He knew you liked how it made you feel.
When he was down, between your legs, you loved the tickle of his beard as he lapped you with the vigor of Hvitserk when he ate his pastries. He could elicit the most beautiful of noises from you and shit, he was hoping nothing would change when he chose to snip off his beard, start afresh with a new style. He made the mistake of choosing the same for his long, golden locks. The long sides braid along the sides of his head, braiding his hair tightly back into a makeshift ponytail. With a baby fresh face, he steps back into his own Great Hall to find where you were with his small one year old in the fields awaiting him.
"(Y/N)?" He calls in his straight forward, but gentle voice that you come to have loved. He saunters about the room in slow, bobbing steps until he finds you bouncing his daughter in your lap on his bed. It is early in the day and while you had dressed in beautiful fine fabrics, you aren't altogether awake.
"Say goodmorning to Fadir." You tell your daughter, not entirely looking at Sigurd but the contorting features of your little girl. Initially his daughter seems to light up gladly for him! But then a high pitched wail slips out from her lips. It doesn't quickly ebb either, merely continuing as she flails up your arms like a kitten.
"Ohhh, oh Kraka..." You hush her, bouncing her in the arms when you turn to face Sigurd. One look at your hairless Viking has you picking the nearest item, which just happens to be a shield off the wall of your bed, fastening it to your free arm only to shove him back with it. Sigurd makes a harsh grunt, flailing over his clumsy feet to the floor being so unprepared by your assault.
"Who are you?!" You shout, booming through the chambers so that a few of Sigurd's warriors filter into the room. Sigurd's leg is still suspended in midair as he shoves himself up on his forearm, blonde braids spilling over his broad shoulders.
"Your husband!" Sigurd shoves his hair over his shoulders, looking at you through spiraling eyes that look like Sigurd. He thinks it will convince you, but with a baby on your hip, you bring your laced flat under his hairless chin.
"My husband is Sigurd Snake in the Eye." You bounce his chin up, twirling around to hike your skirts up your skin so smooth, he could have drooled. If not for that dagger slipping out from under your skirts. "Not Sigurd the Hairless."
"(Y/N) it is me."
"Lies! You are the trickster!" You hiss almost as shrill as Kraka's screaming at that point. He drags himself back, hitting the wall of shared rooms with you when he notices his oud.
"(Y/N)! (Y/N)! Let me play for you!" He reaches back to his oud. Your eyes tighten like the snakes that wind through his own eyes, hatefully watching as he strings his fingers across the oud.
"What can you possibly play me that will change my mind?" You hiss.
"I will show you." His fingers strum the oud– gaining Kraka's eyes staring at the strings. She's at least interested, flailing to get down. You let her go down, hand tight on the grip of the dagger when Sigurd plays his pick. The light, jaunty tune on his oud sweetens the tension of the air. Gently so, he swears that he can hear your gentle maiden like giggles from just days ago.
Sigurd would strum his oud lazily just to find your fine hips swirling low and sensual but then kick up in pace to watch the skills you picked up from the dancers that came with a king amuse him. He grew to love the lift and drop of your hips– and not just in bed– but how jovially you moved to keep up with his strumming while moving closer to him.
His breath were short little pants, leaning upright and watching with every little twist and pop. Your hands combed through your hair, over your curves and spun your wrists out while laughing playfully at him, the lull in your breath as childlike as his daughter who barrels out in a run to Sigurd, stopping to spin several times in front of you as the true, regal star. Her hair twirls around like golden streams, giggles filing the open field. This was what love meant to him.
"Well?" You stand there, waiting with his response. Sigurd beats his fingers against the oud in a sickly sweet tune, gentle like the waves of water that lapse onto the beachy shores. The tunes run gentle and sweet, combined with Sigurd's soft humming. You might not be convinced but your daughter, whose cries triggered this moment, wiggles to get down. She doddles forward and injects herself into his lap, melting away the last of your worries when Sigurd stops his song to bring his oud over her with his trademark kiss to her temple, squeezing her in his arms and rocking adorably side to side.
You finally hang the knife upon the wall and turn to Sigurd, collapsing in a heap of skirts beside him. Your arms wind around his, turning his chin with your fingers so that he might look at you. You inspect his clean jawline and massage his cheekbones with your thumb.
"I don't like hairless men, Sigs." You pout with a hint of a tease. He knows you're completely honest though when you kiss him, missing the prick of coarse facial hair. Your lips slide against his, causing his hold on his oud to drop. Smooth stokes of your lips devour him. Kraka has gone to play with his oud, pulling the strings with plucky strums.
"I'll grow it back out." He says. As if he hadn't gotten the picture when you almost gutted him like a raw fish for looking wrong. You pull away completely, running your fingers over his chapped lips.
"The beard is better." You say. He looks over the shield clattered onto the ground. Apparently so– a happy wife meant a happy life.
