#ivar lothbrok/reader

[velvetvowsandvikingdreams]

˗ˏˋ༻ʚ♡︎ɞ༺ˎˊ˗Only for Me˗ˏˋ༻ʚ♡︎ɞ༺ˎˊ˗

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

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

Pairing: Ivar x reader

Words: 1,3 k (short & sweet) 🫶🏼

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

And there he was.

Ivar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're impossible.”

“I missed you.”

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

“Well then, my king… enjoy the show.”

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

Ivar fell utterly silent behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t deny it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed, heart thudding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@tessakate @ivarlover @deathsthighs

[kallichorescript]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ch3rrybbie]

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

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

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

Angel eyes

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

Slave to handmaiden.

Handmaiden to home.

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

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

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

The heathens were strange people after all.

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

To live life veiled.

———

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

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

And she would see to it.

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

“Smell it”

“Taste it”

“Feel it”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

Perfumed with smoke and stories of old.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was going to be a long night.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And once again you’re alone amongst heathens.

———

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

Ivar.

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

You frown at her remark and make your way over.

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

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

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

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

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

Lagertha frown and you lean to pour Ivar more mead.

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

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

Everyone watches with bated breath.

Someone cuts out her name as another warning.

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

“Here let me help you slave”

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

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

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

“Blessed Freya” sounded in a wave of murmurs.

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

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

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

Finally you have peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you do.

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

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

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

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

———

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

[entitled-fangirl]

A ring and a cold heart.

Ivar the Boneless x Lagerthasdottir!reader

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

Warnings: mostly spoilers for S4b

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

Masterlist

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

The Seer had been right.

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

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

But a daughter?

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

And yet.

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

…

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

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

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

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

Plus, the Ragnarssons didn't mind a bit.

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

Well, four of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Swear to it."

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

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

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

"-Ivar, please."

"Ivar!" Aslaug's voice interrupted.

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/n?" Ubbe questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

The three exchanged nervous glances.

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A ring.

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffed, turning away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But Bjorn will-"

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

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

This could make or break everything.

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

"You don't know?"

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

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

"Ivar-"

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

She nodded. "I need time."

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

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

…

Another feast, another problem.

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

"Like what?" Astrid asked.

"I don't know, but something."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door burst open, and in walks Bjorn.

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

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

"Maybe we should," Ivar warned.

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

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

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

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

Frustrated, Ubbe and Ivar left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then don't."

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

"Like me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Where had Ivar gotten Lagertha's ring? 

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

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

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

"That is cruel!"

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

"Like hell," she mumbled against his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her face dropped. "Oh. I… it's…"

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

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

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

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

"Don't be angry-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"-But?" Ubbe interrupted.

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

Every head shot to Ivar in shock.

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

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

[milkb0nny]

I would like to request sth 🥰

Could you write one with reader being daughter of a great king and shes married with Ivar and she hears Margrethe talking bad about him and he hears, gets really sad and reader sees just red and gets really mad and Ivar just loves how she is just as tyrannt as him?

I would totally understand if you dont want to write it.

Anyways I hope you have a great day ❤️

Fury Amongst Us

Pairing: Ivar x fem!reader

Summary: Despite the forced marriage between you and Ivar, the two of you developed some sort of adoration. Still, you didn’t exchange much words to one another, until that one evening; you could not stand Magrethe talking bad about your husband.

Note: Thank you so much for requesting! I hope you will like it! I made Reader a little more tame than Ivar, but still fierce and respectable. I had quite some fun writing this. Have a lovely day anon. <3

Content: established relationship, swearing, arguing, fluff, blood

Word count: ~1400

You prepared yourself for the festivities in the grand hall as your people prepared to celebrate the successes of the recent raids and the goods they had brought back. Each time the warriors returned, your father made the journey to Kattegat for the grand celebrations. He always claimed he came to see you, his daughter, but you knew he was drawn to the infamous vibrance of the town. You loved your father, and you couldn’t complain about seeing him. You had grown accustomed to these occasions, yet tonight was more exciting than the festivities before: it was your first evening in the grand hall as a married woman.

Your marriage to Ivar Ragnarsson, the son of Ragnar Lothbrok, was not born of love but of strategy - a political alliance to unite your families and strengthen ties between your folk. It was an act of power, not passion. Therefore you met with prejudice and discomfort, which vanished quickly. You did not begrudge your fate. The man could have been an ugly, aging warrior; instead, you were married to a man who was young, complex, and intriguing.

You had heard of Ivar's reputation long before meeting him. His anger and cruelty were legendary, and those who spoke of him did so with both fear and awe. Yet in the months since your marriage, you had glimpsed a different side to him, one the world rarely saw. His legs, which many deemed a weakness, were not so to him. His ambitious will and sharp mind more than compensated for any physical limitation. You found this quality admirable, even endearing. But with his strength came a quiet torment. You have experienced his rage, however, it was never turned on you but others. As if he tried to spare you from his ugliness, which you appreciated. He cared somewhat about his wife.

Over the past week, you had tried to overcome the distance between you and Ivar, seeking moments of closeness and tenderness. Yet he remained distant, avoiding your affections not with cruelty but with a quiet humility that suggested he believed himself unworthy of your love. He declined intimate acts, and your efforts to make up for the lack of romance between you. Who would have thought that Ivar the Boneless, the man feared across lands, carried such a burden of self-doubt? You respected his boundaries, offering him space but showing your care in subtle ways. And with each glance, each moment shared in silence, you felt a growing pull in your heart. You watched him, often questioning what thoughts stirred his mind. Was this marriage beginning to blossom into something real? If not, why did you feel those emotions then? You weren’t sure, but you found yourself eager to explore.

As Magrethe and another woman helped you dress, their usual gossip floated around the room. You paid little attention to it, your mind drifting to thoughts of Ivar. Magrethe’s sharp tongue often spilled tea, and though her stories rarely concerned you, today her words felt especially bitter. She rambled on about a couple who had argued loudly the night before, her tone dismissive and mocking.

The room quieted when Ivar appeared in the doorway. His presence was commanding, his piercing blue eyes immediately finding yours. For a fleeting moment, you thought he might say something, but he quickly averted his gaze, moving into the next room where his brothers waited. The door remained slightly open, and you caught him glancing back, as though reluctant to leave the sight of you.

Magrethe noticed your melancholic expression and, despite the envy that often laced her words, she tried to comfort you. "Ivar is not only ruthless in battle but also with the people closest to him," she said, her voice deceptively soft. "You should be careful, my lady. His anger might one day find you, too."

Her words, though spoken with genuine concern, carried a hidden mischief. You replied calmly, your tone steady.

"I appreciate your concern, Magrethe, but I am his wife, not the cause of his fury."

Your chest tightened at her cruel words, but you remained composed. Through the mirror, you saw Ivar just beyond the door, his head bowed as if trying to shrink away. His brothers’ laughter did little to drown out the sting of Magrethe’s remarks, and you knew he had heard every word. His eyes reflected the self hatred and disgust he owned for himself, and that alone hurt you.

"But haven’t you noticed?" she pressed, her voice growing sharper. "He cares only for power and pays no mind to the cost of his ambitions. He would hurt anyone to achieve importance. Yet, no matter how much power he has, he will always remain a cripple - a man who must rely on others to carry him."

With curiosity, you encouraged her to continue. "Go on," you said calmly.

Though the fire in your heart burned hotter with every passing moment. You set a trap for her to step in, and so she did.

Magrethe leaned closer, her tone dripping with mean words. "I pity you, my lady, being tied to such a man. The worst of it is that Ivar doesn’t love anyone… not even himself. He pushes everyone away. That’s why he’ll always be alone, no matter how powerful he becomes."

Her words were the final spark. Fury surged within you, and you turned to face her, your gaze cold and unyielding. Through the open door, you caught a glimpse of Ivar, his shoulders stiff, bracing for what he assumed would be your agreement with Magrethe’s cruel assessment. He clearly expected you to complain and cry. But what came next was far from what anyone expected.

Without warning, your hand struck Magrethe’s cheek with a sharp small object, the force sending her stumbling backward and falling to ground. Blood welled from a thin cut where your hidden blade had grazed her pure skin. Her shocked whimpers filled the room as she clutched her face.

Ubbe burst into the room, his expression one of alarm. Before he could speak, you turned to him, your voice cutting through the tension like steel.

"You allow such insolence to fester in your household, Ubbe? This woman insults your brother and dares to do so in my presence."

Magrethe sobbed before you, her arrogance shattered. Kneeling, you grasped her chin, forcing her to meet your gaze.

"You speak of my husband as though you understand him, but you know nothing of his strength, his pain. You, Magrethe, are nothing more than a jealous, envious snake, slithering beneath the feet of those greater than you." You continued to torment her, not letting that behavior go. „How can you speak of self esteem when you’re reeking of jealousy? How can you act as if you’re above him?“

Your voice softened, but each word carried the weight of your fury.

"If Ivar is broken, then I will carry him. If the world taunts him, I will silence it. And if you or anyone else dares to challenge him, I will make the gods themselves regret it. The world will burn in flames, and I will cause it if someone dares to question us, our marriage or our love."

As you stepped into the hall, the cool air brushing against your flushed skin, you found Ivar waiting. His blue eyes were filled with a mixture of awe and longing. For the first time, he reached for your hand, his touch tentative but warm.

The room was silent, only for Magrethe’s soft sobs. Even Ubbe was speechless, his gaze flicking between you and the trembling woman at your feet. You rose, your movements deliberate and commanding, and turned to Ubbe.

"Teach her to learn her place. If I hear another insult, I will not stop at a scar."

"You didn’t have to do that," he said softly, his voice laced with emotion.

For the first time, Ivar allowed himself to believe that perhaps he was worthy of such love. The anger he owned, he burdened himself with, now was shared with you.

Meeting his gaze, you replied with quiet intensity.

"I would do it again, Ivar. You are my husband, and I will not let anyone, not even you, think you are less than what you are."

[fantasydreamland]

ME WITH FICTIONAL MEN

[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.

[mads-weasley]

Next Time

Hvitserk Ragnarsson x Reader

Masterlist

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

Word Count: 1.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[1-800-choke-me]

Hvitserk: I sleep with an axe under my pillow

Ubbe: I sleep with a knife under mine

Y/N: you're both pathetic

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

Y/N: Ivar

[blakeswritingimagines]

Sitting Down on Their Lap

Ragnar: First he would be a bit cautious trying to work out why you chose that particular time to do that. He might get you to explain yourself and give you some playful jibes about it but would most likely play along and snuggle against you making sure to tickle you a few times, it's his duty after all.

Athelstan: His eyes widen in shock as you gracefully plop down onto his lap. He can feel his jaw drop at the unexpected weight and warmth, and his heart begins to skip beats. His whole body feels flushed and his palms begin to sweat. "Wh…what are you doing?" He'll question you but will let you stay.

Floki: He would be taken by surprise but ultimately amused by this unexpected development, as it is clear that you are just being playful. He responds by wrapping his arms around you, his fingers dancing up and down your sides as he pulls you tighter into his lap. He'll ask playfully, "Well, what have we here?"

Lagertha: She loves it when you randomly sit on her lap. It's unexpected and intimate and shows a level of comfort and trust between you both. It reminds her of how much you just want to be close to her, even if you have no idea how it affects her. It's a simple, but powerful gesture that shows your warmth, and your connection.

Aslaug: She'd be a bit surprised at first, but then she'd wrap her arms around you and give you a kiss, pulling you close to her so you're close as close could be.

Bjorn: Bjorn's heartbeat speeds up, and he glances down at you to see what you are doing. The sudden invasion of space is unexpected, but the contact sends a jolt through Bjorn as he feels your warmth. He puts his arms around you, pulling you closer, leaning his head down until his face is close to yours to kiss you.

Ubbe: He wraps his arms tight around you without a second thought, pressing you into the warmth of his chest. His hands find the curve of your hips as he pulls you even closer. Your weight is comforting and familiar like you belong there. He'll caress your soft hair, running his fingers up and down your neck.

Hvitserk: Well, he’d first laugh. Your sudden weight would catch him off guard, and the fact that you would be so silly as to plop down on his lap would be quite comical to him. He’d take that as a chance to squeeze you as tightly as he could, pulling you close and wrapping his arms around you.

Sigurd: Initially surprised, but then immediately pleased. He would wrap his arms around your hips and pull you closer to him. After a moment he would gently push you to your feet and stand up, then gesture for you to sit on the couch next to him. Sitting closely together, he would wrap an arm around you and squeeze your body against his.

Ivar: A slight smirk crosses Ivar’s lips as you plop down in his lap. He wraps his right arm around you, pulling you in a bit closer, while his other hand moves down to caress you. He leans forward, his lips close to your ear, and he whispers, “I don’t mind one bit.”

Halfdan: He'd be startled and maybe a little bit annoyed at first, but he'd also find it endearing. You would likely be seeking out an affectionate reaction from him, so he'd give you what you were looking for. He'd wrap his arms around you and kiss your head.

Harald: He would wrap his arms around your waist, resting his chin on the top of your head as you sit in his lap. He would smile down at you, amused by how unpredictable you can be sometimes. He would kiss your forehead and pull you closer to him, savoring the moment.

[imtryingbuck]

Jealousy? Never.

~ gif not mine credit to owner ~

Pairing: Ivar Ragnarsson x fem!Reader

Summary: Ivar the boneless jealous? Absolutely not.

Word count: 862

Warnings: possessive and jealous Ivar. fluff. slight angst. insecurity (ivar). naked reader - not sexual. mentions of murder (not detailed). shorter than i honestly wanted it to be, sorry.

A/N: thank you anon for sending this request🤍

Masterlist

Ivar’s jaw was clenched painfully tight that Ubbe thought he was going to crack a tooth or two. Jealousy burning his veins as he watched the scene before him. Hvitserk was playing with fire and he knew it, Ivar knew it, everyone in the Great Hall knew it, not that he cared as he continued to dance with Ivar’s queen.

You didn’t see a problem with having fun and have a dance with your brother in law, however your husband clearly thought differently, his blunt nails digging into the wooden arms of his throne, it wasn’t until he banged his crutches down loud enough to catch the attention from everyone in the room - without saying a word he walked out.

That was your queue to follow.

Bidding goodbye to Hvitserk and thanking him for a wonderful night, you made your way towards your shared chambers, twisting the lace of your dress nervously as you pushed the door open. “Husband.”

“Husband? I’m surprised you remembered.” He muttered as he unlanced his braces. “You were all over him tonight.”

“I-I was-”

“All over him! My brother.”

Flinching at his tone, you lowered her head. “It was a dance, nothing more. I promise.”

“He was all over you.”

“It was a dance Ivar I swear.” Carefully shuffling closer to him, to nervous of his reaction, when he didn’t react to your action you knelt down in front of him. “I was just having fun, I’m sorry.”

Raising his hand, he smoothed your hair out of your face - loving the way the soft strands felt against his rough fingers. “He wants to fuck you.”

“Don’t be silly.” The glare he gave you took the smile straight off of your lips. “I do not want him, I swear.”

“You are mine.”

“Yours, and yours only.” It was true, you didn’t want any other man, it was always Ivar from the moment you saw him one day in the market. He was sat on the steps leading up to the Great Hall, a scowl on his face as he watched people walk around, standing by your fathers stall as he spoke to a customer you couldn’t take your eyes off of the man. From that day on, you kept a look out for him, when you saw him crawling around you didn’t even find it weird or funny - not like your father. It took you nearly three months to gather the courage to speak to him, finding him sat on the beach on his own, you were a stuttering mess - only getting worse when he told you he was one of the princes of Kattegat, but from there a friendship was formed between the two of you. He told you several months later that when he became king he wanted you by his side as his wife and queen, at first you thought he was joking but his face said otherwise. When the brothers and the Great Heathen Army went to England to avenge king Ragnar’s death, Ivar made sure he took you with him, against the wishes from his brothers, whilst over there you two got married and from that moment he called you queen. “I love you and only you, Ivar.”

His only reaction was to pout. The ruthless, fearless Ivar the Boneless sat there on the bed he shared with his wife pouting. “You could if you want.”

“Could what, my love?”

“Have him, or-or anyone.” He whispered, twisting your wedding ring around. “It can not be easy with being married to a cripple.”

“I do not wish, want or need anyone else Ivar. I am happy, I am loved- you do love me d-”

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence! You know I love you.”

“And you know I love you.” Turning you hand around, linking your fingers with his. “Please never ever doubt me.”

“I didn’t like the way he was holding you.”

“We were just dancing Ivar.”

“Still don’t like it.” He huffed. “Only I get to touch you.”

“Yes, only you get to touch me.” Lifting up and walking over to the vanity you removed the heavy crown that was given to you by Ivar, you began to attempt to undo your dress.

“Want a hand, my love?”

“Please.”

“Come here then my beautiful queen.” Standing between his legs, your skin began to tingle as he fingers danced along your bare skin. Turning around as the dress pooled around your ankles, his hands went straight to your naked waist. “I love you.”

“And I love you.” Climbing into bed after helping Ivar undress, he instantly pulled you closer to him and wrapped his arms around you. “Ivar?”

“Yes, my love?”

“I like it when your jealous.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “I’m never jealous.”

“No, of course not.” Giggling at the memories of all the times Ivar threatened and even killed men who looked at you longer than he deemed necessary, doing it all out of jealousy. “The great Ivar the boneless doesn’t get jealous.”

Rolling his eyes once again with a soft smile tugging at his lips as your giggles filled the room. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

Tags: @cheesesandwichsanto

[velvetvowsandvikingdreams]

⋆˚｡⋆୨✧୧˚ Of Blood and Desire ˚୨✧୧⋆｡˚⋆ (Pt. 3)

Summary: Pleasuring Ivar and bathing together

Warnings: mdni!, smut, m!receiving, choking, praising, fluff, aftercare, talks of norse mythology, unprotected!sex, p!in!v

Word count: 5k

Pairing: Ivar x reader

His body was taut, his muscles tensed beneath your touch, his stomach clenching as you stroked him, teased him, brought him right to the edge—but you weren’t letting him fall over just yet.

His breath was shaky, his hands gripping the furs beside him, his hips desperately fighting the urge to thrust up into your touch.

And then—You slowed. You stilled.

His brows furrowed in confusion, his lips parting in a breathless whimper.

And then you leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"Not yet," you murmured, your voice sweet, teasing, dripping with power.

Ivar shuddered, his whole body tensing.

He lolled his head the side, his jaw clenching as he tried so hard to control himself.

"Not before I’ve tasted you."

His eyes snapped open.

He stared at you, his pupils blown wide, his lips slightly parted, his chest heaving.

"Hm?—” His voice broke. “What—?"

He hadn’t known.

Hadn’t even imagined a woman would want to put her mouth on him.

You shifted, slipping down between his legs, your hands smoothing over his thighs, feeling the way they tensed beneath you.

His cock twitched, aching, desperate—so ready, so close—and then you kissed him there.

Soft, teasing, lips pressing against the tip, tasting him, your tongue flicking out just slightly—the sound that tore from his throat—a wrecked, shuddering moan, his hips jerking up instinctively, his hands shooting out to grip the furs, fisting them desperately.

You looked up at him through your lashes, smiling so sweetly, so softly—and hummed—moaned on him.

The vibration shot through him, and his whole body twitched.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice wrecked, his head falling back against the pillows.

You trailed your tongue slowly down his length, licking a hot, wet stripe all the way down to his balls, taking your time, letting your breath fan over his sensitive skin.

"Stop teasing," he pleaded, his voice hoarse, raw with frustration. "Please—I—I need—"

But you only smirked, your hands gripping his thighs tighter, holding him down as you finally—Took him in your mouth.

All the way down.

Until your lips met the base of him, until he could feel your throat tightening around him, feel the warmth, the wetness—

You choked on him, moaning softly as your tongue flattened against the underside of his cock.

Ivar let out a shattered gasp, his hips trembling beneath you, his head snapping back, his mouth falling open in a desperate moan.

He had never felt anything like this. Your mouth was warm, so wet, so tightly wrapped around him.

His whole body quivered, pleasure shaking him to his core, taking his hands placing them to your hair, fingers tangling in it desperately. "Please little dove."

And then you moved.

Your head bobbed, your lips dragging torturously along his length, your tongue teasing, swirling, sucking his pink leaking tip—and Ivar—Ivar broke.

A guttural moan tore from his lips, his body shuddering, his fingers clawing at your scalp, his thighs trembling beneath your hands.

"Faster—" he begged, his voice utterly wrecked, frenzied . "Please—please"

He was so close, teetering on the edge, his whole body tightening, his stomach clenching, his muscles tensing—He was gone.

Completely lost to the pleasure, drowning in the heat of your mouth, the wetness of your tongue, the way your lips wrapped so perfectly around his thick, aching cock.

He had never felt this. Never been touched, wanted, worshipped like this. He never wanted it to end.

His head snapped back against the furs, his chest rising and falling in desperate, trembling breaths, his fingers tightening in your hair as you sucked him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, your tongue swirling around the swollen head before taking him all the way down again. "Just like that little dove—so beautiful with my cock inside your mouth." He groaned.

His cock was thick, pulsing in your mouth, the veins along his shaft throbbing beneath your tongue. The tip was so sensitive, flushed red, leaking with arousal as you swallowed around him, the vibration of your moan making his entire body jerk as you gag on him over and over.

"Fuck—" His voice was hoarse, raw with desperation, his hips trembling as he fought the urge to thrust into your mouth. "Gods—you feel so good—so perfect—"

You hummed in approval, letting his cock slide from your lips with a wet pop, your hand wrapping around him, stroking him slow and teasing as you looked up at him, eyes dark, lips slick with spit and arousal.

"You like that?" you moaned, looking up at him, your eyes all teary, your voice dripping with honey, teasing, sinful.

His gaze was wrecked, his pupils blown, his lips parted as he looked down at you. Trying to catch his words.

"You make me—" His breath caught, his fingers twitching in your hair, as if he didn't even know how to say it. His voice broke when he finally whispered, "You make me feel like a real man."

Your heart throbbed.

You smiled softly, your lips pressing against the flushed head of his cock, tasting the salt of him, the need of him.

"You are a man, Ivar," you whispered against his skin, your fingers stroking his thick, aching shaft, feeling the way it twitched under your touch. "You're so strong, so beautiful—so big."

A strangled groan tore from his lips, his thighs trembling beneath your hands.

"Fuck—"

He was losing it. His cock throbbed, so heavy in your hand, so hard it almost ached, slick from your mouth, from your spit, from his own desperate need.

And then—You took him back in your mouth.

But this time—You didn't hold back.

You moved faster, sucking him deep, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head before dragging along the thick vein that ran down his shaft. You let your saliva drip down, spitting on his cock, making him even slicker, letting your hand stroke where your mouth couldn't reach, your fingers tightening just right, milking him, devouring him.

Ivar snapped.

"Gods—fuck, little dove—please, please—"

His hips jerked, his head falling back, his mouth open in a soundless moan, his fingers gripping your hair as if he might fall apart completely.

You could feel him trembling, feel his stomach clenching, feel the way his cock twitched against your tongue—

"Ah—you're—you're going to make me—"

Your lips were so soft, so hot around him, your tongue working his sensitive tip as your hand stroked his thick shaft, your grip just right—tight, slick, merciless.

"Fuck—" His voice was wrecked, barely more than a breathless gasp. "Little dove, I—I can’t—"

You hummed around him, sending vibrations through his cock—Ivar choked on his moan.

"Please—" His fingers tightened in your hair, desperate, his hips jerking up involuntarily. "Gods, please—"

He didn’t even know what he was begging for anymore.

You looked up at him, your spit dripping from your chin, leaking down to his thighs, your braids all messed up in his fist—he had never seen anything so beautiful.

"You want to come for me, Ivar?" You murmured against his skin, your voice sweet, teasing, so hot.

"Fuck—yes, yes—" He groaned, his thighs tensing beneath you. "Please, little dove—"

How could you deny him when he pleaded like that?

You tightened your lips around him, your tongue swirling, your hand stroking faster, working him, pushing him over the edge—

Ivar snapped.

"Fuck!"

His whole body shuddered, his hips jerking as his orgasm tore through him, his cock pulsing, spilling his hot and thick seed into your mouth.

His voice broke on a wrecked moan, his fingers gripping your hair, his thighs trembling as you swallowed around him, drinking down everything he gave you.

You pulled off him slowly, your tongue flicking over his sensitive tip one last time, making him whimper, his whole body jerking.

And then you smiled, wiping your lips as you crawled up beside him, pressing soft kisses against his jaw, his cheek, his lips.

His chest was heaving, his skin damp with sweat, his blue eyes dazed as he looked at you, still trying to process what had just happened.

"You okay?" you whispered, your fingers tracing soft patterns on his toned chest, your voice soft, teasing.

His breath hitched, his fingers twitching against your waist, as he pulled you even closer to him, his muscular arms wrapping around you perfectly, his cheeks flushed, his lips slightly parted as he just stared at you.

"My love, I am the happiest man alive right now." He rasped, his voice hoarse, his expression still drunk with pleasure.

You hummed in response, pressing another soft kiss to his lips, letting him taste himself on your tongue.

He was quiet for a long moment, his blue eyes soft, half-lidded, dreamy as he just stared at you.

"You accept me." He whispered softly as you laid there in his arms.

Your lips curled into a soft smile as you pressed a kiss to his jaw. "I told you."

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, his nose brushing against your hair.

"I never want to let you go," he murmured, his voice low, vulnerable. "Not now. Not ever."

Your heart ached at the raw emotion in his voice, the truth in it.

But you wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

You stood up preparing a bath for the both of you.

The bathwater was warm, steam curling into the air as you sprinkled herbs into the tub, their soothing scent filling the room.

Ivar watched you from where he laid on the bed, his arms resting on a pillow, his blue eyes soft, his body still relaxed from the pleasure you had given him. "So beautiful." He whispered to himself looking at your body.

You went over to him, helping him to the bathtub. You kneeled beside him, your hands gentle as you helped him shift, easing him into the water with slow, careful movements.

His body tensed for a moment, his jaw clenching as he adjusted, but when the warmth surrounded him, he sighed, his muscles relaxing under the heat.

You ran your fingers over his braids, smiling softly. "Better?"

He nodded, his head tilting back against the tub, his eyes fluttering closed as you reached for a cloth, wetting it before gliding it over his skin.

Your hands moved over his shoulders, softly massaging the tension there, feeling the way his muscles coiled beneath your touch.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice low, strained. "My shoulders—so sore."

Your brows furrowed in concern as you worked your fingers into the tight muscles. "From using your crutch?"

"And crawling," he admitted, his voice almost bitter. "It’s always like this. The pain—it never ends."

Your hands slowed, your heart tightening at the frustration in his voice as you started to place kisses over his shoulder.

You hated that he hurt like this.

That his body ached every day, that he carried this pain alone.

Not anymore.

You slipped in after him, the warmth of the water embracing you as you straddled his lap, your knees bracketing his waist.

Ivar’s breath hitched, his blue eyes darkening as he watched you, his hands instinctively gripping your thighs beneath the water.

"You don’t have to do everything alone anymore," you whispered, your fingers trailing over his chest. "Let me take care of you, Ivar."

His throat went dry, his gaze locked onto you, as if no one had ever said those words to him before.

Your lips brushed against his, slow, tender, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

His hand slid up your back, around your throat, his fingers wrapping around it, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.

Your lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

You exhaled softly, your own fingers tangling in his damp braids, your nose brushing against his.

"You like that?" he murmured, his voice low, almost hungry.

You nodded, your pulse quickening beneath his grip.

The look in his eyes—Dark, possessive, hungry—It made your whole body burn.

He watched you closely, his blue eyes dark, studying every flicker of expression on your face, every shift of your body against his lap.

"You like it when I choke you like this?" His voice was low, edged with something dangerous.

Your lips parted, your breath shallow. "Yes..."

His fingers flexed around your throat, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip as if tasting your response.

His thumb slipped into your mouth as you sucked on it, looking at him so innocently.

"Gods..." His voice hot, like he was struggling to contain himself, like he had never imagined this.

Never imagined you.

Straddling him, soaked and bare, your skin gleaming in the candlelight, your hands running up his chest as you willingly gave yourself to him.

He had dreamed of a woman looking at him like this—touching him like this.

But never, never, had he thought it would be real.

His free hand slid up your thigh beneath the water, his fingers tracing the curve of your rear, his grip firm, claiming.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, almost breathless, his lips parting slightly as his gaze devoured you. "Like a goddess sitting on my lap..."

You smirked, leaning in, your nose brushing against his, your breath warm against his lips. "Then worship me, Ivar."

His eyes flashed with something wild.

His mouth crashed into yours.

It was messy, desperate, his lips parting as his tongue slid against yours, drinking you in like he was starving for you.

His grip on your throat tightened, his other hand digging into your hip, pulling you closer, pressing you down against his growing hardness beneath the water.

"Fuck..." He groaned into your mouth. "You—you feel so good—"

You rocked against him, your hands falling over his shoulders, his soft, boyish moan sending heat straight between your thighs.

The warm water lapped gently at your bodies, steam rising around you like mist, but all you could focus on was him—the way his strong arms wrapped around you, the heat of his breath against your lips, the deep, hungry look in his eyes.

"You are more beautiful than Freya herself," he murmured, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. "I would carve your name into stone so even the gods would know of you."

Your cheeks burned, a soft giggle escaping your lips. "You flatter me."

"No." His expression turned serious. "I only speak the truth. If I could steal you away to Asgard and place you among the goddesses, I would. But I would never let Odin or Thor have you. You would belong to me."

Your heart pounded at the way he said mine, the possessiveness in his voice sending shivers down your spine.

He kissed you again, even more eager to do so this time.

His fingers curled in your hair, tugging slightly, he shuddered beneath you, a soft, needy sound escaping his lips.

"I want to taste you forever," he murmured against your lips, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly you were sure it left a print. "I want to drown in you."

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body pressing closer, heat curling low in your belly at the way he was finally touching you without hesitation.

"Ivar..." You moaned softly into his mouth.

"Say my name again..." he pleaded, his voice almost boyish in its desperation. "Please... gods, I need to hear it."

Your lips brushed against his, your fingers tracing his jaw, your breath warm against his lips as you whispered—

"Ivar."

He groaned, his hips jerking up beneath you, the hardness of his arousal pressing against your soaked core, making your breath hitch.

Ivar’s lips wandered, trailing soft, lingering kisses along your jaw before pressing hot, open-mouthed ones down the curve of your neck.

His breath was warm, his tongue teasing as he licked over your pulse point, before nipping at it gently, making you gasp.

He smirked against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction. "You like that, little dove?"

You let out a soft laugh. "You’re getting smug now."

"Mmm." He hummed against your throat, his hands running down your back before gripping your hips beneath the water. "You make it easy."

Before you could respond, he suddenly nipped at your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth and giving it a playful tug.

"Ivar!" you gasped, half laughing, half breathless.

"What?" He grinned, his blue eyes twinkling, his fingers tracing your lower lip, sending shivers through you. "You look so pretty when you pout."

His hands slid up, cupping your breasts beneath the water, his thumbs brushing over your already sensitive nipples.

You bit your lip, your head tilting back slightly as he massaged, squeezing gently, testing your reactions.

"So soft..." he murmured, his lips following the curve of your collarbone before dipping lower.

He licked across your nipple before closing his lips around it, sucking lightly.

You gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Ivar..."

He hummed, clearly enjoying himself, his other hand kneading your other breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

When he pulled away, his lips glistened, a grin stretching across his face. "I could do this all day."

You giggled, biting your lip. "Greedy."

"I am." His teeth grazed against your skin again, his hands roaming your body. "And you love it."

Ivar chuckled, low and deep as he nuzzled against your chest, his hands still cupping your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples just to hear you whimper.

"You make the sweetest sounds, little dove," he murmured, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud before gently biting down, making you gasp.

"Ouch!" You smacked his shoulder, laughing, but he only grinned against your skin, looking up at you through mischievous blue eyes.

"What?" he teased, squeezing your breasts in his large hands. "Does my pretty princess not like it when I bite?" He smirked.

You wiped his smirk with a kiss, moaning into his mouth, your fingers trailing up his chest, over the tattoos of Odin’s birds, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch.

"What do they mean?" you murmured, your eyes flickering up to meet his.

"Huginn and Muninn," he finally said, his voice lower now, more careful. "Odin’s ravens. Thought and Memory."

Your brows furrowed slightly, your fingers continuing their slow exploration of the tattoo. "Why did you choose them?"

Ivar swallowed. "Because Odin sends them out every day to fly across the world… to bring him knowledge. To see what he cannot." He exhaled. "To be his eyes… his strength."

You realized, then, why he had chosen them. Why he had marked himself with symbols of a god who relied on something other than brute force.

"You are like them," you murmured, watching the way his jaw clenched, as he swallowed. "Your mind is your greatest weapon."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. "A weapon that means little when I am seen as less of a man."

You frowned, your hand slipping from his chest to cup his face, your thumb brushing along his faint stubbles. "You are not less, Ivar."

His lips parted slightly, his breath warm against your fingertips, his eyes scanning your face as if he were trying to believe you. You kissed him, showing him that he was enough—he is enough.

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "I love the way you tell these stories. Tell me more." Your voice soft, placing kisses around his neck.

A faint smile crossed over his lips, as he exhaled, his hands kneading your waist, but there was something in his expression now—pride. No one ever asked him to speak of these things. No one ever looked at him like this, with curiosity and admiration instead of fear or pity.

"Odin gave his eye for wisdom," he continued, his voice deep, steady, carrying the weight of stories told over generations. "He hangs himself from Yggdrasil, the world tree, for nine days and nights to understand the runes. He seeks knowledge, no matter the cost."

You listened, entranced, watching the way he spoke with his hands, his fingers tracing small circles over your skin as he lost himself in the story.

"And what of Thor?" you asked, tilting your head.

Ivar smirked. "The favorite of fools."

You laughed, and he squeezed your waist playfully. "Thor is strong, yes. Powerful. But he is not the wisest of gods. He acts before he thinks, relying on his hammer to solve his problems." His expression darkened slightly. "The gods do not favor the crippled. Strength is all they see."

Your brows furrowed, and you cupped his face gently, making him look at you. "They are blind, then," you whispered. "Because wisdom is far greater than strength alone."

Ivar’s lips parted slightly, as if your words caught him off guard. No one had ever said such things to him. No one had ever looked at him the way you did now.

After a moment, he scoffed, though there was no real bite to it. "You are dangerous, little dove," he muttered. "Putting such thoughts in my head."

You smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. "Maybe I just see what others are too blind to notice."

His fingers tightened on your waist, his breath shaky, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he studied you. "You have bewitched me," he admitted. "You sit in my lap, tell me I am wise, and expect me not to worship you?"

You grinned. "And are you a god that needs to be worshipped, Ivar?"

His smirk returned, sharp and hungry. "Maybe..." His voice cocky now.

Ivar’s smirk faltered as you reached between your bodies, your fingers wrapping around his thick length. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he looked at you like he could hardly believe this was happening—that you were happening to him.

"I—" He exhaled sharply as you stroked him, his head falling back against the edge of the tub. "Gods..."

"Ivar," you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. "I need you inside of me."

His blue eyes searched yours, dark and filled with something wild—something almost desperate—before he nodded once, swallowing thickly.

Slowly, you lifted yourself, guiding him to your entrance, feeling the way his breath shuddered as the tip of his cock pressed against your heat.

"Fuck," he groaned, his fingers digging into your hips as you began to sink down, taking him inch by inch, stretching around him.

His grip tightened, his arms trembling slightly as he tried to stay still, tried to let you set the pace.

"So tight..." he panted, his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut as you took more of him. "I—fuck—I don’t want to hurt you."

You gasped, adjusting to his size, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "You’re not hurting me, Ivar..." you reassured him, rolling your hips slightly, making him groan from deep in his chest. "You feel so good..."

His eyes snapped open, blown with pleasure, his lips parted as he watched you—his goddess, his queen—take him so beautifully.

"Gods help me..." he breathed, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, his lips capturing yours in a kiss so hungry it stole the breath from your lungs.

Ivar’s grip on your hips tightened bruisingly as you finally took all of him, your walls squeezing around his cock in a way that made his head fall back, a groan ripping from his throat. His chest heaved, his wet skin glistening in the candlelight, his blue eyes blown wide with pleasure as he looked up at you like you were something holy.

"So wet..." he panted, his hands sliding up your slick body, kneading your breasts, tracing your curves, his touch reverent. "You are... you are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes upon."

You rolled your hips, and he shuddered, his fingers twitching against your rear, his jaw clenching like he was fighting to hold himself together.

"Look at you..." he breathed, his hands sliding up your back, then up—one wrapping around your throat. "Skin like silk..." He squeezed, his thumb tracing along your jawline. "Like a goddess.."

His lips parted as he watched you move, his other hand trailing down between your bodies, his thumb circling your clit.

"And all mine."

You gasped, gripping his wrist, your back arching as his fingers circled slowly, teasing, making your legs tremble. The chamber being filled with slick sounds as you bounce on him over and over.

"Ivar..." you moaned, rocking against him, feeling the way his cock twitched deep inside you.

He groaned, his head falling forward, his lips dragging along your damp skin, kissing and biting your neck, your collarbone.

"So fucking perfect," he growled against your skin, as he forced you to take him deeper each time.

"Ivar! Fuck—" You whimper.

His biceps flexed as he held you tightly, his forearms tensed, the veins in his hands standing out as his fingers dug into your waist.

"You feel so fucking tight..." he panted, his head falling forward, his lips brushing over your breasts before he captured your nipple in his mouth, sucking hungrily, his teeth scraping against the hardened peak.

You whined, fingers scratching his shoulders, making him groan.

"That’s it, little dove..." he hissed, his voice strained, his hands everywhere—one on your throat, around your rear. "Take it... take all of me..."

His hips snapped up into you now, his movements becoming rougher, more desperate, the water sloshing around you both, but neither of you cared. He was lost in you, in the way your body clenched around him, in the way you moaned his name, in the way you looked at him—like he was a man.

"Fuck—" he choked, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and uneven. "I can’t—gods, I’m—"

Ivar's grip tightened on you as he thrust up into you, his cock buried deep, his body trembling beneath you as he fought to hold himself together. But you could feel it—he was close, his panting, his muscles tense, his hands clutching at your skin like he never wanted to let go.

"Ivar..." you gasped, feeling yourself tighten around him, your own release building, winding inside you like a storm ready to break.

His fingers dug into your hips, his grip possessive, his wet skin sliding against yours as he pounded up into you, his desperation raw, hungry. "I can feel you clenching around my cock—Fuck so tight." He whined. "Come for me..." he pleaded, his voice breaking, his lips trailing over your neck, your jaw, your ear. "I want to feel you... I need to—"

His words sent you over, your body arching, your breath catching in your throat as pleasure exploded through you, your walls clenching tight around him, milking him.

He panted heavily, searching for your eyes, seeing how good he made you feel. His head flew back, his muscles tensed, his body jerking as he finally broke, his pleasure ripping through him. His deep groan filled the room as he spilled inside you, his hands gripping you so tightly it felt like he was branding himself into you.

You collapsed against his chest, your body boneless, your breath ragged as you both came down, your heart still racing. His arms wrapped around you, holding you there, his lips brushing against your damp hair.

"I—" he started, but his voice was hoarse, his chest heaving beneath you.

You smiled, tilting your head to kiss his throat, his jaw, his lips. "I know," you whispered, biting down his lip. "I know."

"I don’t want to let go..." he murmured, his voice softer now, almost boyish, nothing like the ruthless warrior the world feared. His lips brushed against your forehead, pressing a kiss there, lingering. "You feel so perfect... I never knew it could be like this."

You smiled, tilting your head to press a kiss to his jaw, your fingers tracing the lines of his tattoos. "It can always be like this," you whispered. "If you let me love you, Ivar."

"No one has ever wanted to love me before..." he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "Not truly."

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. You shifted, pressing your lips to his, slow and lingering, "Then let me be the first," you murmured against his lips. "I’m not afraid of you, Ivar."

He sighed against your mouth, almost like he needed to hear those words, like they healed something inside him. "You should be," he whispered, his lips brushing over yours. "You should be afraid."

"But I’m not," you countered, smiling softly, your hands cupping his face. "You can’t scare me away."

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Taglist (If you want to get added for future fanfics of Ivar, write me/comment) 💐💞

@ivarlover @tessakate

[witchezandwonderz]

Slow Justice

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

"You’re not what I expected."

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

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

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

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

"For who?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are hungry?"

My mouth parted, and my brows furrowed.

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

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

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

"Yes."

He stared at me, confused, so I continued,

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

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

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

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

He listened. No interruptions. No mocking smirk.

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

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

I still haven’t decided.

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

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

Sometimes I worry that I do too.

Regardless, I am not dead. Yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gritted his teeth, I laughed,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smile sharpened into something wolfish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ealdormanink]

Can you write one with Ivar? ❤️

Reader is daughter of King Harald and shes friends and in love with Ivar and she has to marry one of the Ragnarssons and they all want her and she ofc chooses Ivar and he cant believe it.

Written in the Stars

Ivar the boneless x female reader!

A/N: thank you for this request! I hope you like it!!

King Harald's fleet's sails cast long shadows over Kattegat's iron-grey waters. Y/N's fingers traced the wooden railing of her father's ship, her eyes fixed on the approaching shoreline. The familiar silhouettes of the great hall and the busy docks stirred memories that made her heart flutter against her ribs.

The salty breeze carried whispers of past winters spent poring over maps by candlelight, of shared laughter echoing through empty halls when everyone else had retired, of piercing blue eyes that saw her - truly saw her - for who she was.

"The winds have favored us." Harald's voice broke through the symphony of creaking wood and splashing waves. Y/N's fingers stilled on the railing, though she couldn't quite suppress the way her lips curved upward.

Through the morning mist, familiar figures emerged on the docks. There, among his brothers, sat Ivar in his chariot. Even from this distance, the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down her spine. Their eyes met across the narrowing stretch of water, and five years of friendship hung in the space between them.

The ship's bow cut through the last few meters of fjord. As they docked, Ubbe's voice carried across the harbor, "Welcome to Kattegat, King Harald." His eyes lingered on Y/N, calculating and considering in a way that made her spine stiffen.

Hvitserk stepped forward, extending his hand to help her onto the dock. "Princess Y/N." His smile was warm, practiced. "The gods have blessed us with your return."

The wooden planks creaked under her boots as she accepted his assistance, but her attention was drawn to the subtle shift in Ivar's posture, the way his knuckles whitened around the edge of his chariot.

"The journey must have been tiring." Ivar's voice cut through the pleasantries like a blade through silk. His eyes hadn't left her face since she'd first appeared on deck. "Perhaps the princess would prefer to rest before tonight's festivities."

"Always so concerned, brother." Sigurd's words dripped with mockery. "Or perhaps you're simply eager to monopolize her time, as usual?"

Y/N's fingers unconsciously found the silver pendant at her throat - a gift from Ivar, carved with runes they'd deciphered together during one of their many late-night conversations. Those nights when they'd abandon the noise of the great hall, finding solace in ancient sagas and battle strategies that only they seemed to understand.

The great hall buzzed with activity as servants prepared for the evening's feast. Y/N's chambers overlooked the main square, where memories lingered in every corner. Her fingers traced the windowsill where, years ago, she'd first found Ivar alone, poring over his father's old maps.

"Your form is wrong." The echo of her younger self's voice played in her mind. She'd corrected his interpretation of the English coastline that day, earning not his usual sharp retort, but a look of genuine surprise. That was the first time he'd smiled at her - really smiled.

A knock at the door pulled her from the memory. Astrid, one of the servants, entered with fresh water.

"The sons of Ragnar are asking after you, Princess." Astrid's eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. "All of them."

The weight of unspoken words hung in the air. Everyone knew why Harald had brought his daughter to Kattegat this time. Alliances needed to be strengthened, and marriage was the surest way.

Y/N's feet carried her to the courtyard, where she found Ubbe first. He stood tall, every inch the eldest brother, watching the training grounds with calculated interest.

"You've grown more beautiful since we last met." His voice was diplomatic, measured. He stepped closer, close enough for her to see the political ambition in his eyes. "A union between us would bring great strength to both our people."

Before she could respond, Hvitserk appeared, twirling a knife between his fingers. "Brother, you sound like you're negotiating a trade deal." His easy smile didn't quite mask the hunger in his gaze. "Our princess deserves poetry, not politics."

Y/N's eyes drifted past them both, landing on the familiar figure by the weapons rack. Ivar sat cleaning his axe - the same one she'd helped him choose three winters ago. His movements were precise, following the pattern she'd shown him: three strokes down, one across, just as her mother had taught her.

"Still pining after the cripple?" Sigurd's voice slithered from behind her. "You could have any of us, yet you waste your time with him."

The familiar surge of protective anger rose in her chest, but before she could speak, Ivar's axe embedded itself in the post beside Sigurd's head.

"Your aim is improving," Y/N said, the words falling naturally from her lips, an old joke between them. "Though you're still pulling slightly to the left."

"Perhaps I need another lesson." Ivar's eyes met hers, and for a moment, they were back in that first winter, when she'd spent hours helping him adjust his throwing technique, never once mentioning his legs, focusing only on his strength.

The feast hall glowed with firelight, casting dancing shadows across faces both familiar and strange. Y/N sat at the high table, her father's words still ringing in her ears: "You must choose one of Ragnar's sons before the next full moon."

Her eyes drifted across the hall, watching the brothers in turn. Ubbe stood among the warriors, every gesture calculated to display his leadership. Hvitserk charmed a group of shield-maidens, though his gaze kept finding its way back to her. Sigurd strummed his oud, his song carrying notes of barely concealed mockery.

And Ivar... Ivar sat in his usual corner, away from the crowds, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. The same spot where they'd spent countless evenings discussing everything from battle tactics to the gods themselves.

"Do you remember," his voice caught her off guard as she approached his table, drawn to him as always, "the night you taught me about the stars?"

How could she forget? They'd stayed up until dawn, her finger pointing out constellations while he told her the stories behind each one. She'd never told him that she'd already known them all - she'd just wanted to hear his voice, to see the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of the gods.

"You were a terrible student," she teased, sliding onto the bench beside him. The familiar scent of leather and metal wrapped around her like an old blanket. "You kept making up new constellations."

"And you kept believing them." His smile, rare and genuine, made her heart stutter. "Until you realized I was describing shapes that looked like Sigurd falling off a horse."

A comfortable silence fell between them, filled with years of shared moments and unspoken words. Around them, the feast continued, but they existed in their own world, just as they always had.

"They're all watching you," Ivar said finally, his voice tight. "My brothers. They all want you."

"Let them watch." Her fingers found the edge of the table, inches from his. "They don't see me the way you do."

"And how do I see you?" His question came out barely above a whisper, vulnerable in a way only she was allowed to witness.

"Like I'm more than just Harald's daughter. Like I'm..." She paused, remembering all the times he'd challenged her mind, valued her opinions, trusted her judgment. "Like I'm me."

The firelight caught the silver of his arm ring - the one she'd helped him forge two summers ago, their fingers working the metal together as she'd steadied his hand.

The moment of choice arrived with the rising moon. The great hall fell silent as Y/N stood before the assembled crowd, her father's expectant gaze heavy upon her shoulders. Four brothers stood before her, four possible futures stretched out like paths in the darkness.

Ubbe stepped forward first, ever the diplomat. "Choose wisely, Princess. The future of our peoples rests upon this decision." His words echoed against the wooden walls, practiced and perfect.

Hvitserk offered her a playful wink. "Choose with your heart, not your head." His charm sparkled like sunlight on water, beautiful but fleeting.

Sigurd simply smirked, his fingers still wrapped around his oud. "Though some choices," his eyes flickered to Ivar, "might be less... conventional than others."

And Ivar... Ivar remained still, his eyes fixed on the ground. She could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped his crutch - a gesture she'd learned meant he was preparing himself for disappointment.

Y/N's feet carried her forward, past Ubbe's calculated smile, past Hvitserk's outstretched hand, past Sigurd's mocking gaze. She stopped before Ivar, close enough to see the subtle tremor in his hands.

"I choose Ivar Ragnarsson," her voice rang clear through the hall. "I choose the man who saw me as an equal before he saw me as a princess."

Ivar's head snapped up, disbelief warring with hope in his ice-blue eyes. "You can't," he whispered, for her ears alone. "You deserve someone who can-"

"I deserve someone who challenges my mind," she cut him off, her hand finding his cheek. "Someone who values my thoughts as much as my title. Someone who taught me to read the stars, even while making up constellations to make me laugh."

The hall erupted in murmurs, but Y/N heard only the sharp intake of Ivar's breath. His free hand found hers, trembling slightly.

"You've always been my choice," she continued, soft enough that only he could hear. "Since that first day when you argued with me about the English coastline. Since every night we spent planning battles and reading sagas. Since every moment you saw me for who I am, not who I was born to be."

"But I'm-" he started.

"You're Ivar," she said simply. "My Ivar. The only one who's ever matched me, challenged me, understood me. The only one I could ever choose."

Slowly, like dawn breaking over the horizon, a smile spread across Ivar's face - not his usual smirk, but the real smile she'd come to treasure. His fingers tightened around hers, and in that moment, they were back in every shared laugh, every quiet conversation, every silent understanding that had led them here.

"The gods themselves couldn't have given me a greater gift," he whispered, and Y/N saw in his eyes the same truth she'd known all along - that some choices are made long before they're spoken aloud, written in the stars they'd watched together all those nights ago.

[kaivenom]

How the Vikings men would bath with you

Masterlist

Ivar the Boneless

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ubbe Ragnarson

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

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

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

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

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

Dark ambience, small candles iluminating the room.

Hvitserk Ragnarson

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigurd Ragnarson

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bjorn Ironside

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

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

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

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

[milkb0nny]

Hii, first of all it makes me so happy to see someone writing for Ivar in the year of our Lord 2025, and so well too you deserve more love!

I really enjoyed your works. Since requests look to be open could I ask for some fluffy headcanons about Ivar and his wife during feasts/celebrations? I’m a bit introverted and tend to keep to myself if that helps, but please do your thing and I look forward to anything you come up with!

Ivar with...

an introverted wife during a festive feast...

Pairing: Ivar x fem!reader

Note: I rarely get requests because the fandom is rather dying. I still notice a quiet presence of people enjoying Vikings and liking to read fanfics. I mean, I do too! So thank you so much for finding the courage to slide into my ask box! I included some dialogue perhaps it portrays my intention a little better??

Content: established relationships, fluff, wholesomeness, anxious reader, introverted reader

“Stop wringing your hands, love. They’ll start to bleed.”

⚜️ Ivar has a sharp eye, especially when it comes to you. He knows you so well and therefore observes you constantly. The second he sees you fidgeting nervously, avoiding eye contact, or hesitating to engage with others, he knows you’re not too uncomfortable. His observant nature means he can sense your unease even before you tell him.

“You’ll sit here, next to me. Let them try to bother you while I’m around.”

⚜️ Before the feast even begins, Ivar ensures that you’re seated in a way that keeps you away from the loudest, most boisterous individuals. He places you right next to him, acting as a physical and emotional barrier between you and the chaos. Sometimes you like to banter around with the women, and he doesn’t mind. But incase everything gets too much, you have a rather quiet space in the room.

“Look at Hvitserk. How many mugs do you think it’ll take before he dances on the table? My bet’s three.”

⚜️ Ivar isn’t known for being gentle with most people, but with you, he softens. Throughout the evening, he leans close to whisper jokes or biting comments about the crowd to distract you.

⚜️ Ivar’s way of lightening the mood often involves humor. He’ll joke about how everyone else was far more embarrassing than you anxiety could ever be. Perhaps that would make you less conscious about other people’s opinions.

“You’re doing fine, Krútt. They don’t deserve your attention anyway.”

⚜️ While Ivar isn’t overly touchy in public, he makes exceptions when you’re incredibly overwhelmed. His hand might rest protectively on your knee under the table, or he’ll brush his fingers along your arm to remind you that you’re not alone.

“Mind me telling you some tales? It’s far more entertaining than watching my wife blush so lovingly.”

⚜️ If anyone tries to draw too much attention to you, Ivar is quick to redirect it elsewhere. Whether it’s calling out Ubbe for something embarrassing or telling a story about himself, he ensures all eyes are off his wife.

⚜️ Ivar subtly pushes you to engage in ways that won’t overwhelm you. If someone offers you a drink or a kind word, he gently nudges you to respond. Your answer through a nod or a smile is often enough for him and the people around you.

“Come, let’s leave these fools to their noise. They won’t notice we’re gone.”

⚜️ If it becomes too much for you, Ivar doesn’t hesitate to make an early exit. He’d rather waive the feast than watch you suffer.

⚜️ Ivar’s mix of protective fierceness and surprising tenderness ensures that even in the bustling chaos of a feast, his introverted wife feels seen, supported, and loved. And that, is you.