Summary: After being pushed by Ivar and the rest of his brothers, Hvitserk finally speaks to the girl he'd been admiring for months, but an unwelcome interruption breaks the conversation before he can get more than her name.
Word Count: 1.1k
The great hall was alive with chatter, but Hvitserk didn't may it any mind. His attention was stuck across the room...on her.
"You are staring again, brother," Ubbe commented gruffly, sipping his ale.
Hvitserk grinned, his eyes not leaving her figure. "She's beautiful, isn't she, Ubbe?"
With a grunt, Ubbe returned to his meal and ignored his younger brother. A few minutes later, Ivar and Sigurd joined them, and all it took was an annoyed glance from Ubbe to cue them in on the situation.
"I don't know about you, Hvitserk," Ivar said, following his gaze to the girl. "But I think I will go talk to her."
Hvitserk finally tore his eyes from her, his lip twitching as he glared at his brother. "You will not, Ivar."
"And who will stop me?" he shrugged. "If you do not wish to speak to her, why can't I?"
Sigurd chuckled at Hvitserk's pouting expression but quickly hid it behind his cup of ale when his older brother's scowl turned to him. He knew they were right, of course, but it was easier to stare from a distance and admire...he didn't even know her name.
He was going to learn it tonight, he told himself as he rose from the table with a grunt. Downing the rest of his almost full cup, Hvitserk wiped his mouth and set off across the room.
Noticing the commotion from her throne, Auslaug watched Hvitserk cross the hall before shooting her oldest son a raised brow. Ubbe did nothing but chuckle and shrug back at his mother. If he was being honest, he was just happy Hvitserk was doing something about his crush. It had been months since the girl first arrived in Kattegat. He'd grown tired of Hvitserk's longing expressions and endless comments about the poor girl he was clearly infatuated with. They ribbed him endlessly about talking to her, but he remained in his seat each time, choosing to look instead of speak.
Hvitserk wove through the crowded hall with more confidence than he felt, the warm buzz of ale bolstering his courage. He thanked the gods he wasn't doing this sober because he probably would still be sitting beside Ubbe, watching her from afar. He ignored the knowing glances from his brothers at the table, especially Ivar, who wore a smirk as wide as the fjord before Kattegat.
Her back was to him, her (y/h/c) hair falling over her shoulders as she laughed at something one of the women beside her had said. Hvitserk couldn’t help but smile to himself, feeling his nerves flicker in anticipation.
When Hvitserk reached the empty seat beside her, he hesitated briefly before pulling it out and plopping down in it with forced casualness.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, though it was clear he’d already decided to stay.
She glanced at him, her (y/e/c) eyes flickering with curiosity. “It would seem you’ve already made the decision, Hvitserk.”
Her voice was steady but amused, and the way she said his name...like it wasn’t the first time she’d noticed him...sent a spark of surprise through his chest. Hvitserk leaned back in his chair and quickly glanced over his shoulder at his brothers, trying to mask his excitement with a grin.
“Well, I thought it was about time we spoke,” he said, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. “You’ve been in Kattegat for a while now, yet we haven’t been properly introduced.”
She raised a brow, clearly skeptical. “And whose fault is that?”
Hvitserk chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his neck. "Fair enough. I guess I could've come over sooner, but...better late than never, yes?"
“You have an interesting way of making first impressions, Ragnarsson,” she replied with a playful glint in her eye. “But I’ll allow it. I’m (y/n).”
Hvitserk’s grin widened. “(Y/n),” he repeated, testing her name out, savoring the way it rolled off his tongue. “It suits you.”
“And what exactly have I done to capture the attention of one of the great Ragnar Lothbrok’s sons?” she asked, her head tilted slightly as she studied him.
"You haven't done anything," he said, leaning closer, his grin growing into a cocky smirk. "It's hard to ignore someone who could make even the gods stop and stare."
Heat rushed to (y/n)'s face, and she laughed softly, looking away from his gaze. She knew he was handsome from a distance, but up close...with those eyes and that smirk...she felt herself melting.
She opened her mouth to speak, but a loud voice from behind her beat her to it prompting her name. "Do not let him fool you..."
(Y/n) turned around in her chair to look at the man, but her eyes fell to the ground...or rather who crawled on the ground. "(Y/n)."
Hvitserk groaned audibly, though he didn't look at his brother. "Not now, Ivar."
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Ivar said, smirking as he shakily used Hvitserk's chair to push himself to his feet. He looked between the two of them with a mischievous grin. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s been staring at you like a lost pup for months.”
Leave it to Ivar to ruin a perfectly good conversation. Hvitserk could've strangled him right there.
“Ivar!” Hvitserk snapped, his face flushing as laughter erupted from the nearby tables.
(Y/n) forced herself to regain composure, tilting her head once again as she met his gaze. Her voice came out teasing, though the nervousness beneath was evident. “Is that true, Hvitserk?”
He sighed, leaning his elbows on the table. “I suppose I have been...admiring you. From a distance,” he admitted sheepishly, shooting a pointed glare at Ivar.
“Well, next time, don’t wait so long to speak to me,” she replied with a smile, unable to hide a hint of affection now.
Hvitserk blinked for a moment, stunned. “Next time?”
She didn't answer and instead rose to her feet, leaving him sitting there as she walked toward the doors. Before disappearing into the cold night, she sent him one last smile.
Ivar's laughter followed her departure, his grin as sharp as ever "You're hopeless, poor Hvitserk."
Hvitserk watched her go, a slow grin spreading across his face despite himself. “Maybe. But at least she wants there to be a next time.”
"She will see she made a mistake, brother...once she gets to know you."
His eyes cut over to Ivar, who stared back with raised brows. In one movement, Hvitserk slid his chair back and stood, making Ivar lose balance and flop onto the hard floor with a loud thud.
"Oh no," Hvitserk tutted, staring at his wheezing form with a smirk. he didn't even try to hide it. "You must be careful, little brother."
A/N: message or comment if you want to be added to the tag list! <3
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.
Pairing: modern!f!reader x (to be determined...soon...) Ubbe, Ivar, Sigurd, Hviserks, Bjorn
Series Summary: After falling head first the reader wakes up face to face with a group of strangely dressed men who look eerily like the vikings she studies
Word count: 1511
Part one Part two Part three Part four Part five Part six
Masterlist Here
Slowly but surely, you were settling into this new Viking lifestyle. That doesn’t mean it didn’t have its draw backs.
“There just innards!” Sigurd half yelled as you tried not to puke.
“I don’t care its gross!”
“Its food!”
“Not yet it ain’t!” you gagged, remembering how he tried to make you disassemble the deer. You’d went back home a shuddering mess and luckily Bjorn said he’d do it for you. But Sigurd wasn’t letting it go, “What’s the big deal anyway? it’s done now,”
“Because you get the princess treatment,” he rolled his eyes as he continued to cut up his onions.
You rolled your eyes and tried your best to focus on the carrots. Then you heard a sniffle, “Dude, are you crying?”
“No!” he spat, “It’s the onions,”
“It’s only because you’re crushing them, here- “you tried to help him, but he snatched the knife back, “I’m just trying to help,”
Sigurd rolled his eyes, continuing to cut the onions through his tears, “Well you’re helping wrong,”
That’s it. you gave it. you dumped the carrots you’d just cut into the stew and stormed away, ignoring his protests.
As you made your way to the market you breathed a sigh of relief when you spotted Ivar and Hvitserk at a stall. They smiled as you approached but you just groaned, “Is he always such a control freak?” They glanced at each other before nodding in unison, “Next time give me a heads up,”
“You never listen when we do,” Hvitserk teased.
“That’s cause you give terrible advice,” you hummed sweetly, “You boys having a shopping spree?”
You had all came to a mutual understanding that you would no longer be explaining every little modern phrase or idiom since you wanted to keep your sanity intact. Now they just guessed and hoped for the best.
“I think?” Hvitserk said, “I need leather to make a new bag and Ivar just likes looking at shiny things,” he said as he nudged his younger brother.
You just smiled, confused by the slight blush on his cheeks and Hvitserk’s sniggers. Clearly you hadn’t noticed Ivar checking you out. “Mind if I tag along?”
Walking around the markets of Kattegat was both chaotic and oddly relaxing. You probably would be nervous if you weren’t flanked by at least two sons of Ragnar at all times. You were stood admiring a jewellery stall while Ivar argued with the stall owner over a price of a carved dagger head. Hvitserk in his true fashion was chatting up the stall owner’s daughter.
“Which one do you like?”
“Jesus!” you span around, pushing Ubbe back, “don’t sneak up on me,”
The older brother laughed as you let out a sigh and turned back to the stall, “Sorry, sorry. You make it too easy though,” he held his hands up in mock defence as he peered over your shoulder.
You rolled your eyes before picking up one of the bracelets. It looked like silver, iron maybe, you weren’t a hundred percent sure on what was used these days, but it was beautiful. An open bangle with a Viking cross on its face, Celtic banding going along the sides. “This is cute though,”
As you looked up you saw Ubbe nodding to the guy before they began to barter, “You really don’t have to- “Ubbe didn’t even respond as the men continued to haggle. You stood, unable to intersect, until eventually Ubbe handed the man some coins, “You didn’t need to buy it- “
“I wanted to,” he said, taking it gently from your hands and placing it on your wrist. You coughed a little, trying to force the butterflies out your stomach but when Ubbe looked up at you with a little smile you had to look away.
“Thank you,” you muttered.
-
Later that evening you were all sat around the fire after polishing off the stew Sigurd had made. “That was one good deer,” Hvitserk said as he laid back, resting his head in his hands as he faced the sky.
“Would’ve been nicer if I had some help to cook,” Sigurd grumbled.
Eyebrows raised at his comment but despite how petty you wanted to be you decided to ignore him. When Bjorn looked at you, eyebrow raised, you mouthed ‘tell you later’ and stood up. “Anyone else want more wine?”
All cups went into the air. You laughed as you grabbed the jug, topping off all the cups. Of course you started with Sigurd, not before asking, “More wine?” with a sweet smile. To which he grumbled a quiet yes. You rolled your eyes before turning to the rest of the boys.
You were honestly surprised Bjorn actually joined you all for stew. Ragnar had joined you all but skipped out on the post dinner drinks to go annoy Floki about some boat while Aslaug disappeared into her own world.
Not wanting to disturb her you all decided to start a bonfire a short walk away while you all relaxed. “Thanks,” Bjorn muttered as you finished filling his cup. He raised an eyebrow when you sat down between him and Hvitserk’s star gazing but didn’t protest. “New bracelet?”
Instinctively your hand went to your wrist, holding the bracelet lightly, “Ubbe got me it,”
Ubbe nodded silently while Ivar’s eyes went wide before trying to appear calm, “When?” he asked.
“When you were threatening to demonstrate all the things you could do with a dagger to the owner of the stall,” you smirked. Ivar rolled his eyes, but it was Hvitserk laugh that caught your attention. “What?”
“Oh, nothing you sweet summer child,” he teased. As Sigurd snorted at his joke you decided to be mature. So naturally you hit Hvitserk. “Hey!” he whined, rubbing where you smacked his shoulder.
“Are all Vikings horn dogs or is it just him?”
“I’d ask what that means,” Ubbe laughed, “but I can take a guess,”
“Hey, I just like a little fun,” Hvitserk protested with a laugh, but you just rolled your eyes.
Before this conversation could get any worse for you, you decided to change it, “So what Viking training do I get tomorrow?”
“We have to do training tomorrow,” Ubbe said, before giving his brothers a pointed look, “and no getting out of it this time,” he said only to get waved off. You saw a slight smirk on Bjorn’s face as he watched how his younger brothers interacted. It must be quite odd for him, you thought, being so much older yet still only being a brother.
“I guess I have been a bit of a distraction,” you laughed before laying down next to Hvitserk to look at the stars.
You didn’t need to look up to know Sigurd was nodding his head. “A welcome one though,” Hvitserk teased, his head rolling over to smirk at you. You just hummed at him, before turning your attention back to the stars.
“I suppose I shall entertain myself,” you sighed and before anyone could protest you decided to add, “and if anyone ruins my long lay in, I shall use the skills you all taught me to stab you,”
“You become more like us every day,” Ubbe laughed. The chatter continued but you found your attention being lost more and more as you gazed into the sky.
You couldn’t help but let your mind wander. Did your family miss you? Were they looking for you right now? How much time had even past back home? It’s only been a week here, yet it felt like a lifetime. Did they even know you were gone?
“You, okay?” Hvitserk’s hushed voice snapped you out of it though not loud enough to distract the others from their conversations.
You turned your head to him and that’s when you felt the wetness on the side of your face. Quickly you whipped the tears away, “Yeah sorry. Was just thinking,”
“It’s alright,” he said, a soft smile on his face, “What about?”
You debated saying nothing, but his sweet smile made you, “Home,”
“I’m sorry,”
“It’s not your fault,” you said, turning your head back to the sky.
“Can I admit something rather selfish?” he asked and when you glance over you also noticed his eyes were back on the stars.
“Always,”
Finally, he met your eyes again, “I’m glad you’re here. Even if it means…you know,”
You smiled lightly, “I’m glad to be here, in a weird, twisted way. I just hope someday I get to go back. I miss it,”
“What was it like?” he asked.
Your eyes went back to the stars as you began to retell your tales. Stories you once thought were insignificant meant so much. Hvitserk listened to it all. After what felt like an hour of talking you finally let him get a word in edge wise, not that he was complaining, “I hope I get to come with you, even for a little while. You can show me your world,”
“Id like that,” you smiled before you both just lingered in the comfortable silence.
Author's Note: Hello folks! I've been away for too long and I'm so very sorry about this fact. This is my official comeback with this little fic that I found in my drafts. The question is though, is our fandom still alive and active?
Have fun with this one and take care
P.S. Requests and taglists are open.
Pairing: Ubbe x Reader.
Genre: Mini!au, smut, romance.
Summary: One more morning with Ubbe.
Warnings: Smut.
Strong hands pressed your body forcefully on the mattress. Hot – burning – lips were devouring the flesh of your neck. Hungry eyes were running up and down your body revealing that he had only dirty thoughts about you at that very moment.
You were trying to resist in his dangerous charm and his deadly touch, but your body was out of your control. It gave you away each time, because it was reacting to him – to his teasing touch – in all the ways you didn't want. Your hands tried to push him away by his muscular chest, but to no avail. The man was much stronger than you to make him stop by force.
"We should stop..." You suggested and made one more effort to stop him from going any further. However, your effort was dismissed as your previous one.
The prince's left palm forced your hands on the furs by your wrists and kept you still under him. The free hand of his was drawing imaginary paths on your torso. His touch was so soft that it almost felt innocent, but it was anything but it. Instead the right adjective to perfectly describe it was inviting. It was tempting you to give in to his insatiable desires.
"Ubbe." You said his name in an desperate way to distract him from going forward. However, it was pointless to try resisting him. It had already been a difficult task for you because you desired him almost as much as he did. But Ubbe made it even worse for you.
He had always been like this in a way that felt like he was trying so hard to blow your cover and let your spicy secret escape from the prying halls who kept it sealed.
His hand was getting closer to your thighs and as it was approaching, his movements were slower, but impatient – matching his temper. That stubbornness of his was able to get you in serious trouble, but the man didn't seem to care much about it. Unlike you who minded deeply about this whole situation.
"No." You told him and it was a warning for him not to continue on touching you. Ubbe was dangerously close to restart the actions of the previous night, when the first rays of the sun were making their appearance. A sign that you should have been far gone by now. You should have sneaked in your own room, under your own furs, pretending that you were sleeping all night instead of laying on the prince's bed.
The prince caressed your inner thighs and touched slightly your centre, in return you gasped trying to keep your breath steady and your voice stern. Before you could even try to voice your next protestation, two of his own skilled fingers found their way in your entrance and this time you weren't able to keep yourself from groaning.
"My prince, please not again." Your voice was breathy. The prince smiled when he heard you and placed a sloppy kiss on your bare chest.
In the meanwhile, your hands wrapped around his wrist and with some effort you placed his hand on your stomach and your own hands on his messy hair.
"You can take one more." Ubbe insisted and you tried to make him look at you, by moving your palms on his cheeks. When his darkened blue eyes met your face you could say that your face reddened.
You swallowed nervously as you were gathering your thoughts along with words, though this wasn't easy because he had inserted two of his fingers inside of you and he didn't move them at all. So you were trying not to move, as not to worsen your situation.
"Maybe, but we don't have any time left. Its almost dawn." You reasoned and he placed a finger above your lips preventing you from saying anything else.
His lips closed the distance between the two of you. Firstly, they just touched yours and caressed them in the most teasing way you had even felt. Afterwards, he kissed you passionately – hungrily. It felt like both of your lives were depending on this kiss.
That was the moment when his fingers started moving in the fast and hard pace of his that you were used to by now. Though each time with him it felt like a total different experience.
You moaned within the kiss and the prince bit your lip driving all of your senses on their peak.
During that time he had never had a romantic relationship you could recall, so you naturally assumed he was not interested in that sort of thing - much to your own heartbreak.
You were the only person who didn’t take him for granted. The only person who didn’t see him as just a trickster boat builder or a fool like so many did.
You never judged him for his delusional antics and even took part in his shenanigans from time to time - (much to his delight and the rest of Kattegat’s dismay).
Unbeknownst to you, Floki was smitten.
But in typical Floki fashion, he had no idea how to express that to you.
He feared you wouldn’t love him back, considering he was known as Kattegat’s loon.
He didn’t feel good enough for you.
After all, why would you like a jokester like him?
So for years, he hid his feelings, wanting to keep you close even if that meant remaining just friends despite yearning for more.
Despite hiding his feelings, he couldn’t help but shower you in gifts.
He’d spend hours carving bracelets, necklaces, trinkets and other little gifts for you in his workshop - it was his little way of giving part of himself to you.
He’d get sidetracked by daydreaming about you, when he was meant to be building boats for Ragnar.
He’d spend every night sitting on the roof of his little cabin, staring at the stars, imagining what life would be like with you by his side.
He was overly affectionate to you, always finding an excuse to touch you:
A brush of his fingers on your cheek.
Hugs that lasted a little longer than friends should.
A lingering touch on your skin skin when he clasped another necklace he made for you around your neck.
‘Accidentally’ nudging your shoulder or brushing his fingers against yours when you walked.
These little touches made his heart ache.
He wanted nothing more than to confess his feelings and love you… but he restrained himself.
He’d walk you home after feasts or hang out sessions, claiming he was being a ‘good gentleman’ but it was really an excuse to be around you longer.
He would get pouty when you were busy and couldn’t visit him (something Ragnar teased him about relentlessly).
He would become overly clingy when you were away from him for too long or when you hung out with other people.
He wouldn’t admit it out loud but he got jealous when you gave your attention to other people.
Due to this jealousy he would ramp up his silly antics until he had your undivided attention again.
One time you and Ragnar were visiting Floki at his workshop and during this visit you were joking around with Ragnar a little too much for Floki’s liking.
So what did he do? He pretended to fall out of the boat he was building just to get your attention back.
He’d try his best to make you laugh, even if that meant acting even more like a fool than he already was.
He loved your smile - he was convinced it was crafted by the Goddess Freya herself.
He’d sneak little rune stones for good luck and protection in your pockets when you weren’t looking - it was incredibly annoying but endearing.
When he admitted his feelings for you, it was completely by accident.
It was a sunny day and you were hanging out in his workshop. The sun was gleaming in your eyes which made it difficult to carve wood.
So he insisted on putting his signature coal around your eyes as it would help deflect some of the sunlight.
You were apprehensive at first, considering how Floki usually looked like a madman with his eyeliner.
But after he pestered you for an hour, you gave in.
While he sat lining your eyes with black coal, he couldn’t help but get lost in his jumbled and nonsensical thoughts.
‘Pretty like the Goddess Freya.’ He’d mumble out loud by accident.
Once the words slipped his lips he’d clamp his hand over his mouth with wide eyes (which made him look rather comical) and let out one of his nervous giggles.
He’d immediately begin apologising and rambling trying to back-track.
He’d work himself into a frenzy while you sat there holding back a grin.
You knew he wouldn’t shut up unless you shut him up.
You’d gently lean over and press your lips against his.
He’d immediately tense up with even wider eyes as you kissed him.
He could not believe what was happening.
‘Odin…she is kissing ME? Is this a trick?’ Floki would think, on the verge of hyperventilating.
But when it registered, he’d melt into the kiss, pulling you closer - and he couldn’t help but let a few of his signature crazed giggles slip as he kissed your soft lips.
His touch was so gentle and tender…like he was afraid you would break in his arms.
He held you like you were the most precious thing in the world, his lips moving delicately against yours as his long fingers gently brushed through your soft hair.
And for the first time in his life…Floki’s racing, frantic mind would be at peace.
For the first time in his life, Floki was truly happy.
