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Snow whispered against the thatch all night, and by dawn the storm had gentled into a steady white fall. Thin winter light slipped through the smoke-hole overhead, brushing over the tangle of furs wrapped around your legs. The fire had burned down to ruby embers, the only sounds the soft pop of the hearth and the deep, steady breath of the man sleeping beside you.
Outside, the wind clawed at the timber walls, making the beams creak. But under the layered pelts, the cold couldn't reach you—except for the faint fog of his breath mingling with the smoke curling up toward the rafters, where dried herbs hung in brittle braids.
You drifted in and out of sleep—too tired to rise, too warm to care—until the pelts dipped. He moved carefully, too carefully, which only made his weight shift clumsy in its restraint. A callused forge-hot hand slid over your hip, up your side.
Not rough.
Not demanding.
Just… careful.
His thumb brushed your cheekbone. A low, groggy rumble vibrated against your ear. He smelled of salt, earth, iron, and smoke —the smell you’d fallen asleep wrapped in countless nights before.
You smiled without meaning to.
His lips touched yours—soft, cautious. Nothing like the blood-spattered giant who returned from war grinning wide enough to split his face.
You murmured something half-asleep.
He answered with a pleased sound deep in his chest—not quite words, not quite laughter.
“Mhm…” you breathed, eyes half-slit.
Another kiss—lazy, testing, like he was making sure you were real.
"Mmnh… what are you doing?" you muttered, squinting up at him.
A quiet laugh ghosted against your mouth. “Wakin’ you. Been too long since I’ve seen those pretty eyes.”
You pushed weakly at his chest—skin warm over iron-hard muscle, forged by years of slogging through mud, cleaving men in half, enduring seas and winters that killed lesser men. But against you, he was simply warm. Alive. Yours.
“Mm… cut it out.”
He ignored that, naturally.
The furs rustled.
"One more," he murmured, pressing a long kiss to your cheek—slow, starved, softened by months of hunger.
Storms, skirmishes, and a hotheaded earl testing him—He’d been gone longer than expected. And somewhere on some frozen battlefield, the brute had started missing you more than he cared to admit. Right now, stripped of war, his needs were simple: hold you. Breathe you in. Let the world stop spinning.
–
You turned away, rolling onto your side with a sigh. Exhausted, pleasantly sore, unwilling to move for anything short of the roof collapsing. The “welcome home” last night had wrung you dry—only a man like Thorkell could overwhelm you completely without meaning to.
Sleep tugged at you again.
Until the furs shifted—
A massive arm wrapped around your waist and hauled you back into him, your spine pressed to his chest like he’d reclaimed what was his.
It was enough to stir you awake, though your limbs still felt weighted by sleep.
you sighed, not bothering to push him off this time.
"Shh." His breath warmed the back of your neck. “Missed this.”
"Mmhn You were supposed to rest. You just got back." you groan.
"Aye. And the welcome was sooo good," he drawled, smirking against your temple. “Sleep can wait.”
He brushed your hair aside and kissed the nape of your neck. Then your shoulder. Then lower—mapping you like a coastline he’d been away from for too long
His beard scraped down your skin — scruffy but plesant— it sent a shiver down your spine. “Stop that,” you muttered, even as your body betrayed you, leaning into him.
“No.” His voice dropped to a lazy growl. “Been months. Let me have this.”
He tugged at the collar of your tunic—his tunic, of course —it hung loose and enormous—exposing your shoulder to his mouth. His teeth grazed your skin lightly — not biting, just enough to raise goosebumps.
“Thorkell…” you huff under your breath, and buried your face into the thick wolf-pelt.
A pleased chuckle vibrated through his chest. His hand slid beneath the fabric, warm palm resting on your stomach, then down to your hips, rubbing slow circles with aching patience.
He felt enormous beside you. Too large for the bed, too large for the room. And the warmth blooming under your skin betrayed you.
"You smell like me,” he murmured, smug as a cat despite nuzzling into your neck.
“You’re an idiot,” you muttered chest tight, drifting between irritation and sleep.
He snorted, delighted—a quiet, breathy laugh, instead of his usual booming bark. “Don’t be mean. I brought you gifts.”
“Is one of them peace and quiet?”
“No.” He said in mock offence, you could practically feel him grinning against your skin, pinching your waist. “You know better.” He always did that when you mouthed off—acted as if your annoyance was some private treasure.
His hands wandered again—slow, reverent, starved—until his palms cupped the underside of your breasts. You jolted.
“You’re impossible.” you groan into the furs, voice tired and weak.
Another chuckle — soft as snow, almost boyish.
“Mm,” He kissed your shoulder. “Can’t help it,” he sighed through kisses trailing up your neck, behind your ear, then tucked you beneath his chin. “Missed all of you.”
"And you missed me too," he added, smug.
You huffed—but smiled. He knew you too well.
Wrapped in furs and him, his chest warm against your back, his arms locked around you like he wasn’t letting go until midday—you felt comfortable and safe. Thorkell, for once, seemed content with the quiet… and the drowsy kisses he pressed to your forehead as the two of you drifted in and out of half-sleep.
–
A cold draft sliced through the longhouse. You shivered and tried to pull the furs tighter—only to find you couldn’t move.
A massive arm tightened around you, locking you to his chest.
"Mmnn—no," you strained.
He dragged you closer, grumbling sleep-thick words into your neck.
"Mmph… you’re not goin’ anywhere."
You blinked up at him groggily. “Thorkell… the fire’s out. I’m freezing.”
His answer was a low, barely-awake.
“So get closer.”
You snorted. “I can’t. You’re already—”
He buried his face in your neck, beard rasping warm against your throat, breath hot on your shoulder.
"Warm enough now?" he murmured, nudging your skin with his lips. “Jus’ stay.”
“Thorkell…” you whispered, trying to sound irritated, but your voice came out softer.
You could feel him smile against your skin, the upward curve of his mouth ghosting along your throat. “Mm. Love it when you say my name like that.”
His hand spread over your stomach, pulling you deeper into him. The winter wind growled outside; ice shifted on the fjord.
"I need to get up—"
"Nope."
He rolled, effortlessly pinning you beneath him. Cold air hit your skin—then vanished under his heat. He peppered your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder with kisses, beard scraping in delicious, infuriating patterns.
Your breath caught blinking up at him. In the faint morning light, his hair was a wild golden mess, bandana lost somewhere among the discarded clothes. His beard darker from months at war, face tired, unshaven—yet his amber eyes… gods were they soft.
Loving. Just for you.
He cupped your chin, eyes flicking between your mouth and eyes.
You swallowed. He wasn’t starved for food or warmth—he was starved for this.
A draft swept the room. You shivered.
He noticed instantly.
"Alright, alright—c’mere."
Before your mind could catch up, he’d scooped you up in one effortless motion—furs and all—lifting you clean off the bed. You yelp, arms flying around his shoulders.
“Thorkell!”
“Cold little thing,” he teased, walking naked across the room, utterly unfazed by the chill. “Should’ve woken me sooner.”
He crouched by the hearth breath steamed in the air, lowering you and the bundled furs to sit in front of the fireplace. The cold stone beneath threatened to steal the warmth from your bones—but before it could, he was crouched at the ashes, muscles shifting beneath scarred nude skin, focused on coaxing life back to the embers. The flame catches and blooms, golden light pours across the room—revealing the two of you half-wrapped in the thick pelt, your skin marked from last night.
Thorkell settled beside you leaning back on his elbows, hair falling forward in a disheveled golden spill, a small tired smile pulling at his mouth.
“Better.”
You met his eyes. “Much.”
He lay back stretched out on the furs, patting the space on his chest.
“C’mere.”
You crawled into him; his arms locked around you. The new fire warmed one side; he warmed the other. He buried his nose into your hair.
“Mmm, really you smell too good,” he hums into your scalp. “Can’t get enough.”
You elbow him lightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You say that, yet you’re the one stealin’ all my shirts.” He sighs, arms flexing around your waist, sliding down over your hips. “And my bed. And my furs.”
“What choice do I have? You were gone long,” you whisper bashfully.
He softened. “Aye.” He brushed hair from your face. “Next time, I’m bringin’ you with me. Stuff you in my pack.” He kissed your forehead.
You chuckled, “I’d slow you down.”
“Worth it.”
–
The quiet that followed was domestic. Fire popping. Snow pattering on the roof. Your fingers tracing idle shapes on his chest as he watched with half-lidded contentment.
His hand rubbing slow circles on your back.
His beard brushed your cheek—lazy, claiming. Then he kissed you—slow, and starved.
You moved without thinking, bracing your hands on his chest, swinging a leg over his hips. He let out a helpless, guttural sound as you settled onto him.
“Nnh. Gods, yes, I missed this too.”
His lips found yours again.
You rocked your hips; his breath hitched. Hands roaming up your thighs, your waist, your ribs—gentle but greedy.
“You’re trouble,” he chuckled against your mouth. “And I was trying to let you rest.”
“You weren’t trying very hard,” you gruff against his mouth.
That earns a low pleased laugh. Your lips lock again, this time with more heat. He meets you halfway, mouth warm, impatient. Hands guiding your hips back and forth. He groaned, head falling back, propping his neck against his forearm as you lean over him.
He grunts, gaze dropping straight to your bare chest, zero shame or hesitation.
His hand trailed up your body, rough fingers caressing the underswell of your breast.
Then he leans forward, his mouth trailed down your neck, beard burning in a way that makes your breath stutter. He mouthed along your breasts—sucking a nipple into his mouth— making you gasp, hips stuttering.
“Thorkell!” you moan nearly losing your balance.
He looked up with a wicked grin, pupils blown wide. And hums against your skin, tongue teasing slow flicks against the bud that make you mewl despite yourself.
This man lives to be a tease.
“You,” you breathe, mewls turn to gasps as you grab a fistfull of hair, “are way too good at that.”
He grins against you, “Mhm.” dragging his mouth lower, teeth grazing your sternum before his lips trailed along your ribs.
“Mmh—don’t be smug,” You whined, shuddering as you place your palm flat over his mouth.
He bit your fingers lightly, heat flaring beneath his half lidded eyes.
Then hauled you into a filthy kiss—deep, slow, tongue sliding against yours as you ground down.
He groaned, fingers digging into your thighs—
—And then the door slammed open.
“Jarl Thorkell—!”
Asgeir barged in with another man at his side and three servant women carrying trays of warm food, a basin of water, and a stack of parchment.
All of them froze..
You’re straddling him. Naked.
He’s naked.
The fire crackling merrily beside you.
There’s a heartbeat of absolute, horrified silence.
Then—
“For the love of—” Asgeir spluttered. “Commander, can you not greet the morning indecently for once?!”
The other warrior turned away, coughing hard into his fist.
The servant women squeaked, staring at their full hands, ceiling, the floor—anywhere but at the two of you.
Thorkell just groaned and buried his face in your neck.
Then grinned.
“So close,” he murmured into your ear.
You slapped his arm, mortified.
He only grinned wider.
–
Asgeir cleared his throat.
Thorkell rolled his eyes. “Terrible timing.”
“Terrible?! It’s practically midday!” Asgeir snapped. “We need to speak of the king’s summons, the troop movements, the— just put some godsdamned clothes on!”
Thorkell sighed dramatically, sat up on one arm, and pulled you in for a slow, deep kiss—long enough to make Asgeir groan in exasperation.
You broke away breathless, cheeks hot. A wicked glint flashed in Thorkell’s eyes.
Then he rose, lifting you off his lap effortlessly and settling you back down onto your knees by the fire.
–
Completely unashamed, he sauntered across the room toward his clothes. The servants turned away, faces burning; the warriors grumbled. Thorkell only laughed, stretching like a waking bear.
“What? It’s my house.”
The women hurried past him. One set the basin over the hearth; others wrapped a heavy fur around your shoulders.
“Come, my lady,” one whispered, ushering you behind the wooden partition. “Before the jarl decides he’d rather chase you back onto the floor.”
Your cheeks flamed as they pulled you away. Thorkell chuckled.
The moment you were behind the carved screen, the women erupted into flustered whispers like a pot boiling over.
“Oh, my lady—Ullr take me, you must be freezing—”
“Sit, sit, lets get you warm—”
“He didn’t even let you dress—gods, men returning from war forget their manners entirely—”
Despite the chaos, their hands were gentle.
The carved chest at the foot of the bed creaked open. You heard thick garments unfold—an ankle-length chemise, a wool overdress, a winter cloak.
Another woman fetched the warm basin.
You sat on a wool-cushioned stool, letting them fuss over you. Their voices softened. Steam rose as one poured the fresh hot water in a bowl, pressing a warm, damp cloth to your shoulders, trailing down your back, chasing out the chill that had sunk into your bones.
“There,” she murmured. “We’ll get you presentable before he decides he’d rather drag you back into the bed.”
You bit your lip to hide a laugh.
A third servant worked delicately through your hair, untangling knots of sleep and passion after a night’s celebration with skilled fingers. She used fragrant oils—gifts your husband brought from overseas—rubbing them between her palms before smoothing them through your strands. The almond scent curled softly around you in the warm air.
Beyond the screen, Thorkell’s voice boomed:
“So, what’s so cursed urgent it couldn’t wait ‘til after my breakfast?” he grunted, the clip of his belt rattling as he pulled his waistband up.
Asgeir, long-suffering, launched into his exhausted report.
“The scouts returned before dawn. Four ships crossed the strait—possibly allies, possibly raiders, but either way—”
“Mhm.” Thorkell said, utterly disinterested.
One woman snorted softly. “He’s watching this curtain more than he’s listening.”
“Shh! He’s looking over again!” another giggled
You felt the pull too, peeking over the top of the partition. From this angle, you could just see Thorkell’s broad silhouette—half turned to the men, eyes flicking your way every few breaths.
–
Outside, wind howled. Snow thumped off the roof. The women worked quickly—washing, drying, respectful but efficient—the kind of care reserved for wives of jarls, especially when their husbands were waiting impatiently mere paces away.
“Lift your arms, my lady.”
You did, and they slipped a fresh linen shift over your head, soft and warm from being stored near the hearth. Woolen underlayers followed, embroidered at the edges with delicate knot patterns you recognized—Thorkell had gifted these to you last spring.
–
“…and if that’s the case,” Asgeir continued, unaware of the battle between patience and desire happening in Thorkell’s skull.
“we’ll need to reposition the cliff watch-posts. Also, the men want to know whether to—”
“... Thorkell?”
Silence.
“Jarl Thorkell,” Asgeir eventually snapped, “did you hear anything I just said?!”
“Hm?” Thorkell turned sharply, caught. “Yes?”
Asgeir stared at him.
Thorkell sighed. “No. Say it again.”
“Gods,” Asgeir groaned.
Thorkell grinned like a boy caught misbehaving.
You covered your mouth to smother a laugh.
“He’s hopeless,” the woman braiding your hair muttered.
“No,” whispered another, tying the laces at your waist, “just in love.”
Heat rose to your cheeks.
–
A few more deft touches—warm oils rubbed into your skin, a brooch pinned at your collar—and the warmth settled into you like something sacred. Something homelike. A winter morning you wanted to bottle forever.
Then: a throat cleared, deep and impatient.
Thorkell.
“My lady,” one servant whispered after peeking out, “he’s glaring holes through the curtain.”
“Is he at least dressed?”
She peeked again.
“…Just about.”
His shadow loomed across the partition.
“Are you done in there?” he called, trying to sound gruff instead of impatient—and failing. “Because I ought to be leavin’ and—and these fools can’t remember half the things they’re tellin’ me—”
“He wants a kiss before he goes,” a servant translated dryly.
You heard him huff.
“Go on,” one woman said gently. “We’re finished.”
You stepped out.
Thorkell was fastening a leather guard impatiently. His head snapped toward you instantly.
He froze.
Softened. Eyes sweeping over you like you’d walked straight out of a dream.
“There you are,” he breathed.
He crossed the room in three strides. His hands hovered at your waist—as if asking permission in his own rough, wordless way. You nodded.
His thumb brushed your lower lip before the other hand pulled you into a deep, warm, kiss. As if trying to memorize the feel of your lips.
“I’ll be back before sundown,” he murmured, pulling away reluctantly but keeping his forehead against yours.
“I know,” you whispered.
He cupped your cheek with surprising tenderness. “And when I get back…” he pinched his fingers.
Voice dipping, rough like a promise.
“…we’re finishin’ what we started.”
Your stomach fluttered.
And Asgeir akwardly cleared his throat. “Commander. They’re waiting.”
He didn’t look away.
“Right, right. Danes, ships, ice, raids—whatever.”
“You truly didn’t listen,” Asgeir groaned.
Thorkell lingered at your side, eyes locked with yours. You nudged him and he sighed turning toward his men— furs and leather thrown over his shoulders, hair still wild.
“Let’s go deal with it, then. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I’m home.”
“Stay warm,” he murmured, kissing your temple. With one last look—hungry, soft, certain—he squeezed your side and let you go.
–
The door thud shut behind them, muffling the winter wind.
For a moment, the room felt twice as quiet without his voice filling it—only the crackle of the fire and the faint clatter of servants tidying up behind you. Warmth lingered where his hands had been, a heat that had nothing to do with the hearth.
You stood there, wrapped in fur, ribbons and winter-soft linens, breath still unsteady.
One of the women passed behind you, moving to lift the cover from your bed. “Soon he’ll tear the doors off their hinges rushing back in,” she teased knowingly.
You tried to answer with something clever—something that didn’t sound as flustered and soft as you felt—but your voice caught in your throat.
Outside, the crunch of their boots faded. Asgeir barking orders. Thorkell’s deep and wild voice being swallowed by the storm.
You exhaled slowly, letting the quiet settle into your bones.
A soft rustle drew your attention. At the foot of the freshly set bed, a thick pelt-lined shawl he favored on long marches had been put out for you—placed there by one of the servants. You touched it, fingers sinking into the fur. Pulling it closer to your nose, pine, smoke, and him.
Your chest warmed.
Through the shutter slats, you caught the barest glimpse of him mounting a wagon—turning just once to look back at the house. At you. Even from here, you felt it. That stupid, heart-stealing softness he reserved only for you.
Then he snapped a command, and his men crowded the clearing. You couldn’t help but feel tense as you watched their silhouettes disperse into the fog.
Servant maids continued to work around you, gathering cloths and bowls as they set up the dining table for lunch, their chatter gentle now, the storm outside a distant hush.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back,” one said simply, recognizing your unease.
A small smile curled at your mouth before you could stop it.
You pressed your fingers to your lips, face flush, still tingling from his kiss.