contents: no smut, mentions of blood and slaughter, decapitated head, simon being a cutesy hulking brooding 7foot husband, reader trying to defend herself and be accepted as a 6’4 viking but she’s just not like the rest of simon’s village :(, arranged nonconsensual marriage
viking!simon, who has a scowl on his face every time he sees you. being in an arranged marriage was hard enough, but to have your husband hate you every waking moment was just the cherry on top. you thought you were good enough, coming from the daughter of another powerful village, however according to some of the other villagers you were softer and daintier than they expected.
sure you were less bulky, but you were still on the taller side! just not as tall.
all of your thoughts came to a screaming halt when your village was in the midst of getting raided. the soft pads of your feet as they hit the rough bark and coarse dirt beneath you, were the only other noise except for the howling wails in the background, luckily for you they were slowly fading away.
you knew how to fight, and you wanted to, but simon didn’t let you. as soon as he saw you swinging an axe into an enemies skull, he stripped you of your weapons, and pushed you away while yelling at you to hide in the forest.
so here you were, running in and out of the deeply defaced trees, trying your hardest to not eat shit and stack it, over something stupid like a rock.
a quick look behind you was all it took for you to be tackled to the ground. the distraction left your organs squished, lungs winded, and completely helpless on the floor, writhing under what felt like a ton of bricks.
using the remaining strength you had left, you pushed the stranger off. or tried to. as they sat up, a knife was pulled out of their waistband, presumably to stab you or slice your throat.
you never knew thanks to simon who swooped in at a second to spare, decapitating them.
the head slid off of their neck, while sticky ichor gushed over your bare stomach; the draining, lifeless face took its time rolling onto the ground.
with a helping hand simon brought you onto your feet. blood, sweat and dirt smothered his blonde hairy chest, creating a mixture that was dripping everywhere, including over fresh wounds that adorned his skin.
I’m going to be hopping onto the Viking au right now because I’m literally in love with right now lol.
The way you and Simon first meet was actually him hunting for the village weekly feast. He was dragging around his dead game, waiting to be roasted and glazed with honey. Simon stopped for a moment as he counted how many arrows he had left. One..two..ten..fifteen. He didn’t care, he was ready to go home anyways. Just a few more pigs and deers and that should enough on his part.
Meanwhile you, a girl from a smaller, lesser know village. As the cleric and medic of your village you were expected to the berries during the fall before all of the plants and berries died. Your village was very strict for that, knowing that they had a long history of men, women’s no children dying to common sickness and yet not having enough to save their unfortunate lives.
Simon started to prepare his bow as he saw a fluffy sheep graze by. And my was this sheep rather fluffy. He placed the bow carefully on the bow, drawing it back. His eyes trained closely on the sheep.
You bent and picked up the precious berries, checking if they had fungus on them. You arose from the ground to feel a slice on your face. The blood trickled down your cheek and under your chin. “Ah! W-who goes there?” You sheepishly screamed. You clutch the tiny dragged tipped with poison. Simon head rose from the log he hid behind. He finally realized he didn’t hit a sheep, but rather a pretty lady dressed in warm sheep coat. “Ma’am I apologize. I mistook you for a sheep.”
Your cheeks puffed up as you placed your hand on your hips. “A sheep! How dare you!” You huffed. You stomp softly to him, chest puffed up. “Yes, I am sorry. I can make it up to you by taking you to the feast held at my village.” He offered.
“What village are you from?” You asked, holding the basket of berries in your hands. “Spec.” He mumbled. You gasped as you realize the village name. You’ve heard of how strong their leader was and how he was able to save his village from nasty beast and greedy pillagers. “Spec! Your leader must extremely strong! I’ve heard story of you all. We’re nothing compared to yours.”
“Well, then lets go. I can show how really strong we are at the feast.” Simon quickly walked away leaving you stunned. “H-hey! Wait for me!”
Hey, pals!
Here’s my mini-film for the Viking!AU I started in 2025 and then let everyday rotting a lil bit more in my drafts.
It was inspired by the legend of Hugin and Munin (and Ethan Hawke with longhair-longbeard combo).
It’s set in Vestland, around 1037, during the North Sea Empire.
The video compressor lowered down the quality and I’m really not-enraged about it:D
Thoughts on VikingSoaps, does he have a wife? Is she a healer like Simon’s wife? Does she have children? Is Johnny said now that his friend Simon can’t go out and play Viking anymore ??
Hiii welcome back!! The more I've been doing research about Vikings, the more I want to rewrite the first two parts :|
I do think I said Simon shared a longhouse with Johnny and Kyle because Vikings rarely lived in a longhouse with just two people. I think both Johnny and Kyle are likely unmarried at the time of the raid that hurts Simon.
My heart is telling me that Johnny would probably marry a sweet Celtic girl from Ireland or Scotland, as there weren't many Icelandic women at the time. They would definitely have kids; you can't tell me Johnny wouldn't want at least two. I also think Johnny would retire to a farm like Simon did, which I think I mentioned in the third part? Thorfinn and Johnny's boys would play together all the time.
Johnny's definitely sad they aren't Vikings anymore, but he's happy his wife doesn't have to worry about him getting hurt. Johnny's definitely a softer father than Simon (Simon gives me heavy Kratos vibes)
Chapter three: Nesta stumbles upon a familiar face during a morning walk down by the river, and gets a surprise when a messenger arrives bearing news for the king. (Previous chapter // next chapter)
The sky was like stained glass when she woke.
A swathe of pink tangled with the clouds and bathed the horizon in red and gold, until it looked like someone had lit a candle beneath a window in a cathedral, and as Nesta kept her eyes on the skyline, breathing in the cold morning air, she kept her steps slow and silent as she tried to retrace the path she had taken the night before.
In the dark, Jorvik had been dangerous. In the daylight, she wasn’t certain it would be any better.
But Tomas had never returned to their lodgings last night, and Nesta had no idea where he had taken his rest instead. Her own journey to bed last night had been far from smooth, and yet whilst her father Aedwulf had told her, on the eve of her wedding, that it was a wife’s duty to think always of her spouse - to direct her thoughts towards him at all times - she was not walking the streets of Jorvik in search of her wayward husband.
No— as the sun rose and broke through the windows of her room, she had been unable to summon much more than an ounce of concern for the man who called himself her lord and master. Instead she had felt something pulling at her, a sense that there was something out there waiting for her; a world at her feet that she might observe if only she took the chance. So she had thrown a cloak about her shoulders and slipped out of the door, seizing the chance to take a walk before much of the city awoke.
Foolish, she knew.
Especially after last night, when it had been made painfully clear to her that not all in this city harboured a desire for peace
And yet…
The air felt different here.
She had opened her eyes and found the bed beside her empty and cold, and even though she knew she was in the heart of a Danish stronghold, filled with men and women ready to put a blade to her neck, she had wanted more than anything else to feel a little taste of freedom. To walk those streets with no Saxon man beside her, telling her what to do or how to think.
And oh, how intrigued she was.
Tomas had told her to fear Jorvik; Osbert had told her to be repulsed by it. And yet as she made her way through the packed-earth streets, she was neither. Birds circled overhead, making their way to the docks where salted fish would be brought in in barrels, and despite the sharpness of the morning air, she found she wanted to linger, to make the most of these last moments before the city began to stir.
She kept her steps slow, her attention pulled in every direction as she walked. It was a world so alike to her own - the same sort of city streets, the same wattle-and-daub buildings she’d find in Wessex - and yet so different, too. Strange symbols were carved on windowsills, and statues of gods she didn’t recognise stood guard at the doorways of so many homes, like the pagans within sought protection from their gods in the same way she prayed for salvation during every Mass.
Like they weren’t so different after all.
Eventually, Nesta found her way to the river; a silver ribbon beneath the pink sky, a current moving gently and easily as it cut across the landscape. Even here, away from the docks, ships lines the shore. She didn’t know why she was surprised; after all, the pagans were sea-faring people, nothing without their ships. So many of them were moored against the riverbank, made fast with lengths of rope, like they were just waiting for the next adventure to call them back to the open ocean. Wide and flat-bottomed, each had a prow carved with the likeness of some mystical creature or other— serpents and dragons, roaring silently, teeth made sharp by a carver’s blade.
Nesta’s father had made his money as a merchant, but even he could boast no ships like these. Notches lined the length of each - a place for a warrior to hang a shield as they rowed - and though the sails were furled and the oars were stowed, she suspected that within minutes they could be ready to leave; a marvel of engineering and efficiency both.
In the silence she studied them, knowing there was none around to witness her admiration. It was quiet now, with the city yet to fully rise, and still— so perfectly still.
She wondered what would happen if she were to come back to that same spot later, when traders would gather around those same boats and board them in search of some other horizon. When they would be loaded with fur and spices and other things brought from abroad to trade. She wondered what would happen if she stowed herself away on one of those boats, secreted herself behind the barrels and the crates—
“Missing me already, sweetheart?”
A smooth, heavily accented voice cut through Nesta’s thoughts, dragging her attention away from the ships and down to the water. And there, right in the river itself, like it was the most natural place in the world to be found, stood the Dane from last night. The one who had saved her, ensured she reached her lodgings safe and sound.
Silver glinted in his ear from more than one earring, and a braided silver torc was wrapped around his upper arm, tight against the muscles that wound from his shoulders down to his forearms. His chest was bare, though half submerged in water, and his face glistened as the sun caught the line of his jaw, setting fire to his dark hair. His loose curls were haloed by the sun, aflame in the morning light, and his smile was effortless when he met her eyes, smooth as butter. Privately, Nesta had thought him handsome before; in the mead hall, when he had been bathed in candlelight. But there was something so much more raw about him now, so much more… free that made him so much more than handsome.
She paused, her mouth dropping open as she searched for something cutting to say. The Dane in the water smirked, and suddenly all she could think was,
“Why are you in the river.”
It didn’t come out like a question. Her voice was sharp as she folded her arms over her chest, looking down at him and willing the scowl on her face to deepen. His expression was one of mild amusement, and suddenly Nesta understood why the priests had been so concerned about Saxon women falling under the influence of pagan men. It would be entirely too easy to be bewitched by a man such as this— to find herself enthralled by those eyes and that chiseled chest.
“Came to check my ship,” he answered easily, shrugging as though he wasn’t standing in water up to his shoulders. “Decided to take a swim while I was here.”
Nesta wrinkled her nose, and his laugh echoed across the water, shaking the chill from her bones.
“The real question is why are you here?” the Dane asked, running a hand through his hair and pushing it back from his face, drops of water lingering in his curls like diamonds mined under a distant sun. “Avoiding my question, I might add.”
“What question?”
He grinned. “I asked if you were missing me already, love.”
“Hardly,” Nesta snorted, keeping her arms firmly folded against her chest, and even though she knew she ought to have left by now, her feet remained planted in the soft, dew-covered grass of the riverbank. “Need I remind you that your kind kill mine?”
She wasn’t sure if the reminder was for his benefit or for her own, but it didn’t matter. It failed to land, anyway.
The Dane clucked his tongue. “Need I remind you that I saved your life last night?”
“Not at all,” she countered smoothly, letting her arms drop as she clasped her hands before her. “It proves my point, does it not? Your kind kill mine.”
His eyes darkened, the current around him slowing, like every muscle in that powerful body of his had gone still.
“Aye, because your kind have killed none of mine?” he asked slowly, his voice pitched low enough that it was barely even audible.
A shade flickered across his face, something reminiscent of pain stealing the smile that had begun to bloom at the corner of his mouth, and Nesta wondered what the feeling was that sparked in her chest, uncomfortable and sharp as she watched his face change. Something like regret ran through her, something like remorse. Silence followed; neither of them moved. Only the reeds at the river’s edge danced gently in the breeze as both Nesta and the Dane remained where they were, like if either of them moved the moment would shatter and cut them both.
He let out a breath.
“A woman I knew once was killed by a Saxon.”
It was a soft admission, like it was one he hadn’t really meant to make, and as his eyes dropped to the ground beneath her feet, she wondered who the woman had been to him. If he had loved her. Before she could ask, the Dane shook his head, shaking it all off as he lifted his eyes and took a deep, clear breath.
“Does it matter,” he asked at last, “which blow was dealt and by whom?” He dragged his fingers through the water as he took a single step towards the riverbank. “There is supposed to be peace between us now, no? Is that not what Rhys agreed with your king?”
Nesta tilted her head. “You think peace is something we can ever have?”
He shrugged. “I hope so. Don’t you?”
She saw that hope in each line of his face— the warrior, the killer, standing beneath a gilded sky with no armour to call upon, searching for peace in a land soaked with blood. Nesta hesitated. Once, long ago, she had harboured so much hope that her soul had been filled with it. She had been young and full of promise and optimism… and then her father had sold her off in marriage to Tomas, and if there was one thing her naivety had taught her, it was to know better than to trust in hope.
“The Dane from last night didn’t seem to desire peace,” she said dryly. The Dane rolled his eyes.
“Kallon thinks he could take England’s crown by himself, but the boy has seen only a single battle.” His chest rose a little out of the water as he spoke, revealing a swathe of intricate tattoos that crossed his collarbone and descended. He shrugged, and levity returned like the rising of the sun after a dark night. His eyes glittered again as he snorted to himself. “And even that was only a skirmish.” There was a pause, one where he tilted his head and met her gaze. “Don’t worry about him sweetheart. I’ll let him live for now, but he won’t trouble you again. Trust me.
She wanted to scoff. The very idea of trusting a Dane was ludicrous, and yet… she hesitated. The man before her seemed more than ready to take matters into his own hands, as if he could dole out justice himself. She thought of Rhysand, of the lord who was trying so desperately to broker peace in the hope of prosperity.
“For now?” she asked archly. He grinned at her, all dark and wicked promise.
“For now,” he echoed simply. His smile was as sharp as blade, edged with violence, and Nesta fought the urge to roll her eyes.
“And won’t your lord disapprove?”
The Dane scoffed. “The lord is as good as a brother to me.” Another shrug; another ripple in the river. “Besides, if he decides to feel strongly about it, he’s more than welcome to issue me with a challenge and we can fight it out just like we do across the sea.” His eyes sparked as he shot her a crooked grin, so entirely devious his entire face was limned by mischief. “Except he won’t, because he knows how easily I’d best him.”
Nesta raised a single brow, a move borne of impassivity and scepticism both. “You think highly of yourself.”
She held her ground as he took a step closer to the river bank; tried not to watch as the water exposed an inch more of his chest as the line sank below the level of his heart. Tried, too, not to track the way the water dripped from his shoulders and down his chest, rivulets lining the curving paths of his tattoos.
“Not without cause, I assure you,” he answered easily.
“Then why aren’t you the lord?” Nesta challenged, pulling her eyes up to his face. After all, it was the way it worked in her world. The Witan appointed their king based on the most capable, the most skilled. Bloodlines meant little; even King Alfred, brother of the last king, had been chosen instead of his predecessor’s son. The Dane in the river only shrugged.
“Ruling doesn’t suit me,” he said. “Rhys knows that. Put me in charge of a shield wall, sweetheart, and I can win any battle the gods set before me.” He shrugged again, another ripple breaking across the surface of the water. It was an effort to keep her eyes on his face, on the movement of his lips as he spoke. “But sitting for hours negotiating a treaty? I’d rather leave that to someone else.”
“So you spend your days… what? Languishing in a river instead of proving yourself useful?”
With one hand he pushed the hair back from his brow. “Oh, I can be incredibly useful.”
His smirk was feline— wolfish, hungry.
“Why don’t you come and join me and find out for yourself?” He cocked his head to the side, letting the water slide along his jaw. “The river is—“
Slowly, he dragged his eyes over her. Languorous and smooth, from her feet to the crown of her head. Nesta swore her skin started to heat beneath her dress, a blush rising to her cheeks as he tracked his gaze up her entire body with a slowness that spoke to admiration. It was sin the way he looked at her; pure, unadulterated sin. The kind a Latin-speaking priest warned her of so frequently in church. Yet here was a man entirely disinterested in hiding his wants, and as he looked at her from beneath his eyelashes, it was clear that if there was one thing he was used to, it was getting exactly what he wanted.
“—Truly lovely,” he finished.
The sunlight fell in a shaft across his bare skin, the water glistening like diamonds had been scattered across its surface. The Dane looked like something wild and otherworldly, and even as his eyes roved across her frame, Nesta held her ground, knowing she ought to turn back, to return to her lodgings and take up her place by her husband’s side.
She didn’t move.
“Or,” he shrugged, filling his cupped palms with water and soaking his hair, slicking his shoulders, “you can continue to stand there, pretending to be a perfectly dutiful Saxon wife, entirely devoted to her man.” He threw her a wink as he shook the water from his eyes. “Though we both know that’s not true.”
His voice was thick with sarcasm as he tipped his chin back, exposing his throat as he ran his fingers through his tangled hair. Beads of water clung to the leather strap of a necklace strung around his neck, the pendant hanging right in the centre of his perfectly defined chest, and with a blink Nesta forced herself to look away, crossing her arms tightly over her chest once again as she shot him a scowl.
“Do we?” she challenged.
He grinned.
“That is what they want, is it not?” he asked, his voice dipping lower as he raised a brow. “Your Saxon men. They like their women to bow and scrape, no?”
She said nothing, refusing to answer and refusing to let her eyes drop more than an inch from his face. He was alluring, there was no denying it, and the way the water sparkled beneath his powerful frame had her unable to look away. Like there was some kind of magic involved, something pagan and forbidden. She took a deep breath, feeling a soft breeze brush gently across her cheeks, and as the long grass rustled beneath her feet, she caught the scent of the lavender that grew by the river bank, like a delicate perfume hanging in the air.
It was almost calming.
Almost— save for the Norseman in the river.
He smirked at her silence, stepping closer to the bank.
“Come, sweetheart,” he said smoothly, that rich accent of his making her think of rolling hills and snow-capped mountains, of frozen rivers and towering waterfalls. It made her think of worlds she had never seen, places she had only heard about in stories told third- or fourth- or fifth-hand. As if amused by her blank expression, the Dane lifted a hand from the water and extended it, palm held out to her like some kind of religious offering she knew would be blasphemous to accept. “Why don’t you stop standing there and join me?”
She scoffed. “No.”
He angled his head, eyes alight with mischief. It shouldn’t have surprised her; hadn’t somebody told her, once, that the Danes worshipped a god of mischief?
“Why?” he asked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as his brow quirked and his mouth slanted upwards in a crooked smile, dark and devious. “Would your God disapprove?”
He looked to the sky, as if searching for the hand of God; looking for a lightning bolt about the strike.
“Wouldn’t yours?” Nesta fired back.
The Dane tipped his head back and laughed. “Hardly.”
Silence fell for a beat, the river itself seeming to still, and then he was facing her with an expression of genuine curiosity, his hands flat on the surface of the water as he let it drift idly between his splayed fingers. He tilted his head, the silver earring in his ear winking.
“It makes no sense to me,” he began slowly. “How one god can see and decide everything.”
His voice had softened, like he wasn’t needling her anymore. His eyes were earnest, and without thought Nesta’s hand lifted to the cross she wore around her neck, her fingers tracing along the thin chain as her eyes dipped to the hammer-shaped pendant hanging from a leather string around his. Before she could answer, the Dane continued, hardly tearing his attention away from the way her fingers toyed with her small golden cross.
“You think that when that water touched Rhys’ brow, he was made a child of your god. But how can that be enough to wipe away the touch of our gods? The ones he has honoured since his birth? The ones that have protected him, favoured him— walked among us, for centuries? Do they cease to hold sway over him now, all because some water touched his skin?”
His voice had grown louder, stronger, like the curiosity had burned away in place of a lingering indignation, like he was trying hard to understand and failing.
“It was holy water,” she answered.
“And?”
He took another step closer, the water rippling. Each step brought him nearer to the water’s edge, every move lifting his body a little higher out of the water. It was lapping at his waist now, and Nesta’s gaze was dragged there, following the line of water dripping from his chest down to his hips. When she pulled her eyes back up, the curiosity from before had melted away, mischief dancing across his face once more as he tilted his head in the other direction. He appraised her, head to toe, one more time, as an expression only slightly shy of triumphant crossed his features. When his gaze reached her face, lingering on her lips, his eyes darkened.
“I am no priest,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “so what do I know? It is not for me to stand before you and talk of theology and magic water.” His eyes glinted. “But this water seems like it could be magic enough in itself, if you’d only deign to join me in it.”
“I am not getting in there with you.”
“Trust me, love,” the Dane said, practically purring as he took another step nearer. His eyes were so dark there was almost no more gold left in the hazel. “I am sure your god would turn a blind eye, just this once.” He winked, his smirk cocksure and his voice equal parts arrogance and suggestion. “Perhaps twice, if I’m truly blessed.”
Nesta pulled back from the river’s edge.
When had she taken a step closer?
“Heathen,” she said sharply, closing her hand around the cross at her neck as she increased the distance between them, still unsure of when she had started to close it. His laughter ricocheted off the water in answer, as deep and as rolling as the sea that had brought him here in the first place.
He threw his arms wide, casting his head back to the sky as laughter lingered in the air between them.
“Baptise me, then,” he said grandly, his voice filled with mirth, like sincerity was as foreign to him as he was to her. The hammer at his neck gleamed as he added, “Allow me to worship at your altar instead.”
Nesta could have sworn she heard sincerity in that.
She hissed, throwing a scowl over her shoulder as she picked up her skirts and turned, scrambling back up the river bank, all too ready to leave him behind as she fixed her sights on the city ahead. His laughter followed her, made part of her want to stay.
“My name is Cassian, by the way,” he called.
But Nesta didn’t look back, only clutched her cross a little bit harder even as her steps slowed, her hasty retreat one that faltered as her body begged her to stop and turn back around. To offer her name in exchange for his, if only to hear the way it sounded on his tongue, shaped by his northern voice. But as the points of her cross dug painfully into the soft skin of her palm, she remembered who it was she was supposed to be— the role she had been assigned when she had been born a woman in Wessex.
She didn’t stop walking.
Without another look, Nesta straightened her spine and walked away from that river, heading back to her lodgings with her cross clutched tight the entire time, like it might somehow help her forget the Dane she’d just left behind, or the way he’d looked as he dripped with water, so decadent and delectable, even in the most spartan of settings.
She prayed God would forgive her.
But as she neared her borrowed rooms and hoped she might find them, still, empty of her husband, she couldn’t help but think back to the Dane’s laugh, echoing along the water as the horizon turned from pink to gold.
And she remembered his name, no matter how much she wished she could forget it.
Cassian.
***
The king had planned to stay in Jorvik for a handful of days, at least.
The treaty might have been signed, the boundary lines hammered out like a sword fresh from the forge, but to uphold all appearances of peace and amicability between Saxon and Dane, Alfred had decided, before leaving Wessex, to linger in Jorvik for almost a fortnight.
Then the messenger arrived.
Tomas was waiting when Nesta arrived back at the house they’d been loaned, a scowl on his face even as he stood before her in the same tunic from the night before, the ties at his neck undone. His expression was dark, and though he didn’t bother to ask her where she had been, she sensed his displeasure like something tangible. With that glare weighing down his brow, he unfurled his hands and waved a scrap of parchment in the air between them.
“The queen has taken ill,” he said flatly in lieu of greeting. “The court is returning south.”
With one hand he tugged his shirt over his head, exchanging it for a fresh one. She turned her face away, not caring to interrogate why the sight of her husband’s bare skin had her stomach turning and her head filling with the thought of the Dane in the river— Cassian.
Or you can continue standing there, pretending to be a perfect Saxon wife, entirely devoted to her man… though we both know that’s not true.
His voice came back to her like a curse, something she would be doomed to remember for the rest of her days. She scowled as she tried to force the memory away, smoothing a hand down the front of her dress as she looked at the belongings she had yet to finish unpacking; that she would soon need to pack again.
“A letter arrived,” Tomas said blandly as he continued to dress. He slung a cloak around his shoulders, pinning it together with his finest cloak pin, solid gold and gifted by the king himself. “The rider pushed himself north with so much urgency, his damned horse all but collapsed beneath him as he entered the gates.” He cleared his throat as he ran a hand over his hair to smooth it. Nesta fought the urge to grimace. “Alfred wants the court assembled before the Danish lord immediately before he takes his leave.”
She said nothing.
The king had been called home, and Nesta knew that once she left those city gates, she’d never cross them again.There was no reason, no explanation, for why that bothered her. Something felt like it was slipping through her fingers, something as sparkling and as multifaceted as a jewel in the king’s crown. Something like a bolt of silk, priceless and precious, stolen from her by a strong breeze.
Tomas finished preening, and after casting a single glance over his wife, he sniffed as he turned his back on her.
“Come,” he said, throwing the words over his shoulder as he stormed away. “Let’s get this business over with.”
***
Smoke lingered in the lord’s hall, choking the air as members of Alfred’s court gathered. Braziers had been lit to guard against the morning chill, glowing at intervals along the walls, and in the shadowed corners of the hall, dressed in a heavy cloak and boots - the crown absent from his head - King Alfred of the West Saxons looked ready to depart at any given moment.
Nesta frowned. Her horse had yet to be saddled; her things yet to be packed.
And yet the king was ready to bolt.
Though Tomas had been summoned to the king’s side early that morning, her husband had kept the details close to his chest, sharing little of the news the messenger had brought. Nesta was in the dark, entirely clueless as she stood behind the king, her head bowed in deference as the Norse lord took up space before them, surrounded on all sides by his own men. He was there, too, standing to his lord’s right. Cassian— with his hair still damp at the ends, and that maddening glint in his eye that made Nesta feel like, somehow, he knew her far too well already.
She let her eyes travel across his face for only the briefest of seconds before she dragged her attention away, fixing it on the northern lord as he cleared his throat. The cross around his neck was shiny and new, gleaming in the low light as he, too, bowed his head; a hand over his heart in a show of peace.
She wondered if he meant it.
“May this be testament to the peace between us,” Rhysand said grandly, extending a hand to the side as one of his household stepped forward, bearing an enamelled chest in his hands. With a nod, Rhysand indicated for the lid to be flipped open, revealing a horde of coins inside. Silver and gold, different sizes and weights. A veritable treasure trove that Rhysand gave away with a thin smile, and as Alfred nodded graciously - sending Osbert forward to accept the gift - she couldn’t help but wonder if the gold was a real mark of friendship, or just another game piece moved across the board.
“We have gifts of our own to share,” the king said smoothly, like he was a saint already, beatified and benevolent, bestowing favour on his people. With a flick of his wrist, another member of the household stepped forward, bearing two golden cups, beautifully carved and inlaid with pearl.
Nesta flicked her eyes to her husband. Tomas stood with his hands clasped before him, eyes dark and unreadable. His jaw was tight, shoulders tense. She had long ago learned the signs of her husband’s unhappiness, and if there was anything she knew with certainty as she stood in that hall decorated with mythical beasts and foreign gods, it was that Tomas was displeased. But why? They were going home, back to Wessex. He should have been gladdened by the news that their stay in Jorvik had been cut short.
“We have one more thing,” Alfred said, “to offer.” His eyes drifted to Tomas before returning to Rhysand. “An ambassador to serve between us— a member of my court to remain here, should you accept.”
Rhysand raised a brow.
“Tomas has been a loyal servant to me for many years,” Alfred continued easily, motioning to Tomas with a gracious sweep of one hand. His cloak parted, revealing rows of golden buttons keeping his sleeves together, and for a moment Nesta didn’t understand, her mind racing as she blinked rapidly, because surely, surely, the king wasn’t suggesting what she thought—
“He will remain here, along with his wife, Lady Mandray, to serve as a bridge between us. A lasting symbol of our peace.”
At Rhysand’s side, Cassian’s attention snapped to her.
Their eyes clashed, all thunder and lightning.
Nesta turned to her husband, but Tomas’ face was impassive. He betrayed no emotion at all, save for the small shift of his jaw that said he was clenching his teeth so tightly she wondered whether it hurt. The king did not bother to look at her - why would he? - only glanced at Tomas, and when her husband nodded stiffly, Alfred clapped a palm to Tomas’ shoulder.
Rhysand’s brows had lowered, his eyes narrowed. Sensing a trap, searching for a trick.
A Dane beside him muttered something under his breath, his hand drifting to the blade at his belt, like he was already anticipating bloodshed. Nesta’s heart stilled in her chest. She recognised him— the dark hair, the scarred hands. It was the Dane who had been fighting Cassian yesterday, another of Rhysand’s household. His eyes were unforgiving as he cast them over the Saxons, cold and determined as he looked her over before looking his fill of her husband. She hadn’t ever thought that the Norsemen had intelligencers, but this man…
With just one look, he assessed her so thoroughly she wondered if he’d been able to unravel all of her secrets at once.
If Rhysand had anybody in his court to sniff out information, it was this man.
Cassian’s face was blank, but his eyes glinted in the shafts of light that entered through the windows. A small smirk lingered at the corner of his mouth, like he longed to smile, and when he met her eyes again, he didn’t look away. She felt a jolt run down her spine, and neither of them looked away, gazes connected as silence fell between Alfred’s court and Rhysand’s. Cassian’s eyes seemed to burn, and as Rhysand looked first to the warrior on his left - whose hand still hovered close to his blade - and then exchanged a swift glance with Cassian, Nesta got the feeling that the three were almost having a silent conversation— like they were so well known to one another that they could understand a look as perfectly as they could understand speech.
And then, to her horror, Cassian winked at her.
Rhysand nodded.
“Very well,” he said, his tone as tight as his smile as he waved a hand. “Your retainer will stay here.” He flicked his attention to Cassian, a swift sidelong glance. “And Lady Mandray will always be welcome in my hall.”
Nesta couldn’t breathe— felt the air in the room suddenly thin as she realised this was really happening. The king was leaving them there— alone. Going back to the safety of Wessex, and leaving them there, in a Danish stronghold where anything might happen. Her mouth suddenly felt dry, and as King Alfred made his final parting from the foreign lord, Nesta blinked, watching the court depart as Tomas waited silently beside her.
And through it all, she felt the press of Cassian’s attention like a brand against her skin, never wavering and never faltering, and as the Saxon court left Jorvik for good, Nesta was left standing in a hall built to appease pagan gods, wondering what in God’s name she was supposed to do now.
Viking!AU where the shieldmaiden says she "will not kneel for anyone". But she does love to kneel for her husband, Viking!Jake...
I was gonna write a one-shot for this, but we’re just going to talk about it instead because I think about it every day ngl probably because this was my area of focus for my minor lol
Imagine being a fierce warrior, a Viking, a shield-maiden. There aren’t many of you, but the few of you that there are command respect from the men around you. You aren’t a stranger to the ways of the rest of the world.
You know that the women of your culture are privileged in many ways, freer. You can choose your husband and divorce him just as easily. You can prove yourself in battle, earning your place in Valhalla alongside your fallen brethren and Odin, the Allfather, himself.
You kneel before no man.
Well, maybe just one.
Your lips pressed gentle kisses along the thighs of your husband, leaving a trail that led right to where he needed you most. His dick stood tall and thick against his stomach, the muscles in his abdomen tensing as you teased him, mouth coming so close only to be pulled away at the last second.
“Please,” he gasped, green eyes falling closed as his head fell back. Your fingers trailed up his thighs, scratching lightly at the skin as you smirked against him.
"What is it, my love?" You rasped, your smirk growing bigger as he let out a desperate whine, "what is it you want?"
"Your mouth," he gasped, eyes cracking open to fix you with a pleading look, lips parted in desperate pants. Your fingers gently wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly as he bucked up into your grip. You leaned forward, licking at his weeping tip and earning a low groan.
It made you feel powerful, knowing that this feared and respected warrior was reduced to a whining, babbling mess in your hands. You took him in your mouth, slowly taking more and more of him into your mouth until he bumped the back of your throat.
"Fuck!" He yelped, fingers gripping the bedspread in a death grip, one hand flying to tangle in your hair.
"Feel so good, my love," he groaned, hips lifting slightly. "Such a tight, wet mouth. By the gods, I'll never get enough of you."
You hummed at his words, the vibrations causing him to cry out once more, his hips bucking up into your mouth and sending more of his length down your throat.
You kneeled before no man, but your husband wasn't just any man, was he?
I'm speechless. I am truly blessed with my friends. My friend Ru (@shonen-brainrot) reached out to the incredibly talented artist @blackberrylight1 asking if she would consider accepting a request for a Viking-themed Dabi. The artist agreed, and the final result is beyond stunning. I've received several exquisite sketches featuring Shoto, Dabi, and Endeavor in Viking-themed settings from my MHA Viking AU. I'm at a loss for words, completely surprised by the incredible work. I'm literally kicking my feet in joy, the artist captured my beloved characters perfectly in this unique setting! Grateful beyond words. Thank you! 🩷🩷🩷
