We don't even know

You didn’t see a problem with having fun and have a dance with your brother in law, however your husband clearly thought differently, his blunt nails digging into the wooden arms of his throne, it wasn’t until he banged his crutches down loud enough to catch the attention from everyone in the room - without saying a word he walked out.

That was your queue to follow.

Bidding goodbye to Hvitserk and thanking him for a wonderful night, you made your way towards your shared chambers, twisting the lace of your dress nervously as you pushed the door open. “Husband.”

“Husband? I’m surprised you remembered.” He muttered as he unlanced his braces. “You were all over him tonight.”

“I-I was-”

“All over him! My brother.”

Flinching at his tone, you lowered her head. “It was a dance, nothing more. I promise.”

“He was all over you.”

“It was a dance Ivar I swear.” Carefully shuffling closer to him, to nervous of his reaction, when he didn’t react to your action you knelt down in front of him. “I was just having fun, I’m sorry.”

Raising his hand, he smoothed your hair out of your face - loving the way the soft strands felt against his rough fingers. “He wants to fuck you.”

“Don’t be silly.” The glare he gave you took the smile straight off of your lips. “I do not want him, I swear.”

“You are mine.”

“Yours, and yours only.” It was true, you didn’t want any other man, it was always Ivar from the moment you saw him one day in the market. He was sat on the steps leading up to the Great Hall, a scowl on his face as he watched people walk around, standing by your fathers stall as he spoke to a customer you couldn’t take your eyes off of the man. From that day on, you kept a look out for him, when you saw him crawling around you didn’t even find it weird or funny - not like your father. It took you nearly three months to gather the courage to speak to him, finding him sat on the beach on his own, you were a stuttering mess - only getting worse when he told you he was one of the princes of Kattegat, but from there a friendship was formed between the two of you. He told you several months later that when he became king he wanted you by his side as his wife and queen, at first you thought he was joking but his face said otherwise. When the brothers and the Great Heathen Army went to England to avenge king Ragnar’s death, Ivar made sure he took you with him, against the wishes from his brothers, whilst over there you two got married and from that moment he called you queen. “I love you and only you, Ivar.”

His only reaction was to pout. The ruthless, fearless Ivar the Boneless sat there on the bed he shared with his wife pouting. “You could if you want.”

“Could what, my love?”

“Have him, or-or anyone.” He whispered, twisting your wedding ring around. “It can not be easy with being married to a cripple.”

“I do not wish, want or need anyone else Ivar. I am happy, I am loved- you do love me d-”

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence! You know I love you.”

“And you know I love you.” Turning you hand around, linking your fingers with his. “Please never ever doubt me.”

“I didn’t like the way he was holding you.”

“We were just dancing Ivar.”

“Still don’t like it.” He huffed. “Only I get to touch you.”

“Yes, only you get to touch me.” Lifting up and walking over to the vanity you removed the heavy crown that was given to you by Ivar, you began to attempt to undo your dress.

“Want a hand, my love?”

“Please.”

“Come here then my beautiful queen.” Standing between his legs, your skin began to tingle as he fingers danced along your bare skin. Turning around as the dress pooled around your ankles, his hands went straight to your naked waist. “I love you.”

“And I love you.” Climbing into bed after helping Ivar undress, he instantly pulled you closer to him and wrapped his arms around you. “Ivar?”

“Yes, my love?”

“I like it when your jealous.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “I’m never jealous.”

“No, of course not.” Giggling at the memories of all the times Ivar threatened and even killed men who looked at you longer than he deemed necessary, doing it all out of jealousy. “The great Ivar the boneless doesn’t get jealous.”

Rolling his eyes once again with a soft smile tugging at his lips as your giggles filled the room. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

You were alone in your chamber, the low fire casting golden shadows on the walls, lost in your thoughts, when the sound of the door creaking open made you turn.

And there he was.

Ivar.

For a moment, you simply stared—your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t even known he’d returned from his raid, but now, standing there in the doorway, wind-tousled and grinning mischievously, he looked like everything you’d been missing.

A cry of joy escaped your lips as you turned and rushed toward him, arms flinging around his shoulders.

“My love…” he murmured against your hair, breath warm at your temple. His crutch wobbled as your sudden embrace nearly knocked him off balance.

“Careful, love,” he chuckled, catching himself with a grunt, but his arm circled your waist anyway, dragging you close. He had missed this. Your body—your scent.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered against the side of his neck, your fingers grasping in the leather of his tunic, unwilling to let go.

His chest rumbled with a soft laugh. “Have you, now?” he said, tilting his head just slightly so his lips brushed your cheek.

You leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes narrowed as you playfully nudged his shoulder. “Don’t get smug. It was peaceful without your loud mouth for a while.”

He gave you a mock wounded look. “And here I come bearing gifts, expecting a warm welcome—and this is how I’m treated?”

Your eyes widened, curiosity immediately betraying you. “Gifts?”

He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “But now I’m thinking I should give them to someone who actually likes me.”

You gasped, feigning offense. “I love you, you brute. That should be enough.”

“It’s not,” he said, lips twitching with amusement. “I require groveling. And maybe a kiss.”

“Just one?” you teased, rising onto your toes, lips already brushing his.

“Well,” he murmured, voice low, “we’ll start with one.”

“Shut up and come here.” You teased rolling your eyes before kissing him softly.

Ivar made his way to the edge of the bed, easing down with a soft grunt, his crutch resting between his legs as he leaned back on his palms, eyes never leaving you.

“You're staring,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you turned toward him.

“Can you blame me?” he drawled, smirking. “I go away for weeks, and somehow you manage to look even more beautiful. Is this witchcraft?”

Before you could answer, a soft knock came at the door, and a young skald slipped inside, arms full. Then another followed. And another. They carried bundles of fabric, silk, leather, furs—an explosion of color and texture.

Your jaw dropped as they kept piling everything onto a nearby chest and the foot of the bed. When the last skald bowed awkwardly and left, closing the door behind him, you turned slowly, blinking at the sheer amount of it all.

“Ivar…” you said, almost breathless. “What is this?”

He shrugged with mock innocence. “Spoils of war. A few markets. Some terrified merchants.”

“There must be atleast twenty dresses here!” you exclaimed, lifting one deep green velvet gown, the embroidery catching the firelight.

He leaned forward slightly, a hungry glint in his eye. “I thought you could try them on for me. All of them.”

You gave him a look. “All of them? You expect me to be your personal dress doll?”

“I expect you to look stunning in every single one,” he said, voice low and teasing. “And I expect to sit right here and enjoy the view, my pretty doll.”

“You are ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head as you picked up a blood-red dress and held it against yourself. “You want me to play dress-up while you just sit there like a king?”

“I am a king,” he said smugly, leaning back again. “And my queen deserves to be spoiled. Now, go on. That red one is calling your name.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but your smile gave you away. “You just want me to undress twenty times in front of you.”

He gave you a slow grin, eyes darkening. “That too.”

You laughed, tossing the red dress at his face. “Turn around. I need to undress.”

“No, I want to watch,” he said through the fabric, not even moving.

“You're impossible.”

“I missed you.”

And there it was again—soft and real beneath the mischief. Your heart squeezed as you met his eyes. Then, with a wink, you grabbed the nearest gown.

“Well then, my king… enjoy the show.”

You turned your back to him, your fingers toying with the ties at the front of your dress.

Ivar fell utterly silent behind you.

Slowly, purposefully, you slipped the straps from your shoulders, letting the fabric slither down your body like water. It pooled at your feet, and you stepped out of it gracefully, standing in nothing but in nudeness—your hands crossing over your chest, coyly covering yourself.

You didn’t have to see him to know he was watching.

The crackle of the fire filled the silence between you, but it didn’t last long.

“By the gods,” Ivar whispered, his voice low and reverent, laced with hunger, “Freya herself would’ve wept if she saw you like this.”

You turned your head slightly over your shoulder, catching his gaze. His eyes were dark, devouring every inch of you.

“You’ve missed this?” you asked softly, teasing.

“I’ve missed the curve of your back, the slope of your hips, the way the light wraps around your skin like it’s worshiping you,” he murmured. “I have faced storms and blood and fire, but nothing—nothing—made me ache the way being away from you did.”

You felt your heart flutter at his words, even as your lips curved playfully. “You’re getting poetic, my love.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his crutch, looking at you like a man starved. “Poets are fools. I am simply a man with eyes. And a wife who tortures me with that slow, wicked way she undresses.”

You laughed, finally turning to face him—still shielding your chest with your arms. “So what now, my king? You just watch while I model for you like some Viking nobleman’s pet?”

“Oh, no,” he smirked, eyes raking down your figure. “You’re no pet. You’re a goddess. And I plan to worship you—one dress at a time.”

You rolled your eyes fondly as Ivar held up another dress, this one a deep blue with silver thread glinting along the hem. He looked ridiculously proud of himself.

“I swear, you raided half the known world for fabric,” you muttered, tossing aside a fur-lined cloak to dig through the growing pile.

He didn’t deny it.

“There’s one more,” he said suddenly, voice shifting—deeper, rougher. “A special one.”

You paused, glancing over your shoulder. “Special how?”

He didn’t answer—just leaned back, arms crossed, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face.

Curious, you turned back to the chest and dug further beneath the silk, the fine linens, the brocade. Your hand brushed something different—lighter, smoother. You pulled it out slowly, and your brows lifted.

It shimmered in the firelight. The fabric was unlike the others—thin and sheer, a woven gauze of fine-spun flax, likely beaten and softened until it flowed like mist. It wasn’t dyed, but it caught the light with a ghostly glow, like moonlight trapped in cloth. It must’ve come from far in the East, perhaps from some Frankish trader—or stolen from the chest of a nobleman’s bride.

You held it up, and the light bled right through it.

“Ivar,” you breathed, glancing back at him.

His gaze was already on you, dark and burning. “That one,” he said softly, “is not for feasts. Not for festivals. Not for courts or halls.”

You swallowed, heart thudding.

“That one is only for me,” he continued, his voice rough like gravel and smoke. “To be worn in this room. In this firelight. When the gods are asleep and it’s only you and I.”

Your fingers tightened around the delicate cloth. “It’s barely even a dress.”

“It’s enough,” he said, his eyes trailing down your still-bare form. “Enough to drive me mad.”

You looked at it again, then met his eyes, challenging. “And what do I get, if I wear it for you?”

He leaned forward, that half-smile curling his lips—the kind he only wore when he was plotting something. “The devotion of a god. And the ruin of a man.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Poets are fools, you said.”

“And I am the greatest fool of them all,” he replied, voice soft now. “For you.”

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You made your way down to the lake, just as you always had—when the sky burned with the last light of the day and when you knew no one else would be there. The water was yours at this hour, a quiet place to think, to escape.

You glanced around, cautious as ever, before pulling the linen dress over your shoulders and letting it slip to your ankles. The cool evening air kissed your skin, and for a brief moment, you hesitated before stepping forward. Your toe dipped into the water first, adjusting to the temperature, before you sank in completely, letting it envelop you.

But you weren’t alone.

The sons of Ragnar had been watching. They always did.

Perched on the hillside, hidden by the trees, they waited—just as they had many times before. They heard you sing—beautifully.

Ubbe exhaled a slow, appreciative breath. "What a body… like a goddess." His voice was hushed, reverent, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the illusion of you before them. Your skin glistening under the the faint sun.

Hvitserk grinned, eyes hungry. "I want to have her."

Laughter followed.

"Only in your dreams," Sigurd mocked, smirking. "She will be mine."

But Ivar—he said nothing. He only watched.

His brothers words faded into meaningless noise as his blue eyes traced the way your skin glowed under the dying sunlight, the way water clung to your curves, how your hair slicked against your shoulders. He had heard men in Kattegat whisper about you, speak your name with longing. Even Jarls had asked for your hand, and yet, you had refused them all.

Why?

Ivar clenched his jaw, lost in the thought of you. Of your hands. Of how they might feel on him. He didn’t just want you. He wanted to own you, to make you his, to be the only man you ever looked at.

The crude voices of his brothers pulled him from his thoughts.

"She needs a real man," Hvitserk chuckled, nudging Ivar with his elbow. "Not some cripple who crawls around like a baby."

Ubbe smirked. "You think you have a chance, little brother?"

"Pathetic," Sigurd agreed. "You wouldn’t even know what to do with all that body of a woman."

Laughter erupted again.

Ivar’s jaw tensed, his grip on the dirt beneath him tightening. Then, without warning, he lunged.

"I’m going to kill you." His voice was a growl, low and full of fury.

The hilltop became chaos. He and Sigurd tumbled downward, fists and nails clawing at each other, their bodies rolling violently down the slope. When they finally hit the foot of the lake, you gasped.

"Guys—?"

Neither of them heard you.

Blood smeared across Ivar’s face, his breathing trembling as he shoved Sigurd back. But Sigurd had landed the worst blows, his lip curling in triumph.

Then he saw you.

Still half-submerged in the water, your arms wrapped around yourself, eyes wide in shock.

Sigurd stiffened. His smug expression faltered.

And without a word—he turned and ran.

Ivar remained where he was, panting, his chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic breaths. Blood trickled from his brow, mixing with the dirt on his skin. His hands trembled, though with pain or rage, you weren’t sure.

"Shit..." he muttered, dragging a hand across his face.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You waded toward the shore, fingers wringing water from your hair before reaching for your dress. As you pulled the linen over your shoulders, you finally looked at him—really looked at him.

Ivar’s blue eyes burned as they met yours.

And for the first time, you wondered if he had been watching you all along.

His hands, still clenched into fists, trembled slightly as he wiped at the blood on his brow. But it was no use. The wound on his forehead was still fresh, and the crimson streaked down the side of his face, mixing with dirt.

You hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer.

"You’re bleeding." Your voice was softer now.

Ivar scoffed, looking away. "I know."

He didn’t move as you knelt beside him, the damp earth cool beneath your bare knees. His exhale faltered when you reached out, tearing a strip from the hem of your dress. The sound of fabric ripping made him glance at you, eyes narrowing in confusion.

"What are you—"

"Hold still."

You dipped the cloth in the lake, wringing it out before bringing it to his face.

At first, he flinched, his entire body tensing as if expecting a blow rather than kindness. His lips pressed together, and for the first time since you'd known of him, he looked uncertain.

You had seen Ivar be ruthless, cruel even. You had heard the things people whispered about him—the monster, the cripple, the son of Ragnar with no legs but the sharpest mind, the coldest heart. But now, with the way his breath stilled as you wiped the blood from his brow, he looked...different.

Almost vulnerable.

"You shouldn’t let them get to you," you murmured, carefully dabbing at the cut. "Sigurd only taunts you because he knows it gets under your skin."

Ivar let out a small, breathy laugh. "And you think I should just let him?"

"I think you should make him eat his words when it matters, not when he’s goading you like a child."

Ivar swallowed, he stole a glance from your lips to your eyes.

You were close. Closer than anyone ever got to him. He could smell the lake on your skin, the faint trace of something floral that lingered in your hair. His brothers had laughed at the thought of him ever touching a woman like you, but here you were, your fingers pressing so gently against his temple, your expression filled with something he didn’t quite understand.

Care.

His head dipped as he tried to say something—anything—but the words got stuck. His usual sharp tongue failed him.

"There," you said, finally pulling back, eyeing your work. The bleeding had stopped.

Ivar exhaled through his nose, his hands flexing at his sides as if resisting the urge to grab onto something. Maybe onto you.

"You should get back," he huffed, his voice quieter now. "Before someone sees you with me."

You tilted your head. "And why would that be a bad thing?"

He swallowed again, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he looked down, suddenly focused on the dirt beneath his fingers.

Ivar, the man who could spit venom at anyone who dared cross him, looked almost bashful.

And something about that made you smile.

And worse, you were still there.

You should have left by now, should have gathered your things and disappeared back into the village, but instead, you lingered. Watching him.

"You always watched me, hm?" you asked suddenly, mustering his face. A hint of laughter colored your tone.

Ivar stiffened. His fingers curled into the dirt.

"What?"

"You and your brothers." You smirked, shifting your weight as you sat back next to him. "You think I didn't notice? You think I don’t know when I’m being watched?"

He forced down a lump in his throat. He should have denied it, should have laughed it off, should have said something cruel to push you away like he always did with others. But he couldn't.

Because you were right.

"I..." he started, but the words broke off, sticking to his tongue like honey. His teeth locked in shame, looking away, humiliated by the warmth creeping up his neck.

"I wonder," you mused, drawing a slow circle in the dirt beside you, your voice teasing, "what does Ivar the Boneless think about when he watches?"

His head snapped toward you, eyes widening.

"What?"

"You heard me." Your lips curved into something wicked, and then, with intent, your fingers found the front tie of your dress, idly toying with it. "You’ve seen me like this, haven’t you? Every evening. Floating in the water. Undressing."

The knot at your chest was loose from earlier, and with the way your fingers played with it now, it threatened to come undone entirely.

Ivar’s throat went dry. His hands stirred with impatience, as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

"Stop," he rasped out, voice hoarse.

"Stop what?" You leaned in—your voice a secretive whisper. "Making you think about all the things you’ve imagined?"

He wanted to tell you to stop, to tell you that you were being cruel—but he couldn’t. Because he had imagined. More than once. More than he would ever admit.

"You think I don't know what goes through a man's mind when he watches a woman like that?" you murmured, still toying with the tie, still watching him unravel.

His nostrils flared.

"I have never—"

"Never?" You lifted a brow, unconvinced.

"You think I am like them?" he voiced out. "That I sit there and talk about you like they do? Like you are nothing more than something to be taken?"

The intensity in his voice startled you.

"I would never." He whispered, like he couldn't bear the thought of hurting you. "You are not like other women. You are…more."

Something shifted in the air between you.

He was looking at you like you were something untouchable, something he had wanted for so long but had never dared to reach for.

"You are beautiful." The words left his lips so quietly, as if he wasn’t sure he should say them out loud. "Too beautiful."

Your breath caught.

"I have always wanted you to be mine," he admitted, almost in defeat. "Even when I knew I could never have you."

His voice was raw, the usual confidence stripped away.

"But you refuse everyone. Even the strongest men in Kattegat. I know you are not easily won."

Your chest rose and fell, a strange heat curling in your stomach at his confession.

"And yet…" you tilted your head, "you still wanted me?"

Ivar let out a reluctant breath. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but didn't dare.

"I still do."

You moved—shifted closer, swinging one leg over his lap until you were straddling him. He inhales sharply, his hands gripping the grass at his sides as if it was the only thing grounding him.

"W-What are you doing?" He stammered, his voice unsure.

You smiled, amused by the rare glimpse of hesitation in him. "What does it look like?"

Your fingers found the front tie of your dress again, but this time, you weren’t playing. You tugged at it, undoing the knot until the fabric loosened. It slipped over your shoulders, baring soft breasts beneath.

Ivar clenched his teeth, his eyes darting anywhere but at you—at the trees, at the ground, at the blood still drying on his fingers.

You laughed, a soft, sweet sound that made his stomach tighten.

"Don’t be afraid, Ivar." Your voice was gentle, teasing, but there was something else in it, something that told him you weren’t mocking him.

He swallowed hard. "I’m not afraid."

"Then look at me."

He hesitated, but when you placed your hands on his, guiding them to your breasts, letting him knead them, his breath left him in a sudden exhale.

His eyes were piercing—wide and almost disbelieving—in awe.

"Is this what you imagined, hm?" You murmured. "While you touched yourself?"

His entire body went rigid beneath you. A deep, vibrating breath left his lips, and his hands almost jerked away, but you held them there, pressing them firmer against you, as you bit your lower lip.

His face burned. His grip was anxious, timid, as if afraid he’d do something wrong.

"I…" He swallowed again, looking utterly spoiled by the weight of your words. His lips opened, but no response came.

You smirked.

"Don't be ashamed, Ivar." You whispered, leaning in so your breath ghosted over his ear. "You don't have to lie to me."

It was intoxicating.

"Hm," you murmured, letting your fingers ghost down his arms before settling on his wrists. "Have you ever done this before?"

His hands jittery against you.

You saw the way his throat tightened, the flicker of something raw and vulnerable in his expression. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

"No," he admitted, almost a whisper.

Your smile was soft, teasing, but not cruel.

"I thought so."

His brows twitched together, as if he wanted to argue, but before he could, you took his hands and placed them on your waist, guiding his fingers to settle against the curve of your body. His grip was stiff at first, uncertain, but you gave him time.

You cupped his face. His skin was warm beneath your touch, a contrast to the cool evening air.

"Relax." You smiled at him warmly. "It's okay..."

You leaned in, closing the space between you, and then—tenderly—your lips met his.

The moment your mouths touched, he made a noise.

"Hmh."

It was almost startled, awkward, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. His lips were tense beneath yours at first, unsure, like he was trying to figure out how to move, how to breathe.

You pulled away just enough to look at him, your breath ghosting over his lips. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed.

"I-I want...to taste you."

His gaze flickered down, and you could see the way his throat bobbed again, the way his lips parted slightly as if the thought alone was overwhelming.

You nodded—smiling.

But he wanted it.

Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forward. His lips brushed over the curve of your breasts, a whisper of a touch. Then, gaining a bit more confidence, he kissed again, firmer this time, his calloused hands kneading your delicate flesh.

You hummed in approval, threading your fingers through his hair, encouraging him.

His tongue flicked out, hesitantly circling the hardened peak. When you sighed at the feeling, he grew bolder, wrapping his lips around it fully, sucking softly.

"Ivar," you moaned—full of lust.

Ivar exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping you tighter. His tongue worked over your nipple, flicking and teasing before he bit down—harder than expected.

You gasped, and he immediately pulled back, looking up at you in a panic, his lips slightly swollen.

"Did I—?"

"No," you reassured him with a smirk. "I like it."

Your fingers trailed down his arm carefully before finding his other hand. His grip was still hesitant, still unsure of what to do, of how far he could go. You took it gently, guiding it up, pressing his palm against your throat.

He froze.

His blue eyes flew up to yours, searching, his breath uneven. His fingers trembled against your skin, but he didn’t tighten them—he just held you there, as if he wasn’t sure he should.

"You want me to choke you?" His voice was quiet, volatile.

You nodded, your pulse fluttering beneath his hand. "Yes."

His brows furrowed slightly. He swallowed—tongue darting out to wet his plump lips.

"You’re sure?" His voice was softer this time, almost boyish in the way he asked, like he needed your permission to do this.

You pressed his hand a little firmer against your throat. "I’m sure."

Carefully, he applied the slightest bit of pressure.

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, savoring the feeling, and when you opened them again, he was staring at you. Watching every reaction.

"Like that?" he murmured.

"More."

He swallowed again, his fingers tightening just a little more. But the way your lips parted, the way your body reacted beneath his hands—it made something glint in his expression.

He was still hesitant—uncertain, but when he squeezed just a little harder and heard the way your breath tore—

"Ivar…"

His name, falling from your lips in that soundless moan, sent a jolt through his body. His grip on your throat tightened instinctively before loosening again, as if he was afraid he’d go too far.

"Fuck," he whispered, almost to himself. His free hand playing with your breasts—kissing them.

"You look so beautiful with my hand wrapped around your throat," he whispered, his voice raw, needy. "Like you were made for me."

You whimpered as his grip tightened again, just for a second, your thighs squeezing around his lap in response.

"You like that, don’t you?" His voice was jagged, like he was almost surprised. He let out a small laugh, but it was desperate, crushed.

"You like it when I squeeze your pretty throat while you moan for me?" He teased.

You nodded, gasping when he pulled you closer, pressing you flush against his chest. His lips were right by your ear now.

"Tell me you wanted me, just as much as I wanted you." He growled low.

"I needed you so much, Ivar." You obeyed, moaning breathlessly, as he moaned in response.

"Gods, I want to ruin you," he rasped, his voice shaking with need.

You pulled back slightly, suppressing a smile. "Ruin me, Ivar."

He looked wrecked. Flustered, desperate, like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

You kissed him again, slower this time, coaxing him into it. His fingers dug into your waist as if anchoring himself. He tried to mimic the way your lips moved against his.

You felt it—the way his body strained beneath you, the way his breath stuttered when your hips circled just slightly against his heat. Even through the layers of fabric between you, you could feel him hardening, his arousal pressing against you as if betraying everything he was too shy to say aloud.

"You like that?" You teased, rocking against him slowly.

"You have no idea..." Ivar let out a choked noise.

"So excited, hm?" You taunted, your lips brushing against his ear as your fingers trailed down his chest, tracing the ridges of muscle beneath his tunic.

He swallowed hard.

"Wait—" His voice was hoarse, but he didn’t push you away.

Your fingers reached the front tie of his pants, playing with the knot, tugging at it just slightly, just enough for him to feel the shift.

Ivar let out a shaky exhale, his head tilting back just a fraction, his lips parting—but he was rigid, every muscle in his body coiled like a bowstring about to snap.

"You don’t have to—" He hesitated, hands flexing against your waist. His voice was quieter now, more vulnerable. "I don’t... I don’t know what to do."

You smiled, leaning in to press your lips against his jaw, just beneath his ear.

"You don’t have to do anything."

You felt it—the hesitation, the fear beneath the arousal, the unspoken terror that this was all some cruel joke, that at any moment you might laugh at him, just like his brothers did.

"I'm afraid you will laugh at me."

But you didn’t.

Instead, you kissed him.

Slow, deep, your lips moving against his with purpose, swallowing every unsteady breath, every noise he tried to bite back. Your hand pressed against him more firmly, your palm teasing along the outline of him, feeling how hard he was, how much he wanted this—wanted you.

"I would never laugh at you, Ivar," you purred against his lips, as you traced the outline of his hard length with your fingertips.

He shuddered.

And then—finally—he let you. Your eyes never left his.

You tugged the knot loose, feeling how his stomach tensed beneath your fingers. He looked down—panting.

His whole body was stiff, every muscle locked as you reached inside, weapping your fingers around his cock for the first time.

Ivar gasped.

A sharp, choked sound left his lips, his head falling back against the grass as his hands scrambled against your sides, not knowing whether to pull you closer or push you away from the sheer overwhelming sensation of it.

"Gods—" he groaned, his breath shuddering as you gave him a slow, testing stroke.

You giggled at the sight of him, utterly undone beneath you.

"You’re so sensitive," you mused, stroking him again, watching the way his hips jerked ever so slightly into your touch, his body betraying him. "Have you never been touched like this before?"

Ivar’s eyes squeezed shut, his lips parting around another helpless, shaky breath.

"N-No," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "Never."

Your smile widened, something warm curling in your chest at the realization that this—this moment—was his first.

"So hard for me," you whispered, your thumb caressing over his leaking tip, watching the way his thighs tensed, how his brows knitted together in helpless pleasure.

A broken, needy whimper left his lips, and you laughed softly, leaning down to brush your lips against his ear.

"You sound so beautiful when you whimper for me, Ivar."

His breath hitched sharply, his hands grasping at your waist, but he was powerless beneath you, lost in the sensation, lost in you.

"Wouldn’t it drive your brothers mad?" You teased, your lips trailing kisses along his jaw. "That of all the men who have wanted me, of all the Jarls and warriors I have denied, I did it for you? That I only ever wanted you?"

Ivar let out a shaky moan, his lashes fluttering. "W-Why?" he whined, almost like he didn’t believe you.

You smiled as you worked him gently in your hand.

"Because I hoped—" you whispered, your lips almost touching his—"that one day, we would be this close."

His entire body trembled.

He swallowed, his gaze flickering away. "But I am—"" He hesitated, jaw tightening. "I cannot take you like other men could."

His deepest fear.

"Believe me, you are taking me better than any man ever could." You responded.

He was stiff again, shoulders squared like he was bracing himself for something—mockery, rejection, pity.

"Ivar," you purred against his lips, "I don’t want them. I never have. I want you—just as you are."

"You really mean that?"

You nodded.

You wrapped your fingers more firmly around him, stroking him in a slow, teasing rhythm, feeling the heat of him, the way he twitched in your grasp.

"How often have you imagined this, Ivar?" You whispered, your lips brushing against his neck.

He let out a soft, strangled moan, his hips flinching slightly into your hand before he forced himself still, his grip on you tightening.

"I—" He swallowed hard, struggling to get the words out. "Every time."

You smiled against his skin. "Every time?"

"Every time you bathed," he admitted, his voice wrecked, shaking. "Every time I watched you, every time you let the water touch your body, I imagined—"

He groaned as you squeezed him slightly, your thumb circling over the sensitive tip, feeling the way his body reacted to you, how easily he was unraveling.

"Imagined what, Ivar?" You teased, your strokes slow, torturous.

He let out a desperate breath. "Imagined this—your hands on me, touching me, making me feel—" His voice faltered, his head tipping back as another soft moan escaped him.

You kissed along the line of his collarbone, smiling against his skin. "And did you touch yourself while thinking of me?"

Ivar whimpered.

His grip on you was bruising now, his fingers digging into your hips as if he was trying to hold himself together. His cheeks were burning.

"Yes," he admitted. "Every night."

Your stomach tightened at his confession, heat pooling between your thighs.

"Poor thing," you teased, pumping him just a little faster, feeling how thick and heavy he was in your hand, the way his body twitched with each slow stroke. "You must have been so frustrated, watching me, never being able to touch me."

"Gods...yes," Ivar moaned, his hips bucking slightly into your grip, completely lost in the feeling.

"And now I’m here," you murmured, your lips brushing against his jaw, "touching you, making you feel good. Just like you imagined."

Ivar let out a broken sound, "Better," he choked out, "better than I ever imagined."

He was beautiful like this—completely unraveled, completely at your mercy. Lips and cheeks flush.

You lifted your hand to your lips and spit into your palm, watching as Ivar’s eyes widened, his breath hitching sharply in his throat.

"Gods," he groaned, his hips jolting slightly at the sight.

You smile at him, as you wrapped your slickened hand around his dick again, and he whimpered—a soft, broken sound as you spread the wetness along his length, mixing with the arousal already leaking from his tip.

"Look at you," you teased, your lips ghosting over his, "so desperate for me."

"I—" Ivar gasped, his forehead pressing against yours, his body shaking as you pumped him slowly, teasingly. "Please."

"Please what?" You kissed him, slow and deep, swallowing the strangled moan that escaped him as you worked him in your hand.

"I don’t—"" He broke off into another shaky whine as your thumb brushed over his tip, gathering the wetness there. "I don’t know—I just—more."

"More?" You kissed down his jaw, then his throat, letting your lips linger against his heated skin as you continued your slow strokes. "You’re begging so lovely."

Ivar barely had time to react before you sank to your knees in front of him.

"Gods," he whispered, his voice breaking.

You glanced up at him, eyes filled with desire, before pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his tip.

Ivar moaned—a wrecked, desperate sound, his hips bucking slightly before he forced himself still, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

"Have you imagined this too, Ivar? My mouth on you?" You murmured, your breath warm against his sensitive tip.

"Yes," he gasped, his voice raw with need.

Ivar cut off on a moan the second your mouth wrapped around him, his whole body jerking.

"Gods—fuck," he gasped, his voice wrecked, shaking. His head tipped back, his lips parted as he sucked in a ragged breath, his entire body trembling under the new, overwhelming sensation of your wet, hot mouth around his aching cock.

He was thick, flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking with arousal that smeared against your lips as you sucked him in deeper. The veins along his length throbbed under your touch, his cock twitching every time your tongue flicked over the sensitive head, every time your lips tightened around him.

"Please—" He moaned louder as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deeper. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to grab your hair, to guide you, but was too afraid—too lost in the pleasure to even think properly.

"You’re so—fuck—so wet," he groaned, his hips twitching, betraying his restraint. "Feels too good—feels—"" He choked on a moan as you swirled your tongue along the underside of his cock, tracing the pulsing vein there before taking him even deeper.

"Love how you taste," you moaned on him, your voice thick with arousal.

He whimpered. Sweat started beading at his brow, his chest heaving as he watched you through lidded eyes—completely ruined, completely yours.

"I can’t—" His voice was strained, desperate. "I—fuck—I don’t know how much—"

You smirked up at him, your lips wrapping tighter around him as you sucked hard, taking him even deeper.

Ivar mewled, his hands flying to your hair before he could stop himself, his hips jerking forward as his cock throbbed in your mouth.

"Fuck!" he gasped. "I—I'm—"

You hummed around him, and that was all it took.

"Gods," he groaned, his head tipping back, his jaw slack with pleasure. "You—You’re so beautiful like this—lips wrapped around my cock."

You let him take control, let him guide you, your nails digging into his thighs as you relaxed, letting him use your mouth like he’d always dreamed.

"So warm. So fucking perfect."

You moaned around him, your eyes locked onto his, and Ivar lost it.

"I—fuck—" His breath broke off, his whole body tensing as his cock throbbed against your tongue. "I—I'm—"

With a strangled moan, his hips jerked forward one last time as he spilled into your mouth, his hot seed hitting the back of your throat in thick, pulsing waves.

"Gods," he groaned, his grip in your hair tightening as he rode out his orgasm, his breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

You swallowed all of it, sucking him through it, drawing out every last drop as he rode out his high.

He was panting, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths as he tried to recover from what you had just done to him.

And yet, as you pulled back, licking your lips with a knowing smirk, his eyes never left yours.

You gazed up at him with something softer now—affection laced with glee, admiration mingling with desire. He looked wrecked, his skin had turned rosy, his lips parted—his icy blue eyes blown.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Slowly, you rose to your feet. Your dress slipping down completly.

His pupils dilated.

"So beautiful," he breathed, his voice hoarse. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if aching to reach out and touch. "I have only seen you naked from afar…but now—up close—" His breath caught. "You are more perfect than the goddesses themselves."

His hand lifted, tentative, his fingertips brushing the air between you, but just as he was about to make contact, you pulled back with a playful smirk.

"Only if you come and take a swim with me."

Ivar blinked, the haze of lust in his eyes sparkling with something else.

"What?" he asked, as if he hadn’t heard you correctly.

"Come," you pushed, stepping backward toward the lake, your bare body illuminated by the fading sunlight. "Join me."

Ivar hesitated, his expression shifting—desire warring with something else—Fear.

"I can't swim."

Your smile widened. "Then I guess you’ll have to trust me."

And with that, you turned, stepping into the water, disappearing beneath the surface, leaving him sitting there—stunned, breathless, and aching to follow you.

Ivar looked at the water’s edge, his body still tense, his breathing still unsteady—not just from what had happened between you moments ago, but from what you were asking of him now.

His sharp blue eyes followed you as you floated effortlessly on the lake’s surface, your naked body half-submerged, the water lapping gently against your skin. The soft glow of the setting sun cast golden ripples across the water, making you look almost otherworldly, like some goddess who had lured him into her grasp.

And he wanted to go to you. But his body betrayed him at the thought.

He had never been in the water like this. He knew his brothers could swim—had watched them play and dive when they were children—but he had always been left on the shore, watching, knowing he could never move the way they did, knowing the water would pull him down like a stone if he ever tried.

"Ivar," you called softly, your voice warm, inviting, as you swam back closer.

You reached out, your fingers barely brushing his hand. "Do you trust me?" you asked.

His jaw tightened. His gaze moving between your face and the dark water around you, breathing heavy, unsteady.

"I—" He hesitated, his pride warring with the deep, unspoken Dread buried in his chest. "I don’t know."

You laughed, but he didn’t. He was watching you too intently, his blue gaze sharp, as if he was truly wary of you.

"What?" you pressed, raising an eyebrow.

Ivar exhaled sharply through his nose. "You are like a Sjörå," he muttered.

That made you pause. "A Sjörå?"

"Yes." His voice was low, deliberate. "Beautiful. Enchanting. But dangerous." His fingers curled into the grass. "Luring men into the water…where they never return."

"And what if I that is exactly what I want?" You chuckled, wading deeper, watching the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

He huffed, looking away, but not before you saw the hint of something heated in his gaze. "Then you are even more dangerous than I thought."

You rolled your eyes before you smiled again, soft and reassuring. "Come on. You will float. Trust me."

"You are really not going to let this go?" He asks.

You shook your head laughing.

His muscles were taut, his whole body coiled with resistance.

"Ivar," you said again, reaching up to gently cup his face, tracing along a scar on his cheekbone. "You just need to relax your body. I promise, I won’t let you sink."

He wanted to let go.

And with you—nude, beautiful, and patient before him, looking at him like he was worth trusting—he wanted to try.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he reached for the hem of his tunic.

His movements were stiff at first, hesitant, but then his clothes fell away, piece by piece, revealing him to you. He was strong, all lean muscle and sharp angles, his pale skin marked with old scars.

But it was his eyes that caught you the most. The way he looked at you—like you were something unreal, something he didn’t quite believe he could have.

You reached for his hand.

"Come," you whispered.

Ivar swallowed hard, his fingers twitching before finally—finally—he took yours.

You pulled him forward, guiding him into the water, the lake cool against his skin as it rose past his knees, his thighs, then his waist. He stiffened immediately, his grip on your hand tightening, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Then, suddenly, his feet left the ground.

His body jerked, instinct kicking in as he grabbed onto you with both hands, his muscles locked with tension.

"I knew this was a bad idea—" he gasped, gripping you as if his life depended on it. His hands clutched desperately at your waist, his legs tensing beneath the water as he tried—failed—to find something solid beneath him.

"You are screaming like a little girl!" You teased, as he shot a dark look at you.

"Don't look at me like that, you can't kill me or else we will both die." You laughed, your arms wrapping instinctively around him as he clung to you. He moved fast—scared.

"If you push me down, I’m gonna drown right with you, Ivar!" you giggled, your voice full of warmth, of laughter.

"That’s not funny," he hissed, his voice a little higher than usual, his body stiff against yours.

You chuckled, holding him close, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart against your chest.

"Ivar, look at me...don't overthink it," you whispered, rubbing soothing circles along his back. "Just...feel."

"I can't relax—" he started, but you cut him off with a soft press of your lips against his jaw.

"I’m here," you whispered. "I won’t let anything happen to you."

Slowly—so, so slowly—you felt him begin to unwind. His grip on you loosened, just a fraction. His breathing steadied, just a little. His body, still tense, still hesitant, began to trust the way the water held him.

You smiled.

"See," you murmured, your fingers threading into the damp strands of his hair. "you're floating."

Ivar exhaled slowly, his eyes locking onto yours.

And then, you kissed him.

Softly at first, gently, as if pulling him further into ease. But as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your bare body against his, the kiss deepened, his lips parting beneath yours as he melted into you.

A low, shaky moan escaped him as your hands tangled in his hair, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you closer as if you were the only thing keeping him from sinking.

And maybe, in a way, you were.

You could feel his heartbeat against your own, no longer frantic—just there, steady and real.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just held you, as if letting the silence say what he couldn’t.

Then, in a voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it, he murmured, “I’ve never felt this way before.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your thumb brushing over his lower lip. His eyes—so piercing, so intense—were softer now.

"What way?" You asked gently, your hand resting against his shoulders, feeling the slight tremble in his muscles.

He swallowed, his gaze darting away for a second before finding yours again.

"Like...like I could be wanted," he admitted, almost ashamed. "Like I could be...enough."

Your heart clenched.

“I’ve spent my whole life hearing what I can’t do. What I am not.” His jaw tensed, and for a moment, you saw the familiar hint of anger—of pain—beneath his expression.

"A cripple. A burden. A man who will never—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, his throat working as he swallowed back the rest of the words.

You cupped his face, gently, firmly, tilting his head so he had to look at you.

"You are everything," you whispered, your voice fierce, certain. "and I have wanted you for so long."

His breath hitched, his blue eyes searching yours, as if trying to find any trace of dishonesty.

"But...how?" His voice was so small, so unsure. “You could have anyone. Even great Jarls have asked for your hand. But you…” He hesitated, licking his lips. “You always said no.”

You smiled, tilting your head as your fingers trailed down the sides of his face, your touch gentle, cherishing.

"Because the Norns wove your name into the threads of my fate," you said softly, your gaze never wavering. "Odin himself could have offered me his throne, and I would still choose you. Not for power, not for glory—but because my soul has known yours since the beginning, as if we were forged together in the same fire that birthed Yggdrasil."

His lips parted slightly. The look on his face like in disbelief.

He stared at you, as if seeing you for the first time—not as a prize, but as something sacred.

"By the gods..." he breathed, voice rough with wonder.

"If the Norns truly wove us together, then let them bind me to you in every life to come. I would face Ragnarök a thousand times if it meant I could find you again."

Ivar inhaled deeply, like he was trying to commit this moment to memory—you and him in the water, wet hair clinging to your shoulders like silk, the feeling of your skin against his, your warmth, your words, your love.

"You are everything to me, Ivar." You whispered against his lips.

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

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

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You had always kept your feelings for Ivar hidden—buried beneath shy glances and quiet stares across the hall.

It was foolish, perhaps even dangerous, to fall for someone like him. Yet every time he entered the room, your breath would catch in your throat. Your cheeks would flush.

To him, though, your silence meant something else.

He thought you feared him. That you pitied him. That you could barely look at him without seeing the cripple he had fought so hard to rise above. Ivar assumed you would end up with one of his brothers—Ubbe, maybe, or even Hvitserk. Someone strong in all the ways he wasn’t.

That’s why it caught him off guard when his brothers came to him one evening, bearing a strange kind of news.

He was sharpening his blade on a whetstone, the soft rasp of metal against stone filling the quiet.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked without looking up, sensing their presence.

Ubbe stepped forward, arms crossed. "We were just wondering... what you think of her."

Ivar paused, frowning. "Who?"

"Oh you know who," Ubbe said, as if it were obvious.

Ivar’s hand stilled. The whetstone slipped slightly. "What about her?" Ivar whispered lost in his thoughts.

"Hvitserk and I just spoke with her, asking her which one of us brothers she fancies most and... Well, It's you," Ubbe replied evenly.

For a moment, Ivar didn’t speak. His blue eyes, always sharp, always calculating, narrowed. "What do you mean, me?" His tone was disbelieving, defensive.

"She said she likes you." Hvitserk added from the doorway, where he leaned lazily against the frame, watching his younger brother with an amused look.

Ivar scoffed, masking the sudden tightness in his chest. "And you believed her?" He forced a smirk, returning to his blade. "She’s just being kind. Or maybe she lost a bet."

Ubbe gave him a knowing look. "Believe me, we were just as surprised as you are, but we thought you should know."

Moments passed before his brothers finally left, their laughter fading down the corridor. Ivar remained where he was, still and quiet, the fire crackling low beside him. Alone, his thoughts ran wild.

You liked him.

Not feared him. Not pitied him.

He thought back, replaying every encounter—the way your cheeks burned when he looked your way, how your eyes would dart to the ground whenever he spoke. He had always mistaken it for discomfort… but now he saw it. You were shy. Awkward. Maybe even nervous, the same way he was.

In the days that followed, your presence at the great hall took on a new weight. Every time you entered, his eyes found you. He didn't try to hide it. His gaze burned into you across the feast tables, steady and intense. You felt it—like a fire licking across your skin.

And you wanted it.

You felt it when you laughed too loud with the skalds, when you leaned too close to hear their drunken songs. You felt it when Ubbe, half drunk and foolish, tried to scoop you into his arms, stumbling across the hall with you giggling in protest. But even then, your eyes searched for Ivar—and you saw him. Staring. Unmoving. A cold fury behind his eyes.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew every unmarried man in Kattegat wanted you. They all waited, hoping you'd choose one of them. But you couldn’t.

Because the only man who ever made your voice catch in your throat—who turned your thoughts into scattered clouds—was Ivar.

You weren’t afraid of him. You were just… overwhelmed by him.

By the time the last horns of mead were poured, the hall had begun to quiet. Men snored where they had fallen, others staggered out into the cold night to find their homes. You remained, helping pick up empty horns and spilled platters. Your fingers worked in silence, until you heard the soft tap of crutch against stone.

Ivar was rising. He was coming toward you.

One of the cups slipped from your hand and hit the floor, the sound sharp in the hush of the hall.

You both reached for it at the same time. Your fingers brushed.

"Thank you, Ivar," you whispered.

He paused. His eyes met yours.

The way you said his name—it made his chest tighten. It was soft, like a prayer whispered in the dark. He swallowed, trying to suppress the sudden warmth in his cheeks. You glanced, just briefly, at the braces on his legs, and he noticed.

His smile faltered. He didn’t want to feel this way.

"I should go," he said, pitiful. Shame and doubt laced every word as he turned to limp away.

Your hand caught his shoulder. He froze.

"Ivar, wait..." you murmured, voice low and tender.

He turned, jaw tight, unreadable.

"It's late," you said, almost too quietly. "And I’m scared to walk the path alone back to my home. Could you... come with me? If you don’t mind?"

His expression softened. "I wouldn’t be able to protect you," he said, bitterly. "You know that."

You stepped closer, gently brushing your fingers along his arm. "Just your presence makes me feel safe, Ivar."

And just like that, the ache in his chest turned to something else—something warmer. He didn’t move for a long moment, didn’t speak. But then he gave a small nod, and offered his arm to you.

You smiled at him softly, slipping your hand around his offered arm.

Your fingers curled against the thick muscle of his bicep, nails brushing faintly into the skin beneath his tunic. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye and smiled—small, unsure, but real.

It was cold outside. The night wrapped around you like a blanket of frost. The fur draped across your shoulders danced in the wind, making you look almost ethereal in the moonlight. Ivar caught himself staring.

The way your breath turned to mist in the air… the way your eyes glinted beneath your lashes… he could’ve sworn you weren’t real.

He pulled his gaze away and started walking, careful and slow, his crutch tapping softly against the frozen path. You adjusted your pace to match his without question.

"Thanks for coming with me," you said quietly, breaking the silence.

"Not the greatest choice," Ivar muttered, his tone sardonic. "Having me by your side for protection. But… I’m glad if you like it."

"It’s perfect, you are perfect." you whispered, tightening your hold on his arm ever so slightly. It was a small gesture, but it sent warmth through him like fire spreading under his skin. You giggled suddenly, the sound light and unguarded. He glanced at you just in time to see your nose wrinkle into that soft, shy scrunch.

Gods, he adored that.

He couldn’t stop the soft smile that tugged at his lips.

"I’m far from perfect…" he muttered under his breath, barely aware he was speaking.

You looked up at him, the moonlight catching your eyes. "To me, you are."

He chuckled, but there was a roughness to it—like he couldn’t believe you meant it. "You don’t know what you’re saying."

"I know exactly what I’m saying." You didn’t look away. "And I know exactly who I’m saying it to."

He wasn’t used to softness like this. Not directed at him.

Not real.

But here you were, wrapped in fur and clinging to him like he was something worthy.

Finally, your home came into view—soft candlelight flickering behind the deerskin-covered windows, smoke curling from the chimney into the night. The familiar warmth waiting inside made you sigh, but it wasn’t the fire you wanted most.

You reached the door, pausing before stepping up onto the wooden threshold. Ivar slowed beside you, preparing to turn away.

"Well," he said, voice low, hesitant, "you’re home. Safe now."

You turned to him, eyes shining in the dim glow. "Would you… come in?" you asked, voice sweet but deliberate. "Just for a bit?"

"I don't think I should. It's late."

"I have a fire going," you said, your tone softer now, coaxing. "It’s warm. And I’d like the company…"

He glanced away, jaw tightening slightly like he didn’t know how to answer.

You stepped a little closer, letting your fingers drift up his arm again—barely grazing, but enough to make him feel it. "You walked me all the way here, Ivar. At least let me offer you some warmth… maybe some ale."

"I…" he stammered, eyes flicking from the door to your hand and then to your face. "You’re being kind. You don’t have to—"

"I want to," you interrupted, voice daring now. "Unless you’re afraid of being alone with me…"

That earned you a flustered scoff. "I’m not afraid of you."

"Then come inside," you whispered with a sly smile.

You opened the door slowly and looked back over your shoulder, your silhouette framed in the golden glow of your hearth. "Well, are you going to stand there looking pretty all night, or come in and sit with me?"

He hesitated only a moment before going toward the small bench closest to the fire, lowering himself onto it carefully. He rested his crutch against the wall and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since you invited him in.

You turned toward the small table where a flask of mead and two carved cups waited. With your back to him, you poured slowly, steadying your hands as if you weren’t as nervous as he looked. You could feel his eyes on you—quiet, unsure, hungry in a way that wasn’t lust but longing.

You brought him a cup and handed it to him without meeting his eyes at first, but your fingers brushed again as he took it from you.

"Thank you," he murmured.

You sat across from him, cradling your own cup, your knees almost brushing. You both took a sip—he avoided your gaze, but you saw the way he held the cup a little too tightly.

You smiled into your cup. "You don’t talk much when you’re not arguing with your brothers."

He huffed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "They make it easy."

You laughed, and he looked at you then—really looked. Like he couldn’t believe that sound came from you, and that he was the cause of it.

"You seem different," you said, your voice soft now, brushing the air like silk. "When it’s just us."

He shifted in his seat. "Maybe I don’t know how to act when… it’s just us."

Your heart skipped. You placed your cup on the table, leaning forward just slightly. "You don’t have to act. Not with me."

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to your mouth before dropping again.

"I’m not used to this," he admitted, his fingers fidgeting along the rim of the cup. "Being wanted without having to fight for it."

You bit your lip gently. "You don’t have to fight for me, Ivar."

His eyes flashed up again, uncertain. "Then why me?" he asked, the question hanging in the air. "Why not Ubbe? Or one of the others? They’re stronger. Whole."

You reached across the table again, your fingers grazing his knuckles. He stilled, staring at your hand like it was a weapon—but he didn’t pull away.

"Because none of them make me feel the way you do," you said truthfully. "None of them look at me like you do."

"I look at you?" he asked, almost breathless.

"All the time," you said, eyes twinkling. "Like you want to understand every part of me, or undress me."

He let out a shaky laugh and shook his head. “I think I’m just trying to figure out if this is real.”

You smiled and leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice to something just for him. "Very real. There is no one else I'd rather wish to have in this moment but you."

His breath caught in his throat. You could see the war in his eyes—part of him wanting to lean in, to close the space between you… and the other part terrified he’d mess it up.

"You don’t have to say anything," you whispered, your fingers brushing his again.

He looked down at your joined hands, then back into your eyes. "You make it hard to think," he said honestly, his voice barely above a breath. "Hard to breathe."

You smiled wider, your own cheeks flushing. "Good. You’ve been doing that to me for weeks."

He let out a soft, nervous laugh and finally—finally—his hand turned, fingers curling gently around yours.

"I don’t know what I’m doing," he admitted, staring at your intertwined hands.

"You don’t have to," you said softly. "You’re doing just fine."

His thumb brushed your knuckles, hesitantly at first—testing the shape of affection like a man feeling fire for the first time.

"You’re warm," he murmured, as if he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You smiled. "So are you."

He laughed softly under his breath.

"I don’t…" He paused, tongue darting over his lower lip. "I don’t want to do this wrong."

"You won’t."

"You don’t understand," he said, barely able to meet your gaze. "Men like me… we don’t get moments like this. We take them, maybe. But we don’t get them given so freely."

You brought his hand closer, holding it between both of yours now. You rubbed your thumb across his palm slowly, feeling every hardened ridge and rough spot—years of holding weapons, crutches, pain.

"Your hands…" you whispered. "So calloused."

He tensed. "Is that—bad?"

You shook your head and looked up at him, your gaze soft but unwavering. "No. It means you’ve endured. Fought. Survived. And still… you touch me like I might break."

You stood up to sit right next to him.

His jaw worked as if he had something to say, but couldn’t trust himself to speak.

You leaned forward slightly, unsure, looking deeply into his blue eyes.

"Can I kiss you?" you asked softly.

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and searching.

"You sure?" he asked, stunned, voice tight with disbelief.

You smiled again, more tender than ever. "More than anything."

And for once, he didn’t try to argue. Didn’t question. He just leaned forward—hesitantly, slowly—his forehead nearly bumping yours in his nervousness.

Your noses brushed.

And then finally—his lips found yours.

The kiss was shy at first, uncertain and trembling. His mouth was soft but hesitant, as though he didn’t know what he was allowed to take.

You stayed close for a moment longer, your lips still tingling from the kiss, your forehead resting lightly against his. His breath came in quiet, uneven waves.

Then, slowly, you stood.

Ivar’s gaze followed you, uncertain.

You said nothing at first, only stepped back toward the firelight, letting its warm glow paint your skin in gold. You looked at him, biting your lower lip.

Your fingers moved slowly, deliberately—seducing, teasing, offering.

You dropped the fabric from your shoulders, and it slid down your arms like water. You stood there in the soft firelight, baring your soft breasts, and Ivar…

He froze.

His breath caught.

His eyes dipped to your body, then snapped back up to your face like he’d been caught doing something wrong. A deep flush spread over his cheeks, jaw clenching like he didn’t know what to do with the heat crawling over his skin.

"I—" he started, then stopped. His voice cracked in his throat. "I don’t know where to look."

You smiled, soft and steady, stepping closer again. "Wherever you want to."

He looked up at you, lips parted, a storm behind his eyes. "You’re beautiful. Gods, I…"

You reached down and took his hand again—steadier this time—and placed it gently at your waist. His fingers hovered there, barely grazing, as if afraid he might taint something too sacred to touch.

"You’re allowed," you whispered, guiding his hand a little more firmly. "You don’t have to ask."

His thumb moved along your side, tentative and warm. "I never thought…" he swallowed hard. "I didn’t think anyone would want to show themselves to me like this. Not like this. Not so…"

"Willing?" you finished for him.

He nodded.

You leaned down, cupping his face in your hands. "I want you, Ivar. Not just tonight. But always."

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, like your words burned.

"I don’t know what to do," he whispered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, soft and slow, feeling his stubble on your lips. "Then let me show you."

And this time, when he looked at you—really looked—he didn’t look away

You didn’t rush him. Your fingers stayed curled in his as you gently tugged, guiding him from the fire toward the bed. The way he looked at you—it was as if you were something holy, something he didn’t feel worthy of. His crutch clicked against the wood with each limping step, his breath caught somewhere between anticipation and fear.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, eyes still following every movement of your body as if afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

You stood before him, nude. In the dim firelight, your skin glowed soft and golden, the gentle curves of your hips, the slope of your waist, the subtle strength in your thighs—all of you, real and warm and his. For a moment, Ivar didn’t move. He just stared, eyes wide, lips parted, his chest rising in shallow breaths.

"You’re… Gods," he breathed, voice hoarse. "You’re so beautiful."

You stepped between his knees and touched his face again, his skin flushed beneath your fingertips. "You keep looking at me like you’ve never been touched by something soft."

"I haven’t," he admitted, raw and honest. "Not like this."

You leaned down, your lips brushing his cheek, the tip of his nose, his lips again. Every kiss made him softer, more open, until he laid back slowly, propping himself on his elbows, watching you like a man trying to memorize the shape of a dream.

You knelt on the bed beside him, tossing his tunic to the floor, your hands moving carefully to undo the ties of his pants. He tensed beneath you, his jaw clenched tight—not out of arousal, but fear.

"I don’t want to disappoint you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I can't... my legs… my body… it’s not—"

"Shh," you whispered, looking up at him. Your hands stilled, and you met his eyes fully, unwavering. "You are everything I want, Ivar. There’s nothing about you I don’t want to see."

He swallowed hard, eyes burning and slowly, he nodded.

Your fingers moved again, undoing the ties, and you slipped the fabric down carefully. He sucked in a breath as you exposed him, his thighs tense. His arousal was already pressing up against his stomach, hard, flushed, and trembling slightly as if even his body didn’t know how to behave under your touch.

You reached up, brushing your hand across his toned chest, down his stomach, before wrapping your fingers gently around his length.

His whole body jerked.

"Ivar…" you whispered in his ear, your thumb stroking his leaking tip softly. "You’re perfect."

He didn’t speak—he couldn’t. His head fell back with a soft groan, eyes squeezed shut, a desperate sound leaving his lips like he’d been holding it in for years.

"Want to feel my mouth on you?" You teased stroking slowly.

He nodded breathlessly.

You smiled up at him as you lowered your mouth on his throbbing length, lips brushing over his tip, warm and steady. You traced gentle, deliberate circles with your tongue, tasting the salt of his skin.

Ivar’s body tensed at first—every nerve alert—but as your tongue flicked lightly along the sensitive head, a low, breathy sound escaped him. "So good..." He whimpered, as his eyes found yours.

You hummed in response, lips wrapping around him tightly as you took him deeper.

You flattened your tounge against the underside of his cock, licking a slow stripe along his shaft before you teased his flushed tip again. You released him with a pop, his dick twitching.

His gaze never left you—eyes dark, wild, filled with disbelief that someone could want him so fully.

"Gods... You’re incredible," he panted, voice thick and vulnerable.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your nails digging lightly into his thighs.

"So big," you moaned on him.

Your mouth worked with care, pressing soft, worshipful kisses along the length of him, flicking your tongue where it made him gasp, teasing with slow, steady motions.

Ivar’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tight but his eyes melting as the pleasure spread through him.

He trembled beneath you, caught between disbelief and need, and when he finally let his head fall back, eyes closed, a low, shaky breath escaping, you knew this moment was something he’d never forget.

You felt the way his thighs tensed, how his breathing grew ragged. The tremble in his voice when he finally spoke was almost a plea.

"I—" he gasped, barely able to get the words out, "I’m close…"

You lifted your head just enough to brush your lips along his shaft one last time before pulling away, your hand stroking him softly, keeping him on the edge. His eyes flew open, confused, dazed, searching yours.

But then you leaned over him, kissed his lips—slow, deep.

"I need you," you whispered against his mouth. "I want you inside me."

His breath caught hard, his whole body shivering with restraint as he stared at you.

"You…" His voice cracked, disbelieving. "You want me?"

You smiled and nodded slowly, cupping his cheek. "I want you. Only you."

He blinked, stunned. Then, with care, he shifted—rolling you gently beneath him, bracing his arms on either side of your head. His movements were awkward at first, unsure, like he didn’t trust his body not to betray him. But the moment his lips found yours again—soft, shaky, reverent—it all melted into something natural.

His weight above you felt protective, not heavy. His mouth moved with growing confidence as you tangled your fingers in his braided hair, guiding him with each kiss.

Then, as he hovered just above you, his nose brushing yours, you whispered—"Ivar…"

He stopped, his eyes flicking down to meet yours.

"What is it?"

"It's my first time too," you said softly, not afraid, only wanting him to know.

His eyes widened, thumb brushing your cheek tenderly.

"You’ve never…?"

You shook your head, letting your fingertips trace gently over his chest, his back. "Never wanted anyone the way I want you."

"I don’t want to hurt you," he whispered, voice raw, his forehead resting against yours.

"You won’t," you breathed. "You’re the only one I trust."

He swallowed hard, nodding slowly, his gaze still locked on yours as he began to settle between your thighs—his breath uneven, his lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth again as if he couldn’t stop kissing you.

Your hand moved between you, fingers wrapping gently around his length again. He hissed quietly at the contact, watching with wide, adimiring eyes as you guided him toward your slick entrance, letting his cock circle your clit gently.

"Just... slow," you whispered, "Be gentle."

His forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut as he let himself push in just a little—his jaw tensing instantly, his body rigid with the effort of holding back.

You gasped softly.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked quickly, panic flashing across his face.

You shook your head, cupping his cheek. "No. Just… stay like that for a moment."

He breathed through his nose, lips parted, his hands shaking as they cradled your hips with care. You could see the restraint in every inch of him—how hard it was for him to hold still, to not give in to the overwhelming sensation.

You stroked your fingers along his back, soothing. "You’re doing perfect."

He kissed you again—slow and deep—and pushed in a little more. You tensed for a heartbeat, the stretch new, unfamiliar, but not painful. And he felt it.

"Are you sure?" he murmured against your lips. "Tell me, please…"

"I’m okay," you whispered, and then gave him the softest smile. "It’s you—I want all of you."

With aching slowness, he slid the rest of the way inside you, his breath catching sharply, his body trembling against yours. And when he was fully sheathed in you, when both your bodies finally met, still and full and together—he froze, eyes wide, staring at you like he couldn’t believe this was real.

"Gods," he breathed. "You feel like…"

He couldn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

"Ivar," you whined, "move when you’re ready."

He nodded slowly, kissing you one more time—and when he began to move, it was with a reverence so tender, it stole your breath.

But then, a sharp sting lanced through you, and you tensed beneath him. A quiet gasp escaped your lips, unbidden.

Ivar stopped instantly.

His wide eyes searched yours, and when he looked down and saw a faint line of blood where your bodies met, his entire expression crumpled.

"I—" His voice cracked. "I’m sorry. I’m hurting you…"

You reached for his face, brushing your thumbs along his cheekbones, eyes soft even through the sting.

"It does hurt," you admitted, your voice soft. "But I need you, Ivar. I want you."

He shook his head slightly, as if fighting himself, his jaw tight with guilt.

"I never wanted to hurt you," he murmured, forehead pressing to yours again. "I don’t deserve this… I don’t deserve you."

"You do," you said firmly, cupping his face with both hands. "You do. I just need you to be with me through it."

You nodded, lips parted, trusting him entirely.

So he moved again, just a little—his hips rolling forward slow, cautious, his eyes locked to your face to read every flicker of discomfort, every signal.

"Is it okay?" He asked softly.

You bit your lip hissing, fingers digging into his shoulders as the ache deepened… but then began to ease.

His kisses distracted you from the burn—soft along your cheek, your throat, your breasts.

"I’ve got you," he whispered. "You’re doing do well, Love."

And little by little, the pain faded.

"Just like that..." You whimpered in reassurance.

He kissed you again, this time deeper, with more confidence. You moaned softly against his lips, wrapping your arms tighter around him, feeling everything—his heartbeat, the tremble in his body, the way he tried so hard to hold back just for you.

The sensation between your thighs had bloomed from ache into pleasure—a warm, pulsing heat that built with each careful thrust.

You arched into him, and he groaned quietly, his hand gripping your waist.

"Gods," he moaned, barely able to speak. "I could die like this."

You laughed softly, brushing your lips against his. "Not yet."

You gasped softly as Ivar’s thrusts became deeper, more purposeful, his breath catching with every movement.

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes wild and uncertain, his lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

"Am I…?" he started, the words catching in his throat. "Am I doing it right?"

You blinked up at him, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice—the way he asked not like a man seeking praise, but like someone terrified of not being enough.

You reached up, cupping his cheek. "Yes. Gods... Ivar, you feel amazing," you moaned, voice breathless.

His thrusts picked up a rhythm, less hesitant now. He rolled his hips with more pressure, more heat, his breath hot against your neck as he moaned desperately into your skin.

"You feel… so good, so tight," he rasped, voice shaking with restraint. "Gods, I— I don’t think I can last any longer."

You gasped softly, tightening your legs around his waist. "M-More... Please..."

He growled, his teeth grazing your jaw before kissing you again—harder this time. His hips snapped forward with more force, your bodies meeting with wet, urgent sounds now, the bed shifting beneath you.

You dug your nails into his back, your head thrown back, whimpering, trembling beneath him.

"I’m yours," you gasped.

The heat pooled low, building higher with each thrust, as he hit that sweet spot over and over. His hand flew down your clit, circling it slowly.

"Ivar…" you whined, breathless, voice trembling as waves of pleasure rolled over you like a tide. "I’m—"

He cut you off with a kiss. His hands gripped your hips tighter, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him steady.

"Me too, Love, I can feel you clenching—" he groaned, voice raw, jaw tense.

You matched him, trembling beneath him, heart pounding, every muscle taut and alive.

"Come with me," you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

And then—he tensed, a deep, guttural moan breaking free from his lips, as his head fell against your neck.

You followed seconds later, a cry torn from your throat as waves of heat crashed through you, his name falling from your lips on repeat.

You clung to each other, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding wildly in the quiet aftermath. Ivar rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing hard and uneven.

"I should've asked you earlier—to bring me home." You said giggling.

He chuckled.

And now he knew, you belonged to each other.

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

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

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

“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

———

"what if you suffocate and die and then i get framed and put in jail?" you sputtered out. your current situation being one of the most nerve racking but erotic things you've ever witnessed.

tamsy had eaten you out before, but its always been with you laying down on your back, or arched on your stomach. and this wasn't even your idea.

tamsy had ambushed you earlier in the day, arms wrapped around your waist as you worked in the kitchen, trying to get a meal ready for you both to share.

"come on angel..." he muttered, you could feel the cold metal of his labret piercing pushing up against your earlobe. "you don't think i can make you feel good?" his grip on you tightened. "is that it?"

it wasn't that, you KNEW he could make you feel good. you had never orgasmed harder then the first time he stuck his tongue deep in you. that wasn't what you were afraid of.

you were self conscious. its not like you thought you were ugly, but your weight had always been a place of insecurity inside of you. how could it not be? especially when living in a place like the ground. everyone was skinny.

like drug addict skinny.

so when you showed up to join the cleaners, you stuck out like a sore thumb. everyone there ranged in sizes, but only in height. not in weight.

so of course, as soon as the words left his mouth, you immediately shut him down. "yeah thats gonna be a big no." you said bluntly, chopping up some meat. to be honest, tamsy was confused at first. he thought you loved when he ate you out. you were practically always begging for him to do it.

and you shutting him down so quickly damaged his ego. "i'm just... i'm to big it wont work out." you pushed away from him, trying to cook in the small kitchen on your own was hard. but him clutching you made it even harder.

you weren't trying to be rude. but the thought of him seeing you in that angle, it scared you.

what if he thought you were ugly? what if he finally noticed the way your stomach hung a bit, something that wasn't as visible when you were fucking in missionary.

"you're... what?" the look on tamsy face shut you up real quick. it looked like you had said something rude to him. "is that what you think?" suddenly, you felt like your reason wasn't a good one.

"well, i'm just saying, what if i hurt you?" you couldn't make eye contact. trying to deflect and ignore him by focusing on the food you were now not even paying attention to.

"y/n, don't say some shit like that again." he was angry. is that what you thought? seriously? you were "to big"? why would he care. he loved that about you.

he was infatuated with you the second you stepped foot into HQ. how could he not be? with the way you looked so different, plush hips, breast practically spilling out of the top you were wearing. the way the sleeves of your shirt hugged your arms, or the way your shorts hugged your thighs.

he jerked himself off to the thought of you countless times before you got together, jerked off to the thought of marking and biting your skin. he could get hard just looking at you.

which is how now you're here. you've got your hands placed agains the headboard for balance, hover above his chest, naked. he was staring desperately at your pussy, and it was dripping.

you were so horny, but just so nervous.

"babydoll, i promise you, nothing is going to happen to me." his hands were massaging your thighs. you couldn't get more beautiful in his eyes. the look on your face, god if his mouth wasn't on you in the next 30 seconds he was going to lose his mind.

you looked down at him, the way his hair was down and spread across the pillow underneath him. his pupils were blown, and his lips were red and swollen from your previous make out session.

you sighed, closing your eyes for a moment. with the way he was gripping you thighs, you don't even think you could get away if you wanted to.

"ok just..." you paused, still nervous," please just tell me as soon as anything feels uncomfortable. or literally anything. i'm serious tamsy." he couldn't focus on the words you were saying, his gaze still locked on your dripping pussy.

he licked his lips, "whatever you say angel."

you moved so you were right above him, having every intention of just hovering over him, letting him do what he wanted then getting off. but before you could even get fully situated, he was pulling you down harshly.

"t-tamsy!" you yelped, feeling his lips latch onto your clit immediately. you shuddered, letting out a loud moan. you were fully seated on his face, all of your weight.

"tamsy, w-ait!" you tried to moved again, but he grabbed you harder, turning to bite the inside of your thigh.

"i told you i wanted you to sit on my face, so stop trying to move." he hissed out, once again licking a long stripe from your hole to your clit.

you reached down, grabbing the blond hair that sat on his head. "fuck baby..." you groaned, leaning forward to rest your head on the headboard.

he went lower, sticking his tongue deep in your hole thrusting it in and out. and then you felt it, the tip of his nose.

you had always loved his nose. it was so big, but the way it sat on his face just made him look even more like an angel sent from above. and when it hit your clit? you were seeing stars.

"ngh - tamsy!" you moaned eyes rolling to the back of your head in sheer pleasure.

he couldn't get enough of you. of your taste, your smell, everything. he moaned loudly below you, vibrations going through you. with the amount of please on his face, you would have thought he was the one getting mind blowing head.

you started rocking back and fourth, feeling his piercing catch on the bottom of your hole, then feeling his nose burrow up into your clit, rubbing harshly against it.

he pulled back again, going and latching his lips around your sensitive clit, licking and sucking on it.

he was in heaven. he was practically humping the air, feeling like he was going to cum even though he wasn't getting any attention. and you noticed it, out of the corner of your eye. the way his hips were twitching, chasing a feeling that wasn't even there. suddenly, you were off of him.

he took a deep breath, confused. "what are you doing?" instead of responding, you simply sunk yourself back down on his face. but, this time you were facing the other way.

he leaned around you, cocking a brow. suddenly a loud moan was ripped out of him. "f-fuck!" he yelped, feeling your lips wrap around the thick leaking head of his cock.

his head hit the pillow, panting as you enveloped his cock. your nose hit balls, his blond pubic hair a nice cushion. you spread your legs a little wider, lowering yourself now in hopes of him returning to the mind boggling head he was giving you.

and he was happy to oblige, he shot up, slurping up everything your pussy had to offer him. you moaned around his cock, sucking on the head, tasting his pre cum that was oozing from his tip.

you moved your head faster, feeling tamsy wiggle his head back and fourth between your legs. he could feel himself getting close, even though he didn't want to be the one to cum first. but he didn't think he could hold back.

not with the way you were taking him all the way down to his hips, your tongue lapping at his tip. he pulled away from your pussy, licking his lips. "o-h fuck angel." he started moving with you, bullying his hips into your mouth. "so fucking good baby. gonna cum in this tight mouth of yours." you yelped as he hit your ass cheek, hard.

his nails were digging into the flesh, his hips moving faster. "gonna cum baby. ngh - gonna swallow all of it right? be a good girl and take it for me, yeah?" you nodded as best you could, which wasn't much with how your tits were practically pressing against his stomach.

it wasn't long before he was cumming, shoving his face in your pussy as he moaned pornagraphically. you took all of it, feeling tamsy's warm cum shoot into the back of your throat. he slowed his hips, allowing you to pull off of him and take a breath.

tamsy wasn't done though, you still hadn't cum. and the whole point of this was for him to take care of you.

he continued his efforts, bringing his fingers to your whole, shoving three in with no warning.

"fuck! tamsy... need more..." you gripped his thighs, rocking your hips back and fourth. tamsy sucked harder on your clit, moving his fingers inside of you, hitting that sweet spot that had you gushing.

"ngh- gonna cum tamsy! please-" you were cut off as he sucked particularly hard on your clit, feeling yourself gush all over him. he continued, letting you ride out your high. he only stopped when you started groaning in pain, hips and thighs twitching.

he pulled off of you, letting his head fall back and he took some deep breaths. you fell to the side, laying on your back. he moved so he was over you, his face in yours.

god he looked beautiful with your cum all over his face. "you ok?" tamsy asked, moving a strand of hair behind your ear.

you nodded, you felt amazing. that was the best orgasm you had ever had in your life. "more than ok. but are you? i didn't hurt you right?" despite everything you were still worried.

that was one of the things he loved about you, always worried about him or the people around you. he chuckled, leaning down to kiss you. "i've never been better, sweetheart." you sighed, pulling him down onto you.

you laid like that for a while, soaked in each other. but something in you had shifted, a sense of confidence. still, exhaustion took over, and you promptly fell asleep. tamsy, though, laid awake.

he looked at you with so much love in his eyes. gently tracing his hands up and down your sides, every curve and roll. he loved you so much, everything about you. even the parts you hated.