#alexisp787

[author-morgan]

Your work is so good, you should do this for a living! Your Ivarr stories are treasurers! Because quality Ivarr content that matches up exactly with my fantasies are rare, and I'm shit poet...

Could you please do one where the clan's dainty sweetheart secretly has the hots for Ivarr but avoids him because she doesn't know how to act around him.

He's also into her but thinks she hates him.

She gets terribly drunk for first time ever, throws herself at Ivarr...

Confused but also turned on, he internally struggles because doesn't want to take advantage of her.

He puts her to bed/or gets someone else to do it? Ubba? Because he doesn't trust himself to be alone with her?

Finds her when she's sober and not hungover, confronts her because drunken words are sober thoughts. She's embarrassed but they end up having really great sex!!!

i do write for a living, just not creative writing oh the joys of academia. apologies for the long wait, but here's more Ivarr! hope you enjoy! ♥ i kind of went overboard (like 3.3k words overboard) but it's Ivarr and i'm thirsty as hell for this bastard. Ivarr the Boneless x fem!Reader

EIVOR SHAKES HIS head. His arms crossed with a frown playing on his lips. He doesn’t see what you do —why of all the people in Midgard, you only have eyes for Ivarr the Boneless. Even Ubba would be a better choice, he thinks. It’s in Eivor’s nature to worry over and protect the ones he loves after all he’s lost. You are another example of Styrbjorn’s charity to those he considered friends, just as he is Sigurd’s brother in all but blood, you are their sister and have been for many years —becoming a temper for the two rowdy boys, favoring the healing arts over swordplay and battle.

Since Eivor’s initial meeting with Ivarr in Repton, there’s been something about his methods and outlook that sets Eivor at unease, even more so now that he’s caught Ivarr’s gaze lingering on you —like now during the autumn feast. Some jest, saying opposites attract, and while that seldom seems to be the truth, it is for you and Ivarr. He is cold iron, warm blood, a harsh winter —and you’re soft silks, a cool breeze, fresh spring blooms.

He’s seen the looks you share with Ivarr. Fleeting and flirtatious, but that is nigh all you share besides few rushed words in passing. Ivarr cuts an intimidating presence, and you’ve never been quite sure how to converse with warriors beyond your brothers. It’s nigh as difficult for Ivarr —all he knows is bloodlust and his fellow drengrs— finding the right words to say is not a battle he thinks he can win. There’s fondness between you, almost everyone can see it, but there are times when Ivarr is left to wonder if you truly like him or if your soft smiles and kind words are only a product of his reputation.

Ivarr’s feelings are clear to himself, though, especially as he watches you among the people of Ravensthorpe, partaking in the autumn festivities. Seeing you wear a crown of gold and amber leaves, dancing with Ceolbert to the drunken tune of Bragi and his tagelharpa with a tankard of Tekla’s mead in hand makes his heart beat faster, and his mouth go dry. He keeps to the benches, reminding himself that a drengr does not dance —at least not this type of dance.

The evening fades, but the festivities don’t. Soma claims her clan throws the best feasts, though you’re tempted to challenge the jarlskona for the title since Ravensthorpe has grown. You look around, searching for your brothers, but Sigurd has retired for the evening, and Eivor is slumped over on one of the tables, asleep —his hand still curled around the handle of his mead cup. Sighing, you find Ivarr’s gaze in the hazy air of the longhouse, half-shocked by the intensity and darkness, half-eager to return the lust-laden stare with your own.

Emboldened by the mead, you gather another horn and move across the longhouse where Ivarr sits. With a smile, you offer him the horn of mead before taking the empty spot on the bench next to him. He eyes you, curious, as he turns up the horn —downing the mead in a few gulps— and turns his attention to you. Spurred on by the moment, you lean closer, twisting to drape your legs across his thighs, squirming more than needed. “What game are you playing at, little dove?” Ivarr asks, his gaze dark and tone dangerous. You only smile, flitting your eyes up to meet his as you tip up your cup.

The soft plucking lyre strings and the low thrum of the tagelharpa are nigh enough to lull you to sleep coupled with the stillness. When you start to sway, both from the trance of the music and the heaviness of your eyes, Ivarr brings you closer to his side before deciding it best to see you off for the night —lest he is on the receiving end of Sigurd or Eivor’s anger. Ivarr pushes the bench back from the table, slipping his arms around your shoulders and beneath your knees, rising with you cradled in his arms —head resting on the leather of his shoulder pauldron.

When Ivarr places you on the straw and rag stuffed mattress of your cottage at the eastern edge of the settlement, you are not eager to part with him —the bulge tenting his britches tell you he’s not eager to leave you either. “Don’t” —you hiccup, lips turning into a pout as you lift the hem of your skirt to show the bare skin of your calves and beyond— “don’t you want me?”

Gods, Ivarr wants you. Just the thought of lying with you sets his blood hot and racing —like a giddy boy before his first battle. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted a woman more. But he can smell the mead on your breath and see the weariness hiding in your eyes. Ivarr knows it is the drink speaking for you, and he will not be the one to dishonor such a woman as you. “You’ve too much drink, little dove,” he chides in a rough chuckle, uncurling your fingers from their hold on his tunic. “Sleep,” Ivarr says, sitting back on his haunches —drinking in your appearance for a final time, “I doubt you’ll say the same thing come the morning.”

MORNING BREAKS AND so does your uneasy rest. The scent of smoke and mead clings to your skin and clothes, as does a dried sheen of sweat. Rising, you strip out of the soiled clothes and into a linen shift. With the hour still early and some only just retiring for bed from the feast, you gather up a cake of soap and boar-bristle brush, heading toward the small waterfall and pool at the northern edge of the settlement. Sparing a quick look around and now certain you’re alone, you strip, stepping into the clear, cool water with a sharp inhale.

Humming a soft song, you wring the suds from your hair and cross toward the bank where your clothes lay, but the snap of a branch underfoot stops you. Gaze darting around, you see him emerge from behind the trunk of a large tree near the stables. “Ivarr,” you greet, not shying away from his wandering gaze. His silence and the look in his eyes make you smile as you wade in his direction, stopping when the water brushes the underside of your breasts. “Are you watching me?” It’s a redundant question that needs no answer besides the hungry look in Ivarr the Boneless’s eyes.

“What you said last night–” he starts, voice surprisingly cautious, but you cut him off with a wave of a hand and scolding grin. “I was not that drunk, Ivarr.” Tekla’s mead had not dulled your senses, only gave you the courage to act on buried feelings. He lifts his brow and rakes his hand through his parted hair. “And yes. I meant it,” you tell him, wearing the same look now as you had last night nigh begging Ivarr to have his way with you. If Ivarr is surprised by the truth of your feelings, he hides it well. You motion to the pristine pool of water and bite down on your bottom lip before finding his gaze again. “Join me?”

Ties and buckles rustle as he hastily kicks away his boots, drops the fittings of his armor, and does away with his britches and tunic. Ivarr circles you like a wolf eyeing his wounded prey, and then he pounces, wrapping an arm around your middle, pulling your back flush against his chest. He leans forward, trailing his nose along your shoulder and neck —rough hands trailing up your sides and around to your breasts, squeezing them and teasing your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

When you gasp, he bites down on your shoulder and rocks his hips into your ass with a low chuckle. “You know who I am?” He means it as a warning —a warning of his bloodthirsty and unkind nature, that he is not a man to sing sweet songs or offer tender caresses. You already know that, having been privileged to witness Ivarr the Boneless in battle and know him outside of his craft.

“I do,” you answer, unwilling to shy away. He sucks in a sharp breath when you turn to face him, stepping closer and look up at him under lidded eyes with a wicked smile that sends blood rushing to his already half-hard cock. Careening toward Ivarr, you brush your lips across his jaw, settling one hand over the dark tattoo of Yggdrasil on his breast. “And if I wanted gentle,” you breathe at his ear, nipping at his neck, “I would fuck one of the Saxon monks.”

Ivarr laughs, grinning, but it falters when you reach below the water and squeeze his cock and balls, giving no doubt to your intentions or your wants. “Careful, little dove,” he hisses, tilting your chin up. He hunches, ashen hair half-falling before his face as he leans down and kisses you, warm, open-lipped, and intoxicating.

You pull back with a groan, and Ivarr chasing your lips, stopped only by your hands cupping his face —thumb tracing the deep scar on his cheek. “While giving the gods a show sounds delightful” —Ivarr’s lusty eyes take on a twinkle at the thought. Suddenly he’s picturing you splayed out on a Christian altar, spent from his love with his seed dripping from your cunt. His cock twitches, pressed tight against your belly— “Sigurd or Eivor finding us like this is less enticing.” Had it been anyone other than Ivarr, your brothers would have turned a blind eye, but neither have particularly liked the interest you and Ivarr show in one another.

Stepping back, you grip onto his wrist, staying his hands from their wandering assault, and pull him toward the waterfall and the small cave beyond. Before Ivarr has a chance to move again, you smile for him in the dim light, sliding an open hand to the nape of his neck, drawing him closer. With your lips pressed against his, Ivarr can only reciprocate —he parts your lips with his tongue, hands curling into your hips in a vice grip. But when the kiss breaks, you shimmy from his grasp and trail your lips to the dip in his neck —licking and laving.

“Having your lips on my skin is torture,” he inhales, hand fisting in your hair as you move down to the tattoo of Sleipnir at the center of his chest. You laugh softly and lean back, his eyes piercing through you. The smile on your lips is roguish, but you do not let up, making your way to his abdomen where a few small scars are clustered. Ivarr moans above you, and you haven’t even touched his aching, dripping cock yet. His hand reaches for your breasts, but you knock it away, having yearned for this moment for too long to let it slip away.

He titters at your enthusiasm and rolls his hips forward. Not dissuaded, you press your lips to the scar next to his navel, right below one of the dark runes tattooed on his abdomen. The hand still twined in your hair tightens, pushing you down to your knees. Ivarr’s legs are powerfully built, the muscles of his calves and thighs flex as you run your hand over them appreciatively, still finding small scars to trace and kisses, purposefully ignoring the hard cock pressed against his stomach. His hands clench as you kiss the skin of his thighs, your hair tickling the underside of his cock.

You smile at his surprised gasp when you drag the flat of your tongue along his cock, tracing along a vein running up the length of his shaft. Ivarr’s unable to hold back his groan when your fingers wrap around his girth, giving a few heavy strokes. And then, without warning, you wrap your lips around the head of his cock. He tastes of salt and iron and something forbidden and dangerous. Taking his cock as far as you can, you press your tongue against the underside, silently humming.

Above you, Ivarr chokes your name like a ragged prayer —it fills you with pride to know the son of Ragnar Lodbrok is coming apart at your hands and mouth, unable to say anything but your name. The lords of England may fear the whisper of his name, but right now, he is at your mercy.

Slowly, he begins to thrust himself into your mouth, but he makes no move to command your movements. Instead, his impatience wins over. He pulls you away from pleasuring him with your mouth. “Enough,” Ivarr says, his voice ragged as he crouches down, hand sliding from your hair and down to tweak one of your pebbled nipples, then lower still until he comes to the warmth between your thighs, slick with arousal. You whimper, gripping onto Ivarr’s shoulder when he pushes two fingers into your cunt, curling and thrusting. “On your knees, little dove,” he rasps. He warned you, and now he means to make good on his silent promise.

You struggle to gain your balance on the uneven ground of the small cave, but soon did, only to nigh lose it again when Ivarr slides the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds —thrice over before gripping onto your shoulder with one hand and guiding himself into your warmth with the other. Ivarr’s moan when he sinks inside you is breathless and airy, a misplaced sound from the likes of him. He grips you tight —one hand on your shoulder still, the other on your hip— holding your squirming body still as he eases his way into you. Your shoulders curl forward at the sudden wide spread of his cockhead into your body, fingers digging into the soft earth beneath you.

Ivarr pants against your shoulders —you can feel the open brush of his mouth along the sensitive skin of your spine and neck— as he draws his hips back and slams his cock back into you. You buck your hips back in time with his thrust, and Ivarr growls. You move with him as he fucks into you, squeezing with your inner muscles and whimpering in loud gasps. “Ivarr,” you chant, over-and-over.

He’s pounding hard immediately, giving in to the hunger that’s been consuming the both of you for far too long to be decent. His fingers are strong, streaking against your skin as his grip slides, something to discolor and bruise you by evening. But it feels so fucking good. You toss your head back, finding a glimpse of his face in this aching position with back arched, teeth shining in the low light, and eyes burning on you. He’s feral and ruined, and his fingers bend on your skin.

The building tension fades when he draws back, leaving you aching and empty. Ivarr spins you to face him as he reclines. “Ride me,” he commands, kissing you quickly, with an open mouth and teeth scraping your bottom lip. You pull away from the kiss, moving so you could sit atop him, straddling his hips, his back against a smoothed boulder. Breathless, Ivarr cannot be bothered with the loss of control —reckless abandon shines in your eyes, and he cannot help but grin as you slide down on his cock. He grunts enthralled at the feel of your warm cunt around him, walls clenching to feel every ridge and vein.

Moments pass, and you begin to move on top of Ivarr, rolling your hips into his. He groans, rough hands torn between holding onto your hips or pawing at your breasts. Instead, he decides to push himself up and let his lips attack your jaw and throat —biting and suckling— and annoyed at the slow in pace, Ivarr thrusts his hips up into yours, a sign to move faster. You don’t hesitate —lost to the exquisite bliss, clawing, desperate and eager. Holding Ivarr’s face in your hands, you try finding his lips with your own, but all you can do is moan and pant with him into his mouth, lost in the craven pleasure.

Ivarr bites hard in the crook of your shoulder and neck as he repeatedly drives his hips upward, chasing his and your releases. One of his hands slips between your bodies —his calloused thumb teasing your clit in a way that makes your hips stutter and body trembles, nails clawing into Ivarr’s shoulders. He grits his teeth, wondering if his little dove had broken skin. The burst of pain fades quickly as he watches your body bounce in time with his thrusts and listens to the moans and pants echoing off the cave walls and water.

He knows he’s close, his pants ragged and thrusts sloppy and desperate. The hitch in your breathing when he presses his thumb against your clit tells him you’re close to. It’s the boiling heat between you that takes hold, curling your toes and parting your lips in a silent throe, hands digging into Ivarr’s biceps as he chases his pleasure —teeth bared and bright eyes burning. Several thrusts later, his body tenses, and a dull warmth spreads between your connected bodies, and still, he is not done with the thrill of how you tremble and whine above him, but the rhythm soon slows, and you fall forward, resting your head on Ivarr’s chest.

You sit there, savoring the last twinges of carnal gratification, with your bodies rising and falling as you breathe in unison. And when the haze clears, you trace the small scars near his shoulders and follow the blue-black runes tattooed on his middle.

After what feels like an eternity, you feel him shift underneath you, sitting up on his hands. Ivarr glances over you —the small purple marks at the base of your neck from his lips and teeth, how your nipples are still hard, begging to have his mouth on them, and how your bodies are still connected. His cock is soft now, his seed seeping from your cunt and drying on your thighs —Ivarr thinks it a glorious sight. He hisses as he pulls himself out of your warmth, slowly, relishing in the gasps and whimpers you make at the resultant empty feeling it leaves between your thighs.

With flushed cheeks and swollen lips, you tell him you must go —this escapade would have already made you late for your daily duties, and the last thing you wish is for one of your brothers or Valka to find you in this state. He follows you from the cave behind the waterfall, back to the bank where his and your clothes are strewn. Gentler than you’d imagine, Ivarr kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, before cupping your face with strong, rough fingers and moving your lips back to his. You let him move you, kissing you back, smiling against his mouth. “Come to me at nightfall,” you breathe against his lips, parting to gather up your clothes and shoes.

Ivarr grins, swatting your ass before pulling you against his chest, keeping you from reaching for your linen shift —his chin resting on your shoulder as his hand slides between your legs and two fingers sinking into your cunt, still slick with your essence and his seed. “That eager for my cock again, little dove?” He laughs.

He’s silenced when you grind back into his hips with a glint of mischief shining in your eyes. Ivarr lets you go, though reluctant, and watches you dress from the corner of his eye. It’s impulse driving you when you decide duties can wait. Smiling, you grip onto Ivarr’s wrist —he’s only half-dressed in his britches and boots, tunic in hand— and drag him away from the waterfall and toward your home in the settlement. Consequences be damned. It feels as though the gods made you and Ivarr for one another, and you aren’t willing to let another moment be wasted.

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

[akasolidsilver]

Sexy(I tried 😆) Ivarr Ragnarsson

Request from @alexisp787

Hope you like it 🖤🖤🖤

[medlilove]

Thank you @alexisp787 for commissioning me to draw our total fave! It as an absolute pleasure and has already got me inspired to add to my fix it series fic!

please click for full res and feel free to PM me if you are interested in a commission

[krankittoeleven]

Some flirty, smiling Ivarr gifs requested by @alexisp787

Sorry, the lighting wasn't the best for this scene, and then tumblr killed the resolution even more lol D:

[turidtorkilsdottir]

@castielsangel-x @moonchild-8888 @alexisp787​ Here it is :D

Teaser:

Even Eivor couldn’t avoid a smirk, despite feeling offended himself by the injustice that had happened to his brother. Yet the ale made him feel comfortable where he sat and he knew, he couldn’t help Sigurd with his mood tonight. There was enough time to talk and make decisions tomorrow. Now he would allow himself to enjoy the feast and celebrate the victory over Kjotve.

He winced, when he felt a tall hand on his arm and swiftly turned around to look into the stern face of one of King Harald’s men. “Follow me”, he ordered. “The king wishes to see you.”

[sonnefuchs]

Sorry it took me so long!  @novastale Are you sure we aren’t the same person?!  I agree with almost everything 😆.  @myriath aaah plants...many have fallen by hand...

I had way too much fun with that.  And have regretted the purple too late to change it.  BLEED, THINE EYES.

I’ll tag @anxietyviking @heathensith​ @alexisp787​ @solidsilver​

You probably have already made one but don’t feel like you need to if you haven’t!

[anamefer]

Tagged by the lovely @myriath 🤍

I'm going to tag @iunxit @karjalantroll @lordsooga @alexisp787 Participate only if you want. Free decision!

If anyone else wants to join, fell free to do it! 🤍

[myriath]

I got tagged by @the-forgotten-jenn and @retiredat50 so I guess I really should do this. xD

sage green or baby blue // moon or stars // paperback or hardback // piercings or tattoos // drawing or writing // Saturn or Jupiter // ancient Greece or ancient Egypt // Prague or Amsterdam // dark academia or light academia // indie aesthetic or cottagecore // stargazing or late night drives // strawberries or watermelons // rings or necklaces // extrovert or introvert // dragons or griffins // ocean or mountains // silver or gold // dawn or dusk // early bird or night owl // cook or bake // dagger or sword

I tagg @alexisp787 @gwynbleiddyn @vilor @kitten-kin @lia00 If you want to do it, have fun. :)

[author-morgan]

just please, please, give us more Ivarr.

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

Ivarr the Boneless x fem!Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[author-morgan]

Under the midday summer Mercian sun, Ivarr pauses and drops his axes, picks up a waterskin and drinks deeply, the excess water dripping down his bare chest.

It’s hard not to stare —with the droplets of sweat and water beading down his chest and back, almost following the dark blue-black lines of his rune tattoos. Ivarr sets the waterskin down and takes up a longbow instead of his axes; he doesn’t favor the bow —preferring to be fully engulfed in battles to feel the blood spray and hear the cries of his victims— but it has its uses. The muscles in his back and arms ripple, and when he draws the bowstring back, aiming across the training yard at a target of coiled rope with a red circle painted at the center.

Ivarr glimpses you from the corner of his eye, scarred lips kinking into a smile when he finds he has your undivided attention. He looses the arrow, it finds its mark in the center of the target, then he turns to face you —and you know you’ve been caught staring; Ivarr can tell your thoughts are impure for a god-fearing Saxon lady of your standing by the flush of heat on your face. The thought of being the one privileged enough to corrupt you makes him giddy with excitement; his faint smile turns to a teasing smirk. “Like what you see, princess?”

To celebrate 5k followers, send me an ask with the first sentence of a fanfic (or a dialogue tag) and I’ll write the next five sentences.

[author-morgan]

Oooh tough question...well definitely all of your Ivarr ones, I find myself revisiting the princess training one the most😊. And though I haven't watched vikings or red dead or other AC games... I find myself really enjoying the ones you write about Harald, Halfdan, Arthur, Alexios, Deimos...

oh!! that’s one of my favorites too, and I have a request sitting in my inbox for another Ivarr fic with a princess!reader. 🤭 im so happy there's more ivarr lovers in the world and im not just yelling to a wall about that bastard (affectionate) 😌 and im thrilled thrilled and honored that you’re enjoying my other works. ♥️🥺

[author-morgan]

can we have some random headcanons for Ivarr? 🥺👀

of course. ♥️ always willing to write for my stinky bastard man. here are a few headcanons i have for him. :)

In the weeks after his face healed, Ivarr was very particular about his scar. He tried to hide it —always having part of his hair covering his face, so others would not see the mark of shame on the Son of Ragnar. He also doesn’t let anyone touch it either. If Ivarr allows you to cup his scarred cheek or trace over the scar (or any of his scars), know you’re very special to him, and he trusts you enough to let his guard down and show a pinch of vulnerability. Don’t expect it to last long, though. He’s always quick to put his walls up again.

He’s a wild sleeper until he finds the right position, then he clocks out —hard. More often than naught, he ends up on his stomach, sprawled out, and instead of using a pillow, he uses his bent arm. He snores too, not very loudly, though —he’s the type to deny it too. Me? Snore? I do not. If you’re sharing a bed, he’s no better at being a considerate bedmate, and more often than naught, you just have to accept that he’s going to end up on top of you one way or another —being a human pillow isn’t so bad, though.

Love isn’t really in Ivarr’s vocabulary —as in you’ll probably never hear the words, I love you, fall from his lips no matter how many times you may tell him you love him. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you, though. He just has a very unique, very Ivarr, way of showing it. It’s laced in how he compliments your fighting while training or in battle, or him being a smidge gentler when tending to wounds, or the smiles exchanged when interrogating a prisoner or spy. Perhaps one of the most romantic gestures from Ivarr is when he surprised you with the severed head of the bumbling fool you were meant to marry. He might not say it, but he shows it —actions mean more than words anyway— and no one in Midgard would dare come between the two of you.

Ivarr hates baths with a passion. He doesn’t see why it's such a bad thing that he should wear the blood of enemies as a trophy, even days after a battle, or why it matters if he smells like shit. He’s a warrior. A man. He shouldn’t smell like roses. For the most part, you let him be, but on occasion, it gets to the point where you’re tempted to dump a bucket of water on him while he sleeps. If you ask sweetly enough, you can trick him into going for a 'swim' in the river or a nearby lake. It’s only after he’s already in the water with you scrubbing his hair that he realizes he’s fallen for your scheme, again.

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

[medlilove]

Thank you @alexisp787, for part 2 of your commission, a portrait of Harald Fairhair 1st King of Norway!

Please click for full res this thing is huge.

[krankittoeleven]

More Ivarr & Ivarr

requested by @alexisp787

[krankittoeleven]

I was tagged by @novastale

1. Why did you choose your URL?

It's just a joke connected to calling this account a Viking Retirement home, they will all retire early to save them from their canon fates.

2. Any side blogs?

Nope

3. How long have you been on Tumblr?

6ish months, maybe less?

4. Do you have a queue tag?

I have a queue but not a tag. Should I? LOL Almost everything that is created by me on this blog comes from my queue I find it very handy to just toss things in there and let it do the rest.

5. Why did you start your blog in the first place?

Just for fun. Once I started using the mods in Valhalla I wanted to share it with those who aren't able to use them. And I wanted to keep up with some blogs that I had been lurking around previously.

6. Why did you choose you icon/pfp?

I really like the pose, it's not every day you can get someone in Valhalla to look up. Also, because it's Ubba. XD

7. Why did you choose your header?

Its Vili...flexing...shirtless. Should explain itself. These Vikings are enjoying their retirement, OK? ;)

8. What's your post with the most notes?

Not sure. Probably an Ivarr or Vili post, those seem to get the most notes here.

9. How many mutuals do you have?

Not a ton. Maybe a dozen or two dozen.

10. How many followers do you have?

I have 90 it would appear

11. How many people do you follow?

40

12. Have you ever made a shit post?

Not here.....LOL

13. How often do you use tumblr?

i take tons of screencaps so i usually have daily posts. I poke around multiple times through out the day when I need to kill a few minutes of time between other things.

14. Did you ever have a fight/argument with another blog?

No.

15. How do you feel about "you need to reblog" posts?

Eh, I get it, truly. But I do find them awkward. I guess coming from other sites I just appreciate any attention my posts get. Since my blog is pretty specifically themed, I really only reblog certain things. And that's just how it's gonna be.

16. Do you like tag game?

Yeah I don't mind them, its fun and low pressure.

17. Do you like ask games?

Yeah, I haven't done many but they are also fun.

18. Which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous?

I wouldn't even know what that means, really, but I see posts from fanficmemes and dear ao3 outside of tumblr, so them I suppose?

I'll try to tag people that I haven't seen previously tagged for this, no pressure, of course.

@vilor, @velvet-coalmine, @alexisp787, @gwynbleiddyn, @myriath, @sugarslidey

[sonnefuchs]

I was waiting until I had my laptop! Tagged from @novastale, I feel so special <3.  Haha

1. Why did you choose your URL?

Haha...ahh.  I like foxes and I thought sun fox sounded cool.  I was like yeah! Midnight sun and foxes.

2. Any side blogs?

Not yet!  Though I think about having one just to put pictures of trees I like.

3. How long have you been on Tumblr?

Oh gosh...probably not as long as I think.  7 years?

4. Do you have a queue tag?

Never used it!  Not that together.  Bit more sporadic.

5. Why did you start your blog in the first place?

I created a tumblr so I could indulge in fanfics on my phone and read wherever whenever.  Had a tumblr for years never posted anything and then this year like...March?  Had a mental breakdown and decided I was going to try my hand at writing the fics in my head.  It was fun!

6. Why did you choose you icon/pfp? and 7. Why did you choose your header?

I scrolled through my photos I had taken and found a stuffed shark from Walmart.  Fabulous expression on its face.  Spoke to me.  And then got attached, lol.  The header is really the same.  Scrolling through my images on my phone.  I wish I knew how to take cool screenshots from games like all those groovy people on Tumblr do.  But at the same time, too lazy.

8. What's your post with the most notes?

Haha, I know this one!  It’s the one about Cheesewheels.  Characters Seeing You Steal Cheese Wheels .  It’s the first thing I ever wrote on Tumblr.

9. How many mutuals do you have?

Like...5?  All awesome people!

10. How many followers do you have?

100ish.  Though most are porn bots I have no idea how to get rid of haha.

11. How many people do you follow?

28

12. Have you ever made a shit post?

Don’t think so...

13. How often do you use tumblr?

Waaaay too often.  I’ll be on and off for ages some days and then others I’ll not think about it until night.

14. Did you ever have a fight/argument with another blog?

No, and I don’t think I would ever.  I absolutely run away from that kind of conflict.

15. How do you feel about "you need to reblog" posts?

Generally scroll past them without reading.

16. Do you like tag game?

Never had them before now!  New to them.

17. Do you like ask games?

Probably!

18. Which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous?

I don’t know...they’re some pretty cool blogs!

I don’t know who’s been tagged before so don’t mind me if you’ve already had this ^^. @alexisp787 @anxietyviking @eivxr