˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚The Monster's Bride˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Summary: You are the daughter of King Ælle, beloved amongst so many people, and now forced to marry the cursed son of Ragnar—this is your wedding night...
Warnings: mdni! dubcon!, smut!, slight!non!conseual, dom!Ivar, posessive!Ivar, virginity, p!in!v, f!receiving, m!receiving, power imbalance, choking, enemies to lovers, shame, religious guilt, christianity, norse mythology, emotional conflict, inner turmoil, faith vs. desire, soft!ivar at the end, mentions of violence, aftercare (fluff)
Pairing: Ivar x f!christian!reader
Words: 7k
Note: Thanks so much to the anon who requested this! ᥫ᭡
The deed was done.
The blood eagle had been performed on King Ælle. They had avenged Ragnar.
But there was still one loose end.
You.
Ælle’s daughter. The beloved one. You had been taken alive, held now in one of the old stone chambers beneath the keep, locked away while they decided your fate.
Later, in the great hall, the brothers sat around a heavy wooden table, drinking mead. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across their bloodstained faces.
Ubbe leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "What should we do with her?"
Björn shrugged. "What do you mean? She’s no threat."
"She’s still Ælle’s blood," Hvitserk said, voice low. "But she’s not him. Ragnar would not have wanted us to kill her."
Ivar scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You’re all soft."
"She’s a Christian," he added, lifting his cup. "And we all know what fate their kind usually meet."
Björn narrowed his eyes. "So what are you saying, little brother? You want to burn her at the stake? Toss her to the gods like driftwood?"
Ivar’s lips curled into a grin. "Crucifixion. Poetic, isn’t it? Let her God watch while she hangs on his symbol."
The others groaned. Hvitserk actually gagged on his drink.
"That’s not clever, it’s madness," Ubbe muttered.
Ivar looked affronted. "Madness is the only way."
There was a pause. Then Ubbe spoke again, his tone careful. "...We could use her."
All eyes turned to him.
"How?" Hvitserk asked.
Ubbe glanced at Ivar, then back to the fire. "What would be more unbearable for a Christian princess than to be wedded to a heathen? Especially If it's someone like Ivar."
"What do you mean someone like me?" Ivar snapped, straightening.
The others burst into laughter.
Even Björn cracked a rare grin. "You really need to ask?"
Ivar’s eyes burned, and suddenly, his fist came down hard on the table, making the cups rattle.
"I am not a joke," he snarled, voice low and trembling with fury. "You think this is funny? Do you think Ragnar would’ve laughed?"
His brothers fell quiet.
Björn leaned back. "Think about it, brother. What would be more torturous for her than to be chained to you? A man she despises, a heathen in every way. Your presence alone would haunt her. You—" his voice dipped low, "—you are her nightmare incarnate."
Ivar’s lips twitched, he thought about it for a minute and then, a slow, dark grimace crept across his face. He raised his hand, smirking into his palm. "A Christian princess wed to me... I like that." His ice-blue eyes gleamed with ruthless delight. "I need to see her."
── .✦
He pushed the door open.
The room beyond was dim, little more than a cell, with rough stone walls. You sat on a narrow bench, your hands bound, your hair wild around your face. You looked up when the door creaked—and froze.
It was him.
You scrambled to your feet instantly, eyes wide. "You," you breathed, your voice shaking with fury and terror.
Ivar smiled, slow and cruel, leaning against the doorframe. "Me."
You backed away as he entered, dragging the crutch with him, metal scraping faintly. He closed the door behind him, the sound final.
"We killed your father today," he said, voice low and almost conversational. "Cut him open like a pig. He squealed."
"Monster," you spat, trembling. "You’re not a man, you’re the devil."
Ivar laughed. Not a chuckle—a full, unhinged laugh. "Good," he said. "Call me more."
Your back hit the wall, and your fingers scraped at the stone as if looking for something, anything—to hold. "Heathen," you hissed. "Wicked, blasphemous thing—you’re cursed. Gods or devils, you belong to neither. You’re just... wrong."
That smile of his only widened.
He limped toward you, crutch in his hand, agonizing slowness, dragging one leg stiffly behind him. "And yet," he said, tilting his head, "here you are. Cornered by a wrong, cursed thing. Trembling."
You tried to dart past him.
He caught your arm, twisted you sharply, facing him.
"I like when you call me names," he whispered. "Means you’re afraid. And fear…" he dragged the word like a lover’s touch, "fear is honest."
You struggled, but his grip was tight. "Let me go!"
"Oh no, little dove," he said, voice dipping lower, mocking. "Not yet. You still think this is the worst thing that could happen to you. But your nightmare’s just beginning."
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
"You’re going to marry me."
You gasped, horrified.
Ivar grinned.
"You’re crazy," you whispered.
"I’m Ivar," he said simply, pulling back to look you in the eye. "And you, little Christian… You really should learn when to keep your mouth shut," he muttered.
Ivar's hand shot up, fingers clamping around your jaw, forcing your face toward his. His grip was bruising. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, breath hot with the stink of blood and mead.
And that’s when you did it.
You spit—right in his face.
It landed just beneath his eye, sliding down over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. For a second, everything froze.
He laughed.
Low at first. Then louder.
He wiped the spit away slowly, smearing it with the back of his hand as if it were nothing more than dirt.
"You really are your father’s daughter," he said, still chuckling. "But that didn’t help him, did it?"
His thumb pressed against your cheekbone, forcing your face up to his. "You think that defiance makes you strong. But it just makes this more fun for me."
You jerked your head away, but he held you there.
"You’ll kneel," he said calmly. "Whether it’s to your God or to me… doesn’t matter. In the end, it’ll be the same."
Then he let go of your face, suddenly and without warning.
Ivar took a step toward the door, tapping the crutch against the floor. Before leaving, he looked over his shoulder, eyes glinting.
"Sleep well, little Christian," he said. "In the evening, they’ll come to prepare you."
You stared at him, stunned.
"For what?" you asked, voice tight.
He stopped in the doorway, looking back with that same smirk.
"Our wedding night," he said simply.
── .✦
You hadn't slept. The stone floor had grown colder through the night, and no matter how many times you closed your eyes, your mind wouldn’t let go. You prayed, desperate prayers whispered into the dark. You asked God to take you, to end it, to make you vanish. Anything but this.
But morning came anyway.
You opened your eyes, still alive. Still here. Your prayers had gone unanswered.
The dread sat heavy in your gut, thick and sour. You’d been in the chamber so long you’d counted every stone in the walls—twice.
Then, finally, the door creaked open.
Three women entered—maids, or maybe slaves, you weren’t sure.
Their eyes were kind.
"We are here to prepare you, princess," one of them said.
You didn’t resist. What would be the point? They weren’t the ones forcing this. They were just part of the machinery.
They combed your hair, braided it with ribbons and beads, made intricate plaits like the ones you’d seen on shieldmaidens. You sat still, silent, as they worked. When the tears came, they didn’t stop you. One woman gently wiped your cheek with her sleeve.
"It will be alright," she murmured, though you could tell she didn’t believe it either.
You didn’t reply. You stared at the wall and let them do what they came to do.
They bathed you, rubbed fragrant oils into your skin—lavender, bergamot, something sweet and sharp beneath it. It made your stomach turn. One of the women whispered something in Norse, her hand warm as she touched your shoulder.
“I pray that the Gods will protect you tonight,"
"I don’t believe in your false Gods," you said, voice trembling.
They only smiled. No scolding. No argument.
Once they were finished, they led you through the long hallways, until you reached a heavy door. His chamber.
You stepped inside.
It was unlike anything you'd known. Animal furs spilled over the bed like something untamed. The room smelled of burning wood and mead—raw and primal. Trophies of hunts hung on the walls; antlers, wolf pelts, horns. A place for a predator, not a man.
Your eyes caught the mirror beside the bed.
You stepped toward it—and froze.
You didn’t look like a Saxon princess anymore.
Hair braided like a pagan, skin gleaming with their oils, wrapped in soft linen and foreign brocade. You looked... other. Like something wild. Not yourself.
"Forgive me, Father," you whispered, voice cracking. "I look like a heathen. Like a wild animal."
From the doorway, his voice cut through the stillness.
"Now you look like a real princess."
You turned sharply.
Ivar stood leaning on his crutch at the threshold, watching you like a hawk. He stepped inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft thud.
── .✦
You coiled away from him, instinct sharp as a blade. Panic surged through you, and you bolted toward the bed like it could protect you, clutching a pillow as if it were a weapon. You hurled it at him, voice cracking.
"Go away! Heathen!"
It hit him square in the chest and dropped to the floor, harmless. He laughed.
"You call me heathen," he said, limping toward you, voice slick with amusement. "But what makes you so holy, hm? Christian?" The word dripped with sarcasm.
He lowered himself to the edge of the bed with a grunt—small, but sharp. You noticed it, the flicker of pain he tried to mask, the stiffness in his movements. He didn't want you to see the effort it cost him to walk.
You pressed back against the headboard, every muscle rigid, your gaze full of loathing. He turned to you slowly, eyes burning.
"Your false Gods are cruel," you spat. "They demand blood and pain. My God offers mercy. Love."
He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "Love?" His mouth twisted. "Where was His love when your father put my father into a pit of vipers?"
You swallowed hard.
"Even now, I choose my faith. Even now, I choose Him." You whispered.
A silence stretched between you. Then, without a word, he began to undress. His fingers moved with slow precision, unfastening the leather, dragging his tunic off over his head and then the braces on his legs.
Your breath hitched. The firelight danced across his skin—inked and scarred, taut muscle coiled over bone. The tattoos on his back told stories, they stirred something in you—fascination, fear.
"What are you doing?" you asked, voice brittle.
He said nothing, just crawled closer, dragging himself across the bed with effort that didn’t make him look weak—it made him look unstoppable. Inevitable.
His hand brushed yours.
Rough. Calloused. Real.
You flinched.
Then suddenly he was on you, his weight a hot pressure, breath mixing with yours. You thrashed, striking at his toned chest with balled fists, nails catching on the inked skin—but he didn’t budge.
"No—please," you cried out.
He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head, his grip firm, not cruel.
"I wish you’d stop fighting this…" he whispered, his breath stirring the fine hairs at your skin.
You turned your face away, hating the tremble in your body. Hating that part of you wanted to feel anything but fear.
"This is wrong…" you whispered.
"You want it to be wrong," he murmured. His lips brushed your jaw. "Because if it’s wrong, then you’re still innocent. Then none of this is your fault. Then it’s all on me—the monster. The devil."
Your stomach twisted, shame blooming like poison. Because part of you heard him. Part of you felt what he was saying. And worse, you hated your body for answering. The heat, the ache, the flush in your chest.
"I don’t want you," you whispered, hating how weak it sounded.
"You do," he answered, low and steady. "But you want to hate me more."
"Get off me, monster!" you whined, trying to get loose from his grip.
He froze.
And then, slowly, he let go. Just… let go. Your wrists dropped, free, and he rolled off of you, one arm flung behind his head as he laid beside you, staring up at the ceiling.
"I’m sorry…" he said quietly.
The words hit you like a slap. You turned your head, frowning, confused.
He was tense—jaw clenched, throat bobbing. His chest rose and fell, steady but strained. There was no mocking smile now. No cruel game.
Just silence.
Too much silence.
He turned fully onto his side, his back to you, shoulders tense beneath the thin fur draped across him. He said nothing.
You stared at him, at the line of his spine, the way his body curled in ever so slightly. For a moment, your hand twitched with the urge to reach out—to lay it gently on his shoulder, to ask if he was alright.
But did anyone ask if you were alright? If you wanted this?
"I won’t touch you," he said quietly, voice muffled but clear.
Your brows knit in confusion. His voice held no threat, no venom.
"So… you’ll kill me?" you asked, voice fragile. The lump in your throat ached as you swallowed.
He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the flicker in his eyes.
"Do you really think that badly of me?"
You didn’t answer right away.
"Well… yes," you said finally, honest and bitter. "You forced me into marriage. You murdered my father. And now you lie here like you expect me to pretend any of this is normal."
He turned toward you.
"I had to avenge my father," he said, low. "I had to. You would’ve done the same."
"I still could," you said, the edge of defiance curling into your voice.
His lips twitched. "You would’ve already," he replied, narrowing his eyes, jaw tight.
A beat passed.
You exhaled, resting your cheek against your palm as you watched him. The fire cracked somewhere near your feet. Without the snarl, the smirk, or the bloodlust, he looked... different.
Almost gentle.
Your eyes wandered—down the curve of his lips, parted slightly in thought, the thick lashes that kissed his cheekbones. His strong nose, the faintest scruff shadowing his jaw. He was rough, imperfect, and far too proud of himself—but he wasn’t ugly.
"You like staring at monsters?" he asked suddenly, voice dry, sardonic.
Your gaze snapped up. He was watching you now, those impossibly blue eyes glinting in the firelight. He’d caught you.
Your cheeks flushed hot.
He saw it—and something in him softened. Your expression—wide-eyed, caught off guard, flushed—made him still. You didn’t even realize how innocent you looked to him, just then. How untouched by war, even with everything you'd seen.
He wanted to reach out. He ached to. To cup your cheek gently, maybe brush his thumb over your lips. But he didn’t.
He knew what would happen. You’d recoil. You’d pull away.
So he stayed still.
But you didn’t.
You saw the tremor in his fingers. The one resting on his chest, the other tucked behind his head. You saw the way he waited—quietly, tense, wanting.
And you moved.
Carefully. You reached toward him, slow.
He flinched—barely.
Your fingers brushed his. Then threaded through them.
His palm was rough, calloused, all hard edges—so different from your own. But you didn’t recoil. Not this time.
He was flesh. Warmth. Breathing.
Your fingers stayed laced with his, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke.
"I don’t feel like a monster when you touch me like this," Ivar said quietly.
You glanced at him, surprised by the confession. His eyes weren’t on yours. They were fixed on the ceiling, as though he couldn’t quite bear to meet your gaze.
"I don’t understand you," you said. "One moment you’re cruel… and the next…"
"I’m not," he interrupted, turning his head to face you now, his expression sharp with sudden vulnerability. "I do what I must. I had to be cruel. I was born cursed, a cripple."
He paused, swallowing the weight in his throat.
"My mother told me I was special. A gift from the gods. But others—they called me a mistake. A punishment. Even now, even with all I’ve won, they still look at me and see something wrong."
Your hand tightened in his, just slightly.
He looked at you, eyes searching yours.
"Do you see me that way?"'he asked, his voice hoarse now. "Do you look at me and see… a cursed thing? A monster in a man’s skin?"
You shook your head slowly. "No."
"Liar," he murmured, but there wasn’t anger in it—just sadness. "You did. You still might."
Your lips parted. "I thought you were a monster. But then… monsters don’t talk like you do right now. They don’t shake when someone reaches out to them."
His breath caught.
"And your God?" he asked, voice quieter now. "Does He approve of you touching the Devil? Would He still call you pure?"
"I don’t think God’s afraid of broken things," you said, just as soft. "I think He loves them harder."
There was a pause. He turned to face you more fully, propped on one elbow now, your hands still joined. His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes.
"You confuse me," he said, voice roughened. "You hate me. I see it. But you touch me like… like I matter."
You hesitated. "I don’t know what I feel. But I don’t hate you right now."
Ivar stared at you, expression unreadable. "All I ever wanted was to be understood—like I am not just a cursed thing that people pity..."
You didn’t answer. Maybe you couldn’t.
But you didn’t pull your hand away.
You swallowed, throat dry. "And what is it you want now?"
His eyes slid to yours, slow and dark.
"You."
It was a single word, but it echoed between you.
"I want you to believe that there is something in me besides blood and fury."
He reached out now, carefully, slowly. His fingers grazed your cheek, and though your breath hitched, you didn’t pull away.
"I could worship you," he whispered. "Not like your God does. Not with mercy or rules. I would worship you with obsession. With fire. I would tear down Gods for you, if you asked."
Your heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the fire.
"Ivar…"
He shook his head slightly, eyes still locked on yours.
"You don’t have to say anything," he murmured. "Just don’t lie to me. Don’t look at me like I’m something foul when you know you’re curious. When you know something in you wants to understand me."
You did. God help you, you did. And in that moment, you realized he wasn’t the only one who felt too much.
You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t dare. But you didn’t pull away when he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours, his breath warm and shaky.
You lifted your hand slowly, brushing your fingers over his jaw, unsure if he’d allow it. He closed his eyes at the contact, lashes trembling. Your thumb ghosted over the faint stubble on his cheek. You could feel the heat under his skin.
"I don’t know how to… do this," you whispered.
His lips curved—just slightly. "Neither do I."
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were darker than before, but the whites of them had a faint, almost icy sheen to them.
"Your eyes," you murmured. "They’re… blue."
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, as if choosing whether to lie or not.
"It happens," he said quietly, "when the pain is worse. Some days it’s just a dull ache. Other days, it feels like my legs are full of fire and glass."
Your heart sank. "Is it like that now?"
He gave a short laugh—tired, bitter. "Not the worst I’ve had. But close."
You leaned forward without thinking, pressing your lips softly to his cheek. He stilled completely beneath you, breath catching in his throat.
"Does this help?" you asked.
His hand came up, brushing your hair back behind your ear, fingertips tentative, reverent. "More than you know."
Your noses brushed. His lips hovered over yours, uncertain.
"May I?" he asked, so gently it made your heart swell.
You nodded, and his mouth met yours, clumsy but sincere. He kissed like he fought—with all of him, desperate and fierce, like it was the only language he truly knew. But there was hesitation too, like he didn’t trust himself to be soft.
Your hands came up to his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the strain in the muscle from dragging himself with every step. His body was stronger than it looked—he’d had to be. You could feel that just beneath your fingertips.
He grabbed your waist and pulled you into his lap. Your knees shifted on either side of his hips as you moved, lips never parting from his.
His hands rested on your thighs, tentative and trembling, thumbs tracing the shape of you through the linen that still clung to your form.
His fingers slid up your sides, gathering the fabric, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath it. You gasped against his mouth when his thumbs brushed just beneath your breasts.
"I need to see your body…" he whispered, voice rough, as if the need hurt him. "Please…"
You hesitated—your heart pounding, your hands frozen against his chest—but then you nodded, just barely. He sat up slightly, and together, you pulled the dress over your head, letting it fall behind you to the floor in a soft heap.
You were bare to him now.
Lit only by firelight.
Hair braided like his people, skin glowing like it had been blessed by the gods.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
His mouth opened, then closed—swallowed hard.
"By the Gods…" he murmured, voice hoarse with awe.
His eyes devoured every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts.
You saw the way his jaw clenched. He didn’t know where to look first—he wanted to look everywhere. It was too much, too perfect. The first woman he had ever seen nude.
He leaned in, lips brushing the base of your throat. "You were crafted by Freya herself," he whispered against your hot skin.
His thumb grazed over your hardened nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips that made his eyes flick up to yours—dark, dilated, hungry.
"You like that," he breathed, a hint of wonder in his tone.
He closed his lips around your breast, sucking softly, and your back arched instinctively, a moan escaping you before you could stop it.
"Ivar—" you whimpered, your voice catching in your throat as heat coiled low in your belly.
That sound—your voice saying his name like that—broke something in him. He swirled his tongue slowly over the peak, then moved to the other, lavishing you with the same attention. His faint stubble tickled your skin, his breath hot.
"You taste like the sweetest mead," he rasped against your fevered skin, voice trembling with restraint. "And I want every part of it."
You rocked slightly in his lap without meaning to, the friction setting your nerves alight.
Ivar groaned against your chest, the sound vibrating through you.
His mouth left your skin with a wet sound, lips flushed, eyes darker than you'd ever seen them. His breath was ragged as he looked up at you, his hand moved up—fingers grazing the column of your throat.
He wrapped them there.
"Look at you," he growled. "My little Christian princess, letting a heathen touch her like this… moaning under me like you were made for sin."
"Ivar—please,"
Your breath hitched. Heat surged through you—shame, need, both tangled like a knot.
"You’re so damn perfect," he muttered against your neck, his grip tightening just slightly, "I want to ruin you."
His other hand moved over your stomach, lower, slower, teasing—never quite touching where you ached for him most.
"I want you crying out my name so loud your God hears it."
Your lips parted in a gasp, hips circling against his body instinctively, begging for more.
"I want you to forget every holy word you’ve ever said," he hissed. "To forget heaven. To worship this. Us. Me."
His mouth crashed against yours then, all tongue and teeth and hunger, and you whimpered into it, helpless against the fire that had taken root in you.
He shifted his weight above you once more, but this time you welcomed every inch of him—every searing kiss, every burning touch. "Ivar—" you murmured into his mouth, voice trembling with need.
"Tell me what you crave, my sweet one," he whispered against your throat, teeth grazing softly as his lips trailed a scorching path down your bare skin. His hands gripped your hips possessively, claiming you like a man who had been starved for your fire. His kisses drifted lower, worshiping your belly until his lips brushed the sensitive curve of your pelvic bone, making your breath catch and flutter against your lips.
Raising his gaze, his piercing ice-blue eyes locked onto yours, devouring you with hunger and reverence. They roamed over your glistening core, and a slow lick of his lips told you exactly how much he desired you.
Your cheeks flushed crimson, mingled with shame and fierce want. You tried to close your legs instinctively, but he parted them wider, unwavering.
"Don’t hide from me... you are the most beautiful thing in all of Midgard," he whispered, his breath hot and heavy against your sensitive clit. A shiver ran through you as the heat of his mouth ignited your skin. You squirmed beneath him, but his hands held you steady.
"Ivar, please," you whispered, voice thick with need.
One finger slipped inside you, exploring your wet, trembling entrance, sending a jolt of fire through your nerves. You gasped, teeth catching your lip as he circled your clit slowly, deliberately, drawing out your moans.
"More," you begged, voice breaking with longing, but he was entranced—mesmerized by your response.
He would never let you go.
He then slipped another finger inside you, slowly—stretching your heat, filling your tight, velvety walls. Your back arched instinctively, a cry escaping your lips. "Oh, fuck—Ivar…" you gasped, the curse tangled with pleasure.
"So tight," he groaned, voice low and reverent against your aching core. His mouth followed his fingers, tongue flattening against your drenched pussy—claiming you with slow, decadent strokes. His tongue flicked your clit with maddening precision, each movement coaxing more helpless moans from your lips.
You were unraveling beneath him, breathless mess as he pumped his fingers inside you, curling them just right. His tongue moved in slow, torturous circles over your pulsing clit, drawing out every drop of want from your body.
"So sweet," he whispered, mouth pressed to your cunt, the words vibrating against your most sensitive flesh.
You looked down at him, breathless, lips parted in a silent plea. Your fingers twisted in the furs, knuckles white, as your thighs trembled. The chamber echoed with the sounds of your surrender—moans, whimpers, the slick rhythm of his fingers, the deep growl of his voice against you.
"Oh—God," you cried out, your eyes rolling back as he found that perfect rhythm. His tongue moved with purpose now, stroking that spot, knowing exactly what you needed and giving it to you without mercy.
"Let your God hear you," he growled against your soaked pussy, his voice thick with hunger and pride. "Let him hear how desperate you are for me."
Then he spit on your cunt—hot and obscene—before sealing his lips over your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking rapidly, insatiably. You writhed, hips jerking, body straining against the edge.
But he held you firm.
His hands dug into your thighs, fingers bruising, possessive.
You were his.
"I—Ivar, I—" You couldn't even form the words. They dissolved into breathless moans as your climax crept closer like a storm you couldn't outrun.
He didn’t stop. If anything, he grew more desperate. His fingers moved faster, rougher, curling to stroke that one place inside you that made your vision blur.
"I want to feel you come on my tongue," he growled against you, voice thick with heat and command. "Give it to me. Let me taste it, please princess."
That was all it took.
Your hips bucked wildly as you shattered beneath him, mouth falling open in a silent cry. Your body convulsed around his fingers, and he groaned deep in his throat as your slick flooded his mouth.
He didn’t stop. He devoured you through it, moaning against your pussy like your taste was the only thing that could save him.
"Too much," you whimpered, breath catching.
Only then did he pull away, slowly, his mouth glistening, his lips swollen and red from his devotion to you. He looked up, licking his lips, pride and possessiveness burning in those glacier-blue eyes.
"You look like a goddess when you fall apart for me," he murmured, his voice low.
You tried to speak, to say something, but your body was spent—limbs limp, chest rising and falling as you stared at him, dazed and glowing.
And then, he was climbing up your body again—slowly, deliberately—his mouth finding yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he kissed you deeply.
"Gods, I need you," he whispered against your lips.
You could feel him now—hot, hard, and heavy against your thigh. His cock pressed into your skin, pulsing with need, and your fingers moved on instinct. You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his thick length. He groaned into your mouth—guttural, needy.
"Princess," he breathed against your lips as your fingers curled around him, stroking him slowly. He was heavy in your hand, the skin hot and silky, the veins rigid beneath your touch. His hips gave a shallow thrust as you explored him, and you smiled softly against his mouth—you had this effect on him.
"You’re so hard for me," you whispered, voice trembling with awe and need. "God, I want to feel you inside me…"
But you weren’t ready to give in just yet.
Not before teasing him. Not before tasting him.
You pushed gently against his chest, and he let you—though confusion flickered in his eyes.
"Lie back," you whispered, lips brushing his jaw. "Let me taste you now."
His breath caught.
He hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, before obeying—leaning back into the furs, chest rising and falling, muscles tight with anticipation. You moved between his thighs, eyes locked on his thick, aching cock. It stood proud and heavy, flushed dark with need, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.
You leaned in slowly, deliberately, blowing warm breath against the head. His hips jerked.
"Gods," he groaned, fist clenching in the furs.
You kissed the tip first—just the softest press of lips—and he cursed low under his breath. Then your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of him, teasing around the head in slow, circular strokes.
"Ivar—" you whispered against him, loving the way his thighs tensed under your touch.
Then you took him in your mouth, slowly, inch by inch.
His moan was raw. Boyish.
You hollowed your cheeks, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as you slid down further, letting him fill your mouth until he hit the back of your throat.
He growled—his hips twitching upward before you pressed your hand to his stomach, holding him down.
"Please, princess," he gasped. "You’re going to kill me…"
You pulled back with a soft pop, licking him from base to tip, your spit and his precum making everything wet, messy.
And then you did it again.
He was panting now, chest heaving, his muscles twitching under your touch. Every time you swallowed him deep, he cursed like a man coming undone.
Your other hand gripped his thigh for balance, fingers digging into his skin as you increased the pace—wet, rhythmic, sinful. You moaned around him, just to feel the vibration ripple through his cock, and he choked on a desperate whine.
"Gods above—please," he gasped. "You're going to make me come—fuck, stop or I’ll—"
But you didn’t stop.
His hands tangled in your braids. Guiding.
You wanted to see him fall apart. You wanted to taste every last drop of him.
You kept going, faster now, your mouth and hand working in perfect rhythm, and his hips began to stutter—losing control.
"Let me… let me come in your mouth," he rasped, voice thick, pleading. "Please, sweet one—I need—"
And that's when you stopped.
When you finally pulled back, lips swollen, eyes shining—you looked up at him.
He stared at you like he’d never seen anything so devastatingly perfect.
"By the Gods..." he breathed, still panting. "You’ll be the death of me."
You smiled.
He hadn’t stopped staring at you since you pulled off him, lips slick, eyes glowing with something that looked like awe.
And then he moved—slow and strong, climbing over your body once more, his arms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. His face hovered inches from yours, breath ragged, lips parted.
He kissed you.
Hungry.
Your tongues met in a heated dance, slick and wet and perfect.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your legs parting instinctively beneath his hips.
"Ivar," you breathed against his lips, your voice shaking with need, with truth. "I need you inside me…"
He circled your entrance with the swollen head of his cock, dragging it up and down your soaked slit, letting it brush maddeningly against your aching clit. He teased you slowly, lazily, watching every gasp, every flinch of your hips.
"Ivar…" you whimpered, need thick in your voice.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped against your neck, "and I will."
You shook your head, hips bucking.
"Then tell me what you want, princess."
"Stop teasing," you whispered, almost broken with desire. "Put it in. I want you."
With one powerful, careful thrust, he slid inside you—slow, deep, and all at once.
Your breath left your lungs in a gasp—his too. The stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming tightness. He filled you completely, the heat of him burning through your entire body.
And then there was the pain.
You whimpered, body tensing beneath him. The sting tore through your center, raw and sharp, and you felt the unmistakable warmth of blood between your thighs. Your nails gripped his shoulders, and tears pricked at your eyes.
He froze instantly, his entire body going still.
"I’m here," he whispered softly, forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking with restraint. "Look at me."
You did.
His eyes were gentle now, pleading. His hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing away tears you didn’t even know had fallen.
"If it’s too much—if it hurts—I’ll stop. You tell me. Just say the word, and I’ll stop."
You swallowed hard, blinking up at him, heart racing.
"No," you whispered, voice small but firm. "Don’t stop. Just… just stay like this for a moment."
And in that stillness, your body began to relax around him. The sting faded. The pain and pleasure began to blur.
And beneath it all, was love.
He stayed inside you for a long, perfect heartbeat, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked like nothing in the world could pull him away. You felt everything—his warmth, his breath, the stretch of him inside you.
Then, slowly… he moved.
He groaned low—deep in his throat—and it made your skin bloom with heat.
"Gods, you're so tight," he whispered, the words more reverent than vulgar. "You feel like you were made for me…"
His thrusts were slow, careful at first—his brow furrowed in concentration, lips parted as if every inch inside you unraveled his sanity.
Your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping tightly—Odin’s ravens, inked across his chest—Huginn and Muninn—watching like silent sentinels.
You dug your nails into them, half in awe, half in instinct.
He gasped.
He dropped his head to your neck, breath hot against your skin, hips rolling deeper, slower now, but harder.
"Princess," he whispered into your ear. "You feel like… like everything I’ve ever wanted."
You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist tightly, the friction building now—each movement rubbing that perfect, sensitive spot inside you.
"Faster," you begged, breathless. "Please, Ivar—"
You felt him twitch as he drove into you again, harder, the rhythm growing.
"I need—I need to see you fall apart again," he breathed. "Need to feel you come on me,"
You cried out at his words, your hips rising to meet his thrusts, the pleasure mounting fast now. Every drag of his cock inside you had you gasping, clenching tighter, needing more.
"Are you mine?" he asked, voice low and raw.
"Yes," you gasped, without hesitation. "I’m yours—Ivar, I’m yours."
And something wild bloomed in his eyes—pride, obsession. He kissed you fiercely, tongues clashing, your nails digging deeper into the dark ravens inked across his shoulders as he began to lose himself in you completely.
"Am I a monster now?" he groaned, voice dark and breathless as he slammed into you, deeper than before—so deep it made your body jerk, made your mouth fall open in a strangled cry.
"N-No—!" you whimpered, the word broken, swallowed by the sheer stretch of him, by the slick sound of your bodies colliding—wet, fast, relentless.
He licked across your throat, sucking marks into your neck like he wanted the Gods to see who you belonged to. Then he bit your lower lip—hard—pulling a filthy, desperate moan from your chest as he devoured your sounds.
Your pussy clenched around him, fluttering uncontrollably, and he felt it—gasped like he was the one being fucked.
His eyes, those piercing ice-blue eyes, locked on yours.
Even as your eyes fluttered, rolling back with each brutal thrust, he held your gaze. Like he was drinking you in. Like he needed to watch you come undone just for him.
You reached between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, desperate for more.
"Rub your clit for me, princess," he groaned into your ear, the heat of his breath making your toes curl. "I want to see how filthy you can be for me."
You obeyed instantly, two fingers circling, flicking over your slick bud. The added stimulation sent your body lurching into madness.
"Ivar—fuck!" you cried out, legs shaking as your orgasm built fast, too fast.
He growled—deep and feral—his thrusts growing rougher, needier.
Then his hand wrapped around your throat.
Firm. Possessive.
"Look at me when you come," he whispered, eyes wide, lips parted, wild. "Please…"
And that did it.
You shattered with a scream, your back arching, your thighs shaking as your orgasm ripped through you. Your vision went white. Your mouth stayed open, the cry dragging out far too long.
And still—you looked at him.
When your eyes cleared, you saw him, undone. His mouth open, pupils blown, his entire face twisted in awe and disbelief as your pussy clenched around him again and again, milking him, claiming him.
"Oh—Princess," he gasped—and then he came.
You felt it.
His cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you with his release in thick, hot waves. His breath stuttered, and his moan—vulnerable, sinful—filled your ears like a blessing.
You felt him twitch again inside you—once, twice—his cum still leaking as his breath finally evened out. His lips grazed yours in a kiss too soft for how wrecked you both were.
And through it all… he didn’t look away.
── .✦
You laid together in silence, bodies tangled in the thick furs, skin damp and warm, the scent of sex still lingering like incense in the air.
His arm was draped around you, pulling you into his chest—you felt safe.
He was quiet for a long time. One of his fingers traced absent circles against your hip, but his mind was elsewhere. Heavy.
Finally, in the hush between heartbeats, he spoke.
"I never thought…" His voice was hoarse, low. "I never thought I could feel this whole."
You lifted your eyes to meet his.
"Because of my legs," he continued, almost like a confession. "Because of what I am. What I’m not."
You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head gently.
"I’ve had power. Fear. Victory. Women scared of me. But none of them ever looked at me the way you did." He turned to face you now, those ice-blue eyes suddenly fragile beneath all their fire. "You cried my name like I was a God. You touched me like I was whole."
You reached up and touched his face, your thumb brushing over his lips. "You are whole."
"I forced this," he said, bitterly.
You nodded slowly. "I was taught to fear men like you. That you were wicked. That your Gods were false and your hunger sinful."
"And now?" he whispered.
"You are human, just like me."
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