Summary: Taken as spoil of war, you are forced into betrothal with Oyvind , a Viking who calls you his with terrifying certainty. A story of captivity, possessive devotion, and a love that grows in the shadows.
A/N: Quick update on our favorite Viking
His arms are wrapped tightly around you, heavy and warm, caging you against his chest.
But this time, it doesn’t feel like a prison.
His heartbeat thuds steady beneath your ear. His breathing is slow, deep, the breath of something powerful at rest.
Carefully, you trace the scars along his arms.
Old ones pale and smooth.
Newer ones raised, rough.
Each one proof that he survives.
In sleep, Oyvind looks different.
The hard line of his mouth relaxed. His brows no longer furrowed in warning. Morning light turns the gold in his eyes warm, almost gentle.
You lift your hand and trace his face.
His arm tightens instinctively around you.
Even asleep, he does not let you go.
You freeze but he does not wake.
The warmth pulls you under again.
When you wake the second time, he is already watching you.
“Yes, little snowdrop?” he murmurs when you croak his name.
You don’t know when that became yours.
“Is it time to get up?” you whisper.
His hand slides slowly up and down your back.
“Just a little longer,” he murmurs.
He chuckles low in his chest.
“You’re so warm and soft.”
“You cannot get enough of my warmth, hm?”
You shake your head against him.
His grip tightens slightly.
“Good. You are mine to keep warm.”
“Thank you,” you mumble, half asleep.
His voice turns almost reverent.
“You do not thank me. Just rest.”
When you wake again, the bed is empty.
He returns with two plates, broad shoulders filling the doorway, sunlight behind him.
He grunts but his eyes warm.
You eat beside him, asking about the unfamiliar sweetness on your plate.
“It is karelsk most,” he says, almost proud. “Thought you needed something sweet this morning.”
“What should I do today?” you ask. “While you do your warrior things?”
He does not like leaving you alone.
“There is a market,” he says slowly. “Near the center of the village. A fabric stall you may enjoy.”
“If anyone gives you trouble, you find me immediately.”
You smile at him in the mirror while dressing.
“If I am to stay here… I need to know the village.”
“I do not like you out there without me.”
“I will meet you for lunch.”
Spices. Bread. Cured meats.
Voices layered over one another.
You feel eyes on you, your lighter hair makes you stand out.
But today, it does not suffocate you.
At the center of the village, children play.
They pause when they see you.
“Hello,” you offer gently.
A brave little girl steps forward.
“I am Y/N,” you reply. “Oyvind brought me here.”
“I’m Thorfinn!” a little boy announces proudly, holding up three fingers. “I’m this many!”
“So close to being a mighty warrior.”
The children relax around you.
One girl asks, “Do you fight?”
“Not much,” you admit. “But I admire those who do.”
“I want to be like Oyvind!” she declares.
“Do not tell him I said this… but deep down, he is a softy.”
“Oyvind is a softy?” Thorfinn whispers.
“Only for those he loves.”
You do not see him approaching.
and squeal when you nearly collide with him.
“Looks like you’ve made friends,” he says.
“More like they’ve won me over,” you laugh, gently squeezing Thorfinn’s cheek.
The boy clings to your leg.
“He has you wrapped around his finger.”
But there is something else in his expression.
Watching you with the children.
“We should head to lunch,” he says finally.
Your hand slips easily into his.
The village feels less foreign now.
it almost feels like home.
