#bread-making-vikings | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

drgnflyteabox · 9 months ago

Text

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."

1K notes · View notes

homunculus-argument · 1 year ago

Text

Why is it always "born in the wrong generation"? What if this is the better option you got? What if you were born to be a 1950s lounge singer or a 1300s weaver and already had a lifetime of that, doing what you love to do and what you do best, and spent the whole time thinking "I wish I could do this in a better time, where I could do it more freely from the bottom of my heart, and not have to worry about the things that hold me back"?

You get to make soap with ingredients the soapmakers a thousand years ago could not have dreamed of combining. You get to work with fabrics an ordinary tailor could never have gotten their hands on. Write the gayest love poetry in iambic pentameter without having to worry of being tried for sodomy. Hell, you could have eight kids and bake bread while barefoot without worrying how many of your runts survive to adulthood.

You can draw designs for stained glass windows that the church would never let you, and instead of thinking how your talents would have been groundbreaking back in the day and how they are wasted now, you can imagine how a thousand years ago you may have been drawing the same designs, thinking "I wish I could just do this without having to worry about viking raids and the plague."

4K notes · View notes

knight-hiccup · 4 months ago

Text

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₄

This is Chapter 4 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence Word count: 8.3k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time. ♡

CHAPTER 4

After the Deadly Nadder left its mark—Your arm throbbed with a fierce sting, the flesh puffed up and tender, mottled with splotches of purple and green bruising that spread like spilled ink under your skin. The skin would knit itself back together, slow and sure, each tender stitch holding fast by the stubborn grip of Gothi's hand and her fresh poultice, its earthy bite clinging to the wound.

It was definitely going to leave behind a clean, pale scar—a sharp little mark to carry from the Nadder's bite. 'Your first Viking mark'—Gobber let out a gravelly laugh, hook-hand slapping his knee as he crowed about it being 'a proper badge from the beast's claw.' He'd went on as your thoughts of its barb would be one memory to carry.

Berk's unyielding pulse stumbled into something odd after that, or so it seemed to you. It had a quiet that felt almost gentle, and not just because half the village was gone no—It was more because Gobber went a little soft, but no one would dare breathe that word within earshot of the tough blacksmith.

The island seemed to pause a little—no practice dawn raids, no bellowed commands splitting the frost-rimed morning. It was as if the island itself had exhaled, granting a rare sliver of respite, and at the heart of it stood Gobber, his usual storm of gruff demands tempered into something you couldn't quite name.

He'd never cop to it though—his pride was as unbendable as the iron he shaped—but the evidence was there. Easy in his terms meant he etched in the extra hour to let you all sleep. A reprieve from the usual early chorus of his tuneless whistling and water buckets splashing all your dreams to Hel.

Laps around Berk's muddy sprawl were shorter, unless someone dared straggle in twenty minutes late—and after the last rain-soaked punishment, not a soul tested that line again—not even Hiccup—no more boots pounding the dirt paths with grim precision.

Meals stretched longer too while in the Great Hall or a crackling firepit outside groaning under extra helpings of stew and bread. The air was always thick with the tang of roasted mutton and the soft warmth of your own personally made sweet treats—much to Astrids pleasure—That he had asked you to make everyone if you were up to it.

Gobber would sprawl there, roast in hand, spinning dragon tales that danced between grisly truth and wild exaggeration—tales of Nadders skewering raiders, Gronckles flattening longhouses—his voice a low growl that rumbled through the smoke.

And if the mood struck him gracious, he’d even haul everyone’s weapons onto a workbench, squinting at dulled edges and muttering about shoddy upkeep, his hook scraping steel with a screech that set your teeth on edge—and the hairs on your necks standing. The old smith had gone suspiciously easy on the lot of you, and you couldn’t shake the hunch it was because of that barb slicing your arm, the blood-soaked sleeve you’d waved off with a grin despite the poison’s slow creep.

Gobber’s pride was forged in the same stubborn iron as his hook-hand—but his version of mercy crept through the cracks anyway. It was a rare lull, a breath before the next beast loomed of course but you savored it, even with the dull throb of your bandaged arm reminding you why. This was a rare Gobber only you and Stoicks family got to see. It made you smile.

Nursing that wound kept you tethered to your squat little home near the forge, the furs on your bed a tangled nest where you’d sprawl, arm propped on a pillow as Gothi’s poultice worked its minty magic beneath the cloth wrap. The pain had dulled to a nagging ache, the poison’s queasy grip fading thanks to that bitter vial she’d shoved into your hands and down your throat. Rest chafed at you—too still, too quiet after days of chaos.

Hiccup, though, was a constant flicker in that stillness, his lanky frame ducking through your door more times than you could count, always with something in hand—dry figs plucked from some hidden stash—Stoicks. Their sweet tang a peace offering from feeling bad about the accident in the Nadders cage. His voice, earnest and tripping over itself as he promised to stick to ‘their plan’ next time. You’d just let him ramble about Gobber’s latest briefings while propped against the wall.

But while under the flickering light of your hearth, he’d dropped something heavier—his voice dipping low, almost a whisper, as he finally spilled it—but careful not to mention anything else: he’d found that Night Fury again. Not far from the ravine where you’d both stumbled on it all those days ago, bound and snarling, it was still there—hungry, he said, its sleek black form pacing the woods, refusing to fly off.

You’d tilted your head, the fire’s warmth licking your cheeks, and tossed out a guess, “Maybe it’s got a nest nearby. Don’t get too close, it may be hunting.”

Hiccup’s brow had furrowed, a quick shake of his head brushing it off, but you saw the glint in his eyes—interest piqued, though he knew better. You didn’t push, not yet, though the air between you thickened with what he wasn’t saying, the secrets piling up like the weapons on a raid night.

Because behind your back, Hiccup had been slipping away to that same dragon—Toothless, though you didn’t know the name yet—since the day after the Nadder fight, when the graze on your arm was still fresh and raw, and you rested. He’d trekked back to that shadowed hollow deep in the forest, a fish tucked under his arm, a battered shield held tight before him, and his hand knife glinting at his belt—a Viking’s kit turned upside down by what he found.

That day, he’d braced for a fight, heart thudding as he edged toward the Night Fury’s restless bulk, its green eyes slitting narrow in the dim light. But instead of fangs, the dragon had been intrigued with him just as he was with it.

The dragon had sniffed the fish, snapped it up, then—gods help him—retched half of it back up into his lap as a slimy offering to Hiccup—the boy had stared at, dumbstruck before the events that happened next would haunt his appetite for the week or two.

The next day after that, he’d returned, and the beast mirrored him—scratching crude lines in the earth with a branch twice as tall as Hiccup after he’d seen the boy doodle the earth with a stick, its head tilting like a pup puzzling out a game.

It let him close—close enough to feel the heat radiating off its scales, to stretch a trembling hand and brush its snout, smooth and warm under his palm. It was unreal, a spark of something new and fascinating that no Viking saga had ever whispered of, and it hooked him deep—kept him sneaking back through Berk’s fog-choked woods, boots crunching on pine needles as the village went about its day.

He’d meant to tell you all of this that night, wanted to badly, the words itching on his tongue every time he ducked into your home, but something held them back—something personal, fragile, a thread of concern he couldn’t yet share. He worried, what you’d think—his best friend, his anchor, who’d stuck by him through every scornful glare, rude talks of people and botched scheme.

This wasn’t normal, not for a Viking, and sure as Hel not for Stoick’s son. If the village found out, if his father did. . .the thought knotted his gut tighter than a Zippleback’s coils, and so he kept it locked away, even from you. It wasn’t that he really thought you’d spill his secrets to anyone; he just wanted to hold off until the time felt right.

But you weren’t blind, and Hiccup wasn’t half as sly as he thought. You’d known he was visiting that dragon since the Nadder fight. He even admitted it. And was caught times over with the mud on his boots, the faint whiff of his signature smell of pine and smoke clinging to his tunic, the way his excuses stretched thinner each time he slipped away.

Right now, your arm was propped on your knee as you sharpened a kitchen knife out of boredom in front of the forge, the scrape of steel a steady rhythm while your mind churned. You’d seen him in the late evening, ducking into the forge with a wave at you—Gobber elsewhere—most likely off plotting the Zippleback trial, the other trainees hunched over dragon manuals, sleeping, pranking, or swinging axes in the arena’s muddy ring.

You’d paused outside, peering through the cracked frame, and found him hunched over a workbench, his hands a blur of motion as he hammered something together—metal and leather, glinting in the forge’s dim glow. You’d slipped in, silent as a mouse, and settled on a stool at your own workbench, not asking a thing—just you and him, the air humming with the comfort of your shared silence as he smiled at you, the kind that’d carried you through years of shenanigans.

He’d glanced back once, making sure you were distracted by working on your own little things, content as his auburn hair flop over his brow as he worked. Then after hours he’d stopped, abrupt, muttering, “Gotta go, see you in the morning,” and waved—a quick, airy thing—before bolting out into the night, leaving you with the echo of his steps and a half-formed question on your tongue.

He hadn’t shown you what he’d made—a tail fin, you’d learn later, for a dragon he couldn’t yet name to you—but you’d caught the spark in his eyes, the secret he cradled like a stolen ember. You didn’t push, not then, though the itch to know gnawed at you, leaving you pondering how long he’d keep you in the dark.

Another day of the break you had settled gray and heavy, the clouds sagging low over Berk’s jagged rooftops once again, promising rain that hadn’t yet fallen. You’d shaken off the restlessness by midmorning, your arm stiff but healing quickly, and trudged to the Great Hall, where Gobber’s “mercy” meant an extra meal crackling over a firepit outside.

Trainees sprawled on logs, gnawing on mutton and bread as his voice boomed through another tale, this one about a Zippleback torching a fleet of raider ships, the gas igniting in a burst that lit the night like Thor’s hammer lighting the sky.

You’d half-listened, perched on a stump, tearing into a crusty loaf, its edges still crisp despite the damp air. Hiccup hadn’t shown—off again—and the others noticed too, their grumbles growing. Snotlout, sprawled across a log with grease smeared on his chin and mouth, snorted loud enough to cut through Gobber’s yarn.

“Where’s your boyfriend now? He better not pull what he did last time,” he furrowed his brows taking in a huge bite.

The twins cackled—Ruffnut miming a sloppy embrace making kiss faces at you, Tuffnut flopping dramatically into the dirt over it—and even Astrid’s sharp blue eyes flicked your way, a brow arching as she chewed her mutton, silent but probing.

You’d shrugged sighing really not in the mood, voice dry as bone, “He’s just at home getting ready? Preparing like the rest of us—give him a break.” It was a weak dodge, and Astrid’s stare lingered, unconvinced.

Gobber yawned waved it off, grunting. "That lad's fine it's not a meeting—though, some good information—hm," before diving back into his story and his whole chicken breast.

You had left them, not waiting for Hiccup this time. The lie tasted sour in your mouth, though—loyalty to Hiccup clashing with the heat of their scrutiny—and you'd excused yourself early, boots squelching through the mud back to the forge, your gut twisting with the weight of what you weren't saying. He was out there, building something to your guess—over that Night Fury, and you were stuck here, covering his tracks—again.

By noon, the forge glowed orange as usual, its heat a balm against the day's chill as you slipped inside, craving the familiar clang of steel to drown out your thoughts. Gobber was gone—likely nursing a tankard in the mead hall—and the space was all yours, the furnace's roar a steady pulse as you hefted weapons waiting to be brought back to their owners, testing their edges closely.

That's when Hiccup stumbled in, disheveled, his tunic clinging to his skinny frame like he'd been caught in a squall. His hair was a wild tangle, auburn strands hanging loosely across his eyes, which darted your way, bright with something reckless as he clutched that worn leather book to his side.

"Hey," Hiccup said, his voice a soft huff as he flashed that familiar, sheepish grin. You paused, the sword you were admiring stilled mid-twirl in hand, and arched a brow as he edged closer, boots scuffing the forge's dirt floor.

"Missed you at the fire—Gobber tell you about the Zippleback?" You nodded, easing the blade onto the workbench with a faint clink, its edge catching the forge's amber glow.

He launched into it then, words tumbling out—something about their twin heads, the gas-and-spark trick, his tone bright with that eager lilt you'd always found endearing.

". . .The fact that one head breathes gas, the other lights it—wild, right?" he went on, hands gesturing in quick, choppy arcs.

But the story felt thin, a threadbare veil over something heavier. You saw it in the details he couldn't hide: the caked mud clinging to his boots, the faint scorch mark streaking his sleeve, the way his green eyes slid away when you asked, voice steady but pointed, "Where've you been?" You tried.

He froze mid-gesture, a deer caught in torchlight, then waved a hand dismissively.

"Just. . .wandering, you know, clearing my head," he said, but the words cracked like brittle ice underfoot, too fragile to bear scrutiny. You stepped closer, the forge's heat licking at your back, and fixed him with a look—teasing at the edges, but sharp enough to cut.

"Wandering, huh? Or digging into that Night Fury again?"

His laugh burst out, high and jagged, and he clutched his sketchbook tighter to his chest, its leather creaking under his grip. "What? No, I—just—uh, hey! More figs! I'll grab you some tomorrow!" he stammered, voice pitching up as he spun on his heel and bolted—a blur of gangly limbs and half-formed excuses—leaving you alone with the furnace's low, guttural hum.

The warmth still pressed against your skin as you stood there, Hiccup's retreating footsteps fading into the gray hush of late afternoon, the world beyond the walls sinking into a muted twilight. You'd let him slip away—again—his "figs tomorrow" promise fluttering out like a tattered banner, too flimsy to hold against the suspicion coiling tight in your chest. The air grew stale, heavy with the scent of charred wood and iron, as the sun dipped lower, its light bleeding into a dull bruise along the horizon.

You lingered by the anvil, the new sword glinting faintly in the waning firelight, its honed edges a quiet testament to your own resolve. But the silence bit deeper than the dull ache in your healing arm, a restless itch you couldn't shake.

Drifting to a cluttered workbench in the corner, you plucked a bent nail from a heap of Gobber's discarded scraps and slumped onto a stool, resting your head on your good arm. Your fingers worked the metal, rolling it back and forth, its cool, unyielding surface resisting your grip as your mind churned—searching for something to fill the hollow where Hiccup's absence sat heavy.

The forge creaked around you, its timber beams groaning under the wind's insistent push, while the distant bleat of sheep drifted in from the village—a faint pulse of noise that only sharpened your frustration. You'd lied to Gobber for him, spun tales to shield his secrets, and you'd do it again without hesitation.

But that loyalty, tangled with the exasperation you felt for the little turd, gnawed at you most of all. It wasn't just loyalty of a friend—it was something deeper, a pull you couldn't control—that was your feelings toward him, and it left you twisting the nail harder, the metal's faint squeak echoing your restless resolve to stand by him—it made you groan.

A faint, ragged sigh escaped your lips as you eased into the stool, the rough-hewn edge digging into your thighs. You rested your cheek against the workbench, its surface warm from the forge's glow, and twisted the nail between your fingers until it stilled—a mindless fidget against the ache in your chest.

"When are you going to tell me the truth?" you murmured to no one but the empty air—a quiet, desperate thread cast toward the friend who'd always tell you everything. Your shoulders sagged under a weight like damp wool, cold and clinging, oblivious to the faint scuff of boots beyond the wall, the sharp hitch of breath muffled by weathered planks.

Hiccup hadn't strayed far. He'd slipped out of the forge's wide entrance moments ago, his sketchbook pressed tight against his chest, pages rustling faintly as he leaned against the outer wall, just beyond your reach.

The wind, sharp with the briny tang of wetness from the cove where he'd tumbled earlier with Toothless—his accidental first flight—whipped at his damp tunic, tugging at the fabric still heavy with water. The cool, earthy gust carried your whispered words to him, slicing through the quiet. Their raw sadness struck him like a blow, his broad green eyes narrowing to pained slits, freckled face twisting into a grimace that mirrored the knot twisting in his gut.

He'd weathered your teasing before—caught the knowing edge in your quips about his "doodling," sensed your patient wait for him to spill it all—but this was different. This was a fracture in the steady warmth you'd always offered, dimmed now by his silence, and it gnawed at him.

He slid down the wall an inch, the rough wood scraping his back through his tunic, and pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling a shaky exhale that threatened to betray his presence. Regret burned hot—anger at himself for letting it drag on, for not confessing over figs at your hearth or mid-ramble about the Zippleback.

Hiccup meant to tell you then—why hadn't he? You weren't just anyone; you were his confidante, his anchor, and now he'd left you adrift, your voice breaking in a way that echoed in his skull like a reprimand.

So, he couldn't dodge it any longer. With a resolve that straightened his spine, he pushed off the wall, boots scuffing the dirt as he stepped back into the forge's amber light, his shadow stretching long across the packed earth floor.

You didn't notice at first, lost in the nail's dull gleam as it caught the fire's flicker, bending it into a pointless curve between your fingers. The air shifted—a cool draft snaking through the wide-open areas, a floorboard creaking under his weight—and your head tilted, sensing him before your eyes lifted.

Hiccup stood framed in the forge's entrance, his lean frame slouched as if bearing Berk's weight, auburn hair a wild tangle plastered across his forehead from the day's damp chaos. His hands twitched restlessly, the sketchbook dangling at his side, and his green eyes met yours—wide, guarded, yet burning with a truth he couldn't suppress.

"Hey," he said, voice low and rough, scraping the silence like flint on steel.

You straightened, the nail dropping to the workbench with a soft clink, and held his gaze, your own sharpening as the sadness crystallized into weary expectation. "Back so soon?" you asked, tone quiet but edged with a fraying patience, the forge's heat pulsing around both of you.

He stepped forward, mud-caked boots leaving faint prints on the dirt floor, and settled onto the stool across from you, the workbench a thin divide between you.

"I heard you," he confessed, voice hushed, fingers tightening around the sketchbook's worn edges. "Outside, just now. And you're right—I've been keeping something from you. Everything, really, since the Gronckle fight. I can't hide it anymore."

Your breath caught, the air growing dense with the gravity of his admission, and you leaned forward, elbows pressing into the wood, every nerve taut as you braced for the revelation you'd sensed simmering beneath his evasions. He exhaled—a long, unsteady breath—and set the sketchbook down, its pages fanning open to reveal Toothless: wings swept back, eyes piercing, the tail fin he'd crafted in secret sketched in meticulous charcoal lines.

"It started after the Gronckle," he began, voice steadying as he traced the drawing with a trembling finger. "Well, after I hit him—the Night Fury—and we found him in the ravine. I went back to that spot that day, after we ate lunch. When the Gronckle came at me, I kept wondering—why didn't the Night Fury? I couldn't shake it. Found him again this you already knew—but he was trapped in some cove like place, one tail fin torn off from my trap. He couldn't fly." He paused, staring at the table, lost in the memory.

"When I came back a second time he was still there—hungry, grounded—that time I brought with me a fish." A faint, nervous laugh slipped out, and he glanced at you, testing your reaction.

Your expression remained steady, unflinching, the forge's rhythmic hum your only reply as he pressed on.

"He didn't attack. He ate it, then—gods, it's strange—he regurgitated half, like an offering. I'll spare you the rest; my stomach's still turning from it." He grimaced, a fist brushing his mouth, skin paling briefly, as he sort of gagged—you arch a brow.

"But I couldn't stop." He admitted. "There's nothing in the sagas about Night Furies—I had to know more. So, I kept going back." His voice softened, wonder threading through the fear, and he rubbed his neck, smudging charcoal across his skin.

"He's sharp—smarter than anything we've imagined." He slid the sketchbook toward you, revealing diagrams of the tail fin he'd built, "Made this for him. He can't fly without it—not since my trap wrecked him. That's what I was working on last night. I've been flying with him, learning from him—"

Your eyes widened at that as you leaned closer to him, eyes tracing the sketches—gears, leather straps, the fin's sleek arc—his words sinking in like hammer strikes shaping steel.

"You've been flying a dragon?" you said, voice low and stunned, cutting through the forge's drone. "Since the Gronckle—and you didn't tell me? Me, Hiccup?" Your fingers dug into the workbench, splinters pricking your palms, the hurt sharpening your tone. "I've covered for you, taken lectures for you—did you really think I'd run to your father, to the village?"

His face fell, guilt clouding his eyes, and he spread his hands over the sketchbook as if to steady himself. "I trust you," he said, voice quiet but resolute. "More than anyone. That's why I'm here now—I couldn't keep it from you, not after hearing you out there." He nodded toward the wall, his frown deepening, and you recalled your whispered plea, the crack that had pierced his silence.

A cool gust slipped through the forge's entrance, brushing your skin with a shiver, and you eased back, the sting of hurt softening into relief, the unshakable bond pulling you back to him. He watched you, breath held, awaiting your judgment, the truth a heavy anchor between you—he'd rewritten everything, and you'd stand by him through it.

"I'm not upset about the dragon, Hiccup," you said, voice gentler now, steadying. "Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried for you."

He met your gaze, a small, hesitant smile breaking through, his shoulders loosening. "I'm glad I finally told you. Took me long enough," he said, a faint laugh escaping as you gave his arm a light, playful nudge, drawing a chuckle from him in return.

"You don't think it's odd? Un-Viking-like?" he asked, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

You shook your head, a wry smile tugging your lips. "No—it's exactly like you, Hiccup. Always has been."

Hiccup's eyes glistened, a rare sheen he wouldn't deny, and with a sudden burst of energy, he darted around the workbench, boots scuffing the dirt floor. He wrapped you in a hug—fiercer than any he'd given before, the kind that lifted you off the ground. His arms pulling you close, the damp wool of his tunic pressing against your chest.

He held on, a solid minute ticking by in the forge's warm hum, his breath unsteady against your shoulder. Your cheeks warmed, a deep flush creeping up neck to head as his grip lingered, and when he finally pulled back, his face lit up with a joy you hadn't seen in months—bright, unguarded, pure Hiccup.

"Gods, I'm—so relieved," he said, voice catching with a laugh, hands gesturing wildly as he paced a tight circle. "You have no idea how much I've wanted to tell you. I know—I should've done it sooner, I know! But now that you're in on it—gods, I've got to take you to him. You have to see him for yourself."

His words tumbled out, fast and eager, his lanky frame practically bouncing with that giddy, restless energy only he could muster, green eyes wide and sparkling under the forge's amber glow.

You couldn't help it—his joy sparked a laugh from you, warm and genuine, rippling through the air like the clang of a hammer on steel. It melted the last threads of doubt that had knotted in your chest, washing away the wait's quiet sting. His happiness was infectious, a fire catching dry tinder, and as he grinned—freckles dancing across his flushed face.

You felt the weight of his secret lift, replaced by a thrill that hummed in your bones. The forge's heat pulsed at your back mixed with the cold breeze that send shivers down your spine, and you knew: whatever came next, you'd follow him to that cove, to Toothless, because this—this moment—was worth it.

It was the last day of the break Gobber had so sweetly carved out for you all, a fleeting pause that went by too fast for you all and that still draped Berk in an uneasy quiet, and the forge's smoky haze from Hiccup's confession last night lingered in your mind like a half-remembered dream—his voice spilling secrets about Toothless over the workbench long after he had told you, your hurt hardening into resolve.

The Hideous Zippleback trial loomed on the horizon now, set for tomorrow, its twin heads and sparking jaws lingering in the back of your thoughts, though neither you nor Hiccup had pieced a plan together yet, too tangled in the moment to count the days.

The morning had dawned sluggish but sunny for once, its light seeping through the warped planks of your small home, casting faint stripes across the furs where you’d sat on the floor, poking at the hearth’s embers with a stick, your bandaged arm propped awkwardly on your knee.

His knock rattled the door then, soft but persistent, a rhythm etched into the back of your mind from years of him dragging you into mischief, and when you swung it open, there he was—his auburn hair a windswept mess, his green eyes alight with a reckless determination that made your stomach lurch.

“I’m taking you to see him,” he said in as whisper looking behind to see that no one was lurking, voice firm but threaded with an eagerness, his hand reaching for yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You froze, heels digging into the hard oak floor, the wood groaning under your boots as he tugged, a gentle pull that snagged when he turned and caught the unease flickering in your eyes—wide, shadowed, searching his face for a reason to trust this leap.

The air grew heavy, laced with the sharp scent of pine from the woods drifting in and the faint char of the fire behind you, and for a heartbeat, you stood locked there, your hand trembling in his, the weight of his dragon sinking claws into the quiet life you’d known.

He didn’t pull harder—didn’t force you past that threshold—but his grip stayed steady, his thumb brushing your knuckles as he met your gaze, reading the worry etched into the lines of your face like a map he’d memorized long ago.

“I know you’re scared,” he said, voice dipping low, soft as the rustle of leaves beyond the walls, but carrying that quiet conviction that’d always bent you to his will, from the days you’d schemed with Gobber over forge flames or raced across Berk’s cliffs, laughing into the wind.

“You’re thinking about what he could do—what this means for us. But he’s not what they say, not what Berk believes. He’s. . .he’s like me, in a way—different, but good. I’ve been with him every day since I cut him free, and he trusts me. He’ll trust you too—I’m sure of it.”

His lopsided grin flickered, tentative but warm, a lifeline thrown across the gap, and he tilted his head, eyes crinkling with a tease he couldn’t resist. “C’mon, you’ve stared down Marta’s wrath—Gobbers, my dad's! And a Nadder’s tail—you think a dragon’s going to scare off the heart of Berk?”

The nickname hit soft, a tender jab that stirred the ache you’d nursed for years that only he and Gobber called you, the hope in his eyes that he’d see you follow him—because he knew calling you that would work.

You exhaled, a sharp, shaky breath that broke the dam of your resistance, and your shoulders slumped, the fight draining out as you muttered, “Fine, but if he eats me, I’m cursing you from Valhalla.”

His laugh burst free, bright and relieved, cutting through the morning’s chill, and he tugged you out the door with a grin, the cold slapping your cheeks as you snatched two burlap sacks from a peg—stuffed with fish, their slimy tang already seeping through—before trailing him into the fog-shrouded wilds beyond the village’s edge.

The journey to the cove stretched an hour and a half, shorter than that first desperate hunt after the Night Fury’s crash, when you’d stumbled through the woods beside him, hearts hammering and voices hushed, chasing a shadow that’d upended everything. Now, the path felt alive—every crunch of twigs under your boots, every sigh of wind through the pine's overhead, sharpened by the pulse of what waited ahead.

The sacks thudded against your backs, the fishy stink mingling with the damp, loamy scent of the woods now turned forest floor, and Hiccup forged on, his steps sure despite the uneven terrain, his skinny frame threading through the trees like he’d worn this trail into his soul.

He talked as you went—nervous chatter, you figured, spilling scraps of his little time with Toothless stories to fill the quiet: how he’d puzzled out the tail fin’s curve, how the dragon’s eyes caught the sun like shards of sea glass. You nodded, half-listening, your gaze flicking to the shadows, braced for a roar or a rustle that never came.

The forests thickened, branches clawing at your cloak, then parted abruptly, revealing the cove—a rugged hollow of stone and moss cradled by cliffs, its depths cloaked in mist that drifted like a living veil. You halted, boots skidding on the rocky rim, and stared down, your heart slamming so fierce it felt like it might burst free and tumble into the abyss below.

Toothless was down there, somewhere—hidden in the murk, a black wraith against the green—and the reality crashed over you: not a tale, not a sketch, but a living dragon, scales and teeth and all, waiting in the gloom. Hiccup stopped beside you, his breath puffing white in the crisp air, and you felt his gaze settle on you, steady and searching, as your pulse roared louder than the sea beyond Berk’s cliffs.

“Hiccup,” you said, voice quaking despite the steel you tried to forge into it, “it likes you. What if it doesn’t see me the same? You were the one who let him go—I wasn’t there for that part.”

You stepped back, retreating into the shadow of a twisted pine, its gnarled branches draping you in darkness as if they could swallow the fear clawing up your spine. The cove’s edge glowed ahead, mist swirling in the weak light, but Toothless stayed unseen, tucked into the rocky folds below—a phantom you couldn’t face, not yet.

Your hands clenched the sack, the burlap rough against your palms, and you shook your head, a quick, sharp jerk that sent a shiver racing through you. “What if he—” you began, but Hiccup’s hand darted out, gentle yet firm, catching your arm before you could shrink fully behind him.

His touch grounded you, warm against the morning’s bite, and he stepped in close, his lanky frame a barrier to your retreat, his presence as familiar as the forge’s hum.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softening, a laugh bubbling up—light, not cruel, the kind that’d always ease you since you were smaller kids. “He’s not eating you. I’d never let that happen—personal hero, right?” He squeezed your arm, his grin tilting wider, and you scowled, heat flushing your neck at the tease, though it steadied your racing heart.

“He’s smart, not some mindless beast. He’ll see you’re with me—and trust me, his bark’s worse than his bite. Well, no bark, really—just a lot of staring and flapping.” His eyes sparkled, green and bright, and he nodded toward the cove, the mist thinning just enough to tease a flicker of movement—a tail’s twitch, a wing’s shadow.

“C’mon,” he urged, his hand sliding down to lace his fingers with yours, a quiet vow in the grip. “You’ve got me—and a sack of fish. He’ll love you for that alone.”

The fear lingered, a stubborn knot, but his certainty—his trust—tugged you forward, and you followed, heart still thudding, into the cove where Toothless waited, the Zippleback trial a distant worry you’d only unravel later, back in Berk’s glow.

The mist clung to the cove’s edge like a shroud, its tendrils curling around your boots as Hiccup’s fingers tightened around yours, his grip a steady anchor pulling you past the brink of your fear.

“Ready?” he murmured, his voice low but buzzing with that reckless spark, and before you could muster a reply, he stepped forward, leading you down the steep, rocky incline into the hollow below.

His hand stayed laced with yours, warm and sure, guiding you as he took the lead, his lanky frame moving with a grace you hadn’t noticed before—sure-footed despite the uneven stone, like he’d climbed this path a hundred times in the dark. The air grew cooler as you descended, damp with the scent of moss and earth, the faint tang of freshwater drifting up from some hidden spring deep in the cove’s heart.

Your boots slipped on a slick patch, kicking loose a scatter of pebbles that clattered down ahead, and Hiccup glanced back, his green eyes catching yours with a quick, reassuring grin—half-tease, half-promise—before tugging you onward. The sacks swayed against you both, the fishy reek sharper now, mingling with the musty stillness as the cliffs rose higher around you, their jagged faces swallowing the weak morning light.

Your heart thudded, a wild rhythm against your ribs, and you clung to his hand tighter, the warmth of it a lifeline as the world narrowed to the shadowed basin around—where Toothless waited, a mystery you’d only glimpsed once and in sketches and Hiccup’s breathless tales.

The ground leveled out, gravel crunching underfoot, and he stopped, turning to face the emptiness with a soft call: “Toothless! Hey, bud, it’s me—come on out!” His voice echoed off the stone, bright and coaxing, and you held your breath, the mist swirling thicker as something stirred in the gloom ahead.

A shape emerged—slow at first, a ripple in the shadows—then all at once, Toothless stepped into view, his sleek black form cutting through the mist like a blade through cloth. The Night Fury was stunning, more than any sketch could capture: scales glinting like polished obsidian in the dim light, wings folded loosely against his sides, and those eyes—huge, green, luminous as tide pools—locking onto Hiccup with a spark of recognition.

His beauty struck you dumb, a raw, wild elegance that stole the air from your lungs, the kind of grace you’d never seen in Berk’s chaos or the forge’s iron glow. But fear followed fast, a cold fist squeezing your chest, and you froze, boots rooted to the gravel as the sheer size of him sank in—claws curling into the earth, a tail that flicked like a whip, a presence that filled the cove with quiet menace.

Hiccup dropped his sack without a second thought, the burlap thudding to the ground as fish spilled out in a slimy heap, and he darted forward, his hand slipping from yours as he closed the gap.

“Hey, bud!” he laughed, voice bright with a joy you rarely heard, and he reached out, petting Toothless’s snout with a casual ease that made your jaw drop. The dragon rumbled, a deep, throaty sound—not quite a growl, more a purr—his ears twitching up as he pressed into Hiccup’s touch, his massive head dipping low in a gesture so puppy-like it clashed with the terror still spiking through you.

Your sack slipped from your grip, landing with a soft thump, and you stood there, hands empty, caught between awe and the instinct to bolt, the cove’s walls pressing in as Toothless’s gaze flicked past Hiccup—and landed on you.

Those luminous eyes narrowed to slits in an instant, the green sharpening to something feral, and Toothless’s body shifted—hunching low, shoulders tensing like a cats before a pounce, his tail stiffening behind him. A growl rolled out, low and guttural, vibrating through the gravel under your feet, and your breath snagged, fear surging hot and fast as you locked eyes with the dragon.

He didn't know you—not like he knew Hiccup, the one who'd cut him free, fed him, flown him—and the weight of that hit harder than the Nadder's barb ever had. Hiccup froze mid-pet, his hand still on Toothless's snout, and whipped his head around, catching the shift in the dragon's stance.

"Whoa, whoa, easy, bud," he said, voice dropping to a soothing hum, though a flicker of panic edged his words as he stepped sideways, half-shielding you with his frame. "She's with me—she's good, I promise. You smell the fish, right? She brought you some!"

He gestured toward your sack, his grin wobbling as he tried to coax Toothless down, but the dragon's growl didn't falter, his slit eyes boring into you with a wariness that prickled your skin. You couldn't move—couldn't breathe—the beauty that'd stunned you now twisting into something primal, something that saw you as a stranger, maybe a threat.

Your hand twitched toward the dagger in your boot, an old habit from training, but you stopped, fingers curling into a fist instead; this wasn't a fight, not yet, though the cove felt smaller, the air thicker, as Toothless hunched lower, his growl a quiet storm brewing between you.

Hiccup shot you a look—wide-eyed, pleading—and you saw it then: his trust in Toothless warring with his fear of losing you to this moment, the bond he'd built with the dragon teetering on the edge of your presence, and you wondered, heart hammering, if you'd ever find a place in it.

Toothless's growl rumbled through the cove, a low, thrumming threat that pinned you in place, your boots rooted to the gravel as his slit eyes bore into you, sharp and unyielding. The mist seemed to almost choke you, and the air crackled with the standoff—his hunched form, Hiccup's half-shielding stance, your own breath caught tight in your chest.

Then Hiccup's head snapped toward you, his green eyes widening as they darted down to your boots, catching the faint glint of steel where your black stone daggers peeked out, tucked snug against the leather.

"Wait—" he said, voice pitching up, a mix of realization and urgency as he stepped fully between you and Toothless, his hands flailing in that awkward, earnest way of his.

"Toss your daggers to the pool—over there, by the water. He knows you have them—that's why he's like this!"

You stared at him, jaw dropping, your gaze flicking from his flushed face to the dragon's coiled menace, and for a heartbeat, you wondered if he'd sprouted two heads bigger than the Zippleback itself—asking you to ditch your weapons, your lifeline, in a cove with a growling Night Fury.

The absurdity of it burned, but his eyes held yours, steady and pleading, and he pressed on, voice softening but firm. "No, really—it's okay. He's smart, he senses them, and he doesn't trust you with 'em. I promise, just toss them—he'll calm down."

The dragon's growl spiked, a warning ripple, and Hiccup's hand hovered near your arm, not grabbing, just waiting, his trust in Toothless a quiet wall against your doubt. Your fingers twitched, instinct screaming to keep the blades, but his certainty—his faith in this beast or your faith in him—gnawed at you, and with a scowl, you relented, the weight of his words tipping the scale.

You crouched slow, eyes never leaving Toothless, and yanked the daggers free—one, then the other—their black stone edges catching the dim light as you gripped them tight, hesitating one last time. Hiccup nodded, a quick, encouraging jerk of his head, and you sighed, sharp and exasperated, before hurling the first dagger toward the small pond at the cove's edge.

It arced through the mist, splashing into the water with a soft plunk, ripples spreading wide, and Toothless's head whipped toward it, ears flicking up, his growl faltering as he tracked the motion. The second followed, landing with a louder splash, and you watched, breath held, as the dragon's slit eyes followed it too, his hunched frame easing—shoulders dropping, tail uncurling—like a switch had flipped in his mind.

He sank onto his haunches, sitting upright like a man, his massive head tilting with wide, curious eyes now fixed on you, the menace draining away into something almost. . .playful. The growl died completely, leaving only the cove's quiet hum—the drip of water, the rustle of wind through the cliffs—and you exhaled, relief flooding hot and fast as your shoulders slumped, the tension unraveling like a cut rope.

Hiccup let out a shaky laugh beside you, scrubbing a hand through his hair, smudging dirt across his freckled cheek.

"See? Told you—smart, not savage," he said, his grin wide and lopsided, and you shot him a look—half-glare, half-relief—your heart still thudding but lighter now, the dragon's shift a strange balm to the fear that'd gripped you moments before.

Toothless blinked, his pupils dilating round and bright, and you couldn't help but marvel, the cove's gloom framing him like some wild, living myth, beautiful and bewildering all at once.

Hiccup didn't waste the moment—he ducked down, snagging a fish from the spilled sack at his feet, its silvery scales glinting as he straightened and turned to you, holding it out with that same reckless spark in his eyes.

"Here," he said, thrusting it toward you, and you stared at him, protest flaring fresh as your brows shot up, the absurdity hitting you again—he wanted you to feed this thing, this Night Fury that'd just growled you into a statue?

"You're mad," you muttered, voice dry as ash, but he laughed—bright, unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the stone walls—and gave you a gentle push, his hand warm on your shoulder as he nudged you closer to Toothless.

"C'mon, he's fine now—look at him, he's curious! He won't bite—well, not you, anyway," he teased, and you glared, heat creeping up your neck, though his grin softened it, tugging at that old tether between you.

Toothless tilted his head, those wide eyes locking onto you with a glint of interest, no trace of the earlier threat, and you swallowed, the fish slick and cold in your hands as you stepped forward, boots crunching gravel, the cove's damp air clinging to your skin. You held it out—arm stiff, heart pounding—and Toothless leaned in, slow and deliberate, his snout brushing the air near your fingers.

He took it gently, no teeth flashing, just a smooth snap as he swallowed it whole, the motion so quick you barely blinked. Then he sniffed your hand, warm breath puffing over your knuckles, and a smile broke through your nerves, small but real, the dragon's curiosity melting the last of your fear into something softer—something like wonder.

Hiccup watched from a step back, his own smile widening, a fondness softening his green eyes as he leaned against a boulder, arms crossed, taking in every tentative move you made with Toothless, like he was seeing you anew in the cove's shadowed light.

You wouldn't realize until you trudged home that evening—legs aching from the cove's steep climb, boots caked with mud that squelched with every step, the damp of the misty hollow still clinging to your cloak like a second skin—that the break Gobber had grudgingly granted was nearly spent, that tomorrow's dawn would crack open the Hideous Zippleback trial he'd growled about days ago, its twin heads a specter neither you nor Hiccup had fully faced in the rush of Toothless's world.

The trek back had been quieter—yet happier than the journey before, the forest swallowing your footsteps as the adrenaline of the cove ebbed into a bone-deep weariness, though a spark of something brighter—something alive—still buzzed beneath it, warming your chest despite the chill seeping through your damp clothes.

The sacks hung lighter now, emptied of fish and bread, but their burlap reeked of secrets—of scales and trust—and swung against your thighs as you and Hiccup stumbled into Berk's outskirts, the village's familiar sprawl emerging from the fog like a dream half-remembered.

The sky had bruised purple overhead, streaked with the last gasps of daylight, and the air carried the sharp bite of smoke from chimneys, the faint bleat of sheep rolling down from the hills. You paused by your door, the rough-hewn wood solid under your hand as you leaned against it, catching your breath, and turned to Hiccup—his auburn hair a wild mess, his green eyes glinting with the same thrill that tugged your lips into a wide, unstoppable grin.

His own smile mirrored yours, broad and unguarded, a rare thing that lit his freckled face and crinkled the corners of his eyes, and for a moment, you both stood there, panting and grinning like kids who'd outrun a storm, the cove's magic still humming between you.

"Hiccup," you said, voice rough from the day but steady as you sank onto the stoop beside your door, the cold stone biting through your trousers, "you know this changes things, right?"

The words slipped out, half-question, half-marvel, as you propped your elbows on your knees, your cloak pooling around you like a shadow. The unbelievable thrill of it all—the Night Fury's curious eyes, his gentle nudge against your hand, the way he'd shifted from growl to calm—still pulsed through you, a happiness so sharp it almost ached, pulling you both from the day's wild events into this quiet, shared space.

Hiccup plopped down beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, warm and solid, and he nodded, slow and deliberate, his grin softening into something thoughtful as he stared out at the village's flickering torches.

"Yeah, it does," he said, voice low but thick with the weight of it, like he was turning the truth over in his mind, testing its edges. The wind tugged at his hair, rustling it across his brow, and he tilted his head back onto the door, exhaling a puff of white into the dusk as if letting go of the last shred of doubt he'd carried down there.

"It's not just me and him anymore—it's us now. You and me and Toothless." His eyes flicked to yours, green and bright, holding a fondness that made your chest tighten, and you saw it then: the shift wasn't just the dragon, but you—your place in his world stretching wider, deeper, than it'd ever been before. The thought sent a shiver through you, not from the cold, but from the sheer size of it—him, Toothless, Berk, all colliding in a way you hadn't braced for.

This is Chapter 4 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

#chapter 4 of maelstrom #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup and toothless #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup x reader #hiccup fanfic #httyd fanfic #httyd x reader #toothless #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock x reader #dragons #race to the edge #maelstrom

179 notes · View notes

zapreportsblog · 2 years ago

Text

❝army of ivarrsons❞

✭ pairing : ivar the boneless x reader

✭ fandom : vikings

✭ summary : ivar has always thought of himself to be a failure of a man, his legs did not work like an normal man, his prick did not work. The only thing he was good for was being a prince and a warrior though he wasn’t all that good at being even those in his eyes, but then along came a woman. One so pure, so beautiful she looked to be a goddess amongst men. And with those sweet words she spoke “I will bare you many sons ivar the boneless.”

✭ authors note : I have requests closed as y’all seen but it’s only temporarily, haven’t really been up to writing and seeing as how I had many ideas in mind for stories I thought fuck it let’s try again

The morning sun cast a golden glow over the great hall of Ivar's family estate, illuminating the long wooden table laden with bread, cheese, and freshly caught fish. Ivar sat at the head of the table, his older brother Sigurd to his right. As usual, Sigurd couldn't resist testing his patience.

"Good morrow, brother," Sigurd teased, a wicked glint in his eye. "Have you finally learned how to eat without spilling half your breakfast on your tunic?"

Ivar clenched his jaw, determined to keep his composure. Their sibling rivalry had existed for as long as he could remember, and it showed no signs of waning. He forced a strained smile. "I'm making progress, Sigurd, unlike some."

Before the exchange could escalate further, the heavy wooden doors of the great hall swung open with a thunderous crash. A thrall, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat, stumbled into the room. The hushed conversations ceased, and all eyes turned to the intruder.

Ivar rose from his seat, ready to reprimand the thrall for her lack of decorum, but before he could utter a word, she dropped to her knees, her head bowed low.

"Forgive me, my lords," the thrall panted, her voice trembling. "I bring urgent news."

Ivar exchanged puzzled glances with Sigurd. Urgent news was a rarity in their peaceful corner of the world. He gestured for the thrall to continue.

She raised her head, revealing wide, terrified eyes. "Freya herself has come and blessed us. She walks among us."

The words hung in the air like a spell, and a collective gasp swept through the hall. Ivar's skepticism wrestled with the growing sense of anticipation. Gods did not simply descend from the heavens to walk among mortals.

Before he could question the thrall further, the great hall erupted into chaos. The guests and servants rushed toward the entrance, shoving past each other in their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the so-called Freya. Ivar, however, moved reluctantly through the crowd, his curiosity piqued despite his reservations.

And there she stood, in the center of the throng, an ethereal vision that defied belief. Freya, if that truly was her name, had luscious hair that billowed in the wind, eyes that seemed to hold both otherworldly wisdom and untold mysteries. Her face was mature but agelessly youthful, her features mirroring the very essence of a Viking legend. It was as if the stories of the gods themselves had come to life.

The hall was filled with awe-struck whispers as people fell to their knees, proclaiming that the gods had indeed come to pay them a visit.

Amidst the reverence, Freya's gaze found Ivar's, and she offered him a serene smile. A shiver ran down his spine as their eyes locked. Something unspoken passed between them.

"We have much to talk about," she said, her voice carrying a mysterious weight that left Ivar both uneasy and captivated.

As the crowd continued to kneel and worship the divine presence before them, Ivar couldn't help but wonder what secrets this so-called Freya held and how her arrival would reshape their world.

Ivar stood alongside his older brothers, Sigurd, Hvitserk, and Ubba, each of them caught between awe and skepticism as they gazed upon the enigmatic woman who claimed to be Freya. The hall had fallen into reverent silence, save for the murmurs of those who dared to question her divine presence.

"Are you truly the goddess Freya?" Sigurd finally ventured to ask, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and curiosity.

Freya, or the woman who bore her name, smiled, but her response held an air of mystery. "My face holds many names, Freya may just be one of them."

The brothers exchanged glances, unsure of what to make of her cryptic words. It was Ubba who stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over the ethereal figure before them. "Why have you come to bless us, then?" he inquired, his tone respectful but inquisitive. "If I may ask without sounding rude."

The woman, who had introduced herself as (Y/N), let out a melodic laugh that echoed through the hall. "Rude? Not at all, dear Ubba. You see, I am here for Ivar."

Ivar's heart skipped a beat as all eyes turned toward him. He had been prepared for many things this day, but not for such a direct and unsettling revelation. He struggled to find his voice. "For me?"

(Y/N) nodded, her enigmatic smile never faltering. "Yes, for you, Ivar. If you were to accept me into your home, I would bear you many healthy children."

The words hung in the air, pregnant with meaning and implications that Ivar could hardly fathom. The weight of her gaze bore down on him, as if she could see into the depths of his soul. It was a proposition unlike any other, one that would reshape not only his destiny but that of his family and people as well.

Sigurd couldn't suppress the unease that gnawed at his heart. He looked from his brothers to (Y/N), his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Why him, and not one of us?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of bitterness.

(Y/N) met Sigurd's gaze with an unwavering serenity. "You are all favored by the gods," she began, her voice carrying an air of wisdom. "But Ivar, he is favored above all. The accomplishments you will face, the children you will bear into this world—they will be great, but not as great as his."

The revelation left Sigurd and his brothers exchanging troubled glances. It was a difficult truth to accept, that their destinies were preordained and that Ivar's path would surpass theirs. But even in the midst of their uncertainty, (Y/N) offered a glimpse of hope.

Ubba, ever the one to voice the unasked questions, spoke next. "If you are truly Freya," he began cautiously, "then how come you are here with us and not your husband, the Allfather? I do not wish to be rude, but you are married to Odin, are you not? Yet you speak of carrying my brothers' children."

(Y/N) smiled, her eyes holding a mixture of fondness and sadness. "Odin and I have long since split," she explained. "But for the sake of the other gods, we remain faithful to one another—just not in the way one would think."

The brothers exchanged another set of glances, their minds trying to grasp the complexities of divine relationships and the implications of (Y/N)'s presence in their lives.

Amidst the questions and uncertainties, Ivar felt a wave of insecurity washing over him. He couldn't help but voice his doubt, his voice laden with self-deprecation. "You should choose one of my brothers or someone else," he said, his tone laced with a mix of humility and resignation. "They are able men and can do all the things a woman would need in a man. You don't deserve a cripple like me."

(Y/N) turned his head gently, making him meet her gaze once more. Her smile remained, unwavering. "But yet I chose you."

The words held a weight that Ivar struggled to comprehend. In that moment, he couldn't help but wonder if he truly understood the depths of the path that lay ahead, one where gods and mortals intertwined in ways he had never imagined.

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, Ivar found himself giving in to the uncharted territory that (Y/N) had brought into his life. The same night they met, they wed an impromptu ceremony all of Kattegat’s members and held a extravagant feast of celebration.

Now, in the dimly lit chamber, amidst the cheers and laughter, the newlyweds were about to partake in the bedding ceremony. Ivar couldn't help but feel a sense of unease as he apologized, his voice tremulous. "I'm not very good at this," he admitted, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment.

(Y/N) leaned in close, her eyes holding a comforting reassurance. "You'll do just fine," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "I've seen how your first time went, my dearest ivar. It is normal to be nervous, especially when it's not the one you truly want."

Ivar felt a surge of relief wash over him. Her understanding words eased his doubts, and he let himself surrender to the passion that simmered between them.

Throughout the night, their love-making was fervent, passionate, and filled with a longing that transcended mere physical desire. The hours blurred together, and the dawn found them entwined, their bodies and souls intimately connected.

The next morning, Ivar awoke with a grin that was unusually happy for the stoic prince. Ubba, his older brother, noticed the change in his demeanor and couldn't help but inquire, "Did something happen to Sigurd, brother?" He assumed that Ivar might have witnessed their brother's misfortune or a rejection.

Ivar chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Nothing of that sort, brother."

Not long after both brothers had been joined by Floki - a member close to their family especially their father and seen as another father figure to ivar, for breakfast, the trio exchanged casual conversation, and Ivar's newfound happiness was hard to conceal. In the midst of a seemingly mundane conversation about the weather, Ivar couldn't contain himself any longer.

"I must share some news," he declared, his voice ringing with confidence. "Last night, I performed well in bed. Every round, to the very end."

Ubba, caught off guard, nearly choked on his mead. Floki raised an eyebrow, intrigued but nevertheless proud by the sudden announcement. "Is that so, Ivar?"

While Ubba struggled to contain his astonishment, he managed to offer a hearty congratulations to his brother, even if a tinge of bitterness lingered. The doubts that had plagued Ivar, the assumptions made by his brothers, had all been dispelled in the passionate hours he had shared with (Y/N).

It had been just a week since Ivar and (Y/N) had wed, but the news that swept through the village was enough to send everyone into celebration. (Y/N), still affectionately referred to as Freya by the villagers, was pregnant with the heir of Ivar, the prince of Kattegat.

Upon hearing the news, Ivar wasted no time in throwing a grand feast to celebrate this momentous occasion. The great hall was adorned with banners and torches, and the long tables were laden with the finest foods and meads. It was a joyous occasion, and the entire village turned out to celebrate the impending arrival of their future leader.

Throughout the festivities, Ivar's attentiveness to his wife was unmistakable. He was by (Y/N)'s side at every turn, anticipating her needs before she even voiced them. If she desired a drink, he would fetch it for her or have a thrall pour it with haste. When she wanted more meat, he ensured her plate was overflowing with it. And when she complained of stiffness in her shoulders and back from the long hours of celebration, he was there to ease the tension, his strong hands working wonders on her weary muscles.

Everyone could see the happiness that (Y/N) brought into Ivar's life, and it was evident in every glance, every gesture, and every tender touch between them. Despite the brevity of their marriage, their connection was undeniable, and it had only grown stronger with the promise of a child.

As the night wore on, and the revelry continued, Ivar found himself in a state of contentment he had never known before. With (Y/N) by his side and the prospect of fatherhood on the horizon, he couldn't help but look to the future with hope and excitement. The people of Kattegat watched their prince with admiration, knowing that he was not only a formidable leader but also a devoted husband, eagerly anticipating the arrival of his heir.

The months had went by swiftly and soon the long-awaited day had arrived. The air in the room was filled with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety as (Y/N) prepared to give birth to Ivar's heir. The labor had been long and exhausting, pushing (Y/N) to her limits, but she persevered with unwavering strength and determination. Ivar stood by her side, providing constant support and encouragement, never leaving her sight.

As the hours turned into eternity, the cries of pain echoed through the room. The midwife worked diligently, guiding (Y/N) through each contraction, offering words of comfort and reassurance. By her side, Ivar held her hand tightly, his eyes never leaving her face. He could see the strain etched upon her features but admired her resilience in the face of such intense pain.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the moment arrived. The cries of a newborn filled the room, and tears of relief streamed down (Y/N)'s face. Ivar's heart swelled with joy as he looked upon the tiny face of his firstborn son. The room seemed to glow with an ethereal light, as if the gods themselves had blessed this moment.

"I am truly blessed by the gods," Ivar whispered, his voice filled with awe. "For I have a wife, the fairest of them all - the goddess Freya herself - in my arms, with my firstborn son, an heir. I never thought I would find such happiness, but I am grateful that I have."

(Y/N) smiled weakly, her eyes shining with love and exhaustion. She reached out a trembling hand to touch Ivar's cheek, her touch filled with tenderness and gratitude. "And I am blessed to have you, my dearest Ivar," she whispered. "You have given me strength and love beyond measure."

In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist, overshadowed by the miracle of new life. Ivar and (Y/N) found solace in each other's arms, cherishing the precious gift they had been given.

The midwife gently placed the newborn in (Y/N)'s arms, and Ivar marveled at the sight. His heir, his legacy, lay peacefully in his mother's embrace. There was a newfound sense of purpose and responsibility that settled upon Ivar's broad shoulders.

As he looked upon his wife and son, Ivar knew that he would protect and cherish them with all his might. He, a warrior feared by many, had found his greatest joy in the form of his family. With a heart filled with love and gratitude, Ivar vowed to be the father his son deserved, and not the man his own father had been.

Six years had passed since the day Ivar and (Y/N) had wed, and in that time, Ivar had become a force to be reckoned with. At the age of twenty-four, he had accomplished more than he had ever dreamed of. He had conquered lands, brought riches to Kattegat, and solidified his reputation as a formidable leader.

But it wasn't just his conquests that defined his success; it was the growing family he had built with (Y/N) by his side. Their firstborn, Arvid, had been a source of immense pride for Ivar, carrying the weight of being the heir to the throne. Following Arvid, twin boys named Audun and Axel had joined their family.

Their blessings continued with the birth of a daughter, Astride, who brought a new kind of joy into their lives. And after Astride, more sons had followed: Ase, Bodil, Dane, Ebbe, Eir, and Inge, each one a testament to the love and connection between Ivar and (Y/N).

Now, with the passage of time, the couple found themselves on the brink of another exciting chapter in their lives. (Y/N) was expecting once more, and this time, they had received the news that they were to welcome another set of twins into their growing family.

The prospect of more children filled Ivar with a deep sense of pride and fulfillment. He had not only achieved great success in his endeavors but had also created a legacy that would continue to shape the future of Kattegat for generations to come. With (Y/N) by his side, he looked forward to the challenges and joys that lay ahead, knowing that their love and the family they had built together were the greatest treasures of all.

1K notes · View notes

mikimakiboo · 2 months ago

Text

Time Travelers AU - Well, well, well...

I know I said I was gonna get back on track but I failed an exam and my grandpa's sick again so I'm really trying my best here :') I think I have ideas for two chapters after this one ? I'll try to write them faster than one month each lol :'D

I really want to get over Cross's time, I love this boy but I don't have much to say about his time sadly :')

Also everyone go check out @ancha-aus 's drabble because it is amazing !!! It takes place later in the story so I will link it again when we get there but still !! Go read !!

I swear I spend more time looking at dictionaries than actually writing the chapters, why did I gave them all dead languages

First

The first night in Cross's house had been fairly calm, Horror and him had managed to make a bed for everyone, though Nightmare preferred sleeping on the bench on the kitchen side of the house, Cross couldn't blame him honestly, straw wasn't what someone would call a fancy beding, compared to it anything would be better, even a bench. Killer was very happy with the straws and kept making little braids with it, five in total, and he gave one to everyone afterward. Horror was fine too, Cross never heard the viking complain about anything anyway, so either he was really fine with it or he was just very polite. Dust was strangely excited, Cross didn't think it was possible to be excited about straw beds after having used the amazing couch in his house but here he was, mumbling things to himself as he sat on the bed.

It luckily hadn't rained, so the humidity didn't come in and they were able to keep a certain warmth inside of the small house. Usually peasant houses shared the space with the cattle and the warmth of the animals would heat up the house, but Cross was a knight, he didn't have animals, so he had to rely on fire, but as he didn't have infinite wood he would most of the time keep it to cook and use this heat to warm himself up.

Cross had been the first to wake up and had rapidly been followed by Horror. He saluted him with a smile.

- Dieus vos doinst boinjor.

- Kveðja, ér sofa vel ? Horror answered.

"Vel" meant "well", that Cross was sure, and he remembered Horror using "sofa" to say "sleep", with these two words he guessed he must have either asked if Cross slept well or informed him that he slept well. Cross nodded, both answering the question if it was aimed at him and showing satisfaction if it wasn't.

- Volez avoc moy aler a jart ? Cross asked if Horror wanted to go to the garden with him, pointing at the door.

He needed to pick some vegetables for dinner and the others were still asleep, so he might as well grab them now and not bother his friends later. Horror looked at the door, frowning slightly.

- Ek þurfa vitja úti ? He asked, confused.

Cross was confused too, what did Horror understand ? He looked around for a second before grabbing a basket and showing it to Horror, then going to the door and signing for him to come along as he went outside and around the house towards the small garden. Horror followed, curious, and watched as Cross pointed at the different plants than at the basket. Did Cross want him to pick those plants and put them in the basket ? He slowly picked a carrot and looked at Cross as he put it down, seeing him nod, he smiled, and both of them started picking the vegetables, teaching each other their names. It was nice, and when they went back inside, everybody was up.

Cross put the basket on the table, letting Dust inspect it, he seemed rather curious about the vegetables, surely comparing them to those he had at home. He glanced at his countertop, he had just enough bread for today and maybe tomorrow morning, he would need to go in town tomorrow in the afternoon and buy some more. He could bake some, sure, but it was time consuming so he preferred buying already prepared ones. He also checked his water supply, he needed to go to the well.

- Eo dei a puit aler. Dust, volez moy sivir ? Cross gathered all his courage, asking Dust to follow him.

Dust looked up at him, thinking, his sockets always squinted a bit when he was thinking, and he ended up looking at Nightmare who was staring at the bench, well, not the bench, but the little straw braid Killer made him and that he had put on the bench for the night.

- Nightmare ? What d-

Nightmare flinched and sharply turned to look at him.

- Oop, sorry, didn't mean to startle you, Dust apologized, what does "sivir" mean ?

Nightmare hesitated, his gaze diverting for a second, before he talked, for the first time since the forest, though his voice was low, not as self assured as when he would talk in Dust's time.

- S.. suivre.. ? He stuttered.

Everybody caught that, but nobody commented.

- Suivre ? Dust repeated, like uhh... I know this word, I've seen it on social media... oh ! Follow ! Yeah ! He turned to Cross, smiling, yeah I'll follow you ! I'll uhh.. sivir vos.. ?

Cross smiled, feeling a rush of warmth in his chest, he just invited Dust to the well, he did that, oh god. He quickly nodded and grabbed two empty jars before heading to the door that Dust opened for him.

- Nos anteruns viste !

They will be back soon, he said as he went out with the hoodied skeleton, leaving the three others together.

- So... what's a "puit" ? Dust asked as they walked.

- Por panre l'aigue, li n'en estat gueres à maise.

He explained as simply as he could, telling him it's to take water as he didn't have any at home. Dust just frowned.

- Huh-huh. Well you know what ? "Aigue" sounds like "agua" in Spanish and since you've got jars I'm gonna say it's for water. That or wine. I don't know what people usually drink in the Middle Ages.

He finally answered. Did he understand ? Cross had no doubt he did, Dust was smart, he always figured out stuff.

- Now if we're going to grab some water I guess it's either a river or a well ?

Cross liked hearing Dust talk, he had such a sweet voice, so confident and yet always sounding unsure at the end of his sentences, as if he was expecting to be wrong about every supposition he made when really he was probably the most smart of them all.

- ... Did I say something stupid ? Dust frowned, sounding a bit nervous.

Why would he feel nervous ? Cross didn't see any reason to feel- oh god he had been staring. He quickly shook his head and looked forward, a purple blush on his cheekbones.

- P-pardon. He apologized.

- Okay.. ?

The walk to the well was... awkward, Cross didn't dare look at him, he didn't want to stare again, at least with his arms holding the jars he wasn't tempted to grab Dust's hand.

Once they arrived Dust looked at the stone well with wonder. Was it the first time he saw a well ? He did have water directly in his house, so maybe wells weren't a thing anymore in the future ?

Cross put the jars down, grabbing the bucket attached to the log above the well to make it fall in until it hit the water and slowly filled itself. Dust was watching carefully, bent over the hole, his eyelights were almost sparkling with curiosity and Cross could see the water reflecting on his bones... he would give anything to be allowed to hold him close and-

- It's full, Dust announced, straightening.

- O-oh uh, oil.. ! Cross was brutally shaken out of his thoughts.

The bucket was full, so Cross pulled on the lever until it came back all the way up to grab it and pour the water in the first jar, when he straightened up Dust was looking at him. He made a grabby motion towards the bucket.

- Can I try ? He asked, badly masking his excitement.

Cross couldn't help but blush as he handed him the bucket and watched as he put it back in the well to wait patiently for it to fill. He didn't think such a simple activity would interest Dust so much, and yet here he was, happily filling the jars with water. There was something childish and yet so attractive to it, Cross wanted to protect that, he wanted to protect that amazement for everything that surrounded him.

- Estrez tanz jolif... Cross said without thinking.

He instantly blushed, he really didn't mean to call Dust pretty. Well, Dust was pretty, but he didn't mean to say it to his face !

- Huh ? Dust answered, not having heard as he was putting the bucket back on the edge of the well.

- E-Eo diseie nos devrïens antrer !

He corrected, saying they needed to go back home as he grabbed the two full jars.

- Oh, we're going ? Don't you want me to hold one ? They look heavy, Dust asked him, going to grab a jar but Cross stopped him.

- Eo puys porter, mercit ! He thanked, telling him he could hold them.

- If you say so, Dust didn't insist.

Cross smiled at him, and lead the way back home with two full jars and a soul racing like never before.

He really needed to get his thoughts under control.

129 notes · View notes

ayliffe · 2 years ago

Note

devil - moon walker

#bread-making-vikings #answered #ask games #no notes on this one. enjoy it. glad it's there

1 note · View note

londonfog-chan · 8 months ago

Text

Emperor Geta x Barbarian!Reader: Free Will Sacrifice

Jesus H Tapdancing Motherfucking Christ. Here we go.

Big, huge shoutout to @eddiemunsonmash for beta reading the clown shoes snippet I had written of Geta falling for a masochistic pseudo-viking, in a time where the vikings didn’t even exist yet.

Look, I love the idea of being a concubine as much as the next person, but I also want to be a gladiator secretly. Like a battered, tired warrior draped in silk holding a sword whose retirement consists of getting dominated on occasion by her insane emperor boyfie. Just two deeply, weirdly fucked up individuals being nasty is all I ask.

Gimme a break here, alright? I like to pretend that Geta thinks he can dominate anyone, meanwhile his partner can foist him over her shoulders and launch him into the sun.

Content Warnings: 18+ Only, Fem!Reader, Elements of power imbalance, dom/sub sadomasochism shenanigans that would not pass a vibe check under normal circumstances, slapping, choking, unprotected p in v, dirty deeds done dirt cheap by two fucked up individuals, you can fix him she can chase him with a knife to humble him, breeding kink

Summary: The northern barbarian allows the emperor to believe he is able to make her tame.

****

“ Soon we will be gone

A free will sacrifice

As free men we are born

And free we shall die “ - Amon Amarth

****

“No gods… no masters…”

A stinging backhand struck across your cheek and jerked your head to the side, a headache coming as your head was already bobbing listlessly up and down from the incessant pounding assault from below. The thrusts of his hips were brutal, erratic. You knew the taste of coppery sanguine from his rings splitting your lip wide open.

This was of course by design, purely by your own allowance. Should you want to, you could just as easily regain control of him, but you allowed Geta to take his pleasure as if overtaken by rut.

And you loved every minute of the pain he inflicted in a desperate bid for domination.

“You will not speak of gods or masters. You will only speak of me! You are mine, and mine alone. Now say it. To whom do you belong?”

Parched lips split into a wide grin. You knew then that among all the things he tolerated about you, he would never tolerate your flagrant disregard for authority, nor your atheistic views.

Cockhead stabbing at your cervix, he drilled into you as though he was a farmer armed with an aratrum, determined to sow the seeds of his bastards inside you. In a frenzied moment of madness, you hoped one would take. Even if it left you gravid and vulnerable.

To be used and manhandled as per your consent was the first stroke of indulgence you had experienced in this place. Such was an indulgence not to be overlooked. It was a blessing. A kindness.

Such kindness was foreign to you in this land. To Rome you were an aberration — the northern barbarian— your foreign blood was meant to be proffered as libation to the gods, your body merely altar bread to be thrown into the colosseum for the rats to consume.

Yet Geta saw in you something more.

By some twisted miracle of fate, you snatched freedom out of the hands of desperate half-starved men; they who were unused to the sting of hunger deep in their bellies stood no chance against your determination to survive. What was suffering to you? Nothing more than an itch of an insect bite. Meaningless. Worth less than, because, at the very least, the itch of the bite was acknowledged with a scratch. When nursed by clansmen in the piercing gales blowing across the glacier’s barren face, the only thing that mattered was the struggle.

Struggle to overcome the cold.

To survive to see each morning sun, shining against the blue ice and snow.

You did survive. Using a blade made strong from the bones of your ancestors, you cleaved that freedom from the enemies of the Romans to choose this life.

The co-emperor had asked what you wanted with this new found freedom. Despite the fact that you were a woman missing your lower lip, and plagued with blindness of one eye, Geta had offered you a choice. No law existed for free women, only free men were expected to live to tell the tale of their colosseum victory, living lower than the slaves in Rome’s underbelly.

Geta’s cruelty would have sealed your fate had you been taken under different circumstances. Aberrant conquests were plucked out specifically as offerings to Caracalla, lesser goods bestowed to his lesser brother to be ejaculated in and on. Had you not shown your ability as the strongest fighter the colosseum had known, Geta would have given you to his brother on a silver platter.

Yet he worried about you beating his poor, weak minded sibling into bloody pap with nothing but fists. Poor, simpering little Caracalla would never stand a chance before you castrated him in a blind rage.

Admittedly, Geta was intimidated himself. It took six men to hold back your berserker strength, and you did not calm down until a blade was held to your throat. He did not expect anything less than for you to ask for a seat as a general, to demand a place in his army barracks. He would have given it freely too. Anything to keep you out of the streets where the senate feared you would begin a massacre of the people in bitter vengeance for your capture.

In your northern tongue, you made one request, translated by a warrior — frightened army fodder— who just so happened to know your language.

You wanted Him.

You wanted Geta.

“Sire, the barbarian… She says she is the sword forged in the ashes of her kin. She is the war bringer, the northern wind that can cripple the Roman empire. She is the free will that defies the hand of the gods… Her only request is that she wishes to take whoever she so chooses to bed — for this night and all the nights after, and she has chosen you.”

Any lesser man would have laughed. Made light of the wish. Geta’s generals had laughed. Hard. Teasing and baiting the mutilated free woman who had the audacity to lust for the glimmering, golden perfection of the co-emperor.

But the emperor’s genitals had other motives, and instantly sprung to life at the mere mention of the request.

You saw it. Trying to maintain your composure, you turned your head to face his arousal with your eagle eye.

A desireable length. Uncut, favoring to the left.

Clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you called to the emperor, like a man catcalling a prostitute.

Geta’s erect penis tented under the deep indigo of his toga picta when he heard this click. A primal response to a primitive call.

A call to he who looked into your one good eye, and saw passionate fire burning in your iris.

You knew he was yours from that moment on.

“Tame me…” you had told him, words translated by the frightened warrior, “Make me docile… Take me on the ground in the way that the animals do.”

His amber eyes darkened.

He would make you tame, and take you on the ground on all fours, like the animals took their mates.

You would become concubina to the co-emperor. Just as you asked.

“You will not defy me with your silence, heathen!”

The emperor hissed into your ear through clenched teeth, his shaking body bringing you out of an orgasmic trance as he ceased jerking you back and forth, spearing you on his length.

“I am your master, your commander, your ruler. Say it.” He demanded.

“You are… my Geta-…” you began.

The emperor’s hand lashed at your cheek once again. Harder. With purpose. His fingers tangled into your knotted hair as he yanked your head back. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he looked into your one good eye. You would not be permitted to use such affectionate familiarity while in the throes of being taken like a beast.

“No… you will address me as your emperor.” he hissed.

He leaned forward. Warm, boozy breath against your skin. Hot, dripping wet tongue lathing in your ear canal.

“I am your emperor, not ‘your Geta’. I am your ruler, your master… your commander... I alone will decide whether or not you are to live, or to die. Now say it. Say it, heathen of the north.”

“Mu… my G…”

It almost slipped out on accident. Pure reflex and poor command of the Roman tongue made you seem incompetent in his eyes. You could see his ring adorned hand ball into a fist in warning, could already taste the golden bands even though they were nowhere near you yet.

You decided enough was enough. You needed more. You needed to take your pleasure, aching and throbbing with need around his cock shaft.

“My Emperor…” you whispered, the word foreign on your tongue as you mispronounced it.

Geta’s body stilled.

My Emperor…

It had come out of your mouth all wrong, mispronounced and uncertain. But to him, it was a start. Something to be worked with. His fingers loosened in your hair, hand moving to cup your neck, a gentle touch as he throbbed inside you.

“Again…” he murmured, voice soft and commanding.

“My Emperor…”

In a single fluid movement you contracted around him, his eyes nearly fluttering shut as his brow wrinkled. Geta was holding back, the moan catching in his throat as he remained stoic.

“Say it again…” he said, voice strained, “Sweet siren, sing your song once more…!”

“My Emperor… Princeps… Augustus… Imperator…”

When he heard these titles, you felt his heart thrash against your back. In a frenzied stutter his hips began moving involuntarily, utterly captivated in his rhythmic dance of taking pleasure. You responded in kind. Mouth open, tongue lolling out to catch the warm, wine tinged saliva he spit into your mouth.

“Again…!” He croaked.

This time, he held back no shameful sound of lovemaking. His voice was cracked, thrusts becoming erratic as he pumped in and out, pace quickening with anticipation. Low, tantalizing bleats of erotic mania escaped from his ruddy lips. One ringed hand wrapped around your thick neck, squeezing the breath from you with one hand as the other was coated in slick spit, fully intent on either slapping your firm buttocks or your face. Whatever was more convenient depending on your answer.

He would not abate his abuse until you said it again. Would not allow you the sweet release of climax until you screamed his name to the heavens, to the gods you didn’t believe in, to all of Rome should he have commanded it.

“Princeps…!” You keened.

And you were rewarded. Two moistened fingers, vigorously creating friction against your clitoral hood.

His title left your mouth in a wail as you sprayed his sheets with the aftermaths of ecstasy.

“Imperator… Imperator…!”

#emperor geta #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta x female reader #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #geta #geta x reader

255 notes · View notes

ineed-to-sleep · 3 months ago

Text

Proxima Astra for @bread-making-vikings 💕

✨️ Commission info | Art tag ✨️

#ty so much for commissioning me!! loved drawing her <3 <3 #ocs #original character #commissions #sleepyscribble #q

77 notes · View notes

velvet-paradox · 1 year ago

Text

Stay (ch. 2)

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Viking!König x Female reader Length: Medium

Meeting some of the KorTac clan - Aiding The Collector - A wrong to make it right

The first night with the KorTac clan was humiliating.

After all the ogling and rude remarks as you were dragged through the street wasn't enough, you were made to sit at The Collectors' feet, while he feasted on meat, bread and ale. You were fed scraps.

As you ate greedily after the whole ordeal, the women of the tribe took pity on you, whisking you away to be scrubbed clean, shedding you of your clothes, given a new dress at least in a complimentary color as you ate and took in your new surroundings. Music was played in their great hall.

Another burly man came to König on the throne, talked about as if you weren't really there. Some toy, some play thing, some pet. You tore off a piece of bread with your teeth in earnest.

"Found a wife, did you König?"

"Hardly."

"How positively sad then, maybe she'll make someone else an honest man."

"Doubt it. No one is to touch her but me, understood?"

You'd later find out that his name was Soap.

He'd be the one to lead you out and around the dining hall, a firm grip on the back of your arm (granted permission by The Collector of course)that left little to the imagination that if you were foolish, he'd put you in the ground without a blink of an eye. He didn't even speak to you.

The room was lit with torches at each of its' four corners, shadows danced and swayed when Soap had opened the door, there was a decently made bed against the wall, draped in furs and blankets of turquoise and deep reds.

" 'at door there, only opens from one side. His side." Soap finally spoke, leaning against the doorframe, leisurely looking you up and down uncomfortably as you examined the room. "I don't know what he plans to do with ye' but it ain't gonna' be pretty or nice. Best stay on his good side, lass. You surely don't want to end up like the last one."

And without another word, he shut and locked the door behind him. You sat on the bed and waited for the unknown future.

….

Some days you didn't even see König. Left alone in that room, thankfully not a smelly cell below ground, left and forgotten about until you were nothing but bones. You made use of those quiet days, you'd found some hay stashed in a trunk and made yourself a broom.

You were given some sort of flat type of shoe that just didn't feel right. You were already wearing foreign clothes, now shoes too?

This was only meant to be a temporary stay and yet the KorTac clan had been treating you well.

As if you'd never see your parents again.

Your parents. Another night of crying yourself to sleep over them was looked promising. And that meant another curious look from one of the women or König, if he decided to collect you.

The next morning the door, from his side, unlocked and eased open with the toe of his boot. He stood at attention once he ducked inside. He took up the entire doorframe.

"We are going out," he stated and threw you your clothes, freshly laundered and stiff. Followed by your boots. "You'll need to be ready for what we are going to do today."

"What are we doing?"

"Not asking questions is one." König remarked, remaining still. Like a statue.

He only turned around when you pulled at the strings of your dress, only looking over his shoulder when you had finished. He watched you put on your boots, you barely had time to fix your hair when he lunged forward and grabbed your wrist. He bound you with that same cordage, leashing you to him.

Soap got a real laugh out of that.

….

Kim 'Horangi' Hong-Jin greeted you and The Collector with warm regards. This guy at least acknowledged you. He had greeted you at the gates of his village, the exposed and bleached bone of a whale welcomed you in. You'd never seen anything like it. It was the ribcage, perfectly displayed like a canopy.

König dropped his hand to your shoulder, keeping you close as you moved from house to house while Horangi watched on, munching on a juicy apple.

The Collector gave his signature knock, one you knew well, but from the outside, watching the behemoth use his forearm instead was something else entirely.

You were now an accomplice, aiding the boogeyman in his rounds. The sack Soap had tossed at you when you left the village was getting gaining weight. The coins clinking together as you two went door to door, these people were absoutely terrified and with good reason.

He was even scary in his sleep!

What sort of dreams did a man like that have anyway?

König thanked Horangi with a personal handshake and headbutt. "You're better than a pack mule." König snorted, chuckling to himself as you two moved on to the next town.

More money, more scared and frightened faces. Children hid, in the last town even the chickens held their clucking when you passed by. A village that reminded you of home made you wince when The Collector grabbed a young man up until his feet dangled and shook him like a cloth doll.

He was vicious and violent and cruel.

Ruthless.

A dangerous individual.

Dinner that evening was just the same as it had been. You'd been gifted a pillow to sit on, yet you still ate at his feet and no longer were tossed scraps but you got a whole plate to yourself. Day eight and not a word from your father, no carrier was sent out to the KorTac clan in your favor.

You started to dissolve your thinking that maybe these people knew more than they were letting on. Maybe there was word from your parents. Maybe they chose not to tell you! Being isolated for so long was weighing down your shoulders like a soggy blanket.

"Oh, sorry pet, didn't see you down there." Another head covered man bumped into you on his hot pursuit to speak with König, his right hand man, covered in wolf pelts and broad.

That's what they called you. Your name was erased. Just pet.

He was the one to find you crying in the hallway just outside your forsaken room after dinner. Again, bumping into you. For the KorTac clan to wear face coverings, one might think their eyesight might be somewhat enhanced.

Kruger bent down on one knee, dared touch your face to make you look at him.

"Why do you cry so much?"

"What?" You sniffled and he still held your face. Maybe he has a death wish, you thought.

"You're always crying."

"That's because I am punished here!" You shout and push away from him and the wall. "Wouldn't you be? König dragged me from my home because he up and decided he wanted to change course of payment days. Without fair notice and now I'm locked here with you people. I don't even know if I'll ever see my parents again!"

With that said, you burst into even more tears. Covering your face with your hands was worse, it just made you hotter and more upset that there was absolutely no one here who would, want or could console you.

"Do you feel like a prisoner, pet?"

"I am one! I don't want to be here anymore."

"Kruger!" König's booming voice seemed to flutter around the entire hall, his boots sounded deafening. "You had better not be the one to bring my pet to tears! I will have your throat."

Kruger straightened up quickly and backed away, adjusting his head covering and the wolf fur that hangs off his shoulders. Not like The Collectors cloak, its as deep and lush as the forest that surrounds the village.

He looks down at you wiping your face, trying to catch your breath.

Your chin jitters.

"No, sir."

"Leave us." Is all he says and you turn to take your leave into your room but are stopped, König's hand is on your wrist in an almost intimate manner. Which is shocking and somehow even more terrifying. "Not you."

Kruger left you in the hallway, made sure he was gone and out of sight before entering your chamber. The gust of wind from him opening the door made your bedroom torches crackle and sputter about as he dragged you behind him. He'd only stood in your adjacent doorway, so to see him and have him here in you, in the room you've been tidying to your liking until your father can pay out was - strange.

"Sit."

You sniffled and did as was asked. Still too afraid to ask what happened to the last ransom captive. You obeyed without question. You wrung your hands together as you watched the big man pace.

"They can't keep seeing you crying, you know? Their going to start thinking I'm breaking you apart every night."

"You might as well at this point. Am I ever going home?"

"That's up to your parents, not me." König said with a scoff, as if this wasn't he whole ensemble, he orchestrated this madness to begin with! He's the one that switched up payday to begin with, this was his fault, his doing and the more you sat there and how could König be so passive about it? Too much. It was all too much!

Without warning you sprung up and shoved him, he didn't move much but he looked down at you with narrowed eyes.

"This is your fault!" You pushed him again and for some reason, or maybe you imagined it, he did move this time. "This is all your fault! You did this to me."

"I did it for your own good!"

"That doesn't even make any sense, none of this makes sense. I'm stuck in limbo," you shouted and shoved at him once more, he allowed you, actually allowed you to move him back towards the wall. "I'm stuck in this room! I'm stuck with your clan a-and for what? A failed payment, on a day that you chose!"

König sighed.

"Is this some sick joke? I've been here for a month now, no word from my father, no word from my mother… have you? Have you had word from them, Collector?"

"I have."

Your lashes clumped together, eyes welling up when he crossed his arms and looked away to one of the torches. "You… you have? When? Why didn't you notify me, I'm losing my mind in here."

"Last week."

"What? What do you mean last week? I was here, I've been here! I did not see him."

"No, pet you wouldn't would you? Do remember when I asked Soap to take you to Keeva the seamstress for some mending?"

You were the on to pace now. Of course you remember, it was the first time you were allowed out of his sight and untethered to another person. Keeva was the sweetest one out of the entirety of the KorTac clan. She was round and full, waddling down the muddy lane with you in tow, both of you carrying clothes from the great hall.

"…yes."

"He came the village, alone. You were right," König shrugged and shook his head. "Times are a little tough for your family, they can barely feed themselves. Your father only had half of what is due anyhow."

"Then… how long did he say? An estimate, even."

"No idea. But he did offer me something far more than its' worth."

You shivered. The hairs on the back on your arms prickled.

König then pulled out a familiar bracelet. It was passed down to your mother from her mother and so on. It was to be treasured, worn with grace and beauty. Carrying on. But now, in all its' emerald glory, still pretty as ever, it looked dirty in his palm.

He held it out to you.

"Why do you have that?" Your voice cracking and watery. Your throat threatening to close in on itself like a dune of sand. Blood pounded in your ears.

The Collector cocked his head and once again urged you to take the jewelry.

"Your father gave it to me," his hold on your wrist was tight, but not forceful. Careful, would be the closest thing you could think of when he slipped it on for you. "To give to you."

"W-why?"

"He can't pay me in gold or coin." The Collectors voice deepened and you've never felt smaller than what came out of his treacherous mouth.

No no nonopleaasenopleasenono…

"What he can pay me in is this. And you."

#könig x reader #könig #konig x reader #konig x you #konig x female reader #konig imagine #cod imagine #stay series #konig fanfic #konig fan fic #konig fan fiction #konig fanfiction #cod fan fic #cod fanfic #cod fanfitction #cod fan fiction #vikings!konig

144 notes · View notes