Dirty Trick [ Hvitserk x Reader ]

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | the reader requests something from her friend for the high feast of spring.

❛  warnings | light jealousy

❛ sy’s notes | written for @bloedwraak with these filled: Do you want me to show you? Can I kiss you? and That’s the last thing on my mind.

In spring, the freshest of honey is out for the picking. Women are filthy, hungry, fertile things. The men about to set sail. Hvitserk hops around town’s rocky streets on springy feet, when a voice stops him. He whirls about, a smile slapped upon his full cheeks, acknowledging you with a small inclination of his head.

“I need your help for the High Feast. Everyone will begin drinking without care,” you say. Flowers spread around longhouses. Women wore fantastical crowns. Yours was donned in green and a lovely white and yellow, matching your pure white dress. A lovely golden belt rests on your waist. Must have been from England. Someone was going to have a good night.

“I already have,” Hvitserk looks for a leather sack on his belt.

“Hvitserk,” you settle your hands on your round hips, leaning in.

“Sorry. That’s the last thing on my mind. With all these women, and all.” he looks down, then up again, looking as cocky as he first had. “Soo... you needed my help?”

Follow the Outcast || [Hvitserk x Reader]

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | when hvitserk is cast out, she follows

❛  warnings | outcast, what happened to the chickens? 

❛ Requests filled | It looks worse than it is. You don’t want to get involved with me. With this. Do you want me to show you? Can I kiss you? What did they do to you? I’m not most people. You’re safe with me. 

❛  sy’s notes | I made a fix it fic for my queen of fix-its, @lisinfleur . Happy birthday! I hope you don’t mind some angst for a birthday fic. And a better Ubbe!

“Get me beyond the walls,” you cornered Ubbe, the day before he would leave for Iceland. You might never see the man before, and for this, he owed you a great task. 

“He is sick.” Ubbe says, shifting weight from one leg to another. “Most women would not chase a sick man. There are others—“

Poor Hvitserk— thrown out, cast out, sent away. You heard such things of the people of Kattegat. Those who were not blind followers of Björn knew of his pain, were not blind to the plight of Aslaug, and reported those injustices freely to one another. It was fitting that Lagertha died. In your view, she was an old and accomplished Shieldmaiden.  Any other death would have been an insult toward her. 

“I do not want others.” You hiss. “I am not most others. I want him.”