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

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.

Vikings Taglist:

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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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."

A/N: message or comment if you want to be added to the tag list! <3

Freedom is a ghost. It is a concept your mind cannot yet hold, a word that does not exist in the guttural bark of this Northern tongue, and certainly not for a woman with invisible chains on her spirit. So, when the Giant—Ubbe—presses a heavy pouch of chopped silver into your palm and points a calloused finger toward the market stalls, you do not think you are free. You think you are a trusted hound being sent to fetch the kill.

“Krydd,” he grunts, miming the action of sprinkling something over meat. “Aftur. Fljótt.”

You nod, clutching the pouch to your chest until the jagged edges of the silver bite into your skin. To lose this would be death. To fail him would be worse.

But the air outside the longhouse is crisp, smelling of salt-spray and pine resin, and for the first time in months, no one looks at you with hunger. You wear a dress of blue wool now, thick and scratchy against your skin, pinned with bronze brooches that Ubbe fastened himself because your fingers were too cold to work the clasps. It is not the silk of Frankia, but it covers your shame.

You walk through the muddy lanes of the settlement, your boots squelching in the slush. You keep your head down, playing the part of the invisible thrall, bypassing the stalls selling iron weapons and wolf pelts. You stop at a table laden with dried roots and bundles of herbs.

The smell hits you—a phantom memory. Angelica. Dried dill. Mustard seeds.

It is not the lavender of your father’s garden, nor the costly saffron of the court, but it is the scent of a kitchen. It is the scent of order.

You barter with hand gestures and the few rough numbers you have learned, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. The merchant, a woman with a face like a dried apple, takes the silver. She hands you the bundles wrapped in rough linen.

For a heartbeat, standing there with the weak winter sun warming your face and the smell of herbs on your hands, the knot of terror in your chest loosens. You are not just meat. You are the lady of a house again, seeing to the comfort of her lord. It is a small, fragile joy, but you drink it down like sweet wine.

Then, you see the shadows lengthening. The sun is dipping below the fjord’s edge.

Panic. Cold and sharp.

You are late. The master will be waiting. The fire will have burned low. You turn and run, your skirts heavy with mud, clutching the spices to your chest as if they are the Crown Jewels of Frankia.

You burst through the heavy wood door of the cabin, breathless, your lungs burning from the sharp intake of cold air.

Steam billows out to greet you, blinding and white.

The main room is filled with a warm, wet fog that smells of woodsmoke and hot stones. In the center, near the hearth fire, sits a large wooden tub.

Ubbe is inside it.

He is leaning back, his head resting against the rim of the wood, eyes closed. The water is high, steaming hot, covering the intricate, dark ink of the tattoos on his chest, but his knees break the surface—islands of scarred flesh and blond hair. His hair, usually bound in tight, severe warrior braids that pull at his scalp, is loose today. It floats in the water like a halo of dark gold seaweed, softening the hard planes of his face.

You freeze. The basket of herbs slips from your numb fingers and hits the table with a rattle.

Ubbe’s eyes fly open. He tenses, a warrior’s reflex, water splashing over the side as his hand shoots out for a weapon that isn't there. For a split second, you see the killer in him—the man who breaks shield-walls.

But when he sees it is you, the violence bleeds out of his shoulders instantly. He sinks back down, a small, tired breath escaping his lips. He looks at you—at your heaving chest, your wind-reddened cheeks, the sheer, frantic life in your eyes.

To Ubbe, you look like a spirit. He was watching the door, a knot of irrational worry tightening in his gut that perhaps you wouldn’t return, that the earth had swallowed you whole. Seeing you now, flushed and breathless, he feels a sudden, sharp pang of want that has nothing to do with having his bath attended. He wants to cross the room and warm his hands on your cheeks.

You rush forward. You drop to your knees beside the tub, ignoring the wetness soaking into the hem of your new wool dress. You are terrified you have displeased him by your absence. You reach for the block of animal-fat soap and the rough linen cloth on the stool.

"I am sorry," you whisper in Frankia, your hands shaking as you lather the cloth. "I am sorry, I lost the sun."

Ubbe watches you. He does not understand your frantic apology, but he understands the tremble in your hands. He hates that tremble. He hates that you still look at him as if he is a wolf waiting to bite.

He catches your wrist.

His hand is wet and hot, large enough to circle your wrist twice over with room to spare. He does not pull; he just holds you still, anchoring you to the moment.

"Rólegur," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that you feel in your knees. Calm.

He guides your hand to the water, releasing you.

You begin to wash his arm. Your touch is firm but reverent, scrubbing away the mud of the training yard, the soot of the smithy. You move to his shoulder, tracing the heavy muscle, cleaning the white, jagged lines of old scars. The skin is hot under your fingers, the texture rough with hair and exposure.

You look at him for the first time without the filter of pure terror. He is a pagan savage, yes. A destroyer of your world. But beneath your hand, he is warm. He is solid. He is... magnificent. There is a raw, unpolished beauty to him, like a cliff face carved by the sea. You find yourself lingering on a scar that runs across his bicep, wondering what blade made it, wondering if it hurt.

Ubbe watches your face. He sees the concentration there, the way you bite your lip when you scrub a stubborn spot of pine pitch from his elbow. He watches your lashes flutter against your cheek. He thinks about how small your hands are compared to his, and the contrast makes his chest ache.

He wants to hear your voice. He wants to know the sounds you make when you are not begging for your life.

He reaches out with his other hand and taps the bar of soap you are holding.

"Sápa," he says clearly.

You blink, looking up at him through the steam. He taps it again, his eyes crinkling. "Sápa."

You realize what he is doing. You look at the yellow block. "Sápa," you whisper, testing the strange, round vowel on your tongue.

Ubbe smiles. It is a slow, lazy thing that transforms his face. He trails his wet fingers through the water, creating ripples.

"Vatn."

"Vatn," you repeat.

He touches the linen cloth in your hand. "Klút."

"Klút."

He pauses, then points to his own eye. It is blue and unblinking, fixed on you.

"Augu," he says softly.

You stare into that blue depth. "Augu," you whisper.

Then, a sudden burst of bravery—or perhaps curiosity—takes hold of you. You point to your own eye.

"Les yeux," you say in Frankish.

Ubbe blinks, surprised. He tilts his head, water dripping from his beard. He tries to form the soft, sliding sound of your language. "Lez... yew."

It is clumsy. It sounds barbaric and sweet all at once. A giggle bubbles up in your throat—a tiny, shocked sound. You clamp a hand over your mouth, terrified you have insulted him.

But Ubbe throws his head back and laughs—a booming, joyous sound that bounces off the rafters. "Lez yew," he tries again, grinning at you.

"Good," he says in his own tongue, looking absurdly proud of himself.

You move behind him to wash his hair. You cup the water in your hands, pouring it over his head. You work the soap into the thick, coarse strands, your fingers massaging his scalp.

Ubbe lets out a sound—a low, guttural groan of pleasure that vibrates through the wood of the tub and straight into your belly. His head falls forward, exposing the nape of his neck to you.

It is an intimate act. To wash a man’s hair is to hold him at his most vulnerable. He trusts you not to hurt him. He trusts you with his blind side. And you... you find you want to be worthy of that trust. You find yourself massaging deeper, wanting to soothe the tension he carries.

You rinse the suds away, watching the water cascade down the broad expanse of his back. You trace the line of his spine with the cloth, feeling the ridge of muscle shift beneath the skin. The heat in the room seems to rise. The air feels heavy, charged with something that isn't just steam. It is the static electricity of two bodies existing in a small space, stripping away the layers of master and thrall.

Ubbe turns in the water. He looks at you. His lashes are wet, clumped together, framing eyes that are darkened by the heat—and by something else. Hunger? No, not hunger. Reverence.

He looks at your mouth. Then he looks at your hands, red and chapped from the cold market.

He stands up.

Water cascades off him like a mountain shedding a river. He is naked, unashamed, a towering figure of male power. The firelight catches the water droplets on his skin, turning them to liquid gold. You instinctively look down, your face burning hot, clutching the wet cloth to your chest, but the image of him is burned into your mind. He is not a monster. He is a man. A man built for war, but standing before you in peace.

He steps out of the tub and wraps a towel around his waist.

You immediately scramble to grab the heavy wooden bucket to bail the dirty water. It is thrall’s work. Heavy, back-breaking work.

A large hand covers yours on the handle.

Ubbe shakes his head. "Nei."

He takes the bucket from you. Effortlessly, the muscles in his back flexing like coiled ropes beneath the damp skin, he begins to empty the tub, tossing the grey, soapy water out the door into the night.

You stand frozen near the hearth, confusion warring with fear. What is he doing? Masters do not clean. Masters do not carry.

Ubbe refills the tub with fresh, clean water from the barrel. He takes the hot stones from the fire—stones he must have placed there before you returned—and drops them into the water with a hiss of steam that sounds like a living thing exhaling. He tosses in a handful of the dried herbs you bought, crushing them in his massive fist until the oils release, and suddenly the air smells of dill, crushed pine, and clean earth.

He walks to the door and slides the heavy timber bolt into place. Thunk.

The sound is final. The world is locked out. The cold, the mud, the cruelty of his brothers—it is all gone. It is just the crackle of the fire, the lapping of water, and the two of you.

He turns to you. He points to the tub.

"You," he says.

You take a step back, shaking your head, clutching your skirts. "No... no, master. I cannot. It is forbidden."

Ubbe sighs, a sound of frustration at the barrier between you. He walks over to you. He does not grab you. He takes your shoulders—his hands warm and heavy, the heat seeping through the wool—and turns you toward the bath.

He walks around to the other side of the tub and turns his back to you. He crosses his massive arms over his chest and stares at the wall.

He is giving you privacy. He is giving you dignity.

Trembling, your fingers fumbling with the bronze brooches, you peel off the heavy wool dress. It falls to the floor with a soft rustle. You step out of your linen shift. You are shivering, not from cold, but from exposure. You feel the ghost of every eye that has looked at you with malice since you were taken.

You step into the water.

It is hot—gloriously, bitingly hot. You sink down, the water rising to your chin, the heat seeping into your bones, dissolving the knot of fear in your stomach. You close your eyes, a small whimper of relief escaping your throat.

You hear Ubbe move. You stiffen, curling your knees to your chest to hide yourself.

He does not loom over you. He kneels.

He kneels on the hard earth floor beside the tub, just as you knelt for him. The firelight dances over his bare chest, highlighting the ink and the scars, turning him into a pagan idol of gold and shadow. He picks up the klút. He picks up the sápa.

He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the firelight. He holds up the cloth, asking a silent question. May I?

You stare at him, water dripping from your hair, your heart hammering against your ribs. You give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Ubbe reaches out. He does not touch your breasts or your thighs. He takes your hand.

He lifts your hand from the water. It is red, chapped, the nails broken from weeks of scrubbing floors. It is a hand that has forgotten what it means to be held.

He soaps the cloth. With infinite, painstaking gentleness, he begins to wash your fingers. He cleans the dirt from under your nails. He rubs the soothing fat into the cracks of your knuckles. His thumb brushes against your palm—a slow, rhythmic stroke that sends a jolt of lightning straight to your belly.

He treats your hand as if it is a holy relic. As if you are holy.

He moves to your arm, washing the skin with slow, deliberate strokes. He pushes the wet cloth up to your elbow, then your shoulder. His eyes are focused on his task, watching the water sluice over your pale skin, but you are focused on him. On the way the firelight catches the gold in his beard. On the tenderness of a man who could snap your neck with one hand, but instead chooses to wash the mud from your skin.

He drops the cloth. He does not need it anymore.

He dips his hand into the water, slick with soap, and touches your neck. His fingers are rough, calloused from the axe handle, but the friction against your soft, wet skin sends a shiver racing down your spine. He traces the line of your throat, his thumb resting in the hollow of your collarbone.

He looks up then. His eyes lock onto yours.

The air is thick, suffocatingly intimate. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the blue, dark with a hunger that terrifies and thrills you. He is not looking at a thrall. He is looking at a woman. He is looking at you.

You can feel the heat coming off him, smelling of soap and male skin. You inadvertently lean into his touch, your lips parting. Ubbe’s gaze drops to your mouth, and you see his throat work as he swallows. The tension is a pulled bowstring, humming between you.

He takes your clean, warm hand and places it against his own chest, directly over the thudding beat of his heart.

You can feel the life in him, strong and steady and powerful. His skin is damp and hot under your palm.

He points to you, his finger tracing a line from your eyes to your heart. Then to himself. He moves his hand back and forth between you, level, straight. No master. No slave.

"Jafn," he whispers, the word rough with emotion, heavy with a promise he hasn't yet made aloud. Equal.

You do not know the word. But as he dips his hand back into the water to cup the back of your neck, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear, you understand the meaning. You understand that he is offering you his strength, not to rule you, but to hold you up.

And for the first time since Frankia fell, you do not look away. You hold his gaze, breathless and burning, and you let him see that you are no longer afraid.