#vikings tv x reader

[axelsagewrites]

Ivar the Boneless*Does He Treat You Well

Pairing: Ivar x wife!reader

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

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

Masterlist Here

Kinktober List Here

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

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

/

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

/

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

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

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [1]

series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold w.c: 4.3k tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description

Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.

Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.

Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.

You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.

"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.

"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.

"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.

"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"

"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."

Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.

He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.

Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.

You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.

The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.

Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.

Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.

"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"

"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."

"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."

You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.

There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.

Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.

Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.

They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.

Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.

Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.

But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.

Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.

Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.

Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?

"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.

"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."

Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.

You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.

A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.

Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.

You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.

His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.

Devils, come to sack the convent.

Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.

You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.

It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.

"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.

The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."

You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.

"Good girl," Skull says.

The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.

Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.

You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.

"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"

"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"

"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.

"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.

It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.

Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.

"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"

A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.

Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.

The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.

Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.

They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.

Yet.

"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.

His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.

Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.

Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.

"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.

"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"

You blanch, breath leaving you.

"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"

"Take 'er."

With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.

"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."

Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.

The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.

You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.

The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.

Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.

"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.

Or ask him for help.

Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.

A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.

Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.

"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.

"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."

"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.

When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?

God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?

"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.

You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.

"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.

"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."

They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.

Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.

It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.

You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.

Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.

You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?

The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.

Blood rushes in your ears again.

You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.

A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.

"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."

You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.

"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."

"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"

"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"

"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."

He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.

"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."

It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.

The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.

"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.

You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.

"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.

The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.

"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"

"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."

"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.

Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.

You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.

Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.

"Here," Simon says. You look up.

In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.

His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.

"For me?" you ask.

"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.

"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.

"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.

Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.

Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.

Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.

When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.

Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.

He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.

"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.

"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"

No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.

Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.

"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."

You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.

You wonder when this journey will end.

Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.

She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.

Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.

"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."

"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.

Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.

"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"

Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.

Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.

Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.

"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.

"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.

"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."

He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.

"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.

Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.

"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."

You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.

"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.

The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.

You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.

The soap is better than the water.

"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.

"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."

"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.

"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."

The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.

"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.

The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.

"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.

The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.

"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.

"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"

"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"

"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.

You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.

Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.

"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Finnish polka" - Ivar the Boneless x Reader

SUMMARY: After helping one of the northern Jarls, the Lothbrok brothers attend a celebratory feast. There, they're faced with a tradition of warriors catching flower crowns that belong to young women. How surprised Ivar is when you almost shove your crown into his hands.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.1k

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Ivar is tired.

Of course he's glad that Jarl Thorstein came out victorious. And that his brothers are fine. Still, he feels weary as the adrenaline leaves his body. His legs start to ache. Ivar downs the rest of his mead in hopes it makes him a little more deaf to his mood.

The upbeat, bright music fills his mind like an obsessive thought. His heart beats to the rhythm tapped by the feet of dancing women. They spin, jump and run around with flower crowns sitting atop their heads. How the wreaths remain immovable, he can't quite say.

Ivar is also angry.

As the local tradition entails, when the song ends, all the dancing young maidens will throw their flower crowns to the crowd. Whoever catches it, is believed to be the girl's lover chosen by the gods. However, whether the couple indulges and trusts gods' judgement is a different story. But if the wreath falls to the floor, the girl is said to remain unmarried for the next five years.

Ivar knows the chance of him somehow catching one of those is near zero. He's sitting quite far from the dancers. Even if he did catch it, he's disillusioned about the imminent dissatisfaction of the flower crown's ownert. Not only is he disabled in a way that almost entirely excludes him from fighting but he's also infamous for his ruthless nature and vengeful heart. Hardly a man who invokes desire. Still, some naive piece of him remains hopeful that maybe he's wrong. Maybe he can be terrible and loved all the same.

He shakes those weak delusions away from himself before they sour his mood further.

His piercing eyes have been following one of the dancers for the better part of the song when he catches himself. Her movements look effortless even when the musicians pick up the tempo. Clearly, she's done this dance one too many times to have any doubts about what she's doing. Joy beams from her in a way that makes her appear almost shining. The wreath on the top of her head is mostly green with white and red flowers. It makes Ivar think of the woods surrounding Kattegat; it makes him think of home.

Ivar leans toward Oddleif, one of the Jarl's men, who's sitting next to him.

"Who is she?"

Oddleif looks at Ivar out of the corner of his eye. He scoffs, takes a large sip of his drink and only then decides to answer:

"If you're thinking of catching her flower crown, don't." His blond braids dance slightly as he shakes his head. There's a hint of laughter hiding in the back of Oddleif's throat. "Half of the surviving army wants it."

"I have no care for flowers," Ivar lies through his teeth. "They have no use. They wilt and die and soon no one remembers them. I am simply curious about her."

"Her father is the blacksmith. You might have seen him in the battle, swinging that damned sledgehammer." Ivar silently nods. He remembers that man - tall as a pine tree and wider than a stable. The blacksmith invokes respect even when he's not decimating enemies like a troll equipped with a tree trunk. "He said once that he'll let any man marry his daughter but only if he can lift an anvil. Tried it once myself. Not that I had any success as you can imagine." Oddleif laughs bitterly and continues drinking. His eyes are glued to the dancers but Ivar knows that right now, the two of them are admiring the very same girl with a flower crown like a forest.

The melody continues to quicken. Despite being out of breath, you don't want it to end. Your feet ache but they do not falter nor do they stumble. It seems that their muscles know the dance better than your mind. There are a dozen girls dancing with you but you do not see them. Not really. They appear worlds away from you and the song of bagpipes and strings.

And then appears he.

A slouched, dark figure flies before your eyes as you're doing another pirouette. The man simply sits there, in the corner, but his presence is overwhelming. Or so you think. He does nothing and yet he tears his way into your microcosm of quick footwork, turns and lively polka.

You recognize him. Of course you do. Many whispers, equally frightened and amazed, have spoken of him. You have believed in all of them until the moment you met his gaze for that split second. Right then, somewhere between blinks and breaths, you renounce every gossip you've ever heard about him. A voice in the back of your head, a trickster or an oracle, nags at you to learn the truth yourself.

When the lively, fast melody comes to a stop, you find yourself shaken awake from the thoughts about Ivar the Boneless. The end of the song seems somewhat abrupt to you as you've been letting your fantasy run wild without paying much attention to what's going on around you. Dancing the last part purely by the memory of your muscles. The moment musicians stop playing, a small crowd begins to form in front of you. Men of different class, age and ancestry reach out their hands. Each one of them is more determined than the other to catch your wreath. They start to yell something but considering that the inside of the long hall is awfully loud anyway, you can't make out any words. Reading their lips, you can only tell when they're exclaiming different variations of your name.

They're only pushing towards you, shoving each other away. You keep taking steps backwards but the distance you create with each step is quickly shortened with the men calling out to you. You knew there would be many of them in front of you but never assumed that many. Instead of somewhat flattering, the siege is terrifying and imposing.

Looking for help or advice, just something that will ease your tension, you silently look around the long hall. Your gaze falls on the same slouched, dark figure. Strange peacefulness washes over you when his eyes meet yours.

The dim candlelight seems to bend around Ivar, making his corner appear darker than anywhere else in the long hall. He's simply sitting there. Maybe he's not interested? But the way he's staring at you shows nothing if not burning curiosity. The sons of Ragnar aren't know for their patience. No, they're said to take whatever they want the moment their desire sparks. Despite that, the youngest of them, and arguably the most famous, appears to be waiting. But for what exactly?

The fresh pine needles prick your skin. You furrow your eyebrows. Your gaze falls to the wreath and then comes back to Ivar. Could it be...?

It isn't much of a throw, really. You toss the flower crown towards him without looking anywhere else but into Ivar's eyes. Without as much as blinking, he catches the wreath with ease as though he has been prepared for that. Low murmurs hit your ears but quickly the sounds of disappointment fall silent as it's made clear who caught your wreath. Despite their initial determination, the men who had been reaching out to you suddenly disperse like fog does in the early morning. They knew better than to get under the skin of a Lothbrok. Especially that one.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Ivar is holding up the wreath. Despite his words, he makes no effort to offer it back to you. His eyes are bright and glistening, the corner of his mouth is tugged ever-so-slightly upwards. He appears amused.

At first, it was nice to finally sit down after dancing for what seemed to be hours on end. But now, when you're facing the consequences of your spur-of-the-moment decision, the tension sets in once more. This time, however, it doesn't feel threatening. In turn, the nervousness is somewhat welcome like the jittery state before a surprise is revealed.

"If I wanted to keep it, I wouldn't have thrown it," you answer in a light tone.

"And why should I keep it?"

The blue eyes study you for a moment. It's a strange feeling - you can't help but think that the longer you are in Ivar's presence, talking or not, he's reading your mind and soul. He stares at you in a way that tells you he already holds all the answers but wants you to confirm them.

"It's said to bring good luck." You shrug your shoulders. "Until the wreath wilts and dies, Freya and Freyr will look after you."

Ivar looks at the flower crown again. Only now, when he's holding it, does he realize that for a flower crown, there aren't many flowers. A few sandworts and poppies, yes, but the wreath is made mostly of evergreen plants. It might take weeks until the crown wilts.

The microcosm seems closed again. Now it's not you and the bagpipes but you and him. It's strange and it's new but it's not threatening. It's not the kind of presence a man of his infamy should have. Or perhaps you've simply fallen for his honey trap.

"Why did you throw it to me?" Ivar tries to make the question seem unimportant, just curiosity brought to light. But he can't quite convince himself that he doesn't care. There's a hint of something vulnerable and genuine when the words roll off his tongue. It's easy to miss like a dandelion clock carried away by a gust of wind.

You wish you knew the answer yourself.

"I don't know really," you say honestly. "Perhaps it was one of the gods that threw the flower crown for me." You make a pause. Ivar's face is unreadable. "Or perhaps I have no interest in urgent, desperate men."

Ivar chuckles. A deep shadow is covering part of his face, making him appear kind of sinister. For a moment, you question whether he's laughing with you or at you.

"And what exactly makes you think I'm not urgent or desperate?" he continues. You notice his smile is growing wider. That glint of amusement in his blue eyes has changed in mischief. "What if I'm worse than all of them? You surely know who I am."

"Of course I do, Ivar the Boneless," you drone the words. In a barely noticeable fashion, he clenches his jaw when you say his name. It makes him feel a strange, burning sensation in his stomach but Ivar is left unsure whether he likes it or detests. "The whispers of your ruthless character are unending."

"But you're not afraid?" he asks with both disbelief and suspicion. A girl with a flower crown doesn't necessarily strike him as fearless in any way. Or this whole strange situation is a little too good, too dream-like, for him to accept it at face-value.

Ivar's smile falters when your face takes on a confident, maybe even arrogant, expression. He's taken aback.

"I'm a woman of the North," you say while leaning towards him on the table. The distance between your faces shortnes. "The only person I fear is my own reflection."

The sudden closeness makes Ivar inhale sharply. The strong smell of pine needles fills his nostrils. For a moment, his imagination runs wild but it's not his fault - he has no grasp on it:

How those big eyes glistened in the semi-dark of the long hall as you were staring at him. Your smirk, somewhat challenging and beckoning him to push on. Then, the smell of conifer that shakes all senses awake. His fantasy leaves the northern snows and travelles to forests, to him brushing pine needles from your hair and your naked, flushes skin smelling of evergreen trees.

But quickly his shaken awake, to his utmost displeasure, by you:

"Well, if you don't want it, I suppose I should take it back, no?"

Your hand unsurely reaches out for the wreath in Ivar's hand. He's quick to pull his arm back.

"It's bad luck to take back gifts," he states plainly. In an act of nonchalance, Ivar is playing with the wreath, spinning it around his finger. "I should like to keep it."

Sometimes you come back to the night you've met the infamous Viking, when you're rendered sleepless while he's calmly breathing next to you, getting the rest he desperately needs. How funny all of it seems - that a flower crown in bloodied, merciless hands could lead to having a genuine crown on your head. Maybe you were right, after all, and it really was the hand of one of the gods that threw the wreath for you.

[midnightstar16]

Whispers of Love: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 2.2k

Summary: Reader is new in Kattegat and catches the attention of a certain Ragnarsson.

Warnings: Assault, murder, slight swearing(i think)

You came to Kattegat just a couple days ago but it didn’t take much time at all for you to notice the famous sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. You only saw them from a safe distance as they talked to one another. You noticed one of the boys was crippled but not before you saw his face. You were in awe, to say the least. But your eyes must have lingered on him for quite some time for he met your gaze with an intense stare that sent chills down your spine. You never had more reason to leave and go back to the hut you were staying in.

You became an orphan at the mere age of 12 and had taken care of the farm for many years with your older brother. But the two of you had recently decided that you wanted a far more exciting future than just farming on the land so you sold the land and took the money to buy a hut and look after yourself just until you had settled in. You forgot about Ivar soon enough once you reached you new home and moved on with your new life.

A month passed by and living in Kattegat was so much more different than the farm. It was much louder, faster and there were more people than you could count. But it was not to your dislike, it was the contrary actually. You had started your training to be a physician and you were doing nicely. Everything was working out better than you or your brother could’ve imagined.

Ivar had not stopped thinking about you ever since that little eye contact in the market and it may have been a bit delusional of him to still believe that he would see you again. You were probably not even in Kattegat anymore because he could not find you anywhere. You were the first girl to look at him with such admiration and he drowned in your beauty the second he laid eyes on you.

During dinner he seemed to have zoned out because Sigurd had to throw some food at him to get his attention. Ivar was immediately annoyed and glared at him. Trying to stop himself from flinging his axe at his brother, he asked, “Why are you throwing food around like a child?”

“You wouldn’t listen. Had to do something to bring you back to Midgard,” he replied.

Ivar rolled his eyes, already feeling great anger towards his brother but before he could say anything, his mother interrupted, “We are celebrating Yol tomorrow.”

Ivar drowned in his thoughts once more. He would know if you were in Kattegat by tomorrow night. If you were in the town, then you would be at the feast and he would approach you. He wanted to know all there was to know about you; all the important and unimportant things of your life.

You and Kalf, your brother began cleaning up the plates and horns after dinner. You broke the silence, “It is Yol tomorrow. There will be a great feast.”

“Yes, I have not been in the Great Hall since the Thing, where I got my arm ring. Just thinking about the food that will be there makes me hungry all over again,” Kalf spoke excitedly.

“We have just had dinner, you fool. How are you always this hungry?” You spoke laughingly.

“Your cooking will make any man excited to eat something else,” he commented.

Gasping, you threw the nearest thing you could find at him at which he simply laughed. You spoke sarcastically, “I won’t make food for you if you really hate it that much.”

“Well, I mean it’s not THAT bad if I think about it,” he retaliated.

Smiling smugly, you spoke, “Better.”

The feast was spectacular. You sat on a different table from your brother though because you knew he would embarrass you the first chance he got. The food and the ale was so good you could feast all night. There was music as well and many were dancing to it but you weren’t drunk enough yet to give yourself away to the music. You simply talked and laughed with your newly made friends.

Looking around the hall, you suddenly noticed certain eyes on you and then the memory came back. Those blue piercing eyes and that face, he was perfect in every way. You maintained the eye contact for long, getting lost in his eyes until one of your friends whispered, “That’s Ivar. The crippled one.”

You looked at her. You had heard of Ragnar Lothbrok’s crippled son. The girl continued, “They say he is a menace, quicker to anger than most men, so don’t let his legs fool you and not only that, but I’ve heard that he is stronger and better at fighting than any of his brothers. Apparently he strangled a boar with his bare hands but that is probably not true.”

“Of course it is not true,” you scoffed. After waiting a second, you suggested, “Come, let us dance. The music is lovely.”

The both of you giggled and rushed to give yourself away to the music. You soon felt the beat through your veins and the rhythm matching with your heartbeat. You danced uncontrollably, partly because you wanted to see how the crippled prince would react, if at all. His eyes had barely faltered from you and it was making you uncomfortable but you didn’t want him to know that. You didn’t want him to know that he made you feel weak by simply looking at you but every now and then you would give him a glance.

You suddenly felt a hand around your waist. You didn’t know who the man was for you had never seen him. His hold on you was not budging when you struggled. His other hand was roaming at places on your body that made you terrified and the hall was crowded enough for no one to truly notice your struggle.

“Let go of me!” you said, struggling.

“Oh what’s a bit of harmless fun? Especially with a woman of your beauty,” the man spoke.

You felt tears welling up in your eyes as he continued to ‘dance’ and play around with your body until something that you hadn’t expected in a million years to happen. A knife suddenly struck his head as his eyes remained widened with shock. You quickly stepped away as his body fell to the ground. The tears ran down your face and you looked around trying to figure out who it was until you saw everyone looking at Ivar who was glaring at the man’s limp body. It was different to how he had looked at you in every singly way but you didn’t stay around to find out more. Feeling absolutely overwhelmed, you stormed out of the hall with Kalf following.

“What happened back there?” Kalf spoke worriedly.

“I-…” you hesitated. Before you could speak, your brother interrupted, “You don’t have to tell me. It is fine… Come on, let us go to our hut.”

Ivar had had his eyes on you all evening, his brothers even teasing him about it but he quickly turned them away angrily. But when he saw that asshole trying to touch you without consent, Ivar felt an uncontrollable anger. He wanted to skin the bastard alive but he couldn’t simply watch you struggle like that. Even after killing the man, Ivar felt no guilt. Why should he? He was simply protecting you, making sure you were safe.

No one had asked him about why he had done what he did. Perhaps it was already too obvious. Perhaps he had scared you off. You wouldn’t even want to go near him now. He felt his insecure thoughts weighing him down during the night.

You barely slept through the night, the picture of the knife piercing the man’s skull replaying in your mind and then seeing the look Ivar had on his face. That menacing look, the one that could take down entire armies.

The next day, you went away from the town to feel the quiet of nature that you had already begun to miss. You walked around the forest, finding a riverbank to sit nearby quickly enough. You thought about what had happened last night, how, in some really fucked up way, Ivar saved you. But he also killed a man who will never experience Valhalla now. Then again, that monster didn’t deserve Valhalla. You sat there wondering what would’ve happened if Ivar had not intervened.

“Mind if I join you?” you heard a voice from behind. When you turned your head and saw that it was Ivar, you quickly stood up.

“Were you following me?” you realised in this moment, you were terrified of him.

“Will it help if I said no? Either way, you walk too fast so I had to find you myself,” he spoke. When you didn’t say anything, it didn’t take him long enough to realise how you felt, “You are scared of me.”

Scoffing, you reasoned, “Who wouldn’t be? You killed a man while I was simply inches away.”

“He was hurting you,” Ivar remarked as if that was reason enough.

“But you could’ve killed me,” you argued.

Ivar grinned, “I didn’t though, did I?”

“Well… No but still, it was terrifying,” you said while Ivar made himself comfortable by sitting against the trunk of a fallen tree.

Even though Ivar worked very hard to not show it, he had been very nervous to actually talk to you. Now that you were here, he didn’t want to ever leave.

You stood there silently before sitting down in front of him. What was it about him that you felt so drawn towards?

He looked at you lovingly, “What is your name?”

“Y/N is what they call me… But I already know who you are, Ivar,” you acknowledged.

“Do you?” Ivar joked.

“That anger in those gorgeous eyes of yours, how could you be mistaken?” you replied.

“My eyes are ‘gorgeous’?” he couldn’t control his smile.

You blushed, “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“I’m afraid so. I don’t mind the compliment though, please, y/n, carry on about my gorgeous eyes,” he teased. Truth was, he felt a thousand butterflies. He’d never gotten a compliment from anyone.

The two of you continued making jokes at one another, laughing constantly and time flew by ever so quickly. Ivar couldn’t believe the sun was about to set. With you, he didn’t have to worry about anything. He felt at peace.

When his brothers asked where he had been, he simply smiled and shrugged. For the first time in so long, he didn’t feel furious. There was something about you, like you were a goddess who appeared to save him. The next day Ivar went up to the same place, hoping you would show up. He was almost about to leave until he saw you show up.

You finished your work as a physician for the day as quickly as you could and relied on your friends to cover up for you. Once out of Kattegat, you practically ran to the same spot on the riverbank as yesterday. You didn’t know how but you just knew that he would be there, nor did you know why you felt so eager to go to him either.

You continued these secret meetings for as long as you could. No one was aware of who or where you actually went but you didn’t care even if they found out. Ivar had become your sanctuary as you had become his.  

During one such evening, as the sun began its descent, casting a warm golden glow over the riverbank, you found yourselves lost in a conversation filled with laughter. Ivar had a knack for weaving humor into every exchange, and you found yourself charmed by his wit and the way his eyes sparkled with amusement.

Ivar grinned, his eyes dancing with mirth. "See? I told you I was the funniest person you'd ever meet."

Laughing, you shook your head. "Well, I suppose I can't argue with that."

His gaze softened as he looked at you, a warmth filling his eyes. "I'm glad you find me amusing, y/n."

You smiled back, feeling a flutter in your chest at the sincerity in his voice. "You have a way with words, Ivar."

He chuckled softly. "Only when I'm with you."

The air between you seemed to crackle with an unspoken tension, and before you could think, you found yourself leaning in closer to him.

Ivar's hand gently brushed against your cheek as he whispered, "You're beautiful when you laugh, y/n."

Unable to resist the pull any longer, Ivar reached out, gently cupping your cheek with his hand. His touch was tender, sending a shiver down your spine as you met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest.

As your lips clashed with an overdue feeling of affection for one another, Ivar kissed you passionately and possessively almost as if declaring that you were his.

You pulled away, breathless and exhilarated, you found yourself lost in Ivar's eyes once more, a sense of belonging settling deep within your soul.

“I am yours, y/n, now and forever and you are mine,” Ivar’s words echoed in your heart as you buried your eyes in his, expressing a thousand unspoken words.

[1-800-choke-me]

Hvitserk: I sleep with an axe under my pillow

Ubbe: I sleep with a knife under mine

Y/N: you're both pathetic

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

Y/N: Ivar

[woahhhgwendolyn]

Birthing Ivar's Child Would Include...

-Birthing his child would not be like anything else. He would make sure that you are comfortable and have the best doctors around to make sure that you are okay while birthing his child.

-He would honestly not know what to think the first time that he gets the news that you are going to birth the child that night.

-He would of course come straight away to the house where you are birthing and stay there with you through the whole process.

-He would kind of be worried for you in a sense because he has not seen a women birth before, so he does not know if any of what you are going through is normal.

-He has to be constantly reminded by the doctors that it is completely normal what you are going through right now. He is just nervous for you.

-He stays there with you the whole time that you are birthing. No matter what. He even tells his brothers that you are birthing and that he will be a while before seeing them again. Because he does not know how long it will take you to birth the child.

-After a long while of you trying and trying to birth the child you finally birth the child.

-Ivar could not have been happier. He was so happy he could not hold in his happiness and started to smile like a maniac. After a while after you birthed the baby Ivar's brothers came in and got to hold the baby and say hi to them.

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

How would Vikings react to Ivar being remembered?

summary: it's in the title :)

notes: no warnings except for maybe mentions of death

tagged: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins @levithestripper @cookielovesbook-akie @leithdragon @demon-of-the-ancient-world @alicedopey, @ivarlover @batmandallyboy @akayxo09 @vrtualfairy @esme-viridian (hmu to be added/removed!)

masterlist | based on this request

Ragnar

Pretends he always knew (eugh he’s such a bitch ong)

Nooo I would never set my son out in the wild… meeee? No wayyy…

He takes credit for it for his ‘great parenting’ and ‘legend genetics’

If Ivar had any legend genetics, they came from aslaug

Aslaug

Proudest mom out there, acts like a soccer/pta mom when she hears

Aslaug actually always knew

She quotes her prophetic dreams from like, 853 AD?

“I knew since I was five years old.” (truth)

Lagertha

Okay? Who cares? What about Bjorn?

Totally not pissed that he may be more famous than she is (lie)

Defo sulks about it to torvi and then kills someone important to expand her own legacy

She’s in the fame biz

Bjorn

Bro throws a toddler tantrum

He will literally stomp the ground

“That’s not fair, I discovered the Mediterranean!!” (he says that in the stupid tone he gets in the later seasons)

So so bitter about it (he deserves that)

Ubbe

Ubbe’s smoking weed in America with Floki

He does not care

“That’s just bad taste from people from the future. Me personally? I’d admire the person who found a continent. Idk, that’s just me though.”

Gets over it the fastest

Literally just thinks that it’s so dumb of modern people bc Ivar is a silly little guy with anger issues

Hvitserk

Similar reaction to Ubbe, except he doesn’t have to get over anything

Just kinda shrugs, he’s too busy worrying about his own legacy

What’s he in the history books for? His cuisine skills?

Yeah, bro’s kinda busy managing his own shit and trying to stay alive

Sigurd

Don’t tell him

For your own safety

Will kill you and then himself

Ivar

Don’t tell him either

Never lets anyone hear the end of it

So so so annoying for a silly little guy

He just loves and hates himself so much that, at the same time, he so needs to hear this and also never, ever hear this ever at all

Floki

Floki is the same as Aslaug, he KNEW

Also, he takes credit for raising ivar and being a father figure (fair enough)

He’s a teeny tiny bit sad that ivar was friends (in a weird homosexual way) with Alfred though (kind of, and this only applies if we’re talking about tv show Vikings)

Honestly, Floki would be such a good source to add to the material we have of ivar

Ecbert

So mad he didn’t have a bigger impact on ivar

Also so mad that all the kids around him have such big legacies (Alfred, ivar) but not him??

He wants to get mentioned!! Footnotes aren’t enough!! He needs to be the main character, always.

Gets sad drunk over it way too long

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In His Thrall

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, age gap, power imbalance, size kink.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You serve the king but one day, he assigns you a new duty. (short!reader)

Characters: Harald Finehair (Vikings)

Note: This turned out longer than I intended. It’s my first fic for this fandom. Also tagging @alicedopey for her encouragemnt.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Mario loves pipes. Take care. 💖

Harald Finehair. The man who made himself king. So the tales say.

Spurned by a beautiful princess, he swore to seize a crown, to make himself wanted by every princess across every realm. Often it is that lives are woven like sheep's wool, to lend an air of romanticism to rejection or war or death. You're not certain what to believe about the king but he does not fall short of his name. His hair braided down his back with fine ornaments of silver and gems collected from lands you'd never know.

It doesn't matter what a thrall believes. You will never make yourself a queen, nor be a princess to deny a suitor, nor even dream of being a wife in her home, minding a hearth and a husband. Your fate is to toil, to serve those who have been chosen to claim a place in Valhalla.

So it is that you watch through the grey mist, receding as if in deference of the king, the Finehair stride by, a cape stitched with the image of a howling wolf swathed in flame, silver on red. He has the bearing of a warrior, confident but stealthy, laughing as he greets a smith and smiles at a passing maiden. 

You keep your head down, boning fish with the short curved blade with the wooden handle grooves to your fingers' grasp. You toss each limp body into a bucket as voices swirl in the damp air. Boots mulch on the beaten path as the smell of guts pervades your world. Your bloodied hands are slimy and the blade slips in your hold dangerously. 

You balance the knife on the edge of the wooden pail and wipe your hands across the stained apron around your middle, a ribbon of blood streaking past the hem and down your skirt. The mess doesn't bother you much as you check your fingers for damage. The din quiets and a static silence invades as soles kick across the dirt. You sense the change and raise your chin as you reach for the fish knife again.

Another hand scoops it up first, fingers decorated in inky markings above the leather gauntlet. Your breath catches as Finehair's eyes meet yours. As blue as the sky, they see the whole world beneath them. You swiftly retreat and watch the iron blade instead. He stands straight and raises it to the dull daylight 

"A fine tool," he remarks.

At first, you can't speak. You don't know if you should. You're not certain if he speaks to you or another under the hide ceiling shucking fish.

"Many thanks, my king," you wisp out at last.

He turns it in his clutch and clicks his tongue, "I'm afraid the scales are too small for my hand," he refers to the knife's bone handle, "but I see it is well used."

"My king," your lashes flutter as you keep your eyes perilously neutral, "I crafted the scales myself. For my hand."

"Such small hands indeed," he squats and holds out the knife, "but toughened and strong."

He offers the knife scales first and you stare at it. Slowly, you reach for it. You gasp as his other hand comes up to catch yours and he clasps you tightly with his thumb, trapping your knuckles against his palm. You think to pull away but know you mustn't. 

"But gentle when need be," he turns your hand over and pushes the knife into it, "I'm certain of it."

"My king."

He lets out a soft breath, something akin to laughter but less. He squeezes your fingers around the antler bone and lets you go as he stands. He looms above you as you sit frozen on the low wooden stool.

"A king rewards those who work diligently in his name," he declares, "and King Harald the Finehair will ever be the most generous of kings. Little one, your prize will come. Carry on in your steadfast labour."

"Yes, my king," you bow your head lower, watching the toes of his sewn boots until he goes.

You're uncertain what's occurred. Why he came to you. How he even noticed you among the dozens of thralls. You don't tarry on it however as you must fill the bucket for the king's next meal.

🌙

The drunken din of the feast rumbles from the longhouse, doors open to the early embrace of spring. Dag sits whittling a piece of dingy pine as you sit in the doorway of the thrall's hut, most of the denizens sitting in the grass enjoying the new warmth. You watch the moon, like you do every night, and ponder. The great beacon seems to reflect you in each stage, a sliver worn down only to grow full again, waxing and waning, sinking and rising.

"Hopes there's some scraps left for us," Dag mutters, "last time, I got a whole leg of lamb one of them maidens only nibbled on."

"Mm, this weather doesn't make me very hungry," you drawl as you rise, "and it feels too early to sleep. I may walk a while."

"Ah, but it is too the season of the wolves," he girds as you stretch your arms above you between the lintels.

"I will be aware," you promise him, "and I will keep my knife with me."

You feel the hook paring knife at your belt and look out at the bodies lolling in the grass, watching the stars. Some snore, some whisper, others writhe together as with stifled groans. You don't stare as not to intrude upon their fleeting moment of joy. It is not unusual, many of the thralls seek comfort in each other, though they may not wed.

Your bare feet flatten the dewy grass as it glistens beneath the silver light. A flicker catches your eyes from the open doors of the royal longhouse, figures pass in and out  torches licking amber within and glowing through the archway. You continue around the hovel that houses the sleeping mats and sparse possessions of the thralls, nothing more than a pair of boots and a cloak, some less, few more.

You walk along the stalls that house the smiths' anvils and those with the large cauldrons that fire near all day and night, and those further down where you slice marrow and meat. The laundries further to the south and the weavers to the west. Beyond, the sparse forest of still winter-shorn trunks and broken branches. You near as a breeze rustles the untrodden grasses, critters rustling and twigs snapping. You're not afraid, you've never met more than a nosy snowfox or a fleeing rabbit. 

The trees tower above as if your strolling among the giants of Jotunheim. You follow the winding pattern of trees, unruly and wild, the noise of the calm river just ahead, drawing you in with its calm babbling flow. Your feet carry you without hesitation, the low buzz of the evening luring you further from the king's house.

Moonlight ripples in the dark waters. You're so fixated on the eerie rings that you don't notice the figure sat upon the shore, a cloak spread beneath him as he tosses pebbles into the pool, further disturbing the rolling surface. You stop, staying close to the nearest tree, thinking to hide behind it as he looks over his shoulder. He hums and you're unsure if you've been sighted.

"Come, little one, you needn't hide," he beckons to you with a large hand, a familiar timbre as the rings on his fingers catch the nightly glow.

You obey. A thrall does nothing else. As you cross the soft ground to him, you're heart leaps at the recognition of his profile, limned by the moon as he turns back to the water, tattoos stark against his complexion. Harald Finehair. You stand by his shoulder, awaiting his next order.

"Sit," he pats the empty space of his cloak beside him.

"Yes, my king," you quickly lower yourself to your knees beside him and fold your hands in your lap, "my apologies, I didn't know you through the dark."

"No? You do not know your king?"

"My king, it isn't my meaning. I did not…" you cover your mouth, "I speak beyond my means. Forgive me."

"Do not be so fearful, and settle," he taps your knee, "stay with me a time. I don't mind the company."

You shift and free your legs from beneath you, bending them instead before you as you hug them. You look ahead to the water and he skips a stone easily, sighing. You sit in the lull of his unspoken thoughts, unnerved by it.

"I know you, even through the dark," he says. "I thought I knew you before… for you remind me of a princess I once met. A woman who is now old, now wed and whelped."

You listen, bringing a hand to your cheek as you turn to watch his hands toy with a stone. He is watching you, you know it, but you cannot return his gaze. It would be undue. He is king, you are thrall.

"My king, I'm not princess."

"And I was not always a king," he says as he tosses the pebble, "but we must listen to the norns when the sing to us."

You nod and flinch, surprised as he reaches to take your hand away from your face. He cradles it as if admiring how small it seems in his calloused palm. Long fingers forged for battle, strengthened by the destruction they've wrought, cleansed in the blood they've shed.

"The norns call me to serve you, my king," you say as he closes his fingers around yours. You tremble at the warmth of his touch.

"They do. I hear them too." He clings to you, admiring your knuckles, "do you know, the soft lords across the sea, when they see a beautiful woman, they kiss her hand. Like this."

He lifts your hand and presses his lips to your knuckles. You clutch him without thinking, squirming at the tickle that flows from the spot. He lowers your hand, petting it with his other.

"You shake. You are frightened?"

You gulp, "you are king."

"Which means?" You bat your lashes and try to turn away but he grabs your chin, forcing it up, "look at me and tell me what it means, lamb?"

His eyes gleam in the moonlight, bold and brilliant like gems. You cower as you look into them, swallowed by their depths, stormy and swirling. 

"That you command all to your will," you eke out.

"Yes, that is what it means," his thumb trails up your chin and pushes against your lower lip, "and my will… is that you, my princess, will not turn me away like the one before. For I am king now and will claim my right."

“I am not a princess–”

“I am king. I may deem you princess.”

You close your mouth, foolish to argue before. You demure to him, looking down as he toys with your lip.

“Your king would like a kiss,” he says.

You inhale and your lips part just slightly. A kiss. So simple but you haven’t an inkling how to proceed.

“Must a king show his princess how to give him a kiss?” He asks, half a chide.

“Yes, my king,” you breathe, “I do not know how.”

“You do not? A beautiful princess like you?”

You dare to look up again. He leans in slowly as he tilts your head up, finger curled beneath your chin. His scent surrounds you, musky sweat underlined with a hint of some fragrant herb. His lips meet yours and you squeak, his lips soft despite the rest of him. He moves them gently, sliding his tongue between yours. He pokes past them, tasting you, the act growing more fervent, more hungry the longer you’re enmeshed.

He turns completely, urging your arms away from your legs, a hand on your shoulder as his other slips around the back of your head. He lays you down as he holds himself over you, mouth still crushed against yours. He snakes his arm under you as he consumes you, groaning as he traps you under him. His knees push down between yours, pinning you tighter as his weight strains on your skirt.

“Move your mouth with mine, lamb,” he whispers as he parts for only a moment.

You obey. He calls you princess but you are thrall still. If you don’t do as he commands, he will have you whipped. Like any other master, like any other slave. He moves his pelvis strangely, rubbing against you he drones.

He lifts himself on his elbow and shifts his knees as he blindly tugs at your skirts. You have no strength to move. You have no right to resist. The king wants this and so he will have it. Just as he took his crown. He proclaimed it to be, and so it was.

He pushes your skirt to your thighs, the thin wool brushing roughly against your goosepimpled skin. His fingertips make you twitch as they graze the tender flesh and he tears his lips from yours. He smears his wet mouth down your cheek.

“I always wanted to… taste a princess,” he growls as he drags his lips along your jaw, “you must be sweet, lamb…”

He kisses down your neck and chest, his hand coming up to feel you through your bodice. You shudder and flatten your hands against the ground. He trails further, burying his face between your breasts and nuzzling with a snarl. He gropes you as he descends, his other hand hook up to trace the crease of your legs.

You tense as he brushes along the coily hair, twisting it around his fingers as he flips your dress over your stomach. He kneels, bending over you as he hovers his head over your pelvis, his breath scouring you as he swipes a digit between your folds. You suck in air and your fingers clasp a wrinkle in his cloak beneath you.

He exhales as he lowers himself on his elbows, framing the angle of your pelvis with his index and thumb. You fidget as his nose touches your thicket of hair and he breathes you in. A coolness meets your heat, parting it as you let out a yelp of surprise. He spreads his hand across your pelvis, holding your still as his tongue explores you.

It’s strange. It feels wrong. You wouldn’t know and it can’t matter. The king will have whatever part of you he desires. His fingers flutter up your thigh and poke along your lips. He rubs you in time with his tongue, up and down, around and around, stirring an unknown tide within you.

Your breath hitches and your eyes close on their own. You tilt your head back and arch your back, the sensation leading you. He prods at you, dipping a finger past your entrance, only the tip as he wiggles it. You mewl as his lips circle your bud and he sucks, the pressure thrumming there, pulsing.

He slides his finger to the first knuckle, then the last. You whimper as he pulls it back and forces it back in. The loud lapping of his tongue mingles with the noise of the river and the wet clutch of your cunt. He tends at you steadily, building and building, until you’re quaking and crying in an eruption of fiery delight.

He eases you through your climax, letting you down little by little as he spreads his tongue against your cunt, drinking you up greedily. He lifts himself, his short beard glistening as he licks his lips. He sits back on his heels, thick legs bent in his legs as his hand settle in his lap.

“You taste like Valhalla,” he snarls as he picks at the laces, “you must feel like it too.”

You pant as you put your hand over your chest, feeling how your heart pounds. You cannot speak, you wouldn’t dare too. Your fear has sunk to confusion, your body torn between torture and longing. He moves closer and grabs your hip with one hand, pushing you onto your side.

You roll over as he guides you wordlessly, his long, heavy breathes like wolfish growls. He braces your waist and pulls your ass up, forcing you to your knees. You plant your hands on the wrinkled cloak as he squeezes you. He impatiently runs his hands back to bunch your skirt and twists it as he holds it above your ass.

You’ve seen it before. The other thralls sometimes engage in the same position. The sounds of their flesh claps as their shadows buck furiously. Your walls clench as you think of it. His free hand kneads your ass and he taps you lightly. You moan and he scratches his nails up your skin before he pulls his touch away.

He presses his tip between your cheeks, following the line as he lets out a deliberate grown. He rubs his swollen head against your wet folds, his voice drones louder at the slick friction. He grunts as he angles himself against your entrance. He pushes in and a dull pain spreads through your cunt.

He gets his tip past the slight resistance of your body. He snarls and grips your rumpled skirt tighter. A heavy agony aches in your bones as he dips deeper, stretching you around him painfully as stunted breaths escape his lungs. His sneering grows loud, more impatient, and he jerks his hips so you cry out.

It's as if you’re being rented in two. Your pelvis rings and a pang rolls up your spine. You heave as your arms collapse beneath you. He thrusts again and you shriek. You’re not prepared. You could never be for this. But you must allow him his will. You are bound to serve him.

“Oh, princess,” he clutches your skirt in his fists and lets it rest against your lower back, guiding you with the tension in the fabric, “oh, my little one, how you welcome me. As if you were…” he grunts and sinks to his limit, lingering as he wiggles his hips, “built for me…” he pulls back, “by the gods themselves.”

You whine as your eyes well and spill onto his cloak. His scent seeps into you as your fingers furl stiffly. He rocks, long strokes echoed by longer groans as he brings his pelvis to meet your ass over and over. His pace builds, little by little, faster, harder, deeper, as the impact carries with the river, your pathetic whimpers lost to his greedy growls.

You turn your face down and hide your head beneath your arms as you holler. You can’t hold back anymore. It hurts. It hurts so bad and you want him to stop. And he will. Eventually. When he is spent, when he has deemed your duty done.

“Little one,” he wraps his large hands around the curve of your waist, framing your sides as he ruts into you relentlessly, “the king has found his princess. The king— will have his queen.”

[bxwitched]

Captive - Part 4

Warnings: Explicit 18+ only, please read at your own risk. Noncon / dubcon, slavery, manipulation, sexual content, violence, descriptions of wounds and blood.

Character Pairing: King!Ivar the Boneless x Slave!Reader

Summary: You find yourself a captive of Ivar the Boneless.

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: I finally found the inspiration to continue this fic after a whole year. Comments, reblogs and likes are all appreciated! You can find my masterlist here.

You stirred as cold fingertips traced along your leg, a large callused hand smoothing shapes over soft the flesh, waking you from your dream. You kicked out at the explorative touch, making a sound of displeasure as Ivar caught your ankle in his firm grip and snickered in amusement.

"It is time to get up, Valkyrie." You groaned, burrowing your face further into the furs.

"Leave me be, King. Let me sleep." He huffed at you from his perch at the end of the bed and you gasped in surprise as he leaned forward and snatched your leg from beneath the blankets, jostling you as he hitched it over his broad shoulder. His icy eyes locked with yours as he pressed a slow kiss to the side of your knee.

You tried to ignore the heat simmering in your belly as his lips brushed against the sensitive flesh, leaving fire in their wake. His intense gaze bore down into you and flashes of the night before came rushing back; the way that Ivar had looked at you as you had taken control of him and used him for your pleasure.

You had behaved no better than a common whore, desperate for the gratification that his body could offer and you felt your cheeks heat at the memory, your stomach twisting into knots.

You leaned back on your elbows and studied Ivar, he was already dressed in his light armour; with his axe fixed to his hip, his knives stowed at his waist, and metal braces in place on his legs. You didn't have time to wonder what his plans for the day were before he brought you out of your thoughts, his breath tickling your soft skin as he spoke.

"I thought that you would be eager to see your little mouse, Valkyrie. But if you would rather remain in bed-" His voice was teasing and you bolted upright, wrenching your leg back from his grip as you looked at him with narrowed eyes, suspicious.

"You will allow it?" He nodded once, his bright eyes fixated on you.

"You have been good for me, haven't you? Torsten is waiting outside to escort you." You tried and failed to hide your excitement as you stood from the bed and rushed to get dressed. Ivar's lips tilted up at the corners and his eyes remained glued to your form as he watched you ready yourself for the day, beguiled by you.

As you walked the streets of Kattegat you had quickly learned that Torsten was not a talkative man; he was tall and well-built with short hair, shorn at the sides and a dark beard. He was more of a mountain than a man, clearly battle hardened and you had no doubts that he was one of Ivar's finest warriors. 

You travelled in silence, trying to ignore the stares of the townspeople as you passed through the busy market, some offered you looks of pity, whilst others flashed you looks of distaste. You couldn't decipher the hushed words and low whispers that were spoken, but you imagined that it was gossip of the king's newest toy, his foreign concubine. 

You wondered how many there were before you and what words were spoken of them, whether they were also from Eire or from lands further afield. 

Torsten came to a stop when you neared a large barn and gestured you in ahead of him. You entered the dimly lit space hesitantly, mindful of the other thralls as they bustled around, readying for their tasks of the day.

You eyes flitted through the crowd of women, searching for the head of golden hair when a weight suddenly barrelled into you, taking your breath and nearly knocking you backwards as a smaller figure clung tightly to your waist.

Alva sobbed against you, her tears staining the richly-dyed fabric of your dress, 'a gift' Ivar had said, 'wear it for me'.

"I thought- I though that I would never see you again-" You hushed the younger girl as she cried, hiccuping as she tried to form words between her gasped breaths and tears.

"I'm here, Alva. All is well." You rubbed her back with one hand and stroked her hair with the other as she slowly calmed and managed to steady her breathing once more.

She looked up at you with glassy eyes, deep emerald irises that she had inherited from her mother's side. 

"Come." You took her hand in yours and lead her away from the barn, down to the waterfront where it was quieter, calmer. You both walked in silence along the waters edge, taking in the warmth of the sun on your face and the sound of the waves as they lapped gently at the shore. Torsten followed behind,  giving you just enough distance to speak privately, a courtesy you hadn't expected from the warrior.

Alva sobbed against you, her tears staining the richly-dyed fabric of your dress, 'a gift' Ivar had said, 'wear it for me'.

"I thought- I though that I would never see you again-" You hushed the younger girl as she cried, trying to form words between her gasped breaths and tears.

"I'm here, Alva. All is well." You rubbed her back with one hand and stroked her hair with the other as she slowly calmed and steadied her breathing.

She looked up at you with glassy eyes, a deep, rich emerald that she had inherited from her mother's side.

"Come." You took her hand and lead her away from the barn and down to the waterfront. You both walked along the waters edge, your shoes sinking slightly into the damp sand as Torsten followed behind you at a distance, giving you enough space speak privately. It was a courtesy you hadn't expected from the warrior but appreciated immensely. 

"Where did they take you?" Your heart wrenched at the concern and fear in her shaking voice.

"They took me to the king." Alva's face paled, her eyes widening further. She looked akin to a doe in the forest, startled by a waiting hunter in the trees.

"Ivar the boneless." Her fear was evident now, her eyes moving over your body franticly. "What did he do? Did he hurt you?"

"No Alva, I'm fine." Your stomach twists at that and you let out a deep sigh, your shoulders sagging slightly. She was six summers younger than you but she was naive for her age, fragile. She wasn't hardened like you, she was innocent and she couldn't begin to understand the complexities of your situation.

She was a lamb amongst wolves and you knew that you had to do everything you could to protect her, even if it meant being the king's whore.

"King Ivar has taken me as his and so long as I am good to him, useful to him, our safety is guaranteed here. We may be thralls here but we are alive Alva, and we are protected. That is all that matters." She chewed her lip nervously and her worried gaze dropped to the floor.

"I have heard things, whispers from the other girls.." You stopped and crouched down to her level, ignoring the cold water that seeped into the hem of your gown as you searched her face with questioning eyes.

"What things?"

"They talk about the king, they say that he is a great warrior, that he is favoured by the gods and has never lost a battle. But-"

"Go on, Alva." You insisted as she shifted her weight nervously.

"They say that because of his legs, he cannot please a woman. He has hurt slave girls and threatened to kill them if they speak of it. They talk of a woman called Margarette, they say he strangled her."

Your eyes lowered to the sand and you nodded your head solemnly, you would not be surprised by such things given your experience of Ivar's volatile nature. You returned to your full height and forced a small smile, one you hoped would reassure the young girl.

"Come along, let us enjoy the water a little longer."

Torsten allowed you to spend a few hours with Alva, soaking up the warmth of the sun and the feel of the salty ocean breeze before telling you that it was time to return to the Hall.

Alva was unhappy to leave you and return to the thrall house but she finally relented when you reassured her that you'd be okay with a soft smile and promised that you would see her again soon.

You were almost back at the Hall when you heard your new moniker being called in the distance and turned to see Hvitserk making his way towards you.

"Valkyrie!" The man was completely different to Ivar, not only in his physical appearance but in his demeanour; whilst Ivar was impassive and unpredictable, Hvitserk was open and seemed to wear his emotions on his sleeve.

He grinned widely at you as he rested on the fence of the training ground, his hair mussed and cheeks red from sparring.

"I see my brother has finally let you spread your wings." You huffed at his jest and moved to rest against the fence beside him, watching as Ivar's men fought each other with vigour, the sharp clashes of steel and crashes of shields heavy in the air.

"They are fine warriors. Though not as fine as you I'm sure.." Hvitserk raised an eyebrow at your taunt, his grin widening as mischief danced behind his eyes.

"You told me that you were a fighter, Valkyrie. Perhaps I wish to see it for myself." You raised your chin slightly, your eyes narrowing in playful challenge.

"My father always believed that I possessed enough fury to rival that of a berserker, maybe we should test that." The blonde man's eyes flashed in delight and he held a hand out to you, helping you over the wooden fence and into the training arena, ignoring Torsten's protests and silencing the larger man with a raised hand.

"Hand me a sword, Ragnarsson." He passed you a short-sword, lighter than you had used before but well-balanced and finely made. Hvitserk opted for a larger sword, heavier and better matched for his larger frame.

"Don't worry, Valkyrie. I will go easy on you." You scoffed, watching as his grin widened and his eyes changed, the mossy green growing darker with his building battle-lust.

You watched his feet, anticipating his initial attack and dodged each skilful slash of his sword. You moved in time with him, keeping up with the prince despite your heavy dress weighing down your movements.

You grinned as you blocked several of the beserker's attempted hits. Hvitserk's expression was positively wild and the fight between you became more intense the more you challenged him.

He barely managed to block your attack to his torso and you grinned as he growled in irritation. You were so focused, until your name was shouted from the fence line.

Your head turned for no more than a second but it was enough time for Hvitserk to land a hit, successfully slicing a line of crimson across your forearm. You gasped as the flesh stung and you clutched at the wound as the blood began to seep from it, running down your skin and dripping into the dirt beneath your feet.

Hvitserk froze, his face dropping into one of remorse as he realised what he had done, then one of uneasiness when he noticed Ivar stalking towards you both with his men in tow. His face was stony but his sapphire eyes gave away his rage, they were practically glowing as he glared at both of you.

"What do you think you are doing, hm?" His voice was level, an unnerving contradiction to the storm brewing behind his eyes. He turned on Hvitserk then and the older Ragnarsson visibly tensed. "I suppose that this was your idea, brother?"

You were quick to speak up, stepping in front of Hvitserk to shield him from Ivar's wrath. Although he had been the one to challenge you to spar, you had been just as willing. He hadn't meant to injure you and you had enjoyed the rush of it, the freedom.

Despite being your master's kin Hvitserk had been civil to you during your time in Kattegat, amiable even. From what you had witnessed he seemed to be a decent man and you didn't feel that he deserved to be reprimanded for your poor choices.

"It's not his fault, my King. I challenged him to fight, if you are to punish anyone then it must be me."

"Is that so?" Ivar tilted his head at you with a raised brow and you nodded, his face said everything his words did not. This is not over.

He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth and nodded once, his jaw tensed.

"Very well, Torsten will take you back to our chambers." He dismissed the larger warrior with a wave of his hand and turned to face Hvitserk, fixing him with a false smile that left no room for argument. "Brother, you will go and fetch the healer. And the next time that you wish to fight? I suggest that you find a different opponent."

@wittysunflower​ @heavenly1927​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @that-virgo-witch​ @helleiaiwritting @the-king-of-kattegat-ivar @nukyster-blog @ietss @belladaises @victoria-styles

[teacupcollector]

Hvitzerk: *Giving the Lap Dance* Y/N: *Receiving The Lap Dance* Ragnarsons: *The Groomsmen* Aslaug: *Shocked*

This is a modern AU in my head, but I was unable to figure out how to write it and be funny xD. I am open to Viking requests. I am about to start rewatching it, so I will try my best to be accurate to the character.

[imagines-for-everybody-blog]

Floki fluff

You’re drunk and tried to kiss Floki.

Warnings: nothing but falling more in love with Floki ❤

You were drinking with Floki.

„I really like you.“, you admitted.

You tried to kiss him but he gently pushed you away „I want you to be sober and really wanting this.“

„B-but I don’t know if I’m confident enough to kiss you when I’m sober.“, you mumbled against his shoulder.

He gave you a kiss on top of your head „Y/N you are so much more confident then you think.“

You felt warm and save in his arms and a few moments later you fell asleep.

The next morning you woke up but something was strange. You tried to turn around but something or someone was holding you tight.

Flashbacks of last night rushed through your mind and you blushed. You were embarrassed because you just told Floki your feelings kind of and on the other hand Floki was so sweet and caring. He must have carried you to his house because you still lived with your family. But here it was just you and him.

„Floki?“, you whispered.

„Good morning Y/N.“, he answered.

You turned around to face him. Still in his arms you studied his face, to see what he feels or thinks. His eyes were warm and soft…and looking in your eyes. You tried not to blush. Your heart was beating faster and faster.

You didn’t know what to say so you leaned forward. One hand was on your back and one hand was on your cheek.

Then your lips found his. His grip on your back was getting stronger and your kiss was getting more passionate. He bit your lip and your hand was running through his hair.

Suddendly he stopped and just looked at you.

„Did I do something wrong?“, you asked worried.

He shook his head smiling „I just enjoy looking at you.“

You smiled back „And I like looking at you.“ and kissed him again.

[axelsagewrites]

Ragnar Lothbrok*Pet

Pairing: Ragnar x f!captured reader

Kinktober Day twenty-four: thigh riding/dry humping with Ragnar Lothbrok – after taking a Christian girl prisoner he decides to show you the pleasure a heathen can feel

Word count: 1491

Warnings: talks of religion, religious corruption, religious guilt, teasing, heavy flirting, mini crisis of faith ig, being ragnars pet/prisoner, making out, thigh riding, smut 18+

Masterlist Here

Kinktober List Here

“She is a Christian,” Floki whispered in Ragnars ear as the pair studied the girl presented to them, “We should get rid of her, not drag her around with us. She will only slow us down,”

While Floki’s eyes bore into Ragnars skull the kings’ eyes lingered elsewhere. They had taken your village some days ago when one of his men found you hiding in the forest. The sight of you on your knees, even if it were to pray to a false god to survive, was enough to convince Ragnar.

“I should like to keep her,” he said, watching how your lips wrapped around the words you mumbled, “Untie her hands,” he commanded one of his men as Floki sighed.

“What is it with you and your Christian pets? At least keep her hands bound,” he tried to reason but Ragnar just shook his head. He knew you wouldn’t run.

A couple of weeks had passed of successful raiding and gold was beginning to pile up around him. Ragnar sat at the makeshift feast they had decided to throw after taking another village however his eyes were once again on the Christian girl who sat across from him. At first you used to flush under his gaze, a sight he enjoyed and often tried to tease out by whispering pretty words in your ear.

Ragnar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, “What are you thinking about?” he asked, your eyes snapping up to meet his.

“That I may sleep soon. The night is growing long,”

“That is an excellent idea. Perhaps I should join you,” he said, smirking at the way you began to stutter and flush, “Tell me something. Where you married before?”

You paused for a moment before answering, “No, why?”

Ragnar shook his head, “well I heard,” he said, leaning in closer and grinning as you did the same as his voice dropped to a whisper, “that it is only the married ones who get fucked,”

“I-well-I- yes it would be a sin otherwise,” you stuttered out, face growing hot as Ragnar poured himself another glass of wine. “I’m not even supposed to talk about…that,”

“Why not?”

“It is a sin,”

“Why?” he asked, tilting his head like a curious child.

The awkward smile worn on your lips made a real one grow on his face, “Because god said so,”

“Have you spoken to god,”

“Well, no,”

“Then how do you know?” a frustrated sigh left your lips that made Ragnars grin widen. He was getting to you and enjoying every moment of it. he leaned in closer once more, whispering for your sake more than anything,” Why would a god create something so beautiful then not let you appreciate its wonders?”

“It is a sin,” you clung to the excuse, realising you did not know why either.

The laugh that left his mouth however caught you off guard and your lips twitched, almost forming a smile at the smile on his face. That was until he spoke again, “Perhaps we should sin together one time,” he said, standing and grabbing his cup of wine. Before he could leave, he sauntered over to whisper one last thing in your ear, “And the idea of you falling apart on my cock is enough to make me believe in my god,”

A few more weeks had passed and soon you would be heading back with the raiders to their land. Despite still being wary of many of the men some, Ragnar specifically, had grown on you. “Where will I stay when you take me back with you?” you asked one night as you began to brush through your hair.

Ragnar glanced at you as he began to unlace his boots. While he had unbound your hands, he had insisted on keeping you in his tent, thankfully on your own bed, thought you wondered if this was for his entertainment or safety, “I will find somewhere for you,” he answered simply before reaching to pull his shirt over his head.

Despite seeing this sight many times, the way his muscles flexed, and his tattoos gleamed against his skin made a tingle shoot through your spine. “So, I won’t be a slave? Or is it a thrall you call them?”

Ragnar paused for a moment, his eyes scanning over you, “You need not worry little one. I will take care of you,”

A moment passed before you allowed yourself to smile, “Thank you Ragnar,” you said and a small smile crept onto his lips as he settled himself above his sheets, his eyes scanning over you.

“Come here,” he said, nervousness washing over you, “Trust me,”

You paused at first before standing from beneath your covers. Your underdress was the only thing to cover you now as you crossed the tent. Ragnar patted the spot beside him and cautiously you sat down, picking at your thumbs. His hand closed over yours, “You’ll make yourself bleed,” he said, and you just nodded as his eyes continued to study your face.

“Has anyone ever kissed you?” he whispered.

You swallowed before answering, “Once,” you said, tempted to pick at your skin but somehow resisting, “But I wasn’t very good at it,”

“Perhaps you should try again,” he whispered, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he moved to rest his forehead against yours.

“Perhaps you could teach me,” you whispered, a spark lighting in his eyes, “if I am to go back to your land perhaps it is time I Learned your ways,”

“All our ways?” he asked, his hand reaching over to run his fingers lightly up your thighs making you shiver, “Is that what you desire little one?”

“Would it be so wrong if I did?” you asked and the way your wide eyes gazed into his made Ragnars cock begin to harden.

His hand trailed slowly up your leg, torturously so until it arrived at your hip. You gasped when he grabbed it, pulling you over to straddle his thigh. “Ragnar- “you gasped, when he bent his leg up, propping you up on his strong thigh, “What are you doing?”

“Teaching,” his hands reached for your hair, pulling your lips down onto his. This was far different from the last time someone had kissed you. this was rough and needy and made whines leave your throat as one of his hands moved to your hips.

You couldn’t even question what he was doing before he began to move your hip, making you grind down onto his thigh. The way you whimpered made Ragnar wonder if Odin himself had blessed him. Ragnar guided your hips and soon your body took over, rubbing your clit against his strong thigh as his hand squeezed the flesh of your hips.

When he pulled his lips away yours chased after his making a chuckle leave them before he began to kiss down your jaw. “You don’t need to be quite little one,” he mumbled against your skin as a soft moan left your mouth, “No one will judge,”

His lips soon found the crook of your neck, kissing it in a way that made a knot in your stomach tighten. Since your hips now moved of their own accord his hands were free to travel up your frame, taking your tits in his hand and making you gasp as he squeezed them softly.

He felt his cock twitch at the feeling of the Hardened buds beneath your shift. His fingertips trailed slowly around your nipples at first, enjoying your needy whines before he finally began to roll them between his fingers.

“Oh god,” you moaned as he pinched them gently, but your words just made him want you more and groan against your skin.

It didn’t take long for a tight feeling to spread across your body, “What is happening to me?” you asked but it came out as more of a whine.

“Enjoy it little one,” Ragnar said, his lips moving to kiss your check, “Let yourself let go,” he said before your lips slammed onto his even catching yourself by surprise. Your moans allowed him to slip his tongue in, the kiss becoming messier and more desperate as you grinded against his thigh.

He felt your body jerk and Ragnar smirked into the kiss knowing what was about to happen. Your lips broke apart only for your head to fall in the crook of his shoulder, “Oh god,” you began to moan again before you felt your peak wash over you like a tidal wave.

sensing your body tensing and hips slowly Ragnar reached for your hips, moving them for you so he could watch you ride out your peak on his thigh. Curses left your lips before you finally slumped into his chest. Ragnar let out a small chuckle, letting his leg lay flat and holding you against his chest. Ragnar had defiantly made the right decision he thought.

[imaginesmai]

Once upon a fairy tale - Ubbe Ragnarson (3)

I wanna say I’m sorry in advance and that next chapter will be up tomorrow, so pls don’t attack me  Other parts: Once Upon A Fairy Tale Masterlist  

Plot: Aslaug tries to push you closer to Ubbe, leaving you in a vulnerable situation. When faced with a group of soldiers, they don't hesitate to make their opinion about you crystal clear.

Warnings: men being rough with reader, unwanted sexual attention, harassment

You woke up alone in the room, but there was evidence of another’s person presence not too long ago. There were robes on the ground, and a pair of man’s undergarments hanging from the bottom corner of the bed. Besides, it smelt like Ubbe.

When last night you told him to sleep on the ground, you half expected him to drag your out of bed by your foot, but you were too tired to care. Yet, as minutes passed by, you only heard him change clothes and pile covers on the ground. You had been almost lulled back to sleep when he had taken the pillow from under your head.

It could only go so well.

That morning, you changed clothes quickly, not wanting to find any unexpected visitors, and let the room to be made by a servant. It was sunny and warm enough to leave your coat inside, and to choose a light dress that would let the sun bathe your skin. Following a tradition you had created many years ago, you took the hall that led to the gardens and stared at the colorful flowers.

Spending a whole summer in a foreign country was incredible boring for a kid, and when you didn’t succeed in making friends, you had to look for other sources of entertainment. Ubbe and his brothers didn’t let you participate in their games; probably, because you won each one of them without playing fool. The only kid who made an effort to befriend you was Sigurd, but his interests didn’t align with you.

There weren’t many pleasant memories in the castle, but the gardens told a different story. Hvitserk was allergic to many of the flowers that grew inside, so the Lothbrok’s brothers didn’t go there often. It was silent and peaceful, and apart from an occasional interruption, you found yourself enjoying the calm. On the other side of the garden, you could hear the castle coming alive, probably from the courtyard.

Back home, you didn’t have flowers, not as pretty as in that castle. Watering them and watching them grow was your main activity during those months.

“Those are primroses” a woman’s voice said behind you, while you knelt in front of yellow flowers. “Had them brough from the woods outside the castle. And they’ve grown just fine”

“I can see that, my queen” you answered to Aslaug, not moving from your position. “They’re beautiful”

“Indeed” she agreed. “They’ve grown just fine”

Her feet moved forward and soon you were covered by her shadow. Looking up, you met her icy eyes and cold smile.

If you had to define Ubbe’s mother with a word, it would be distant. While her son was all feelings and impulses, she was always calm and passive. You had long ago discarded the idea of an indifferent queen – everything that happened in that castle, she knew where, when and why. Anyone could be fooled by her attitude, but you knew that every word and gesture was intentional and had a purpose.

Slowly, you rose up and brushed the dirt from your dress, although there was none.

“Do your new chambers meet your needs, my dear?”

“They do. Although I’m afraid I don’t think prince Ubbe share the feeling”

“He will, eventually. Give him time” she tilted her head in what pretended to be an innocent way, but that made her look like a snake staring at her prey. “Any man can get used to it”

You smiled without your teeth, because you had no doubt there were many others empty rooms in the castle. Only that she didn’t want you to be anywhere else, and you could think of a few reasons why.

Last year, you heard some of the servants talk about Ubbe, in a way you had never heard or thought about. You had had your own adventures at home, with a vendor from the market and with the stables’ boy in your castle. But those words got stuck in your brain, and for a few days, it was the only thing you thought about.

“It’s just, he’s gotten so big. And tall. And that face… He looks just like his father but more handsome, and he isn’t married yet. I would kill to feel what he hides between those elegant clothes” a servant laughed, as if it was a secret.

“I know. I can’t wait until he comes back. Heard he has let some girls into his room. I will gladly volunteer next time”

Everyone who had eyes could see Ubbe’s resemblance to his father, a strong, ferocious and handsome king. While you weren’t very fond of him, you had eyes, and could see too. Aslaug wasn’t any different.

She was getting impatient, and every year that went by, was another chance of a bastard appearing in the hands on a common girl and asking for rights.

“People will talk, but you don’t have to worry, Y/N” Aslaug assured. With a look, she started walking and you followed her, with your hands laced and your eyes on the ground. “Maybe it’s not common to share chambers before the weeding. You’ve been engaged long enough to skip that rule, don’t you think so?”

“I... don’t know, my queen. I can’t say what others might think of the situation, only that neither prince Ubbe nor I like it very much” you tried.

“You’ll get used to it too, don’t worry. After all, what better place to stay than in your husband’s bed? Isn’t that where a good wife belongs?”

You knew better than to talk back, so you kept quiet. The flowers you intended to take care of moved past you as you walked by her side, servants and soldiers bowing. Every year, she took upon herself to remind you that time was running out. Every year, she ambushed you sooner or later and tested the waters.

Sharing a room was nothing but accidental.

She couldn’t care less about his son’s reputation or about your dignity. The only thing she cared about was other’s opinion, and what they might say. Because they would talk, about you and Ubbe, and if someone was bold enough to start the rumor of you two bedding, the wedding she wanted would come up way sooner.

Birds chirped around you as you listened to her list the good qualities of a wife. You might not have had a mother, but your father had taught you enough and assured you other people would when he couldn’t. You knew what was expected from you, how you had to behave in and out the bedroom. Hating your fate didn’t make you ignorant, so you kept your head down and listened.

After a long and torturous walk through the gardens, you found the exit to the courtyard, where the king’s sons were training. There were soldiers and majors fighting against each other, laughing and tossing friendly punches.

From the language they were using and the lack of women, you guessed that was a place you weren’t supposed to be. There were shirtless men sweating and showing off his muscles, in a relaxed atmosphere that wouldn’t suggest the princes were between them.

Sigurd and Hvitserk were fighting against each other, with training swords and wooden shields. The loud noises didn’t alert anyone from the presence of the two visitors, and they kept going. Your eyes stopped when you found Ubbe, not too far away in a hand combat with a man twice his size.

He was shirtless too, new tattoos and scars decorating his body. The previous day, you hadn’t really noticed the change from the boy to a man, but now you did. He moved effortlessly around his opponent, dodging hits and throwing punches.

As you stared at the muscles of his back tense and move, you felt enchanted. You weren’t sure you blinked until the prince finally got a hold of the man’s forearm and threw him to the ground. When Ubbe rose victorious and showed his brothers a teethed smile, you forced yourself to look away, wondering how could a face change so much in a year.

Only then, you noticed Aslaug looking at you, with a satisfied smirk on her lips.

“Thought they would have finished by now. How silly of me” she excused herself. Instead of turning around, she gathered her skirts and stepped down the first stair. “Come on, dear, let’s say hi. It would be rude not to do so”

“My queen, I’d rather – “

“Now”

She didn’t wait for you, just kept walking down, knowing you would follow. Queen Aslaug had earned herself the respect and fear from the castle, day by day, and as soon as the soldiers noticed, one by one fell to their knee.

They didn’t look at you, didn’t rise up when you passed them or acknowledge their training partners. In a wave motion, they bowed to their queen and pressed a fist to their sweaty chest. You moved behind Aslaug in silence, staring at their faces and bodies. Maybe it was all part of her plan, but it didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy it.

When you turned thirteen and your father caught you talking with the son of the cooker, he decided you would continue your training and outside activities far from any men. Excluding blurry memories of soldiers fighting with your father when you were younger, you had never seen so many men at their knees.

Thoughts that surely couldn’t belong to you crossed your mind, and you looked forward, ashamed and with your cheeks red.

A few feet away from you, Ubbe’s blue eyes met yours, his eyebrows furrowed. He looked between the kneeling soldiers and your cheeks, twisting his mouth.

“Hvitserk, Sigurd” Aslaug greeted them, taking a good look at Ubbe’s face. “Ubbe”

“Mother” the younger one replied, staring at the both of you with a small smile. “Princess Y/N, lovely to see you again”

“What are you doing here?”

Ubbe’s voice was rough, no trace of the bright smile you had seen moments ago. Soldiers were starting to rise, still in silence, and everyone stared while Ubbe and his mother stared at each other. They were fighting some type of mental battle no one else was aware of.

Awkwardly, you waited by her side until she finally clapped her hands and looked at the crowd, ignoring her son’s words.

“Don’t stop on our account, please. Continue your work. Let princess Y/N see how strong and brave her soldiers are going to be soon” she extended her arms towards them, although no one moved. “Keep going”

Slowly, the sound of swords and shields came back, and Aslaug turned back to her sons.

You could feel the stares of every man in the courtyard in the back of your neck, and it occurred to you, you weren’t wearing appropriate clothes. As an unmarried woman, you were supposed to be elegant, discreet, hidden. Most of the dresses you had brough were long sleeved and with high necks, covering every inch of your body. That’s how everyone in Mercia had seen you until that moment.

But it was hot and you were supposed to be in the gardens, so you had chosen a pale, blue dress with a low neckline that showed your shoulders, and sleeves that only covered until your elbow. And you hadn’t touched your hair, leaving it hanging from your shoulders.

Now aware of the situation, you crossed your arms over your chest and looked at Aslaug, who seemed awfully pleased with herself.

You didn’t think for a moment she actually forgot about the training.

“What are you doing here?” Ubbe asked again, staring at her mother. “It’s training day. You know it. And you shouldn’t be here, neither should she”

Disgust dripped from the last word, and he didn’t even meet your eyes.

“But she’s your future wife, you should share every part of your routine with her” she fired back, not minding Hvitserk’s stifled snort. “I didn’t see you this morning at breakfast, were you in a hurry?”

“I was. I have been training all day. Here. Where you shouldn’t – “

“Don’t tell me where I can or can’t be, Ubbe. Enough”

“Mother, we were about to end” Sigurd stepped forward. “Why don’t you wait for us in the castle?”

“I have business to attend” she smiled again, her snake eyes looking between Ubbe and you. “But you should escort princess Y/N. I think she was trying to take care of some flowers”

Without saying another word, Aslaug walked the other way. Soldiers moved so that she could pass, and when she did, they went back to their previous fight. She walked with a determination she hadn’t had in the gardens, and even if you had had time, you wouldn’t had been able to follow her. Not looking once over her shoulder, she disappeared.

And then, you were alone with the three princes in a yard full of loud soldiers who resumed their previous behavior.

All the respect they showed earlier, the quietness that followed your path, was because of Aslaug. You were just the foreign princess of a smaller kingdom, with no authority or importance in their training practice. You guessed that they would have had more consideration for any other woman from Mercia, but your value was of a servant.

A person without opinion or saying, that didn’t need to be taken into account.

When a soldier passed by your side and spit on the ground, only inches away from your shoe, you decided it was enough.

“If you’ll excuse me” you said, already starting your way towards the stairs. It wouldn’t be easy and you would probably have to shove some soldiers, but there wasn’t any other solution.

“Where are you going?” Ubbe asked, coming forward to.

“To my chambers? To yours. Anywhere I don’t have to see this”

“You can come to mine”

You found yourself face to chest to a man with blonde, short hair, and a missing eye. Only his shoulders were the length of your whole arm. His sweaty face stared down at with you side smile, earning the laughs of some of his partners.

It wasn’t anything new to you.

Maybe, during the first three years, people were intimidated by a foreign country visiting his lands. Maybe, they were actually happy at the thought of his prince getting married soon. But it all vanished quickly and you had endured your fair share of comments and observations from Mercia’s people. And you weren’t amused anymore.

Ubbe was, who stopped behind you.

Those people were not willing to risk his head, so they always talked when no one but you could hear it. The servants whispered not so low when they prepared your bath, the nobles sat close to you and commented the empty seat by your sides, and the soldiers only talked when the halls were empty.

“Get out of my way” you scoffed, easily dodging his body and moving forward.

There was a faint commotion behind you and soon Ubbe was back in his place, his breath almost hitting the back of your neck. The fact that his very naked chest was a touch away was making you nervous, and you tried to walk faster.

Soon, you lost the small clearing the princes were training in and were fully into the courtyard, surrounded by bodies.

Not even ten steps into the crowd, Ubbe grabbed your elbow.

“Are you insane? Are you actually insane?” he all but screamed to you. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Why do you ask so many questions? The only thing wrong here is your mother, who should know by now better”

“You should too! What was that back there?”

“Stop asking questions!”

You pushed him away and turned around, wiling your feet to walk faster. Not because you were actually annoyed by his questions, but because having him so close, made you stutter. The feeling of his hot chest against your fingers when you pushed him away, tempted you to keep your hands there.

Thankfully, you were smaller than him, and could outrun him while he tried to chase you.

Some soldiers thought it would be funny to try and stop you, going so far as stepping into your skirts and grabbing your shoulder and hair. They laughed and made comments that you shouldn’t had to hear.

To them, it was chasing the rabbit that was escaping from his prince. To you, it wasn’t so fun.

One of the soldiers stepped on your skirt and the cloth tore, achieving a bunch of hurrahs from the rest of his friends. Stopping to see how bad the damage was, you saw Ubbe pushing through the soldiers farther than before, something murderous on his face. He looked at your dress and moved faster, going as far as throwing a man into his partner.

You turned around to keep moving, now your eyes warm with tears. One thing was the playful banter of children, or even the not-so-playful pranks with Ubbe. But it wasn’t a joke anymore, you felt the men’s intention clear and loud. Humiliation and frustration boiled up in your body until you felt your chest tightening up. You willed yourself to save the tears for later, when you would be finally alone. So you tried to move.

Before you could do so, someone grabbed your hair and pulled harder than before, making your yelp in pain. You were thrown back, and by mere luck, you hit a man’s chest instead of the ground.

Suddenly, a pair of rough hands were on you, while your captor’s arms held you still.

“Come on, don’t be shy! Show us what more you have there!” someone roared, attempting to see through the slip of your dress. He managed to lift one side and grip your left calf.

“I’ll take the other side!”

He didn’t, because when the first man tried to move higher, still holding your left leg against him, was met with your foot on his face. The kick launched him back and made you stumble into other arms. Again, they tried to move lift your dress, now from behind. No matter how much you moved or kicked, your voice stuck in your throat.

By that time, there were tears running down your cheeks, and it was clear it wasn’t just a game between the soldiers. Some of them had stepped aside, looking almost troubled. But no one said anything.

It wasn’t like fighting with the princes, or falling into a prank. It felt like an assault to your dignity, even if they tried to make it look like a joke.

The first man quickly recovered and looked at you while covering his mouth. In his other hand, there was a piece of tooth that you had broken.

There was no longer humor on his eyes, not even the lustful glare he was trying to hide before. When he charged towards you, some of his friends tried to stop him, but it wasn’t enough. He moved with his whole-body force towards you, and since other soldiers were still holding you, you couldn’t do anything but close your eyes and try to cower away.

Between the shouts and laughs, you distinguished a familiar voice, and then heard a body falling to the ground.

Want to read more? Check out my side blog @imaginesmaimasterlists, where I keep all the masterlists! Feedback is always appreciated

Taglist:

@66vikings

[undiscovered-horizon]

Vikings preference: your friend hits on you and gets aggressive

@ivartheb0neless

Ragnar Feels genuinely hurt because he thought he could trust your friend. Whenever Ragnar went away, he'd ask your friend to keep an eye on you and generally make sure you're safe and sound. Makes veiled threats and passive-aggressive jokes at first, hoping that he can both force a boundary and not sour any relationships but his humour is gone when he realizes that your friend is not keen on taking no as an answer. If you raise your concern about "safety vs. keeping a friend", Ragnar makes a sarcastic comment about your sentiment - because a guy who forced himself on you is such a great friend to keep, right?

Gives you a knife to keep on you at all times. If you have the guts, and such an occasion arises, to stab the man once he gets physical with you, Ragnar will have your back no matter what. Also, low-key thrilled. But if you don't end up fighting your own battles, he'll gladly do it for you. Not an ounce of regret on his face during or after.

Bjorn Pretty direct. Makes plausible threats and will fulfil them. Terrifyingly calm and collected for the most part. He's angry but also disappointed that someone you considered a friend could repay your kindness and affection in such a way.

If you tell Bjorn that you're unsure what to do because you want to keep your friend or you think that he's overdoing things, he might get short with you but it's not out of malice. He's worried that if you don't see your male friend for the lying snake that he is, you might get even more hurt and that possibility enrages him so much he doesn't entertain that thought longer than necessary.

Bjorn is definitely the type to make his revenge somewhat public. Not only will that make others keep their distance from you but it will also earn him respect among other men - he takes his husbandly duties seriously. Whether your "friend" lives or dies is entirely up to them and how callous they have been with you. Whether he meant to or not, Bjorn causes people to look away from you when you're walking through the town. No one wants to risk getting your friend's treatment.

After that, Bjorn will never trust any man who tries to be your friend or claims to be one.

Ubbe Tries to be the bigger person at first and has a stern word with your friend. Ubbe is probably the only one to seriously take your word/assurance that there's nothing to get worked up about. He will also wait relatively the longest before getting seriously involved - not because he doesn't care, it's quite the contrary. He doesn't want to impose on your independence, so even if he's uncomfortable with the situation but you keep saying "I've got this", he will keep to himself although will voice his concerns (and will refuse to leave you alone at any place or time). When things become serious and the man starts to get physical, Ubbe will make it clear that from now on he's more concerned about your well-being than your freedom: "I'm sorry for disregarding your wishes but I can't sit and watch you get hurt". Believes to be responsible for your safety as your husband.

Ubbe is the type of person who will seek your friend out on his own and resolve the issue right then and there. He goes to the other man's house one night and leaves it only when an agreement is reached - doesn't matter how far he has to go to ensure that. Ubbe's not afraid to get his hands dirty for the right reasons.

Hvitserk Also hurt because he was actually getting along well with the other man. Hvitserk will ask about your perspective and wishes but if your safety is compromised, he won't make them a priority. At first, he's trying to get you out of harm's way, so you're leaving your house only if he's by your side. But once he learns that your supposed friend forced his way into your home and put his hands on you, Hvitserk is determined to take things into his own hands. He won't seek out your friend on his own but rather wait for an opportunity to arise; doesn't start the fight but surely will end it. The next time another unwanted advances are made towards you, Hvitserk has an axe in his hand and this time, he's the one who doesn't take no for an answer.

If you ever befriend another man after that, Hvitserk will tolerate him but never let go of any suspicions. Also, might tell the story of your previous "admirer" to scare your new friend into behaving properly.

Sigurd The most probable to get into a brawl right away. At first, he feels quite self-conscious seeing another man flirting with you but when the man in question starts to become aggressive, Sigurd coins his insecurity into hostility, effectively picking a fight. After what seems like lakes of blood and an entire concert of bones breaking, the brawl ends. Sigurd looks like he's been through Hell and still that's a lot better than your friend, who would be pronounced dead if it wasn't for the sporadic raise of his chest as he tries to take in a ragged breath. Sigurd will also voice his anger as he's caving in the other man's skull ("Was it fun when you grabbed her? Enjoying a little manhandling, eh? I'm happy to provide").

Gains respect in his brothers' eyes but none of them quite wants to admit it.

Ivar He would also feel self-conscious at first. Considers your friend's bold behaviour an assault on his masculinity ("You think I'm not man enough and therefore think you have any right to bother my wife"). Not surprised in the slightest. Hated the guy's guts from the very beginning and made it obvious. Might actually say the dreaded "told you so".

Because he perceives your friend's aggression as somewhat personal, Ivar is driven to go quite far in order to make the punishment fit for the crime. Not only does he do it for your sake but also to make sure that everyone knows just how much of a true Viking is inside him. Some say that "silence is golden", so if your friend decides to use less-than-savoury language towards you, he might end up with his throat filled with liquid gold to ensure no more offence leaves his mouth. Similarly, he's going to suffer the "equivalents" for whatever other thing he's done. He grips your hand so hard there's a bruise? Ivar will wrap his hand with a chain and slowly tighten it until all the bones crack and the wrist is literally torn away from the forearm. But no matter what he does, in the end he still feels like it doesn't quite make up for your friend's wrongdoings.

[dazed-poltergeist]

Facing death with a descendant of Allfather

Pairings: Ivar the Boneless x Reader

Summary: The reader is on Ivar the Boneless' side and loves him, but never has the chance nor the courage to tell him. Both the reader and Ivar die side by side on the battlefield in Wessex.

Warning: A lot of spoilers. There will be mentions of a lot of important events in the series, so I highly recommend not reading if you haven't finished the show.

Add. Notes: Ragnar and his sons claimed multiple times in the series, in one way or another, that they are associated with Odin/the Æsir in general, so I rolled with that it the title. It feels kind of weird to watch a TV show and meanwhile write fanfiction about another; I finished watching The Last Kingdom on the day I started writing this. The Coccham squad will always have a place in my heart 🥹

Masterlist ✧⁠*⁠。

You were a great warrior, who officially joined Ivar's side when the Ragnarssons divided. You worked a lot with the brittle-boned man, discussing battle tactics when the times came, and simply fighting alongside him during those times. You fought with the brothers when they avenged Ragnar, you fought with Ivar when he defeated the Saxons in York, and you were also with him during and after the battles of Kattegat. You went along the Silk Road with Ivar when he fled Kattegat, and were on his side when he was held captive in Kiev by the Rus.

You had been through a lot with the youngest Ragnarsson, and you realized that when you caught yourself having him on your mind often through the years with him. As the time went on, you started thinking about him more; worrying about him and his health, the things you wished to do with him if it weren't for his disability or the things happening around you, and finally the thoughts that were not the most... appropriate.

You didn't recall when exactly you began having romantic feelings for Ivar the Boneless; you concluded that it was a long time ago, since you didn't remember anymore. But you never got the chance nor the courage, even as a fearless warrior, to tell him of your love for him.

Even though you didn't like the idea, you stayed quiet about the said feelings, and kept working for him while constantly showing your thoughts and feelings to the back of your mind. In the past you had made a few vague attempts at confessing to the cripple, but they hadn't worked because of your body failing you or because of some other form of interruption.

Your first attempt was similar to the first reason; you were in York with him, and you thought it was the right time to tell him. You tried to talk to him about it, but words refused to come out of your mouth when you got to the love part. You ended up embarrassing yourself infront of Ivar, Hvitserk and a few of his men, causing you to avoid him for a while from the agony of said embarrassment.

The rest of your attempts failed were because of the latter reason, much to your relief and surprise. One of them was also in York, but this time you were interrupted by Freydis' emergence, as Ivar asked you to leave them alone. The last two times were in Kiev; the first time you were cut off by Igor, and the second time a guard came to tell Ivar of an invitation by Oleg to watch a puppet show.

You were surprised when Ivar proposed to invade the Saxon lands shortly after his return to Kattegat. You questioned if he had another motive behind that proposal, but you decided to follow him to Wessex either way. You forgot the potential ulterior motive almost entirely, until you were halfway on your sailing journey to Wessex with only your thoughts occupying you.

"Ragnar went to England before his death, right after coming back to Kattegat, even though he had been gone for ten years. Ivar has been gone for a while as well, and now is also heading to England. Could his death be near?" Such thought came to your mind, and immediately you were concerned of Ivar's safety. You were not ready to lose him, not with the feelings you had for him.

The forest battle against the Saxons was successful, but it cost Harald's men their leader's life. Harald hadn't returned to Ivar's campsite from the now foggy and bloody woods, making the Danes conclude that he was dead. It was mildly upsetting, but you liked to think that now he got to reunite with his younger brother, Halfdan, in Valhalla.

You overheard Hvitserk make a comment about the white parts of Ivar's eyes; he said that they were blue. You had heard in the past about the whites of Ivar's eyes turning blue when he was at risk of breaking his bones, but you never genuinely believed that. You were now looking at Ivar's eyes, and they were indeed blue in and around the pupil.

Hvitserk was trying to persuade Ivar to not fight while he was at risk, but Ivar was not listening to him; he kept insisting that he was fine and fit for battle. You were starting to think that the risk drove him to fight the Saxons more, which reminded you of the thought that crossed your mind on the boats. But you were sure that if even Hvitserk couldn't convince him to rest, you couldn't either, so you stopped eavesdropping and walked away.

Ivar had offered peace to Alfred and the soldiers of Wessex, but they refused, which lead to Ivar's and formerly Harald's men preparing for battle. Ivar was still determined to fight even with the state he was in, so you proposed that you will try to be near him at all times to protect him. But he scoffed and claimed that the Saxons couldn't kill him, since the Gods were by his side. You frowned upon his response, and said that you will still try to be close to him in case something happened to him.

You had seen the deaths of many, in battle and elsewhere; it wasn't supposed to shake you anymore, and yet it still did every time. You saw the deaths of Sigurd, Halfdan, Bishop Heahmund and Björn. But losing a person dear to you would hurt you much differently. You were convinced that Ivar was going to die in that battle and wished to shield him from all harm that came in his way.

But you got separated from him as the two of you went around killing Saxons, both of you getting bad injured in the process. Then you heard a yell of agony that sounded like Ivar. You were frantically looking around the battlefield, trying to locate Ivar and Hvitserk, who you believed was likely with the brittle-boned man. You finally spotted the two Ragnarssons, and started limping in their direction.

As you were getting closer to them, you began to see the lethal wounds Ivar had gotten; multiple stab wounds in his torso, and what seemed to be broken bones. Hvitserk was helping Ivar down on the ground, as the latter was bleeding out and hurting.

When you were barely a few feet away from the two brothers, you felt a painful shot through your shoulder. Then you felt a more painful one in you back, making you almost fall face down on the ground. You didn't have the strength nor the determination to turn around and see who the Saxon archer was; you were focused on Ivar and his older brother.

You took the last few agonizing steps in their direction, and fell on your knees next to the younger Ragnarsson. You landed on your side on the ground next to him, and he turned his head to look at you.

"I don't want to die, Y/N, I don't want to die-" was all that he was saying. You did not know how to comfort him, for you were dying as well and didn't know how to comfort a man on the verge of his death.

"Death is inevitable, Ivar. We can't escape it, even if we hope we could. We can only wish for dying in a good and honorable way." You were convinced that your attempt at comforting him wasn't doing anything better, because you now saw tears coming from his eyes, and you could feel tears coming from your own as well.

Alfred ordered his soldiers to a halt. He began walking to you, Ivar, and Hvitserk. But you chose to ignore him, because you wished to finally said the words that got stuck on your tongue on that day in York.

"Do you remember the day in York when I tried to tell you something, but stopped halfway, left and avoided you for days?" You asked from Ivar, though you were not expecting an answer from him; he seemed to be using every ounce of his strength to just stay conscious and listen to you.

You were using every bit of your strength as well, but to talk to him instead of listening. You could feel Ivar and yourself losing consciousness at any moment now, so you used you last ounce of strength to say your last words;

"I love you so much, Ivar the Boneless. It has been an honor to serve you."

And so you felt life slipping out of your grasp, and you were sure Ivar did aswell. Yours and Ivar's limp bodies were surrounded by soldiers of Saxon and Dane origin, with Hvitserk and King Alfred among them. Hvitserk started crying for his little brother; Ivar was one of his only family members left to him, and even though Ivar wasn't the last one of Hvitserk's brothers to die, the third eldest was sure that he would never see any of them again.

I kind of want to mark the day I started writing this, because as I said in my notes, I finished watching TLK. I really liked that show, so I kind of want to remember the day. Although, I think I'll remember it for both finishing the show and accidentally dropping a bowl of guacamole...

-Eero, Dec 10th 2022

[1-800-choke-me]

I wanna fuck virgin ivar so bad🤭 ivar whose never touched a women before, ivar who doesn't know there's more ways then just pleasuring a women with ur cock, ivar who whimpers, ivar who stares at you with hearts in his eyes as you bounce on his cock, ivar who will never leave you alone after it happens and begs his mom to let him marry you bc ur now his, I need him so bad 😩