#an ivarr story with no smut | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

author-morgan · 3 years ago

Note

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

170 notes · View notes