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.
Masterlist
A/N: Revamping one of my old Wattpad works lol 😅 Hope you like it!
༄ ────────────── ༄
The air in your new home is thick with salt and smoke.
Ocean brine. Burned wood. Faint blood.
You sit curled on the edge of the bed , not a bed, a cage.
Not a home, a prison.
Oyvind fills the space without speaking. He moves like a predator at rest quiet, assured, watching. Always watching.
You refuse to look at him.
Your gaze stays fixed on the floorboards.
He kneels in front of you.
His hand is rough when it cups your tear-streaked cheek ,calloused and warm , but the touch itself is gentle. Too gentle.
He sighs.
“Do not cry, elskan mín.”
The pet name makes you flinch.
He leans in, brushing his lips against your skin, kissing away your tears with an odd tenderness that does not match the man who burned your village to the ground.
“How long will it take you to understand that you are mine?” he murmurs. “I do not understand you.”
Days.
It has been days since you were dragged onto his ship as spoil of war. Days since fire swallowed your home. Days since everyone you loved stopped breathing.
You have not spoken to him once.
Your silence is the only thing you still own.
He sees it as defiance.
It frustrates him.
“They say nothing good comes from marrying a barbarian,” you think bitterly. “As if I had a choice.”
You were the quiet one. The least troublesome. The easiest to claim.
He is the youngest among his warriors kinder, perhaps.
But no less dangerous.
His thumb brushes away the last of your tears. His eyes are fierce. There is no remorse there.
Only certainty.
A low hum leaves him, almost pleased at your trembling.
“I should cut out your tongue,” he says casually, “so I do not have to hear you cry.”
Your stomach drops.
You clamp your lips shut instantly, fear flooding you so quickly it almost steals your breath. Tears gather but you refuse to let them fall.
He smiles when he feels you tense.
Leans close. His breath ghosts over your ear.
“Do you truly want me to cut out that pretty little tongue of yours, elskan mín?”
“P-please don’t,” you whisper.
His grip on your chin tightens.
“And why should I not?” he drawls. “You refuse to speak to me.”
You swallow hard.
“If you cut it out,” you sniffle, voice trembling, “I’ll never be able to talk to you.”
Silence.
His grip loosens.
A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.
“You mean,” he says slowly, “you would speak to me… if I do not?”
“I’ll try,” you squeak.
He studies you, eyes dragging over your face, searching for deception.
Then he chuckles.
“You are clever, little one. Bargaining with me.”
His hand slides back to your jaw.
“What is your name?” you whisper suddenly.
His brows lift.
“You ask now?”
He leans close, lips hovering near your ear.
“It is Oyvind.”
You test it softly.
“Oyvind.”
He hums, pleased.
“Say it again.”
“O-oyvind.”
His fingers drift to the nape of your neck.
“Good girl. Again.”
“Oyvind.”
Stronger this time.
He watches your mouth when you say it. Watches the way his name lives there now.
“I enjoy hearing you say it,” he murmurs. “You belong to me.”
His hand tightens slightly at your neck.
“Again.”
You hesitate.
Then
“Oyvind.”
He could keep going. Could make you repeat it until your voice breaks.
But he notices how tired you are.
How your eyes have dulled from too much grief.
His hand falls away.
You whisper a quiet, “Thank you.”
Later, you move to the small vanity. Undo your braid with trembling fingers. Pretend this is normal. Pretend this is marriage.
He watches you from the chair in the corner.
Always watching.
You lie down on your side.
“Goodnight,” you murmur softly.
His lips twitch.
After a moment, he rises and approaches the bed. Sits at the edge. Studies your sleeping face in the dim light.
Your eyes flutter open briefly when you sense him.
You stare at him in your half-dreaming haze.
Then close them again.
As if he is already familiar.
He chuckles under his breath.
You shift in your sleep. Your leg brushes against his. Instinctively, unconsciously, you seek warmth.
You curl toward him.
Even after everything.
He stills.
Watching you tuck yourself against his leg like something small and wounded.
Summary: Your kingdom, the kingdom that once revealed against their rulers have to face the once exiled royalty now reborn as a new generation of vikings.You are the princess, sold to a prince from the kingdom of Boravia you have to face the man who was going to help you escape your freedomless fate as a princess, but Erling is not the man who he said he was and betrayed you, he's the son of the exiled queen,and he wants to marry you.
Tw: Betrayal,use of weapons, mentions of death, royalty, an army, evil men, English not being my first language, clear references to game of thrones.
I was a princess in a wreck of a world, at the end of an era. They had conquered our people, made us wait on here, in the same cells our ancestors put theirs, so we end up here when they betrayed us, when he betrayed me.
Only because they were gods, dragons, and we were nothing. We were peasants that overthrew our government, when the rulers started doing feasts while my people had nothing to eat. We were close to nothing to them, then we realized that we were the ants, they were the grasshoppers. We were less powerful maybe but we were more, and with the lack of dragons for the last 100 years, they had an actual chance to overthrow those royals for good.
The worst mistake my parents ever made was to make themselves the heads of the movement, and to forgive their lives. They were exiled and told to banish from our land. That was until they came back. The stupid thing was to believe that the dragons would behave as humans. They came back as vikings, they came harder and stronger than before. We were ants to them. And they had an army. Did the people in this army understand that if we were ants they were lice, bloodsucking parasites?
These are the people who took the side of the oppressor, because of the fear of being oppressed, without realizing that was their fate no matter what they did. Not a chance to get away, not a chance to have a break. They were giving their whole life to them, the same sons and daughters of people who fought and rebelled against these tyrants, the people that decided they were better off dead than to work until they fell apart.
And now I was in a cell, a dusty, rusty tiny cell, trapped with my soon to be fiancé, the prince my people sold me to, the man I despised more than I could ever hate the people who sold me to him. Now we were equals, both destined to die at the hands of the vikings, a public spectacle where they punish us for our “crimes” at the hands of a “judge.”
Until I saw him, the man who was going to help me escape this hell, so it made sense, he was an ally to the queen. He betrayed me, while I betrayed the people, the ants who sold me in exchange for a promise, a peace treaty with the kingdom of Boravia.
-”I loved you”- he said, the way he held himself, his head high, now he actually looked as what he was, a viking -”I thought you felt something for me too, before I knew you were going to marry some prince”-
Now I was mad, because before I was trapped, before I was the princess who was promised to some prince, I only had him, he was my only chance to actually have any freedom as a woman, to escape the life I was trapped in.
-”I love you, even if I don't know who you are anymore. I loved you before this, I loved you when I was sold to marry this prince and I'll love you when I die by your hands, against my will. I can't help but to love the man I thought you were and mourn your once gentle soul”- I cried, looking him in the eyes, if I was in my last moments, maybe my last days of life, there was no point in hiding it. My goodbye gift was my heart on a platter, the honest truth at his feet.
-”My mother, the queen, she told me you had promised yourself to this man because you were in love with him, that you only played with my heart to have the vikings, the dragon blood under your will, to have this kingdom to yourself “- Now he looked appalled, scared, was he fed lies by the one he must trusted, like he did with me?
-”I chose you Erling, I chose you when I decided to escape with you, before this happened, before your lies”-
-”Then marry me, I'll convince my mother, marry me and you will be my queen some day. I'm not a good man, but I swear I will protect you, I'll give my whole life to serving you and I promise you, none will touch you ever again”- This man, this evil, coward, betrayal made of a man, the type of man who wouldn't doubt on killing his own father just to get the throne his mother once lost, wanted me to trust him -”I, I came here to get you leave safe and sound, I may be a monster, but I could never let anything happen to you”-
He opened the cage with a key I hadn't seen in his hands.
-”You get to choose if you want to marry me, or leave”- he said, grabbing his sword making sure this man beside me knew if he made any movement to get out, it wouldn't be in one piece.
-”Hey”- the Boravian prince dared to speak -”Let us both leave, she was promised to me, it's a debt your kingdom has to pay to mine, or I can assure you there will be a war, I am the heir after all”-
-”I have plans for you son of Boravia, you want to own the woman I love and that will have consequences”- He said pointing his weapon to his neck while stepping aside to let me go. I stepped out looking at him as he gave me a bag of coins, gold, so he had planned to let me free -”There is a navy full of men, your female companions and your feline creature, and instructions to return here in one hour if you don't go with them”- he gave me one last long glance after closing the cage door, he looked pretty while he cried.
Beautiful man I know you are lying, just in case you are the only sincere man on this earth, I’ll give you a chance.
INNOCENT LOVE : a viking is in love with me! (Part 2)
SYPNOSIS:You are explaining to the Viking king why you cannot marry him, while you do so he agrees to join your belief and leave his gods, just for you.
PAIRING:Viking x Christian!reader
TW:mention of difference in spiritual beliefs.
Part 1
"What are you doing?!" You shouted angrily. Your hands instantly landed on his chest, pushing him back as you averted your gaze, noticing some servants present. You felt embarrassed for exposing your life in front of those people and hid your face, looking down.
Thorkell noticed your sudden change in attitude and chuckled playfully at your shyness. He turned toward your gaze and realized what was happening. He smiled mischievously and stood tall.
"Everyone, out! Our queen needs privacy," he demanded with a deep, powerful voice that echoed in the room.
You watched as everyone present left immediately, almost running. "I am not your queen," you murmured, glancing at him sideways.
"Soon you will be," he affirmed, grabbing your wrist with a firm grip that hurt you a little due to the force he exerted.
They took a few steps until they reached the throne. He let go of your wrist and turned on his axis to stare at you. He examined you with his eyes and then nodded toward the throne where he had been moments ago.
"Sit there," he demanded with the same dominant voice that sent shivers down your spine.
You were about to refuse. You didn't want to give hope that you'd accept, but neither could you decline; you didn't want to be disrespectful. Besides, Thorkell's gaze intimidated you. You were sure you'd have nightmares about him that night.
You climbed the steps leading to the throne. It was huge, imposing, and beautiful, just like Thorkell. You sat on it; it felt strange. You had always dreamed of being the queen of a nation, and now you had the opportunity, but you felt bad for disobeying God's commands.
You shook your head and clumsily got off the throne, embarrassed by what you had just done.
"I can't, I can't be the queen of Dantohira, Your Majesty," you apologized insistently, looking down in a gesture of submission and respect so that Thorkell wouldn't take it as an offense.
"Damn it!... Could you explain why you're forbidden to marry me?" He grunted angrily, one of his hands resting on his head, rubbing his temple.
You played with your hair, trying to calm your nerves a bit. "We're different... You believe in pagan gods, and don't take it the wrong way, Your Majesty," you said. "It's just that I am faithful to my God, my Lord, and I know that it won't please Him for me to join someone who doesn't love Him. Besides other differences..."
"Name them," he replied sharply, staring at you intently.
You sighed nervously, still not ready to have a discussion with the King. "I don't like your customs... I wouldn't like to marry a man who has several women, or a bloodthirsty man. I'd be in constant fear."
Thorkell approached you, this time respecting your space.
"You'll be the only one. I'll never look at other women, and if I do, I promise to gouge out both my eyes."
You chuckled a bit, charmed by what he had just said.
"That would be very nice, but... even so, you would still worship other gods," you looked at him sadly, noticing his attempt to maintain the marriage proposal.
"I'm not asking you to give up what you do for me-" You were interrupted by Thorkell's sudden action.
Thorkell turned around, leaning on the royal throne, grunting.
"Teach me about your God," he grumbled.
°१९*०°
"Then are you going to become a Christian now or something? I never imagined you doing something like this for someone, Thorkell." Tyr, Thorkell's younger brother, mocked him and his infatuation with you.
"Shut the damn mouth, Tyr," Thorkell growled, fed up with his brother's mockery.
"Brother, understand me, you've never been interested in a woman, and now you're doing these stupid things for a Christian girl. I'm starting to think she's a witch or something," he joked again, bursting into loud laughter.
"Anyway, that girl is quite pretty, I don't believe she's still a virgin... surely she's already slept with some lad over there," mentioned one of the guards who was close to Tyr. He was about to burst into loud laughter until Thorkell punched him, causing him to fall to the ground.
"Don't you dare talk nonsense about her, you useless," Thorkell growled as he kicked the guard's face forcefully.
"If she comes out of your mouth again, I'll knock out all your teeth, got it?"
Tyr grabbed Thorkell to prevent more blows, smirked mockingly, and looked at Thorkell.
"You see what I mean? You're more aggressive than usual, and it's because of that girl."
TW: Violence, murder, generally bad things, implied non/con, no explicit smut but heavy Non/con groping!!, discussion of sexual slavery, mention of cannibalism, Christian elements but it is because I am and I am less afraid of stuffing up Christian stuff than other religions. If you are uncomfortable with any of that move on This man is not nice. Pet names: little mutt, little one and little lamb. Let me know if I missed anything let me know
ALPHABET HERE
Also, I tried to do Gn but as I am a woman, I automatically write with a female reader in mind. But!!!!! I have tried my very best to not mention gender. If something doesn't work please tell me. Reader discretion is advised! Also, I hope I don't need to say this but I will just in case, I do not condone these sorts of actions!!! Or any actions in any of my work. This is pure fiction. Also, all my OCs and the reader are over the age of 18+. and I'm not gonna add google translate because that takes forever and you guys won't even be able to read it so he conveniently speaks the same language as the reader.
Notes: Aaaaa! I have 21 followers! You guys are absolutely amazing! I never thought anyone would want to read my stuff let alone like and reblog. This doesn't take place in any place in particular, if anything I heavily rely on the climate of my home. I was though heavily influenced by Vikings and their nordic culture of that time, however, I had originally planned to make the oc a barbarian of sorts and not a Viking. But my inspiration dive into Pinterest left me with Vikings so here we are. I might write a nomadic barbarian fic later on cause I do see them as quite different in my mind but it depends where this goes, I usually write the notes and triggers before I start writing as a way of planning my thoughts so it might change halfway through.
Also the climatic event in the beginning, in my mind, is the cause of a volcanic eruption somewhere on earth, there was a year of just constant winter due to a massive eruption a few centuries ago and I wanted to include that and showcase how superstitious the people of this time were, seeing the winter as a foreshadowing of terror. And hell they were right.
It was far too early in the season for the cold winds to be here. Your father pretended to not be frightened but you could see it in his eyes. There was a fear lingering. You could hear your parents whispering in worry when they thought you were asleep. You could hear your mother sob as they discussed what it could mean. Your homeland was one of sun and thunder, but never frost, never snow. Yet, a chill had descended onto your lands. A frost had spread across the summer grass. Your bare feet crunched upon what should have been dried pasture, instead, they were chilled by a wicked frost. The sun that you would curse for its harsh warmth was now hidden behind constant grey clouds and you begged for it to return. The floods and storms you ragged against never came. No seasonal thunderstorms after the humidity of the day. There was just darkness. Travellers and merchants from far-off lands, journeying to the capital came through your village, speaking of the darkness that had spread. It seemed like no kingdom or empire was safe. The frost and darkness had come for all.
The first omen of their arrival was the frost itself. It seeped into everything and made the ground as solid as rock, the summer pastures shrivelled up and left nothing but dirt behind.
The second omen was the famine. The harvest failed and the livestock starved. Your father was forced to sell the heifers and cows and slaughter all calves and steers to provide for your family. Still, it wasn't enough. You heard gruesome tales of far-off villages butchering each other for scraps of meat from their bones. Your village was lucky, the sea still provided as much as it could.
The third omen was the dragons. Firey images in the night sky, leaving streaks of light hanging in the air. As soon as they appeared men cried out and women fell to their knees. It was a sign of a terror to come.
The final omen was a raven.
The skies had begun to clear and the winter rains had soothed the harsh scars left behind. Crops had been sown and the frost retreated in the face of the reappeared sun. You had all thought that the struggles of the last few months were over. Your father had been able to buy a cow with calf last week with money you made weaving baskets. She was a skinny thing even with the calf in her belly, but with the winter rain healing the land, you could see her regaining strength.
You had thought it was a crow when you first saw it. It did seem to be a bit bigger than the crows that waited patiently for your fish scraps by the pier. But you had never seen a raven before, so why think anything of it. It had flown in from the sea, flew over the village before fixing its gaze on your mother's garden. Your mother prized her garden, especially her roses, and had cried bitter tears when the frost killed the flowers, leaving thorny masses behind, but they had begun to regrow, leaving your families house surrounded by a beautiful arrangement of daisies and violas, butterfly pea flowers and lilacs. You had your favourites of course. In fact, you were picking them right now, happy to make a bouquet for your ancestors' burial place. As you were sitting and deciding which flowers to choose, the raven landed beside you, you watch in amazement as it plucked a flower from your hand and rose into the air and back towards the sea. Standing up with a giggle you chased after it in play until you reached your property's fence. You watched until it was nothing but a black dot in a sky of blue. If you had known what it had foreshadowed you would have wrung its neck.
They themselves came in the night.
They landed on the beaches and in silence drifted into town. Axes drawn and blood-hungry. The first death was the blacksmith. He was stumbling from the inn, stomach filled with ale. He saw them first, and let out a cry of warning, but it did not save him from a dagger sliding across his throat. The killer let out a howl. His comrades followed. The screams began.
You had lost sight of your mother in the smoke of the burning village. Fire ragged towards the heavens. The smell of charcoal and blood ravaged your senses. The yelling and screaming were just a constant now. Like how a bird song drifts into the background. You stood immobile calling for your mother, begging her to reveal herself. Out of habit, you called for your father, but you were harshly reminded that dead men can't answer. You watched as the savages ripped men to the ground and let blood flow. They hadn't noticed you yet it seemed. A lone wraith shaking in the centre of town. In the centre of all the murder and mayhem. For a moment you thought you were dead. That the arrow your father had taken for you had indeed struck you and now you were wandering the mortal realm alone and afraid until St Peter called for you.
Your eyes reached towards the heavens and you began to beg for the angels to pluck you from this horror. Your arms wrapped around yourself as tears flowed down your soot-covered cheeks. You were broken from your prayers when you heard your name being called, your mother perhaps? Your eyes rushed to find her. No, you can't see her. But it was enough to have you moving towards the darkness and away from the light of the fire. With your arms still holding you tight, you began to stumble towards the outskirts of town. Once in the fields outside town, you could hide. Wait till they grew bored of your village and left in their ships to torment another village. You were reminded of a time when you were fearful of the dark. But now it was your salvation. Tripping over your feet you struggled to remain standing, leaning on the walls of yet-to-be-destroyed houses and holding onto the rungs of fences. You kept rushing forward, eyes onto the safety of darkness. You were close, only a few more steps.
A beast emerged from the darkness. His face burned with the light of the fire, and his axe shined with delight. His furs were matted with blood and encompassed his shoulder. His arms were bare save for strips of leather circling them. There was blood on his arms and hands as well, dripping onto the handle of his axe and onto the dirt below. You stood still, hoping perhaps you were dead. That he would just pass by and you could remain nothing more but a spirit. If death was without pain you would prefer it to the horrors the beast in front of you was capable of. His face was marked with blood, lines travelling over his forehead and down through his eyes. His eyes flickered with hunger and his mouth was turned up into a grin. He stood feet wide as if he was ready to battle, but his hand was loose on the axe, allowing it to dangle from his palm. He saw no threat in you.
A strange mix of sounds came from his mouth, while his voice was rough and stern, his words were lyrical and filled with rounded sounds and quick sharp notes. It left you confused and almost enchanted, like a deer in the gaze of a hunter.
His voice stopped and his eyes drifted down and then up. He gave a deep laugh at the site of your cowering.
"Come little mutt, stand tall" he chuckled with amusement. You whimpered at the sight of him, a beast of a man denying your freedom. He began to march towards you his axe swinging in his hold. You try to take steps back but he is quicker. You yelp as he pushes you towards a wall, his thick forearm resting against your neck as he peers down at you. You could see the scars littering his face and could smell the stench of blood dominating his body. You could feel the warmth of the blood from his arm smearing all over your neck and chest. You hated to think whose blood it once was.
"Little mutt has no teeth huh? What about claws? hm?" he questioned, joy in your torment in his eyes.
"If I was to fuck you now would you fight me? Would you claw at me or bite at my fingers?" he laughed at your obvious fear. He brought his head down to your neck and sniffed loudly. You cringed as his nose met your skin.
"You smell sweet little mutt. I wonder if you taste just as good"
you struggled as his tongue run up your neck, tears tumbling down your cheeks.
"As sweet as honey!" he cheered. His forearm dug into your neck further as you struggled to escape. He began to shush you, giving out soothing sounds like you would a crying baby as his body stepped forward to meet yours.
" Please don't kill me" you choked, eyes red with fear.
"Never little one!" he bellowed, his face of mock hurt. "Why would I kill you? hm?" he comforted, releasing his arm if only by a fraction. "You will fetch me a high price at the slave markets, little lamb. Men will go mad trying to buy you for their beds" he grinned, showing off his sharp canine teeth. You struggled once more, this time clawing at his arm and chest.
"So the little mutt has claws! Maybe I will keep you for myself. Use you to warm my cock. Would you like that little one?" he teased, he moved his face closer, his tongue darting out to catch the tears on your cheek.
" Get off me" you grunted, desperately trying to remove his arm. he teased you by feigning pity.
"Poor little lamb, you must be so scared. Trapped by a beast like me" he cooed, pushing his arm further into your skin. You watched as his eyes drifted to your chest below his arm. He dropped the axe in his other hand to the ground, it falling flat with a light thud. He looked you in the eyes once more. You could see mischief in them.
"I am torn between keeping you for my bed slave and making a small fortune on another man's desires. Let me see your wares and then I shall decide" he sang, his grin reaching higher and higher with each word. You could only watch in horror as his hands reached for the front of your night smock and ripped it. You tried to grab his wrists but he was too strong. In a mere moment, your smock lay tattered on the ground and you stood bare in the night air. His eyes drank you in, and his hands drifted over your body. He gripped tightly in some places and softly in others. Blood from his hands was left smeared all over you, like rivers on a map. His eyes found yours once more and glee was evident on his face.
"I have decided little mutt. You shall warm my bed and most importantly me" he proclaimed, laughing at the end. "I am to be your master and you the little mutt at my heels. But first, let me dull those claws, hm?"
You stood arms covering yourself confused at his words. You had no claws to dull.
You gave a shriek as he began to drag you into the darkness. His hand was tight against your wrists. You tried to use your body weight to stop him, but it only ended with you falling to the ground and him dragging you through the dirt. You screamed and kicked, shouted and cried. He just laughed.
The dirt turned to soft grass as released you from his grip. You shot up to your bare feet, only to be thrown to the ground and a foot thrown on your stomach.
"I admire your fight little mutt, but as your master, I cannot in good conscious allow you to disrespect me. it would not be natural." he cooed at you, his hair falling into his eyes. You choked out a sob at the thought of what he planned to do. You were both far enough from the town your screams would not be heard and you were both hidden by lush pasture. You began to pray, your words drowning in sobs.
"Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kin-"
"Enough!" shouted, falling onto his knees above you, a dagger glinting in his hand.
"Keep your God, fine, but do not expect kindness from me when you beg for his mercy" he sneered. You watched in terror as the dagger raced towards your head, only for it to land safely in the soil next to you.
"Now little lamb moan sweetly for me, will you?" he smiled, his grin one of filth. You lay there looking up at him in fear. "I said moan" he barked, his hand reaching for your throat. You gave him what he wanted, although it was tarnished by your terror.
"Like the music of the gods" he praised. He removed his hand from your throat and brought both to your knees, lifting them up and slotting himself in between them.
"Look at you little mutt, shaking and cowering in fear and yet I haven't even fucked you yet. You Christians are strange folk. If you knew of pleasure you would be moaning on my cock by now. You yourself would have begged for it. Begged for me to fuck your tight little hole on the ashes of your ho-" you slapped him with a furry. A rage releases from you, with you reaching for the dagger beside your head. His hand reached for yours first and punished it with his strength. He gave off a terrifying laugh as you were forced to drop the knife and he quickly threw it behind him.
"Maybe you aren't a little mutt but a little wolf instead. That fire in you will warm my cock and balls for years to come. But first, let me break you in"
You really did wish that arrow had found its mark in you.
This makes me think of a pair of Viking princes/royalty who went with their father to make negations with a village across a fjord/ocean/waterwell
The princes met the lord’s daughter and they spent the following days/weeks playing together like they were best friends. After the deal went sour and the princes were torn away, a tense relationship formed and neither the Viking settlement or the village across the fjord/ocean/waterwell were willing to bend
When reader grows up and its her duty to marry a man to take over responsibility she finds the man putrid and unfitting. She pleads for someone, anyone to intervene to stop the marriage she doesn’t want
The princes take the opportunity to start a war with the village after being threatened by her future husband, and lay siege to the village. They take it under control and kill the men they need to while sparing the women and children
As a Spoil Of War the two princes take the lord’s daughter as their prize and their future bride/queen, as they’re rightfully allowed to do
You were sitting down inside the women treatment room. The hairdressers were steaming your hair and brushing it. While the nail artists were painting your toes to your favorite color after grooming them.
That was your routine once a week. And that routine would include being interrupted by....
The door bursted open to none other than Prince Amleth. The spoiled son of the Raven King. You sighed. He was early today. He must have woken up before the usual.
The blonde boy grinned mischievously and ran to you before yanking a strand of long hair.
"Leave me be!" You screeched.
"My father is here. He wants all allies to attend the feast."
"I will not attend." you sat back down on your seat.
Prince Amleth frowned. "Why is that?"
"I do not wish to be gluttonous."
You could care less of dieting. You were scared of the King's mean brother. Fjoolner. The way he would stare at you...
You knew what he was thinking. That old man.
"As Prince, I order you to come." Amleth frowned.
You looked at him. Then lowered your eyes.
Smirking at your submission, the young boy left.
That kid will be the death of you. He was five years younger than you but acted like an elder. He would pinch you whenever and bite you like a cat. No doubt he will be a good Viking.
Vikings. You hate them. Rude conquerors. You frowned. You hoped you were not to marry one.
There were rumors Fjoolner wanted to marry you when you grow older. You hoped that was a lie.
You arrived at the dinner party, you paid respects to the Queen and King. You of course saw Prince Fjoolner staring. Gulping, you bowed to him. He seemed pleased. "A well mannered girl who was born to poverty has the grace of a Queen. What lucky man is to be your husband."
"I don't wish to marry, sir." You shrugged.
Fjoolner cocked his head to the side. "Why so?"
"I hate Vikings."
Fjoolner chuckled. "You want a man of gentle nature like yourself?"
You nodded. Fjoolner threw his head back and laughed which made the others join. He ruffled your hair then walked passed you.
The Raven King heard it all. He gave you a gentle smile. "By Odin, I will pray you get a husband who will treat you like a Queen of glass."
"Thank you, King."
"Name!"
You turned to see Prince Amleth. He was dressed to his best. If it was not for his attitude. He looked like an Angel. You didn't believe in Odin but (religion) you doubted Amleth would know what an angel was.
You smiled back. Amleth saw and felt his cheeks redden. He grabbed your hand. "Dine next to me."
What is the worse to happen?
After the feast was finished. Prince Amleth walked next to his father down the halls. The Queen went to sleep.
"Father, I want to marry Name!"
The King looked down and smiled. "Yes. Name would complete you. I never had daughters. I want her to join the family."
"When?"
"Tomorrow night. I will make you a man. Then the wait will be over."
Fjoolner hid in the shadows. His jaw clenched. His plans must change sooner. For your sake to be his instead of his spoiled nephew.
author's note. you are 18 and amleth is underage. you will not romance with him till years later
❛ pairing | ivar x reader, past!freydis x ivar (not in this chapter)
❛ type | multi
❛ summary | he doesn't know when to shut up.
❛ tags | sperm donor fic, general argumentative banter between characters, new characters appear, "fat" talk, Ivar being a bit of an ass,
❛ sy’s notes | hi everyone! i've lost my tag list for some reason, so I've tagged a few people.
There are 621 sperm donors at his company.
Therefore, 621 choices to choose from. If Maoise thought he was spying, on what he loathes to think is you, there are still 620 other choices in the company. 254 have blue eyes like his. Besides, he doesn’t really know which company you went with. As you sat there, looking up at the waiter with eyes too kind for any other man, he reminded himself of that.
“What’re you looking at?” you’d snap.
He glances at you behind his rounded sunglasses, dark with the morning light. He’d chew on his lip, searching for the right answer to your unfortunate question. “Why is it that when other men talk to you, you act like an angel? When I do, you’re a bitch.”
“Such a gentleman,” you quip back. You sit a moment, and think because your eyes quiver as you look off to the distance. Then, biting your lip, you sigh. “It’s how I keep up with you.”
“Me?” he’d prod.
“You’re not exactly the kindest boss in town that I could choose from.”
Not the kindest, but he had the most well paid employees. He knows that much. It’s likely the only reason you’re here with the stress he puts you over. The level of his bullshit hadn’t rose above the benefits and pay he gave you.
“Then if I was like him,” he began, crossing his arms over his chest. He watches your eyes settle over his arms, the watch glimmering on his wrist, before continuing. “You’d talk that pretty to me?”
“I never said that.”
“Why not?” he prompts.
“Why are we talking about this? Aren’t you going to interview Hvitserk today? Shouldn’t we review that instead?”
“Why? So you can ask what shade of blue he uses in his watercolors?”
“Then you wonder why I don’t talk to you.”
Ivar doesn’t man to be an ass, but it comes rather quickly as the only cripple in the middle of a band of brothers. He bites his lip and folds his arms over one another.
“He’s bringing a girl.”
“I thought he was hopelessly and happily single. Another toy?”
He was. Or, could be, between his fuckbuddy moments. “No. She’s been his friend for years. She’s special.”
Hvitserk was truly fucked. You seem to catch on rather well to what he meant; the sort of best friend that was a soul mate. Fortunate for an idiot ass illustrator like his brother.
“A Playboy has a soulmate. And here I can’t even find a date.” You sigh, a rare admittance of frustration other than heels. “I have a career.I thought I was pretty, I— have i put on too much weight? Am I that ugly?”
“You’re far from it.” He wonders why you need that positive affirmation, but doesn’t question it, eyeing your lips for their next motion.
You smile. Then glide your hand over the slight bump that was your belly, small and swollen with the growing bud. Ivar slips off his sunglasses. Hvitserk’s interview was a non-issue, but watching your hand caress your belly, was. He detests how much he likes to watch you stroke your belly, as if the fullness of the child gave you comfort that you’d soon feel much less alone. Ivar hums.
“You like it.”
“Hm?” you’d ask.
“Being pregnant.”
You flush. The softest smile that spreads over your face when the waiter delivers your food. Then his-- some fruit on hard bread-- because for the life of him, he can’t have you throwing up on the job. A meatless breakfast it is.
“Shut up, Ivar.”
It’s cute when you’re embarrassed.
If Maoise is good for anything, its making other fat visitors comfortable.
The last interview of the day was his brother— and his best friend, a pathetically infatuated and insecure girl, who needs all the help she can get. She stares at you shuffling about in a tiny skirt and skinny heels as if she wanted to be you. Ivar wouldn’t blame her. It may be all in her head, but its an image of her body she can’t shake free. So he rocks the waters. Just a bit.
“You love fat women. You’re my brother. I know these things. Just the other day you were asking for my assistant’s number, weren’t you?”
Ivar knows how to piss Hvitserk off. The love of Hvitserk’s life looks up, Hvitserk’s heart stops, Ivar’s successful when Hvitserk tells him off. Then, of course, because no good deed goes unpunished, he hears your voice over his intercom.
Stop it.
He’d glance off to the side if you weren’t staring him dead in the face, the picture of irritation, or hurt. He does the one thing he knows will calm you, throwing up his hands in surrender, not to his dipshit, lovesick, horny brother-- but you. You’re steaming when the set is wrapped up, heels stomping rather than clicking.
It’s good that he’s in trouble. It reminds him of being a married man.
After the interview, he knows where you’ll be. Maoise and you will surely be spreading out the catering over a long conference table. He pushes into the room, and unlucky him, Maoise speeds out at that exact second. “Sorry Mr. Ragnarsson, I have to go-- um, um, see Mr. Hvitserk. I think his girlfriend might need me!”
It’s a bullshit lie if he’s heard one.
In truth, you slam plates with remarkable force onto the table. He sheds his suit jacket and rolls up his sleeves, hobbling on his crutch to help you. Or, that was, until you put your hand up before him.
“I don’t need help.”
He could think about a hundred things to say that would have been better than what comes out of his mouth. “You’re angry?”
You ignore him at first.
“What is it now?” he stops you. “Is it because I called her fat?”
You rear back your hand back, catching his cheek with your palm in a cold slap. His jaw clicks, meeting with the hardwood floor. The pain pulses, achy and raw, as you catch yourself strutting awkwardly away. Ankles throbbing, because he knows the thin heels hurt your feet, any man worth his weight would.
“I told you to stop.”
You slapped him.
The realization settles on his shoulders as you gather your things and walk out the doors. Ivar was known to be crass on his show. It normally wasn’t an issue.
“Um— Mr. Ragnarsson sir? Your brother and— and?” Maoise chirps, her fingers curled around the wooden door. Ivar rubs the rawness of his cheek, nodding affirmatively to Maoise. His skin is inflamed, but he rubs it off in some pathetic attempt to act like it was all okay.
“Let them come in.”
“And Ms…?”
“She’s pouting,” he sighs, “This pregnancy has her out of her mind.”
“It— it might be because you called her fat. On air. In front of your entire audience?”
It shouldn’t hit him like a double-decker bus on his trips to England, but it does. Full, not fat, was the word he was looking for. But even so, why were you so fearful of fat? Maoise was fat— and she was cute in her own eccentric way. As much as he hates to say it. He looks back at her. She’s whirling her hands around her glittery blue skirt, that nervous tic she does when she’s all alone with him.
“Let him know I can’t make it.”
He snatches his suit jacket and limps out the door, setting his large palm on her shoulder for just a second. She jumps up, giggling through her words because she’s Maoise.
“Yes, sir!”
It’s not hard to find you. He’s your boss, after all, and he has your address. He’s never been at your apartment. His fist hovers about the door, unsure whether to knock or call, but he decides if you’re upset, you’d be less likely to answer his calls. Everything is done for the day, after all, and he’s pretty sure you won’t accept an invitation to go eat after all he’s done.
He knocks, but it’s not you who answers the door. Standing there is a blonde-haired man, whose golden hair drapes over one of his eyes, tattoos plastered across his cheeks. Despite his appearance, he has a calming effect. Ivar’s not sure if that’s good or bad. He reminds himself that you lamented about not having a man. So, then, who was this?
“Halfdan, who is it?”
He recognizes the other voice at once.
“It’s Ivar. Ah, hello.”
He knows his name. Well, it should not be much of a surprise, he is a local celebrity. He steps aside without another word, and Ivar steps forward, his feet failing him a moment. The other man secures him upright— and though he wants to hide something nasty— he recognizes the man and connects it to the voice he’d just heard moments ago.
“You might as well be here, too.” He adjusts his crutch and offers him his hand. “It’s been a while, Harald.”
Harald grips his hand securely and shakes it. Then, whirling around grips Ivar’s shoulder in what he can only identify as an awkward bro-hug. He knows Ivar hates hugs. It’s just a way of moving him into the home. Everything is soft. White fabrics and pale brown detailing. It’s crisp, clean, and does not go with the two men who snatched him by the shoulders.
“You look surprised to see me, brother!”
“I hate it when you call me that,” Ivar tells Harald. “I don’t even like my own brothers.”
The front door claps shut. Ivar bites back the beginning of an agitated sigh, moving toward the kitchen where Halfdan had already jogged back to. He slips on a frilly white apron and finally looks as ridiculous as his haircut.
“I didn’t know you knew her.”
“We’ve known her our whole lives,” Halfdan interjects.
“How is that?” Ivar regrets asking. “Childhood friend?”
Harald finally releases him to go into your fridge. He snatches a beer for Ivar, taking his off the table, and pops it open. Ivar takes it without pause and clinks his beer against Haralds. Harald speaks gruffly. “She’s our sister.”
It’s not too late for him to spin around, make his way out, and never admit this again. Even if he did, he knew Harald. The man may like calm, what with his long brown braid, and steady strong hands. But he is a complete and utter trick-- you would know he was there. You’d know he pussied out like a bitch. And you would definitely know that he knew all about them and still bitched out.
He brings the beer to his lips. “Huh. You don’t say.”
“Surprised?” Harald asks.
“Nope,” he says, like a liar, because he’s lying. Halfdan can even tell-- making the smallest of noises as he cuts through what looks to be chicken and asparagus. If he was betting, Halfdan was the cook and Harald was the eater. The talker. All of the above. “I’m going ahead and guessing that you’re here for the baby.”
