell you something… I thought I’d lost everything too. My family, my home, even the sense of who I am…,” you swallowed hard, feeling the tears welling in the corners of your eyes but you didn’t fight them back, you let them flow freely, you didn’t even wipe them away. “But I was wrong. There’s always something to hold on to. There’s always someone.”

“Not for me,” Sihtric murmured, pulling his hand from yours.

“Sihtric, you did save her. You saved her so many times and you kept saving her without even knowing it. I let grief cloud my mind, cloud my judgement. I blamed you for what happened, blamed you for being Kjartan’s son, for not coming to warn me, for abandoning me, for breaking your oath. But the truth… The truth is, it was me. I was the oath breaker. In my grief and self righteousness, I never even thought to look for you. I never realised that you might have needed me. I’m sorry, Sihtric. I’m so, so sorry.”

Sihtric turned to you and the confusion and disbelief written plainly across his face made you laugh bitterly.

“By the gods, Sihtric… Do you really not recognise me?” Hot tears pouring down your cheeks, you rolled up your sleeve, stretching your arm toward Sihtric.

Sihtric’s gaze dropped to your forearm. Carefully his hand reached for your arm and his fingers brushed over the uneven, jagged scar, running along your skin, tracing it as if trying to prove it was real.

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t even look at you, his gaze fixed on your arm and as the silence stretched fear slowly crept under your skin, fear that he would be angry, that he would hate you for not revealing yourself sooner.

Sihtric exhaled shakily, lowering his gaze to the ground, and your heart sank into your gut, expecting the worst, but then his fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing them almost painfully.

“Wherever life leads you,

You will not walk your path alone,” he whispered, raising your palm to his lips.

You cupped his jaw, letting your thumb hesitantly hover over his lips, and he leaned into your touch, his eyes falling shut, the dampness on his cheeks telling you more than any words ever could.

"I knew it. Deep down I knew it," he whispered.

Sihtric’s arms hesitantly encircled your shoulders, pulling you into a tight embrace and you melted against his muscular torso. You both just sat there for what felt like a lifetime, in silence, savouring the moment and each other's presence.

You were no kids anymore. Sihtric’s broad chest heaved in the rhythm of his breath and you pressed your ear tighter against him, listening to the beating of his heart.

It was against all odds but you both were alive and here and that was enough. You didn’t even dare to think about something else. You were content in this moment, and you wanted it to last forever.

“Do you remember that last dawn? In the meadow?” Sihtric’s voice brought you back to reality after what felt like a lifetime of silence.

You tilted your head to look up at him, and his mismatched eyes met yours.

“You can’t imagine how often I’ve thought about it,” he said, “wishing I had been braver.”

“Braver?” you whispered, reaching up to touch his face. “You are the bravest man I’ve ever met, Sihtric.”

“But I wasn’t brave enough for this,” he smiled and with a soft exhale, he leaned in.

The kiss was hesitant at first, his lips brushing against yours in silent reverence, almost as if he were afraid you might disappear if he moved too quickly. But it got more demanding with each passing moment, melting away all hesitation, all doubts, all fears and leaving just the two of you, completely lost in each other and in the salty taste of tears on your lips.

#sihtric x reader #sihtric x you #sihtric fic #the last kingdom fic #the last kingdom #sihtric #sihtric kjartansson

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