#ivarr ragnarsson x reader

[hereforreadandwrite]

Fanfiction Masterlist :

Assassin's Creed Valhalla:

Ivarr The Boneless x Female Reader:

Blood.

There was blood everywhere.

The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the furniture, everything was covered in your parents' blood. You could only watch helplessly as the macabre scene unfolded before your eyes. You weren't strong enough to be able to protect your parents. You had to live with their death on your conscience, but your brothers Sigurd and Eivor managed to ease the burden. Everything seemed to be going well until Sigurd decided to leave Norway to go to England.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Ect...

Mangle

King Rhodri decides to take revenge on Ivarr Ragnarsson by attacking the only thing he had the least bit of affection for: you.

Warning: mutilation, torture, nudity

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Ect.

charlie and the chocolate factory:

Willy Wonka x Female Reader:

Unlike your cousin Charlie Bucket, you hadn't had a chance in life. Your parents abandon you, leaving you in the hands of Mr. and Mrs. Bucket. As long as you can remember, you had to work hard to help them make ends meet. Like your cousin, you admired the famous Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, although you know that it was impossible for you to enter it. At least, that's what you thought.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Finish~

God Of War:

Kratos x Female Reader:

Abandoned

Ragnarok is over. You agreed to follow Kratos and Freya across the nine Realms, but instead of helping them in restorative quests, you will have a completely different revelation.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Finish~

Tyr x Female Reader:

You had a happy life. A loving family and a devoted husband. But every idyllic setting had a dark spot. And you were going to learn it the worst way.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Vikings:

Ragnar Lodbrok and Daughter reader:

Being the eldest daughter of Ragnar Lodbrok and Lagertha is not an easy existence. Everyone expects a lot from you. But it's even less so when you can't stand your own father and his ways.

Chapter One

kuroshitsuji:

Undertaker x Female reader:

Madness part 1

[erzsebetrosztoczy]

Hey there :) are you currently accepting writing requests and if you are, can we request any Valhalla character 💙

Hello there! Yes I am open for requests - tho my writing speed won't be super fast in the upcoming two month (in december but mostly in january).

Pairing: Ivarr × f!reader

Words: ~ 1400

Genre: angst, fluff

Wanrings: an itty-bitty tiny smut, mention of violence, angst mostly? Idk what i did here honestly

Summary: You and Ivarr are preparing for an upcoming battle.

Notes: it's a bit short, I only had time to write this between my exams sorry⚰️✌️

Your heart sank deeper, pulling it tighter and tighter with the cold strings of the uncertain future, as the more horrific images floated before your eyes every time you dared to close them.

The camp around you was preparing unusually quietly, nowhere to be found the previous night's amusement, drinking and singing, which made the forest roar with life.

The army of thousands of troops that the Ragnarssons had was preparing for the upcoming battle in deathly silence. Grim men were putting their helmets on, sharpening their blades - sparks flaring up now and then, lighting up their dread faces. Staring in front of themselves - they did their work rotely — that either saved them on the battlefield, or betrayed them, finally being able to rest in the halls of Valhalla at the end of their long journey.

You weren’t much different from the men around you. You had the same flesh, the same warm blood flowed in your veins as your fellow warriors. Your bone breaks the same way and your blood spills when the blade strikes. The light in your eyes can die out just as for the other person beside you.

Maybe this will be the last morning you see. The last breath of fresh air you have taken into your lungs, the last birdsong that has accompanied you in preparation until now.

Placing your sword on your knees, you stopped for a moment to gaze at the silver gleam of iron once more, the runes carved along its sheet.

“Courage. Luck. Protection.” Ivarr’s familiar voice came from behind.Taking a deep breath, you staightened in your seat, looking over your shoulder into his eyes.

His gaze was distant, dark orbs flashing from behind his black face paint. Ivarr was already flaunting his full armor, axes neatly tucked into the belt on his hips.

“Do you really believe your runes will help?” He raised an eyebrow, one hand gesturing to the steel in your lap, holding a clay bowl in his right palm.

You answered with a half smile, turning back in front of you, continuing your work. Without further critical notes Ivarr the Boneless circled you, sitting down into the green before you, firmly grabbing your knee.

“Come closer Little Lamb.” With a sigh he waved to you, like an old man, preparing to recite long sagas to the children by the gentle warmth of the fireplace on a cold winter night.

Gently caressing your thighs, Ivarr withdrew his warm touch too soon only to your knees, tracing small circles into your skin with his thumb over the harsh fabric of your breeches.

Your hand stopped in the monotonous movements, you looked up at him curiously.

Inteas of the usual edge, determination and darkness, Ivarr’s deep brown eyes softly fixated on your form. The corner of his eyes relaxed, a warming tenderness emanating from his gaze as he looked up at you.

It was rare when you got to see Ivarr’s softer side; when he showed you his vulnerable side in public. These looks were meant just for you, only for the two of you — when the whole world ceased to exist, and only he mattered to you, and only you to Ivarr.

The dreaded Ivarr the Boneless, leader of grand armies, the demise of kings, the boldest berzerker who ever lived — yet his touch was tender, his gaze full of devotion. love and care as he embraced you, pulled you into his lap and sought your favors.

Your heart stirred, as you looked down at the man in front of you.

Maybe it will be the last time you can see the love in his eyes, the softness of his face — that he can be just as caring as anyone else contrary to the tales.

Your mouth trembled, lips bent into a sour smile, fearful tears will fall at any moment. With a sniff you leant down to him; Ivarr’s strong scent of iron, furr and smoke hitting your nose.

Not long ago you felt his scent just as strongly- it went into your head as you could taste it on your lips, smoother it into your own skin.

It was a dangerous occupation of yours, berzerkers and Jomsvikings life. Placing your very own soul on an unknown stake, against a foreign opponent, in the unpredictable maelstrom of fates.

You had to live in the present for your future has not yet been set in stone, the weavers of fate have not woven the next part of your song.

“There is no tomorrow. Only today what matters. What you do, what you say, what you think.” Ivarr whispered in your ear last night as he guided you onto his bed, spreading your thighs apart with his knees.

“If we want to enter the Gates of the Forever Halls without regret, we must act upon what our heart dictates.” He murmured sweetly, bowing down; soft lips smoothing over your warm skin, teeth nipping into the flesh.

It was rare when he dared to show such vulnerability to you, acting upon his better self; heart wanting nothing more but gentleness and love. It was rare when Ivarr the Boneless wanted to savor his moments with you rather than devouring you whole like a starved beast - now wanting to memorize every curve, every inch of your body, how it moved beneath him, how it felt against his feverish skin, how it tasted in his mouth.

He wanted his last image to be your moans, whispering his name, your mindless pants; cunt wrapped around his aching cock so perfectly, so deliciously for him, only to him.

“Only today is ipmortant.''You repeated. recalling his words to you with a nod. “Just focus on what’s in front of you.” It sounded like you were bagging, as if you tried to warn him.

Your finger slid up on his neck, grazing over his nervously twitching tendons. Running your fingers over his profile under his chin, palms finally came to rest on his stubbled cheeks, cradling his face.

Eyes darting between his chestnut orbs, the well-known mischief glinting in his ireses; liveliness and clarity reflected back at you.

He smiled slyly, sending you a wink; his own hand grabbing your wrist holding his face.

“I always focus on that.” He replied- tone deep and mysterious as he dropped your hands from his face. “And now you are who’s in front of me.” Ivarr stated, bringing up the bowl into your vision, that he held until now.

A dark juice swirled in the small bowl, gray as mud, but the smell reminded you of strong spices and herbs. Ivarr gestured with his chin for you to lift your face, pulling you closer and pressing his waist between your spreaded knees.

Ivarr pressed his index and middle finger into the paint, and holding up your chin with his thumb he placed his painted, cold fingers under your eyes, slowly drawing them down until your jawline, attentive eyes never leaving your own the whole time. You barely took any breath while he repeated the motion on the other side, then making a half circle on your chin. The tip of his nails pressed gently into your nose as he moved his fingers over your lips, as if to silence you for a moment. He connected the lines with the semicircle, turning his attention to your forehead now, beginning to draw more symbols on you.

Not a single word was spoken between you two; yet thousands of feelings raced through your eyes, as you watched silently Ivarr. You wanted to capture his features in your memory as throughly as it was possible — one last time to etch every single wrinkle, scard, and line that dotted his handsome face.

When he was done, Ivarr wiped the remaining paint onto his breeches, leaning back to you, sneaking his palm over your nape.

For a moment your gaze fluttered;the movements sending a chill down your spine, and at the same time filling you with immense calmness. Ivarr was there, by your side, breathing and fighting until he had breathed the last shed of his soul. And that was all that mattered to you. Knowing that your love will be there, by your side. That you will both be there for each other, doing everything in your power to fight and survive.

“Do not leave me.” You wrapped your fingers around Ivarrs wrist, gently tracing his battle scars as you searched for his gaze.

Love, devotion, longing and the thrill of the battle burned in Ivarr.

“Never, my Little Lamb.” He gave a crooked smile. “Not even the Gods can keep me away from you.” He promised.

[synintheraven]

✵pairing: sihtric kjartansson x fem!reader

✵summary: you finally find Ivarr Ragnarsson and a cup of ale gives an unexpected turn of events between the two of you.

✵tw: mentions of violence, mentions of alcohol, drinking, other than that lots of fluff :p

✵word count: 1,3k

characters info | part five

The sun was hiding behind clouds and a thin layer of snow covered the hills around us. It was cold, the wind crawled under my clothes and a shiver climbed my spine as their eyes were on me.

We had just arrived to Repton, yet the little army under Ivarr and Ubba's command was far more cautious than that of Tamworth. And as their famously reckless Lord stood proud before us, the rabid dogs followed close behind.

There were no children, no wives. Only soldiers dressed in mail, their Lord's most trusted hounds.

—And what of her? Is she your gift to me? —Ivarr asked almost too proud of himself and I was ready to bite back, but Sihtric was quicker to answer.

—She’s my woman. —He said. I frowned, his words still echoing in my head.

—Slave girl? —The Ragnarsson grinned, his eyes fixed on my expression. —Either that or she hates your cock.

Sihtric then gave me a strange look, his hand finding its way along my back and stopping where my butt joined my back, pulling me awkwardly closer to his side. —We’re just tired, it was a long journey from Theotford.

Surprisingly, he seemed to bite on Sihtric’s lie, while I pictured myself with a knife going through the Dane's throat.

—So, why are you here? Guthrum isn’t treating his hounds right?

—We got word that a son of Ragnar had taken Repton, so we thought to serve a true dane lord was better than to follow a stupid man to his defeat.

We knew nothing about Guthrum; not the colour of his banner nor the look of the man’s face. But it was easy to make up a lie when the man himself wasn’t there to deny it, though in truth Guthrum would’ve embraced us as his warriors as long as we looked like Danes.

Ivarr was hesitant, like dry weeds waiting on a spark to set ablaze. Yet he welcomed the fire, not afraid to get burnt.

—Ha! —He said loudly, his gaze studying me with curiosity as he crossed his arms. —And you, woman? Can you fight? Or are you only here to please this pretty warrior? —He finished as he looked at Sihtric, but he was out of words.

—The son of Ragnar wants me to teach him how to use his axe? —I snapped back happily, but my man, the one I wasn’t aware I had, was concerned about Ivarr’s deadly stare.

—I love sassy bitches, you can stay. —He smiled widely, as the men around us joined their lord with a grin. —Same for you, pretty boy.

Everything was blurry; the candles provided the room with a gloomy light and the flickering flames made the shadows around us deeper than they really were, like if whole territories hid among that darkness.

It made me wonder about the unknown, all that is hidden from plain sight but lurks in the blackness of the night. The wild beasts, the magic creatures, and all else that is hidden to us mortals.

I could hear the voices from the drunken warriors around me, their laughter, their joy after a succesful battle. The sound of wooden jars and metal clashing as they celebrated with ale, their harsh steps on the floor.

I was hearing Sihtric as he talked, telling me one more time stories about all his battles, all he had conquered to get here, to England. All about the raids: priceless treasures, gold-filled chests and wealthy norse fools ready to give everything up if only to escape an unneccesary fight, all that he'd managed to steal for himself after years of serving under Yggr's banner.

I watched as he wrapped his hands around the mug and a puddle of ale drenched the linen around his arms, yet he didn't seem to care. A tattoo showed from under his sleeve, an interesting shape playing in the shadow and hiding from the candle light. He simply kept on talking, ever proud and happy about his stories, his life.

Maybe it was the ale, maybe there was something in the air that night, but his words sounded funny in my ears. He was explaining how he once cut off a man's hand with an axe: the splatter of blood, the horror in that man's voice as he screamed out of pain. But all I could hear was a mumble, his attempt at sounding coherent while the ale made its way through his throat.

And so, I laughed. Sihtric's response was to look at me with a frown, then proceeded to burst out laughing with me.

He suddenly stopped and went completely quiet, worrying me for a moment that perhaps I was the reason of such a sudden change in his reaction, though nothing about his glare betrayed whatever was going on inside the man's head.

A young girl walked in our direction, trying hard to avoid Sihtric's eyes. She was skinnier than the others, with skin as white as snow and several bruises dyeing the flesh around her neck, making it no surprise that she was so afraid of the drunken warriors surrounding her. But she was there to serve drinks and so she would.

Her trembling hands made their best to hold the jar firmly and fill his cup, avoiding eye contact with the fearsome man before me. Yet when she was done and ready to escape, his hand wrapped around her wrist.

For whatever reason, I felt as if fire burnt inside of me; but I couldn't recall what was causing such a feeling, nor could I stop myself from standing up, as if something else was controlling my body.

—You're too pretty to be working at this stinking alehouse. —He said while pulling her closer, watching as the poor girl's panic intensified. —There's nothing to fear, woman, wouldn't you rather be with me than serving all these bastards?

There was a glimpse of a smile on his face, despite the terror in her eyes. He was a good man, for a drunken fool, and would've easily let her go if asked to: but that's not what those women were used to around there, so she was desperately looking for a way out.

So I took his mug in my own hand, spilling all its content on the floor. And his confused reaction was priceless.

—You better have a real good reason for that bullshit, y/n. —He stood up, freeing the girl's wrist, though she was still too frightened by him to go away.

—You're trying to hump some random girl and expect me to act as if I didn't care? —I asked with pride in my voice, though struggling to figure out what those words were supposed to mean.

He frowned again, probably trying to remain offended but failing miserably as a silly smile appeared on his face.

—We're supposed to be together, don't you remember, my love? —My words made no sense, yet they seemed sufficient for him, even if Ivarr and Ubba were too far from us to hear anything we were saying.

—Right! —His eyes widened up and he quickly took a step further from the girl, resting his hand on the messy table. —It's just that I'm so in love with you and to touch you would mean to ruin your pure beauty.

To this day I still don't quite remember what happened that night, nor do I recall when did the scared girl left us and ran back to the owner of that shithole of an alehouse. But I do, however, remember how he started to laugh mid-lie and looked down on his empty mug, only to remember I was the cause of it.

—Or perhaps my dear husband struggles to use his plow sword with his beloved wife. —I snarled back and once again he let out a noisy laugh then went quiet when he realized I had meant no compliment by that.

—Are you challenging me? —He asked with a playful smirk, leaning closer as I wrapped my arms around his neck and tangled my fingers on his hair.

My heart was beating hard: surprised at the shiver running through my body as I felt his skin on the tip of my fingers. And, for the first time since I’ve met him, something about his gaze felt different.

The candle light reflected on his face, his brown eye looking warm and inviting while the other side was ever bright, sea waters dancing within his eye.

His breath smelt of ale and his hands were getting a little too comfortable around my waist, but that didn’t stop me from reaching for his lips; even as he teased me, pressing the tip of his nose to my cheek, but avoiding my touch.

Sihtric’s kiss was full of warmth and necessity, feeling as his hands roughly pressed me onto his body. So I gave in.

[sonnefuchs]

Ledecestre

Pairing:  Ivarr Ragnarsson x Reader

Warning: sexy vibes

Looking around, you stayed away from the patrolling guards as you searched for Ivarr.

“Where is he?”  You whispered from your hood.

Eivor had sent you on ahead to find Ivarr in Ledecestre, promising to be right on your heels.

So many guards!  You were getting tired of narrowly avoiding them and ducking into shadows and bushes.  Spluttering from your last leap into a bush, you spat out a few green prickles and brushed them from your cape.

This was getting ridiculous, where was that Ragnarsson holed up?  Looking up, you thought you saw a figure pacing from a tower.

“No...  This whole time?”  You muttered, disappointed in yourself you didn’t check the high ground to begin with.  A deep sigh and you gripped the stony wall and scratched your way up the tower.

Arriving at the top of the tower you saw a familiar figure scanning the horizon.  Unfortunately for you, fully clothed this time.

“Wait, what?”  You thought to yourself as you tried to shake the memory of your first meeting.  The ink of runes on his skin etched into your mind.

Scrabbling over the top, you fell slightly lost in thoughts best saved for a later time.

Ivarr spun around and pulled his axe raised in your direction.  His brows relaxed and he replaced his axe as he saw you pull your hood from your face.

“My, my, little mouse, you are so quiet.  The Saxons never had chance with catching you.”

Walking over, he held out his arm for you to grab.  Grasping his arm, he pulled you to your feet, his strength surprising you as you were not light and he was not a towering man like Sigurd.

“Not many can catch me.”  You replied, looking up at him, tracing his scar with your gaze.

“Would you bet on it?”  He smiled, blue eyes studying you.

“Depends on what kind of reward.” 

“I can think of a few.”  He purred, fingers slowly running up your arm, caressing.

You laughed and let go of his arm, realizing you were still holding it.  Leaning against the wall, you appraised him with y/e/c eyes.

“I came as soon as I could, Eivor sent me on ahead, she will be here once she’s finished something.  Have you found Burgred?”

“Not yet, but he could be cowering within these walls.  I sent a scout in, we will know soon once he returns.  Had you come earlier, you would have made a find scout with such light a touch as yours.”

“You must place great faith in this scout to send him alone and not yourself.

He nodded thoughtfully.  “I see great things in this one.”

"And we just wait?"  You asked, already feeling the itch to explore and probe the Saxon’s defenses.

Ivarr shrugged.

"We can throw rocks at the Mercians below.”  He picked up a piece of stone crumbled off the aging tower.

"Wouldn't that just draw unwanted attention to us?" You asked, furrowing your brow."

"Define unwanted..." Ivarr grinned.

"Fine, fine." He dropped the stone to the floor.

"We could just have sex instead." He said nonchalantly.

You paused, considering it though not sure if he were serious. Up here, surrounded by Mercian soldiers. Though...the thought wasn't unappealing.

His grin widened as he watched your eyes think about it.

Before you could answer a hand shot over the wall and Eivor's head peaked over.

“Good timing, we would have stormed the place without you.”  Ivarr called out to Eivor.

Eivor looked at your warmed face and over to Ivarr.  Raising a brow at you she stalked over to Ivarr.

“What have you seen?”  Eivor asked.

“Soldiers aplenty.  Wagons going in and out.  That weasel Burgred is here, I‘m sure of it.  The bathhouse there, and that church, see?  I sent a scout to check them both.  Should be back at any moment.”

"Who is your scout if Y/N waits with you."  Eivor asked, concern clear in her eyes.  You shook your head at her, unsure who he had sent in as well.

"One keen to prove his abilities.  Did you see Ubba and Sigurd in Templebrough?"  Ivarr changed the subject.

“No.  And if Burgred is hiding here, I won’t have to.”

“There is a lot we would not have to if we stuck to killing kings.  Thanks to my brother, now we are into making them.”

“No small tension between you two.  Thought you’d be more like-minded.”  Eivor asked, slightly surprised.

“You and Sigurd...you always see eye to eye?”  Ivarr said knowingly.

“More often than not.”  Eivor shrugged looking away, thoughts of her dreams and the seers words coming back to her.

“You are still young.  You live to my age and you will see.  The closer you get, the greater the stink that rises.”

A silence fell between the two as Eivor chewed over his words.

You sat down, running your hands over the rocks strewn about.  Maybe throwing rocks at the Mercians below wasn’t such a bad idea.  The idleness had you itching to start trouble.

"Time’s up for your scout, I’d say.  He’s either dead or run off."  Eivor broke the silence.

“Give him a chance.”  Ivarr waived her off.

“Can’t risk them seeing us and Burgred slipping away again.  You stay here and wait for your scout with Y/N.  I’m going in.”

“Fine, but Wolf-kissed, don’t be disappointed when Y/N and I have all the Mercians to ourselves.”  Ivarr pulled his axe out and nodded to the soldiers patrolling below.

“Keep an eye on him.”  Eivor muttered to you as she swept past and over the wall, descending from the tower.

“Just you and me now, little mouse.  How about a game?”  Ivarr asked with a wicked grin.

Holding a rock in your hand, you stood back up, and looked down at the soldiers below.  Surely Eivor wouldn’t mind if they had a little fun...

[spookieloop]

WHAT THE DEAD MEN SAY

Chapter One:

Pairing: Ivarr Ragnarsson(AC Valhalla)/Female!Reader

Premise: You are an archeologist/linguist in the Victorian era, and your world is turned upside down when a certain Viking Warlord returns to life before your eyes.

Rating: Explicit(there is a bit of NSFT at the end, and there will be more in later chapters)

In truth, you hadn’t wanted to attend this party. The museum was...nice, but you were quite familiar with most of the exhibits. Your presence had been politely mandated by the foundation that pays your bills, if only on account of your relative fluency in a number of dead languages and scripts. Not that you were given the proper respect for your achievements. “Greatest Female Mind of the 19th Century,” to distinguish you from the men, who won far greater respect for far less work. You weren’t sure how many more questions about your ‘spinsterhood’ you could withstand; as though none of your accomplishments held weight without a ring on a finger or a child on your hip. The other scientists were the worst of course; they had seen you work, knew your intelligence, yet it served their egos to pretend as though you were lesser.

It is far too much frustration, with far too little alcohol. Perhaps wine, yes; a quick trip to the cellars to clear your head ought to do you some good. You excuse yourself, your colleagues all too willing to believe you some dithering lady with need to retire for a bit; as though they hadn’t seen you trek through hot sun and freezing rains.

You roll your eyes as you turn away, your heels tip tapping against the marble floors as you make your escape.

It is however, a large building, and the lower floors are beginning to feel more like a labyrinth than a basement. At this point, you are more interested in finding your way out than you are in seeking out more wine.

The further you go into the basement, the less light there is, fortunately, you come prepared. You rummage through your satchel for your candles and matches, shedding some light on your surroundings.

The breath is stolen from your lungs and you all but shriek at the sight before you, a wide skeletal grin seeming to stare down at you. You calm down quickly however, realizing that this must be where the museum keeps its new exhibits before they go on display. Holding the candle closer to the skeleton’s glass case, you see evidence of water damage, as though it had been found at the bottom of a lake after centuries of rest...you frown as your flame illuminates the brass plaque.

Ivarr Ragnarsson

Of course, this must be from the recent Viking Age find. You had been requested for this project, but you refused. Normally, you were a go-to for Viking cultural finds, but this...The Foundation had decided to dredge the lake in search of high-profile remains. You were sickened by the idea, it felt as though your colleagues were disturbing the extensive rituals of the honored dead. You loved history, but this...felt wrong.

Wrong could not even begin to cover what you were about to witness.

You watch in awe as the bone seems to rejuvenate from its formally eroded state; awe giving way to horror as blood and flesh materializes seemingly from nowhere, knitting together to reform the man from the inside out. His face wears a blank expression, not quite alive, as the scars tear across his flesh, ink bubbling up to the surface to reform his tattoos. Your fingertips ghost against the glass inquisitively, your fears all but forgotten as you marvel at his form. Until now, you could only guess at what the people of the distant past truly looked like; and now here he is, standing before you just as he was the day he died.

Suddenly his eyes open, and you recoil with renewed urgency, only barely keeping your grip on your candle. He hadn’t just regained his form, the man is alive. Your brain fires off quickly, desperately seeking some explanation for this...perhaps a gas leak? No, your candle would have had you up in flames.

His head tilts in confusion as he eyes you, blinking abscently as though he had woken from a long slumber. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but a look of animal panic flashes through his eyes when he realizes there is no air in this glass box.

You realize it too, instinctually rushing to his aid, moving to unlatch the glass box...too slowly. As you reach for his prison, he is already smashing his head through the glass like a battering ram, littering the floor with the glittering shards. In your surprise, you drop your candle; the light still glowing weakly against the marble floor.

Barely illuminated, the man-Ivarr, is a thing of terror; rage and confusion etched into his face. You scramble backward, pressing your back tightly to the wall as he fixes you with his murderous gaze.

“What, THE FUCK, is this?” he growls in thickly accented Old Norse.

You struggle a bit to understand him, you were much more accustomed to reading Old Norse than hearing it. His displeasure though, is obvious. He lets out a pained grunt as he steps down into the broken glass with his bare feet, quickly closing the distance between you.

“I don’t know!” You manage to stammer out in his own language, shrinking away from him as his nostrils flare with rage.

“I was in Valhalla,” he booms. “Fighting beside my family for endless days.” He looks around, even as he struggles to see in the darkness, he can tell how deeply unfamiliar this world is. “Now I am...where am I?” He growls, caging you against the wall with his hands on either side of your head.

You quake in your boots; even naked and unarmed, you know he could kill you-with ease if he wanted…and he certainly looks like he’s got murder on his mind.

“London,” you force yourself to answer.

He doesn’t let you elaborate before he resumes his barking, unsatisfied. “I have been to Lundon, they had nothing like this,” he says, gesturing to what little you can see of the modern furnishings.

“It is London,” you insist, earning a rough hand around your neck before you can finish your sentence.

“You lie,” he snarls, squeezing harder as you claw at his hand desperately.

“Please,” you urge, struggling to choke the words out. “You’ve been dead for a thousand years.”

You gasp deeply when he releases you, staring up at him as you scramble for breath. He looks confused, but not so shocked as he should be; you can only hope that he believes you.

“A thousand years?” He whispers, looking around abscently in consideration. He looks down at you as you sink against the wall. “What sort of magic calls me back to this world after so long?”

You shake your head, trying to regain your composure, eyes fixed firmly on his. “I’m as shocked as you; skeletons don’t exactly have a habit of coming back to life.”

He sighs deeply, shaking his head before he looks at you, much more calmly than he had a moment ago. “So I live again…” he runs a hand through his hair, eyes miles away before returning his gaze to you. “What happens now?”

Fear dissipating, you cautiously rise to your feet; he’s staring at you expectantly, as though somehow you are supposed to have an answer for him. “I-I don’t, wait,” you cut yourself short, pacing quickly to retrieve your fallen candle. He looks at you curiously as you return, holding the candle up between your faces. “This is an extraordinary opportunity!” You gasp, any lingering expression of your previous trepidation evaporating in the heat of your excitement.

He opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, grinning wildly. “So much history from your time is lost to us, or tainted by cultural bias,” you explain with a fevered sort of enthusiasm. Your free hand slides along his bicep, getting a closer look at the intricate tattoo stylings. “My God, you are incredible. Think of what can be learned.”

He eyes you with a grin, clearly amused with your sudden zeal in contrast to just a moment ago, when he had you cowering against the wall. “You are an odd woman,” he says, lifting his arm so you can get a better look at his tattoos.

“What?” You look up at him, breaking your intense focus, if only for a moment. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

He shakes his head, looking down at you. Already your attention returns to his tattoos. A deep chuckle escapes his throat as you kneel to trace the runes etched into the skin of his abdomen; translating them in your head. He takes you by the chin, just a tad too roughly to be tender. He grins down at you, satisfied that he’s got your full attention.

“I said, you are an odd woman.”

There is a certain growl to his voice that sends a warmth through your spine; you feel yourself blush as you realize just how much of this man’s personal space you’ve invaded.

You rise quickly to your feet, turning away from him in a failed effort to hide your embarrassment. “Sweet Mercy,” you whisper in your own tongue. “I am so sorry.”

He laughs, deep and loud from the pit of his stomach. “Sorry?” He steps closer, into the light of your candle, on full display. “There is no shame in liking what you see.”

Your free hand covers your face in scandal. Your profession affords you much less prudery than your contemporaries, but it is difficult to shake the Victorian Sensibilities with which you were raised.

He grins playfully as he approaches, his hand brushing yours as he takes the candle from you. “Look at you,” he beams, thoroughly delighted by your obvious discomfort. “You shook less when I was going to kill you.” He snatches your hand from your face, leaning into your comfort zone, but awaiting your response.

You bite your lip, focused on the hunger in his eyes. That is part of what you love so much about history, is it not? The Passion. Rarely in these modern days do you see such an unashamed lust for life. This man lived and died in a culture of unrestrained freedoms, unabashed pleasures. You gaze back deeply into his eyes; perhaps you’d like some of that pleasure for yourself.

You lean into him, pressing your lips against his, and he pushes you up against the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip as he tries to push your skirts up, but he quickly becomes frustrated with the sheer amount of layers you’re wearing. He sets the candle aside.

“Too many fucking clothes,” he growls in your ear, his hands sliding up to rip your dress open.

You gasp, ready to protest the destruction of your most expensive dress, when you notice him eyeing your corset with a frustrated sneer.

“Fuck, are you wearing armor?”

You fail to hold back your laughter as he pouts, like a dog denied his treat. Your eyes widen when he grips your corset, however and you quickly snatch his hands.

“This one is my favorite, don’t you dare-”

You hardly get the words out before he’s grinning like a madman, and you know he took it as a challenge.

“Wait, I can take it off-” You shout, but not quickly enough.

You cringe at the sound of the busk popping open. You open your mouth to give him a piece of your mind, but a pleasured squeal forces it’s way out instead as his teeth sieze the sensitive bud of your breast.

“Fuck,” You moan, your arms draped lazily around his shoulders.

He releases your breast with an obscene pop, pressing firm kisses from your chest up to your neck, before biting down on your soft skin with a lustful growl. You gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders as pain meets pleasure. You feel him start to move away, as though he’s concerned that he hurt you, and you whine.

“Do it again,” you beg, pressing your body against his with urgency.

He grins, toothy and feral, before pushing you a bit more roughly against the wall, teeth biting down on your neck. He takes your hand, guiding it to his waist. You know what he wants, and you are happy to oblige; your fingers sliding down to wrap delicately around his length.

You make long languid strokes, savoring the weight of him in your hand. You desperately want to feel him inside of you.

He groans in protest as your hand leaves him, and you laugh softly, your hands working to undo your skirts.

Your attention is so utterly consumed by him, that you hardly notice the room flood with light, until Ivarr’s attention leaves you.

“Unhand her!”

You blush furiously, shifting to move between Ivarr and your bosses, the Board of the Foundation.

Taglist: @youre-my-boshaw-baby

[underscorewriting]

Destiny | Part two

Ivar Ragnarsson x Reader

Warnings: heated make out, fluff

Part One

1076 Words

The woods were quiet. Peaceful. They hid their beauty between the tall trees. Her breath was going fast, her smile still on her face, she doesn't think it even left, ever since she saw Ivar. The time went by, waiting for him she begun to feel a worry settle in her stomach. What if he wouldn't show up? She'd look like the biggest fool. 

Hearing the leaves rustle around her she released a breath she didn't know she held. As she looked at the prince she saw him walking with his crutch. A frown was on her face, thinking about how uncomfortable it must be for him to walk with it in the woods. "Good morning, my prince." With a smile she bowed her head down slightly. 

Ivar chuckled softly shaking his head. "Even though I do love how it sounds, coming out of your mouth. Just call me Ivar." A blush crept onto her cheeks as she nodded. "I'll remember that, Ivar." She smiled at how his name left her lips. A small smirk was on his face as he watched her reaction to saying his name. 

"So, why the woods?" As they started walking, her nerves came to an ease. "It's quiet. Not many people come out here and if they do then they don't stare." The lines on his forehead told her that he got stared at a lot. "I wouldn't stare..." She whispered quietly lowering her eyes to the ground. The prince shook his head softly. "But you did, back in the great hall before we talked. You stared at me." 

A deep blush made it's way onto her face. "You saw that?" He nodded slightly, watching her carefully. "I apologize deeply, but it wasn't what you think it was." Ivar was confused. Why should her staring be different, everyone tried to talk themselves out of it, but he was ready to listen to it this time, because it was her trying to talk herself out of it. "I didn't stare, not out of pity, I mean. I thought you were quiet attractive." 

His eyebrows shot up. This changed the situation a lot. A smirk found it's way onto his face as he watched her even more careful this time. "I didn't have any bad intentions or thoughts behind it, I promise." She gave him an apologetic smile. 

Without knowing it she pushed his ego more than what was healthy. "So you thought I was attractive, huh?" The smirk didn't seem to leave her face, holding his head high. The girl lowered her head, secretly liking the teasing tone of his voice. "I did, my prince. After talking with you the feeling deepened." It was her turn to tease him. A soft innocent smile on her face as she stopped to lean against a tree, watching Ivar closely. 

The boy turned to her, looking her up and down. "You're quite the tease, aren't you?" His thoughts of the night before coming back into his mind. "Honestly? No, but I'm happy it's working." She giggled shyly. "It's working wonders..." He whispered walking closer. His eyes not once leaving hers. Again, she felt like she was drowning in his eyes. Drowning in the ocean behind them. His free hand was on her hip as he pushed her up against the tree. A quiet gasp escaping her, only encouraging him to continue. 

The smirk just wouldn't leave his face as he looked down at her. "I'll be sure to tell your brother how I had to look up to you..." Not knowing what to say in the situation the girl thought back to how Sigurd interrupted them the night before. The prince chuckled softly, leaning his forehead against hers. "You're too precious for your own good, love." He kissed her cheek softly. She could feel a burning sensation the moment his lips met her cheek, almost letting another gasp escape her. 

"I should let you go, protect you from myself and save you from being so perfectly ruined by me." He squeezed his eyes shut, almost like he was in pain, his forehead back against hers, letting a sigh escape him. "But I can't. I want to be selfish, have you all to myself." Her hand found his cheek. "Ivar, you can have me." Her voice was sincere, he never felt like he did right now. His heart was beating out of his chest. "No, not that." His face twisted in disgust for a second. "Oh..." She was about to pull her hand back. 

He was quicker, grabbing her wrist and placing a kiss on her palm, placing it back onto his cheek. "I didn't mean it like that. Well, maybe that too, I wouldn't mind laying with you, pretty girl. But I mean being with you. I want to have you in any way." His eyes opened again, looking at her with an intensity, that if she wouldn't have been pushed against the tree, she would've got weak knees. 

His mouth placed kisses everywhere, her neck, her cheek, her forehead, but they wouldn't go near her lips. "I need your answer." His voice was husky as he was torturing her with kiss. "Please, Ivar.." A whimper left her lips and he chuckled darkly shaking his head. "Keep those words for later, just tell me, can I have you in any way I want?" His hand wandered up to her chin, making her look up at him. His thumb pulling her lip down slightly. 

She was trembling at that point, trying to stay strong, so she could tease the young prince, but her self control was getting weak. "Yes! Yes, Ivar, I'll let you have me in any way you want to. Just please-" A loud gasps escaped her, but it barely left her before Ivar kissed her hard, pulling her closer, caressing her cheek. His crutch long forgotten on the floor. His hand grabbing her hip, pushing himself up against the tree in secret as well. As they both needed to breath, he pulled away, keeping his forehead against hers. 

A smirk was on Ivars face as he mentally pictured how shocked Sigurd will be, when he walks into the great hall with his newly found woman by his side. He would marry her, he knew it. That's what he meant with having her in anyway he wants. 

He could already picture them dining with the gods in Valhalla. Gods, how he couldn't wait. 

[the-historywhore]

The chronicles of Æthelstan, and his fiery wife.

Chapter 1: Married life.

Warnings: mentions of discrimination, mentions of violence.

———————

“Frida?” Æthelstan called, he had returned from his work with Ragnar in Kattegat hoping to be greeted by his wife. However, it was not that simple.

Æthelstan was a Christian, and his wife was a Pagan - a Norse woman. She was fair and beautiful, but fiery and short-tempered. He peered around the corners of the hut, hoping to find her but he found that he was alone. The Saxon huffed, all he wanted was for some comfort.

His day working with Ragnar, had also given him grief. Although Ragnar would not do such a thing, many others found themselves taunting Æthelstan. He was mocked for his faith, the butt of many jokes and taunts. It was tiresome for him.

“Husband?” He heard her call.

Frida found her husband sat upon their bed, fiddling with his hands in his lap. He seemed lost in the days thoughts. She set down the basket of fish she had collected down by the fjord and walked over to him. Her heart did swell when he looked up to her, she smiled at him and he did to her. Frida sat down beside him, her husband leant his head on her shoulder.

“What troubles you, my dear?” She asked.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, love” He replied, brushing his emotions off. Although, with his love beside him, his troubles did not seem so great after all.

“The other men have been calling you names again, they’ve been taunting you for your faith?” She deduced. Æthelstan avoided his wife’s gaze, she was right. And she knew it. “Tell me their names.”

“No, Frida. You don’t-“

“I wasn’t asking” Frida growled. “Tell me their names, I won’t have them speak to you like that!”

Æthelstan was the only one who could silence his wife’s rampages, he softly cradled her jaw to press his lips to hers. Affectionately rubbing the skin of her cheek with his thumb.

There were many times like this, where he would quell Frida’s rage and bloodlust. When she’d had a bad hunt, or torn her clothing just after she’d mended it.

“You can’t hurt everyone who makes jokes about me, just sit here with me for a while.” He explained.

“Fine,” She huffed. “I won’t hurt anyone, but I will be asking Ragnar to put a word out” She wagged her finger in his face, showing that she meant business.

Frida was small, and often described as ‘cute’. This meant that many people never took her seriously, but Æthelstan always took her seriously. He had seen what she was capable of, heard the way her anger twisted her voice to sound vicious and malevolent, she was a true force to be reckoned with. On one occasion, whilst sleeping, an enemy of Æthelstan’s had broken in while they were asleep and Frida had taken them down all on her own. In fact, Æthelstan woke up to see his wife seething with anger, hatchet in hand and blood splattered all over her face, straddling the waist of an unidentifiable man that had clearly had his face caved in with the harsh kiss of his hatchet.

She was condescending and sarcastic, and her blood-lust never seemed to end - but by Odin’s beard did Æthelstan love Frida, with all his heart.

—————

Sorry this is so short! The next one will be longer, I promise <3 let me know what you’d like to see Æthelstan and Frida face next :)

[tttbdl]

🍵👕

T-Shirt (READERxALEX)

warning: english isn’t my mother language so please forgive me if you find grammar problems. fluffy fluff.

pov >> You are dating Alex, he’s lately obsessed with teas and your obsessed with his couch

You step inside his apartment and you’re jaw drops. Alex immediately starts laughing.

“Do i see clearly?” you say shocked as he grabs your jacket. “did you really cleaned up?” you ask and he nods

“Just for you.” for some reason you’re heart just melts like some delicious chocolate. You took off your shoes then you run into the living room taking your favorite spot. “You really love my couch huh?” he raise his eyebrows

“such a comfortable couch” you answer “His name should be George” you smile at Alex then you look at the couch and you feel your body getting even heavyer.

“Woah! how do you know that my couch is a he?” he asks standing in front of you whit his baby blue eyes.

“We hang out a lot” you say

“really? without me?” he places his hand on his heart “are you cheating me with my couch Y/N?” he tries to say it with a serious face but next to you he can’t even act, he ends up laughing with you.

When the two of you stops whit the laughter you guys just stare into each other’s eyes. Alex’s eyes are so blue you can feel your body getting loosen up and getting tense at the same time. There’s just something in the way he looks at you. The way he is.

“I could never cheat on you” you whispered without thinking but you don’t regret it because it’s the truth.

“good.” he whisperers back “I could never ever ever ever ever cheat on you or even think of someone other than you” he says whit a smile then finally comes closer to you giving you a sweet kiss filled whit love.

You’re hands moving up to his face then to the back of his head, playing whit his cute hair. You feel his big arms at your back giving you warmth then one of his hands comes up to your face. he stops whit the kisses. He smiles, gives you one more quick kiss then heads to the kitchen.

“Alex Høgh Andersen, that was not nice” you yell.

you stand up and go after Alex,see what he’s doing and checking if he heard what you just said.

“what was not so nice, love?” Alex is making tea facing his huge, wide,muscular, perfect back.

You feel your legs getting weak. Even the sound of him saying ”love” just makes you feel a tsunami of butterflies. You are so into this man, you can’t even hide it. He looks at you for a second then turns back to his tea whit a big smirk.

“That you left me there” you finally say something.

Alex turns around, giving you some tea with his smirk. He has been so obsessed with teas lately you don’t know why or where did it came from. Frank Ocean must dropped a new song called “tea” or something like that. He grabs his hot drink and with his fast moves he spills a bit on himself.

“fanden! (fuck) great, now my favorite T-shirt is ruined.” he gives you a fake smile then drops it and waits for you to say something “why are you laughing?” he asks

“because now it’s a ...”

“oh god no, don’t” he shakes his head.

“a tea shirt” you continue with laughing

Alex chuckles then gives you a long kiss that you really needed by now then you pull away and you run back to the living room quickly because you can hear him running after you.

“Take off your tea shirt!” you yell and he does it with pressure.

[ashandquiet]

My Most Unswerving Devotion

Chapter 2. Musings of a Duke

Regency! Soma Jarlskona x F!Reader

Summary: Since coming to Norfolk to stay with your family, the conversations have all revolved around matrimony. Just when your aunt has found a match for you much to your chagrin, quite by accident you fall for the wealthy Duke of Cambridgeshire; Soma Guthrumsdóttir. Can circumstance truly keep you apart?

A/N: This chapter is from the perspective of Soma, I hope you enjoy the bits of story building and I apologize for the long wait on chapter 2.

Read it on AO3

Soma had always been level-headed and sane.

Or at least she was sure she had been, a few bouts of rage, but that was due to anyone under duress, it wasn’t until this afternoon she found herself acting a fool.

Soma always followed a schedule, a strictly tailored schedule at that. She would rise just before dawn, dress, and take her breakfast in her study. It was there that her housekeeper and butler would relay the affairs of the servants of the manor, the places in need of address, and she would delegate resources as necessary. Then after having read the household ledger, Soma would take a short walk in the manor gardens to take in the fresh morning air. By the time she arrived back inside, Birna would finally be awake and sitting down for breakfast in the breakfast dining room, so Soma would sit with her and tea while Birna regaled her with the affairs of the servants, but with more sordid details as always. After breakfast, Birna would ride out to town to cover any affairs of Soma’s that did not require the Duke’s immediate attention and Soma would go check on land tenants.

After the morning's chores had been carried out, it was then that at her leisure Soma would take her gelding Alvis out to run the lengths of the land. It was here in the fields that she truly felt the strains and pressure of her inherited title lift from her shoulders. All the judgment and strain put on her by society could wash away, but in the end, it was just a wash. She did just as Guthrum had taught her, put on airs, and be intelligent and cunning. Never let them see how they affect you. 

He had taken her in when she was just an unkempt street child scurrying about Stockholm with a small gaggle of other orphans, stealing and scraping to stay alive. It was after the death of her poor mother and father had left her alone and abandoned, and she had been running about the port struggling to keep up with the much older children who ran the gang like wolves. The tall bearded man dressed in finery had stepped in her way causing her to fall and his outstretched hand had effectively changed the course of her life forever. 

Before leaving Sweden he had put her to work, mostly as a little spy because she could fit into places, and hear and see things that the others of his entourage couldn’t. Guthrum then grew fond of Soma quickly and wasted no time inviting her back to England with him, and Soma saw no need to protest, she was fed, warmly clothed, and most of all happy.

Soma was given the best possible education available, learning to read and write quickly, and excelling at arithmetic and humanitarian studies. She learned to be a great leader, as well as a listener under Guthrum’s influence and tutelage. It was there she was introduced to the younger Ragnarsson brothers Ivarr and Ubba, and she learned how to fight, shoot, hunt, and the art of swordplay, seeing the two brothers as adopted older brothers of her own. As she grew and became accustomed to her life in England it became plain to Soma that Guthrum never once attempted to raise Soma as a lady, knowing that he would never have a male heir; Soma was raised as a son, and eventual heir to Guthrum’s, land, title, and holdings.

Much to society's chagrin, Soma was never offered as a marriage prospect, even though she was named as Guthrum’s only heir and beneficiary. While in her teen years there were rumors that she would eventually marry Ubba Ragnarsson, while others argued that she was particularly monstrous and no man would be able to tame her feral nature. Many made little attempt to woo her, but she snubbed them in favor of horses, books, and swordplay. 

The study of law had entranced her, so at the behest of Guthrum, a law education was arranged. Under the guise of a man, she attended university and rose to be a scholar in her own right. It was there at university with its dances, shops, and libraries, that she befriended Birna, her most stout-hearted and amorous companion, a daughter of merchants who similarly to Guthrum’s circle had come to England from Scandinavia and gained such prosperous wealth that they stayed to provide a life for their daughter. 

Birna threw Soma into a life she had never before experienced outside the scholarly and dutiful confines of her being. The joys of drink, dancing, and social calls, as well as indulging in the finer luxuries that she had denied herself. She purchased her first townhouse and it was there that Soma and Birna threw small soirees, and Birna mocked Soma for her obsession and love of rugs and interior finery. 

She met and entertained women, and had a few brief affairs, most ending with the other party marrying or being sent away by family. However letters were always exchanged but as letters stopped arriving Soma would burn the lavender and locks of hair and resume her solitary lifestyle, caring for her friends and the makeshift family she had found in the city.

As her life beyond Cambridgeshire stretched in an expanse before her, opportunities of employment and adventure beckoning, in the country, Guthrum grew sick. Knowing he was not long for this world the Duke summoned his adopted child back to his side. Dutifully Soma came and remained with him until the day he died. She knew her days of freedom were over, obligation was her constant companion as she assumed the responsibilities of Dukedom. At the recommendation of Birna, she hired an old acquaintance of theirs, Lif as a secretary and brought Birna on as an equerry to the estate. 

Together the three of them formed an insurmountable team in making the land of Cambridgeshire prosperous and one of great renown throughout England.

However, the rumor mill never stopped churning, but what was there for petty country folk to talk about more than the affairs of Soma Guthrumsdóttir?

On these particular days after a morning full of settling disputes and arranging for gifts and aid to be sent to families within her territory, Soma found herself in most need of a ride. While her head swam with thoughts of land rights, tenant arrangements, and the lending of estates, Soma rode well off into the fields of Norfolk just for a moment's reprise from it all. 

It was there, near a blooming horse-chestnut tree that she had nearly collided with what she could only describe as an angel came to earth, the sound of her voice still shook Soma to her bones as she urged Alvis homeward.

She had removed her gloves to feel the bones and muscles in the woman’s wrist and at the light skin contact, she felt as though she were on fire. The way that she could feel the woman’s eyes burn as she watched her, the soft gasp she made when Soma had twisted her wrist in a painful direction, it all made Soma’s skin prickle at the thought of her. Soma couldn’t help herself; she had crooned and given her a pet name of all things. One meeting and all she could think about was how it would feel to touch skin to skin. To talk to her as if they had always known each other. 

Soma let out a frustrated noise as she neared the manor, she knew Birna would never let her hear the end of it if she came in looking like a lovestruck, amorous fool. The romantic sensibilities of her joyful friend would run away with her. How would she ever tell Birna she never even got the woman’s name? She was a damned fool, and all she could do was hope that Birna was off making some poor girl, or boy flush with compliments.

But Soma wasn’t lucky, and Birna was there sitting outside the stable on a bench pretending to read a book while watching the stable boy work with the horse.

“There you are Soma, you great wandering lordy you,” Birna called in her usual chipper tone as Soma rode up to the stable and dismounted. Soma flashed her a weary look and led Alvis into the stable, politely declining the offer from the stableboy to take the horse from her.

Birna got serious, “What happened.”

Soma shook her head with a sigh, finding herself rushing to get the cinches undone from Alvis, Birna would begin her further questioning soon and Soma could not bring herself to say what a fool she had been. 

“Was there an incident at one of the farms? Did a cow give birth and it was partially gruesome to have seen with your lordly eyes? Was someone's child struck by a goat and you were given the child to hold while the goat was put to death? Are we having mutton?”

“No, no incidents of mention,” Soma grunted, struggling with one particular loop, her friend’s well-intentioned questions making her more irritable by the minute.

“Let me help, you’re gumming it up,” Birna stepped between Soma and Alvis taking over the chore of tacking down Soma’s bay horse. She treaded slightly out of Birna’s way to watch her undo the cinch, yet she found herself gazing at her hands, again. 

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Soma.”

“I’m alright I just need some time to myself, thank you Birna,” Soma felt grave as she nodded to her friend to take her to leave.

Stepping out from under the stable cover Soma ran her hands over her face, she was suffocating. Her throat was tight and she felt as though she would begin perspiring through her waistcoat, her hands clammy within the confines of the gloves, Soma stripped them off and tossed them to the ground. 

Somehow she had let herself act such a fool that she had forgotten to ask for the lady’s name, or an address, calling card, anything. She had even neglected to tell the lady her name, of course, Soma had wrapped her wrist with a handkerchief from her pocket that was embroidered with “SG”, her initials, but how on earth would it even find its way back to her? The most mortifying and frustrating realization of all hit like a boulder being thrown into water; How would she ever know if the beautiful creature she had met this day, also preferred the company of women .

Feeling helpless, which she hated the most, she started walking towards the manor to lock herself in the safety of her private rooms, where she could brood and mourn this terrible turn in private. It wasn’t the first time she had experienced such heartbreak and she felt as though it wouldn’t be the last. She knew herself and her heart, yet she always seemed to fall into the trap of self-imposed distress regarding affairs of the heart.

Taking care of the tie in her cravat she tossed it to the ground and made her way into the manor, taking long quick strides to her study not caring for the muddy footprints that she left in her wake. 

She has always desired women, both emotionally and carnally. The gentlest touch of another woman filled her with heavenly joy, in the passion-filled faucet of her heart she held the most sublime desires imaginable. It was her every aim in life to give a woman, whom she loved so deeply it cut like a knife, every possible thing and more. Soma had fallen like this before, and she knew that if she did not stop her heart from getting away with her she could end up broken, her heart exposed to the empty expanse of the world in the end just as before.

Soma let out an enraged noise throwing her hands in the air, she could feel the boiling rage rising within her at the thought of losing composure yet again. She was being choked, by manners and the very opposing forces within herself. Almost flailing to pull herself from it, she tore off her waistcoat throwing it across the empty room, not even having made it to her study yet. She panted staring at the offending garment. It wasn’t enough she still felt as though her clothes were constricting themselves around her. Soma then fumbled with the buttons on her vest and flung it in another direction, then the cufflinks, she yanked off her boots and collapsed onto her rear. Her eyes began to burn with emotion and she could feel her throat tighten. Soma undid the first few buttons of her collar and then drooped backward onto her back to stare upwards. Soma covered her face with her hands and suffered a strained sigh.

There was a shuffle of feet that came to an abrupt stop in the doorway, Soma turned her head to glance at the doorway where Birna stood looking a bit befuddled. Soma’s friend held the discarded cravat and suede gloves.

“Well aren’t you pitiful,” Birna chided as a maid rushed to take the items from her.

Soma sighed feeling quite pitiful indeed.

[hereforreadandwrite]

Chapter four

Masterlist

/!\ Miscarriage/!\

You came back to the longhouse, but you were strange. He knew what you went through was traumatic, but there was something else. You hid your body, covering your loosest clothes, you hid the right side of your face. You refused to look at him and you avoided him. You were hiding from Ivarr. You were hiding something from him and it was starting to annoy him. Ivarr tried to give you space and time, as Ubba and Halfdan advised him to do. They thought that with time to yourself, you would get better, but you still refused to talk to him.

You had refused to speak to him for four moons now.

Four moons since you refused to sleep with him.

You've been avoiding him for four moons.

You had completed several tasks that allowed you to move as much as possible. By Odin, you even agreed to work in the stables as long as you stayed away from Ivarr.

This time he had had enough. Their brothers could go to Helheim with their council. Ivarr was tired of seeing his wife drift away from him and become nothing more than a shadow of herself. Ivarr would go deep into the forest to find you, training you in archery. You drew the string of your bow, letting go of the string to see your arrow go into the ground, far from your target. At the end of your nerves, you threw your bow on the ground. Now that you had lost the use of your right eye, you could no longer aim properly. You had shot around twenty arrows, none of which had touched your target. You drew your axe, throwing it at the target, but like your arrows, it fell on the dead leaves.

“Shit!” you cried, running your hands over your face. "I'm tired of it!”

Ivarr leaned against the tree, watching you pick up your arrows and axe. When you turned towards him, you froze when you saw your companion. You sighed, putting your arrows back in your quiver.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, hanging your axe on your belt.

"I was looking for you. Is that bad?"

“I would have thought you would have gone to fight Bretons or Saxons.”

"The Bretons ran off with the pig's wife and apparently we can't go after the Saxons because of that idiot Bishop and Ceolbert," Ivarr growled.

“Normally, that doesn’t stop you,” you said, turning your back on him to detach your target. “What’s stopping you?”

“My wife stops me.”

You froze when you heard him say that. Was Ivarr worried about you? It was new. You turned to Ivarr. The Boneless looked at you with his gaze that seemed to penetrate your entire being. You swallowed, clutching the target to your chest. Gods, you didn't like it when he looked at you like he did. It always made you lose your means, but with their marks King Rhodri had left you.

You hated them.

You hated your body.

You had several other marks of war, but these showed your helplessness. So you made the decision to hide them. You hid your bruised eye and scars under layers of bandages and hid your body under thick furs. Ivarr lifted himself from the tree, moving closer to you. Your grip tightened, even more, on your target.

"There's something you're not telling me, woman," he said darkly. "What did Rhodri do to you? Did he make you do-"

"No! No, he didn't do anything like that."

"So what happened? What else did he do, (Y/N)?"

What else did Rhodri do?

You didn't want to think about it anymore, that's why you were always moving. You didn't want to think about this event anymore. You looked at Ivarr out of the corner of your eye. Should you tell him? Ivarr growled, spreading his arms, waiting for your response. You bit your lip. You tried to find your words. How could you tell him something like that? Ivarr was a drengr. This sort of thing was not important to a drengr. To die with dignity in combat is the goal of a drengr. Ivarr's objective. He always shouted it loud and clear. He always told you that you would be together in Valhalla, that you would both fight and drink and fuck in the great hall. Maybe you should have focused on that goal.

Maybe... you should have joined Valhalle sooner.

Maybe.

"We are drengr. Our role is to fight and reach Valhalla. That's why we are born. That's why we die. We live for nothing else, " you said, turning to Ivarr. "I repeat that to myself. Day after day. I focus on the most menial tasks to keep my mind occupied and not think about that day and what he did. I...he trampled on him like if he was just a common insect."

“Who did Rhodri step on (Y/N)?”

"Our baby... he... he trampled on him..."

Ivarr looked at you without knowing what to say or what to think. A baby? It was impossible. You never had the build of a pregnant woman. You continued your training as always. You fought against Saxons. You got punched in the stomach. Ivarr ran his hands over his face, pacing as he digested this news.

"How...? When...? You... you weren't pregnant when you were..."

"I was, but I didn't know it. He... he wasn't bigger than that," you said, pointing to the space with your thumb and index finger. "He looked like a larva... but... he was our baby... Rhodri had hit me so hard in the stomach. It hurt so much, but I... I didn't expect to see it. I tried to hide it. I hid it in a piece of cloth. I wanted to bury it. But... Rhodri saw it. He snatched it from me and... he trampled on him like he was crushing a common insect. I... I couldn't do anything. I... I could just watch him trample on him again and again... he didn't care. Nothing was left."

You could no longer hold back your tears as you thought about this scene. You saw again this little thing in your underwear that you hid a piece of fabric. You saw again Rhodri snatching it from your hands to throw it on the ground and stomping on it with rage. You screamed and cried for this child you couldn't bury. You cursed Rhodri for doing what he did.

You were surprised to see Ivarr turn on his heel and walk away from you. Where was he going? Why did he leave you alone?

"Ivarr?! Where are you going?! Ivarr!!"

Ivarr ignored your request. He continued to walk away until he disappeared from your field of vision. You had just lost your husband. Why did you speak? Why did you have to listen to Bishop Deorlaf? You should have kept it all to yourself. You fell to your knees, letting the target fall to the ground. You had nothing left. Were you alone? Not impossible. You must have had a bad dream, didn't you? Yes, that was the only explanation. You manage to get up, picking up your target to return to your tent. You put away your weapons and your target before lying down on your makeshift bed. Exhaustion overwhelmed you, you fell asleep. You didn't have any dreams. No nightmares. But there was nothing restful about this sleep. You didn't know how long you had slept, but you had to wake up to the feeling of someone shaking you and calling your name. You opened your eyes. Your gaze met Ivarr’s. You stood up, looking at your surprised husband. Ivarr had returned.

"Get ready, let's go," he said, standing up.

"Where?" you asked as you stood up, running your hands through your tangled hair. "

At Rhodri's tomb," Ivarr replied grimly.

[synintheraven]

✵pairing: sihtric kjartansson x fem!reader

✵summary/small introduction: Sihtric and you finally reach Tamworth, but you don't find quite what you were looking for there.

✵tw: mentions of violence

✵word count: 1,1k

characters info | part four

We were near. I could see the rising ground, the patched grass covering the hills to the west and the corn fields bordering the city walls to the east.

Leicester looked like no more than a bunch of broken bricks from there, the trees around it seeming small as a pile of dry leaves. The sun was sinking into the horizon, the colours of the sky going from a light orange to a dark blue, bordering the Saxon town.

And, as the horse galloped towards the edge of the hill, the Fortress of Tamworth revealed itself.

Grey stones emerged from the ground at the top, following the slope and climbing over rocks. A carved ditch circled the fortified town, weeds and bushes covered an evident trap to outside eyes. But, as long as we remained on the stone road, we’d reach Tamworth’s safety.

I had my legs hanging from the side of the horse, with my cloak flying in the wind and my sword clinging on its scabbard. Humming one of my father’s favourite songs as Sihtric listened in silence, almost enjoying the sound.

It was the closest I had ever been to him, feeling the warmth of his body on my chest and the subtle smell of mead coming from the fur over his shoulders.

—Yggr used to sing that when we were kids. —He said when the song had finished and looked over his shoulder, a subtle smirk appearing on his face. —I was told a Norse shipmaster wrote it many winters ago, before you or I even came to this world.

—I heard it was a Dane, an old sailor that went mad after spending his whole life at sea. —I taunted, yet all he gave me in return was a scoff; a reminder that, every time I thought I have gained his trust, he was still reluctant to befriend me.

Was it something I have said? One of my many attempts to provoke some sort of feeling, to find the friendly and silly man Yggr spoke of? He had told me of a happy man, a thoughtful warrior that picked his words, yet never turned down an opportunity to mock others. But Sihtric evidently wasn’t such a man, or at least hid it whenever I was around.

The fortress was closer now, a stone giant towering over us as we neared the open gates. With warriors in mail standing above them, carefully watching our approach. Yet we were allowed into the city without questioning, our looks easily betraying us as Danes as we rode among the Ragnarsson’s army.

It was a busy place; Dane folk filled the place with laughter and chatter, preparing themselves for supper as the night overshadowed the land. Children ran, most men were drinking or training and women worked hard to polish armours. They were preparing for battle, enjoying the last days before it was time to pick up the swords and the shields, then fight for the land.

The small village within the fortress was filled with smoke from the fires and the stench of animal dung, while we rode in search of a place our horse could rest. Watching over the city from behind bushes and rocky boulders, was the thatched roof over the main hall: yet the place was too quiet for a Dane Lord to be wandering around the Fortress' walls, suggesting our search for Ivarr wasn't over.

Though I still felt uneasy: carefully analyzing our surroundings, looking for the slightest sign of trouble. For no one suspected we were not the Ragnarsson's warriors, but it would take only one person to question us to be caught lying. It was just me and Sihtric and a couple hundreds of them, turning us into easy prey for a pack of hungry wolves.

But I couldn't show fear. I had to stay focused, watch every move and word I made. And if we were lucky, we'd find Ivarr.

A full moon filled the night sky, an owl hooted somewhere in the shadows and the tiny flames danced before us. The open doors allowed the cold wind inside the hall, fighting the fire on the hearth to keep the hall warm as we had supper.

A boar stew laid before us, its lack of taste compensated with sweet mead and the words of a drunken warrior, more than willing to share information with us.

—Ivarr was here a few moons ago. —He took another sip of his drink, spitting as he tried to put his thoughts into words. —But he left, because Ubba and Halfdan were fighting like children.

—Left to where? He didn’t tell us anything. —Sihtric interrupted with a lie, grabbing his mug as he pretended to drink, but I could tell not a single drop of mead had touched his lips.

—Of course he wouldn’t! —The man scoffed, giving a hard fist blow on the table. —Ivarr never tells shit to anyone, unless he either likes them or wants to chop off their head. —The last few words were almost unintelligible and I watched as he fought back the need to vomit.

—What about the brothers?

—They are in Repton! —he paused, looking at us with squinted eyes in suspicion. —Are you both new here? —He said. Then, waved a hand in the air, dismissing his suspicions. —The brothers gathered all of us here, fought about land and plans with Guthrum, then left to kill Christians over at Repton.

—With Guthrum? —I asked as Sihtric was standing up, ready to leave with our newly acquired information, but sighed and sat down again.

—Guthrum is a coward and left for East Anglia where he can play the King with his dogs. I never liked him anyway. —he took a last sip of his drink, then complained loudly about his empty cup until a slave brought him more mead.

—And Ivarr? Where could have he gone?

—He must be back with his brothers at Repton by now, —the drunken fool downed his newly served drink, looking more nauseous than before. —they always fight when there’s ale but make peace when the birds start with their little noises.

And just like that, we had a new destination to reach and a glimpse to what the Dane lords were planning. With Guthrum away in East Anglia, it meant the Ragnarssons’ forces would be smaller and their own quarrels would soon divide their army into disorganized little groups. Yet someone needed to lure those Danes into quit the fight or leave to any other territory far from our encampment.

So as the day came to an end, we bought new horses and searched for a place to spend the night, before we rode to Repton.

Fun facts, because why not?

✯Ragnarssons: So you probably noticed at this point that I don't ever refer to them as Lothbroks, the reason is that 1) medieval dane/norse last names usually go as Father's name + son (or dóttir if it's female) and 2) Lothbrok was a nickname that meant Saggy/Dirty Pants, so yeah not something I want to use to refer to his *potential sons.

✯Potential sons??: Well I'm no historian (just uhm google a lot of stuff for research and curiosity) but apparently they probably weren't Ragnar's actual sons, they were more likely just popular warriors among the danes that Ragnar adopted to hold onto their fame to remain interesting (lol) but also because a King needs heirs (and if they're legends, all the better)

✯Ragnar Lothbrok: Last but not least, the Ragnar that died in a pit of snakes potentially never existed as there's no historical or geographical proof in England of pit of snakes ever being a thing to torture or kill people, plus the tale that tells of this was written much later. However, there was a real Ragnar that did raid Paris and even went to Ireland too, but he was probably just merged with the legendary Ragnar at some point :p

[camdentown-library]

𝕰𝖘𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖆𝖓'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

☕ = Fluff 🥯 = Smut 🥨 = Angst 🟠 = One-shot 🟣 = Headcanon ☀️ = Male x Female 🌙 = Female x Female

𝕬𝖘𝖘𝖆𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖓'𝖘 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖉

male!Eivor the Wolfkissed

Sober ☕🟠☀️

Sleeping with Eivor ☕🥯🟣☀️

Holding Hands ☕🟠☀️

You hurt me first ☕🥨🟠☀️

NSFW Headcanons 🥯🟣☀️

Ivarr Ragnarsson

Dancing with the beast  ☕🟠☀️

Sleeping with Ivarr ☕🥯🟣☀️

How Ivarr behaves when he falls in love with the reader ☕🥯🟣☀️

NSFW Headcanons 🥯🟣☀️

Sigurd Styrbjornson

Sleeping with Sigurd ☕🟣☀️

NSFW Headcanons 🥯🟣☀️

Basim Ibn Ishaq

Sharing clothes ☕🟠☀️

Sleeping with Basim ☕🟣☀️

Hytham

Sleeping with Hytham ☕🟣☀️

Yusuf Tazim

Are you cold? ☕🟠☀️

Ubba Ragnarsson

female!Eivor Varinsdottir

Tyr

Ezio Auditore da Firenze

Federico Auditore da Firenze

Bartolomeo D’Alviano

Niccolò Machiavelli

Malik Al-sayf

𝕽𝖊𝖉 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕽𝖊𝖉𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

Sean Macguire

🌺 + Sean ☕🟠☀️

Arthur Morgan

🥶 + Arthur ☕🟠☀️

Dutch Van der Linde

🤬 + Dutch 🥨🟠☀️

John Martson

Bill Williamson

Lenny Summers

Javier Escuella

Kieran Duffy

Flaco Hernandez

Josiah Trelawny

Eagle Flies

𝕸𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖆𝖑 𝕶𝖔𝖒𝖇𝖆𝖙

Kung Lao

One, None and One Hundred Thousand ☕🥨🟠☀️

Liu Kang

Raiden

Fujin

Hanzo Hasashi

Kuai Liang

Kano

Erron Black

Kabal

𝕷𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 / 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕳𝖔𝖇𝖇𝖎𝖙

Thranduil

My guardian spirit ☕🟠☀️

Feren

Lindir

𝕸𝖆𝖗𝖛𝖊𝖑 𝕮𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖈 𝖀𝖓𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖊

Loki

A series of absurd coincidences ☕🟠☀️

Helmut Zemo

Bath-time with Zemo ☕🥯🟣☀️

Steven Grant

Marc Spector

Jake Lockley

Bucky

Sam Wilson

Vision

Doctor Strange

Erik Killmonger

𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖗

Ah Sahm

Young Jun

Bolo

Wang Chao

Li Yong

Zing

Bill O’Hara

Richard Henry Lee

[sonnefuchs]

Repton II

Pairing:  Ivarr Ragnarsson x Reader

“What do you call this place?”  Eivor called out to Ivarr.

“I call it the shithole.  To the Mercians, it is Repton. Their most revered kings are buried below the church.  Imagine their weeping when we drove them out."  Ivarr said with pride.

“You plunged your knife deep into the heart of this kingdom.” replied Eivor.

A group of men pushed their way in front of you, blocking you from following. The men just grunted at you as you tried to move around them, their arms laden with wares and in no hurry to move for you.  Finally, you slipped between them, squinting, trying to see which way they went as Eivor and Ivarr’s voices got further away.

Jogging slightly, you caught sight of them about to enter a tent, Eivor asking after Sigurd.

“I take it that’s where we’ll find my brother.”

“Right, talkers they are, Ubba and Sigurd.  Might want to dig the wax from your ears."

You reached the tent and heard an argument going on inside.  Unsure if you should enter, you peered through, staying to the edge of the opening.

“If I wanted to hear you talk shit, I’d gouge out your tongue and shove it up your ass. Now, fuck off.”  Ivarr warned a gigantic woman.

The gigantic woman angrily pushed her way out of the tent, incensed by whatever had happened inside.  You flattened yourself to the tent and some boxes, away from her raging gait.  You did not want to mess with that warrior, especially in her blood filled fury.

“Worry not, Ubba, I have the warriors you need.”  You heard Sigurd call out.  Creeping back to the opening of the tent, you listened as you leaned against hay and crates.

“If this is one of them, then my worries have vanished.”  Ubba’s eyes wandered up and down Eivor, drinking in her muscled physic and confident stance.

Ivarr saw Ubba’s look and snorted, leaning against the table, shaking his head.

Ivarr’s eyes flicked over to you, seeing you eavesdropping on their plans.  You breathed in sharply as his piercing gaze met yours.  You thought to run away, but your feet were rooted to the spot as his icy eyes held you captive.

“Come here, little mouse, no need to hide among the straw, we don’t bite...unless asked verrry nicely.” Ivarr bared his teeth in a smile.

Everyone turned to see who Ivarr was talking to.  Eivor figuring it was you but the rest were confused as to who Ivarr’s new prey was.

“We welcome all warriors, join us.”  Ubba beckoned to you, smiling warmly.

Sigurd saw you and his face lit up, rubbing his neck guiltily that he hadn’t noticed you sooner.

“This is Y/N.  One of our swiftest warriors.  They can take down a man before they’ve even seen the swing of their axe.”  Sigurd said with pride.

Sigurd gave you a nod and smiled as you walked forward, standing next to Ivarr.  You could feel the danger emanating off of him.  A thrill of excitement ran up your back as you stood so close to Ivarr, his eyes still trained on you, burning into your skin.

They continued to discuss the plans for taking ledecestre from the old king when their new king, Ceolwulf, walked in.  A tired but resolute looking man of many years paid you no heed as he spoke to Ubba.

“If we take Tamworth, remove Burgred, and crown Ceolwulf...come morning, this shire is ours.  And Mercia soon after.”  Ubba said.

“Yes, remove.  I cannot stress that enough.  Burgred is not to be harmed.  My legitimacy as king hands on this one simple fact.”  Ceolwulf said resolutely, his face solemn as a monk’s.

“Ughh, you rob all the joy from war, Saxon.”  Ivarr groaned, shaking off a yawn of idle boredom.

“Not every victory needs to be marked by the slaughter of a king.”  Ceowulf frowned back at him.

“Ah, but it is much better.”   Ivarr replied.

“His request is fair, Ivarr.  And we will honor it.”  Sigurd said sternly.  Ivarr tilted his head giving him a dangerous look.  Even Sigurd saw he should not push the older man.  Ubba raised his hand to ease their tension when Eivor stepped forward slightly.

“Ceolwulf betrayed his present king.  Maybe tomorrow he betrays us too.  Why trust him?”  Eivor asked.

Your fingers trailed over the maps as the others argued, their words pouring over you.

They came to a conclusion, happy with their plan to attack Burgred and to take Ledecestre away from him.

“The bold Sons of Ragnar bellow to sound the spear din and the thunder of shields.  So let fall the arrow storm.  The battle begins.”  said Eivor.

“Ahh!  You never said that this one was a poet.” cried Ubba in admiration.

"I need to piss.”  Ivarr said before walking out of the tent, his hand brushing past your arm as he left.

[freshneverfrozen]

Tincture - Chapter 2

AC Vahalla Reader Fic

Pairing: Reader x Ivarr or Hytham or Basim (look, I’m a greedy woman. I still don’t know)

Also, an apology, as my Italics and other formatting aren’t transferring here on tumblr. Find the fic on AO3 here: Tincture

Part One

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

Chapter Two - The Short Road

Fremedeleigh is gone.

At least, most of it. You stop at the edge of the forest and look out across the moors and fields. Hytham stops beside you. Three days you’ve been together, and in those days, you’ve eased his pain as best you can. He had revealed his gratitude with shy, rare smiles and sparse conversation. 

Now, when you look at him, you think you know enough about him to recognize regret when it casts over his features. Fremedeleigh is just the corpse of what had been, and Hytham seems to feel it. 

“The Ragnarssons did this. My friend is not so...wanton.” It is his way of saying he is sorry; he did not do this, and you wonder why it matters to him that you could think he’d condone this. 

You swallow hard, unable to meet his eyes when he looks at you. Another home gone. Another life. But you have a chance for a new one. 

You crook a finger toward a charred rooftop beyond. “There,” you say, “That is mine.”

“How did you escape?” He has wanted to ask you the question before -- you’ve read it in his eyes -- but he has been too kind to do so until now.

“I ran.”

“Running and out-running are different things,” muses Hytham, “You must have been lucky.”

Now, you do look at him. But his eyes are too soft, too sorry to be patronizing. You swallow your pride and the bite that wants to spring from it. 

“Luck is not what I would call it,” you tell him. Cursed, more like, with just enough sense of foresight to survive all these years. It has never been a great enough gift to be useful, only one to plague you late at night. 

When you fall silent, your eyes turning again to what had been your home, Hytham edges his horse nearer. The heavy press of its chest against your leg warms you, reminding you that you are not alone. He says, “I will escort you.”

A kind offer. He is kind, though you don’t think he would appreciate being called such now. He watches you with worried eyes, his hands flexing over the reins. 

Appreciation warms your chest, but you force it away, steeling yourself, and you shake your head. “You should look for your friend and Basim. I see no roving Danes.”

He gives you a wry smile. “I was imagining more a loose timber falling on your head. But you are right. I should find Basim.” He thinks for a moment. “Return to this spot when you are done. We -- or, I -- will await you here.”

“I will.” The prospect quickens your heart. A new life so soon. “Good luck, Hytham.”

“And to you. Do not get eaten by Danes, healer.”

With that, he turns his horse and rides south to where he hopes the Danes have camped. You tie off the mare at the base of a nearby tree -- it wouldn’t do to be spotted with a Dane’s horse. 

It wouldn’t do to be spotted at all.

.

-----------------

.

Fremedeleigh might as well be gone. Few of the buildings stand. The air buzzes with the sound of flies and you must cover your nose to shield against the reek of rotting corpses whose names you once called.

When the guilt starts creeping, you tell yourself that it was always to be this way. Their day to join the earth had come, but yours… 

As you flit between the skeletons of buildings, you hope that today is not your day. Timbers creak in the wind, like whispers and following footsteps, and each time, your muscles tighten as you press a little closer to the shadows. The Danes will have moved on. But scavengers, both human and animal, can still be a danger. Your mind conjures an image of the rabid, blue-eyed raider emerging from any of these blackened doorways as you pass them by. Each time the specter returns, you force the thought away before nausea and fear can do more than turn your stomach.

Fate proves kind. Your home is burned, unfit to keep out wind and rain, but some -- only a few, in truth -- of your stores remain. The balms have melted, ruined, and your dried herbs have gone up like tinder. But the box in which you had kept your seeds for new plants and a few vials of oils, condensed a season past, have survived the flames. A few of your other belongings have managed, too.

The under-dress you stole away in is ruined to holes, and you change into the one dress you can find that has not been burned too badly to wear. Gratefully, you find your winter shoes intact. There is little else to carry. A cut-throat idea springs to mind as you are leaving, but though it slows your steps, you do not have the heart to follow it. You should scavenge the other homes, but the thought of robbing the neighbors you had left to death sours your mood. 

You leave as quickly as you came. 

.

----------------

.

Hytham comes with the nightfall. The man is quiet, but his horse has no right to be so, and both come as something of a shock as they appear from the thicket nearby. You stand from your place at the mare’s feet, patting her silver neck to soothe your nerves, and you try hard not to be bothered by Hytham’s grim look. The man, you are learning, makes a habit of stoicism that does not seem to come naturally to him.

A waning thought has you thinking of his smiles, but you brush it away.

Now, however, as those odd-colored eyes find yours, a cold prickling lances your belly. He climbs down from his horse and stretches, but the action does not seem to loosen his worries.

“We will rest here for the night and meet the others at dawn,” he says. 

“The others?” Your chest tightens. “Basim and your friend?”

Hytham looks away. He has already started pulling at his belts and straps. Such has been the way of your recent evenings.

“And the Ragnarssons.”  

Ivarr Ragnarsson. The name flits through your mind on a chill. He will kill you, if only to save his pride. You have seen men like him before, but none have been as lasting in their impression. 

“Then our roads divide after all,” you say quietly over a knot in your throat. Hytham does not look at you. A new home has been a close thing, but close things are not for you. You prefer sure ones, and risking your life does not bring those. You clear your throat and gesture to a spot of ground before you. “Sit. I won’t send you off with an aching body.”

In the dimming light, the shadows of Hytham’s face catch in a frown. All the same, he sits, shedding his upper garments while you start a small fire. As the wood burns to coals, you search your stores for anything that might ease his chronic aching. He has been good to you these last few days, as you have been good to him, and were these few oils not all you had, you would send him away with one or two of them.

You withdraw a few, these bled from peppermint and sage, and spill a little of both into your hands. You warm them between your palms. These are actions you know, and performing them, simple as they are, takes some of the weight from your chest. 

As you turn back to Hytham, you pause. The glow of flickering flame lights his skin, his eyes, and for the first time that you can remember, you think a man beautiful, rather than handsome. He sits with his arms around his knees, his gaze on the small, licking fire. He is a dream that does not belong in these cold hills. A dream that tomorrow you will force yourself to wake from. 

You ease over to him, forcing a smile. “You will smell like one of England’s elves when I am done with you.” 

The soft teasing of your voice only drives Hytham’s gaze away. He stretches wordlessly to the side, angling himself so that his back and the sore ribs that plague him are exposed to you. 

“This will help more than coals in a scarf,” you assure him.

Still, he says nothing, but with the first pass of your oil fingers over the taunt muscles of his back, you feel him tremble. The sigh he makes is silent, given away only as it mists in the chill air. 

“You are tense,” you whisper, running a knuckle between where his ribs meet his spine. 

“I am fine.”

“You are ridiculous. What was discussed with those friends of yours that has you so...so…” You frown as something in your chest keeps you from teasing him again. The lean, corded muscles of his back feel like wood under your hands, he is so tight, and though you work, nothing you do eases him. “Hytham?”

The sound of his name has him sighing, this one less pleasant than the last. He cranes around to look at you. He really is a fine man, you think, your eyes roving the slope of his nose and the pout of his -- no, you stop that thought.

Tomorrow he will be gone, and the short road to a new beginning with him. It does not bear thinking about. 

Hytham appears to be studying you as well. A knot carves between his brow and he glances away. You resume your work and this time, you notice that the muscles are not as tense as they had been before. He lets his head fall between his knees. 

It is a long while before he speaks. 

“You should not run so easily.” He lifts his head. “Your plan to go to Ravensthorpe should remain the same. Basim would not let the cur harm you.”

Your lips twitch. “Is Basim my stalwart protector now? I do not see him.” You lean near, around to his ear. “Is he hiding in the trees?”

Hytham’s eyes fall shut, long lashes splaying over his cheeks. Quickly, you lean away. You had not meant -- 

But then, maybe you had.

Hytham answers you after too many seconds. 

“He asked after you. He feels...ingratiated to you.” The word is ground out through clenched teeth. It occurs to you that Hytham does not care for the fact that anything having to do with himself should involve ingratiation on the part of another. Another pain, one of many.

“I soothed your aches,” you say through a smile, “And you kept the wolves from dragging me off.”

“It was a fox.”

“A wolf makes for a better story.” You pinch the meat of his side. 

And...he shudders. The feel of his prickling skin beneath your hands is not at all unpleasant. But it is something for dreams. Now, you must talk of reality. 

“Besides Basim,” continues Hytham when his breath has settled, “Eivor will not let any harm come to you. I spoke with her. She agrees Ravensthorpe could do with a healer, and her word is near-law.”

Eivor. This must be the unnamed friend he has mentioned. And a woman...oddly, this eases some of your hesitation.

“You sound keen on this?” You do not like the hope that wriggles into your voice at the question. Or maybe it is a statement. Because Hytham does sound keen on it. 

He turns to look over his shoulder again, more quickly this time. “I like Ravensthorpe. I am keen on its success.”

“You are keen,” you say with a grin, “Keen and fine. What else are you, Hytham?” You pull your hands away and let them rest in your lap. 

He is rosy-cheeked, that’s what he is.

“Tired,” he snaps, “and wishing you would get on with it.”

“Forgive a humble healer for her sins, priest.”

He makes a face. “Perhaps you should not come to Ravensthorpe, after all. There are too many jesters there as it is.”

“Make up your mind, Hytham. Shall I stay --”

Hytham glares at you, but there, again, is a telling twitch of his lips. A new home, perhaps, is not gone after all. Merely eclipsed by a brief fog that had rolled in from these moors. 

“Then you will not run?” asks Hytham when you at last turn away to gather up a few cooling coals into his sash.

“I suppose not. Though if Ivarr Ragnarsson swings for my head, I make no promises. Now, stop your fluttering, priest. This will be warm.”

But he does flutter.

You try harder not to notice.

[ao3feed-vikings]

I won't hurt you

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2oFHP51

by Nejijjeoro

Ivar and his wife argue over their feelings, but especially their resentments and their son.

Words: 1508, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Vikings - Fandom

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Ivar, Ivar Ragnarsson, Ivar The Boneless, Ivarr in Beinlausi

Relationships: Ivar x Reader/Wife

Additional Tags: Vikings, Vikings imagines, some vulgar language, Fast mention of sex, But a lot of love and hate, Cute Children

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2oFHP51

[the-historywhore]

The Chronicles of Æthelstan, and his fiery Wife.

The Prologue.

This doesn’t really follow the story of Vikings, I just really love Æthelstan and wanted him to have a little Viking wifey :)

Part 1/?

Warnings:None.

———————

“You are troubled, I can see that, Friend.” Ragnar said, his smaller, Saxon friend stood looking out at a small hut on the hill opposite the longhouse of Kattegat. “There is someone who may be able to help you, you know.”

“Who?” Æthelstan replied, his odd visions and confusions within his faith had lead him to be desperate.

—————————

As Ragnar had told him, the Saxon hiked up the hill opposite Kattegat. He passed weary willow trees and climbing vines, mushrooms and all manner of nature. The hut on the hill was as small as it had looked from afar, puffs of woodsmoke rising from the chimney. There was a goat skull hung above the door, bones and pieces of horn hung from cords suspended from the canopy. He looked to his feet to see flurries of wildflowers beginning to sprout from the earth, they seemed such a contrast from the mystical charms and trinkets hanging above his head.

“He- Hello?” He called.

The door opened a crack, a striking grey eye gazed up at him.

“Who’re you?” They asked.

“I’m Æthelstan, King Ragnar told me that you might be able to help me” He stated, fiddling with his sleeve simultaneously. The door shut, and then opened again to reveal the owner of the eye. It was a small woman, a very small woman to be honest. She was perhaps shoulder height to him, still broad shouldered and quite obviously a strong Shieldmaiden in her own right. Her grey eyes were underlined with black, smoked out to intimidate her opponent - and her face was framed by short nutmeg hair that swirled and faded into a fiery red. What puzzled Æthelstan the most was the shortness of her hair, it was level with her chin. All the other women at Kattegat had hair that flowed down the plane of their backs, but this woman’s hair barely kissed her shoulder.

“What are you staring at?” She gristled. Æthelstan apologised. “Are you coming in or not?” She snapped.

Æthelstan made a note of her short temper, he was used to many women being quite gentle and soft-spoken around him but perhaps this would be a good change for him, perhaps she would be able to bring clarity to his existence.

As he entered her abode, he took in her decorations, there were coloured candles, various animal skulls, inscriptions hung up on the wall - she had runes and cards on a table as well as a hearth with an iron pot suspended above it. It was clear that this woman lived by her lonesome.

“You live alone?” He asked. She said nothing, but she nodded. A woman of few words, he thought.

“Take a seat by the hearth, could I offer you a drink or some food perhaps?”

“A drink would be appreciated, I ate this morning, but thank you.” He replied.

Æthelstan spied her as she took a seat opposite him, she poured him an ale and handed it to him.

“Are you sure you would not like some food? It is hard to face the evil within your mind on an empty stomach” she asked once more.

“How did you...?” Æthelstan side eyed her quizzically as she smirked at him, she had eyes like a doe he thought.

“It’s my talent, to know and not ask.”

“I wanted to know if you could help me.” He asked.

She scooted closer to him, as he turned to her, he found her eyes fixated into his. This was strange, he thought. Nonetheless she kept his gaze, and he too. It was as if the Norse mystic had hypnotised him and the only thing he could set his eyes upon were hers, like an axehead finally slipping onto its handle.

“You see visions of your god, but you see Visions of our gods too. It troubles you, greatly I see” She acknowledged. He nodded, she was not wrong.

“What do you suppose I do?” Æthelstan asked, he would take any suggestions just to end his torturous dreams.

“I can aid you with appeasing our gods, but I know nothing of how the Christian god can be appeased.” She replied, earnestly. He nodded, he understood. This was like asking a chicken farmer why a cow would not produce milk. This wasn’t her area of expertise. The mystic looked sad, like she wanted to help the Saxon in any way but she knew she couldn’t. “Do these things keep you awake at night, Æthelstan?” She asked, stroking her hand against his beard.

He nodded. They did.

“Ah, now that I can help with. It is enough that you should be tortured during the day - without having the visions at night too.” She seemed to walk to a table and place a collection of dried plants into and small woven bag. She walked over to him, smiled and held the bag up to her nose to smell it. The mystic then passed the bag to the Saxon and he copied her actions, smelling it. The contents of the bag smelled floral and earthy, this confused him,

“How does it work?”

“You place it next to your head when you go to sleep, it helps to relax you and sleep through the night.” She informed.

Æthelstan smiled, he knew of other ways of getting people to sleep that Ragnar had subjected himself to but he thought, perhaps, that this woman wanted to give him something that would be acceptable in his faith. Something that would spare him the pain of more torture from his god. “Come back to me tomorrow and we shall make a sacrifice to our gods, then perhaps we can try to appease your god.”

“Thank you, I didn’t catch your name?” He asked.

“My name is Frida, I shall see you tomorrow Æthelstan.”

————

Chapters are coming soon!