#vikings writings

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [1]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devils, come to sack the convent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good girl," Skull says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet.

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

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

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

Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.

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

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

You blanch, breath leaving you.

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

"Take 'er."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or ask him for help.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

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

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

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

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

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

Blood rushes in your ears again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Here," Simon says. You look up.

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

His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.

"For me?" you ask.

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

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

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

Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder when this journey will end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The soap is better than the water.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[whereserpentswalk]

People don't realize how liminal it is to be a time traveler. How you don't ever really feel like you're in the time you are. Even when you're in your own time, everything is off, your coat was something you bought in interwar France, the book you're reading on the train is from a bookstore you had to visit in Victorian London, even your necklace was given to you by a Neolithic shaman, from a culture the rest of the world can never know. You find yourself acting strange even when in the present, much less in the past you have to work in.

You remember meeting a eunuch in 10th century China, and having him be one of the only people smart and observant enough to realize you were from a diffrent time. You could talk honestly with him, though still you couldn't reveal too much about your time. And it was still so strange hearing him talk casually about work and mention plotting assassinations. You're not allowed to but you still visit him sometimes.

You remember that the few times you were allowed to tell someone everything it was tragic. You knew a young woman who lived in Pompeii, who you had gotten close to, a few days before she would inevitably die. On your last day there you looked into her eyes, knowing soon they'd be stone and ash, that the beauty of her hair would be washed away by burning magma. And you hugged her, and told her that you wanted her to be safe, and told her she was wonderful and that you wanted her to be comfortable and happy. And you let her tongue know the joy of 21st century chocolate, and her eyes see the beauty of animation, knowing she deserved to have those joys, knowing it wouldn't matter soon. And you hugged her the last time, and told her she deserved happiness. And when you left without taking her it was like you were killing her yourself.

You want to take home everyone you're attached to. There's a college student you befriended in eighteen fifties Boston. And you can't help but see him try to solve problems you know humanity is centuries away from solving. And you just want to tell him. And it's not just that, the way he talked about the books and plays he likes, his sense of humor. There's so many people you want him to meet.

You feel the same way about a young woman you met on a viking age longship. She tells stories to her fellow warriors and traders, stories that will never fully get written down, stories that she tells so uniquely and so well. She has so many great ideas. You want so dearly to take her to somewhere she can share her stories, or where she can take classes with other writers, where she can be somewhere safe instead of being out at sea. She'll talk about wanting to be able to do something, or meet people, and you know you're so close to being able to take her, but you never can, unless she accidently finds out way too much then you can't.

You remember the longship that you met that young storyteller on. You were there before, two years ago for you, ten years later for the people on it. The young woman who told you stories wasn't there ten years later, you had been told why then but you only realize now, her uncle, who ran the ship, had been one of the first people to convert to Christianity in his nation. He killed her, either for not converting or for sleeping with women, you're not sure, but he killed her, and bragged about it when you met him ten years later.

You talk to the storyteller on the longship, ask her about the myths you're there to ask her about, the myths that she loves to tell. You look into her eyes knowing it's probably less then a year until her uncle takes her life. You ask her if you think that those who die of murder go to Valhalla. She tells you she hopes not, she doesn't see Valhalla as a gift but as a duty, she hopes for herself to go to Hel, where she wouldn't have to fight anymore. You slip and admit you're talking about her, telling her that you hope that's where she goes when she's killed. You hope to yourself you'll be forced to take her to the twenty first century, you're tempted even to make it worse, you want to have ruined her enough to be able to save her.

[writingoddess1125]

WE SEE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!

[tacticalprincess]

viking!könig waiting until the perfect moment to raid your village in search of you, the cute little peasant girl he’s seen scourging for scraps in town. plucks you right out of your mothers arms, shaking and afraid, and onto his horse. you’ll be married and bred with his heir by next month.

don’t cry, kleine liebling, he’s going to provide you the best life you could ask for — so long as you feed him and let him use you to produce his sons like a good wife should. a pretty girl like you has no business hauling up in tiny shacks in fear of going hungry, he knew he just couldn’t let you go to waste. you should be thanking him for saving you from such a poor fate.

[axeeglitter]

Nordic Heritage

Brandon shoved open the door to the darkened classroom, cursing under his breath. He had barely survived his history lecture earlier that day, zoning out through yet another monologue about Vikings and Norse mythology. Now, he was back after hours to grab his gym bag, which he'd left under his desk after falling asleep on another one of his boring teacher’s lessons. The only reason Brandon was attending this class was because he didn’t want to lose his financial support and be excluded from the football team.

The air was cool and still, but the room felt different somehow, heavier. Brandon ignored it, walking to his seat. “There you are!” he said while grabbing his gym bag. As he was walking out of the classroom, Brandon heard a voice calling behind him. "Fuck off Nerd' " He answered without looking who it was. But not hearing any answers, he paused, turned back but gasped and shrugged his shoulders when he realized there was no one. Instead, sitting in the middle of his professor’s desk a book was sitting, a massive tome, bound in cracked leather with a cover etched in swirling Nordic patterns.

An idea popped in Brandon’s mind and a smiled appeared on his manly face. “Try to do your annoying lesson without your stupid book fucker!” He said as he started to walk back to the desk to take the book. Curiosity got the better of him. He moved closer, leaning over to get a better look. The pages were thick and yellowed, and intricate black ink drawings filled its open spread. On the left page, a detailed illustration of a Viking warrior towered, wearing fur-lined armor and clutching a massive axe. On the right page, an empty space waited, framed by ornate borders.

At the bottom of the right page, jagged runic text glowed faintly. "Arroganse er menneskehetens undergang. Bare respekt kan fri ham fra det."

Brandon snorted. “What kind of medieval crap is this?” He ran a hand through his luscious brown hair, then reached to close the book before grabbing it. But as he did so, his fingers touched the empty page on the right.

The moment his fingers brushed the surface, a jolt of energy shot through his body like lightning. The runes flared to life, their golden light pouring across the room and materializing in sparkling dancing light swirling around him. He tried to yank his hand back, but it was too late. A force gripped him, holding him in place as the book’s light wrapped around him like vines, searing and unrelenting.

“No! What the fu…  AAAAAAHHHHHHHH” His words dissolved into a cry of pain as the transformation began.

Brandon’s body convulsed, every muscle tensing as a deep, primal heat flooded him from within. His bones cracked and shifted, elongating and broadening with each sickening pop. His spine straightened, his posture shifting, proud and unyielding. His legs stretched taller, his shoulders widening as his frame filled out.

His skin darkened, losing its pale hue as a rich, sun-kissed tan spread across his body. It thickened, taking on a rugged, weathered texture, as though he'd spent years under the harsh Nordic sun. Thin scars began to etch themselves across his arms and chest, each one feeling like a memory branded into his skin.

Brandon’s chest swelled, his pecs pushing outward, followed by the rise of thick, powerful muscles on his arms and shoulders. His biceps ballooned with veins snaking across them, and his hands transformed, growing larger and rougher. His fingers became calloused, as if shaped by years of wielding weapons.

He gasped as his legs transformed, his thighs becoming trunks of solid muscle. His calves hardened, and his feet grew, ripping through his sneakers as his arches widened and toes thickened. The soles of his feet toughened, calloused and strong, like they had walked unyielding landscapes barefoot for years. His cut dick spasmed in his torn apart pants and he felt it growing longer and thicker against his hairy thighs. It felt like it was almost reaching his knee. Then he felt a pinching sensation around his cockhead as unknown to him his foreskin started to grew back and encompassed his ultra-sensitive cockhead, trapping him in a swirl of sensitive sensation and permanent leaking as his balls grew to huge proportions too.

Then came the hair. A tingling sensation swept across his chest and stomach as a thick mat of golden dirty blonde hair sprouted, curling and spreading downward. Under his arms, coarse hair erupted, filling his armpits with dense tufts that exuded a heavy, musky scent. His face flushed as the smell filled the air around him, raw, masculine, and overpowering.

He let out a strangled grunt as his jaw cracked and widened. His once clean-shaven face grew rough with stubble, which thickened rapidly into a full, bushy beard. Strands of golden blonde hair streaked with gold braided themselves in places, adorned with small, ornate beads. His nose straightened and sharpened, while his cheekbones became more pronounced, giving him a chiseled, feral look.

Brandon’s short, tousled hair unraveled into flowing locks, cascading to his shoulders in wild waves. Some sections braided themselves, practical yet intimidating. His icy blue eyes glinted with an otherworldly light, as if imbued with ancient wisdom and ferocity.

A low growl escaped his throat as his voice deepened, becoming gravelly and rich. When he tried to speak, the words came out in Old Norse, harsh and guttural phrases he didn’t understand but somehow knew.

His clothes dissolved into ash, replaced by fur-lined leather armor that clung to his broad chest and shoulders. His trousers reformed into woolen leggings tucked into sturdy boots reinforced with iron studs. A thick belt, adorned with runes, cinched at his waist. On his back, a round wooden shield appeared, its surface painted with intricate Nordic patterns.

In his hands, his gym bag started to shine and compacted on itself before turning into an axe, heavy and perfectly balanced, its edge gleaming with cold menace. The weapon felt natural, as if it had always belonged to him.

Brandon tried to scream, to resist the transformation, but the book’s power was unyielding. The golden light pulled at him again, and his newly created boots scraped against the floor as he was dragged closer to the desk.

“No! Stop!” he roared, his deep, guttural voice echoing. But the light enveloped him entirely, pulling him downward.

He felt his body flattening, his very essence being absorbed into the page. The pain was overwhelming as he was compressed, his muscular form twisting and stretching until he couldn’t move anymore. His vision blurred, and when it cleared, he found himself standing in a forge in the middle of an ancient looking village. He tilted his head and could see the icy blue sky above him and the crops circling the village. As he got up, he saw a serie of glitching golden glyphs briefly appearing in the sky and realized a faint frontier between the sky and the ground looking like a line of ink. Brandon looked at his hands and saw that there were different from before, more manly, ruggier, but most importantly, they looked like there were drawn. His eyes opened in fear as he started to understand where he was. He got transformed and sucked inside the book! His calloused fingers brushed the dirty ground and he gasped realizing it felt like touching paper. Brandon tried to ask for help to the people walking in the streets in front of him but every word that escaped his mouth were in a tongue he didn’t know but still was able to talk. But no matter what he tried to say, the words were twisted to say something totally different. “Where am I? What happened to me? Get me out of here!” he tried to scream one more time. But instead, his deep voice said to the men in front of him “Olaf min venn, hvordan var jakten i morges?” before starting to laugh with the men and walking back to his forge to start working on his axe. Brandon screamed internally not being able to control his body anymore as he was now stuck inside the book and forced to live the life of a respectful Viking.

In the classroom, the glyphs on the book were still shining in golden hue and after a moment, they stopped as the last sparks of golden light evaporated. The book snapped shut with a soft thud, the room falling silent once more.

The next morning, professor Engel strolled into the classroom, coffee in hand and copies in the other. He sat at his desk and reached for the book, flipping it open to prepare for his lecture.

As he reached for the Viking chapter, his eyes widened when he saw the double illustration page. A Viking warrior stood there, tall and imposing, his axe gleaming and his icy blue eyes burning with life.

“How curious,” Dr. Engel murmured, running his fingers over the drawing “I don’t remember having seen you before” he continued brushing his fingers on the right page illustration like he wanted to make sure it was real. In the village, Brandon was still working on his axe when he felt finger touching his sensitive skin. It felt like his whole body was getting jerked off and out of nowhere he felt cum erupting from his cock and soaking his leather pants as he didn’t even flinch and kept working on his weapon. “Hello professor” said Amalia with a cheerful tone in her voice. “Hello Amalia!” answered the professor as he tilted his head to salute her, leaving the book alone on the corner of his desk as he realized more and more students were coming in. He never noticed the faint movement in the Viking’s eyes, nor did he hear the muffled, desperate roar that echoed from deep within the page begging for someone to help him.

______________________________________________________________ Hey guys! Here is the story I wrote for @masterwolftfs for our exchanged. Hope you'll enjoy it. If a story exchange is something you would like, send me a message! Also, always feel free to send me messages and inbox if you have transformation ideas and would like to talk about it. See you!

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: The one who returns

(A continuation of: Humans are weird: They sing going to war)

Though my comrades laughed I continued the human tradition, and to my relief I was rewarded by what gods of theirs were listening.

On my first drop after I started to sing an anti-air shell punctured straight through my dropship. It tore a hole the size of my torso through the hull, reducing the squad mate who had been sitting their laughing at me into a red mist, and then out through the other side before detonating. The craft rocked and lurched but it held together long enough for us to reach the surface.

In my first battle I was pinned down in the ruins of a structure trading fire with a squad of enemy soldiers on the opposite street. We’d been stuck in that firefight for almost an hour trading fire; neither side daring to race across the dead land between us. I had just ducked back to slap in a fresh clip when a shredder grenade was flung through the window and landed at my feet. I had seen what they could due and knew my time had come as there was no chance for me to escape the room before it detonated. Yet as I kept my voice strong in song a stray blaster bolt struck the ceiling above me loosening a chunk of masonry. The piece came loose and fell directly on to the grenade causing the ground beneath it to crumble and continue falling into the floor below before it detonated leaving me unharmed.

What truly astounded me though is when my squad was assigned to capture a metal recycling facility on the outskirts of the city. Reports had identified the complex as a rallying point for scattered enemy squads looking to regroup so we were sent in to neutralize the threat. We arrived in good order and began investigating the factory when the machinery suddenly came to life. A metallic sheering blade the size of my body swung at me from the gloom and would have nearly chopped my head off had I not noticed the red glow it began to emit as it powered up. My comrades were not as lucky and three of them were cleaved like bloody paper. From above I saw the operator of the machinery at what had once been a foreman control post and let loose a barrage of blaster fire. He fell quickly enough and in the confusion of battle between the enemy forces now flooding onto the facility floor I made my way up to the control post. It took a minute to unravel the nature of the controls but in short order I had redirected our would-be machine adversaries to turn on their former compatriots. The facility was ours within the hour with myself once more remaining the only one untouched from harm.

As my squad began shuffling off to wait for a medvac I found myself drawn to the machinery. The giant blades now stood silent and powered down and I ran a hand against them. Even powered off they were sharper than anything I had ever come across and when on had so easily cut through armor meant to deflect raw energy discharges. I’m not sure if it was from the shellshock of battle or from my recent time spent with the human warriors, but I felt something calling to me from the blade. It took some time to dismantle but by the time the medvac transport arrived I had freed it from its housing and dragged in onboard. If my squad had anything to say about it those that could still speak kept their own council.

Back in orbit I dragged the metallic blade to the human’s section of the ship. I had found myself in their company more and more when time permitted between deployments. Their talk of ancient gods and wards of protection were what interested me at first, but they were but the first steps into the depth of my fascination of their culture. I showed them the giant blade and told them of how it had slain my comrades. Some of them spoke how it reminded them of the blade of Surtr which heralded Ragnarök, while others insisted that it was more akin Skofnung, a king’s blade imbued with the spirts of his most loyal warriors.

The debate went on from friendly disagreements into an open brawl between the opposing factions, but their engineers remained focused on the material itself and asked what I wished to do with it. I had heard many of the legends of the humans by now and knew many of them carried great weapons, so I wished them to fashion me one from this blade as well. They were hesitant at first as the work alone would be immense and they had other duties to attend to, so I offered them whatever material of the giant blade would be theirs to do with as they pleased. With such an offer made their eyes went wide and they barely had time to agree to the terms as they snatched the giant factory tool and carried it off between the still brawling throngs.

Three days passed and I heard nothing from them. My next deployment was on the fourth and just before I was to embark on the transport the engineers came before me. With great glee they presented me with my new weapon.

Now a fraction of its former size, the blade could easily be wielded with one of my hands. I took several swings of it and I could feel the very air itself around it buzzing as it sliced through it. To add to the moment the human engineers directed my attention to a bright red button on the hilt of the weapon. No sooner had I pressed it did the blade coursing with power. A soft orange glow began to emit from the blade as it once more became as powerful as the first time I saw it in the facility. As if to emphasize its keenness they had me hold the blade up then swung one of their own rifles at it like a club. The blade sliced through the body of the rifle and it fell to the floor with a loud clutter.

Impressed by their work I nodded my thanks and joined my comrades on the dropship. It would be the last time anyone on the ship would call me by my name. When I returned I would be known by other names but the one that most stuck was Ne’ya Ruel, which in my people’s tongue translated to “The one who Returns”  

[doumadono]

ANNOUNCEMENT

This is a turning point for me. I've been silent for too long, but I can't stay quiet anymore.

I'm going through writer's burnout, and it has hit me hard. I've been writing on Tumblr and Ao3 for nearly eight years now (with about 1.5 years on my private blog, doumadono). Over that time, I've written more than 400 stories across various fandoms, created the Sinful Sunday event and a series that many people like, helped many with numerous emergency requests — so many that one masterlist wasn't enough to cover them all.

But all of this has brought me to a place where writing no longer feels like a joy, but rather a duty. In my effort to make everyone happy, I lost myself and took on too much, accepting even the most twisted and difficult requests. It made me anxious and unwell whenever I thought about writing. This is why I haven't been posting much these past few weeks. I missed the breaking point and let myself reach a place where I was seriously considering quitting writing altogether and closing both my Tumblr and Ao3 accounts.

There's something else I need to address. I feel completely detached from Jujutsu Kaisen and Demon Slayer. I no longer feel comfortable writing for those fandoms. From now on, I'll be focusing mostly on My Hero Academia. Even though the manga recently ended, both the manga and the anime hold a special place in my heart. I’ve fallen in love with the story and its amazing characters. This is what feels right to me at this moment. That doesn't mean I'll never write for Demon Slayer or other fandoms again, but not now, not at this time. Maybe in the future — who knows?

Some of you might know that I've been dealing with a flood of hateful anonymous messages. Even though I’ve grown stronger and no longer consider them relevant, it still hurts to read such nasty words. This is another factor why I need to take a break.

So, what's going to change?

Sinful Sunday will no longer cover requests, and the event won't be as regular as it used to be. From now on, I'll post some sinful pieces specifically written for this event whenever I feel it's right. I'll write only for the characters I feel attached too.

Emergency requests will be limited to two slots and will no longer have a 48-hour window to be fulfilled. Once both slots are taken, emergency requests will be closed until I manage to clear the current asks in my inbox.

As of today, my ask box has been completely cleared. I won't be replying to any past asks, regardless of their origin or topic.

Commissions will remain open, as nearly all the requests have been fulfilled.

Regarding the following projects:

The Kvitravn series will be completed this year, but I can't provide a specific date just yet as I'm still working hard to bring everything together.

There's also a new series on the horizon featuring Dabi in the lead role, with a psychiatrist!Reader as the other main character.

As for Kinktober, I made a hard decision it will not be held as an event on my blog this year at all.

As of now, I want to focus on my own little My Hero Academia based AU that I created with my best friend @crystalwolfblog , and this is something that brings me a lot of comfort nowadays, and it's what I want to focus on. I’ll likely create another blog to post everything related to this AU, to keep things organized (the blog will be linked to my pinned post). This little AU was and is my safe haven for the past year and half, and since it contains all of my favourite characters, I want to focus on it fully.

The time for purification has come. I need to rediscover my purpose and find joy in writing again. To those who understand and have stuck with me since the ThePaperPanda days — you’re amazing and adorable, and I can never express how much I appreciate you, guys 💞

I want to share one last thought. This isn’t a statement, but rather a plea to readers: please respect writers, no matter the content they choose to explore. Writing is not as easy as it may seem; it requires a significant amount of time and effort, often taking up our personal time to craft a story. Don't send anon hate. Spread love instead! The least you can do to show your appreciation is to leave a comment, even if it’s just a word or two. For you, it’s a small gesture that takes less than a minute, but for the writer on the other side, it may be a much-needed sign that their work is meaningful. So if you enjoy an author’s work, don’t hesitate to leave a comment. It truly makes us writers feel like we’re on cloud nine.

Love you all, Marcianna

[periodcostumefantasylover]

Emma of Normandy's red dress in Vikings Valhalla

[bravo4iscool]

i started watching vikings like two weeks ago and this came to my mind😭

(ubbe ragnarsson x fem!reader; lothbrok/ragnarsson family & fem!reader)

(we’re just gonna act like they’re all a happy family and no one hates each other and everyone is a decent human being lol)

(this is also anything but canon, everyone’s alive, no one’s dead and this has like no place in the timeline lmao. this is just my delusions taking over😭. this probably will have multiple parts too (if people want that lol))

(masterlist | join my tag list!)

REQUESTS/ASKS OPEN!!!

you’re standing at the docks, erik on your hip and little ingrid by your side as you watch the ships slowly run into the habour of kattegat.

your daughter is all giddy beside you, just waiting for her father to finally arrive. “where is he mama? where is he?” she keeps asking, jumping up and down in excitement.

“i don’t know, baby,” you chuckle while the first ships arrive at the docks, the men leaving them in a hurry to get off. “i’m sure he’ll arrive soon,” you promise, ruffling your daughter hair.

meanwhile ubbe can’t walk towards you fast enough. there’s a big smile on his face as he keeps his eyes focused on you and the kids. he needs to take you into his arms again, he couldn’t wait.

he calls out your name when you don’t seem to notice him just yet and your head snaps up at his voice. your eyes light up when you finally see him almost running towards you.

once he reaches you he picks you—and erik—up in his arms, spinning you around. “my love,” he mumbles. “i’ve missed you.”

he sets you down again, immediately connecting his lips with your while his arms hold you close to his body. you sigh into the kiss, more than happy that your husband had finally returned.

when erik begins to squeak you both break the embrace. “look at you,” ubbe coos. “all grown up, my boy.” he takes erik from your arms and holds him up before he peppers his chubby face with kisses. “have you been good to your mama?” he asks, grinning when the baby begins to giggle.

“papa, papa!” ingrid starts to jump up and down again, grabbing her fathers clothes. “will you give me a kiss too?” she asks, her voice sweet and innocent as she blinks up at ubbe.

he looks at her and crushes down, “of course, my darling,” he smiles before he places his other arm around her and starts to plant small kisses all of her face.

the little girl starts to giggle, clearly happy that she’d gained her fathers attention. you only look at the three of them, thanking the gods that ubbe had returned home safe and healthy.

“papa?” ingrid then asks. “can i go greet uncle bjorn?” she’s giddy on her feet, looking at ubbe with those big eyes. “pleaseeeeee?”

ubbe looks at you and you give him a subtle nod. “you can,” he ruffles her hair. “but be careful, the docks can be dangerous.” his voice contains a clear warning but he doesn’t know if ingrid heard him because she’s already running off.

she’s quick on her feet as she dodges the people on the docks, searching for bjorn’s ship. once it came to her vision she let out a happy squeal.

bjorn stands on the docks, only seconds off the ship before ingrid launches herself into his arms. “oof,” he just manages to catch her, laughing when he clutches to him.

“i missed you uncle bjorn,” ingrid mumbles against bjorn’s chest, pressing her face against his armour. he tightens his arms around her, just enjoying the hug.

“i’ve missed you too,” he then mumbles. “my favourite niece, eh.” a smile breaks out on his face while he ruffles ingrid’s hair.

she giggles, “i’m your only niece.”

“that you are,” he smiles. “but you’re still my favourite.” ingrid starts to play with bjorn’s beard while he gently rocks her around in his arms. he wasn’t married, he had no kids, so he enjoyed the attention ingrid gave him.

“you’re standing in the way, brother,” a annoyed voice then sounds from behind bjorn and he turns around to see ivar standing behind him.

bjorn sighs and shifts ingrid in his arms. “there’s enough space to walk around me, ivar. don’t be such a baby.”

ingrid tilts her head and looks at the youngest ragnarsson. “hello uncle ivar.” she gives him a toothy smile, waving.

ivar only scowls and stumbles past bjorn and his niece. “do not call me that,” he hisses, not paying them both another glance. as he limps away the smile on ingrid’s face fades and she looks at bjorn with question marks in her eyes.

“why doesn’t he like me? or my mama?” she wants to know, turning in bjorn’s arms to look after ivar.

bjorn sighs again and grabs the back of her head gently to place a kiss on her hair. “you should not think about that, little one,” he softly mutters before he starts to move and walk towards his brother and sister-in-law.

-

you laugh as ingrid climbs all over bjorn’s shoulders, using his tall and broad frame as some kind of tree while your sitting back against ubbe’s side, erik in your arms. “be careful ingrid, you might fall,” you still warm her though, your eyes trained on her.

bjorn only chuckles and raises his hand to tickle her. “don’t worry about that. i’ll make sure nothing happens.” he winks at you.

“don’t flirt with my wife,” ubbe grumbles at that, still a small smile on his face.

hvitserk laughs and slightly shoves ubbe’s arm at his comment. “at that point, she’s our wife, my dear brother.”

ubbe shoots him a dead panned look before he rolls his eyes. “she’s more like a mother to you than anything else,” he huffs out a small laugh.

you slightly smirk at your husbands comment, patting his hand. “i like it that way,” you smile, standing up when erik starts to fuss around in your arms.

“you keep an eye on ingrid,” you point your finger at bjorn as you start to rock erik and make your way towards the door of the great hall. maybe fresh air would calm him down a bit.

you softly hum to your son, as you walk away from the hall a bit, just until you reach the first fields. “shhhh,” you coo at him, caressing his cheek with your finger.

but no matter what you did, he didn’t seem to calm down.

“maybe you should throw him away,” a familiar voice then sounds and you turn around to see ivar standing a few meters away from you. he’s propped up on his crouch, a permanent scowl on his face.

you let out a small huff and shake your head. “he’s a baby, ivar. he can’t express his feeling yet. sometimes crying is just easier for him,” you explain in a soft voice, continuing to rock erik.

“that’s why i don’t like babies,” he grumbles.

“you were a baby once.”

“i know.” his facial features were still tense as he stared at you, then at erik. “but i’m not a baby anymore.”

you didn’t know why ivar had—most likely—followed you out here. you knew he wasn’t particularly fond of you or your children. you couldn’t recall anything that would make him hate you but in the end of the day, that was how he was.

but even though he didn’t want you in his family, near his brothers, you loved him. he was your husbands brother. by marrying ubbe his brothers became your brothers and you loved them.

you look at ivar and slowly take a step towards him. “ivar,” your voice is soft and gentle as you speak, only erik’s little whines being audible. “why is there so much hatred in your heart?”

he freezes at your question, his eyes boring into yours. “i don’t have a heart,” he then hisses, taking a small step into your direction. “and i don’t need you to act like you care about me.”

“but i do.”

“no, you don’t,” he says, his jaw clenched and his body tense. “you’re lying. no one cares about me, except for my mother.”

you subtly shake your head and walk towards him until you’re standing in front of him. he had his head turned, staring at something behind you. “look at me ivar,” you softly demand, erik suddenly quiet in your arms.

ivar doesn’t listen to you. deep down you knew he wouldn’t but it was worth a try. so, you carefully raise your free hand, leaving enough time for him to pull back, and cup his cheek. “i said, look at me, ivar,” you say again, your voice gentle and calm, soothing even.

“why should i?”

you slowly start to caress his cheek bone with your thumb. “because i want you too see that my concern for you is genuine,” you answer, surprised that he hasn’t pulled back yet. he didn’t like being touched.

slowly ivar lifts his head to look at you, the conflict clear in his eyes. he was acting against all his instincts, against everything he knew.

a small smile plays around your lips as he looks at you. “you’re my brother, ivar,” you start. “and i love you. i care for you. whatever people might’ve done, might’ve said, you’re my family and i keep my family close to me.”

he’s silent while he listens to you, letting your words sink in. barely anyone has talked to him like that before. he wasn’t used to being at the receiving end of such feeling. he didn’t deserve that.

he swallows, “after all i’ve done—”

“i don’t care what you’ve done ivar or what you thought.” you gently pat his cheek before you pull your hand back to shift erik in your arms. “my love is unconditional. and if you never need someone to talk to or someone to listen, even a shoulder to cry on, my door is open. always.”

you get interrupted when you see ubbe walking towards you. he calls out your name, the concern evident in his voice.

“i think that’s my sign to get back inside,” you softly smile before you place your hand on ivar’s neck to pull him down and place a gentle kiss on his forehead. “think about my words, ivar.”

that’s the last sentence you say before you walk past him to assure your husband that you were alright.

pt.2, maybe a little series???

[gingersnaptaff]

Hey, hey, hey!!! Excellent video about fantasy authors misappropriating Welsh, Irish, and Scottish for their works!!

https://youtu.be/58-1EOObzso?si=hzfb2TwzvMJ3hm66

[mrsalwayswrite]

To Call Forth Love - Chapter 20

Happy 2025! (We're going to ignore its been ages since I've updated.)

Special shout-out to @cdauni your ask gave me the boost of confidence to write this chapter!

Words: 7700

Warnings: all the feels and mild smut

Series Masterlist

Warmth and softness surrounded her, a tonic to her weary heart. She wanted to stay here, live in the contentment and peace offered in her sleep. 

Unfortunately, her bladder had other ideas. 

Wakefulness slithered into her mind, nudging aside the residual sleep and dreams to coil around her mind and squeeze until her eyes popped open. With a muffled groan, Kari gave in. Her eyes slowly opened, bringing her fully into the land of the living. 

The first thing she saw made her pause. 

Lying within arm's reach was Ivar. Eyes closed. Long lashes dusted his cheeks. Mouth slightly parted. One hand tucked under his face and the other bridged the gap between them, as if seeking her out even in sleep. He appeared so serene in the moment, all the fury and fear wiped away, that impenetrable shield to protect himself was lowered to reveal a softness that was not witnessed during wakefulness. 

Before Kari could appreciate the moment more, her bladder reminded her of its dire need. 

Very slowly, she scooted off the massive bed, untangling herself from the gray sheets and blanket, planting her bare feet onto the cold, hardwood floor. A dim light came from one of the open doors in the bedroom. Trudging through her groggy memories, Kari thought it might be the bathroom, so she headed in that direction. 

Thankfully, her guess was correct. Quietly closing the door, she flipped the light switch on and gasped at the magnificent bathroom.  

The entire room was marble, with light gray marble walls, a matching light gray countertop, and dark gray marble flooring. A standing only, glass paneled shower was situated in the corner near the porcelain toilet. But it was the glorious bathtub that held her in its thrall. A gleaming white porcelain tub that appeared the size of a small jacuzzi. Even from where she stood in the doorway, she could see nodules in the tub where jets would come from. 

At some point she was going to bask in that tub, she silently vowed to herself. 

Finally emerging from her beautiful bathtub haze, she hurried to the toilet on the other side of the bathroom and did what she came there to do. 

Standing at the bathroom sink, washing her hands in the warm water, her mind began to attempt to piece together the night before. She remembered the car crash, being at the hospital, and the reunion with Ivar. She could recall the drive back to the brothers’ house, cuddled against Ivar, biting back the tears and screams bubbling up in her throat. 

Whilst in the hospital, the sun finally descended and now all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. Once they arrived, Ragnar and Hvitserk practically dragged her and Ivar to the kitchen, forcing them to eat something, carrying on a conversation nearby which she did not mind, as she picked at the sausage, cheese, crackers and grapes that Ragnar had pulled together for them. If she felt tired, Ivar looked like he was already asleep as he mindlessly put pieces of food into his mouth and chewed. Since stepping out of the vehicle, his hand held hers, refusing to release her. Even now, sitting next to her on a stool, he kept his hand always on her, either slowly rubbing circles on her lower back or hand placed on her thigh. For her comfort or his own was debatable, but she would not deny how it filled her with a comforting warmth. 

After they had consumed enough to satisfy Ragnar, the two were allowed to retire. 

Asking politely where the spare room was she could sleep in, Kari was shocked by the loud snarl that erupted from the man beside her and his sharp comment of ‘fuck that’. She was equally startled by the muffled snorts and chuckles by the other two Lothbroks still in the kitchen. 

Without a word of thanks to his brother or father, Ivar grabbed her hand and led her away. She tried to pay attention where he led her. Going down a hallway away from the kitchen, they passed several rooms. The only one with an open door that Kari could glimpse into showcased a couch and shelves of books. The library. Heat flooded her cheeks when she recalled what happened last time they were in that room together. Had it really been over a month ago?

They continued, turning the corner into a new hallway with only one door midway down. 

Weak moonlight peeked through the large windows to cast the bedroom in shade and shadow. The poor light illuminated the massive bed just in front of the windows. Gently, Ivar led her there, guiding her to sit down. After she settled, he walked towards one of the two doors to the right of the bed, disappeared for a brief minute and then returned carrying something. 

“Here.” He handed her what looked like a t-shirt. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“I'm okay.”

He grunted, rubbing his temple and headed there himself. 

Before she could second guess herself, she quickly changed into Ivar's t-shirt, guessing it was some sort of band shirt but unable to truly tell in the low light. She made a careful pile of her folded clothes, setting them on the nightstand next to the side of the bed. As she sat down again, her eyes roamed over the shadowy bedroom. It reminded her of a studio apartment…well perhaps a large one with the amount of floor space. To the left of the bed looked like a kitchenette, with a full fridge and a few small appliances on a countertop next to it. An impressive bookshelf stood next to a huge TV, mounted against the wall across the bed. The bed itself was easily a California king size, with a large, metal headboard, making Kari wonder if she could get lost in the enormity of it. 

Before Kari could snoop more, Ivar opened the bathroom door, wearing just a pair of sweatpants. He slowly walked over to the opposite side of the bed, pain etched in every step, hand braced on whatever solid object was nearby to take some of his weight. After sitting down on the bed, he unbuckled his leg braces, the clunk of them against the nightstand as he leaned them against was loud in the silent bedroom. 

Without a word, he pulled the covers down, dragging himself backwards and under the covers with a relieved sigh. 

“Kari. Get in bed.” He grumbled when she apparently took too long to follow his actions. 

Unable to fully suppress the small smile, she mirrored his actions, slipping under the plush covers on the opposite side of the bed from him. As soon as she settled, Ivar attacked. Using his long arms, he snagged her around the waist, causing her to squeak, and pulled her flush against him, her back to his chest, tucking his face into her hair. 

“Good night, Kari.” He whispered, pressing his lips to the top of her head, a large hand splayed over her stomach. 

“Sweet dreams, Ivar.” She placed her smaller hand over his, entwining their fingers. 

He hummed a pleased sound in response. 

In that unfamiliar bed, with all the trauma of the day, Kari expected it would take a long time to unwind and be able to sleep, to ignore the memories and the fear waiting in the shadows of her mind. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the day and weeks leading up to it that helped her drift off into a peaceful slumber. As she lay in Ivar's arms, comforted and protected, safe in his embrace and cared for, she knew her peace was attributed to the man who looked at her like he would burn the world down to keep her warm. 

Now standing at the sink, she stilled, planting her hands firmly on the countertop. The draw to turn away enticed her, to refrain from acknowledging the pain she could feel in her body. Stupid, she mentally chided herself, coward. So with a deep breath, she lifted her gaze to finally look at herself in the mirror. She was not sure what she expected to see. Logically she knew the car accident was minor compared to others, but she still expected to see…well, more. The left side of her head was tender, a dull ache radiating from it. A small band aid covered the cut on her temple, begrudgingly placed there by the discharge nurse at Ragnar's insistence. A few small scrapes were scattered across her face. Tugging on the t-shirt she wore, the hem dancing along her thighs, the blossoming bruises following the path of the seat belt were just visible. As if with the reminder, a fresh wave of pain crested over her, her body sore and ached all over like she was recovering from the flu or had worked out too hard the prior day and was now dealing with the aftermath. 

Her hands began to shake as the memories awoke with the review of her injuries. Images sealed in a locked part of her mind, jostled free from the car accident. The sun shone brilliantly that day, a perfect summer's day. The screeching of tires on the pavement. The crunch of two opposing forces crashing into one another. Devastation. Blood and screams. Blue-green eyes staring into hers but unseeing. Even as she cried his name, begging him–

“KARI!”

The abrupt shout of her name startled her from the spiraling her brain attempted to drag her into, forcing her to relive unwanted memories. She dragged in a shuddering breath as the memories vanished like smoke. 

Immediately, she turned and opened the bathroom door, walking back into the bedroom. Whatever her mind could possibly conjure was in no way close to the sight before her eyes. 

Ivar sat up in his bed, covers pooled around his waist and bare chest on display. A sight that would have been drool-worthy normally. But not now. Not with his wide eyes, panic and terror evident in them. His chest rising and falling as if in a fight for each breath. Hands clenched the gray sheets. 

As soon as the bathroom door opened, panicked eyes swept to her, those blues churning like an uneasy sea. 

“Kari?” He mouthed in a near whisper. 

“Yeah.” She hesitantly replied, never seeing him so distraught before. “Ivar, are you okay?”

“You're here.”

“Yeah.”

“You're here. You're here.” He stared at her, speaking as if to himself, as if reassuring himself she was not a mirage. “You didn't– you're not– ohh fuck…you're– fuck!” He scrubbed his hands over his eyes roughly, the dark cast on his right hand most likely grating against his skin.  

“Ivar?” She moved a step, concern drawing her in.  

His eyes raised back up to her, tears filling them, chin wobbling. He raised a hand out to her, silently beckoning her closer. 

And she responded with a second thought. 

Hurrying across the space, she crawled back into the bed until she was next to his trembling form. Before she could apologize or question him, Ivar did something she never thought she would ever truly see. He tucked his head into the crook of her neck and began to cry. Not soft, silent tears. Not feeble cries of sadness. No, these sounded like they came from the depths of his soul. A keening of helplessness, of despair, of brokenness. With gasping breaths, he clung to her like she was a mast on a ship rolling on stormy waves, hoping to just survive. 

Her arms banded around him, holding him close, feeling each ragged attempt to fill his lungs, body shaking with the force of his cries. One hand pressed against the back of his neck to keep him from pulling away. Listening to him, hearing him bleed out his pain and sorrow, how could she turn away? 

How long they stayed that way, she was unsure. At some point, tears coated her cheeks as her own swirling, chaotic emotions spilled forth. Time morphed as they gripped onto one another, a safe harbor to weather the storm, to drain the turbulent emotions hounding them for weeks. 

“I thought you were gone…” He choked out once his sobs lost their sharp edges. “I thought–fuck…I can't–I...” He tried to pull away, starting to lean back. She sensed that broken barrier of his attempt to rise, to separate them, to protect himself. 

And she was not having that. 

Not now. 

Only allowing him to sit up enough so she could cup his face, she refused to let him fully retreat from her. His vivid, blue eyes swam with residual tears, red-rimmed and huge. Yet still so beautiful. 

“Ivar, it's okay. I've got you.” She cooed, brushing the tear tracks from his cheeks, praying her touch soothed the cracked and bleeding edges in his soul. “I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

He exhaled a harsh breath as his eyes slammed shut. She could feel the fight drain from him, that need to protect himself. Once again, he gave in, surrendered to the tsunami of writhing emotions. He pressed his forehead against hers as his shoulders shook with soft sobs with the last of his tears, the purging of the final poison from the body. 

“I'm sorry, Kari, I'm so fucking sorry. For everything.” The words poured forth, a dam unlocked. “I never meant— you didn't deserve that. I promised, I fucking promised! And then–” he choked on a sob, drawing it back in as his confession continued to flow freely. “I'll do anything, whatever you want. Just name it. I'll do anything. Just please…please don't leave me. I can't– I need you, I need you so much it fucking hurts. Please, let me make it up to you. Anything. Anything you want. Just don't– don't leave me alone.”

Fresh tears ran down her cheeks as she listened to his words, heard the raw pain in his voice, and was finally allowed to witness the sheer well of need and feelings he kept locked up to protect his heart. A well she had only caught glimpses of in the past, but now the gate was wide open and she was allowed to enter. To truly see and marvel at the fathomless depths of his feelings. 

Ivar hissed, voice thick, as he tenderly wiped away the tears dripping off her chin. “No, no, kjære. Don't cry, not for me. I'm not worth it.”

“Of course you're worth it, you silly man!” She laugh-cried. “I care about you…so much. It's been so hard being away from you. God, I thought of you everyday. I just– I needed space but I missed you so much.”

“Kari–” he whispered. 

“And even after I didn't talk to you for three weeks, you still came for me. You saved me.”

“I didn't sav–”

“You saved me!” She interrupted, tone in such a way he was unable to refuse. “I was so scared, I couldn't, I just–and then you came. And I knew I was safe. That everything would be okay cause you were there. That you wouldn't let anything bad happen to me.”

“Fuck,” his voice hard with his confession, “I'll do anything to keep you safe. I swear it. I'd die for you, Kari.”

“Ivar, no–”

“I would. I'd do anything for you to be happy, even if that isn't with– I just need you to be happy.”

“I've never been happier than when I'm with you.”

He released a shattering breath, a shiver wracking his body, as if his body fought to absorb her own confession, her own truth. 

“Want to know something I learned? I think I've known it for a while but I– I was scared for it to be true?” She did not wait for his response, thumbs gently stroking his damp cheeks. “That when I think of home– it's always your face that's the first thing that comes to mind.”

He groaned, voice hitching as he spoke. “Kari, fuck, kitten, you can't- stop making me cry, fuck!”

They both chuckled wetly, foreheads pressed together, breathing in each other's presence. So longed for and finally here. Allowing their fractured, splintered hearts to begin to mend. Their touch, their words, a healing balm desperately needed. 

“Kari? Can I kiss you?” Nerves and lingering fear tainted his voice as he asked. “Please?”

A million thoughts sped through her mind but only one word slipped past her guard, to touch the air and admit her need for him. 

“Yes.”

Not wasting a moment, his lips brushed hers hesitantly, as if expecting her to pull away, to rescind her agreement. Once, twice, the gentlest of touches. A soft tease. A hesitant experiment. A hopeful promise. 

Instead of waiting for him to take control, Kari firmly pressed her lips to his, melding their mouths together, the need for him overwhelming.  Her hands tangled in his loose hair, keeping him where she wanted him. Refusing to give ground to the battle waging within him. 

With the open invitation, Ivar invaded. What soft, pressing of their lips, sipping from each other's mouth, tasting what they both had desired and yearned for once again, quickly became heated. A clash of tongues and teeth. Hands tugging and roaming. A plundering. A feasting. A celebration and an apology embedded in each feverish kiss. 

Under the onslaught of his affections, Kari found herself laying on her back on the bed, Ivar hovering over her like a dark guardian angel, wings of protection and adoration draped over her form. 

After one more greedy kiss, Ivar leaned back, those piercing blue eyes peering down at her. “Fuck, kitten, I need you. I need– I need to know you're alright.”

“What..?” Her mind in a dizzying haze, but somehow through the fog, she knew what that typically meant. A tension replaced the languid ease, coiling in her gut as she prepared to push him away. It had not been even twenty-four hours back in his presence, she was not ready for that. She should stop th–

“I know.” He pecked her lips, silencing her worries as if sensing her insecurity. “I know you aren't – trust me, okay?”

She stared up at him, heart pounding within her chest, but unable to deny the devotion in his gaze. Somehow she knew, with every atom in her body, he would not dismiss her concern, not now. “I do. I trust you, Ivar.”

He groaned, pressing his forehead to hers. “You're too good for me.” After a moment, he sat up, hovering over her, hands gliding down to the hem of his t-shirt she wore. She tensed for a brief moment, in awe when he stopped and made eye contact, waiting for her permission. 

“I trust you.” She murmured. 

With that, he slid the t-shirt up her body, mindful of his cast not scratching her soft skin, and helped slip it over her head, leaving her in a purple sports bra and a black thong. 

“You're beautiful.”

Tears welled back up in her eyes at the sheer adoration in his voice, the devotion in his eyes as he gazed down on her. Was this what a blind man looked like when he saw the sun or the stars for the first time? How could she not trust him? To fall a little deeper into the well of affection for him when he beheld her like that?

He gently brushed his fingers where she could feel the bruises from the seat belt begin on her shoulder. “Does this hurt?”

“Only a little.”

He hummed before tipping forward and placing a light kiss where his fingers had just touched. Instead of pulling back, his lips traveled. He placed gentle kisses along the line of bruises across her chest, only tugging her bra down slightly to kiss the space between her breasts before continuing the path downward. 

Once he reached her side, he paused to meet her eyes. At that moment, she thought she could happily drown in the vastness of them, a clear sky she wanted to soar in forever. 

Still gazing at her, he slid a single digit along her underwear line. “Can I?”

“Ah, s-sure.”

With tender care, he tugged her thong down her legs, making her heart race and nerves awaken with their descent, then he tossed them off over the side of the massive bed.

“Hey!” Her eyes followed their fall before snapping back to him. 

“You don't need those around me.” He said cheekily, yet his gaze remained on the spot between her legs, bare for his perusal. 

Nerves awoke the butterflies in her belly, making them dance and swarm. Subconsciously, she tried to shift her legs, to close them, to prevent her most intimate part from being on display. 

“No.” Ivar snapped, but without heat, placing his hands on her knees to prevent her movement. He glanced up at her, watching, waiting. When she made no further movement, no denial leaving her lips, even as her throat constricted with the butterflies clambering upward, he smirked down at her like a conquering hero. “Good girl.”

Then for the second time that day, he did the unexpected. 

Slowly, he slid back on the bed until he laid on his stomach, gaze never wavering from hers, keeping her restrained from moving, a prisoner to him alone. 

“Ivar, what–”

But when his mouth pressed against her inner thigh, an open-mouth kiss so close to her core, her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes drifted closed as she gripped the sheet on the bed, anything to ground her from the sensation shooting through her body. 

He chuckled wickedly then licked a thick, scalding line against her folds. 

“Oh!” She gasped, body jolting at the new sensation, overly aware of the wetness already dampening her core. 

“Gods, I've dreamt of this. So fucking good.” He murmured against her thigh before diving back in.

He teased her folds with his tongue, tasting, tormenting, driving her wild, lips occasionally moving to play and suck on her clit before returning to her core. When her legs closed against his head, it only seemed to spur him onward. Distinctly she wondered how long his tongue was as he seemed to be attempting to taste her spine through her, touching something within her that made her hips attempt to buck off the bed and infuse her moans in the air around them. 

It was all she could do to remember to breathe, as he played her like an instrument he mastered. His name dripped from her lips like honey, a chanting of his name, a petition to her god. Every thought fled her body, her whole focus narrowed down to his touch, to the fire scouring her veins. 

“My Kari. My kitten.” He whispered against her skin, branding her with his words, only to dive back in and feast. 

She could feel that edge getting closer, that coil winding tighter and tighter within her belly, almost ready to snap, to fall into oblivion, when suddenly Ivar drew back. 

“Don't you fucking leave me again.” He commanded hoarsely, biting her inner thigh, sending a wave of pained pleasure streaking through her. “Fuck, I need you, Kari.”

“Ivar, please….”

“Promise me!” He snarled, hands on her thighs, keeping her restrained, denying her the friction she so desperately sought. At her responding whine, he bit her again. “Promise me you'll stay!”

“I promise.” She sobbed, desperate for her release. Hands clawed at the sheets, the back of his head, anything to keep her from this tormenting limbo. “Please, Ivar, please!”

Then he descended, claiming her as if a man possessed, sending her soaring, seeing stars with a shriek of his name.  

When she could finally open her eyes, heart still beating a rapid tempo within her chest, her gaze froze on the sight of Ivar leaning his head against her thigh, his eyes trained on her with a sweet smile on his glistening lips. Something about the curve of his mouth, the almost dazed look in his blue eyes, she realized she had never seen him look so soft, so blissful, like he had touched the stars alongside her.  

Yet even in the afterglow of her orgasm, a realization of what she allowed him to do, of how she was still bare from the waist down. A flashing feeling of embarrassment and shame shot through her, but she tried to ignore it, refusing to give it the space to tear away the wonderful feeling she floated on. 

“Hi.” She said, shyly. 

He chuckled impishly. “That good, huh?”

Now a warmth blossomed on her cheeks. “I'm not sure I can move.” 

“Mmmm…good. I don't plan on you going anywhere.” He crawled up her body, planting a smacking kiss to her lips then flopped on his back next to her. After a long, silent minute, he spoke up again, confidence wavering like candlelight in his voice. “Was it– did you like it?”

She almost laughed, turning on her side to face him. “Could you not tell? Gods, that was…”

“I've–” He huffed, running a hand through his hair as he stared up at the ceiling. “I've never gone down on anyone.”

“What?”

He started to open his mouth then snapped it shut and only shrugged, refusing to remove his gaze from the ceiling. 

She leaned up slightly, just enough to fully see his face and catch his gaze. “Ivar, that was incredible. I think I'm still seeing stars.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She was charmed by his boyish pride, that twinkle in his eyes and the tilt of his lips upward, he looked so pleased with himself. “What…what about you? I mean, do you need–um…”

He laughed, carefully grabbing her hand and bringing it to his crotch. Instead of having her pull his cock out, he placed her hand on the fabric of his sweatpants. Immediately, she yanked her hand back, mouth open in shock at the large wet spot she had touched. 

“What–”

“Apparently, I enjoyed it too. Fuck, I don't know the last time I cumed in my trousers. You were so fucking sexy though. Gods, I can't wait to do it again. I need to hear you moaning my name at least one more time today, preferably twice.”

“Oh my gods, Ivar! You can't-you can't say stuff like that!”

“What? That I found you moaning my name the fucking sexiest thing I've ever heard. Wait! Can you do it again and I'll make it my ringtone?”

She laughed, even as she ducked her head, pressing it to his shoulder with the wave of embarrassment crashing over her. “You wouldn't.”

His lighthearted chuckle was music to her ears. “No, those sounds are for my ears alone. I'm selfish when it comes to you. Only I get to taste you, to hear you moan, to hold you. And I won't apologize for being a fucking selfish asshole about it.”

Leaning back up on her elbow, she reached over and traced his Mjolnir necklace laying on his chest, biting her bottom lip as fresh thoughts raced across her mind. 

“What?” He asked. 

“I…I want us to work. I want an…I want an ‘us’. I want to be your girlfriend.” As his mouth started to open, she placed a finger over his lips. At his slow nod, she withdrew her hand and continued to trace the necklace, eyes on the swirls and markings on it. “But there's conditions. First, we need honesty between us. I know there's certain things with your work that you can't tell me about. And that's fine, I get it. But in regard to us, to our relationship, I need to trust you. You hurt me, Ivar. More than– like…ugh, it hurt. But I am trusting you won't do that again. That if something comes up and you question me and my feelings for you, that you'd come to me first instead of taking the accusation at face value. Okay?”

“I promise.” The agreement held a tone of reverence, as if vowing to her and his gods. It sent a shiver down her spine. 

“Good, and one more thing.” She snapped her eyes up to bore into his. “If you ever lay your hands on me again like that, I will walk away and not come back.”

“I know, min skatt. It won't happen again.” 

“I'm serious, Ivar. I won't– I can handle a lot but that…”

Somehow he seemed to understand what she meant. Tugging her hand away from the necklace, he pressed her knuckles to his lips. “I don't want you to be frightened of me. I never wanted you to be scared because of me. Others, yes. It's– it's a way to maintain control, to have others terrified of what you'll do in revenge. But not you, never you.” With his casted hand, he brought it to gently run the back of his fingers over her jaw, gazing at her in what could only be described as wonder. 

She fidgeted under that look. “What?”

“You–you're too good for me.” He huffed out a chuckle. Carefully, he guided her to lay back down, both of them now laying on their sides facing one another. “I had planned to grovel for your forgiveness. I was willing to do fucking anything. Buy you whatever you want. I would even kneel to beg for your forgiveness, to beg for another chance to prove I can be better.”

“I don't need you to buy me things.”

“What can I do? How can I prove it?”

“You did already.” She whispered, losing herself in the sincerity of his voice and the pleading in his eyes. “You came for me. When I was terrified, you came. My hero.”

He laughed wetly. “My Kari, my beautiful girlfriend.” With an devious smirk, he leaned up slightly to slot his lips over hers, stealing a kiss. “Mine.” He declared before stealing another kiss. “My girlfriend.” Another kiss. “My sweet.” Another kiss. “Mine.”

She laughed, pulling away from his searching lips, to trace them with her fingers. “And you're mine. My boyfriend.”

“Fucking finally.”

“Ivar…” 

He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, making her  squirm, even as he snickered. “You think I was possessive before? Shit. I'm never letting you out of my fucking sight now. I'm going to keep you in my bed forever. There's no need for clothes, since I plan on having you over me…or under me as often as possible.”

She laughed, then squeaked as his hand traced up her bare thigh and grabbed an ass cheek. “Ivar!”

“I can work on my laptop. You can do your yoga next to the bed, then immediately get back in. We'll watch fucking good shows, not your romantic shit. Hvitserk will deliver us food. Hmmm…on second thought, he'll eat it. I'll pay someone to bring it in here.”

“You're being ridiculous. What about my wor– oh gods! Lydia!” She abruptly sat up, dislodging him in her frantic movement. “Oh crap! She's probably worried. I'm supposed to be at work right now! And I have my other job tonight. Oh no. Crap, crap, crap.”

“What other job?”

She scanned around, trying to remember if she had her phone. “What? Oh, I got another job in the evenings.”

“Why?”

“I…I needed it. My rent went up, so, yeah.”

“Kari,” he sighed out her name, trailing a hand down her arm, “I would have paid for your rent. All you had to do was ask.”

“I know, Ivar. I didn't want to. I can figure it out. It's fine.”

“Please, Kjære, let me help.”

Releasing a slow exhale, she shifted to look down at him. “I–I'll think about it. First I need to call Lydia. I need to tell her I'll be late.”

“You're not going in today.”

“I have too. I need the paycheck.”

He audibly growled, rising up beside her, nostrils flaring and jaw clenched. “Kari, you were in a goddamn car accident yesterday and had a concussion. You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm going to let you go to work. And if I explain this to Lydia, I doubt she'd let you come in too.”

Kari hesitated because honestly, Ivar was right. Even after the pleasurable sensations from her orgasm, her body still felt sore and exhausted. It was that ceaseless drive to prove to herself that she could make it on her own, that she did not need anyone to take care of her. Looking at him though, with the way he seemed ready to tie her to the bed and force her to stay, she wondered if maybe this once it was okay. To lean on him for support and help in more than just friendship. 

“Okay…” She caved, “I still need to call her and let her know. Do you know where my phone is?”

“Use mine.” He carefully scooted over and grabbed his from the end table, unlocking it and handing it to her. “We'll ask Hvits if they got your phone at the hospital. While you're calling, I'm going to clean up.” He placed a reassuring kiss on her forehead, a silent thank-you for her change of mind. Dragging himself back to his side of the bed, he swung his legs over the side and grabbed his leg braces, buckling them on.

Mesmerized by his movements, she could only watch his broad back, those tattoos she loved to trace on his skin, his muscular arms, which held her so tenderly, and strong hands that touched her as if she was a priceless gem. He put on the braces then pushed off the bed to walk to the closet door, slipping inside for a minute before coming out with new clothes in hand.  

“See something you like?”

She startled, not realizing she was still blatantly ogling his form as he walked across the room. “Yes, I love your body.” She blushed after the words spilled out on their own conviction, as if yanked from her mind without permission. 

With eyes widened momentarily, clearly stunned by her easy statement. After that split second, he stomped back over and leaned over the bed to drag her into a drugging kiss that had her gasping into his mouth and fire singing in her veins once more. “Gods, you're perfect.”

“Ivar…” she mumbled, her lips chasing his. 

He chuckled, drawing back. “Make your phone call, then I'll take of you.”

She watched him walk into the bathroom and close the door before finally turning her attention to the phone. 

Her conversation went as Ivar predicted. She called the main line of the yoga studio, then with Sasha answering, she got Lydia on the phone. Hearing about the accident and concussion, Lydia immediately told her to take at least the rest of the week off and to rest. Kari tried to say she did not need that much time but Lydia insisted and to call her if she needed anything. 

Taking note of the morning hour, Kari realized she would have to call the clothing store later to let them know about her accident. They would not even be open for two more hours. 

While talking with Lydia, Kari finally dragged herself out of the stupidly huge and comfortable bed to find her scattered clothing. Her black thong was on the ground beside the expansive bed, as if attempting to hide from her. Instead of putting on her own clothes from yesterday, she slipped back into the band t-shirt of Ivar's. In the morning light, she could see the skull on the black fabric and what must be the band's name printed over the top, she thought she recognized the name from one of Ivar's music rants. Next she wandered over to the kitchenette having spied the Keurig. A cup of hot coffee sounded delightful right now, but she became distracted by the dozens of photographs she had somehow missed last night with her initial snooping of his bedroom. She glided over barefoot to the wall of tacked pictures on a cork board almost as tall as her. 

Most of the photos showcased stunning scenery, mountains seeming a favorite focal point. A handful of scattered photos were artistic shots of a gorgeous woman. Barbed wire tightened around her heart as she thought of Ivar keeping photos of a different woman, someone clearly important. At closer inspection, she realized it was actually Aslaug. With the revelation, she wanted to slap her own head at her jealousy, yet another part of her wilted at seeing another beautiful woman in Ivar's life. What was he doing with someone as mundane as her? He was in another league compared to her. She shook her head, a futile attempt to dislodge her own insecurities. 

The creak of the bathroom door alerted her to Ivar's return but she continued to scan the photos, absorbed in the wanderlust they unearthed within her. 

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his bare chest, apparently only changing into new boxers and a pair of gray sweatpants that felt soft against the back of her legs. 

“Mmmm…you look good in my shirt.” 

She hummed as Ivar pushed her brunette hair over her shoulder and tucked his face into the crook of her neck. Before she became too distracted by the handsome man holding her, she gestured towards the wall before them. “What are these?”

“Pictures.”

She rolled her eyes at his deadpan tone. “I figured that, thank you. I mean, who took them? They're stunning.”

There was a long pause before he answered, voice muted as if sharing a secret. “I did.”

“Really?”

“Surprised?”

“Yeah,” she answered truthfully, “you never told me you did photography.”

He shrugged behind her. “It's not something I do as often anymore. My mother tried to have me enter some contests when I was younger but I didn't want to.” 

“You would have won, without a doubt. These are fantastic. Where are they?”

“All over. Locations I've visited and some of my favorite places.” He pointed to a picture towards their right, an audible edge of excitement infused in his voice as he spoke next. “That one I took at Floki's, it's the fjords behind his house. If you look at the bottom there you can barely see where he builds his boats.” He pointed to another a little higher. “That one was from a family trip to Switzerland. My brothers tried to ski and Ubbe ended up almost breaking his arm.” Next, he pointed to one on the left, just above her eye line. “That's of my mother with the Mediterranean in the back. We took a trip, just her and I when I was nineteen and had finally had my last fucking surgery. She wanted to do something extra to celebrate. It was just us for several days…it was nice.”

She tilted her head back to kiss the underside of his jaw, wishing she could soothe the longing, the nostalgia in his voice. “Thank you for letting me see these. These are…wow, I'm in awe. They're so beautiful.”

“Hmmm…” His lips caressed her ear as he whispered, “my favorite one is my phone's background.”

She dropped her head, practically melting against him as warmth flooded her cheeks. It was hard not to notice before she made her phone call earlier. It was a photo of her from several weeks ago, one she had forgotten about. They were out to eat, one of the many restaurants Ivar wanted her to try. Her gaze was focused off screen, having been listening to a man propose several tables away. Her soft gaze translated into the picture, a joyous undertone as she watched two people's lives change due to the love they shared. Her diamond studs and simple diamond pendant necklace caught in the flickering candlelight from the table making her sparkle. After the proposal, she had caught Ivar with his phone out, but instead of confessing to snapping a picture, he teased her the rest of the night about her love of romantic shit. 

He pressed a slow, syrupy kiss to the back of her neck, making her shiver under his touch. “My girlfriend.” His lips trailed to the side of her neck and up to the sensitive spot behind her ear. “My Kari.” He tugged on her earlobe with his teeth. “My beauty…mine.”

Before he could start something, she turned around in his arms, placing her arms around his neck loosely, feeling his hands settle on her hips. Silently, she scanned his face, noting the bruise-like bags under his eyes, seeing the crease in his forehead, the tension in his jaw. 

“Ivar, how have you been? Really? Are you in pain?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“Ivar.”

He inhaled sharply, dropping his head to press his forehead against hers. “I don't want to talk about it. Can't we just focus on now?”

“Hvitserk told me…”

“What did that useless brother say now?” He snapped as her voice trailed off. 

“Be nice.” She reprimanded without any heat. “He said you were drowning yourself in either alcohol or work. Or something like that.”

“That little shit. Can't trust him with fucking anything.” He grumbled, thumbs rubbing back and forth along the patch of skin beneath the hem of her shirt. 

He did not answer right away, so she waited. She could be patient. Something she had noticed about him was his disdain for speaking about when he was in pain, physically or mentally. It would be easy to attribute that to his childhood, to the constant pain he endured, but somehow she knew it was more than that. Her hand massaged the back of his neck as she waited, almost hearing the gears turn in his mind as he debated on what to say. How much deeper to allow her into his inner world. 

“Why do you want to know?”

An undercurrent of fear coated his question, that somehow she would turn his turmoil and fear against him. It fractured her heart anew for him, that it was so instinctual for him to have to protect himself, to never show any kind of weakness. That his only option was to be strong.

Instead of answering his question, she decided to share a glimpse into their time apart, hoping it would encourage him to do the same. “I thought of you everyday. Multiple times a day, if I'm being honest. I appreciated that you gave me my space, even if I hated it sometimes…but I needed it. It gave me time to realize how much better my life is with you in it. That I had already forgiven you after you ordered the food for me that next day.”

He cleared his throat before his words emerged like a confession, slow and halted. “Those first days away from you…I– fuck! I did everything possible to forget that I'd fucked everything up. That I'd lost the best thing in my life. Gods, I was so sure you'd never want to see me again, that you hated me. I even fucked some girls from a club to try and…well.”

She stiffened at his words but did not pull away, allowing him his space, allowing him to be vulnerable, even if it stung like a jellyfish's tentacles were wrapped around her body. 

“I know, I know it was stupid. I don't even remember them, I was high on some strong shit to try and– I wasn't okay.” He sighed, pressing his forehead harder against hers like it would allow his words to seep into her brain, to prove his remorse. “Floki finally hit me a few times over the head, seemed to knock some sense into me. Don't tell him I said that, that damn asshole. After that, I threw myself into working. In the past week I've been mostly living in our business airplane. Gods, I'm–I'm fucking exhausted. It's a damn miracle I haven't broken anything. I feel like I've barely slept the past three weeks. And my legs…ah, fuck, they've been killing me. But I couldn't stop, I–I had to do something, keep moving, or I'd–”

She could see how hard it was for him to admit, like each word out of his mouth was a fight, a struggle to release the bonds keeping his weakness hidden and allow her to peer past the façade, to see how hard it had been the past three weeks. 

“And your cast?”

“That night after you left…I broke my hand on a punching bag. Forgot to wrap it. Fucking stupid.”

“Oh, Ivar.” 

“I want– even with those others at the club. They meant nothing. They are nothing! It was always you I thought of. It's always been you. Ever since that night in the club where you kissed me, it's always been you. And I promise, I'll always take care of you.” His voice caught in his throat, forcing him to swallow thickly to continue. “Please, kitten, please believe me.”

And she did. Gods forgive her but she did. It was in the way his hands clutched her hips, his anguish coloring the air around them, the way he begged for her forgiveness. He would do anything to repent for his sins, any penance she asked, he would comply. 

But all she wanted was him. 

“I do. I believe you.” She slid her hands down to cup his face to tilt his face to meet her gaze so he could see the honesty in her eyes. “It's been you too, since that night. I haven't even been able to look at anyone else like that. I think you've bewitched me.”

“If anyone has been bewitched, it's me. Fucking hell, got me crying and begging.” His lips grazed hers, a whisper of a kiss, a silent acknowledgement, a heartfelt promise. “Can you stay? I just want to hold you and rest and pretend the world doesn't exist. I just need you. Only you. Please?”

With her heart feeling three sizes too big for her chest, she silently guided him back to the bed and crawled in, cuddling into his warm body as he wrapped his arms around her. 

For how could she refuse when he was looking at her like she was his whole world, like he would carve his own heart out and give it to her if she asked, like she was the peace in the midst of his hurricane. 

Like she was his salvation. 

Tag List:

@southernbe @tessakate @ivarlover @nothingtolosebutweight @beautifulweaselplaidsalad @noway4u @cdauni @istorkyou @ringpopdust @lotr-got @kaybee87 @ultralillylove

(If anyone wants to be added or removed, please let me know!)

[borgialucrezia]

"We had each other. Now, you have Victoria and she will never leave you. Do you know how much I envy you? And how I will miss you?” 

[bravo4iscool]

i’ll never forgive bjorn for treating siggy bad, so take this🤪 (kinda fix-it, kinda not)

(bjorn ironside x fem!servant!reader)

tag list - @bumblebeesfromvenus @yazt09

(masterlist | join my tag list!)

REQUESTS/ASKS OPEN!!!

“shhh little siggy,” you coo as you rock the small girl around in your arms. “do not cry, everything is okay.” she’s been fussy for hours now and nothing seemed to be able to calm her down.

you didn’t know what to do. you’d tried everything already. so, the only solution you knew was to search for your mistress aslaug. she made caring for siggy your main task but told you to search for her when you didn’t know what to do.

you keep the girl to your chest, a blanket draped over her as you make your way towards the great hall. surely aslaug would be there…

one of the men in front of the hall helps you open the heavy wooden door and you give him a thankful smile. once you’re inside you freeze. aslaug wasn’t there. or so it seemed.

two pairs of eyes stared at you. ragnar and…bjorn.

you slightly bow and press siggy to your chest. you knew bjorn wasn’t fond of his daughter. otherwise he would be the one caring for her, not some slave that his stepmother owned.

“i’m sorry my lord,” you hastily apologize, already retreating. “i—i was searching for queen aslaug.” you wince when siggy starts to cry again. you wanted her to stop, but you didn’t know how.

ragnar keeps his gaze on your before he stands up without a word. you swallow, your grip on the girl tightening. slowly the king walks towards you, extending his arms once he came to a halt in front of you.

“give my granddaughter to me, will you,” he mumbles and what where you supposed to say? no? you hesitatingly pull siggy away from your chest and give her to ragnar.

he smiles down at her once he cradles her in his arms, slightly rocking her around. “look at you,” he whispers. “are you making trouble, mhh?” he wants to know, tickling her cheek with his finger.

you carefully watch ragnar as he holds the little girl in his arms, your eyes drifting over to bjorn. the oldest prince still sat at the table, his gaze fixated on his father and daughter.

“come here bjorn,” ragnar waves his son over, his eyes never leaving siggy. “you have not seen your daughter in months.” you only stand in front of your king, head bowed.

bjorn doesn’t follow his fathers command. that makes ragnar scoffs and shake his head. “what did i expect?” he mutters beneath his breath before he looks up at you. “what’s your name?”

you lift your head, not daring to look into his eyes as you tell him your name. ragnar hums in acknowledgment and places siggy against his chest. “where do you sleep?” he asks the next question.

“queen aslaug gifted me a small hut,” you reply, fumbling with your hands. why would he want to know where you live and sleep? “my main task is to raise siggy.”

ragnar looks back at bjorn, than at you again. “you will move in with bjorn,” he then says and your eyes widen. bjorn jumps up from his stool.

you immediately shake your head, stumbling over your words. “my lord, i—i can’t do that!” you shake your head. but ragnar just scoffs and shrugs.

“you can and you will. i just ordered you to.” the older man ignored his furious son while he watches siggy giggle. “take two men and let them help you move,” he gestures, not bothering to look at you. “i want to spend some time with my precious granddaughter…”

you swallow and bow your head. you knew you couldn’t defy him. he owned you, he could make you do whatever he wanted… “of course my lord,” you whisper as you retreat to do as you were told.

-

the next weeks feel like pure torture to you. bjorn doesn’t look at you or his daughter, he doesn’t talk to you, he doesn’t acknowledge you. he just comes and goes, always a new woman in tow.

you try to get siggy out of the house as much as possible so you both don’t need to witness it. it disgusted you. thankfully queen aslaug allowed you to stay with her during the day, helping her keep an eye on her boys.

“does he treat you well?” aslaug asks you one day and you freeze. could you tell her the truth? because right now, bjorn was treating you like a piece of trash.

you hesitate with your answer before you look at her, “he…does not hit me. if that is what you mean,” you mumble, continuing to braid siggy’s short hair.

aslaug purses her lips. “that is not what i mean,” she says, placing her hand on your shoulder. “tell me the truth,” she softly urges. “please.”

you look up from siggy’s hair and look at your queen. “he doesn’t talk to me,” you—truthfully—answer, biting the inside of your cheek. “i try to be out with siggy as often as possible because…because he keeps brining women over…”

aslaug hums along in acknowledgment, gently squeezing your shoulder. “you can leave and go back to you old hut, you know,” she says and you shake your head.

“i can not… king ragnar has ordered me.” you say in a whisper, averting your gaze. “i can’t just leave…”

“you can, if i make you a free woman.”

your head shoot’s up and you look at aslaug. “what?” your voice is breathless, almost not audible as you stare at your queen.

she smiles and squeezes your shoulder again. “i can make you a free woman. then you can take siggy and move back to your old hut. it would be up to you wether you want to still work for me or not…”

“thank you, my queen,” you breathe out, tears gathering in your eyes. “i don’t know if i can ever repay you for that…”

aslaug chuckles, “you taking care of siggy is enough payment.”

-

you stuff your stuff into a small leather bag, siggy strapped to your chest. you wanted to leave without bjorn noticing; you doubted he would notice anyways.

just when you were about to leave the door flies open and his hulking frame fills the frame. “where are you going?” he asks in a deep grunt, crossing his arms in front of his shoulders.

“i’m leaving,” you swallow. “i’m moving back to my hut.”

he slowly walks towards you, “you can’t do that. you know what my father has ordered.” his eyes fall to siggy on your chest and narrow.

“queen aslaug has made me a free woman,” you reply, placing your hand on the back of siggy’s head. “she gave me the freedom to chose and i decided that i will move back to my hut.”

your voice is firm and determined—you didn’t know where you got the confidence to stand up to him like that.

bjorn frowns and takes another step into your direction. “a free woman, huh?” his eyes bore into yours, something dangerous and unpredictable in them. “then we shall marry.”

your jaw goes slack as you stare at bjorn. “what?” that’s all you can say. you’re at a loss of words. why in all that’s holy did he want to get married to you? he had all those women and now that you’re a free woman he says that’s he wants to marry you?

“you’re a free woman now and siggy needs a mother, someone who’ll care for her.” bjorn shrugs, keeping his eyes on you while he talks.

a sarcastic laugh leaves your lips and you shake your head with a scoff. “maybe her father should man the fuck up and start to care for his daughter!”

“you know nothing about me and siggy,” bjorn snarls, grabbing the braid at the back of your head. “you do not know what she reminds me of, what she makes impossible to forget.”

you hiss in pain, having no other choice than to look at bjorn. “i lost my child and my husband,” you say in a low voice. “do you see me fucking everything with two legs and a dick? so you see me leaving siggy in the dirt?” your gaze is hard and your words hit him like nothing he ever felt. “every time i look at her i see what i could’ve had, being in her presence is painful for me but still i don’t behave like a child!”

you rip your head away from his grip and somehow manage to slip past him. he doesn’t move. you look back at him, and press siggy’s head to your chest. “grow up and learn to live with the pains of life, bjorn.”

-

you slender over the market, siggy strapped to your chest and a basket in your hand. it’s been three weeks, maybe four since you let bjorn’s hut and it was hard for you to believe but he actually made amends to see and get to know his daughter.

he was visiting almost daily and by now you felt sure enough to leave them both alone for two to three hours while you went to work for aslaug.

but right now you were alone, trying to run a few errands. siggy was babbling along and you smiled down at her. she was such a sweetheart…

you came to a hold in front of a vegetable stand, eying the few vegetables with a slight frown on your face.

“they’re all fresh,” the young farmer smiles, offering you a tomato. “harvested just this morning.” you smile at him and take the vegetable.

you turn it in your hand, looking down at siggy. “should we take some of those?” you ask her and she giggles along. you chuckle and look at the farmer.

“how much for a few of those?” you want to know, tilting your head in question.

the farmer smirks and takes the tomato from your hand. “i’ll give them to you for free. it’s not often i see such a pretty young lady roaming the market all on her own.” he winks at you and you feel yourself blush.

“why, thank you,” you chuckle while you place a few tomatoes in your basket. “this is very kind of you.” there’s a small smile on your face and a certain twinkle in your eyes.

just when you were about to leave you felt someone behind you and a hand extended to place a few coins on the stand in front of you. “don’t flirt with my fiancée,” a familiar voice threatens and you can see the farmer slowly nod.

you bite the inside of your cheek and turn towards bjorn. you stare up at him, ready to say something but all he does is—gently—grab your shoulder and pull you away.

“we talked about this,” you grumble as bjorn takes your basket, completely ignoring your words. “i said i won’t marry you.” you stop walking, placing your hands on your hips.

bjorn groans and turns around. “do i look like i care? i want to be the father my daughter deserves and you are the one taking care of her,” he argues. “it is only natural we marry. after all, i do not want to separate the both of you.”

he takes a step in your direction. “i know i made mistakes and i am sorry but i am willing to make this work out.” his hand itches towards your face.

“you don’t love me, bjorn.” your voice is a sigh and you turn your head away.

“but i can try.”

(excuse this shitty ending HELP😭. i’m debating if i should write a pt.2 tho😭)

[witchofthesouls]

What’s some behaviours that seeker Lennox do that unnerve the humans or other bots that don’t fly?

The new Seekers/ex-humans sleep a lot compared to the Autobots to the point that mechs were concerned over the newbuilds. It's just the remnants of the human circadian rhythm, Cybertronians function on a far longer time clock, so they'll eventually adjust to it.

The humans think that the lovebirds are too into each other since Will and Sarah are basically wrapped up with each other in spare time. Freaks out some humans when they meld their frames partially together. Meanwhile, the Cybertronians are going, "Yep. That makes sense. Those are newly wedded and bedded newbuild Seekers." It's really intense, somewhat uncomfortable on how aggressive affectionate they are, but still understandable. Some mechs are making secret bets on when and where a poor squishy will see the natural sight of two Seekers going down and dirty.

It took a while for the human personnel to understand why the Seeker pair shower together or have someone else with them. It's a natural extension of their new frame sociality matrix since grooming a wingspan needs an extra pair of hands and it's a pleasant bonding activity. Ironhide is their usual go-to, but they had taken Optimus and Ratchet into their shower sessions.

Some of the Autobots think that Sarah is highly territorial and standoffish since she constantly wraps Will up with her own field and likes a certain degree of space. The Arcee sisters are careful not to stand too close to Will for that reason as they don't want to be seen as issuing a potential Challenge. Will doesn't understand it, but his frame does and likes it since it's a low-key awareness of where his wife and child are. Ironhide is trying to wrangle it back into more neutral feel, but Sarah isn't having it.

Sarah enjoys rising with the sun as she did her early morning yoga routine. It freaked out the Cybertronians how flexible her frame was, especially with her armor density.

None of the Cybertronians are ready to see how blase the Lennoxes are with doing things unarmored, especially when the Autobots caught up with the pair when Sarah managed to locate another vein and she was taking a dip in a geyser. Just her bared legs. Or whenever they shower together since humans take off their clothes, but Cybertronians are able to shower with their armature on.

Oh, and here's a little snippet:

“So besides the wings and chicken legs, what else you got?” Epps asked.

“I can literally smell everything half a mile away,” Lennox took in another deep vent, his mouth parted open similar to an insect’s mandibles, playing it up as his frame shifted to accommodate the air and his tongue flicked out. Epps looked up in wide-eyed, horrified fascination, at the long, segmented appendage coiling in the air.

“Man, you’re just fucking with me at this point.”

“Well, it was chili night.”

“Foyer’s?”

“Yep.” Both mech and human stared at the distant mess hall.

“I can already smell the barracks tonight. Thor will be blowing thunder all night long."