#rollo

You buried your face in the pillow, groaning. He was so annoying.

And yet—your feet were already moving.

When you pushed open the bedroom door, Cater was sitting up, phone in hand, eyes flicking up to meet yours the second you walked in. His pout deepened, exaggerated and just barely pathetic enough to make your resolve crumble.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“But you love me,” he singsonged, setting his phone aside and opening his arms wide, waiting.

You tried to fight it, but the corners of your lips twitched despite yourself. That was all the encouragement he needed. With a soft, satisfied hah, Cater wrapped his arms around you the second you got close, pulling you into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, warm against your skin.

You sighed, resting against him. “I’m sorry too.”

He squeezed you a little tighter before pulling back just enough to reach for his phone.

You rolled your eyes. “Cater.”

He grinned, not even pretending to feel guilty.

A second later, your phone buzzed. When you glanced at the screen, there it was—a final post. A simple picture of your hands together, warm and steady beneath the sheets.

reunited <3

Floyd Leech

The argument had been bad. Not the usual push-and-pull of Floyd’s unpredictable moods, not the teasing jabs that sometimes went too far—this had been real, raw, and biting in a way that made your chest ache.

You knew better than to expect an apology right away. Floyd wasn’t wired for that. So, with your pride stinging and your patience worn thin, you grabbed a blanket, made your way to the couch, and flopped down with your back stubbornly turned toward the bedroom.

Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

Because if you’d been facing the bedroom, maybe—maybe—you would have had some warning before the Floyd-shaped projectile came flying toward you at full speed.

A thud, a weight collapsing onto you, and suddenly your whole world was Floyd—arms, legs, and far too much Floyd as he sprawled across your body like a particularly annoying weighted blanket.

You let out a strangled noise. “Floyd—”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to move. Just settled more comfortably on top of you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

With a grunt, you attempted to shove him off, but he was all lean muscle and deadweight. He wouldn’t budge. Worse, he refused to look at you, his face half-buried against your shoulder, arms loosely draped around you like a net that would tighten if you tried to escape.

“…Seriously?” you huffed, exasperated.

A long silence. Then, barely above a mumble—

“Sorry.”

You blinked. “What?”

Floyd finally shifted, but only to grumble into your neck, voice muffled against your skin. “You’re my shrimpy. I thought you’d get it.” A pause, then a quiet, almost begrudging, “…But I guess I was a little mean.”

You sighed, the last remnants of your anger melting into something softer. Floyd wasn’t the type to say sorry outright. For him, this was already pushing it.

With another sigh, you gave up and wrapped your arms around him.

Immediately, Floyd perked up, and before you could prepare yourself, he bit you—just a little nip against your shoulder, affectionate in that ridiculous way of his. When you startled, he looked up at you, grinning now, sharp teeth on full display.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love me~”

Unfortunately, he was right.

With a tired chuckle, you pressed a kiss to his forehead, feeling the way his grin softened just a little. He snuggled closer, his grip tightening around you, and just like that, the argument was behind you.

Floyd let out a pleased hum, already half-asleep. “M’keeping you here forever.”

You weren’t even going to try fighting him on that.

Silver Vanrouge

You still weren’t entirely sure how you had managed to get into an argument with Silver of all people. Silver, who was usually so calm, so patient, so utterly unbothered by most things. And yet, somehow, words had been exchanged, tempers had flared, and now you were lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the pang of guilt gnawing at you.

The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves outside your window. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to sleep—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You frowned, cracking an eye open.

The sound came again, a soft pecking against the glass. Dragging yourself up with a sigh, you turned toward the window—only to be met with the sight of the cutest little bird, perched delicately on the sill.

You blinked. The bird tilted its head.

It had a tiny note tied to its leg.

Cautiously, you opened the window and untied the parchment, unfolding it with careful fingers.

"Sorry."

Your lips parted. You stared at the single-word apology, written in Silver’s neat, earnest handwriting.

Before you could fully process the sheer adorableness of the gesture, a rustling noise caught your attention. You turned your head just in time to see a squirrel scurrying up onto the windowsill, a small piece of paper clutched in its tiny paws.

It held it out to you.

You took it.

"Sorry."

You pressed a hand over your mouth, overwhelmed by a mix of affection and disbelief.

Was he seriously sending an entire woodland brigade to apologize for him?

And, perhaps more importantly—if you didn’t go talk to him right now, would he escalate this? Would an entire procession of deer, rabbits, and possibly a very regretful-looking bear show up next?

You sighed, rubbing your eyes. There was no way you were sleeping now.

Before you left, you rummaged through your cabinets and grabbed a handful of nuts, scattering them gently on the windowsill. “I don’t accept free labor,” you muttered, watching as the squirrel eagerly took a hazelnut before scampering off. The bird gave a happy chirp before fluttering away.

With that taken care of, you made your way to the bedroom.

The moment you stepped inside, he was already sitting up, eyes immediately locking onto yours. He looked a little sheepish, his usual composed demeanor softened with quiet guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, without hesitation. “I shouldn’t have let it turn into an argument.”

You exhaled, the last remnants of your irritation slipping away entirely. He was so sweet, so sincere, and you couldn’t even be mad anymore.

Stepping forward, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “I’m sorry too,” you murmured. “Now, let's go to bed."

Silver didn’t argue. He simply nodded, slipping under the blankets, his expression peaceful now.

As you settled beside him, he hesitated for only a moment before murmuring, “Did the bird get to you first or the squirrel?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Bird.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I was going to send a rabbit next.”

You buried your face into his shoulder, shaking with silent laughter. “Go to sleep, Silver.”

And finally, you both did.

Rollo Flamme

The argument had left you drained, annoyance simmering just beneath your skin as you curled up on the couch, pulling the blanket over yourself with a sharp tug. You didn’t want to be this upset—Rollo could be infuriating, stubborn in ways that tested your patience, but you knew he didn’t argue without reason. Still, the weight of his words, the heat of the exchange, had made retreating seem like the best option.

At some point, exhaustion overtook frustration, and you drifted into uneasy sleep.

But then—dry throat, groggy mind—you stirred awake, an undeniable thirst pulling you from your rest. With a sigh, you pushed the blanket aside and padded toward the kitchen, the dim light of the apartment casting long shadows against the walls.

That’s when you noticed it—the faint glow beneath the bedroom door.

You hesitated, frowning. He was still awake?

Curiosity, or maybe guilt, urged you forward. Carefully, you peeked inside.

Rollo was pacing. Back and forth, hands buried in his hair, tension lining his shoulders. He looked wrecked—a man on the verge of either an epiphany or a breakdown.

Your heart squeezed.

You hadn't expected this. Hadn’t expected him to be just as shaken, just as restless.

Stepping inside, you barely made a sound, but he noticed instantly. His head snapped up, eyes widening.

For a second, he didn’t move. Then he took a step toward you, hands twitching at his sides, reaching out just barely before curling into hesitant fists. He stopped himself, as if afraid you’d pull away, as if unsure whether he had the right.

Your breath hitched. The sight of him—always so composed, now uncertain—made the last of your irritation fade.

Wordlessly, you closed the distance and took his hand.

The moment your fingers intertwined, you felt the tension in him unravel. His shoulders slumped, his grip tightening around yours, a quiet exhale escaping his lips. He held on like he needed the touch to ground him.

“I took it too far,” he murmured, voice raw with sincerity. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly. “And…I shouldn’t have either.”

His gaze met yours, searching, still unsure. You squeezed his hand, and that was all it took.

Rollo relaxed, expression melting into something exhausted, something relieved. He nodded, as if accepting an unspoken truce.

Neither of you needed to say anything else.

When you led him to bed, he followed without question. And when you pulled him into your arms, his body molded against yours with an ease that made it clear just how much he had needed this.

Within minutes, the tension that had kept him awake finally loosened its grip. His breathing evened out, his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, and for the first time since the argument, Rollo fell asleep— warm and finally at peace.

Neige LeBlanche

Rollo Flamme

Ernesto Foulworth

Skully J. Graves

Rollo

A loud protester

He insists he can take care of it himself, flinching away when you lift his shirt and gasp at the wound, telling him off

You leave him be, not wanting to push him, but only wander over when he's muttering and hesitating when putting the disinfectant on

"Just let me... please, Rollo. I can help."

He huffs and hands you the pouch

His hands fly to your waist to grip you when you tend to a gash on his shoulder, his head tucked to your chest as he hisses in pain

He eventually relaxes in your touch, feeling his eyes droop in exhaustion until you tap his head to get his attention

He mutters a thanks as he parts from you, but you notice he does not wander far from you that night

Floki

He is all for letting you tend to him

He actually thinks it's worth getting hurt to get the attention from you

Every sting comes with dramatics: a heavy groan or a small curse to the gods

You soothe him with a soft hand in his hair or a comforting whisper, telling him you're nearly done

His hand rests on yours while you're working, squeezing slightly when it begins to hurt, but immediately apologising each time

He trusts you completely, and knows that he can always come to you when injured and knows that he will get treated right

Once you're done, he curls up to your side, smothering you in affection for the rest of the night as a way of saying 'thank you'

Smitten he is

Lagertha

Her pride is quite high, and so she is hard to convince to let you tend to her

She swats your hand away at first, insisting that she will be okay and knows how to handle it herself

But when the bruises begin to throb too much, she crawls back to you sheepishly, asking if you'd check on them for her

She lets you press poultice to her wounds and massage her sore shoulders, never exactly saying thank you but leaning into your touch and not turning away

She does enjoy having your attention in the bath, though, and having you run your hands through her blonde hair to remove the blood seeping through

Later, she does not flinch when you return to check on her wounds, but only gives a half smile and a gentle rub on your arm to assure you that she's okay

Athelstan

He is quiet and cooperative during it

He lets you tend to every scratch and scrape, always trusting you to know what you're doing

And he simply does not have the skill to take care of them himself, so he appreciates the help

He winces from your touches but never complains

His hand finds your wrist at times when it hurts particularly bad, but you kiss his forehead and apologise as he nods in acknowledgement

When finished, he leans back and thanks you greatly

But his blush remains, especially when you pull him to bed to get him to rest beside you

Bjorn

You sit beside him, cleaning along the cuts on his forearms, which hold a heavy stench of metallic blood

You try your best to be careful over the worst wounds, but he does not flinch as you wipe over them

He gives you attitude at times, especially when you lecture him about returning so battered

"I fought, didn't I? If I had come back unhurt, then it wouldn't have been worth it."

He likes to be difficult sometimes, telling you it doesn't hurt at all, even though he's biting his lip as you pour disinfectant on

But you only smirk and pretend not to notice, worried that if you call it out, he would not let you tend to him like this

Ubbe

His ribs are bruised and ache from a heavy blow

You have to remind him to keep still as you hold a cloth to the wound; he likes to flinch away

He tries to distract himself from the pain by teasing you, but that facade quickly fades when you only press harder, shutting him up

You ask him to lie down and insist he rests his head in your lap while you apply treatments to the scratch

He stares up at you with a stupid grin on his face, making you smack him slightly on the head

"Ubbe, I'm trying to concentrate." "Please... don't mind me."

His hands find you mid-task, running along your neck and face, fingers twirling your hair

Once he's all cleaned, he remains in your lap, laughing at how reliant he becomes around you

Hvitserk

Bro cannot sit still at ALL

He is still twitching from adrenaline, muttering to himself, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his leg

You have to physically grab him and force him to sit and relax as you roll up his trouser leg to see his bloody wound

You whisper nonsense to him as you work, trying to distract his mind and calm him

He flinches occasionally, but eventually lies back, allowing you to finish your work without much complaint

When you stand, having been finished, he pulls you on top of him quickly

And you protest, telling him to be careful of his leg, but he only ignores you and presses his face into your neck, muttering thank yous

Sigurd

Stubborn as ever

He hides his worst injuries from you at first, insisting that he is fine and did not get injured too badly

But once he undresses later and you see the carnage, you only sigh, trying not to make a big scene and instead walk over slowly with some treatments

He mutters under his breath as you start, but does not pull away, accepting that he does need the help after all

He gradually closes his eyes and relaxes into your touch, letting sleep take him over slightly from your soft touches

When you're done, you find that he's been lulled to sleep, leaning against you

Ivar

Of course, he insists he's fine

But each flinch as you press the cloth to the cuts on his arms only proves him wrong

You ignore his grumbling and avoid his glaring gaze when you press particularly hard on a scratch

"I'm doing this to help you, Ivar. Quit being a brat."

You swore you could hear a hint of gratitude in his heavy sighs, but even that might have been a stretch

When you press a cold, wet towel to his forehead, you catch him leaning into the touch

An acknowledgement of trust that he'll never voice

Afterwards, he sits silently, but each time you move, he glances over, asking where you are going