Hello! Can u do the sharing bed with the Lothbrok brothers, please? <3
Ragnar + Sons | Sharing a bed for the first time
{Vikings TV Masterlist}
Ragnar, Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, Ivar
Requests for headcanons / reactions / drabbles always open~
Content warning: suggestive themes (Hvitserk)
Ragnar
He, with all his confidence, is not awkward about it at all
He lies across the animal skins, legs spread and hands behind his head, already relaxed and happy
But when he sees you standing there awkwardly, noticing that there is only the one bed to sleep in, he lets out a laugh at you and pats the furs beside him
"Why don't you come lay? I am not that scary."
He is all warmth and silence, a type of tenderness that mixes with power and marks you nervous
When you finally settle down next to him, you notice the lack of space that the small bed has made between you two
When you feel his finger along your arm, you flinch out of surprise, which causes a deep chuckle to rip from his chest before his hand keeps travelling along you
Across your arms, across your hips, and when he realises you are showing no sign of pulling away, it curls around your midsection, and you feel his hot breath against the back of your neck
During the night, he shifts closer, until his chest is against your back and his legs tucked behind yours, enjoying the warmth
Bjorn
Bjorn pretends it is nothing, brushing it off as no big deal
But he is lowkey shitting himself from nervousness, trying to hide it from you
He actually offers to sleep on the floor at first to give you space, which you accept, happy that he is not pushing your comfort zone
But during the night, you grow cold, and you notice his incessant tossing and turning on the floor
And so you call lightly, "Bjorn?"
And he sits up immediately, one hand on the edge of the bed to steady himself
And when he sees you motion for him to join, he does not hesitate
The craving is immediate, without any delay
You open your arms and the covers and he sinks into your touch, brushing his face against yours and tangling your limbs together, your skin rubbing together for warmth
"You are so soft," he mutters as his hands find yours, squeezing them
You only hum in response, tucking yourself closer, trying to quieten your shivers from the cold air
Ubbe
Ubbe emits a steady warmth that invites you in
And he remains gentle, caring, as he always is with you
When you lie down, he gives you space
Leaves the room to let you settle, and only comes back once you are under the covers and half asleep
You wake when he enters (drunk, might I add), and he shushes you when you sit up to see who it is
"Shhh, it's only me, Y/N. Don't worry."
He collapses onto the bed, nearly crushing you in the process, which makes you groan and complain
But he only laughs against the sheets and tucks himself in
But at some point, during the darkness and shuffling of bodies, you notice how close his breathing feels
His head is basically on your shoulder, but you do not move, and neither does he
But he lets in a big inhale, "How the hell do you smell so good?"
You pretend to be asleep out of nervousness, and he only grumbles before tucking himself back into your side, drifting off to a drunken sleep
Hvitserk
It is all laughs and constant teasing from him
A little gossipy, saying "We're just sharing a bed as friends, of course, Y/N. Don't go rubbing on me during the night."
But it is a front, and he uses it as defense for how he's really feeling
Sweaty in the palms, hairs on the back of his neck standing up, being aware of literally EVERY sound you make
But he can't let you know how much this is affecting him
And even the possibility of anything happening between you has him buzzing inside, and he is half worried you could feel the heat radiating off of him
ESPECIALLY when you press up against his back suddenly, complaining about the cold
"You don't mind, do you, Hvitserk? It's only to keep us warm."
You're playing with him; he can hear it in your voice
And it isn't long before his hand reaches back slyly, running along your side, creeping underneath your thin linen shirt with slight hesitation
But you guiding his hand slowly downwards answers his question, and it doesn't take long for him to turn over completely to pay full attention to you
Sigurd
He does not like to face things head on
And so, he skeddles to bed before you do, hoping to fall asleep before you do so he can avoid the awkward chat
Well... he's the one that would be awkward
You can feel the tension as you lay down next to him
Your arm slightly brushed against his bare back and he flinched before grumbling, followed by you whispering a sorry
He only mumbles a "don't worry" before going silent again, but your hand does not go far, and remains against his back
He does not pull away or push you away, and you both accept it as a silent piece of affection that you're both drinking in
And with some bravery, your hand trickles slightly up, fingers dancing along his soft, scarred skin, and he shivers and lets in a deep breathe
"Y/N..." he lets out through a rough breath, "Please don't tease me."
"Tease you with what?" you said through a sickening smirk
But he only groans, "Forget it. Just... keep doing that."
Ivar
Ivar is not one to show affection or gentleness
He is cold and harsh, and so sharing a bed with him isn't gonna be the best experience
He warns you to keep your distance and to not smother him
Which you gladly obey, letting yourself become settled on your side of the bed while you listen to his soft breaths
But during the night, you wake to the feeling of something crawling on your leg, making you jump quickly to only find a small spider
But Ivar basically leaps up and places a hand out, gripping your upper arm tightly with a stressed face
"What's wrong? What is it?" he questioned while shuffling closer to check on you
You're taken aback by his sudden reaction. "Um... nothing, Ivar. Don't worry, just a bug."
The rough man rolls his eyes, then rubs his brow
"Just go back to sleep, Y/N. Nothing's gonna hurt you."
It was less of a reassurance and more like a promise, like he wasn't going to let that happen
It takes a while for you to drift back off, as his hand's grip shadows on your arm like a bruise
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Hey guys, guess who’s back writing for Vikings. It’s been what…4 years? Well here is something short and sweet to kick start my writing again! If you want added to my Vikings tag list leave a comment!
Being loved by Ivar was both a blessing and a curse in many ways.
He was fiercely loyal to you, after all, you were the first person to show him what it is to be truly loved and seen.
You loved him through everything; his anger, disability and insecurities. Due to this, he was entirely devoted to you.
Yet this devotion was partly fuelled by the fear of losing you….
Losing you to someone who could walk.
Losing you to someone who could give you children.
Losing you to someone he deemed a ‘better’ man.
This insecurity manifested itself as extreme jealousy and possessiveness.
He hated seeing you interact with anyone outside him, especially other men.
He was always looming nearby, watching your every movement.
Ivar would banish, torture and kill any man that tried to flirt with you - though he’d only do this once he was sure you weren’t around to witness it.
You couldn’t leave his side for five minutes without a slough of questions:
‘Where are you going?’
‘With who?’
‘When will you come back?’
‘Will there be other men?’
And if you did happen to go somewhere without informing Ivar, he would damn near lose his mind.
He would pace in his room until you got back - even if his legs were aching and in agony.
He’d become a nervous wreck, but he would only display that through angry outbursts.
When you did get back home, he’d be both relieved and furious.
He’d never be mad at you per say, he was more mad at himself for being so insecure and jealous.
He’d question you relentlessly. He’d need constant reassurance you weren’t with another man. He’d need reassurance you still loved him.
One way Ivar would make his claim on you visible would be by marking your neck in love bites. To him, this was a physical indicator to others that you were his.
When you were in public he’d always have you sitting on his lap or by his side. It was a constant reminder you were his. The weight of you on his lap seemed to ground him in ways words couldn’t.
During a feast in the Great Hall, he saw you laughing at one of Floki’s jokes; something innocent enough. But to him it sparked a jealous fire.
Throughout the night he couldn’t take his eyes off you and Floki laughing and joking around.
Hvitserk even commented that Ivar would shatter his horn of mead due to how tightly he was gripping it.
Ivar knew that you and Floki were just friends and there was nothing going on between the two of you, but he hated that you were happy in someone else’s company.
Ivar hated it because he felt less than.
He felt insecure.
He already hated large feasts because they were loud, there were too many people and the worst part...constant glances and whispers about his legs.
That night the whispers and remarks about him being a cripple was particularly bad, so seeing you and Floki giggle together about some stupid gnome story sent him over the edge.
Once the feast had ended, Ivar practically dragged you to his chambers.
He knew he was being irrational but he needed you alone, all to himself.
He needed you.
He needed to prove himself to you.
He needed you to remember that you were his.
As soon as you were dragged into his chambers, his mouth would be on yours, fiercely kissing you.
His fingers would grip your hips tightly as he held you in place, nipping at your lips.
‘Mine! All mine!’ He’d growl into your lips.
Before long he’d have you on the bed, your legs wrapped around his neck with his face between your soft thighs as he hungrily and desperately ate you out.
He couldn’t make love to you due to his legs (which was one of his biggest sources of insecurity), so he taught himself to be the best at pleasuring you in other ways.
He wouldn’t stop until you were shaking, fingers gripping his long hair and yelling his name loud enough for everyone to hear.
‘Say my name!’
‘You belong to me!’
‘You look so pretty on my tongue.’
‘No one else can have you.’
He’d relentless thrust his fingers into you, just the way he knew you loved while sucking your most sensitive spots, forcing you to look him in the eyes the entire time.
He’d only begin to calm down, his jealousy subsiding when you came undone on his lips.
He’d lap up your juices with a smug grin.
Once his jealousy had completely dissipated and the high of pleasuring you wore off, he’d need lots of reassurance.
Despite the jealousy leaving, the insecurity lingered like a constant dark cloud.
You’d spend the night holding him in your arms, kissing his head tenderly and whispering comfort into his ear while he clung to you, as if you’d disappear at any moment.
And deep down, he knew you meant everything you said.
Deep down he knew you’d never leave him.
And over time, with a lot of love, reassurance and doting from you, his jealous outbursts would subside…or rather he’d just learned to hide the bodies better.
Summary: You are a saxon princess and encounter Hvitserk in the woods...
Warnings: mdni!, pure smut!, enemies to lovers?, voyeurism?, outdoor sex, dirty talk, f!receiving, m!receiving, p!in!v, rough, facial!, dom!hvitserk, praise!kink
Pairing: hvitserk x f!reader
You had already been betrothed to a Saxon noble, a man you neither loved nor respected. The thought of him, made your stomach turn. You found your only comfort in slipping away from the suffocating walls of the palace, disappearing into the woods where no one would follow.
There, among the wildflowers and whispering trees, you could almost breathe again.
Your fingers brushed over petals as you hummed softly to yourself. You didn't know that eyes, were watching you from the shadows.
Hvitserk crouched behind the brush, silent as a wolf on the hunt. He had come to spy on the Saxon lands, to gather information for the coming raids. He had never seen a woman like you before. So flawless, so perfect.
'She is like a dream', he thought. 'Or perhaps a curse.'
He shook his head, trying to push you from his mind, but his eyes betrayed him. He couldn't stop watching—how your dress clung to your body when you bent, how sunlight caught in your hair, how perfect and untouchable you seemed.
You lowered yourself to sit in the grass, a single rose in your hand. Slowly, you plucked its petals one by one, until your fingers stilled and your shoulders began to shake. Tears welled in your eyes and spilled down your cheeks, and Hvitserk's brows drew together.
What would make a princess cry alone in the woods?
For a moment, he wanted to step out from the shadows. He wanted to brush the tears from your face, to tell you that everything was going to be alright. But he knew if he startled you, you would scream.
A branch snapped under his boot.
"Shit," he murmured.
Your head jerked up, eyes wide, scanning the trees. You called out, your voice trembling slightly.
"Who's there?"
Hvitserk smirked. 'Brave little thing', he thought. Most Saxon women would have run by now.
He stepped out from behind the trees slowly.
"Don't scream, my name is Hvitserk," he purred, his voice low, careful. "I'm not here to hurt you…"
Your breath caught as your eyes raked over him—leather armor marked with strange symbols, hair braided, eyes sharp and dangerous. You knew at once what he was. A Viking.
"You… you're on Saxon land," you declared, trying to sound firm even as your fingers gripped the rose stem too tightly.
He tilted his head, "Am I? I don't see your walls here. Only trees. Flowers." His gaze dipped shamelessly over you, lingering on the curve of your dress. "And you."
Your heart pounded. "You should leave," you whispered.
Hvitserk's boots barely made a sound as he closed the distance, though he still kept a few paces between you.
"You're crying over a flower?" he asked, his tone smooth. "Seems a shame to waste tears on something so small. Who broke your heart, hm?"
Your cheeks flushed, and you quickly wiped at your face, suddenly aware of how red your eyes must look. "It's none of your business."
"Ah, so there is a heartbreaker," he said with a grin, as though pleased with himself for guessing. He crouched down slightly, leaning on his knee to meet your gaze, the beads in his hair catching the light. "Is it a man? A fool who doesn’t appreciate the pretty princess he has?"
You glared at him, biting your lip.
"I didn't come here to be bothered by a—" you hesitated, your breath catching, "a Viking."
"Why? Do I frighten you?" His tone was playful, but there was a warmth in his eyes that almost made it impossible to look away. "Or is it that you don't want anyone to see those pretty eyes all red from crying?"
"I don't need your pity," you said sharply, standing up.
"Pity?" Hvitserk laughed, that boyish grin lighting his face. "No. If anything, I'm jealous. Whoever made you cry… I'd like to meet him. Just for a moment. Wouldn't take long to fix his face."
Your lips parted, stunned by his brazenness. "You think you’re charming, don't you?"
He smiled, delighted. You could smell him now—leather, smoke, and salt, as though he'd carried the sea with him. He noticed the way your breath hitched.
"Tell me, princess. Who is not good enough for you? Who made you so sad?"
"I… it doesn’t matter," you uttered, though your voice was softer now, your earlier defiance faltering under his gaze.
"Oh, it matters," he was teasing and being sincere at once. "Because I can't stand seeing something so beautiful look so miserable. It offends me."
You hesitated, the petals in your hand trembling.
"There's nothing to be done," you said quietly, eyes cast downward. "I'm to marry a man I despise." Your throat tightened. "My father says it's for peace. But there is no peace in it. Not for me."
Hvitserk's expression shifted. He felt compassion. Or perhaps... anger.
"You don’t even love him?" he asked.
"No," you breathed, shaking your head. "He's cruel. He's old. He looks at me like he's already taken something. And I'm supposed to go to his bed, smile for him, give him sons..."
Your voice cracked, and you quickly looked away, ashamed. But Hvitserk didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock. He was still, silent, like the forest around you.
He reached out, hesitating for only a second before brushing a thumb under your eye, catching a tear. His touch was rough from war, but careful.
"You shouldn't be crying. Not over him. Not here. Not with me."
His fingers, calloused and warm, trailed from your jaw to a lock of hair that had fallen across your cheek. Without a word, Hvitserk tucked it behind your ear.
You shivered.
"So innocent, so soft," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "You deserve better than him."
Your lips parted, but no words came.
He leaned closer, his breath brushing your skin—salt, smoke, heat. His eyes searched yours, and you could feel him seeing everything—the fear, the longing, the ache to experience a kind of love that consumes you.
"I would never let someone hurt you," he said. "Not if you were mine."
Your breath caught, trembling on the edge of his words.
"I would never put cold rings on your fingers and call it love. I'd take you to the sea. You'd feel everything with me."
His hand cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing the hollow of your throat where your pulse fluttered wildly.
You didn't stop him.
You didn't want to.
"Why are you saying this to me?" you whispered, the question barely formed, like part of you didn't want the answer.
"Because it's the truth." He responded.
Silence stretched between you, thick as honey.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his lips moving closer to yours.
You didn't.
Instead, you tipped your chin ever so slightly upward—the smallest invitation.
And that was all he needed.
He cut the distance. His mouth found yours—testing first, a warm press, waiting for flight. When you didn’t pull away, he deepened it, hungry now, tasting the salt of your tears and the wild sweetness of crushed petals still on your fingers.
He drew you flush, letting you feel the proof of how badly he wanted you.
"I want to see you… all of you."
Before you could answer, he was working at the ties of your dress.
"So beautiful," he murmured as the fabric slipped from your shoulders, baring the curve of your breasts to the cool forest air. His eyes drank you in like he had never seen a woman before.
His mouth found one of your breasts, hungrily. He guided his tounge over your hardened peak—sealing his lips over them, sucking softly.
"Fuck—" you moaned, as he caressed your other nipple between his fingertips.
Your hand slid into his braided hair instinctively, gripping as he worshipped your breasts, his teeth grazing your sensitive nipples.
He gathered the fabric of your dress, bunching them, forcing you to feel every brush of knuckles against your thighs. Cool air licked over newly bared skin, his gaze darkened.
"My beautiful princess," he whispered as his calloused hand moved along your inner thigh—teasingly. Smiling right at you.
You gasped.
He slid higher, feeling the fabric of your panties on his fingertips. You braced one hand against the tree, the other gripping his shoulder—leather creaking beneath your fingers as if you could anchor yourself there.
"Look at me," he said, feeling how soaked you already were. You did. Whatever he saw in your eyes stripped the last restraint from him. "You want me? Hm?"
"Y-yes" you whimpered when his fingers started to circle your clit over the drenched fabric.
"M-more Hvitserk, please," you begged, grabbing his wrist.
"You beg so lovely," he groaned against your neck, sliding his hand under the fabric in one fluid motion.
And he loved it. How wet you were. How ready.
A slow grin curved his mouth. "So wet for me princess," he growled, and before you could answer he dropped to his knees in the leaves.
The sight of a Viking kneeling for you made your pulse trip, your head spin.
"W-what are you—" you whimpered.
He hooked his hands beneath the fabric and urged your legs apart, guiding one of your knees up over his shoulder so the angle opened you fully to him. The bark dug into your spine, his toned shoulder was solid heat under your thigh.
Your exposed nipples hardened against the cool breeze blowing through the trees.
He kissed the inside of your knee first. Then lower. Then higher—leaving damp, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh, each one closer than the last.
"You smell like summer," he murmured against your skin. "Sweet. Wild." His fingers pressed gently at the back of your thigh, coaxing you to tilt your hips toward him. You did—helpless.
He glanced up to meet your eyes. "Say you want me,"
"I-I want you," you breathed.
That was all.
He bent his head, breath hot against your pussy. He didn't touch right away—he let you squirm, let anticipation hollow you out. His tounge flicked over your covered clit.
"I need to see your pussy," he whispered, thirsty.
With a fast tug he pushed the fabric to the side. You were dripping, and that sight made him even harder. He had to taste you.
His tounge dragged along your slit until it found your most sensitive bundle of nerves—kissing, flicking, slapping.
His two digits slid inside you, making everything wetter—messier.
"Oh God! Right there—" you moaned louder, cheeks burning.
He curled his fingers, stroking that sweet spot inside you.
He anchored you with one forearm thrown across your hip so you couldn’t wriggle away from the pleasure flooding you.
Your hand fisted in his hair. He welcomed it—groaned when you tugged. "Use me," he moaned against your pussy. Each sound you made only drove him harder.
"That fool could never please you like this," he rasped between slow strokes.
"Yes—Yes, Oh God Yes!" You moaned over and over again.
"Yeah? You like that?" He teased, flicking your clit harder. "So sweet,"
You could taste copper where you'd bitten your own lip trying not to cry out.
"Hvitserk—" You didn’t know if it was plea or warning.
"Mm—Good," he growled. "Say my name."
Your knees trembled.
"My sweet girl," he groaned, the vibration shooting straight through you. "That's it. Take it. Let them hear how much you want me." His fingers moved faster, stretching you out.
"Hvitserk!"
"I know, feels so good hm?" he taunted, before diving back in, hungrier now. His mouth sealed over your clit again, his tongue moving in relentless circles, building you higher and higher.
"I—I," you tried forming words but you were in a haze of pleasure, not being able to think straight.
"You're close, aren't you?" he muttered against you, breath hot and ragged. "I can feel you clenching around my fingers. Let go for me. Come on, princess. Come on my mouth."
"Oh—God—Hvitserk!"
His words, his voice, his pace—it was all too much. The world tilted as heat coiled and snapped inside you.
It only took few more strokes and you came with a cry, riding out your climax on his tounge.
He was mesmerized. Groaning when you came undone, gripping your hips as if holding you steady through the storm of it, refusing to stop until he'd wrung every last tremor out of you.
When he finally slowed, he kissed your pussy, almost reverently, before pulling back with a wicked grin.
Hvitserk towered over you now. He reached down, brushing his thumb across your lower lip, smudging your own divine taste there.
"You're looking at me like you want more," he said, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. "Do you?"
Your breath hitched. "Y-yes,"
"Don't be shy," he murmured, stepping closer, his hips pressing against you just enough to make you feel of what you'd done to him. "Touch me. I want to feel your hands on me."
You hesitated, your fingers trembling slightly as you reached for the knot of his pants. His hand caught yours, guiding them with a dark smirk.
You tugged at the knot, loosening it, the leather and fabric rough under your fingertips. His breath hissed between his teeth as you slid them down, the sight of his muscled stomach and hips making your mouth go dry.
"On your knees." he said sweet, the words rolling off his tongue like a caress.
You sank down, the forest floor cool and damp beneath you. His hand found your hair, threading through it.
Hvitserk let out a low groan when your hands wrapped around him. Stroking him slowly. His head tilted back, eyes closing for just a moment, before he looked down at you again, gaze dark and burning.
"Look at me, I want to see those pretty eyes when you take me," he moaned.
You leaned forward, a bead of precum leaking out of his flushed tip as you took him into your mouth, careful at first.
"Gods, just like that princess," he rasped, one hand resting on the tree trunk behind him while the other stayed tangled in your hair. "So warm. So perfect."
You hummed around him.
He chuckled softly, breathlessly. "That bastard doesn't deserve a mouth like this. But me? I'll worship every second of it."
You moan, taking him deeper, swirling his leaking tip. He thrusts slightly, groaning.
You released him with a pop.
"Don't stop," he growled, voice breaking slightly. "Let me see you take all of me. You can do it."
Hvitserk's hand tightened in your hair, guiding your rhythm as his head tilted back with a sharp groan.
"Gods," he breathed, looking down at you, his chest heaving. "Look at you. On your knees for me, lips wrapped around me… you don't even know how holy you look like that."
You moaned around him, moving faster, his dick hitting the back of your throat, his hips jerking in response.
The sound of you—soft, wet, and needy—made his jaw tighten. He whimpered. "That noise… gods, you're going to ruin me. Don't stop, just like that."
He pulled back and reached down, cupping your face with his hand, thumb brushing your bottom lip. "Touch yourself for me. Play with those perfect breasts. I want to watch you while you take me."
You put one hand on your breast, while still stroking and teasing him with the other. "You like seeing me squeeze my tits, Hvitserk?" you moaned sweetly.
His breath hitched when he saw you obey, his dick twitching in your delicate hand. "So much. That's it. Just like that. You have no idea how sinful you look."
You took him back in your mouth, hand on the base of his cock, eyes locked on his, playing with yourself as he tried to catch his release.
"Princess," he moaned, voice hoarse, "You're so good at this, Fuck," he was loosing his mind.
Hvitserk’s breathing was ragged as he watched you, your lips swollen, your hand still on your breast, your knees damp from the forest floor. He gave a feral groan and grabbed you by the chin, tilting your head up.
"Enough," he rasped, eyes burning. "If I let you keep doing that, I'll spill down your throat—and I'm not done with you yet."
He pulled you to your feet in one strong motion, pressing you back against the rough bark of the tree. His mouth crashed against yours, hot and desperate, tasting himself on your lips.
His hands moved fast—one gripping your hip, the other sliding under your skirt until he found the fabric of your panties again. With a sharp tug, he ripped them apart, the sound tearing through the quiet forest.
"You won't need these," he muttered. "Not for what I’m going to do to you."
He shifted his hips, and you felt the hard length of him press against you, hot and heavy. He rubbed his dick against your wetness, slow and deliberate, not giving you what you wanted just yet.
"Do you feel that?" he whispered against your ear, his voice needy and breathless. "That's for you. All of it. You want me inside you, don't you?"
You whimpered, your hands clutching at his shoulders. "Yes… Hvitserk, please—"
He pulled back slightly, smirking at you. "Please what, princess? Say it. Say you want my cock inside you."
"I… I want it," you breathed, the words trembling on your lips. "I want you inside me. Please."
"Not good enough." He shifted, slapping his cock lightly against your clit, the sound filthy and sharp. You gasped, shivering. "Beg for it. Beg me to give you what no one else can."
"Please," you whined again, voice cracking. "Please, Hvitserk. I need you—"
"Gods, you sound so sweet when you beg," he growled, one hand coming up to squeeze your breast, "I could listen to you all day."
Then, with a rough sound—he finally pushed forward, sliding into you.
You let out a loud gasp as he stretched you out.
His forehead rested against yours as he filled you, his breath ragged. "Gods, you're so tight," he murmured, voice soft as he began to move.
The air around you was filled with the slick, wet sounds of him moving inside you. He bit lightly at your shoulder, moaning. "You're dripping for me, princess. You like how I fill you, don't you?'
"Yes," you gasped, your nails clawing at his back. "Don't stop, Hvitserk. Harder."
He chuckled, pulling back before slamming into you with a sharp thrust that made you cry out. "Harder? You'll feel me for days."
He began to thrust faster and deeper, pinning you to the tree with every movement.
His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit, circling it with maddening slowness. "Play with yourself," he murmured, voice rough in your ear. "I want to watch you touch that sweet little pussy while I fuck you."
You obeyed, your hand slipping down, fingers trembling as you found your bud.
The sight made him curse under his breath. "Look at you, touching yourself for me. Gods, that's the filthiest, sweetest thing I've ever seen. Say my name. Say it while you make yourself come for me."
"Hvitserk," you moaned, voice breaking as you kept rubbing—your body arching into his. "Fuck! You feel so good… so big—"
"Yeah?" he growled, pinching your nipple just enough to make you cry out in pleasure. "Say it again. Tell me who's fucking you this good."
"Y-You, Hvitserk," you whimpered. "It’s you. No one else."
Hvitserk's pace grew brutal, his hips slamming into you as if he couldn't get close enough.
"Gods, you feel so good. So perfect," he growled. "I can feel you shaking… are you close, princess?"
"Fuck, yes," you choked, your hand moving frantically against your clit. "Please, I—"
He reached down, gripping your wrist, forcing your own fingers harder against your pussy. "Come on my cock. I want to feel you come for me. Do it, princess."
His words hit you like fire. You shattered around him, your body clenching tight as you cried out, your moans echoing through the forest.
"Just like that... Gods, yes… fuck, yes," Hvitserk groaned, his rhythm faltering as your climax dragged him closer to his own. "You feel like you’re milking me… fuck, I'm going to—"
He pulled out suddenly, his hands pushing you down gently to your knees. His cock stood hard and glistening before your face as he gripped the base, stroking himself.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough, deep. "Look at me while I finish."
Your eyes locked on his, still hazy with your orgasm, and you obeyed. His breath stuttered, his hand moving faster.
"Gods, you're beautiful like this… with your lips parted, looking at me like I'm the only man alive," he panted. "You're going to take it, aren't you? Take all of me on that pretty face?'
You nodded, mouth open. "Give it to me Hvitserk, all of it,"
That was all he needed. With a guttural groan, he came hard, thick spurts covering your cheeks, your lips, your skin warm with him.
"Fuck..." he breathed, his thumb smearing a bit over your bottom lip, his eyes adoring. "You are my princess now."
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Summary: After being pushed by Ivar and the rest of his brothers, Hvitserk finally speaks to the girl he'd been admiring for months, but an unwelcome interruption breaks the conversation before he can get more than her name.
Word Count: 1.1k
The great hall was alive with chatter, but Hvitserk didn't may it any mind. His attention was stuck across the room...on her.
"You are staring again, brother," Ubbe commented gruffly, sipping his ale.
Hvitserk grinned, his eyes not leaving her figure. "She's beautiful, isn't she, Ubbe?"
With a grunt, Ubbe returned to his meal and ignored his younger brother. A few minutes later, Ivar and Sigurd joined them, and all it took was an annoyed glance from Ubbe to cue them in on the situation.
"I don't know about you, Hvitserk," Ivar said, following his gaze to the girl. "But I think I will go talk to her."
Hvitserk finally tore his eyes from her, his lip twitching as he glared at his brother. "You will not, Ivar."
"And who will stop me?" he shrugged. "If you do not wish to speak to her, why can't I?"
Sigurd chuckled at Hvitserk's pouting expression but quickly hid it behind his cup of ale when his older brother's scowl turned to him. He knew they were right, of course, but it was easier to stare from a distance and admire...he didn't even know her name.
He was going to learn it tonight, he told himself as he rose from the table with a grunt. Downing the rest of his almost full cup, Hvitserk wiped his mouth and set off across the room.
Noticing the commotion from her throne, Auslaug watched Hvitserk cross the hall before shooting her oldest son a raised brow. Ubbe did nothing but chuckle and shrug back at his mother. If he was being honest, he was just happy Hvitserk was doing something about his crush. It had been months since the girl first arrived in Kattegat. He'd grown tired of Hvitserk's longing expressions and endless comments about the poor girl he was clearly infatuated with. They ribbed him endlessly about talking to her, but he remained in his seat each time, choosing to look instead of speak.
Hvitserk wove through the crowded hall with more confidence than he felt, the warm buzz of ale bolstering his courage. He thanked the gods he wasn't doing this sober because he probably would still be sitting beside Ubbe, watching her from afar. He ignored the knowing glances from his brothers at the table, especially Ivar, who wore a smirk as wide as the fjord before Kattegat.
Her back was to him, her (y/h/c) hair falling over her shoulders as she laughed at something one of the women beside her had said. Hvitserk couldn’t help but smile to himself, feeling his nerves flicker in anticipation.
When Hvitserk reached the empty seat beside her, he hesitated briefly before pulling it out and plopping down in it with forced casualness.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, though it was clear he’d already decided to stay.
She glanced at him, her (y/e/c) eyes flickering with curiosity. “It would seem you’ve already made the decision, Hvitserk.”
Her voice was steady but amused, and the way she said his name...like it wasn’t the first time she’d noticed him...sent a spark of surprise through his chest. Hvitserk leaned back in his chair and quickly glanced over his shoulder at his brothers, trying to mask his excitement with a grin.
“Well, I thought it was about time we spoke,” he said, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. “You’ve been in Kattegat for a while now, yet we haven’t been properly introduced.”
She raised a brow, clearly skeptical. “And whose fault is that?”
Hvitserk chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his neck. "Fair enough. I guess I could've come over sooner, but...better late than never, yes?"
“You have an interesting way of making first impressions, Ragnarsson,” she replied with a playful glint in her eye. “But I’ll allow it. I’m (y/n).”
Hvitserk’s grin widened. “(Y/n),” he repeated, testing her name out, savoring the way it rolled off his tongue. “It suits you.”
“And what exactly have I done to capture the attention of one of the great Ragnar Lothbrok’s sons?” she asked, her head tilted slightly as she studied him.
"You haven't done anything," he said, leaning closer, his grin growing into a cocky smirk. "It's hard to ignore someone who could make even the gods stop and stare."
Heat rushed to (y/n)'s face, and she laughed softly, looking away from his gaze. She knew he was handsome from a distance, but up close...with those eyes and that smirk...she felt herself melting.
She opened her mouth to speak, but a loud voice from behind her beat her to it prompting her name. "Do not let him fool you..."
(Y/n) turned around in her chair to look at the man, but her eyes fell to the ground...or rather who crawled on the ground. "(Y/n)."
Hvitserk groaned audibly, though he didn't look at his brother. "Not now, Ivar."
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Ivar said, smirking as he shakily used Hvitserk's chair to push himself to his feet. He looked between the two of them with a mischievous grin. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s been staring at you like a lost pup for months.”
Leave it to Ivar to ruin a perfectly good conversation. Hvitserk could've strangled him right there.
“Ivar!” Hvitserk snapped, his face flushing as laughter erupted from the nearby tables.
(Y/n) forced herself to regain composure, tilting her head once again as she met his gaze. Her voice came out teasing, though the nervousness beneath was evident. “Is that true, Hvitserk?”
He sighed, leaning his elbows on the table. “I suppose I have been...admiring you. From a distance,” he admitted sheepishly, shooting a pointed glare at Ivar.
“Well, next time, don’t wait so long to speak to me,” she replied with a smile, unable to hide a hint of affection now.
Hvitserk blinked for a moment, stunned. “Next time?”
She didn't answer and instead rose to her feet, leaving him sitting there as she walked toward the doors. Before disappearing into the cold night, she sent him one last smile.
Ivar's laughter followed her departure, his grin as sharp as ever "You're hopeless, poor Hvitserk."
Hvitserk watched her go, a slow grin spreading across his face despite himself. “Maybe. But at least she wants there to be a next time.”
"She will see she made a mistake, brother...once she gets to know you."
His eyes cut over to Ivar, who stared back with raised brows. In one movement, Hvitserk slid his chair back and stood, making Ivar lose balance and flop onto the hard floor with a loud thud.
"Oh no," Hvitserk tutted, staring at his wheezing form with a smirk. he didn't even try to hide it. "You must be careful, little brother."
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Summary: As the frost threatens to freeze you in your own bed, Ubbe makes a sacrifice that changes everything. In the darkness of the longhouse, the line between protector and lover begins to blur.
Slow Burn | Friends to Lovers | Hurt/Comfort | Bed Sharing
Warnings: freezing cold, sexual tension (no smut), not proofread yet
Words: 2.3k
Winter doesn’t just arrive; it breaks down the door.
It slams into the coast with a howl that rattles the very bones of the longhouse, a hungry, desperate thing seeking warmth. The temperature drops so fast it leaves frost patterns on the inside of the door—white, skeletal fingers reaching for the heat of the hearth.
You are sitting by the fire, stitching a tear in Ubbe’s tunic, but your fingers are clumsy and numb. You are shivering. It is a deep, marrow-deep shaking that you cannot stop. Your bed—a narrow pallet of straw and thin, molting furs near the drafty door—is a cold, lonely place. You dread it. You lie there at night and feel the cold seeping up from the packed earth floor like damp ghosts, settling in your joints, turning your sleep into a fitful, chattering ordeal. You are fading. You are becoming as grey and brittle as the winter sky.
The door bangs open.
Ubbe enters, and the storm comes in with him. He shakes snow from his massive shoulders like a great bear, filling the room with the scent of ozone and frozen pine. He carries a bundle in his arms, wrapped in oiled leather. He stomps the snow from his boots, the sound heavy and grounding, and his eyes immediately seek you out by the fire. He sees the shiver you try to hide. His jaw tightens.
"For you," he rumbles, dropping the pile onto your lap. The weight of it knocks the breath from you.
It is a cloak. But to call it a cloak is an insult. It is a fortress. It is lined with the thick, silver-grey fur of a winter wolf, heavy and luxurious, soft as a cloud against your cheek. It is a garment fit for a Jarl’s wife. A Queen. Not a thrall with scarred hands.
"Ubbe," you whisper, running your hands over the softness, afraid it might vanish like smoke. "This is too much. The silver... this must have cost a fortune."
"The silver is mine to spend," he says simply. He sits on the bench opposite you, the wood groaning under his weight. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his face illuminated by the dying firelight. He watches you bury your face in the fur, inhaling the scent of new leather and safety.
"The cold has teeth this year," he says, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. "And I will not have it eating you alive. I will not have you turning to ice."
He reaches out, his knuckles grazing your cheekbone. The touch is scorching hot against your frozen skin.
"You are not made for the dark, little bird," he whispers, looking at you as if you are the only source of light in the room. "You are made for the sun. And I intend to keep you warm until it returns."
The tenderness in his voice strikes you harder than a blow. You look at him, and for a moment, the air in the cabin is so charged with unspoken things—with gratitude, with longing, with a terrifying hope—that it is hard to breathe.
That night, the wind screams against the timbers like a banshee. As you prepare to curl up on your meager pallet near the door, resigning yourself to another night of shivering, Ubbe stops you.
He stands by his own bed—a large, raised wooden platform piled high with thick bear skins, wool blankets, and pillows stuffed with goose down. It is the warmest place in the cabin, elevated away from the frozen earth. It is a king's bed.
"Take it," he says.
You blink, clutching your new wolf cloak to your chest. "Take what?"
"The bed," Ubbe says, pointing to his sleeping furs. He gestures to your thin pallet on the floor. "I will sleep there."
"No," you protest, stepping back, horrified. "You are the master of this house. You are a warrior. You need your rest. I cannot take your bed."
Ubbe snorts, a dismissive sound. He doesn't argue. He acts.
He walks over to your pallet, kicks off his heavy boots, and lies down.
It is a ridiculous sight. He is a giant trying to fold himself into a mouse hole. His feet hang off the end, resting on the cold dirt. His broad shoulders span the entire width of the pallet, spilling over the sides. He looks uncomfortable. He looks absurd.
He looks magnificent.
"I have slept on rocks harder than this," he lies, clasping his hands behind his head and closing his eyes, affecting a nonchalance he doesn't feel. "Go to the bed. Do not argue with me, woman. I am tired."
You stand there for a moment, your heart twisting in your chest. He is giving up his comfort for you. He is sleeping in the draft, on the hard earth, just so you can be soft. Just so you can be warm. It is an act of devotion so quiet and so loud it makes your eyes sting.
You climb into his bed.
It engulfs you. It smells of him—pine, woodsmoke, and the deep, musky, intoxicating scent of a man. The furs are still warm from where he sat earlier. You curl up in the center of his scent, burying your nose in the pillow that holds the shape of his head. You are surrounded by him, wrapped in him even though he is across the room.
It feels like a claim. It feels like a promise.
And for the first time in weeks, you do not shiver. You sleep soundly, guarded by the giant on the floor.
iii. The Sanctuary of Skin
Three nights bleed into one another.
The storm outside has not broken; it has evolved. It is no longer just wind; it is a siege. The gale screams against the timber walls, rattling the iron latches like a desperate ghost trying to claw its way back into the land of the living.
You lie in the big bed, buried under a mountain of furs that smell of safety, warm and protected. But you cannot sleep. The guilt is a stone in your throat, choking you.
You turn your head to look at the floor.
Ubbe is asleep on the pallet. He is curled tight, his massive back to the dying fire, a giant trying to fold himself into the shadows so he does not take up space. The thin blanket he took for himself is a joke against the biting chill of the drafty floor. You can see the tension in his frame, the way he shivers—a minute, involuntary tremor that runs through his shoulders.
He is suffering for you. He is freezing on the dirt so you can float on feathers. The realization sits heavy and hot in your gut, a mixture of gratitude and a sharp, stinging heartache.
You look at the empty space beside you. The bed is vast. It is a lonely continent of furs, cold and waiting.
You sit up. The movement is quiet, but in the silence of the cabin, the rustle of the bear skin sounds like a thunderclap.
"Ubbe," you whisper.
He does not stir. The wind howls outside, drowning you out, jealous of the quiet inside.
"Ubbe," you say, louder this time, urgency threading through your voice like a wire.
He shifts. He groans, a low, tectonic rumble that vibrates in the floorboards, and rolls over to face you. His eyes are heavy with sleep, his lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks. His hair is a messy halo of gold in the firelight. He blinks, trying to force the world into focus.
"Hvað?" he grunts, his voice thick with sleep and gravel. What is it?
"It is cold," you say. Your voice trembles, not from the temperature, but from the cliff edge you are standing on. It is a lie, and it is the truest thing you have ever said.
Ubbe blinks, rubbing a hand over his face. He starts to sit up, the fog of sleep vanishing instantly, replaced by the sharp, terrifying instinct to protect. "I will put more wood on the fire. Is the wind getting in? I can nail the hide over the—"
"No," you say quickly.
You pull your knees to your chest, clutching the furs to your chin as if they are armor. You look at him—this giant of a man who has washed your hair with the gentleness of a mother, who has shielded you from wolves with the ferocity of a beast, who is currently freezing on a dirt floor because he thinks your comfort is worth his pain.
"The bed..." You swallow the lump in your throat. You switch to Old Norse, wanting him to understand perfectly. Wanting there to be no mistake. "The bed is too big. It holds too much cold when I am alone."
Ubbe goes still.
He sits up fully, the thin blanket pooling around his waist. He stares at you across the dark room, his blue eyes wide, searching your face for the trick. He is looking for the trap. He is looking for the fear that has always been there.
He finds neither. He finds only an open door.
"Are you asking...?" his voice trails off, rough and uncertain, like a boy asking for a sweetmeat.
You lift the edge of the heavy bear skin, opening the space beside you. It is an invitation. It is a surrender. It is a prayer.
"Kom," you whisper. "Please."
Ubbe does not move for a long heartbeat. He looks at the empty space beside you as if it is a holy altar he is not worthy to approach with his muddy feet. He knows that if he climbs into that bed, the line between protector and man will blur irrevocably. He knows he is a starving animal being invited to the feast, and he is terrified he will not know how to stop eating.
Then, slowly, he stands.
He walks across the room. He moves quietly for such a large man, a predator’s grace that makes no sound. He stands by the edge of the bed, looking down at you. The heat radiating off him is palpable—he is a furnace. He is wearing only his linen breeches. His chest is a landscape of muscle and ink, rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. You can see the pulse jumping in his throat, a frantic bird trapped under the skin.
"I will not touch you," he vows, his voice low and serious, a warning to himself more than to you. "I will stay on my side. I only wish to warm you."
"I know," you say softly.
He climbs in.
The mattress dips under his weight, tilting you slightly toward him like gravity. He settles into the furs, pulling the heavy covers up over his shoulders. He keeps his word; he stays on the very edge, clinging to the timber frame, leaving a wide, aching gulf of space between you. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, stiff as a board.
But the warmth is instant. His body heat radiates across the gap, chasing away the chill, wrapping around you like a second skin. You can smell him—soap and pine and the salt of his skin. It is intoxicating. It smells like home.
You lie there in the dark, listening to the wind outside and the steady, heavy rhythm of his breathing beside you. You can feel the tension rolling off him in waves. He is trying so hard to be honorable. He is trying so hard not to want you.
It is not enough. The space between you feels like a wound.
You shift. You scoot backward, just an inch. Then another. Until your back presses against the solid, burning warmth of his arm.
Ubbe’s breath hitches. He freezes, every muscle in his body going rigid, turning to iron.
You take his arm—the heavy, scarred arm that rests by his side—and pull it over your waist. You tuck his large hand against your stomach, lacing your small fingers through his calloused ones.
"Warm me, Ubbe," you whisper into the dark. "Don't just lie there. Warm me."
For a second, he does not move. He is fighting a war within himself, a battle between the knight who wants to save you and the man who wants to consume you.
Then, with a shuddering exhale that sounds like a dam breaking, he yields.
He shifts closer. His heavy body curls around yours, spooning you, fitting against your back as if you were carved from the same stone, two halves of a whole finally snapping back together. His chest presses against your spine, a solid wall of heat. His nose buries itself in your hair, inhaling deeply, greedily. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him, anchoring you to the mattress, anchoring you to the earth.
You can feel everything now. The hardness of his thighs against yours. The heavy, frantic beat of his heart hammering against your back. The way his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your neck.
He presses a kiss—light as a snowflake, searing as a brand—to the spot just behind your ear.
"Sofa nú," he breathes against your skin, his voice rough with a desire he is barely holding back, a raw and beautiful sound. Sleep now.
And as the storm rages outside, screaming its fury at the walls, you fall asleep held in the arms of the only storm that has ever loved you.
Summary: Hvitserk returns from his journey with a new gift for his wife
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Lace, new food and fine wines, were all things Hvitserk had brought back for you from his travels. Now seeing him bounding through the door to your shared room with some kind of gift in his arms, you know it’ll be another treasure to add to your collection.
“Hvitserk, my love! You’re back!”
Both of your wide and bright smiles match each others, as the joy of your reunion is obviously mutual. A girlish laugh leaves your smiling face as you attempt to hug him, but the large box in his arms blocks you.
“Open my gift, then I’ll show you how much I’ve miss you, my wife.”
The thought of how you would celebrate his return made you giddy, but the mystery of what was underneath the cloth was close to maddening.
Both of you sat on the floor in front of the fire together, Hvitserk wasted no time throwing back the cloths to reveal a strange box with string, somewhat reminding you of your lute.
“What is it, my love?” You ask, your voice filled with intrigue.
“They called it a Qanun. I’m not really sure how they played it, but when I saw it, I knew my gorgeous and musical wife would make music straight from Bragi himself.”
His sweet compliment makes you blush as your hands reverently glide along the strange new instrument.
“The lady who sold it to me,” Hvitserk quietly spoke, as if not wanting to interrupt your forming connection with your new instrument, “said that players wear rings and small picks to help them play.”
Turning to your husband, he holds out two longer silver rings and two small pieces of wood. Without saying a word, he places the rings on your fingers, and the wood snug in the rings.
Briefly, you marvel at the new decoration on your fingers as you waste no time turning to your new gift, once again lightly tracing your fingers along it.
“Play a song for me, my gorgeous wife,” he whispers sweetly in your ear.
His voice is full of love for you, and fatigue from his travel, as he begins to kiss along your neck.
