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A Kingly Duty

❛ request | obsessive/possessive dark!ivar finally making a move+ smut @vikingsbifrost, claiming a married woman as his for babies (cyq revamp) from anon, hvitserk saving reader from ivar + overthrowing him @lisinfleur

❛ pairing | king ivar/reader, hvitserk/reader

❛ word count | 3173

❛ genre | heavy angst, smut etc.

❛ summary | king ivar is only doing what his duties claim he should do. it’s unfortunate you don’t see it the same way.

❛ warnings | (1) noncon scene, breeding, wife stealing, black mail, forced marriage, violence, revenge(?), brothers feuding, dark!ivar, hate

❛ authors notes | there is a brief forced scene between ivar and the reader in here. @vikingsbifrost i am so sorry if this wasn’t what you wanted.

The thump of the trunk of a log thrashes the wooden door. His hand curled around the grip of an aged blade belonging once to his father then later to his snake eyed brother. As he jumped of the bed and hauled his pants up, he turned his eyes up to the shield above the bed. You shove yourself up in your bed, reaching for your thin night dress. Hurry! Hvitserk whispers out to you. A thump, thrash and a crack tears the door apart.

“Bring them out!”

“Let go! Hvitserk!”

A man needs a woman for breeding.

So then… he was only doing as mother told him to do. To make good on the warrior and breeder that mother told him he should be. This was all natural. The only unnatural part would be fighting it. He tugs the reins of his horse tight, slowing the rippling clacks of his hooves upon the icy ground just outside of the shared cabin.

“Ivar!”

Why did you not just take her?

He would mother, he would. He wasn’t weak-- not like Harald to let a woman make a fool out of him more than once. Twice. Three times. No, that wouldn’t be him. Your delicate feet slide upon clods of slippery ice gathered just outside of the home. Two of his soldiers steady you up from falling, steadying you with your feet dug in the dirty snow. You thrash between there hands tight on the middle of your elbow, yanking one way before another.

Hvitserk’s knees hit the ground, hitting hard clobs of ice before a great chariot. Not… anyone’s clobs of ice. Ivar balls up the reins in his hands, leaning over the breastplate that stabilized him to stare down upon brother, shivering in the cold.

“Ivar.” The stern voice quakes.

“Hello brother.” Ivat limps his way off of the chariot, a bruising grip on his crutch. Hvitserk’s body shudders from the cold kissing his cold frame.

“What are you doing?” His brother’s voice quakes from the cold. Ivar stands before him, his braces cold against the thick trousers he wore. Ivar stands in fully confidence of what he has done. More than that even, he has that wide unrepentant smile.

“You did not introduce me to your beautiful woman.” He points you out, shivering from the cold under your toes. Your nightdress does little to shield you from the cold and Ivar, noticing you in such chills, comes to your side. “What is your name?”

Despite the fact that you do not answer him, he carries on.

“It doesn’t matter. I know you, (Y/N). You must be cold.” Ivar says. The king relinquishes the furs on his shoulders, slipping them around yours. You flinch back away from him, tightening your shoulders as he covers you with his expensive furs.

“I’m fine, my king.” You shift your feet upon a clod of snow, toes pink with hot pain. Ivar hums, raising his thumb up to your cheek. The gentleness he contracts upon you is unsettling and so you tilt your face away from him.

“What are you getting at brother?” Hvitserk asks upon the snow. The men brandish their axes-- a hint that all was not as well as it seemed. Of course as a king there was something else that had to be bothering him to drag you both out of bed at such an unholy hour.

“I was only thinking.” Ivar curls his finger underneath your jaw, angling you back toward his face. His grip suddenly tightens. “I want her to be my new queen. Don’t you think she would look beautiful with a crown upon her head?”

“What?” You shrill out.

The shock of his statement anchors you in place even as Ivar’s thumb plips off of your full lower lip. Without another word, he jerks his head in the way of his chariot. Hvitserk leaps at the words, weighted down by the men that have their hold upon him.

“Hvitserk!”

“What? No!” Hvitserk’s voice suddenly raises, curling his back to shove himself up against the two men that hold him there. As he glances over his shoulder the realization that his baby brother is very much serious sets in. The words aren’t coming and neither are yours through the shock of the moment. “You don’t even know her!”

The words barely come out through the clanging of shields. Within their homes, grumbly men peer out the door to see what has happened. The king looks lazily to the men and then back down to his brother.

“Take him.” Ivar lazily hobbles toward his chariot just as the men tie your wrists to the cold thing.

“Don’t listen to him, (Y/N)!” Hvitserk shrills out, buckling when one of Ivar’s prized guards knee him in the stomach. You would flex your wrists against the thick rope, legs kicking at Ivar’s braces in frustration of being unable to run back to your man. Ivar steps back upon his chariot, abandoning his crutch while pulling the reins.

“Don’t fight me so much, hm?” Ivar looks over to you, rippling the horse might return to the Great Hall. You’ve been inside before— but never as someone important. Ivar gathers you up by the bundle of rope against your wrists. Your heels dig in with every subsequent step into the hall.

“Please Ivar don’t do this.”

He gives you nothing but his blind ear the whole way to his bed. At long last he shoves you down upon the plush furs he once shared with Freydis who was nowhere in sight. Only the crackle of a warm fire that chases away the tickle of pain you once felt. You fall upon your side cognizant of Ivar ripping apart your modest white underdress. The thin fabric tears under his warpick as if it were nothing. With your hands so bound, you can only look away.

“Don’t be modest, (Y/N).” Ivar glides his large palms over your sides, drifting across your hips to your well rounded breasts. “I’ve watched you. You’re not as innocent as you would let everyone to believe.”

“What?” You turn your face back up to him.

“You like it when Hvitserk uses his force.” Ivar loosens his braces, easing out of them while you lay upon the bed in the tatters of your dress. He pulls himself upon the bed, tugging at your ankle so that he might slither between your legs.

“That is different! He is my husband!”

“Did he ever propose to you?” Ivar cocks his flat eyebrow at you. Then of course there was silence. It wasn’t because… Hvitserk did not want to propose to you. You had never doubted that. Not even once. What you were absolutely sure of was the fact that your Hvitserk wanted to feel worthy of being your husband-- because he was a good man. Yet still the tears prick your eyes.

“You’re an asshole.” At your words, Ivar leans forward to cup your breast in his hand. He sweeps his thumb over your nipple, rolling his thumb upon it to harden up the little bud.

“You are the one who settled for less. Don’t tell me you hadn’t seen Freydis and I looking at you.”

“I would not settle being with two insane people!” You arch your back, shifting as if you could get away from him. It’s nothing but useless and yet Ivar gives you a look that could only mean nothing more but to eat shit. He slinks down to set soft kisses against your sternum, drifting over your belly to your lower stomach.

“Really? Well, then. I will reason with you, (Y/N).”

You’re listening-- looking upon the king with uncertainty. He rests a small kiss upon your pubic mound. Intimately careful where you full heartedly expected he would roll you over and take you as he would desire. He spreads apart your lips, examining his new tucked away little prize trim and neat.

“You will become my wife and you will like it. You will bear me a child and raise him in our ways.” Ivar glides his fingers over your inner labia, sweeping down to work his tongue over them in one smooth lick. Your fingers cringe and so you grind your nails into your palm. “Then in exchange I will send Hvitserk with our allies.”

Your eyes clench hard, buried with the thought of being filled with this man’s child. It had been more than once that Hvitserk told you that Ivar could not fill a woman with child. Yet Freydis had fallen with child. Ivar sweeps his tongue lower, poking against the entrance of your cunt, swirling about to begrudgingly make you lubricate. Then you make a fatal mistake.

“I’ll take your deal. But... I thought you could not fill a woman.” You say.

“Did he tell you that?” He abruptly snaps, thrusting you over onto your stomach. Ivar pounces upon you, wrenching a fistful of your hair back. You make a pitiful squeak underneath him, pulling your wrists at the tight binding around your wrists. “Did he?!”

The rumours of Freydis’s betrayal filled Kattegat. With that, word that Ivar could not properly fill a woman either. Maybe at one point that had been true and it causes Ivar’s lip to curl. He let his insecurities get the better of him. Your head strains back against him, knowing that it could very easily be the end of your sweet Hvitserk.

“Yes.” You whine just enough to pull Ivar’s interest back onto you. The head of his warm, throbbing cock nudges against your folds-- then with a hiss, he slams into your cunt.

“Do I feel like I can’t? Hm?” Gasping underneath him, you arch as if it could help you escape the dryness of your walls about him. The realization only seems to frustrate him forward, moving within your painfully dry walls.

“N-No, you can. You can!”

Small, mechanical huffs of frustration spills out of his lips. This wasn’t how he meant it to go-- you were meant to love him, adore him! You squeeze down upon his sloppy rhythm, hips weakly bucking against the curve of your round ass. With a deep thrust, Ivar seats himself within your cunt in his disbelief. It begins to become easier-- you lubricate.

“It doesn’t feel like you hate this as much as you say you do.” He leans in, whispering into your ear. The tight grip on your hair smoothes, petting your head much like a puppy or something of the like. He sets his forearm upon the bed, using but one hand to angle your face back towards him.

“Good. You’re taking me so well.” Ivar praises, the rage of his thrusts beginning to smooth over more evenly. He drags out to his tip and bucks forward with purpose and not just anger. Each thrust is swifter than the last.

“Do I feel good?” He asks. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on anything else but the Ragnarsson who takes you. “This was your fantasy to be bred full of child. It always has been, hasn’t it? It's always been mine.”

“Not with you.” You choke out. “With Hvitserk.”

The aggressive sweeps of his cock leave him knocking against your cervix. You’re squeamish to the deep, fulfilling thrusts that fill you chasing the tails of his purpose in taking you away from his brother.

“It was always mine since I saw you.” He says in a moment of weakness. Since he saw you? When was that-- when Aslaug was alive? It suddenly hits you; the discussion you once walked past at a party in the Great Hall.

Why do you not just take her, my son? A man does need a wife for breeding. Even better if you love her. She’ll understand in time.

They’ll hate me, Mother. She’ll hate me.

Your teeth grit together, grinding like rocks. He’s close. You feel him pin you down like a boulder to a mouse, hips bouncing against your own. His breath hitches, pounding pleasure coming over him so much that’s almost fearful of the feeling of vulnerability.

It comes over him, devouring him in pleasure-- Ivar makes a harsh, rippling growl as the splatters of his seed coat your walls. His cock sits deep against your cervix, sure to cum against it. He’s unprepared for the actual feeling; his broad shoulders push back to fill you like he always dreamed. Then softening inside of you, Ivar catches his breath upon you.

He slips away from you, loosening the bindings around your wrists. You wonder why he’s stopped. For most men, a few minutes would pass and they would be up yet again! Yet… Ivar thrusts the rope off the bed, drawing his knuckles over your arms. You look upon Ivar, narrowing your eyes.

“Tell me the truth. Why did you do this?”

Ivar looks to you when you speak, looking around this new place that you would call home. Not a small, meager cabin that you told Hvitserk you could be happy with but a whole Great Hall. An empty, loveless Great Hall. One day-- not so far away-- you would be asking why not. Why wouldn’t he take you to make this great, happy family.

“I fell in love.” He excuses. Was it love or lust? You weren’t sure either. One thing was for sure to you-- Ivar Ragnarsson was obsessed. He was obsessed with taking anything that Hvitserk had and destroying it! Men like him… they were all the same.

“I don’t believe you.” You say. “This is not love. You just want to make Hvitserk miserable.”

Maybe that was partially true. Ivar would pay any price to make his brothers pay for the pain, the humiliation and anguish they all imparted upon him.

“I’ve watched you a long time, my sweet. It was time.”

As you learn later, that conversation you walked in on? It was about you all along.

The chains around his wrists were starting to eat away at him. They were raw and achy, bones just as pained by the contortion of his hands high above his head and shackles binding his ankles down. It had easily been weeks of being imprisoned for something that he had nothing to do with. It must have been breakfast yet again, because the front door creaked open again. The familiar stomp of Ivar’s crutch fills the room.

“Good morning brother!” Ivar comes in, his hand warm on a bowl of porridge with his favourite-- chopped apples. Hvitserk looks tiredly to his brother, dirty hair matting to his head. Behind him, a thrall comes in with a basin of water.

“How exactly is it a good morning?” Hvitserk’s chapped and flaky lips part, scratchy is his voice. Ivar hands the thrall the porridge. She sits before him, cleaning his face so that he might eat. Food became more and more disinteresting. He can’t recount to Ivar or anyone else how many days have passed.

“It is a good morning because I come with great news.” Ivar says. “My wife and I have come to an agreement.”

Hvitserk flinches, begrudgingly taking in a spoon of the porridge. Fighting the thrall would only make more come to squeeze his cheeks and make him eat. Then they would muzzle him like a dog.

“My (Y/N).” He swallows the slop down.

“Yes, my (Y/N).” Ivar stands before him. “She is finally with child. It has been some months since you’ve last seen her, hasn’t it?”

With child. Hvitserk’s world shuts down, thoughts all running together under the weight of his statement. You were pregnant-- by his brother. You were married-- to his brother. You were his brother’s and yet, that was something he couldn’t accept. Hvitserk meets Ivar’s eyes with his own, wrinkling nose up tight. In siding along with Ivar, he knew full and well what that meant.

“You forced her.”

“Brother you are making this sound worse than it is.” Ivar twirls around the war pick in his fingers. “Like mother said, sometimes… you must take your woman. Now we are having a child together. Don’t be so cynical.”

Yes… sometimes, you must take your woman. Hvitserk lets the words fall deep in the front of his mind before he laughs, low.

“Now what are you going to do, hm, Ivar? Banish me? I am your brother.” Or rather, was. How could a man get over such humiliation? He was thrust out of his home into the snow in the dead of night, imprisoned in this place with only the crackle of a fire and a kind thrall to inform you of the changes in the Great Hall.

“Nonsense. You will go on a diplomatic mission to Olafur the Stout and convince him to keep our alliance.”

“Fine.” He’d kill him. He’d kill him he’d kill him he’d kill him.

“Can I… can I come in?” At the door, your weak voice. Ivar turns up his head towards the door, motioning you to come in. You were far along enough that your stomach gained curve underneath your dress.

“Come. Say goodbye to Hvitserk. He is leaving.” Ivar permits you to come in.

It had been seemingly long months since you had last seen Hvitserk. Months of nothing but relying on memories and thoughts. The spring was long without him to celebrate Freyja bringing in fields of popping flowers, fresh flowing honey and lovers kisses. Summer harvest without him wasn’t the same when no vendor was there to give him treats just to have a prince eating their merchandise. Now, in fall, it began to chill once again.

“Hvitserk, my sweet…”

You pick up the edge of your dress, sliding before him to kiss the top of his head. He was fed-- but his muscles… its obvious that he hasn’t moved in all those months that Ivar kept him prisoner. Your hands quake around his scruffy jaw, a small beard beginning to grow. The slave promised to keep him trim on your behalf-- knowing that was how he liked it.

“Are you hurt?” You ask, taking the basin of water to clean his hair with. The thrall would help you in washing it quickly as Ivar’s temper was waxing and waning with every intimate interaction between the two of you.

“Only my pride.” He answers. You join her in drying his hair and braiding it down to his mid back where it had grown just so long. Ivar begins to give you that look. The one where you were talking to someone too long and for their sake, it had better come to a swift end.

“I’m going to kill him.” He whispers against your lips when you lay one smooth kiss to his lips. He tastes salty-- and dry. Barely reminiscent of the porridge and apples that he was eating just seconds before. You part your lips from his when Ivar clicks his tongue at you.

“(Y/N).” Ivar hisses, causing you to look up. “Come.”

“Goodbye, Hvitserk. Goodbye.”

He promised himself that your goodbyes wouldn’t be for long. He would be back.

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