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Swears, Dreams, Hats

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Jumalauta. Sigrun.” Tuuri plastered her tongue to the top of her mouth to keep the noises back. The tank was probably sound-proof, but you never knew for sure.

“I know that one,” Sigrun muttered into her ear. Her long body curved against Tuuri’s back, sweat against sweat. For once, for just one damn time they’d actually got almost all their clothes off, though Tuuri’s trousers still shackled her ankles together. Her knees were wide on the floor, her head smothered into a battered pillow on the bunk, and two of Sigrun’s fingers were sliding in and out of her wetness, torturously slow. She whined and pumped her hips back. “Give me another one,” Sigrun urged.

Perkele, peijakas, hiiden v-vittuuu-ohh, you gotta stop making me, I can’t think...”

Sigrun chuckled low in her throat and curled her fingers. Tuuri crumbled against the bunk. “Do you know any in Icelandic?”

“No...”

“I think you do.” A slow pump in and out, and Sigrun let her fingers slip out just to rub along Tuuri’s clit for a pass.

“Ohh, fuck!”

“In Icelandic,” Sigrun repeated more sternly.

Fjandinn… I think.”

“Good girl.” Sigrun nipped at Tuuri’s ear, and shifted her weight for a better angle. “Four more in the next sixty seconds, please.”

As Tuuri began to stammer more half-remembered filth, Sigrun went in knuckles-deep. That goddamn fucking bitch. Tuuri probably said it out loud, but the gods only knew in what language.

Chapter Text

They’d arrived to Reykjavik too late for any of the ships to still be moving out, as Mikkel pointed out—no open hatches or cargo-loading when the sjödraug were active, that was the rule. Therefore, Lalli must either be gone already or would have to try again in the morning. Sound reasoning as far as Sigrun was concerned, so she quietly picked an inn while Emil and Reynir argued against it. She wasn’t exactly their captain anymore, but she still had some clout. The boys would fall in line.

It was early summer still, so true night fell, and Sigrun could feel it in her bones. Darkness meant trolls, it meant fortifying your borders, and her room had a flimsy window and outside she could still here people wandering, chatting, laughing as they went up and down the various bars scattered around the harbour. It made her brain skip around her skull like a mad thing when she was supposed to be resting--like a cat that had been stuck in quarantine all day. It wasn’t as if she’d got to expend any energy on the carriage ride.

That's all it was. And not the fact she had a room all to herself, and someone who should be there with her, wasn't.

After half an hour of rolling and kicking her sheets into a mess, she got up, pulled her pants back on and went out into the street.

Up and down the cobble-stones, dodging carts and drinkers. She could just go into any of these inns, raise a toast to the gods and make twenty temporary friends. Something else drove her on. Unfinished business. Unsatisfied longing.

She picked up her pace, started to jog, then run. She sped uphill, through slippery streets, faster and faster until her heart beat like a galloping horse. Then she turned around and ran down a different street, deep into the sprawl of Reykjavik.

She couldn’t outrun that feeling.

She stopped in a side-alley as her legs grew weak, and her lungs decided punish her all at once. She rested her back against a wall, gasping for air as her heart slowed down. It wasn't enough. Her eyes stung. She needed action. She needed--

“You need to say good-bye,” said a gnarled voice from the shadows. Sigrun’s dagger was in her hand before the words were out. “Calm down!” said the voice. Out of the shadows stepped an old man. He drew his hood back fraction revealing a grey beard and deeply lines cheeks. “I know something about dreams and the dead, warrior. You have a ghost on your back. She wants to sleep, but you won't let her.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I can see her.”

“I don’t have a ghost on my back," Sigrun snapped. "My mages would have told me.”

The man shifted his head and sniffed. “I can see her resting in a place far from here, not in the nine realms. A swan’s wings frame her head. A Finn?” The old man spat. “Exorcise her. Forget her. She will not dine with you at the hall of the fallen. Remember who you are.”

“Fuck you,” said Sigrun to Odin, turned her back, and strode through the dark streets back to her inn.

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“You’re too tall.”

“Or you’re too short?”

Tuuri got up on her tippy-toes and tried to reach up to get that ridiculous hat off Sigrun’s head. Sigrun just stood up straight, even craned her neck. “Come onnnn. I want to make a good impression on your parents. They probably already think you were drunk when we got married.”

“Nope. Not happening. I am wearing it. It’s an awesome hat.”

Tuuri sighed and dropped back on her heels. Nobody actually even wore kalottilakki in Finland unless they were dressing up for something. She dropped her head into Sigrun’s chest instead. “If I am forever the unwanted terrible daughter-in-law who turned you into a bog savage, it will be your fault.”

“Aw, Fluffy. You Finns are not bog savages, just heathens.” She ruffled Tuuri’s hair.

Tuuri pouted, but somehow her hands had found their way on to Sigrun’s breasts, and she knew she had already forgiven her. And, when she thought about it, perhaps they were both exactly the right height.