#ivar/reader

[oddsnendsfanfics]

Mine and Mine Pt 2 were a piece that I wrote, never expecting it to get as much attention as it did back in the day. I have to admit, I love the interaction between Ivar and the others. He is throwing his importance around and yet still giving in, despite realising he's going along with their plans.

At the time it was supposed to be a two part, still may be, but eventually maybe I would like to explore what happens next.

Mine

Genre: Fan Fiction (Vikings) Pairing: Ivar/Reader Warnings: Smut Rating: R Length: One Shot Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: I was listening to Mariana’s Trench, Astoria, and there is a part in the song which inspired this. It’s my first Ivar smut, I have been sitting on it for a few days. Go easy on me :P 

Read Pt 2

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[dulusionalapocaliose]

I desperately need crazy unhinged bossgirl woman and their pathetic man representation. And by that I mean intelligent, ambitious, unhinged, disgustingly educated but hyperfeminine, that knows how to fight magnifically and are mad science smart queens that would do what is needed to get what they want and need, and their husband/boyfriend supporting and following them around like lovesick puppies.

[shelbybyr]

When your favorite fanfic writer deletes their work

[multific]

What the Gods Will Mend

Ivar the Boneless x Reader

Summary: You married a man who didn’t love you, but you chose to love him anyway. Through quiet care and devotion, you gave him healing he never thought possible.

You were not the wife he wanted.

You knew it the moment Queen Aslaug placed your hand in Ivar’s before the gods. You felt it in the stiffness of his grip, in the way he looked through you and not at you.

“A union blessed by the gods,” Aslaug had said, smiling gently at her son. “She is clever, gentle. She will be good for you, Ivar.”

Ivar did not reply.

He only walked away from the wedding fire when the ritual ended, leaving you alone among the ash and shadows.

And yet, you stayed.

You were his wife now. You were bound to him.

Even if he hated you.

He ignored you most days. Barely spoke to you unless forced. When he did, his words were sharp and cold, meant to push you away.

Still, you watched him. Quietly.

The way pain twisted his features in the morning. The tremble in his hands when he forced his legs into motion. The anger he swallowed, the shame he masked with cruelty.

You saw it all. And your heart ached.

Because, unlike him, you wanted this marriage.

You had admired him for years.

Not just his mind or his fierce spirit, but the way he carried himself despite the world’s cruelty.

You saw a man carved by pain, and you longed to soften its edges. To help him heal.

So you sought out old healing texts. Spoke to volvas in secret.

Traded furs for rare herbs. Brewed tinctures to strengthen bones, to ease pain, to mend where time had been unkind.

And every night, you added it to his drink.

Quietly. Carefully.

You knew he wouldn’t accept it if he knew.

It happened on a stormy night.

He came home from the training fields, soaked and furious, dragging mud into the hall.

You had already prepared his food, placed the warm cup of brew beside it as always.

You smiled, ready to leave him in peace.

But his eyes were already on you.

“What is this?” he snapped, lifting the cup. “You give me this every night. Do you think I don’t notice?”

Your breath caught. He was holding it like it was poison.

“It's nothing. Just herbs, to help you rest-”

He threw the cup against the wall. It shattered, making you flinch.

“Do not lie to me,” he growled. “Are you trying to kill me, Wife? Is that how much you hate being mine?”

His voice was venom. His hatred, a sword.

You swallowed hard. Your hands trembled, but you didn’t back down.

“It’s not poison,” you said quietly. “It’s medicine. For your legs.”

He stared at you. Something in his eyes cracked.

“What?”

“I asked the volvas. Searched scrolls from the East. It's a mixture of roots and silverleaf, it's meant to help rebuild strength in damaged bones. You’ve been in less pain lately, haven’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

You stepped closer.

“I just wanted to help. I know you didn’t want this marriage. You don’t even like me. But I still see you. And I care. Even if you never… feel the same.”

Silence fell.

The storm outside raged, but in the hall, it was still.

Ivar looked at you, truly looked at you, for the first time since your wedding night.

“You’ve been doing this… for how long?”

“Since the second week we wed.”

He lowered his gaze. You saw the war in him, between pride and pain, between mistrust and something softer.

“You are a fool,” he said. But his voice had lost its edge. “A stubborn, strange little fool.”

You turned to leave, swallowing your humiliation.

“Wait.”

You stopped.

He rose from his bench with difficulty, but stood nonetheless. He looked at you, blue eyes unreadable.

“I’ve been walking farther. I thought it was the gods.” A pause. “You’re the one who did it.”

You nodded slowly.

He stepped toward you.

“Why?”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Because I love you.”

The words stunned the air.

He didn’t speak. He only looked at you, and for the first time, you saw no hatred in his eyes. Only confusion, and something like awe.

He reached for your hand, his fingers trembling.

“Sit with me,” he said. “Stay tonight.”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

That night, for the first time, Ivar did not eat alone. And when you touched his hand beneath the firelight, he didn’t pull away.

The fire crackled low, and outside, the rain turned soft, tapping gently on the roof like the gods themselves were listening.

You sat beside him, closer than ever before, your hands folded in your lap, unsure of what to say now that you’d spoken the truth.

You had confessed love to a man who never once gave you kindness.

But tonight… he had not turned away.

Ivar’s eyes were unreadable, but they didn’t look through you anymore. They held you.

“How long have you loved me?” he asked, voice quiet as the flames.

You hesitated, but answered honestly. “Since before the wedding. I admired your strength. Your cleverness. The way you held your head high when the world gave you every reason not to.”

He looked away at that, jaw tight. “You saw something good in me. Even when I couldn’t.”

You nodded.

“And yet I treated you like the enemy.”

You gave him a soft smile, one born of pain, not pity. “You were protecting yourself. I understand.”

He exhaled through his nose. Then, after a long silence:

“No one has ever done what you’ve done for me. Not like that. Not in secret. Not without asking for something in return.”

You turned toward him. “I didn’t want anything. Just… for you to be in less pain.”

He looked at you then, and something cracked open behind his gaze.

“Come here,” he murmured.

Slowly, cautiously, you moved toward him.

Ivar shifted with effort, wincing as he opened his arms, awkwardly at first, as if the gesture were unfamiliar. And perhaps it was. You had never touched more than his hand or shoulder since the wedding.

But now…

You moved into his embrace.

He wrapped his arms around you, hesitantly at first… then tightly. Desperately. As if the idea of being held like this might break him, but also save him.

His forehead pressed into your neck, and you felt it.

The tremble.

The breath he was holding.

The surrender.

“I don’t know how to love,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But I want to try.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“You don’t have to know how,” you whispered. “Just let it happen. We’ll find the way together.”

His eyes searched yours for a long, breathless moment.

And then—he kissed you.

It was not rough or hurried like you'd imagined it might be. It was soft. Curious. Full of unfamiliar tenderness. The kiss of a man learning, trusting, hoping.

And when he finally pulled away, his hands stayed on your face like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered.

“I’m yours,” you replied. “I always have been.”

That night, you didn’t lie on opposite sides of the bed like you had for so long. You curled into him, warm under furs, his arm wrapped around you protectively. He fell asleep with his face in your hair, breathing you in.

And for the first time since your wedding, he didn’t wake from nightmares.

He only dreamed of you.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[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]

Touch Cannot Lie

Pairing: Ivar x blind!reader

Summary: You were born without sight, but it never hurt your confidence as much since you managed to navigate and live just fine. However, other people belittle and underestimate you, which builds frustration. Though, one day you would learn someone else was feeling the same way.

Note: So, I haven't been active for some time but I'm trying to get back into it. I've been a lot into vikings and supernatural again, which is why I'm feeling motivated. 💕🫶 With that, I hope you enjoy this fic!

Warnings: fluff and butterflies in your stomach

Word count: ~1200

You stepped through the snow, its cold crunch beneath your boots breaking the silence of the forest. The paths were familiar, stuck in your memory from countless adventures shared with your siblings. These woods were more than trees and trails - they were a place of cherished moments with your beloved brothers. Your siblings had always believed in your strength, your courage, even though you couldn’t see the world as they did. They saw you as you, not as blindness.

The gods had denied you sight, but in its place, they blessed you with keen senses and an ability to see the truth in others. You learned to navigate not just the world, but the depths of people, detecting their intentions with ease. Over the years, you encountered every kind of person: those who pitied you, those who patronized you with unwanted help, and those who pried with questions born of insensitivity. You rarely encountered interest in your person, only the challenges of being blind bothered others. Yet, amidst them all, one man stood apart; someone who saw you for who you truly were, treating you with respect and dignity.

As you made your way deeper into the woods, the stillness was broken by the sound of footsteps. There was something distinct about them, something you have heard before. A rhythm accompanied by a dragging noise, as if someone were pulling a heavy object. Though they weren’t heading back toward the town, but deeper into the forest, just like you did. Before you could wonder further, voices emerged, familiar and comforting.

“Y/N!” a voice called, clear and warm. It was Ubbe. A smile crept across your face, and your pace quickened toward the raspy voice.

“Ragnarssons, what brings you out on this winter’s day?” you asked softly, moving confidently toward the voices.

“Careful, don’t fall,” Hvitserk said, reaching out to guide your hand, but you declined with a slight shake of your head. You continued steadily until you reached Ubbe and Ivar.

Ubbe spoke, explaining that they were discussing family matters and strategies for their revenge against the Saxon kingdom. You listened intently, walking beside Ivar and matching his pace. Ivar‘s voice filled the breezy air as he turned his attention to you.

“What about you? It’s rare to see you alone, Y/N,” he asked gently, though his eyes - unseen to you - glued on your frosty hands which were slightly red already.

“My brothers are busy preparing for the next feast in the grand hall,” you explained with a light chuckle. “I needed a walk to clear my head. Sometimes calmness is the best companion. Though, I imagine you know a thing or two about that, with all those brothers.”

The Ragnarssons laughed, their light heartiness warming the icy air. You had grown up alongside them in a way; your paths had crossed many times in Kattegat especially the past years, forging a bond that was both familial and unique. The conversation shifted back to their plans, but soon another set of hurried steps approached.

“Ubbe! Bjorn needs us for an urgent discussion,” came Sigurd’s voice. “He hasn’t had much time for us lately, but this is important.”

Hvitserk hesitated, glancing toward you. “Then we’ll go,” he said, “but Ivar, can you stay with Y/N? Just to ensure she doesn’t lose her way back to the town.”

The words stung, though you masked it well. Once again, you were reminded of how others saw you. Not as the capable person you were, but as someone fragile and in need of protection. You knew the paths throughout, and you trusted your senses well enough to not lose track. Though you appreciated their care, it still hurt to be defined by your blindness.

“I’m sorry for being a burden,” you murmured, frustration slipping into your voice.

“That’s my brothers’ foolishness, not yours,” Ivar replied quickly, his tone firm yet kind. “Do you want to walk further? I don’t mind spending time with you. I would not find a place in their discussion anyway.” He was mad about the fact he had been left alone once again, but he didn’t mind that he had the opportunity to be with you alone.

You smiled at his sincerity, warmth spreading through you as he lingered by your side. He understood your struggles in a way few could. You liked that, the way he never asked if you were struggling because of your eyes.

Kneeling down to meet his gaze, you felt his presence. A warmth that contrasted with the chill of the snow. The scent of leather and iron lingered around him. “I wish I could see you, Ivar,” you said softly. “I imagine you look simply human, despite what others say about your legs. Maybe you look like a god. Or perhaps a beast. Or maybe something else entirely.”

Your words spilled out before you could stop them, and the blush rising to your cheeks portrayed your embarrassment. Ivar, however, found your flushed face endearing, a rare vulnerability you shared only with him. A moment which only the two of you shared, which he would take advantage of.

“I wonder the same,” he admitted with a small smile. “Would you like me to guide you? Not to help, but to let you see in your own way.”

Your hand hesitated before reaching out, and his cold fingers enveloped yours with surprising gentleness. He didn’t feel violent but you knew his temper well enough. Up to this point you rarely touched him, perhaps a few times as a kid. Though, this moment was something different - a side of Ivar you haven’t heard of yet.

He guided your hand to his face, resting it lightly against his cheek. His skin was cold, yet the moment felt electric. Your heart fluttered as your fingers traced the contours of his face - his strong jawline, the curve of his lips, the furrow of his brows, the shape of his nose. Ivar guided you, and you followed along with a racing heart.

“Are you sure?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to overstep.”

“I’m sure,” he replied, his grip firm but kind. “I’ve seen you do this with your brothers. It’s how you imagine what we look like, isn’t it?”

You nodded, a smile spreading across your lips. His understanding touched you deeply. As your hands roamed carefully over his features, you noticed yourself savoring the moment.

“So,” he asked, a teasing edge in his voice, “am I a god or a monster?”

“You’re neither,” you said with a quiet laugh, your hands cupping his face. “You’re just human. But a very unique one.”

His eyes softened, though you couldn’t see the admiration in them. In this moment, he felt truly seen, not for his weaknesses, but for his humanity. And for the first time in a long while, so did you.

[fantasydreamland]

ME WITH FICTIONAL MEN

[welikeimagines-andfandoms]

Behave- Ivar x Reader

Summary: Reader makes sure her husband Ivar is on his best behaviour at a dinner with his brothers

Word count: 486

*want to be tagged in my next Ivar fic? Click here*

Confusion swept across Ivars face as you asked him to sit beside on the couch.

“My love, while I want nothing more than to sit with you, I have to see my brothers for dinner,” he argued as he tried to get through the door.

“Ivar, sit,” you calmly but sternly demanded.

Ivar could never argue with you when you ordered him like that. Though he may be a fierce warrior on the battlefield, he was no match for you off of the battlefield.

Complying without even a single huff or sigh, Ivar quickly sits beside you on the couch.

Smiling sweetly at each other, your hand gently rests upon his cheek. Ivars eyes begin to close and he hums at your soft and sweet touch.

His hum however turns into a gasp of surprise, which becomes a light moan as he opens his eyes wide, to see you straddling his lap.

Before he can question your motives, your lips are already pressed against his. Moaning into your divine kiss, his hands gently grasp at your hips.

Ivar has no time to complain about you breaking the kiss, as you begin to nip along his neck.

“Ivar, listen to me,” you whisper enchantingly into his ear, like you’re casting a powerful spell, “you will behave at this dinner with your brothers. You will be the good boy I know you can be.”

Grasping his throat, you force his head back against the back of the couch, to look deep into your eyes. You take a while to play with Ivars braided hair, driving him wild and making him desperate as you bite your lip.

Suddenly your eyes change, from his powerful and fearsome wife, to his sweet soft darling. You knew playing both the enchantress and the docile flower would completely shut down his defences, and he’d have no choice but to do exactly what you say.

“Be a good boy for me? Please? You’re so smart, why would you let what they say get to you, darling husband of mine?” You ask him softly, both stroking his ego and his strong muscles.

“I-I will behave,” he softly complied, looking at you with reverence and amazement.

Your sweet pout quickly turned into a wicked smirk as you quickly but passionately kiss his lips.

“I know you will, sweet boy. Now go have fun and don’t come home too late,” you order.

Lightly patting his chest, you quickly move from his lap to sit beside him once again. It takes a moment for Ivar to come back to himself, your powerful hold having him in a daze.

Once his mind comes back to reality, he gives you a soft smile and a gentle kiss, before making his way to the door.

“I’ll be home before you are in bed. I love you, my enchantress,” he smiled at you from the door.

“And I love you, my king.”

[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

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi

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.

[theinheriteddutchess]

A Life Long

Pairing: Ivar the boneless x reader

Summary: You have a talent for storytelling, it caught the young prince's attention. It means your life isn't yours anymore.

Word count: 2135

Warnings: implied non-con, possessive behavior, Ivar's entitlement

Notes: my first online Ivar story, 🥹 hope you'll like it

Masterlist

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

You watched as other girls laughed and flirted with the handsome boys around you. Watched as they got married and carried a babe or two on their hips.

You sighed inside of yourself and continued down the market and purchased fresh vegetables and fruit for the day. Mundane tasks to keep yourself busy. Excuses to go outside. Away from Ivar.

How your life could have turned differently. As a small child you enjoyed telling stories. Your parents had told you plenty, and you always begged the travellers for new tales. And so, you were the one to entertain the others at play, or at the long feasts in the Great Hall.

And then Prince Ivar heard you speak. You must’ve not been older than nine.

Surrounded by the other children, you had started your tale, building up to the most exciting part, as he pushed his way through, crawling to the front.

You continued without distraction, looking each child in the eyes as you wove your tale and captured all the attention. As soon as you were finished, they had clapped and begged for another story. You declined, telling them to wait for another time, and skipped over to your parents seeing if any sweets were left for your hungry belly.

It wasn’t until a few days later when a servant of the Queen appeared at your hut, requesting you come with them. Queen Aslaugh has asked you to distract her son from the pain coursing through him, his legs failing him again.

You had heard him scream when you were guided to his personal quarters. You had heard of his temper and you had been frightened. The Queen assured you you’d be unharmed. Ivar was in great pain and he had begged her to bring you to him to tell him a story. Anything to focus on than the agony he was experiencing.

He looked dreadful, and hissed and slapped the thralls as he growled and screamed, while they tried anything to relieve the cramping. He tried to calm down once he spotted you, but you hesitantly took a seat nearby, as his eyes focussed on you.

You hadn’t known what else to do or say so you started your story immediately, picking one full of adventure and scariness, in hopes it would lessen his suffering a bit.

It was the start of many visits to try and help him through his episodes. It seemed harmless, but one day Queen Aslaugh visited your parents. Her request quickly laid down for you to live in her household. You would be treated well, dressed as royalty, if only you would be Ivar’s playmate. Help him through his sicknesses, his moods, be his friend.

It’s not like your parents had wanted to give you up so easily, but they were just common people, and Aslaugh did not want to hear no. She would do anything for her youngest son.

Your mother urged you to be nice, while she packed a bag with a few of your belongings. Strong. Be careful. She warned you of the prince’s temper, and wanted you to be safe.

“He might bore of you. Princes are fickle, once you’ve told him all your stories, once he’s older, I’m sure he will release you. Do not worry, daughter. We will see each other.”

She was right, partially. You saw them at feasts, at market, or sometimes on free days, as rare as they might be. 

But Ivar did not tire of you.

Years went by, and he never stopped requesting your presence. At his sickbed, at his table, when he wished to go to market himself.

He still requested your stories, no matter how many times he had heard them, and seemed to favor them over any new ones you had gathered.

“I like to hear you speak,” he had told you often. Your voice was soothing to him. Your way of storytelling still captured his attention fully. People often praised you for it, but none seemed to be as enraptured as him.

In fact, there seemed to be resentment in his eyes whenever another complimented you, even if it was shared with pride.

But his attachment came with a price.

Sure, you were dressed in fine clothes, fed the best food, and being the favourite of a prince brought safety from unwanted attention. Aslaugh insisted on teaching you alongside Ivar, or perhaps he had been the one to insist on it.

However, you had no freedom to make new friends, or spend much time with those who were. You barely had time to spend alone as his request for your attention and presence became more often and longer.

You had shown interest in a boy before, and it had resulted in him being accused of stealing and being whipped. You were sure Ivar was behind it. It had made you dread your future even more.

Ivar had asked you to share his room soon after, but Queen Aslaugh had put a stop to it. 

It did not go over easily.

He had raged, insisted you were saver nearby, not your room so far from his. Would it not be simpler if you were at beck and call immediately?

She was not fooled. It might’ve been the only time she had told him no. You didn’t understand why she showed pity. Or perhaps she hoped he would choose a woman of higher status? Still, it seemed her decision protected you. She looked at you with worry in her eyes. Suddenly she seemed more present during the time spent with Ivar. Much to his annoyance.

“I am not a child,mother. We have managed without you so far.”

“Don't deny me time with my son,” she had smiled tensely. “Besides, I would like to hear the stories of our Gods again. And you speak so well.”

That was addressed to you, accompanied with a kind smile.

It had been soon after that she approached you privately.

“It seems Ivar wants to bed you.”

You gulped and did not know how to react. You had feared it, secretly, but had not wanted to truly accept it.

“Soon he's the age of marriage. And I wish him to be happy. But I know he can be hasty in his decisions, and I did not see you return his feelings.”

“I-” you stumbled to find words. “I had wished to return to my family.”

She clearly now pitied you. “I am sorry, for I love my son too dearly to cause him pain. I can’t return you, but I will try to give you the freedom to choose. If you do not wish to marry, you will have my protection.”

You did not know what she told him, but Ivar, though clearly agitated, did not treat you with contempt afterwards. He grumbled about it when he thought you were none the wiser what he was talking about, but you managed to get some answers. He had been told you were a free woman, and Aslaugh had brought you here for friendship, not as a bedmate.You were not a thrall and she wished you to be ready for marriage and your own family in your own time. He seemed to believe she had scolded him, and was under the impression he only wanted to lay with you. That the decision was his mother's, not yours.

When he played with your hair, as you sat comfortably near the window and hummed to yourself as you were mending some of your older dresses to gift to your sisters, he spoke softly. “Like you'd be a whore to me,” He tsked. “My mother thinks she knows all. You are more to me than that.”

His touch put you on edge, but he never lowered his hands, or forced you to touch him. Perhaps he had truly respected your friendship, as he did not ask you to join his room again. You hesitantly felt saver.

That did not mean he got any less possessive, however. You were still not to spend any time with a man, if you did not wish to antagonize him, or risk the poor man to be harmed.

You still were expected to sit next to him at feasts. He still asked for your stories.

And then the unfortunate day came when Queen Aslaugh was killed.

Perhaps you were supposed to be relieved, you had regained your freedom. Ivar was gone, in need to prove he was a man. Was in England with his father to raid and gain respect. And despite all her flaws, the Queen had been kind to you. She had treated you like family. Not like a daughter, no, but something close to it.

Before Lagertha had appeared, she had put her hands on your cheeks, observed you and sighed, resigned. “He needs you. I want you to look after him. You will be content.”

Words that haunted you.

When the sons finally returned things were tense. But Ragnar’s death needed to be avenged, and Ivar…there was a darkness in him that not had the chance to properly thrive before. He looked hardened, his contempt showing more and his dislike for his brothers growing.

Being away from him felt like breathing and yet, sadness took you over at all he had to suffer. You could not help the urge to comfort him whenever your eyes crossed.

He did not go to you, though. He was planning. He wanted revenge. You understood. You were in the way right now. His future only revolved around punishing those that hurt him.

Lagertha set to improving Kattegat. You all worked hard. News was few and far between. You spend time with family, tightened friendship bonds. Lived life like any other. Unseen.

The day Ivar came back, it seemed like any other day. It was not.

The battle that followed seemed quickly done once his uncle joined. Ivar was King. Like he always wanted. 

A feast was given. You had expected it, but the servant giving you Ivar’s request - and had it ever been anything less than a demand?- of your presence in the Great Hall should not have come as a surprise, yet it still filled you with dread.

You were glad he was alive. You were even happy that he had chased Lagertha away, after she had so brutally killed Aslaugh. You still remembered the soffication his dominating presence gave you, however.

Yet, you had no choice.

As soon as you arrived you were guided to the throne.

And there he sat, like he had always belonged there.

He looked different. Older. His hair was longer and braided neatly. His posture was relaxed and proud. He seemed happy.

“Come. Sit,” he smiled at you, waving to the chair next to him.

You swallowed but obeyed, as you sat down on the chair meant for his Queen.

“You look tired,” he mentioned.

“I’ve been working hard,” You replied simply.

“Yes, Lagertha worked you hard. But you don’t have to worry about that anymore. You won’t have to work ever again. I will make sure of it.”

You didn’t know how to take thay, so you hummed, not keeping your eyes off of him. It was as if you had to keep watch of his every move. 

“I have missed you,” he suddenly confessed. “But I’m glad I’m back and you’ll never have to part from me again.”

As you worried.

“I know you were not allowed here, while that bitch took over, but you will have your room here of course. And everything you’ll ever wish for.”

You were supposed to be happy so you forced a small smile on your lips.

“I’m happy you’re well and alive, Pr - King Ivar,” you murmured. That, you did mean.

“Ivar, just Ivar for you,” he insisted. Then he offered you food. 

The whole night, it was a blur or drink, food and talk. Ivar watched the celebration from his seat, occasionally grabbing your hand to kiss it affectionately. You started being nervous and drank more than you normally would.

When you couldn't stay awake you requested to retreat. And as you were guided to your room, all you thought about was getting out of the fancy dress Ivar had gifted you, and sleeping until all your worries lessened.

As you fell into a light slumber, it seemed like hours had passed until you felt movement in your bed. You woke with a startle. Blinking to see in the darkness, you heard Ivar beside you speaking.

“Even if I had to wait for years, I always knew you were going to be mine. And now, finally, the time has come where nothing is stopping me.”

As his hands crawled over your skin, you realized you were never going to be free.

[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

[velvetvowsandvikingdreams]

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

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

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

Pairing: Ivar x reader

Word count: 4k

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

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

But you weren’t alone.

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

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

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

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

Laughter followed.

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

But Ivar—he said nothing. He only watched.

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

Laughter erupted again.

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

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

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

"Guys—?"

Neither of them heard you.

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

Then he saw you.

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

Sigurd stiffened. His smug expression faltered.

And without a word—he turned and ran.

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

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

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

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

Ivar’s blue eyes burned as they met yours.

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

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

You hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer.

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

Ivar scoffed, looking away. "I know."

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

"What are you—"

"Hold still."

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

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

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

Almost vulnerable.

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

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

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

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

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

Care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And something about that made you smile.

And worse, you were still there.

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

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

Ivar stiffened. His fingers curled into the dirt.

"What?"

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

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

Because you were right.

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

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

His head snapped toward you, eyes widening.

"What?"

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

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

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

"Stop," he rasped out, voice hoarse.

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

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

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

His nostrils flared.

"I have never—"

"Never?" You lifted a brow, unconvinced.

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

The intensity in his voice startled you.

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

Something shifted in the air between you.

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

His voice was raw, the usual confidence stripped away.

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

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

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

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

"I still do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallowed hard. "I’m not afraid."

"Then look at me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smirked.

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

It was intoxicating.

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

His hands jittery against you.

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

"No," he admitted, almost a whisper.

Your smile was soft, teasing, but not cruel.

"I thought so."

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

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

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

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

The moment your mouths touched, he made a noise.

"Hmh."

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

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

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

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

You nodded—smiling.

But he wanted it.

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

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

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

"Ivar," you moaned—full of lust.

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

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

"Did I—?"

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

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

He froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carefully, he applied the slightest bit of pressure.

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

"Like that?" he murmured.

"More."

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

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

"Ivar…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallowed hard.

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

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

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

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

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

"You don’t have to do anything."

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

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

But you didn’t.

Instead, you kissed him.

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

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

He shuddered.

And then—finally—he let you. Your eyes never left his.

You tugged the knot loose, feeling how his stomach tensed beneath your fingers. He looked down—panting.

His whole body was stiff, every muscle locked as you reached inside, weapping your fingers around his cock for the first time.

Ivar gasped.

A sharp, choked sound left his lips, his head falling back against the grass as his hands scrambled against your sides, not knowing whether to pull you closer or push you away from the sheer overwhelming sensation of it.

"Gods—" he groaned, his breath shuddering as you gave him a slow, testing stroke.

You giggled at the sight of him, utterly undone beneath you.

"You’re so sensitive," you mused, stroking him again, watching the way his hips jerked ever so slightly into your touch, his body betraying him. "Have you never been touched like this before?"

Ivar’s eyes squeezed shut, his lips parting around another helpless, shaky breath.

"N-No," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "Never."

Your smile widened, something warm curling in your chest at the realization that this—this moment—was his first.

"So hard for me," you whispered, your thumb caressing over his leaking tip, watching the way his thighs tensed, how his brows knitted together in helpless pleasure.

A broken, needy whimper left his lips, and you laughed softly, leaning down to brush your lips against his ear.

"You sound so beautiful when you whimper for me, Ivar."

His breath hitched sharply, his hands grasping at your waist, but he was powerless beneath you, lost in the sensation, lost in you.

"Wouldn’t it drive your brothers mad?" You teased, your lips trailing kisses along his jaw. "That of all the men who have wanted me, of all the Jarls and warriors I have denied, I did it for you? That I only ever wanted you?"

Ivar let out a shaky moan, his lashes fluttering. "W-Why?" he whined, almost like he didn’t believe you.

You smiled as you worked him gently in your hand.

"Because I hoped—" you whispered, your lips almost touching his—"that one day, we would be this close."

His entire body trembled.

He swallowed, his gaze flickering away. "But I am—"" He hesitated, jaw tightening. "I cannot take you like other men could."

His deepest fear.

"Believe me, you are taking me better than any man ever could." You responded.

He was stiff again, shoulders squared like he was bracing himself for something—mockery, rejection, pity.

"Ivar," you purred against his lips, "I don’t want them. I never have. I want you—just as you are."

"You really mean that?"

You nodded.

You wrapped your fingers more firmly around him, stroking him in a slow, teasing rhythm, feeling the heat of him, the way he twitched in your grasp.

"How often have you imagined this, Ivar?" You whispered, your lips brushing against his neck.

He let out a soft, strangled moan, his hips flinching slightly into your hand before he forced himself still, his grip on you tightening.

"I—" He swallowed hard, struggling to get the words out. "Every time."

You smiled against his skin. "Every time?"

"Every time you bathed," he admitted, his voice wrecked, shaking. "Every time I watched you, every time you let the water touch your body, I imagined—"

He groaned as you squeezed him slightly, your thumb circling over the sensitive tip, feeling the way his body reacted to you, how easily he was unraveling.

"Imagined what, Ivar?" You teased, your strokes slow, torturous.

He let out a desperate breath. "Imagined this—your hands on me, touching me, making me feel—" His voice faltered, his head tipping back as another soft moan escaped him.

You kissed along the line of his collarbone, smiling against his skin. "And did you touch yourself while thinking of me?"

Ivar whimpered.

His grip on you was bruising now, his fingers digging into your hips as if he was trying to hold himself together. His cheeks were burning.

"Yes," he admitted. "Every night."

Your stomach tightened at his confession, heat pooling between your thighs.

"Poor thing," you teased, pumping him just a little faster, feeling how thick and heavy he was in your hand, the way his body twitched with each slow stroke. "You must have been so frustrated, watching me, never being able to touch me."

"Gods...yes," Ivar moaned, his hips bucking slightly into your grip, completely lost in the feeling.

"And now I’m here," you murmured, your lips brushing against his jaw, "touching you, making you feel good. Just like you imagined."

Ivar let out a broken sound, "Better," he choked out, "better than I ever imagined."

He was beautiful like this—completely unraveled, completely at your mercy. Lips and cheeks flush.

You lifted your hand to your lips and spit into your palm, watching as Ivar’s eyes widened, his breath hitching sharply in his throat.

"Gods," he groaned, his hips jolting slightly at the sight.

You smile at him, as you wrapped your slickened hand around his dick again, and he whimpered—a soft, broken sound as you spread the wetness along his length, mixing with the arousal already leaking from his tip.

"Look at you," you teased, your lips ghosting over his, "so desperate for me."

"I—" Ivar gasped, his forehead pressing against yours, his body shaking as you pumped him slowly, teasingly. "Please."

"Please what?" You kissed him, slow and deep, swallowing the strangled moan that escaped him as you worked him in your hand.

"I don’t—"" He broke off into another shaky whine as your thumb brushed over his tip, gathering the wetness there. "I don’t know—I just—more."

"More?" You kissed down his jaw, then his throat, letting your lips linger against his heated skin as you continued your slow strokes. "You’re begging so lovely."

Ivar barely had time to react before you sank to your knees in front of him.

"Gods," he whispered, his voice breaking.

You glanced up at him, eyes filled with desire, before pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his tip.

Ivar moaned—a wrecked, desperate sound, his hips bucking slightly before he forced himself still, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

"Have you imagined this too, Ivar? My mouth on you?" You murmured, your breath warm against his sensitive tip.

"Yes," he gasped, his voice raw with need.

Ivar cut off on a moan the second your mouth wrapped around him, his whole body jerking.

"Gods—fuck," he gasped, his voice wrecked, shaking. His head tipped back, his lips parted as he sucked in a ragged breath, his entire body trembling under the new, overwhelming sensation of your wet, hot mouth around his aching cock.

He was thick, flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking with arousal that smeared against your lips as you sucked him in deeper. The veins along his length throbbed under your touch, his cock twitching every time your tongue flicked over the sensitive head, every time your lips tightened around him.

"Please—" He moaned louder as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deeper. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to grab your hair, to guide you, but was too afraid—too lost in the pleasure to even think properly.

"You’re so—fuck—so wet," he groaned, his hips twitching, betraying his restraint. "Feels too good—feels—"" He choked on a moan as you swirled your tongue along the underside of his cock, tracing the pulsing vein there before taking him even deeper.

"Love how you taste," you moaned on him, your voice thick with arousal.

He whimpered. Sweat started beading at his brow, his chest heaving as he watched you through lidded eyes—completely ruined, completely yours.

"I can’t—" His voice was strained, desperate. "I—fuck—I don’t know how much—"

You smirked up at him, your lips wrapping tighter around him as you sucked hard, taking him even deeper.

Ivar mewled, his hands flying to your hair before he could stop himself, his hips jerking forward as his cock throbbed in your mouth.

"Fuck!" he gasped. "I—I'm—"

You hummed around him, and that was all it took.

"Gods," he groaned, his head tipping back, his jaw slack with pleasure. "You—You’re so beautiful like this—lips wrapped around my cock."

You let him take control, let him guide you, your nails digging into his thighs as you relaxed, letting him use your mouth like he’d always dreamed.

"So warm. So fucking perfect."

You moaned around him, your eyes locked onto his, and Ivar lost it.

"I—fuck—" His breath broke off, his whole body tensing as his cock throbbed against your tongue. "I—I'm—"

With a strangled moan, his hips jerked forward one last time as he spilled into your mouth, his hot seed hitting the back of your throat in thick, pulsing waves.

"Gods," he groaned, his grip in your hair tightening as he rode out his orgasm, his breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

You swallowed all of it, sucking him through it, drawing out every last drop as he rode out his high.

He was panting, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths as he tried to recover from what you had just done to him.

And yet, as you pulled back, licking your lips with a knowing smirk, his eyes never left yours.

You gazed up at him with something softer now—affection laced with glee, admiration mingling with desire. He looked wrecked, his skin had turned rosy, his lips parted—his icy blue eyes blown.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Slowly, you rose to your feet. Your dress slipping down completly.

His pupils dilated.

"So beautiful," he breathed, his voice hoarse. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if aching to reach out and touch. "I have only seen you naked from afar…but now—up close—" His breath caught. "You are more perfect than the goddesses themselves."

His hand lifted, tentative, his fingertips brushing the air between you, but just as he was about to make contact, you pulled back with a playful smirk.

"Only if you come and take a swim with me."

Ivar blinked, the haze of lust in his eyes sparkling with something else.

"What?" he asked, as if he hadn’t heard you correctly.

"Come," you pushed, stepping backward toward the lake, your bare body illuminated by the fading sunlight. "Join me."

Ivar hesitated, his expression shifting—desire warring with something else—Fear.

"I can't swim."

Your smile widened. "Then I guess you’ll have to trust me."

And with that, you turned, stepping into the water, disappearing beneath the surface, leaving him sitting there—stunned, breathless, and aching to follow you.

Ivar looked at the water’s edge, his body still tense, his breathing still unsteady—not just from what had happened between you moments ago, but from what you were asking of him now.

His sharp blue eyes followed you as you floated effortlessly on the lake’s surface, your naked body half-submerged, the water lapping gently against your skin. The soft glow of the setting sun cast golden ripples across the water, making you look almost otherworldly, like some goddess who had lured him into her grasp.

And he wanted to go to you. But his body betrayed him at the thought.

He had never been in the water like this. He knew his brothers could swim—had watched them play and dive when they were children—but he had always been left on the shore, watching, knowing he could never move the way they did, knowing the water would pull him down like a stone if he ever tried.

"Ivar," you called softly, your voice warm, inviting, as you swam back closer.

You reached out, your fingers barely brushing his hand. "Do you trust me?" you asked.

His jaw tightened. His gaze moving between your face and the dark water around you, breathing heavy, unsteady.

"I—" He hesitated, his pride warring with the deep, unspoken Dread buried in his chest. "I don’t know."

You laughed, but he didn’t. He was watching you too intently, his blue gaze sharp, as if he was truly wary of you.

"What?" you pressed, raising an eyebrow.

Ivar exhaled sharply through his nose. "You are like a Sjörå," he muttered.

That made you pause. "A Sjörå?"

"Yes." His voice was low, deliberate. "Beautiful. Enchanting. But dangerous." His fingers curled into the grass. "Luring men into the water…where they never return."

"And what if I that is exactly what I want?" You chuckled, wading deeper, watching the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

He huffed, looking away, but not before you saw the hint of something heated in his gaze. "Then you are even more dangerous than I thought."

You rolled your eyes before you smiled again, soft and reassuring. "Come on. You will float. Trust me."

"You are really not going to let this go?" He asks.

You shook your head laughing.

His muscles were taut, his whole body coiled with resistance.

"Ivar," you said again, reaching up to gently cup his face, tracing along a scar on his cheekbone. "You just need to relax your body. I promise, I won’t let you sink."

He wanted to let go.

And with you—nude, beautiful, and patient before him, looking at him like he was worth trusting—he wanted to try.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he reached for the hem of his tunic.

His movements were stiff at first, hesitant, but then his clothes fell away, piece by piece, revealing him to you. He was strong, all lean muscle and sharp angles, his pale skin marked with old scars.

But it was his eyes that caught you the most. The way he looked at you—like you were something unreal, something he didn’t quite believe he could have.

You reached for his hand.

"Come," you whispered.

Ivar swallowed hard, his fingers twitching before finally—finally—he took yours.

You pulled him forward, guiding him into the water, the lake cool against his skin as it rose past his knees, his thighs, then his waist. He stiffened immediately, his grip on your hand tightening, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Then, suddenly, his feet left the ground.

His body jerked, instinct kicking in as he grabbed onto you with both hands, his muscles locked with tension.

"I knew this was a bad idea—" he gasped, gripping you as if his life depended on it. His hands clutched desperately at your waist, his legs tensing beneath the water as he tried—failed—to find something solid beneath him.

"You are screaming like a little girl!" You teased, as he shot a dark look at you.

"Don't look at me like that, you can't kill me or else we will both die." You laughed, your arms wrapping instinctively around him as he clung to you. He moved fast—scared.

"If you push me down, I’m gonna drown right with you, Ivar!" you giggled, your voice full of warmth, of laughter.

"That’s not funny," he hissed, his voice a little higher than usual, his body stiff against yours.

You chuckled, holding him close, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart against your chest.

"Ivar, look at me...don't overthink it," you whispered, rubbing soothing circles along his back. "Just...feel."

"I can't relax—" he started, but you cut him off with a soft press of your lips against his jaw.

"I’m here," you whispered. "I won’t let anything happen to you."

Slowly—so, so slowly—you felt him begin to unwind. His grip on you loosened, just a fraction. His breathing steadied, just a little. His body, still tense, still hesitant, began to trust the way the water held him.

You smiled.

"See," you murmured, your fingers threading into the damp strands of his hair. "you're floating."

Ivar exhaled slowly, his eyes locking onto yours.

And then, you kissed him.

Softly at first, gently, as if pulling him further into ease. But as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your bare body against his, the kiss deepened, his lips parting beneath yours as he melted into you.

A low, shaky moan escaped him as your hands tangled in his hair, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you closer as if you were the only thing keeping him from sinking.

And maybe, in a way, you were.

You could feel his heartbeat against your own, no longer frantic—just there, steady and real.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just held you, as if letting the silence say what he couldn’t.

Then, in a voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it, he murmured, “I’ve never felt this way before.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your thumb brushing over his lower lip. His eyes—so piercing, so intense—were softer now.

"What way?" You asked gently, your hand resting against his shoulders, feeling the slight tremble in his muscles.

He swallowed, his gaze darting away for a second before finding yours again.

"Like...like I could be wanted," he admitted, almost ashamed. "Like I could be...enough."

Your heart clenched.

“I’ve spent my whole life hearing what I can’t do. What I am not.” His jaw tensed, and for a moment, you saw the familiar hint of anger—of pain—beneath his expression.

"A cripple. A burden. A man who will never—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, his throat working as he swallowed back the rest of the words.

You cupped his face, gently, firmly, tilting his head so he had to look at you.

"You are everything," you whispered, your voice fierce, certain. "and I have wanted you for so long."

His breath hitched, his blue eyes searching yours, as if trying to find any trace of dishonesty.

"But...how?" His voice was so small, so unsure. “You could have anyone. Even great Jarls have asked for your hand. But you…” He hesitated, licking his lips. “You always said no.”

You smiled, tilting your head as your fingers trailed down the sides of his face, your touch gentle, cherishing.

"Because the Norns wove your name into the threads of my fate," you said softly, your gaze never wavering. "Odin himself could have offered me his throne, and I would still choose you. Not for power, not for glory—but because my soul has known yours since the beginning, as if we were forged together in the same fire that birthed Yggdrasil."

His lips parted slightly. The look on his face like in disbelief.

He stared at you, as if seeing you for the first time—not as a prize, but as something sacred.

"By the gods..." he breathed, voice rough with wonder.

"If the Norns truly wove us together, then let them bind me to you in every life to come. I would face Ragnarök a thousand times if it meant I could find you again."

Ivar inhaled deeply, like he was trying to commit this moment to memory—you and him in the water, wet hair clinging to your shoulders like silk, the feeling of your skin against his, your warmth, your words, your love.

"You are everything to me, Ivar." You whispered against his lips.

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