#Vikings reader

[bunnibombz]

Viking! Simon who you never expected to be the one to court you. Bringing you massive bucks and wolf pelts from his hunts, jewelry made for you from woven iron and shining beads, racks of firewood brought to you through the wintertime to keep your home warm. Simon hadn't said more than a handful of words to you, but his intentions were clear.

Viking! Simon who was waiting near your front garden for you one early morning when you were leaving to wash clothes in the creek, his hand clinched tight around something in his fist. He greeted you softly, reaching out for your hand and placing the object in your palm. You smiled as you held the necklace up softly in your fingers, studying the woven iron anchoring a black wolf's tooth into a pendant, the chain made from delicate silver.

"I knew i would give this to my future bride" he murmured quietly as if to himself as he tied it around your neck, a giddy smile stretching your cheeks as you turned in his arms, pressing against him and hearing his heart pounding.

Viking! Simon who asked for you to do his war paint before he went off to a raid at the end of winter. Promising to come back to you in quiet murmurs over the crackling firelight in his main room, the softness of your fingers dragging the charcoal paint across his skin puling out all the words he had wanted to say to you before but was afraid of admitting his feelings.

Viking! Simon who returns from the raid the first hot morning of summer. The bag of loot falling from his shoulder and his strong arms encircling you against his chest the moment he sees you. He chuckled lightly at the concerned look on your face as your hands grazed the fresh scar on his chest.

"Did everything I could to get back to you lovie" He said, rough hand soft as he cupped your jaw and turned your face closer to him. Your heart felt it would skip out of your chest as his lips pressed against yours, a satisfied hum in his chest as his hands gripped your waist.

Viking! Simon who marries you the following day. Not wanting to wait anymore, that journey having made him wait long enough to make you his completely. He keeps you close that night as the festivities of your wedding go on far past moonrise, his hand or arm never leaving you. Feeding you juicy meat from his fingers and tilting his cups of mead and water up to your lips. Finally things died down a bit, and Simon lifted you up over his shoulder and carried you giggling back to his house. He had already moved your things in before the ceremony.

Viking! Simon ravaged you in his bed that night. His fingers were gentle as he squeezed and rolled your nipples while his lips and teeth sucked and nipped roughly at your bare flesh. His cock throbbed deep in your gut when he breached your virgin entrance, both of your voices raised in broken moans as you learn each other's bodies for the first time. Your mouths were locked in a messy tongue filled kiss when he filled you up, hot cum shooting in creamy spurts against your womb as you locked your legs around him. Limbs tangled and covered in sweat, he takes you until the morning birds begin singing.

Viking! Simon who is beaming with pride as he lays his rough hands against your swollen belly months later, his baby growing big and strong and kicking fiercely against their fathers touch.

"A warrior already" he chuckled when your stomach jumped a little, the impression of a little foot or hand pressing against your skin. Your husband holds you close, pulling you in tight to his warm chest and just breathing you in through the cold night.

"Strong like his father" you whispered with a soft smile, caressing your stomach lovingly.

Viking! Simon who has tears in eyes a month later when his baby is born. A strong, beautiful little girl that makes his heart swell. She's so tiny in his arms as he holds her while you rest, the safest place in the world with her father who would burn the world to ashes before he let anyone hurt either of you. He presses his lips to her forehead in a soft kiss as her tiny fingers wrapped around one of his and he realized that with you and her, he finally found something to live for.

[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 :(

[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.

[thoughtsboutem]

let's take ibuprofen together

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [1]

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

> summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold > 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."

[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.

[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.

[flowermiist]

Just imagine THIS but with John Price...

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

[ghouljams]

Bath [Chapter 7]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You eye the axe over the door again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is no humanity here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better than being a viking. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay where you are.” You order.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just him then. 

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

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

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

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

Not a piece of him you like then.

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

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

Your heart falls.

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

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

[entitled-fangirl]

A ring and a cold heart.

Ivar the Boneless x Lagerthasdottir!reader

Summary: Lagertha's gift of a daughter and Ragnar's monster of a son have loved one another for far too long. But things in Kattegat are fragile, and the two now must make choices.

Warnings: mostly spoilers for S4b

A/n: I had to break this into sections. Trust that p2 is gonna get serious real fast.

Masterlist

........................................

The Seer had been right.

Lagertha would never give Ragnar a son, never bearing one after her Bjorn. But when Earl Kalf came into her life, she suddenly found herself with child.

There was little hope that the child would make it. After all, the Seer said so.

But a daughter?

Lagertha's second chance to make up for the death of her sweet Gyda. She held the babe close.

And yet.

No one predicted that she'd one day end up in the arms of Ivar the Boneless.

…

"It seems like a death sentence," she explained to Ivar. "Suicide, even."

"My father wants me to go," Ivar shrugged. "He needs me. I can't say no to that. To the gods."

She sighed. He was beyond stubborn. A true Ragnarsson trait.

She often traveled between Hedeby and Kattegat, staying with Bjorn when here. It was a strange thing to have her around, but Bjorn was the Prince of Kattegat, so others didn't have much room to question.

Plus, the Ragnarssons didn't mind a bit.

She was neither the daughter of Ragnar or Aslaug, but because of her connection to Bjorn, she was a sister to all five of them.

Well, four of them.

Ivar's love had always gone beyond that. As did hers for him.

"What if you go with Bjorn instead?" She tried. Her hand stretched out over his. "To the Mediterranean."

His head lulled. "My brothers have always doubted me. Not my father. He knows what the gods have in store for me."

"And what if all that is store is your death?"

He ran his tongue across his teeth. "Then I will die."

"Marry me before you go," she rushed out, immediately caving in once it was uttered.

"I will not risk making you a widow before you get to truly be a wife."

She felt tears well up in her eyes. She was never the strong one around. Lagertha swore to have a peaceful reign when she became Earl. There was no need to teach her daughter the hardships of being a shield maiden. She had no need to- Lagertha on one side and Bjorn on the other always. Gyda was so soft. So kind. Y/n was no different, only older. She had a chance to grow up kind.

"Don't cry," Ivar huffed. He had no idea what to do with tears. "I'll be back soon enough."

"Swear to it."

He shook his head. "I will not swear if I don't know the will of the gods."

"Then swear you'll marry me if you return."

He couldn't stop another scoff, "woman-"

"-Ivar, please."

"Ivar!" Aslaug's voice interrupted.

The queen stepped into the room, her worry turning to amusement at the sight of the two. She'd always had an odd relationship with Lagertha. How strange was fate to bring their children together? 

"Let me speak to my mother," Ivar gently waved.

Y/n nodded and stood, but her wrist was caught by him. "I swear to it," he remarked, looking her firmly in the eye.

…

Lagertha had come to Kattegat with the help of Torvi and Margerette. She hadn't dragged Y/n into the plans.

So when she took Kattegat, Y/n stood at the sidelines in shock, even letting out a shriek when Aslaug fell to the ground dead.

She wanted to feel betrayed by her mother. She should have. But she couldn't find it in herself. Lagertha had sat on the sidelines for too long as her world was taken away.

So she was torn when Ubbe and Sigurd had come to her privately.

"How are you not angry," Ubbe lectured his brother. "Our mother is dead."

"And it is for the best," Sigurd huffed. "Y/n's mother is the only one around here that knows how to truly mother. Look at Bjorn."

"Y/n?" Ubbe questioned.

She sat with her head in her hands, utterly confused by it all. "I won't choose sides."

"We all know it will come to it eventually."

She lifted her head with a heartbroken look. "Then I side with Bjorn. The side he chooses, I follow."

Ubbe nodded. "Very well. So, we wait for Bjorn."

"No," Sigurd shivered. "We wait for Ivar more."

The three exchanged nervous glances.

…

Ivar had returned first. Carried by soldiers of King Ecbert's guard, he was set onto the wooden dock of Kattegat.

She couldn't muster the strength to go welcome him. He wouldn't find out such devastating news from her.

But the next day, Ivar crawled his way into the feast hall with his picks. The entire room quieted as they waited for what the angry son of Aslaug would say.

His eyes slowly trailed from Lagertha, to Torvi, to Astrid, then finally, Y/n.

She stood to the side, a completely guilty expression strung across her face.

No one was immune to noticing the way his eyes glued themselves to her in every room.

It had been like that since her first visit to Kattegat.

It's what finally drove the stake between Sigurd and Ivar. The love Bjorn had for Y/n that he never had for his own daughter, Siggy. And how Sigurd had loved little Siggy.

Y/n's life was always a comparison to one's already dead. All did it but Ivar. Perhaps that is why she was so content to be stuck in his web.

When Largertha refused Ivar's challenge, he was becoming angrier. He knew his easiest chance to kill her was by hand-to-hand combat. Ivar was a cripple, but a damn good one.

"I will kill you, Lagertha. Your fate is fixed," he growled.

Content with his threat, he looked back to Y/n, pulling a chain from around his neck.

A ring.

She felt something in her stomach twist at the shimmer that crossed her vision. His fingers rubbed over it a few times, egging for a reaction from the girl he promised to marry.

He let the chain drop to his chest with a smirk. Especially when her eyes followed it.

…

As soon as the meeting was adjourned, she rushed out to Ragnar's old cabin. The children had found it when he'd left, and it was their designated space away from the rest of the world. Plus, that was all the boys had to live in now. Ivar would be there.

She rushed in, not caring that the other brothers were gathered around. "Ivar?"

The three others looked at one another with questioning glances before completely packing up and walking out. The brothers weren't about to intervene.

The door closed before Ivar finally spoke. "What do you want?"

"Are you not grateful to be home? To be back? To be the only survivor?" She sat next to him, her voice lowering. "Are you not happy to see me?"

He scoffed, turning away.

"I didn't know, Ivar. I swear to you."

"Seems like we enjoy making swears we don't intend to keep, hm?" He mocked. 

Her eyes moved down to the chain again. She sat up straighter and brushed a hand over his chest. Over the ring. "You truly won't marry me now?" She asked softly.

His hand wrapped around her wrist gruffly. But after the initial touch, his grip softened. His jaw was clenched, his anger unchecked. But he couldn't help the flutter that still moved through his chest. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't know if I want children with traitor blood."

Her fingers twiddled with the ring. "You know better than I that we don't choose our mothers. The gods do."

"And yet, you'll never help me get my revenge."

"No," she agreed. "I won't."

His eyes wandered over her face. The anger bubbled under his skin. But not at her. And that frustrated him more. "I'll still marry you. But you cannot fault your future husband when he has his revenge."

"But Bjorn will-"

"-That is my offer to you, my love. If you want this ring," he offered, pulling the chain from around his neck and setting it on the wooden table, "Then that is your choice. I have taken my stand. You know what I will do. Will you still marry me?"

She stared down at the jewelry. She'd longed for this for years now. Being his wife.

This could make or break everything.

"I… I don't know," she admitted back to him.

"You don't know?"

"I should wait. For Bjorn to come back. And Hvitserk."

He set a heavy hand on her thigh. Not menacing, but not softly either. "Will you ever choose things for yourself? Or will you wait on Bjorn hand and foot as he decides your fate?"

"Ivar-"

"-No. I do not mind if you must think on it more. But do not do what Bjorn says purely because you think it is right. He makes mistakes." His head tipped down and his gaze turned menacing. "You will choose."

She nodded. "I need time."

"Good," his voice lightened. He even managed a smile. His body leaned forward like he was thinking of kissing her, but he paused and gave a quick nod of his head in acceptance. Then he looked at the ring and her one last time before pulling himself down to the floor and leaving.

She exhaled a long breath, taking the chain and placing it around her neck, tucking it away.

…

Another feast, another problem.

Y/n wasn't far off from Torvi and Astrid, hearing them speak about something being wrong as the large doors closed.

"Like what?" Astrid asked.

"I don't know, but something."

Sigurd let out a small grunt as someone grabbed him from behind and held him at knifepoint. That began a whole group coming forward and grabbing at Lagertha's shield maidens and earls alike, restraining them all.

A hand grabbed Y/n's wrist, holding it out.

Ivar's ring was wrapped around her finger. She'd chosen.

Whoever it was dropped her hand entirely and stepped away from her, meaning she stood amidst the chaos, entirely left alone.

Everyone began to part, and Y/n tucked away towards Sigurd. Her hand grabbed the wrist of the man holding him in an attempt to pry him away.

Ivar and Ubbe approached Lagertha's throne. Lagertha was rather unfazed by it, standing and grabbing her sword slowly. She was a fighter to the end.

Ivar was impressed by her willingness to face him. He sat up with his spike as Ubbe circled around the queen.

The tension could be cut with a knife. Waiting for someone to make the first move.

The door burst open, and in walks Bjorn.

"If you kill her, my brothers," he sauntered, "you'll have to kill me too."

Y/n and Sigurd both let out relieved sighs. The argument was far from over. But with Bjorn there, the fight would not be one-sided.

"Maybe we should," Ivar warned.

"Shut up," Ubbe immediately countered. He respected Bjorn immensely, and starting conflict with Ironside was like starting to dig your own grave. "She killed our mother," he mentioned. Bjorn would see where he was coming from. Surely.

"I know. You want revenge. So would I." He took in a deep breath. "But more importantly, we have to avenge our father. That is why I came back. And that," he tapped his axe against Ivar's cheek, "is what we are going to do."

Lagertha smiled and threw down her sword, prompting the rest to follow.

As Sigurd was let go, Y/n immediately tended to him, rubbing a soft hand over his neck at the irritated skin. 

Frustrated, Ubbe and Ivar left.

She was torn between following them and staying with Bjorn and Lagertha.

But after speaking to the new queen, Bjorn spotted her. That made the decision. She approached him, smoothing out her dress as she weaved through everyone.

Within a few minutes, the feast began again like nothing had happened, but Bjorn was still far from jovial.

She wasn't even sure the viking knew what that word meant.

"So, I travel all the way past Frankia, through pirated seas and storms, I keelhaul my own uncle, and still," he grumbles, "things turn to ruin here the moment I turn away."

"You hated Aslaug," Y/n points out. "You always have."

"Since I watched her sleep with my father the first time they met, yes. Yes, I have," he complained. "But our mother has caused a rift that I'd rather not have now. I have revenge of my own to get and I need my brothers in order to do it."

"You have your brothers," she pointed out. "Of Ragnar's wrongful death, you all agree."

"I will not play guard to mother's kingdom more than I did before. I want to sail. To travel."

"Then don't."

He let out a long sigh. "This is why I love the sea. It is predictable. People are not. Like you," he pointed his cup towards her.

"Like me?"

"You wear a ring and you say nothing about it. You have not asked for my allowance. Let me see it." He held out a large hand, to which she slipped the band off and gave to him. 

Bjorn flipped it in his palm a few times before a daunting thought came over him. "Where did you get this?" He questioned roughly. "Who is proposing with this ring? I'll kill him."

"Brother," she scoffed. "Why the sudden rage?"

"Does mother know?" He asked in complete ignorance of her previous question.

"No. No, and she won't. Not right now."

"I'll ask one more time," Bjorn growled, leaning across the table. "Who is proposing with Mother's ring?"

Oh.

Where had Ivar gotten Lagertha's ring? 

"Our mother wore this ring until the day she and I left Ragnar. Her wedding band. Now answer the question, sister."

"Give it back, Bjorn." She tried to muster up confidence. It didn't quite work.

Bjorn's lips quirked up at that, all too amused. "I don't think I will. I think I'll hold onto this until you decide to ask for my blessing."

"That is cruel!"

He shrugged. "I don't care. Either you tell me now or he can come get it from me himself."

She let out a tantrum-like grunt and stood up, her chair scrapping against the wood. She weaved through the crowd and finally out into the cold air.

…

The journey was a little harder in the dark than she'd thought. The air was cold and frigid, and she was far from dressed for it. The wind chilled her immensely, traveling down her bones. Her chattering teeth exhaled a visible breath when she saw the cabin.

"Ivar? Ivar!" She called out as she neared.

Hvitserk was the one to come out with a concerned brow raised. 

Y/n felt guilty, still not welcoming Hvitserk after the raid. She all but collapsed into his chest, wrapping her arms around him and finally relaxing.

Hvitserk froze for a moment. Touch was never his thing. "You miss me?"

"Like hell," she mumbled against his chest.

He chuckled and circled his arm around her. "Already using Christian phrases, hm? Don't let Ivar hear you. Congratulations, by the way."

It was her turn to freeze, her head tilting up until she looked straight up at him. "What?"

"You're to be married, are you not? He said so." At her hum of agreement, he rubbed a hand down her back. "You're freezing, sister. You'll catch a chill if I don't get you inside."

He guided her in. The warm air from their small fire immediately caused a shiver down her body. Hvitserk frowned and held a hand to her forehead. "Gods. I'd think you were half dead like this."

That caught Ivar's attention. His head snapped up, his entire body relaxing at the sight of her. "Did you travel this far like that?" He questioned, his hand motioning to her lack of heavy clothing.

She stepped to the fire, sitting down next to Ubbe. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, trying to transfer some of his heat. After all, he'd been scheming over the flames for a while now. He could afford to give some of the warmth up. 

Ubbe gave a small glare to Ivar, effectively telling him to drop the question. "Let me see this ring Ivar said so much about."

Her face dropped. "Oh. I… it's…"

One by one, the siblings realized that something was not quite right and Ubbe should have minded his own business. In all honesty, it was a fair ask. One that usually is fine to ask to an engaged woman. 

Ivar let out a long, loud breath. He seethed from his place at the table. "Where is it? I was told it was on your finger only hours ago."

How to explain that Bjorn had taken it without Ivar immediately growing angry? After all, Ironside didn't know that it was Ivar's. It wasn't personal at all. But that's not how Ivar saw things.

"Where is it?" He asked in a firmer tone. His head tilted. His tongue ran over the back of his teeth. "Did someone take it from you?"

"Don't be angry-"

"-No I AM ANGRY!" He yelled. "Tell me yes or no. Have you gone back on your word?"

"Ivar," Ubbe scorned. "Let the woman speak." He pulled a piece of hair from her face. "Go on."

She sniffled and moved closer to the fire to warm her hands. She stared at her ring finger longingly. "I do, Ivar. I want to marry you."

Hvitserk smirked widely, peering at his brother in a tease. His brother. In love. 

Ivar exhaled in a hidden form of relief. "Alright."

"I did not tell Bjorn about it yet. I wanted to wait…"

"-But?" Ubbe interrupted.

"But Bjorn saw it before I could." She frowned. "Where did you get Lagertha's ring?"

Every head shot to Ivar in shock.

He shrugged. "Father gave it to me. On our way to Wessex. I told him that we would marry when I returned and he gave me the ring. Chain and all. He said he'd worn it around his neck since the day your mother left him."

............................................

[fantasydreamland]

ME WITH FICTIONAL MEN

[dante-mightdie]

What are you thinking of the rituals 👀

mead ceremony where he carries you across the dining hall wordlessly, chants and cheers as this brooding brute sits at the ceremonial chair in the centre with you in his lap

traditional honeymoon where you spend a month satisfying each other emotionally, physically and mentally. you haven’t worn clothes in two weeks, bundled up in thick furs and woolly blankets. dizzy off the honeyed liquor you ply each other with…

mmhmhmhmhmhmhm

[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.

[avalilsbfss]

Jacaerys velaryon- riding the crown 18+ smut

King!jacaerys x wife!reader

Warnings: smut, ‘heir making’, p in v , cowgirl, AU no dance of dragons. Teasing, slight humiliation ig, slightly dark Jace. Conception.

Description: riding the most powerful man on the most powerful seat.

“How did this happen?” You thought, your king husband summoned you to the throne room to discuss something, but now you were both on-top of the iron throne as you bounced up and down on his cock.

You felt every inch of him sinking in and out of you as you slowly moved up and down on his lap, your hands griping his shoulders for support. “Fuck..Jace” you moaned and you felt his hands grip your hips tightly.

You sped up slightly, trying to find something to grip onto that wasn’t going to stab you.

Your dress was hoisted up to your hips and your undergarments were torn open desperately. Jaces britches and trousers were pulled down just a bit past his hips to allow him to pull out his cock so your could ride it.

You felt your legs getting tired and doubled down in your efforts. “Aw getting tired already huh?” Jace teased and you buried your head into his neck and nodded into it. “My poor love” Jace taunted and griped you hips tightly to move you faster.

“You’re the one who wanted this-” you desperately panted, getting cut off by a moan as he hit your g-spot.

“Yes I did..and your the one who said you wanted to have more children that king Jaehaerys” Jace reminded you and thrusted his hips up.

“I-I was drunk…you know that” you protested, feeling a rush of energy and moved faster. “Oh gods~ right there” you moaned louder.

Jace chuckled and felt his cock throb slightly. “Even if you were drunk…I do need heirs. And what better way to make them than on their ancestors seat?” Jace groaned feeling his balls tighten but he wanted you to cum first.

“Jacearys” you moaned loudly and pulled on his luscious curls.

You felt your core tightening and you desperately tried to chase it but couldn’t push yourself over it. Jacaerys noticed and smirked, he licked his thumb before bringing it to your clit and rubbing it fast causing your orgasm to hit you like a fait train.

You froze and let out a string of curses but tried to keep moving to make Jace finish.

Jace pressed to your neck and kisssed it softly and rode you down from your high before thrusting his hips up fast before releasing his seed inside you.

“We might have just made our heir”. Jace chuckled.

“What a worthy ruler they will be then” you said sarcastically, slipping his softened length form you.

master list

[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.

[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

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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.