#Viking au

[vozart]

the people have spoken so here is viking soap and a bonus creep

[ghouljams]

Bath [Chapter 7]

<- Prev part

Tags: Viking au, Viking!Soap, highlander!reader, healer!reader, Soap x f!reader, slow burn, kidnapping(sort of), forced undressing, noncon touching, bathing Summary: Mactavish, his kindness knowing no boundaries, treats you to a bath as the introduction to your new home. You begin plotting his downfall. A reasonable response considering your circumstances.

Despite Mactavish’s protests you’re both made to help with unloading the ship. Your labor is forcibly lent to the effort, so you take pleasure in slowing it down. Which leaves the sun starting to drift below the horizon by the time a warm bowl of stew is pressed into your hands as payment for your efforts.

It’s well into the evening before you ever finish tramping up the short hill that Mactavish’s house sits atop. You brace yourself for the worst as he opens the door and ushers you inside. Blood and gore splattered about, bones littering the floor, trophies from his hunts, everything that will turn your stomach more than it’s already turnt. You’re half flinched when you step inside.

Mactavish’s house is quaint, but clean in spite of the layer of dust that seems to have gathered in his absence. The wood beams and daub over stone hold up the roof as well as anything else could, and there’s a small opening near the back you assume leads to a bedroom. There’s a table, chairs, a fireplace, and a wash bin with dishes stacked to the side. It smells the same way all houses that have been left for weeks at a time do, it makes you sneeze and Mactavish mutters an apology as he shuts the door behind you. The sparse living quarters speak to a man that lives on the sea. You wonder how long it will be until you’re sleeping on the ship again.

“Outhouse is in back,” Mactavish tells you when he sees you looking around. He runs a hand over the wood holding the door, fingers notching in the carvings there. “Built it myself,” He continues, “don’t usually have guests.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to entertain me long.” You wander to the fireplace discarding your- his fur cloak on a nearby chair. You crouch down in front of the stone to start building a fire. You’re too much your mother’s daughter, too much a helper to survive. Mactavish follows to crouch beside you, tips his head to watch you.

“Want me to get some wood, Vaenn?” He asks as you glance around, “It’s just beside the house, need tae get the tub down anyway.”

You do your best to ignore him and sweep away the ashes littering the fireplace with the short handled broom that had been sitting beside it. The thought of a tub makes your shoulders tense. The idea of this man undressing around you makes your heart hammer in your chest. As if you were family just because you shared a tongue. How can he even think such things? 

Mactavish stares at you a long moment before he stands and turns towards the door. You keep your eyes on the fireplace, your fingers trembling just on the edge of creation as you grasp for straws. For anything to say to tear him down, to rebuke the idea that you need any of his help. The door closes behind him, thunderous in the silence. Your tongue is getting slow as it adjusts to the viking’s rough speech.

Or perhaps silence is the best course of action. Give him nothing and hope that in turn he expects nothing. No, you know yourself too well, you’ve always had trouble holding your tongue when anger seizes it. If ever there was a time to let yourself spit and swear it’s now. Laid in the belly of the beast with nothing to cut your way out.

Although that’s not entirely true. Your eyes catch metal with every turn they take around the small house. There’s the knife in your pack. There’s two more stuck near the hearth. You see an ax hanging over the door, an iron pot, wooden furniture, and a ladder. Perhaps more weapons hidden among the rafters. You glance up to survey what’s been stashed under the roof. Spare furniture and furs, dried and smoked meat, cloth bags held haphazardly in nets. And a tub. 

You frown at the damned thing and hope it springs a leak. Wooden slats fitted together with an iron band around them, the wax on it shining dully in the house’s low light. Your skin itches with grime, smoke and blood stain your skirts, and your head still hammers with the persistent rocking of the long boat. It’s a miserable fate to be condemned to, as if your kidnapping wasn’t punishment enough now you must treat your kidnappers.

You eye the axe over the door again. 

No. You refuse to let such violent thoughts consume you. You will not sit and let the vikings’ warring become your own, as much as your struggles have gotten you nowhere, you aren’t out of options yet. 

You eye the tub that hangs in its netted cage from the rafters. Perhaps if your struggling won’t help you, your compliance will. Never let it be said that you didn’t explore every means of escape except the easiest. Though you don’t see how it could be easy. The mere idea of compliance revolts you, and your stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought of giving any of the men --Mactavish especially-- any ideas that you’re a willing captive. But sacrifices must be made if you’re to get your freedom.

There are women and children here that need care, you can focus your attention on them. That’s simple enough, and when you’re ripped again from your comfort to aid the vikings on their raids, you’ll- you’ll-

You’ll tie yourself to whichever viking seems easiest to sway. Eventually guard will be loosened enough for you to make your escape. Though you’re loath to think what that swaying may entail. 

You think of the women in your village, how they’d spoken about men’s weakness to women, to their own instincts. You think of the way Mactavish draws himself to you, tied already with knots your nails are bloody trying to unravel.

You wonder if this is how he finds his thrill, catching unwilling prey and toying with it until it breaks. Well, not you. 

Your throat tightens at the swing of the tub, a trick of your eye you’re sure. Yet it does swing, in your mind, it hangs over you like the sword of damocles, poised to bring about your ruin with one swift cut. It has to be Mactavish. You won’t be able to master the vikings’ tongue fast enough to try and win over any others. You don’t even know the others, save for Gaz and the captain. No, Mactavish is the most logical choice. He knows your tongue, played witness to your grief (to your village’s execution), he holds the most guilt. He has it coming. 

The door opens and you’re shunted from your thoughts. Your head turns to watch Mactavish set wood by the armful inside the door, your stomach squirms when he looks up at you with a smile. You tell yourself that it’s hatred, loathing, revulsion.

“Should be enough for a fire,” He tells you, shutting the door tight behind him after the last load. You nod. Your mind is made up, but your tongue struggles to follow it. You don’t know what to say, how to act, you’re not versed in anything but your herbs and remedies. Even with those your knowledge is lacking and uncreative. The idea of being sweet to this man makes your stomach turn, and you’re sure he wouldn’t believe it anyway.

You go to pick up the wood, work will take your mind off your planning, and Mactavish catches your arm.

“Go fetch water,” He orders, “I’ll build the fire and get the tub down.”

“Me?” You ask, somehow the idea of being let out on your own for something as simple as a chore had not occurred to you. Perhaps your freedom will come sooner than expected, any other plans can be abandoned in favor of your first one: run.

Mactavish must know the glint in your eye too well, or else must sense some other change in your demeanor because his smile is mean and his eyes are hard when he reminds you,

“You won’t get far if you run, they’ll just bring you back here.” He says it like he wouldn’t be part of the hunt. “They,” as if the other vikings act independent of him. “Vaenn,” you remind yourself, prey. Why wouldn’t the dogs chase down a lone deer, sick with grief and wandered too far from her herd? You can practically feel them nipping at your heels already. You doubt Mactavish has ever given a thought to his own ability to flee.

You glance at the thick corded leather and fluffy furs that seem to lay against him like a second skin. No, you don’t think this man has ever been meant to be anything but a viking. You’re sure he ran off to join them as soon as they landed on his shore. 

“Where’s the well?” You temper your trembling, slough off the adrenaline that threatened to send you bolting. 

Mactavish leads you out the door and points back behind the house to a small ring of stones, just high enough to keep children from falling in. You wonder why a man who lives alone would think to build up the walls of a well when a wooden cover works just as well on the ground as it does on stones, and banish the thoughts that your thinking churn up. You will not humanize the wolf that drools over the marrow in your bones. He has nothing for you, no kind hand or offer of assistance, and will take everything given the opportunity. 

There is no humanity here.

The blue sky feels dull, the white clouds tinted grey, the grass rippling with shadows, so close to your home and yet so very alien to you. The squat houses that dot the town are stained dark from wear, and you manage to dim the colorful banners that signal the market closer to the harbor. Your eyes land on the strange spire that seems to needle the sky, the building dismal and dark nearer the center of town. Vikings must find the sharpness of a blade so beautiful that they construct monuments to it. 

There are people there, threading through the paths that spread through the village like arteries. Mothers and children, craftsmen and shepherds. Sheep wander through the hills on the far side of your village and you feel your heart clench for your own village’s flock. Likely all dead now.

You turn your eyes to the well, and the bucket Mactavish had thrust into your hands. Work. Work will take your mind from your thoughts until your muscles ache too much to ignore. Then you can find a fitful rest.

You lug the heavy bucket of water back to Mactavish’s house just as smoke begins to stream from the hole at the top of it. You shoulder the door open and take the bucket towards the fire, eager to be free of your burden. 

“We’ll need more than that,” Mactavish tells you from behind. You turn to watch him on the ladder, his cloak abandoned and his linen shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans to grab the rope holding the tub aloft, and you watch with curiosity as he pulls himself onto the rafter and sets about untying the knot. The flex of muscle under fabric doesn’t escape your notice, and the flicker of fire over his features makes him look more beast than man. The thick dark hair on his arms doesn’t help. Like a bear, you think, too big to face with just your wits. 

Your fingers itch for the knife in your bag and you dismiss the thought.

You won’t let these vikings make you a killer, their violence might touch your mind but you won’t let it take hold. You’re smarter than that.

“What for?” You ask, though you know what for. Know it as clearly as you know the thunk of wood as Mactavish lowers the tub to the floor, as well as you recognize the strain of muscle against fabric a size too tight. Mactavish’s biceps flex from the weight of the tub even as it gentles itself on the wooden floor.

“You know what for.” He doesn’t patronize you, doesn’t look at you like you’re stupid, in fact he doesn’t look at you at all. He merely sets his gaze towards the wall and swings himself back towards the ladder. Silently, desperately, you hope he falls. You know it wouldn’t make any difference if he did.

“I’m not taking a bath,” You tell him.

“Aye, ya are.” He responds easily, clamoring down the ladder to finish setting the tub right. He gathers the netting from underneath it and begins winding the rope around his arm in quick motions.

“And you’ll force that on me too, I suppose?”

“If I have to,” Mactavish looks at you, his eyes like steel in the light of the fire. You want to protest, but you know it won’t do any good. You scowl, and turn to stalk out of the house. You can’t do it, can’t tie yourself to a man like him even if it is an act. Mactavish… no Scotsman would turn his back on his own people like this. A viking through and through. He doesn’t deserve that tartan.

You’ll find another viking then. Gaz seemed nice enough, pitying of your situation at least. You’ll try him.

You reach the well before you remember your hands are empty. Your frustration boils in your chest, and rips from your throat in a growl as you turn and storm back towards the door. 

Mactavish is dumping the water into a cauldron over the fire when you stomp inside. He smiles when you snatch the bucket from his hands, smug. What does he have to be smug about? Asshole.

You storm out of the house a second time and hear Mactavish’s chuckle follow you through the door. Your cheeks burn with every step you take. Your shame follows you all the way to the well and you consider running just to make Mactavish’s life harder. Likely it would make yours harder as well. You weigh the pros and cons of it as you carry the full bucket back from the well.

“In the tub.” Mactavish tells you over his shoulder. You curse him under your breath as you pour the first bucket into the wood basin. This is going to take ages. You have no reason to comply except that Mactavish’s watchful eye makes compliance feel more like an inevitability than a choice. One more he’s taken from you, you suppose. The man does make a habit of stripping you bare of every path you might take in favor of his own.

Your next trip stirs a cold breeze under your skirts as you haul the overflowing bucket from the bottom of the well. You nearly lose your grip on the rope when you shudder. The cold here feels bitter. Are you further north than your village? Or are you already remembering the flames before the winter.

You try to remember your mother’s face, the way she’d bundle you against the cold with scarves and mittens. It doesn’t make you any warmer. You didn’t think it would, but you refuse to hold death as the only thing you remember of your life before this.

Someday you’ll be back in your village, you’ll find the bodies of the people you love and you’ll bury them. Then maybe you’ll bury yourself. 

Better than being a viking. 

You dump your second bucket of water in the tub. Mactavish is making himself busy with searching the house for something. You don’t ask. Conversation with him does nothing but anger you. You’re already stewing with each lap you take between the house and the well, festering in your thoughts to pass the time. Your fingers begin to ache around the fifth bucket, your back following near the seventh. By the time you return with the eight Mactavish is dumping the boiling pot into your chilly tub. 

He takes the bucket from you and dumps it into the cauldron to boil. He doesn’t return it. You stand stiffly near the door, unsure what to do with yourself now that your labor seems to be completed. Even your thoughts seem to focus into a single point, settled on the glitter of water in the fire light. Your fingers squeeze into fists, your nails digging into your palm painfully tight. You release the tense fists and scratch your thumb nail against your fingertips instead. 

Mactavish begins unlacing his leather vest and you press yourself closer to the wall. Your eyes follow each pluck of his fingers, drag with the cording through the eyelets, your heartbeat is starting to quicken with each rung on the ladder of his laces that gets discarded. You may as well be trying to paint yourself on the walls with how tightly you press yourself against it when Mactavish lets the leather drop off his shoulders. 

He settles it on a chair with his cloak and furs, then turns to you. You flinch into the wood.

“Thought I told you,” He mutters to himself, loosening the lace on his undershirt and stripping the garment over his head, “I’m plannin’ on courting you properly.”

As if such a thought could comfort you now. He takes a step towards you and you draw your shoulders to your ears.

“Stay where you are.” You order.

“So ahm nae gonna touch you,” He lies, taking another step, your eyes dart wildly around the claustrophobically small house, “but you stink.”

“I’ll scream.” You assure him, inching towards the door.

“As loud as you want,” He agrees, “you’re goin’ in the tub either way.”

Your eyes go for the door as quickly as Mactavish lunges for you. You scramble for the exit, tearing the door open and bolting. You take two steps before something huge and heavy collides with you. Your head is grabbed and pressed close to Mactavish’s chest before you hit the ground, pinned under a man who’s lucky you don’t have a knife on you. You scream and thrash under him. It makes little difference except to make Mactavish grunt with effort as he hauls you up into his arms and drags you back into the house.

You scream even when the door shuts, even when you’re set on your feet, it’s only when you’re spun to face Mactavish’s ruddy cheeks that you stop. You spend your silence to spit on his face. He bares his teeth at you with a growl and his hands grab at your earsaid. You flinch away, beating his hands off your clothes. “Don’t touch me.”

“Cannae go in with your clothes on,” He presses, grabbing for you again. He gets a hand around your waist to grab your back, strong arms holding you tight to his chest as he rips at the laces of your dress. You beat at his shoulders like a desperate flailing animal. It makes no difference.

“Let me go,” You shriek. His fingers unfasten your pin and you yelp when he sticks you with the sharp point. It feels like a punishment for your disobedience.

“Quit your squirmin’,” Mactavish grits, “You won’t take it off yerself, I gotta do it for you.” 

“I’ll do it!” You yell at him, his hands feel too big, too heavy, and shame is starting to burn over your skin. Your hips bump the hilt of his knife and he lets you go. You take several shaky steps away from him, holding your dress tightly closed. He’d nearly ripped the laces trying to get the knot open. Your fingers shake, your heart hammers in your chest. He takes a step towards you when you take too long standing there. “I said I’d do it,” You snap quickly, turning your back to him. 

You swallow the fear in your chest, the hatred that sours on your tongue. You don’t particularly want to undress in front of a man you hardly know, but you aren’t being given a choice. “Don’t look,” You call over your shoulder. You hear a hum in response and glance over your shoulder to see him turning around. You’re quick to divest yourself of the rest of your Earasaid, folding it neatly before your fingers are fumbling with the loosened ties on your dress. You get the knot open and tug at the lacing to open the dress enough to pull over your head, your underdress quickly follows. Another glance over your shoulder to make sure Mactavish isn’t watching and you step into the warm water.

It’s lukewarm, but not unpleasantly so. You sink into the tub, face the edge to give yourself some privacy from Mactavish’s wandering eyes. The warmth sinks into your bones against the chill of the room. You sink lower, trying to soak up as much of the warmth as you can before you force yourself to wash. You scrub your hand over your arm, watching the sweat and dirt slough off, you wish-

The water raises and shifts, splashes over the sides as Mactavish settles behind you with a groan. You glance over your shoulder at him startled, he’s facing you, leaned back against the other end. His head’s tipped back against the edge, throat bared and long legs caging you in as he relaxes in the warm water. You don’t see how he can share so easily, look so at ease, when it feels like your heart is about to pound its way out of your chest. Fear, it must be fear that seizes you when he opens his eyes to look at you.

His gaze feels like hands the way it drags over you, hot and heavy. You look away, face the wall again and decide you can’t do this. You move to pull yourself out of the bath and quickly sit back down when you feel the chill of the air on skin you’d rather keep to yourself. Especially when you feel Mactavish’s hands hovering on either side of you, as if he’d pull you back in himself.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me,” You remind him, your voice quieter than you want it to be.

“Ahm nae,” He tells you, voice thick as he settles back again, “Just looking.” He huffs, tipping his head back again as he relaxes again. “Cannae leave you alone, might try tae run again.”

You do your best not to curl in on yourself at his words, the rumble of his voice, the weight of his eyes. He’s not wrong, but that doesn’t stop the heat that burns over your skin at sharing a bath with him. Acting shy has never suited you, but it’s a hard thing to ignore. You busy yourself with cleaning up, snagging a cloth from the nearby stool and wetting it.

There’s another splash in the water, a disturbance of the delicate surface tension. You peek back at Mactavish and watch him drag the hot cauldron closer to dump the heated contents into the basin. The flood of heat makes you shiver. It’s mere moments before it soaks into your muscles and you have to stop the moan that threatens to escape. Gods that feels good. You could stay in this cradle of warmth for hours.

If you were alone, that is. As is, you refuse to give this man a better look at you than he’s already gotten. After all, you have managed to hold onto some dignity. You scrub your arms harder with the cloth, wishing you had some-

“Don’t want you callin’ me Soap,” Mactavish breaks your thoughts after a moment’s silence. His fingers drag through the water, lazy, as you scrub yourself. You’re eager to get out of this tub, and he seems just as eager to stay in it. He leans forward, and for a moment you fear his legs will drag you back against him. Instead you feel the warmth of his breath over goosebumped skin as he offers you a tallow soap. The soft buttery color of it disappears in your hastily grabbing hands.

“Mactavish does me just fine,” You grit, rubbing the soap into the cloth. You scrub your cheeks, and work on lathering the lye scented stuff into a lather for your hair.

“John-” He corrects, “Johnny if you-” He cuts himself off. You don’t see the need for either name. They’re too familiar. Still, you file them away. 

“You hardly deserve the courtesy of Mactavish,” You bite, “what makes you think I have any desire to call you by a nickname?”

“Cannae be Mactavish forever,” he grunts, you feel a tug at your hair and swat his hand away, you collide with nothing but open air. You glare over your shoulder at him. He only smiles. “What if another one pops up?”

“And what if you stopped talking to me.” You grumble, since you’re naming things that are unlikely to happen. 

You scooch back from the edge of the tub to dunk your head under the water. You bump Mactavish’s knee when you pull your head up, ignoring the way his thick thighs bracket you as you try to wring some of the water from your hair. 

His fingers grip the edge of the tub like a vice, no longer dragging lazily through the water his knuckles are white from the strain. Your eyes travel up his wrist and over his arms to see the bulge of his flexed bicep. You can’t stare too much or he might get ideas, can’t even turn your head past what you need to scrub the wet soapy cloth over the side of your neck. 

“Move back where you were Vaenn,” Mactavish orders you. You huff out a laugh.

“Oh,” you tease, unable to stop yourself, “Am I in your space? Am I making you uncomfortable?” 

You look at him with a mirthful smile and his eyes bore holes into you, blue swallowed by the black of his pupils and his jaw tight. It startles you and in an effort to avoid meeting his gaze you turn yours down. 

Did you realize that there was so much of him under his clothes? He looks to be made entirely of that thick corded muscle that you’d only seen laboring men in your village with. Your pulse throbs in your throat as your eyes trace over him, following the swirling intricacies of paint. From the ram whos horns swirl over his heart, to the tribal markings that trace down his ribs towards-

You shriek as your eyes land on his hard cock where it bobs in the warm water. You scramble away, and when your back hits the edge of the tub you frantically press your foot to Mactavish’s chest to keep him from coming after you. His big body, already moving towards you, now rooted in place at your touch. His eyes rake over you, the soap suds doing little to hide your body under the clear water, and land on the tuft of hair between your legs. His brows pinch together and he lets out a pained noise. 

Your foot follows him as he settles back where he was. Your foot slips and he grits his teeth.

“Keep to your own space,” He swallows, “or get out.”

You grab onto the opportunity for freedom and nearly trip getting out of the tub. You don’t care anymore, he’s seen all there is to see, and you are humiliated. You snatch your underdress from the floor and scamper through the nearest doorway. 

Your hands shake from more than just the cold as you tug the linen garment over your head, your wet skin scraping under the fabric. You wrap your arms around yourself to ease through the worst of the shaking. Fear, you think. It must be. 

It’s darker in here, the wall separating this room from the main one also keeps the fires light from dipping its fingers into it. Still, your eyes aren’t so spoiled by the fire that they can’t tell the shape of a bed. It’s a boxy thing, tucked into the corner and lined with furs. It’s bigger than one man should require, and fleetingly you wonder if he has a wife tucked away somewhere. You quickly dismiss the thought, you doubt any woman would stomach Mactavish long enough for marriage. Besides, you’ve seen no signs of a woman anywhere in this small house. 

Just him then. 

You ignore the splashing from the other room and try to find something to occupy yourself with. There’s a candle beside the bed, a comb, a small wooden bear, a chair and a basket of cloth that you assume holds more clothing. You settle on the bed, feel the crunch of straw under your bottom before you feel yourself sink a short distance. At least he has a mattress in here. You fix your gaze on the wall and try not to think of anything.

But your mind is filled with painted markings, with stories of warriors that earn stripes and were driven north of your home. He really was made to be a viking then. 

And hair. You’d thought the patches on his arms were dark but the mass of it that wanders down the midline of his chest is so much thicker. They must have had to dye his skin to get the pain to stick through that.

You press your thighs together, discomfort burning warm in your flipping stomach. 

Not a piece of him you like then.

Your head jerks towards the room’s doorway when it darkens. Mactavish leans against the frame. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, can’t see his face from the shadows that he casts. 

“You can take the bed tonight,” He tells you, and you must perk up too much because he holds up a hand and crushes you with it, “just tonight, we’ll share after.”

Your heart falls.

And some cowardly part of you tugs you back from going after him. He’ll just force you down as easily as he forced you into the tub.

You suppose even vikings must yearn for their own beds at some point. You just wish you weren’t included in that bed.

[missallanious]

Local Jobros questioning their respective Jojo’s sanity (and character judgement) as they compare notes on how they met/became friends

Set in my silly lil Viking au because they canonically interact 😔🤌

[lukasaurusart]

some viking soap sketches for designs for my viking ghoap au. I'm trying to keep a kilt in the design

[wherethewolfsbaneblooms]

The jarl awaits, basking in the glow of a full, highland moon. What will you offer her, should you accept her invitation?

Keep an eye out for Shield Me Chapter 7 in the next few days. For now, have Jarl Dimitrescu lounging in the moonlight chin up titties out.

[andromacheofappalachia]

Viking AU where Viking!Gaz has given up raiding and now hunts and farms with his thrall turned wife reader who forages and weaves. The two are disgustingly devoted to the other despite their initial differences in everything from tongue to the land that each was born on. Soulmates in every sense. Isolated from the rest of the world aside from the eyes of the Gods. That is until Viking!Price appears within their field, flanked by Viking!Ghost and Viking!Johnny. Gaz feels true fear in that moment. The kind that sinks the heart and turns bones to stone. For the first time he has something to fear other than death and that is his fear for what would become of you. Should this be a raid. Should those men get their hands on soft, sweet you.

Price claims to only wish to trade for some food and a roof for one night. That they had merely stumbled upon the cottage. Gaz doesn't believe it at first--not entirely--until you notice that Johnny is injured and offer to tend to him. To allow them into your home.

Neither could have prepared for the fact that the trio did not just stumble upon them.

Or perhaps the even worse one, that they did not plan to leave either.

[genericpenname]

WIP Wednesday:: Viking!Simon Riley x Seer!Reader

Okay listen, first official blog post but I literally made this account just to write this fanfic okay? Okay!

It's kinda long but! I think that's good?

CW: Excessive gore, implied violence, fear of abuse, overuse of phrases to induce a sense of helplessness, Odin kinda fucks with you tbh, seriously: excessive gore

The cries of ravens haunt your dreams; this time, they sit on your shoulders, claws bearing into your skin as you walk through a beautiful and lush forest. The lush greenery does not distract you though, you have a purpose: someone is waiting for you and so, you continue to walk until the forest opens up into a grove where an elder stands. He awaits you. As you approach him, he begins to speak, “Völva, who performs seid through her dreams,” He turns, blue eye piercing through you, “You must bind thyself to the draugr favored by valkryies and blessed by Brokkr. To do so will spell your fortune and prosperity, to deny him will spell doom for us all.”

Suddenly, the grove began to wilt, and bodies began dropping into it, their blood seeping into the yellowed grass as the ravens took flight from your shoulders and began singing , “Bind thyself to the draugr, bind thyself to the draugr,” over and over as blood and carrion filled the grove. You turn to run only to be met with the most terrifying sight of all.

He was dressed in black furs with paint smeared over his darkened gaze, and blood, so much blood. It stained his scarred porcelain skin and white-blonde hair, and as your gazes locked the bodies began to scream and claw at your ankles. You are rooted in spot as he begins to approach. You want to scream, you want to run, but all you can do is stand as this predator stalks towards you and the ravens shriek and the bodies cry to make a terrifying cacophony of death and doom. “Bind thyself to the draugr, bind thyself to the draugr!"

***

You bolt upright, cold sweat clinging onto you and your underclothes as the smell of blood clears from your senses and the phantom ache of claws in your shoulders leaves you wincing. This dream of yours has been haunting you for 2 moon cycles, ever since your father ordered your mother to begin preparing you for marriage. Each time, however, the visions were more violent and each time, you never saw his face. It worried you, that the gods had assigned a violent lover for you, were you meant to bear the brunt of his violence? You hoped not, you would not heed a man who laid hands on you.

+++

Translations:

Völva- A type of Viking seeress, pronounced kinda like:: v-uu-lva

Seid- A magical late age Scandinavian ritual performed by völvas to see prophecies. Pronounced kinda like:: sey-d, it comes from the word seiðr.

[gaysindistress]

Okay but imagine Viking simon and John????

Cod masterlist

Viking!Price is a quiet but vicious man. He’s the king that’s led his people to greatness after his predecessor allowed the Saxons to infest their home. He’s the king that slaughtered every last Saxon in Danmǫrk and cleansed the land with their blood. He’s the king that showed no mercy when the Saxon King begged for it. Viking!Price only lets a small smirk grace his face as he let his axe bury itself into the Saxon’s chest.

Covered with blood, Viking!Price spun around to his people and let out a victory cry when the Saxon’s body hit the ground. His people cried back and a celebration feast began shortly after. With mead, food, and pleasure flowed through his longhouse, he sat at his table and watched his people enjoy themselves. The Saxon’s body was left just outside of their walls so that everyone could see what would happen if he caught them. He chose to forgo the usual burial or even burning in favor of making an example out of the Saxon and thus letting the ravens feast on him.

That night an ally offered his daughter to Viking!Price as an offering to the almost god like Viking king. Viking!Price barely glanced at the eerily silent and still girl but grunted his approval and dismissed them with a flick of his hand.

Her father thanked him profusely for accepting his offering while she kept her cold eyes on the king.

However this man was not the great and mighty king his people believed him to be.

When the feast became a feast of flesh and pleasure, she snuck out of her room and found the Saxon’s body. Behind the several fighting ravens sat one that had remained perched on a log, watching the battling before it. Its small beady eyes found hers and cocked its head to watch her as she approached. She produced a pouch and threw it towards the raven, hoping that it would understand her request.

The raven glanced to the pouch and then to her, refusing her offer of coin. It scans her body and stops as it narrows in on her chest where her heart should rest.

“The king’s. You may have his.” She counters and the raven nods its approval.

A cry rings out from the longhouse causing the other ravens to fly away in fear.

The lone raven stares at the seemingly desperate girl. For a moment her cold eyes glow with hope but it fades as soon as it appeared.

Months pass as she waits for the right moment to enact her plan. The raven has yet to be seen again however she knows it’s not far away. Small shiny trinkets and pretty rocks have begun to collect outside her window. One night a bone shard craved into a dagger appears outside her window. The following dusk, she keeps it tucked between her breasts as the Viking!Price seeks her out.

His mind becomes occupied with chasing his own pleasure as she artfully moves atop of him. With his eyes shut and thoughts occupied with their joined bodies, she pulls the bone dagger out and readies it. A quiet call at the window draws her attention to her raven, watching and waiting for her.

She thrusts bone dagger into his chest and climbs off of him to allow the raven its space.

The valravn, her raven, tears into the chest of his won wager with his sharp beak and consumes the blood the king’s heart.

As the king’s body cools, the sound of bones snapping fills the room. She watches as her raven morphs into a giant of a man covered in blood and feathers.

That fleeting warmth returns to her eyes as she looks upon the valravn and slowly approaches him.

“What shall I call you?” She whispers to him while her hands come to rest of his cheeks.

“Simon.”

[amadenchart]

Queen Signý.

[OC: Signý]

Uncensored version on my SubscribeStar.

[doumadono]

Hey. Can you whip up a bit of smut with Viking Katsuki with dry humping? 😏

KVITRAVN - MHA VIKING AU

Bakugo had been away for a considerable duration. He, along with other warriors under earl Toshinori, embarked on another raid against a northern clan. Upon their triumphant return, Katsuki finally found a moment to spend with you.

Upon Katsuki's return, he swiftly discarded the thick fur from his shoulders and settled into a wooden chair by the fireplace to thaw.

You approached, offering him a cup of mead. "I'm thrilled you're back home."

Katsuki casually pulled you to perch on his knee — an ordinary occurrence between the two of you, a preference he delighted in.

As you settled on Katsuki's right knee while he sipped his mead, you immediately sensed the friction against your yearning core from his thick, woolen-covered thigh.

Unaware of the pleasure he unintentionally induced, Bakugo absentmindedly bounced his knee, while you subtly shifted to find the perfect position. Your attempts to align your clit with his thigh went unnoticed until your hips started rocking — initially gentle, then gradually intensifying.

Bakugo, facing away from you and watching people outside the window, remained unaware until he paused, observing your actions.

You got lost in the moment, emitting breathy moans until his rough hands anchored on your waist, bringing you back to reality. "Oi! Don't stop, little raven," he encouraged. His hands guided you, amplifying the rhythm as you ground against his thigh. With a gentle nudge, he instructed you to turn around.

Shy yet compliant, you removed your panties and picked the hems of your long dress, cheeks flushed and eyes avoiding his gaze. Returning to his knee, his calloused hands secured your hips, guiding you back into the intense grind.

"Look at you," he murmured in a darkened tone. "So eager to get off, tsch!"

You met his gaze, biting your lip.

He was visibly aroused, straining against his trousers. As you gained confidence, your hands on his broad chest, you rocked harder and faster, moans escalating, and you didn't care who could hear you.

Bakugo savored every detail — your hair, the grip of your hands, your pleasured moans, the pearls of sweat formed on your temples.

As your rocking grew wild, Katsuki lost control. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, matching your fervor, guiding you back and forth. "Cum for me, little raven," he urged, relishing your tremors on his thigh.

You screamed his name and rested your forhead against the crook of his neck.

Post-orgasm, he held you close, reveling in the aftermath. "So hot," he admitted, adjusting your position to straddle him. He encouraged you to rub against his dick, creating a visible bulge within his trousers. Observing a wet stain on his pants, he teased your lack of control. "Oi, little raven, you couldn't contain yourself from cumming already, huh? Quite the naughty one, aren't you?"

[ghouljams]

wip Wednesday

His hands grab at your earsaid and you flinch away, swatting at his hands. “Don’t touch me.” “Cannae go in with your clothes on,” He presses, grabbing for you again. He gets a hand around your waist to grab your back, strong arms holding you tight to his chest as he rips at the laces of your dress. You beat at his shoulders like a desperate flailing animal. It makes no difference. “Let me go,” You shriek. His fingers unfasten your pin and you yelp when he sticks you with the sharp point. It feels like a punishment for your disobedience. “Quit your squirmin’,” Mactavish grits, “You won’t take it off yerself, I gotta do it for you.”

[loganbcrnes]

Bound by Instinct

The storm had barely passed, but the air was still thick with the smell of smoke and blood. The sound of clashing swords and the shrill cries of villagers echoed through the once-peaceful village, now under the wrath of a berserker raid.

Wolfbear Syverson, his tall, muscular frame with his hair splattered on his chest, cloaked in the shadows of a bloodied sky, moved like a predator among his pack. His eyes, feral and wild, scanned the chaos around him, the primal instinct to conquer and claim driving him forward. His pack of berserkers, fierce and untamed, followed him like wolves in the hunt. They tore through the village with the speed and brutality of a storm, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

But Sy’s eyes were sharp, his senses keen, and amidst the war cries, there was another sound—a distinct cry, one that didn’t belong to any villager, but to someone in torment. His head snapped toward the source, and the scent hit him almost immediately—the sharp tang of fear, pain, and desperation. It was the unmistakable stench of tortured slaves.

His jaw clenched as he followed the scent, his pace quickening. The villagers hadn’t hidden you away for protection; they had imprisoned you and the others for their own cruel amusement. From within the cage, you and the rest of the slaves bore the marks of their brutality—bruises, open wounds, broken spirits. Some were too weak to lift their heads, while others whimpered as fresh blows rained down upon them.

Syverson’s pack fanned out, cutting down anyone who dared stand in their way. He reached the site where you were held, his hands curling into fists as he took in the sight of you—filthy, bruised, shaking from exhaustion. Rage burned deep in his gut.

Without a word, he surged forward, his large hands gripping the iron bars and ripping them apart with a strength that seemed impossible. The metal screeched in protest as the door was torn from its hinges and flung to the ground.

The villagers around the cage faltered, confused at first, but they soon realized their mistake. They drew their weapons, but it was too late—Sy’s fury had already been unleashed.

With a savage roar, he cut them down without hesitation, his blade slicing through flesh like it was nothing. His berserkers followed, their war cries shaking the earth as they tore through the remaining enemies. The battle was over in moments, bodies left strewn across the blood-soaked ground.

You barely had the strength to move, your body trembling from hunger and exhaustion. The other slaves bolted the moment they had the chance, but you remained frozen in place, unable to process what had just happened.

Then his gaze landed on you.

It was like being caught in the sights of a predator—one with burning blue eyes, a towering frame, and the air of something untamed. The moment his eyes met yours, you knew that whatever had driven him to slaughter the villagers wasn’t just bloodlust. It was something else. Something primal.

“Come,” he growled, his voice low and guttural.

It wasn’t a request.

You hesitated, but before you could fully register what was happening, his large hand shot out and gripped your arm, hauling you to your feet. His grip was firm, almost searing against your skin, but not cruel. Your legs nearly gave out beneath you, but he didn’t let you fall.

He turned and pulled you along, his long strides making it difficult to keep up. The rest of his pack continued their destruction, razing the village to the ground, but Syverson was already leaving, his focus entirely on you.

The dense forest loomed ahead, dark and quiet in contrast to the fiery wreckage behind you. You didn’t know where he was taking you, didn’t know if this was another form of captivity, but your body was too weak to resist.

After what felt like hours of walking, you arrived at the entrance of a cave, carved into the side of a rocky hill. Inside, the scent of damp earth and animal pelts filled the air. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.

Syverson released your arm, but you didn’t dare move. You watched as he removed the heavy fur cloak from his shoulders, his sharp gaze never leaving you. His expression was unreadable—wild, intense, something between curiosity and possession.

Then, after a long moment, he grunted and nodded toward the furs piled near the fire.

“Rest.”

It was the only word he spoke, rough and unpolished.

You hesitated, still trying to understand what was happening. He had slaughtered the ones who tortured you. He had taken you from that hell and brought you here. But why?

Your body ached with exhaustion, your mind spinning with confusion. Yet, as you stood there beneath the weight of his stare, you realized one thing: whatever had happened back in the village, whatever instincts had driven him to take you…

You were his now.

[missallanious]

Oku was flirting talking with a village girl and Josuke got jelly 😔

[lukasaurusart]

i wanted to do more but focus was not with me today. anyway, ghost viking sketch

[wherethewolfsbaneblooms]

Jarl Dimitrescu Resident Viking AU. Coming soon…

[leshiyy]

Vikings au

(or just photoshoot for the album cover))