#Vikings reader

[motomamita]

viking!könig × female!villager!reader

warnings: smut, +18, possesive!könig, breeding kink, kidnapping, mentions of rape and virginity!!

Viking!König who, along with his warriors, disembark in a small village located by the sea. Dressed in animal skins, swords and armor, they enter the village to loot and destroy everything within their reach.

It is then that he manages to spot a small house at the top of a small mountain, not far from all the others. Upon reaching the field, he notices a female figure coming out of the small garden with a basket of tomatoes. It was you, dressed in a long white skirt, a beige shirt and a scarf around your head. You look like an angel fallen from heaven, so harmonious and calm, totally different from König's rude figure.

It doesn't take you long to notice that tall, burly man at the entrance to your home, who seems anything but pleasant. You recognize their clothing and the bad intentions that characterized the vikingos. An expression of terror was marked on your face and you immediately ran into your home, shouting your father's name and without letting go of the basket of tomatoes.

Konig's stomach twisted in a feeling of excitement at your reaction, feeling powerful at the fear of the rest of the people seeing him. With his long, muscular legs, he followed your steps to the interior of the home where a series of murmurs welcomed him.

In the humble living room there was an adult couple who looked somewhat sick and next to them was you, who covered 2 small children no more than 6 years old with your body. König was tall and in good shape compared to your family, who apparently barely had enough to eat.

"Please, don't hurt us.." sobbed your mother, who brought her skinny hands to her chest, begging.

"We don't have anything valuable, you can check for yourself." Your father spoke now, pointing around you. König began to walk around the room, observing everything around him and verifying that there was nothing there that would be useful to him. "The only thing we can offer him are vegetables and fruits from our garden. Daughter, give him the basket of tomatoes!" Your father ordered, hoping that König would agree and leave as soon as possible.

You stepped forward timidly and held out the basket with the tomatoes to him, taking a distance and with your hands trembling. König looked down at you, smiling slightly at your fear and how you couldn't maintain eye contact with his cold blue eyes. He reached his hand to the basket and took a tomato, it had a good size and color. Without thinking he brought it to his mouth and tasted a little of it, not caring how the juice fell from his lips to his bushy beard.

"And then? What do you think? If you want, you can take the whole basket, it's all yours!" Your father insisted.

To tell the truth, that tomato was delicious but you were even more so. "I'll take everything from the garden... And your daughter too." König spoke for the first time, generating a shiver throughout your body.

"No problem. Girl, put on some shoes and go!" Your father spoke coldly, capable of doing everything possible to defend his family, even if it meant giving you away to an unknown Viking.

You sobbed and screamed that they wouldn't let you leave with him, with König, but your father did nothing but raise his voice even more and even try to hit you. Your mother and your brothers cried in silence, observing the situation with sadness but without intervening on your behalf. The decision was already made, you were now König's property.

It was widely said that the Vikings came to the villages not only to plunder but also to rape their women and then return to their more 'relaxed' ways. Luckily for you, or not, that had not been the case for you. No, König didn't just see you as a hole to fill with his powerful semen. But as his property, as something to take care of and defend from the other Vikings who had no intention of formalizing with any woman. He wanted to be the only one with something to fight for and stay alive. And, soon, with whom to form a small family of warriors.

During the short time you had to gather your few things, your father took it upon himself to inform König of all the good things you had to offer. You knew how to wash, cook, heal, and, best of all, you were a virgin. That last one excited König even more, who was excited by the idea of ​​being the first (and only) to be between your legs.

You boarded a large ship with your wrists handcuffed to prevent you from escaping and an old cloth bag with some items of clothing. According to König, none of that would help you in the cold climate of traveling over the sea, plus he wanted you not to wear underwear.

"Look guys! König brought us this sweetness to share!" one of the Vikings exclaimed, making all the men's hungry gazes turn towards you. You sobbed at the idea of ​​having to serve as a sexual slave for all those scary Vikings but that idea quickly disappeared when you noticed how König approached the man and growled: "don't go near her." Reporting that you were not a common asset to the crew, but his alone.

That same night you slept next to König in a more exclusive room than the rest of the men, who all slept in the same crowded place. You noticed that he had a higher rank than the rest, therefore you had certain advantages over the others. Luckily for you, König explored your body externally, caressing your breasts, ass and pussy but without trying anything else.

The weeks passed and with them you managed to get used to the lifestyle of those men. König had already warned everyone about your exclusivity only with him, so no one ever tried anything with you. Your routine was based on washing and cooking König's clothes, cleaning his war wounds and cooking for him and his men. During the nights, you only had to be in charge of helping him bathe and dress the times when he arrived very exhausted, then both of you would just lie down and sleep.

Inevitably you managed to appreciate him and desire the closeness of that massive man. König, for his part, also wanted you, demonstrating it in the way that during the night he would rest his big erection against your ass, or how he would sit you on his lap and take advantage of the movements of the boat to obtain a pleasurable friction.

That night, the sexual tension between the two was unsustainable and it didn't take long for both of them to achieve what they had longed for. Due to your tightness and the large size of König's member, his first thrusts were painful and uncomfortable. However, he took care of reducing your disagreement by sucking and biting your breasts.

"My little wife- ah I love your breasts and how tight you are.." König growled, bringing his hands to your hips, using you as his personal fleshlight.

Slowly, his long and thick cock entered completely inside of you, feeling a sensation of simultaneous pain and pleasure. His hot breath and masculine scent made your walls wrap even tighter around him, causing him to moan loudly.

"Mine, only mine. This pussy belongs to me, your breasts belong to me, you belong to me completely..." he murmured, bringing his mouth to your ear and lightly biting your lobe.

His thrusts increased along with his grunts, you sobbed with pleasure at the way his hair pubes touched your clit. "König- I want more.." you stammered, not quite able to formulate words.

"Huh? You want my cum? You want me to fill you up inside?" He asked as his pace became more clumsy, announcing that he was about to finish.

And so he did, filling your entire interior with his powerful semen that, after 9 months later, took shape into 2 chubby and healthy warriors.

[dante-mightdie]

I’m yearning for your Viking Simon

sigh… I miss him…

thinking of his lovely wife who’s pregnancy is well overdue and shes just so uncomfortable all the time :(

her belly gets in the way of everything she does, her back hurts and she’s just so snippy with her big brute of a husband :( you tore him a new one because he put the wrong food on your plate at the feast and everyone watched on, shocked as he just mumbled an apology before going back to correct his mistake

five minutes later, you were happy as ever, your hand over his as you place it where your unborn baby is kicking against your belly

thinking of him getting tired of her constant kicking in bed at night, tossing and turning as she tries to get comfortable, snapping when he invades her side of her bed to wrangle her stuffing cushions under your bump and between your legs to ease your discomfort :(

[sugarlywhispers]

viking!b.katsuki x fem!reader

a.n; i wanted to give viking!bakugou a try, and honestly, this is all @imaginationmess fault for feeding me fanarts of bakugou and his dragon🙃 luv you tho🤍

Viking Bakugou Katsuki who rides the biggest and most terrifying dragon that has ever existed.

A legend said that his dragon in particular had been going on for generations in his family, no one willing to risk their life to tame it. Until Katsuki’s uncle, Bakugou Kudo, did it. He had been the first in generations to ride this dragon. Yet he understood that the bond between dragon and riders was not consolidated between them.

When Katsuki was eight, the little shit escaped the hut and went towards where the nests were. Kudo almost had a heart attack when he saw the brat far off and almost there. He sprinted as fast as he could, a tragedy already displaying in his head –the kid being incinerated, turned to ashes, and his sister cutting his dick off for being a sorry ass uncle. Fuck, and he would had deserved it. Because even though he had tamed the beast, it was still very unstable to let anyone close to it; one of his own men had suffered the consequences of trying to get close, more than half his body had been burned. He was no longer part of their battles.

However, Kudo saw in first person how a dragon’s bond was created. Between his terrifying dragon and his little nephew.

It hadn’t looked much from his perspective, yet he felt the magical aura surrounding them. Katsuki laughed as he touched the dragon’s snot like it was a mer pup, happy and excited while climbing its leg with such ease until he was up on its back, right behind the head. The dragon himself helped the kid to reach the place. Kudo noticed then the beast’s eyes shining a very resplendent gold. Yep, that was definitely a bond.The kid was anything but scared, as he caressed the dragon's head, hugging it even.

Kudo smiled, shaking his head, hands over his hips as he took a deep breath, relaxing. The dragon was only letting him ride it because it knew that Katsuki was his bonded rider and Kudo was related by blood to the kid.

As years went by, the bond only became stronger and deeper. Kudo would ride it in battles, but once at home, the brat and the beast were like one. When Katsuki turned eighteen, Kudo retired from battles and settled down with a wife and kids at the village located next to that of where their family originally came from. From that day on, the brat became the dragon’s one and only owner.

Katsuki was the only human being able to control, care for and command this massive dragon, also becoming the nightmare of most villages in the world. Both, dragon and rider were vicious, deadly and feared.

You still remember the day Bakugou Katsuki landed on your lands. The bright blue sky suddenly turned dark, the huge dragon he rode clouding the sun above. Everyone knew what it meant. Destruction and chaos, the end of their peaceful lives.

The Leader of the village, your dad, didn’t waste time in trying to negotiate a truce between them.

And that truce is you.

You are forced to marry him, to leave your family, friends and life there and go with this barbaric man. You are a bit afraid he is some sort of savage. Rumors told how violent he was, how scary he looked with his scars and aggressive attitude towards everyone. Now that you have said man in front of you, you agreed with all of them.

You were expecting him to manhandle you, to treat you like another woman he picked to use for his own pleasure. Yet all you received since you stepped foot in his village, in his home, had been nothing but coldness and distance. He has kept to himself, doing his stuff and trying not to get in your way. Least to say, it has been completely awkward since the ceremony.

When you are getting ready for it, his mom enters his-your hut. She smiles, a sincere feeling in her eyes, “Being the daughter of a Leader sucks, ain’t it?”

You look down, a slight smile on your face that agrees with her but eyes filled with tears you’re holding back. “It does.”

You feel her hand on your shoulder, and the little squish she gives it in reassurance makes the knot in your throat tighter.

“My son is not a charming prince; however, I know the kind of man I raised him to be. You’re gonna be okay.”

You don’t say anything in response. You don’t even look back at her, but you think she didn’t expect it either as she walks out, leaving you alone. As you walk towards the entrance, fully knowing that once you cross it, your soon to be husband will be waiting at the end of the aisle, all you can wish is that Ms. Bakugou is right.

When the ceremony reaches its end, the old lady of his village drawing the symbols of union, love and family in your foreheads, Bakugou extends his hands for you to lay yours over his. You still haven’t looked him in the eyes, but you do what's expected for the ceremony. When your hands touch the skin of his, you can't avoid thinking how warm they feel. Big calloused, rough and strong hands surround yours, and you don't hate the feeling. On the contrary, it’s quite comforting. The old lady ties a beautifully white and gold silk ribbon around your hands, symbolizing the union of the souls.

While everyone cheers, you finally decide to raise your eyes towards him. Deep red eyes collide with yours, making a shudder run your body at their intensity. Surprisingly, it isn’t a bad feeling, but it is something you have never felt before.

A tingly feeling swirls in your stomach as you realize Bakugou Katsuki's face is getting closer and closer to yours, his intent clear. He is going to kiss you. Your first kiss. You close your eyes instinctively and his lips touch yours in a quick and short peck. Yet it feels like all the tingles in your stomach exploded, sending warmth throughout your whole body.

That has been the only close and physical interaction you have had until today.

Bakugou Katsuki decides to give you space to accommodate and get to know his village and people around.

It doesn't mean he doesn't want you. However, he never makes any sort of move towards you.

Until one day…

Bakugou got back that morning to the village after being away for almost four days with the victory of conquering another village, so you decide to bring him some of the sweet bread you have cooked as a welcome back. You have to admit, this time with him since the marriage ceremony hasn’t been bad. Civil, even. Despite his distance and cold attitude, he has never disrespected or forced you to nothing. Not even that first night as husband and wife. He didn’t even try, he simply picked one of the pillows and clothes to make a bed on the floor, closer to the entrance door, and slept there. You have been very confused. Your mum had previously told you everything of what was expected from a woman on the night of the ceremony. You expected even a fight between you two, because of course you didn’t want that to happen with a complete stranger like he was still to you.

Nevertheless, he never hovers over you. But you do feel his eyes on you whenever he’s around. He always makes some sort of sound for you to acknowledge that his presence is close. Katsuki is attentive to your reactions whenever you are both alone and doesn't even raise his voice at you. Ever.

Then again, he is his ruthless self with everyone else.

You tried looking for him around the village, but couldn't find Bakugou anywhere. So you walk towards the woods where you know the dragon's nests are, where they rest. Even though Bakugou has explicitly forbidden you to go near there, due to the danger their dragons were most of the time, even for the riders.

You are confident Katsuki will be there, so probably he will see you from a distance and you wont need to get that close. But when you arrive, you come face to face with the massive beast: Bakugou's dragon, Cweorth.

You have seen it at a distance, but having the beast up close is a completely different experience. Its whole body is red, with golden piercing eyes that feel very much like Bakugou’s itself. Its wings are huge as they spread in a stretching movement up high, almost taller than the big trees that surround the woods. You can even see some flare of gold in its scale that actually looks mesmerizing. Majestic.

Your basket falls to the floor in shock when the beast finally looks down at your small, minuscule being. It watches you intently, with a scowl on its face –like beast, like owner. But far away from feeling scared by it, you feel intrigued. You feel enamored even as you stand there, looking at such majestic creature.

Bakugou is actually several meters away, taking a bath in the lake close to the nests, cleaning all the blood and dirt off his body before going to the hut he shares with you. He has some scratches and cuts from the fights, but nothing deep or worrisome. He is very proud in saying he is the fucking best out there.

When he's walking through the woods back to the nests of their dragons, he sees it.

His whole body freezes. You are standing there, your arm and hand stretched upwards. His own dragon, the one who eats men like candy at Katsuki's own command, the one who has burned villages in seconds with his strong fire, the one who hates anyone’s touch or closeness that isn't Bakugou himself... His dragon has his snot close to you, letting you pet him with its eyes closed, enjoying your affection like a small puppy dog.

And he can not fucking believe what his eyes are seeing.

Of all the women he has had before you, none were brave enough to even look at the beast. They had all been afraid to death.

And there you stand, looking even fascinated by it. Eyes shining and smiling as you feel for the first time what its skin is like under your touch. You look… beautiful. Gorgeous. Heavenly sent. Fuck. You have him in your hands already.

Bakugou Katsuki then decides:

He will fucking kiss the ground you walk. He will give you everything you ask of him.

You want certain clothes to wear? He will search for them for you. You want certain foods? He will fly his dragon to wherever they are made or grown on. You want a land? He will fucking burn every single thing or life it takes to give it to you.

You want him? He will gladly give himself completely to you.

Well, he already is.

[flowermiist]

Just imagine THIS but with John Price...

Just all the romantic scenes from “The Northman” but with him.

[buckets-and-trees]

So Black the Darkness Hums

Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steve Rogers x curvy Female!Reader, unnamed husband of reader Word Count: 9.1k Summary: Your wedding day is destroyed when your village is raided by the vicious king Steven and his viking warriors. He will lay claim to all he wants, including you.

Content/Warnings: DARK, invoking prima nocta, non-consent/rape, stealing of virginity, explicit smut (oral - male and female receiving, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal intercourse, anal fingering, anal intercourse, breastplay, overstimulation, orgasm denial, forced orgasms), use of pet name (little bride), dacryphilia, innocence kink, implied breeding kink, exhibitionism, human tribute/trade

Notes: I was struck by the idea of a very mean viking Steve last Thursday, and he would not let me go. Thanks to the encouragements from @biteofcherry, @witchywithwhiskey, and @vonalyn. An unapologetically brutal offering for the ninth week of Chris-mas.

Additional Note: I've gone with the term magnate over chieftan per this source.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You had already made a long walk, dressed in white, towards a man today. But where this morning, you had walked happily in the sunlight to your betrothed - the eldest son of the village magnate, now you walk over the flagstones of the village hall to the seat typically occupied by the magnate.

A seat now filled by the brutal and terrifying Steven - warrior and king of an army which had landed on the shores of your village to raid and conquer today.

And conquer they had.

Your white dress, once pristine and flowing, now clings to your skin, damp with sweat and streaked with dirt and leaves. The veil that had adorned your hair this morning lies discarded somewhere in the forest, torn away by grasping branches as you fled.

The memory of your desperate flight from your wedding into the woods plays in your mind like a fevered dream. The screams of the villagers, the clash of steel, the acrid smell of smoke as buildings burned – all of it had driven you and a group of women and children to seek refuge among the ancient oaks. The forest, usually a place of comfort and familiarity, became a labyrinth of terror as you led the group deeper and deeper, branches scratching at your arms and face, tearing at the delicate fabric of your gown. The sounds of pursuit never seemed to fade, no matter how far you ran.

As dusk fell, you huddled together, exhausted, praying to gods old and new that you would not be found. But the gods were silent, and the crunch of heavy boots on fallen leaves had filled their absence. You were all bound and forced back.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you approach the throne, each step echoing in the cavernous hall. The white gown that once symbolized joy now feels like a shroud.

The smell of blood and sweat permeates the room, a stark contrast to the polished wood and fine tapestries of the hall.

Steven's piercing eyes lock onto yours, a predatory gleam reflecting in their depths like shards of ice. His massive frame dwarfs the ornate chair, his battle-scarred hands gripping the armrests with a strength that could crush them at any moment. A round, wooden shield leans against the side of the throne. He looks both handsome and terrifying, his rugged features perfectly fitting for a fierce Viking warrior. The intensity in his gaze sends shivers down your spine, making you wonder if he is capable of unspeakable violence or if it is all just an act to maintain his reputation as a fearsome leader. Either way, there is no denying the raw power emanating from him, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from this captivating figure before you.

Your steps falter, but a rough shove from one of Steven's men propels you forward. You stumble, nearly falling at the conqueror's feet.

"So," Steven's voice booms, a mix of amusement and contempt. "You are the bride I've heard so much about."

His face is scarred, weathered by countless battles, but still impossibly handsom, and his eyes gleam with intelligence. You see something there – a flicker that suggests he is not just a brutal conqueror, but a man with depth and complexity.

Dangerous.

"I hear you were married to the fine magnate’s son," Steven continues, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "How fortunate that I've arrived in time for the celebration."

Your throat constricts, choking back the bitter retort that threatens to escape. You force yourself to square your shoulders and hold his gaze, summoning every ounce of courage you possess.

Steven's eyes narrow as he studies you, his gaze raking over your disheveled form with predatory intensity. He leans forward, the worn leather of his armor creaking with the movement.

"Come closer, little bride," he beckons, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

Your feet feel leaden as you force yourself to take another step forward. You are by no means small, but he is so large in comparison that the term ‘little’ apply to most who come into his presence. The flagstones beneath you are cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft grass you had walked upon just hours before, your heart full of hope and promise.

Steven's lips curl into a wolfish grin as you approach. "Tell me," he says, his voice deceptively casual, "were you to be a proper bride for your husband?"

The insinuation in his words is clear, and heat rises to your cheeks. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes hungry and leering. You swallow hard, struggling to maintain your composure.

"I was to be a dutiful wife," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Steven's laughter booms through the hall, echoing off the stone walls. "Dutiful," he repeats, mockery dripping from the word. "And what duties did you imagine, little bride? Mending his clothes? Warming his bed?"

Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms. The urge to lash out, to scream defiance in his face, is almost overwhelming. But you force yourself to remain still, knowing that any show of rebellion could mean death – not just for you, but for the other villagers as well.

"Whatever duties were required of me," you reply, striving to keep your voice steady.

Steven leans back in the chair. "Tell me, little bride, do you know what happens to dutiful wives when their husbands fall?"

Your stomach churns at his words, but you force yourself to stand tall. "I imagine they mourn," you reply, a hint of defiance creeping into your voice.

The warrior king's eyes flash dangerously. In one fluid motion, he rises from the chair, towering over you. His hand, calloused and rough, grasps your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

"Oh, he may have wished for death in battle, but he was merely conquered an imprisoned.”

There’s a small relief, but it’s fleeting as you know this is far from over.

“Dutiful wives plead and bargain what they can to spare their husbands an even crueler fate.”

You tremble with both fear and anger.

“And the bride of the magnate’s eldest son needs to bargain for far more than the fate of only one man.”

Your sink to your knees at Steven's words, now with the fate of your village laid at your hands. Your once-pristine dress pools around you like spilled milk over the cold flagstones. The stone bites into your skin, a sharp reminder of how far you've fallen in just one day.

Tears blur your vision as you look up at Steven, his massive form looming over you like a colossus. The firelight from nearby sconces casts dancing shadows across his face, making his scars seem to writhe like serpents.

"Please," you whisper, your voice cracking. "Spare them. Spare the village. We are simple folk, we have nothing to offer but our loyalty and our labor."

A low chuckle rumbles from Steven's chest. "Getting on your knees is a good start, little bride," he says, his voice low.

Your cheeks burn with humiliation at his words, but you force yourself to remain kneeling. The fate of your village, your family, your new husband – all of it rests on your shoulders now.

Steven circles you slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. His heavy boots echo on the stone floor, each step sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes a palpable weight.

"Loyalty and labor," Steven muses, coming to a stop before you. "Those are indeed valuable commodities. But I wonder, little bride, if you truly understand the depths of loyalty I require."

He crouches down, bringing his face level with yours. His breath is hot on your cheek as he speaks. "Your village will serve me, yes. But you... you will be the seal on our bargain. The trophy of my conquest."

Your heart stops.

“And to my earlier curiosity, I shall ask plainly and have you answer me in kind: are you a virgin bride? Untouched? Unsullied?”

You close your eyes and nod.

If you had been harboring any hope your fate would not turn this way, it has vanished now.

“A king is entitled, if he so chooses, to invoke the rite of prima nocta.”

Your blood runs cold at Steven's words. Prima nocta - the right of the first night. An ancient, barbaric custom that you had only heard whispered about in hushed tones. Never did you imagine it would become your reality.

"No," you whisper, the word escaping your lips before you can stop it. You immediately regret it as Steven's eyes flash dangerously.

He grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. "No?" he growls. "You dare refuse me? Perhaps you need a reminder of your position."

With a snap of his fingers, two of his men drag forward a bound figure, depositing him on his knees off to the side but in clear view. Your heart sinks as you recognize your new husband, his body littered with cuts and bruises.

"For every refusal, every act of defiance," Steven says coldly, "he will suffer. And not just him. Your family, your friends, you are all of you conquered and my men can hunt through this village to pull any one of them here if it serves me.”

Your eyes well with tears because you do not doubt his resolve.

“You will spare them if I give you my maidenhood?”

He straightens back up to his full height. “I think I could spare your village for at least one night.”

Steven turns to his men, waving a dismissive hand. "Leave us," he commands, his voice echoing through the hall. "But the husband stays. He will bear witness."

The soldiers file out, swiftly acquiescing to their king’s request. The heavy doors slam shut behind them, the sound reverberating through your bones. Now it is just the three of you - conqueror, conquered, and the terrified bride between.

Steven's fingers tangle in your hair, forcing your head back. His other hand works at the fastenings of his breeches. "Show me how dutiful you can be, little bride," he growls.

Steven towers over you, his massive frame blocking out the flickering light from the nearby braziers. You can smell the leather of his armor, the tang of sweat and metal that clings to his skin.

Your eyes flicker to your husband, but he refuses to look at you, apparently unwilling to watch. You would not have him suffer, but his refusal to even look your way hurts. You held no silly romantic notions for the eldest son of the magnate, but he was a fine man, good, you had been happy to make a match with him, and you thought there was a growing affection between you.

“Do not look at him, little bride,” Steven growls, impatiently shaking you by the hair. “Why are you looking at him? Look at me. He can not help you.”

You force your gaze back to Steven, your heart pounding. His eyes bore into yours, dark with desire and cruel triumph. You swallow hard, trying to find your voice.

"I... I don't know what to do," you whisper, heat flaming your cheeks. It's true - you are a virgin, after all, and the mechanics of what he expects are foreign to you.

Steven's laugh is low and mocking. "Oh, little bride," he says, his voice a rumble. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."

His hand leaves your hair, moving to cup your face. His thumb traces your lower lip, rough and calloused. "Open," he commands.

You hesitate, your eyes darting once more to your husband. This time, his gaze meets yours, and you see the resentment burning in them. It wounds you more than anything this cruel conquering king has done to you so far.

Steeling yourself, you look back up at Steven and part your lips.

His thumb pushes into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. "Suck," he commands.

With trembling lips, you obey, closing your mouth around his thick digit. The taste of salt and leather fills your senses as you tentatively suck on his thumb. Steven's eyes darken with lust, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his free hand working at the laces of his breeches. "That's it, use your tongue."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you obey, swirling your tongue around his digit, your cheeks burning with shame. You try to focus solely on the task at hand, to forget where you are and what's happening. But the sound of your husband's labored breathing, the cold stone beneath your knees, the looming presence of Steven above you – it all serves as a stark reminder of your situation.

The sound of fabric rustling makes your stomach clench.

Steven withdraws his thumb, replacing it with two fingers. They press deeper into your mouth, nearly making you gag. "Breathe through your nose," he instructs. "You'll need to learn this."

Your heart races as you struggle to follow his command, fighting against your gag reflex as his fingers probe deeper. The taste of salt and leather is overwhelming, and you can feel saliva gathering at the corners of your mouth.

"Open your eyes," Steven growls. "I want you to see everything."

Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. With his free hand, he finishes unlacing his breeches, pushing them down just enough to free himself.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him, fully aroused and intimidatingly large. A whimper escapes you around his fingers, and he smirks.

"Don't worry, you'll learn to take all of me in time."

Steven withdraws his fingers from your mouth, leaving you gasping. His hand moves to grip your hair again, tilting your head back as he positions himself before you.

"Open wide, little bride," he commands, his voice husky with desire.

You hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. The reality of what's about to happen crashes over you like a wave. But then you hear a pained grunt from your husband, and you know you have no choice. Closing your eyes, you part your lips.

Steven wastes no time, pushing himself into your mouth with a groan of satisfaction. The taste is foreign, salty and musky, and you struggle not to gag as he fills your mouth.

"Use your tongue," he instructs, his hand tightening in your hair. "And mind your teeth."

Tears stream down your face as you try to obey, running your tongue along the length of him. Your whole body trembles with fear and revulsion, but his grip on your hair is unrelenting. He thrusts in and out of your mouth, setting a brutal pace that makes you gag and gasp for air.

"You're doing well, my little bride," Steven grunts, his voice thick with lust. "Just relax and take it all in."

You try to comply, but it's a struggle. Your eyes water from the force of his movements, and you feel like you're choking on him. But you know you have no choice but to endure it or risk angering him further.

As he continues to use your mouth for his pleasure, you feel a sense of detachment wash over you. It's like watching yourself from a distance, your body merely a tool for his satisfaction. You can't believe this is happening – this reality had never even haunted your nightmares.

A sharp pain shoots through your scalp as Steven tugs harder on your hair, pulling your head back even further. You whimper at the sting, struggling against the urge to cry out.

"You make such beautiful noises," he growls. "But I want more from you."

With that, he starts thrusting deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat each time. You choke and gag around him, tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.

But then something changes – he starts moving faster and faster until suddenly he stills inside you with a groan of release. Your mouth is flooded with his release, and you swallow what you can, tasting him on your tongue as he pulls out of your mouth, leaving it feeling raw and sore. A mess of tears, his cum, and your drool drip down your neck as you gasp for air.

Steven's thumb roughly grazes down your cheek, a false gesture of affection. Then he speaks, his eyes moving from you to your husband. "Such a pretty thing," he purrs. "Isn't she?" the question - a taunt - directed at your husband.

He shifts uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with both of you. Steven's laughter fills the room as he continues, "They say you are a noble and good man, always treating her right. I bet you would never ask her to do anything degrading, may have waited weeks or moths before coaxing her to suck your cock."

You don’t even know how to react to what he is saying and how the other man is reacting - or not reacting - to Steve’s words.

“You would never use her.”

Steven’s focus shifts fully back to you.

“But I will.”

A small whimper escapes from your chest as he roughly grabs your chin.

“I will ruin you and wreck you for my pleasure, and he does not get to see what I will do to you next.”

The other man makes a strangled sound, finally trying to fight his bonds.

Steven laughs darkly. “It may have tortured you to watch,” he says, and then leans down and scoops you up from the floor and into his arms - bridal style to drive the point of his dominance and the humiliation of your special day home, “but not knowing what I do to your bride next will eat you alive for the rest of your days.”

As Steven carries you from the hall, your world becomes a blur of sensations and emotions. The warmth of his body contrasts sharply with the cold dread settling in your stomach. His arms, corded with muscle, hold you firmly against his broad chest, and you wrap your arms around his neck for steadiness as he moves so swiftly. The scent of leather, sweat, and something distinctly male envelops you in such close proximity, making your head spin.

As he carries you from the great hall, you find yourself unable to look away from his face. The flickering torchlight casts deep shadows across his features, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw. His eyes, when they meet yours, are dark and cold like the sea in a storm, and it chills your bones. He leans down and steals a fast, ruthless kiss, nipping at your bottom lip, and you look away when he ends it, uncomfortable with the sensation it stirs in your belly.

The corridors of the village hall, once so familiar, now seem alien and menacing. Shadows dance on the walls, cast by flickering torches, creating grotesque shapes that mirror the turmoil in your mind. The stone beneath Steven's feet echoes with each step, a rhythm that matches the frantic beating of your heart.

You pass tapestries depicting scenes from your village's history - harvests, celebrations, battles long past. They mock you now, reminders of a life that seems to have ended mere hours ago.

As Steven carries you further into the depths of the hall, the familiar corridors give way to parts of the building you've never seen before. The air grows cooler, damper, and you shiver involuntarily against his chest. He notices, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Cold, little bride?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't worry, I'll warm you up soon enough."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out his words, to pretend this isn't happening. But the solid warmth of his body against yours, the strength in his arms as he carries you, makes denial impossible.

Finally, Steven comes to a stop before a heavy wooden door. With one hand still supporting you, he reaches out and pushes it open. The hinges creak ominously, and your heart rate spikes as he carries you across the threshold.

The room is dimly lit by a few sputtering candles, casting long shadows across the stone walls. In the center stands a large bed, draped in furs and silks - a stark contrast to the simple furnishings you're accustomed to. You see the ceremonial bridal lace, embroidered with the flower of the magnate’s clan, laying atop the other furs and silks and realize this was the bedchamber intended for you and your husband. The irony is not lost on you - this room, where you should have spent your wedding night and started your new life with your new husband, will now be the site of your defilement.

Steven tosses you onto the bed unceremoniously, and you land with a gasp, your white dress billowing around you.

Steven looms over you, his massive frame blocking out the dim candlelight. His eyes rove over your body hungrily, and you feel exposed despite still being fully clothed. You try to curl in on yourself, to shield your body from his gaze, but he tsks disapprovingly.

"Now, now, little bride," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't hide from me. I want to see all of you."

His hands move to the laces of your dress, and you flinch away instinctively. Steven's eyes narrow, and he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand. With his other hand, he reaches for a knife at his hip, brings it up to the neckline of your dress, positioning the cool blade between your skin and the fabric and pulls down swiftly, tearing your dress down the middle. He releases your hands so he can use both to finish ripping away your clothing, throwing it to the floor. Your attempts to fight him are easily shunted, and once you’re naked, he presses you back down to the bed, pressing the blade of the knife cruelly to your neck, just below your jaw.

“Do not think I will maintain much patience. I will not hesitate to punish if you continue to resist,” he promises. “Understand?”

“Yes,” you whisper, a tear escaping and rolling slowly down your cheek.

“Good," he says, his voice low and husky, "it's time to consummate the arrangement you agreed to fulfill."

He moves away, positioning himself next to the bed. His hands move to the fastenings of his leather armor, slowly removing each piece, then his shirt. The firelight gleams off his muscled torso as it's revealed, highlighting scars that tell tales of countless battles. You can't help but stare, a mix of fear and unwanted fascination coursing through you.

Steven notices your gaze and smirks. "Like what you see?" he taunts.

You quickly avert your eyes.

Steven chuckles darkly. "Don't be shy now, little bride. You'll become very familiar with every inch of me soon enough."

He finishes undressing, his massive frame now fully revealed in the flickering candlelight. Despite your fear and revulsion, you can't help but notice the raw power of his body - all hard muscle and battle scars. He is undeniably handsome in a rugged, dangerous way that makes your heart race with a confusing mix of terror and unwanted attraction.

Steven climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he looms over you. His hand trails down your body, callused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. You shiver involuntarily, eyes closing.

"Open your eyes," he commands. "I want you to see everything I do to you."

Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. He looms over you, his muscled body casting you in shadow.

"Please," you whisper, a final, desperate plea. "You don't have to do this."

Steven's hand cups your face. “But I want to,” he growls, “and I always take what I want.”

His lips crash down on yours, harsh and demanding. You whimper against his mouth, overwhelmed by his forcefulness. His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring every inch of your mouth as his hand slides down to grip your breast roughly.

You gasp at the sensation, your body betraying you as your nipple hardens under his touch. Steven chuckles against your lips.

"Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind resists," he murmurs, his thumb circling your nipple teasingly.

His hand continues its travels lower, skimming over your stomach before reaching the junction between your thighs. You try to squeeze your legs shut, but his knee wedges between them, forcing them apart and settling himself between them. His fingers find your most intimate place, and you jerk at the unfamiliar touch.

"So soft," he growls, his fingers exploring the apex between your thighs. "And already getting wet for me."

You flush with shame, hating your body's involuntary response, feeling things you’ve never felt before and with a cruel stranger instead of the man you had pledged yourself to, built a budding relationship and trust with through your courtship.

"So responsive," he murmurs against your lips. "And so tight. This will hurt, little bride, but I'll make it good for you too."

His fingers probe deeper, and you cry out at the intrusion. Steven's mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting as his fingers work between your legs. You feel a building pressure, your body responding against your will to his ministrations.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let yourself feel it."

Tears stream down your face as waves of unwanted pleasure course through you. Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, seeking more of the sensation.

Steven chuckles darkly. "So eager now," he taunts. "Are you ready for me, little bride?"

Before you can respond, he positions himself at your entrance. You feel the blunt pressure of him against you, and panic rises in your chest.

"Wait," you gasp. "Please, I'm not-"

But Steven doesn't wait. With one powerful thrust, he sheathes himself inside you. The pain is sharp and immediate, tearing a cry from your throat. Steven groans in pleasure, his massive frame pinning you to the bed.

"So tight," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel even better than I imagined."

Tears stream down your face as he begins to move, each thrust sending waves of pain through your body. You turn your head away, unable to look at him, but his hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I told you to watch," he snarls. "I want to see the moment you break."

His pace increases, and you whimper with each brutal thrust. The pain begins to dull, replaced by a strange, burning sensation that spreads through your lower body. Your breath comes in short gasps, matching the rhythm of his movements.

You whimper beneath him, your body trembling with the shock of the intrusion. Steven's hand cups your face, his thumb wiping away a tear that has escaped down your cheek. The gesture is almost tender, a stark contrast to the brutality of his actions.

"Breathe," he commands softly. "The pain will pass."

You try to breathe more evenly, but it feels impossible as he maintains his brutal, relentless pace.

Your body feels torn between pain and an unfamiliar, building pleasure. You hate yourself for responding to his touch, for the way your hips begin to move in rhythm with his thrusts. Steven notices, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"There it is," he growls, his pace quickening. "Your body knows what it wants, even if you deny it."

His hand snakes between your bodies, finding a sensitive bundle of nerves above where you're joined. You cry out as he begins to circle it with his thumb, waves of sensation crashing over you.

"Let go," Steven commands, his voice husky with exertion. "Come for me, little bride."

Your body obeys even as your mind recoils. The pressure builds and builds until it finally shatters, your back arching as you cry out. Steven groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, spilling himself deep inside you with a guttural moan.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing. Steven's weight presses you into the mattress, his body slick with sweat. You lie there, trembling, tears streaming silently down your face as the reality of what just happened washes over you.

Steven lifts himself onto his elbows, looking down at you with an unreadable expression. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. "You did well, little bride," he murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

The tenderness in his touch and his voice confuses you, but the moment passes because his eyes

arken once more as he gazes down at you. "The night is far from over," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire.

He shifts his massive body, moving downward until his face is level with your breasts. His rough hands cup the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing with a possessive grip that makes you gasp. You feel his hot breath against your skin, sending involuntary shivers through your body.

Steven's mouth descends on your left breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple before he takes it between his lips. He sucks hard, drawing a whimper from your throat. His teeth graze the sensitive bud, sending jolts of sensation through your body.

He alternates between your breasts, sucking and biting with increasing intensity. What starts as pleasure soon edges into discomfort, then pain. Your nipples, sensitive and swollen from his attention, ache as he continues his ministrations. You squirm beneath him, trying to escape the overwhelming sensations, but his body pins you firmly to the bed.

"Please," you gasp, "it's too much."

Steven lifts his head, his eyes dark with lust. "Nothing is too much for you, little bride," he growls. "You'll take everything I give you and beg for more."

His mouth returns to your breast, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, tears springing to your eyes yet again. The pain mingles with a confusing undercurrent of pleasure, your body betraying you once again.

Steven's hand slides down your body, fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. He begins to stroke in slow, deliberate circles, and you feel yourself responding despite your best efforts to resist. You’re shocked at how your dripping hole is aching again already. These sensations are foreign to you and frightening to experience at his hand.

Steven's fingers move with expert precision, building a slow, inexorable tension in your core. His mouth continues its assault on your breasts, alternating between gentle sucks and sharp nips that send jolts of sensation through your body. The dual stimulation overwhelms your senses, leaving you gasping and writhing beneath him.

His fingers quicken their pace, circling your sensitive bud with increasing pressure. The tension coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the breaking point. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, chasing the building pleasure despite your mind's desperate attempts to resist.

Steven's mouth moves to your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "That's it," he growls, his voice low and husky.

Your body trembles on the edge of release, every muscle taut with anticipation. Just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of release, Steven suddenly withdraws his hand. You whimper at the loss, your body aching for completion. He lifts his head from your breast, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

“I told you I would ruin you,” he murmurs, “and this is part of your ruining.”

Steven rolls onto his back, his massive frame sprawled across the bed. His eyes, dark with lust, lock onto yours as he beckons you with a crook of his finger. "Come here, little bride," he commands, his voice a low rumble. "I want to feel that pretty mouth on my cock again."

You hesitate, your body still trembling from the denied release. Steven's hand shoots out, gripping your hair and pulling you towards him. "I said, come here," he growls, his patience wearing thin.

Reluctantly, you crawl towards him, positioning yourself between his muscular thighs. His manhood lies semi-hard against his stomach, still glistening with the evidence of your earlier coupling. The sight and scent of it make your stomach churn with a mix of revulsion and unwanted arousal.

"Take me in your mouth," Steven orders, his hand still commanding the back of your head. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Slowly, as if in a trance, you lower your trembling form towards his groin. You can't believe the turn of events that have brought you to this point – from a joyful bride to a conquered villager at the mercy of Steven and his ruthless warriors. The knowledge burns in your heart, but you force it down, focusing instead on surviving this nightmare.

As your lips touch the velvety head of his member, Steven emits a low groan of pleasure. His hand loosens its grip on your hair just enough to allow you some movement. Despite yourself, you remember the way he had thrust into your mouth earlier, how he had seemed to enjoy it when you'd used your tongue. Drawing on that brief flash of experience, you tentatively flick your tongue over his cock. The taste is overwhelming - a potent mixture of his earlier release, your own arousal, and the metallic tang of blood. It's a stark reminder of what's transpired, of your lost innocence.

Steven groans as you engulf him, his hips bucking slightly. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire. "Take it all in."

You struggle to accommodate his size, your jaw aching as you try to take more of him. His hand guides your movements, setting a steady rhythm as he uses your mouth. Your tongue teases across the sensitive underside of his shaft, encountering a vein that runs along its length, and you try to apply more pressure there. Steven groans in response, low and guttural, spurring you on.

"That's it, little bride," he grunts, the praise almost an animalistic growl. "Suck harder. Take more of me into that pretty mouth."

You struggle to obey, pushing yourself to take more of his length into your mouth. His hips begin to thrust upwards, forcing himself deeper. You choke and splutter around him, saliva dripping down your chin.

"Relax your throat," Steven commands, his voice strained with pleasure. "Breathe through your nose."

You try to follow his instructions, fighting against your gag reflex as he pushes deeper. Steven's hand tightens in your hair, guiding your movements more forcefully. "Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire.

You raise your eyes to meet his, your cheeks burning with shame as you continue to work your mouth over him. His gaze is dark and predatory, filled with a hunger that makes you shiver.

"Such a good little bride," he murmurs, his hips starting to thrust up to meet your mouth. "Taking my cock so well. But I think you can take more."

Without warning, he pushes your head down, forcing himself deeper into your throat. You gag and choke, face pushed flush to his pelvis. The taste and scent of him overwhelm your senses, throat struggling at his intrusion, and you feel lightheaded from the lack of air. Just when you think you can't take anymore, Steven pulls you off his cock with a wet pop.

Gasping for breath, you look up at him through tear-blurred eyes. His face is flushed with arousal, his eyes dark, but gleaming with… pride?

“You are such an exquisite, pliant thing,” he says. “It has been too long since I’ve been so well-pleased, so near insatiable.”

Your chest constricts at the praise. You did not want any of this nightmare, but his danger is novel and alluring, the unknown pleasures he’s exacting from your body, guiding you down paths you’ve never explored before - it’s all twisting your body and your very soul, seeping through your veins, a poison you can’t stop now that he’s pierced into you.

He sits up, frames your jaw in both of his calloused hands, and then lewdly licks one cheek and then the other, lapping at your tears. It’s not tender. He’s playing with his prey.

Steven's hands move to your shoulders, gripping them firmly. With a sudden, forceful movement, he flips you onto your stomach. You gasp at the abrupt change, your face pressed into the furs on the bed. His large hands grasp your hips, pulling them upwards as he pushes your upper body down, positioning you on your hands and knees before him.

"Spread your legs wider and present yourself to me," he commands, his voice husky with desire.

Trembling, you obey, pushing your knees out further, lowering your chest to the bed, and raising your hips higher. You feel completely exposed, a new kind of vulnerable in this position, and your cheeks burn with shame. The cool air of the room caresses your most intimate places, making you shiver.

Steven's large hands grip your hips, kneading the flesh of your buttocks, spreading them apart.

"Such a pretty sight," he murmurs.

His thumbs dig into the soft flesh of your buttocks as he spreads you open further. You tense, expecting the brutal intrusion of his manhood, but instead, you feel his beard brush against your most intimate flesh as he presses his mouth to your core. His tongue, hot and wet, slides up the cut of you, and you cry out in surprise. You had been told your husband would couple his manhood with your maidenhood. You had heard the lewd rumors of men using a woman’s mouth for his cock.

No one had ever whispered even a word that man might put his own lips to your sex, and it’s an onslaught of pleasure you were in no way prepared to experience. The moan you let out is obscene and unrestrained, and you graps helplessly at the blankets and furs beneath you.

Steven's tongue explores your folds with wicked precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks against your most sensitive areas. Your body trembles uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the intense sensations. You try to stifle your moans, burying your face in the furs, but Steven's hand snakes up to grip your hair, yanking your head back.

"Let me hear you," he growls against your flesh. "I want to hear every sound you make."

His mouth returns to your core, his tongue delving deeper, tasting every inch of you. His beard scratches against your sensitive skin, adding another layer of sensation to the overwhelming pleasure. Your hips buck involuntarily, pressing back against his face as he continues his relentless assault. You feel his lips close around your sensitive bud, sucking hard, and a cry tears from your throat.

"That's it," Steven murmurs, his voice vibrating against your flesh. "Let go, little bride. Show me how well you enjoy being ruined by your new king.”

His words send a shiver through you, a mix of shame and unwanted arousal. Steven's tongue continues its relentless assault on your cunt, building a tension in your core that threatens to overwhelm you. Your body trembles, teetering on the edge of release.

His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as you writhe against him. The tension within you builds to an unbearable level, and with a final, targeted flick of his tongue, you shatter.

A cry tears from your throat as the waves of ecstasy wash over you. He laps up your juices eagerly, groaning in satisfaction, before he pulls away.

You whimper at the loss, and he chuckles. “Worry not, there is yet more pleasure I will force upon you this night,” he promises.

Before you can catch your breath, you feel the blunt head of his manhood pressing against your entrance. Steven guides the tip of his cock up and down your slit, over your oversensitive bundle of nerves, and you shiver. But it is soon evident he is in no hurry at this next pursuit.

Steven continues to tease you with the head of his cock, running it along your sensitive folds. Up and down, up and down. Slow strokes, sometimes bumping against your clit, sometimes ignoring it, unpredictable in the pattern so you don’t know when the surge will come. Your body trembles, overstimulated and overwhelmed. Despite your mind's protests, your hips shift back, seeking more contact, even though you're still sore from his earlier intrusion.

His fingers dip into your core, pulling from the wetness dripping out of you, and then he swipes them over your tight rosebud, and you gasp. You know immediately what he intends to do next, though you could never have imagined such a thing, and you can not process any sort of reaction against it. Indeed, he presses the tip of one of his fingers against the tight muscle, then insistently pushes through, and your heart pounds in your chest with fear. The foreign feeling is shocking.

Shocking because it should not feel as good as it does.

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears of shame and frustration leaking from the corners.

He moves his finger in and out in only a very small motion - not fucking you with the finger, but pressing pleasure there in small, torturous amounts. He resumes the rutting of his cock against your folds, and you begin to openly weep, feeling wanton, confused, but moans accompany your sobs that you cannot hide from him.

He leans over you, his broad chest pressing against your back. His breath is hot against your ear as he speaks. "Eager for more, are we?" Steven chuckles darkly. "Beg for it, little bride. Beg for your king's cock."

You hesitate, torn between your body's desperate need for release and the last shreds of your dignity. Steven's free hand moves to circle around the front of your throat, possessive, threatening.

"Beg," he snarls.

The words stick in your throat, and Steven removes his finger from your tight hole and his hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp sting making you gasp.

"I said beg," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

"Please," you whimper, the word barely audible.

Another stinging slap lands on your other cheek. "Louder," Steven demands.

"Please!" you cry out, your voice breaking. "Please, I need... I need you.”

He slaps your ass again. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me exactly what you want."

You swallow hard. But you can’t deny betrayal of your body, aching for his touch, for the release only he can provide. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Please... fuck me. I need your cock inside me."

A growl of satisfaction rumbles through Steven's chest. "As you wish, little bride."

He shifts and begins thrusting his cock inside your cunt again.

Steven's cock enters you with a single, powerful thrust, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, a mixture of pain and pleasure that leaves you gasping. He sets a relentless pace, each thrust driving deep into your core, your body rocking forward with the force of his movements.

His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. The room fills with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, your breathless moans, and Steven's grunts of exertion. The musky scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air.

"So tight," Steven growls, his voice strained with pleasure. "So perfect for your king, the perfect tribute."

Your body responds to his words, to his touch, clenching around him involuntarily. The friction of his cock against your walls sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, building a familiar tension in your core. He hits a particularly sensitive spot on the front of your walls that has you writhing in ecstasy, and he presses the head of his cock there over, and over. You're overwhelmed by the sensations, the fullness, the way he plays and experiments with your body, until you spasm, thrown over the edge into another orgasm.

Your body convulses as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you weak and trembling. Your limbs feel heavy, your muscles liquid, as if all the strength has been drained from your body. You struggle to stay on your hands and knees, your arms shaking with the effort of supporting your weight.

Steven senses your weakness, feeling the way your body has gone limp beneath him. With a growl of satisfaction, he pushes you down flat against the mattress. The furs are soft against your oversensitive skin, tickling your nipples and sending shivers through your body. You turn your head to the side, gasping for air, feeling utterly spent.

Before your breathing can return to anything close to normal, before you can prepare yourself, Steven’s rough hands are spreading your cheeks, and he rams his cock into your ass. The intrusion rips a tortured scream from your throat.

The pain is sharp and immediate as Steven forces his cock into your tightest opening. Your body instinctively tenses, trying to reject the intrusion, which only intensifies the burning sensation. More tears spring to your eyes as you gasp for breath, though you don’t know how you still have more tears to shed.

"Relax," Steven growls, his voice strained with effort and pleasure. "The more you fight it, the more it will hurt, and I’m not going to stop."

You try to force your body to relax, to accept him, but it's a struggle against your instincts. Steven's hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he continues to move. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pain and an unfamiliar pleasure through your body.

"So tight," he groans, his pace increasing. "You feel incredible."

The friction is intense, unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's not quite pleasure, but it's no longer just pain. It burns, but the fire consumes your whole body. You feel stretched to your limit, filled completely by Steven's massive cock.

His hands roam over your body, rough and possessive, groping at your flesh. You bite your lip, trying to stifle your cries, but it's futile. Each thrust draws a whimper or moan from you, your body betraying your mind's resistance.

Steven's hand snakes around to the front of your body, his fingers finding your sensitive bud. He begins to stroke in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations of his thick cock stretching your ass and his skilled fingers on your clit create a maelstrom of sensation that threatens to overwhelm you completely.

You're only vaguely aware of the sounds escaping your throat - desperate, wanton moans that you scarcely recognize as your own. This may be the first night you lie with a man, but though you are inexperienced, you think it can not be possible to experience any more of the overwhelming pleasure he seems determined to rip from you yet again.

Your body trembles uncontrollably, caught between the pain of the intrusion and the impossible mounting of pleasure. Each thrust sends sparks of electricity coursing through your nerves, building the tension in your core. You've never experienced anything like this before - the intensity, the fullness, the way your body seems to betray you at every turn.

Steven's pace increases, his hips snapping against your ass with bruising force. His fingers match the rhythm, pressing harder, moving faster. You are hurled over another cliff of ecstasy, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, body jerking futilely beneath his massive form. He pounds into you once, twice, thrice more, and on the fourth thrust, he shouts and stills, cock buried inside you, and groans as he empties his seed in your tightest channel.

Finally spent and satisfied, Steven collapses on top of you, his massive weight pressing you into the furs. You feel utterly crushed beneath him, struggling to draw breath, yet there's an undeniable warmth from his body enveloping yours that sneaks unwanted into your bones. His heart thunders against your back, matching the frantic pace of your own. The room is filled with the sound of your mingled panting as you both quest for normal breath.

The scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthier smells of leather and furs. Your body thrums with residual pleasure, every nerve ending still singing from the intensity of your coupling. You feel utterly boneless, all strength drained from your limbs.

Slowly, your breathing begins to even out. You become acutely aware of every point of contact between your bodies - the rough hair on his chest against your back, the way his thighs press against the backs of your legs, his hot breath against your neck, and his lips too close to that tender and intimate space as only a beloved’s should be.

Finally, Steven rolls to the side and off of you, but you are not freed from him as he bands an arm around your waist, resettling you with him. He curls around you, and you resign yourself to being held captive, bound by his thick, corded muscles yet a while longer - possibly until the morning.

Just as you are about to drop off into sleep, he speaks directly into your ear. “I have claimed all of your holes, little bride. You will always know that I had every bit of you first, leaving him nothing.” The words are cruel, wicked, and his voice low and far too intimate.

You take a shaky breath in, and out, and beg for sleep to take you so you do not have to think of how his words haunt you now and will haunt you forever.

In the morning, your body still feels spent beyond its limits, aching, but as you shift and stir, you discover the bed is empty.

Your heart accelerates at this discovery.

Then plummets the next moment as the cruel conqueror speaks breaks the silence. “Get up and get dressed,” he commands from where he’s perched on the windowsill, watching the first light of morning appear.

Your eyes dart around the room, drawn to the scraps of your wedding clothes. “I’ve no clothes to-”

“On the chair over there,” he interrupts and gestures to a pile of clothing and shoes that have been brought in.

You slip out of the bed, trying to ignore thoughts of whether or not he watches you - he has already seen your naked form, so what does it matter?

There is a well-made linen chemise with a fine, blue linen dress to go over it. You hastily slip on the chemise, but as you reach for the dress, you hesitate. The detailing is finer than anything made in your village. This came from him.

“Shall I assist you?” Steven asks, making you jump as he’s silently crossed the room to stand directly behind you.

“No, I can dress myself,” you answer, but it falls on unhearing ears, as he’s already reaching past you for the garment.

He assists in pulling the dress over your head, and his hands roughly tug at the ties of your dress. Then he turns you to face him, and his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

"I've decided your husband will truly be left with nothing," he declares harshly. “After last night, I cannot abide him having you as his bride when clearly you should be mine. His father - the magnate - with the rest of the elders have accepted my bargain to take my men, leave your village, and never return on condition that I take you as tribute.”

You cannot speak, the shock of Steven's words rendering you mute. Your mind reels, trying to process the implications of what he's just said. The village elders, including your own father-in-law, have agreed to trade you away like chattel to save themselves. The betrayal cuts deep, leaving you feeling hollow and abandoned, and yet you know it was likely a choice of little difficulty when weighing the safety of the village.

Steven cups your cheek again in that way that pretends a tenderness that is not there, and kisses you roughly. His lips are demanding, forceful, claiming you once more. The taste of him is now too familiar. His beard scratches against your skin, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips.

His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring your mouth with a possessive fervor. Your body responds traitorously, a warmth blooming in your core despite everything, and you tangle a hand in his long hair.

Steven breaks the kiss, leaving you breathless and conflicted. His eyes roam over your face, taking in every detail as if committing it to memory.

"You are not why I came to these shores, but you are mine now," he says, his voice low and possessive. "My little bride, my tribute, my prize."

His words send a shiver down your spine - fear, anticipation, and something else you can't quite name. You know you should be horrified, should be fighting against this fate with every fiber of your being. But after the night you've shared, after experiencing all-consuming pleasures you never knew existed, a part of you - a part you're ashamed to acknowledge - is drawn to the thought of belonging to this powerful, dangerous man.

Steven's hand moves to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he speaks. "We sail with the morning tide and leave within the hour. My men are already loading the ship with supplies - food, weapons, gold. And you, my little bride, are the most valuable cargo of all."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words. The reality of your situation crashes over you anew - you're leaving behind everything you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved. Your family, your friends, the life you were meant to have - all of it gone in the span of a single day and night.

"Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Let me say goodbye to my family, to-"

"No," Steven cuts you off, his voice firm. "There will be no goodbyes. We leave now. I am your husband, your family. My lands will be your lands, and you will learn to forget. Perhaps all the sooner as you learn to crave the pleasures only I can give and ultimately grow with my child in your womb. Mine completely.”

so... if any of you are still alive, screech for help. I won't be able to help, because I have perished from writing this, but someone else might be able to assist you.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[fantasydreamland]

ME WITH FICTIONAL MEN

[thoughtsboutem]

let's take ibuprofen together

[raspberryvv]

Viking! Sukuna, who likes to sleep naked and encourages you to do the same, not out of any lustful intentions (Although he wouldn't mind that either), he just likes the skin on skin contact and absolutely lives for the warmth and comfort it brings him (it's better than all the layers of fluffy furr you two lay under), he can only sleep peacefully if he knows you're safe and sound in his embrace.

On nights when he's away from you (to conquer another land or for supplies etc.), he keeps a stash of letters you send him and rereads them every night. You're in his thoughts every night and every waking moment. If he had a flower for each time he thought of you, he'd have an endless garden.

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [1]

series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold w.c: 4.3k tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description

Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.

Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.

Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.

You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.

"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.

"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.

"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.

"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"

"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."

Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.

He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.

Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.

You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.

The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.

Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.

Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.

"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"

"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."

"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."

You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.

There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.

Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.

Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.

They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.

Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.

Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.

But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.

Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.

Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.

Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?

"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.

"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."

Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.

You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.

A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.

Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.

You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.

His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.

Devils, come to sack the convent.

Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.

You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.

It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.

"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.

The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."

You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.

"Good girl," Skull says.

The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.

Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.

You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.

"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"

"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"

"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.

"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.

It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.

Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.

"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"

A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.

Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.

The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.

Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.

They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.

Yet.

"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.

His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.

Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.

Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.

"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.

"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"

You blanch, breath leaving you.

"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"

"Take 'er."

With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.

"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."

Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.

The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.

You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.

The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.

Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.

"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.

Or ask him for help.

Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.

A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.

Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.

"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.

"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."

"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.

When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?

God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?

"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.

You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.

"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.

"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."

They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.

Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.

It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.

You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.

Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.

You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?

The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.

Blood rushes in your ears again.

You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.

A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.

"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."

You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.

"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."

"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"

"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"

"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."

He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.

"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."

It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.

The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.

"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.

You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.

"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.

The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.

"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"

"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."

"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.

Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.

You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.

Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.

"Here," Simon says. You look up.

In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.

His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.

"For me?" you ask.

"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.

"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.

"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.

Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.

Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.

Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.

When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.

Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.

He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.

"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.

"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"

No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.

Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.

"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."

You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.

You wonder when this journey will end.

Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.

She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.

Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.

"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."

"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.

Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.

"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"

Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.

Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.

Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.

"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.

"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.

"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."

He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.

"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.

Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.

"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."

You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.

"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.

The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.

You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.

The soap is better than the water.

"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.

"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."

"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.

"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."

The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.

"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.

The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.

"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.

The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.

"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.

"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"

"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"

"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.

You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.

Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.

"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."

[gloomwitchwrites]

Thinking about…Viking!141 AU

Viking!Price is a Jarl. He came into the position by earning great wealth through success in battle and raids. He is known for his ruthlessness when fighting. Many men flock to him, and the people under his command are loyal to the very end. While brutal in battle, he is beloved for his fairness. He might not always be kind, but he always listens, dealing out justice that few disagree with. Even so, Price spends a lot of time away. He remains unmarried and heirless, though he's never without a woman to warm his bed (and has fathered plenty of bastards from it). The people advising him have offered up an option. Another Jarl has an unmarried daughter. She's the oldest, and refuses to marry unless a man can best her in a fight. Price enjoys a fierce woman, and he intends to claim this one.

Viking!Soap is a member of his Jarl’s personal guard. Skilled with a blade, Soap rose to prominence quickly, eventually saving the Jarl during a battle that earned his respect. Since then, Soap has been by the Jarl’s side. He protects the Jarl, his wife, and all of his children. But Soap is no nobleman, and the small farm he does own is likely overgrown, perhaps even occupied by strangers. Soap won't be in this life forever, but there are few prospects in front of him since he remains unmarried and without children. What he'd like to do is tend some land, brew mead, find a busty wife, and have a small army of children.

Viking!Ghost is the Jarl’s personal blacksmith. He is known for crafting beautiful blades and armor for the Jarl and wealthy landowners of the clan. Ghost is respected by his community for his craftsmanship, how he treats others around him, and his fierceness in battle. But Ghost is alone, a widower who lost his wife in childbirth, and he has not made any attempts to remarry—though many eligible women have made themselves available. It's not that he isn't interested. He wants that connection again, but the loss of his wife still cuts deep.

Viking!Gaz is a skilled ship builder. Every ship he oversees in construction is fast on the waves, durable over long distances, and unique in craftsmanship. Gaz is applauded for not only performance but the artistic excellence with each ship. The Jarl of the clan deeply admires his works and often calls on Gaz to build for him. However, Gaz is unmarried, and therefore expected to go on more raids than his married counterparts. He goes without protest, but it’s not where is heart is. And there is another issue…the Jarl’s daughter and Gaz have been meeting in secret. She often comes at night, the two of them copulating in one of the unfinished boats.

[motomamita]

So...I would like to know if you could make a sequel to Viking!König,IT'S AMAZING AND I WOULD LOVE TO SEE MORE (if you want of course)

viking!könig × villager!female!reader

warnings: +18, smut, sex, breeding kink!

viking!könig

you went from being a simple villager girl to becoming the wife of one of the strongest vikings and mother of his children.

your twins had grown enough to be able to spend time without you around, again leaving you time alone to be with König. the other vikings played with your children, teaching them to fight and letting them win in each round. soon you had to make them their own fighting clothes and wooden swords.

"my wife, let the kids have fun on the beach."

you let your twins play in the sand, building sand castles and marrying fish with their custom-made tridents. they were on the beach where they used to return after long trips, there they had a small camp set up.

"i need time with my beautiful wife."

you knew what he meant, König couldn't spend much time without being inside you. you went to your improvised room among the trees, surrounded by nature and away from the other vikings. König made a sign to his right hand, ordering him to take care of his children and not to disturb him.

when you were far away, König didn't wait any longer and brought you closer to him. he gave you a messy kiss, using his tongue and playing with yours while his large hands touched your entire body through your clothes. you clung to him, stroking his long hair and clinging closer to him.

with ease he grabbed you by the waist and put you in doggy style, making sure you fell onto the soft blankets on the floor. He lifted your skirt made of bear leather, hunted by him and made by you, and brought his mouth to your pussy. he lick and suck your intimacy as if there were no tomorrow, making your legs tremble with pleasure.

desperate, he took his thick cock out of his pants and placed it at your entrance, fucking you slowly. his hands gripped your hips, his balls slapping against your clit as you moaned in pleasure.

"come on, precious, give me another child.."

you moaned in pleasure, eager to fulfill your husband's wishes and give him a new child, this time a girl.

könig growled into your ear, increasing his thrusts as his hands went to your breasts hidden under your shirt. his cock made room inside you, hitting your most sensitive spot and blinding you with so much pleasure.

just when you least expect it, König ended up inside you.

as if the gods had heard his prayers, your belly gradually grew in the following weeks. and on the least expected day on your bed on the ship, you gave birth to his first daughter.

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Finnish polka" - Ivar the Boneless x Reader

SUMMARY: After helping one of the northern Jarls, the Lothbrok brothers attend a celebratory feast. There, they're faced with a tradition of warriors catching flower crowns that belong to young women. How surprised Ivar is when you almost shove your crown into his hands.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.1k

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi

Ivar is tired.

Of course he's glad that Jarl Thorstein came out victorious. And that his brothers are fine. Still, he feels weary as the adrenaline leaves his body. His legs start to ache. Ivar downs the rest of his mead in hopes it makes him a little more deaf to his mood.

The upbeat, bright music fills his mind like an obsessive thought. His heart beats to the rhythm tapped by the feet of dancing women. They spin, jump and run around with flower crowns sitting atop their heads. How the wreaths remain immovable, he can't quite say.

Ivar is also angry.

As the local tradition entails, when the song ends, all the dancing young maidens will throw their flower crowns to the crowd. Whoever catches it, is believed to be the girl's lover chosen by the gods. However, whether the couple indulges and trusts gods' judgement is a different story. But if the wreath falls to the floor, the girl is said to remain unmarried for the next five years.

Ivar knows the chance of him somehow catching one of those is near zero. He's sitting quite far from the dancers. Even if he did catch it, he's disillusioned about the imminent dissatisfaction of the flower crown's ownert. Not only is he disabled in a way that almost entirely excludes him from fighting but he's also infamous for his ruthless nature and vengeful heart. Hardly a man who invokes desire. Still, some naive piece of him remains hopeful that maybe he's wrong. Maybe he can be terrible and loved all the same.

He shakes those weak delusions away from himself before they sour his mood further.

His piercing eyes have been following one of the dancers for the better part of the song when he catches himself. Her movements look effortless even when the musicians pick up the tempo. Clearly, she's done this dance one too many times to have any doubts about what she's doing. Joy beams from her in a way that makes her appear almost shining. The wreath on the top of her head is mostly green with white and red flowers. It makes Ivar think of the woods surrounding Kattegat; it makes him think of home.

Ivar leans toward Oddleif, one of the Jarl's men, who's sitting next to him.

"Who is she?"

Oddleif looks at Ivar out of the corner of his eye. He scoffs, takes a large sip of his drink and only then decides to answer:

"If you're thinking of catching her flower crown, don't." His blond braids dance slightly as he shakes his head. There's a hint of laughter hiding in the back of Oddleif's throat. "Half of the surviving army wants it."

"I have no care for flowers," Ivar lies through his teeth. "They have no use. They wilt and die and soon no one remembers them. I am simply curious about her."

"Her father is the blacksmith. You might have seen him in the battle, swinging that damned sledgehammer." Ivar silently nods. He remembers that man - tall as a pine tree and wider than a stable. The blacksmith invokes respect even when he's not decimating enemies like a troll equipped with a tree trunk. "He said once that he'll let any man marry his daughter but only if he can lift an anvil. Tried it once myself. Not that I had any success as you can imagine." Oddleif laughs bitterly and continues drinking. His eyes are glued to the dancers but Ivar knows that right now, the two of them are admiring the very same girl with a flower crown like a forest.

The melody continues to quicken. Despite being out of breath, you don't want it to end. Your feet ache but they do not falter nor do they stumble. It seems that their muscles know the dance better than your mind. There are a dozen girls dancing with you but you do not see them. Not really. They appear worlds away from you and the song of bagpipes and strings.

And then appears he.

A slouched, dark figure flies before your eyes as you're doing another pirouette. The man simply sits there, in the corner, but his presence is overwhelming. Or so you think. He does nothing and yet he tears his way into your microcosm of quick footwork, turns and lively polka.

You recognize him. Of course you do. Many whispers, equally frightened and amazed, have spoken of him. You have believed in all of them until the moment you met his gaze for that split second. Right then, somewhere between blinks and breaths, you renounce every gossip you've ever heard about him. A voice in the back of your head, a trickster or an oracle, nags at you to learn the truth yourself.

When the lively, fast melody comes to a stop, you find yourself shaken awake from the thoughts about Ivar the Boneless. The end of the song seems somewhat abrupt to you as you've been letting your fantasy run wild without paying much attention to what's going on around you. Dancing the last part purely by the memory of your muscles. The moment musicians stop playing, a small crowd begins to form in front of you. Men of different class, age and ancestry reach out their hands. Each one of them is more determined than the other to catch your wreath. They start to yell something but considering that the inside of the long hall is awfully loud anyway, you can't make out any words. Reading their lips, you can only tell when they're exclaiming different variations of your name.

They're only pushing towards you, shoving each other away. You keep taking steps backwards but the distance you create with each step is quickly shortened with the men calling out to you. You knew there would be many of them in front of you but never assumed that many. Instead of somewhat flattering, the siege is terrifying and imposing.

Looking for help or advice, just something that will ease your tension, you silently look around the long hall. Your gaze falls on the same slouched, dark figure. Strange peacefulness washes over you when his eyes meet yours.

The dim candlelight seems to bend around Ivar, making his corner appear darker than anywhere else in the long hall. He's simply sitting there. Maybe he's not interested? But the way he's staring at you shows nothing if not burning curiosity. The sons of Ragnar aren't know for their patience. No, they're said to take whatever they want the moment their desire sparks. Despite that, the youngest of them, and arguably the most famous, appears to be waiting. But for what exactly?

The fresh pine needles prick your skin. You furrow your eyebrows. Your gaze falls to the wreath and then comes back to Ivar. Could it be...?

It isn't much of a throw, really. You toss the flower crown towards him without looking anywhere else but into Ivar's eyes. Without as much as blinking, he catches the wreath with ease as though he has been prepared for that. Low murmurs hit your ears but quickly the sounds of disappointment fall silent as it's made clear who caught your wreath. Despite their initial determination, the men who had been reaching out to you suddenly disperse like fog does in the early morning. They knew better than to get under the skin of a Lothbrok. Especially that one.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Ivar is holding up the wreath. Despite his words, he makes no effort to offer it back to you. His eyes are bright and glistening, the corner of his mouth is tugged ever-so-slightly upwards. He appears amused.

At first, it was nice to finally sit down after dancing for what seemed to be hours on end. But now, when you're facing the consequences of your spur-of-the-moment decision, the tension sets in once more. This time, however, it doesn't feel threatening. In turn, the nervousness is somewhat welcome like the jittery state before a surprise is revealed.

"If I wanted to keep it, I wouldn't have thrown it," you answer in a light tone.

"And why should I keep it?"

The blue eyes study you for a moment. It's a strange feeling - you can't help but think that the longer you are in Ivar's presence, talking or not, he's reading your mind and soul. He stares at you in a way that tells you he already holds all the answers but wants you to confirm them.

"It's said to bring good luck." You shrug your shoulders. "Until the wreath wilts and dies, Freya and Freyr will look after you."

Ivar looks at the flower crown again. Only now, when he's holding it, does he realize that for a flower crown, there aren't many flowers. A few sandworts and poppies, yes, but the wreath is made mostly of evergreen plants. It might take weeks until the crown wilts.

The microcosm seems closed again. Now it's not you and the bagpipes but you and him. It's strange and it's new but it's not threatening. It's not the kind of presence a man of his infamy should have. Or perhaps you've simply fallen for his honey trap.

"Why did you throw it to me?" Ivar tries to make the question seem unimportant, just curiosity brought to light. But he can't quite convince himself that he doesn't care. There's a hint of something vulnerable and genuine when the words roll off his tongue. It's easy to miss like a dandelion clock carried away by a gust of wind.

You wish you knew the answer yourself.

"I don't know really," you say honestly. "Perhaps it was one of the gods that threw the flower crown for me." You make a pause. Ivar's face is unreadable. "Or perhaps I have no interest in urgent, desperate men."

Ivar chuckles. A deep shadow is covering part of his face, making him appear kind of sinister. For a moment, you question whether he's laughing with you or at you.

"And what exactly makes you think I'm not urgent or desperate?" he continues. You notice his smile is growing wider. That glint of amusement in his blue eyes has changed in mischief. "What if I'm worse than all of them? You surely know who I am."

"Of course I do, Ivar the Boneless," you drone the words. In a barely noticeable fashion, he clenches his jaw when you say his name. It makes him feel a strange, burning sensation in his stomach but Ivar is left unsure whether he likes it or detests. "The whispers of your ruthless character are unending."

"But you're not afraid?" he asks with both disbelief and suspicion. A girl with a flower crown doesn't necessarily strike him as fearless in any way. Or this whole strange situation is a little too good, too dream-like, for him to accept it at face-value.

Ivar's smile falters when your face takes on a confident, maybe even arrogant, expression. He's taken aback.

"I'm a woman of the North," you say while leaning towards him on the table. The distance between your faces shortnes. "The only person I fear is my own reflection."

The sudden closeness makes Ivar inhale sharply. The strong smell of pine needles fills his nostrils. For a moment, his imagination runs wild but it's not his fault - he has no grasp on it:

How those big eyes glistened in the semi-dark of the long hall as you were staring at him. Your smirk, somewhat challenging and beckoning him to push on. Then, the smell of conifer that shakes all senses awake. His fantasy leaves the northern snows and travelles to forests, to him brushing pine needles from your hair and your naked, flushes skin smelling of evergreen trees.

But quickly his shaken awake, to his utmost displeasure, by you:

"Well, if you don't want it, I suppose I should take it back, no?"

Your hand unsurely reaches out for the wreath in Ivar's hand. He's quick to pull his arm back.

"It's bad luck to take back gifts," he states plainly. In an act of nonchalance, Ivar is playing with the wreath, spinning it around his finger. "I should like to keep it."

Sometimes you come back to the night you've met the infamous Viking, when you're rendered sleepless while he's calmly breathing next to you, getting the rest he desperately needs. How funny all of it seems - that a flower crown in bloodied, merciless hands could lead to having a genuine crown on your head. Maybe you were right, after all, and it really was the hand of one of the gods that threw the wreath for you.

[latenightdaydreams]

Can you write about Viking!Konig who's the leader of his clan. One time he raids a random village and meets fem!reader, who's beautiful with her hazel eyes and round breasts. Then he takes her as his wife!!!!! Ahhhhh I'm crazy about this. I'm sorry for asking too much 😭😭😭 BTW thank you for accepting my previous request ❤❤❤ love ya so muchhhhh

König is 100000% a boobie man and I will die on that hill😮‍💨 lmao, I LOVE this!!!! Don't ever feel bad for requesting. I'm having a bit of a writers block and this story helped me find my flow again🩷. I hope you're well and taking care of yourself🥰🥰

Viking!König x Reader (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List

>cw: fem/afab, violence, naughty thoughts

1.0k word count

Part 2 Part 3

.

.

You wake up from your slumber hearing the screams from your neighbors in the small village you live in. You rush past your family who is now also scrambling to their feet, your husband rushing to gather himself as your children panic. You open your door slightly to see rooftops on fire and dead bodies lying in the roads.

Quickly, you close the door and turn to your husband with wide eyes, “Callum, it’s Vikings…” Your voice shakes with fear. You’ve heard stories from other villages about their attacks, leaving nothing but death and sorrow in their paths.

“We have to run, grab the children!” Callum whispers loudly as you stand there feeling overwhelmed with emotions. Everyone always assumed this village would be safe, untouchable, but this proved them all wrong.

Rushing to your children, you quickly squat down, “We are going to have to run, as fast as you can, okay?”

The children nod their heads crying, your oldest trying to be brave for you. Just then you all jump as the door is flung open. Screaming, you turn to see three big men and an equally large woman enter your home. An even bigger man, ducks to enter your home. Your eyes go wide seeing him, you’ve heard of the giant Viking man, but you assumed he was more of a myth to instill fear in people.

Using your body to shield your children as you step in front of them, you look to your husband. Callum seems to be frozen in fear, unable to even breathe. There’s a moment where no one moves and it’s quiet other than the sounds of your children crying.

The large man has a mask covering his face, his pale blue eyes are the only part of his face that is visible in the low light in the home. He has an aura about him that could strike fear in any warrior’s heart.

“P-please leave us, we don’t have much.” You speak up, your voice trembling.

The leader turns to two of the other Vikings and speaks to them in a language that you’ve never heard before. They nod and move to my husband, restraining him. He screams and the woman hits him, making you fear for your lives more. You look up wide eyed as the tall man begins to approach you.

König sees the family before him, a man frozen in fear, three children cowering behind their mother, and then their mother… you. A small but brave woman, brave enough to speak up when her husband couldn’t. It makes him impressed, wondering what type of woman could be so bold.

König approaches you with a hungry look in his eyes. His gaze drops down to the way the thin fabric of your nightgown clings to your body. Your breasts are massive and perfectly round, nipples hard and poking through the fabric. König has always loved a woman with large breasts and a little extra. Your breasts looking so perfectly full, his mind begins to wonder if you are still feeding your youngest. Your body is simply perfect for him.

“Name?” König asks in a low voice.

“Leave her alone!” Your husband shouts, trying to protect you. He gets hit by one of the people restraining him.

“I- I’m y/n.” You respond trying to be brave.

The closer he got the more his true size became obvious. The smell of his clothes-stained copper from the blood and his natural musk filled your nostrils. You feel small as he towers over you. His eyes are still wandering your body.

“I’m König.” He says finally.

He feels himself getting lost in your eyes as he takes in the beautiful color. You gaze up at him with the most stunning sage green eyes speckled with golden brown. The most beautiful hazel eyes he has ever seen. Gently he raises a hand to your face and caresses it, leaving a streak of blood behind. Your skin is so soft to his large and rough hand. He can only imagine the rest of you is this soft.

“Is this your husband?” He points to Callum.

“Yes, and these are our children. Please, we are simply farmers. We don’t have much.”

“Hm, I see.” König takes a deep breath and looks down at your breasts again. “Are you still feeding the youngest?”

“Y-yes…” You answer hesitantly wondering what type of question is that.

That is exactly what he wanted to hear. You are not only bold, daring, and beautiful; but also soft, desirable, and can create children for him. This is what he’s been looking for, and he finds you here. Wasting your milk on a weak man’s offspring.

“Perfect, you’ll be coming with me.”

Your jaw drops stunned as you look up at him shaking your head no, “I- I can’t leave my family. My husband-”

“That man? He’s not worthy of you. You deserve more, and I intend on giving it to you. Now please Liebling, don’t fight.”

König steps to you and grabs your arm to pull you away from your children. Your husband begins to yell at König, saying that he can’t do this. He can’t just take you. Your children stand confused, not understanding the whole situation completely while the youngest cries.

“Please, don’t.” You whimper, looking back at your family as he drags you away.

“You’ll be happy with me. You aren’t a farmer's wife, you’re a queen. My queen. Now come.” König scoops you up into his arms bridal style, his fingers digging into the supple flesh of your thighs as he carries you away from your small home.

“Don’t worry, my people will let your family live.” König whispers to you as he walks. His eyes are drifting down your body. He feels the anticipation rising as he begins to walk you back to his clan’s ship on the coast near your village. He wants you in his home, in his bed, undressed where he can enjoy you and gaze into your eyes as he makes you cum. Soon.

Part 2, Part 3

[1-800-choke-me]

Hvitserk: I sleep with an axe under my pillow

Ubbe: I sleep with a knife under mine

Y/N: you're both pathetic

Hvitserk: oh yeah, than what do you sleep with?

Y/N: Ivar

[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.

[axelsagewrites]

Where Am I?*Part Five

Pairing: modern!f!reader x (to be determined...) Ubbe, Ivar, Sigurd, Hviserks, Bjorn

Word count:  1531

Warnings: reader learning archer, sassy bjorn, emotionally complex ivar, threats, time travel, drinking, hangover

Series Summary: After falling head first the reader wakes up face to face with a group of strangely dressed men who look eerily like the vikings she studies

Part one Part two Part three Part four

Masterlist Here

Last night had been the first truly relaxing nights of your stay so far. You drank, sang guitar round a campfire on the beach, learned some Viking songs and tall tales, and now woke up with a splitting hangover. “Time to get up,” Ubbe said as he opened the door.

You just grumbled in response, pulling the covers further over your head. You heard sighing then footsteps then suddenly felt the shivering cold. Ubbe stood grinning over your, “Revenge,” he grinned down at you, offering you a hand.

“Die,” you grumbled, burying your head into the pillow.

You could hear laughter from the door, “Finally becoming one of us,” Ivar, you think, laughed.

“Or worse. she’s becoming like you,” Sigurd’s teasing led to more cursing, some thuds, and Ubbe running to split up some kind of fight as you sat up in bed. This was going to be a long day.

-

“Why do I need to learn this?” you whined as Hvitserk helped you load an arrow onto your bow.

“Well if you like to eat you need to learn how to shoot,” Ubbe said as he and Sigurd leant against a tree to watch your struggles. Ivar was sat just a few feet away on a cut down tree.

all boys were noticeably behind you as they watched the arrow sink into a tree three feet from your target. Hvitserk helped you load another arrow before making the mistake of joking to a very hungover, very fed-up woman. “How are you getting worse?”

You huffed, spinning around still holding the bow making all the boys duck. Even Hvitserk jumped away, “Watch where you point that thing!” Sigurd said, hands covering his face.

“Scared of some little girl?” Ivar laughed. Though it stopped when you turned the arrow at him. He held his hands in the air in mock defence, “I thought we were friends,”

“Don’t test me,” you grumbled, turning back to the target. “This was so much easier on the Wii,”

“What’s a Wii?” you sighed as the four asked in unison. Instead of answering you ignored them, rolling your shoulders back before taking aim again. Breathe in, breathe out, and release.

Thud. The arrow hit the edge of the target. “You’ll get there- “Ubbe tried to speak but you cut him off.

“I did it!” you almost screamed, jumping up and down. “Ha take that!” you said, thrusting the bow up like you’d won the Olympics making the boys laugh.

“Please if we were hunting not only would you scare away the deer, but you only would’ve shot his ankle,” Hvitserk said, as he pulled out another arrow for you to use.

You rolled your eyes as you loaded it yourself this time, all be it with a slight struggle without his wins, “Don’t you guys ever celebrate the small victories?”

“What’s the point of that?” Ubbe asked with all seriousness.

“For motivation? To be happy?” you said, like it was the most obvious thing as you lined up your shot. Breathe in and release. “See!” you said, the arrow now slightly closer to the centre than before, “Positive thinking gets you places,”

“Yeah, like the bottom of a pile of dead bodies,” Ivar chortled.

You turned around with a sickeningly sweet smile, “Would you like to be one of them?”

A small smirk formed on his face as the other boys laughed. You felt Hvitserk place his arm over your shoulder, “Oh you’ll fit in nicely soon enough,”

-

By the end of archery practise you were now able to hit the target each time. Not the centre but still. Progress was there. Then it was there turn to do their real practising. Watching Ivar hit the bullseye with his axe each time as he glared at Sigurd made you thankful guns weren’t invented here. You almost told them about them but even if they were nice to you, you didn’t need to give them anymore ideas.

By the time you got back to Kattegat the sun was beginning to set and dinner was nearly ready. Bjorn joined you once again. Apparently, this was unusual for the Ironborn however it was Hvitserk who told you this and you quickly learned he was a massive gossip. Not that you were complaining. However thankfully for you Ragnar and Aslaug were not joining you. Its not that you didn’t like them, but Ragnar asked you a million question while she had a way of staring through your sole.

Somehow you ended up between him and Ivar and any time someone told a story your legend you didn’t understand he was quick to whisper in your ear. “What lies are you telling her brother?” Bjorn, who was sat across from you, asked as he was telling a story of his latest travels.

“That you truly are as tough as you look,” Hvitserk smirked. Despite not having Ivar’s rage or Sigurd’s instigation, Hvitserk was clearly able to hold his own.

Bjorn hummed disapprovingly before turning back to you, “How unfortunate you travel all this way to be stuck with these fools,” he said, glancing round the table, “Not a real man among them,”

“Maybe,” you said, deciding if you were going to be surrounded by argumentative Vikings you may as well try fit in, “Or maybe we have a different definition of a real man,”

“And what would your definition be?” he asked, putting his elbows on the table, and leaning in closer.

His eyes were locked on yours, so you decided instead to let yours look him up and down before sitting back, “Why? Do you need some lessons on how to be one?”

The younger Ragnorsson’s sniggered while Ubbe watched the whole scene carefully. Your eyes stayed locked on Bjorn’s until he sat back in his chair with a smile, “There’s hope for you yet, little one,” he said before dropping the smile, “Though I don’t recommend questioning me again,” The sight made your blood run cold but you did your best to smile, bringing a cup of wine to your lips as the meal soon continued.

-

Somehow you managed to escape from the brothers while they were distracted by finding a new crate of ale. While drinking wasn’t exactly restricted in university, they drank like it was a sport and there was no way you could keep up.

Even though you now wore a Vikings dress and apron there was some things from home you couldn’t let go of; modern underwear and sleeping in a comfy t-shirt. It was the one you had arrived in though admittedly you were going to have to wash it and your other clothes soon. The issue was that meant asking one of the brothers where or how to wash it and you had no desire for them to see these items. Well not yet at least.

 When you got back to your room you slipped out the starched dress and into the soft cotton shirt and got under your furs about to sleep. Before you could however the door opened. “Ivar?”

“My brothers bore me,” he sighed as he crawled over to your bed. You pulled the furs slightly closer, realising you only had the t-shirt on as your cheeks flushed. Ivar took no notice as he pulled himself up to sit beside you, “You were the only interesting one there,”

“A little flattery goes a long way,” you said but he quirked his head at that, “It’s an expression where I’m from,”

“Is flattery not a good thing?” he asked.

You shrugged, “Depends. My professor told me flattery and insults raise the same question; what do you want? Though I think he stole that from someone,”

“Well, all I want is your company,” he answered and at rare moments when you were alone Ivar didn’t look blood thirsty and terrifying. In fact, he seemed kind of gentle as he let a small smile escape. You couldn’t help letting out a light laugh, “Though I don’t understand how someone can steal words,”

Again, you shrugged, “I guess our people just value different things,” you said as a silence washed over you both.

After a few moments Ivar broke it, “I don’t think so. I think, deep down, all we all want is to be safe,” he said it quietly, as if he was worried someone may eaves drop.

It broke your heart a little though, “I suppose but I would’ve said happy,”

“Happy is a dangerous emotion,” he said, staring off into the distance, “everyone craves it, so they chase it, but they assume there is only so much of it to go around so they steal it. I do not need to be happy. Just content,”

You weren’t sure why you grabbed his hand, but you gave it a soft squeeze. His cheeks tinged pink, but you pretended not to notice, “I think content is a different kind of happy. Maybe if we were all so content with it, we could all be happy,”

“Maybe,”

“It’s a dangerous word,” you said.

Ivar snorted, “How can a word be dangerous?”

“How can happiness be?” you shot back with a small smile.

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@itsmathilda @tessakate @ravenmoore14 @obx-josie18 @427120lxld @meg-ro @headinfantasy @strvngestark @jjkjbhj @perla434 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @selenestar78 @randomstory56 @qardasngan @im-the-fucking-lunar-prince @luvdella @bryandechartisasmolbean @glorywielder101 @tiinkerbell @the-holy-pidgeon @andreaxxx44 @winterklls @bdudette @f1uveryysblog @ellamarvete @pear-1206 @mushupork4u @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @mbruben-stien

Vikings Taglist (part one)

@tessakate @hypocritic-trash-baby @ringpopdust @bellroclucky03 @thefirebreather00 @ellabellabus07 @sashadevil766 @younjo @eldritch-bunny-teeth @re-per @marchuuu @dreamspirit666 @sununicorn @vlynccx @goldenheart703 @huskyhunny @cathattery @moneypriestess @kanday @baby-w3-ar3-infinite @the-holy-pigeon