#ubbe x reader

Bjorn:

Bjorn is a beast. In 99% of life and sex is definitely apart of that, I may never forgive him for being a shitty husband and father.

but..if I could I would.

When he fucks you it almost always after something has happened, it's never just spontaneous, (he's spontaneous with whores, not with you.) he's just got back after months away? Sex. just fought a battle? Sex. Just had an argument? Sex. Just finished a sacrifice? Sex...you get the point.

Positions: doggy, wall sex, matting press.

Cock x-ray: 7 inches, straight, veiny.

Rating: 8.9/10 he needs to work on the intimacy but everything else is good

Ubbe:

Oh my sweet Ubbe. Ubbe is a gentle yet feisty and protective man, a 'gentle giant' if you will.

but he is a freaky thing in the sheets, anything you want he's giving it to you, (we all know he's open to a threesome), you want him to eat you out like he's a starved man? just lay on the table for him why don't you, he isn't Just freaky in the sheets, in private when your not having sex he has no filter, once he outright asked you if you wanted to ride him when you were eating breakfast, (you can tell where that went).

he will do anything you want him to like some sort of dog (but don't think for one second he's gonna be submissive).

Positions: cowgirl, missionary, any position under the sun.

Cock x-ray: 8-9 inches, I definitely think he's bigger than Bjorn and he feels no need to flaunt it. His tip is only slightly pink but he has a curve to his and it got veins that his the right spots every time.

Rating: 100/10 🫡

Ivar:

Now...ivar..he is so difficult to write realistically for because of his legs so, ima try my best.

Ivar was rather insecure when you first started having sex, he didn't want another Margrethe situation and he didn't want to disappoint you (or have to kill you), but when he realise that he just needed a connection with someone before he could have sex with them?

Thor himself couldn't hold him back from you.

He was so desperate to make up for everything he missed out on, and best believe he is not waiting a single drop of cum.

When he fucks you he's a toucher, he's cupping ever since part of you as your ride him.

Positions: cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, 69, (occasionally missionary if he's feeling up to it)

Cock x-ray: thick thick thick thick.. at least 8 inches, he has one long vein on the underside of him and he is a bit more sensitive than others.

Rating: 9/10 when you...teach him...(he's a fast learner btw)

Hvitserk:

hvitserk is a gentle man. Hes an amazing fighter and an even better lover.

Im talking, fucking under moonlight.

im talking, making you fuck yourself on him.

im talking, making your voice horse from screaming.

Dat what im talking about. This man acts all soft and shit, in public..but when he gets his hands on you? This man is making you beg for more.

Cock x-ray: a firm 8 inches. Senstitive tip, just the right amount of thickness.

Rating: 10/10 this man cand bend me over any day

Ragnar:

Ok but disrespectfully i need this man to break my back and fuck me through the pain. (maybe that was a bit much...)

But you could not rip me from this man. He knows what he is doing. He knows

Hes a teaser, he will make you beg, just for the fun of it. And he dont need any help when it comes to it.

Hes up for it at any time, all day, from the kitchen to the bathroom sink type shit.

Open to all your kinks. (he has a lot tbh)

And i am a firm beliver in the hereditary ragnarson breeding kink. They all have it and ragnar is the sorce.

I can just image him saying something like “awe so desprate for me huh?“ as hes thrusting ever so slowly into you..

(Ima bout to start barking)

Cock x-ray: 9 inches. Thick everywhere. Lowkey has a scar on it from when he tried to shave with a blade ’down there’ (it ended badly).

Rating- 8/10 and I will offer no explanation

It’s been three whole moons away from England. Away from the cruelty you knew, but that cruelty was yours. It was home.

Kattegat wasn’t too dissimilar to England but it wasn’t the same.

You trudged through the thick mud of the central market. People didn’t stare at you and you reveled in the anonymity. The thin cotton you always wore around your eyes shielding your oddities was nothing to the people of Kattegat and you had grown to love it during the few days you’d spent here.

Lagethera had brought you along wanting to show you the ways of her culture. After being sold to her she declared you free yet you refused,you would not settle to a life here. You wished to serve her in hopes you could make enough money to flee home.

Slave to handmaiden.

Handmaiden to home.

You refused to learn to fight, to speak her tongue comfortably, to like the viking life. The foolish hope of home held strong within you. And yet you knew you’d never return to England you’d seen what they’d done to the village of those who’d ostracised and belittled you. Luckily your family was away selling the spoils of their labour at market.

They would’ve come back to an empty village stinking of death. The thought makes your heart clench and your steps falter.

Lagertha had playfully commanded you go out and see Kattegat, to see her ex-husbands lands. And to bring her seawater, its purpose left you clueless but you obeyed.

The heathens were strange people after all.

And yet your own had forced you to learn to squint through your blindfold to see shapes and sounds.

To live life veiled.

———

Lagertha was repulsed by the idea. The Christian rigidity that had left you believing in the need to hide your eyes.

She watched you from afar, leant against the entrance of the great hall. You were a sweet girl yet you could be so much more.

And she would see to it.

Ragnar follows her gaze, “what is so special about this slave anyways?”

Lagertha’s head whips towards him, “she is no slave Ragnar, she is blessed by the Gods”

Ragnar’s laugh almost shakes the great hall itself, he walks off still chuckling.

———

Later as the moon begins its race to the crest of the sky you braid Lagertha’s hair. The bucket of seawater stuck out in the corner.

“Why did you ask for the seawater?” You break the gentle silence and she turns smiling at you softly.

“Bring it here” she gestures towards it a sly smirk emerging upon her face.

Standing in front of her seawater at hand she starts to command you.

“Smell it”

“Taste it”

“Feel it”

You end up giggling at the foolish tasks until she asks.

“What is the difference between this seawater and England’s?”

The smile drops from your face and you set the bucket down and return to your tasks bring her dress to ready her for the great feast.

“My sweet girl this is your fate do not run from it, you will come to love Kattegat as much as England as there isn’t much difference”.

“To you, there isn’t much difference to you, my lady” the words bite bitterly at her.

She sighs and you step back from her outstretched arms. You didn’t understand her fondness of you.

“We must go to the hall” you turn on your heel and march into the frosty air, she follows carefully.

———

You pause outside, the noise reminding you of the nights spent around a fire at home.

Perfumed with smoke and stories of old.

You shake the thought away and wait for Lagertha. She come to you a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently.

“You ready?”, you nod and clench you fists at your sides as she pushes the door open.

Truth is you’d never be ready for a feasting hall full of vikings.

“Mother!” A thundering voice cuts through the rowdy masses.

Bjorn comes thumping over sweeping Lagertha into a crushing hug. Once their greetings are finished he turns to you inquisitively

“And who is this little birdy mother” you manage to grasp from your basic understanding of their tounge.

He reaches to peek under your eye covering and instinctively you slap his hand away. Your breath catches as you wait to be struck to the ground.

Instead a sharp laugh cuts at your action you turn to see someone with eyes almost as striking as yours. He regards you a cruel smile and glaringly sharp beauty confronts you. You hold back a gasp and turn from his gaze. Bjorn is also bellowing out a laugh.

“I am sorry bird, ignore Ivar” he plants a kiss on his mother’s cheek and is gone into the crowd of hedonism.

It was going to be a long night.

———

Refusing to sit by Lagertha’s side you stood ignoring the curious looks from Aslaug.

You couldn’t stop thinking about Ivar. It was so strange, he didn’t seem to mock you.

“Hello birdy” a gruff tease voice floats out behind you.

You whip round to see a man that looks exactly like an older Bjorn, Ragnar you conclude.

“Why do you stand here all alone, hmm? Lagertha tells me you are a free woman, here free woman can do as they please you should try it!” He chuckles and it takes you aback, he doesn’t know you yet he treats you like he has for years.

You don’t speak and turn to watch the crowds further, eyes searching for Ivar.

He’s looking right back at you, with a gasp you turn away.

“You know, I had a friend like you once” Ragnar whispers, voice taught with emotion. The pain in his voice pulls you from thoughts of Ivar.

At that you turn and take him in. Towering next to you he looks deep in grief. Eyes watery and gone to distant memories, you recognise it all too well.

“I’m sorry for your loss” you murmur, their language is crude and harsh on your tounge.

Your voice pulls him back, he grabs your shoulder and thanks you with a smile.

And once again you’re alone amongst heathens.

———

“Girl! Come serve me wine” a voice throws its self against you cutting through the bustle of the hall.

Ivar.

“Ivar do not command her like that!” Lagertha bites at him.

You frown at her remark and make your way over.

Aslaug is watching you as though you are a mirage, you ignore her stares and focus on the task at hand.

“She is no servant, please sit down” Lagertha implores you and you ignore her, Ragnar watches on curiously.

Fingers clasping over the mead jug you come closer towards Ivar ignoring the way he drinks you in.

“Surely she’s just a servant” a pretty blonde remarks from a group of boys, the rest of Ragnar’s sons you presume.

“You will watch your tongue upon my mother’s friend Margrethe” Bjorn booms at her, seemingly tired of her presence.

Lagertha frown and you lean to pour Ivar more mead.

“Thank you” he grins up at you, ignoring him you turn to be met by Margrethe.

“Why do you wear that silly cloth on your face?” She giggles and takes you in.

Everyone watches with bated breath.

Someone cuts out her name as another warning.

Attempting to step past her you don’t make it far.

“Here let me help you slave”

Her nails scrape against your skin, harsh in its endeavour.

The room brightens and grows in life as you see it more clearly.

An outraged roar emerges as Margrethe is chastised greatly. Everyone turns to look and the same whispers you’ve heard your whole life break out.

“Blessed Freya” sounded in a wave of murmurs.

The seer shuffles over parting the crowd and you retreat slowly. His interest peaked at such an odd display.

“My child you are kissed by the Gods, you shall see to their vision” his words curl through the fog of fear.

Embarrassed you flee the hall into the icy night and collapse in a heap by the fjord.

Finally you have peace.

They hadn’t cast curses or spat at your feet. They were almost reverent in their discovery of you. Perhaps they truly believe you were someone sent or blessed by their heathen Gods.

A repetitive click and shuffle sounds behind you and you whip around to see Ivar approaching. Embarrassed you turn back to look at the still waters, struggling to think upon his intentions. He groans as he lowers himself aside you.

“You know you didn’t have to run off so quick birdy” he chuckles cruelly

“You would do well not to mock me” you bite back and he simply laughs in your face.

“Maybe you really are sent by the Gods, no other woman in the whole of Kattegat would speak to me this way” he seems to grow serious and take you in.

Fixated on your eyes he stares into them, “They really are beautiful you should not cover them anymore, I command it so”.

“You command it so!” You can’t help exclaim incredulous. Dragged from home and commanded by the bratty son of a king.

“Yes I command it so!” He giggles and watches your perplexed face. You resort back to silence and the pair of you just sit there until he coaxes you to talk of England.

So you do.

You tell him of its fields and wildflowers. How the moon feels different and the sun is sweeter. How the grass will always be greener to you and the songs louder.

And for once he just listens and he knows you were meant for him. Every laugh and lilt makes his heart climb. Without telling you he makes a prayer to the Gods commanding you be by his side every day till death do you part. That you may tell him what you please and speak how no woman ever had to him.

And for the first time you’d found something wholly dissimilar to England and you wouldn’t compare it for all the homesickness in your heart. You could not have found Ivar in England. You would never have found the appreciation of your beauty there.

With the intermission of his laugh at your tales, you thank his Gods and yours for kissing your eyes.

———

Everyone in the city moves in a panic as the bells ring, alarms in response to the Northmen pulling up to your shores. You find a spot in your house to hide and clutch your cross close to your chest as you pray to god to protect you from these heathens.

A bang startles you as a Viking man kicks down your door. Your heart races as you hear him tearing apart the house searching for valuables. You hear screams outside and continue whispering prayers to god begging him to keep you from being found.

The Viking eventually finds you hiding in a corner between your bed and the wall. Your heart stops when his bright blue eyes meet yours. His eyes examine you from head to toe before he smirks.

“Please… please don’t kill me.” You beg through oncoming tears. “Take whatever you want, just please.”

“Come.” He reaches his hand out for you to take.

You look up at him with furrowed brows in confusion.

“You said I can take whatever I want.” The man says. “So come.”

“No, no, please. Please don’t hurt me…” You cry.

“If you come with me, I will have no reason to hurt you.” He steps closer. “Otherwise…” He gestures to the axe in his hand.

You sniffle as you get up onto your feet. The Viking gestures his hand out to you again which you reluctantly take. He rushes out of the house, dragging you along with him. A small shriek escapes you as your eyes take in the dead bodies and blood everywhere. The man pays no mind to any of it as he pulls you through the city and leads you right out the front gates and into their Viking camp.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” A large Viking man with long dark hair approaches you. You pull away as he tries to brush hair from your face.

“Leave her be.” Your captor says as more of the men come over to ogle at you.

“Why? She is a useless Christian. Only good for one thing...” The man smirks at you.

“She is mine, keep your hands to yourself Rollo.” Your captor replies. “That goes for all of you! No one touches her, she belongs to me.”

You take a small breath of relief before your captor grabs your hand again and leads you far from the group and into a tent.

“Sit.” The man gestures to a small cot. “What is your name?”

“(y/n).” You say as you sit.

“(y/n)…” He hums. “Interesting name. I’m Ragnar Lothbrok.”

“Thank you Ragnar.” You say lowly.

“For what?”

“Out there, protecting me from the other men…” You respond. “And I guess… thank you for not killing me.”

“Like I said to the men, you are mine. They will not harm you as long as you are with me, understand?”

You nod your head.

“What are you going to do with me?” You ask.

He smirks in response before looking you up and down, making you nervous.

“I have not decided yet.” He shrugs with a smirk still on his face.

**********

The journey back to their land was long and dreadful. You had never been on a boat before and the ride made you nauseous. Ragnar kept a close eye on you and made sure no one bothered you.

As soon as they dock Ragnar quickly sneaks you away like he is trying to hide you. He leads you to his small farmhouse outside of town.

“Am I your slave now?” You ask once inside.

He laughs at your response and you scowl.

“I have no need for slaves.” He shrugs.

“If you wish to cook or clean for me, or do other things…” He smirks at you suggestively, making you blush. “I would certainly not object, but you will not be forced to do anything.”

“So I am not a slave… but I am not a free woman?” You question.

“Yes.” He simply responds.

“Then why am I here?”

“I do not know. The gods have not revealed your purpose to me yet.”

“There is only one god.” You say sternly.

He laughs again making anger rise in your cheeks.

“Maybe your god will reveal to you your purpose then.” He says teasingly.

**********

The next couple days were surprisingly peaceful. You did not dare to try and leave the house. Although he never asked you to, you cooked and cleaned mostly to have something to occupy your time but Ragnar appreciated you either way. He would disappear for most of the day to god knows where, but when he returned you would have a hot meal waiting for him.

Ragnar would ask many questions, about your life and your god. You asked about him in return and he told you all about his adventures and of his gods.

“Are you a virgin?” Ragnar asks out of nowhere while you are eating supper.

You choke on your drink, the question taking you off guard.

“Pardon?”

“Well, you are unmarried right?” He continues. “I have heard Christians remain virgins until they are married.”

“Well, um, yes. It would be a sin otherwise.” You respond shyly.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is it a sin?” He asks with curiosity in his tone.

“I- um, I don’t know. It’s just a sin. You should only make children with your husband or wife.”

“Well, that is a bit silly isn’t it?”

“What is so ‘silly’ about that?” You scowl.

“Because making children is not the only reason to have sex.” He shrugs.

“What do you mean?” You ask, heat rising in your cheeks from annoyance and another feeling you couldn’t quite place.

“Do they teach you nothing?” He raises his brow.

“Not really… especially us women. They keep us sheltered from everything.”

“Well,” He says, taking the food bowl from your hands and placing it down.

He leans towards you until his breath brushes your ear, sending shivers up your spine.

“Sex can provide you with the greatest of pleasures…” He says lowly in your ear, your heart races. “If you know where to touch.” His fingers graze up your knee.

“Your gods… they do not care if you sin?” You ask but it comes out as a whisper.

He chuckles.

“To our gods, it is not wrong. The gods gave us the gift of such pleasure, why would they deny us from taking it?” He shrugs.

“I guess that is true…” You whisper.

“I can show you our ways, if you want.” He says with a devilish grin, moving his hand back to your knee.

“What? No. No I- Um, no… thank you.” You stutter, taken aback by his offer.

“Well, if you change your mind you know where to find me.” He whispers in your ear before standing and cleaning up from supper.

You go to bed early, trying to hide your flushed cheeks since your conversation. Ragnar eventually begins to lightly snore from the next room that was only separated by a thin wall with gaps you could see through. His words replay in your head, “greatest of pleasures if you know where to touch.”. Curiosity gets the better of you as you lightly trace your fingers along your neck and collarbone, the feeling creating goosebumps. Without even realizing, you start imagining Ragnar’s hand as yours travels lower. You grab onto your breast before your hand continues down. Your fingers tease at the hem of your pants before slowly moving down into them. You lightly touch the sensitive skin and it sends a jolt through you making you gasp louder than intended. You hear Ragnar stir in the next room and you quickly pull your hand from your pants as you look to him, still asleep. You sigh and try to get comfortable to sleep. Everything that has happened within the last few days has left you so lost and confused. You have been praying to god every day but nothing changes, nothing reassures you and what you are supposed to do in this place. Your mind continues to race until sleep eventually pulls you under.

**********

“I would like to go into the mountain to pray.” You say to Ragnar.

“Why? So you can run away?” He gives you a teasing scoff.

You can’t hide the small laugh that escapes your lips.

“You know I would not make it very far without you.” You roll your eyes at him. “Besides, I need you to show me the way.”

“Alright then… perhaps tomorrow.” He shrugs.

“No, today.” You push. “Right now… please.”

You were desperate to have a moment of solitude and a private moment speak to god.

“Very well, we should go now while the sun is still high.” Ragnar says as he heads towards the door, you stand and follow after him.

He leads you up the hills of the forest until you reach a clearing facing the water. The stunning view took your breath away.

“I… I need to be alone.” You say to Ragnar.

“Do not try to escape.” He winks at you. “I will be just down this hill when you are done.”

You give him a grateful smile and you watch him walk away until he is out of sight. Turning back to face the edge of the cliff, you close your eyes take a deep breath as you feel the breeze brush across your face. You crouch to the ground onto your knees and bring your hands together in prayer.

“Heavenly father… Please help me to find my path. I feel so lost in this unfamiliar world and do not know what I am to do next or who I am meant to be now… And I feel… as if my prayers to protect and watch over me have gone unanswered, especially when I was taken by these people.” You pray with tears coming to your eyes. “Please god, if you are there, if you are watching over me… if you are real… please send me a sign.”

You open your eyes and watch for any sort of sign that your god is with you. Nothing happens.

“Please, give me any sign so I know you are watching over me as I have always believed.”

You wait again, and wait, and wait. The world was still, not even a stronger gust of wind to show a possible sign from god.

You drop your hands into your lap in defeat. Tears begin to roll down your cheeks until an idea crosses your mind. You breathe out a laugh to yourself feeling a bit silly for what you were about to try. You bring your hands back together but instead have a strange urge to connect to the earth. You bow, reaching your hands forward into the ground, feeling the dirt and grass between your fingers.

“Odin…” You close your eyes and begin, whispering so quietly it’s nearly silent. “Freyja… Thor… Please hear me. Hear my prayers. Help me, guide me, to who I am supposed to be now… what I am supposed to do.”

Suddenly, a raven lets out a loud ‘caw’ startling you. Your head shoots up and you look to the bird watching you from a rock to your side. Your heart races and your eyes go wide as you watch each other. A tickle on your hand makes you look down to see a white butterfly that landed on you. You lift your hand to admire it and it flies around your head before flying away, at the same time the raven flies off with it.

As your brain tries to comprehend the unmistakeable signs that the pagan gods are answering your prayers, you hear a rumble of thunder. The skies turn grey within a matter of seconds before rain suddenly begins to pour down. You stand and let out a laugh of disbelief as you spread your arms wide and look to the sky as you let out a heavy breath of relief. The rain washed over your entire being, cleansing you of your troubles. It felt like a different kind of baptism, a rebirth.

“(y/n)?” You hear Ragnar call from behind you.

You turn to him with a wide smile on your face. He noted how beautiful you were when you smiled like that, he realized he had never seen more than a faint one cross your lips.

“Are you alright?” He smiles back at you. “We should head back. Thor’s wrath may become brutal soon if we remain all the way out here.”

“No, he is speaking to me.” You smile, making Ragnar’s brows furrow in confusion.

“Your gods… the gods…” You continue. “They answered my prayers…”

“So, suddenly you believe in our gods now?” He teases. “And what of your god?”

“The Christian god has never answered my prayers. Never even given a small sign he is with me.” You explain. “I prayed to Odin, and a raven appeared… Freyja, a white butterfly landed on my hand the same moment… and Thor…” You gesture to the skies the rain continues to pour down from.

You walk closer to Ragnar.

“I want to teach me your ways…” You say lowly.

“All of our ways?” He smirks, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“All of your ways…” You say as you move even closer until your noses brush.

He traces his finger up your neck, making you shiver. His finger continues to move along your jaw before he gently lifts your chin, making your eyes meet his piercing blue ones. “Are you sure about that?” He says with his classic devilish smirk.

Instead of responding you bring your lips to his, which was answer enough. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss you back hungrily, a small growl escaping him. He cups your cheeks as the rain pours down on you both, the kiss is wet and passionate. His tongue demands entrance to your mouth and you let him take the lead, following along a little awkwardly. His hands move from your face down to your hips as he pulls you against him. The hardness pushing against your stomach makes you gasp.

“Do you wish to return to the house…” Ragnar whispers, against your lips before kissing you again.

“No… I want you to take me right here… under the eyes of Thor and all the gods watching over us…” You whisper back, bringing your hand to his cheek.

Your words light a fire in Ragnar as your eyes meet in an intense gaze. He reaches out and begins to slowly pull at the strings of your dress. His eyes watch yours carefully, as if daring you to stop him. You would do no such thing. Once the ties were loose you let him pull the dress off your shoulders, completely exposing your breasts. They instantly perk up in the cold chill of the rain, droplets of water falling down your skin. A moan escapes you as he leans down and takes one in his mouth, flicking his tongue over your sensitive nipple. Your entire body felt aflame. You welcomed every cold raindrop that touches your heated skin.

His sinful tongue continues to explore down your stomach until he’s on his knees in front of you. You look down at him with lust filled eyes as pulls down the skirts of your dress, leaving you completely bare for him. His gaze meets yours as he squeezes your thighs hard and gives you a smirk.

“Ragnar what are you-“

Your words are cut off when his tongue licks your most intimate area. You gasp and whine as he begins to messily eat you. Your legs shake and wobble as you try to hold onto his shoulders.

“Ragnar I can’t…” You breathe.

He could sense you were barely able to hold yourself up. In one swift movement he hooks your legs over his shoulders and you yelp as he lifts you up. His tongue does not stop working at your bundle of nerves as he walks you over to a tree. You lean your back against the rough bark. The feeling of him was so overwhelming that you hardly felt the tree scratching at your skin. He ate you ravenously like a man starved. Your hands quickly find their way into his hair, tugging lightly, he grunts against you in response. You pant as you look up to the grey rainy skies, the entire moment felt like a dream. A knot begins to tighten in your stomach and your vision starts to blur. Ragnar dips his tongue into your entrance and that is your undoing. You scream out as your thighs squeeze tightly around his head. You would be worried about hurting him but you could swear you felt him grinning against you as his tongue works you through your orgasm.

Ragnar carefully lowers you back to the ground, you feel both your body and your mind come back down to earth. You shiver as he lays you down on the cold wet ground. He removes his now soaked shirt before climbing over you and capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, you moan at the taste yourself as your tongues dance together.

He stands again to quickly remove his pants, your eyes widen at his length before he climbs back on top of you.

“Are you certain?” Ragnar asks lowly, noticing your worried expression.

“Yes but… I don’t think it will fit…” You whisper shyly.

He gives a cocky chuckle before he begins kissing on your neck.

“It will.” He mumbles against your skin.

You feel him rub his length against your core making you whine and buck your hips in response.

“So eager.” He smirks.

He slowly begins pushing in making you grimace in pain. You instantly question his reassurance that it will fit.

“Shh,” Ragnar tries to soothe you.

His lips move back to your neck kissing, sucking and biting, trying his best to distract you from the pain. You moan at the feeling before he pushes right through the barrier and you gasp loudly. Ragnar groans loudly as he feels you squeezing tightly around him like a vice. You pant heavily with tears in your eyes as you adjust to his size. He does not move until you’re ready, then he starts pushing in and out slowly. The pain soon fades and you wrap your legs around him, forcing him deeper into you.

“Please…” You breathe out.

“Please what?” Ragnar whispers directly in your ear, making you shudder.

“More…”

“More what?” He teases you.

“Ragnar, please.” You groan in frustration. “Faster. Harder. Give me more.”

He smirks before finally obliging your wishes and starts pounding into you relentlessly. You quickly begin to see stars as your second orgasm washes over you and you cry out his name. Ragnar slows his pace once you have hit your peak.

“So this is…” You pant. “This is how Vikings… fuck?”

“We fuck however we want to.” He says as he kisses your neck, still hard inside you. “Viking women enjoy riding their men like wild horses.” He mumbles against your skin, like a challenge.

“Then I shall do that…” You say as you sit up and force Ragnar onto his back.

Ragnar’s eyes widen as you move to straddle him.

“I shall ride you like a wild horse.” You look down and meet his eyes, fire in your eyes and a devilish smirk on your lips. “I shall fuck you like a true Viking woman.”

He does not take his eyes off you for one second as you start to sink back down onto his cock, causing your mouth to drop at the feeling. Being new to all of this, you awkwardly try to bounce up and down until Ragnar grips your hips and guides you to move them back and forth.

“Oh…” You moan, eyes rolling back.

You follow his direction and rock your hips back and forth, increasing the speed. The position sends tingles through your entire body. Ragnar watches you in amazement, taking in every inch of your wet naked body as your beautiful moans ring in his ears. His hands move from your hips to grab your breasts and you ride him harder in approval, earning a groan from him.

You still felt like you were dreaming. You had lived such a strict sheltered life and felt so trapped for so long… But as the grey clouds swirl above you and the rain pours down over your shamelessly naked body, as you ride this god of a man who made your entire body vibrate with life, as you cried out loud enough for the gods to hear, as your prayers had finally been answered and your path now clear, as you feel your very souls connect. For the first time in your entire life… you felt free.

Your peak hits you even more intense than any time before, zings of pleasure radiate throughout your entire being. You felt yourself cry out Ragnar’s name but the sudden crack of lightning in the distance completely drowned out the sound. Your eyes shot open and you caught a glimpse of the fast line of lighting across the mountains at the same moment you came. Ragnar digs his fingers hard into your hips as he finds his own release. A loud rumble of thunder booms as he chokes out a moan. In that moment you felt so tremendously powerful, like a you were a god and goddess.

As you come down from your high the rain suddenly becomes much lighter. Panting, you look down at Ragnar who’s grinning smugly up at you. You give him a smirk back before leaning down and capturing his lips in a hungy kiss, your tongue instantly demands entrance and Ragnar happily obliges, moving his hand to your cheek as he eagerly kisses you back.

You roll off of him onto the wet grass, the rain now stopping completely. You felt so wild and free you that had no care about the mud that had gotten all over you.

“So…” Ragnar huffs, still catching his breath. “You really believe in our gods now?”

“They answered my prayers…” You respond, also panting. “It is hard to deny their existence after all of that.”

Ragnar just grins at you.

“We should get cleaned up.” He says as he stands, lending a hand to help you up.

As you stand he pulls you into a quick passionate kiss.

“Welcome to my world, (y/n).” Ragnar smiles.

Bjorn

Bjorn is one to be sceptical of you first

He does not know how much he trusts witchcraft, or Seercraft in this manner

He has more faith in action rather than depending on visions and fate

You earn his respect over time

When you predict something correctly about a raid/battle, he warms to you, approaching you afterwards and asking how you knew

But it isn't long before he is visiting you before leaving for raids, asking what your opinion is on the outcome

He becomes drawn to your mysterious, calm tone and personality

Which is so different to what he is used to, so going to you feels like a break

He even finds himself becoming protective and defensive over you if someone suggests you are a bad omen

Ubbe

Ubbe would be the most respectful to you and very open-minded

Especially if you are on the good-looking side, he just cannot help himself

He takes spirituality seriously and believes in the words of the gods

And so hearing their voices through you is essential for him

He asks philosophical questions, wanting to always hear your thoughts

"Odin believes-" "I know what Odin believes. You told me. I want to hear what you believe."

He cares quite tenderly for you

If you are having violent and disturbing visions, he is the first to your side, comforting you until you wake from them

And stays with you for hours afterwards to make sure you're okay, and asks what you saw

Hvitserk

Hvitserk is slightly teasing to you at first

Mainly because he is intimidated, but he cannot hide his fascination

He tends to ask non-serious, joking questions

"Tell me, oh great all-seeing Seer," he smirks with sarcasm drenching his voice. "Do I die a drunk, or do I actually die glorious like my father?"

If you tell him a serious vision about himself, he grows quiet and hesitant, perhaps even walking out because he hates to face it

But he may return later, perhaps some drinks in him, and asks about his fate, but quietly so people cannot overhear

And because of this, he finds himself becoming emotionally attached to you

Like you are a breath of fresh air and he can take down his walls when he is with you

Ivar

Ivar would be suspicious and intense towards you

The questions from him are relentless, and he does not like any one of your answers

"So did the gods tell you that, Seer? Or are you lying to my face?"

But unlike his brothers, Ivar sees you and your gift as something that can benefit him, both for encouragement and as a political weapon

He goes to you very often, usually getting a bit too close to your face and becoming very into the conversation

And asks questions about him becoming king

But if you show no fear and answer his questions with a bite to them to retaliate, he loves that

Like he obsesses over your answers and takes them so literally

Even brings them up at political discussions, believing your predictions are undeniable

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.