FIC: Rhythmic (Gyda/Thyri) T
Title: Rhythmic
Pairing: Gyda/Thyri
Rating: T
Word Count: 556
Summary: Gyda likes the summers, likes sailing out with her brother and fighting at his side. The summer raids make her blood sing, but she likes winters best.
Author's Note: A birthday drabble for lady_ragnell! Happy birthday, Nell!
There's an order to things, a rhythm like the steady crash of battle, that Gyda finds comforting. Whatever else may happen, the snows always melt, winter always fades to spring, and summer always brings raids.
She likes the summers, likes sailing out with her brother and fighting at his side. The summer raids make her blood sing, but she likes winters best.
There's a rhythm then, too, though some parts are less predictable. Most years, she and Bjorn sail home in a ship heavy with treasure. They stand side by side with their men at their backs to present the loot to their earl. Their knuckles brush, callused and chapped and scarred, and they both pretend not to notice the proud little smiles their parents wear, as they sit before them on the dais and survey the fruits of their labor.
It's good. It pleases her to work hard and sail home successful. But what comes after is better.
There is always celebrating, and mead by the barrel. Gyda wends her way through the revelers with a horn of mead until she finds her - Thyri, her dark hair pulled off her face in windswept braids, ends falling lose about her shoulders, her cheeks pink from the wind or the sun or the drink.
They celebrate with the others, shoulder to shoulder, until the sun goes down and the fires die and night brings a chill that reminds them all that winter draws ever closer. And then, arm in arm, stumbling and drunk on each other as much as the mead, they go home, where a fire's burning and the furs are waiting.
Gyda pulls Thyri down with her, and laughter warms the air between them just as well as the flames do.
There's an order to this, too. She starts at Thyri's hands, kisses her knuckles and notes the new cuts, the new divots. She pushes Thyri's sleeve up to reveal a gash across her forearm, already healing.
"Some bastard in Rastalund," Thyri says, shrugging. "Big as a bear, and twice as ungainly. He came at me from behind, or he'd never have gotten close enough to touch me."
Gyda smiles and then it's Thyri's turn. She finds the first of Gyda's new scars on her shoulder, still soft and pink just above her collarbone. Any lower, and she'd have had to sit the rest of the raids out with her arm in a sling.
They're methodical, stripping clothes off one piece at a time until each new wound has been catalogued and kissed and touched. And when their bodies are familiar to each other once more, Thyri twists her fingers in Gyda's hair and pulls her in.
They kiss slowly, reacquainting themselves with each other. The corner of Thyri's mouth is tender and a little swollen. Gyda makes a low sound and laps at the spot. It tastes faintly of blood, still fresh and new.
"He's dead now," Thyri says. After this long, they don't even have to speak to know each other's minds.
"He went up against you," Gyda says, smiling. "Of course he is."
Thyri rolls onto her back, pulling Gyda with her. Gyda kisses her again, harder, letting her teeth nip and pull. She drags the furs over them both and lets herself get lost in another, more primal sort of rhythm.
Pairing: Gyda/Thyri
Rating: T
Word Count: 556
Summary: Gyda likes the summers, likes sailing out with her brother and fighting at his side. The summer raids make her blood sing, but she likes winters best.
Author's Note: A birthday drabble for lady_ragnell! Happy birthday, Nell!
There's an order to things, a rhythm like the steady crash of battle, that Gyda finds comforting. Whatever else may happen, the snows always melt, winter always fades to spring, and summer always brings raids.
She likes the summers, likes sailing out with her brother and fighting at his side. The summer raids make her blood sing, but she likes winters best.
There's a rhythm then, too, though some parts are less predictable. Most years, she and Bjorn sail home in a ship heavy with treasure. They stand side by side with their men at their backs to present the loot to their earl. Their knuckles brush, callused and chapped and scarred, and they both pretend not to notice the proud little smiles their parents wear, as they sit before them on the dais and survey the fruits of their labor.
It's good. It pleases her to work hard and sail home successful. But what comes after is better.
There is always celebrating, and mead by the barrel. Gyda wends her way through the revelers with a horn of mead until she finds her - Thyri, her dark hair pulled off her face in windswept braids, ends falling lose about her shoulders, her cheeks pink from the wind or the sun or the drink.
They celebrate with the others, shoulder to shoulder, until the sun goes down and the fires die and night brings a chill that reminds them all that winter draws ever closer. And then, arm in arm, stumbling and drunk on each other as much as the mead, they go home, where a fire's burning and the furs are waiting.
Gyda pulls Thyri down with her, and laughter warms the air between them just as well as the flames do.
There's an order to this, too. She starts at Thyri's hands, kisses her knuckles and notes the new cuts, the new divots. She pushes Thyri's sleeve up to reveal a gash across her forearm, already healing.
"Some bastard in Rastalund," Thyri says, shrugging. "Big as a bear, and twice as ungainly. He came at me from behind, or he'd never have gotten close enough to touch me."
Gyda smiles and then it's Thyri's turn. She finds the first of Gyda's new scars on her shoulder, still soft and pink just above her collarbone. Any lower, and she'd have had to sit the rest of the raids out with her arm in a sling.
They're methodical, stripping clothes off one piece at a time until each new wound has been catalogued and kissed and touched. And when their bodies are familiar to each other once more, Thyri twists her fingers in Gyda's hair and pulls her in.
They kiss slowly, reacquainting themselves with each other. The corner of Thyri's mouth is tender and a little swollen. Gyda makes a low sound and laps at the spot. It tastes faintly of blood, still fresh and new.
"He's dead now," Thyri says. After this long, they don't even have to speak to know each other's minds.
"He went up against you," Gyda says, smiling. "Of course he is."
Thyri rolls onto her back, pulling Gyda with her. Gyda kisses her again, harder, letting her teeth nip and pull. She drags the furs over them both and lets herself get lost in another, more primal sort of rhythm.