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spookieloop · 4 years ago

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WHAT THE DEAD MEN SAY

Chapter One:

Pairing: Ivarr Ragnarsson(AC Valhalla)/Female!Reader

Premise: You are an archeologist/linguist in the Victorian era, and your world is turned upside down when a certain Viking Warlord returns to life before your eyes.

Rating: Explicit(there is a bit of NSFT at the end, and there will be more in later chapters)

In truth, you hadn’t wanted to attend this party. The museum was...nice, but you were quite familiar with most of the exhibits. Your presence had been politely mandated by the foundation that pays your bills, if only on account of your relative fluency in a number of dead languages and scripts. Not that you were given the proper respect for your achievements. “Greatest Female Mind of the 19th Century,” to distinguish you from the men, who won far greater respect for far less work. You weren’t sure how many more questions about your ‘spinsterhood’ you could withstand; as though none of your accomplishments held weight without a ring on a finger or a child on your hip. The other scientists were the worst of course; they had seen you work, knew your intelligence, yet it served their egos to pretend as though you were lesser.

It is far too much frustration, with far too little alcohol. Perhaps wine, yes; a quick trip to the cellars to clear your head ought to do you some good. You excuse yourself, your colleagues all too willing to believe you some dithering lady with need to retire for a bit; as though they hadn’t seen you trek through hot sun and freezing rains.

You roll your eyes as you turn away, your heels tip tapping against the marble floors as you make your escape.

It is however, a large building, and the lower floors are beginning to feel more like a labyrinth than a basement. At this point, you are more interested in finding your way out than you are in seeking out more wine.

The further you go into the basement, the less light there is, fortunately, you come prepared. You rummage through your satchel for your candles and matches, shedding some light on your surroundings.

The breath is stolen from your lungs and you all but shriek at the sight before you, a wide skeletal grin seeming to stare down at you. You calm down quickly however, realizing that this must be where the museum keeps its new exhibits before they go on display. Holding the candle closer to the skeleton’s glass case, you see evidence of water damage, as though it had been found at the bottom of a lake after centuries of rest...you frown as your flame illuminates the brass plaque.

Ivarr Ragnarsson

Of course, this must be from the recent Viking Age find. You had been requested for this project, but you refused. Normally, you were a go-to for Viking cultural finds, but this...The Foundation had decided to dredge the lake in search of high-profile remains. You were sickened by the idea, it felt as though your colleagues were disturbing the extensive rituals of the honored dead. You loved history, but this...felt wrong.

Wrong could not even begin to cover what you were about to witness.

You watch in awe as the bone seems to rejuvenate from its formally eroded state; awe giving way to horror as blood and flesh materializes seemingly from nowhere, knitting together to reform the man from the inside out. His face wears a blank expression, not quite alive, as the scars tear across his flesh, ink bubbling up to the surface to reform his tattoos. Your fingertips ghost against the glass inquisitively, your fears all but forgotten as you marvel at his form. Until now, you could only guess at what the people of the distant past truly looked like; and now here he is, standing before you just as he was the day he died.

Suddenly his eyes open, and you recoil with renewed urgency, only barely keeping your grip on your candle. He hadn’t just regained his form, the man is alive. Your brain fires off quickly, desperately seeking some explanation for this...perhaps a gas leak? No, your candle would have had you up in flames.

His head tilts in confusion as he eyes you, blinking abscently as though he had woken from a long slumber. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but a look of animal panic flashes through his eyes when he realizes there is no air in this glass box.

You realize it too, instinctually rushing to his aid, moving to unlatch the glass box...too slowly. As you reach for his prison, he is already smashing his head through the glass like a battering ram, littering the floor with the glittering shards. In your surprise, you drop your candle; the light still glowing weakly against the marble floor.

Barely illuminated, the man-Ivarr, is a thing of terror; rage and confusion etched into his face. You scramble backward, pressing your back tightly to the wall as he fixes you with his murderous gaze.

“What, THE FUCK, is this?” he growls in thickly accented Old Norse.

You struggle a bit to understand him, you were much more accustomed to reading Old Norse than hearing it. His displeasure though, is obvious. He lets out a pained grunt as he steps down into the broken glass with his bare feet, quickly closing the distance between you.

“I don’t know!” You manage to stammer out in his own language, shrinking away from him as his nostrils flare with rage.

“I was in Valhalla,” he booms. “Fighting beside my family for endless days.” He looks around, even as he struggles to see in the darkness, he can tell how deeply unfamiliar this world is. “Now I am...where am I?” He growls, caging you against the wall with his hands on either side of your head.

You quake in your boots; even naked and unarmed, you know he could kill you-with ease if he wanted…and he certainly looks like he’s got murder on his mind.

“London,” you force yourself to answer.

He doesn’t let you elaborate before he resumes his barking, unsatisfied. “I have been to Lundon, they had nothing like this,” he says, gesturing to what little you can see of the modern furnishings.

“It is London,” you insist, earning a rough hand around your neck before you can finish your sentence.

“You lie,” he snarls, squeezing harder as you claw at his hand desperately.

“Please,” you urge, struggling to choke the words out. “You’ve been dead for a thousand years.”

You gasp deeply when he releases you, staring up at him as you scramble for breath. He looks confused, but not so shocked as he should be; you can only hope that he believes you.

“A thousand years?” He whispers, looking around abscently in consideration. He looks down at you as you sink against the wall. “What sort of magic calls me back to this world after so long?”

You shake your head, trying to regain your composure, eyes fixed firmly on his. “I’m as shocked as you; skeletons don’t exactly have a habit of coming back to life.”

He sighs deeply, shaking his head before he looks at you, much more calmly than he had a moment ago. “So I live again…” he runs a hand through his hair, eyes miles away before returning his gaze to you. “What happens now?”

Fear dissipating, you cautiously rise to your feet; he’s staring at you expectantly, as though somehow you are supposed to have an answer for him. “I-I don’t, wait,” you cut yourself short, pacing quickly to retrieve your fallen candle. He looks at you curiously as you return, holding the candle up between your faces. “This is an extraordinary opportunity!” You gasp, any lingering expression of your previous trepidation evaporating in the heat of your excitement.

He opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, grinning wildly. “So much history from your time is lost to us, or tainted by cultural bias,” you explain with a fevered sort of enthusiasm. Your free hand slides along his bicep, getting a closer look at the intricate tattoo stylings. “My God, you are incredible. Think of what can be learned.”

He eyes you with a grin, clearly amused with your sudden zeal in contrast to just a moment ago, when he had you cowering against the wall. “You are an odd woman,” he says, lifting his arm so you can get a better look at his tattoos.

“What?” You look up at him, breaking your intense focus, if only for a moment. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

He shakes his head, looking down at you. Already your attention returns to his tattoos. A deep chuckle escapes his throat as you kneel to trace the runes etched into the skin of his abdomen; translating them in your head. He takes you by the chin, just a tad too roughly to be tender. He grins down at you, satisfied that he’s got your full attention.

“I said, you are an odd woman.”

There is a certain growl to his voice that sends a warmth through your spine; you feel yourself blush as you realize just how much of this man’s personal space you’ve invaded.

You rise quickly to your feet, turning away from him in a failed effort to hide your embarrassment. “Sweet Mercy,” you whisper in your own tongue. “I am so sorry.”

He laughs, deep and loud from the pit of his stomach. “Sorry?” He steps closer, into the light of your candle, on full display. “There is no shame in liking what you see.”

Your free hand covers your face in scandal. Your profession affords you much less prudery than your contemporaries, but it is difficult to shake the Victorian Sensibilities with which you were raised.

He grins playfully as he approaches, his hand brushing yours as he takes the candle from you. “Look at you,” he beams, thoroughly delighted by your obvious discomfort. “You shook less when I was going to kill you.” He snatches your hand from your face, leaning into your comfort zone, but awaiting your response.

You bite your lip, focused on the hunger in his eyes. That is part of what you love so much about history, is it not? The Passion. Rarely in these modern days do you see such an unashamed lust for life. This man lived and died in a culture of unrestrained freedoms, unabashed pleasures. You gaze back deeply into his eyes; perhaps you’d like some of that pleasure for yourself.

You lean into him, pressing your lips against his, and he pushes you up against the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip as he tries to push your skirts up, but he quickly becomes frustrated with the sheer amount of layers you’re wearing. He sets the candle aside.

“Too many fucking clothes,” he growls in your ear, his hands sliding up to rip your dress open.

You gasp, ready to protest the destruction of your most expensive dress, when you notice him eyeing your corset with a frustrated sneer.

“Fuck, are you wearing armor?”

You fail to hold back your laughter as he pouts, like a dog denied his treat. Your eyes widen when he grips your corset, however and you quickly snatch his hands.

“This one is my favorite, don’t you dare-”

You hardly get the words out before he’s grinning like a madman, and you know he took it as a challenge.

“Wait, I can take it off-” You shout, but not quickly enough.

You cringe at the sound of the busk popping open. You open your mouth to give him a piece of your mind, but a pleasured squeal forces it’s way out instead as his teeth sieze the sensitive bud of your breast.

“Fuck,” You moan, your arms draped lazily around his shoulders.

He releases your breast with an obscene pop, pressing firm kisses from your chest up to your neck, before biting down on your soft skin with a lustful growl. You gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders as pain meets pleasure. You feel him start to move away, as though he’s concerned that he hurt you, and you whine.

“Do it again,” you beg, pressing your body against his with urgency.

He grins, toothy and feral, before pushing you a bit more roughly against the wall, teeth biting down on your neck. He takes your hand, guiding it to his waist. You know what he wants, and you are happy to oblige; your fingers sliding down to wrap delicately around his length.

You make long languid strokes, savoring the weight of him in your hand. You desperately want to feel him inside of you.

He groans in protest as your hand leaves him, and you laugh softly, your hands working to undo your skirts.

Your attention is so utterly consumed by him, that you hardly notice the room flood with light, until Ivarr’s attention leaves you.

“Unhand her!”

You blush furiously, shifting to move between Ivarr and your bosses, the Board of the Foundation.

Taglist: @youre-my-boshaw-baby

#mypost #ac valhalla #assassins creed ivarr #ivarr ragnarsson #ivarr the boneless #ivarr/reader #ivarr x reader #ivarr the boneless x reader #ivarr ragnarsson x reader #ivarr ragnarsson/reader #nsft #fanfic

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redskull199987 · 3 years ago

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Early Mornings

Ivar the Boneless x female!reader

Word count:1.1k

Warnings:a little bit steamy

Summary: You find yourself in a delightful situation after waking up, but are suddenly interrupted by an unexpected visitor...

Gif by @underragingwaves

Masterlist

Part II

I slowly tried to open my eyes. But it seemed so hard. I was too lazy and the bed too warm.

Finally, my eyes flutterd open and I tried to sit up, but a pair of strong arms encircled my waist. I looked up and smiled.

He seemed so calm. Ivar the Boneless, a man who was almost never calm.

I quietly turned around in his arms and admired his face. The eyes which were usually shining bright blue were now closed. His mouth slightly ajar and his chest rose and fell as he breathed.

Carefully, I let my fingers dance across his jawline. A soft stubble scratched my fingertips.

"I love you", I mumbled, "Ivar the Boneless"

"I love you too, my dear"

That caught me of guard. I tried to pull away, but Ivar was faster. He grabbed my hand, and put it back on top of his cheek.

A smile crept onto his face, as he grabbed my other arm and pulled me even closer to him.

"Ivar-", I protested, but before I could say anything more, his soft lips collided with mine and I let any protests slip past me.

I sighed against Ivar's lips and we parted slightly. I could feel his warm breath on my skin and his blue eyes gazed into mine.

"Ivar", I mouthed against his lips.

He lifted his hand and softly brushed away my hair:"My Y/N"

Ivar slowly put his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. He sighed softly, before looking at me again.

"My Y/N", he whispered again.

I smiled at him and reconnected our lips. I felt Ivar's hands wander to my waist and he pulled me on top of him, while he sat up himself.

I felt Ivar's back hit the headboard, while he pulled me closer to his chest.

"Ivar", I signed against his lips, "Please"

"So needy, huh", he chuckled.

I only looked into his eyes and nodded. A grin graced his lips and in a matter of seconds, Ivar had switched our places and he was suddenly hovering above me.

His lips attacked my neck and a moan escaped my mouth.

"Shh", Ivar whisperd, "We don't want others to hear these beautiful sounds"

I nodded and tried to keep silent while he continued to kiss across my neck.

"Those noises are only for me to hear", Ivar mumbled. His voice was stern,"Only for me"

I only nodded at his words again, not able to form a coherent sentence.

A yelp escaped my lips, as Ivar's cold hands slipped under my robe. He only chuckled and continued to lift it over my head.

He just looked at me for a second, like I was the most precious thing that he has ever seen.

"Ivar",I mumbled and pulled him towards my lips again.

Another moan escaped my lips, I felt how his frigid fingers touched my skin. Ivar grasped one of my breasts, before starting to kiss down my sternum.

I felt his other hand slip behind my back and puling my Body closer to him. His lips covered my hips in kisses.

I desperately rubbed my thighs together, to conjure some friction, as Ivar was taking his time to cover my skin in hickeys.

"Oh dear", he mumbled and I felt his hands push my legs apart. I gasped, as I felt his lips on my inner thigh.

"Fuck", I mumbled and brushed my hand through his hair. A groan left Ivar's lips.

"Ivar!!"

I have never seen a man, who couldn't walk, get up so fast and covering himself and someone else. Because the Person screaming his name, was not me, but his brother.

Ubbe. He only looked at the two of us and grinned. Our relationship was no secret to them, nor to anybody else, but still they liked to make fun of us or tease Ivar for always being so protective of me.

"You're late", he said sharply, before turnung around to leave.

"Oh, and Y/N?", he asked again.

"Yes?", I sighed and shyly peeked out from behind Ivar's back.

"Our mother is searching you", Ubbe stated before leaving.

"Shit!", I got up as fast as possible, looking for my clothes.

"Where do you think, are you going?", Ivar asked perplexed and even though he was still sitting on the edge of the bed, he managed to pull me back into his lap again.

"Ivar", I giggled. His pouting face was too cute, "I promised your mother to help her with embroidering"

"Why can't you stay?", Ivar wined, running his hands up my back.

"Because your mother is the queen of Kattegat and she will personally kill me if I am late", I chuckled and pecked his nose, before getting up.

"I'd never let her do that", Ivar mumbled.

"I know, Ivar", I smiled and grasped his cheek, "I know"

"I love you", he mumbled while I put on my dress.

"Would you help me with the Corset, love?", I asked and turned my back on him, so that he could could tie the knots.

"All done", Ivar smiled after a minute. I turned around and kissed his forehead:"Thank you"

I quickly grabbed a comb and brushed through my hair. I was about to tie it together to, but Ivar stopped me.

"Leave it", he said. I turned towards him and smiled, before dropping my hair. It fell down my shoulder, before Ivar slowly reached out for it. He grabbed a lose Strand and quietly examined it.

"I have to go now", I murmured.

Ivar nodded, before grabbing his crutches. He struggled a bit to get up, but I only watched him. Even though, I wanted to help him, I knew how stubborn Ivar was. He would never admit, that he needed help.

After a minute, he was standing in front of me. Only in his pants and his hair still slightly messed.

I chuckled at his sight.

"What!?", Ivar smiled,"Don't you like, what you're seeing?

"Oh I do", I answered, "In fact, I even love what I'm seeing"

Ivar smirked before giving me one last kiss. It wasn't as passionate as the others, but still tender and full of love.

"I love you", he mouthed against my lips.

"I love you too, Ivar the Boneless"

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underscorewriting · 3 years ago

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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.

#ivar's heathen army #ivar ragnarsson #ivar ragnarsson x reader #ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #ivar imagine #ivar lothbrok #ivar fluff #ivar fanfic #ivar the king #vikings #vikings fanfiction #ivar x y/n #ac valhalla ivarr

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erzsebetrosztoczy · 2 years ago

Note

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.

#ac valhalla #assassin's creed valhalla #ivarr imagine #ivarr ragnarsson #ivarr #ivarr the boneless #ivarr fanfiction #ivarr x f!reader #ivarr x reader #ac valhalla fanfic #my writing

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the-historywhore · 4 years ago

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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 :)

#athelstan x reader #ragnar lothbrok #vikings x reader #vikings #bjorn ragnarsson #hvitserk #ubbe ragnarsson #ubbe fanfiction #sigurd ragnarsson #ivar ragnarsson #ivarr the boneless #ivar imagine #aethelstan #Viking wifey

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tttbdl · 4 years ago

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🍵👕

T-Shirt (READERxALEX)

warning: english isn’t my mother language so please forgive me if you find grammar problems. fluffy fluff.

pov >> You are dating Alex, he’s lately obsessed with teas and your obsessed with his couch

You step inside his apartment and you’re jaw drops. Alex immediately starts laughing.

“Do i see clearly?” you say shocked as he grabs your jacket. “did you really cleaned up?” you ask and he nods

“Just for you.” for some reason you’re heart just melts like some delicious chocolate. You took off your shoes then you run into the living room taking your favorite spot. “You really love my couch huh?” he raise his eyebrows

“such a comfortable couch” you answer “His name should be George” you smile at Alex then you look at the couch and you feel your body getting even heavyer.

“Woah! how do you know that my couch is a he?” he asks standing in front of you whit his baby blue eyes.

“We hang out a lot” you say

“really? without me?” he places his hand on his heart “are you cheating me with my couch Y/N?” he tries to say it with a serious face but next to you he can’t even act, he ends up laughing with you.

When the two of you stops whit the laughter you guys just stare into each other’s eyes. Alex’s eyes are so blue you can feel your body getting loosen up and getting tense at the same time. There’s just something in the way he looks at you. The way he is.

“I could never cheat on you” you whispered without thinking but you don’t regret it because it’s the truth.

“good.” he whisperers back “I could never ever ever ever ever cheat on you or even think of someone other than you” he says whit a smile then finally comes closer to you giving you a sweet kiss filled whit love.

You’re hands moving up to his face then to the back of his head, playing whit his cute hair. You feel his big arms at your back giving you warmth then one of his hands comes up to your face. he stops whit the kisses. He smiles, gives you one more quick kiss then heads to the kitchen.

“Alex Høgh Andersen, that was not nice” you yell.

you stand up and go after Alex,see what he’s doing and checking if he heard what you just said.

“what was not so nice, love?” Alex is making tea facing his huge, wide,muscular, perfect back.

You feel your legs getting weak. Even the sound of him saying ”love” just makes you feel a tsunami of butterflies. You are so into this man, you can’t even hide it. He looks at you for a second then turns back to his tea whit a big smirk.

“That you left me there” you finally say something.

Alex turns around, giving you some tea with his smirk. He has been so obsessed with teas lately you don’t know why or where did it came from. Frank Ocean must dropped a new song called “tea” or something like that. He grabs his hot drink and with his fast moves he spills a bit on himself.

“fanden! (fuck) great, now my favorite T-shirt is ruined.” he gives you a fake smile then drops it and waits for you to say something “why are you laughing?” he asks

“because now it’s a ...”

“oh god no, don’t” he shakes his head.

“a tea shirt” you continue with laughing

Alex chuckles then gives you a long kiss that you really needed by now then you pull away and you run back to the living room quickly because you can hear him running after you.

“Take off your tea shirt!” you yell and he does it with pressure.

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ao3feed-vikings · 7 years ago

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I won't hurt you

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2oFHP51

by Nejijjeoro

Ivar and his wife argue over their feelings, but especially their resentments and their son.

Words: 1508, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Vikings - Fandom

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Ivar, Ivar Ragnarsson, Ivar The Boneless, Ivarr in Beinlausi

Relationships: Ivar x Reader/Wife

Additional Tags: Vikings, Vikings imagines, some vulgar language, Fast mention of sex, But a lot of love and hate, Cute Children

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2oFHP51

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Vikings

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hereforreadandwrite · 1 year ago

Text

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.

#x reader #fanfiction #female reader #assassin's creed #ac valhalla #ac valhalla ivarr #ivarr the boneless #reader insert #ivarr x reader #ubba ragnarsson #ubbe ragnarsson #halfdan ragnarsson

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levithestripper · 2 years ago

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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.

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#jack's writing recs #jack's recs #jack says look #Ivarr the Boneless #Ivarr Ragnarsson #Ivarr x Reader #Ivarr the Boneless x Reader #Ivarr Ragnarsson x Reader

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hereforreadandwrite · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter Three

Masterlist

Two moons had just passed since your return.

Ivarr had been torturing Rhodri for two moons. He had asked his best blacksmith to build a cage in the pig pen. A solid cage in which Rhodri was rotting away with his peers. Everyone could see him and humiliate him. Halfdan had the idea of confiscating his clothes. Ivarr was purposely keeping him alive until you got better. He wanted you to witness what he planned to do to him.

A sigh escaped your lips as you sat on the edge of your bed. You felt better, even though your right eye still hurt when you exposed it. The nuns warned you that you would no longer see anything out of that eye. You thought you could get used to it, but you thought about all his battles and the hunting trips. How were you going to do it? You were still aiming with your right eye. You removed the bandages from your face, taking your sword to see your reflection. The threads were starting to fall off, the flesh was closing. It was starting to heal properly. But because of that, you found yourself hideous. Your once (Y/E/C) right eye had turned milky, your wounds were just starting to turn white. How could Ivarr still look at you? You were brought out of your thoughts when you heard the door open. Your attention was on your companion. He closed the door behind him, moving closer to you as you put the sword away.

"Halfdan, Sigurd and Eivor are still here? Maybe you should allow them to torture Rhodri," you said, getting out of your bed to pour yourself a glass of water.

"They do. Like everyone else in Sciropescire," he said, moving closer to you. “You’re the only one who still hasn’t gone to see him.”

You had a hard time swallowing your mouthful of water when you heard him. Yes, all of Scriropescire was able to humiliate and attack the Breton king. You were the only one who refused to see him. You didn't want to see him anymore. You had hoped Ivarr would kill him so you wouldn't see his face again. Ivarr could see that you had changed. You stayed cloistered in your room, in this damn Christian Church. You saw too much of Bishop Deorlaf for his liking. Ivarr had tried to get the bishop to talk, but he replied that what you had told him remained between you and him.

“Do you plan to stay hidden in this room for the rest of your days?” he asked, looking at you severely. “In this Christian Church?”

“I have the right to stay here as long as I want, Ivarr,” you said, slamming your glass down on the table. “Leave.”

“(Y/N).”

“Leave me alone!” you shouted, banging your fists on the table.

Ivarr gave an angry growl as he left the room, slamming the door. You bit your lip, no longer able to hold back your tears. You fell to your knees, hitting the ground while screaming in rage. You felt your fingers crack, it was painful, but you didn't care. You were so angry, so sad that you didn't care that your hands were bloody and that you broke your fingers. You stopped hitting the ground when you felt a hand on your shoulder. You jumped, suddenly turning around to see Bishop Deorlaf. He watched you struggle with your condition.

"(Y/N). This can't go on any longer, you have to share your pain with Ivarr," he said, stepping back.

"How?" you asked, getting up. "How could I tell him that? He's a Drengr! That sort of thing matters very little, Deorlaf. For me too. I was born only to fight and die with dignity to reach Valhalla! That's the only reason I came into this world! I... this kind of thing... it shouldn't affect me... but..."

"(Y/N)... you are a warrior, but you are still a human being. What you have experienced, our Lord will condemn. You have the right to be sad. You have the right to be angry. Ivarr also has the right to know."

"For what?" you asked, turning to the bishop. “It’s gone, so it doesn’t matter anymore.”

"It's important. Even if you think otherwise, you might be surprised by Ivarr's reaction if you explain to him what's tormenting you."

Deorlaf left the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You sighed, settling into your bed. You had no desire to tell Ivarr what King Rhodri had done to you. What's the point? You always hoped Ivarr would kill Rhodri so you could move on and forget. It was better this way. You were a Drengr. You shouldn't think about it anymore. You just had to focus on the future, the battles, the conquest of England, training Ceolbert. There were plenty of things to do, so you'd be able to keep your mind occupied.

Yes, you had a lot to do.

You shouldn't think about it anymore.

#x reader #fanfiction #assassin's creed #female reader #ac valhalla #ac valhalla ivarr #ivarr the boneless #reader insert #ivarr x reader #eivor wolfkissed #sigurd #ubba ragnarsson #halfdan

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hereforreadandwrite · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter Two

Masterlist

"As soon as I get back, we're going back to Ravensthorpe. Stay here and rest."

After making sure you were well settled, Eivor leaves Tamworth to go find Sigurd and Ubba to find Burgred's wife. According to Ceolbert, she was still in Templebrough and was the only one who knew where her husband was hiding. He left almost two days ago. You stayed in hiding, ashamed of your behavior. Ivarr's words were spinning in your head. A frightened little mouse. Ivarr was right. It was what you were everyday. The night was the worst time of the day. At nightfall, the slightest noise made you jump, you slept badly and were prey to his nightmares. What could you do to fight them? You had tried so many times, without results. You were too weak.

"You don't have to fight (Y/N). Sigurd and I fight for you."

Yes, Sigurd and Eivor have always fought for you. They had always fought for you. Everyone who hurt you had to face your brothers, never you. You had asked them to train you, but they still refused to harm you. No one in Ravensthorpe wanted to hurt you. Everyone knew your tragic and horrible story. Everyone was taking tweezers with you. You had gotten too used to it, you had become weak. You were brought back to reality by hearing a woman vociferate. You saw Ubba and Sigurd enter the barn with a group of four women. Three servants and a noble lady. Probably Burgred's wife. Ceolbert explained to you that he heard Leofrith dispatching soldiers to protect Aethelswith. Obviously, that didn't stop your brothers and Ubba from capturing her.

"Hey, (Y/N). Can we talk?" Sigurd asked, coming closer to you.

You nodded slightly, following Sigurd out of the barn, allowing Ubba to question Aethelswith. He took you to a quiet corner, where he was sure no one could hear your talk.

"Eivor explained your situation to me. What happened with Ivarr? Did he hurt you?"

"No. No, he didn't," you say, fiddling with your fingers nervously. "He just said one thing to me that makes me realize that some things aren't going as well as I thought."

"What do you mean? You're doing a great job."

"Stop it Sigurd. It's not true! I'm useless on a battlefield! The only thing I can do is surprise the enemy and then... I just know how to stay back and hope that the battle is over as quickly as possible," you said, looking upset at him. "And you say I'm doing a good job? If one of your drengrs acted like I do, you would have kicked them out without even giving one another chance. Am I wrong?"

Sigurd was speechless hearing your tirade. He took a deep breath before shaking his head, agreeing with you. If one of his drengers acted like you did. Sigurd would have banished him immediately, but he couldn't banish you. You were his beloved little sister. He loved spoiling you, more than Randvi. He had been away for two winters, leaving behind a young girl and on returning home he had found a young woman. But right now it was a broken, exhausted young woman in front of him. Sigurd sighed, putting his arm around you, pulling you into a hug, kissing the top of your head.

"We'll find a solution," he said, hugging you. "I promise you we'll find a solution."

You nodded your head slightly. You didn't seem convinced by Sigurd's words. You pulled away from your brother's embrace, smiling at him and telling him you were feeling better. Lie, but at least that reassured Sigurd. He placed a last kiss on your forehead before returning to Ubba. You took a deep breath, leaning against the wall, sliding down it, sitting down on the muddy floor. What could you do? What were you supposed to do?

"You can hide here like a coward if you want little mús. You seem to be good at it. After all, we each have our fights and it looks like you haven't won yours. As long as you refuse to win, you'll stay a scared little mouse."

Win? How could you win against a monster? Just thinking about him, you became again this terrified little girl hiding in a trunk, watching helplessly the people who are dear to you being massacred. You got up, brushing the mud from your pants before finding Ubba and the Ragnarssons brothers. Eivor came out of the barn, announcing that he knew where Burgred was. All they had to do was go find him and capture him. Ubba asked you to watch Lady Aethelswith and make sure she or her servants do not run away. Aethelswith was giving you a dirty look as you leaned against the wall, staring at them.

"And you, who are you?" Lady Aethelswith asked bitterly, crossing her arms across her chest, looking like a stern grandmother.

"The sister of those who captured you," you say in the same tone.

"I see. You are the whore who killed men of God."

"If your husband had been braver, his men would still be alive. The only one to blame is the cowardice of the king who did not hesitate to abandon his men and his wife. What kind of faithful and caring husband, a king, can abandon his wife, his queen, to her fate?" you asked, arching an eyebrow. "Whatever, you don't look better, you used your servant, much braver than you who was ready to sacrifice herself for her queen who took to her heels at the first opportunity."

You could see in her eyes that Aethelswith had a mad desire to kill you. You sat with the group of Saxon women praying to their God to help them through this ordeal. You couldn't help thinking that their God was cruel to them. How cruel your gods have been to you. You were snapped out of your thoughts when you saw your brothers and the Ragnarssons brothers return with none other than Burgred. Aethelswith quickly passed you, calling for her dear and tender, who quickly came to meet her.

"My lady! Are you injured? Did they hurt you?" he asked, glaring at you.

"Nice to see you again," you say as you move closer to the couple.

"No, no. I'm fine," reassured his wife.

"Move along, lord. Your king awaits," Eivor said, showing Burgred the way.

"Your death will come. Your end was write the moment you wame for me. I have made damned on that!" the king swore, turning to Eivor.

"The Zealos will know your names soon enough. No matter where you are, or how far you travel, they will hunt you down!"

"Enough of that, you squeaking sparrow," Sigurd ordered, glaring at the former king sternly before punching him.

Burgred fell unconscious, under the bewildered gaze of Aethelswith. Sigurd slung Burgred over his shoulder, leading him to the barn. There was still some time until Ceolwulf's coronation. Eivor and Ivarr went their separate ways, leaving you alone. You walked around Tamworth, watching the people celebrating. News of Burgred's capture had gone around. The drengrs drank, sang and danced. Everyone seemed so happy. A sigh escaped your lips as you finally found a quiet corner. Gods you hated all that noise. You lit a fire, settling on the ground. You were sure and certain that Eivor or Sigurd would join you. They always managed to find you.

You jumped when you heard a branch snap. A man who must have been in his fifties came up to the side, asking if he could sit by the fire. You nodded slightly, allowing him to settle down. The man had two mugs of mead. He handed you the full tankard, saying that everyone should celebrate the coronation of the new king. You glared at the man, telling him you didn't drink mead. A lie, but you didn't trust people you didn't know. You didn't care if it was a drengr of Ubba and Ivarr. It was one of yours who had killed your parents and orphaned them. You ignored the man who was trying to strike up a conversation with you, letting him know you had no intention of befriending or having a conversation. Night was beginning to fall when Eivor arrived near you, completely drunk. You saw the man wince when you saw your brother lying down beside you. The drengr rested his head on your lap, wondering why you hadn't come to get drunk with him. The man got up and walked away from the fire, not without glaring at the Wolf-kissed. This guy was really weird.

"Are you doing well?" Eivor asked, waving his hand in front of your face, catching your attention.

"The man that was sitting there. He was really weird," you say running your hand through his hair.

"He hurt you?"

"No, he made me feel uncomfortable and... he gave you a funny look."

"Probably a guy I had to punch in the face," he said, starting to fall asleep. "I'll talk to this guy... tomorrow..."

Eivor fell asleep like a rock, snoring so loudly he could wake Thor himself. You leaned back better against the tree trunk putting you to sleep in turn. You were awakened the next day by Eivor for the coronation. You hurried to reach the longhouse. Fortunately, you had arrived in time.

"Where were you two?" Sigurd asked sternly.

"He kept me awake because of his snoring and he used me as a pillow," you say looking at Eivor.

"You're our hangover cure," the concern said with a sneer.

"That's right," Sigurd replied.

You nudged your giggling Jarl in the stomach. Ivarr and Ubba arrived, escorting the fallen king to Ceolwulf. Burgred gazed intently at his old friend who was seated on his throne, surrounded by pagans. Like the others, you observed the interaction of the two men. Burgred was determined to retain his title. Burgred approached Ceolwulf when he recognized her, commenting that the goshawks of justice did not suit him. You leaned towards Sigurd, asking if the coronation was going to be okay on Burgred went on like this. Sigurd put his arm around your shoulders, telling you that everything was going to be fine.

"You stand before us to accept this witan's unanimous decision," said the Anglo-Saxon man. "That you are unfit to rule and are hereby deposited. We demand the abdiction of your kingdom and your crown to Thegn Ceolwulf."

All eyes fell on Ceolwulf. The Thegn rose from his throne, telling his former king that Mercia had spoken. He held out his hand to Burgred, ordering him to hand over his crown. Burgred eyed Ceolwulf intently, pretending to recognize him before apologizing. He approached his new king, telling him that the trappings of justice did not suit him and that if heaven no longer wanted him for you, let him be forgiven for his blindness. He asked for his crown which the Anglo-Saxon man brought to him. Burgred picked up the crown, eyeing it intently. The former king sneered, again asking forgiveness for his temper. He stood there, straight, for he had never learned to kneel in the ground. Burgred approached Ceolwulf handing him the crown before kneeling before him commenting that it was finally easy to kneel without fear or feeling. Burgred laughed at him. Ivarr shouted that he deserved the death penalty for that. According to the laws of your people, it was true. Anyone who mocked a king deserved to die. But obviously, Burgred was trying to use what little power he had left to impose his conditions before giving up his crown. He was brought back to reality by receiving a slap from Ceolwulf.

"You fool! Look around you. You have no leverage here. Plead for your life, for it's the only thing these men will grant you."

Burgred looked around to see that no one was supporting him. Your brothers approached him, as did the Ragnarssons sons.

"Yes... yes. Forgive le, I... do not harm me, I beg of you. Please. I'll go anywhere. here!" he said, handing the crown to Ceolwulf. "I resign it! here!"

Ceolwulf took the crown that was rightfully his, turning his back on the fallen king. His first order was to send Burgred and his wife to Rome, banishing them forever. A man carried the fallen king out of the house. Ceolwulf put the crown on his head. The witan announced to recognize Ceolwulf second of the name as king of Mercia. A just king. A king of mercy. The people acclaimed their new king. But you were still puzzled. Will Ceolwulf be up to it?

The joy was short-lived, as a northern woman quickly entered the longhouse, announcing that Mercian soldiers were marching on Repton. Ubba spoke of Leofrith, to which Ivarr commented that this dog was faithful unto death. Eivor approached the brothers, telling them to round up their men and divide them between the North and South gates. It should divide the enemy forces. Sigurd put your hand on your shoulder, telling you to stay here until he comes back and you're safe. Your brothers and the Ragnarssons brothers quickly left the longhouse, leaving you alone with Ceolwulf in a panic.

"Ceolbert is there," he said before turning to you. "(Y/N), you must save my son."

"Me?" you asked surprised. "I... I don't know. I... I can catch Eivor and..."

"(Y/N), it's an order. Save my son."

You nodded slightly before leaving the longhouse to fetch a horse. Why did he have to ask you to save Ceolbert? No, you shouldn't have thought of it like that. You were going to bring a son back to his father, you didn't need to shed blood. You mounted your horse, setting off for Repton. When you arrived there, the city had become a real battlefield. Everything was on fire, the drengrs and the soldiers were killing each other. You got off your horse, looking for Ceolbert. You quickly crossed the battlefield, firing your arrows as a croak reached your ears. You rolled your eyes to see Synin. The crow flew in a circle, above you before flying away. She wanted you to follow her. She had never failed you. You followed the crow, crossing the battlefield, shooting arrows, eliminating those who tried to stop you. You had to cross the river to find Ceolbert standing in front of Leofrith.

"Please. You do not want to do this," Ceolbert begged as he stepped back, tightening his grip on his sword.

Leofrith drew his sword, he had nothing to do with Ceolbert's words. You nocked one of your arrows, aiming between Burgred's hound's feet before firing. Leofrith and Ceolbert froze before turning to you. You put yourself between the two men.

"Let him walk, Leofrith," you say as you pick up another arrow. "You answer to me."

"I answer to my king," he said, glaring at you sternly. "I silence Danes... with this."

Leofrith held up his sword, letting you know he had no intention of talking quietly. You put away your arrow and bow, turning to Ceolbert to take his sword and tell him to back off. The young man nodded slightly before stepping back.

"Lay it by, Leofrith. There's nothing left to fight for," you say, getting into a fighting stance. "My brothers and the Ragnarssons stormed Repton. Only a matter of time."

"I cannot do that."

Leofrith rushed towards you, bringing his sword down on you. You manage to parry the attack with your sword. Attacking yourself. Why did this man have to fight for a man who didn't care about him? Why did you have to fight him? Leofrith threw dirt in your face, blinding you and making you cough. Burgred's right-hand man swung his sword down on you, slicing you from your right shoulder to your left hip. Ceolbert screamed your name as he saw you fall to your knees and saw all the blood escaping from your wound.

"You're weak," Leofrith commented as he kicked your stomach, knocking you to the ground. "And pathetic. You're not worthy of being considered a real fight."

Weak? Yes. Pathetic? No, that was out of the question. Your grip tightened on the sleeve of your sword. You quickly rose to your feet, bringing your sword down on Leofrith. The man was surprised to see you get up and be so upset. You landed sword blow after sword blow. Leofrith tried to parry your attacks, but to no effect. You kicked him in the face, knocking him to the ground. The man was dumbfounded. You got on top of him, stabbing the sword into his arm, making him scream in pain. Ceolbert watched you shock. You had never been so pissed off. You released the sword from Leofrith's arm, pointing it at his face.

"Weak? Yes, I grant you that. I am," you say between your teeth. "Pathetic? Never in the Nine Realms, I wouldn't make anyone feel that way."

"Go on then," he said between two breaths. "End it."

"No appeal to your God? Or your king?"

"I swore an oath to serve Burgred to the death. I fought. I lost. We both know how this goes."

You didn't understand him. How could he continue to serve Burgred? Why was he willing to die for such a man? Now you had his life in his hands. Your attention fell on Ceolbert who was begging you with his eyes not to shed any more blood. You sighed heavily, lowering the sword you dropped to the ground. Leofrith looked at you puzzled as you held out your hand.

"Stand, Leofrith. You're not going to die today."

"What?" he asked, accepting your help.

"It would be unfair of me to kill you without you knowing the truth. Your loyalty to Burgred is not a loyalty returned," you say, tearing off a piece of your tunic to wrap it around his injured arm. "He resigned the crown and fled to Rome. He's gone."

"You lie," he said stepping back, not wanting to believe your words.

"Lie to a man seconds from death? What would I gain?" eyeing Leofrith who seemed resigned. "He saved himself and left you to dia. All this fighting, it's for nothing. For no one. To betray one so trusted, so close... it's a dishonor worth a thousand deaths."

Leofrith nodded slightly, considering your words. Ceolbert moved closer to you, thanking you with a slight nod for letting the man live. Burgred's former right-hand man moved closer to the water, reflecting on the aftermath of his events.

"(Y/N)... you have show me a great kindness," he said turning to you. "It... it is only fitting that I do the same. At Venonis, there is a statue with a scroll laid in a small bowl. Eivor must burn it."

"A Scroll?"

"Eivor's name is on this scroll. At Burgred's request, I put it there. When it is found, the Zealots who read it will hunt him."

"Who are they?" you asked perplexed.

"It doesn't matter now, you haven't much time. Burn the scroll. Or they will never stop hunting him."

"Where will you go now?"

"Rome," he replied sternly.

Leofrith's gaze fell on Ceolbert, he put his hand on his shoulder, smiling at him before leaving. Leaving behind him, the young man and the Dane. A groan of pain escaped your lips as you put your hand on your wound. Ceolbert seemed to remember you were hurt. He asked you if you were okay. You had to cling to him, asking him to take you to your brothers. You needed to be treated as soon as possible. Ceolbert put your arm around his shoulders, he wrapped his arm around your waist, apologizing for the inappropriate closeness, leading you away from the battlefield. You pointed out to the king's son that he was wounded. He reassured you, telling you that it was only a few bruises and gashes from the fight. You considered him lucky, because his wounds will heal quickly. Ceolbert sighed, explaining to you that he had thrown himself on Leofrith, but this one was happy to play with him. Leofrit knew he couldn't do anything against him.

"You should have stayed hidden, Ceolbert," you say between your teeth. "This wasn't your fight."

"That wasn't your fight either," he said as he crossed the stream. "Why did you come?"

"Order from your father. The new king of Mercia. Congratulations, you are a young odlingr or aetheling. Whichever you prefer."

"(Y/N)... thanks for helping me."

"You're welcome."

The duo arrived at the gates of Repton. You breathed a sigh of relief when you saw Eivor and Sigurd. Your brothers were talking to the Ragnarsson brothers. Their gaze fell on you and the young aetheling who let go of you, being sure that you were steady on your feet. You thanked him with a nod, allowing him to move closer to Ivarr who didn't hesitate to tell him that he was delighted to see him covered in blood and glory. If he continued like this, he would end up as a clan leader. Eivor and Sigurd weren't so thrilled when they saw your sorry state.

"Sister. What happened to you? Why didn't you stay with King Ceolwulf?" Sigurd asked, checking your wound.

"Order from the king to go save his son's ass," you said as you clung to Eivor. "I am fine. It will heal."

"You fought Leofrith alone?" Eivor asked looking at you surprised.

"Surprise?" you asked, grimacing when Sigurd lifted your top to check the depth of the wound.

"It needs to be stitched up as soon as possible." he said straightening up.

"There's a woman who can help him with that. She found herself a few steps from here in a blue tent," Ubba said. "Her name is Kyssa. Go see her quickly."

Sigurd thanked Ubba with a nod, leading you to the tent. Eivor followed suit. The famous Kyssa didn't seem at all surprised to see you so banged. She made a sign for you to sit on the table, the time she prepares the necessary to heal you before telling your two brothers to get out of the tent. You stopped Eivor explaining to him what Leofrit had explained to you with the scroll containing his first name hiding in a statue holding a small bowl to Venonis and that he had to hurry to burn it. Eivor nodded slightly, saying he was going right away. He left the tent, leaving you with Sigurd who left the tent in turn, explaining that he had to speak to the Ragnarsson brothers. You were now alone with Kyssa. This helps you remove your top, revealing your wound.

"Well, you did great," she said, dabbing a water-soaked cloth on your wound. "From your right shoulder to your left hip, I've never seen such a gash before."

"I've always done it big for the first time."

"Was this your first battle?" she asked, putting the rag on the table to take a needle which she passed through the flame of her candle.

"Yes."

"Well, now you're going to taste the joy of being stitched up. Lay down. It won't be long."

You lay back on the table, watching Kyssa thread the thread through the needle before getting to work. You gritted your teeth as you felt her make the first stitch, pulling your ripped flesh together. Kyssa observed your body. She noticed that you had no scars.

"You did great for that first injury," she said, continuing her points.

"Yeah, it's always been that way with me," you say through gritted teeth.

"Was that your first fight?"

"You could say that. I've seen fights. I've been through battlefields, but fighting myself... it never happened."

"Why is that? You seem like a good warrior," she said as she dabbed at the blood.

"My brothers have always fought in my place."

"I see. Brothers a bit overprotective? Hm! Mine was the same. Always taking the ax" out of my hands so I wouldn't hurt myself," she smiled. "That idiot even tried to convince Ubba not to put me on the raids. He was too scared for his darling little sister."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. Don't worry, they'll leave you alone when you prove your worth to them. Which you've probably done, sweetling," she said, cutting the thread with her teeth. "There you are, you're good as new. You just have to wait for the wires to fall before you return to the battlefield. And no training. You have to rest."

"Thank you Kyssa."

"You're welcome sweetling. Can you just tell me your name?"

"(Y/N)."

"Enchant (Y/N)," she said, wrapping bandages around your torso, covering your wound. "You are more docile than the others."

"You have finished?" asked Sigurd.

"Yes, you can come in."

Sigurd entered the tent again, thanking Kyssa for healing you. She helped you put your top back on before she let you go. Sigurd asked you to follow him to a place quite isolated and where he was sure that no one could hear your conversation. Your brother helped you sit up, asking if you weren't in too much pain. You smiled at him, telling him that you were fine and that your wound will heal quickly. Your Jarl nodded, seeming reassured by your words. Silence fell between you two. A restful silence. Despite the battle there was, Repton was calm. As if nothing had happened. It was quite strange. You never stayed at the end of a battle. Every time Sigurd called you, you did what you had to do and then Eivor brought you home, safe and sound. It has always been like this.

"(Y/N) I... I thought about what you said to me when you came back Ledecestre. You're right about one thing. If any of my drengrs acted like you do, I banished him without giving one a second chance," he said, rubbing his hands nervously.

"I know."

"But! That doesn't mean you're useless," he said taking your hand in his. "You are strong sister. You are the bravest and strongest person in his Nine Realms. Yes, Eivor and I fight for you, as you do for us, but I believe... that we a... too much fight for you to avoid making you suffer. I think that after what happened when you were a child, we wanted to avoid that the least evil happens to you. We wanted to give you an easy life without you need to fight whatever. It was a mistake. Not to protect yourself, of course, but..."

"It was a mistake to protect me too much."

"Yes," he said with a sigh. "Eivor and I will never be able to train you as we would like. We always see you as our little sister who we don't want to hurt. So I asked Ubba and Ivarr to train you. welcome to them when you are healed. They are the best able to provide you with a training worthy of the name."

"So... we're going to be separated."

"Only for a while. But it's for a good reason and it's a good reason. I promise you'll be fine."

"I know. What do we do now?"

"I'll take you back to Ravensthorpe with Ceolbert. You'll rest and when the young aetheling receives a letter that he can return to his father, you'll come back with him. You'll probably be well by now."

"Ceolbert must leave Mercia?"

"Yes, there are still Burgred's soldiers lurking around. The king has asked for him to be safe while things calm down," he explained as he stood up. "We'll be on our way. I have to get to the Oxenefordscire quickly."

You nodded, accepting Sigurd's help to get up. He led you to the waiting horses. Ceolbert was in the company of his father, Ubba and Ivarr. The attention of the group arose his tone to arrive and that of your brother. He helped you get on your horse, telling you to tell him if you feel any discomfort during the trip. Ceolbert mounted his mount, asking you if you were all right. You nodded slightly, telling him that Kyssa had you back on your feet in minutes. Ivarr sneered, commenting that you had better be on your feet, as he would personally take care of your training when you return to Mercia. Your gaze rested on Ubba who apologized in advance. Sigurd announced that it was time to go. You followed your brother and Ceolbert, taking one last look at Repton to see that Ivarr was watching you intently. You stared ahead, feeling your heart race. It was really strange.

"I know that look," Ubba said looking down at Ivarr. "Whatever you plan to do against (Y/N), nor think not. She's an ally and sister to a Jarl."

"You forget, Ubba, that I am the one who will be in charge of her training when she comes back here with the twig that clutches the king's offspring."

Ivarr turned his back on his brother and walked away to return to his tent. He put his axe on the table before undressing and lying down on his bed. He stared at the ceiling of his tent, his thoughts directed towards you. A little mús that was full of surprises. To see you covered in blood, dirt and sweat. It had excited him. And now Sigurd had just asked him to train you. A cowardly little mús who returned her meal at the slightest drop of blood and who didn't know how to fight. He was going to be able to play with an innocent little mouse. Fresh and tender flesh. It had been a long time since he had had one in his mouth. He couldn't help but snicker, licking his lips.

"I will devour you."

#x reader #fanfiction #assassin's creed #ac valhalla #ac valhalla ivarr #ac eivor #sigurd #ubba ragnarsson #ceolbert #fanfic #ivarr the boneless #female reader #reader insert #ivarr x reader

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hereforreadandwrite · 1 year ago

Text

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.

#x reader #fanfiction #ac valhalla ivarr #ac eivor #ac valhalla #ubba ragnarsson #halfdan ragnarsson #sigurd #ivarr the boneless #reader insert #ivarr x reader

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levithestripper · 2 years ago

Note

im having a moment

just please, please, give us more Ivarr.

of courseeee. more Ivarr is music to my ears. this is based on the letter W from my NSFW alphabet with Ivarr. a more in-depth story from the headcanon was requested by @alexisp787. tune in for a little bit of a ‘softer’ Ivarr if that’s really possible.

Ivarr the Boneless x fem!Reader

IT WOULD BE easier to finish what the Saxons started instead of fretting over him like a mother hen. At least then, you wouldn’t have to listen to his constant complaints and endure his obstinacy. Ivarr the Boneless could come to you with a limb barely clinging to his body and claim to be fine. That same cocksure attitude leads him to believe the open gash running across his left breast is nothing more than a scratch to be healed with a rag and water, but you know better, and by now, he should too.

Ivarr hisses at the pungent sting of the diluted cider vinegar hitting the torn flesh, squirming back from you with a sharp glare —he hadn’t expected you to douse the wound without warning. The stinging fades when you wring a damp cloth over his breast, dappling away the blood still welling to the surface. It is not severe enough to warrant burning, but it will not seal on its own, either. He watches you with narrowed eyes, seeing you gather a curved sewing needle and a long thread of catgut. You pass the needle through the flame of a tallow candle, looking over your shoulder to find his bitter and pensive stare on you —blood already dripping down his chest again.

The stench of burning flesh jumps into the air with the first pass of the needle, and he hisses —unafraid to show his pain and discomfort to you. Ivarr’s hands close around your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. You give him a harsh look, continuing the line of sutures —it is late, and you are too tired for his ill-temperament ad stubbornness— but he’s intent on dragging out this chore. “Be still,” you grit out, half-tempted to let the cut fester rather than deal with his petulant antics. His pale eyes flare with madness —as if this is a game or challenge.

He listens —surprisingly— though his hands slide around to your backside, finding handfuls of your ass. You do your best to ignore him, wiping away the blood from each pass of the needle and the weeping gash itself, continuing with a neat line of sutures. Ivarr is silent, something that never bodes well. And when your gaze flits up to meet his, you can see the dark hint of lust in his eyes and the scowl on his lips as he watches you work. Tying off the catgut thread, you crane your head down, tearing away the excess with your teeth —lips and warm breath ghosting over the smattering of dark chest hair and blue-black ink on his chest.

Straightening, you kiss his chin, then his maimed cheek —purposely overlooking his lips. He frowns, seeing you slip from his hold and replace the threaded needle to its place in a small sewing kit. You’ve no intention of staying with him for the night it seems. “Where are you going?” Ivarr demands.

“Bed,” you answer, unbinding your hair and unlacing the ties of your leather jerkin. “Get some rest, Ivarr.” Rest would see him heal quicker, and afterward, you could properly celebrate his return.

“No,” he says, sounding like a child fighting with his mother to stay up past their bedtime.

“Yes,” you reprimand, not wanting to deal with an injured Ivarr any longer than you have to. Gods grant you the patience not to strangle him should he manage to tear the stitches before they dissipate or let them fester. He catches you in his arms, pulling you back against his chest. You see the unmistakable glint in his eyes when you glance up, feeling the hard outline of his cock pressed against your backside. Only he would have a raging hard on from being sewn up. It’s taunting and nigh impossible to resist the burning ache between you both at the touch of his lips against your shoulder and the rough hand sliding beneath the hem of your tunic across your stomach. You know what it is he wants from you. “No.” You shake your head —resolve beginning to crumble as you turn to face him— hand pressing to the center of his chest and pushing him back toward the bed as you take a step back toward the tent’s exit.

Ivarr doesn’t let you escape. “Yes,” he says, drawing you down with him and into his lap, holding you there —his arms a prison you don’t want to escape. Ivarr knows you won’t turn him away, especially now, having been separated from each other for weeks. One of his hands slides across your middle, loosening the ties of your britches, his hand slipping under the waistband to cup your cunt —palm pressed against your clit, two fingers exploring the slick gathering between your folds. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but the hitch in your breathing and the soft moan that leaves your treacherous lips when two of Ivarr’s fingers press into your cunt is enough to spur him on.

His name is both a curse and prayer as he thrusts his fingers in and out, spreading and crooking them to find the spot that turns you limp against him and makes him feel like Bragi —your body his harp, and he plays it well. “The stitches,” you protest. He doesn’t care. Ivarr pushes the leather jerkin from your shoulders with one hand, and you take the cue to draw the stained tunic on your back overhead, tossing it aside. He bends, teeth dragging along the swell of your breast, stopping to flick a pebbled nipple with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth, barely biting down. You gasp, back arching toward him. Ivarr does the same with your other nipple, licking a stripe up your breastbone.

There’s a moment’s pause, the two of you coming to a mutual understanding. Ivarr removes his hand from your britches, the two of your parting to shimmy off the remaining clothes separating your bodies. You settle back in his lap, kissing him, sucking his bottom lip between your teeth and nibbling on it as you reach behind your back to stroke the hard length of him in your palm. He chases your lips when you part and kisses you —hard— thrusting his hip upward into your fist. Ivarr twists his hand in your hair, pulling your head back and exposing the column of your neck to his fervent mouth. “I can still fuck you, little dove,” he breathes at your ear, nipping your earlobe then soothing the mark with a swipe of his hot tongue. You’ve no doubt he still has it in him and the hoarse whispers sounds like a warning.

“I’ve no doubt” —you thread your fingers into his ashen brown hair, yanking Ivarr’s head back and to the side, hand still working his cock, nose nuzzling against his jaw— “but I won’t be the one stitching you back up.” He groans, unwilling to accept the thought of not having his way with you tonight, but then you grind against him, and suddenly he doesn’t mind the thought of you using his body and cock to get him and you off.

Using his hands as support, you start lowering yourself on his expecting cock, taking him in inch-by-inch, slowly feeling yourself stretch to accommodate his girth —eyes fluttering shut. Your hips ache in his tight grasp as he holds you, helping guide you down —holding himself back from slamming you down on his cock completely. Both you and Ivarr let out breathy moans as your hips meet, your cunt fully wrapped around his cock —buried deep inside of you and striking a maddening spot.

“Fuck,” you whimper, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you rock your hips, slowly at first, trying to get used to the feeling of his cock filling you up again —and he the tight warmth greedily gripping onto him. He lets out an estranged groan through clenched teeth, and you lean down and kiss him, far more tenderly than he deserves. For Ivarr, there is no sweeter pleasure than being nestled inside of you, feeling your walls hugging his cock. Tight and warm and wet. His eyes slip shut, lips parting as your hips undulate —guided by his hands digging into your hips.

His eyes open long enough to glance down and see the sight of his cock disappearing inside you again and again, and it’s enough to push him over the edge into desperation —sweet surrender. Ivarr’s arms wrap around your middle, pulling himself up to sit upright, and you flush against him, his face buried in your neck. You slow, relishing the rare intimacy of the moment —each clutching onto one another, rocking back and forth like the steady break of waves on a rocky shoreline.

“Don’t stop,” he mutters. It’s the first time you’ve heard anything close to a plead fall from Ivarr’s lips. Ivarr is consumed with the way you look on top of him, bouncing up and down on his cock with a shade of warmth on your cheeks only a creeping orgasm can provide. Your grip onto his shoulders, hands slipping forward and fingers locking together at the nape of his neck as you speed up how your hips rock and bounce against his. He surges forward, open mouth pressed against yours, his tongue parting your lips —panting and moaning against one another.

Sensing your impending release, he reaches between the two of you to press the pad of his thumb against your clit, making your hips falter their pace, a rough and primal moan leaving your lips, one that Ivarr wishes he could hear from you every day for the rest of eternity. He’s too far gone, and when you grind down on him just right, meeting his upward thrust, he releases with a growl, spilling deep inside you, your walls flutter around him, milking his cock as you continue to rock and twist. His fingers continue rubbing furious circles on your clit until the spring in your belly releases and heat floods your veins, gasping his name.

Ivarr lays back against the straw bed, bringing you down with him —laying on his chest— both of you still connected, his seed leaking out around his softening cock. Looking down at him, you can’t help but roll your eyes upon seeing his grin, as though he’s saying, I always get what I want, little dove. Then your attention flits down to the fresh sutures —there’s no blood, and none of the stitches are torn. You doubt the same could be said if Ivarr had taken you as he normally does —wild and rough and reckless.

Groaning, you lift yourself off him, searching the floor bedside for yours or his discarded tunic to clean the mess between your legs. “Will you rest now?” You ask, half-hiding a teasing smile as you look back at him over your shoulder.

“Possibly,” he replies, shrugging. Ivarr lifts his arm when you lay back down next to him —making room for your head to rest on his chest. You settle against him, draping one of your legs across his thighs and an arm across his middle, lightly tracing the runes tattooed on his abdomen. The rough pads of his fingertips trace up and down the length of your spine. You glance up at him, finding his pale eyes focused on you —the madness is gone, as is the lust, replaced by something almost soft. Unspoken, you reach up, brushing the hair from his eyes, and place a final kiss for the night on his lips —and the gentlest of them all.

[taglist: @elizabethroestone @kitkitvm @elluvians @fullmoonwolfer1 @ghostieisalone @boodaga @southsideslutt @dynamite-with-a-lazerbeam @lizlovecraft @heathensith @alexisp787 @nobodyydobon @certifiedlittleshit @sonnefuchs @kat--00 ] 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!

#jack's writing recs #jack's recs #jack says look #Ivarr the Boneless #Ivarr Ragnarsson #Ivarr x Reader #Ivarr the Boneless x Reader #Ivarr Ragnarsson x Reader

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hereforreadandwrite · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter two

Masterlist

One week.

That was the time it took to find you. Ivarr was angry with himself, with his brothers, with Eivor and Sigurd, with the Nine Kingdoms for taking so long to find you. A week that Rhodri tortured and humiliated you. Bishop Deorlaf's nuns were looking after you, healing you as best they could. Ivarr entered the room, startling the nuns who rushed to cover you when they saw him.

"Why are you taking so long to heal her?" Ivarr growled as he moved closer to the leader of the group. "It should be over!"

"Her body is covered in wounds, which means it will take longer. We're taking care of the most serious thing, which is her eye."

You were lying on your stomach. The nuns had taken off your underwear so they could clean and dress your wounds. You hadn't woken up since your return. Which was worrying. Ivarr approached the leader of the group, telling him that she had better keep you alive if her Church did not want to see Ivarr the Boneless. The woman replied that she would do what she could and that the rest was up to you. Ivarr left the room, not without slamming the door of the room, startling the Christians present in the Church. Bishop Deorlaf approached the enraged drengr.

"This nuns are the best in the convent. (Y/N) is in good hands."

"No need to try to reassure me, Christian," he said, heading for the exit of the Elgise.

The fresh air didn't do him any good. He continued to pace in front of the building. His brothers, Eivor, Sigurd and Ceolbert arrived.

"Where's that mangy dog?" he asked between his teeth.

"Lock in a cage too small for him," Halfdan replied. "How is she?"

"They are still treating her."

"(Y/N) is a fighter. She'll get through this," Eivor said.

"What was Rhodri trying to get from her?" asked Sigurd.

"Information about our armies," he said between his teeth. "But he got nothing. (Y/N) didn't tell him. She assured me."

"We know that," Ubba said, putting his hand on his shoulder. "(Y/N) is the strongest drengr we've ever had in our ranks."

Ivarr freed his hand from his shoulder as the head nun stepped outside, looking around for the Boneless. He turned to the woman who told him that they had finished treating you. You were alive, but unconscious. She also explained that they had done everything they could, but they had failed to save your right eye. Ivarr walked past the nun, heading back to your room. You were covered in bandages, from head to toe. The nuns put you on your stomach to relieve your back. The bandages were already stained with blood. You had been wounded in battles. You had broken bones. You had bled. But you've never been so close to death. Like him before. Ivarr turned back to Ubba and Halfdan. His brothers understood what he wanted when they saw the glint in his eyes: he wanted blood.

"Where is he?" he asked between his teeth.

Halfdan motioned for Ivarr to follow him. Ceolbert approached Eivor and Ubba, asking King Rhodri what he planned to do. Ubba sighed as Eivor put his hand on his shoulder, telling him he didn't want to know. With what the Breton had done to you, he wasn't going to make it out alive. Halfdan entered the longhouse where the cage was. Rhodri was locked up there. All eyes were on him. Everyone knew what he had done. Everyone wanted his head. Halfdan ordered the crowd to leave the room, leaving the two men between them. Halfdan announced that he was waiting outside and told him to call him if he needed help settling his account with the Breton king. Ragnar's eldest son left the longhouse, carefully closing the door behind him. Ivarr circled the cage, glaring at Rhodri.

"Coward until the end, don't you? Rhodri," he said between his teeth. "Taking on someone else for pissing me off. You did it. You really pissed me off!"

Ivarr kicked the cage with his foot, causing Rhodri to fall to the side of the cage.

"You want to pretend you're a man?! You want to pretend you can beat me?!" Ivarr shouted, unhooking his axe and bringing it down on the cage. "You know what? I have a great idea."

Ivarr left the longhouse, motioning for Halfdan to follow him to talk with Ubba. He had a clear idea of what he was going to do to the king of the Bretons.

(o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o)

You didn't know what hurt you more, your eye or the rest of your body. You moaned in pain, opening your left eye. You had to blink several times adapting your vision. Your eye swept around when your attention rested on Ceolbert. The young man was sitting next to you playing nervously with his hands.

"Please tell me you're not praying to your God," you muttered.

"(Y/N)! You're finally awake," he said moving closer to your bed. "How are you feeling? Sorry, forget it's a stupid question."

"Don't worry. It's nice to see you again. Was I unconscious long?"

"About three days, we were all worried about you."

"Sorry. Where's Ivarr?"

"Out with his brothers, Eivor and Sigurd," he said, standing up. "I'll get him. I'll be right back."

Ceolbert left the room, leaving you alone. You groaned in pain as you felt the scabs crack when you had the supergrained idea of moving. It was the first time in your life that you were in so much pain. It was this pain that Ivarr had felt? Or was it worse? You closed your eye, concentrating on your breathing. The door to your room swings open, revealing Ivarr the Boneless. This one approached quickly your bed, passing its hand on your cheek.

"Are you okay?" you asked, looking at him with your one eye.

"I should be asking you that question," he said, pulling up the stool, settling down next to you.

"It's ugly, isn't it?" you asked with a sigh. "I didn't find myself attractive enough and now it's worse."

"Don't talk nonsense. You're a drengr! And his wounds prove it," he said, brushing a lock of hair out of your eyes.

You smiled at your companion, thanking him for his words when a wave of pain washed over you. Ivarr ran his hand through your hair, saying the pain would ease, the wounds would heal and leave an indelible mark on your body. You took his hand in yours, daring to ask him what had happened to King Rhodri. Had he become a number of your lover's royal murders? It was everything you hoped for. Ivarr's gaze darkened upon hearing that name. He replied that you had nothing to worry about, that he was taking care of his case. He was taking care of his case? Does that mean he hadn't killed him yet? Why was he keeping him alive? It was rare for Ivarr to do such a thing. You didn't have time to ask him the question when you were getting tired. He passed his hand over your cheek, telling you to rest. You fell asleep, reassured to know you are safe. Ivarr left his seat, settling on the floor, leaning his back against the bed. The Boneless began to sharpen the blade of his axe, thinking of all the things he was going to do to the Breton king. Maybe he was going to cut off his fingers and toes first, then his limbs. Pieces by pieces. With what he was about to do to him, any Bretons would flee the country. No, any Breton wouldn't dare approach you, or even look at you. He swore it.

#x reader #fanfiction #assassin's creed #female reader #ac valhalla ivarr #ac eivor #ac valhalla #ivarr the boneless #reader insert #ubba ragnarsson #ivarr x reader #ceolbert #halfdan ragnarsson

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