#ivar lothbrok imagine

[kaivenom]

How are the viking's men when you raid together...

Warnings: small hints of suggested themes

Masterlist

Ivar the Boneless

Absolutely in love.

He is the more excited of the brothers to get you into raids.

Of course he fears about your safety but if you are with Ivar it's clearly that you know how to handle things like this.

Seeing you all covered in blood of your enemies, with weapons on your hands and that exhausted look, made him think you are a valkirie.

He gives you trinkets, even when the city has been destroyed and all the treasures of the city belong now to the vikings, he still gives you things he sees on another woman.

Sometimes you don't like how he gets after fights, becuase sadism in battles is good but tortures after that, no.

You try to reproach him about it, at first he gets angry, then he tries to be less sadist after that.

At the end, raiding with Ivar is a big adventure.

Ubbe Ragnarson

Very protective.

Expect him to be your shadow, attached to your side every second.

He kisses you after battle, he says he doesn't want to be in Valhalla without feeling your lips one last time.

In battle you both are always together, fighting in complete synchrony.

One thing he does when the battle ends that drives you crazy is kissing you. You both covered in dust and blood, exhausted from battling and he just goes to you with feral eyes, drops the sword/axe and kisses you furiously.

He doesn't like to make you gifts from the raids but instead you are the one who grants him things, he smiles like a child everytime.

Hvitserk Ragnarson

He thinks it's the best thing you both could do.

Like a vacation for the two of you, seeing new places and trying new food.

All the things he gains during the raids are YOUR things too, he gifts you everything he can.

He ussually tents to follow some jokes from other vikings about taking woman from the raids.

After seeing your face full of disgust, he never does it again, he wouldn't support seeing your eyes look at him like that again.

He always finds the higher spot on the place to spent the evening after raiding, organizing a picnic above all the bloody chaos of the under.

Sigurd Ragnarson

He doesn't like you going, he doesn't like going either.

You both only go when it's necesary because of his family.

When you are there, you both prefer to watch out the camp rather than enter in battle.

In fact, probably you are better warrior that him, so you protect him during the battles.

Being on the camp he always plays instruments to calm himself, and because of that you lay next to him and relax yourself too.

After battle he goes straight to your side and hughs you tightly, other vikings mock him about his not-so-manly behaviour.

Bjorn Ironside

He doesn't really care.

He thinks you can handle yourself, but unlike the others, that makes him let you get lost around.

He just watches you from afar with a serious face, expecting the unexpected.

A small grin appears on his face every once in a while, thinking about how badass you look.

The sight of seeing you covered in blood makes you look so desirable, he has to restrain himself from taking you right there.

You have to endure his cheater behaviour with foreign woman and getting slves everywhere.

But after battle you are euphoric and decide to put him on place.

[collecting-stories]

Willow - Ivar the Boneless

Summary: Feast night in Kattegat, some pretty shameless flirting.

A/N: I haven't written vikings in forever but part of this was in my drafts from like, last year and I finally finished it this morning.

TS Anthology Masterlist | Vikings Masterlist

✰ wait for the signal and I'll meet you after dark ✰

The lanterns that lined the path from the village to the fjord were lit, glowing a warm orange beneath the ever darkening sky. There were soft sounds of a lyre playing somewhere just beyond your line of sight, settling a trance over the whole of the village as you made your way through smaller parties that gathered outside of the great hall, enchanted by the warm night. Feast nights were always your favorite, less of a formality than a festival or a celebration, you weren't so watched on a feast night as you were other times. 

"Have you come to join the dancing?"

Still, there were some whose gaze you never quite seemed to escape. As you addressed the rustling of bushes near your knees, you peered down in the dim light to find Ivar, stakes dug into the ground as he frowned up at you, obviously not amused by the playful teasing. 

"Perhaps someone could string me up like those nonsensical dolls they bring to market, wouldn't you enjoy that?" He retorted, thinking of the countless times he'd requested his mother have the man with the marionettes killed. Or punished violently, he wasn't picky. 

You bent your knees, squatting down so your butt hovered over the grass, reaching a hand out to stroke Ivar's cheek. He leaned his face into your touch, turning his head just so to brush his lips to your open palm.

"You think I am making fun of you? You forget then, I have felt the way you move against me when we are beneath the furs on your bed my love, there is no dance I long for more." You replied. 

Ivar huffed, tilting his head down just enough to nip at your exposed wrist, "now I know you are playing with me." He replied, "I should have you strung up like that marionettes."

When you smiled he couldn't deny the triumphant feeling that gripped his heart, as if some unknown force was saying 'look, you who is so plagued by hideous feelings and darkness, you have made the sun shine in the dead of night'. 

"You would enjoy that." You repeated his words back to him, a statement this time and not a question. 

Carefully, so that you didn't fall over completely, you stood back up, brushing your hands down the front of your clothing. Ivar watched you as the doors to the great hall sung open and more people filed out, shouting and laughing with each other. The lights inside the building and the ruckus had drawn your attention for a split second but then your gaze was back on Ivar, the soft light of the lanterns shining on his face and illuminating his blue eyes. 

"Shall we take our leave?" You asked, sounding somewhat conspiratorial as you watched him. 

Despite the informality of the feast, you were certain your parents would notice if you were gone for too long or if you left early. They'd been careful with you ever since you'd come of age, cautious of who took an interest in their youngest child. Though they knew better than to speak out of turn about the disabled son of Ragnar Lothbrok, you could see, and so could most everyone else, that he was not who they wanted you to spend time with. Ivar knew, certainly. He'd seen the disdainful looks but it rarely deterred him. Ivar had always been someone who got exactly what he wanted, whether through temper tantrums, deceit, manipulation, or someone's misguided pity. Still, he looked almost surprised at the suggestion, though it only showed for a split second before he was schooling his expression to a neutral one. 

"I thought feast nights were your favorite? Don't you want to celebrate all who have returned from raiding?" He asked, shifting his weight so he could look up at you with more ease.

"Of course I want to," you replied, ignoring the first of his questions, "but I don't think I need anyone in there watching me celebrate your safe return."

Ivar's face flushed up to his ears and you smiled in satisfaction. "You are worse than Loki with your tricks." 

"What tricks?" You asked, sitting this time, your legs crossed in front of you and knees brushing against his hands. You leaned forward, your face as close to Ivar's as you could be without touching him, "don't you want to celebrate?" 

"What would your father say, hm?" Ivar hummed, secretly thrilled when your hand found its place cradling his face again, your thumb gently stroking his cheek. 

"Are you really more interested in discussing my father?" You asked, "when I am famished and have been waiting since the ships first crested the horizon to feast?"

"Were you not just in the great hall?" Ivar questioned, squinting in the dim lantern light so that he could appraise your words. 

"I was. You weren't though and I have been eager to sink my teeth into you," you teased, snapping playfully at him. 

The flush was back on Ivar's cheeks tenfold, flustered by the very suggestion that you wanted to be with him. It wasn't the first time you and he had laid together. Thank god for that, Ivar thought briefly as you stood again, stepping off the path and back toward the bushes that Ivar had come out of before. 

Your first time together had been awkward and slightly painful and he had been embarrassed for some weeks afterward that you would be hesitant to speak to him again, let alone allow him in your bed. Some goddess had blinded you with love or lust or adoration though because you seemed so taken with him from then on that you often sought him out, much to his own excitement. Ivar was just as adoring and in love as you were, if not more. While it was more than true that he got exactly what he wanted all the time, it was always better when he was wanted back. 

"Are you coming?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at him. 

"Yes. You'll notice it is a bit more difficult to turn around when you're unable to stand up." He grumbled, digging his stakes into the ground as he shifted himself around to follow you. 

"Perhaps, but I do so enjoy watching you."

"Humorous is it?" Ivar snapped, missing the way you smiled at his sour disposition. 

"Not the word I would use," you replied. "Is a snake in the grass humorous? Or is it beautiful? Dangerous? Exciting?" 

"I am a snake now?"

"Oh, most assuredly my love, you are full of venom. Though, I would gladly let you bite me." You teased, watching him as he caught up with you. 

"You have not let me yet," he replied, looking far more sour at that remark than at anything else you'd said all night.

"Patience."

He huffed, "I have endured a treacherous ocean, armies of men, illness, injury, near death...and you tell me to have patience?"

"Just for a simple kiss." You replied, as if it was nothing to him, "you have brought riches back with you...surely that means more than a simple kiss."

Ivar tugged your ankle as you stepped closer to him, knocking your legs out from under you and watching with satisfaction as you fell to the ground. 

"Ivar!" You laughed, uninjured and no less enamored with him than you had been before. He smiled, devious grin lighting up his features in the dark as he crawled over you, staking the ground over your sleeve so that you couldn't move away from him. "What are you doing?"

"I have no patience," he replied, "I shall have my feast here."

[epilogue-and-prologue]

Vikings (TV Series)

Ivar Lothbrok

Solace - (Somewhat)Romantic/Panic Attack/Canon Violence - Ivar x F!Reader

Bjorn Lothbrok

Despair and Dishonour - Loss of a child/Hospitals/Modern!Au - Bjorn & Nurse!Reader

Halfdan

Careful - Romantic/Musician!Au/Hospital/Fun - Halfdan x Doctor!Reader

[ch3rrybbie]

Hi lovely, I want to request Ivar from Vikings! I hope that's okay, if not, that'll be totally fine! 🤗

I wanna request Ivar x saxon reader who came to Kattegat as a slave and who was sold to Lagertha. In her hometown she was forced to wear a blindfold made of black lace so no one could see her eyes because they were deemed as demonic from the church. Like her eyes are really crystalline and were unsettling for Christians, and she continues to wear it even in Kattegat. Perhaps the young Rangarsson finds himself to wonder about her and one day a jealous woman rips it from her face during a festive in the main hall when she was serving ivar...?

I know it's a lot but I've been thinking about this all week. 😭✨ Thank you so much!

Angel eyes

summary: Ivar thinks your eyes must be Gods-sent.

warnings: Margrethe being Margrethe, vikings scaring reader, Ivar being Ivar.

ch3rrybbie says: love the request bby, I changed it a lil hope you don’t mind🩷 sorry it took so long lol

———

It’s been three whole moons away from England. Away from the cruelty you knew, but that cruelty was yours. It was home.

Kattegat wasn’t too dissimilar to England but it wasn’t the same.

You trudged through the thick mud of the central market. People didn’t stare at you and you reveled in the anonymity. The thin cotton you always wore around your eyes shielding your oddities was nothing to the people of Kattegat and you had grown to love it during the few days you’d spent here.

Lagethera had brought you along wanting to show you the ways of her culture. After being sold to her she declared you free yet you refused,you would not settle to a life here. You wished to serve her in hopes you could make enough money to flee home.

Slave to handmaiden.

Handmaiden to home.

You refused to learn to fight, to speak her tongue comfortably, to like the viking life. The foolish hope of home held strong within you. And yet you knew you’d never return to England you’d seen what they’d done to the village of those who’d ostracised and belittled you. Luckily your family was away selling the spoils of their labour at market.

They would’ve come back to an empty village stinking of death. The thought makes your heart clench and your steps falter.

Lagertha had playfully commanded you go out and see Kattegat, to see her ex-husbands lands. And to bring her seawater, its purpose left you clueless but you obeyed.

The heathens were strange people after all.

And yet your own had forced you to learn to squint through your blindfold to see shapes and sounds.

To live life veiled.

———

Lagertha was repulsed by the idea. The Christian rigidity that had left you believing in the need to hide your eyes.

She watched you from afar, leant against the entrance of the great hall. You were a sweet girl yet you could be so much more.

And she would see to it.

Ragnar follows her gaze, “what is so special about this slave anyways?”

Lagertha’s head whips towards him, “she is no slave Ragnar, she is blessed by the Gods”

Ragnar’s laugh almost shakes the great hall itself, he walks off still chuckling.

———

Later as the moon begins its race to the crest of the sky you braid Lagertha’s hair. The bucket of seawater stuck out in the corner.

“Why did you ask for the seawater?” You break the gentle silence and she turns smiling at you softly.

“Bring it here” she gestures towards it a sly smirk emerging upon her face.

Standing in front of her seawater at hand she starts to command you.

“Smell it”

“Taste it”

“Feel it”

You end up giggling at the foolish tasks until she asks.

“What is the difference between this seawater and England’s?”

The smile drops from your face and you set the bucket down and return to your tasks bring her dress to ready her for the great feast.

“My sweet girl this is your fate do not run from it, you will come to love Kattegat as much as England as there isn’t much difference”.

“To you, there isn’t much difference to you, my lady” the words bite bitterly at her.

She sighs and you step back from her outstretched arms. You didn’t understand her fondness of you.

“We must go to the hall” you turn on your heel and march into the frosty air, she follows carefully.

———

You pause outside, the noise reminding you of the nights spent around a fire at home.

Perfumed with smoke and stories of old.

You shake the thought away and wait for Lagertha. She come to you a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently.

“You ready?”, you nod and clench you fists at your sides as she pushes the door open.

Truth is you’d never be ready for a feasting hall full of vikings.

“Mother!” A thundering voice cuts through the rowdy masses.

Bjorn comes thumping over sweeping Lagertha into a crushing hug. Once their greetings are finished he turns to you inquisitively

“And who is this little birdy mother” you manage to grasp from your basic understanding of their tounge.

He reaches to peek under your eye covering and instinctively you slap his hand away. Your breath catches as you wait to be struck to the ground.

Instead a sharp laugh cuts at your action you turn to see someone with eyes almost as striking as yours. He regards you a cruel smile and glaringly sharp beauty confronts you. You hold back a gasp and turn from his gaze. Bjorn is also bellowing out a laugh.

“I am sorry bird, ignore Ivar” he plants a kiss on his mother’s cheek and is gone into the crowd of hedonism.

It was going to be a long night.

———

Refusing to sit by Lagertha’s side you stood ignoring the curious looks from Aslaug.

You couldn’t stop thinking about Ivar. It was so strange, he didn’t seem to mock you.

“Hello birdy” a gruff tease voice floats out behind you.

You whip round to see a man that looks exactly like an older Bjorn, Ragnar you conclude.

“Why do you stand here all alone, hmm? Lagertha tells me you are a free woman, here free woman can do as they please you should try it!” He chuckles and it takes you aback, he doesn’t know you yet he treats you like he has for years.

You don’t speak and turn to watch the crowds further, eyes searching for Ivar.

He’s looking right back at you, with a gasp you turn away.

“You know, I had a friend like you once” Ragnar whispers, voice taught with emotion. The pain in his voice pulls you from thoughts of Ivar.

At that you turn and take him in. Towering next to you he looks deep in grief. Eyes watery and gone to distant memories, you recognise it all too well.

“I’m sorry for your loss” you murmur, their language is crude and harsh on your tounge.

Your voice pulls him back, he grabs your shoulder and thanks you with a smile.

And once again you’re alone amongst heathens.

———

“Girl! Come serve me wine” a voice throws its self against you cutting through the bustle of the hall.

Ivar.

“Ivar do not command her like that!” Lagertha bites at him.

You frown at her remark and make your way over.

Aslaug is watching you as though you are a mirage, you ignore her stares and focus on the task at hand.

“She is no servant, please sit down” Lagertha implores you and you ignore her, Ragnar watches on curiously.

Fingers clasping over the mead jug you come closer towards Ivar ignoring the way he drinks you in.

“Surely she’s just a servant” a pretty blonde remarks from a group of boys, the rest of Ragnar’s sons you presume.

“You will watch your tongue upon my mother’s friend Margrethe” Bjorn booms at her, seemingly tired of her presence.

Lagertha frown and you lean to pour Ivar more mead.

“Thank you” he grins up at you, ignoring him you turn to be met by Margrethe.

“Why do you wear that silly cloth on your face?” She giggles and takes you in.

Everyone watches with bated breath.

Someone cuts out her name as another warning.

Attempting to step past her you don’t make it far.

“Here let me help you slave”

Her nails scrape against your skin, harsh in its endeavour.

The room brightens and grows in life as you see it more clearly.

An outraged roar emerges as Margrethe is chastised greatly. Everyone turns to look and the same whispers you’ve heard your whole life break out.

“Blessed Freya” sounded in a wave of murmurs.

The seer shuffles over parting the crowd and you retreat slowly. His interest peaked at such an odd display.

“My child you are kissed by the Gods, you shall see to their vision” his words curl through the fog of fear.

Embarrassed you flee the hall into the icy night and collapse in a heap by the fjord.

Finally you have peace.

They hadn’t cast curses or spat at your feet. They were almost reverent in their discovery of you. Perhaps they truly believe you were someone sent or blessed by their heathen Gods.

A repetitive click and shuffle sounds behind you and you whip around to see Ivar approaching. Embarrassed you turn back to look at the still waters, struggling to think upon his intentions. He groans as he lowers himself aside you.

“You know you didn’t have to run off so quick birdy” he chuckles cruelly

“You would do well not to mock me” you bite back and he simply laughs in your face.

“Maybe you really are sent by the Gods, no other woman in the whole of Kattegat would speak to me this way” he seems to grow serious and take you in.

Fixated on your eyes he stares into them, “They really are beautiful you should not cover them anymore, I command it so”.

“You command it so!” You can’t help exclaim incredulous. Dragged from home and commanded by the bratty son of a king.

“Yes I command it so!” He giggles and watches your perplexed face. You resort back to silence and the pair of you just sit there until he coaxes you to talk of England.

So you do.

You tell him of its fields and wildflowers. How the moon feels different and the sun is sweeter. How the grass will always be greener to you and the songs louder.

And for once he just listens and he knows you were meant for him. Every laugh and lilt makes his heart climb. Without telling you he makes a prayer to the Gods commanding you be by his side every day till death do you part. That you may tell him what you please and speak how no woman ever had to him.

And for the first time you’d found something wholly dissimilar to England and you wouldn’t compare it for all the homesickness in your heart. You could not have found Ivar in England. You would never have found the appreciation of your beauty there.

With the intermission of his laugh at your tales, you thank his Gods and yours for kissing your eyes.

———

Lagertha and Ragnar watch your silhouettes from the mouth of the great hall. They needn’t speak the thoughts they share but they know the nights they’d spent together talking till the sun kissed the fjord had seemingly come to life in front of them.

[velvetvowsandvikingdreams]

˗ˏˋ༻ʚ♡︎ɞ༺ˎˊ˗Only for Me˗ˏˋ༻ʚ♡︎ɞ༺ˎˊ˗

Summary: Ivar returns from a successful raid bearing many gifts for you...

Warnings: implied!smut, possessive!Ivar, nudity, mature themes, sensuality, fluff, established relationship, Ivar just spoiling you

Pairing: Ivar x reader

Words: 1,3 k (short & sweet) 🫶🏼

You were alone in your chamber, the low fire casting golden shadows on the walls, lost in your thoughts, when the sound of the door creaking open made you turn.

And there he was.

Ivar.

For a moment, you simply stared—your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t even known he’d returned from his raid, but now, standing there in the doorway, wind-tousled and grinning mischievously, he looked like everything you’d been missing.

A cry of joy escaped your lips as you turned and rushed toward him, arms flinging around his shoulders.

“My love…” he murmured against your hair, breath warm at your temple. His crutch wobbled as your sudden embrace nearly knocked him off balance.

“Careful, love,” he chuckled, catching himself with a grunt, but his arm circled your waist anyway, dragging you close. He had missed this. Your body—your scent.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered against the side of his neck, your fingers grasping in the leather of his tunic, unwilling to let go.

His chest rumbled with a soft laugh. “Have you, now?” he said, tilting his head just slightly so his lips brushed your cheek.

You leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes narrowed as you playfully nudged his shoulder. “Don’t get smug. It was peaceful without your loud mouth for a while.”

He gave you a mock wounded look. “And here I come bearing gifts, expecting a warm welcome—and this is how I’m treated?”

Your eyes widened, curiosity immediately betraying you. “Gifts?”

He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “But now I’m thinking I should give them to someone who actually likes me.”

You gasped, feigning offense. “I love you, you brute. That should be enough.”

“It’s not,” he said, lips twitching with amusement. “I require groveling. And maybe a kiss.”

“Just one?” you teased, rising onto your toes, lips already brushing his.

“Well,” he murmured, voice low, “we’ll start with one.”

“Shut up and come here.” You teased rolling your eyes before kissing him softly.

Ivar made his way to the edge of the bed, easing down with a soft grunt, his crutch resting between his legs as he leaned back on his palms, eyes never leaving you.

“You're staring,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you turned toward him.

“Can you blame me?” he drawled, smirking. “I go away for weeks, and somehow you manage to look even more beautiful. Is this witchcraft?”

Before you could answer, a soft knock came at the door, and a young skald slipped inside, arms full. Then another followed. And another. They carried bundles of fabric, silk, leather, furs—an explosion of color and texture.

Your jaw dropped as they kept piling everything onto a nearby chest and the foot of the bed. When the last skald bowed awkwardly and left, closing the door behind him, you turned slowly, blinking at the sheer amount of it all.

“Ivar…” you said, almost breathless. “What is this?”

He shrugged with mock innocence. “Spoils of war. A few markets. Some terrified merchants.”

“There must be atleast twenty dresses here!” you exclaimed, lifting one deep green velvet gown, the embroidery catching the firelight.

He leaned forward slightly, a hungry glint in his eye. “I thought you could try them on for me. All of them.”

You gave him a look. “All of them? You expect me to be your personal dress doll?”

“I expect you to look stunning in every single one,” he said, voice low and teasing. “And I expect to sit right here and enjoy the view, my pretty doll.”

“You are ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head as you picked up a blood-red dress and held it against yourself. “You want me to play dress-up while you just sit there like a king?”

“I am a king,” he said smugly, leaning back again. “And my queen deserves to be spoiled. Now, go on. That red one is calling your name.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but your smile gave you away. “You just want me to undress twenty times in front of you.”

He gave you a slow grin, eyes darkening. “That too.”

You laughed, tossing the red dress at his face. “Turn around. I need to undress.”

“No, I want to watch,” he said through the fabric, not even moving.

“You're impossible.”

“I missed you.”

And there it was again—soft and real beneath the mischief. Your heart squeezed as you met his eyes. Then, with a wink, you grabbed the nearest gown.

“Well then, my king… enjoy the show.”

You turned your back to him, your fingers toying with the ties at the front of your dress.

Ivar fell utterly silent behind you.

Slowly, purposefully, you slipped the straps from your shoulders, letting the fabric slither down your body like water. It pooled at your feet, and you stepped out of it gracefully, standing in nothing but in nudeness—your hands crossing over your chest, coyly covering yourself.

You didn’t have to see him to know he was watching.

The crackle of the fire filled the silence between you, but it didn’t last long.

“By the gods,” Ivar whispered, his voice low and reverent, laced with hunger, “Freya herself would’ve wept if she saw you like this.”

You turned your head slightly over your shoulder, catching his gaze. His eyes were dark, devouring every inch of you.

“You’ve missed this?” you asked softly, teasing.

“I’ve missed the curve of your back, the slope of your hips, the way the light wraps around your skin like it’s worshiping you,” he murmured. “I have faced storms and blood and fire, but nothing—nothing—made me ache the way being away from you did.”

You felt your heart flutter at his words, even as your lips curved playfully. “You’re getting poetic, my love.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his crutch, looking at you like a man starved. “Poets are fools. I am simply a man with eyes. And a wife who tortures me with that slow, wicked way she undresses.”

You laughed, finally turning to face him—still shielding your chest with your arms. “So what now, my king? You just watch while I model for you like some Viking nobleman’s pet?”

“Oh, no,” he smirked, eyes raking down your figure. “You’re no pet. You’re a goddess. And I plan to worship you—one dress at a time.”

You rolled your eyes fondly as Ivar held up another dress, this one a deep blue with silver thread glinting along the hem. He looked ridiculously proud of himself.

“I swear, you raided half the known world for fabric,” you muttered, tossing aside a fur-lined cloak to dig through the growing pile.

He didn’t deny it.

“There’s one more,” he said suddenly, voice shifting—deeper, rougher. “A special one.”

You paused, glancing over your shoulder. “Special how?”

He didn’t answer—just leaned back, arms crossed, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face.

Curious, you turned back to the chest and dug further beneath the silk, the fine linens, the brocade. Your hand brushed something different—lighter, smoother. You pulled it out slowly, and your brows lifted.

It shimmered in the firelight. The fabric was unlike the others—thin and sheer, a woven gauze of fine-spun flax, likely beaten and softened until it flowed like mist. It wasn’t dyed, but it caught the light with a ghostly glow, like moonlight trapped in cloth. It must’ve come from far in the East, perhaps from some Frankish trader—or stolen from the chest of a nobleman’s bride.

You held it up, and the light bled right through it.

“Ivar,” you breathed, glancing back at him.

His gaze was already on you, dark and burning. “That one,” he said softly, “is not for feasts. Not for festivals. Not for courts or halls.”

You swallowed, heart thudding.

“That one is only for me,” he continued, his voice rough like gravel and smoke. “To be worn in this room. In this firelight. When the gods are asleep and it’s only you and I.”

Your fingers tightened around the delicate cloth. “It’s barely even a dress.”

“It’s enough,” he said, his eyes trailing down your still-bare form. “Enough to drive me mad.”

You looked at it again, then met his eyes, challenging. “And what do I get, if I wear it for you?”

He leaned forward, that half-smile curling his lips—the kind he only wore when he was plotting something. “The devotion of a god. And the ruin of a man.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Poets are fools, you said.”

“And I am the greatest fool of them all,” he replied, voice soft now. “For you.”

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.

Taglist (If you want to get added write/comment) 🎀

@tessakate @ivarlover @deathsthighs

[kallichorescript]

• ivar who looks at you like this when you choose him over his brothers.

• ivar who’s so hopelessly in love with you he simply doesn’t know how to handle it

• ivar who gets cuteness aggression when you play with his hair and it ends up with you both in absolute disarray in the bedsheets

•ivar who just loves you so much and would do anything you ask

• ivar who touches you in public, his chest swelling ever so slightly when someone compliments you

• ivar who’s incredibly possessive and has deep insecurities when you are chatting with another man, practically biting through his tongue as he watches silently and then making a big scene, “wife!” he would shout over and turn your attention to him, always needing you to be by his side

• ivar who appreciates your care, who is bashful when you both bathe together and who gets stiff and shy when you massage his muscles and slowly talks to you about not being enough, about how he feels inadequate as a man and unworthy of your love while you just quietly shush him and assure him that he is more than enough

• ivar who cant go mere hours without seeing you, who becomes secretly taut with fear when he has to ease his violent tendencies, his mind always thinking of his pretty wife on sleepless nights

• ivar the boneless, the fearless, violent man who just is putty for his little wife and wishes for nothing more than to be by your side forever and spend eternity with you in valhalla

[entitled-fangirl]

A ring and a cold heart.

Ivar the Boneless x Lagerthasdottir!reader

Summary: Lagertha's gift of a daughter and Ragnar's monster of a son have loved one another for far too long. But things in Kattegat are fragile, and the two now must make choices.

Warnings: mostly spoilers for S4b

A/n: I had to break this into sections. Trust that p2 is gonna get serious real fast.

Masterlist

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

The Seer had been right.

Lagertha would never give Ragnar a son, never bearing one after her Bjorn. But when Earl Kalf came into her life, she suddenly found herself with child.

There was little hope that the child would make it. After all, the Seer said so.

But a daughter?

Lagertha's second chance to make up for the death of her sweet Gyda. She held the babe close.

And yet.

No one predicted that she'd one day end up in the arms of Ivar the Boneless.

…

"It seems like a death sentence," she explained to Ivar. "Suicide, even."

"My father wants me to go," Ivar shrugged. "He needs me. I can't say no to that. To the gods."

She sighed. He was beyond stubborn. A true Ragnarsson trait.

She often traveled between Hedeby and Kattegat, staying with Bjorn when here. It was a strange thing to have her around, but Bjorn was the Prince of Kattegat, so others didn't have much room to question.

Plus, the Ragnarssons didn't mind a bit.

She was neither the daughter of Ragnar or Aslaug, but because of her connection to Bjorn, she was a sister to all five of them.

Well, four of them.

Ivar's love had always gone beyond that. As did hers for him.

"What if you go with Bjorn instead?" She tried. Her hand stretched out over his. "To the Mediterranean."

His head lulled. "My brothers have always doubted me. Not my father. He knows what the gods have in store for me."

"And what if all that is store is your death?"

He ran his tongue across his teeth. "Then I will die."

"Marry me before you go," she rushed out, immediately caving in once it was uttered.

"I will not risk making you a widow before you get to truly be a wife."

She felt tears well up in her eyes. She was never the strong one around. Lagertha swore to have a peaceful reign when she became Earl. There was no need to teach her daughter the hardships of being a shield maiden. She had no need to- Lagertha on one side and Bjorn on the other always. Gyda was so soft. So kind. Y/n was no different, only older. She had a chance to grow up kind.

"Don't cry," Ivar huffed. He had no idea what to do with tears. "I'll be back soon enough."

"Swear to it."

He shook his head. "I will not swear if I don't know the will of the gods."

"Then swear you'll marry me if you return."

He couldn't stop another scoff, "woman-"

"-Ivar, please."

"Ivar!" Aslaug's voice interrupted.

The queen stepped into the room, her worry turning to amusement at the sight of the two. She'd always had an odd relationship with Lagertha. How strange was fate to bring their children together? 

"Let me speak to my mother," Ivar gently waved.

Y/n nodded and stood, but her wrist was caught by him. "I swear to it," he remarked, looking her firmly in the eye.

…

Lagertha had come to Kattegat with the help of Torvi and Margerette. She hadn't dragged Y/n into the plans.

So when she took Kattegat, Y/n stood at the sidelines in shock, even letting out a shriek when Aslaug fell to the ground dead.

She wanted to feel betrayed by her mother. She should have. But she couldn't find it in herself. Lagertha had sat on the sidelines for too long as her world was taken away.

So she was torn when Ubbe and Sigurd had come to her privately.

"How are you not angry," Ubbe lectured his brother. "Our mother is dead."

"And it is for the best," Sigurd huffed. "Y/n's mother is the only one around here that knows how to truly mother. Look at Bjorn."

"Y/n?" Ubbe questioned.

She sat with her head in her hands, utterly confused by it all. "I won't choose sides."

"We all know it will come to it eventually."

She lifted her head with a heartbroken look. "Then I side with Bjorn. The side he chooses, I follow."

Ubbe nodded. "Very well. So, we wait for Bjorn."

"No," Sigurd shivered. "We wait for Ivar more."

The three exchanged nervous glances.

…

Ivar had returned first. Carried by soldiers of King Ecbert's guard, he was set onto the wooden dock of Kattegat.

She couldn't muster the strength to go welcome him. He wouldn't find out such devastating news from her.

But the next day, Ivar crawled his way into the feast hall with his picks. The entire room quieted as they waited for what the angry son of Aslaug would say.

His eyes slowly trailed from Lagertha, to Torvi, to Astrid, then finally, Y/n.

She stood to the side, a completely guilty expression strung across her face.

No one was immune to noticing the way his eyes glued themselves to her in every room.

It had been like that since her first visit to Kattegat.

It's what finally drove the stake between Sigurd and Ivar. The love Bjorn had for Y/n that he never had for his own daughter, Siggy. And how Sigurd had loved little Siggy.

Y/n's life was always a comparison to one's already dead. All did it but Ivar. Perhaps that is why she was so content to be stuck in his web.

When Largertha refused Ivar's challenge, he was becoming angrier. He knew his easiest chance to kill her was by hand-to-hand combat. Ivar was a cripple, but a damn good one.

"I will kill you, Lagertha. Your fate is fixed," he growled.

Content with his threat, he looked back to Y/n, pulling a chain from around his neck.

A ring.

She felt something in her stomach twist at the shimmer that crossed her vision. His fingers rubbed over it a few times, egging for a reaction from the girl he promised to marry.

He let the chain drop to his chest with a smirk. Especially when her eyes followed it.

…

As soon as the meeting was adjourned, she rushed out to Ragnar's old cabin. The children had found it when he'd left, and it was their designated space away from the rest of the world. Plus, that was all the boys had to live in now. Ivar would be there.

She rushed in, not caring that the other brothers were gathered around. "Ivar?"

The three others looked at one another with questioning glances before completely packing up and walking out. The brothers weren't about to intervene.

The door closed before Ivar finally spoke. "What do you want?"

"Are you not grateful to be home? To be back? To be the only survivor?" She sat next to him, her voice lowering. "Are you not happy to see me?"

He scoffed, turning away.

"I didn't know, Ivar. I swear to you."

"Seems like we enjoy making swears we don't intend to keep, hm?" He mocked. 

Her eyes moved down to the chain again. She sat up straighter and brushed a hand over his chest. Over the ring. "You truly won't marry me now?" She asked softly.

His hand wrapped around her wrist gruffly. But after the initial touch, his grip softened. His jaw was clenched, his anger unchecked. But he couldn't help the flutter that still moved through his chest. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't know if I want children with traitor blood."

Her fingers twiddled with the ring. "You know better than I that we don't choose our mothers. The gods do."

"And yet, you'll never help me get my revenge."

"No," she agreed. "I won't."

His eyes wandered over her face. The anger bubbled under his skin. But not at her. And that frustrated him more. "I'll still marry you. But you cannot fault your future husband when he has his revenge."

"But Bjorn will-"

"-That is my offer to you, my love. If you want this ring," he offered, pulling the chain from around his neck and setting it on the wooden table, "Then that is your choice. I have taken my stand. You know what I will do. Will you still marry me?"

She stared down at the jewelry. She'd longed for this for years now. Being his wife.

This could make or break everything.

"I… I don't know," she admitted back to him.

"You don't know?"

"I should wait. For Bjorn to come back. And Hvitserk."

He set a heavy hand on her thigh. Not menacing, but not softly either. "Will you ever choose things for yourself? Or will you wait on Bjorn hand and foot as he decides your fate?"

"Ivar-"

"-No. I do not mind if you must think on it more. But do not do what Bjorn says purely because you think it is right. He makes mistakes." His head tipped down and his gaze turned menacing. "You will choose."

She nodded. "I need time."

"Good," his voice lightened. He even managed a smile. His body leaned forward like he was thinking of kissing her, but he paused and gave a quick nod of his head in acceptance. Then he looked at the ring and her one last time before pulling himself down to the floor and leaving.

She exhaled a long breath, taking the chain and placing it around her neck, tucking it away.

…

Another feast, another problem.

Y/n wasn't far off from Torvi and Astrid, hearing them speak about something being wrong as the large doors closed.

"Like what?" Astrid asked.

"I don't know, but something."

Sigurd let out a small grunt as someone grabbed him from behind and held him at knifepoint. That began a whole group coming forward and grabbing at Lagertha's shield maidens and earls alike, restraining them all.

A hand grabbed Y/n's wrist, holding it out.

Ivar's ring was wrapped around her finger. She'd chosen.

Whoever it was dropped her hand entirely and stepped away from her, meaning she stood amidst the chaos, entirely left alone.

Everyone began to part, and Y/n tucked away towards Sigurd. Her hand grabbed the wrist of the man holding him in an attempt to pry him away.

Ivar and Ubbe approached Lagertha's throne. Lagertha was rather unfazed by it, standing and grabbing her sword slowly. She was a fighter to the end.

Ivar was impressed by her willingness to face him. He sat up with his spike as Ubbe circled around the queen.

The tension could be cut with a knife. Waiting for someone to make the first move.

The door burst open, and in walks Bjorn.

"If you kill her, my brothers," he sauntered, "you'll have to kill me too."

Y/n and Sigurd both let out relieved sighs. The argument was far from over. But with Bjorn there, the fight would not be one-sided.

"Maybe we should," Ivar warned.

"Shut up," Ubbe immediately countered. He respected Bjorn immensely, and starting conflict with Ironside was like starting to dig your own grave. "She killed our mother," he mentioned. Bjorn would see where he was coming from. Surely.

"I know. You want revenge. So would I." He took in a deep breath. "But more importantly, we have to avenge our father. That is why I came back. And that," he tapped his axe against Ivar's cheek, "is what we are going to do."

Lagertha smiled and threw down her sword, prompting the rest to follow.

As Sigurd was let go, Y/n immediately tended to him, rubbing a soft hand over his neck at the irritated skin. 

Frustrated, Ubbe and Ivar left.

She was torn between following them and staying with Bjorn and Lagertha.

But after speaking to the new queen, Bjorn spotted her. That made the decision. She approached him, smoothing out her dress as she weaved through everyone.

Within a few minutes, the feast began again like nothing had happened, but Bjorn was still far from jovial.

She wasn't even sure the viking knew what that word meant.

"So, I travel all the way past Frankia, through pirated seas and storms, I keelhaul my own uncle, and still," he grumbles, "things turn to ruin here the moment I turn away."

"You hated Aslaug," Y/n points out. "You always have."

"Since I watched her sleep with my father the first time they met, yes. Yes, I have," he complained. "But our mother has caused a rift that I'd rather not have now. I have revenge of my own to get and I need my brothers in order to do it."

"You have your brothers," she pointed out. "Of Ragnar's wrongful death, you all agree."

"I will not play guard to mother's kingdom more than I did before. I want to sail. To travel."

"Then don't."

He let out a long sigh. "This is why I love the sea. It is predictable. People are not. Like you," he pointed his cup towards her.

"Like me?"

"You wear a ring and you say nothing about it. You have not asked for my allowance. Let me see it." He held out a large hand, to which she slipped the band off and gave to him. 

Bjorn flipped it in his palm a few times before a daunting thought came over him. "Where did you get this?" He questioned roughly. "Who is proposing with this ring? I'll kill him."

"Brother," she scoffed. "Why the sudden rage?"

"Does mother know?" He asked in complete ignorance of her previous question.

"No. No, and she won't. Not right now."

"I'll ask one more time," Bjorn growled, leaning across the table. "Who is proposing with Mother's ring?"

Oh.

Where had Ivar gotten Lagertha's ring? 

"Our mother wore this ring until the day she and I left Ragnar. Her wedding band. Now answer the question, sister."

"Give it back, Bjorn." She tried to muster up confidence. It didn't quite work.

Bjorn's lips quirked up at that, all too amused. "I don't think I will. I think I'll hold onto this until you decide to ask for my blessing."

"That is cruel!"

He shrugged. "I don't care. Either you tell me now or he can come get it from me himself."

She let out a tantrum-like grunt and stood up, her chair scrapping against the wood. She weaved through the crowd and finally out into the cold air.

…

The journey was a little harder in the dark than she'd thought. The air was cold and frigid, and she was far from dressed for it. The wind chilled her immensely, traveling down her bones. Her chattering teeth exhaled a visible breath when she saw the cabin.

"Ivar? Ivar!" She called out as she neared.

Hvitserk was the one to come out with a concerned brow raised. 

Y/n felt guilty, still not welcoming Hvitserk after the raid. She all but collapsed into his chest, wrapping her arms around him and finally relaxing.

Hvitserk froze for a moment. Touch was never his thing. "You miss me?"

"Like hell," she mumbled against his chest.

He chuckled and circled his arm around her. "Already using Christian phrases, hm? Don't let Ivar hear you. Congratulations, by the way."

It was her turn to freeze, her head tilting up until she looked straight up at him. "What?"

"You're to be married, are you not? He said so." At her hum of agreement, he rubbed a hand down her back. "You're freezing, sister. You'll catch a chill if I don't get you inside."

He guided her in. The warm air from their small fire immediately caused a shiver down her body. Hvitserk frowned and held a hand to her forehead. "Gods. I'd think you were half dead like this."

That caught Ivar's attention. His head snapped up, his entire body relaxing at the sight of her. "Did you travel this far like that?" He questioned, his hand motioning to her lack of heavy clothing.

She stepped to the fire, sitting down next to Ubbe. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, trying to transfer some of his heat. After all, he'd been scheming over the flames for a while now. He could afford to give some of the warmth up. 

Ubbe gave a small glare to Ivar, effectively telling him to drop the question. "Let me see this ring Ivar said so much about."

Her face dropped. "Oh. I… it's…"

One by one, the siblings realized that something was not quite right and Ubbe should have minded his own business. In all honesty, it was a fair ask. One that usually is fine to ask to an engaged woman. 

Ivar let out a long, loud breath. He seethed from his place at the table. "Where is it? I was told it was on your finger only hours ago."

How to explain that Bjorn had taken it without Ivar immediately growing angry? After all, Ironside didn't know that it was Ivar's. It wasn't personal at all. But that's not how Ivar saw things.

"Where is it?" He asked in a firmer tone. His head tilted. His tongue ran over the back of his teeth. "Did someone take it from you?"

"Don't be angry-"

"-No I AM ANGRY!" He yelled. "Tell me yes or no. Have you gone back on your word?"

"Ivar," Ubbe scorned. "Let the woman speak." He pulled a piece of hair from her face. "Go on."

She sniffled and moved closer to the fire to warm her hands. She stared at her ring finger longingly. "I do, Ivar. I want to marry you."

Hvitserk smirked widely, peering at his brother in a tease. His brother. In love. 

Ivar exhaled in a hidden form of relief. "Alright."

"I did not tell Bjorn about it yet. I wanted to wait…"

"-But?" Ubbe interrupted.

"But Bjorn saw it before I could." She frowned. "Where did you get Lagertha's ring?"

Every head shot to Ivar in shock.

He shrugged. "Father gave it to me. On our way to Wessex. I told him that we would marry when I returned and he gave me the ring. Chain and all. He said he'd worn it around his neck since the day your mother left him."

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

[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.

[avalilsbfss]

‘Little princess’ ivar the boneless short

Domestic Ivar the boneless x wife!reader

Warnings: none.

Description: ivars “little princess’ wants to train so you help her out

you and ivar had 3 children together now. Uhtred age 10 and the twins Finan and Iselut age 7, and another one on to be born very soon. (or so the healers say.)

You were beginning to think that ivar was going to get you with child as many times as possible, just to prove he could.

Ivar took up training the boys, they were natural fighters already, they were skilled in there own ways just like him, but they just needed some tutoring to rein in there stubbornness and there egos that caused them to think they were better than each other.

every time they would train, iseult would sit close by, aimlessly picking at the threads and the seams of her dress or trying to build the confidence to ask to join. She didn’t know why she was frightened. She was her father ‘little princess’ who could do wrong, any harm done to her ivar would chuck the culprits into the water and hold their heads down until the bubbles stoped and then offer there corpse to the gods.

But in truth she was scared her brothers were going to embarrass her or she was going to embarrass herself infront of them.

you were a shield maiden for most of your life before you married ivar and you were a darn good fighter as well, you only stoped fighting when you got pregnant and ivar wanted to keep you safe. And iseult looked up to you.

you watched the boys train occasionally when you were bored of being confined to your chambers and you tried not to snicker as the boys fell sometimes, then your eye caught iseult, she was always sitting on on top of a barrel in the yard anxiously picking at the seams of her dress as she kept looking over to ivar and her brothers.

it broke your heart at her being nervous to ask to join, she was a good girl, shy, sweet but she had a temper like ivar and the rest of her family. she was just nervous and you wished ivar would notice that.

One day you had enough and walked over to her. “You know. If you want to join just ask them” you told her, making her jump.

“I-I can’t ask them, uhtred said I’m to small and won’t even be able to hold anything.” she pouted softly and glanced over to the pile of weapons in the yard.

“Uhtred also thinks he will grow up to marry a Valkyrie” you said matter of factly and iseult giggled. “Besides who said anything about a heavy weapon?” You asked her and she looked at you confused

You looked around and found a small bow and arrow on the table, you picked it up and gestured her to jump down.

She hopped down and you handed her the bow and slotted in the arrow for her. “Ok keep your hand here…and draw back to your cheek” you instructed and she did as you said.

You helped her position and aimed it at the barrel that was in the direction off ivar and the boys. “Ok…when You’re ready ok” you told her and she nodded nervously before letting go.

The arrow file past the ivar and the boys. Almost catching finan on the cheek as it hit the barrel.

And all the 3 boys turned to look at her and ivar let out a suprised laugh

Masterlist

[mads-weasley]

Next Time

Hvitserk Ragnarsson x Reader

Masterlist

Summary: After being pushed by Ivar and the rest of his brothers, Hvitserk finally speaks to the girl he'd been admiring for months, but an unwelcome interruption breaks the conversation before he can get more than her name.

Word Count: 1.1k

The great hall was alive with chatter, but Hvitserk didn't may it any mind. His attention was stuck across the room...on her.

"You are staring again, brother," Ubbe commented gruffly, sipping his ale.

Hvitserk grinned, his eyes not leaving her figure. "She's beautiful, isn't she, Ubbe?"

With a grunt, Ubbe returned to his meal and ignored his younger brother. A few minutes later, Ivar and Sigurd joined them, and all it took was an annoyed glance from Ubbe to cue them in on the situation.

"I don't know about you, Hvitserk," Ivar said, following his gaze to the girl. "But I think I will go talk to her."

Hvitserk finally tore his eyes from her, his lip twitching as he glared at his brother. "You will not, Ivar."

"And who will stop me?" he shrugged. "If you do not wish to speak to her, why can't I?"

Sigurd chuckled at Hvitserk's pouting expression but quickly hid it behind his cup of ale when his older brother's scowl turned to him. He knew they were right, of course, but it was easier to stare from a distance and admire...he didn't even know her name.

He was going to learn it tonight, he told himself as he rose from the table with a grunt. Downing the rest of his almost full cup, Hvitserk wiped his mouth and set off across the room.

Noticing the commotion from her throne, Auslaug watched Hvitserk cross the hall before shooting her oldest son a raised brow. Ubbe did nothing but chuckle and shrug back at his mother. If he was being honest, he was just happy Hvitserk was doing something about his crush. It had been months since the girl first arrived in Kattegat. He'd grown tired of Hvitserk's longing expressions and endless comments about the poor girl he was clearly infatuated with. They ribbed him endlessly about talking to her, but he remained in his seat each time, choosing to look instead of speak.

Hvitserk wove through the crowded hall with more confidence than he felt, the warm buzz of ale bolstering his courage. He thanked the gods he wasn't doing this sober because he probably would still be sitting beside Ubbe, watching her from afar. He ignored the knowing glances from his brothers at the table, especially Ivar, who wore a smirk as wide as the fjord before Kattegat.

Her back was to him, her (y/h/c) hair falling over her shoulders as she laughed at something one of the women beside her had said. Hvitserk couldn’t help but smile to himself, feeling his nerves flicker in anticipation.

When Hvitserk reached the empty seat beside her, he hesitated briefly before pulling it out and plopping down in it with forced casualness.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, though it was clear he’d already decided to stay.

She glanced at him, her (y/e/c) eyes flickering with curiosity. “It would seem you’ve already made the decision, Hvitserk.”

Her voice was steady but amused, and the way she said his name...like it wasn’t the first time she’d noticed him...sent a spark of surprise through his chest. Hvitserk leaned back in his chair and quickly glanced over his shoulder at his brothers, trying to mask his excitement with a grin.

“Well, I thought it was about time we spoke,” he said, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. “You’ve been in Kattegat for a while now, yet we haven’t been properly introduced.”

She raised a brow, clearly skeptical. “And whose fault is that?”

Hvitserk chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his neck. "Fair enough. I guess I could've come over sooner, but...better late than never, yes?"

“You have an interesting way of making first impressions, Ragnarsson,” she replied with a playful glint in her eye. “But I’ll allow it. I’m (y/n).”

Hvitserk’s grin widened. “(Y/n),” he repeated, testing her name out, savoring the way it rolled off his tongue. “It suits you.”

“And what exactly have I done to capture the attention of one of the great Ragnar Lothbrok’s sons?” she asked, her head tilted slightly as she studied him.

"You haven't done anything," he said, leaning closer, his grin growing into a cocky smirk. "It's hard to ignore someone who could make even the gods stop and stare."

Heat rushed to (y/n)'s face, and she laughed softly, looking away from his gaze. She knew he was handsome from a distance, but up close...with those eyes and that smirk...she felt herself melting.

She opened her mouth to speak, but a loud voice from behind her beat her to it prompting her name. "Do not let him fool you..."

(Y/n) turned around in her chair to look at the man, but her eyes fell to the ground...or rather who crawled on the ground. "(Y/n)."

Hvitserk groaned audibly, though he didn't look at his brother. "Not now, Ivar."

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Ivar said, smirking as he shakily used Hvitserk's chair to push himself to his feet. He looked between the two of them with a mischievous grin. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s been staring at you like a lost pup for months.”

Leave it to Ivar to ruin a perfectly good conversation. Hvitserk could've strangled him right there.

“Ivar!” Hvitserk snapped, his face flushing as laughter erupted from the nearby tables.

(Y/n) forced herself to regain composure, tilting her head once again as she met his gaze. Her voice came out teasing, though the nervousness beneath was evident. “Is that true, Hvitserk?”

He sighed, leaning his elbows on the table. “I suppose I have been...admiring you. From a distance,” he admitted sheepishly, shooting a pointed glare at Ivar.

“Well, next time, don’t wait so long to speak to me,” she replied with a smile, unable to hide a hint of affection now.

Hvitserk blinked for a moment, stunned. “Next time?”

She didn't answer and instead rose to her feet, leaving him sitting there as she walked toward the doors. Before disappearing into the cold night, she sent him one last smile.

Ivar's laughter followed her departure, his grin as sharp as ever "You're hopeless, poor Hvitserk."

Hvitserk watched her go, a slow grin spreading across his face despite himself. “Maybe. But at least she wants there to be a next time.”

"She will see she made a mistake, brother...once she gets to know you."

His eyes cut over to Ivar, who stared back with raised brows. In one movement, Hvitserk slid his chair back and stood, making Ivar lose balance and flop onto the hard floor with a loud thud.

"Oh no," Hvitserk tutted, staring at his wheezing form with a smirk. he didn't even try to hide it. "You must be careful, little brother."

A/N: message or comment if you want to be added to the tag list! <3

[1-800-choke-me]

Hvitserk: I sleep with an axe under my pillow

Ubbe: I sleep with a knife under mine

Y/N: you're both pathetic

Hvitserk: oh yeah, than what do you sleep with?

Y/N: Ivar

[imaginethatneathuhpartdos]

Shit...

I mean, I knew where it was going, but, damn...

Still hit like a truck.

Good job, man.

Ghost - Modern!Ivar

A/N: This is for @tephi101‘s 800 follower writing challenge. I’m so sorry this was late and hopefully it turned out okay. I’ve been wrestling with this idea since I signed up for your challenge and I was gonna scrap it but I just couldn’t let go lol. So here it is!

Ghost - Modern!Ivar x reader

It was an odd thing to think but ghosts had played an unusual part in your relationship with Ivar. In your small apartment three stories up from the ground you laid in bed thinking about the young man that had taken up too much of your time for the last four years. If you could have done it over again, rewound time to the exact moment you meant and decided not to be outgoing you never would. Regardless of everything that had happened in the past four years you would never change any of the memories you had or trade them or something else.  

Keep reading

[witchezandwonderz]

Slow Justice

Pairing: Ivar x Reader Word Count: 5.3K Request: Hi can I request from ur prompt list pls can i have number 11 with Ivar Prompt Quote: "He begged me not to kill him. So I did it slow." A hurt Saxon lady finds unexpected affections with Ivar after her brother betrays her. Master List Prompt List (Requests are open) Tagged list: (If you want to be added or removed, please let me know.) @leftoverp1zza @somebody6468 @cheesesandwichsanto @diorpar @tessakate @miksmom-blog @whitedarkmoonflower @imagines-halfpai @thenameswinter99 @oddsnendsfanfics

"You’re not what I expected."

His voice slid through the shadows behind me, low and dangerous. I didn’t turn. I let the silence stretch. A part of me thought that perhaps if I pretended as though he wasn't there, he would magically go away.

Harsh reality kicked in though, and before I knew it, he had grabbed both of my shoulders and turned me around.

"Disappointed?" I asked, keeping my voice steady, even bored. As if I hadn’t been counting his steps since he entered. As if my heart wasn’t a war drum beneath my ribs. As if I hadn't had the worst two weeks of my life.

"No." The smirk on his face grew more prominent. The glare within my eyes also grew more prominent. There was a silence, and then I heard the slow, deliberate rhythm of his crutch tapping against the stone floor. "I was hoping you'd break. That would've been easier."

"For who?"

He laughed then. Not a proper laugh, though- more of a bark. He had a glimmer in his eyes. He looked like a god carved from ice and rage. Beautiful, but unfortunately an asshole. Assholes are easy to identify- from my experience, anyway.

"If you're waiting for me to cry, Viking," I said, lifting my chin, "you’ll grow old before I give you that pleasure."

He stepped closer, the iron wolf’s head at the base of his crutch clicking with each movement. Measured. Predatory.

"Good," he murmured. "I hate begging. It spoils the kill."

I let out a breath of laughter, not due to amusement, but due to disbelief. His eyes widened at my unexpected reaction.

"To be honest with you, this time a month ago I was sat in my chambers, warm and cosy with a full belly," I stepped closer towards him, his eyes stayed glued to me, "then, suddenly, I find out that my own brother has sold me. Not just to a random Saxon man, no, but to a Viking. So now I am here, in your awful country with your awful people." My voice became raised, for I could not fathom the anger that was building within me.

Ivar continued looking me up and down, his eyes tracing my entire body as if to memorise it. After a pause, one that was filled with the sounds of my heavy breathing, he laughed again. Not a bark this time, but a genuine laugh.

"You are hungry?"

My mouth parted, and my brows furrowed.

"After everything I have just said to you, that is the part that you find most concerning?"

He nodded, and I concluded that this was a very strange man.

I threw both my hands in the air out of frustration, and then admitted defeat by sitting on the cold floor beneath me. Then I looked up at him,

"Yes."

He stared at me, confused, so I continued,

"Yes, I am hungry." I brought my knees up to my chest, and folded my arms around them. He laughed once more, nodded and then hobbled away.

After two days of complete silence, he started bringing me food. Not personally, of course- that would imply warmth, or care, or something dangerously close to softness. No, he gave the order, and his men brought. Always the same thing: thick black bread, salted fish, and once- just once- a sweet apple. I don’t know if it was intentional. I didn’t ask. I ate it anyway. It was worth it.

He doesn’t talk much when we’re alone. I think that’s why I find his presence bearable. He watches me more than he speaks. Like he’s trying to read a language he doesn’t know, but is too proud to admit it.

There was one night- Quite a while ago now- when he asked about my father. Just that. "Your father?" No context, no follow-up. I told him he died when I was twelve. Then I told him how. Then I told him my brother stood by and did nothing.

He listened. No interruptions. No mocking smirk.

"He is weak." He said after he had pondered for a moment or two. I feel as though this may have been the first thing he had said to me thus far that I agreed with.

That was the end of the conversation. He left me alone with the fire and a skin of mead, and I sat there trying to decide whether or not I hated him a little bit less.

I still haven’t decided.

The strangest part is that I don’t think he wants me to fear him anymore. Not like before. He knows I’m already angry. Already broken in some places. Maybe that makes me more useful. Maybe that makes me… entertaining.

Sometimes I wonder if he sees a reflection of himself when he looks at me.

Sometimes I worry that I do too.

Regardless, I am not dead. Yet.

I had a strange encounter with him a few nights ago; I was asleep, strangely so. It was perhaps the first somewhat decent night's sleep I have had since arriving here. My eyes fluttered open, and there Ivar was, right in front of me. Staring.

He told me, "I have been trying to wake you."

I was confused, he cannot have been trying to wake me, and I am certain of it; I have mastered the art of sleeping with one eye open, and in turn sleeping very, very lightly. Despite knowing this, I did not argue with him. Only a fool would have done that. I don't know why he was there, but regardless, he was.

"Why?" I asked him, followed closely by a yawn and a stretch.

There was a pause, and I stared at him expectantly. He nodded towards the bed, insinuating that he wanted to sit down. I nodded in agreement, and moved over slightly.

"You did not seem shocked when you got here."

I looked at him blankly, having no idea what he was speaking of. He understood my confusion and continued,

"You were told that this was an arrangement for peace, yet, it is not." He paused, turning his head to look at me once again.

"I was expecting a dramatic reaction when you got here, but it is like you already knew what was going on."

I looked at him, "I think this is the longest I have heard you speak."

He gritted his teeth, I laughed,

"I am joking, Ivar. You know, a joke? Like, ha ha."

He scratched his head, and I could tell that I had made him slightly uncomfortable- not my intention, but yes, I did enjoy it.

"I am not an idiot, I knew that my snake of a brother would ensure that I am as unhappy as possible."

He thought about this for a moment, and then nodded and hummed to himself- almost as though he was having a conversation with someone inside of his mind. Perhaps himself, or an unknown voice. That happens to me sometimes too.

He gave me a small smile, very small indeed. But a smile all the same, one that made me look at him properly. I looked into his eyes, and for the first time, there was something there. I could not pin point what exactly. A glimmer perhaps. A slight indication that he was human.

We stared at each other for a while, I am aware that this sounds strange- but after all, we are quite strange.

"You are strong." He said, and then patted my leg with his hand. Not a patronising pat, no. It was comforting. His hand lingered, the warmth felt pleasant.

Two mornings after this, I was awoken early and informed that I was needed at 'the training ground'- where on earth was that? I had only seen the inside of the building since being here.

The tunic and trousers he gave me were rough-spun, dyed the dark blue of the warriors here. They were also- very clearly- not meant for me.

The fabric clung to my body, a little too tight across my chest, snug around my hips. I tugged at the hem in irritation, feeling the heat of unwanted attention from the warriors who loitered nearby.

But it was Ivar’s gaze that burned the hottest.

He stood at the edge of the training ground, leaning lazily on his crutch, his blue eyes tracking every movement I made.

I pretended not to notice, but the flush rising to my cheeks betrayed me.

"Your stance is pathetic," he said, breaking the silence. His voice was sharp enough to cut flesh.

I adjusted my grip on the sword he’d tossed me. "Says the man who needs a stick to walk."

For a heartbeat, the entire field seemed to still. His jaw tightened- a visible crack in the ice- but then a laugh escaped him. Low, rough, surprised.

Before I could savor the victory, he moved. Fast.

His crutch hooked the sword from my hand, sending it clattering to the ground. I blinked at the empty space where it had been.

"Dead," he said, stepping closer. Close enough that I could see the faintest smirk playing at his lips.

My breath caught as I realised just how much he was still looking. Not at my face- at the way the borrowed clothes fit too tightly over my body.

I raised my chin defiantly. "If you're trying to intimidate me, you're going to have to do better than staring at my breasts."

His smile sharpened into something wolfish.

"Flatter yourself if it helps you fight," he said, voice low. His eyes dragged over me once more- slow, deliberate- before he turned on his heel and left me standing there, swordless, furious, and far too aware of the way my heart was hammering in my chest.

I did not want to fight. I never wanted to fight. I miss being me.

"Pick up your sword." He barked, now further away. I looked at the sword, and then I looked at him and huffed. I could pick it up. I could do what he wants. Yet, I do not want to.

"I could pick up the sword." I said aloud, "I could slit my own throat with it perhaps."

Ivar's eyes widened at my words, I stared at him blankly.

"Or I could slit my own wrists, it would be better than this living hell." I tried to stop tears from welling in my eyes. Part of me wanted to pick up the sword and end it all. The other part of me wanted to run and never stop.

I leant down slowly, and picked up the sword. Ivar watched me cautiously, his tongue in between his lips as he focused, shuffling closer towards me.

I changed my mind, instead kicking the sword further away. I could feel tears threatening to spill, so I turned on my heel and ran. I ran as fast as I could. Not to escape, no. But to save myself the embarrassment.

He found me later, though I thought I was hidden well. I was crying- really crying, hysterically. With my knees fixed to my chest, and my head buried within them, I sobbed. All of the emotions that had been building up had reached their tipping point.

He appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his blue eyes studying me like I was some strange puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

"What do you want?" I asked without turning around. My voice was sharp, but underneath, I could feel the weariness creeping in.

"I’ve brought your dinner," he said, the slight quirk of his lips suggesting I wasn’t going to like it.

I didn’t even bother to glance at the food. "You’ve brought it, but I’m supposed to eat it, right?" I asked dryly.

He chuckled, but it wasn’t the usual mocking laugh. This one was softer, almost... sympathetic? "You Saxon ladies always had your fine manners, didn’t you?" he said, stepping inside and sitting across from me. "Finer things in life, isn’t that what you’ve always had?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You really are full of yourself, aren’t you?"

He shrugged, unfazed. "Perhaps. But it’s true. You come from a place where you expect the best-beautiful things, soft fabrics, warm beds, sweet wines. A lady of... status. You’d be out of place here."

I crossed my arms tightly over my chest. "And what, you think I’m just going to bow to your rugged, barbaric ways?" I scoffed. "I’m not that easily impressed."

He smiled, but there was a hint of something else in it. "You might surprise yourself," he said softly, leaning forward just slightly. "You’re tougher than you think. You’re not the delicate little flower you pretend to be."

I felt a rush of irritation flood my chest. "I’m not pretending," I shot back, my voice sharp. "I’m just not a warrior, Ivar. I never asked for any of this."

He paused, the usual glint of amusement fading from his eyes as he studied me more carefully. "I know you didn’t ask for it," he said, his voice quieter now. "But that doesn’t change what you are. A Saxon lady with a fire inside you. A lady who’s used to having things her way, but is smart enough to know when she needs to adapt." He leaned back, crossing his arms, but his gaze never left mine. "You’ve got strength. I can see it."

I felt my breath catch. It wasn’t often anyone spoke to me like that-like they actually saw something in me. And for a brief moment, a flicker of doubt gnawed at me.

"Fine," I muttered, looking down at the floor. "I get it. I’ll adapt. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it."

He chuckled again, the sound a little warmer this time. "No one’s asking you to like it. Just to survive it. And trust me, you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for."

I huffed, rolling my eyes. "Flattery doesn’t suit you, Ivar. It’s almost... charming, and I hate that."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Maybe you like it more than you let on." He leaned in, his gaze unwavering as he watched my reaction.

I clenched my jaw, trying to hide the warmth that was spreading across my face. "Don’t flatter yourself. You’re still a barbarian," I said, trying to make my voice as cold as possible, but failing miserably.

"I’m sure you’ll find that barbarian useful," he said with a slight smirk. "You don’t exactly have a choice."

The smirk was a little too charming for my liking, and it made my pulse race in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I quickly turned away to hide the sudden flush of heat that had spread across my cheeks.

But he wasn’t done yet. Ivar, in all his arrogance, reached out and gently placed a hand on the edge of my arm, just enough for me to feel his warmth. "I know you think you’re different from everyone here," he said, his voice low. "That you don’t belong. But you do. You’re more like us than you want to admit."

I stiffened at his touch, but I didn’t pull away. There was something in his voice, something soft but insistent, that made me hesitate. "I don’t want to be like you," I said quietly, still not meeting his gaze.

"You don’t have to be like me," he replied, his thumb brushing gently over my arm in a way that sent a shiver through me. "But you can be strong like me. I can teach you how."

I swallowed hard, my pulse thumping in my ears. "I don’t need your pity," I muttered, though my voice didn’t have the same sharpness as before.

Ivar didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. I could feel the tension building between us, but neither of us moved, neither of us spoke.

Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed, almost regretfully. "You think I’m some kind of monster, don’t you?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

I blinked, startled by the question. "I-"

"Yeah, I can see it," he said before I could finish. "I’m no saint, I get it. But maybe I’m not as bad as you think." He paused, then added with a grin, "Though I’m still a hell of a lot better than your brother."

I couldn’t help it. A small laugh escaped me. "Now that’s something I can agree with," I said, my voice more light hearted than it had been in days. "I do not think that you are a monster, Ivar," I sighed, "I just am lonely, and I do not know who to trust." My voice broke at the last words, embarrassingly. As soon as I felt another tear fall, I buried my head back into my knees.

Surprisingly, I felt Ivar's hand on the side of my face, soft and comforting.

Even more surprisingly, I raised my own hand and held over his, leaning into his touch for a brief moment.

I kept my face buried though, meaning that my following words came out muffled and quiet, "even as a Saxon I could not trust anyone, I have never been loved by anyone. Nor have I ever been made to feel safe by anyone. I can't do it anymore."

Ivar didn’t respond right away, and for a long, quiet moment, all I could hear was the sound of my own ragged breathing. The weight of my words hung between us, heavy and raw. The fire crackled softly in the background, its warmth a strange contrast to the coldness that seemed to settle in my chest.

Then, slowly, as though contemplating each word before speaking it, Ivar let out a long breath. "You think I don’t know what that feels like?" His voice was low, rough-though not cruel, not in the way it usually was. He moved closer, though he didn’t touch me, as if to respect the fragile barrier I had put up.

"I’m not a saint," he repeated quietly, almost as if reminding himself. "I’ve been alone too. Longer than I’d like to admit. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore, not if you don’t want to."

I couldn’t look at him-not yet. I felt too vulnerable, too exposed. But the sincerity in his voice made something stir inside me, something I couldn’t name, something warm that conflicted with the cold distance I had built for myself over the years.

"I don’t know how to trust," I whispered, my voice catching as I tried to hold back the next wave of emotions. "I’ve never known what it feels like... to have someone who isn’t just using me or pretending to care."

Ivar’s hand remained on my face, a steady presence in the quiet. "I’m not your brother," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "I’m not here to manipulate you or take advantage of you. You’re not some... pawn in a game to me, not anymore."

The words were simple, but they cut through me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I let out a shaky breath, willing the tears not to come again, but they slipped out regardless.

Ivar didn’t move, didn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb traced the curve of my cheek, wiping away my tears as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You’re strong, you know that?" he said softly, his words a steady murmur. "I’ve seen it. In everything you do, in how you carry yourself. The world might’ve tried to break you, but you’re still standing. And that means something."

I shook my head, barely able to choke out a laugh. "You’re wrong," I muttered, my voice cracking. "I’m not strong. I’m just... I’m just tired."

Ivar’s fingers tightened on my cheek, his touch grounding me. "You think that’s all you are? Tired?" He gave a small, almost bitter chuckle, like he was sharing in some private joke. "You’re a Saxon lady, aren’t you? You’re more than that. You’ve survived everything they’ve thrown at you, and you’re still here, still fighting. You’re not just tired. You’re stronger than you think."

I wanted to argue, to tell him that he didn’t understand, that it was easier for him because he had power, because he had strength that I could never hope to match. But when I looked at him, when I saw the sincerity in his eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. So instead, I took a risk. A huge risk.

I felt how close he was beside me, so I shuffled closer towards him and stretched my arms around his torso. He may throw me off, I thought. But I didn't care. It was a risk that I was willing to take. But he did not throw me off.

The tension between us had settled into a strange, unspoken understanding. Ivar didn’t pull away, and neither did I. Neither of us said anything, but the silence between us was different- softer, more fragile.

I wasn’t sure how long we sat there, the warmth of his chest against my back and the steady rhythm of his breath grounding me. He didn’t let go, and I didn’t want him to. I wanted to stay like that, to let the quiet moments pass, to allow myself to feel something other than fear and anger.

And then, without warning, Ivar shifted. His hand moved to my back, pulling me closer to him with surprising gentleness. Before I could react, he lifted me effortlessly, settling me onto his lap. My heart skipped a beat as I instinctively stiffened, but he didn’t force me to move, didn’t demand anything from me. He just held me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I didn’t protest. I couldn’t. My body, despite the panic that briefly flared in my chest, seemed to understand the need for comfort in a way my mind didn’t. We didn’t speak, didn’t need to. His arms wrapped around me, strong but tender, holding me close but not restricting me.

For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to relax into him. The weight of everything that had happened, the bitterness, the betrayal, the loneliness- just seemed to dissipate in the silence. All that existed was the warmth of his body against mine, the steady beat of his heart, and the sound of his breath.

I let my head rest against his chest, my fingers loosely clutching his tunic as if it were the only thing anchoring me in that moment. His scent- earthy, sharp, and strangely comforting- filled my senses, and I closed my eyes, breathing him in.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

And then, I felt it. His lips brushed my head, the kiss so light it was barely there, but it still sent a jolt through me. His lips lingered for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, a soft sigh escaping his chest as he gently rested his chin against my hair. It was such an unexpected gesture, such a small one, but it carried so much weight.

But then, it was as if a dam had broken. Ivar’s whole body stiffened beneath me, and I felt him pull away just slightly, his hands slipping from my back.

“What am I doing?” he muttered, his voice rougher than before. His grip on me loosened, and I felt the shift in his energy. There was a sudden awkwardness in his movements, and then he stood up, carefully lifting me from his lap and setting me back on the ground.

The air between us shifted again, charged with something unspoken, something neither of us knew how to deal with. Ivar didn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he muttered a curse under his breath and stood up abruptly, his crutch scraping the floor as he started to back away.

“I… I shouldn’t have- ” He stopped himself, words halting as he glanced at me, his eyes wide, a mix of confusion and discomfort written all over his face. “I’ll… I’ll give you space.”

Without another word, he turned and left the room, his footsteps fading down the hall.

I sat there for a long time after, the emptiness in the air thickening, as if the silence between us had grown into something more awkward and fragile than ever before.

I didn’t know what to feel. My heart was racing in my chest, my emotions a chaotic mess that I couldn’t untangle. There was something about his touch, about the way he held me, that left me aching for more. But I didn’t know if I could trust that, didn’t know if it was real or just another thing to make me weak.

The next week passed in a blur. I barely saw him. When I did, he kept his distance, his eyes avoiding mine, his movements stiff and hurried. I couldn’t understand it- what had changed between us? I felt as if we had crossed some line, but neither of us knew how to step back over it.

And then, just when I thought I was beginning to understand the distance between us, everything came crashing down.

The night my brother came for me started like any other, with the chill of the air seeping into my bones, the haunting silence of the compound. But that night, the silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of boots and the heavy rush of men.

I could feel the ground shaking beneath their march, hear the angry shouts of soldiers as they closed in. My breath caught in my throat. This wasn’t a rescue. This wasn’t a negotiation. My brother wasn’t here to bring me home. He was here to end me.

Panic flooded me, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, not fast enough. I rushed to the window, hoping against hope that I was wrong, that this was all just a nightmare. But no, there he was- my brother, standing tall in the moonlight, leading his men toward the fortress.

I turned, racing to the door, but it was already too late. The door was kicked open, and Ivar stormed in. His gaze flicked to mine, dark and intense, full of a mixture of worry and resolve.

“He’s here,” I managed to say, my voice trembling.

Ivar nodded, his face hardening, but there was something else in his eyes. Something soft, just beneath the surface. Something I didn’t understand.

“You stay close to me,” he commanded, his voice low but firm. “Do not leave my side.”

I didn’t have time to respond. The first arrow struck the side of the door before I could even react. The next came so quickly that I didn’t have time to move. I felt a sharp pain explode in my shoulder, my body jerked from the force, and I collapsed to the ground.

I screamed as the world around me spun, my shoulder burning with an intense fire. Blood began to spill down my arm, but I could feel the sting of something even worse. Another arrow. Another. Each one buried itself into my legs, pinning me in place. The pain was unbearable.

Ivar’s voice echoed through the chaos, full of rage. "No!" He shouted, and I felt hands lifting me, pulling me out of harm’s way. “Get her to safety!”

But I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I couldn’t hold on. Darkness crept in, and everything faded.

Ivar’s men carried her swiftly to the hidden chambers within the compound. Blood soaked her clothes, and her breath came in ragged gasps. The arrow in her shoulder had missed her heart, but her legs were another matter. She was in danger-of bleeding out, of losing everything. Ivar could barely breathe, his mind racing as he barked orders to his men.

He stayed close to her, his hands clenched in fists, torn between fury and helplessness. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not like this.

He paced the room, his eyes never leaving her still form as his men did what they could. The chaos outside intensified, but Ivar paid no attention. His only concern was her- her survival.

When the battle outside finally reached its bloody conclusion, Ivar and his men emerged victorious. Her brother, the bastard who had tried to kill her, was captured. Ivar didn’t waste time with niceties. His anger, his rage, boiled over, and he pulled her brother to the front of him.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” Ivar hissed, his voice full of venom. “No idea what you’ve cost me.”

Her brother dropped to his knees, as he begged and pleaded not to be killed.

Ivar chuckled darkly. “I’m not letting you die quickly. You deserve to feel every second of what’s coming.”

The torture was slow, deliberate. Each blow, each action, was a reflection of the pain that he had caused. Ivar didn’t hold back. He showed no mercy. He did what was necessary. What was right. And as he finally ended his life, standing over him, bloodied and triumphant, he looked down at the lifeless body and whispered, “I love her, you coward.”

Ivar spent the next week by her side, never leaving. He stayed in her room, watching as her body slowly recovered. The wound on her shoulder was deep, but not fatal. The arrows in her legs had been removed, but the pain had left her in a restless, endless slumber. She had still not awoken from her long sleep.

Days passed, and Ivar didn’t sleep. He stayed awake, keeping vigil, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. The sound of her soft breathing was the only thing that kept him from breaking. His heart was torn in two- half of him wanted to scream, wanted to unleash the fury of the gods for what had been done to her. The other half simply wanted to hold her, to never let her go.

Finally, she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, but they didn’t focus. She was still caught between the realm of dreams and reality.

“Ivar...” she mumbled, her voice thick and weak. Her hand reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched his, as if feeling for the only thing that made her feel safe.

“I’m here,” Ivar whispered, his voice low, barely audible.

She rambled, her words coming in a disjointed mess, half-sentences slurred by the haze of her fever. "I need Ivar... I feel safe with Ivar.. I love you, Ivar... don’t leave me..."

The words hit him like a thunderclap, his chest tightening as he listened. She was still caught in the aftermath of her injuries, her mind fractured with exhaustion, but her confession- her vulnerable, broken confession- shattered something deep within him.

He climbed into the bed beside her, carefully pulling her into his arms, feeling the warmth of her body, the fragile beat of her heart against his chest. His own heart hammered in his chest as he buried his face in her hair.

“I love you too,” he whispered, the words feeling so raw, so right, despite everything that had happened. “I’ll never let this happen again. I’ll keep you safe, I swear it.” He did know if she could hear him, but he spoke nonetheless.

Her hand curled into his, and she relaxed against him, her breathing finally evening out, though she was still far from fully awake.

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there, feeling the warmth of her skin against his.

“He begged me not to kill him,” Ivar murmured, his voice full of emotion, as if confessing to a truth that weighed heavy on his heart. “So I did it slow. He didn’t deserve the quick death, not after what he did to you.”

For now, the war was won. The battle had been fought.

He did not know why he felt so deeply for her. He did not know what would happen in the future. He just hoped that she would not betray him.

[kaivenom]

How the Vikings men would bath with you

Masterlist

Ivar the Boneless

It takes a lot to him to trust you enough to see him naked.

Due to his body, he is very self concious so previously to entering the bath, you need to be sure he will let you in.

It is sure to say this is one of his most vulnerable moments, always expecting you to run away or something.

You position yourself behind him and tun your fingers up and down his back.

Giving him massages and hugging him, trying to reasure him that you are not afraid.

Once he gets used to this time of intimacy, having baths together starts to be a more usual activity.

Ubbe Ragnarson

He got to you side and started rubbing your legs and chest with slow almost sensual motions.

Never breaking eye contact from you, even when is hand dissapeared underwater.

With a nod you invited him to join you and what started with his attempt to seduce you is now a relaxing tradition.

Your back against his chest, connecting fingers and talking about nothing and everything.

Feeling his heartbeat against you is beautiful and calming, he also feels safe while doing this with you.

Dark ambience, small candles iluminating the room.

Hvitserk Ragnarson

The first time he entered by accident and you give him the option to join, obviously he didn't refuse.

Then started to be more often, he judt likes to have you in front of him.

After his travels to Algeciras and the Mediterranean sea, he discovers the roman baths, aromatized soaps, etc.

He is like a child, sometimes splashing you while laughing.

But dont get It wrong, he always treats you like a princess.

Now, when you raid together, he always wanders around the town, trying to know if there is some roman baths or saunas.

Sigurd Ragnarson

I somehow think that he doesn't like to bath so the only way for him to get in water is with you.

He tries to stay as much as posible in the water while you wash his blonde hair but he just makes sarcastic comments, makes weird faces and that.

He tries to splash you like a revenge and you end up having a water bottle.

The only place he likes to be in water is on the lake, but ussually is to cold to be there so... big no.

Not even mentioning that in some particular ocasion he threw you there, obviously you pushed him after.

It's the most fun and risky one to bath with.

Bjorn Ironside

He obviously starts bathing a couple of minutes before you do, that's why you always tell him when you are going to do It.

He has this hope that bathing and spending this time with you will make you reward him.

Bathing in such a small place with such a man, you feel a little overwhelmed.

He doesn't tent to do anything but always wants you to rub and wash him, he finds it relaxing

[zapreportsblog]

❝army of ivarrsons❞

✭ pairing : ivar the boneless x reader

✭ fandom : vikings

✭ summary : ivar has always thought of himself to be a failure of a man, his legs did not work like an normal man, his prick did not work. The only thing he was good for was being a prince and a warrior though he wasn’t all that good at being even those in his eyes, but then along came a woman. One so pure, so beautiful she looked to be a goddess amongst men. And with those sweet words she spoke “I will bare you many sons ivar the boneless.”

✭ authors note : I have requests closed as y’all seen but it’s only temporarily, haven’t really been up to writing and seeing as how I had many ideas in mind for stories I thought fuck it let’s try again

The morning sun cast a golden glow over the great hall of Ivar's family estate, illuminating the long wooden table laden with bread, cheese, and freshly caught fish. Ivar sat at the head of the table, his older brother Sigurd to his right. As usual, Sigurd couldn't resist testing his patience.

"Good morrow, brother," Sigurd teased, a wicked glint in his eye. "Have you finally learned how to eat without spilling half your breakfast on your tunic?"

Ivar clenched his jaw, determined to keep his composure. Their sibling rivalry had existed for as long as he could remember, and it showed no signs of waning. He forced a strained smile. "I'm making progress, Sigurd, unlike some."

Before the exchange could escalate further, the heavy wooden doors of the great hall swung open with a thunderous crash. A thrall, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat, stumbled into the room. The hushed conversations ceased, and all eyes turned to the intruder.

Ivar rose from his seat, ready to reprimand the thrall for her lack of decorum, but before he could utter a word, she dropped to her knees, her head bowed low.

"Forgive me, my lords," the thrall panted, her voice trembling. "I bring urgent news."

Ivar exchanged puzzled glances with Sigurd. Urgent news was a rarity in their peaceful corner of the world. He gestured for the thrall to continue.

She raised her head, revealing wide, terrified eyes. "Freya herself has come and blessed us. She walks among us."

The words hung in the air like a spell, and a collective gasp swept through the hall. Ivar's skepticism wrestled with the growing sense of anticipation. Gods did not simply descend from the heavens to walk among mortals.

Before he could question the thrall further, the great hall erupted into chaos. The guests and servants rushed toward the entrance, shoving past each other in their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the so-called Freya. Ivar, however, moved reluctantly through the crowd, his curiosity piqued despite his reservations.

And there she stood, in the center of the throng, an ethereal vision that defied belief. Freya, if that truly was her name, had luscious hair that billowed in the wind, eyes that seemed to hold both otherworldly wisdom and untold mysteries. Her face was mature but agelessly youthful, her features mirroring the very essence of a Viking legend. It was as if the stories of the gods themselves had come to life.

The hall was filled with awe-struck whispers as people fell to their knees, proclaiming that the gods had indeed come to pay them a visit.

Amidst the reverence, Freya's gaze found Ivar's, and she offered him a serene smile. A shiver ran down his spine as their eyes locked. Something unspoken passed between them.

"We have much to talk about," she said, her voice carrying a mysterious weight that left Ivar both uneasy and captivated.

As the crowd continued to kneel and worship the divine presence before them, Ivar couldn't help but wonder what secrets this so-called Freya held and how her arrival would reshape their world.

Ivar stood alongside his older brothers, Sigurd, Hvitserk, and Ubba, each of them caught between awe and skepticism as they gazed upon the enigmatic woman who claimed to be Freya. The hall had fallen into reverent silence, save for the murmurs of those who dared to question her divine presence.

"Are you truly the goddess Freya?" Sigurd finally ventured to ask, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and curiosity.

Freya, or the woman who bore her name, smiled, but her response held an air of mystery. "My face holds many names, Freya may just be one of them."

The brothers exchanged glances, unsure of what to make of her cryptic words. It was Ubba who stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over the ethereal figure before them. "Why have you come to bless us, then?" he inquired, his tone respectful but inquisitive. "If I may ask without sounding rude."

The woman, who had introduced herself as (Y/N), let out a melodic laugh that echoed through the hall. "Rude? Not at all, dear Ubba. You see, I am here for Ivar."

Ivar's heart skipped a beat as all eyes turned toward him. He had been prepared for many things this day, but not for such a direct and unsettling revelation. He struggled to find his voice. "For me?"

(Y/N) nodded, her enigmatic smile never faltering. "Yes, for you, Ivar. If you were to accept me into your home, I would bear you many healthy children."

The words hung in the air, pregnant with meaning and implications that Ivar could hardly fathom. The weight of her gaze bore down on him, as if she could see into the depths of his soul. It was a proposition unlike any other, one that would reshape not only his destiny but that of his family and people as well.

Sigurd couldn't suppress the unease that gnawed at his heart. He looked from his brothers to (Y/N), his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Why him, and not one of us?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of bitterness.

(Y/N) met Sigurd's gaze with an unwavering serenity. "You are all favored by the gods," she began, her voice carrying an air of wisdom. "But Ivar, he is favored above all. The accomplishments you will face, the children you will bear into this world—they will be great, but not as great as his."

The revelation left Sigurd and his brothers exchanging troubled glances. It was a difficult truth to accept, that their destinies were preordained and that Ivar's path would surpass theirs. But even in the midst of their uncertainty, (Y/N) offered a glimpse of hope.

Ubba, ever the one to voice the unasked questions, spoke next. "If you are truly Freya," he began cautiously, "then how come you are here with us and not your husband, the Allfather? I do not wish to be rude, but you are married to Odin, are you not? Yet you speak of carrying my brothers' children."

(Y/N) smiled, her eyes holding a mixture of fondness and sadness. "Odin and I have long since split," she explained. "But for the sake of the other gods, we remain faithful to one another—just not in the way one would think."

The brothers exchanged another set of glances, their minds trying to grasp the complexities of divine relationships and the implications of (Y/N)'s presence in their lives.

Amidst the questions and uncertainties, Ivar felt a wave of insecurity washing over him. He couldn't help but voice his doubt, his voice laden with self-deprecation. "You should choose one of my brothers or someone else," he said, his tone laced with a mix of humility and resignation. "They are able men and can do all the things a woman would need in a man. You don't deserve a cripple like me."

(Y/N) turned his head gently, making him meet her gaze once more. Her smile remained, unwavering. "But yet I chose you."

The words held a weight that Ivar struggled to comprehend. In that moment, he couldn't help but wonder if he truly understood the depths of the path that lay ahead, one where gods and mortals intertwined in ways he had never imagined.

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, Ivar found himself giving in to the uncharted territory that (Y/N) had brought into his life. The same night they met, they wed an impromptu ceremony all of Kattegat’s members and held a extravagant feast of celebration.

Now, in the dimly lit chamber, amidst the cheers and laughter, the newlyweds were about to partake in the bedding ceremony. Ivar couldn't help but feel a sense of unease as he apologized, his voice tremulous. "I'm not very good at this," he admitted, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment.

(Y/N) leaned in close, her eyes holding a comforting reassurance. "You'll do just fine," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "I've seen how your first time went, my dearest ivar. It is normal to be nervous, especially when it's not the one you truly want."

Ivar felt a surge of relief wash over him. Her understanding words eased his doubts, and he let himself surrender to the passion that simmered between them.

Throughout the night, their love-making was fervent, passionate, and filled with a longing that transcended mere physical desire. The hours blurred together, and the dawn found them entwined, their bodies and souls intimately connected.

The next morning, Ivar awoke with a grin that was unusually happy for the stoic prince. Ubba, his older brother, noticed the change in his demeanor and couldn't help but inquire, "Did something happen to Sigurd, brother?" He assumed that Ivar might have witnessed their brother's misfortune or a rejection.

Ivar chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Nothing of that sort, brother."

Not long after both brothers had been joined by Floki - a member close to their family especially their father and seen as another father figure to ivar, for breakfast, the trio exchanged casual conversation, and Ivar's newfound happiness was hard to conceal. In the midst of a seemingly mundane conversation about the weather, Ivar couldn't contain himself any longer.

"I must share some news," he declared, his voice ringing with confidence. "Last night, I performed well in bed. Every round, to the very end."

Ubba, caught off guard, nearly choked on his mead. Floki raised an eyebrow, intrigued but nevertheless proud by the sudden announcement. "Is that so, Ivar?"

While Ubba struggled to contain his astonishment, he managed to offer a hearty congratulations to his brother, even if a tinge of bitterness lingered. The doubts that had plagued Ivar, the assumptions made by his brothers, had all been dispelled in the passionate hours he had shared with (Y/N).

It had been just a week since Ivar and (Y/N) had wed, but the news that swept through the village was enough to send everyone into celebration. (Y/N), still affectionately referred to as Freya by the villagers, was pregnant with the heir of Ivar, the prince of Kattegat.

Upon hearing the news, Ivar wasted no time in throwing a grand feast to celebrate this momentous occasion. The great hall was adorned with banners and torches, and the long tables were laden with the finest foods and meads. It was a joyous occasion, and the entire village turned out to celebrate the impending arrival of their future leader.

Throughout the festivities, Ivar's attentiveness to his wife was unmistakable. He was by (Y/N)'s side at every turn, anticipating her needs before she even voiced them. If she desired a drink, he would fetch it for her or have a thrall pour it with haste. When she wanted more meat, he ensured her plate was overflowing with it. And when she complained of stiffness in her shoulders and back from the long hours of celebration, he was there to ease the tension, his strong hands working wonders on her weary muscles.

Everyone could see the happiness that (Y/N) brought into Ivar's life, and it was evident in every glance, every gesture, and every tender touch between them. Despite the brevity of their marriage, their connection was undeniable, and it had only grown stronger with the promise of a child.

As the night wore on, and the revelry continued, Ivar found himself in a state of contentment he had never known before. With (Y/N) by his side and the prospect of fatherhood on the horizon, he couldn't help but look to the future with hope and excitement. The people of Kattegat watched their prince with admiration, knowing that he was not only a formidable leader but also a devoted husband, eagerly anticipating the arrival of his heir.

The months had went by swiftly and soon the long-awaited day had arrived. The air in the room was filled with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety as (Y/N) prepared to give birth to Ivar's heir. The labor had been long and exhausting, pushing (Y/N) to her limits, but she persevered with unwavering strength and determination. Ivar stood by her side, providing constant support and encouragement, never leaving her sight.

As the hours turned into eternity, the cries of pain echoed through the room. The midwife worked diligently, guiding (Y/N) through each contraction, offering words of comfort and reassurance. By her side, Ivar held her hand tightly, his eyes never leaving her face. He could see the strain etched upon her features but admired her resilience in the face of such intense pain.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the moment arrived. The cries of a newborn filled the room, and tears of relief streamed down (Y/N)'s face. Ivar's heart swelled with joy as he looked upon the tiny face of his firstborn son. The room seemed to glow with an ethereal light, as if the gods themselves had blessed this moment.

"I am truly blessed by the gods," Ivar whispered, his voice filled with awe. "For I have a wife, the fairest of them all - the goddess Freya herself - in my arms, with my firstborn son, an heir. I never thought I would find such happiness, but I am grateful that I have."

(Y/N) smiled weakly, her eyes shining with love and exhaustion. She reached out a trembling hand to touch Ivar's cheek, her touch filled with tenderness and gratitude. "And I am blessed to have you, my dearest Ivar," she whispered. "You have given me strength and love beyond measure."

In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist, overshadowed by the miracle of new life. Ivar and (Y/N) found solace in each other's arms, cherishing the precious gift they had been given.

The midwife gently placed the newborn in (Y/N)'s arms, and Ivar marveled at the sight. His heir, his legacy, lay peacefully in his mother's embrace. There was a newfound sense of purpose and responsibility that settled upon Ivar's broad shoulders.

As he looked upon his wife and son, Ivar knew that he would protect and cherish them with all his might. He, a warrior feared by many, had found his greatest joy in the form of his family. With a heart filled with love and gratitude, Ivar vowed to be the father his son deserved, and not the man his own father had been.

Six years had passed since the day Ivar and (Y/N) had wed, and in that time, Ivar had become a force to be reckoned with. At the age of twenty-four, he had accomplished more than he had ever dreamed of. He had conquered lands, brought riches to Kattegat, and solidified his reputation as a formidable leader.

But it wasn't just his conquests that defined his success; it was the growing family he had built with (Y/N) by his side. Their firstborn, Arvid, had been a source of immense pride for Ivar, carrying the weight of being the heir to the throne. Following Arvid, twin boys named Audun and Axel had joined their family.

Their blessings continued with the birth of a daughter, Astride, who brought a new kind of joy into their lives. And after Astride, more sons had followed: Ase, Bodil, Dane, Ebbe, Eir, and Inge, each one a testament to the love and connection between Ivar and (Y/N).

Now, with the passage of time, the couple found themselves on the brink of another exciting chapter in their lives. (Y/N) was expecting once more, and this time, they had received the news that they were to welcome another set of twins into their growing family.

The prospect of more children filled Ivar with a deep sense of pride and fulfillment. He had not only achieved great success in his endeavors but had also created a legacy that would continue to shape the future of Kattegat for generations to come. With (Y/N) by his side, he looked forward to the challenges and joys that lay ahead, knowing that their love and the family they had built together were the greatest treasures of all.

[velvetvowsandvikingdreams]

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Still Waters⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Summary: Every evening, they watch you bathe—but it is Ivar who wants you the most...

Warnings: mdni!, smut!, voyeurism, violence, blood/injury, sexual tension, insecurity, virgin!ivar, m!receiving, choking, fear of drowning, fluff, teasing, norse mythology, romantic

Pairing: Ivar x reader

Word count: 4k

You made your way down to the lake, just as you always had—when the sky burned with the last light of the day and when you knew no one else would be there. The water was yours at this hour, a quiet place to think, to escape.

You glanced around, cautious as ever, before pulling the linen dress over your shoulders and letting it slip to your ankles. The cool evening air kissed your skin, and for a brief moment, you hesitated before stepping forward. Your toe dipped into the water first, adjusting to the temperature, before you sank in completely, letting it envelop you.

But you weren’t alone.

The sons of Ragnar had been watching. They always did.

Perched on the hillside, hidden by the trees, they waited—just as they had many times before. They heard you sing—beautifully.

Ubbe exhaled a slow, appreciative breath. "What a body… like a goddess." His voice was hushed, reverent, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the illusion of you before them. Your skin glistening under the the faint sun.

Hvitserk grinned, eyes hungry. "I want to have her."

Laughter followed.

"Only in your dreams," Sigurd mocked, smirking. "She will be mine."

But Ivar—he said nothing. He only watched.

His brothers words faded into meaningless noise as his blue eyes traced the way your skin glowed under the dying sunlight, the way water clung to your curves, how your hair slicked against your shoulders. He had heard men in Kattegat whisper about you, speak your name with longing. Even Jarls had asked for your hand, and yet, you had refused them all.

Why?

Ivar clenched his jaw, lost in the thought of you. Of your hands. Of how they might feel on him. He didn’t just want you. He wanted to own you, to make you his, to be the only man you ever looked at.

The crude voices of his brothers pulled him from his thoughts.

"She needs a real man," Hvitserk chuckled, nudging Ivar with his elbow. "Not some cripple who crawls around like a baby."

Ubbe smirked. "You think you have a chance, little brother?"

"Pathetic," Sigurd agreed. "You wouldn’t even know what to do with all that body of a woman."

Laughter erupted again.

Ivar’s jaw tensed, his grip on the dirt beneath him tightening. Then, without warning, he lunged.

"I’m going to kill you." His voice was a growl, low and full of fury.

The hilltop became chaos. He and Sigurd tumbled downward, fists and nails clawing at each other, their bodies rolling violently down the slope. When they finally hit the foot of the lake, you gasped.

"Guys—?"

Neither of them heard you.

Blood smeared across Ivar’s face, his breathing trembling as he shoved Sigurd back. But Sigurd had landed the worst blows, his lip curling in triumph.

Then he saw you.

Still half-submerged in the water, your arms wrapped around yourself, eyes wide in shock.

Sigurd stiffened. His smug expression faltered.

And without a word—he turned and ran.

Ivar remained where he was, panting, his chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic breaths. Blood trickled from his brow, mixing with the dirt on his skin. His hands trembled, though with pain or rage, you weren’t sure.

"Shit..." he muttered, dragging a hand across his face.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You waded toward the shore, fingers wringing water from your hair before reaching for your dress. As you pulled the linen over your shoulders, you finally looked at him—really looked at him.

Ivar’s blue eyes burned as they met yours.

And for the first time, you wondered if he had been watching you all along.

His hands, still clenched into fists, trembled slightly as he wiped at the blood on his brow. But it was no use. The wound on his forehead was still fresh, and the crimson streaked down the side of his face, mixing with dirt.

You hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer.

"You’re bleeding." Your voice was softer now.

Ivar scoffed, looking away. "I know."

He didn’t move as you knelt beside him, the damp earth cool beneath your bare knees. His exhale faltered when you reached out, tearing a strip from the hem of your dress. The sound of fabric ripping made him glance at you, eyes narrowing in confusion.

"What are you—"

"Hold still."

You dipped the cloth in the lake, wringing it out before bringing it to his face.

At first, he flinched, his entire body tensing as if expecting a blow rather than kindness. His lips pressed together, and for the first time since you'd known of him, he looked uncertain.

You had seen Ivar be ruthless, cruel even. You had heard the things people whispered about him—the monster, the cripple, the son of Ragnar with no legs but the sharpest mind, the coldest heart. But now, with the way his breath stilled as you wiped the blood from his brow, he looked...different.

Almost vulnerable.

"You shouldn’t let them get to you," you murmured, carefully dabbing at the cut. "Sigurd only taunts you because he knows it gets under your skin."

Ivar let out a small, breathy laugh. "And you think I should just let him?"

"I think you should make him eat his words when it matters, not when he’s goading you like a child."

Ivar swallowed, he stole a glance from your lips to your eyes.

You were close. Closer than anyone ever got to him. He could smell the lake on your skin, the faint trace of something floral that lingered in your hair. His brothers had laughed at the thought of him ever touching a woman like you, but here you were, your fingers pressing so gently against his temple, your expression filled with something he didn’t quite understand.

Care.

His head dipped as he tried to say something—anything—but the words got stuck. His usual sharp tongue failed him.

"There," you said, finally pulling back, eyeing your work. The bleeding had stopped.

Ivar exhaled through his nose, his hands flexing at his sides as if resisting the urge to grab onto something. Maybe onto you.

"You should get back," he huffed, his voice quieter now. "Before someone sees you with me."

You tilted your head. "And why would that be a bad thing?"

He swallowed again, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he looked down, suddenly focused on the dirt beneath his fingers.

Ivar, the man who could spit venom at anyone who dared cross him, looked almost bashful.

And something about that made you smile.

And worse, you were still there.

You should have left by now, should have gathered your things and disappeared back into the village, but instead, you lingered. Watching him.

"You always watched me, hm?" you asked suddenly, mustering his face. A hint of laughter colored your tone.

Ivar stiffened. His fingers curled into the dirt.

"What?"

"You and your brothers." You smirked, shifting your weight as you sat back next to him. "You think I didn't notice? You think I don’t know when I’m being watched?"

He forced down a lump in his throat. He should have denied it, should have laughed it off, should have said something cruel to push you away like he always did with others. But he couldn't.

Because you were right.

"I..." he started, but the words broke off, sticking to his tongue like honey. His teeth locked in shame, looking away, humiliated by the warmth creeping up his neck.

"I wonder," you mused, drawing a slow circle in the dirt beside you, your voice teasing, "what does Ivar the Boneless think about when he watches?"

His head snapped toward you, eyes widening.

"What?"

"You heard me." Your lips curved into something wicked, and then, with intent, your fingers found the front tie of your dress, idly toying with it. "You’ve seen me like this, haven’t you? Every evening. Floating in the water. Undressing."

The knot at your chest was loose from earlier, and with the way your fingers played with it now, it threatened to come undone entirely.

Ivar’s throat went dry. His hands stirred with impatience, as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

"Stop," he rasped out, voice hoarse.

"Stop what?" You leaned in—your voice a secretive whisper. "Making you think about all the things you’ve imagined?"

He wanted to tell you to stop, to tell you that you were being cruel—but he couldn’t. Because he had imagined. More than once. More than he would ever admit.

"You think I don't know what goes through a man's mind when he watches a woman like that?" you murmured, still toying with the tie, still watching him unravel.

His nostrils flared.

"I have never—"

"Never?" You lifted a brow, unconvinced.

"You think I am like them?" he voiced out. "That I sit there and talk about you like they do? Like you are nothing more than something to be taken?"

The intensity in his voice startled you.

"I would never." He whispered, like he couldn't bear the thought of hurting you. "You are not like other women. You are…more."

Something shifted in the air between you.

He was looking at you like you were something untouchable, something he had wanted for so long but had never dared to reach for.

"You are beautiful." The words left his lips so quietly, as if he wasn’t sure he should say them out loud. "Too beautiful."

Your breath caught.

"I have always wanted you to be mine," he admitted, almost in defeat. "Even when I knew I could never have you."

His voice was raw, the usual confidence stripped away.

"But you refuse everyone. Even the strongest men in Kattegat. I know you are not easily won."

Your chest rose and fell, a strange heat curling in your stomach at his confession.

"And yet…" you tilted your head, "you still wanted me?"

Ivar let out a reluctant breath. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but didn't dare.

"I still do."

You moved—shifted closer, swinging one leg over his lap until you were straddling him. He inhales sharply, his hands gripping the grass at his sides as if it was the only thing grounding him.

"W-What are you doing?" He stammered, his voice unsure.

You smiled, amused by the rare glimpse of hesitation in him. "What does it look like?"

Your fingers found the front tie of your dress again, but this time, you weren’t playing. You tugged at it, undoing the knot until the fabric loosened. It slipped over your shoulders, baring soft breasts beneath.

Ivar clenched his teeth, his eyes darting anywhere but at you—at the trees, at the ground, at the blood still drying on his fingers.

You laughed, a soft, sweet sound that made his stomach tighten.

"Don’t be afraid, Ivar." Your voice was gentle, teasing, but there was something else in it, something that told him you weren’t mocking him.

He swallowed hard. "I’m not afraid."

"Then look at me."

He hesitated, but when you placed your hands on his, guiding them to your breasts, letting him knead them, his breath left him in a sudden exhale.

His eyes were piercing—wide and almost disbelieving—in awe.

"Is this what you imagined, hm?" You murmured. "While you touched yourself?"

His entire body went rigid beneath you. A deep, vibrating breath left his lips, and his hands almost jerked away, but you held them there, pressing them firmer against you, as you bit your lower lip.

His face burned. His grip was anxious, timid, as if afraid he’d do something wrong.

"I…" He swallowed again, looking utterly spoiled by the weight of your words. His lips opened, but no response came.

You smirked.

"Don't be ashamed, Ivar." You whispered, leaning in so your breath ghosted over his ear. "You don't have to lie to me."

It was intoxicating.

"Hm," you murmured, letting your fingers ghost down his arms before settling on his wrists. "Have you ever done this before?"

His hands jittery against you.

You saw the way his throat tightened, the flicker of something raw and vulnerable in his expression. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

"No," he admitted, almost a whisper.

Your smile was soft, teasing, but not cruel.

"I thought so."

His brows twitched together, as if he wanted to argue, but before he could, you took his hands and placed them on your waist, guiding his fingers to settle against the curve of your body. His grip was stiff at first, uncertain, but you gave him time.

You cupped his face. His skin was warm beneath your touch, a contrast to the cool evening air.

"Relax." You smiled at him warmly. "It's okay..."

You leaned in, closing the space between you, and then—tenderly—your lips met his.

The moment your mouths touched, he made a noise.

"Hmh."

It was almost startled, awkward, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. His lips were tense beneath yours at first, unsure, like he was trying to figure out how to move, how to breathe.

You pulled away just enough to look at him, your breath ghosting over his lips. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed.

"I-I want...to taste you."

His gaze flickered down, and you could see the way his throat bobbed again, the way his lips parted slightly as if the thought alone was overwhelming.

You nodded—smiling.

But he wanted it.

Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forward. His lips brushed over the curve of your breasts, a whisper of a touch. Then, gaining a bit more confidence, he kissed again, firmer this time, his calloused hands kneading your delicate flesh.

You hummed in approval, threading your fingers through his hair, encouraging him.

His tongue flicked out, hesitantly circling the hardened peak. When you sighed at the feeling, he grew bolder, wrapping his lips around it fully, sucking softly.

"Ivar," you moaned—full of lust.

Ivar exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping you tighter. His tongue worked over your nipple, flicking and teasing before he bit down—harder than expected.

You gasped, and he immediately pulled back, looking up at you in a panic, his lips slightly swollen.

"Did I—?"

"No," you reassured him with a smirk. "I like it."

Your fingers trailed down his arm carefully before finding his other hand. His grip was still hesitant, still unsure of what to do, of how far he could go. You took it gently, guiding it up, pressing his palm against your throat.

He froze.

His blue eyes flew up to yours, searching, his breath uneven. His fingers trembled against your skin, but he didn’t tighten them—he just held you there, as if he wasn’t sure he should.

"You want me to choke you?" His voice was quiet, volatile.

You nodded, your pulse fluttering beneath his hand. "Yes."

His brows furrowed slightly. He swallowed—tongue darting out to wet his plump lips.

"You’re sure?" His voice was softer this time, almost boyish in the way he asked, like he needed your permission to do this.

You pressed his hand a little firmer against your throat. "I’m sure."

Carefully, he applied the slightest bit of pressure.

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, savoring the feeling, and when you opened them again, he was staring at you. Watching every reaction.

"Like that?" he murmured.

"More."

He swallowed again, his fingers tightening just a little more. But the way your lips parted, the way your body reacted beneath his hands—it made something glint in his expression.

He was still hesitant—uncertain, but when he squeezed just a little harder and heard the way your breath tore—

"Ivar…"

His name, falling from your lips in that soundless moan, sent a jolt through his body. His grip on your throat tightened instinctively before loosening again, as if he was afraid he’d go too far.

"Fuck," he whispered, almost to himself. His free hand playing with your breasts—kissing them.

"You look so beautiful with my hand wrapped around your throat," he whispered, his voice raw, needy. "Like you were made for me."

You whimpered as his grip tightened again, just for a second, your thighs squeezing around his lap in response.

"You like that, don’t you?" His voice was jagged, like he was almost surprised. He let out a small laugh, but it was desperate, crushed.

"You like it when I squeeze your pretty throat while you moan for me?" He teased.

You nodded, gasping when he pulled you closer, pressing you flush against his chest. His lips were right by your ear now.

"Tell me you wanted me, just as much as I wanted you." He growled low.

"I needed you so much, Ivar." You obeyed, moaning breathlessly, as he moaned in response.

"Gods, I want to ruin you," he rasped, his voice shaking with need.

You pulled back slightly, suppressing a smile. "Ruin me, Ivar."

He looked wrecked. Flustered, desperate, like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

You kissed him again, slower this time, coaxing him into it. His fingers dug into your waist as if anchoring himself. He tried to mimic the way your lips moved against his.

You felt it—the way his body strained beneath you, the way his breath stuttered when your hips circled just slightly against his heat. Even through the layers of fabric between you, you could feel him hardening, his arousal pressing against you as if betraying everything he was too shy to say aloud.

"You like that?" You teased, rocking against him slowly.

"You have no idea..." Ivar let out a choked noise.

"So excited, hm?" You taunted, your lips brushing against his ear as your fingers trailed down his chest, tracing the ridges of muscle beneath his tunic.

He swallowed hard.

"Wait—" His voice was hoarse, but he didn’t push you away.

Your fingers reached the front tie of his pants, playing with the knot, tugging at it just slightly, just enough for him to feel the shift.

Ivar let out a shaky exhale, his head tilting back just a fraction, his lips parting—but he was rigid, every muscle in his body coiled like a bowstring about to snap.

"You don’t have to—" He hesitated, hands flexing against your waist. His voice was quieter now, more vulnerable. "I don’t... I don’t know what to do."

You smiled, leaning in to press your lips against his jaw, just beneath his ear.

"You don’t have to do anything."

You felt it—the hesitation, the fear beneath the arousal, the unspoken terror that this was all some cruel joke, that at any moment you might laugh at him, just like his brothers did.

"I'm afraid you will laugh at me."

But you didn’t.

Instead, you kissed him.

Slow, deep, your lips moving against his with purpose, swallowing every unsteady breath, every noise he tried to bite back. Your hand pressed against him more firmly, your palm teasing along the outline of him, feeling how hard he was, how much he wanted this—wanted you.

"I would never laugh at you, Ivar," you purred against his lips, as you traced the outline of his hard length with your fingertips.

He shuddered.

And then—finally—he let you. Your eyes never left his.

You tugged the knot loose, feeling how his stomach tensed beneath your fingers. He looked down—panting.

His whole body was stiff, every muscle locked as you reached inside, weapping your fingers around his cock for the first time.

Ivar gasped.

A sharp, choked sound left his lips, his head falling back against the grass as his hands scrambled against your sides, not knowing whether to pull you closer or push you away from the sheer overwhelming sensation of it.

"Gods—" he groaned, his breath shuddering as you gave him a slow, testing stroke.

You giggled at the sight of him, utterly undone beneath you.

"You’re so sensitive," you mused, stroking him again, watching the way his hips jerked ever so slightly into your touch, his body betraying him. "Have you never been touched like this before?"

Ivar’s eyes squeezed shut, his lips parting around another helpless, shaky breath.

"N-No," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "Never."

Your smile widened, something warm curling in your chest at the realization that this—this moment—was his first.

"So hard for me," you whispered, your thumb caressing over his leaking tip, watching the way his thighs tensed, how his brows knitted together in helpless pleasure.

A broken, needy whimper left his lips, and you laughed softly, leaning down to brush your lips against his ear.

"You sound so beautiful when you whimper for me, Ivar."

His breath hitched sharply, his hands grasping at your waist, but he was powerless beneath you, lost in the sensation, lost in you.

"Wouldn’t it drive your brothers mad?" You teased, your lips trailing kisses along his jaw. "That of all the men who have wanted me, of all the Jarls and warriors I have denied, I did it for you? That I only ever wanted you?"

Ivar let out a shaky moan, his lashes fluttering. "W-Why?" he whined, almost like he didn’t believe you.

You smiled as you worked him gently in your hand.

"Because I hoped—" you whispered, your lips almost touching his—"that one day, we would be this close."

His entire body trembled.

He swallowed, his gaze flickering away. "But I am—"" He hesitated, jaw tightening. "I cannot take you like other men could."

His deepest fear.

"Believe me, you are taking me better than any man ever could." You responded.

He was stiff again, shoulders squared like he was bracing himself for something—mockery, rejection, pity.

"Ivar," you purred against his lips, "I don’t want them. I never have. I want you—just as you are."

"You really mean that?"

You nodded.

You wrapped your fingers more firmly around him, stroking him in a slow, teasing rhythm, feeling the heat of him, the way he twitched in your grasp.

"How often have you imagined this, Ivar?" You whispered, your lips brushing against his neck.

He let out a soft, strangled moan, his hips flinching slightly into your hand before he forced himself still, his grip on you tightening.

"I—" He swallowed hard, struggling to get the words out. "Every time."

You smiled against his skin. "Every time?"

"Every time you bathed," he admitted, his voice wrecked, shaking. "Every time I watched you, every time you let the water touch your body, I imagined—"

He groaned as you squeezed him slightly, your thumb circling over the sensitive tip, feeling the way his body reacted to you, how easily he was unraveling.

"Imagined what, Ivar?" You teased, your strokes slow, torturous.

He let out a desperate breath. "Imagined this—your hands on me, touching me, making me feel—" His voice faltered, his head tipping back as another soft moan escaped him.

You kissed along the line of his collarbone, smiling against his skin. "And did you touch yourself while thinking of me?"

Ivar whimpered.

His grip on you was bruising now, his fingers digging into your hips as if he was trying to hold himself together. His cheeks were burning.

"Yes," he admitted. "Every night."

Your stomach tightened at his confession, heat pooling between your thighs.

"Poor thing," you teased, pumping him just a little faster, feeling how thick and heavy he was in your hand, the way his body twitched with each slow stroke. "You must have been so frustrated, watching me, never being able to touch me."

"Gods...yes," Ivar moaned, his hips bucking slightly into your grip, completely lost in the feeling.

"And now I’m here," you murmured, your lips brushing against his jaw, "touching you, making you feel good. Just like you imagined."

Ivar let out a broken sound, "Better," he choked out, "better than I ever imagined."

He was beautiful like this—completely unraveled, completely at your mercy. Lips and cheeks flush.

You lifted your hand to your lips and spit into your palm, watching as Ivar’s eyes widened, his breath hitching sharply in his throat.

"Gods," he groaned, his hips jolting slightly at the sight.

You smile at him, as you wrapped your slickened hand around his dick again, and he whimpered—a soft, broken sound as you spread the wetness along his length, mixing with the arousal already leaking from his tip.

"Look at you," you teased, your lips ghosting over his, "so desperate for me."

"I—" Ivar gasped, his forehead pressing against yours, his body shaking as you pumped him slowly, teasingly. "Please."

"Please what?" You kissed him, slow and deep, swallowing the strangled moan that escaped him as you worked him in your hand.

"I don’t—"" He broke off into another shaky whine as your thumb brushed over his tip, gathering the wetness there. "I don’t know—I just—more."

"More?" You kissed down his jaw, then his throat, letting your lips linger against his heated skin as you continued your slow strokes. "You’re begging so lovely."

Ivar barely had time to react before you sank to your knees in front of him.

"Gods," he whispered, his voice breaking.

You glanced up at him, eyes filled with desire, before pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his tip.

Ivar moaned—a wrecked, desperate sound, his hips bucking slightly before he forced himself still, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

"Have you imagined this too, Ivar? My mouth on you?" You murmured, your breath warm against his sensitive tip.

"Yes," he gasped, his voice raw with need.

Ivar cut off on a moan the second your mouth wrapped around him, his whole body jerking.

"Gods—fuck," he gasped, his voice wrecked, shaking. His head tipped back, his lips parted as he sucked in a ragged breath, his entire body trembling under the new, overwhelming sensation of your wet, hot mouth around his aching cock.

He was thick, flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking with arousal that smeared against your lips as you sucked him in deeper. The veins along his length throbbed under your touch, his cock twitching every time your tongue flicked over the sensitive head, every time your lips tightened around him.

"Please—" He moaned louder as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deeper. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to grab your hair, to guide you, but was too afraid—too lost in the pleasure to even think properly.

"You’re so—fuck—so wet," he groaned, his hips twitching, betraying his restraint. "Feels too good—feels—"" He choked on a moan as you swirled your tongue along the underside of his cock, tracing the pulsing vein there before taking him even deeper.

"Love how you taste," you moaned on him, your voice thick with arousal.

He whimpered. Sweat started beading at his brow, his chest heaving as he watched you through lidded eyes—completely ruined, completely yours.

"I can’t—" His voice was strained, desperate. "I—fuck—I don’t know how much—"

You smirked up at him, your lips wrapping tighter around him as you sucked hard, taking him even deeper.

Ivar mewled, his hands flying to your hair before he could stop himself, his hips jerking forward as his cock throbbed in your mouth.

"Fuck!" he gasped. "I—I'm—"

You hummed around him, and that was all it took.

"Gods," he groaned, his head tipping back, his jaw slack with pleasure. "You—You’re so beautiful like this—lips wrapped around my cock."

You let him take control, let him guide you, your nails digging into his thighs as you relaxed, letting him use your mouth like he’d always dreamed.

"So warm. So fucking perfect."

You moaned around him, your eyes locked onto his, and Ivar lost it.

"I—fuck—" His breath broke off, his whole body tensing as his cock throbbed against your tongue. "I—I'm—"

With a strangled moan, his hips jerked forward one last time as he spilled into your mouth, his hot seed hitting the back of your throat in thick, pulsing waves.

"Gods," he groaned, his grip in your hair tightening as he rode out his orgasm, his breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

You swallowed all of it, sucking him through it, drawing out every last drop as he rode out his high.

He was panting, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths as he tried to recover from what you had just done to him.

And yet, as you pulled back, licking your lips with a knowing smirk, his eyes never left yours.

You gazed up at him with something softer now—affection laced with glee, admiration mingling with desire. He looked wrecked, his skin had turned rosy, his lips parted—his icy blue eyes blown.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Slowly, you rose to your feet. Your dress slipping down completly.

His pupils dilated.

"So beautiful," he breathed, his voice hoarse. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if aching to reach out and touch. "I have only seen you naked from afar…but now—up close—" His breath caught. "You are more perfect than the goddesses themselves."

His hand lifted, tentative, his fingertips brushing the air between you, but just as he was about to make contact, you pulled back with a playful smirk.

"Only if you come and take a swim with me."

Ivar blinked, the haze of lust in his eyes sparkling with something else.

"What?" he asked, as if he hadn’t heard you correctly.

"Come," you pushed, stepping backward toward the lake, your bare body illuminated by the fading sunlight. "Join me."

Ivar hesitated, his expression shifting—desire warring with something else—Fear.

"I can't swim."

Your smile widened. "Then I guess you’ll have to trust me."

And with that, you turned, stepping into the water, disappearing beneath the surface, leaving him sitting there—stunned, breathless, and aching to follow you.

Ivar looked at the water’s edge, his body still tense, his breathing still unsteady—not just from what had happened between you moments ago, but from what you were asking of him now.

His sharp blue eyes followed you as you floated effortlessly on the lake’s surface, your naked body half-submerged, the water lapping gently against your skin. The soft glow of the setting sun cast golden ripples across the water, making you look almost otherworldly, like some goddess who had lured him into her grasp.

And he wanted to go to you. But his body betrayed him at the thought.

He had never been in the water like this. He knew his brothers could swim—had watched them play and dive when they were children—but he had always been left on the shore, watching, knowing he could never move the way they did, knowing the water would pull him down like a stone if he ever tried.

"Ivar," you called softly, your voice warm, inviting, as you swam back closer.

You reached out, your fingers barely brushing his hand. "Do you trust me?" you asked.

His jaw tightened. His gaze moving between your face and the dark water around you, breathing heavy, unsteady.

"I—" He hesitated, his pride warring with the deep, unspoken Dread buried in his chest. "I don’t know."

You laughed, but he didn’t. He was watching you too intently, his blue gaze sharp, as if he was truly wary of you.

"What?" you pressed, raising an eyebrow.

Ivar exhaled sharply through his nose. "You are like a Sjörå," he muttered.

That made you pause. "A Sjörå?"

"Yes." His voice was low, deliberate. "Beautiful. Enchanting. But dangerous." His fingers curled into the grass. "Luring men into the water…where they never return."

"And what if I that is exactly what I want?" You chuckled, wading deeper, watching the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

He huffed, looking away, but not before you saw the hint of something heated in his gaze. "Then you are even more dangerous than I thought."

You rolled your eyes before you smiled again, soft and reassuring. "Come on. You will float. Trust me."

"You are really not going to let this go?" He asks.

You shook your head laughing.

His muscles were taut, his whole body coiled with resistance.

"Ivar," you said again, reaching up to gently cup his face, tracing along a scar on his cheekbone. "You just need to relax your body. I promise, I won’t let you sink."

He wanted to let go.

And with you—nude, beautiful, and patient before him, looking at him like he was worth trusting—he wanted to try.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he reached for the hem of his tunic.

His movements were stiff at first, hesitant, but then his clothes fell away, piece by piece, revealing him to you. He was strong, all lean muscle and sharp angles, his pale skin marked with old scars.

But it was his eyes that caught you the most. The way he looked at you—like you were something unreal, something he didn’t quite believe he could have.

You reached for his hand.

"Come," you whispered.

Ivar swallowed hard, his fingers twitching before finally—finally—he took yours.

You pulled him forward, guiding him into the water, the lake cool against his skin as it rose past his knees, his thighs, then his waist. He stiffened immediately, his grip on your hand tightening, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Then, suddenly, his feet left the ground.

His body jerked, instinct kicking in as he grabbed onto you with both hands, his muscles locked with tension.

"I knew this was a bad idea—" he gasped, gripping you as if his life depended on it. His hands clutched desperately at your waist, his legs tensing beneath the water as he tried—failed—to find something solid beneath him.

"You are screaming like a little girl!" You teased, as he shot a dark look at you.

"Don't look at me like that, you can't kill me or else we will both die." You laughed, your arms wrapping instinctively around him as he clung to you. He moved fast—scared.

"If you push me down, I’m gonna drown right with you, Ivar!" you giggled, your voice full of warmth, of laughter.

"That’s not funny," he hissed, his voice a little higher than usual, his body stiff against yours.

You chuckled, holding him close, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart against your chest.

"Ivar, look at me...don't overthink it," you whispered, rubbing soothing circles along his back. "Just...feel."

"I can't relax—" he started, but you cut him off with a soft press of your lips against his jaw.

"I’m here," you whispered. "I won’t let anything happen to you."

Slowly—so, so slowly—you felt him begin to unwind. His grip on you loosened, just a fraction. His breathing steadied, just a little. His body, still tense, still hesitant, began to trust the way the water held him.

You smiled.

"See," you murmured, your fingers threading into the damp strands of his hair. "you're floating."

Ivar exhaled slowly, his eyes locking onto yours.

And then, you kissed him.

Softly at first, gently, as if pulling him further into ease. But as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your bare body against his, the kiss deepened, his lips parting beneath yours as he melted into you.

A low, shaky moan escaped him as your hands tangled in his hair, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you closer as if you were the only thing keeping him from sinking.

And maybe, in a way, you were.

You could feel his heartbeat against your own, no longer frantic—just there, steady and real.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just held you, as if letting the silence say what he couldn’t.

Then, in a voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it, he murmured, “I’ve never felt this way before.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your thumb brushing over his lower lip. His eyes—so piercing, so intense—were softer now.

"What way?" You asked gently, your hand resting against his shoulders, feeling the slight tremble in his muscles.

He swallowed, his gaze darting away for a second before finding yours again.

"Like...like I could be wanted," he admitted, almost ashamed. "Like I could be...enough."

Your heart clenched.

“I’ve spent my whole life hearing what I can’t do. What I am not.” His jaw tensed, and for a moment, you saw the familiar hint of anger—of pain—beneath his expression.

"A cripple. A burden. A man who will never—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, his throat working as he swallowed back the rest of the words.

You cupped his face, gently, firmly, tilting his head so he had to look at you.

"You are everything," you whispered, your voice fierce, certain. "and I have wanted you for so long."

His breath hitched, his blue eyes searching yours, as if trying to find any trace of dishonesty.

"But...how?" His voice was so small, so unsure. “You could have anyone. Even great Jarls have asked for your hand. But you…” He hesitated, licking his lips. “You always said no.”

You smiled, tilting your head as your fingers trailed down the sides of his face, your touch gentle, cherishing.

"Because the Norns wove your name into the threads of my fate," you said softly, your gaze never wavering. "Odin himself could have offered me his throne, and I would still choose you. Not for power, not for glory—but because my soul has known yours since the beginning, as if we were forged together in the same fire that birthed Yggdrasil."

His lips parted slightly. The look on his face like in disbelief.

He stared at you, as if seeing you for the first time—not as a prize, but as something sacred.

"By the gods..." he breathed, voice rough with wonder.

"If the Norns truly wove us together, then let them bind me to you in every life to come. I would face Ragnarök a thousand times if it meant I could find you again."

Ivar inhaled deeply, like he was trying to commit this moment to memory—you and him in the water, wet hair clinging to your shoulders like silk, the feeling of your skin against his, your warmth, your words, your love.

"You are everything to me, Ivar." You whispered against his lips.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

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