Abigale

This blog is dedicated entirely to The Last Kingdom and Uhtred’s band of Pretty Boys (especially Sihtric).

[witchezandwonderz]

Clumsy Hearts

Pairing: Sihtric x Reader Word Count: 3.5k Master List Prompt List (Requests are open) Tagged List (Let me know if you want to be added or removed.): @leftoverp1zza @cheesesandwichsanto @tessakate @diorpar @imagines-halfpai @thenameswinter99 @oddsnendsfanfics @ivarlover @stardustrider

I ran into a warrior.

Not in the poetic sense. In the very, very, unbelievably real sense of my shoulder meeting a wall of muscle and my basket deciding it no longer wished to be part of my life.

Everything flew. Myself included.

I swear, this would only happen to me.

Herbs, leaves, a jar that I had prayed over this morning because it was already cracked. I made a small, undignified sound, cursed the sky- as if it had anything to do with my god awful clumsiness, and did manoeuvred awkwardly to my side in an embarrassing attempt to get up, all while reaching for everything at the same time and managing to grab nothing.

"I am sorry," I said. Then, because that felt insufficient, "I am very sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going, which I usually do, I swear, except when I'm thinking about sage, and I was thinking about sage because it's drying faster than it should and that makes it bitter, which isn't dangerous but it is unpleasant and-”

I looked up.

He was very tall. Very handsome. Looking at me in a state of absolute bewilderment.

"I didn't mean to attack you," I blurted.

For a moment I was certain he would laugh. Or scowl. Or do something heroic and frightening.

Instead, he crouched.

"I don't think you did," he said, calmly.

He started handing my things back to me, one by one, like this was a normal thing that happened to him. Like women routinely threw baskets at his chest.

"Oh, no, you don't have to-" I reached for a handful of leaves and nearly knocked our heads together. I froze. "That's thyme. Please don't mix it with the feverfew. It makes it smell wrong. Not dangerous. Just wrong." I paused, looking up at him once more. "Yet, why would you mix them together when I am sure that you have no interest in anything like that."

I groaned at myself, and had to physically stop myself from smashing my skull off of the nearest tree.

I stopped talking too late.

I always stop too late.

I waited for the irritation. The sigh. The look that said why are you still making noise.

It didn't come.

"You can keep speaking," he said, as if granting me leave. "I don't mind."

I stared at him, and then gave him a polite smile, "bless your heart, stranger. You need not lie."

"No lie."

That unsettled me far more than anger would have. I may be strange, but he seemed to be much stranger, in a way that is foreign to myself.

I nodded, decisively, because that seemed wise, then immediately dropped the jar in my hand.

He caught it.

I gasped. "You have very fast hands."

"They’re useful," he said, passing it back to me.

"For… jar-saving," I said, not able to stop the words from leaving my mouth.

"For many things." He retorted with a wink.

I laughed before I could stop myself. It slipped out, crooked and startled, and once it was loose I couldn’t quite catch it again. I tried to hide it behind my mouth and failed.

Voices rose behind us. Men, boots, the sound of sharp edges and restlessness. My shoulders tightened without asking my permission.

He moved then. Just a step. Just enough that he was closer, solid in a way that made the air feel steadier.

I noticed. I always notice things like that.

"Thank you," I said quietly. Then rushed on, because silence makes me nervous. "For standing. Where you are standing. It helps."

I quickly gathered the remainder of my belongings, gave a polite nod and scurried away. Yet what I did not realise at the time, was how he watched me with a small smile.

From that day onwards, I began to see this man more often than not; it turned out that he was one of Lord Uhtred's men, and in turn, was everywhere all of the time.

I had never encountered a man like him. He stood, he stared. Most men would look away when caught staring, but this mysterious man did not. If anything, he stared more. Like it was a game.

I learned his name by accident.

I was passing through the yard with my arms full of linen when someone called out, "Sihtric," sharp and impatient.

He turned.

Not fully. Just enough to acknowledge the sound belonged to him.

And something in my chest did a strange, unhelpful thing.

"Sihtric," I repeated later, under my breath. For some unbeknownst reason, I did not intend to forget his name.

Unfortunately, he heard me.

"Yes?" he said, appearing at my side like he had been summoned rather than spoken of.

I startled badly enough that the linen slid halfway out of my arms.

Gritting my teeth together, and cursing as much as I could in the miniscule moment that I had, I slowly turned to face him. "Pardon?"

Pardon!? You have just said his name aloud you absolute imbecile.

His brow furrowed. "You called me?"

"I..." I slung the ben linen over one arm, and placed my know free hand on my hip, "I coughed."

A pause.

"No you did not, you said Sihtric."

I looked at him. "Are you certain?"

"Yes." He said through a laugh.

"Well that is settled then isn't it."

I dared to look at him, and saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. His usually robotic stance disappeared, and a loud laugh escaped him. "No, it is not settled. What is going on?"

I don't know either Sihtric, I ask myself that question fifteen times a day.

"Well, Sihtric, if you must know, I have not known your name since throwing a jar at you and crawling before you in the mud on my hands and knees. This morning I heard someone call it, and for reasons beyond sense I decided it should not be forgotten. Unfortunately, I was overheard repeating it aloud, then attempted to pretend the entire thing had not occurred, and now it is very awkward, is it not, Sihtric?"

I stopped at last, dragged in a breath, wiped my hair from my face, and returned my hand to my hip.

"So, if that is all," I added briskly, "I shall be off. Likely to submerge my head in a boiling cauldron."

With that, I immediately began to walk away, hearing his laughter become quieter and quieter as the distance increased. Before turning a corner, I heard him call, "don't submerge your head!"

Very funny, Sihtric.

The next morning, I woke up as usual, tiredly pulling my clothes over my head as I verbally reminded myself of all the things I had to do that day. I am one of two monastery helpers, however, I do not spend much time with the other monastery helper. She is, in my humble opinion, an old witch who only seems to get joy through my misfortunes.

Despite her lack of care for me as a human being, this morning in particular, she knocked on my door loudly before entering almost immediately after- making the knock automatically irrelevant.

"Y/N." She said as she entered.

"Eadgyth." I responded, briefly looking over my shoulder at her, before continuing dressing. I stumbled slightly as I did, and then steadied myself.

"Mind yourself girl, before you break something useful." Her wretched voice spoke.

I laughed in response, "there is nothing useful in here." I spoke, gesturing to my tiny room that was filled by absolutely nothing but a narrow bed and an old wooden chest. Despite my words being true, she rolled her eyes nonetheless.

"One of Lord Uhtred's men was asking about you last night, asking for you name and where you come from." Eadgyth told me, her voice lacking emotion.

I arched a brow, and nodded my head forwards, signalling her to continue.

"I don't know his name. But I told him about you anyways."

I cursed at those words, because she may well have said 'I told him all of the negative things possible about you.' but I held my tongue.

"Oh, that is bizarre." I replied, not wanting to seem too intrigued.

"That is not why I am telling you," Eadgyth said. Her voice, usually sharp, honed itself further. "I am telling you so that you keep away from him."

I looked at her then.

"Warriors are poison, Y/N."

Yes mother, I thought.

Hours later, it was time to check on the kitchen staff.

Since Lord Uhtred's arrival, one of my new and exciting duties, sense the sarcasm, was to ensure that he and his men were well looked after. A large part of that involved making certain meals appeared when expected, hot and plentiful, because apparently warriors could fight, bleed, and threaten kings, but could not wait patiently for bread.

As though I did not already have enough to do.

The kitchen was loud when I arrived. Steam curled toward the rafters, spoons clanged against pots, and someone was shouting about onions as if they had personally betrayed him.

"Y/N!"

I turned just in time to see Marta waving at me with a flour-dusted hand. Marta was everything I was not: broad-shouldered, quick to laugh, and unafraid of anyone who walked on two legs. She served food with the confidence of someone who would gladly strike a man with a ladle if he complained.

"Come here," she said, grinning. "Before someone eats something they should not."

"That sounds ominous," I replied, weaving between tables. "Is it poisonous, or merely offensive?"

"Both, depending on taste," she said cheerfully, then leaned closer. "You missed some excitement last night."

I sighed. "Please tell me it involved neither fire nor blood."

"No promises," she said, eyes bright. "One of Uhtred’s men was asking about you."

My stomach did something unpleasant.

"I am aware," I said carefully.

Marta blinked. "Oh. Then you know."

"I know Eadgyth told him things," I said. "Which is to say, I know I should begin digging my grave now."

She laughed outright. "That old crow? No. She barely said anything."

I stopped walking, my brow furrowing.

"Barely anything?"

Marta nodded. "He came in late, all polite and quiet, hovering like he didn't know where to put himself. Asked who the girl was who carried herbs and tripped over nothing."

Heat crept up my neck. "That is… an unkind description."

"I thought it was affectionate," Marta said, unhelpfully. "He said you were beautiful, you know."

I nearly walked into a table.

"He did not."

"Oh, he did," she said, delighted. "Called you peculiar, too. But not like an insult. Like he liked that part best."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

"What exactly did he say?"

Marta squinted, thinking. "Something like, 'The quiet one who talks like her thoughts are racing her feet.' Then he asked your name."

My heart thudded, traitorous and loud.

"And Eadgyth?" I asked faintly.

"She grunted," Marta said. "Said you were trouble and broke things. Which, fair."

I huffed, and then nodded in agreement.

"But then," Marta continued, lowering her voice, "he smiled. Said he didn't mind trouble if it came in the form of a beautiful woman."

I stared at her.

"Well," I said weakly. "That is… unfortunate."

Marta beamed. "I think it is sweet."

"Eadgyth called warriors poison."

Marta pursed her lips, "yeah, well, she is only offended because he told her she had the warmth of a damp cellar and the bedside manner of a tax collector."

I choked.

"He did not."

"Oh, he did," Marta said cheerfully. "Asked her-"

"Are you talking about that sour faced woman?"

Martha and I both snapped our heads towards the door.

Sihtric was there. Standing in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, calm and impossibly tall, looking like he belonged to some story I wasn't allowed to read. My face immediately burned.

Marta's eyes widened and twinkled. "Oh. Well. I'll just…" She stepped back a few paces, pretending to fuss with a pot. "Give you two some… privacy."

I nearly protested, but she was already sweeping toward the far side of the kitchen, humming loudly, clearly delighted to be gone.

And just like that, the room felt smaller.

Sihtric took a slow step inside, hands still resting at his sides like he wasn't about to make me faint.

"You're well," he said.

"I- Yes. I am. Not poisoned," I squeaked. Why would I be?

He gave a tiny smile. "Good."

Silence, thick enough that I considered apologising to the air for existing. Then he leaned casually against a table, elbows resting on the edge, and regarded me with that same unsettling calm.

"I was hoping I might see you," he said.

I choked. "Hoping? That sounds… suspiciously like a compliment."

"Perhaps it is," he said, shrugging, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Or a warning."

My heart stumbled. "A warning?"

"Yes," he said, stepping a little closer. "Stay out of trouble. But trouble tends to be… more interesting when it talks too much."

I tried to glare. Failed. "I do not talk too much."

"You do," he said quietly, leaning even nearer, enough that I could smell the faint tang of earth and iron on him. "And I like it."

I froze. Words refused to leave my mouth. I tried to nod politely, but it came out as a twitch of my chin.

He tilted his head. "You're peculiar."

"That… is not necessarily a compliment, I have been told." I whispered, unable to stop my eyes from naturally rolling to the back of my head.

He smiled, slow and deliberate. "It is when you're beautiful."

I blinked. Heart hammering. Breathing shallow. Heat rising, creeping all the way up my neck.

"Oh," I managed, "I think you might have lost your vision in one of your fights." I joked. Tried too, anyway.

He leaned closer, only slightly. "You are wrong." He said simply.

And for the first time, in I think my entire life, I was speechless.

A 'thank you' wanted to escape my lips, but for some reason, my throat trapped it deep within me and I could not formulate anything even close to a word. Instead showing a very honest grin, that I could not hide. It seems like I was unable to do many things in this moment, which seems silly when you consider the reason for my incapability's: A man told me I was beautiful.

A man had never called me beautiful before.

Sihtric may not mean his words; he may be gracing me with a kindness that I needed. But I choose to believe them all the same.

If it means that I can feel like a proper woman, just for a moment.

He watched my smile fade into something softer, something I had not practiced in a mirror.

Then he straightened.

The air shifted with him, as though the moment had been folded away carefully rather than discarded.

"When are you free?" He asked.

I blinked. "Free?"

"Yes," he said, plainly. "To see me."

Oh.

"I am… not," I said quickly. Too Quickly. Cringing at myself, I blurted, "free, I mean. I am always working."

He frowned, just slightly. "Always?"

"Yes," I nodded, relieved to have a sensible answer. "There is always something to do. Meals, cleaning, errands, herbs, Eadgyth-"

"Nonsense," he interrupted, not unkindly.

I faltered. "Pardon?"

"No one is always working," he said. "They are simply not asked to stop."

I did not know what to say to that.

He stepped closer again, not enough to crowd me, just enough that I could feel his attention settle fully on me.

"Tonight," he said.

My heart stumbled. "Tonight?"

"Yes." A pause. "You will have a drink with me." Another pause. "Do you drink?"

"Of course I drink," I laughed. "I know I am not supposed too. Woman of god and all." I gestured to the cross around my neck before continuing, "But I do not think I would get through my days without an ale at the end of it."

He smiled widely, though still upholding the same eye contact, "Perfect. I will see you tonight then."

I opened my mouth to refuse. Or explain. Or list the many reasons why I should not be drinking with a warrior I had thrown a jar at.

Nothing came out.

He smiled, just a little. "After supper. When your duties are done."

"Ok then, Sihtric." I smiled.

"Good. Ok then, Y/N." He smiled in return.

He turned toward the door, "I will find you,” he added over his shoulder.

And so, after hours of doing my hair, and then undoing my hair, and redoing it again, I sat next to Sihtric while he told me all about where he is from, how he met his friends, what his family were like. I told him all about my pathetic background, and after the seventh drink, I confessed stories to him that I swore to myself I would never share with another soul. After I had lost count of how much liquid I had poured down my throat, Sihtric offered to walk me home.

It was outside the gates that he stopped.

I turned, still smiling, still warm from drink and laughter, and found him closer than before. His hand came up, hesitated, then settled at my waist as if it had always known where it belonged.

"You're unsteady," he murmured.

"I am fine," I said, swaying slightly and proving myself a liar.

He smiled, soft and fond, and leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to step away.

I didn't.

His lips brushed mine, gentle and tentative, like he was asking a question without words. I froze for half a breath, startled by the simple intimacy of it.

Then I kissed him back.

It was clumsy and imperfect, my breath catching, my laugh slipping into the space between us. He kissed me again, surer this time, warm and careful, and the world narrowed to that single, impossible moment.

From that moment onwards, Sihtric lingered in my mind like a secret pressed beneath the tongue, waiting to be tasted again.

From then on, I saw him daily. Every single time, I could not stop myself from doing the most embarrassing things, but he didn't seem to care. He strangely said that he sees them as sweet, and endearing. Adjectives that no one had used towards me and my ridiculousness, ever.

We decided to keep our... situation a secret. I am unsure what people would think if they found out I was romantically involved with someone like Sihtric. I could possibly lose my job if it became known information.

The secret did not last very long, though. It was one of those nights where I was trapped serving only Uhtred and his men. Finan, in particular, seemed to take it as a personal challenge.

"Careful there." he said as I leaned over to pour ale. "Or I might just have to catch you myself."

I gave a tight-lipped smile and moved quickly, ignoring the heat that always threatened my ears around him.

"Oh, come now," he whispered when I passed by, "you don't want to talk to me? What's your story?"

"I… I’m working," I muttered, keeping my eyes firmly on the table to refrain them from darting in Sihtric's direction.

"You're funny," he said. "Cute, clever…"

I laughed slightly at him- not to entertain his advances, but because the way he was speaking to me was funny. I kept moving, careful not to spill anything, careful not to answer.

By the middle of the night, Finan was leaning over the edge of the table, whispering impossible compliments and impossible questions in my ear.

Sihtric, for once, did not look amused. He was sitting across from me, arms crossed, dark eyes tracking every move I made, jaw tight.

Finally, Finan leaned back and smirked, loud enough that even I could hear him. "I don't understand it," he muttered to Sihtric, just low enough to sound private. "She's clever, beautiful… and yet she won’t even look at me."

I froze.

Sihtric's head snapped up. His glare could have cut iron.

"Perhaps," he said, low, quiet at first… then louder, without thinking, "because she is mine."

I nearly dropped the tray. Finan froze, eyes wide, mouth half-open. Even Uhtred paused mid-bite, eyebrows arched.

I wanted to melt into the floor.

Sihtric’s face went red- not anger, not at me, but at himself.

He leaned back, trying to make it look casual. "I… meant, you know, I… care for her," he muttered, but the words barely reached anyone's ears over the collective pause.

Silence settled like dust.

Uhtred was the first to recover. He looked between us once, then twice, something unreadable flickering across his face before it softened.

"Well," he said mildly, lifting his cup again, "that explains a great deal."

Finan barked a laugh, still staring at Sihtric. "You could have told me," he said. "Would have saved me the effort."

I stood there, heat roaring in my ears, heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. Every instinct told me to flee. Instead, my feet stayed rooted, traitorous things.

Sihtric glanced at me then. Just a glance. Apology and resolve tangled together in it.

"I didn't mean to say it like that," he said, more carefully now. "But I meant it." He whispered to me.

The tension eased. The men resumed their noise. Someone laughed. Someone reached for more ale.

I finished serving with shaking hands, painfully aware of the way Sihtric watched me, no longer hiding it, no longer pretending.

When I finally escaped the hall, my breath came out in a rush I hadn't realised I was holding.

He followed moments later.

"I am sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't plan to say it. It just… came out."

I looked at him, still flushed, still reeling. "You said it like I was a declaration."

His mouth twitched. "It felt like one."

I should have been angry. I should have scolded him.

Instead, I smiled, and reached up, planting a gentle, lingering kiss on his lips.

Oh Sihtric, you may have saved my life from this dreaded monastery.

[skatingthinandice]

@brynnmclean my hand slipped

[witchthewriter]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 (𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞)

⤷ female, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

18+ smut

a/n: i accidentally made the title pics seem like Sihtric and Finan are the couple, but it's not like that! Reader is 1/2 of the chaotic duo-

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝐔𝐡𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐝

・Leaving the festivities, Uhtred leant down and swept you off your feet

・Carrying you to bed, he held you close, giving you random kisses here and there.

・By the time you were in front of your bedroom door, the tension felt unbearable

・You could feel his large hands, they felt warm on your skin, and whether it was excitement from the wedding, or the ale, you needed to feel his hands. Everywhere.

"Wife, what are you thinking?"

"...mmm nothing..."

・Warmth bloomed on your cheeks as your eyes met his

・He slowly placed you down on the bed and hovered over you

"Tell me what you're thinking," he pressed.

"Well...I'm thinking about your hands, your lips..."

・Uhtred flashed that grin of his, the one where you know he's upto no good

・And he didn't leave you waiting and wanting - no, Uhtred helped you undress

・Layer by layer, until you were in your chemise

・It was his turn, and Uhtred did not take long. Soon both of you were bare

・And Uhtred's hands were on you, slow at first, but you did not want slow.

・So you moved his hands where you wanted them ... your breasts

"Touch me here," you whispered and Uhtred squeezed, finding your nipples already hard.

・Your husband groaned, and it was painfully obvious how much he wanted to be inside you. His cock was hard, and rubbed against your leg.

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐧

"I LOVE MY WIFE-"

・Finan beamed as he closed the bedroom door.

・You grinned with just as much elation; climbing ontop of the bed and kicking your shoes off.

"If you love your wife, then come here!"

・Pure glee filled the room

・You patted the spot next to you, and Finan obeyed. Sitting as close as possible to you

"Well, what should we do now," Finan asked you, the air in the room shifting into something harsher...more tension filled

・You tried not to blush, but you felt your core tighten, and a wetness between your legs.

"I know what I want to do-" You uttered, and then kissed him. Fierce and full of love.

・Once you pulled away, Finan groaned, and pulled you in for more.

・Undressing was the tricky part; Finan refused to stop kissing you, whimpering when you pulled away

・So you were only partially undressed when you felt his cock against your core.

"Husband,,," you trailed off, while rubbing him.

・Finan panted, and waited for you to pull him free.

・Once you had, you realised he was as hard as stone.

"I need to be inside you," your husband moaned.

𝐒𝐢𝐡𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜

・You felt his hand move around your waist, squeezing lightly.

・A smile appeared on your face as Sihtric leaned down and whispered in your ear:

"Lets go to bed, wife."

・You nodded and he led you away from the tavern and towards your room.

・It was warm, the fireplace already lit, and burning candles everywhere

・Sihtric closed the door behind you ... and locked it.

・You shivered, anticipating what he'd do next

"Is there something on your mind, wife?"

・You nodded and moved towards him. Tugging at his clothes, and he obliged. Undoing straps and strings.

・Soon he was shirtless, but you turned around, wanting help out of your own clothes

・Gently, he undid the laces at your back, helping you slide the heavy dress off and out.

・You kissed each other; his beard scratching your face.

・You didn't mind, in truth, you wondered how it would feel between your legs.

・The thought made you whimper.

・His arm held you close while the other roamed your body

・With a nod from you, Sihtric laid you on the bed, legs apart and he hovered atop you.

・Kissing every space of bare skin.

𝐎𝐬𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐡

・There was a nervous energy that surrounded Osferth.

・Nervous, yes, but excitement too.

・You both stood at the foot of the bed, trying not to blush.

"Which side do you prefer?" He muttered, scratching behind his head.

"Osferth...I don't want to go to bed right away!"

・You sighed, looked at him and turned his head to fully face yours.

"I want you, husband."

・That's all it took for his lips to crash onto yours.

・Osferth kissed you until you were backed against the bed.

・For a moment, he pulled away to check on you. Then went right back to kiss you.

・You hummed into the kiss, feel contentment

・It was romantic, this night as your wedding night.

・You could feel your husband's hands move to grip and squeeze. Your curves are one of his favourite features about you

・You started undressing yourself; pieces of your dress coming undone, and finding their way to the floor

・Osferth mirrored you - undoing buttons, pulling things down or over his head

・At last you were in your undergarments, but Osferth wasn't impressed:

"Take that off as well-" He said, with a hint of a growl.

𝐀𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐦

・He was a calm presence next to you, standing in front of the bedroom door.

"We won't do anything you wish not to."

・You smiled, and knew you had made the right decision; he would be the perfect life partner.

"Do not worry, husband, I trust you."

・He nodded, opened the door and let you walk in first.

・There was an abundance of flowers in your bedroom, with rose petals on the bed, and a sheepish looking Aldhelm, you knew it was all his idea.

"Oh, husband-"

・You turned to him, gently cupping his face and leant towards him.

・The kiss was delicate, loving; just how he treated you.

・You moved your hands from his face, down down down, until you could feel his cock.

"You tell me if you want to stop," you told him. He nodded.

・You got onto your knees, still beautiful with your wedding dress around you, shoes still on and pulled him free

・With small licks, you teased your new husband. Letting the pearly liquid at the top swell. You licked that too.

・He was still standing, with a hand gently moving the hair from your face

・That's when you took him fully in your mouth. Gagging lightly, you heard Aldhelm groan deep.

・You sucked and sucked, licking, rubbing his cock until his legs started to shake.

𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐜

・Standing side by side, Leofric's large hand wrapped around your own; interlacing your fingers.

・You leaned against him, a twinkle in your eye as you looked at your new husband.

"I'm tired husband, let us go to bed."

・A small smile appeared on his scarred face, and he led you to your shared bedroom.

・Everytime you accidentally touched, it felt electric.

・And when he closed the door behind him, he looked at you with an infinite amount of love

"Wife," he muttered, letting the word hang in the air.

・You leant against the bed and answered:

"Yes, husband?"

・Being called husband sent a shiver down his spine.

"You looked beautiful today, still do-"

・You cut him off by walking towards him and wrapping your arms around his neck.

・Leaning down, you kissed him with as much fire as you felt.

・You could feel his hands sliding down to your ass and then he lifts you onto the bed. Standing between your legs, looming over you, there was a fiery look in your husbands eyes

"You're mine," he utters, moving down to kiss your neck, your chest, leaving your lips til last.

"I don't think we're going to sleep tonight," you whispered.

・Leofric groaned his agreement

[velvetvowsandvikingdreams]

˚₊‧꒰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."

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

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶ ✦　　

taglist (if you want to get added write/comment) 💙

@tessakate @ivarlover @deathsthighs @oddsnendsfanfics @mighra

[witchezandwonderz]

My Valkyrie

Pairing: Ivar x reader

Summary: Ivar and his wife are just as beautifully toxic as one another, and their obsession for one another shows at all times.

Tagged list: : @leftoverp1zza @somebody6468 @cheesesandwichsanto @diorpar @tessakate @miksmom-blog

If you want to be added/removed from the tagged list let me know:)

Masterlist

The feast in Kattegat is lively, filled with the sounds of laughter, drunken boasts, and the clash of tankards. Ivar sits at the head of the hall, enjoying the scenery around him. More specifically, enjoying the sight of his wife who stood proudly on the other side of the hall, partaking in drinking competitions with his men.

He sat comfortably, his left hand swirling the liquid within his tankard and his right hand rested on the stone table before him. He watched his wife in awe, as he always did, studying her movements.

Ivar never thought that he would marry; he never understood his brothers’ love for women. He thought that if he ever was to be bound to a woman, it would be because of an arrangement, or against his own will.

But then he met her- his Valkyrie.

It had been a long day, and he really could not be bothered to attend the feast of an Earl that he did not remember the name of. He had only forced his men to join him in the hopes of forming an alliance which would consequently mean gaining a greater army to join him on his next venture across the seas.

As soon as Ivar entered the small hall, his eyes were transfixed on the raven haired beauty who sat next to the Earl. She saw him looking at her, and to his surprise, did not lower her head like others. No, she stayed looking at him- her eyes locking into his, and a broad smirk on her face.

Strange, Ivar thought. Women usually averted eye contact in fear that he may try and speak with them.

The Earl invited Ivar to sit with him, which Ivar would usually detest, but sitting there meant that he would be able to speak to her, and he wanted that very much.

She watched him as he walked over, her eyes never leaving his figure- she was analysing him. As Ivar sat, she sipped her drink slowly.

“Ivar, allow me to introduce you to my daughter, Y/N.” The earl said quickly, gesturing to her slightly.

Ivar nodded at her, “pretty name.” He said, a boastful grin painted on his lips.

Y/N opened her mouth to speak, but before she had a chance to, her father spoke loudly.

“pretty name” He repeated, shaking his head as he spoke, "nothing pretty about this one, good fighter though.” He croaked as he hurried to shovel handfuls of meat into his mouth.

Ivar looked at him disgusted, before flicking his gaze to Y/N who rolled her eyes, and downed the remaining liquid in her cup.

“Sometimes I think you forget how well I can fight, father.” She warned, her voice serious but not raised.

The small interaction that Ivar witnessed gave him an insight of her past, and as the pair spoke more and more, it was obvious that they were extremely similar.

That night, Ivar did not leave with more men, but he did leave with her, for she was a much greater prize than a bigger army.

News of Ivar's new marriage had spread like wild fire. Although the majority of Kattegat were loyal to Ivar, his irrational, arrogant ways terrified them all the same. Some, if not most were horrified to learn that his new wife was equally as brutal, equally as arrogant and unbelievably irrational.

All Y/N saw was Ivar; she breathed him- every decision she made from the moment she laid her eyes on him had his best interests at heart. She was under his spell, and she never wanted to wake up. He was everything that she had ever dreamt of, and no one was going to take that from her.

The first time that Y/N lost her temper in front of him was the first time that Ivar saw her for what he believed she truly was- a valkyrie, his valkyrie. He could not remember what aggravated her, or how the situation even began, but he could never forget the rage that burned within her. Her eyes switched, and he could have sworn they changed colour as they squinted from anger, his eyes in turn brightening, laughing in delight as he watched her violently attack a random person. Her father was correct, she was a good fighter, an amazing fighter.

The fondness of this memory brought a smile to his face, as he focused once more on her beauty from across the hall. She was not just a vision of chaos and violence, but also of beauty and sweetness. Her smile lit up the entire room, her aura was so powerful that she had the ability to make a whole room feel just as deeply as she did.

She laughed loudly, her howling echoing throughout the walls as she desperately clutched her stomach. She had beat yet another man in a speed drinking competition, and was surrounded by her best shield maiden friends. Her best friend leant over and whispered something in her ear, causing Y/N to spit out the liquid in her mouth and erupt into a fit of laughter once again. Ivar, infected by her, laughed along with her, shaking his head as he did so.

"Magnificent." He said to himself, lifting his cup to his lips once more, his eyes still locked onto her.

"Ivar." An unfamiliar, high pitched voice spoke softly from beside him. Instead of looking away, he continued to stare across the hall and muttered a blunt 'hm'.

The voice did not waver, nor did it falter in the face of his clear disregard for the interaction. "You are not as I imagined."

Ivar finally turned his head slowly, his eyes settling on the woman who had dared to interrupt his admiration and thoughts.

She was small and quite young, with golden hair and a hesitant smile. Though her posture was lazy, there was a flicker of boldness in her gaze, and confidence laced within her expression.

He did not respond, instead, nodding at her expectantly.

She took it as an invitation to continue.

“You are, of course, a great warrior” she said shyly, her lips curving nervously. She continued, now fixing her sights onto the ground beneath her, “but you are also… striking.”

Ivar’s lips curled ever so slightly, but not for the reason she likely hoped. He was not flattered, and he did not care for her opinions. He was, however, excited to see how this situation would play out.

He noticed the way the men around him shifted, the tension that seeped into the air was so thick that he was surprised they did not begin to choke.

More importantly, he noticed the way that his wife had gone completely silent.

His amusement deepened.

The girl mistook it for encouragement. Silly girl.

“Your strength is unbelievable,” she added, stepping closer, the once nervousness within her voice now overtaken by arrogance, “and your brilliant mind is even more so."

Ivar exhaled sharply, something between a chuckle and a sigh. He tapped his fingers against the table, his eyes flickering from her, to all of those that surrounded her. Though he tried not to look at his wife, he could not help it. His gaze darted around the hall until it finally landed on her, as she stood with a firm grip on her sword- so elegant, so beautiful. He winced at the sight of her; Her dress, a deep emerald green, clung to her form like ivy, woven with black embroidery in the shapes of twisting vines and Norse runes of power and protection. Long, flowing sleeves draped from her arms, split at the elbows, giving glimpses of the dark leather cuffs wrapped around her wrists, engraved with ancient symbols of war and bloodlust. Her cloak, made of thick black fur, sat heavy on her shoulders, fastened with a silver brooch shaped like a Valkyrie’s wing.

She was the vision of a queen, the vision of a goddess. Regardless of how elegant she dressed, or how well she carried herself, the array of weapons that she hid beneath her cloak spoke a thousand words.

Ivar tried to predict her next move, but he could not. One of the aspects he loved most about her was how unpredictable she was, and how she had the ability to look blankly at someone whom she wanted to kill. He did not know what she was thinking or planning, bu he did know her gaze.

Gods, her dark, unrelenting gaze.

Ivar felt a thrill rush down his spine, a wicked kind of anticipation sparking in his blood.

His wife had always been possessive- of his time, of his attention, of him. And though he enjoyed toying with her, encouraging her, there were moments- glorious, fantastic moments- when he preferred to sit back and allow her to unleash herself.

The girl, oblivious to the danger she had summoned, smiled shyly. “I mean no disrespect to your wife, of course,” she added hastily. “But surely, she must know that she is lucky to have you.”

Ivar hummed, glancing toward his wife once more, curious to see if she would make her move-

But she only tilted her head, her eyes squinting as she did so, and then took a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth, in an attempt to control her anger and wait just a moment longer.

The girl took his silence as permission, and in turn, stepped closer towards him, “perhaps she does not understand you as I would,” she murmured, “perhaps she does not—”

The loud noise of a dagger suddenly landing in the wall in front of the girl caught everyone by surprise, though, they did not need to guess who threw it.

The girl gasped, raising her hand to her ear and gently wiping it, only to realise that the dagger had cut it as it flew past. Y/N had immaculate aim.

Ivar did not flinch.

He merely grinned.

Because he knew what was about to happen.

The sound of boots against the wooden floor followed- the footsteps calm and paced. If anything, they approached slowly- almost like a lion stalking it's prey.

The girl turned just in time to see her.

Her expression was unreadable, eerily calm, but her eyes… they burned with something ancient, something feral.

"What were you thinking?" Y/N asked, genuinely. Though, she never gave her a chance to reply before giggling, "I mean, did you really think that flirting with my husband would work out in your favour?"

The girl swallowed. “I-”

She never managed to finish her sentence, because Y/N moved.

Her hands gripped the girls neck so tightly that she let out a squeak. Y/N let go of her, the sudden movement jolting her to the floor. Immediately, she bent down and picked her back up, but not with her neck. This time, she tangled her hands within the girls hair, and dragged her so that she was right in front of Ivar, then forced her onto her knees.

The girls chest panted up and down as she frantically looked between the married couple.

Ivar smirked, wondering what was going to happen next. He looked up at his wife who now stood next to him. Y/N bent down and used her finger to grab Ivar's chin, her lips crashed against his with brutal force, her free hand grasping at the back of his neck as if she was trying to pull him inside of her. Ivar groaned into her mouth, his own hands finally moving, one grasping at her waist, the other tangling into her hair, returning her passion with equal fire.

Their bodies pressed together, their hunger evident, their need undeniable. The entire hall watched—shocked, captivated, horrified, amused, impressed even.

Their lack of care for people's opinions was admirable.

Y/N let go suddenly, causing Ivar to falter slightly and settle back into his seat. He smiled, his lips now red and puffy from the kiss. Raising his hand to touch his mouth, he watched as his wife walked around the table and back towards the woman who cowered on the floor.

"You should never go near what does not belong to you." She said, calmly. Her movements contradicted her tone, as she leapt towards her.

So fast, so sudden, that the girl barely had time to react before a blade was buried deep into her stomach.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips, her hands flying to the dagger now protruding from her flesh, her fingers quickly becoming drenched in crimson liquid.

The hall had gone deathly silent.

No one dared to intervene. They never did.

She twisted the blade, slow and deliberate, tilting her head in curiosity as she watched the girl choke on a scream.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against the girl’s ear. “You are lucky I let you speak for as long as you did,” she murmured, voice a deadly whisper.

And then, with a vicious yank, she ripped the dagger free.

The girl took one final desperate gasp for air, before stammering and falling forwards. Blood pooled beneath her, warm and thick, soaking into the wooden floor.

For a long moment, his wife simply stood there, watching the life drain from her. Then, without so much as a glance at the horrified onlookers, she turned to Ivar.

Her gaze met his.

And Ivar- grinning like a man possessed- raised his cup in salute.

“My wife” he drawled, voice dripping with satisfaction

His wife smirked, carelessly wiping the blood from her blade on her beautiful dress, “She was a fool.”

“Yes,” Ivar agreed, tipping his head toward her. “But she gave me a gift.”

She snapped her head towards him and arched a brow. “Oh?”

Ivar leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “She reminded me,” he murmured, his voice laced with hunger, “just how much you belong to me.”

His wife let out a breath of laughter, nervous laughter. Her cheeks burned red as she blushed, and used her index finger to twirl a strand of her hair. Some people thought it amusing that she would turn into a giggling, anxious girl from someone speaking in such a dark and toxic way.

But they were toxic and dark, and that was what made them, them.

They were not perfect, they were strange, they were eccentric, they were violent, they were possessive. But they were happy, in love, and shared a bond like no other.

[velvetvowsandvikingdreams]

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚Two Wolves, One Lamb˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Summary: They want you both, but who will you ever choose?

Warnings: mdni, smut!, love!triangle, emotional manipulation, toxic!relationship, obsession, longing, angst!, jealousy, possessive!behaviour, power imbalance, dark romance, guilt, cheating?

Pairing: ivar x reader, hvitserk x reader

Words: 1,8k

Note: Wanted to experiment with this one; enjoyᝰ.ᐟ <3

You were just a slave—nothing more, nothing less. But somehow, that made them want you even more.

Both brothers, drawn to you like wolves circling prey. Both desperate to claim what they shouldn’t have.

Being with Ivar was like drinking something forbidden—bitter, heady, and utterly intoxicating. He was obsessive and intense, his love hidden beneath sharp edges and cold silence. He didn’t know how to be soft with you, not really—afraid you’d see it as weakness. But you knew better. You felt the quiet tremble in his hands when he touched you. You have seen the flicker of fear in his eyes—fear that you'd leave.

Hvitserk, on the other hand, was all warmth. He burned bright, easy to fall into. He loved with open arms and an open heart—romantic to a fault, always whispering how much he needed you, how deeply he felt. He made you feel seen. Like you were more than what you were born into. You loved them both. Equally. Differently. Painfully.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

When you lay with Ivar, he would slip his hand into yours, pulling you closer beneath the furs, his bare body pressed to yours like he could mold himself into your skin. His voice would crack, soft and afraid, when he whispered, "Do you love me?" And in the silence that followed, you would feel the weight of his hunger, his fear.

Hvitserk was no better. He would catch you in his arms and carry you to his bed like you were something fragile and precious. He kissed your skin like it was sacred, trailing his mouth down your neck, your chest, your thighs. And then, with that same aching need, he would ask, "Does he kiss you the way I do?"

You never had answers. Not for either of them. Because if you could, you would have them both.

One night, Ivar broke the silence, the question lingering in the dark between you.

"You love my brother, don't you?"

Your breath caught. You turned to him slowly, the words thick on your tongue. "No, Ivar. I… I care for you. I care for both of you."

He flinched like you’d struck him. "But you can only love one."

Your words weren’t sharp, but they carved into him anyway.

"I care for both of you."

He stared at you—bare shoulders glowing in the firelight, the furs barely clinging to your hips—and felt something cold spread in his chest. Not anger. Not yet.

Something worse.

He turned his face slightly, jaw tight. Of course you cared for Hvitserk. Everyone did. He was golden, gentle, open. He smiled too easily and touched too much. He didn’t deserve you—but somehow, he still had a part of you. And that drove Ivar mad.

He looked back at you, eyes cold as ice. "You care for both of us?" he repeated, voice low. "So which one of us do you fuck because you want to, and which one out of pity?"

You opened your mouth, shocked—but he didn’t give you the chance to speak. He shifted, pushing himself up slightly on one arm, the furs falling from his chest. "He touches you like a poet," he hissed, "and you let him. You like it."

He leaned in then, so close his breath ghosted over your lips. His hand cupped your jaw—rough, full of desperation.

"I don’t love like him," he said. "I don’t know how. But I’d kill for you. Does that count for nothing?"

You didn’t pull away. That was the worst part. You just looked at him with those soft, guilty eyes that made his insides twist.

"Ivar…" You whispered, but he shook his head.

"No. Don’t say my name like that. Not if you say his the same way in the dark."

His grip tightened slightly, jaw clenched. He wanted to kiss you. Or leave. But he did none of those things.

Instead, his voice dropped to a tremble. "You can’t love both of us. And you don’t get to pretend you can."

You didn’t breathe at first.

The way he looked at you—it was more than anger. It was betrayal, heartbreak, need.

"Ivar," you whispered again, softer now, more like a plea. You didn’t even know what you were begging for—mercy, understanding, forgiveness?

He shook his head, and the firelight caught the tightness in his expression, the pain swimming in his eyes. It gutted you.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," you said.

"But you are." His hand fell from your face like it weighed too much to hold. "Every time you leave me, every time you smile at him, every time he looks at you like you’re the sun and I know I’ll never be that—you hurt me."

You felt it then—the shift. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of everything unspoken.

"Idon’t want to be a choice," he murmured, eyes locked on yours. "I want to be the only thing."

You swallowed hard, your voice shaking. "And if I can’t choose?"

He leaned in, his lips pressing yours.

"Then I’ll make you."

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

You always felt safest in Hvitserk’s arms. That was the problem.

He made it too easy to forget that your heart was split in two. Too easy to believe, even for a moment, that you were allowed to be loved.

His hands were warm when they touched you, calloused from battle but reverent in the way they traced your skin. Like you were something rare.

You were in his bed now, tangled in furs, your breath still catching from his kiss. He hovered above you, lips brushing your collarbone, your jaw, your mouth—always returning like he couldn’t stay away for long.

"I hate the way he looks at you," he whispered against your skin, voice low and raw. "Like he already owns you."

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because part of you liked the way Ivar looked at you. Just like you loved the way Hvitserk touched you.

His fingers slid down your arm, laced gently with yours, grounding you. You looked up at him and saw the emotion in his eyes—thick, unguarded, like it hurt to keep it all inside.

"Do you love him?" he asked suddenly.

The words hit you like a cold wind. Not because they surprised you, but because you’d already heard them—whispered in Ivar’s voice, filled with pain.

Your silence was enough.

Hvitserk sighed, forehead dropping gently to yours. "Gods, I hate this," he muttered. "I try to be patient. I try to wait for you to choose me. But every time I see you with him, it feels like you’re slipping further away."

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "I never meant to fall for either of you."

His laugh was soft. Sad. "But you did. And now here we are. Sharing someone we both want to keep for ourselves."

He kissed you then—slow, deep, like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he thought this might be the last time. And when he pulled back, his voice cracked just enough to make your chest ache.

"Tell me, just once, that you feel more when you’re with me. Tell me he doesn’t make you feel like I do."

But you couldn’t. Not honestly.

Because he did. And he didn’t. They both did—each in their own way.

And it was tearing you apart.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

You should’ve walked away.

From Ivar’s bed. From Hvitserk’s touch. From the way both of them looked at you like you were something holy—or something the other wasn’t allowed to have.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You let Ivar’s jealousy crack open your chest and crawl inside. You let Hvitserk’s kisses calm your guilt just enough to crave more. You told yourself you’d end it. One of them. Both of them. Soon.

But the next night, Ivar asked for you.

And you went.

Without any hesitation.

He didn’t speak at first. Just pulled you in, eyes dark and unreadable, and kissed you like he wanted to silence the whole world. There was no gentleness. Just teeth, hands, heat—his desperation turning into fire between your legs. He made you moan his name, made you promise you were his.

And you did.

You promised.

Even if you didn’t mean to.

But two nights later, you were in Hvitserk’s arms again.

He kissed your shoulders like he was afraid they might disappear. He touched you like worship, slow and aching, whispering your name like a prayer. Afterward, his hand rested over your heart like he was trying to feel what belonged to him.

"I don’t care," he whispered into your neck. "Even if he has a part of you. I just want mine."

And you let him believe he still had it.

Maybe he did.

Maybe they both did.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

You closed your eyes. And it’s Ivar. Then it’s Hvitserk. Then Ivar again.

"I want to ruin you," Ivar breathes against your neck, fingers gripping your thighs like he’ll carve himself into you.

"You’re beautiful like this," Hvitserk whispers, lips brushing your breasts as he eases you down onto the furs.

Ivar bites, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to remind you who you’re with. Who you belong to.

Hvitserk worships, touches you like you’re soft and breakable, like he has all the time in the world to make you come undone.

"Say it," Ivar growls, his hips thrusting against your core. "Say you’re mine. Just mine."

"You feel everything with me, don’t you?" Hvitserk asks, holding your face in his hands, eyes full of something too tender to look at for long.

"Don’t think about him," Ivar hisses. "Not when I’m inside you."

"Does he make you tremble like this?" Hvitserk whispers, pressing his forehead to yours, his rhythm slow and deep.

You cry out, not sure whose name slips from your mouth. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither.

Ivar hears what he wants. Hvitserk hears what he fears.

"I would kill him," Ivar says, voice low, possessive. "If he ever touches you again."

"I’d let you go," Hvitserk says quietly, "if I thought he made you happier."

And for a moment, you don’t know which one you’re lying with.

Because they both touch you the same now, like they’re afraid to lose you.

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

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

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

@ivarlover @tessakate @oddsnendsfanfics @deathsthighs @mighra

[sihtricswh0e]

As much as Siegfried and Erik were bad (mostly Siegfried) I would let them use me in heinous ways.

Together, one-on-one, maybe voyeurism….

You can’t deny that they’re fine as hell

[witchezandwonderz]

Memories in the Dark

Pairing: Ivar x female Reader Word Count: 2.4K Master List Prompt List (Requests are open) Ivar just loves giving his wife head basically, that's the plot TW: Explicit sexual content, non-consensual elements (lack of verbal consent but believe me- she doesn't mind),jealousy/possessiveness, explicit language. Tagged list: (If you want to be added or removed, please let me know.) @leftoverp1zza @somebody6468 @cheesesandwichsanto @diorpar @tessakate @miksmom-blog @whitedarkmoonflower @imagines-halfpai @thenameswinter99 @oddsnendsfanfics I am honestly just quite sorry about this, once I started I couldn't stop. 18+ ONLY!!!

The great hall smelled of roasted meat and mead, firelight flickering off stone walls and polished steel. Laughter and murmurs echoed under high timber beams as Ivar lounged beside his Queen on the raised dais, his throne towering but abandoned. He preferred to sit closer to her, always within reach.

She was laughing, lips red with wine, one hand resting lightly on the carved wood of her chair. Her gown was dark crimson, trimmed in gold, the slit of the dress just high enough so that he could glimpse the soft skin of her thigh when she shifted.

Ivar watched her like a starving man. His Queen. His wife. His prize and his punishment.

He leaned closer, voice low against her ear.

“You’re torturing me, sweet one.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, slow and teasing. “Good.”

But her tone faltered slightly when she felt the drag of his fingers along her ankle beneath the table. She knew this game. She adored this game.

He smiled, feral.

Without another word, he slipped from his chair, lowering himself to the ground.

Not one soul in the hall dared react.

Everyone knew better. These were loyal men and women-servants, warriors, guards. Even if they noticed, they would never breathe a word. It was understood: Ivar worshiped his Queen, and she allowed him to. Plus, this would not be the first time that they would be subject to watching the couples intimate moments.

The space beneath the table was dim and cloaked in shadows, the long tablecloth brushing his back. Ivar’s body settled easily on the furs, his fingers pushing her skirts higher and higher until he found bare thigh.

He exhaled a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. Despite it being the millionth time, it was always as exciting as the first.

She tried not to react. Her voice remained level as she continued speaking to the advisors beside her, but her spine had stiffened, one hand gripping the edge of her goblet.

He mouthed along the skin slowly, reverently, until he reached the wet heat between her legs.

No underclothes. Just soft, slick skin. For him.

Always for him.

He licked her slowly, deliberately, eyes closed in ecstasy. His tongue slid through her folds, teasing, tasting, circling her clit in gentle flicks, savoring the way she tensed above him.

She reached for her wine again, trying not to spill as her knees parted slightly in silent surrender.

Ivar moaned into her cunt like it was holy.

He gripped her thighs, holding her steady, feasting like a man dying of thirst. His mouth worked with practiced devotion-tongue pushing, sucking, flicking-until he felt her twitch under his lips.

He could tell she was close. He could always tell.

Then she gripped the back of his head through the cloth, subtle but firm. A warning. Enough.

He withdrew with a final kiss, breathless and hard beneath his tunic. He licked his lips and pulled her dress down carefully, reverently, before crawling out from beneath the table.

His Queen didn’t meet his eyes. Not yet.

But her hands were trembling slightly as she rose.

“We're done here,” she said coolly to the table. “Everyone out.”

No one dared disobey.

As the hall cleared, Ivar could not help but think of the first time he took her innocence in a crowded hall-

It had been before she was his.

Before vows were spoken, before crowns were exchanged. But she was already his, even if neither of them had said it aloud.

That night, the hall had been overflowing with noise and ale, warriors boasting loud and red-faced, women twirling through the smoke-hazed air with laughter on their lips. Ivar’s brothers had been loudest of all, sprawled at the long table beside him.

“You need a woman, brother,” Ubbe had said with a grin, slapping him on the back. “A real one, not just some wide-eyed maid who cries if you look at her wrong.”

“He needs to become a man first,” Hvitserk had added with a smirk, tankard half-raised. “Has he even had a cunt in his lap yet, or is that still too complicated for our little cripple?”

Laughter.

Ivar had gritted his teeth, jaw clenched so tight his temples throbbed. But then… he saw her.

Standing near the firepit, golden in the glow, the new girl with the sharp tongue and curious eyes. The one who never bowed her head quite low enough. The one who met his stare and smirked.

Her words from the previous night echoed in his head, he had confessed his insecurities to her, a surprising moment of vulnerability. She had told him that there were other ways to please a woman. When he naively asked how, she had grinned at him and asked a simple question- “you have a tongue, have you not?”

And that was it.

He called her over.

Her steps were unhurried, confident, hips swaying under the deep blue of her skirts. When she reached him, she dipped her head respectfully to the table, then raised her eyes- only for Ivar.

“Sit, please” he said.

She did.

The brothers were amused, elbows jabbing, whispering behind their hands.

But then Ivar turned his back to them and leaned close, his voice for her alone. “I’m going to put my mouth between your thighs. Right here. Right now.”

Her breath hitched-barely. But she nodded, slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “What are you waiting for?"

And so he did.

He slid from his bench and ducked beneath the table like it was a battlefield he was claiming.

There were gasps. Confusion. But no one could see. Not fully.

Just the shape of her body as she leaned back slightly, thighs parting under the table’s edge.

Just the flash of her leg, pale and bare as the slit in her dress slipped higher.

Just the sound of her breath- hitched, soft, then sharper as it turned into a moan.

And the sight of Ivar’s head- bobbing slowly, rhythmically- beneath the edge of the tablecloth.

His brothers had fallen silent.

He tasted her like a man possessed, tongue circling her with eager worship, savoring her slick sweetness as she tried, failed, to contain her sounds. Her hand slipped beneath the table, fingers twisting in his hair as he devoured her.

And when her thighs began to tremble, when her breath caught with a whispered “Ivar…” that nearly undid him, he pressed one final kiss to her soaked, swollen cunt and re-emerged.

The entire table was watching.

He reached for his drink and raised it high.

“To becoming a man.”

As the thoughts spilled through Ivar's mind, he looked up to notice that the only people who remained were now him, and his Queen.

He looked at her, his lips parted to speak, but she had other ideas.

She grabbed his collar with the force of a conqueror claiming spoils, her mouth crashing against his. The kiss was heat and hunger, bruising and breathless, all tongue.

They didn’t make it to the chambers.

Instead, she shoved him back onto the dais, and he fell with a grunt, landing among the furs and scattered cushions. Her hands were already working at the fastenings of his tunic, and he was fumbling with her skirts, lifting them, needing her- needing to be inside her.

The echoes of their moans filled the empty hall, wet and guttural, the throne room transformed into their altar.

And as she rode him-gown bunched around her waist, hair wild, her palms braced against his chest- his mind was dragged back to another time-

The battle had ended just hours before. The field had been slick with blood and strewn with bodies, the stench of death thick in the air.

He had been perched on a boulder, breathless from the battle, panicked because he did not know where she was.

She was blood-splattered, eyes bright with adrenaline, a shallow cut on her cheek and her hands shaking from the thrill of survival.

“I thought you were dead,” she said, breathless. He breathed a sigh of relief when she emerged.

He looked at her with something close to wonder. “You thought wrong.”

She dropped to her knees in front of him, her body trembling not with fear, but with need.

“I need you,” she whispered. “Now. Like this.”

There, among the bodies and broken shields, she pulled him onto the ground. They didn’t even fully undress-her leathers were shoved aside, his armour only loosened enough to free him.

He pushed into her with a growl, both of them raw and wild. Her nails raked down his back as he thrust into her, the pain mingling with pleasure, blood smearing their skin like war paint.

Each stroke was a cry of life. Of victory. Of proof.

She clenched around him, crying out, and he followed her with a growl, spilling into her with the kind of pleasure that made the world tilt.

When they collapsed, it was with hearts racing and hands still clutched tight to each other’s bodies.

"What are you thinking about, my King?" She moaned, slightly offended that he seemed to not be fully invested in the moment.

He smirked, using his right hand to pull her braid down, so that her head was forced right into his face.

"I am thinking about the first time I took you on the battle field, do you remember?"

She hummed both in pleasure of the moment, and of the fond memory. Though, his mention of memories led her to think of her own favourite memory-

It had been early in their relationship. New territory. Untouched territory.

A visiting noble from Frankia had lingered too long. Touched her wrist as he complimented her dress. Smiled with too many teeth.

Ivar had watched from across the courtyard, frozen at first, the fury boiling in his blood like molten iron.

When the man finally left, Ivar grabbed her wrist-not hard, but firm-and yanked her into the garden.

“What was that?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Letting him touch you.”

“I didn’t-”

“You smiled.”

Her jaw clenched. “You think I belong to you already?”

He shoved her against the stone wall, body pressed close but trembling.

“No. I know you do.”

He kissed her like a man unhinged-wild, brutal, messy- and he didn’t stop until she moaned into his mouth, nails scratching his scalp.

He sank to his knees again, right there in the garden path, in broad daylight.

Anyone could’ve walked by.

He didn’t care.

He fucked her with his fingers until she came on his tongue, and then looked up at her with glassy, mad eyes.

“You’re mine,” he whispered.

She believed it, even then.

Ivar lingered on the soft furs beside her, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, his body still thrumming with the intensity of the moments they’d just shared. The great hall around them had fallen silent, save for the faint crackle of the fire, the only sound that remained. His fingers brushed against her skin, still warm from their union, reverently trailing the curve of her shoulder.

She had fallen back beside him, her breath equally shallow, but her eyes were open and steady, gazing at the ceiling with a faraway look. He could feel the weight of their shared moment, the bond they’d just further sealed, and it made his heart ache in ways he hadn’t ever anticipated.

Ivar shifted, pulling her closer against his chest, his strong arms enveloping her with tenderness. He pressed a kiss to her hair, burying his face in the strands that smelled faintly of the night air and the fragrance of her skin.

“You’re mine,” he murmured softly, though this time it was a truth, not a demand. His voice was hushed, reverent, as though he feared the intensity of his feelings might somehow cause her to slip away.

She hummed against him, a content sound that warmed him from the inside. Her fingers gently traced the lines of his arm, a simple touch that spoke volumes. “Always,” she whispered back, a soft promise.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, just holding each other in the silence of their shared aftercare, the warmth of the fire mixing with the heat still lingering between them. Ivar’s hand found hers, his fingers lacing through hers as if to make sure she was still there, still his, and he was hers.

"I never want to leave your side," he admitted quietly, his thumb tracing over the back of her hand, the gesture almost shy. The vulnerable admission had once felt strange on his tongue, but with her, it always felt right. “Not now. Not ever.”

Her eyes softened as she looked at him, her lips curving upward in that knowing, teasing smile that was so uniquely hers. “I wouldn’t have you any other way,” she replied, her voice like silk.

Ivar’s heart clenched at the sincerity in her words. This, this was everything to him. He had never known love in this form before- raw, consuming, yet tender and soft. She had given herself to him not just in body, but in soul, and it was a bond that would never be broken.

His hand moved to her cheek, his touch gentle as he traced the curve of her jaw, studying her face as though he had never truly seen her before. “You’re everything,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “More than I deserve, and yet, you’re still here.”

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as she leaned into his touch, her lips pressing softly against his palm. “You deserve everything I have to give, Ivar.”

The words hung between them, powerful, heavy with unspoken promises. He kissed her then, not with the fierce passion of before, but with the softness that spoke of everything he couldn’t put into words. The kiss was slow, tender, full of everything they had shared- and everything they still would.

When they broke apart, he pulled her back against his chest, her back pressed to his front, as he wrapped his arms around her securely. He held her like that for a long while, just breathing her in, his heart at peace for the first time in a long while.

“I will love you forever,” he murmured into her ear, his voice steady, the words deep with conviction. “Even beyond this life, I will find you.”

She squeezed his hand, pressing her palm over his, and turned her head just enough to brush a soft kiss to his cheek. “And I will wait for you.”

Ivar exhaled a shaky breath, feeling the weight of her words settle deep into his soul. He couldn’t imagine a life without her, and he never would. She had become his centre, the beating heart that gave him reason, the anchor in the storm that was his existence.

[tinyshyteacup]

❤️‍🔥 🥰 🖤

S M U T F L U F F A N G S T

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

Please read and heed all warnings. Some content will become 18+ warnings posted on each individual chapter of story, suggestive content marked on individual chapters.

Modern Mercy

One moment you're on a solo hike through woods, cursing your glitching phone—the next, you're staring down the steel of a sword and being dragged through the woods by a couple of weridos from a Ren Faire.

As a longtime fan of Vikings, you recognize every face in the great hall, this should feel like every fans dream come true but this isn't your couch or Netflix anymore, and their not actors ?

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Part six

Part seven

Part eight

Part nine

Part ten

Part eleven

Part twelve

Part thirteen

Part fourteen

Part fifteen

Part sixteen

Part seventeen

Part eighteen 🖤 *TW: SA threat*

Part nineteen

Part twenty

Part twenty-one

Part twenty-two

Part twenty-three

Part twenty-four

Part twenty-five

Part twenty-six

Part twenty-seven

Part twenty-eight

Part twenty-nine

Part thirty

Part thirty-one *TW: choking, suggestive com*

Part thirty-two

Part thirty-three

Part thirty-four

Part thirty-five

Part thirty-six

Part thirty-seven

Part thirty-eight - coming soon

Natural Compulsion 🩸

After treating patients in busy city clinics, you've decided to make a the move to sleepy a sleepy little town, hoping for a quieter practice. Armed with your counseling degree, a razor-sharp wit, and a healthy dose of skepticism, you're determined to help the locals work through their very real, very human problems.

What happens when you realize that your ability to see through people's facades might make you a target in a town where the monsters arent just in the movies ?

[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/

[sihtricswh0e]

If I cannot have Sihtric, I will have Cregan

(I need Arnas biblically either way)

[stardustrider]

Only you

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female) Authors note: so you filthy heathens - you all voted for the sihtric x wife!reader pwp - so here it is. I had it already half written for my fictober before life got nasty and threw me out of tracks. In my mind it's S3 Sihtric and wife having missed each other after a long time apart but you can imagine him however you want as there are actually no direct references to any time period and no plot either just pure smut. Sorry, not sorry. Warnings: pure SMUT 18+ Word Count: 2,6K Summary: plot? never heard of it. Sihtric and wife!reader just can't get enough of each other, breeding kink to some extent, pwp

Please remember that comments and reblogs are two things that make writers smile and keep us motivated.

Sihtric runs his hands from your ass up to your bare hips, squeezing them. His large, calloused palms grip your hips with a bruising intensity, his tattooed fingers digging deep into your flesh, leaving red marks in their wake as he guides your movements. His eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide as his ragged breaths escape him—he’s completely consumed by the sight of you, as though nothing in this world could ever be enough to quench his hunger. He loves to watch you riding him.

With your palms pressed against the solid plane of his chest, you bounce rhythmically on his cock, each movement sending ripples of pleasure through his body. Your hair falls in wild strands across your face, half-lidded eyes glazed with desire, lips parted with breathless moans as your breasts bounce before his eyes. 

You are so beautiful. Sometimes he still can’t really fathom that you are his. His wife, his woman, his anchor in the chaos, his everything. The pleasure you are giving him right now is beyond anything he could ever express. He moans loudly. “Yes, baby… just like that,” he groans, his voice rough and strained with pleasure. 

You lean forward, bracing yourself against his shoulders, your lips finding the tender curve of his neck. You suck lightly on his skin, drawing a shudder from him that makes his hands falter for a moment.

“Sihtric,” you murmur, the sound of it sending a thrill down his spine. His response is immediate—his hips buck upward, driving him deeper into you, and the gasp that escapes your mouth has him smirking faintly through the haze of pleasure.

“You feel so good,” he growls, his eyes locking onto yours. There’s fire in them, a hunger that only you can sate. “So perfect. Mine.”

The words send a rush of heat through you, and you can only nod, too lost in the sensations to form coherent words.

His thoughts are a blur, his mind consumed entirely by you. In this moment, nothing else exists—no worries, no duties, no other needs. There is only you, riding him with the ferocity of a valkyrie, stealing the air from his lungs and wrenching broken moans from his lips.

“By Freya, you’re driving me mad,” he growls, his voice rough and frayed, heavy with the strain of holding himself together as your walls clench tightly around him, drawing him in deeper with every roll of your hips.

His mismatched eyes trail downward, fixating on the place where your bodies are joined. He watches how you move on top of him, the rhythmic sway of your hips, the way his cock disappears into your slick heat as you take him in over and over again, your arousal coating his length – the sight alone threatens to unravel him. 

“Gods…” he rasps, his breath hitching, the hunger in his gaze unrestrained. “Keep going,” he murmurs hoarsely, his eyes meeting yours briefly before returning to watch your every movement. “You’re perfect—so perfect.”

The feeling of your tight walls squeezing around his cock draws another ragged moan from his throat, his hands tightening their grip on your hips. You feel like you were made for him, your body crafted to take him, to hold him, to pull him deeper into your molten heat.

He’s close—so agonisingly close—but he fights against the urge. For months, every lonely night away from you had been a torment. Following Uhtred from battle to battle, he had fallen asleep with your image burned behind his closed eyes, your name a silent prayer on his lips, his hand seeking a pale imitation of the release only you could give.

And now, with you finally here, your body wrapped so tightly around him, he aches to make this moment last forever. He wants to memorise every gasp, every shiver, every whispered moan, and draw them out until the stars fade and the sun rises. 

A loud whimper escapes your lips as his hands slide from your hips, trailing upward with deliberate slowness. His palms are rough, calloused from swinging his war axe, but the way they cup your breasts feels so gentle. His fingers tease over your sensitive skin, brushing against the hardened peaks before pinching gently, sending jolts of pleasure through your body and another gasp spills from your lips.

Sihtric’s one hand keeps cupping your breast while the other tangles in your hair, drawing your face to his. His lips crash against yours, the kiss wild and heated, his tongue delving into your mouth as if he can’t get enough of you.

You smile through your lust. Your mingled moans and gasps of pleasure fill the room, rising with every shared breath. You can feel he’s close—the hitch in his breathing, the way his muscles tense beneath your fingertips. His control is slipping, his restraint unravelling, and it sends a thrill coursing through you.

Sihtric’s hands slide down to your hips, his grip firm, almost desperate, as he guides you up and down his thick, throbbing length. “By the gods,” he groans, his voice deep and rough with want. “You’re so beautiful… so warm and tight around me. You feel—so good.”

His praise sends a shiver down your spine, and your body responds instinctively, your movements quickening, matching the rhythm he sets. You bite down on your bottom lip, the pleasure almost too much to bear, each drag of his cock inside you drawing out soft, breathless whines that make his eyes darken with desire.

You pick up your pace, hips slamming down against his, taking him deeper, stretching yourself around him. You’ve missed him—missed his touch, his presence, the way his body completes yours. Every dark, lonely night you spent chasing fleeting highs, imagining his hands on your skin, feeling the ache of your empty womb, longing for him to fill you, to claim you fully.

You lean forward, hands gripping harshly at Sihtric’s shoulders as your lips brush against the shell of his ear. You lick teasingly at the lobe, coaxing a low groan from him. You keep moving, savouring the feeling of your husband’s thick cock sliding in and out of you, splitting you open like only he can. You dig your nails into his shoulders, “Give it to me,” you hiss between clenched teeth, your breath hot against his ear. “I want every drop. Fill me up.”

Sihtric’s eyes roll back, your words a trigger that unleashes something primal, untamed inside him. With a guttural groan, his grip tightens on your hips, his hands trembling with raw need as he holds you in place and begins pounding up into your aching cunt from below with a fierce, unstoppable rhythm. 

Your mind spins with the sinful pleasure, his cock hitting that swollen, sensitive spot inside you again and again, each thrust more demanding than the last. Your core clenches around him, your body teetering on the edge, the pleasure too intense, too consuming. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, your teeth and lips leaving marks on his sensitive flesh as your whimpers and moans are getting louder and louder the harder and faster your husband fucks you.

You cry out, your voice ragged, as the overwhelming heat courses through you, your body surrendering completely to the climax ripping through you. Your muscles tense, thighs quivering as waves of pleasure crash over you, relentless and consuming. But you don’t stop—your hips continue their rhythm, meeting his every thrust, determined to draw every last ounce of his pleasure, to claim everything he has to give.

Your walls flutter and tighten around Sihtric’s cock, silently begging him to fill you, pulling him deeper and deeper. “Sihtric, please,” you whisper. “Give it to me,” you beg.

Your plea shatters whatever restraint he has left. His cock twitches inside you, and with a hoarse groan, he thrusts up into you, his release surging in hot, endless waves. He spills deep within you, his seed filling you in long, heated spurts that seem to last forever. His breathless moans blend with your own as he empties himself completely, his body trembling beneath yours.

Panting, you collapse against his chest, his strong arms wrapping around you, pulling you tightly against this chest.

“Gods, I love you,” he murmurs, his voice a soft rumble, his lips brushing against your hair. “My wife, my goddess,” he groans. “You can’t even imagine how much I’ve missed you.”

A tired but contented smile tugs at your lips. Threading your fingers through his damp hair, you whisper, “I’ve missed you too.” Your voice is low, a tender echo of his confession. But mischief flickers in your eyes as you add, “And don’t think we’re done, Sihtric Kjartansson. Mark my words, you’re not leaving this bed until you’ve put a pup in me.”

His body stills beneath you, your words sinking in like a spark igniting dry tinder. His breath catches, and then, with a low, dangerous growl, he shifts. In one smooth motion, he rolls you onto your back, his strong frame towering over you, every inch of him radiating purpose. His lips crash against yours, the kiss searing and demanding, rekindling the fire in your veins.

“Then we won’t stop,” he whispers against your lips, his voice a gravelly promise that sends a shiver racing down your spine. “Not until you’re mine in every way.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, his fingers slipping through the wet, heated mess of his release mingled with your own. He teases you with a skillful touch, stroking and circling until your body arches against him, trembling with renewed need. You moan into his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders as his touch brings you closer and closer to the brink once more.

“I’ll fill you again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low and commanding. “Again and again, until you can’t take it anymore. Until you cry tears of pleasure and beg me to stop.”

His hips shift, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance, teasing, testing. His mismatched eyes burn into yours, as he continues, “Until you’re carrying my child. Until there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that you’re mine.”

Your breath catches as he pushes into you once more, slow and deliberate, savouring the way your body stretches to take him. You clutch at him, helpless under the spell of his touch. 

His movements are languid, tender, but there's an underlying urgency in the way his eyes never leave yours, as if he's memorising every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every soft whimper that escapes your lips.

"Sihtric," you breathe, your hands grasping at him, pulling him closer. "Don't stop."

He doesn't. He moves with purpose, his thrusts deep and steady, his lips tracing a path down your neck, across your collarbone, marking you as his own with every press of his mouth against your skin. His hands roam your body, worshipping every inch, every curve, until you're nothing more than a whimpering, gasping mess beneath him.

Sihtric fastens his pace, his hips snapping against yours. “Tell me how much you missed me?” he demands. 

“More than anything,” you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper, words trembling as his relentless pace robs you of breath. “I dreamed of you every night, Sihtric. I ached for you.”

“And there was nobody else?” the question slips his lips almost unintentionally, and he regrets it the very same moment. His movements falter, his forehead pressing against yours as a shadow crosses his expression. He wants to take it back, but he can’t. It’s out there. It lingers in the air, heavy with the weight of his fears. Is he enough for you?

All those sleepless nights on the road, lying awake on cold, hard ground, the stars above offering no comfort, the ache in his chest had been constant, gnawing at him with every mile that stretched between you, imagining you sitting by the fire alone, your beautiful face lit by the flickering flames, but your eyes filled with sadness. 

There were moments when he couldn't stop his mind from whispering cruel things. What if she’s had enough of waiting? What if she finds someone else—someone who’s there, who can hold her every night and promise her a life he could only dream of giving?

You cup his face in your trembling hands, forcing his eyes to meet yours. “No one else,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “It’s always been you, Sihtric. Only you.”

His voice trembles, words spilling out in a rush, breath hitching. “I was afraid you’d wake up one day and realise I'm not the man you needed. That you’d stop loving me because I wasn’t here for you, because I wasn’t enough.”

You shake your head. “Sihtric,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the tears welling in your eyes. “You’ve always been enough for me. More than enough. Every night I waited, every tear I cried, every time I missed you—it wasn’t because I wanted someone else. It was because I wanted you. Only you.”

Your words drive him wild. A guttural growl escapes his lips as his hands grip your thighs, pulling you even closer, deeper, until it feels like there’s no part of you he hasn’t claimed. His lips crash against yours again and again, devouring your moans, his kisses searing and desperate, as though he’s trying to pour all of his longing, all of his love and gratitude into you.

“You don’t know what that means to me,” he murmurs. “You... you’re everything to me,” he rasps against your lips, his breath hot, his mismatched eyes blazing with raw need. “I want you to remember this, always. How much I’ve missed you, how much I need you.”

“Show me, Sihtric,” you whisper back, your voice fading into soft moans of pleasure. “Show me how much.”

And he does. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word speaks of his love, his devotion, his desperation to be enough for you. 

You shudder beneath him, your hands clawing at his back, feeling the ripple of his muscles with every forceful thrust. His name falls from your lips again and again, a mantra, a prayer, as he drives you closer to the edge. His touch is everywhere—his hands gripping, caressing; his lips trailing down your neck, sucking and biting gently to leave his mark; his body pressing into yours with unrelenting force.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, the words vibrating against your skin. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you manage to choke out. “Always, Sihtric. Only yours.”

The sound he makes is primal, filled with satisfaction and something deeper—something possessive, protective, and utterly devoted. His movements grow erratic, the rhythm faltering as he loses himself in you, his hands clutching at you as though letting go would shatter him.

“Come for me,” he growls, his voice rough, his gaze locked on yours as he drives into you. “Let me feel you.”

Sihtric’s words are your undoing, the command tipping you over the edge. You cry out his name as pleasure crashes through you, your body trembling, clenching around him as waves of ecstasy wash over you. 

His own release follows, his body shuddering above you as he spills into you once more with a low, broken moan, burying himself as deep as he can.

Sihtric collapses near you, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. For a while, the two of you lay there, tangled in each other. Your breaths are heavy and mingled, your bodies still thrumming with the echo of your highs.

Finally, Sihtric lifts his head, his lips curving into a lazy, satisfied grin as he gazes down at you. "I think I could get used to this," he says, his voice soft but teasing.

You laugh, breathless and exhausted, but utterly content. "Good," you reply, your fingers brushing against his cheek. "Because you're not going anywhere."

He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his hand splayed possessively across your belly. "Not until I've given you everything I've promised."

[sihtricswh0e]

𝕤𝕚𝕙𝕥𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕤𝕨𝕙𝟘𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

ℝ𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤:

1. mdni 18+ of course I cannot control anyone or what media they consume, but I can warn you to STAY AWAY

2. Requests are ALWAYS OPEN!!!! Even if it seems like I’m inactive, I’m not. I just need motivation

3. I write fluff/smut/angst (I do struggle with the last one😭)

4. Please be kind. I will not tolerate any hate toward myself or anyone else

5. HAVE FUN!!! I write for fun, and you should read for fun. We all have fun here

ꜱɪʜᴛʀɪᴄ

𝕊𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤:

𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤:

ꜰɪɴᴀɴ

𝕊𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤:

𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤:

ᴏꜱꜰᴇʀᴛʜ

𝕊𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤:

𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤:

ᴜʜᴛʀᴇᴅ

𝕊𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤:

𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤:

ᴍɪꜱᴄᴇʟʟᴀɴᴇᴏᴜꜱ:

𝔸/ℕ: Hellooooooo and welcome to my new blog!!! This one will be dedicated to the lovely character of The Last Kingdom (mostly Sihtric bc duh). So, welcome and enjoy!!!