A belated tattoo!lock/Viking AU birthday fic for mollyandherjumper over on tumblr. Sorry this took me so long, hope you like it!

Notes: The title (Skógarhunang) translates to "Wild Honey". Also, I've decided to only modify one person's name for this story and pretend that the modern versions would have been exactly the same in the year AD 950 as they are now. I hope that doesn't detract from the fun. :)


She was tending to her bees when it happened; one minute she was carefully removing a dripping honeycomb from the hive of bees she'd put into a smoke-induced stupor, and the next a large hand had clamped itself over the lower part of her face, effectively smothering her cry of alarm. As she fought to free herself, kicking backwards and slinging the honeycomb in the direction of her attacker's face (and missing wildly, she would later discover, much to her chagrin), a second hand and the tattoo-covered arm to which it was attached clamped onto her body, pulling her snug to the lean, hard form of the man who'd accosted her.

Struggle though she tried, Molly couldn't free herself from the stranger's grip. She knew it wasn't one of the villagers or even a lad from one of the nearby freeholds; none of them would dare, and besides, intricate series of dark blue tattoos covering the bare arm were done in Nordic symbols she recognized from her father's lessons.

A Viking. She was being dragged – carried now, as easily as if she were a child – into the woods by a Viking. Still she struggled, kicking as best she could with her skirts to hamper her, trying to free her arms from the iron grip that held her, all to no avail. In the end it made no difference; Molly of the Hooper clan was going wherever this barbarian raider was taking her.

Which, as it turned out (and much to her confusion) was only as far as the clearing where she normally gathered several of the healing herbs she dried and used when her father's breathing became labored. She'd expected her captor to double back to the coast, to drag her off to a life of slavery on some foreign shore, but all he did now was lower her to her feet, still holding her tightly against his body. She shivered a bit, heart in her throat as he leaned down to whisper harshly, his breath warm on her ear, "Scream and I'll slit your throat, do you understand me?"

She nodded, holding her breath as he released his grip on her face. She had only a moment to realize he'd spoken Gaelic rather than Norse before he released his tight hold on her body, only to take her wrist in one hand and adroitly spin her about to face him.

Molly looked up – and up – to gape at the man who'd taken her captive. The first thing she noticed was his eyes, the curious cat-like slant to them and the irises that seemed to shift between stormy blue and icy green as she stared at him. Then the rest of his features came into focus, and if she'd been breathless with fear before, now she was utterly entranced at the sight of the single most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on.

He was tall, towering over her petite form, and his full lips formed a perfect Cupid's bow that she longed to trace with her fingers. His head was topped by a mass of dark curls, somewhat longer in the front and shorter in the back in the Norse fashion, and his cheekbones were sharp enough to cut, defining his elegant face in a way that made her heart beat faster. And oh, he was young, surely not much older than she was; he was tall and muscular, but lean and hard, clad in muted shades of blue and brown, his bare arms – both of them – covered in the same intricate series of blue-inked tattoos that she'd noticed when he first grabbed her.

"Wh-what do you want with me?" she stammered as he simply stared at her. Her eyes moved from his tattoos – which traveled over his shoulders and disappeared under his tunic, causing her to wonder how much of his body was inked in this way – to look up at the tops of the trees as she belatedly realized that his presence meant trouble for more than just her. She neither saw nor smelled any smoke, nor did she hear anything other than the quiet birdsong and rustling of the wind, no matter how she strained her ears, but her heart beat hard in her chest at the thought of her family and fellow villagers falling to harm.

"This isn't a raid, I'm part of a small scouting party. Your village isn't worth our time, trust me."

The brutal honesty of his words stung even as she felt a wave of relief wash over her. She was still personally in danger – that short sword at his hip wasn't for show! – but at least she didn't have to worry about anyone else, her best friend Mary or her father or any of the others. Either the relief or the hurt pride caused her to say, "Then what are you scouting for? Mushrooms?"

"Bees, actually," he replied – then did a double-take as he realized she'd spoken in Norse. "Who taught you our tongue?" he demanded, leaning his head down to study her face more closely. "There's none of our blood in you, and no signs that anyone in your village has been farther than the market town down the coast." He frowned, then lifted her hands and examined her fingers. "Ink stains." His gaze turned incredulous as he met her eyes. "You can write?"

"And read," she said, tugging her hands free of his grip – but being careful to make no other moves, seeing the tension in his shoulders as his gaze flicked over her, the way his hand moved automatically to hover over the hilt of his sword. "My father taught me."

"How to read and write or how to speak my language?" the handsome stranger demanded.

"Both, all three. And how to do my sums as well," Molly added tartly. She folded her arms across her chest and gave him a challenging stare. "Which of those can you do, besides speaking Norse?"

"I speak seven languages and can read in four of them," he replied, waving a hand dismissively. "My mother's a scholar, Frankish, taken captive and sold to my father for a good price when she was about your age." He gave her a wolfish grin, and Molly felt her mouth go dry at the sight as her heart began to pound in her chest once again. "Luckily for both of them – and for my brothers and I – they managed to fall in love in spite of what I've been told was a rather rocky first meeting."

"I'm sure," Molly said faintly. She swallowed and clutched at her upper arms. "Are you – is that what you're going to do to me? S-sell me into slavery?" The stutter was back, but she couldn't help it; she'd allowed herself to be distracted by the stranger's ethereal good looks and unexpected erudition, but her situation was still precarious at best. Then her brain caught up with the answer he'd given to her first – no, her second – question and she found herself once again staring at him. "Wait, did you say you were scouting for…bees?"

He nodded impatiently. "Yes, bees, studying different ways people keep them. No, not selling you into slavery…" His lips curved in a wicked smile as he deliberately looked her up and down. "Unless that's something you'd like?"

Goosebumps erupted on her flesh at the honest interest in his eyes; no one had ever looked at her like that before, not here, not in the market town he'd correctly deduced as being the farthest she'd ever traveled from home, not from any of the outlying farms or smaller villages nearby. She was considered too odd, too awkward and gawky, not pretty enough to catch anyone's eye. But somehow she'd caught this handsome barbarian's eye, and even if it was only for her bees…but no. Not with the way he was maintaining eye contact. Not with the simmering heat that made her knees weak with an emotion very different to fear.

For the first time in her short life, Molly understood what the other girls whispered about after meeting their sweethearts in the haylofts or in secluded forest glens just like this one. Understood it, and wanted it with a passion that startled her. Without thinking about consequences, she lunged forward, grabbed the tall young man by the shoulders, and drew him down for a clumsy, but thoroughly heated, kiss.