TW: Berserking Hvitserk, Mention of Child Death, Violence, Character Death
The gods give, the gods take away.
Wise words said at a time where Hvitserk was not ready for them. He had been away, loosening his braids in favor of a long slicked back look as he grieved bitterly. You didn't have a hair out of place.
You were still a beautiful mess. You swept the great hall in a gorgeous aqua blue dress, strands laced tight and beautiful waterfall sleeves accentuating a whimsical appearance. Pretending that every night, you did not roll on your side to gaze at an empty bassinet. Or acting like there wasn't a wall built up between Hvitserk and you. Hvitserk was nursing a blaring headache over a pitcher of ale, resting his head upon folded arms.
"Is he asleep?" Voices of those finishing their ale say.
"Must be. Poor fuck." Another Viking says. "I's not everyday a King loses a son."
Definitely talking about him. Hvitserk's hand still drapes over his pitcher of booze, ignoring the bread of sweet nut and fruit you attempt to lay by his head.
"Not everyday a man has a fucking kitten of Freyja in his bed either."
Behind his arm, his eyes pop back open. The bags under his eyes puff, red eyes taking in your sight as you walk back to gingerly weave some sort of beautiful blanket. Your hips spill over the chair, long hair braided along the side and curling neatly in small little curls down to your drastically widened hips. The men chide too, clanking their cups together.
"Yeah ha." A Viking rasps in rich little huffs. "She's filled out real nice. Don't think he's been drinking her milk up either. Her breasts are looking big."
His hand clenches tight.
"Forget the tits, that ass can barely sit on that stool. That's the best part!"
Hvitserk watches as your head snaps in the direction of the Vikings, only to be caught by one abruptly standing by the scooting of the bench. In his view he can only see your hand coming to your breast, trying your best to ignore them but the words are just too much. Hvitserk's fingers flicker.
"You know what I would do if she was my wife!" Says a strong voice. "Quit mopin' like a boy, grow some balls, bend her over and fill her back up like a husband ought to. That's what I'd do!"
The old man takes a step forward– towards where you were clenching your tapestry beater tight in your fist. You slip off of your stool, standing and beckoning back wordlessly. The drunkard sloshes forward, as unsteady as the liquidous ale in his cup.
"Ain't that right baby? Your husband is actin' like a bitch. I bet if he just asked you would bend over nice and spread that fat ass out for him."
"I..." You slide on the other side of the tapestry, fingers slipping away from the heavy frame to the space where Hvitserk kept the other weapons. Just as you grip your hand around a sword you are cut off.
The shrill yell from your husband's lips cuts that sentence shut. If you had any articulated thoughts, you no longer do. He fists the handle of the axe, launching it from its place beside his head clearly across the room, embedding with a nasty crack and a wet spritz of blood all over the neat tapestry you work on.
You're momentarily shocked in place, not forgetting that Hvitserk was there as he launches himself over the table, darting out toward the offending group of Vikings with the sword kept religiously at his hip. A group of unprepared older men leave no real challenge for Hvitserk, crunching his blade into the stomach of one after another, after another. Disgusting fleshy pops burst through the room as you watch behind a tapestry. Unable to look but in the same breath, unable to look away as the viscous blood coats the heavy tables.
When you finally do escape from behind the tapestry, it's to a repetitive hack! Hack! Hack! Hvitserk bursts through the men's throats, separating head from body in each person. Then abruptly he spins around, dropping his splattered sword with a clatter. You take a warring step back.
"Hvitserk I didn–" Before you can finish, his lips cup over your own with a bruising eagerness. Hvitserk thrusts his arm behind your shoulders, pulling you in tight. He tastes of irony blood, the sweat he shed in his assault and liquified lust that boils over. Hvitserk drops down, thrusting your skirts over your ass, then higher to strip you of the dress in front of the thralls that rush to clean up the bloody corpses.
"My husband–" You try to intervene on whatever thought that Hvitserk was having. A million like you maybe? What happened just now? With these foreign men so intent on claiming a piece of you that they would take their chances on talking to their Queen in such a way?
Hvitserk shoves you back onto a wooden table, cracking your head when you realize that Hvitserk's normally playful eyes are limpidly dark, catching your wrists above your head. "They thought they would claim you." He finally presses his fingers against your clit, fingers pressing down hard against your clit in an unprepared action that has your legs knocking tightly together. You squeal softly as he immediately begins to pleasure your body, smacking your moistening entrance with a blood hand.
Then Hvitserk loosens his pants, fisting his cock to press his tip against your hole. With a small barking shout, he presses in hard and deep. The pace is brutally quick, replacing his hand on your hips to drag you onto his cock like a doll. He uses you like one of his thralls, fucking himself deep with every thrust. You gasp under him for some air but none comes to you with him pounding you so richly that even the heavy table was quaking.
"Hvitserk, Hvitserk calm down." You tug at his hands.
"They thought they would take you from me!" He shouts loud enough that the walls are nearly weeping out. You could have too, if not for your shock in his words. He had been gone. He can tell that's what you were thinking.
You thought he no longer loved you.
