#Ivarr Fanfiction

[erzsebetrosztoczy]

Hey there :) are you currently accepting writing requests and if you are, can we request any Valhalla character 💙

Hello there! Yes I am open for requests - tho my writing speed won't be super fast in the upcoming two month (in december but mostly in january).

Pairing: Ivarr × f!reader

Words: ~ 1400

Genre: angst, fluff

Wanrings: an itty-bitty tiny smut, mention of violence, angst mostly? Idk what i did here honestly

Summary: You and Ivarr are preparing for an upcoming battle.

Notes: it's a bit short, I only had time to write this between my exams sorry⚰️✌️

Your heart sank deeper, pulling it tighter and tighter with the cold strings of the uncertain future, as the more horrific images floated before your eyes every time you dared to close them.

The camp around you was preparing unusually quietly, nowhere to be found the previous night's amusement, drinking and singing, which made the forest roar with life.

The army of thousands of troops that the Ragnarssons had was preparing for the upcoming battle in deathly silence. Grim men were putting their helmets on, sharpening their blades - sparks flaring up now and then, lighting up their dread faces. Staring in front of themselves - they did their work rotely — that either saved them on the battlefield, or betrayed them, finally being able to rest in the halls of Valhalla at the end of their long journey.

You weren’t much different from the men around you. You had the same flesh, the same warm blood flowed in your veins as your fellow warriors. Your bone breaks the same way and your blood spills when the blade strikes. The light in your eyes can die out just as for the other person beside you.

Maybe this will be the last morning you see. The last breath of fresh air you have taken into your lungs, the last birdsong that has accompanied you in preparation until now.

Placing your sword on your knees, you stopped for a moment to gaze at the silver gleam of iron once more, the runes carved along its sheet.

“Courage. Luck. Protection.” Ivarr’s familiar voice came from behind.Taking a deep breath, you staightened in your seat, looking over your shoulder into his eyes.

His gaze was distant, dark orbs flashing from behind his black face paint. Ivarr was already flaunting his full armor, axes neatly tucked into the belt on his hips.

“Do you really believe your runes will help?” He raised an eyebrow, one hand gesturing to the steel in your lap, holding a clay bowl in his right palm.

You answered with a half smile, turning back in front of you, continuing your work. Without further critical notes Ivarr the Boneless circled you, sitting down into the green before you, firmly grabbing your knee.

“Come closer Little Lamb.” With a sigh he waved to you, like an old man, preparing to recite long sagas to the children by the gentle warmth of the fireplace on a cold winter night.

Gently caressing your thighs, Ivarr withdrew his warm touch too soon only to your knees, tracing small circles into your skin with his thumb over the harsh fabric of your breeches.

Your hand stopped in the monotonous movements, you looked up at him curiously.

Inteas of the usual edge, determination and darkness, Ivarr’s deep brown eyes softly fixated on your form. The corner of his eyes relaxed, a warming tenderness emanating from his gaze as he looked up at you.

It was rare when you got to see Ivarr’s softer side; when he showed you his vulnerable side in public. These looks were meant just for you, only for the two of you — when the whole world ceased to exist, and only he mattered to you, and only you to Ivarr.

The dreaded Ivarr the Boneless, leader of grand armies, the demise of kings, the boldest berzerker who ever lived — yet his touch was tender, his gaze full of devotion. love and care as he embraced you, pulled you into his lap and sought your favors.

Your heart stirred, as you looked down at the man in front of you.

Maybe it will be the last time you can see the love in his eyes, the softness of his face — that he can be just as caring as anyone else contrary to the tales.

Your mouth trembled, lips bent into a sour smile, fearful tears will fall at any moment. With a sniff you leant down to him; Ivarr’s strong scent of iron, furr and smoke hitting your nose.

Not long ago you felt his scent just as strongly- it went into your head as you could taste it on your lips, smoother it into your own skin.

It was a dangerous occupation of yours, berzerkers and Jomsvikings life. Placing your very own soul on an unknown stake, against a foreign opponent, in the unpredictable maelstrom of fates.

You had to live in the present for your future has not yet been set in stone, the weavers of fate have not woven the next part of your song.

“There is no tomorrow. Only today what matters. What you do, what you say, what you think.” Ivarr whispered in your ear last night as he guided you onto his bed, spreading your thighs apart with his knees.

“If we want to enter the Gates of the Forever Halls without regret, we must act upon what our heart dictates.” He murmured sweetly, bowing down; soft lips smoothing over your warm skin, teeth nipping into the flesh.

It was rare when he dared to show such vulnerability to you, acting upon his better self; heart wanting nothing more but gentleness and love. It was rare when Ivarr the Boneless wanted to savor his moments with you rather than devouring you whole like a starved beast - now wanting to memorize every curve, every inch of your body, how it moved beneath him, how it felt against his feverish skin, how it tasted in his mouth.

He wanted his last image to be your moans, whispering his name, your mindless pants; cunt wrapped around his aching cock so perfectly, so deliciously for him, only to him.

“Only today is ipmortant.''You repeated. recalling his words to you with a nod. “Just focus on what’s in front of you.” It sounded like you were bagging, as if you tried to warn him.

Your finger slid up on his neck, grazing over his nervously twitching tendons. Running your fingers over his profile under his chin, palms finally came to rest on his stubbled cheeks, cradling his face.

Eyes darting between his chestnut orbs, the well-known mischief glinting in his ireses; liveliness and clarity reflected back at you.

He smiled slyly, sending you a wink; his own hand grabbing your wrist holding his face.

“I always focus on that.” He replied- tone deep and mysterious as he dropped your hands from his face. “And now you are who’s in front of me.” Ivarr stated, bringing up the bowl into your vision, that he held until now.

A dark juice swirled in the small bowl, gray as mud, but the smell reminded you of strong spices and herbs. Ivarr gestured with his chin for you to lift your face, pulling you closer and pressing his waist between your spreaded knees.

Ivarr pressed his index and middle finger into the paint, and holding up your chin with his thumb he placed his painted, cold fingers under your eyes, slowly drawing them down until your jawline, attentive eyes never leaving your own the whole time. You barely took any breath while he repeated the motion on the other side, then making a half circle on your chin. The tip of his nails pressed gently into your nose as he moved his fingers over your lips, as if to silence you for a moment. He connected the lines with the semicircle, turning his attention to your forehead now, beginning to draw more symbols on you.

Not a single word was spoken between you two; yet thousands of feelings raced through your eyes, as you watched silently Ivarr. You wanted to capture his features in your memory as throughly as it was possible — one last time to etch every single wrinkle, scard, and line that dotted his handsome face.

When he was done, Ivarr wiped the remaining paint onto his breeches, leaning back to you, sneaking his palm over your nape.

For a moment your gaze fluttered;the movements sending a chill down your spine, and at the same time filling you with immense calmness. Ivarr was there, by your side, breathing and fighting until he had breathed the last shed of his soul. And that was all that mattered to you. Knowing that your love will be there, by your side. That you will both be there for each other, doing everything in your power to fight and survive.

“Do not leave me.” You wrapped your fingers around Ivarrs wrist, gently tracing his battle scars as you searched for his gaze.

Love, devotion, longing and the thrill of the battle burned in Ivarr.

“Never, my Little Lamb.” He gave a crooked smile. “Not even the Gods can keep me away from you.” He promised.

[hereforreadandwrite]

Chapter four

Masterlist

/!\ Miscarriage/!\

You came back to the longhouse, but you were strange. He knew what you went through was traumatic, but there was something else. You hid your body, covering your loosest clothes, you hid the right side of your face. You refused to look at him and you avoided him. You were hiding from Ivarr. You were hiding something from him and it was starting to annoy him. Ivarr tried to give you space and time, as Ubba and Halfdan advised him to do. They thought that with time to yourself, you would get better, but you still refused to talk to him.

You had refused to speak to him for four moons now.

Four moons since you refused to sleep with him.

You've been avoiding him for four moons.

You had completed several tasks that allowed you to move as much as possible. By Odin, you even agreed to work in the stables as long as you stayed away from Ivarr.

This time he had had enough. Their brothers could go to Helheim with their council. Ivarr was tired of seeing his wife drift away from him and become nothing more than a shadow of herself. Ivarr would go deep into the forest to find you, training you in archery. You drew the string of your bow, letting go of the string to see your arrow go into the ground, far from your target. At the end of your nerves, you threw your bow on the ground. Now that you had lost the use of your right eye, you could no longer aim properly. You had shot around twenty arrows, none of which had touched your target. You drew your axe, throwing it at the target, but like your arrows, it fell on the dead leaves.

“Shit!” you cried, running your hands over your face. "I'm tired of it!”

Ivarr leaned against the tree, watching you pick up your arrows and axe. When you turned towards him, you froze when you saw your companion. You sighed, putting your arrows back in your quiver.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, hanging your axe on your belt.

"I was looking for you. Is that bad?"

“I would have thought you would have gone to fight Bretons or Saxons.”

"The Bretons ran off with the pig's wife and apparently we can't go after the Saxons because of that idiot Bishop and Ceolbert," Ivarr growled.

“Normally, that doesn’t stop you,” you said, turning your back on him to detach your target. “What’s stopping you?”

“My wife stops me.”

You froze when you heard him say that. Was Ivarr worried about you? It was new. You turned to Ivarr. The Boneless looked at you with his gaze that seemed to penetrate your entire being. You swallowed, clutching the target to your chest. Gods, you didn't like it when he looked at you like he did. It always made you lose your means, but with their marks King Rhodri had left you.

You hated them.

You hated your body.

You had several other marks of war, but these showed your helplessness. So you made the decision to hide them. You hid your bruised eye and scars under layers of bandages and hid your body under thick furs. Ivarr lifted himself from the tree, moving closer to you. Your grip tightened, even more, on your target.

"There's something you're not telling me, woman," he said darkly. "What did Rhodri do to you? Did he make you do-"

"No! No, he didn't do anything like that."

"So what happened? What else did he do, (Y/N)?"

What else did Rhodri do?

You didn't want to think about it anymore, that's why you were always moving. You didn't want to think about this event anymore. You looked at Ivarr out of the corner of your eye. Should you tell him? Ivarr growled, spreading his arms, waiting for your response. You bit your lip. You tried to find your words. How could you tell him something like that? Ivarr was a drengr. This sort of thing was not important to a drengr. To die with dignity in combat is the goal of a drengr. Ivarr's objective. He always shouted it loud and clear. He always told you that you would be together in Valhalla, that you would both fight and drink and fuck in the great hall. Maybe you should have focused on that goal.

Maybe... you should have joined Valhalle sooner.

Maybe.

"We are drengr. Our role is to fight and reach Valhalla. That's why we are born. That's why we die. We live for nothing else, " you said, turning to Ivarr. "I repeat that to myself. Day after day. I focus on the most menial tasks to keep my mind occupied and not think about that day and what he did. I...he trampled on him like if he was just a common insect."

“Who did Rhodri step on (Y/N)?”

"Our baby... he... he trampled on him..."

Ivarr looked at you without knowing what to say or what to think. A baby? It was impossible. You never had the build of a pregnant woman. You continued your training as always. You fought against Saxons. You got punched in the stomach. Ivarr ran his hands over his face, pacing as he digested this news.

"How...? When...? You... you weren't pregnant when you were..."

"I was, but I didn't know it. He... he wasn't bigger than that," you said, pointing to the space with your thumb and index finger. "He looked like a larva... but... he was our baby... Rhodri had hit me so hard in the stomach. It hurt so much, but I... I didn't expect to see it. I tried to hide it. I hid it in a piece of cloth. I wanted to bury it. But... Rhodri saw it. He snatched it from me and... he trampled on him like he was crushing a common insect. I... I couldn't do anything. I... I could just watch him trample on him again and again... he didn't care. Nothing was left."

You could no longer hold back your tears as you thought about this scene. You saw again this little thing in your underwear that you hid a piece of fabric. You saw again Rhodri snatching it from your hands to throw it on the ground and stomping on it with rage. You screamed and cried for this child you couldn't bury. You cursed Rhodri for doing what he did.

You were surprised to see Ivarr turn on his heel and walk away from you. Where was he going? Why did he leave you alone?

"Ivarr?! Where are you going?! Ivarr!!"

Ivarr ignored your request. He continued to walk away until he disappeared from your field of vision. You had just lost your husband. Why did you speak? Why did you have to listen to Bishop Deorlaf? You should have kept it all to yourself. You fell to your knees, letting the target fall to the ground. You had nothing left. Were you alone? Not impossible. You must have had a bad dream, didn't you? Yes, that was the only explanation. You manage to get up, picking up your target to return to your tent. You put away your weapons and your target before lying down on your makeshift bed. Exhaustion overwhelmed you, you fell asleep. You didn't have any dreams. No nightmares. But there was nothing restful about this sleep. You didn't know how long you had slept, but you had to wake up to the feeling of someone shaking you and calling your name. You opened your eyes. Your gaze met Ivarr’s. You stood up, looking at your surprised husband. Ivarr had returned.

"Get ready, let's go," he said, standing up.

"Where?" you asked as you stood up, running your hands through your tangled hair. "

At Rhodri's tomb," Ivarr replied grimly.

[midnightlitterateur]

Sweet Aches and Torturous Need - Part 1

Auralie froze. Her sleepy mind, still sluggish from waking, tried inadequately to comprehend the sight that lay before them. Her eyes moved slowly over the naked body of the man that lay sleeping beside her. His muscular, tattooed chest rising and falling with each gentle, ale scented breath. His firm stomach, covered in the tattooed runic language of his people. The…”Oh my Lord!”

She exclaimed under her breath as she averted her gaze from his not quite fully erect manhood. She let out a low whoosh of air, her blushing cheeks burning. It was not that she had never seen a naked man before, she had been married once before, however briefly. It was just…well…she had never seen his before and to have it unexpectedly turn up whilst she was sleeping was quite a shock. How had he even gotten in here without waking her? And why was he naked? Naked! She lifted the corner of the blanket and went to throw it over him but she paused, sneaking one last look at his impressive form. Her blanketed hand slowly lowered as she lost herself. Ivarr looked nothing like her husband had. Thane Osrick had been of the same age as her father, wrinkled and wizened and had died in his sleep mere weeks after their wedding. Ivarr was a warrior, just past his prime but still a solid specimen of a man. A loud snore cut through the quiet morning air bringing her to her senses. “I should do something,” she thought, “But what?” Intrusive thoughts of rampant filth caused another flush of pink across her pale flesh and she smirked wickedly despite her precarious position. She glanced at the lock on the door of her room and bit her lip as she reasoned it out. They were going to be found. There was no way around that. In a very short time the door to her room would open and three bustling ladies in waiting would catch the future King of Mercias daughter in a very compromising position. The old maids would then inform her father and she would be dragged home in absolute disgrace and there was no point arguing her innocence because who would believe her? Auralie slipped out of bed and slid the bolt home before she could change her mind and turned, leaning against the thick wooden door. “It must be what he came here for?” She reasoned with herself “Why else would you come to a woman’s bed in the middle of the night stark bollock naked?” Taking a deep, steadying breath she went back to bed, determined to find out.

Read more here

[heyitsauralie]

Ivarr is an insidious bastard ♥️

He is currently lurking in my drafts.

Gleefully malicious 💋

[the-technicolor-whiscash]

The state of fanfiction for Valhalla is truly abysmal like it feels like 70% of fics are written by reylo diehards who saw the state of All That and was like you know what, let’s make this worse. Let’s have Eivor in an abusive relationship with Ivarr, the guy who makes a living torturing people and who slaughters a child and who is unbearable to be around for any length of time in the game. Like Eivor is by no means perfect but like, they’re relatively chill. Ivarr just sucks all the time and he’s greasy and disgusting and it’s like bestie you don’t have to do this. There’s better murderers you could pick who aren’t constantly lying, cheating, and getting an erotic thrill out of torture.

[underscorewriting]

Destiny | Part two

Ivar Ragnarsson x Reader

Warnings: heated make out, fluff

Part One

1076 Words

The woods were quiet. Peaceful. They hid their beauty between the tall trees. Her breath was going fast, her smile still on her face, she doesn't think it even left, ever since she saw Ivar. The time went by, waiting for him she begun to feel a worry settle in her stomach. What if he wouldn't show up? She'd look like the biggest fool. 

Hearing the leaves rustle around her she released a breath she didn't know she held. As she looked at the prince she saw him walking with his crutch. A frown was on her face, thinking about how uncomfortable it must be for him to walk with it in the woods. "Good morning, my prince." With a smile she bowed her head down slightly. 

Ivar chuckled softly shaking his head. "Even though I do love how it sounds, coming out of your mouth. Just call me Ivar." A blush crept onto her cheeks as she nodded. "I'll remember that, Ivar." She smiled at how his name left her lips. A small smirk was on his face as he watched her reaction to saying his name. 

"So, why the woods?" As they started walking, her nerves came to an ease. "It's quiet. Not many people come out here and if they do then they don't stare." The lines on his forehead told her that he got stared at a lot. "I wouldn't stare..." She whispered quietly lowering her eyes to the ground. The prince shook his head softly. "But you did, back in the great hall before we talked. You stared at me." 

A deep blush made it's way onto her face. "You saw that?" He nodded slightly, watching her carefully. "I apologize deeply, but it wasn't what you think it was." Ivar was confused. Why should her staring be different, everyone tried to talk themselves out of it, but he was ready to listen to it this time, because it was her trying to talk herself out of it. "I didn't stare, not out of pity, I mean. I thought you were quiet attractive." 

His eyebrows shot up. This changed the situation a lot. A smirk found it's way onto his face as he watched her even more careful this time. "I didn't have any bad intentions or thoughts behind it, I promise." She gave him an apologetic smile. 

Without knowing it she pushed his ego more than what was healthy. "So you thought I was attractive, huh?" The smirk didn't seem to leave her face, holding his head high. The girl lowered her head, secretly liking the teasing tone of his voice. "I did, my prince. After talking with you the feeling deepened." It was her turn to tease him. A soft innocent smile on her face as she stopped to lean against a tree, watching Ivar closely. 

The boy turned to her, looking her up and down. "You're quite the tease, aren't you?" His thoughts of the night before coming back into his mind. "Honestly? No, but I'm happy it's working." She giggled shyly. "It's working wonders..." He whispered walking closer. His eyes not once leaving hers. Again, she felt like she was drowning in his eyes. Drowning in the ocean behind them. His free hand was on her hip as he pushed her up against the tree. A quiet gasp escaping her, only encouraging him to continue. 

The smirk just wouldn't leave his face as he looked down at her. "I'll be sure to tell your brother how I had to look up to you..." Not knowing what to say in the situation the girl thought back to how Sigurd interrupted them the night before. The prince chuckled softly, leaning his forehead against hers. "You're too precious for your own good, love." He kissed her cheek softly. She could feel a burning sensation the moment his lips met her cheek, almost letting another gasp escape her. 

"I should let you go, protect you from myself and save you from being so perfectly ruined by me." He squeezed his eyes shut, almost like he was in pain, his forehead back against hers, letting a sigh escape him. "But I can't. I want to be selfish, have you all to myself." Her hand found his cheek. "Ivar, you can have me." Her voice was sincere, he never felt like he did right now. His heart was beating out of his chest. "No, not that." His face twisted in disgust for a second. "Oh..." She was about to pull her hand back. 

He was quicker, grabbing her wrist and placing a kiss on her palm, placing it back onto his cheek. "I didn't mean it like that. Well, maybe that too, I wouldn't mind laying with you, pretty girl. But I mean being with you. I want to have you in any way." His eyes opened again, looking at her with an intensity, that if she wouldn't have been pushed against the tree, she would've got weak knees. 

His mouth placed kisses everywhere, her neck, her cheek, her forehead, but they wouldn't go near her lips. "I need your answer." His voice was husky as he was torturing her with kiss. "Please, Ivar.." A whimper left her lips and he chuckled darkly shaking his head. "Keep those words for later, just tell me, can I have you in any way I want?" His hand wandered up to her chin, making her look up at him. His thumb pulling her lip down slightly. 

She was trembling at that point, trying to stay strong, so she could tease the young prince, but her self control was getting weak. "Yes! Yes, Ivar, I'll let you have me in any way you want to. Just please-" A loud gasps escaped her, but it barely left her before Ivar kissed her hard, pulling her closer, caressing her cheek. His crutch long forgotten on the floor. His hand grabbing her hip, pushing himself up against the tree in secret as well. As they both needed to breath, he pulled away, keeping his forehead against hers. 

A smirk was on Ivars face as he mentally pictured how shocked Sigurd will be, when he walks into the great hall with his newly found woman by his side. He would marry her, he knew it. That's what he meant with having her in anyway he wants. 

He could already picture them dining with the gods in Valhalla. Gods, how he couldn't wait. 

[heyitsauralie]

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassins Creed Valhalla Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: ivarr/oc Characters: Ivarr the Boneless, Original Characters, Halfdan Ragnarsson, Ubba Ragnarsson, Faravid, Finnr, Hemming, Vili, Guthrum Additional Tags: Ritual Sex, Rough Sex, Virginity Loss, Smut, Drug Use, Creampie Summary:

Lyja the Volva’s saga becomes intertwined with Ivarr Ragnarssons.Set ten years before the events of AC Valhalla.Will cover in game events in further chapters.The chapters are named after song titles for vibe.The adult content will be marked with ***.New chapters released on Wednesdays

Warning:First chapter contains graphic descriptions of rough sex and could be upsetting for some readers.

Chapter 5 is up xx

[krankittoeleven]

Between the Real and The Unknown

CH1: On a Chartless Sargasso Sea

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Valhalla Rating: M (mostly due to themes) Major Warnings: Character Death

Relationships: Ubba & Vili, m!Eivor/Vili, m!Eivor/Ubba/Vili (possibly), Randvi/Ubba (past), Ubba/Vili (a complicated past) Characters: Ubba, Vili, m!Eivor, Randvi, Ivarr, Halfdan

Setting: 1940s Boston, Mass, USA, Lovecraftian/Cosmic Horror/Detective AU

Other Themes and Warnings: Occultism, Family Bonds, Norse Mythology, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Internalized Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Attitudes Towards Gender, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism

Fic Summary: Still grieving over the loss of his brother, Ubba Ragnarsson is visited by his friend, Vili, who stirs up old memories of both their past together and his own family’s decades of misfortunes. Together they will try to unravel the mysteries behind Ubba’s haunted family, and figure out once and for all what cursed the Ragnarssons to their decades of madness.

EXTRA WARNING: I’m not usually in the habit of discouraging people from reading my writing, but this is a weird fic. I don’t know why I decided to do this as an ac valhalla fic, but whatever, that’s hardly the weirdest part. If any possible combination (including maybe a threesome) between Vili Eivor & Ubba is not your thing, this fic is not for you. If you don’t like Lovecraftian type eldritch/cosmic horror, this fic is not for you. If you like perfectly sparkly endings where everyone is happy at the end, this is not for you.

If, by some miracle, you are still here…Odin-speed and click away…

On a Chartless Sargasso Sea....

[the-historywhore]

The chronicles of Æthelstan, and his fiery wife.

Chapter 1: Married life.

Warnings: mentions of discrimination, mentions of violence.

———————

“Frida?” Æthelstan called, he had returned from his work with Ragnar in Kattegat hoping to be greeted by his wife. However, it was not that simple.

Æthelstan was a Christian, and his wife was a Pagan - a Norse woman. She was fair and beautiful, but fiery and short-tempered. He peered around the corners of the hut, hoping to find her but he found that he was alone. The Saxon huffed, all he wanted was for some comfort.

His day working with Ragnar, had also given him grief. Although Ragnar would not do such a thing, many others found themselves taunting Æthelstan. He was mocked for his faith, the butt of many jokes and taunts. It was tiresome for him.

“Husband?” He heard her call.

Frida found her husband sat upon their bed, fiddling with his hands in his lap. He seemed lost in the days thoughts. She set down the basket of fish she had collected down by the fjord and walked over to him. Her heart did swell when he looked up to her, she smiled at him and he did to her. Frida sat down beside him, her husband leant his head on her shoulder.

“What troubles you, my dear?” She asked.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, love” He replied, brushing his emotions off. Although, with his love beside him, his troubles did not seem so great after all.

“The other men have been calling you names again, they’ve been taunting you for your faith?” She deduced. Æthelstan avoided his wife’s gaze, she was right. And she knew it. “Tell me their names.”

“No, Frida. You don’t-“

“I wasn’t asking” Frida growled. “Tell me their names, I won’t have them speak to you like that!”

Æthelstan was the only one who could silence his wife’s rampages, he softly cradled her jaw to press his lips to hers. Affectionately rubbing the skin of her cheek with his thumb.

There were many times like this, where he would quell Frida’s rage and bloodlust. When she’d had a bad hunt, or torn her clothing just after she’d mended it.

“You can’t hurt everyone who makes jokes about me, just sit here with me for a while.” He explained.

“Fine,” She huffed. “I won’t hurt anyone, but I will be asking Ragnar to put a word out” She wagged her finger in his face, showing that she meant business.

Frida was small, and often described as ‘cute’. This meant that many people never took her seriously, but Æthelstan always took her seriously. He had seen what she was capable of, heard the way her anger twisted her voice to sound vicious and malevolent, she was a true force to be reckoned with. On one occasion, whilst sleeping, an enemy of Æthelstan’s had broken in while they were asleep and Frida had taken them down all on her own. In fact, Æthelstan woke up to see his wife seething with anger, hatchet in hand and blood splattered all over her face, straddling the waist of an unidentifiable man that had clearly had his face caved in with the harsh kiss of his hatchet.

She was condescending and sarcastic, and her blood-lust never seemed to end - but by Odin’s beard did Æthelstan love Frida, with all his heart.

—————

Sorry this is so short! The next one will be longer, I promise <3 let me know what you’d like to see Æthelstan and Frida face next :)

[author-morgan]

more Ivarr!!! please! you're fulfilling my simp dreams. could you do one with an arranged marriage type situation? like where Ivarr really likes this princess and does his best not to scare her and be gentler than he normally is?

oh-kayyyy, more Ivarr, music to my ears. I hope you won't mind the little twist I put on it. also, i have absolutely no chill when it comes to ivarr and i think this is one of my favorites I've done for him so far, mostly because it's one of my favorite tropes. so buckle up we've got an almost 5.5k word story ahead. Ivarr the Boneless x fem!Reader

THE SONS OF Ragnar are the last people on God’s good Earth you wish to seek help from, but time does not slow because you want it, and the growing threat of dark and violent times soon to plague your homelands cannot be avoided any longer. You plan to keep your hands clean of the foul deeds that must be done for as long as you can. And despite seeds of doubt taking root and the feeling in your gut telling you this will only exacerbate the situation, you find yourself standing in the heart of the Ragnarssons’ forward camp, having sent an envoy before your arrival —seeking an audience with Ubba and Ivarr. Rumors whispered by little birds tell you they are in the business of killing kings and lords, and they take great pleasure and pride in their work.

You know who he is by look and the way he moves alone when he approaches —the scar running the length of his face back onto his scalp unmistakable, as is the madness in his pale eyes. He waves for your vanguard to make a path, and they part for Ivarr the Boneless without a word. You lift your chin, leveling your gaze with his, having heard the Northmen can smell fear, and seeing Ivarr’s twisted smile, you’re inclined to believe those whispers. He circles you thrice times —a wolf sizing up his prey— before stopping in front of you, looking down his nose. “Princess,” Ivarr greets, tone bordering on mocking.

Stories of his cruelty have chilled your blood in the waking hours of the night. The priests told you and many others that Ivarr the Boneless was a demon, a serpent, a spawn of the Devil himself. His deeds and lust for torture became the stories mothers would tell their children at night. But as he stands before you, eyes bright and gleaming in the setting sun, you find he is just a man —not a demon or a god-made flesh.

He looks at you carefully, attempting to discern what your expression means, what’s turning the wheels of your mind. Ivarr lifts his hand, the back of his fingers almost touching your cheek when you flinch, stepping back as though fleeing a striking snake. “Do not touch me, heathen,” you spit, seeing your vanguard close ranks.

“I do not bite” —Ivarr’s taunting smile widens, a cage of teeth, the scar on his cheek twitching as he laughs. “Hard,” he adds, an afterthought, but it gives him the chance to watch a chill run down your spine and fuel the excitement coursing in his blood.

“Ivarr!” Ubba shouts, emerging from the oiled red-linen pavilion. The look he casts to his brother is a harsh warning. Something flares up in Ivarr’s eyes as he looks from you to his brother —anger, resentment, jealousy. They do not see eye to eye. Ubba walks down the path, garnering a reverence his brother did not yet have. “Mind yourself,” he remarks in passing. “She is our guest.” He offers a small, strained smile to you to act as a balm for Ivarr’s crude behavior. Christian or pagan, you and your vanguard would be treated with respect and hospitality.

Ivarr shrugs. “Only having a bit of fun, weren’t we, princess?” You glare at him, and he cannot say for sure why your harsh gaze cuts him to the quick, but it does.

“RUNNING AWAY FROM home?” Ivarr means it as an insult —to belittle your position and turn your woes into little more than a child throwing a tantrum. You lower your gaze to your hands —clasped in your lap— and push down the rush of emotion the thought of your intended brings. A cruel man, perhaps crueler than Ivarr, with his true person hidden beneath the veneer of a godly and patient man. The first time he struck you had been the moment you learned of his intentions. He bore no love for you or your people, nor would he ever. Aldfrith sought absolute power and would stop at nothing to attain it. He chose you to be his victim.

Now there are less than two moons for you to act before the ceremony that would make him ruler of your small kingdom and leave you all but powerless in the eyes of other rulers. “From my husband-to-be,” you tell Ivarr, silently challenging him to speak of your predicament in jest again. For once, he remains silent, understanding now why you shied away when he lifted his hand earlier.

Aldfrith had not just threatened your birthright though, he all but declared open war upon the Danes residing peacefully amongst the Saxons. Slaughtering them in the night —men, woman, and children alike. The sight still churns your stomach. No man of God would needlessly slaughter the innocent. It is Ubba and Ivarr’s people who felt the cold iron bite —a faction of the disbanded Great Heathen Army. “We have the same enemy,” Ubba assures you. “And we will break Aldfrith.”

WHY IVARR THE Boneless has taken an interest in you, you cannot say. He’s developed a talent for finding you when you wish to be left alone, like now. As you seek absolution in the ruined church at Repton —the floors desecrated with Saxon blood, the screams of Ivarr’s victims still echoing off the stone walls, their corpses hanging from the rafters and steeples. God, I’ve tried, am I lost in your eyes? The calm is interrupted by heavy footfalls. “How does your God find time to listen to everyone’s whining?” Ivarr asks, leaning against the altar you pray at, wiping the blood from his axe.

“It is faith, Ivarr,” you tell him, eyes closed and hands clasped before you —undeterred by his insult, “and trust.” Things you know little of. There’s a rustle of fabric, and you open your eyes, looking up at the son of Ragnar, subservient in your position but standing level with him in wit.

“Faith is for the weak,” he sneers, “and I do not trust anything I cannot bury my axe in.” He waves his axe in front of you, the edge glinting by the light of the burning brazier. You cannot say whether it is a threat or not. “You Christians are all the same,” Ivarr laments, “whining and whimpering to a God who will not listen.” All the prayers uttered here have gone unanswered. They beg for mercy, for their lives, and still bleed out when poked in the right spot. “If he was real and listened, wouldn’t my brothers and I be banished from your lands?” You do not answer. “And yet, here you are, begging us to save your kingdom.”

You rise, lifting your chin —your faith in the Lord can be tried and tested a thousand times over and never falter, but you will not stand for insults on your person. “I did not beg, Ivarr,” you remind him. “I sent only a single letter requesting a meeting, and Ubba agreed to hear me.” His pale eyes narrow, and he shifts on his feet —the shadows cast on his face by the brazier make him look like the devil people claim him to be. “I think you’ll find, Christian or not, that I can be very persuasive.”

He moves closer, looking down his crooked nose at you —his smile turning playful. “Is that so, princess?” Ivarr asks, his brow raised and gaze unabashedly trailing along the curves of your chest and hips. Heat rises to your face. He has taken your words to mean something else. You do not think when you rear back, striking him across his scarred cheek —hard enough to shock him but not leave a lasting mark, save for the one on his impression of you. The sound rings clear and loud in the stone chapel. “What was that for?” Madness flares in pale-blue eyes as he licks his lips.

“You presume too much, Ivarr,” you snap, eyes flaring with anger and ears burning. Ivarr laughs; the twisted sound reverberates through the still air of the church —not bad for a Saxon. Paying him no mind, you return to your prayers, hoping if you ignored him, he would leave. Ivarr doesn’t. He stays where he is, running a piece of whetstone down the edge of his axe. “Should you not be preparing your men for departure?” You ask, tired of hearing the shring of stone on metal over and over.

“Will you pray for me, princess?” Ivarr leans down —his face only inches from yours— and his fingers curling around a small braid in your hair adorned with silver thread.

You look up at him from under your lashes. “I pray for everyone, Ivarr” —it is your turn to smile, a small one that furrows Ivarr’s brows, his head tilting to the side— “even the wicked and damned.” He lets you be, his laugh echoing off the stone as he leaves to regroup with his brother.

THE WARBAND LEAVES at first light. It is the fifth time they have marched out since your arrival, and you hope it is the last —just as you hoped the previous times would be too. The Danes fight like devils, and the fyrd raised in your name do their best to hold their own against Aldfrith’s forces with each battle. Good people have died for this cause, and each life lost weighs heavily on your conscience. From the walls of Repton, you watch them filter from the gates and toward the north. Ubba glances to where you stand —a solemn lady in white— he nods his assurance this will be over soon, then swings himself onto the back of his spotted mare.

You cannot explain the fondness in your heart for Ivarr the Boneless, but the seeds are planted and have taken root in the weeks since he first decided to be a nuisance. He does not smile when he looks up at you, but his eyes do with the promise of battle. You lift your hand as to wave him off but think better of it. Ivarr tilts his head, lips twitching before he clicks his tongue, calming his anxious brown-and-white stallion and joining his brother at the head of the motley army.

The days grow longer and slower to pass when Repton empties, leaving only the wounded and a handful of women and children behind. A week passes before you hear horns in the distance. More people have returned than left —prisoners freed and sworn to fight. You wait by the gates to see the head of your vanguard return, nodding as he walks by, eager to rid himself of heavy armor, then Ubba passes, making way for Ivarr, trailing behind him.

“Princess,” Ivarr greets with a flourish, dropping something wrapped in bloody canvas by your feet, landing with a heavy thud, then the contents of the sack roll forth. You’ve barely stolen a glance when your eyes widen, throat constricting. “By God!” You exclaim, heart pounding as you scramble from the severed head, hand clutching your chest, stomach-churning. It is impossible not to stare at the mutilated and half-decayed head of Aldfrith. Ivarr gestures to the head, his lips curled in a twisted smile. “One way to make sure the bastard doesn’t hurt you again,” he tells you.

He is not wrong. Aldfrith will never raise a hand against you or another. You think you should feel happy, seeing his head like a prize, but there’s a hollowness in your chest at the manner in which it was done. You grip onto Ivarr’s arm, steadying yourself, feeling as though you will retch. “I” —you glance at him, voice shaking— “I do not know what to say.”

Ivarr’s brows furrow. His smile fading. He does not know what he expected your reaction to be, but he knows it is not this. “Thank you, Ivarr, would be a good starting point,” he remarks, mirth slipping into his tone. Shaking your head, stumble away from him, hand covering your mouth to stay the bile rising in your throat. “Princess?” Ivarr calls after you, not understanding why his gift had not made you happier.

“Well done,” Ubba remarks, bending to collect the mangled head and slapping his brother on the back. Ivarr glares at him. “If you wanted her favor,” he says, looking to the alcove between barrels next to the pigpen where you have gone to empty your stomach, “that was not the way to get it.”

THE EVENING IS filled with revelries —life is short and uncertain, and the Northmen insist upon celebrating even small victories. In the weeks since first arriving, their hedonistic ways have grown on you far more than you care to admit. They do not worship your God, but that alone is not enough to judge them harshly on. They are good people, equally as quick to laugh as they are to take up sword and axe to defend their own. While some have welcomed you by their fires late at night and others offered to share meals, most cast you aside, though you cannot fault them for it, for you had been equally reluctant to embrace them.

For now, you sit among several shieldmaidens sharing a meal with your vanguard. Across the open yard, you find Ivarr, leaned back against the great tree of Repton, his feet propped up on a crate —a cup of ale in hand. There’s a moment where you meet his pale blue eyes and smile. Ivarr’s lips kink upward, sending a streak of warmth through your innards that you blame on the ale. The shieldmaiden to your right nudges your ribs, seeing where your gaze lies —it’s enough to spur you to rise, despite the heat pooling in your cheeks. “Ivarr?” You ask, smoothing down your skirt. He looks up from his cup, scarred brow raised. “Would you walk with me?”

Ivarr throws back his cup of ale and rises, oddly silent, but you’ve learned the curious look in pale eyes well enough. He follows you, away from the feast and through the church to the rolling hills surrounding Repton to the south. The silent comfort of his presence next to you gives you time to think of what you wish to say to him. It is a clear night, with a thousand stars above and a nigh full moon shining silver on the greenery. You look to Ivarr, eyes flitting across his face —following the scar on his cheek. “I should not have been so hasty with my ingratitude,” you confess.

You pace around, rubbing your hands together out of anxiousness. “I know I am not a warrior,” you smile, glancing up at the night sky —remembering your father’s lessons from childhood. About how it was better to fight a battle in your mind long before soldiers ever marched onto the field and strong friends could make all the difference for the prosperity of your land and people. Until now, those lessons kept you out of conflict and guided your hand in all political affairs. “There are more ways to fight battles than with swords and brawn. I learned that at a young age.”

Calloused fingers curls around your wrist. Ivarr pulls on your arm, turning you to face him. There’s a strange look in eyes —something oddly kind, bordering on admiration. He lets go of your wrist and lifts his hand, the backs of his fingers brushing against your cheek. When you do not shy away, his lips tug upward. “There is more to you than a pretty face, princess.” He steps closer.

“Ivarr?” His name is a faint whisper on your lips, and then he is leaning toward you, almost unwittingly. Your instinct is to push him away —your god-fearing heart and mind say you should feel repulsed— but you lean into him, hands moving to his shoulders then around to the nape of his neck. It feels right and good, and if you must burn in hell for this sin, you think you would gladly march into the flames to have his kiss again. Ivarr smiles against your lips, grip tightening on your waist. His groan is almost pained when you pull back, eyes wide and cheeks burning.

“I know who you are, Ivarr” —he keeps still when you rest your hand on his scarred cheek, watching intently, nigh holding his breath as you trace a line from his forehead to his jaw, hand dropping to run across the front of his chest— “and I would not ask you, nor anyone, to change their true selves.” He tilts his head to the side, ashen brown hair falling in from of his eyes.

The weeks he has known you have only made you more of an enigma to him. You follow the outline of the dark tattoo on his chest revealed by the dip in his tunic. It is Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse. “Perhaps at first, I was frightened, unsure, but no longer,” you whisper, leaning toward him. You press a kiss to the corner of his thin lips. “I do not think you will hurt me.” Admitting it makes you feel foolish. He is Ivarr the Boneless, Ivarr the Kingkiller —tenderness is not in his nature.

Rough fingers ghost over your cheek, then back into your hair. “I don’t want to hurt you, princess,” he admits. You can tell it is not easy for him to say such a thing, but he means it in full. Ivarr searches your expression, finding no fear or regret, only a soft smile playing at your lips. He surges forward, eager to steal the breath from your lungs and swallow the small, startled gasp you make. Ivarr’s hand slips from your hair, cradling your neck, thumb pressed against your jaw. Sighing into his kiss, you let him pull you closer and to the grass-covered ground. You lift your skirt, straddling his thighs —heart hammering in your chest. “You want to be mine?” Ivarr asks, giddy.

“I think I already am,” you smile, though it turns into a startled gasp when Ivarr rolls you off of him, laying you back into the soft gross, and quickly settles above you, nestled between your legs. He holds his weight on bent forearms and searches your expression, finding nothing but curious acceptance. Ivarr’s arms slide on the dew-slick grass, lowering himself until your lips meet again under the silver Mercian moon.

THE LOW CRY of a war horn breaks the lingering stillness of the early morning —its echo comes from the shadowed North; dread pools in the depths of your stomach. Everyone had misjudged the threat, even you, thinking there would be extra time to prepare and march out to select the time and place to battle against Aldfrith's remaining forces. But now that advantage is stripped from yours and the Ragnarssons’ army. You fumble with the laces of your shift and scarlet kirtle, stumbling from your tent as a startled doe, watching as both Northmen and Saxons gather up swords, axes, and shields —straightening their leathern armor. Above the madness, you can hear Ubba shouting commands, the warriors falling into line as they move toward the gates.

Ivarr finds you in the chaos and presses a dagger in your hand, curling your fingers around the leather-wrapped hilt. “Stick them in the soft bits,” he tells you, the mirth in his tone not reflected in his pale eyes, “if it comes to that.” You pray to God it will not, but nod. He steps back, but you reach for him, fingers curling around the leather strap across his chest. You hold him there, eyes flitting over his face —following the deep scar running down his cheek— until another blast of the war horn sounds in the deep. Ivarr covers your hand for a fleeting second before stepping back again. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you release him, letting him answer the call of war.

As with all battles, you seek penitence and pray for mercy on the souls fighting in your name, kneeling before the cross and the statue of Mother Mary in the Repton church. Two members of your vanguard remain, keeping chary vigilance over you should the lines break. You pray, for your people, for those who fall, and for Ivarr’s safe return —uncertain if God will extend his protection to a heathen. When you glance up, the statue is weeping tears of blood.

Everything falls still and silent —the calm is broken soon after by the sound of swords being unsheathed. You take a slow breath, fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger Ivarr gave you. Rising, you turn, finding your vanguard standing on guard, facing down the bitter brother of Aldfrith, leader of the forces warring with your and the Ragnarssons’ army. “Run!” They shout, advancing. Heeding their warning, you flee from the church and into the darkness of the crypts —crouching behind the sarcophagus of a Mercian king.

Torchlight dances in the darkness, Aldfrith’s brother limps forward, favoring his right side. You sink further into the shadows, covering your mouth with one hand, holding tight to the dagger with the other. He passes by your hiding place, moving toward the far end of the crypt.

Taking the opening, you dart forward, running for the sliver of daylight at the stairs leading from the depths. You move too slow or are too ignorant of your surroundings because, in a single breath, Aldfrith’s brother is standing before you. The pain is almost nonexistent, at first, but then he twists the blade, and streaks of white-hot pain emanate from your stomach. “For my brother,” he hisses, pulling back the bloody dagger.

You stumble back but find your balance through the pain and surge forward with a sharp cry, plunging the dagger still held your grasp deep into his neck, then pull it free in a spray of hot blood. His hand goes to his neck, but it is too late. He will die before you. Doubling over, you press your hand against your middle and move toward the light in a trance.

The call of the war horn is faint in the darkness below the Repton church —you know its cry as one of victory. Rising, you press your hand against your side, asking the Lord for the strength to press on, to see those who had devoted their purpose to your cause a final time. He grants you this last mercy, and you stumble up the stairs out of the crypts, leaving a trail of red in your wake. You stand in the open entrance to the chapel, swaying on your feet, smiling at the sight before you. Ubba and Ivarr lead the victorious army marching back. Few are lost —though you fear you will become one of them.

With each step closer, Ivarr knows something is wrong. You do not smile, and a sickly pallor has come over your skin —he darts forward, ahead of his brother, brows settling in a deep furrow, feeling as though time is against him. “Princess?” He asks, red-stained hands cupping your cheeks. You mean to sigh in relief, knowing he is safe, but it comes as bile and blood-filled cough trickling from your parted lips. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head as he pulls away from your bloody hand, eyes flitting to the growing stain blossoming on your dress.

The strength given to you ebbs, but Ivarr catches you, holding you in his arms as he eases you both to the stone floor. “Ivarr,” you breathe, lifting your hand to his cheek, a weak smile on your lips. “Ivarr.” He swallows the lump in his throat when your arm goes limp, falling back to your side, and your eyes slip shut under the weight and pain.

His hand twists into the damp fabric of your dress. “Find who did this!” Ivarr shouts, the rage of the gods burning in his veins. There is only one way to see justice done for the heinous deed. Soldiers disperse among the parish and the countryside, searching. Ubba kneels, his fingers finding a spot against your neck —he glances up at his brother, eyes wide, and gives a slight nod. You are not lost to him yet. There is still hope, even if it is a fool's hope.

PAIN, DULL BUT constant wakes you from what feels like an endless slumber —you are certain you are dead, having pulled the dagger from your side and collapsed in Ivarr’s arms. Yet when you blink, it is not pearl gates nor streets of gold with which you are met. Ubba Ragnarsson sits at your bedside, his face held in his hands. His expression brightens when he finds you awake and staring at him. “Gave us quite the scare, princess,” he remarks, offering a cup of weak ale —you wouldn’t be able to stomach anything else yet. You drink slowly, and Ubba can already see the question on your lips when you lower the cup.

He motions over his shoulder to where his brother is leaning against a stool, slumped over, asleep. Ivarr had scarcely slept in the last week, but with the promise that Ubba would watch for you to wake, he agreed to sleep —it took him quickly. “He’s not left your side,” he notes, then leans closer, as to whisper a secret, “I do not know what spell you have cast upon my brother but thank you.” You want to laugh, but the discomfort in your side stops you, hand moving to rest atop the bandages. “You will heal faster now,” he says, echoing the healer’s words. Ubba glances back to Ivarr, then rests his hand on your shoulder as he rises from the stool. “Know you are always welcome here, princess.”

You grip onto his arm before he can move or say anything else, knowing he means to wake his brother before going. “Let him rest,” you say, smiling, knowing it will not be much longer before you succumb to sleep again as well. Ubba nods then takes leave. The next time you wake, Ivarr is sitting where Ubba had been —bent over, arms resting on his knees, head hanging low with his ashen-brown hair falling before half his face. The sight of him makes your heart beat faster —like a foolish little girl with a crush, but by now, you know what you feel for Ivarr is more than churlish infatuation.

“Ivarr,” you breathe, reaching for him —fingers brushing over his scarred cheek. He jolts at the touch, pale-blue eyes wide and lips parted as he beholds your smile. He isn’t sure what to say or do, so he stares, feeling waves of relief wash over him like a rocky shore in a storm. Ivarr moves closer, his hand twisting into the coarse wool blanket draped over you. “My sweet Ivarr,” you muse, smile widening.

His brows furrow, lips tugging upward as he laughs, shaking his head. “Sweet?” He challenges. Ivarr the Boneless has been called many things in his long years, but sweet has never been one of them.

Ivarr is not all brash cruelty. Beneath his harsh exterior is a man with honest feeling, and you are perhaps the first to discover that, but you know it to be true. Sweet, you think, recalling the times you woke to a bundle of wildflowers at the entrance to your tent, or the nights when you could find no rest and found solace in his company —speaking of the past, of fate, and his gods. In the silence, he leans toward you, rough fingertips brushing the hair from your face, then without a word, you both move —chasing away what space remains between your lips. His kiss is soft, surprisingly so, but the heat and ferocity are still there. “You have your moments,” you tell him, breathless.

THE VANGUARD ESCORTS you from the camp to a neighboring hillock. With the last battle won, now nothing stood between you and your lands and title. Ubbe is waiting in the light of the setting sun, his hands clasped behind him as he looks appreciatively over the lush and fertile hills of your homeland. It is no small wonder some of his people had chosen this place to settle and farm. You call to him, and he turns, greeting you with a nod, watching as you limp to his side —the wound grieving you not yet healed. But that you live is nothing short of a miracle itself. Ubba knows as well as any other that injuries to the gut are nigh always fatal, and yet your stand at his side, smiling —able to return home without fear. “This land,” he sighs, “it is yours once more.”

“You’ve upheld your part of this bargain, and now I shall uphold mine,” you note, turning from the vista over your small kingdom to Ubba. “What would you ask of me in return?”

He rests a heavy hand on your shoulder. “Your friendship and an alliance,” Ubba answers; neither of his requests are surprising. You’ve found unlikely friends among Ubba and his people in the months since this arduous campaign began and would be happy to answer his call for aid should it ever arise. But it is not a simple alliance that is in the forefront of Ubba’s mind after the conversations he’s had with his brother. “But there are many ways to forge a lasting alliance.” You lift a brow, questioning what it is he means by that. “Do you care for my brother?”

It’s a simple question, but somehow it knocks the air from your lungs and leaves you staring in shock. Ivarr. “I” —Ubba smiles, already knowing your answer even if it takes a moment for you to say it yourself. He’s seen the impact your presence has had on his brother, has witnessed the impossible. You draw in a slow breath, unable to claim indifference toward Ivarr the Boneless after everything— “yes.”

Ubba's smile grows as he laughs. “Finally,” he rejoices, “someone to help tame the wildness in him.” You do not think anyone, not even the gods, could ever tame Ivarr the Boneless. He squeezes your shoulder and nods as though thanking you before leaving, motioning for the vanguard to follow.

Alone, you heave a great sigh, a great wave of relief and disbelief crashing over you. The crisp autumn air smells sweet as ever, with the hills and leaves turning gold. Behind you is the rustle of fabric and crunch of dried grass and gravel. “Princess?” It’s Ivarr. You turn to greet him, smiling. He shifts on his feet, shrugging, then holds out his arms. It’s odd to see him like this, nigh vulnerable —without his armor and only a single throwing axe hooked on his belt. “Here I am,” Ivarr says, “offering myself up.” You step to him. “A lamb for slaughter,” he adds with a dry chuckle, an afterthought.

“Shut up,” you laugh, pulling him to you by the ties of his tunic. His arms snake around your waist, drawing you close. You look up at him, waiting, expectantly, when you lace your fingers together at the nape of his neck. Ivarr rolls his eyes, seemingly exasperated he leans into you, placing his lips upon yours. He parts your lips with his own, finding your tongue there, eager but soft, melding against his own.

The kiss ends too quickly —Ivarr parts with a low groan from deep in his throat. His arms loosen, mindful of your wound, and slip to rest on your hips. The mirth in his eyes and smile is back as he considers what it means now that you have reclaimed your lands. “This makes me a prince now, yes?” Ivarr asks, amused.

You ponder his question for a moment, sliding your hands across his shoulders and down his chest. These lands are yours now, and you are their sole sovereign —that makes you a queen. Tilting your chin up, you smile. “King,” you amend, kissing him, so softly and so sweetly that Ivarr the Boneless decides he would give up almost everything if it meant being able to keep his princess.

taglist: [taglist: @elizabethroestone @kitkitvm @elluvians @fullmoonwolfer1 @ghostieisalone @boodaga @southsideslutt @dynamite-with-a-lazerbeam @lizlovecraft @heathensith @alexisp787 @ @certifiedlittleshit @sonnefuchs @kat--00​ @solidsilver ] if your name is italicized, tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you. if you want to be added to my taglist for Ivarr, just let me know in the replies or a DM!

[ghoulifiedgay]

after finishing ac valhalla and seeing both high praise and extreme criticism, here’s some of my favourite bits to share positivity

the way your horse slows down on steeper hills... nice

the dumb way eivor jumps into haystacks and snow piles until learning the leap of faith

“aUGH...damn troll magic”

Vili’s voice

Female Eivor war cries

if you love Ivar in Vikings then you’ll love Ivarr in this game

Loki Basim wearing a wolf and moon shirt as if 1) he stepped out of a 2013 wattpad fanfiction and 2) in all ways except physical he is a wolf

sea shanties but less sea and more mention of ravens and thor

That sexy sexy SHHK the hidden blade makes very solid

also wearing the blade on the outer forearm? power move very sexy

The absolute blasts of straight wisdom that eivor spits out after every shroom trip in the middle of nowhere

“What is wrong with you??” (obviously I’m not great at sailing in straight lines)

[hereforreadandwrite]

Chapter One

/!\ mutilation, torture, nudity /!\

Masterlist

It was so cold, so damp and so dark. You were lying in the fetal position in the corner of the room. The smell of mold was unbearable. How long have you been locked in this room? There was no window. You have been a prisoner of King Rhodri for several days. He had been torturing you for several days. He wanted you to tell him everything you knew about Ivarr and Ubba's fighting tactics. You held on. You refused to tell him anything. For Ivarr, for Ubba, for all your Viking brothers and sisters. If you had to die and rot in Helheim to protect your loved ones, you were prepared to suffer this dishonour. You jumped when you heard the door to the room open. The king had arrived for your daily torture. You watched him walk around the room, hanging his torch on the wall before approaching the table where several tools were waiting for him.

"So pagan, you still haven't decided to reveal what you know about your people? No one will come to save you. You know it. So why do you keep protecting them?" Rhodri asked, taking a knife before turning to the cage.

"Never… better die…," you say between two breaths.

"That's what will happen to you, heathen. But not before you suffer as God wills to atone for your peach trees."

"He might not see the end of it," you say, chuckling. "Your stupid God… how can he find the time to judge all these people?"

"Little bitch!" he cried, shoving the knife into the table.

Rhodri opened the cage door wide, grabbing a handful of your hair to drag you out of the cage. You grabbed his wrist, trying to scratch him and get him to let go, to no avail. You were weak. Rhodri could do whatever he wanted with you. The king took off your clothes before forcing you to sit on a chair with many iron spikes that dug into your skin. You bit your lip as hard as you could, stifling a cry of pain as it bound your wrists and thighs, forcing you to sink deeper into that seat. It was like that every day, he had the imagination to make you suffer the worst pain.

"So? Do you like this new seat? I got some new toys. And God forgive me for that, but I can't wait to use them against you," he said, gesturing to one of his men. to return so that he brings the toys in question. "It's going to be painful, but our Lord is merciful."

"Fuck you asshole! Ivarr will get your head! Like all the other kings he killed!" you exclaimed before spitting a mollard at Rhodri's feet.

"Ivarr? Hm! Who do you think gave him that scar?" he asked, chuckling. "If I understood correctly, you are close to him? In that case, I will bind you forever."

Rhodri returned to the table, picking up his knife before moving closer to you. You swallowed hard, realizing what he was planning to do. You began to resist a prayer to Frigg's glory, begging her to give you strength to get through this ordeal. Rhodri grabbed a handful of your hair, forcing you to tilt your head back. You glared at the Breton as he placed the blade of his knife on the top of your forehead. He pressed just enough, he wanted to make sure his marks would stay on his face for life. You couldn't suppress a cry of pain escaping your lips as you felt the blade rip through your flesh and your right eye. He lowered the blade down your chin. He took a step back, admiring his masterpiece before shaking his head.

"It's not okay, we need more," he said, moving closer to you. "Ivarr will be able to contemplate another failure."

Rhodri went back to work, inflicting three more wounds on you. He had amused himself by mutilating your body for an entire week and now he was attacking your face. You were praying to Thor to give Ivarr the strength to slaughter that guy. After completing his artwork, Rhodri was laughing and clapping. Proud of what he had done. You struggled to stay conscious. The pain was unbearable.

Your first thought was to wonder if Ivarr was going to continue to find you attractive with all the scars you were going to carry for life. You were disfigured for life, this damn seat was going to mark your back, your arms and your legs for life. How would he react seeing you in this state? What was he going to think? You were looking at Rhodri with your one good eye. You could vaguely see him returning to the table, checking his other toys when the sound of the horn echoed through the castle. A soldier quickly entered the room, announcing to Rhodri that the Ragnarsson and their armer were at the gates of the castle. The king chuckled as he approached you. He leaned into your ear, his hot, repulsive breath caressing your skin, making you want to vomit.

"Looks like your bastard lover is on my doorstep. I'll give him a warm welcome, then I'll take care of you."

Rhodri let go of you and moved closer to the soldier, ordering him to make sure no one enters this room. The smell of blood made you nauseous. You felt weak and your wounds continued to bleed, knocking you unconscious.

The party was in full swing in Repton, people were celebrating the rise of their new king. But you were in the huge tent, looking at maps of England, thinking of new places to explore or plunder. You folded the map, putting it away with the others before taking your notebook to write down the places and places that could be looted and the resources Repton needed.

"What are you doing here, woman?"

You turned towards the entrance of the tent to see that it was none other than Ivarr. Your lover took care to close the opening of the tent, giving you some privacy. You showed him your notebook and the notes you were taking. Ivarr sighed dramatically as he moved closer to you.

"Don't you think it's a bit late for work?" he asked, sitting down on the table.

"So what? We have to think about what's next. There are other places to go pillars and places to explore," you say, going to get a new map. "I even found some kings you could kill and inflate your royal kill number."

"That's generous of you," he said, stepping down from the table to get closer to you. "Very generous indeed."

Ivarr put his hands on your hips, pressing his body against yours. He brushed your hair from your neck to lay his lips there, nibbling at your tender skin.

"Ivarr… I still have work to do," you say, unsticking yourself from your lover to bring the card to the table.

Ivarr followed you without saying anything. Which was rare. You settled back at the table, unfolding the map, placing miniatures on it. The drengr moved behind you, placing his hands on either side of your body, trapping you between him and the table. You tried to ignore him, continuing to place figures and take notes. He pulled your hair from your neck, once again placing his lips there. You were trying to resist the temptation, but this guy knew what to do to crack you up. He had you trapped. It was impossible for you to run away. You melted into the arms of the drengr. Ivarr turned you to him so he could ravish your lips. You wrapped your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. You felt him smile against your lips. You backed away, running your hand over his gash. You were the only person in his nine realms to have the privilege of touching his scar. You were surprised to feel your right eye become sore. You put your hand over your sore eye, moaning in pain. Ivarr was stepping back, looking at you puzzled. You pulled your hand away, noticing that it was covered in blood. What was happening?

You woke up with a start when you heard the door to the room slam against the wall. You vaguely heard someone say, "I found her." You tried to raise your head, without success. You were trying to make out the face of the person who came to save you. He removed your restraints, making you leave this chair. A moan of pain escaped your lips as your savior ran his hand through your blood-soaked, greasy hair. You tried to make out your savior's face, but your vision was too blurry for you to make out anything.

"(Y/N). (Y/N), can you hear me?" asked the person rocking you.

You couldn't help smiling when you recognized your savior's voice. It was none other than Ivarr the Boneless. He had come to get you.

"You came…," you said weakly. "I knew you would come… I always knew."

"Hush, woman," he said, tugging on a sheet, knocking the items off the table.

Ivarr draped the sheet over your bruised body before lifting you off the ground, carrying you away from this torture chamber.

Rhodri was kneeling before Ubba, Halfdan, Sigurd and Eivor. The king glared at the Boneless when he saw it return with your semi-conscious form. This one had to use all that willpower to resist the urge to massacre him on the spot. Seeing your condition, Ubba told his brother to look as soon as possible to Bishop Deorlaf, he will know how to heal your wounds. Ivarr gave Rhodri one last look, telling his brothers and allies to keep him alive, that he would take his case personally. Ivarr left the castle, hurrying on his horse to reach the Bishop's Church as quickly as possible. You had trouble staying conscious. You pressed your cheek, unhurt, against his chest.

"He was saying… you let me down. He was trying to convince me to…to tell him about your plans to arm," you said, clinging to him. "I didn't tell him…"

"I know, dýrr. You held on," he said, hugging you. "You are a warrior."

You nodded slightly, falling asleep against your mate's chest.

[midnightlitterateur]

Sweet Aches and Torturous Need - Part 5

She let out a small squeal of surprise when all pretence of tenderness left him. For all her confidence mere moments ago his intensity shook her to her core, reducing her to the inexperienced young woman she truly was.

Ivarr ravaged her mouth with tongue and teeth, his cock pressing painfully into her soft belly as he forced her back towards the bed. Auralie let out a sharp gasp as she hit the furs and felt herself bodily lifted further up the bed. Her knees rose around him without thought, cradling his hips as he continued his assault on her throat and breasts. It was overwhelmingly wonderful. With a slight dip of his hips he entered her in one smooth thrust, eliciting a blissful moan from somewhere deep down inside as he filled her completely. Their eyes met as Ivarr graciously allowed her to catch her breath and he returned her smile, “We don’t have much longer,” she said as she pushed the hair from his beautiful blue eyes, delighting as she saw the roguish twinkle ignite and his smile turn wolffish. He inclined his head toward her wrist, grazing his teeth against her sensitive skin before he placed a soft lingering kiss on the mark he had made, withdrawing from her warm velvety grip then slamming back into her viciously. Auralie let out a short groan, her mouth hanging open as he did it again and again, building up speed until he was fucking her with the savage energy of a feral beast. Her hands clutched at his back and shoulders, desperately trying to hold on to something…anything as she tried to endure the onslaught of pleasure. The sound of wet slaps and stifled moans filled the air as he moved faster and faster, racing toward his finish.

Something began to build within her until it was at a panic inducing pitch, “Ivarr…?” she began, unable to finish her words as the intensity hit its peak and she let out an uncontrollably loud cry, fortunately her orgasm had been preempted by her more experienced lover and Ivarr had placed his hand over her mouth, muffling it slightly as he slowed his thrusting hips to a more manageable pace. “Ja…does that feel good?” He whispered intimately as she came, watching her face intently as her moans subsided. Ivarr removed his hand, replacing it with his mouth, kissing her deeply. Auralies whole body had turned to warm jelly, she could hardly open her eyes but she managed to return his kiss with equal passion. “What did you do to me?” She slurred, when he finally broke away from her hungry lips. “He answered with a smirk as he used his knees to further spread her wet thighs, “Do you want me to do it again?” Before Auralie could reply the latch on the door clanged. Whoever was wanting to gain entry began to bang on the door, desperately calling for it to be opened. The lovers shared a frustrated glance before they leapt from the bed. Ivarr could not see his clothes anywhere. Then he remembered; the window. He had been deep in his cups the night before and could not keep Auralie from his mind. He had stripped before he had climbed the wall, planning to take her by force if necessary and had left his things on the ground below. Silently cursing his drunken self he threw his lower half over the sill, hissing in pain as he grazed his rigid cock on the stone ledge. Auralie pulled him back in for one last farewell kiss. “Come back to me soon,” she whispered, before she closed the window behind him and opened the door for her worried servants.

Read more here

[filthyivarrtrash]

Assassins Creed Valhalla

Ivarr the Boneless/Oc

His hand drifted slowly down between your legs, skilled fingers found your sensitive bud and rubbed slow circles,your breaths coming faster as the pleasure grew to a beautiful ache,your breaths turned to gasps as you approached the edge,your body tensed before the fall “Fuck,fuck,fuck” you cried out as you hit your peak,you felt the relief wash over you as you moaned through your climax your eyes closed and head thrown back onto his shoulder,you hummed in satisfaction as Ivarr stilled beneath you. His arms snaked around your waist and held you tightly as he peppered your shoulder and neck in nips and kisses rocking you back and forth in his arms.

Suddenly you were pitched forward onto your belly almost winded with surprise you felt Ivarrs hand on the back of your neck pressing you into the furs ,you felt his body leaning toward the side of the bed then a cool wet liquid poured between your ass cheeks realising all too late you tried to resist, a soundless cry left your mouth as his slickened cock entered your asshole up to the balls, you gasped and clutched at the furs desperately as your hole was stretched painfully ,tears streamed down your face as you tried to resist “Shh..relax” he hissed as you fought for control, he grabbed your wrists and pinned them both beside your head,you let out a sob as you stilled “Good girl “ he praised.

Giving you a short moment to adjust before he began,he moved slowly at first but built speed quickly, slamming into you hard and fast,the discomfort joined with a deep pleasure made your eyes roll and your mouth gape,it felt like your very soul was being fucked. His thrusts forcing inhuman noises from the depths of your being. The sensations were unbearable but but at the same time you wanted so much more,you needed him even deeper,trying to push your self back to meet him unsuccessfully. You felt him swell inside you as he approached his finish with a roar worthy of battle.

Ivarr moaned long and loud as he reached his climax grinding his cock inside your tightest hole he shuddered as his balls were emptied by his throbbing manhood his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the pleasure. He slumped forward onto your prostrate form and loosened his grip on your wrists,sighing heavily.

You both lay still for a while breathless and spent then remembering himself Ivarr rolled off of your trembling body his still hard cock slid out of your punished ass, a trickle of cum followed dripping down your equally used slit tickling you uncomfortably,he sighed contentedly as he stared up into the rafters stretching like a cat.

He turned to look at you brushing the tangle of hair from your eyes stroking your cheek tenderly as his hand left you “I hate you “ you mumbled without the energy for conviction Ivarr chuckled lowly “No you don't..” he rolled towards you and kissed your shoulder his finger tips gently ghosting up and down your back down over your buttocks and gave your ass a playful slap “Lets get you cleaned up” he said with a smirk.

[mazakeen]

I really wish there was more fem eivor x ivarr FanFiction I love those two

[sonnefuchs]

I posted 749 times in 2021

306 posts created (41%)

443 posts reblogged (59%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 1.4 posts.

I added 610 tags in 2021

#ac valhalla - 97 posts

#eivor - 84 posts

#ivarr ragnarsson - 79 posts

#assassins creed valhalla - 76 posts

#skyrim - 60 posts

#elder scrolls - 53 posts

#hytham - 45 posts

#ivarr the boneless - 45 posts

#hytham x eivor - 37 posts

#ivarr - 34 posts

Longest Tag: 80 characters

#if it were ivarr i'd be ripping his clothes off everytime i stop in ravensthorpe

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Hahaha. I always thought that Ulfric's eyes were blue because of the fanfiction but I was staring at him as he threatened to throw me in jail and they're green?? Just like Brynjolf?? I have a type.

82 notes • Posted 2021-03-21 19:55:52 GMT

#4

Brasidas introduction: fire, violence, and thighs.

Ubisoft: "You'll want to tear his clothes off."

Us: "Can we?!!?!?"

Ubisoft raising their middle finger: "No ❤."

94 notes • Posted 2021-07-06 00:36:28 GMT

#3

Are you emotionally/mentally stable or did you just turn Skyrim on again?

135 notes • Posted 2021-03-04 19:39:56 GMT

#2

Dear Bethesda,

Why are there ugly old guys I can marry in Skyrim and not a Khajit or BRYNJOLF!!

157 notes • Posted 2021-06-20 06:31:46 GMT

#1

Characters seeing you steal cheese wheels

Brynjolf: mild amusement.  Not quite sure about your obsession, but he finds it cute so he just watches you with a smile.

Captain Aldis: strongly disappointed.  He doesn’t call the guards on you though because he really wants you to get that book for him.

Ulfric: strongly irritated.  You were supposed to be listening to him but instead you find cheese more interesting than plans for retaking Skyrim.

Serana: she loves it.  She joins in sometimes when there are too many for you to carry.

Lydia: slightly uncomfortable.  She doesn’t believe in stealing when you can purchase it but she won’t sell you out to the guards.

Tullius: 100 percent will call the guards on you.

Ralof: won’t join in but will laugh heartily at how many you’ve collected from your travels.

Kharjo: will totally steal your stolen cheese wheels until you take him somewhere warmer.

Argis the Bulwark: will roll his eyes but will block anyone from seeing with his huge frame.

Cicero: will absolutely call the guards on you screaming thief! Cackling as he sees you trying to outrun the guards.

Wylandriah: what cheese?  Now if only she could find that spoon…

200 notes • Posted 2021-03-09 00:02:04 GMT

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