hellooooo I saw you were taking requests so may I request a ragnarsons headcannons?? (Because I read your ivar works)
Can you do how they would…yk… because I can’t find any works of them ANYWHERE!! Can you include, bjorn, ubbe, hvitserk, ivar and Ragnar!
please and thank youuuuu 🥲🫶
𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮
(Minors do not interact)
Master list
Including: bjorn, Ubbe, ivar, hvitserk and ragnar.
Warnings: SMUT, no use of the words 'length' we use proper autonomy here 🙂↕️, vulgar language.
Summary: how the Ragnarsons would fuck you. This is a FULL assessment, including positions, cock x-ray and there fuck rating.
A/N: Omg yessss of course I can!! Im always happy for new ideas and my ‘asks’ will always be a safe space for peoples ideas :) and I think i should just start a ragnarsons series tbh 🫣.
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).
Hi lovely, I want to request Ivar from Vikings! I hope that's okay, if not, that'll be totally fine! 🤗
I wanna request Ivar x saxon reader who came to Kattegat as a slave and who was sold to Lagertha. In her hometown she was forced to wear a blindfold made of black lace so no one could see her eyes because they were deemed as demonic from the church. Like her eyes are really crystalline and were unsettling for Christians, and she continues to wear it even in Kattegat. Perhaps the young Rangarsson finds himself to wonder about her and one day a jealous woman rips it from her face during a festive in the main hall when she was serving ivar...?
I know it's a lot but I've been thinking about this all week. 😭✨ Thank you so much!
Angel eyes
summary: Ivar thinks your eyes must be Gods-sent.
warnings: Margrethe being Margrethe, vikings scaring reader, Ivar being Ivar.
ch3rrybbie says: love the request bby, I changed it a lil hope you don’t mind🩷 sorry it took so long lol
———
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.
———
Lagertha and Ragnar watch your silhouettes from the mouth of the great hall. They needn’t speak the thoughts they share but they know the nights they’d spent together talking till the sun kissed the fjord had seemingly come to life in front of them.
Summary: After being captured by the Vikings your prayers to god remain unanswered, as you come to realize they always have. An intriguing Viking man teaches you of their ways, and all your prayers are answered. (No language barrier & Ragnar is unmarried for the sake of the story).
Notes: 18+ ONLY!!! Smuttt, maybe some fluff, loss of virginity, outdoor p in v, fingering, oral (f), angst, kidnapping/violence/raiding in opening story, possible spoilers.
I’m very into Norse spirituality so I loved writing this
Word count: 3.7k
masterlist
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.
I saw you wrote for the vikings...how would each of them react to their s/o giving them body worship? Both sexual and not?
the characters: Bjorn, Largetha, Ivar, Helga, Floki, Rolli, Ivar, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, Ragnar
Ragnar Lothbrok
Nonsexual:
He tilts his head curiously as you press kisses to his battle scars, fingers ghosting over his tattoos.
“You worship me like a god… but I am just a man.”
Still, your worship touches something deep, and he returns it with gentle reverence. He begins to see himself again, through your eyes.
Sexual:
He’s playful, darkly intense.
“If you worship me, love, then I must bless you properly.”
It becomes a game, a ritual, and a communion—bodies tangled, words sacred, desire endless.
Lagertha
Nonsexual:
She acts like it doesn’t matter—“I don’t need this.” But your reverence strips away her armor. When you kiss the lines of her sword arm or clean a wound, she grows silent. Grateful.
"You remind me that I am more than just a warrior."
Sexual:
She lets you lead, but the moment you start praising her, she takes control. Powerful, commanding, proud.
"Say it louder. Worship your queen."
Rollo
Nonsexual:
He doesn’t know how to accept it at first. He’s always been the brute, the second. But your hands, your voice, your eyes as you run your fingers across his chest and say, “You are worthy,”—it breaks him open.
"No one’s ever treated me like I mattered. Until now."
Sexual:
He becomes a beast craving praise. Your worship is his drug. He groans under your lips, your voice.
"Don’t stop. Not until you forget your own name."
Floki
Nonsexual:
He laughs, almost madly. "What are you doing, strange creature?" But your lips on his ink-stained fingers, your adoration for his mind, scars, and chaos—he falls for you completely.
"You see the divinity in madness, don’t you?"
Sexual:
He’s ethereal, almost ritualistic about it. The way you kiss his chest is like a prayer.
"Do you worship me, or do I worship you?"
He’ll return it—equal parts lover and zealot.
Helga
Nonsexual:
She is moved to tears. She has known pain and loss, and for someone to see her body—still soft, still strong—as worthy of love? It breaks her.
"You make me feel like I belong to the earth again."
Sexual:
She’s gentle but intensely present. As you worship her, she whispers your name like a mantra, pulling you closer.
"Every kiss is a promise. You’ve made me feel like a woman again."
Bjorn Ironside
Nonsexual:
He’s confused at first—he’s the strong one, the shield. But your gentle hands over his bruised knuckles, the way you kiss his battle-worn skin, it humbles him.
"Even warriors need this... I didn’t know how much."
He kisses your hands in return, reverent and awed.
Sexual:
He leans into it hard. Dominant, but worshipped—he thrives on your hunger and adoration.
"You like this body? Then it’s yours. All of it."
He wants to hear your moans and praise while you worship every inch.
Ubbe Ragnarsson
Nonsexual:
He smiles, at first amused. But when he feels the gentle brush of your hands across his scars, the way you hold him after a battle as if he’s sacred, it moves him.
“You always see the good in me. Even when I can’t.”
He starts doing the same back—bandaging your wounds, kissing your forehead, mirroring your devotion.
Sexual:
He becomes tender but dominant. He whispers praise into your skin while you kiss his, letting you explore every inch. He’s not shy—he wants you to know him, love him in every sense.
"Take your time. I'm yours."
Hvitserk Ragnarsson
Nonsexual:
It surprises him. He’s used to being seen as broken, unstable, but when you hold his face and whisper, “You are not lost,” it shakes him to the core. Your hands on his back, your touch steady—it makes him feel seen, not pitied.
"No one’s ever... held me like that."
Sexual:
He’s a mix of needy and reverent. When you kiss his chest, trace the lines of his neck and collarbone, he gasps and holds you tightly.
"Keep going. Tell me again what I am to you."
Your praise fuels his passion—he needs your worship like breath.
Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye
Nonsexual:
Your worship calms his restless spirit. He’s the overlooked one, the one with fire in his eyes and something to prove. But when you press a kiss to the corner of his eye and say, “Even your rage is beautiful,” he softens.
"You always see more than anyone else."
Sexual:
He becomes your willing god. Arrogant in the way only the lonely are. He lets you kneel between his legs, eyes burning.
"Say it again. That I’m beautiful. That you want only me."
The power of being seen turns him fierce and possessive.
Ivar the Boneless
Nonsexual:
He initially resists. He’s so used to shame, especially surrounding his legs and body, that your touch feels like fire. But when you kneel beside him and kiss each scar, murmuring, “You are more than a weapon. You are beautiful,” he’s undone. He grips your hand like it’s the only anchor he has.
“Why... why would you do that?” he whispers, almost breaking.
Sexual:
Once he trusts you, he devours the reverence. Every kiss, every whispered praise, makes his walls fall further. You make him feel divine, worthy, and it turns him possessive. He'll pin you beneath him and murmur, "Worship me, and I’ll make you a goddess."
Summary: Freedom feels like a heavy pouch of silver, but true liberation happens behind a locked door. When you return from the market to find Ubbe in the bath, the lines between master and servant dissolve in the steam. He doesn't just wash you; he renames you.
Fluff
Warnings: nudity (non-sexual), vulnerability, not proofread yet
Words: 2.8k
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.
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.
Summary: In a harsh, frozen Norway where Omegas are a rare blessing, Bjorn Ironside’s inner beast is rotting from the inside out, unable to find a true mate to secure his legacy. Desperate, Ragnar seeks out the Seer, who points them toward a hidden valley and a scent of wild clover and heavy summer rain. What follows is a primal, possessive claim that shakes Kattegat to its core. From a volatile, protective journey to a brutal winter war against enemies and court betrayal, Bjorn will burn the world to the ground to protect his legacy.
Expect: Primal knots, aggressive scenting, pure Alpha protectiveness, a bit of Aslaug drama, and a whole lot of feral devotion.
[READ BELOW]
The great hall of Kattegat was a sprawling maze of smoke, the heavy scent of roasted boar, and the sharp tang of stale mead. But to Bjorn Ironside, it felt like an absolute tomb.
He sat on the edge of a heavy oak bench, his massive chest rising and falling in a slow, agitated rhythm. Beside him, Torvi was speaking—her voice a pleasant, steady hum as she recounted the day’s trade tallies—but her words simply drifted over him like mist. It was the same as it had been with Þórunn. Þórunn, with her fierce spirit and scarred beauty, whom he had loved until she fled into the night, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. And now Torvi, a dependable companion, a capable warrior.
But they were betas. Both of them.
When Bjorn reached for them in the dark, his inner Alpha roared in a vacuum. There was no biological spark, no intoxicating rush of pheromones to light his blood on fire, no deep, soulful click of a true bond. Most frustratingly of all, there were no children. His seed felt wasted, his womb-empty bed a constant reminder of failure. For a man named Ironside, destined to conquer the world, the inability to secure his own legacy was a rotting wound.
With a low grunt, Bjorn stood abruptly, rattling the cups on the table. Torvi paused, looking up with a mixture of exhaustion and understanding in her eyes. She knew. She felt the hollow space between them too.
"I need air," Bjorn muttered, not waiting for a response as he strode out into the biting cold night.
He marched straight toward the king’s longhouse. Ragnar Lothbrok sat alone by his hearth, balancing a silver cup between his dirt-stained fingers, his bright blue eyes reflecting the dying embers. He didn't look up when Bjorn slammed the heavy timber door shut.
"You look as though you want to axe a thrall, my son," Ragnar murmured, taking a slow sip.
"I cannot do this anymore, Father," Bjorn growled, pacing the length of the hearth like a caged beast. His scent—usually a crisp, dominant blend of pine, forged iron, and woodsmoke—was sour, sharp with bitter frustration. "Þórunn left because I could not give her what she needed, and I cannot give Torvi what she wants. My bed is cold even when someone is in it. There are no sons. No daughters. I am the eldest son of Ragnar Lothbrok, and my bloodline ends with me because my body rejects every woman I touch."
Ragnar sighed, the lines on his weathered face deepening. In Norway, the old ways were thinning. Omegas—the rare, fertile treasures capable of bearing an Alpha’s true heirs and anchoring their souls—were practically a myth in the harsh north. Most lines were carried on by betas now, but a dominant Alpha like Bjorn needed a true mate. Without one, his inner beast would eventually consume him with restless rage.
"You think I do not see it?" Ragnar said softly, standing up and placing a heavy hand on his son’s broad shoulder. "You are a wolf without a pack, Bjorn. Tomorrow, I will seek answers. Sleep tonight. If the gods have a ribbon left for your braid, we will find it."
The next morning, Ragnar walked the winding, muddy path to the Seer’s hut alone. The air inside the dark hovel was thick with the suffocating stench of dried herbs, old blood, and tallow candles.
The ancient, deformed figure shifted beneath his furs, his sightless, flesh-stitched eyes turning toward the king.
"Ragnar Lothbrok," the Seer hissed, a wet, rattling sound. "You come not for your own crown today, but for the seed of your seed."
"My son is rotting from the inside out," Ragnar said, kneeling before the old man. He offered a small pouch of silver coins, which the Seer’s clawed hand snatched away instantly. "He needs a mate. A real one. An Omega. If there are any left in this cursed, frozen land, tell me where to look."
The Seer cackled, a sound like dry autumn leaves scraping across stone. He rocked backward, his jaw working as if chewing on the future itself.
"Rare... oh, so rare," the Seer chanted, his voice dropping into a rhythmic cadence. "The honey in the mountain, hidden away from the salt of the sea. You must ride east, past the weeping rocks of Hedeby, into the deep valleys where the sheep graze on emerald hills. There sits a steed named Oakhaven. Seek the master of the loom, a man named Halvar."
The Seer leaned forward, his rotting breath washing over Ragnar. "He harbors a treasure. A sweet thing, smelling of wild clover, crushed blackberries, and heavy summer rain. The one whose womb is built only for the Ironside. Take the boy with you. The hound must scent the fox, or the hunt is meaningless."
The journey took five grueling days. Bjorn rode in a tense, brooding silence, his horse feeling the restless, snapping energy of its rider. Ragnar kept his pace steady, casting quiet, assessing glances at his son.
When they finally rode down into the lush, isolated valley of Oakhaven, the air shifted. It was a prosperous farming settlement, shielded from the raiding storms of the coast. They dismounted near the village center, where a bustling market was underway.
Ragnar grabbed a passing farmer by the tunic. "Where is the home of Halvar, the master weaver?"
The farmer blinked, intimidated by the massive size of the two strangers and the unmistakable aura of high-ranking Alphas emitting from them. "The... the longhouse at the edge of the western hill, my lord. With the blue carved posts."
"Good," Ragnar said, tossing him a small coin.
As they walked toward the hill, Bjorn suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. His head snapped up, his chest expanding as he drew in a massive, ragged breath. His blue eyes dilated, the pupils swallowing the iris.
"Bjorn?" Ragnar asked, his own instincts putting him on alert.
"It's..." Bjorn growled, a low, vibratory sound that rattled in his throat. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands clenching into fists. He looked wild, his nostrils flaring as he spun in a slow circle. "Something is here. Father, I can't... I can't settle. My blood is burning."
"The Seer’s word," Ragnar whispered, a grin spreading across his face. "Control yourself, boy. We are guests."
But Bjorn could barely hear him. A phantom thread had wrapped around his throat, pulling him toward the longhouse. When they reached the blue-posted doors, an older man with grey in his beard and the unmistakable, grounded scent of a beta patriarch stepped out to greet them.
"King Ragnar," Halvar said, bowing his head in shocked reverence. "We did not expect such honor in our hall. Please, come in. Share our fire, our food."
The moment they crossed the threshold, the air changed entirely. To Ragnar, it smelled like a warm, welcoming home. To Bjorn, it was an absolute assault on his senses.
The scent hit him like a physical blow—sweet, intoxicating wild clover, the tart burst of crushed blackberries, and the clean, electric musk of a summer storm. It was the scent of a pure, unblemished Omega. It coated the back of his throat, turning his blood into liquid fire.
They sat at the long table, Halvar’s wife serving them horn cups of sweet mead. Ragnar began to speak, engaging in the polite politics of a king, but Bjorn was entirely lost. He sat rigid as a stone statue, his knuckles white around his cup, his eyes darting toward every shadow, every doorway. He was panting softly, his chest heaving as his Alpha demanded he track the source of the scent.
Halvar noticed. He looked at the massive young warrior, whose eyes were completely blown out, tracking air currents like a starving wolf.
"Your son seems... uneasy, King Ragnar," Halvar noted carefully.
Ragnar chuckled, leaning back. "My son is a hound on a scent, Halvar. We did not come for trade or tribute. We came because the Seer of Kattegat sent us. He told us that in this valley, in this house, lives the true mate of Bjorn Ironside. An Omega."
Halvar and his wife exchanged a sharp, breathless look. The mother’s hand flew to her mouth.
Ragnar continued, his voice dropping to a serious, authoritative register. "The Seer described them perfectly. A spirit like a quiet river, a heart that does not fear the storm, and a scent of clover, berries, and rain."
Halvar swallowed hard, looking at Bjorn, who let out a low, warning rumble from his chest, entirely primal and impatient.
"It is true," Halvar said softly. "The gods blessed us—and cursed us—with an Omega child. We have hidden them from the eyes of raiding Alphas for years. They are currently down at the stream, helping to wash the winter wool." Halvar turned to one of his young grandsons sitting by the hearth. "Go. Fetch them. Tell them to come to the main hall immediately."
The minutes that followed were pure torture for Bjorn. He couldn't focus on a single word Ragnar or Halvar said. He was vibrating, his leg bouncing, his inner Alpha pacing the cage of his ribs, roaring to break free.
Then, the heavy wooden door creaked open.
You stepped inside, wiping your damp hands on your apron, a strand of hair falling across your face. "Father? You called for—"
You never finished the sentence.
Bjorn was on his feet so fast his heavy bench flipped backward, crashing to the floorboards. In a fraction of a second, he crossed the room. Before you could even process the massive, towering figure moving toward you, you were backed up against the closed door, pinned under the absolute weight of his presence.
"Mine," a voice roared inside Bjorn’s mind, though out loud it came out as a deep, possessive growl that vibrated against your chest.
You gasped, your head tilting back automatically as the scent of pine, hot iron, and crackling woodsmoke flooded your senses. Your inner Omega, starved and waiting for a lifetime, flared to life, singing in absolute harmony with his. Your knees turned to water.
Bjorn didn't hesitate. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his scruff scraping against your sensitive skin as he inhaled deeply, drinking in your pure, unadulterated scent. He let out a ragged, trembling sigh, his massive arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you slightly off your feet, crushing you against his broad chest. He began to scent you aggressively, rubbing his jaw against your pulse point, marking you with his musk before anyone else could even look at you.
"Bjorn," Ragnar’s voice cut through the haze, laced with amusement and deep satisfaction. "At least let the family say goodbye before you consume them entirely."
You were breathless, your hands gripping his massive shoulders for balance, your heart hammering against your ribs. You looked into his bright blue eyes, which were burning with an intensity that promised to consume you whole.
"You are coming with me," Bjorn rumbled, his voice thick and gravelly with instinct. It wasn't a question.
The marriage was performed that very evening before your family and the village pack. It was a swift, traditional ceremony, sealed with blood and vows spoken over ancient rings. Bjorn never let you go more than an arm's length away. Even as you sat at the feast, his massive hand was clamped tightly on your thigh, his thumb caressing your skin through your kirtle, his scent completely cloaking you.
The journey back to Kattegat was a blur of frantic anticipation. Bjorn rode with you pulled tightly against his chest on his horse, his chin resting on your shoulder, constantly nipping at your ear and breathing in your scent.
By the time the wooden walls of Kattegat rose in the distance, the air had turned thick and heavy.
You felt it first. A sudden, deep ache in the pit of your stomach, a slick heat pooling between your thighs. Your skin became hyper-sensitive, your breath hitching as your body realized it was finally safe, finally in the territory of its Alpha. You leaked a sweet, heavy wave of pheromones—the unmistakable, intoxicating scent of an Omega entering heat.
Bjorn’s horse suddenly reared back as the scent hit him like wildfire.
Bjorn let out a roar that echoed across the fjord. His eyes turned entirely dark, his jaw locking. His own scent mutated instantly, turning heavy, thick, and suffocatingly dominant—the onset of a brutal, long-denied Alpha rut.
He didn't wait for the horses to be tended to. The moment they slid to a halt inside the gates of Kattegat, Bjorn threw you over his massive shoulder. Ragnar stood in the courtyard, watching with a triumphant, roaring laugh as his son marched straight past the crowds, ignoring everyone, and kicked open the doors to his private quarters.
He slammed the door shut, barring it with a heavy oak beam.
The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the hearth. Bjorn dumped you onto the massive bed of furs, stripping his armor and tunic off in frantic, violent movements. His muscles flexed under his tattooed skin, his chest heaving as he stared down at you like a predator looking at its final meal.
"Bjorn," you whimpered, your body arching off the furs as the heat tore through you, making you crave his touch with an agonizing intensity. "Please."
He descended upon you like a thunderstorm.
His mouth crashed against yours, hot, demanding, and possessive. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting the sweetness of your clover and berry scent, while his large hands gripped your hips, ripping your clothes away with terrifying ease. You cried out, not in fear, but in pure, unadulterated need, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling his heavy body down into the cradle of your thighs.
"You are mine," Bjorn growled against your lips, his fingers digging into your hips, bruising the skin as his rut completely took over his senses. "I am going to fill you. I am going to give you sons."
He didn't wait. He drove into you with a powerful, desperate thrust that made you scream into the rafters of the longhouse. The fit was perfect—a lock finding its key. The hollow ache that had plagued Bjorn for years vanished in an instant, replaced by a blinding, white-hot friction that threatened to undo them both.
The mating was fierce, primal, and unrelenting. Bjorn moved above you like a man possessed, his heavy chest slick with sweat, raining down kisses on your face, your neck, your shoulders. Every time you leaked more slick, he growled, driving deeper, his Alpha demanding total surrender, total completion.
You met him stroke for stroke, your claws digging into the muscles of his back, crying out his name as the heat consumed your mind. The scent in the room became so thick it was intoxicating, a heavy cloud of pure mating pheromones that sealed the room from the outside world.
Hours bled into one another. Bjorn flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips high against his thighs, his hands gripping your hair to pull your head back as he pounded into you from behind. The angle was agonizingly deep, hitting your sweet spot over and over until you were sobbing, riding the waves of multiple, shattering orgasms.
Finally, as the dawn began to peek through the cracks of the wooden walls, Bjorn felt the tightening in his core. His inner beast roared, recognizing the exact moment your womb opened up, begging for his seed.
He gripped your hips with a bruising, iron hold, driving himself into you as deep as physically possible. With a guttural, earth-shaking roar, his knot began to swell rapidly inside you, locking you together. He poured his hot, thick release deep into your core, filling you to the brim, securing his bloodline with every desperate pulse.
You gasped, your body trembling beneath him as the knot held you captive, ensuring that every drop of his royal blood stayed exactly where it belonged. Bjorn collapsed over your back, his heavy heartbeat drumming against your spine, his mouth buried in your neck as he mumbled sweet, exhausted praise.
"My mate," he whispered, his voice laced with absolute satisfaction. "My legacy."
Outside, the crows of Kattegat circled the longhouse, but inside, the wolf had finally found his home, and the future of the Lothbrok line was firmly planted in the fertile earth of love and iron.
The knot held for what felt like hours, an unbreakable anchor locking you together on the sweat-soaked furs. Every time you tried to shift, the sheer size of him stretching you open elicited a soft, helpless whine from your throat—a sound that instantly brought Bjorn’s heavy head back up, his teeth nipping possessively at the nape of your neck to soothe you. He kept you pinned beneath his massive frame, his thick arms hooked under your arms, pressing his sweat-sheened chest firmly against your back.
He was completely spent, his breath coming in slow, rumbling purrs that vibrated directly into your spine. The frantic, clawing desperation that had driven him for years was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, suffocating satisfaction.
When the knot finally subsided, sliding free with a wet, heavy slickness, you let out a ragged breath, your muscles trembling from the release. Bjorn immediately rolled you over, pulling your soft body tightly against his chest, shielding you from the cool morning air that filtered through the timber walls. He reached down, his large, calloused hand cupping the slight curve of your stomach, his fingers spreading wide over your skin.
"It is done," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against your ear. "I can feel it. The gods have answered."
For the next three days, the door to the chamber remained firmly barred. The heat and the rut consumed you both in waves—sometimes gentle and slow, filled with lazy, deep thrusts that made you sob into his chest, and other times erupting into fierce, primal coupling that left fresh scratch marks on his back and deep thumbprints on your hips. He fed you dried meats and gave you sweet mead from his own cup, refusing to let you touch the floor, treating you simultaneously as a prized treasure and a well-claimed prize.
By the fourth morning, the heavy cloud of pheromones had finally begun to settle. The fever of your heat had broke, leaving your body achy, thoroughly used, and deeply bonded.
Bjorn rose from the bed, wrapping a thick fur cloak around his waist. He looked down at you, his blue eyes clear and bright, devoid of the restless shadow that had haunted him for so long. He looked like a king reborn.
"Rest, my love," he said softly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your swollen lips. "I must speak with my father. And then, we will show Kattegat who holds the key to my kingdom."
When Bjorn kicked open the heavy doors of his longhouse and stepped out into the crisp, biting air of the settlement, the transformation was undeniable. His scent was no longer sharp and volatile; it was rich, dominant, and heavily laced with the sweet, unmistakable musk of your clover and blackberry scent. He wore you like a badge of absolute victory.
Ragnar was sitting on a crate near the docks, throwing small stones into the gray water of the fjord. He didn't need to look up to know his son was approaching. The sheer aura of satisfaction radiating from Bjorn was louder than his footsteps.
"Ah," Ragnar said, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his weathered face as he turned around. "The wolf returns from the den. You look... less inclined to axe my thralls today."
Bjorn walked up to him, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his beard. He stood beside his father, looking out over the bustling market, where people were already whispering and casting glances at the eldest Lothbrok son.
"She is perfect, Father," Bjorn admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "Everything the Seer promised. My blood... it doesn't fight her. It sings. I have marked her, and she has taken my seed."
Ragnar stood up, patting Bjorn’s massive shoulder with a heavy, proud strike. "Good. The gods are old, Bjorn, but they are not blind. They knew what Ironside needed to conquer the world. A man cannot build an empire if his own house is built on sand."
As they spoke, Torvi walked past the docks, a bundle of furs in her arms. She paused, her eyes lingering on Bjorn for a moment. She smelled the heavy, intoxicating bond scent clinging to him—the undeniable mark of a true Omega mate. There was a brief flicker of sorrow in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a quiet, accepting nod. She knew the laws of the old ways. She knew that a beta could never give him the legacy his blood demanded. With a respectful dip of her head, she turned and walked away, releasing him fully to the destiny the fates had woven.
A few hours later, you finally emerged from the longhouse, dressed in a fine, deep-blue kirtle your mother had packed for you, your hair braided tightly in the style of the Kattegat women.
The moment you stepped into the courtyard, the bustling noise of the village seemed to stutter. The fierce, rugged warriors of the North turned to look at the rare prize their prince had brought home from the eastern valleys. You felt a swell of nerves, your fingers instinctively gripping the fabric of your dress.
But you weren't alone for long.
From across the square, Bjorn’s eyes locked onto you. In an instant, he was moving, his long strides eating up the distance between you. He didn't care who was watching. He pulled you into his side, his massive arm wrapping securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his hip. His scent flared, a heavy, protective wall of pine and iron that warned every eye in Kattegat to look upon you with nothing less than absolute reverence.
"Do not fear them," Bjorn whispered into your hair, his lips brushing your temple. "You are the princess of Kattegat now. The mother of my sons."
You looked up at him, the bond pulsing warmly in your chest, and for the first time, the harsh, frozen world of Norway felt completely like home.
The peace of the bond was a beautiful thing, but in Kattegat, peace was always a fleeting commodity.
It began a week later, as the early winter winds started to bite at the edges of the fjord. The great hall was packed for a feast celebrating a successful late-season raid led by Hvitserk and Ubbe. Mead flowed like water, and the air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and sweat.
You sat beside Bjorn at the high table, his heavy arm draped over the back of your chair, his thumb idly tracing patterns on your bare shoulder. His possessive nature hadn't waned in the slightest; if anything, now that your heat had faded, he was even more vigilant, his blue eyes tracking anyone who dared look too long at his newly claimed Omega.
But the atmosphere shifted when Aslaug, the Queen, took her seat.
She had been quiet since your arrival, watching from the shadows of the longhouse with those piercing, calculating eyes of hers. Aslaug, a woman who prided herself on her prophetic blood and her own high status, did not look kindly on things she could not control. And a rare, pure Omega—one who had instantly healed the rift in Ragnar’s eldest son and secured his loyalty firmly to his father’s side—was a threat to her own sons' standing.
Aslaug leaned forward, her silks rustling, a sharp, patronizing smile on her lips. "She is a quiet thing, isn't she, Bjorn?" she remarked, her voice carrying over the din of the immediate tables. "A pretty little flower from a hidden valley. Tell me, dear, do they teach you anything in Oakhaven besides how to wash wool and submit to an Alpha’s knot?"
The table went dead silent. Ubbe paused with his horn halfway to his mouth, and Hvitserk smirked, leaning back to watch the show.
Bjorn’s hand tightened on your shoulder, his fingers digging in just enough to signal his rising fury. A low, vibrating growl started deep in his chest, his pine-and-iron scent turning instantly jagged, sharp enough to make the thralls nearby step back in fear.
"Careful, stepmother," Bjorn warned, his voice a dangerous, rocky ledge. "You speak to my wife. The future of my line."
"I only wonder," Aslaug purred, her eyes flicking down to your stomach, "if a creature so soft can truly survive the winters of Kattegat. Our men do not just need a womb, Bjorn. They need a queen who can hold a shield when the banners are raised. A beta like Torvi... she knew the weight of an axe. But this one? She smells of sweet berries and fear."
The insult was calculated to strike at your worth, to paint you as a fragile liability in front of the gathered warriors. You felt the eyes of the great hall pressing in on you, waiting to see if the rare Omega would weep or hide behind her husband’s massive frame.
But your inner Omega wasn't weak; it was fiercely protective of the life you were already secretly suspecting was growing inside you.
Before Bjorn could lung across the table, you placed your hand flat against his chest, feeling the frantic, violent thudding of his heart. The simple touch—infused with your calming, rain-sweet pheromones—forced him to hold his ground, though his eyes remained fixed on Aslaug like a hawk.
You looked directly into the Queen’s eyes, your voice steady and clear. "I may not have been born with an axe in my hand, Queen Aslaug," you said, the hall quiet enough to hear the crackle of the hearth. "But my blood carried the strength to anchor the Ironside when no other woman in Norway could. I do not need to hold a shield to protect his legacy. My body is his legacy. And I do not fear the winter, because the fire in my Alpha’s blood keeps me warmer than any silk ever could."
A collective murmur went through the hall. Ragnar, sitting a few seats down, let out a sudden, loud bark of laughter, slamming his fist onto the table.
"Ha! She has a tongue, Aslaug!" Ragnar cheered, his bright blue eyes dancing with malicious delight. "And she speaks the truth. A wolf does not need his mate to be another wolf; he needs her to keep the den whole."
Aslaug’s smile tightened, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, icy venom. She knew she had lost this round, but the look she shot you promised that this was merely the first volley in a much longer war.
The drama, however, wasn't finished for the night.
As the feast began to wind down, a commotion broke out at the heavy oak doors of the great hall. A scout, drenched in freezing rain and gasping for breath, burst through the entrance, collapsing to his knees before Ragnar and Bjorn.
"King Ragnar! Bjorn Ironside!" the man gasped, his teeth chattering. "Men... men from the south. Harald Finehair’s scouts have been spotted near the eastern borders, near the valley of Oakhaven. They are burning the outlying farms. They seek the treasure that was taken from the valley."
Your breath caught in your throat. Your family.
Bjorn exploded out of his seat, knocking his chair back for the second time that week. His Alpha scent spiked with pure, unadulterated war-lust and protective rage. Harald Finehair had heard rumors of the rare Omega, and finding out that Bjorn had claimed you first, he was moving to strike your bloodline out of sheer spite.
"They dare," Bjorn roared, his hand instantly flying to the hilt of his sword. He turned his gaze down to you, his face a mask of iron determination, but beneath it, you could see the fierce, terrified possessiveness of a mate whose entire world was being threatened.
He reached down, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you up into a fierce, bruising kiss that tasted of mead and impending blood.
"I will ride tonight," Bjorn swore against your lips, his voice shaking with a terrifying intensity. "I will butcher every man who steps foot in your valley. No one touches what is mine."
The great hall erupted into a chaotic storm of scraping benches, shouting men, and the metallic ring of swords pulled from their scabbards. Ubbe and Hvitserk were already on their feet, yelling for the shield-maidens and warriors to ready the horses.
Bjorn didn't look at them. His hands remained firmly cupped around your face, his thumbs wiping away a stray tear that had escaped your eye at the mention of your family. His scent was completely overwhelming now—thick, suffocating, and spiked with the bitter, metallic tang of an Alpha ready to slaughter to protect his mate.
"Listen to me," Bjorn rumbled, his blue eyes boring into yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "You stay here. You stay in this hall, by my father’s side. Torvi!"
At his call, Torvi stepped forward from the shadows of the pillars. Her face was grim, her hand resting on the pommel of her sax blade. Whatever lingering sorrow she had over losing Bjorn’s bed vanished, replaced entirely by the cold, hard focus of a shield-maiden.
"Guard them with your life," Bjorn commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "If anyone—anyone—tries to lay a hand on my mate while I am gone, you take their head."
"On my honor, Bjorn," Torvi said quietly, stepping to your side and casting a protective, assessing glance around the room. Her eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on Aslaug, who was watching the chaos unfold with a cold, unreadable expression.
"Bjorn, please," you whispered, your fingers bunching into the rough wool of his tunic. "My mother... my sisters. If Harald’s men—"
"I will tear them apart with my bare hands," he interrupted fiercely, crushing his mouth against yours one last time. It was a brutal, desperate kiss, tasting of panic, sweat, and absolute possessiveness. He broke away, grabbed his heavy iron axe from the table, and stormed out into the freezing rain, his massive frame leading the tide of warriors into the dark night.
The hours that followed were a torturous waiting game. The great hall emptied of its fighting men, leaving behind only the women, the elderly, and the children. Ragnar remained on his throne, his bright blue eyes fixed on the heavy wooden doors, a slow, contemplative smile playing on his lips. He looked entirely unbothered, but his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his thigh.
You sat on the bench, your body trembling. The sudden separation from your Alpha so soon after your bonding was a physical ache. Your inner Omega was pacing, crying out for the safety of his pine-and-iron scent. Compounding the misery was the deep, pulling ache in your lower abdomen. The heat was long gone, but a new, heavy warmth was settling deep within your womb—a silent confirmation of the legacy Bjorn had left inside you before he rode away.
"You smell of sweet anxiety, child," a sharp, smooth voice purred beside you.
You jerked your head up. Aslaug had moved down from the high table, sitting just a few feet away. She was holding a cup of mead, her long, elegant fingers traced with silver rings.
"My family is in danger, Queen Aslaug," you said, trying to keep your voice from shaking. "Pardon me if I cannot smile."
Aslaug smiled anyway, a slow, viperous expression. "I wonder... if Bjorn arrives to find your valley ashes and your kin slaughtered, will he still look at you with such blind devotion? Or will he look at you and see the curse that brought Finehair’s wrath down upon his people? An Omega is a prize, yes. But a prize that brings war is often more trouble than it is worth."
Torvi stepped between you and the Queen, her blade clearing its scabbard by an inch with a sharp shhhkt. "That is enough, Aslaug. The King told Bjorn his mate would be protected. That includes your tongue."
Aslaug’s eyes flashed with venom, but before she could speak, Ragnar’s voice boomed across the quiet hall.
"Let the girl be, Aslaug!" the King barked, not even turning his head. "You grow old and bitter. It does not suit a Queen. If Finehair wants a war, my son will give him one. And if the girl brings war, then she is a true Lothbrok bride, for we eat war like bread."
Two days passed in a suffocating silence. You could barely eat, barely sleep. Every time the wind patterns shifted outside the longhouse, you tried to catch a draft, searching desperately for the scent of pine and iron.
On the third morning, a horn blew from the watchtowers.
The heavy doors of the great hall were thrown open, and the biting winter air rushed inside, carrying with it a scent that made you instantly explode to your feet.
It was him.
Bjorn marched into the hall, splattered from head to toe in dark, dried blood and grime. His hair was wild, his chest heaving, his face a terrifying mask of a berserker who had spent forty-eight hours butchering his enemies. Behind him, Ubbe and Hvitserk marched in, tired but grinning, carrying shields splintered by battle.
But Bjorn didn't look at his father. He didn't look at the cheering thralls. His blown-out, pitch-black pupils locked onto you across the smoky expanse of the hall.
You didn't care about the blood, the court, or the rules. You ran.
You threw yourself across the floorboards, and Bjorn met you halfway, dropping his blood-stained axe to the ground. His massive, iron-like arms slammed around your waist, lifting you completely off your feet and crushing you against his chest so hard your ribs groaned under the pressure. He buried his face into your neck, his rough beard scratching your skin as he let out a jagged, weeping growl of pure relief.
He scented you aggressively, his jaw rubbing against your pulse point, replacing the lingering scent of anxiety with his dominant, overwhelming musk. He was shaking, his massive muscles twitching as his inner Alpha finally settled, realizing his mate was safe.
"They are safe," Bjorn rumbled against your skin, his voice cracked and raw from screaming battle cries. "Your family... your father. We caught Finehair’s vanguard before they reached the main valley. We slaughtered them all. I personally took the head of the man who led the raid."
You sobbed into his neck, your hands gripping his blood-matted hair, breathing in the scent of him. "Thank the gods. Thank the gods."
Bjorn pulled back just enough to look down at you, his large, filthy hands cupping your cheeks. As he stared into your eyes, his nostrils suddenly flared. His scent spiked, shifting from the sharp, violent musk of war into something incredibly deep, golden, and profoundly reverent.
He slid his hands down your neck, over your chest, until his massive palms rested flat against your stomach.
The entire hall went quiet as the warriors watched their fierce leader freeze. Bjorn’s breath hitched. Through the bond, through the primal instinct of a dominant Alpha, he felt it. The faint, fluttering spark of a new life beating against his palm. The perfect, undeniable mixture of his iron and your honey.
He looked up at you, his fierce blue eyes suddenly filling with thick, heavy tears.
"You are carrying my son," he whispered, his voice trembling with an emotion so raw it shook his entire frame.
You nodded, a tear falling onto his bloody hand. "Your legacy, Bjorn. Our legacy."
Bjorn let out a roar—not of anger, but of pure, unchallenged triumph—that shook the very rafters of Kattegat. He picked you up again, spinning you around as the hall erupted into deafening cheers. Ragnar stood up from his throne, raised his horn high, and laughed, his eyes crinkling with pride. Even Aslaug could only watch in silent defeat as the warriors of the North cheered for the future King who had finally, indisputably, secured his line.
The celebration in the great hall raged on long into the night, a deafening symphony of beating drums, clashing shields, and drunken choruses. But Bjorn did not stay to drink his weight in mead. He had no desire to swap battle stories with the men or bask in his father’s proud glances. The moment the initial uproar settled, he gathered you into his arms, scooped his heavy axe from the floorboards, and carried you back to his longhouse, leaving the chaos behind.
The heavy oak door slammed shut, and the bar dropped into place with a definitive, echoing thud.
Instantly, the frantic energy of the battlefield faded from his eyes, replaced by a quiet, reverent intensity that made your heart skip a beat. Bjorn didn't immediately pull you into the bed. Instead, he stood in the center of the room and allowed you to gently strip the blood-splattered leather and iron from his massive frame. Your fingers worked methodically, unbuckling the armor, your hands brushing against his hot skin. Every touch from your fingertips drew a low, content purr from his chest.
When he was bare, he grabbed a basin of water and a rough cloth, washing the grim and dried blood of Harald Finehair’s men from his skin. You helped him, wiping away the dark streaks from his broad back and the intricate tattoos adorning his shoulders. He sat perfectly still beneath your touch, a massive hound completely tamed by his mate's hands.
"I thought of nothing but you while I hacked them down," he admitted softly, his voice cracking slightly as he turned his head to look at you. His blue eyes were soft, completely open. "Every swing of my axe was to ensure that no one—no one—would ever come to take you or what we have made."
You stepped into his space, pressing your body against his bare chest, your hands wrapping around his neck. "You came back to me. That is all that matters."
Bjorn let out a heavy sigh, his large arms coming around your waist to pull you flush against him. His nostrils flared as he drank in your scent—clover, blackberries, and that new, intoxicating milk-sweet undertone that signaled your early pregnancy. It was a scent that made his inner Alpha swell with an overwhelming wave of protectiveness.
He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the fur-lined bed. The tenderness he showed you now was a stark contrast to the primal fury he had displayed days prior. He laid you down on your back, crawling over you like a great, protective shadow.
"Let me look at you," he murmured, his hands gently tracing the lines of your face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Let me feel him."
He slid down the bed, dropping to his knees between your thighs. He parted your kirtle, exposing your bare abdomen to the warm glow of the hearth. Bjorn leaned down, placing his cheek flat against your stomach, his eyes closing as he listened. His massive hands rested on your hips, holding you steady, his thumb lightly stroking your skin.
You combed your fingers through his thick, blonde hair, watching him with a full heart. The great Ironside, feared across the seas, was kneeling before your womb like a man praying at an altar.
"He is small, but he is fierce," Bjorn whispered against your skin, a soft smile catching in his beard. "I can feel the thunder in his blood. A true grandson of Ragnar Lothbrok."
He shifted, kissing your stomach gently, his breath hot against your flesh, before sliding back up your body. His gaze locked onto yours, burning with a desire that was no longer driven by the madness of a rut, but by a deep, enduring love.
"I want you," he growled softly, his voice thick with emotion. "Slowly this time. I want to feel every part of you."
Bjorn captured your lips in a deep, languid kiss that stole the air from your lungs. His hands slid down to grip your thighs, parting them wide to welcome him. When he drove into you, it was a smooth, heavy stroke that filled you completely, drawing a long, breathless sigh from your lips.
He moved with a steady, rocking rhythm, his muscles flexing beneath his skin as he loved you in the quiet of the night. He didn't pound into you with the violent urgency of his rut; instead, he took his time, savoring the tight, wet heat of your body, anchoring himself to you with every deep thrust. He kept his upper body propped on his forearms, his blue eyes never leaving yours, watching your face flush, your lips part, and your eyes flutter shut as the pleasure washed over you.
"Look at me," he commanded gently, his voice a low rumble.
You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze as a wave of intense heat coiled tightly in your core. You arched your back, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, your breath hitching.
"Bjorn... oh, Bjorn," you whined, the sweetness of your scent spiking in the room as you hovered on the edge of release.
He let out a guttural growl, his pace quickening just a fraction, his hips grinding against yours to friction the perfect spot. "That's it. Give it to me. Let me feel you break around me."
With a ragged cry, your walls clamped tightly around him as a shattering orgasm ripped through you. The sheer sensation of your release was enough to break Bjorn’s iron control. His jaw locked, his eyes blowing out into darkness as he delivered three more deep, powerful thrusts, burying himself to the absolute hilt. With a choked roar, he poured his warmth deep inside you once more, his body trembling violently as he held himself deep within your cradle.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you tightly into his side, his arm heavy and protective across your waist. As the fire in the hearth dwindled to glowing embers, Bjorn kept his hand resting firmly over your stomach, cradling his growing legacy in the quiet dark of Kattegat.
The deep serenity of the longhouse didn't survive the changing of the season. Within a month, winter descended upon Kattegat with a brutal, unforgiving ferocity. The fjord froze into a sheet of jagged grey ice, and the mountain winds howled through the gaps in the timber walls like a pack of starving wolves.
Inside the great hall, the atmosphere grew just as cold.
Your belly had begun to swell, a small but undeniable rounding beneath your woolen tunics that Bjorn took obsessive pride in. He rarely left your side, his pine-and-iron scent constantly swirling around you like an invisible armor. But his fierce protectiveness only heightened the resentment brewing in the corners of the court.
Aslaug’s whispers had begun to bear toxic fruit.
It started with small, biting slights. The older women of the village, loyal to the Queen and skeptical of an outsider who had captured the heart of the kingdom’s greatest warrior so easily, began to treat you with open hostility. When you walked past the hearths, conversations would abruptly die, replaced by cold, calculating stares. They whispered that your rare Omega nature was a witchcraft from the eastern valleys—a spell used to make Bjorn weak, soft, and blind to the true duties of a Viking prince.
One afternoon, while Bjorn was down at the frozen docks helping Ubbe secure the longships against the ice, you ventured into the great hall to fetch a kettle of hot water.
As you reached for the iron handle near the central fire, a heavy hand gripped your wrist, stopping you cold.
You turned to see Margrethe, a former thrall who had recently caught the eye of Hvitserk. Her eyes were sharp, filled with a bitter, defensive malice. Behind her stood two older shield-maidens, their arms crossed over their leather chestpieces.
"Leave it, valley girl," Margrethe sneered, her grip tightening on your wrist just enough to hurt. "You have thralls to do your bidding now, don't you? Or does the great Ironside still expect you to work like the common sheep-herder you are?"
"Let go of me, Margrethe," you said, keeping your voice steady despite the spike of anxiety that made your inner Omega recoil. You tried to pull your hand back, but she held fast.
"Why should I?" Margrethe taunted, stepping closer, her bitter beta scent flaring. "Look at you. You walk around here as if you carry the sun in your womb. But you are fragile. One hard winter, one sickness, and you will snap like a dry twig. If Harald Finehair comes back with a real army, what will you do? Hide in the cellars while better women die on the walls to protect you?"
"She won't have to hide," a cold, sharp voice echoed from the entrance of the hall.
Torvi stepped out of the shadows, her hand already resting on the hilt of her blade. Her eyes were fixed on Margrethe’s hand around your wrist. "And if you don't take your fingers off the prince’s mate in the next three seconds, Margrethe, I will hack them off and feed them to the ravens."
Margrethe let go instantly, stepping back with a scowl, but she didn't look completely intimidated. "You protect her now, Torvi? She stole your place. She took the bed that belonged to you."
Torvi didn't flinch. She stepped in front of you, shielding your pregnant form with her own body. "I protect the lineage of Kattegat. And unlike you, I know my place. Get out of my sight before I forget the King's peace."
With a low hiss, Margrethe and the shield-maidens turned and walked away, disappearing into the smoky haze of the hall.
Torvi turned to you, her expression softening just a fraction as she noted your pale face and the way your hands were protectively cradling your stomach. "Are you harmed?"
"No," you breathed, exhaling a ragged sigh. "Thank you, Torvi."
"Do not thank me," Torvi said quietly, her voice laced with a grim seriousness. "The winter makes people hungry, and hungry people look for someone to blame. Aslaug is poisoning the minds of the lower pack. She wants them to see you as a liability. You must tell Bjorn."
"Tell Bjorn what?"
The heavy doors of the hall blasted open, and Bjorn stepped inside, shaking the snow from his massive shoulders. He took one breath of the air, and his entire demeanor changed. His nostrils flared, his blue eyes blowing out into pitch black as his sharp senses immediately picked up the residual scent of your fear and anxiety, clashing with Torvi's defensive musk.
He crossed the hall in four massive strides, his heavy boots slamming against the floorboards. He grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you against his chest as his eyes scanned the room like a hawk looking for prey.
"What happened?" he growled, a terrifying, low vibration that made the nearby thralls drop to their knees. "Who was here? I smell fear on you."
"Bjorn, it was nothing—" you tried to soothe him, placing your hands on his chest, but Torvi cut you off.
"Margrethe," Torvi said flatly. "She laid hands on your mate, Bjorn. She and some of Aslaug’s women are trying to test her boundaries."
A sound came out of Bjorn that didn't sound human. It was a guttural, terrifying roar of absolute Alpha rage that echoed off the high rafters. His pine-and-iron scent spiked so violently it became suffocating, a wave of pure dominant aggression that made half the people in the great hall freeze in terror.
"Margrethe!" Bjorn roared, his hand flying to his axe as he began to march toward the back chambers where the brothers slept.
"Bjorn, stop!" You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around his massive waist, anchoring yourself to him with all your strength. The sudden strain caused a sharp, sudden twinge in your lower abdomen, and you let out a small, involuntary gasp of pain.
The sound acted like a bucket of ice water over his fury.
Bjorn froze instantly. He turned in your grip, his rage evaporating into pure, blind panic as he looked down at your face. He dropped to his knees before you, his massive hands trembling as he hovered them over your stomach, terrified to touch you too hard.
"What is it? What hurts?" he choked out, his voice suddenly sounding like a terrified boy rather than a legendary berserker. "Did she hurt you? Did she touch the baby?"
"No, no," you whispered, catching your breath as the twinge subsided. You cupped his face, forcing his wild, panicked eyes to lock onto yours. "The baby is fine. But your rage... it agitates him, Bjorn. I need you calm. I need my Alpha here, with me, not hunting thralls in the dark."
Bjorn let out a ragged, trembling breath, leaning his forehead against your stomach. He wrapped his arms around your hips, holding you against him as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
"They want to weaken us," Bjorn whispered into the fabric of your dress, his voice thick with a dangerous, quiet resolve. "They think because you are an Omega, you are a weakness I cannot afford. They don't understand. If they touch you... if they take this from me, I will burn Kattegat to the ground myself."
From the high table at the back of the hall, Aslaug watched the display, sipping her mead in chilly, triumphant silence. She had seen the crack in the armor. Bjorn Ironside could not be beaten by an axe or a shield, but his heart was now entirely outside his body, wrapped in the flesh of a fragile valley girl. And in the long, dark winter of the North, a heart left out in the cold was very, very easy to freeze.
The winter tightened its frozen grip on Kattegat, burying the longhouses beneath snowdrifts so high they nearly blocked the small window slats. The cold was a physical presence, a silent enemy that crept under doors and dulled the spirits of the townspeople. But inside Bjorn’s quarters, the tension was a living thing, far hotter and sharper than any arctic wind.
Bjorn had entirely stopped leaving you alone. When his duties called him to the shipyards or the council tables, he commanded a wall of loyal warriors to flank your every move, but mostly, he dragged you with him. The sight of the massive Ironside pacing the village with his heavily pregnant Omega wrapped in thick bear furs at his side became a daily fixture. He was a wolf guarding a den he knew was surrounded by traps.
The toxic atmosphere reached its boiling point during the midwinter sacrifice.
The great hall was crowded with shivering families, the central hearths roaring with massive logs to combat the bitter chill. An ox had been slaughtered, its blood collected in bronze bowls to paint the altars for a fruitful spring. Ragnar sat at the center, looking uncharacteristically tired, his eyes hollow as he watched his family splinter before him.
You sat beside Bjorn, your hand resting over your large, rounded belly. The baby was active now, kicking against your palms with a restless strength that always managed to bring a fleeting smile to Bjorn’s hardened face. But tonight, there were no smiles.
Aslaug stood near the sacrificial altar, her hands stained with the dark blood of the ox. She turned to the gathered crowd, her voice carrying a haunting, ethereal ring that commanded absolute silence.
"The gods are angry," Aslaug announced, her eyes sweeping over the warriors before locking directly onto you. "The ice does not melt. The stores are running low. The seers of the old days warned us of times when the natural balance is disrupted. We have brought an outsider into our sacred pack—a creature who does not share our scars, who does not bleed on the battlefield. An Omega whose sweetness has turned our fiercest warrior into a coddled hound."
A dark murmur rippled through the crowded hall. Heads turned toward you, eyes narrow and suspicious. The cold and hunger had made the common folk desperate, and desperate people eagerly swallowed a scapegoat.
Bjorn’s hand slammed onto the high table, the wood cracking under the sheer force of his fist. He stood up, his towering frame casting a massive, terrifying shadow across the hearth-light. His scent exploded into the room—no longer just protective, but a suffocating, lethal wave of unadulterated Alpha dominance that made the lesser Alphas in the room instinctively lower their gazes.
"Silence!" Bjorn roared, his voice a clap of thunder that shook the rafters. "You dare speak of the gods, stepmother? The gods sent us to her valley! The Seer himself named her the only womb fit for my blood! If any man or woman in this hall thinks my mate is a curse, step forward and tell it to my axe!"
He drew his massive iron axe, slamming the heavy head onto the tabletop with a deafening ring. No one moved. The warriors knew better than to challenge Ironside in a blind rage.
"Bjorn," Ragnar’s voice cut through the heavy silence, low and dangerous. "Sit down."
"No, Father!" Bjorn snarled, his eyes burning as he glared at Aslaug. "I will not sit while she uses her twisted tongue to paint a target on my wife and my unborn child. I have bled for Kattegat. I have conquered lands you have only seen in dreams. And I swear by Odin's eye, if any of you look at her with malice again, I will forget we share the same blood."
Aslaug did not flinch, but her gaze shifted from Bjorn down to you, a cold, triumphant smirk playing at the edge of her lips. She had drawn out his anger, proving to the village exactly how volatile he became when it came to his mate.
The feast ended in a heavy, suffocating silence, but the true threat did not reveal itself until late that night.
The fire in your longhouse had died down to glowing embers. Bjorn lay beside you, his massive arm slung securely over your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck. Even in his sleep, his inner Alpha was hyper-vigilant, his breathing deep and steady.
Suddenly, a strange scent cut through the familiar, comforting blend of pine, iron, and your own sweet musk.
It was faint—the chemical, bitter smell of burning wolfsbane and toxic nightshade, drifting in through the small ventilation slat above the bed.
Your eyes snapped open. A thick, acrid smoke was beginning to pour into the room, heavy and sweet with a poison meant to induce a silent, deadly sleep, or worse, to cause an Omega's womb to reject its life. Your lungs seized, and you let out a choked, desperate cough, your hand flying to your stomach as a sudden, sickening cramp gripped your core.
"Bjorn..." you gasped, your voice a choked whisper as the toxic smoke filled your throat. "Bjorn, wake up..."
The moment your distress pheromones spiked, Bjorn was awake. He didn't just open his eyes; he exploded out of the bed with a primal, terrified roar. He took one breath of the tainted air, recognized the poison, and his face twisted into an expression of pure, unbridled horror.
"No!" he choked out, his voice cracking. He scooped you up into his massive arms, shielding your face against his bare chest. With a single, desperate stride, he threw his entire weight against the barred oak door, shattering the heavy wood post with a tremendous crash.
He carried you out into the freezing, snow-covered courtyard, collapsing into the drifts to get you away from the toxic air. The cold wind rushed into your lungs, clearing the poison, and you let out a ragged sob, clinging to his bare, tattooed shoulders.
"I have you. I have you," Bjorn chanted frantically, his hands shaking violently as he cupped your face, his own chest heaving. He was completely bare in the snow, but he didn't care. His eyes were wild, his nostrils flaring as he checked your pulse, his scent completely bleeding with a frantic, agonizing terror.
From the shadows of the longhouse across the square, a figure in a dark cloak moved to run.
Bjorn’s head snapped toward the movement. His pupils dilated until his eyes were completely black, the ultimate expression of an Alpha whose mate and pup had just been targeted for execution. A sound tore from his chest—a deep, demonic bellow of pure vengeance.
He didn't grab his axe. He didn't need it.
With a burst of terrifying speed, Bjorn launched himself across the snowy courtyard, tackling the cloaked figure into the ice. The hood fell back, revealing the terrified, pale face of one of Aslaug’s personal thralls, holding an empty clay pot that had contained the burning herbs.
Bjorn didn't hesitate. He wrapped his massive, calloused hands around the thrall’s throat, lifting him completely off the ground.
"Who sent you?" Bjorn growled, his voice a guttural rasp that sounded like grinding stones. His grip tightened, the thrall’s face turning a dangerous shade of purple. "Tell me, or I will peel the skin from your bones while you still draw breath!"
"The... the Queen..." the thrall choked out, his eyes rolling back in his head. "The Queen said... the Omega must... must lose the child..."
Bjorn didn't drop him. With a terrifying flex of his massive biceps, he slammed the thrall headfirst into the stone well in the center of the courtyard, snapping his neck instantly. The body crumpled into the snow, turning the white drifts a deep, shocking crimson.
Bjorn stood over the corpse, his bare chest slick with sweat and melting snow, his breathing ragged. He turned his gaze slowly toward the King’s longhouse, where Aslaug stood in the doorway, her pale face finally showing a flicker of genuine terror as she realized what she had unleashed.
The war for Kattegat’s future was no longer a matter of whispers. Bjorn Ironside had officially drawn his line in the snow, and it was written in blood.
Bjorn did not roar this time. The absolute pinnacle of his Alpha rage was not a loud, boisterous thing; it was a deadly, frozen vacuum. His bare, massive chest rose and fell in shallow, jagged hitches as the winter wind whipped across his tattooed skin, but he didn't feel the cold. The dark, sticky blood of Aslaug’s thrall dripped from his knuckles onto the pristine white snow.
He didn't look at Aslaug, who stood frozen in the doorway of the King’s longhouse. Instead, his head snapped back toward you.
In a fraction of a second, he was back across the courtyard, dropping to his knees in the snowbank where you lay shivering. He gathered you into his arms, pulling your trembling, fur-wrapped body roughly against his bare chest. His scent was completely mutilated—a frantic, suffocating wall of defensive musk and raw panic. His hands, usually so steady with a blade, shook violently as he pressed his large palm flat against your rounded belly.
"The boy," he rasped, his voice cracked and hollow. "Is he... did the poison touch him?"
You gasped, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his arms as another mild cramp rippled through your abdomen. But as you drew in the clean, freezing winter air, the sweet, heavy scent of your own clover-and-blackberry pheromones began to stabilize. The baby gave a sudden, fierce kick right against his palm, as if defying the dark magic that had crept into his nursery.
"He's fighting, Bjorn," you whispered, your teeth chattering against his shoulder. "He's alive. But the room... the room is poisoned."
"Torvi!" Bjorn bellowed, the command ripping from his throat like a thunderclap.
The shield-maiden was already sprinting across the square, her sword drawn, having heard the splintering of the door. She skidded to a halt beside the body of the thrall, her eyes widening as she took in the scene, before looking up at Bjorn.
"Take her to the Seer’s hut," Bjorn ordered, his blue eyes flashing with a terrifying, unhinged light. "The smoke won't have reached the ridge. Stay with her. If anyone approaches, kill them."
"What are you going to do?" Torvi asked, her voice tight as she helped lift you from the snow.
Bjorn stood up slowly, his towering frame casting a long, monstrous shadow in the moonlight. He reached down and retrieved his iron axe from where it lay near the shattered door of his quarters.
"I am going to end this," he whispered.
He turned his back on you, his long strides eating up the snow as he marched directly toward the King's longhouse. Aslaug tried to slam the heavy timber doors shut, but Bjorn was too fast. He kicked the door with a force that sheared the iron hinges right out of the wood, the heavy barrier crashing inward onto the stone floor.
Ragnar was already awake, standing by the central hearth with a heavy woolen cloak thrown over his shoulders. His bright blue eyes were wide, tracking his eldest son as Bjorn stormed into the hall, naked to the waist, covered in snow and blood, looking every bit the berserker the sagas promised.
"Bjorn," Ragnar warned, stepping between his son and Aslaug, who had retreated behind the throne, her pale face slick with sweat. "Control your beast."
"She tried to murder my son, Father!" Bjorn roared, the sound vibrating the shields hanging along the walls. He pointed the bloody head of his axe directly at the Queen. "She burned nightshade and wolfsbane into our vents! She wanted my mate dead! She wanted my legacy rotting in a cold womb!"
Ragnar froze. He slowly turned his head to look at Aslaug. The Queen’s silence was confession enough; her eyes were wild, darting toward the back exits. Ragnar's expression darkened, a profound, weary disappointment washing over his weathered features. He had tolerated his wife's schemings for years, but targeting a true Omega—targeting the unborn blood of his eldest son—was a transgression against the gods themselves.
"Is this true, Aslaug?" Ragnar murmured, his voice deathly quiet.
"She is a curse upon our people, Ragnar!" Aslaug shrieked, her regal composure finally shattering under the weight of Bjorn's lethal intent. "Look at him! Look at your proud warrior! He breaks doors, he slaughters thralls in the night, he threatens his own family—all for a fragile valley girl! She has softened his mind! If he rules Kattegat with her at his side, we will fall to our enemies!"
"You know nothing of my strength," Bjorn growled, stepping past his father. Ragnar didn't move to stop him this time. He simply stepped aside, lowering his head.
Bjorn closed the distance between himself and the Queen, the heavy iron of his axe scraping against the stone floor. He loomed over her, his pitch-black pupils swallowing his irises. The sheer, suffocating weight of his Alpha aura forced Aslaug to her knees, her lungs gasping for air as his dominant scent crushed her against the floorboards.
"I will not spill your blood in my father's hall," Bjorn whispered, his face inches from hers, his breath misting in the cold air. "But your rule in Kattegat is finished. If I see your face in this village when the sun rises, I will hack the limbs from your body and leave you for the wolves on the mountain. Tell your sons what you did. Tell them why their mother is a nameless exile."
He turned on his heel, not waiting for her response, and stormed out of the hall, leaving the King and Queen in the ruins of their shattered dynasty.
Up on the ridge, the Seer’s hut was warm, smelling of old pine needles and heavy tallow. The ancient, blind man sat by his small fire, his jaw working silently as Torvi kept watch by the door, her hand never leaving her blade.
You lay on a bed of heavy moss and sheepskins, your breathing finally slowing as the lingering traces of the poison left your blood. The baby had settled, his steady, rhythmic kicks a comforting pressure against your hand.
The leather curtain of the hut was pulled back, and Bjorn stepped inside.
He had thrown a simple tunic over his shoulders, but he was still covered in the soot and grime of the night. The moment his eyes found you, the terrifying, monstrous aura of the berserker vanished completely. He dropped his axe and fell to his knees beside the bed, burying his face directly into your neck.
He drank in your scent like a starving man, his chest heaving with ragged, silent sobs of pure relief. He held you so tightly it hurt, his massive arms wrapping around your waist and pulling your hips flush against his.
"It's over," he choked out, his rough beard damp against your skin. "She is gone. No one will ever threaten you again. I swear it on the rings of my ancestors."
You pulled his head up, your fingers wiping away the tears and soot from his cheeks. Your sweet, clover-and-rain scent flared, completely enveloping him, soothing the raw, wounded beast inside him until his frantic breathing finally turned into a deep, contented purr.
The Seer cackled from the dark corner of the hut, his wet, rattling laugh echoing off the low ceiling.
"The iron has met the honey," the old man chanted, rocking back and forth by the embers. "The frost tries to bite the seed, but the root is too deep. A King will be born in the spring, Ironside. A King with the blood of the valley and the strength of the sea. Your legacy is written in stone."
Bjorn looked down at you, his blue eyes finally clear, burning with a profound, unshakeable devotion. He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of survival and absolute victory, his large hand resting firmly over the safe, warm cradle of his future.
The bitter arctic winter finally broke its hold on Kattegat, the jagged grey ice of the fjord cracking and melting away into the deep blue of the sea. As the snow receded from the mountains, the emerald valleys returned, and with the first blooming of the wild clover, your time came.
The labor was long and grueling, a fierce battle that mirrored the storm that had brought you to the northern kingdom. Bjorn never left your side. He sat behind you on the bed of thick furs, his massive chest a solid wall for you to lean against, his large, calloused hands gripping yours so tightly your knuckles turned white. His pine-and-iron scent filled the room, a heavy, suffocating blanket of protection that drowned out your pain and kept the lingering ghosts of the past months at bay.
When the final, agonizing push tore a ragged cry from your throat, it was answered instantly by a sharp, loud wail that echoed through the timber rafters of the longhouse.
The mid-wife quickly wrapped the newborn in a soft sheepskin and placed him directly onto your bare chest. He was a massive baby, perfectly formed, with a tuft of blonde hair and eyes that blinked open to reveal the bright, piercing blue of the Lothbrok line. But it was his scent that made Bjorn freeze—a crisp, undeniable undertone of forged iron and sweet summer rain. A dominant Alpha pup.
Bjorn let out a low, trembling breath, a single, heavy tear cutting a path through the dirt and sweat on his cheek. He leaned down, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his rough beard brushing your skin as he wept with a quiet, overwhelming reverence. His massive hand slid over yours, his fingers gently cupping the tiny, moving fist of his son.
"Look at him," Bjorn whispered, his voice cracked and thick with an emotion that shook his entire frame. "Look what we have made. The gods have truly blessed us."
Later that evening, the heavy doors of the longhouse were thrown open to the spring air. Ragnar stood in the courtyard, surrounded by the gathered warriors and people of Kattegat. The exile of Aslaug and the victory over Harald’s men had solidified Bjorn’s standing; he was no longer just the eldest son, but the undisputed heart of the kingdom.
Bjorn stepped out onto the wooden platform, towering and proud. He held the wrapped bundle high above his head, presenting his heir to the gods and the pack.
"People of Kattegat!" Bjorn’s voice boomed across the fjord, a thunderous roar of absolute triumph. "Behold the future of our people! Behold my son, Sigurd Ironside! The bloodline is secure!"
The courtyard erupted into a deafening storm of clashing shields, roaring cheers, and horns that blew long into the starry night. Torvi stood near the gates, raising her cup with a proud, respectful nod, while Ragnar laughed, his bright blue eyes dancing with malicious delight as he looked upon his grandson.
Bjorn turned back inside, pulling the heavy leather curtain shut to seal out the noise of the world. He crawled back onto the bed beside you, pulling you and the sleeping babe tightly into his side. His arms wrapped around you like iron bands, his scent settling into a deep, golden purr of absolute contentment.
The wolf had found his true mate, the valley had met the sea, and the legacy of Bjorn Ironside was forever carved into the history of the North.
Three Winters Later
The spring thaws had come and gone three times, each season painting the cliffs of Kattegat in vibrant emeralds before burying them once more under ice. But inside the bustling longhouse of Bjorn Ironside, the chill of winter never truly took root.
The air was perpetually warm, thick with the comforting, heavy aroma of roasted meats, cedar woodsmoke, and the golden, intoxicating scent of a thriving pack. At the center of it all was the unmistakable fragrance of clover, blackberries, and rain—stronger now, riper, the scent of a completely fulfilled Omega queen.
"Sigurd! Come back here, you little terror!"
Your voice rang through the rafters, laced with more amusement than actual anger. Across the dirt floor, a blur of golden hair and wool socks scrambled under a heavy oak table. At just three winters old, Sigurd was already showing the terrifying size and relentless stubbornness of his father. He was an Alpha pup through and through, his tiny chest puffed out as he let out a high-pitched, playful growl, gripping a carved wooden dragon between his teeth.
Before you could reach down to fish him out, a pair of massive, tattooed arms reached under the table, scooping the laughing boy into the air with effortless ease.
Bjorn hoisted his son onto his broad shoulder, a booming, rumbling laugh shaking his chest. The years had only made Ironside more formidable; his frame was wider, his jaw bearded and thick, but the harsh, volatile edge that had once defined his scent was entirely gone. In its place was a deep, unshakeable bedrock of pine and iron, laced heavily with your own sweet musk.
"He has the stealth of a wild boar," Bjorn murmured, stepping up behind you. He wrapped his free arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He didn't care that thralls and shield-maidens were bustling about the hall; he buried his face into the side of your neck, inhaling deeply and marking you with a low, possessive purr. "And the scent of mischief."
"He takes after his father, then," you teased, turning your head to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "He refused his broth and tried to chase the hounds into the muddy courtyard."
"A true warrior," Bjorn declared proudly, setting the boy down. Sigurd immediately bolted toward the hearth, where Torvi sat sharpening a sax blade. She caught the boy with a grin, shaking her head affectionately at the little prince. The peace between your households was absolute now; Torvi had found her own place of honor as a trusted commander of Kattegat’s defenses, and she guarded your children with the same fierce loyalty she gave the crown.
Bjorn’s large hands slid down to cup your hips, his thumbs tracing the familiar, soft curves of your body. His touch grew heavier, his blue eyes darkening with a familiar, smoldering heat as his nostrils flared, catching the subtle shift in your pheromones.
"You smell different today," he murmured, his voice dropping into a gravelly rasp meant only for your ears. His hands traveled up, resting flat against the gentle, subtle swell of your stomach. "Sweeter. Like the valleys after a heavy downpour."
You smiled, resting your hands over his large, scarred knuckles. "The mid-wife confirmed it this morning before the ships returned. Sigurd will not be an only child for long, my love."
Bjorn froze, his breath hitching in his throat. For a man who had faced down armies without blinking, the revelation of a new life always left him completely undone. He dropped to his knees right there in the middle of the hall, mimicking the posture he had taken three years ago when your destiny was first sealed. He pressed his forehead against your abdomen, letting out a ragged, emotional sigh that warmed through the layers of your kirtle.
"Another one," he whispered fiercely, his inner Alpha roaring with a profound, consuming triumph. "Another piece of us."
From the high seat at the back of the hall, Ragnar Lothbrok watched the scene unfold. He looked older now, his hair completely silver and his face deeply lined, but his bright blue eyes were sharper than ever. He raised his silver horn toward the rafters, catching his son’s eye.
"To the Ironside!" Ragnar’s voice boomed, cutting through the chatter of the hall. "Whose roots are so deep the winter could never choke them! And to the honey that sweetened the iron!"
The warriors in the hall raised their cups, a thunderous roar of approval shaking the timber walls.
Bjorn stood back up, pulling you into his arms and lifting you off your feet to crush his mouth against yours. The kiss tasted of mead, winter warmth, and an eternity of shared vows. As the people of Kattegat cheered for the burgeoning dynasty, you rested your head against his shoulder, entirely safe within the unbreakable territory of the man who had conquered the world just to build a home around you.
୨୧ ragnar x fem!reader ୨୧
After helping his son, Ragnar finds what he'd been searching for and you found something you hadn't been looking for.
a/n: (1.3k words) Hopefully I got their personality's right, I'm still on season one of Vikings lol
You strolled through the lush forest as you searched for more potion supplies.
The afternoon sun shone over the branches of the tall trees. You knelt down on the cool grass and picked a few plump mushrooms, placing them in an empty pouch on your belt before wiping the dirt from your skirt and kept walking.
You were about to reach for a specific pinecone that had fallen onto the ground when you paused hearing a man's voice in the distance. You were planning to just ignore it when an arguing younger boy's voice echoed in the quiet forest and the sound of scuffling began.
Quickly darting over, you saw a scruffy looking man push a blonde boy against a tree and threaten him with his sharp axe pointed at his neck. Your eye twitched in anger as you surged forward.
Magic flickering from your foreign words and fury in your eyes. The man's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he fell backwards with a startled gasp. He hit the dirt and you were able to relax now that the threat was dead.
The blonde boy was crouched down, leaning against the tree with wide scared eyes glued on you. You turned towards him and crouched down to his height, keeping your hands on your knees.
"I won't hurt you" You said softly with a small smile. The boy glanced between you and the dead man skeptically. "I promise" You assured and the boy's blonde brows furrowed as if trying to figure out whether you were lying or not.
You introduced yourself before asking him. "What’s your name, boy?"
The boy seemed frustrated at the mention of his young age but answered nonetheless. "Björn" You nodded with a warm smile and repeated the name.
"Are you hurt, Björn?" You glanced over the boy when you'd crouched in front of him but you wanted to be sure you hadn't missed anything. Thankfully Björn shook his head no.
You sighed happily and stood up brushing off the dirt from your skirt once again. You outstretched your hand towards Björn but he hesitated, looking at your hand warily.
"Are you a witch?" He asked pointedly and you tilted your head as if pondering the question.
"I would rather call myself knowledgeable" You hummed and he thought your answer over. He let you help him up and brush off the bark stuck to the back of his shirt.
"Come. My home isn't far" Björn said and began walking, glancing back to see if you followed him.
You breathily laughed at the young boy and decided to follow him, wanting to make sure he returned home alright.
As you walked together you answered all of the curious boy's questions, from why you were in the forest alone, to the strange words you'd muttered.
Eventually you both broke through the forest's edge towards a farm and a cozy cabin. Björn rushed forward, grabbing your arm dragging you along towards the wooden door.
He burst open the door and your eyes quickly scanned the room. Standing in the middle of the room were two adults. A strong looking blonde woman whose hair was half pulled into braids. And a muscular man with piercing blue eyes and dark blonde braided hair.
They both turned at the intrusion and Björn rushed forward pointing at you. "I found a witch!" He beamed brightly and the blonde woman, who you assumed was his mother, spluttered glancing between you and her son protectively.
"You are a witch?" The man stepped forward towards you and you met his gaze, ready to defend yourself but you paused when you saw the curious glint in his eyes. Definitely the boy's father then.
"Depends" You shrugged and the tall man smiled, intrigued.
"Oh?" He questioned. "Most men who call me that, deem me dangerous and cruel but I am not. I merely know more than most on forgotten matters." You explained and it seemed to fascinate the man even further.
"But you are a witch! I saw you! You killed that man without even touching him!" Björn prattled and both adults quickly looked cautiously at you. You sighed exasperatedly and huffed like a small child.
"He was going to kill you" You placed your hands on your hips, looking down at the boy who had the decency to look sheepish.
"Didn't say it wasn't a good thing" Björn mumbled with pink cheeks.
His mother looked you up and down. "Is this true?"
"Yes. And I can see that he has returned safely home. I shall let myself out" You nodded uncomfortably about to leave but Björn's mother halted you.
"You helped my son, you brought him home. We shall feed you and shelter you for the night. As thanks" She offered and you mumbled a thanks as she began gathering the tools she needed to start dinner.
"What is your name?" Björn's father asked and you gave him your name and he smiled, repeating it back to you with a grin.
"Ragnar" He introduced himself and his wife, Lagertha to you.
Ragnar told Björn to go out and help his mother but your eyes were glued on the handsome man. His eyes were a captivating shade of blue, like lightning in stormy weather or the bursting of waves in the ocean. You wondered what they’d seen, what they planned to.
He was clearly a seasoned fighter, no doubt one of the many men going on raids each summer. You imagined him fighting, with a sword or axe in hand. You couldn’t help but let your mind wander, of him covered in his enemies blood after a mighty fight. As a good fighter, he must have good stamina…
Not to mention passion. Yes, you could tell the man in front of you was passionate. But of what, you didn’t know. He had dreams and plans, goals and ideas. You wanted to know them all. You wanted to drink in every piece of him like a dehydrated sailor.
You were so mesmerized by Ragnar, you briefly wondered if he was a warlock who'd placed a spell on you. You were startled when a young girl's voice pulled you from your thoughts. You turned towards the door you'd previously walked through and a young girl with a strange looking man stood in the doorway.
"Are you the witch?" She asked again and you mutely nodded, still embarrassed by your prior thoughts.
"Can I see your magic?" She asked with excitement swimming in her eyes. Lagertha went to scold her, trying to be careful of the kind stranger but you only smiled with a nod at the young girl.
Everyone in the room watched you intently. You squeezed your hands together tightly and whispered another spell. Slithers of light poured from between your hands as the spell finalized and you opened your hands, holding a rose with each petal a different colour and shade.
The young girl gasped as you handed it to her and she held it as if it were the most delicate and fragile thing in existence.
"How did you-" The strange haired man began but the girl pulled him outside, off to show her brother the gift she'd been given.
"That was incredible" Lagertha said, perplexed and you thanked her with a humble tone.
"Yes it was" Ragnar agreed and you glanced over at him meeting his adoring and wonder filled eyes.
And in that moment you wondered if those men who'd called you evil and cruel were right. Because despite standing in his family's home, after talking to his wife and helping his children.
You knew you'd cast a thousand more spells just to see him look at you as he was now, for a little longer. And by the way his lips quirked to a smile, he felt it too. You smiled shyly at him, as if knowing his thoughts as his eyes looked you over, more intimately than before.
He smiled wider and sat down, patting the seat closest to him. Your heart skipped a beat but you mindlessly obeyed and sat down beside him.
As Ragnar leaned over, closer to you to talk and ask you more questions, you couldn’t help but thank Björn and that foolish man for ruining your planned day of picking mushrooms and pinecones.
