#ivar the boneless | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

witchezandwonderz · 13 hours ago

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Not Made to Kneal

Pairing: Ivar x Reader Word Count: 5.6k (did not expect this to be so long but I just couldn't stop writing it.) Ivar captures a Saxon girl Tagged list: (If you want to be added or removed, please let me know.) @leftoverp1zza @somebody6468 @cheesesandwichsanto @diorpar @tessakate @miksmom-blog @whitedarkmoonflower @imagines-halfpai

The smoke had not yet cleared.

It clung to the stone walls of the chapel like a shroud, curling into the rafters, trailing from the tips of broken candles. Outside, the sound of steel on flesh had faded, replaced now by the wails of the living and the uncomfortable silence of the dead.

She knelt in the pews, hands bloodied- not from battle but from tending those the battle had forgotten. A boy no older than eight clung to her skirts, his face smeared with soot. She stroked his hair absently, eyes fixed on the great oak door that would not hold for much longer. She wasn't a healer. Far from it. She was merely a girl. Well, young woman.

They had came.

The Northmen.

They knew it was coming, they just were not sure when. And there was nothing that could have prepared them for the sheer volatile actions that had played out.

Monsters, the priests had called them. Wolves in men’s flesh, come to tear down all that was good and holy. She had believed that once. But now, sitting amongst the wounded in a chapel that stank of blood and burning, she no longer believed in monsters- only men, and the things that they chose to do.

The door groaned. Splintered. Then shattered.

She considered pretending to be dead, but what if that ended up working against her?

The first of them entered in a storm of fur and iron, weapons raised, breath rising in the cold. She rose slowly, placing herself between them and the injured.

“Leave them,” she said, voice calm. “They cannot fight you.”

The warriors paused, exchanging glances. She expected mockery, violence- but it did not come. A hand went up, a command in a language she did not understand. The men stood down.

Then he entered.

Her breath hitched, thoughts whirling around in her mind as chaotically as ships on the sea within a harsh storm.

He did not stride like the others. He moved strangely, dragging one leg, leaning heavily on iron crutches carved with runes. His face was pale and sharp, his eyes the coldest thing she had ever seen- not angry, no. Almost hungry, and strangely excited.

Ivar the Boneless.

She knew the name. The youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok. The one who did not bleed like other men. A heathen prince with ice in his veins and no mercy in his heart.

He looked at her, a blank look on his face.

“And what are you, then?” he asked, his accent thick and foreign. “A nun? A healer? Or just brave enough to pretend you don’t fear me?”

She lifted her chin, pride standing in between them both, almost like a faux protection. “What I am matters little. What I will not do is beg.”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “Good. I tire of begging. You are too pretty of a woman to beg.” He smirked.

He stepped closer. The boy behind her whimpered. She did not flinch.

He smiled.

“Take her,” he said to his men. “Gently."

She did not react to his words, or respond to him. Instead, she quickly turned around so that she was facing the child and whispered "run."

Without a second thought, the boy took off as fast as he could, using his size to his advantage by slipping through the tiny gap within the door. The men braced themselves, ready to capture him, but Ivar stopped them and allowed him to run, strangely.

He watched the child disappear into the smoke and ruin out of the window, a small shadow swallowed by the city’s grief.

No one spoke.

The men first looked at each other, and then looked to Ivar, uncertain. He was not known for mercy-least of all toward Saxon brats who might live to raise a blade against him. But he merely tilted his head again, as if listening to something no one else could hear.

Perhaps he had voices in his head, she thought.

“You let him go,” she said quietly, almost in disbelief.

“I did,” Ivar replied, a sarcastic, sweet smile on his lips. “Shall I regret it?”

She turned to face him once more, eyes steady. “Only if you fear the vengeance of a child.”

He laughed. “Fear?” he echoed. “No. I’m curious to see if he lives long enough to remember me.”

A long silence passed between them. The chapel behind her was emptying now, wounded and dead alike being hauled away by the Danes. Still, Ivar did not take his eyes from her.

“What is your name, girl?” he asked, lowering himself slightly, his arms resting on the handles of his crutches, his eyes piercing into hers.

“Y/N ” she answered. “Daughter of no one you’d care to remember.”

“Y/N." he repeated, testing the shape of it in his mouth. “It sounds too soft for a woman with steel in her spine, I usually hate these Saxon names but I quite like this." He said, before repeating her name once again. She tried not to crack a smile, for although he had proven himself awful, he was quite amusing.

He motioned again to his men.

This time, they approached with less hesitation. One of them reached for her arm, but she pulled it away, not violently- just enough to remind them she was not theirs.

“I can walk, I am not a hound." she scowled at the man, he, confused looked at Ivar. Ivar was the only one there who could speak her language.

Ivar’s smile widened. “Good. Then walk with me.”

He turned before she could answer, limping from the chapel without looking back. She followed, because the only other choice was to die, and something in her, something burning and quiet, refused to give him the satisfaction.

Outside, York lay in ruins, winter ash falling like snow.

She had thought about this day since she was a child, yet, she thought that when it happened she would be dead with the rest of them. She also thought that she would feel emotional, and strangely did not feel anything. Maybe that was what adrenaline and shock did to you.

The cold hit her harder than expected as they stepped outside.

The sky hung low and grey, the kind of grey that sucked the colour from everything. Like the universe knew of the traumas of the day. Buildings once proud now stood in silence, some broken entirely, others smouldering like wounded beasts. The streets were slick with ash, snow, and blood- and the mingled stench of all three coated her tongue, and she felt slightly nauseous.

Men cheered in the distance- drunk on victory or drink itself. Others dragged spoils through the streets: barrels of ale, sacks of grain, women who did not walk willingly. Y/N forced herself not to look too long.

She followed Ivar in silence.

They passed a group of Danes surrounding a young monk, his robes torn, his face bloodied but unbowed. One of the warriors raised his axe.

“Stop,” Ivar said lazily, glanced over his shoulder at her and then commanded them to kill him once they had passed. She, of course, could not understand the command.

The axe froze mid-air. The men muttered, but backed away.

The monk, blinking through blood, looked directly at Y/N. She gave him the faintest nod- not a promise, but an acknowledgment. He was still breathing. That had to be enough.

"Please let them put him out of his misery." She asked Ivar, yet her pride wouldn't allow her to form it as a question. He was pleasantly surprised by her request; he assumed that she would want him to live. He shouted in old Norse, and winced as she heard his screams.

"Is this what your Christian god tells you to do?" He asked, still walking.

Y/N shrugged, "I do not believe in the Christian god." She stated, blankly. Ivar stopped suddenly and turned to her, sheer disbelief clouding his expression.

He let out a laugh, "You expect me to believe this?"

She mimicked his laugh, hers displaying much more sarcasm than intended, "You assume that all Saxons believe in the Christian god? Most do, but some, like me, pretend." She explained, and then looked around her, gesturing to the debris of her once home, "I do not see any point in pretending now."

"So who do you worship?" He asked quickly, like he needed to know immediately. He hoped she said Norse gods such as Odin, yet he knew that was highly unlikely.

She shrugged once again, "I worship the earth, the sun, nature and the world as we know it." She said simply, "that is what my people once worshiped."

Ivar grinned broadly, he liked that answer. She was teaching him things that he did not know. He respected that.

Eventually, they reached the steps of a commandeered manor house. It had once belonged to a merchant or alderman- the quality of the stone, the carvings, the remnants of wealth told the story. Now it bore the mark of the conquerors: shields leaned against the door, blood on the lintel, smoke curling from the hearth within.

Ivar turned to her at the threshold.

“This is mine now,” he said, casually. “So I suppose it’s yours, too.”

She blinked. “I didn't ask to be given anything.”

“No,” he said, eyes dancing. “But you've already taken up space in my thoughts. I find that annoying.”

He entered first. The walls echoed as his crutch brutally collided with the floor.

She followed, wary.

Inside, the warmth was jarring- firelight flickering across the walls, the smell of burning wood and roasted meat heavy in the air. Furs lined the benches, and carved bones lay scattered on a nearby table- runes, perhaps, or simple games. The world outside felt far away in here, like a dream she’d woken from too soon.

Ivar dropped onto a broad chair at the end of the long hall, his crutches cast aside like discarded weapons. Without them, he looked somehow more vulnerable- but no less dangerous. Definitely not.

“Sit,” he said, nodding to the fur-draped bench across from him.

Y/N remained standing. “You’ve brought me here for a reason. Say it.”

He smirked, drumming his fingers on the table.

“You’ve no interest in pleasing me, I see. Not even pretending.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” She lied, clasping her hands together to appear noble, but in actuality, she clasped them to prevent him from seeing her shaking hands.

“You should be.”

She tilted her head, the firelight catching in her eyes. “If you were going to kill me, you’d have done it already. If you were going to hurt me, you'd not have said ‘gently.’ So what am I here for, Ivar the Boneless?”

His eyes lingered on her. Something thoughtful flickered behind them- or maybe something lonely. Hard to say. Then, softly:

“I want to understand you.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”

“Because you looked at me like a man,” he said. “Not a monster. I don’t know if that makes you brave… or foolish.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, her voice steady. “Time will tell.”

He laughed at her response, "you are unlike any woman I have met." He said, his eyes still locked into hers.

"Then you must not have met many women." She retaliated. He titled his head to the side slightly,

"perhaps not." He agreed. "You will be my... assistant."

"Assistant?" She clarified, disbelief and uncertainty laced within her tone.

"Assistant." He repeated in a soft voice, closing his eyes and nodding as he said it.

"Is that a nicer way of saying slave?"

Ivar opened his eyes again, slow and deliberate. He didn’t smile this time.

“No,” he said, voice low. “If you were my slave, you wouldn’t be speaking to me like that.”

“Then what am I?” She pressed, folding her arms.

He leaned back in his chair, gaze raking over her- not with lust, but with calculation. As if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. Or perhaps a threat he wasn’t yet ready to name.

"annoying," he answered swiftly, and when she reacted with a hurtful expression, he laughed. After all of the hurt that he has caused today, the only thing that seemed to hurt her personally was a comment that he did not even mean. She did not respond.

“You’re something in between,” he said finally, this time being serious. “Not Saxon. Not Dane. Not free. Not mine." He glanced up at her, "yet."

Her stomach tightened, but she kept her face still.

“I don’t like cages,” she said.

“Why would I put you in a cage?" He asked rhetorically. She knew the question wasn't to be answered, because when she parted her lips to respond, he continued speaking. "I do not like cages either, I was born in a cage, my father was kept in a cage before his death. I do not have a good relationship with cages." Although his voice was blunt, and his face was blank, his words carried emotion. She wasn't quite sure what kind, but there was emotion nonetheless.

“You’ll stay here,” he continued. “Keep your eyes open. Your mouth shut- when it suits me. Learn our ways. Translate when needed. And don’t lie to me.”

“Is that all?” she asked coolly, a false sweetness to her tone. He chose to ignore that.

“For now.” He paused, then added, almost amused, “Unless you plan to stab me in my sleep.”

She met his gaze evenly. “Would it work?”

He grinned. “No.”

Y/N didn’t smile back, but something in her shifted. A strange, uneasy truce had been born- not peace, not trust, but something else. Recognition, maybe. Or fate, tightening its threads.

“I’ll take you to your quarters,” Ivar said, reaching for his crutches. “It’s not a cage. But it has a door.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Does it lock from the outside?”

His lips twitched. “It locks when I say it does.”

She nodded, and watched as he began to stand up. It was in this moment, that the door swung open and a man with long hair entered the room. He strode in, confidence being an obvious and familiar trait to him. Ivar did not look pleased that he had entered.

“Brother,” the man said with a booming voice that echoed off the stone walls. He raised both arms wide, a grin plastered across his face. “I was told you had shown kindness, and I thought it was a joke.” The laugh that followed was loud and entirely too carefree.

Ivar’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t move, keeping his focus fixed on the man who had entered- Hvitserk, his brother.

Y/N watched the interaction closely, the air thickening as Hvitserk made his way further into the room. There was something in the way he carried himself that was different from Ivar. He moved with ease, as if the world already bent to his will.

“Ivar,” Hvitserk continued, his gaze briefly flitting over to her with a smirk. "this is the girl? What’s your name, Saxon?”

Y/N’s eyes flicked to Ivar for a moment, searching his expression, and she saw it-the flicker of a warning. She looked at him, almost for permission. He didn’t want them to meet. She could feel the undercurrent of something building, and it wasn’t a good feeling. Begrudgingly, he nodded at her.

“I am Y/N,” she said, her voice steady, deliberately not engaging in the casual mockery Hvitserk seemed to enjoy.

Hvitserk chuckled, taking a few steps closer to her, his smile widening. “Y/N… I like the way that sounds. Almost as soft as your people.”

Ivar’s jaw clenched. He shifted slightly in his seat, eyes narrowing on Hvitserk. "Hvitserk," he muttered, low and dangerous, but Hvitserk wasn't paying attention to him anymore.

“You are lucky to be in the presence of a man like Ivar,” Hvitserk said, his eyes never leaving Y/N. “Not every woman would survive such an introduction. But then, I suppose, you aren’t entirely… like the others.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. Her voice was sharp as she replied, “Perhaps not.”

Hvitserk’s smile widened, clearly enjoying the banter. But before he could say anything more, Ivar’s cold voice broke through the moment.

“She’s mine to deal with, not yours,” Ivar snapped, his eyes fixed on his brother. “Leave her be.”

The playful expression faltered for a moment on Hvitserk’s face. “Are you seriously going to claim her already?” he asked, taking a step closer, his voice shifting into a more mocking tone. “She’s no more than a Saxon, Ivar. A woman, and a soft one at that.” He looked Y/N over once more, then back at Ivar. “Tell me, is she even worth your time? You’re no man to her. Not really.”

The words hit like a dagger, not only was he speaking of her as though she was an object, placed in the centre of the room, but Y/N wasn’t prepared to just sit back and let them pass. She straightened up, her spine stiff with defiance.

“Funny,” she began, her voice laced with sarcasm, “I could have sworn a man isn’t measured by the blood in his veins, but the steel in his spine. But then again, I’m not a warrior, am I?” She turned toward Hvitserk, her gaze hardening. “I suppose you’d know more about that than anyone, considering your endless need to talk about it.”

Hvitserk’s eyes flickered with confusion for a split second before he recovered, but the damage had been done. The smugness faded from his expression, replaced by a flash of irritation that was quick to follow.

Y/N took a step forward, not backing down. “You stand here judging Ivar, yet you’ve been nothing but a grating voice in my 'soft' mind. Just because you can speak loudly doesn’t make your words worth hearing.”

Her eyes flickered to Ivar briefly before returning to Hvitserk. “And, I must say... Ivar might not be your idea of a man, but he’s certainly more of one than you. Far more impressive, more capable, and much, much more handsome."

Ivar’s eyes flicked to her with a mixture of surprise and something else, but he remained silent, watching.

Hvitserk, caught off guard, narrowed his eyes, a quick flash of irritation crossing his face. “You think-”

“I do,” she cut him off smoothly, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “He doesn’t need to shout to command attention. Unlike you.”

The room hung in silence for a moment as Hvitserk processed her words. His expression twisted with frustration, and for once, his bravado was no match for her sharpness. He cleared his throat and turned to Ivar, a flicker of unease passing through his eyes.

“Is this how things are now, brother?” Hvitserk asked, his tone softer but still laced with irritation. “You let the Saxons talk back to you?”

Ivar, ever so composed, looked at him with a cool expression. “If you’ve finished, Hvitserk." He raised his hand, signalling towards the door.

The challenge in the air was palpable. Hvitserk’s smirk quickly faded, replaced by a faint glimmer of embarrassment. He took one last glance at Y/N before turning towards the door.

“I’ll let you have your fun, brother,” Hvitserk said, a final flicker of mockery in his voice. “But remember… I don’t share.”

With that, the door slammed shut behind him, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

Y/N stood there, the briefest of smiles still lingering on her lips. It was then that Ivar, his eyes still on the door, muttered quietly, “You don’t know what you’ve just done.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze coolly. “Perhaps he will kill me." She shrugged, showing little care for consequence.

Ivar seemed momentarily taken aback by her boldness, but a faint glimmer of approval, mixed with a touch of amusement, flickered in his eyes. It was the first time she’d seen him look genuinely impressed.

“You are more than I thought,” he said under his breath, before turning away and reaching for his crutches. “Come. I’ll show you your quarters.”

As they made their way down the stone hallway, the sound of their footsteps echoed in the silence. Ivar limped slightly ahead, his crutches tapping against the cold stone floor with each step. Y/N followed closely, but there was a subtle shift between them now.

The brief encounter with Hvitserk had rattled him, but it also made something stir in Ivar. His mind was preoccupied, but he wasn’t one to show vulnerability, not even to the Saxon woman walking behind him.

He broke the silence first, his voice low but purposeful.

“You know,” he began, glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was listening, “most people find it hard to believe that I’m capable of… kindness, or mercy, as you witnessed earlier. But what I really want to know,” he said, tilting his head as though to examine her reaction, “is whether you truly see me as... a man.”

Y/N’s eyebrow arched slightly, but she said nothing, simply waiting for him to continue.

“I mean,” he added with a sly smile, “it’s obvious I’m not exactly the traditional kind of man, is it? I don't look like a Viking warrior who can swing an axe with one hand and strike fear into a hundred men with a single glare.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “But I wonder if you, in your infinite wisdom, still see me as such.”

Y/N raised her chin slightly, meeting his gaze, the slightest hint of a smirk playing at her lips. “What is it you’re asking me, Ivar? Because, I do not understand this confusion. Yes, you do look like a warrior, and yes you quite clearly are a man.”

He glanced down at her, his eyes piercing through hers with an intensity that could make anyone’s heart skip a beat. He tried to hide how pleased he was with her answer. He let the silence stretch for a moment before speaking again.

“I'm asking if you think I’m handsome, Y/N. Not in the way men are usually called handsome -you know, the broad-shouldered, wild-eyed way most of these men like to think they are.” He gave a small, self-aware smirk. “No one has ever described me as handsome.”

His tone was teasing, but there was something in the way he said it- a challenge. He wasn't just asking for vanity’s sake. He wanted to see if her perception of him matched what he thought of himself. If she could see beyond his physical appearance, beyond the ruthless side of him that everyone else saw, and truly understand the man he was beneath all the layers of power and pride.

Yet, Y/N did not know of his true past, his true insecurities. She did not know of his life long torments, or that his brothers comments had allowed him to believe that he was nothing. Despite all, she truly thought that he was the embodiment of handsome.

Y/N considered him for a moment, weighing her words. She could have given a simple answer, but she chose to take her time, her gaze unwavering.

“I think you’re very handsome” she replied finally, her voice smooth and simple.

The words hung between them like a challenge, but there was no mockery in her tone. It was simple. Honest. She could see what others might overlook. The way his eyes caught the light, the sharpness of his jawline, the way his presence demanded attention-despite the imperfection that defined him. She wasn’t blind to that. He had, after all, just killed her entire village, so she supposed that was not a necessarily attractive trait.

He tilted his head, an almost imperceptible surprise flickering in his expression, before it was masked again by his usual self-assured, false arrogance.

“You think so?” he asked, his voice low, his gaze searching hers. There was a spark of something in his eyes, something like curiosity, maybe even doubt.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she replied evenly, her gaze unwavering. “You have broad shoulders, strong features, and your eyes…” She let the words linger in the air. “They’re beautiful, Ivar.”

He let out a soft, amused breath, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles, though he said nothing. It wasn’t the answer he expected, but it was the one he had wanted, deep down.

"Why are you asking me this, anyway? You must have women clawing to get your attention and affections." She asked innocently. She did not know the half of the reality.

Ivar’s smirk faded as he processed her question, his eyes narrowing slightly. He wasn’t used to being asked about his relationships or affections-not in the way she phrased it. He wasn’t sure if she was toying with him, trying to see if he would admit something about his past, or if she was truly oblivious to the nature of his life. Either way, it struck a nerve.

“Clawing for my attention?” He let out a short, cold laugh. His voice was laced with a bitterness he hadn’t meant to show, but there it was. “Not quite. Women are hardly ever interested in me.” His tone was surprisingly frank, though there was a bitterness to it. He shot her a glance, gauging her reaction before continuing.

He paused, and for a brief moment, it almost seemed like he was truly thinking about the words coming out of his mouth. Then, he spoke again, his voice lower, more controlled. “You see, women, they’re usually horrified by me. They look at me, at my body... they see only the broken man, the crippled thing with no worth.”

Ivar’s lips twisted into a half-smile, but there was no humour in it. His gaze dropped to the ground for a moment before meeting hers again. “They flock to my brothers instead. Hvitserk, Bjorn… They’re the ones women want. The strong, handsome ones. The ones who don’t... limp, or drag themselves around.” He spoke with a sharp edge, as if the words had been stuck inside him for a long time.

There was a brief pause as his frustration simmered, but he quickly masked it with a sneer. “So, no, I don’t have women clawing for my attention. Not in the way you might think.”

His jaw clenched, and a flicker of something-vulnerability, maybe-passed over his face, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. Ivar immediately changed his posture, straightening up slightly as though to regain control.

Y/N, lost in the moment, and forgetting the events of the day, softly touched his arm with her hand. "Ivar-"

“Enough of this,” he said abruptly, shaking his head and looking away, his tone shifting back to his usual arrogance. “You’re just trying to make me... soft. I don’t need that. You don’t need to know any more about me.”

The tension in his voice was palpable, as if he were angry at himself for saying so much. He took a deep breath and glanced back at her, his usual hard expression now firmly in place. He nearly wavered, however, when he saw her sigh, and saw a flash of hurt in her eyes.

"Come. I’ll show you your quarters," he said, gesturing to the door. The sudden change in his demeanor was as swift as it was noticeable-he had shut down again, retreating into the shell he was more comfortable with. Now she understood what people meant when they referred to him as unpredictable.

As he turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder, his voice cold and dismissive once more. “Let’s not talk about this again. I’ll not indulge you further, Y/N.”

She nodded, accepting his words. He turned to leave, and began to walk away, but stopped when she heard him call his name. He popped his head back through the door and looked at her expectantly.

"Thank you." She said softly, with a genuine smile. She meant it, for he could have killed her, but he did not.

Without a word, he gave a single nod before disappearing down the hallway, his crutches tapping steadily as he moved away from her.

Weeks passed, and as the days bled into one another, something between Y/N and Ivar had undeniably shifted. What had once been an uneasy truce was now something more complicated, something that neither of them could deny. They were no longer just captor and captive, but something... different. Something fragile, yet undeniable.

Ivar had begun to trust her in ways he never thought possible, and though he would never admit it aloud, he found himself craving her presence in a way he couldn’t explain. She saw him for more than just the monster others thought he was. And slowly, despite all his efforts to keep her at a distance, she had become someone he couldn’t ignore. Deep down, he could not be shocked, this was bound to happen.

It wasn’t often they spent time together without someone else around. Most of the time, Y/N stayed in her quarters while Ivar dealt with his duties. Yet, now and then, he would find some excuse to be near her. He’d bring her something- a trinket from the raid, a new book, or something odd that had caught his attention and made him think of her. Little things, but to him, they were gestures that carried meaning.

On one evening in particular, the great hall buzzed with the low roar of men celebrating, the smell of roasted meat and smoke hanging thick in the air. Warriors boasted of their kills and drank heavily from horns of ale. Ivar sat in his throne, quiet, watchful- his presence always commanding, always feared.

Y/N was seated to his right, not a prisoner, not quite free, but something else entirely. She no longer wore the look of someone surviving. Now, she carried herself with a calm strength that drew just as many eyes as Ivar’s silence did.

Eirik entered- a seasoned warrior and one of Ivar’s most trusted men. Tall, smug, with a sharp grin and a reputation for overstepping when drunk.

He approached with too much confidence, emboldened by drink and the sound of laughter. “Ivar,” he called with false cheer, “you’ve been hiding her from us too long.” He glanced toward Y/N with eyes that lingered too long. “A beauty like this shouldn’t be caged away at your side like a falcon. She should be flying.”

Ivar didn’t move.

Eirik took another step forward, crossing the invisible line that kept most men at a respectful distance. “Let me see her smile,” he said, reaching down, hand brushing along Y/N’s shoulder- light, but unmistakably invasive.

That’s when the world stopped.

There was a sound- metal on wood- as Ivar pushed himself to his feet, one crutch falling with a loud crack against the stone. His face was unreadable, but his eyes burned.

“Touch her again,” he said, voice low and venomous, “and I will cut off your hand and make you wear it around your neck.”

Eirik chuckled nervously, trying to wave it off. “Come now, Ivar. Don’t tell me you’re in love with the Saxon girl.”

Then it snapped.

With a roar that turned every head in the room, Ivar lunged-dagger flashing. The blade sank deep into Eirik’s side, and again, and again, faster than anyone could stop it. Gasps erupted as blood spattered across the floor and Eirik fell, coughing and clawing at the wound.

Silence fell like a curtain.

Ivar stood over him, chest heaving, hand stained red. His expression twisted-not with regret, but with something far more dangerous.

Obsession.

“She is not yours to speak of,” he growled at him as though he was still alive to listen. “Not yours to look at. Not yours to touch. She is mine.” He shouted.

He turned then, toward the crowd, his voice rising-louder now, without shame. “I have slaughtered kings for less than what you just did. Do you think I would hesitate to kill a friend for her?”

No one moved.

He turned to Y/N, gaze softer but still intense. She looked up at him and gulped, scared but slightly and strangely honoured. His voice dropped again, ragged with truth. “You don’t understand what you’ve done to me. I can’t breathe for wanting you. I’d burn the world to keep your eyes on me. That is what you mean to me.”

The silence in the great hall was heavy, every eye fixed on him.

He turned slowly to face the crowd, his voice rising- unshaken, loud, raw.

“Yes,” he said, tilting his head and daring any man to challenge him, “I am in love with the Saxon girl.”

A few murmurs, but no one spoke loud enough to be heard.

“I don’t care that she’s not one of us. I don’t care that she’s not some shieldmaiden. She’s mine. And if any of you so much as look at her with anything less than reverence -you’ll join Eirik.”

Then, without hesitation, he turned back to her. Everyone was still watching, but Y/N didn’t see them anymore. There was only him.

She stepped forward, close enough that her voice didn’t need to rise- close enough that it could be just for him.

“I would do anything for you,” she whispered, her eyes locked into his. “Not because I owe you, or because I’m afraid. But because I see you, Ivar. All of you. And I love what I see.”

It was more than he could bear.

He reached for her as if she might vanish- one hand cradling her face, the other pulling her gently closer. And then, as if no one else existed, he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It was all fire, and truth, and desperation. She kissed him back just as fiercely- not out of fear, or obligation, but because she meant every word she’d said.

#vikings fanfiction #vikings #vikings ivar #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson #ivar the boneless #ivar x reader

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axelsagewrites · 2 years ago

Text

Ivar the Boneless*Does He Treat You Well

Pairing: Ivar x wife!reader

Kinktober Day eleven: knife play with Ivar the Boneless – people whisper and wonder how someone so sweet could marry someone so angry, but they don’t see what Ivar does when you’re underneath him

Warnings: ivar being ivar, slight blood kink, blood, knife play, knife kink, p in v sex, nipple play, choking, hickeys, smut 18+

Masterlist Here

Kinktober List Here

You heard their whispers in the street, of course you had. You remember the concerned expressions etched into your parents face as you dedicated your heart to Ivar. You knew what people thought of him and what they feared for you.

Even Ubbe, a long close friend of yours expressed his concern. You had married Ivar a month ago yet now Ubbe was asking you the question, “Does he treat you well?” he asked in a hush whisper from where you sat at the opposite side of the hall from your husband. Your eyes flickered to Ivar as you recalled how he had treated you last night.

“Such a pretty dress,” Ivar praised as he laid by your side, his hands trailing down the fabric of your dress as you gazed up at how his pale blue eyes scanned your body, “Shame it has to go,” he muttered but you knew he was not sorry.

Especially not when he clutched the neckline, his dagger slicing through the fabric with ease. Cold air washed over your frame causing your nipples to harden while Ivar finished slicing the dress off you. his eyes raked your body, the dagger slowly being dragged up your legs. You shivered as the cool metal glided along your thigh, so light that it didn’t even scratch your skin. “Husband,” you whined, your hand gripping his wrist making his eyes raise to meet yours, “I need you,”

A low growl left his throat as his lips crashed onto yours. you felt his blade move away from your body, but you were too intoxicated by his lips to care as your hands wound up in his hair as he moved to lay over you. he broke the kiss as suddenly as he started it, his empty hand reaching to squeeze your tit before pinching one of your nipples roughly causing you to whine.

His lips moved to your collarbones, sucking harsh marks into the sensitive skin as he rolled your nipples between his fingers making it hard not to moan loudly. “Such a pretty little thing,” Ivar praised, his voice almost mocking as his eyes raked your chest.

You shivered when you felt the tip of his dagger run up your side slowly, moving over to run up your chest. As he ran the blade up between your breasts, he pressed down lightly, just enough to break the skin. A hot feeling flushed along your chest as Ivar dropped the blade, running his thumb over the cut he had made, collecting the blood on his finger.

You watched as he sucked his thumb, his eyes rolling back into his skull, “Such a sweet taste,” he praised, moving his hands from his lips to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheek bone. Your hand moved to hold his wrist softly and Ivar smiled at your tenderness in even this moment. “A gift from the gods,” he murmured, his lips falling to press soft kisses down your chest to your breasts.

“Husband,” you moaned lightly as he took your nipple into his mouth.

“What is it my sweet?” he asked, trailing his mouth to the other, sucking harshly making you gasp in pleasure.

You could feel your stomach burning and your chest aching, needing his touch despite how close he already was. Your legs moved to hook around his lower back, pulling his body down gently into yours as your hands moved to cup your face, “I need you,” you whispered, pulling him in for a soft kiss.

Ivar however growled, his kiss growing more intense as his hand moved to grab your jaw. You gasped lightly when you felt his hips grind into yours, his hard cock evident through his trousers. While you had heard the whispers of his failures in the bedroom one night with Ivar proved it had just been a mishap.

His lips moved to your jaw, kissing it harshly as he trailed down your frame. His lips soon captured your nipple, his teeth grazing it making shivers run down your spin. You felt his rough hand squeeze your thigh before it slipped between them, running a finger up your slit, “So wet for me already,” he praised, “How desperate you really are,”

“So desperate,” you whined quietly, “for you Ivar. I need you please. do not make me wait,” you begged, your hips instinctively bucking as he rubbed harsh circles onto your clit, “Please husband,”

Your words seemed to spark something in the man as his hand wrapped around your neck, the other diving beneath his trousers to fish out his cock. “You want me?” he asked, and you nodded wordlessly as you felt him line himself up with your entrance, “Then you shall have me,” he grunted, pushing his tip in slowly making you gasp at his size you had still not grown used to. His eyes screwed tight in bliss as he slowly sunk his cock all the way in, his hand trailing down your throat to your breast, squeezing it lightly.

Your hips bucked, desperate for friction, and Ivar had sensed your impatience. His hips began to move, slowly at first before falling into a brutal and relentless pace. Your legs wrapped around his hips, allowing him to hit a deeper angle making curses fall from his lips.

Your eyes screwed shut, trying to stifle the moans as your fingernails sunk into his bicep. You gasped when you felt the cold blade press against your throat, but it only added to the way your body tightened beneath him. When you opened your eyes, you were met by his icy blue ones.

For a moment you wondered if it this was the sight your husbands’ enemies were forced to see before they were sent to Odin and for a moment you thought this alone would make death worth it. but they didn’t get to feel the way you did as you felt your peak soon approaching. Ivar grabbed your hand roughly, shoving it between your bodies so you could rub fast circles into your clit.

His blade moved up, pushing against your jaw making your head tilt back as Ivar’s lips dove down to your neck, kissing down the soft skin. When you felt his arm slip under your back, pulling it up and causing it to arch, you gasped as his cock hit a new spot that somehow felt even better.

Ivar groaned at the way your cunt squeezed around him, but he was determined to last until you had, and it did not take long as with a few more specific, aimed thrusts you found your orgasm rushing over you. your body tightened, your legs wrapping around him and pulling him in deeper making Ivar groan and drop the knife. He moved his arm out from under your back, grabbing at the sheets as his thrusts grew messy and desperate, his forehead resting against yours.

You felt his body stiffen as you came down from your own peak, still panting from the high as you felt him spill inside you before collapsing on top of you in a sweaty mess. After a couple of moments to allow you both to catch your breath Ivar looked up at you, his eyes tender and sweet, “Are you okay my love?” he asked.

“Are you okay?” Ubbe’s words snapped you back from reality and your eyes darted back to him, not noticing your husband’s smirk from across the room.

You smiled warmly at your brother-in-law, “Yes and you don’t need to worry Ubbe. He treats me very well, I promise,”

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