#VIkings Tv Series

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Finnish polka" - Ivar the Boneless x Reader

SUMMARY: After helping one of the northern Jarls, the Lothbrok brothers attend a celebratory feast. There, they're faced with a tradition of warriors catching flower crowns that belong to young women. How surprised Ivar is when you almost shove your crown into his hands.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.1k

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Ivar is tired.

Of course he's glad that Jarl Thorstein came out victorious. And that his brothers are fine. Still, he feels weary as the adrenaline leaves his body. His legs start to ache. Ivar downs the rest of his mead in hopes it makes him a little more deaf to his mood.

The upbeat, bright music fills his mind like an obsessive thought. His heart beats to the rhythm tapped by the feet of dancing women. They spin, jump and run around with flower crowns sitting atop their heads. How the wreaths remain immovable, he can't quite say.

Ivar is also angry.

As the local tradition entails, when the song ends, all the dancing young maidens will throw their flower crowns to the crowd. Whoever catches it, is believed to be the girl's lover chosen by the gods. However, whether the couple indulges and trusts gods' judgement is a different story. But if the wreath falls to the floor, the girl is said to remain unmarried for the next five years.

Ivar knows the chance of him somehow catching one of those is near zero. He's sitting quite far from the dancers. Even if he did catch it, he's disillusioned about the imminent dissatisfaction of the flower crown's ownert. Not only is he disabled in a way that almost entirely excludes him from fighting but he's also infamous for his ruthless nature and vengeful heart. Hardly a man who invokes desire. Still, some naive piece of him remains hopeful that maybe he's wrong. Maybe he can be terrible and loved all the same.

He shakes those weak delusions away from himself before they sour his mood further.

His piercing eyes have been following one of the dancers for the better part of the song when he catches himself. Her movements look effortless even when the musicians pick up the tempo. Clearly, she's done this dance one too many times to have any doubts about what she's doing. Joy beams from her in a way that makes her appear almost shining. The wreath on the top of her head is mostly green with white and red flowers. It makes Ivar think of the woods surrounding Kattegat; it makes him think of home.

Ivar leans toward Oddleif, one of the Jarl's men, who's sitting next to him.

"Who is she?"

Oddleif looks at Ivar out of the corner of his eye. He scoffs, takes a large sip of his drink and only then decides to answer:

"If you're thinking of catching her flower crown, don't." His blond braids dance slightly as he shakes his head. There's a hint of laughter hiding in the back of Oddleif's throat. "Half of the surviving army wants it."

"I have no care for flowers," Ivar lies through his teeth. "They have no use. They wilt and die and soon no one remembers them. I am simply curious about her."

"Her father is the blacksmith. You might have seen him in the battle, swinging that damned sledgehammer." Ivar silently nods. He remembers that man - tall as a pine tree and wider than a stable. The blacksmith invokes respect even when he's not decimating enemies like a troll equipped with a tree trunk. "He said once that he'll let any man marry his daughter but only if he can lift an anvil. Tried it once myself. Not that I had any success as you can imagine." Oddleif laughs bitterly and continues drinking. His eyes are glued to the dancers but Ivar knows that right now, the two of them are admiring the very same girl with a flower crown like a forest.

The melody continues to quicken. Despite being out of breath, you don't want it to end. Your feet ache but they do not falter nor do they stumble. It seems that their muscles know the dance better than your mind. There are a dozen girls dancing with you but you do not see them. Not really. They appear worlds away from you and the song of bagpipes and strings.

And then appears he.

A slouched, dark figure flies before your eyes as you're doing another pirouette. The man simply sits there, in the corner, but his presence is overwhelming. Or so you think. He does nothing and yet he tears his way into your microcosm of quick footwork, turns and lively polka.

You recognize him. Of course you do. Many whispers, equally frightened and amazed, have spoken of him. You have believed in all of them until the moment you met his gaze for that split second. Right then, somewhere between blinks and breaths, you renounce every gossip you've ever heard about him. A voice in the back of your head, a trickster or an oracle, nags at you to learn the truth yourself.

When the lively, fast melody comes to a stop, you find yourself shaken awake from the thoughts about Ivar the Boneless. The end of the song seems somewhat abrupt to you as you've been letting your fantasy run wild without paying much attention to what's going on around you. Dancing the last part purely by the memory of your muscles. The moment musicians stop playing, a small crowd begins to form in front of you. Men of different class, age and ancestry reach out their hands. Each one of them is more determined than the other to catch your wreath. They start to yell something but considering that the inside of the long hall is awfully loud anyway, you can't make out any words. Reading their lips, you can only tell when they're exclaiming different variations of your name.

They're only pushing towards you, shoving each other away. You keep taking steps backwards but the distance you create with each step is quickly shortened with the men calling out to you. You knew there would be many of them in front of you but never assumed that many. Instead of somewhat flattering, the siege is terrifying and imposing.

Looking for help or advice, just something that will ease your tension, you silently look around the long hall. Your gaze falls on the same slouched, dark figure. Strange peacefulness washes over you when his eyes meet yours.

The dim candlelight seems to bend around Ivar, making his corner appear darker than anywhere else in the long hall. He's simply sitting there. Maybe he's not interested? But the way he's staring at you shows nothing if not burning curiosity. The sons of Ragnar aren't know for their patience. No, they're said to take whatever they want the moment their desire sparks. Despite that, the youngest of them, and arguably the most famous, appears to be waiting. But for what exactly?

The fresh pine needles prick your skin. You furrow your eyebrows. Your gaze falls to the wreath and then comes back to Ivar. Could it be...?

It isn't much of a throw, really. You toss the flower crown towards him without looking anywhere else but into Ivar's eyes. Without as much as blinking, he catches the wreath with ease as though he has been prepared for that. Low murmurs hit your ears but quickly the sounds of disappointment fall silent as it's made clear who caught your wreath. Despite their initial determination, the men who had been reaching out to you suddenly disperse like fog does in the early morning. They knew better than to get under the skin of a Lothbrok. Especially that one.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Ivar is holding up the wreath. Despite his words, he makes no effort to offer it back to you. His eyes are bright and glistening, the corner of his mouth is tugged ever-so-slightly upwards. He appears amused.

At first, it was nice to finally sit down after dancing for what seemed to be hours on end. But now, when you're facing the consequences of your spur-of-the-moment decision, the tension sets in once more. This time, however, it doesn't feel threatening. In turn, the nervousness is somewhat welcome like the jittery state before a surprise is revealed.

"If I wanted to keep it, I wouldn't have thrown it," you answer in a light tone.

"And why should I keep it?"

The blue eyes study you for a moment. It's a strange feeling - you can't help but think that the longer you are in Ivar's presence, talking or not, he's reading your mind and soul. He stares at you in a way that tells you he already holds all the answers but wants you to confirm them.

"It's said to bring good luck." You shrug your shoulders. "Until the wreath wilts and dies, Freya and Freyr will look after you."

Ivar looks at the flower crown again. Only now, when he's holding it, does he realize that for a flower crown, there aren't many flowers. A few sandworts and poppies, yes, but the wreath is made mostly of evergreen plants. It might take weeks until the crown wilts.

The microcosm seems closed again. Now it's not you and the bagpipes but you and him. It's strange and it's new but it's not threatening. It's not the kind of presence a man of his infamy should have. Or perhaps you've simply fallen for his honey trap.

"Why did you throw it to me?" Ivar tries to make the question seem unimportant, just curiosity brought to light. But he can't quite convince himself that he doesn't care. There's a hint of something vulnerable and genuine when the words roll off his tongue. It's easy to miss like a dandelion clock carried away by a gust of wind.

You wish you knew the answer yourself.

"I don't know really," you say honestly. "Perhaps it was one of the gods that threw the flower crown for me." You make a pause. Ivar's face is unreadable. "Or perhaps I have no interest in urgent, desperate men."

Ivar chuckles. A deep shadow is covering part of his face, making him appear kind of sinister. For a moment, you question whether he's laughing with you or at you.

"And what exactly makes you think I'm not urgent or desperate?" he continues. You notice his smile is growing wider. That glint of amusement in his blue eyes has changed in mischief. "What if I'm worse than all of them? You surely know who I am."

"Of course I do, Ivar the Boneless," you drone the words. In a barely noticeable fashion, he clenches his jaw when you say his name. It makes him feel a strange, burning sensation in his stomach but Ivar is left unsure whether he likes it or detests. "The whispers of your ruthless character are unending."

"But you're not afraid?" he asks with both disbelief and suspicion. A girl with a flower crown doesn't necessarily strike him as fearless in any way. Or this whole strange situation is a little too good, too dream-like, for him to accept it at face-value.

Ivar's smile falters when your face takes on a confident, maybe even arrogant, expression. He's taken aback.

"I'm a woman of the North," you say while leaning towards him on the table. The distance between your faces shortnes. "The only person I fear is my own reflection."

The sudden closeness makes Ivar inhale sharply. The strong smell of pine needles fills his nostrils. For a moment, his imagination runs wild but it's not his fault - he has no grasp on it:

How those big eyes glistened in the semi-dark of the long hall as you were staring at him. Your smirk, somewhat challenging and beckoning him to push on. Then, the smell of conifer that shakes all senses awake. His fantasy leaves the northern snows and travelles to forests, to him brushing pine needles from your hair and your naked, flushes skin smelling of evergreen trees.

But quickly his shaken awake, to his utmost displeasure, by you:

"Well, if you don't want it, I suppose I should take it back, no?"

Your hand unsurely reaches out for the wreath in Ivar's hand. He's quick to pull his arm back.

"It's bad luck to take back gifts," he states plainly. In an act of nonchalance, Ivar is playing with the wreath, spinning it around his finger. "I should like to keep it."

Sometimes you come back to the night you've met the infamous Viking, when you're rendered sleepless while he's calmly breathing next to you, getting the rest he desperately needs. How funny all of it seems - that a flower crown in bloodied, merciless hands could lead to having a genuine crown on your head. Maybe you were right, after all, and it really was the hand of one of the gods that threw the wreath for you.

[gratelove]

Okay yall, I’m a little late to the party, but Rollo Lothbrok🫣 I’m only on season 3 of Vikings and I’m officially in love with the beauty of this man. Be prepared for more Vikings fics🤤 Also, this is a LONG fic, but it’s worth it!🥹

Bridge Between Worlds

Rollo Lothbrok x Reader

In a marriage arranged for political alliance, you, a Christian princess, and the Viking warrior Rollo find yourselves unexpectedly drawn together, bridging the divide between your faiths, cultures, and hearts.

Warnings: smut, fluff, struggles with faith, religion, drinking, cursing

The grand hall fell silent as your father’s voice rang out, echoing through the stone walls. His words seemed to linger in the air, heavy with purpose, like a chain slipping over your wrists. “The Northmen have proposed an alliance, my daughter,” he said, his gaze steady as he looked at you. “King Ragnar has offered his brother, Rollo Lothbrok, to wed you. This marriage will bring peace to our lands and protection from their raids.”

The room seemed to close in, the walls pressing down as you struggled to breathe. Marry a Northman? The very thought filled you with dread. You’d heard tales of these people—warriors who worshipped strange gods, men who swept through villages like storms, leaving only ruin in their wake. And now, to bind yourself to one of them, to Rollo Lothbrok of all people… It was unthinkable.

“But, Father,” you protested, your voice wavering. “Surely, there must be another way to secure peace. A treaty, a negotiation—anything but marriage.”

Your father’s gaze softened, but his voice held the iron weight of duty. “This is the only way, my daughter. We need this alliance. You have always known that your marriage would serve a greater purpose, and now that purpose is upon us.”

You felt a lump rise in your throat. Your life had been a careful sequence of preparations for this role, every lesson, every sermon instilling in you the virtue of self-sacrifice. You’d known that one day your life would be bound to someone chosen for you, but you had always imagined it would be to a noble from a nearby kingdom, someone who shared your faith, your values. Not to a pagan warrior from a distant, brutal land. A beast more than a man.

And yet, you had no choice. The Northmen’s proposal had been clear, and your father had already accepted it. The fate you had so long been prepared for was now sealed.

***

The day of your wedding dawned, cloaked in an eerie stillness. The grand church where you were to wed Rollo was adorned with flowers and candles, symbols of a sacred union. You wore a gown of fine lace, your veil trailing behind you like a whisper of grace. You felt numb, as if moving through a dream—or a nightmare—waiting for the moment to be over, waiting for the reality of it to settle.

Rollo stood at the altar, a tall, imposing figure, his features set in a mask of silent defiance. He looked as out of place as you felt, his gaze hard and unyielding, his mouth a tight line. When he glanced your way, his eyes were unreadable, a mixture of resentment and resignation. It was clear that he, too, had little desire for this union.

The priest began the ceremony, his voice a steady drone of Latin prayers. You barely heard the words, your mind elsewhere, tangled in memories of home, family, the life you were leaving behind. Each phrase, each gesture, seemed hollow, an imitation of the wedding you’d once imagined as a child. This was supposed to be a moment of joy, of love. But there was no warmth here, only the cold formality of duty.

When the priest instructed Rollo to take your hand, he did so without meeting your gaze, his grip firm but impersonal. His hands were rough, scarred from battle, the hands of a man who had known violence more than tenderness. You felt the weight of his touch, solid and unyielding, a reminder that you were bound now to this stranger.

The priest continued, his voice a solemn echo as he blessed your union, but you could see the slight hesitation in his eyes. This marriage between a Christian princess and a heathen warrior defied every tradition, every vow that was meant to sanctify it. And yet, the ceremony proceeded, binding you together in the eyes of your God and your people.

When the vows were exchanged, Rollo spoke the words in a language foreign to him, his voice thick with an accent that turned each promise into something distant, almost detached. You struggled to keep your voice steady as you repeated your own vows, feeling as though you were surrendering more than your hand. You were giving up your life, your dreams, to a man who would never understand you, nor you him.

As the ceremony ended, the church fell silent, a strange, somber quiet lingering between you and Rollo. The people gathered offered their restrained applause, their faces a mixture of relief and curiosity. To them, this was a strategic victory, a bridge between two worlds, but to you and Rollo, it was a prison.

You stole a glance at him, trying to discern any hint of emotion in his eyes. But his face remained a stoic mask, unreadable and distant, as if he, too, were waiting for this day to be over.

That night, as the festivities continued, you and Rollo exchanged only the briefest of nods, acknowledging each other out of obligation more than anything else. You sat at opposite ends of the grand table, separated by language, by faith, by the vast chasm of your different worlds.

And so, as the night grew darker, you resigned yourself to this new life, feeling like a stranger in your own skin. Bound by vows spoken in words that felt foreign, you wondered if you would ever find warmth in the cold, unyielding presence of the man you now called your husband—or if this marriage would remain as empty and silent as the vows you had uttered in that grand, hollow church.

***

The sea air of Kattegat was colder than anything you’d known back home. The winds held a bite, reminding you each day that you were far from the familiar warmth of your homeland. It had been a month since you’d arrived, a month of silent days and sleepless nights in a place that felt like another world. Though married, you and Rollo had barely exchanged a glance since arriving, your only link to understanding his world was the quiet monk Athelstan, who patiently taught you Norse.

Days passed in strange routine. The Northmen spoke a language rough and wild, each word sounding like thunder to your ears. But Athelstan was a skilled teacher, and over time, the foreign words began to settle into your mind. Slowly, painstakingly, you came to understand snippets of conversation, whispers of words. And though you’d never spoken to him directly, you felt Rollo’s presence more keenly than anyone else’s.

Beyond learning their language. You learned of their gods.. gods that were not so different from the one you knew to be true. In the quiet moments of your days in Kattegat, when the biting northern winds were at rest and the village hummed with the peaceful rhythm of daily life, you found yourself questioning truths you had once accepted without hesitation. This land was raw, its people fierce, yet you had begun to notice an undeniable beauty here. And with it came questions—questions that took root deep within your heart, challenging the very foundations of your beliefs.

At first, the differences between you and these people had seemed insurmountable. Their rituals, their prayers to unseen gods of thunder, fertility, the sea, and the harvest—all of it seemed like blasphemy to your ears. Yet, as the days turned to weeks, you saw their reverence, how their lives were woven with purpose and respect for the land, for each other, and for forces they couldn’t see but trusted in deeply.

They worship their gods as we worship ours, you thought one day, watching as a woman carved runes into a wooden charm meant to protect her family. They seek strength, guidance, blessings. Are they so different from us?

The question unsettled you, and you struggled against it, recalling sermons from your homeland, the teachings that painted pagans as savages, their gods as dark spirits. But there was light in these people, too, wasn’t there? A unity, a sense of duty, and a love for family that you had always been taught were the virtues of your own faith.

Your gaze often drifted to Athelstan, your quiet teacher and guide in this foreign world, who had once been a Christian monk but had found himself torn between the faith of his past and the gods of the North. You wondered if he felt the same turmoil you did. Perhaps he, too, had wrestled with questions of what was true and what had been constructed by the hands and minds of men. After all, Athelstan had once told you that the Vikings’ gods had existed long before Christ had walked the earth.

This thought lodged in your mind, growing roots you couldn’t shake. Could it be possible, you wondered late one night, lying awake in the cold silence of your home, that the stories of my faith were born from theirs?

You thought of the tales you’d been told in church, stories of miracles, sacrifices, and holy men who could summon storms, heal the sick, or commune with higher beings. But here, you had seen similar stories told around the fires in the evenings—stories of gods who controlled the weather, who guided their people, who demanded sacrifices to keep balance in the world. You watched the children listen with wide eyes, just as you once had, their awe and reverence echoing your own memories of kneeling in a grand church, captivated by stories of your God.

And the symbols—they weren’t as different as you’d once thought. The hammer of Thor, which hung on a leather cord around the neck of nearly every warrior, wasn’t so unlike the cross worn by priests and devout nobles back home. Both symbols represented strength, protection, a hope that something greater watched over you.

What if, you wondered, heart thundering with the weight of the thought, these people had seen the same truths but woven them differently? What if, in some ancient past, we had all followed the same gods, the same ways, and only time had divided us?

It was a question you dared not voice, even to Athelstan. But the idea stirred something within you, something that frightened and intrigued you all at once. You felt the weight of the cross you still wore around your neck, a symbol of your devotion, yet here, it felt somehow…lonelier than before. Was it possible that your understanding of the divine had been limited by the walls of a church, by teachings passed down without question?

Each day you rose and went about your new duties, the questions circling in your mind like a hawk over the fields. Each time you watched Rollo go to the sacred woods or pour mead onto the earth in an offering, you felt a strange pull, a whisper in your heart that perhaps the world was larger and more mysterious than you had ever allowed yourself to believe.

One night, as you lay beneath the northern stars, you found yourself praying, not just to your God but to whatever forces might hear you. A strange peace settled over you then, as if your heart had found a rhythm that it had been seeking all along, something beyond names and symbols—a sense of connection to the world around you, to the mysteries and wonders that spanned both your people and his.

For the first time, you felt that perhaps there was more than one way to honor the divine, more than one truth, and that perhaps, in marrying Rollo, you had not been lost to a foreign faith but rather drawn closer to understanding the many ways humanity sought to make sense of this world and the next.

***

One evening, after a long day of lessons, you returned to your new home, hoping for the comfort of a bath to soothe your weary body and mind. You went to the small, private bathing room, where a tub of steaming water awaited. But as you reached to untie your dress, you found yourself struggling, your hands fumbling clumsily over the stubborn knots at your back. Frustration welled up, and you cursed softly under your breath, wishing for just one familiar comfort in this strange, foreign life.

Suddenly, a presence loomed behind you, close enough that you could feel his warmth. You froze as a large, rough hand gently touched your shoulder.

“Let me,” came the deep voice, and you knew instantly it was Rollo. His voice was as rough as the northern winds, yet softer than you’d ever heard it, as if afraid to shatter the silence that had always lain between you.

You held your breath as he deftly began to untie the laces, his hands surprisingly gentle as he worked through the knots with ease. Neither of you spoke for a long moment, his closeness overwhelming, every brush of his fingers against your back sending sparks down your spine.

Once he had loosened the dress, he lingered, his hands resting against the fabric at your shoulders. You felt your heartbeat quicken, and with a shaky breath, you finally turned to look at him. His intense blue eyes met yours, filled with an unreadable depth.

“Thank you,” you murmured in Norse, proud yet hesitant as you stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds.

His lips curved, just barely, in something close to a smile. “You’ve learned our language well,” he replied, his voice low. “I am…impressed.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you looked down. “I wanted to understand. To not feel like a stranger here.” There was a long moment of silence before you finally spoke the question you had been wondering since you arrived. “Will we have a pagan wedding?”

Rollo looked at you with confusion. “We already had a wedding.”

“Yes, but that was a Christian wedding. Our marriage is not recognized in the eyes of your gods, therefore… we are not truly married. Not in the eyes of you or your people.” You held up your, now falling, dress as it slumped around your shoulders.

“Is that what you want? For us to not truly be married?” You hadn’t realized how difficult the answer to that question would be. You would have assumed you would have immediately said yes, but now, in this moment… you’re not so sure.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it? You do not love me.” Rollo scoffed at your words.

“As you do not love me, Princess.”

“Yes, but I love no one. You do love someone, it’s just not me.” Rollo’s eyes widened at your words and he came so close to you, you could feel his breath on your cheeks.

“What do you know of who I love?” You swallowed a lump in your throat, realizing you had hit a sensitive spot.

“I know more than you think, husband. I’m not some stupid and scared girl. The whole month I’ve been here, I’ve been quiet and observant.” Rollo rolled his eyes, taking a few steps back.

“And what is it that you have observed?” You nodded, holding your chin high in retort to his evident doubt.

“I’ve noticed that you are angry. At both yourself and your brother. You’re jealous of him. You feel you are less than and this makes you infuriated. I know you’re in love with Lagertha, but she has never shared that feeling. Though I never knew Siggy, I see the way you act when people talk about her. You loved her, but not in the way you love Lagertha. For this you carry guilt and it fuels your self hate. Did I observe correctly?” Rollo’s expression was one of frustration and astonishment.

“You’ve been busy, Princess. Do you agree with your observations? Am I less than Ragnar?” His question took you by surprise, but didn’t at the same time. The idea that he cares for your opinion is shocking, but not that he needs the validation.

“The truth?” He nods in response. “I think you are a great man. I think you’re honorable and kind. You’ve never forced yourself on me when you could have. You treat me well when you do not have to. As much as you are jealous of your brother, I truly believe that you love him and would not hurt him. You are an honorable warrior, which from my understanding is one of the things you Northmen pride yourselves on. Why you do not see yourself as such, I dont understand. Even my people back home knew your name, Rollo. The Bear, they called you.” A smile spread on his face at the name, and you couldn’t help the one that found yours. “I am proud to be the wife of a man with such high honor.” Rollo was silent for what felt like eternity, just staring at you. You began to feel self conscious, pulling your falling dress as high as you could, and dipped your head to hide your face. “Why are you just staring at me?”

“I suppose I’m surprised. You do not talk to me the entirety of our marriage and the first time you open your mouth you have insulted me and spoken so highly of me in one sitting. I thought you hated this marriage,” he said, each word measured. “I thought you hated…me.”

You looked up, startled by the honesty in his gaze. This was the first real conversation you’d had, the first true exchange, and it struck you how different he seemed now than the man you’d first met. Gone was the stoic warrior, replaced by a man with insecurities, a man who, perhaps, felt as much a stranger to you as you did to him.

“It was never hate,” you whispered, choosing your words carefully. “Fear, maybe. But not hate.”

His hand lifted, his fingers brushing against a strand of your hair as if testing the boundaries of this new understanding between you. “You are braver than you think,” he murmured, his voice like a quiet promise. “More brave than I.”

You swallowed, your heart thundering in your chest. “No, Rollo. Not braver than you.” He smiled, his hand slipping from your cheek to your neck.

“You speak your opinion where I cannot. That’s much braver than facing battle.” The hairs on the back of your neck stood as his hand danced from your neck to your exposed shoulder.

“Maybe we are just brave in different ways. Maybe we can teach each other.” He stepped closer, his fingers curling around the loose neckline of your dress.

“You want to learn to fight?” You shrugged, a smile finding your lips.

“If I am to be a Northeman’s wife, I should learn their ways, no? You teach me the skills of battle and I shall teach you the skills of wit.” He began to pull the fabric of your dress down and you clutched it. He stopped, his eyes meeting yours. “Rollo, I’m…” you realized you did not know what the word was in their language. You searched your mind for it.

“You’re what?” You took a deep breath, embarrassed to have to explain.

“I’ve never been with a man. I don’t know the word in your language.” Rollo chuckled, grabbing your small hand that was holding your dress up.

“Ah, virgin,” he said, squeezing your hand, as if to ask if he could remove your clothes.

“Virgin,” you repeat and he nods.

“Yes, Princess. You are my wife. Should we not bed at least once during our marriage?” You felt your cheeks getting hotter as you finally succumbed to him. Your hand released and your dress fell, pooling at your feet. Your hands covered your breasts, feeling too exposed. His large, scarred, hands clasped your wrists lightly, pulling them down to your sides. “There is no need to hide from me, my wife.” His calloused fingers ran down your exposed chest, to your stomach, stopping at your hip. Goosebumps lit ablaze across your whole body. “It is as if you were carved by the gods.” You giggled as he pulled you close, your bare chest now flush with his.

“As were you, Rollo.” Your palms lay against his chest.

“My gods or yours,” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“I haven’t decided yet, but being here… I do question if my god is even real,” you say honestly.

“Are we turning you into a pagan,” you laugh, shrugging.

“I’m starting to think it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” With that, his lips are against yours, hot and wanting. You moaned into his mouth, entranced by how warm he is, how his beard tickled your cheeks with each synchronized movement of your lips. His hands gripped your hips, picking you up with ease. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your lips never leaving one another. He walked you to the bed, gently laying you down.

He got off the bed, standing at the edge. You watched as he undid his pants. His eyes never leaving yours as he moved slowly to untie the laces. He is a man of beauty. Perfectly chiseled and large. His long hair flows down his chest and his tattoos perfectly caress his skin.

“After tonight, we will be officially married in the eyes of your god, no?” You peeled your eyes away from admiring his body to meet his gaze.

“Yes. We never… I don’t know the word. To make a marriage official, the man and wife must lie together.” He pulled his pants down, revealing himself to you fully, as you are to him. You sucked in a breath, an undeniable feeling of want and nervousness filling you.

“Do you want to lie with me? To truly be husband and wife?” He ran his finger along your collarbone, down to your nipple. He circled it lightly and you couldn’t help the moan that came with it. He smiled, licking his lips. You grabbed his wrist, using it to pull yourself to your knees. You are now face to face with him at the edge of the bed. You grabbed his other wrist, placing both palms on your breasts.

“I want you. Just- just be gentle, okay?” He kissed your cheek as his hands squeezed your chest.

“Northmen are not gentle. We do not fuck gently.” He kissed your neck.

“As much as I want you to fuck me like a Northman, I’ve been told your first time hurts.” You looked down at his already hard cock, feeling yourself getting more nervous. “And you are quite large.” This made Rollo laugh as he continued to trail kisses across your neck and chest.

“Don’t worry, Princess. Me and my large cock will be gentle.” You giggled and slapped his chest, making him laugh again. He laid you back down on the fur covered bed, climbing on top of you. You took in a deep breath as he spread your legs. “Don’t be nervous, my beautiful wife.” The words made butterflies erupt in your chest. He kissed your forehead, then both of your cheeks, easing the tightening in your stomach. He grabbed your hands, holding them above your head. He continued to leave gentle kisses as he slowly started to enter you. You squeezed his hands so hard you’re sure your knuckles were white as he pushed farther inside you. He is extremely large and you wince in pain from you being stretched open.

“Rollo,” you whined and he stopped, meeting your gaze. You gave yourself a minute to adjust, then nodded your head. He continued pushing in further until he was finally fully in you. He pulled out, then slowly thrusted back in. His movements were slow and gentle and eventually the pain turned into pleasure. Pleasure like you’ve never experienced. Your head tipped back and your mouth fell open, letting out a moan.

“Does it feel good, Princess?” His hot breath hit your neck as he whispered in your ear and it lit something wild in you.

“Go faster,” you moaned and wrapped your legs around his waist, giving him more access. You felt him push in deeper as he picked up his pace. He was hitting deeper and deeper inside you with each thrust and your eyes fluttered shut at the intense pleasure.

“You look so beautiful.” You opened your eyes to see he is staring at you, drinking in your appearance. Staring into his blue eyes makes all the sensations better. He rested his forehead against yours and you couldn’t help but fall in love with the way he is staring at you as he thrusts harder and deeper inside you. The room is filled with each other’s moans and gasps. You feel yourself reaching a point of release and you can tell he’s about to hit his too. He kissed you passionately as his thrusts become sloppier. You moaned into his mouth as a wave a euphoria rushed over you and your legs shake from utter pleasure. You feel him release inside you and he rides out his high with a few more thrusts.

He laid next to you on the bed and you rolled over to lay your head on his chest. His heart is beating fast and his breaths are short. You ran your fingers up and down his abdomen as you both fall into a comfortable silence. You’re not sure where you find your confidence, but the words that finally come out of your mouth surprise not only you, but Rollo.

“I do not love you, Rollo Lothbrok. But, I can see my falling in love with you.” You meet his shocked expression, but it eventually turns soft.

“Goodnight, my beautiful wife.”

***

The night air of Kattegat was alive with laughter and song, the flickering torchlight casting a warm glow over the village as the Vikings celebrated with wild abandon. Mead flowed like rivers, horns clashing in toasts to the gods, to family, to life itself. You felt the familiar warmth of the drink pulse through you, each sip lighting your blood with a fire you hadn’t known before coming to this land. Tonight, you danced without restraint, twirling with the crowd in the great hall, your feet moving with the beat of the drums, the earth beneath you thrumming with life.

You had grown accustomed to the spirit of Viking celebrations, their passion for life something you had come to appreciate. Though you were not of their faith, their customs, or their world, the sense of freedom here was intoxicating, a heady contrast to the strict life you had known. Tonight, you felt a part of it all. For the first time, you truly felt like you belonged.

The world around you was a blur of laughter, music, and flickering torchlight. You spun and swayed, your feet carrying you to the beat of the drums, your heart pounding with the thrill of freedom, of finally feeling as though you belonged here in Kattegat. The mead warmed your blood, filling you with a giddy lightness that melted away your reservations. This was a new side of you, one that you hadn’t known before—a part of you that had found joy in this wild land, surrounded by people who embraced life as fiercely as they embraced battle.

As you moved, you caught sight of Rollo, standing on the edge of the crowd, watching you. His intense gaze was steady, following your every movement. His face, usually hardened by shadows and silent restraint, now held something softer, almost tender. You felt his stare like a touch, tracing over you, lingering with an appreciation that made your pulse quicken. You and Rollo had not been able to go a few hours without being intimate since your first time.

Without thinking, you met his eyes and smiled, your feet carrying you closer. He didn’t move, his stare unwavering, as if transfixed. The other dancers melted away, leaving only him in your focus, your heart pounding louder than the drums. Before you could second-guess yourself, you held out your hand, a silent invitation, your eyes daring him to join you.

For a moment, Rollo hesitated, his usual guarded expression flickering with uncertainty. But then, slowly, he reached out, his large hand enveloping yours, and you pulled him into the crowd. He stumbled slightly, unused to this kind of playfulness, but his eyes remained locked on yours, an amused glint sparking there as he let you lead.

You laughed, feeling as though the walls between you and this man, the ones that both had been breaking down slowly, were finally crumbling completely. You pressed his hand to your waist, guiding him to follow your movements, his body close to yours as the drums echoed in the night. Though he towered over you, his presence solid and intense, you felt a softness in the way he held you, his grip firm but gentle.

“Are you sure you know how to dance, warrior?” you teased, your voice light and filled with the boldness that only mead could bring.

He huffed, a smirk breaking across his face. “Dancing is not the way of a Viking. At least not the way you dance, Princess,” he replied, his voice deep, but his eyes sparkled with unspoken laughter. “But for you… I will try.”

The two of you moved together, your laughter mingling as you guided him through each step, each sway. His movements were unpracticed, slightly stiff, yet he relaxed with every beat of the drum, letting himself be drawn into your rhythm. It was as if the crowd, the village, the night itself faded, leaving only the two of you bound in this moment, where titles and gods and duty did not matter.

You felt his hand tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, his other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face. The playful smiles faded, and in their place, a deeper warmth simmered between you, something vulnerable and unspoken.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” he murmured, his voice barely audible above the music, his gaze tracing your face as if memorizing every detail. “So Free. So Happy.”

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing over his hand. “I feel alive here, Rollo,” you whispered.

His thumb gently stroked your cheek, a tenderness in his touch that you’ve grown accustomed to since the night you first made love four months ago. “Then perhaps,” he said, his voice rough, “this land, this life, is more yours than you thought.”

You felt a swell of warmth in your chest, a feeling that chased away the last remnants of doubt. Here, with him, in this wild, untamed place, you had found a part of yourself you never knew was there—a part that yearned for freedom, for belonging, for love.

The drums beat on, but the world around you was still, your gaze locked with his, the silent understanding between you deepening. And as he lowered his forehead to rest against yours, his breath warm against your skin, you realized that the music had stopped. Everyone around you had gone quiet. You and Rollo broke contact to see the cause of it. Walking through the great hall doors was Athelstan. Bjorn had told you both that the monk had thrown his sacred arm ring into the fjord.

Rollo’s voice thundered through the crowd. “Athelstan,” he roared, his voice laced with anger.

The crowd quieted, all eyes turning to the monk-turned-Viking who had lived with one foot in both worlds. Rollo stormed toward him, his face twisted with rage, and gripped Athelstan’s wrist, holding it up for all to see. “Look at this man!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the night. “Where is your sacred ring, Athelstan? I was told you threw your ring, the one our king, Ragnar, gave you into the fjord!”

You felt the blood drain from your face as you watched, horrified by Rollo’s fury. You had always known Athelstan was a man of two worlds, like yourself—caught between his old faith and the ways of the Northmen. A pang of sympathy tore through you, a deep understanding of the pain and doubt he must have felt to make such a decision.

Athelstan’s eyes darted toward the crowd. “You have betrayed the gods who welcomed you,” Rollo growled. “You stand here, pretending to honor both, but now we see who you truly are.”

Ragnar pushed through the crowd and wrapped an arm around Athelstan’s shoulder. He dragged him away from the crowd, into a back room, whispering something in his ear.

The celebration resumed, though it was subdued, the laughter tinged with unease. You lingered near the fire, lost in thought, watching as Rollo stalked away, his jaw tight with anger. Before you knew it, you followed him, the words you’d held back now bubbling to the surface.

When you both arrived at your shared home, you closed the door behind you, crossing your arms as you gathered the courage to speak. “Why are you so angry at Athelstan?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended. “You’ve always known he was torn between both faiths, just as I am. Why is it different now?”

Rollo turned, his face dark and unreadable in the dim light. “You don’t understand,” he replied coldly. “Athelstan has cast aside his ring. He has thrown it away, shown us he has no loyalty to anything but his Christian god. He cannot be trusted.”

“Cannot be trusted?” you echoed, frustration flaring in your chest. “Athelstan has always been loyal to you, to your brother, to your people. His struggle with faith does not make him any less trustworthy.”

Rollo’s gaze hardened. “He is weak. He cannot choose between one god or another, and now I see he tried to be something he’s not. He insulted the gods by pretending to be one of us.”

“But you do not see it, Rollo,” you pressed, your voice trembling with a blend of anger and desperation. “I see myself in him. I, too, am torn between worlds—between my God and your gods, between my homeland and yours. Am I a betrayer because I am still finding my way?”

Rollo’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, you thought he might lash out. But instead, he just clenched his fists, his voice low and fierce. “You must choose as well. You cannot love both. You cannot be a Christian and a Viking.”

You shook your head, feeling a pang of sadness as you looked into his eyes. “Athelstan was struggling, just as I am. Faith is not a simple choice, Rollo. It’s complicated, and sometimes it takes time to understand what it truly means. He was searching for where he belongs, and he has found it. This does not mean he cannot love your people… just as I love you.”

Rollo’s shoulders tensed, his eyes going wide. It’s the first time you had said it. Neither of you had ever spoken those words. You weren’t even sure if Rollo loved you. You felt embarrassment and anger at his lack of words.

“Is this why we have not had a Viking wedding? Because you feel I have not chosen your gods?” You felt tears pricking your eyes, but you fought to hold them back.

“If you do not choose our gods, we will never be in Valhalla together.” You scoffed, wiping a tear that slid down your cheek.

“Why does it matter if I end up in Valhalla or Heaven? You clearly do not love me back, so why do you care which afterlife I spend my days?” You began to turn away from him, but he grabbed you wrist, pulling you into his chest. His hand met your cheek, wiping away one of your tears.

“I do love you. But everyone I have ever loved either died or did not love me back.” You met his gaze and your heart hurt at the sight of tears in his eyes.

“Rollo, everyone dies. Just because the people around you die, does not mean you’re the cause of it. You cannot be afraid of death. You, more than anyone, know that. You Northmen do not fear death.”

“It is not death that I fear. What I fear is loving a woman who will not join me in Valhalla. It is not being able to spend eternity with you.” You stood on your toes to reach his lips. You gave him a soft kiss, then pulled away to meet his sadden gaze.

“I love you and I would do anything to spend eternity with you. We were fated to be together, Rollo. I can feel it. No matter what god willed it to be.” He looked down at you, his expression softening further, the anger that had once filled his gaze replaced by something warmer, deeper. In that moment, you felt that perhaps, just as Athelstan was searching, you and Rollo were finding something—a bridge between worlds, a space where faith, love, and understanding could coexist, no matter how different they seemed.

“We were fated to be together.” He pulled you as close as he could, kissing you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, standing taller to deepen the kiss. When you pulled away, you were both out of breath.

“Does this mean we will have a wedding?” He let out a deep chuckle, nodding.

“Yes, of course we will.” A smile spread across your face.

“Good, because I wouldn’t want our child to be born without married parents.” You grabbed his hand, resting it on your belly. His face lit with excitement and he let out a laugh.

“You’re… you’re with child?” You nodded, tears falling freely to see the joy that found his rough and beautiful face. He picked up you, twirling you around. You let out a laugh as he set you down, kissing you.

You nodded, unable to stop smiling. “Yes, Rollo. You’re going to be a father.”

He let out a shout of pure happiness, his arms wrapping around you again, holding you tight as if he were afraid you might disappear. His hand returned to your stomach, resting there reverently, his thumb brushing over the place where new life grew.

“I cannot believe it,” he murmured, his eyes shining. “You… you have given me more than I ever thought possible.”

The look in his eyes was raw, filled with joy, wonder, and a fierce love that made your heart swell. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally, his lips met yours in a tender, lingering kiss, his hand still resting protectively over your stomach.

When he pulled back, he grinned down at you, his expression so soft, so full of love that it nearly took your breath away. “You have given me a family,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I will protect you both. I will give you everything I am, everything I have. I swear it.”

The drums beat on around you, the celebration continuing in the background, but in that moment, the world felt like it held only the two of you, wrapped in a love you hadn’t dared dream of, a love that had grown against all odds.

And as you stood there, feeling the warmth of his hand on your stomach, you knew that whatever came next, you and Rollo would face it together—with joy, with strength, and with a love that was stronger than any doubt, any fear, any past that had once divided you.

[levithestripper]

“Of course. I don’t want to stay here with the old people.”

VIKINGS 02x02 “Invasion”

[ladynightshade30]

Updates

So, I am a little over halfway done with my first round of edits for Ramon and Isolda. Hopefully, I can finish this round of edits by the end of next week. Then I am going to move on to the next round. Goodie!

Hopefully, I will have it ready for Beta readers by September and an official publishing release next year. I am still working on Chrysalis and Whips my BDSM, slow burn romance. Another story idea I have is called Lemon Seas and is a Little Mermaid retelling featuring Mersharks and Merorcas instead of the traditional mermaids/mermen.

I still have ideas for Ivar/Eadwulf, which I hope to start working on again as soon as things settle down in regards to Ramon and Isolda.

Ivar/Eadwulf stories being worked on Stone by Stone - Ivar and Eadwulf are in an arranged marriage but perfection is a good deal off and they must build their love stone by stone. My Heart's Lighter Soul - Ivar and Eadwulf are soul mates. I really don't have much of an idea on where to go with it other than that. King Takes Queen - While the Great Heathen Army savages the land Ivar falls for the captive Princess Eadwulf, the younger sister of Biship Heahmund.

[midnightstar16]

Whispers of Love: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 2.2k

Summary: Reader is new in Kattegat and catches the attention of a certain Ragnarsson.

Warnings: Assault, murder, slight swearing(i think)

You came to Kattegat just a couple days ago but it didn’t take much time at all for you to notice the famous sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. You only saw them from a safe distance as they talked to one another. You noticed one of the boys was crippled but not before you saw his face. You were in awe, to say the least. But your eyes must have lingered on him for quite some time for he met your gaze with an intense stare that sent chills down your spine. You never had more reason to leave and go back to the hut you were staying in.

You became an orphan at the mere age of 12 and had taken care of the farm for many years with your older brother. But the two of you had recently decided that you wanted a far more exciting future than just farming on the land so you sold the land and took the money to buy a hut and look after yourself just until you had settled in. You forgot about Ivar soon enough once you reached you new home and moved on with your new life.

A month passed by and living in Kattegat was so much more different than the farm. It was much louder, faster and there were more people than you could count. But it was not to your dislike, it was the contrary actually. You had started your training to be a physician and you were doing nicely. Everything was working out better than you or your brother could’ve imagined.

Ivar had not stopped thinking about you ever since that little eye contact in the market and it may have been a bit delusional of him to still believe that he would see you again. You were probably not even in Kattegat anymore because he could not find you anywhere. You were the first girl to look at him with such admiration and he drowned in your beauty the second he laid eyes on you.

During dinner he seemed to have zoned out because Sigurd had to throw some food at him to get his attention. Ivar was immediately annoyed and glared at him. Trying to stop himself from flinging his axe at his brother, he asked, “Why are you throwing food around like a child?”

“You wouldn’t listen. Had to do something to bring you back to Midgard,” he replied.

Ivar rolled his eyes, already feeling great anger towards his brother but before he could say anything, his mother interrupted, “We are celebrating Yol tomorrow.”

Ivar drowned in his thoughts once more. He would know if you were in Kattegat by tomorrow night. If you were in the town, then you would be at the feast and he would approach you. He wanted to know all there was to know about you; all the important and unimportant things of your life.

You and Kalf, your brother began cleaning up the plates and horns after dinner. You broke the silence, “It is Yol tomorrow. There will be a great feast.”

“Yes, I have not been in the Great Hall since the Thing, where I got my arm ring. Just thinking about the food that will be there makes me hungry all over again,” Kalf spoke excitedly.

“We have just had dinner, you fool. How are you always this hungry?” You spoke laughingly.

“Your cooking will make any man excited to eat something else,” he commented.

Gasping, you threw the nearest thing you could find at him at which he simply laughed. You spoke sarcastically, “I won’t make food for you if you really hate it that much.”

“Well, I mean it’s not THAT bad if I think about it,” he retaliated.

Smiling smugly, you spoke, “Better.”

The feast was spectacular. You sat on a different table from your brother though because you knew he would embarrass you the first chance he got. The food and the ale was so good you could feast all night. There was music as well and many were dancing to it but you weren’t drunk enough yet to give yourself away to the music. You simply talked and laughed with your newly made friends.

Looking around the hall, you suddenly noticed certain eyes on you and then the memory came back. Those blue piercing eyes and that face, he was perfect in every way. You maintained the eye contact for long, getting lost in his eyes until one of your friends whispered, “That’s Ivar. The crippled one.”

You looked at her. You had heard of Ragnar Lothbrok’s crippled son. The girl continued, “They say he is a menace, quicker to anger than most men, so don’t let his legs fool you and not only that, but I’ve heard that he is stronger and better at fighting than any of his brothers. Apparently he strangled a boar with his bare hands but that is probably not true.”

“Of course it is not true,” you scoffed. After waiting a second, you suggested, “Come, let us dance. The music is lovely.”

The both of you giggled and rushed to give yourself away to the music. You soon felt the beat through your veins and the rhythm matching with your heartbeat. You danced uncontrollably, partly because you wanted to see how the crippled prince would react, if at all. His eyes had barely faltered from you and it was making you uncomfortable but you didn’t want him to know that. You didn’t want him to know that he made you feel weak by simply looking at you but every now and then you would give him a glance.

You suddenly felt a hand around your waist. You didn’t know who the man was for you had never seen him. His hold on you was not budging when you struggled. His other hand was roaming at places on your body that made you terrified and the hall was crowded enough for no one to truly notice your struggle.

“Let go of me!” you said, struggling.

“Oh what’s a bit of harmless fun? Especially with a woman of your beauty,” the man spoke.

You felt tears welling up in your eyes as he continued to ‘dance’ and play around with your body until something that you hadn’t expected in a million years to happen. A knife suddenly struck his head as his eyes remained widened with shock. You quickly stepped away as his body fell to the ground. The tears ran down your face and you looked around trying to figure out who it was until you saw everyone looking at Ivar who was glaring at the man’s limp body. It was different to how he had looked at you in every singly way but you didn’t stay around to find out more. Feeling absolutely overwhelmed, you stormed out of the hall with Kalf following.

“What happened back there?” Kalf spoke worriedly.

“I-…” you hesitated. Before you could speak, your brother interrupted, “You don’t have to tell me. It is fine… Come on, let us go to our hut.”

Ivar had had his eyes on you all evening, his brothers even teasing him about it but he quickly turned them away angrily. But when he saw that asshole trying to touch you without consent, Ivar felt an uncontrollable anger. He wanted to skin the bastard alive but he couldn’t simply watch you struggle like that. Even after killing the man, Ivar felt no guilt. Why should he? He was simply protecting you, making sure you were safe.

No one had asked him about why he had done what he did. Perhaps it was already too obvious. Perhaps he had scared you off. You wouldn’t even want to go near him now. He felt his insecure thoughts weighing him down during the night.

You barely slept through the night, the picture of the knife piercing the man’s skull replaying in your mind and then seeing the look Ivar had on his face. That menacing look, the one that could take down entire armies.

The next day, you went away from the town to feel the quiet of nature that you had already begun to miss. You walked around the forest, finding a riverbank to sit nearby quickly enough. You thought about what had happened last night, how, in some really fucked up way, Ivar saved you. But he also killed a man who will never experience Valhalla now. Then again, that monster didn’t deserve Valhalla. You sat there wondering what would’ve happened if Ivar had not intervened.

“Mind if I join you?” you heard a voice from behind. When you turned your head and saw that it was Ivar, you quickly stood up.

“Were you following me?” you realised in this moment, you were terrified of him.

“Will it help if I said no? Either way, you walk too fast so I had to find you myself,” he spoke. When you didn’t say anything, it didn’t take him long enough to realise how you felt, “You are scared of me.”

Scoffing, you reasoned, “Who wouldn’t be? You killed a man while I was simply inches away.”

“He was hurting you,” Ivar remarked as if that was reason enough.

“But you could’ve killed me,” you argued.

Ivar grinned, “I didn’t though, did I?”

“Well… No but still, it was terrifying,” you said while Ivar made himself comfortable by sitting against the trunk of a fallen tree.

Even though Ivar worked very hard to not show it, he had been very nervous to actually talk to you. Now that you were here, he didn’t want to ever leave.

You stood there silently before sitting down in front of him. What was it about him that you felt so drawn towards?

He looked at you lovingly, “What is your name?”

“Y/N is what they call me… But I already know who you are, Ivar,” you acknowledged.

“Do you?” Ivar joked.

“That anger in those gorgeous eyes of yours, how could you be mistaken?” you replied.

“My eyes are ‘gorgeous’?” he couldn’t control his smile.

You blushed, “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“I’m afraid so. I don’t mind the compliment though, please, y/n, carry on about my gorgeous eyes,” he teased. Truth was, he felt a thousand butterflies. He’d never gotten a compliment from anyone.

The two of you continued making jokes at one another, laughing constantly and time flew by ever so quickly. Ivar couldn’t believe the sun was about to set. With you, he didn’t have to worry about anything. He felt at peace.

When his brothers asked where he had been, he simply smiled and shrugged. For the first time in so long, he didn’t feel furious. There was something about you, like you were a goddess who appeared to save him. The next day Ivar went up to the same place, hoping you would show up. He was almost about to leave until he saw you show up.

You finished your work as a physician for the day as quickly as you could and relied on your friends to cover up for you. Once out of Kattegat, you practically ran to the same spot on the riverbank as yesterday. You didn’t know how but you just knew that he would be there, nor did you know why you felt so eager to go to him either.

You continued these secret meetings for as long as you could. No one was aware of who or where you actually went but you didn’t care even if they found out. Ivar had become your sanctuary as you had become his.  

During one such evening, as the sun began its descent, casting a warm golden glow over the riverbank, you found yourselves lost in a conversation filled with laughter. Ivar had a knack for weaving humor into every exchange, and you found yourself charmed by his wit and the way his eyes sparkled with amusement.

Ivar grinned, his eyes dancing with mirth. "See? I told you I was the funniest person you'd ever meet."

Laughing, you shook your head. "Well, I suppose I can't argue with that."

His gaze softened as he looked at you, a warmth filling his eyes. "I'm glad you find me amusing, y/n."

You smiled back, feeling a flutter in your chest at the sincerity in his voice. "You have a way with words, Ivar."

He chuckled softly. "Only when I'm with you."

The air between you seemed to crackle with an unspoken tension, and before you could think, you found yourself leaning in closer to him.

Ivar's hand gently brushed against your cheek as he whispered, "You're beautiful when you laugh, y/n."

Unable to resist the pull any longer, Ivar reached out, gently cupping your cheek with his hand. His touch was tender, sending a shiver down your spine as you met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest.

As your lips clashed with an overdue feeling of affection for one another, Ivar kissed you passionately and possessively almost as if declaring that you were his.

You pulled away, breathless and exhilarated, you found yourself lost in Ivar's eyes once more, a sense of belonging settling deep within your soul.

“I am yours, y/n, now and forever and you are mine,” Ivar’s words echoed in your heart as you buried your eyes in his, expressing a thousand unspoken words.

[emma-ofnormandy]

EMMA OF NORMANDY AND KING CANUTE Vikings: Valhalla 3.08

[artistcalledbella]

practicing hair

[entitled-fangirl]

Patiently wait.

Ragnar Lothbrok x wife!reader

Summary: Ragnar is soon leaving with Bjorn for the annual meet with the Earl. Based on S1 E1.

Warnings: making out, sexual comment

A/n: Farmer Ragnar is so peak

Masterlist

.......................................

"Do not ruin my boy," Y/n warned her husband, half a joke, half serious.

Ragnar grinned and ran his hand through Bjorn's hair. "I would never." The twinkle in his eye said differently. 

"I mean it," she warned again. 

His head lulled to the side. "You worry too much." He stepped to her and cupped her face, laying a heavy kiss on her lips. Now close, he could lower his voice. "I can think of something to help that." 

When his head ducked down to kiss her neck, she playfully pushed him away. "Not now." Ragnar tried again, succeeding a little further this time. His hands gripped her hips. She giggled, "Ragnar!"

"Can I not love my wife?" He teased, his lips brushing just under her jaw.

"I am still here," Bjorn grumbled.

"And you can go outside if you hate it so much," Ragnar offered over his shoulder. 

"Wait, Bjorn-" his mother tried but he was gone. She patted Ragnar's chest. "Perfect. And now he is angry."

"He is a boy," Ragnar shrugged. "Boys are mad at everything." His tease didn't last long, as he made an attempt to once again kiss her neck.

She let him for a while, tipping her head up to give him space. His hand wandered up her body slowly until it came up to her cheek. His kisses ventured higher until they came to the corner of her lips. 

He kissed her deeply. It pulled a groan from her, and she pulled him closer by his hips. Ragnar's kisses were all-consuming. They were weighted and soaked attention in. His tongue delved into her mouth, beginning to explore like he so often did.

She pulled back and his lips chased hers, though they didn't connect again. "Ragnar."

His head tilted back in acknowledgment, though his eyes focused on her lips.

"Promise me you'll care for him. For Bjorn. He's my boy. Don't let him see executions..." Her eyes roamed the room, "and... and no public examples-"

"-What kind of father do you take me for?" He whispered with a cheeky grin.

"Ragnar."

He held a hand up in surrender. "Alright." His eyes took her in from head to toe. "He's my boy too."

"He has a gentle heart, Ragnar Lothbrok."

His head tilted down as he looked at her through his lashes. "I will guard him with my life. You know that."

"I do." She leaned into his chest and trailed a hand up his face and to his hair, tracing the braids at the top of his head. She knew the patterns by heart at this point. "I'm just not ready for him to be a man yet."

"It all comes in time."

"Doesn't mean I like it," she whispered, bearing her soul to her husband.

He cupped her cheek with one hand, running his fingers through her hair with the other. "It's only a little while. He will still be your boy when he comes back."

She sighed. "And you?"

He smiled. A grin from Ragnar is like having your every thought known inside and out. He leaned in, brushing his lips with hers. "I always come back. Don't I, my love?"

"Always."

"Yeah. Always." 

Another kiss.

She'd patiently wait for their return, each day feeling like a lifetime.

.............................................

I'll make a tag list for Vikings stuff if anyone wants!

[blueeyesfilledwithpassion]

More than a kiss....

The kiss.

It means so much more that a peck on the lips.

It tells a tale deeper than words can ever spring to life.

Your intensions are known the moments our lips meet.

Mmmm.... It's so much more than a kiss.

[sebastianlynx]

[undiscovered-horizon]

Vikings preference: your friend hits on you and gets aggressive

@ivartheb0neless

Ragnar Feels genuinely hurt because he thought he could trust your friend. Whenever Ragnar went away, he'd ask your friend to keep an eye on you and generally make sure you're safe and sound. Makes veiled threats and passive-aggressive jokes at first, hoping that he can both force a boundary and not sour any relationships but his humour is gone when he realizes that your friend is not keen on taking no as an answer. If you raise your concern about "safety vs. keeping a friend", Ragnar makes a sarcastic comment about your sentiment - because a guy who forced himself on you is such a great friend to keep, right?

Gives you a knife to keep on you at all times. If you have the guts, and such an occasion arises, to stab the man once he gets physical with you, Ragnar will have your back no matter what. Also, low-key thrilled. But if you don't end up fighting your own battles, he'll gladly do it for you. Not an ounce of regret on his face during or after.

Bjorn Pretty direct. Makes plausible threats and will fulfil them. Terrifyingly calm and collected for the most part. He's angry but also disappointed that someone you considered a friend could repay your kindness and affection in such a way.

If you tell Bjorn that you're unsure what to do because you want to keep your friend or you think that he's overdoing things, he might get short with you but it's not out of malice. He's worried that if you don't see your male friend for the lying snake that he is, you might get even more hurt and that possibility enrages him so much he doesn't entertain that thought longer than necessary.

Bjorn is definitely the type to make his revenge somewhat public. Not only will that make others keep their distance from you but it will also earn him respect among other men - he takes his husbandly duties seriously. Whether your "friend" lives or dies is entirely up to them and how callous they have been with you. Whether he meant to or not, Bjorn causes people to look away from you when you're walking through the town. No one wants to risk getting your friend's treatment.

After that, Bjorn will never trust any man who tries to be your friend or claims to be one.

Ubbe Tries to be the bigger person at first and has a stern word with your friend. Ubbe is probably the only one to seriously take your word/assurance that there's nothing to get worked up about. He will also wait relatively the longest before getting seriously involved - not because he doesn't care, it's quite the contrary. He doesn't want to impose on your independence, so even if he's uncomfortable with the situation but you keep saying "I've got this", he will keep to himself although will voice his concerns (and will refuse to leave you alone at any place or time). When things become serious and the man starts to get physical, Ubbe will make it clear that from now on he's more concerned about your well-being than your freedom: "I'm sorry for disregarding your wishes but I can't sit and watch you get hurt". Believes to be responsible for your safety as your husband.

Ubbe is the type of person who will seek your friend out on his own and resolve the issue right then and there. He goes to the other man's house one night and leaves it only when an agreement is reached - doesn't matter how far he has to go to ensure that. Ubbe's not afraid to get his hands dirty for the right reasons.

Hvitserk Also hurt because he was actually getting along well with the other man. Hvitserk will ask about your perspective and wishes but if your safety is compromised, he won't make them a priority. At first, he's trying to get you out of harm's way, so you're leaving your house only if he's by your side. But once he learns that your supposed friend forced his way into your home and put his hands on you, Hvitserk is determined to take things into his own hands. He won't seek out your friend on his own but rather wait for an opportunity to arise; doesn't start the fight but surely will end it. The next time another unwanted advances are made towards you, Hvitserk has an axe in his hand and this time, he's the one who doesn't take no for an answer.

If you ever befriend another man after that, Hvitserk will tolerate him but never let go of any suspicions. Also, might tell the story of your previous "admirer" to scare your new friend into behaving properly.

Sigurd The most probable to get into a brawl right away. At first, he feels quite self-conscious seeing another man flirting with you but when the man in question starts to become aggressive, Sigurd coins his insecurity into hostility, effectively picking a fight. After what seems like lakes of blood and an entire concert of bones breaking, the brawl ends. Sigurd looks like he's been through Hell and still that's a lot better than your friend, who would be pronounced dead if it wasn't for the sporadic raise of his chest as he tries to take in a ragged breath. Sigurd will also voice his anger as he's caving in the other man's skull ("Was it fun when you grabbed her? Enjoying a little manhandling, eh? I'm happy to provide").

Gains respect in his brothers' eyes but none of them quite wants to admit it.

Ivar He would also feel self-conscious at first. Considers your friend's bold behaviour an assault on his masculinity ("You think I'm not man enough and therefore think you have any right to bother my wife"). Not surprised in the slightest. Hated the guy's guts from the very beginning and made it obvious. Might actually say the dreaded "told you so".

Because he perceives your friend's aggression as somewhat personal, Ivar is driven to go quite far in order to make the punishment fit for the crime. Not only does he do it for your sake but also to make sure that everyone knows just how much of a true Viking is inside him. Some say that "silence is golden", so if your friend decides to use less-than-savoury language towards you, he might end up with his throat filled with liquid gold to ensure no more offence leaves his mouth. Similarly, he's going to suffer the "equivalents" for whatever other thing he's done. He grips your hand so hard there's a bruise? Ivar will wrap his hand with a chain and slowly tighten it until all the bones crack and the wrist is literally torn away from the forearm. But no matter what he does, in the end he still feels like it doesn't quite make up for your friend's wrongdoings.

[gratelove]

Stay This Time

Bjorn Lothbrok x Reader

Separated by fate but reunited by fire, a childhood bond between Bjorn Lothbrok and a fierce shieldmaiden reignites into a passion as untamed as the storm that brews between you. Bound by choice, not need, you demand your own legacy — but Bjorn vows to stay, not to claim you, but to stand beside you as your equal.

Warnings:p in v, fluff

The clash of steel filled the air, ringing out against the chatter of onlookers. You were locked in a heated practice fight, your breath coming in short, determined bursts as you sparred against one of Kattegat’s men. He was twice your size, but that only drove you to push harder, your movements swift and precise.

With a final twist of your wrist, you swept his legs out from under him and planted your foot on his chest. The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter, and you allowed yourself a proud grin.

From across the training field, a familiar pair of piercing blue eyes watched, filled with curiosity. Bjorn Lothbrok had returned to Kattegat, and though he looked different—stronger, broader, with the air of a man who had seen battles—you recognized him immediately. He was no longer the boy you had once called your best friend, but a warrior who carried himself with a quiet confidence.

Bjorn’s gaze lingered on you, a spark of recognition dawning on his face. It had been years since he left with his mother, and yet here you were, standing tall and fierce before him. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he were piecing together a puzzle.

Suddenly, arms wrapped around your neck and a deep laugh erupted in your ear, breaking your locked gaze. The arms of Rune, your long time friend and recent sexual companion. He left a sloppy kiss on your cheek and you laughed, grabbing his forearm with your small hands. He began to drag you away, but not before you got one last glance at Bjorn, who was still watching you.

_

Later that evening, Kattegat was alive with celebration. The great hall was filled with laughter, the smell of roasting meat, and the clinking of cups. You felt a strange excitement coursing through you, knowing Bjorn was somewhere in the crowd. You stood away from the crowd, leaning against a pillar.

As you sipped from your horn of ale, a voice spoke close to your ear. “I thought I recognized that fierce look on the training field,” Bjorn said, his tone laced with amusement. “You always had the same look on your face when we fight as kids.” The voice made its way to stand directly in front of you.

“If I remember right, I always kicked your ass too.” He laughed, only a few inches away from you. You leaned your head against the wood pillar, tilting it up to meet his gaze. He stood several inches above you, and was definitely not the boy you remembered him to be. He was all muscle, scars, and tattoos now. A true Viking male.

“It was only because I let you win.” You let out a breathy laugh, rolling your eyes.

“Is that what you tell yourself to help you sleep at night? Can’t help being beat by a girl?” His index finger found one of the curls of your hair, playing with it. You breath hitched at his touch.

“Not much of a girl anymore. You’re a woman now.” You raised an eyebrow, trying your hardest to not let him see he’s affecting you.

“Yes, as you are now a man,” you say as your eyes travel down his body, then back up to his eyes. A playful smirk finds his lips as his hand travels down to grab yours.

“Will you dance with me? Or will your boyfriend be angry?” You furrow your brows at his accusation.

“What makes you think I have a boyfriend?”

“I saw that boy you were with earlier.” Your eyes widen in realizing you laugh.

“Rune? He is not my boyfriend. I am no man’s. I belong to no one.” Bjorn smiles and pulls your hand so your flush against him.

“How does such a beautiful woman not have a boyfriend.” He tilted his head in question.

“Because, I will never be known as someone’s wife. I will be known as a shield maiden. People will know my name, not because of who my husband is, but for the person I decided to be.” An expression flashed on Bjorn’s face, one of appreciation. One of respect.

“Good, then you will dance with me.” His gaze was intense on you, his eyes sharp and playful.

“I never said yes.” You squinted at him.

“Come on,” he said, his voice rough with amusement. “Or have you grown too proud to dance with an old friend?”

“Proud,” you shot back. “If anyone’s proud, it’s you.”

He laughed, his grip firm as he tugged you into the swirling crowd of bodies. People moved aside, giving him space as he pulled you in front of him, his hands sliding to your waist with the confidence of someone who never asked permission. You stared up at him, your breath caught in your chest as the world around you blurred into flickering lights and music.

“Show me, then,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart pound harder than the drums. “Show me if you’re still as wild as you used to be.”

You tilted your head, arching a brow, unwilling to back down. “You’ll have to keep up, Bjorn.”

He grinned, his hands gripping your hips with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. The music shifted to a deeper, headier rhythm, the steady thump of the drums echoing through your veins. You moved together, your bodies falling into sync as if no time had passed at all.

The air grew thicker with every beat, every sway of your hips. His eyes stayed on you, watching every movement like a predator stalking prey. You matched his energy, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, knowing exactly what you were doing. His grip tightened in response, his fingers pressing into your sides as his gaze flickered down to where your bodies were almost—but not quite—touching.

“Still think you can handle me, Lothbrok,” you teased, breathless from the thrill of it all.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp as a blade’s edge. “I don’t think,” he said, his voice low, rough, and far too close to your ear. “I know.”

Heat spread through you like wildfire. His hands slid up your sides, his fingertips tracing slow, deliberate paths, sending sparks along your skin. The space between you disappeared as he leaned in, his lips so close to your ear you could feel the brush of them when he spoke.

“You’ve grown dangerous,” he murmured, his voice dark and smooth as honeyed mead.

Your heart thundered in your chest, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. Instead, you spun in his grasp, your back pressed against his chest now, your head tilted just enough to catch the sharp smirk on his face.

“Careful, Bjorn,” you said over your shoulder, your voice a little too breathless for your liking. “You might not be able to handle me after all.”

His breath was hot against your neck as his fingers splayed wide over your stomach, pulling you flush against him. “Try me,” he growled, his voice rough with something far more dangerous than playfulness.

The crowd around you blurred into shadows and firelight. It was just you and him, the rhythm of the music a steady pulse between your bodies. Every movement was deliberate, every roll of your hips matched by his. It wasn’t just dancing anymore — it was a challenge, a battle of control, of tension, and neither of you was willing to surrender.

Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps as you tilted your head back against his shoulder, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. His hands stayed firm, guiding you in a way that felt more like claiming. He wasn’t just following the music — he was commanding it.

“You know how many times I thought about you while I was gone,” he whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. His hands moved from your hips, running up the small of your waist. You spun back around before he had the chance to move further.

“I always knew you had a crush on me,” you teased, as you tangled your hands in his short blonde hair.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, and suddenly his mouth was on yours. The kiss was nothing short of wildfire — fierce, consuming, and utterly unstoppable. His lips were rough but sure, moving against yours like he had been waiting for this moment for far too long. Your breath hitched as you gripped his shoulders, your fingers digging into the leather of his tunic. He pulled you in tighter, crushing you against him as if he could fuse you together.

The crowd around you barely existed now. There was only him — his warmth, his strength, the taste of him on your tongue like honeyed mead and salt. His hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, his teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp. He took advantage of it, his tongue sliding against yours with a slow, deliberate intensity that made your knees weaken.

But you weren’t about to be undone by him.

Your hands moved to his jaw, your fingers tracing the sharp edges of his beard, then fisting in his hair as you tilted his head back, taking control of the kiss. He groaned, low and deep, a sound that rumbled through his chest. His arms wrapped fully around your waist, his grip unrelenting, as if he was afraid you might slip away.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together. His eyes were still on yours, wild and unyielding, his lips swollen from the kiss. You were sure you looked just as wrecked.

“Still think I can’t handle you?” he murmured, his voice rougher now, like it had been dragged over stone.

“Not bad,” you admitted, a slow grin tugging at your lips. “But you’re not the only one who’s learned a few things.”

His laugh was deep and raw, the kind that made your chest tighten in the most infuriating way. His gaze dipped down to your lips again, and he leaned in, his voice nothing more than a husky whisper. “Then show me.”

Your heart pounded so hard it echoed in your ears. For a moment, you glanced around at the hall — the firelight, the laughter, the crowd still dancing and drinking. None of it mattered. Not anymore. The only thing that mattered was the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palm, the unspoken challenge in his eyes, and the heat that had coiled low in your belly, too strong to ignore.

“Follow me,” you said, your voice low but certain.

His eyes flashed with something wild and untamed. Without hesitation, his hand slid down to grip yours, his fingers lacing with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. He let you lead him, weaving through the crowd.

The cool night air hit your face as you stepped outside, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning under your skin. His fingers stayed locked with yours, his grip firm but never controlling. You led him through the winding paths of Kattegat, past dimly lit streets and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.

Your home wasn’t far, but the walk felt longer with him so close behind you, his eyes boring into your back. Every step felt like an eternity, every brush of his fingers a spark against your skin. When you finally reached the door, you glanced over your shoulder, catching the way he was looking at you — his eyes half-lidded, his breathing uneven, like a wolf that had just found its prey.

“Are you going to stand there staring,” you teased, reaching for the latch, “or are you coming in?”

The words barely left your mouth before his hands were on you again, spinning you around and pressing you back against the door. His mouth was on yours before you could finish drawing breath, his kiss searing, desperate, and all-consuming. You fumbled with the latch, both of you too caught up in the pull of each other to care. The door gave way behind you, and you stumbled inside, still tangled in each other’s arms.

He kicked the door shut behind him, his hands already moving over your back, your waist, pulling you against him. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, pressing you closer until you could feel every inch of him, hard and unyielding. Your fingers worked at the laces of his tunic, tugging them free with urgency, and he let out a sharp breath against your lips, his forehead resting against yours for just a moment.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured, his voice thick with that familiar cocky edge.

“Don’t pretend you’re any better,” you shot back, pulling the leather from his shoulders.

His grin was wicked and full of promise. “Fair point.”

He pushed you gently, guiding you backward until your back hit the wall. His lips were on your neck now, slow and deliberate, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your jaw. Your head tipped back, a gasp escaping your lips as your hands found his bare chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle. Every scar you touched was a story he’d never have to tell, and you found yourself memorizing each one.

His lips returned to yours, his kiss more focused now — no longer a clash of wills, but something deeper, something hotter. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and his groan reverberated against your lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice so low and raw it sent a shiver down your spine. “Tell me now, and I will.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark, wild, but there was something steady there too — a flicker of restraint, a promise to pull back if you asked. But you didn’t want him to pull back. Not tonight.

“Don’t stop,” you said, your voice steady, your gaze unwavering.

His eyes searched yours for half a heartbeat, then something inside him snapped. His hands were on you again, rough but never careless, lifting you with ease. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you further inside, his lips never leaving yours. Your back hit the fur covered bed and Bjorn quickly reconnected your lips.

Bjorn’s hands were everywhere — rough, warm, and possessive as they roamed the curves of your body. The air in your home was thick with the scent of pinewood, firelight flickering against the walls, but none of it mattered. The only thing you could focus on was him — the weight of him above you, the feel of his body pressed so tightly against yours it was hard to tell where you ended and he began.

His mouth was on yours again, hungrier than before. His kisses were fire and steel, each one hot enough to sear away every rational thought. His beard was rough against your skin, but you didn’t care. If anything, you welcomed the sensation — the way it grounded you in the wild, electric storm of him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a low, guttural groan from his chest.

“Still think you’re in control?” he rasped, his lips brushing against the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

“Don’t mistake patience for surrender,” you shot back, breathless but still defiant. Your legs tightened around his waist, locking him in place. “If I wanted to stop you, Bjorn, you’d already be on your back.”

That earned you a sharp, wicked grin. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in just hard enough to make your heart race faster. “Is that right?” he muttered against your collarbone, his voice rough like the scrape of stone on steel. He nipped at your skin, drawing a gasp from you, and then soothed the spot with his tongue, slow and deliberate. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You will,” you promised, tilting his head up so his eyes met yours, fierce and unyielding. “But not tonight.”

His breath caught, his grin faltering for half a heartbeat before it returned, sharper now, more dangerous. “Then I’ll take what you give me,” he said, his eyes locked on yours with a heat that threatened to consume you both. “But know this — I’m not gentle.”

“Good,” you said, your lips brushing against his. “I don’t want gentle.”

The moment you said it, he surged forward, capturing your mouth with a kiss so fierce it left you breathless. There was no more teasing now, no more restraint. His hands were on your waist, pulling you closer, his body pressed so tightly against yours it felt like he was trying to carve himself into your bones. The heat between you was unbearable, every brush of his skin against yours sending sparks down your spine.

You fought back, of course. Your hands explored his chest, nails raking lightly down his skin, tracing old scars and new ones alike. His muscles tensed under your touch, and you felt his sharp inhale, his body shuddering slightly under the weight of your touch.

His hands found the hem of your tunic, sliding under to rest against the bare skin of your waist. The warmth of his palms sent a shiver down your spine, and you arched into him, your breath catching as his thumbs stroked slow, lazy circles against your skin.

“You’re quiet now,” he teased, his breath hot against your ear. “Where’s all that clever talk from before?”

“Careful, Bjorn,” you warned, turning your head just enough so your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “You might regret what you’re asking for. Most men don’t want a woman who dominates them.”

He growled, the sound raw and primal, vibrating low in his chest. His eyes met yours again, his pupils blown wide with something wild and untamed. “I want all of it,” he said, his voice low and dark as a storm on the horizon. “Every part.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, he was on his back, his eyes wide with shock before a grin broke across his face. You were straddling him, your hands on his chest, pinning him down with a grin that matched his own.

His laughter was sharp and wild, his eyes bright with pride and something else — something hotter. “There she is,” he said, his voice full of approval, his hands gripping your hips with bruising strength. “That’s the girl I remember.”

“She’s still here,” you said, leaning down so your face was just inches from his.

“And by the gods, how I’ve missed her.” His eyes darkened, his grin fading into something more serious, more dangerous. His hand moved from your hip to the back of your neck, pulling you down into another kiss, this one slower, deeper, like he was no longer rushing to win. No, this wasn’t about victory anymore — it was about savoring every second, every taste, every inch of you.

His hands roamed your back, your sides, gripping, holding, claiming. You felt his heart pounding under your palm, wild and fast, just like your own. The steady thrum of it matched yours beat for beat, as if the two of you were caught in the same storm.

“Say it,” he muttered against your lips, his voice hoarse with need. “Say you missed me.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, those blue eyes that had haunted your dreams for years. “I missed you,” you admitted, breathless but unashamed. “More than you’ll ever know.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, something softened in his gaze. His hand cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness you hadn’t expected. “I missed you too,” he said, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. “More than I should have.”

For a heartbeat, the world slowed. The only sound was the distant crackle of the fire, the only light the flicker of its glow. His eyes searched yours, his gaze raw and open in a way you hadn’t seen before. The weight of it settled deep in your chest, warm and aching all at once.

But then the storm returned.

His lips were on yours, fiercer than before, his hands pulling you down against him like he never wanted to let go. Your hands were in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan, his teeth grazing your bottom lip. He flipped you again, his body pressing you into the bed, his weight a welcome, grounding presence.

There were no more words after that, just the sound of your breaths mingling, the scrape of rough hands on soft skin, and the steady, unrelenting crash of two people who had been apart for far too long. It was wild. It was reckless. And it was everything you had been waiting for.

Your fingers clawed at his back, your legs tangled with his as the heat between you grew unbearable. Every touch was fire, every kiss a clash of wills. You lost track of time, of space, of anything but him. His name was a whisper on your lips, and yours was a growl on his.

He quickly undid the ties of his pants, pulling them down. You did the same to yours, neither of you seemingly able to move fast enough. He grabbed your hands, pinning them above your head. He buried himself in you and you let out a cry of pleasure. He was true to his word. He was not gentle. His thrusts were fast and rough, and you basked in the immense pleasure of him pounding into you. Your head fell against the pillow, your eyes rolling back. He was hitting you deeper and deeper with each thrust.

You met his gaze and he was a thing of beauty. His blonde hair clung to his forehead and his piercing blue eyes drank in your appearance. His muscles tightened under his scarred and tattooed skin as he relished in the pleasure of his cock inside you. If you could see this for the rest of your life you may die happy, you thought to yourself.

With your legs wrapped around his waist, you used your strength to flip yourselves over, once again. You were now on top, palms flat against his muscles pecks. You pushed into them, using them as leverage to grind on him. You moved your hips back and forth, watching as his mouth fell open in pleasure. His hands squeezed your waist, pushing you back and forth with more speed. Your head fell back as you began to bounce up and down on his length. You let out a loud moan at his deep he was entering you.

His hands clasped your breasts as you bounced faster and faster. He let out an animalistic groan and you matched it with your own moans. You could feel the pressure building in your lower stomach. You were so close to the edge.

“Bjorn,” you moaned his name, earning a moan from him. Your movements became sloppier as you reached the edge. You finally tipped over the edge, a wave of ecstasy washing over you.

You kept up your movements until Bjorn hit his climax. You felt him spill into you and you let out one last moan, before falling next to him on the bed. He wrapped his arm around your naked body, pulling you into him.

When it was over, you lay tangled together, your breath still coming in shallow gasps, the heat of his body a steady, grounding presence against yours. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your arm, his head resting against your shoulder as he lay beside you.

Silence hung between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that comes after a storm, calm and steady, like the world had finally decided to give you peace.

“You’ll stay this time,” you said softly, turning to face him.

His eyes met yours, steady and sure. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m done running,” he said, his voice firm with resolve. “I have nothing to run from anymore.”

Your eyes searched his, looking for doubt but finding none. You nodded, your heart a steady thrum of warmth and certainty. “Good,” you murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Because I won’t let you leave again.”

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you wondered if he would say something reckless, something that would make you shove him right back out the door.

But then he smirked, his thumb brushing slow circles over your skin. “I thought you didn’t want a man tying you down,” he said softly, his voice teasing but not cruel. “Didn’t you say you didn’t need a husband or a man to be remembered?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you tilted your head toward him, letting your fingers trace the edge of his jaw. His beard was rough beneath your fingertips, but his eyes were soft now, softer than you’d ever seen them.

“I don’t,” you replied simply, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I don’t need a man to carve my name into the sagas.”

His grin widened, slow and wolfish, but he didn’t interrupt.

“But,” you continued, your voice strong and clear, “if I choose to have one at my side, he’ll be there because I want him to be. Not because I need him. And not because he defines me.”

His grin faded, replaced by something deeper. His eyes, sharp as they were, held something raw and unguarded now. His fingers squeezed your hip, his grip firm but not possessive. “You are an exceptional woman. I never wish to change you. I never wish to define you. I will stay,” he said quietly, his eyes locked on yours like he was making a vow before the gods themselves. “I will stay because I want to stand beside you. It would be an honor to be know as yours.” His voice lowered into something rougher, more honest. “If you’ll have me.”

You blinked slowly, the weight of his words settling into your chest like a steady, thrumming beat. It wasn’t possession. It wasn’t control. It was choice. And that made all the difference.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his, your eyes closing as the warmth of him surrounded you. Your voice was soft but steady when you replied, “Then stay, Bjorn Lothbrok. Stay and see if you can keep up.”

His sharp inhale was followed by a low chuckle, his breath warm against your lips. “I’d like to see you try and leave me behind,” he murmured, his voice filled with a challenge you both knew would never truly be tested.

You tilted your head, brushing your lips against his, slow and deliberate. “I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.”

[levithestripper]

“Would you miss me in the end? If I run out of oxygen?”

VIKINGS— Ragnar Lothbrok and Athelstan

[woahhhgwendolyn]

Dating Hvitserk Would Include...

-Dating him would include him being very jealous at times and not understanding that you are fully committed to just him.

-He would also be very protective of you whenever some other men look at you for too long or even talk to you for a long time.

-He would be very protective in the times that you are near his brothers and also when there are new men in the village that just came in.

-Hvitserk loves to cuddle you and just touch you in general. Every night when you sleep, he has to be cuddling you, He does not really like to hold you down, he just really likes to be with you.

-Whenever you both are out together, he likes to hold your hand and hug you too. He likes to hold you too whenever you both are sitting next to each other.

-When you both are out eating dinner at the great hall, he likes to sit you in his lap and keep you there for most the night. Everyone makes fun of him for this, but he does not mind.

-He loves every single part of you and he makes sure that you know that too. He loves to always tell you how beautiful and wonderful you are.

-He is always telling you how perfect you are for him and how he wants to marry you and have kids some day with you. He tells you all the things he wants to do with you in the future.

[nunaalbum]

[bxwitched]

Captive - Part 4

Warnings: Explicit 18+ only, please read at your own risk. Noncon / dubcon, slavery, manipulation, sexual content, violence, descriptions of wounds and blood.

Character Pairing: King!Ivar the Boneless x Slave!Reader

Summary: You find yourself a captive of Ivar the Boneless.

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: I finally found the inspiration to continue this fic after a whole year. Comments, reblogs and likes are all appreciated! You can find my masterlist here.

You stirred as cold fingertips traced along your leg, a large callused hand smoothing shapes over soft the flesh, waking you from your dream. You kicked out at the explorative touch, making a sound of displeasure as Ivar caught your ankle in his firm grip and snickered in amusement.

"It is time to get up, Valkyrie." You groaned, burrowing your face further into the furs.

"Leave me be, King. Let me sleep." He huffed at you from his perch at the end of the bed and you gasped in surprise as he leaned forward and snatched your leg from beneath the blankets, jostling you as he hitched it over his broad shoulder. His icy eyes locked with yours as he pressed a slow kiss to the side of your knee.

You tried to ignore the heat simmering in your belly as his lips brushed against the sensitive flesh, leaving fire in their wake. His intense gaze bore down into you and flashes of the night before came rushing back; the way that Ivar had looked at you as you had taken control of him and used him for your pleasure.

You had behaved no better than a common whore, desperate for the gratification that his body could offer and you felt your cheeks heat at the memory, your stomach twisting into knots.

You leaned back on your elbows and studied Ivar, he was already dressed in his light armour; with his axe fixed to his hip, his knives stowed at his waist, and metal braces in place on his legs. You didn't have time to wonder what his plans for the day were before he brought you out of your thoughts, his breath tickling your soft skin as he spoke.

"I thought that you would be eager to see your little mouse, Valkyrie. But if you would rather remain in bed-" His voice was teasing and you bolted upright, wrenching your leg back from his grip as you looked at him with narrowed eyes, suspicious.

"You will allow it?" He nodded once, his bright eyes fixated on you.

"You have been good for me, haven't you? Torsten is waiting outside to escort you." You tried and failed to hide your excitement as you stood from the bed and rushed to get dressed. Ivar's lips tilted up at the corners and his eyes remained glued to your form as he watched you ready yourself for the day, beguiled by you.

As you walked the streets of Kattegat you had quickly learned that Torsten was not a talkative man; he was tall and well-built with short hair, shorn at the sides and a dark beard. He was more of a mountain than a man, clearly battle hardened and you had no doubts that he was one of Ivar's finest warriors. 

You travelled in silence, trying to ignore the stares of the townspeople as you passed through the busy market, some offered you looks of pity, whilst others flashed you looks of distaste. You couldn't decipher the hushed words and low whispers that were spoken, but you imagined that it was gossip of the king's newest toy, his foreign concubine. 

You wondered how many there were before you and what words were spoken of them, whether they were also from Eire or from lands further afield. 

Torsten came to a stop when you neared a large barn and gestured you in ahead of him. You entered the dimly lit space hesitantly, mindful of the other thralls as they bustled around, readying for their tasks of the day.

You eyes flitted through the crowd of women, searching for the head of golden hair when a weight suddenly barrelled into you, taking your breath and nearly knocking you backwards as a smaller figure clung tightly to your waist.

Alva sobbed against you, her tears staining the richly-dyed fabric of your dress, 'a gift' Ivar had said, 'wear it for me'.

"I thought- I though that I would never see you again-" You hushed the younger girl as she cried, hiccuping as she tried to form words between her gasped breaths and tears.

"I'm here, Alva. All is well." You rubbed her back with one hand and stroked her hair with the other as she slowly calmed and managed to steady her breathing once more.

She looked up at you with glassy eyes, deep emerald irises that she had inherited from her mother's side. 

"Come." You took her hand in yours and lead her away from the barn, down to the waterfront where it was quieter, calmer. You both walked in silence along the waters edge, taking in the warmth of the sun on your face and the sound of the waves as they lapped gently at the shore. Torsten followed behind,  giving you just enough distance to speak privately, a courtesy you hadn't expected from the warrior.

Alva sobbed against you, her tears staining the richly-dyed fabric of your dress, 'a gift' Ivar had said, 'wear it for me'.

"I thought- I though that I would never see you again-" You hushed the younger girl as she cried, trying to form words between her gasped breaths and tears.

"I'm here, Alva. All is well." You rubbed her back with one hand and stroked her hair with the other as she slowly calmed and steadied her breathing.

She looked up at you with glassy eyes, a deep, rich emerald that she had inherited from her mother's side.

"Come." You took her hand and lead her away from the barn and down to the waterfront. You both walked along the waters edge, your shoes sinking slightly into the damp sand as Torsten followed behind you at a distance, giving you enough space speak privately. It was a courtesy you hadn't expected from the warrior but appreciated immensely. 

"Where did they take you?" Your heart wrenched at the concern and fear in her shaking voice.

"They took me to the king." Alva's face paled, her eyes widening further. She looked akin to a doe in the forest, startled by a waiting hunter in the trees.

"Ivar the boneless." Her fear was evident now, her eyes moving over your body franticly. "What did he do? Did he hurt you?"

"No Alva, I'm fine." Your stomach twists at that and you let out a deep sigh, your shoulders sagging slightly. She was six summers younger than you but she was naive for her age, fragile. She wasn't hardened like you, she was innocent and she couldn't begin to understand the complexities of your situation.

She was a lamb amongst wolves and you knew that you had to do everything you could to protect her, even if it meant being the king's whore.

"King Ivar has taken me as his and so long as I am good to him, useful to him, our safety is guaranteed here. We may be thralls here but we are alive Alva, and we are protected. That is all that matters." She chewed her lip nervously and her worried gaze dropped to the floor.

"I have heard things, whispers from the other girls.." You stopped and crouched down to her level, ignoring the cold water that seeped into the hem of your gown as you searched her face with questioning eyes.

"What things?"

"They talk about the king, they say that he is a great warrior, that he is favoured by the gods and has never lost a battle. But-"

"Go on, Alva." You insisted as she shifted her weight nervously.

"They say that because of his legs, he cannot please a woman. He has hurt slave girls and threatened to kill them if they speak of it. They talk of a woman called Margarette, they say he strangled her."

Your eyes lowered to the sand and you nodded your head solemnly, you would not be surprised by such things given your experience of Ivar's volatile nature. You returned to your full height and forced a small smile, one you hoped would reassure the young girl.

"Come along, let us enjoy the water a little longer."

Torsten allowed you to spend a few hours with Alva, soaking up the warmth of the sun and the feel of the salty ocean breeze before telling you that it was time to return to the Hall.

Alva was unhappy to leave you and return to the thrall house but she finally relented when you reassured her that you'd be okay with a soft smile and promised that you would see her again soon.

You were almost back at the Hall when you heard your new moniker being called in the distance and turned to see Hvitserk making his way towards you.

"Valkyrie!" The man was completely different to Ivar, not only in his physical appearance but in his demeanour; whilst Ivar was impassive and unpredictable, Hvitserk was open and seemed to wear his emotions on his sleeve.

He grinned widely at you as he rested on the fence of the training ground, his hair mussed and cheeks red from sparring.

"I see my brother has finally let you spread your wings." You huffed at his jest and moved to rest against the fence beside him, watching as Ivar's men fought each other with vigour, the sharp clashes of steel and crashes of shields heavy in the air.

"They are fine warriors. Though not as fine as you I'm sure.." Hvitserk raised an eyebrow at your taunt, his grin widening as mischief danced behind his eyes.

"You told me that you were a fighter, Valkyrie. Perhaps I wish to see it for myself." You raised your chin slightly, your eyes narrowing in playful challenge.

"My father always believed that I possessed enough fury to rival that of a berserker, maybe we should test that." The blonde man's eyes flashed in delight and he held a hand out to you, helping you over the wooden fence and into the training arena, ignoring Torsten's protests and silencing the larger man with a raised hand.

"Hand me a sword, Ragnarsson." He passed you a short-sword, lighter than you had used before but well-balanced and finely made. Hvitserk opted for a larger sword, heavier and better matched for his larger frame.

"Don't worry, Valkyrie. I will go easy on you." You scoffed, watching as his grin widened and his eyes changed, the mossy green growing darker with his building battle-lust.

You watched his feet, anticipating his initial attack and dodged each skilful slash of his sword. You moved in time with him, keeping up with the prince despite your heavy dress weighing down your movements.

You grinned as you blocked several of the beserker's attempted hits. Hvitserk's expression was positively wild and the fight between you became more intense the more you challenged him.

He barely managed to block your attack to his torso and you grinned as he growled in irritation. You were so focused, until your name was shouted from the fence line.

Your head turned for no more than a second but it was enough time for Hvitserk to land a hit, successfully slicing a line of crimson across your forearm. You gasped as the flesh stung and you clutched at the wound as the blood began to seep from it, running down your skin and dripping into the dirt beneath your feet.

Hvitserk froze, his face dropping into one of remorse as he realised what he had done, then one of uneasiness when he noticed Ivar stalking towards you both with his men in tow. His face was stony but his sapphire eyes gave away his rage, they were practically glowing as he glared at both of you.

"What do you think you are doing, hm?" His voice was level, an unnerving contradiction to the storm brewing behind his eyes. He turned on Hvitserk then and the older Ragnarsson visibly tensed. "I suppose that this was your idea, brother?"

You were quick to speak up, stepping in front of Hvitserk to shield him from Ivar's wrath. Although he had been the one to challenge you to spar, you had been just as willing. He hadn't meant to injure you and you had enjoyed the rush of it, the freedom.

Despite being your master's kin Hvitserk had been civil to you during your time in Kattegat, amiable even. From what you had witnessed he seemed to be a decent man and you didn't feel that he deserved to be reprimanded for your poor choices.

"It's not his fault, my King. I challenged him to fight, if you are to punish anyone then it must be me."

"Is that so?" Ivar tilted his head at you with a raised brow and you nodded, his face said everything his words did not. This is not over.

He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth and nodded once, his jaw tensed.

"Very well, Torsten will take you back to our chambers." He dismissed the larger warrior with a wave of his hand and turned to face Hvitserk, fixing him with a false smile that left no room for argument. "Brother, you will go and fetch the healer. And the next time that you wish to fight? I suggest that you find a different opponent."

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