Hello! Soo...it was so long ago when you wrote some hottie Eivor🤭🤭🤭 May i ask for a lil fic where things get naesty?💙💙💙
here, a little snack.
m!Eivor x fem!Reader
HE TREMBLES —BREATHING uneven, shoulders shaking— lost in the warmth. It’s been weeks, no months, since Eivor was able to hold you against him like this. To feel. The seas were not merciful going to or departing Vinland. And on nights when the wind whipped and the waves threatened to drag the dragon-ship into the dark depths, it is only the thought of you which kept him sane in the storms. Eivor remembers everything.
The softness of your lips that first kiss and how they curled against his so delicately. The gentleness of your fingertips tracing along his scarred cheek, your gaze reluctant when you’d told him you loved him —fearful he might not say it back. But the joy which once ran scarce comes easier now.
Eivor doesn’t move, not yet, letting himself surrender to the loving heat of your gaze —the only sea in which he would happily drown. He settles on bent forearms on either side of your head, and dips down. With his kiss, you remember everything.
The security of his arms wrapped around you like irons. Warm gazes, tender chuckles. His fingers, rough from war, tracing your skin on early mornings, lips slow and searching as he decides to kiss you awake —the tickle of his beard scraping against your neck and jaw. All sensations you’ve gone months without, wondering should you ever be able to indulge in again. But the gods were kind, bringing your husband back on the evening tide.
His name leaves your lips in an exhaled whisper, yet in a breath that fills your lungs all the same. As if having him back felt like finally letting go of a breath you hadn’t even known you were holding.
Pulling him closer, a soft laugh elicits your mouth when Eivor sulks his nose into the crook of your neck, leaving soft, discreet wet kisses along the curve of your neck, breathing in your scent —primrose and mallow. Your hands wander, along his arms and back, tracing memorized lines of blue-black ink, threading through his golden hair, still tangled from the sea breeze. Trailing, trailing, trailing— he leaves pecks of affection on you too, some to your collarbone, some to your ear, some to your jaw, marking your skin his personal canvas. “Eivor,” you breathe, canting your hips up to remind him he remains buried deep in your heat.
He groans at your ear and begins to move. Thrusts deep and slow, yet quick all at once, and you find your eyes already stinging with a sheened wetness from the way he feels buried inside you. Eivor’s breathing intensifies, his lips finding yours. He needs your kiss, has gone too long without, and gladly swallows the little gasps and whimpers you make —savoring his hot skin pressed against yours. You feel everything. Each ridge and vein, the weight of his swollen cock striking the place which he knows unravels you.
Tension builds, bubbling in the lowest pits of your belly as you whimper for him, sighing softly through needy moans when he shifts, rising to his knees, the pads of his fingers digging into your hips. Eivor rasps atop you, groaning, moaning in pleasure as your cunt takes his cock deeper with each thrust. His cock twitches; his lips shape your name. He repeats your name again and again and again. You warm every inch of him, and the aches in his bones from endless days at sea thaw with relief with each movement. “Ek ann þér,” Eivor whispers in a shudder.
Controlled thrusts jolt into you as you move with him, his cock gliding effortlessly. You cradle his cheek, watching his jaw clench and sweat glistening on his brow. Movements become sloppy as you give him your all, feeling yourself crumble beneath him, shockwaves of pleasure building with the friction.
You moan his name softly, grasping his skin, feeling him trembling still, moaning each other’s names, and you twitch when Eivor softly allows a few wet, lapping kisses to your breasts. Waves of pleasure surge and he throbs inside, leaving you a whimpering mess. Despite how many times you’d had him, you’d never tire of the way Eivor makes you feel so good. So perfectly his —only his.
You clench around him as you tug him closer, unable to bear the distance, arms wrapping his neck with your foreheads now connecting. His breath is hot against your lips and his eyes drift shut in unison with yours. Behind closed eyes, all that triumphs is the feel of your bodies sinking into each other. He won’t last much longer; you can tell by his quick pants and jerky movements, but he’s never been one to leave you wanting.
A hand strays down your middle, across your stomach, and further still. The brush of his thumb against your clit makes you blossom for him. You moan loudly, coming undone, and Eivor finds himself not far behind before he too, unravels. Inside you, barely managing a coherent response when his entire body shivers and he stills deep, deep inside, cock twitching before thrusting thrice more, riding out both your highs. You beckon him to lie atop you, his golden head pillowed on your breasts as his breathing steadies, sighing when you kiss his hair and whisper a quiet, I love you, for him to relish. He stays sheathed inside your warmth, unwilling to part just yet.
With deliberate movement, Eivor shifts back, drawing your body with him as he lays down on the straw-and-feather-stuffed bed once again, pulling you down with him. In the softness of the moment, you find your arms connecting around his neck as you rest on his chest once again. Softly, his palms smooth over your bare back, your figure pressed to his as warm skin sticks together. A callous thumb strokes over the dip of your back, and you close your eyes, nestling further into him. It is good to have him back in your arms, where he belongs. And Eivor could not have wished for a sweeter homecoming.
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when Lemony Snicket wrote “I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you everyday” that hurt me
Full paragraph hurts even more.
“ (…) I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close… I will love you until your face is fogged by distant memory. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, I will love you if you don’t marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else and I will love you if you never marry at all, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all. That is how I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.”
“I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you as the starfish loves a coral reef and as kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fettuccine and as the horseradish loves the miyagi, and the pepperoni loves the pizza. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness of the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written.
I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp… I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have been broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled. I will love you until every fire is extinguished and rebuilt from the handsomest and most susceptible of woods. I will love you until the bird hates a nest and the worm hates an apple. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close… I will love you until your face is fogged by distant memory. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, I will love you if you don’t marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else–and i will love you if you never marry at all, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all. That is how I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.”
more Ragnar? please. i'll take even a sentence or two.
have some steamy Ragnar for a very early Valentine's Day, wifey. come and get him, @mrsragnarlodbrok. ♥
Ragnar x fem!Reader
TWO MEMBERS OF the vanguard open the doors to the mead hall when you approach. They both exchange wayward glances as you pass, letting the heavy wooden doors close. Ragnar sits at the far end of the Great Hall atop the raised dais on the carved throne of Kattegat. He’s slouched over to the side in the chair, uncomfortable, with his legs splayed out and hand running over his face —the burden of power. His eyes flit up as you enter, so blue and bright they seem to glow in the dim light of the burning sconces and braziers. But his pensive expression turns to a frown as you draw closer.
“What is so important that you interrupted my time with the children?” You ask, vexed. It is a warmer day than most and a good one for spearfishing and collecting shells for jewelry and decorations, even if your breath still clings to the air. Sparing a glance around the hall, you see no one, and nothing is occupying his time except for the thoughts he keeps locked away. “You could not come and find me yourself?” You cross your arms, stepping onto the dais. He doesn’t respond. “Ragnar.”
His attention turns to you, though the thoughts plaguing his mind have not fled entirely. “Come here, wife,” he says sweetly, beckoning you to him with only his gaze and voice. You step to the throne, resting a hand on his shoulder —hoping he will share the burdens he feels he must shoulder with you. “Sit.” You lift a brow, looking down at him. He rolls his head to the side with a sigh. “Please.”
You give in to his demand, perching on his lap, legs draped across one of the wooden arms. His arms go around your waist. “What is it, my love?” He does not offer an answer —you hadn’t expected him to, not really. You move, nigh falling from the precarious position, but he catches you, one hand curled around the bare skin of your calf, the other on your hip. Wordlessly, Ragnar’s hand strays from your calf to the flesh just above your knee.
His palm is hot, resting there, calloused thumb rubbing distracting circles. You know what he’s doing, could easily free yourself from his loose hold and leave him sitting on his throne, but the day began early, and this is a much-welcomed distraction. It was not often you were allotted hours in the day with Ragnar —not when there were children to keep and womanly duties to attend. Not when Ragnar had his own responsibilities as jarl to a quickly budding settlement.
He watches resignation pass over your expression, the corner of his lips twitching upward, another victory, however small it may be. Shifting, you balance yourself better on his lap, resting your head on his shoulder. “Do you still wish to return to your duties?” Ragnar asks, turning his head, nose brushing against yours as his hand straying higher. Sighing, you lift a hand to his cheek, fingers combing through his scraggily brown-blond beard. Ragnar plants a line of soft kisses from your earlobe down to your shoulder, smiling against your skin when your head lolls to the side —hand slipping to the back of his neck, beneath his warrior’s braid.
“Kiss me,” you command quietly. Ragnar needs no further encouragement. First, it is the tickle of his beard against your jaw, then the rough caress of his fingertips on your cheek before his lips barely brush over yours. He pulls back too quickly, leaving you to chase his kiss, and relents with a hushed groan from the back of this throat —parting both your lips slick folds. You open your mouth and legs for him to explore and claim, softly whimpering when he drags his thumb over your clit.
There’s almost a whispered protest on your lips about being so exposed here when two of his fingers sink knuckle deep into your cunt —anyone could barge in, and a part of you comes to realize you wouldn’t care if they did. Ragnar curls his fingers in your heat, feeling your muscles tense and flutter and his cock twitch —straining against the laces of his britches— a reminder of the distance between him and you of late.
The coil in your stomach tightens, and when you gasp aloud, he presses his mouth to yours, eagerly swallowing the noise as a man starved. He could take you to bed or behind the partition of the Great Hall and ravish you in full, skin-to-skin, but there’s too much to do this day and too little time. No, Ragnar will take you on the throne of Kattegat here and now —he is ruler after all.
Ragnar withdraws his fingers, along with a whine of protest from you, but he pushes at you gently to get up. He straightens in the chair, moving forward to the edge, feet planted firmly on the floor as he fumbles to unlace his breeches —freeing his hard cock. You need no further instruction, hitching your skirt up around your waist as you straddle him.
He’s so hard and warm beneath you, cock twitching —aching— all for you. His cheeks are flushed, fighting to maintain his composure. But you hold so much power over him, and now you are perched atop your throne. You reach down, shuffling your skirts out of the way, and take him in hand. Ragnar can’t stop his moan when he feels the softness of your grip wrap around his cock, beginning to stroke him. You watch his face — the way his jaw tightens and his brow furrows in concentration as he tries to think of anything but your soft hand and your weight on his hips.
Holding his cock, you slowly sink down. Ragnar groans, cursing below his breath. Your moan is buried into his hair as you roll your hips, kissing a path down to his forehead and nose. You refuse to move for several long seconds, instead, you let him rest inside you, warming his cock as you tighten your muscles, adjusting to his length and girth. You can hear Ragnar’s breaths picking up pace —impatient.
The first rock of your hips is tentative —testing your balance— the second sends you into a spiral of bliss. Ragnar’s hand caresses down your jaw until it falls at your throat, fingers splayed out in dominance there, a necklace made of bones and skin and him. A darkness consumes his eyes, pupils wide with a new sort of lust that wasn’t there before.
When you begin to move in earnest, his hands trail along your curves, squeezing tight on your thighs, fingertips pressing into flesh through the wool dress. Letting out a small whine, you lift your hips, hands seeking purchase on his broad and strong shoulders. Ragnar hisses when he feels your blunt nails dig into his skin through his tunic. Your pace is somehow both rushed and languid as you ride his cock —every press of your hips back to his triggering a jolt of pleasure.
His thrusts soon meet yours, hips rising from the throne. You squirm atop him, the head of his cock striking the place deep inside you with every movement. The coil in your stomach tightens again, and this time you will have your end —can feel it build inside you like a million sparks raising through your veins.
Moving to balance yourself, you slide your other hand between your bodies, but Ragnar tuts you, pushing aside your hand to replace it with his own. He rustles around, moving your skirts out of the way, and presses the rough pads of his fingertips against your clit in a way that tells you that’s my job. Only he will be the one able to make you come apart like this, the only one to see you so thoroughly ravished.
He rubs tight circles —the friction tears a long, drawn-out moan from your parted lips that you do your best to muffle against his neck. The falter of your pace sets you both out of rhythm, but it does not matter now. Not when your cunt clenches around his cock with each downward and upward thrust. Ragnar makes a noise, halfway between a grunt and moan. A good husband would see you to completion first, but the days apart —he cannot last.
Your name spills like a whisper over his lips, and you can’t help it —between the smooth grind of your hips and the little whimpers and groans betraying both your lips— you press your mouth to Ragnar’s, feel the warmth of his tongue against yours. He relinquishes beneath you, giving himself over wholly.
But his pace does not slow. Ragnar ruts up into you, fingers still rubbing at your clit until it's too much. The warmth of his release, the friction, the tightness in your gut. Your head lolls back, eyes closed and lips parted, and only when you are descending does he finally pull his hand from between your bodies, his arms wrapping around your back, keeping you pressed against his chest.
Ragnar hums his content, stroking your hand and down your back —drawing circles and runes through the fabric of your dress. He presses his cheek to the crown of your head. If the gods were less cruel, they would let him keep you like this. But each moment that passes means less time and more chance his children or brother could barge into the hall to find such a sight.
“You should prepare for the arrival of our first guests,” he says. You sit up, leaning back to look him in the eye, brows furrowed in confusion. “We are going to Paris,” he announces, the first you’ve heard of such plans. Every time the great city to the east had been mentioned by the monk, the thought of every traveling there remained wild fever dreams. But the glint in his eyes is filled with determination, and now you understood —at least in part— the burden he shouldered.
“You couldn’t’ve told me this when I woke?” You ask. He does a little half-shrug, head tilting to take in the sight of you, thoroughly disheveled and fucked. You rise on wobbly legs —groaning at the feel of Ragnar’s cock slipping from your warmth and his seed trickling down your thighs— righting your skirt and bodice. He sits back in the chair, stuffing his softening cock back into his pants, sloppily doing up the laces to make himself look decent. “Well,” you start, motioning for him to follow after you, “won’t you come help your wife?” A trice later, you hear Ragnar’s heavy footfalls behind you.
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It's nearly 4am and I'm listening to you play piano. I didn't know the first day we met that I'd close my eyes and hear your voice, so deep and smooth it vibrated to my heart, all these years later. I miss the long conversations we'd have, both lost twenty-somethings in New York City trying to navigate the world so (clearly?) mapped out by our parents and everyone's expectations. We lamented the pressures of understanding who we were, you sitting at your desk or on the bed, me hanging in the doorway still pretending I would leave at any moment to enter my room next door.
Even though we grew up oceans apart, we saw the world the same. You kept me sane under the weight of everything and I didn't realize how much I'd missed you until you were gone. I'm grateful for all of the circumstances that kept us from being passing strangers, that we were able to lay out our fears and hopes and have them land in the comfort of each other. Yours is a beautiful soul and I'm beyond grateful to have crossed paths.
I'm glad to see you're doing well. It looks like you got to keep the music and you'll be saving lives after all. I hope our paths cross again one day. Until then, I'll lay here and listen to you play piano.
Love,
Me
P.s. It's beautiful even though you never let me listen before. I knew it would be.
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