Title: Gentle Sins Rating: M Pairing: Ivarr the Boneless x fem!Reader Summary: As the daughter of Edmund of East Anglia, you never thought you'd fall into the political games the Ragnarssons play. But sometimes the threads of fate cannot be escaped. And sometimes even sins can be gentle and filled with sweet innocence. Or in which, Ivarr takes it upon himself to show you the pleasures of the flesh. request and plot bunny by @certifiedlittleshit, sorry for the two-year wait, haha.
...there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin...
EDMUND OF EAST Anglia lies without his head in the fens west of Exning, and the Great Heathen Army turn their bloodthirsty and silver-hungry gaze to Northwic. The armies of East Anglia have not returned. Instead, you face the Ragnarssons’ warband knocking at the city gates. But you remain steadfast and alone, praying before the altar of Christ in the church until the very end. When the walls are breached, the bishop urges you to seek better shelter, and it is only then you take to hiding behind a stack of crates in the apse—waiting for whatever may come.
The footsteps on the stone floors echo louder than any sermon in the great hall ever has as he walks down the nave. “I can smell you, Saxon.” The shadow grows closer, the footsteps louder. You peer through a crack and see the Northman closing in on where you hide and squeeze your eyes shut.
“Hej, sweetling,” he rasps, looking down at you, ashen brown hair covering half his face, but you can see his eyes are bright blue and burning with ruthlessness, lips kinked into a wicked smile. You move to dart past him, but he grips your arm tight, and before you can try to run again, his bloodied axe blade is at your throat—a burly tattooed arm curling around your shoulders to keep you in place. “Ivarr!” Ubba shouts; the look he gives his brother is one of harsh warning.
Ivarr the Boneless. Your eyes shine with recognition and fear, but his smile only widens. God save me. The eldest of the two Sons of Ragnar knows who you are by look alone. The fine raiments and the silver necklace bearing the seal of King Edmund tell him you are the daughter of a king—a princess—and mayhap the solution to a newly made dilemma. “Stay your axe.” Ivarr lowers the axe blade, then unfurls his arm from around your neck and pushes you toward his brother.
You clasp your hands in front of a cloth-of-gold belt and take a shaking breath as you notice the crown of East Anglia hanging from Ubba’s sash. “My father is dead then?” You know it to be so already, having seen his headless body in a dream three days hence.
Ubba nods and lays his great Dane axe on one of the church pews. “Good lady,” he says as gently as he can. “Will the people of East Anglia follow you?” He asks. By all rights, you should wear the crown, but the ways of England are not like those of his home.
His willingness to see you in power is a surprise. The priests have always told you the Northmen are twisted fiends, a scourge upon the Earth with nothing but lust for blood, flesh, and shining spoils. But as Ubba and his brother stand before you, you find they are just men, not the twisted demons in stories mothers tell the children to frighten them into behaving.
“I may be the daughter of a king, but I live among men,” you tell him, measuring your words carefully. You were never meant to rule. It was always your fate to one day be used as a bargaining chip and made a broodmare for another king or noble. “Every ealdorman and thegn would take precedence over me in succession.” That had always been the order of things. “The words of a woman are not easily followed here."
Perhaps they should be, though, Ubba Ragnarsson thinks. Regardless, someone so smooth-tongued and with so much sangfroid would undoubtedly be an invaluable asset in the weeks, months, and years to come. If nothing else, mayhap you could persuade the people of East Anglia to accept a puppet king and harmony between Saxons and Danes without more bloodshed. “Accompany us, good lady, and you will have safe quarters among our people,” he promises. “I give you my word no harm will befall you.” He looks at his brother as he says it. “It is your choice, though.”
You smile, fighting back laughter as you shake your head. Join us or perish was the ultimatum given to Osberht of Northumbria, the same given to your father and lesser lords before they marched to their death against the Northmen too. “You give me a choice even when it is clear there is none, Ubba Ragnarsson.” He and Ivarr exchange glances as though agreeing you are exactly what the Danes need to conquer England.
THE SUMMERWINE LOOSENS your tongue, and curiosity gets the better of you during the evening’s festivities—a celebration of a victory over Burgred of Mercia, one of many victories to come on this path to installing a puppet king. You can fault the Danes for their heathen ways and damn their souls to Hell, but you will not deny they throw a fine feast and have better musicians than many of the noble courts of England. Even the poems of their skalds strike you though many of the words are foreign.
Ivarr squints when you sit across from him at the table in the longhouse of Lichfield, unsure why it is you choose to come to pester him now. You’ve both taken a strange interest in one another since your initial meeting some weeks ago in Northwic. You follow the scar running the length of his face back onto his scalp—whispers tell you a Briton gifted him that gash. Whispers also speak of his epithet and what it means. Some say it is because of the way he fights, and others tell you Ivarr is not quite a whole man. “Why are you called Boneless?” You finally ask. “Can you not–” you make a gesture toward your lap so as not to have to describe something so perverse.
He snorts in response and takes a long drink from his cup of ale. If Ivarr ever comes across the bacraut who first claimed a broken cock is what people meant by Boneless, he’ll happily gut the bastard. “I can” —he leans forward and looks at you from under his brow with a twisted smile— “you might see for yourself one day.” It’s not a threat, more like an offer, but regardless, the color drains from your face, and you sit back, breath caught in your throat.
Ivarr’s laugh turns into a scoff as he rolls his eyes. “You Christians and your chastity.” Everything he’s unwillingly learned about Saxons and their God makes it seem like a monotonous way to go about life—no raiding, and when it came time for battle, there was never any joy to it, just pious men begging penance for every drop of blood spilled. Least of all, the prudish Christian women, weeping and screaming at even a glance their way from a Dane or Norse. Their all soft as winter wheat to a drengr like Ivarr the Boneless. “So fucking boring.”
You glimpse your reflection in the watery ale. “Danes do not wait for their marriage bed then?” Even after living amongst the Northmen, their ways are still just as strange to you as they had been when the monks and priests spoke of them after the first raids. There are times when you believe them to be not so different from your people, but then you are always reminded of their immorality.
He shrugs. “Not always.” A flush of heat rises to your cheeks at the thought, and you shift in your seat, struggling to keep Ivarr’s gaze. He enjoys seeing you squirm. “It is nothing to be ashamed of, sweetling.” Ivarr empties his cup, lips kinking into a smirk when he looks at you again—a lost little Saxon princess. “Little in life compares to the rush of battle,” he starts, “a cup of mead after victory, a heavy purse of silver” —his bright eyes flit across your face, and the curve of your neck and shoulders revealed by the crimson and gold dress— “a woman’s warmth.” You shiver under the heat of his stare, unable to muster a response, and Ivarr’s smile grows.
HE FINDS YOU during your morning prayers, still a devout woman despite the time you’ve spent in the Ragnarssons’ company. Ivarr strides forward, past the brute named Wilræd—the last remaining sworn sword from your father’s Kingsguard—standing vigilant at the dilapidated chapel’s entrance. Had it been anyone else, he might have stopped them from disturbing you, but Ivarr is the least of his worries. If the Boneless One meant to harm you, he would’ve already done so by now. “Look at you, sweetling,” Ivarr says, the rasp of sleep still fading from his voice. “Already on your knees for me.”
You shake your head and open one eye to look up at him. “Hush, Ivarr,” you chide, having grown accustomed to his japes and flirtations, but it still does not make him any less of a thorn in your side.
His breath is warm on the back of your neck when he cranes down. “Only if you can make me,” he goads, a whisper at the shell of your ear as he tugs on a lock of hair with a strange affection.
This time, you’ll take him up on the challenge. “Wilræd,” you call—just like a spoiled princess to summon her guard dog. “Please rid me of this nuisance.”
Ivarr laughs, the rose and lilac scent of your hair tickling his nose. The big man cracks his knuckles as he leaves his post, but then Ivarr the Boneless recalls his purpose for seeking you out. “Ubba wants you to come with us to speak to this Ceolwulf,” he says. A woman’s intuition and gentle touch may serve us well here in Mercia, his brother had told him.
Your dapple silver mare is already waiting next to Ubba and Ivarr’s horses when you exit the chapel. The two brothers turn when you call out to them, announcing your arrival and eagerness to depart to the forward camp. Wilræd links his fingers together, offering his hands as a step chair to help you up. “If I were that horse, I’d rather be mounted without a saddle,” Ivarr says under his breath, watching you settle into a comfortable riding position.
“Ivarr!” Ubba scolds, and Ivarr only shrugs as he goes to mount his own horse.
But you’ve overheard his offhand and ribald comment. “Alas” —you stroke a hand over the mare’s neck and mane, gaze flitting over to meet Ivarr’s with an almost teasing smile— “you do not have the temperament of a good mount, Ivarr.” His eyes narrow at the retort, but the corner of his lips kinks upward. Ubba laughs and clasps his brother by the shoulder as though realizing Ivarr may have finally met his match in the form of a gentle Saxon princess.
The forward camp is half a day’s ride from Repton, and there you meet thegn Ceolwulf, the future puppet king of Mercia. You linger within the large tent after the meeting is done and plans are laid. Defeating Leofric and his men will be vital in removing Burgred from power.
You lean over the war table, reaching to free Ivarr’s axe from where it is embedded in the map of England—his temper flared during the meeting, and when he left to scout the battlefield, he did not take the axe with him. Sighing, you move the pawns of Burgred’s men to where they will battle against the Ragnarssons and Mercian fyrd on the morrow.
He steps behind you, nigh pressing you onto the table. “Is that a dagger? Or are-” Cool iron kisses your throat. “A dagger,” Ivarr answers before you can finish, laughing as he holds the blade up for just a heartbeat longer before he takes it away, sheathing it and his axe back to his belt. You turn to face Ivarr, and he can smell the wine on your lips and see the glassy look in your eyes. He lifts his hand, the back of his fingers brushing over your cheek. “You’ve had too much drink, sweetling,” he tells you—something unfamiliar in his expression as he says it.
“Only because I cannot sleep on the eve of battle,” you confess. It makes little sense for you to be so distraught over what is to come—you are not the one wading into battle with the risk of not returning. But still, you worry about him. Ivarr steps back, then motions for you to follow him, and with your heart beating loud as any war drum, you do.
THE DAY IS hard fought and hard won and served as a reminder that even the fiercest and most seasoned warriors are not invulnerable. Ubba makes mention of his brother’s injuries—scratches, these Danes say, and it can mean only a scratch or something more akin to missing appendages. You do not know what sight awaits you when you enter Ivarr’s tent, curious to know how he fairs, but it is a relief to find he is not missing any arms, legs, or fingers by the looks of it. There’s only a slim cut across his ribs, still weeping blood at the deepest part.
He looks up at the sound of quiet footfalls, unsurprised to find it is you—it is always either his brother, you, or the future ætheling, Ceolbert. Of them, Ivarr the Boneless prefers it to be you. “Come closer,” he says, beckoning you farther into his tent. You step forward, gaze downcast, anything to keep your eyes from wandering across the planes of his burly chest and the thick muscle of his arms—lest you begin to sin in thought. “Bring me that rag.” He nods to the stained cloth half-hanging out of a water basin sitting on a low table. You dunk the piece of linen into the water, wring out the excess, then go to Ivarr, holding the rag out for him to take.
“You will not burst into flames from touching me, woman,” Ivarr admonishes, taking the damp rag, but then he grips your wrist before you can scamper away. He pulls you nigh until your fingertips brush over his collarbone and then the sparse smattering of chest hair and dark woad tattoos beneath. Ivarr’s hand falls back to his side, but you flatten your hand against his breast, thumb tracing the path of a curving scar of its own volition—the steady beat of his heart thumping under your palm.
“See?” You meet his gaze—clear, cold, and blue—but something else is shining through the madness and mirth. “Maidenhood left intact,” he muses, seeing how you still tremble despite time and despite what is now months of shared amorous quips and friendly conversations.
Relenting with a sigh, you take the rag from him and sit at his side, wiping away the blood—fresh and dried alike—and let your eyes flit across his tattoos, a tree, a horse, a raven, and dark runes for which you know not how to read. Up close like this, you can see the details in full. “What do they mean?” You ask, attempting to make it seem as though you are not ogling his half-clothed body.
Ivarr’s fingers curl around yours like a kindly shackle, and he moves your hand to rest over the tree with its nine curving branches and roots. “This is Yggdrasill,” he tells you, reverence in his rasping voice as he explains the great ash tree linking the Nine Realms. “Sleipnir.” The eight-legged horse Odin rides, and one of Loki’s, the trickster god’s, monstrous children.
You trace the outline of the blue-black bird. “And Muninn,” he says. “One of Odin’s ravens.” Ivarr brushes the stray hair out of your eyes and strokes your cheek with long, calloused fingers, and you sigh at his touch. His thumb traces over your lip before he moves in to kiss you, cradling your face in his hands. Instinct tells you to push him away—scold him for such an audacious action—but his lips are soft as they move against yours, and you lean into him, hand slipping up from his chest to the nape of his neck. He smiles into the kiss and draws you closer, and then the fires of damnation grip you. You push against him and scramble away—eyes wide and cheeks burning.
IN DAYS FOLLOWING, you do your best to avoid Ivarr—more out of your own shame than any animosity toward him. He is not beholden to the ways of your God nor the words of the Bible, and you cannot fault him for his actions. No, it’s your response that continues to trouble you—the realization you had not wanted to part from his kiss, had not wanted him to stop.
Rolling onto your side, you look out the narrow window in the tower wall—it’s an upgrade from sleeping on straw and rag-stuffed mattress made carelessly on the ground, but still, Repton lacks the warmth of East Anglia, of home. Your mind races, and you know it will be another sleepless night. Sighing, you sit up, then rise from bed, bare feet treading over the cool stone down to the empty courtyard below.
Ivarr the Boneless is sitting on an overturned crate, polishing the rust from his axe. The blade's edge gleams in the moonlight, and in the silver-grey reflection, he sees you approach. By the look of it, Ivarr has not been able to find rest either—he wears only his brown-black britches, his tunic and leathern armor carelessly forgotten in his tent. You go to him and sit quietly next to him, watching the clouds drift over a full moon.
“I will never understand you Christians,” he laments without preamble. He listened to one of your priests mumble and whimper nigh all day, begging the Christ God for victory in the coming battles instead of doing something to see it happen—like training or sharpening axes and swords, shoring up the parish’s defenses. And he still cannot understand why the Christ God demands men and women alike to refrain from sharing in the pleasures of the flesh. From what he’s heard, even married Saxon women have never been well and truly fucked. Ivarr looks up from his axe. “A woman like you not knowing the feel of a man?” He shakes his head, huffing. “That is the real sin.”
Your heart twists at his words, and the embers left smoldering in your belly from his lips and touch turn to flames. Maybe it’s the time you’ve spent among the Northmen, maybe it’s just him, or maybe it’s your own damn curiosity that makes you want, need, to know what it is like. “Show me.” It’s a shaky whisper, and you aren’t sure if you’ve said it aloud at first, but Ivarr’s brow furrows and his lips part in question. You swallow the growing lump in your throat, unwilling to back down. “Show me what it is like to be with a man, Ivarr.”
Ivarr rises, placing his axe aside, and circles you as a predator does its prey—waiting for the right moment to pounce or for you to realize what you’ve said and tuck tail. He reaches out, twisting a lock of hair around his finger, and smiles—a shining cage of teeth like a wolf’s snarl. “Do not ask for what you do not mean or want, sweetling,” he warns you, slipping around to your backside, lips close enough to your neck to sense your pulse quickening—close enough that you can feel the tickle of the patchy scruff on his chin and jaw.
“Show me,” you repeat, and this time you do not waiver as you turn your cheek to be able to look at him. Ivarr’s eyes are bright and burning, just like when you first met him, but now there is no fear, no bitter hatred.
His fingers trace twisted patterns along your sides, easing you into being touched and held like this until he moves to cup your breast in a rough hand. You can’t help how you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to kiss you, slipping his tongue into your mouth to muffle your sounds. You sigh into his kiss as he kneads at your chest, thumbs teasing over your nipples until they harden under your linen shift. You arch into his touch, backside pressing hard into his groin, and Ivarr groans. He’s waited for this moment—for you to come and willingly give yourself to him.
His free hand turns you around to press his lips against yours again. Had he not thought so highly of you, Ivarr would have no qualm defiling you here in the cool grass and dirt for any and all who pass by to witness. Instead, when he parts, he pulls you over his shoulder without warning and starts back to your tower—up the winding stairs and into your barren temporary chambers.
You loosen the tie at the neck of your shift and let the pale linen cascade like a soft waterfall down your body, settling into a pool of white around your ankles. Instinct and piety beckon you to cover yourself, but you refuse, and Ivarr reaches out, tracing a hand from your hip, up and over your ribs to finally cup your bare breast.
The low noise of approval he makes is somewhere between a hum and groan, and it fans the flames burning low in your belly. His fingertips ghost over you, leaving goosebumps all over your skin as he circles your nipple with a featherlight touch. You push your chest towards him slightly, and he takes it as an invitation for more, groping at you with both hands as he presses sharp kisses against your throat, letting his palms wander down to the curve of your waist and around to your buttocks. “Ivarr.” You drag your fingers through his ashen brown hair and earn a quiet noise of his own that makes your thighs clench together.
“Lay back,” Ivarr commands as he follows you onto the bed and cages you under his stronger, larger frame. He grabs your chin and traces his thumb over your bottom lip—you know he means for this moment to be the last opportunity to object. You press yourself up and kiss him, reticent but firm. Ivarr doesn’t let you pull away, only holding you tighter to deepen it until you must push on his chest for air. You let his tongue slip into your mouth the next time he leans down for you, and you earn a pleased low rumble when you run your fingers through his hair, nails lightly scraping along his scalp.
One hand stays at your chest as the other slowly works down your torso and coaxes your thighs apart. You can’t help but tense up when you feel his fingers ghost over you. But he does it again, and this time you’re rewarded with a stroke from the entrance of your cunt to your clit. You’re already slick and wanting for him, a mix of his lips and touch and the thoughts that kept you from finding sleep. It’s not long before a finger presses into you, working you slowly open. Your hips jerk softly along with his movements, and there’s unspoken interest in his gaze as he stares down at you. “Why does your God think this a sin, sweetling?” He coos, pressing a second finger into your cunt.
You cannot say why, but Ivarr's already learned to read your body like a battlefield—easy to tell exactly how to touch you to make you gasp and clench around his fingers, and he’s relentless in his efforts to see you come undone. His thumb rubs firmly against your clit, and you jolt. “Ivarr.” He moves slower, dragging over the sensitive spots he’s discovered inside you and leaving your nerves tingling with every touch. You’re too distracted to notice the weight of his hard cock pressed against your thigh as he watches you writhe and moan for him.
“Let it happen,” he rasps, slanting his fingers just right to stroke the perfect spot inside you, and it’s all it takes to push you over the edge. It makes him giddy to be the first to see you like this—the first to be able to take you, corrupt you in the eyes of the Christ God. Ivarr will make sure he ruins every other man for you.
He withdraws his hand from between your thighs, and you whimper at the sudden loss, but then Ivarr brings his fingers—shining with the slick of your arousal—up to his mouth and sucks them clean with a ragged groan, and all you can do is watch with heavy breaths. He’s certain he’s never tasted something so sweet and knows one day he’ll have to make a feast of your cunt, but not tonight. Tonight, you need his cock buried in your warmth, and he wants the same.
Ivarr rolls to the side and rises, cloth and leather shuffle as he unties his britches and shoves them down his legs. It’s hard to see in the dim light of the tower, but you can make out the outline of his hard, weeping cock straining against his belly. You reach for him, wishing to touch him as he’d done for you, but he pins your wrist to the bed before you can offer and shakes his head as he settles between your thighs again.
You shudder as he starts to move, sliding the length of his cock between the slick folds of your cunt. Watching the head of his cock rub over your clit with every rock of his hips is almost as good as feeling it. “Ivarr,” you whimper, impatient for more, and he will not keep you waiting. “Please.” His angle changes just slightly, and on the next pass, your breath stutters as his cockhead presses just barely inside you, barely splitting you open. You gawk with wide eyes and open mouth as he gradually sinks into you, stretching you more than his fingers had. It doesn’t take him long to sheathe himself fully and then pause.
Other noble ladies whispered how much it hurt when their husbands bedded them on their marriage night. But this does not hurt as they say it should—odd at first, for certain, but there is no pain, no blood. Your mind reels. How is it Ivarr the Boneless is gentler than a good Christian man? When your thighs clench encouragingly around his sides, he grins and cups your cheek with his hand, and you’d almost think it was innocent if his first thrust didn’t wrench a moan out of you that’s ragged and obscene.
“Fuck,” Ivarr hisses through clenched teeth as he works himself in and out of you slowly—you may very well ruin him, too, without even trying. All you know for certain is that Heaven isn’t close in a place like this—not with how you writhe and whimper with Ivarr’s cock buried deep inside you, his name a blasphemous and broken prayer on your kiss-swollen lips. He grabs your hip and angles you up just a bit so he can slide further inside you, and you cling onto his biceps, admiring the way they flex under your touch.
Hooking your legs around his waist, you roll into his thrusts, pulling him deeper. His ragged breaths and grunts mingle with your sighs of pleasure—panting scarcely keeping up with your racing heart. His kiss is rough and desperate—a wet and messy meeting of mouths as his rhythm loses its steadiness and any semblance of control as he seeks his end, rutting into you with reckless abandon. And then he moans your name—soft at first, but his mouth is at your ear, and you can hear it again and again, mingled with hushed curses.
It feels like he’s all you’ve ever wanted, and he’d have to be blind to miss the that you’d give him anything without hesitation—especially after letting him take such a precious and virtuous gift. He’s already had your heart for some time, and now your body, too. What do you have left to offer him? “Ivarr.” You sob his name into his neck, feeling the same tightness coil in your belly with every thrust each time his pelvis rubs against your tender clit. And one time, it is too much, and the rope tethering you breaks, setting you adrift in a rough sea of bliss.
Ivarr throws his head back, the tendons in his neck straining as his whole-body shudders with a primal grunt at how tight your cunt grips his cock, then warmth floods you. He lazily thrusts into you, thrice over, then stills, dropping back down to his forearms—sweaty chests pressed together as your breathing slows and heart calms.
You stare up at him, unsure what it is you want to do—pull him to rest wholly against you or kiss him again, but you do not act fast enough on either, and Ivarr rolls to the side—his softening cock slipping from your cunt with a wet squelch—and stares up at the ceiling, unsure what this new nagging feeling in his chest is, but whatever it is, is nigh unbearable. Wordlessly, Ivarr rises and collects his discarded britches before starting to the door. You sit up, a pelt of fur clutched to your chest, heart beating in your throat. “Ivarr.” His name is quiet, shaky whisper spoken with trembling lips—a desperate request for him to stay.
He grits his teeth together and curses himself and you but goes back anyway. He settles next to you on the bed and then, silently, lifts his arm, letting you pillow your head upon his breast. You can make out the runes on his sweat-slick abdomen in the faint moonlight, and absently, you trace over them—and the scars too.
One day you’ll ask how he got them all, and maybe one day, he'll tell you. But for now, he stills your wandering fingers and turns his head to press his scarred cheek into the crown of your head. “Go to sleep, woman,” he rasps, even though his fingertips busy themselves tracing over your spine—drawing runes at times, anything to distract him from the newfound weight on his warrior's heart.
Forgive me if I missed anyone; it's been a while since I wrote for Ivarr and even with my new Google Form, my taglist for him is still a little bit of a mess from searching through replies, tags, and previous stories. If you were missed, please fill out the Google Form linked below or mention it in the replies! [Ivarr taglist: @alexisp787 / @blackbutlerundertakerfan / @blacklungbaby / @boodaga / @certifiedlittleshit / @dynamite-with-a-lazerbeam / @elluvians / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @filthyivarrtrash / @fullmoonwolfer1 / @ghostieisalone / @hc-geralt-23 / @heathensith / @i-gotta-get-normaller / @jadynchronicle / @kat--00 / @kitkitvm / @ksziggy / @lizlovecraft / @levithestripper / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @poisonedsultana / @qhbr2013 / @queenyalo / @savagemickey03 / @solidsilver / @sonnefuchs / @southsideslutt ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Ivarr taglist, or any other character or fandom taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!
Bonus grumpy old man Ivarr:
