#vikings reader insert

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Anyone that knows Ivar and has seen the two of you together will notice that he is uncharacteristically open, affectionate, and kind to you. Whenever this is pointed out to you, you always struggle to hide an amused snicker behind a bashful smile. If only they knew. 

The two of you lay entangled on the bed. Your left leg is thrown over Ivars midsection and your arm traces invisible shapes on his chest. Ivar is laying on his back, his left arm lays underneath your body and is stroking up and down your back. Both of your breathing has calmed by now and with the gentle hum of satisfaction in your veins you’d be perfectly content to stay like this forever. 

The almost meditative state you’re in is broken when your left hand is halted in its movements, now gently held in Ivars right. Tilting your head up to look at him, you meet Ivars gaze and the intensity in his eyes almost makes you shy away. "I treasure you, smár brandr." (*)

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Ivar doesn’t give much thought to his body. For quite obvious reasons he avoids it as much as possible. He does like his hands though. He’s quite good at using them, whether that be spinning a dagger or wrapping them around your throat. 

Ivar has also become more accepting of the rest of his body as your relationship progresses. How could he not, when you hold his face in your hands, your delicate fingers tracing his features, when you constantly compliment his strong arms and back and when you don’t even bat an eye at the sight of his legs.

When it comes to you, there isn’t a part of your body that Ivar doesn’t like. Though he has a strange fascination with your neck. Kissing it, biting it, but especially wrapping his hand around it. It’s not so much the choking itself that turns him on - but the trust you show him when you allow his fingers to slowly tighten around your throat. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Further elaborated under K = Kink, but Ivars favorite place to cum is deep inside you. "Where I belong", he’d once told you, caressing your lower stomach. However, when the night is still young and he plans to make the both of you cum several times, Ivar enjoys watching you swallow his cum.

Ivar’s sat, fully clothed, at the edge of his bed, his unfocused eyes gazing down at your kneeling form on the ground, your sweet lips wrapped around his cock. You’re sat between his legs, one hand stroking along the length that doesn’t fit in your mouth, the other underneath your skirt, drawing circles over your clit. 

You can tell Ivar is close, his breathing labored as his cock throbs against your eager tongue. His arms move from their place at his side and you’re certain he’ll pull you off him and toss you on the bed, as he does so often, but his hands find their way into your hair, gripping tightly and aiding your movements. 

"I’ll cum down your throat", he raps, sending a bolt of arousal through you, "and you won’t dare swallow until I tell you to."

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

When you and Ivar first slept together it was you who took the lead to begin with. And even though his touches became more confident and urgent throughout, they were clearly still laced with inexperience until they weren’t. 

"Your eyes snap open as you feel a finger drawing circles on your clit, looking down to see Ivar has taken one of his hands off your hips and is instead circling your sensitive nub with his thumb. How he knows to do this, you do not know, but you are thankful for it, already feeling the coil in your stomach tightening."

Ivar would rather spend the rest of his days locked in a shed with an ever-singing Sigurd than admit that he knows those things because he had watched some of his brothers with Margrethe. Looking back, he is deeply embarrassed. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

None. Well, that is if you don’t count his horrid encounter with Margrethe (which you don’t). You were the first woman he ever slept with. 

Don’t worry though, Ivar is very quick learner. Whether that includes learning alongside you, if you’re equally inexperienced, or learning from you, if you’re more experienced. If the latter is the case, expect your prior partners to have some less than pleasant encounters with Ivar.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

It very much depends on his mood. If he wants you to take charge: cowgirl. 

He’ll either sit back against the headboard or lay down flat on his back to watch you bounce and circle your hips above him. Don’t think him to be a passive participant though. Much like his eyes, his mouth and hands won’t stop wandering. His lips find their way to your neck, leaving evidence of the nights activities on your skin for all to see, sucking and biting on your nipples until they’re sore and whispering the filthiest of commands and praises.

Every tilt of your hips grinds your clit against his pubic hair, sending sparks up your spine. So caught up in your pleasure you don’t notice Ivars hand moving until it’s slipped its way around your throat, making your eyes flutter open once more. When had they even closed? 

"Look at you", Ivar groans, "riding me so well, smár brandr." Using his hand to tilt your head down to look at him, Ivar fixes you with his piercing gaze. "Mhm", he hums, "Like a goddess… or a whore." The hand around your throat tightens. 

If Ivar is in the mood to watch you squirm underneath him (which is often) he’ll take you from behind, pressing you flat on your belly and draping himself along your back. 

If anyone has given him reason to be possessive, or jealous, expect to wobble your way around Kattegat the next day. Instead of gripping your throat, like usual, his hand will grip your hair in a makeshift pony tail, either pressing your head into the pillow, or raising your ear to his lips, making sure to tell you who you belong to.

The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and your muffled moans against the furs. Ivars hips pound into yours so deeply, you’re sure that you won’t be able to sit properly tomorrow. Suddenly your head is yanked from the pillows and you feel Ivars breath against the side of your face. 

"You’re mine", he hisses. "Mine to love, mine to kiss, mine to fuck." Nibbling along your shoulder Ivar promises darkly: "Tomorrow, when you’re not able to leave this bed, I’ll kill Earl Leif… Perhaps I’ll bring him here first. Would you like that, hm? Make him watch how good only I can make you feel?" 

You don’t even remember what the foreign Earl had done to anger Ivar, your brain not absorbing anything that isn’t the drag of Ivars cock along your walls.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Ivar is a very passionate lover. As such he does really immerse himself into the act. It’s not so much that you’d call him serious in those moments, it’s just that he’s so zeroed in on you - the rest of the world could burn around him for all he cares. 

Sex is also a very vulnerable thing for Ivar. In your chambers, when it’s just you and him, he’s a very different man than the one most perceive him to be. Most people know not to intrude upon your little safe haven, at least if they want to keep all their limbs. 

Hvitserk learned this the hard way one night when in a drunken state he mistook Ivars room for his own. He had barely stepped a foot over the threshold when a dagger had already planted itself into the wooden frame next to his head.

In the afterglow of it all Ivar is probably at his most vulnerable and most relaxed. The two of you will cuddle, talk about everything or nothing at all and sometimes that includes laughing together.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

As explained above Ivar tries to avoid thinking too much about his body. As such he doesn’t groom. His medical condition however has lead to him having impeccable personal hygiene, since his legs often need to be washed, moisturized and bandaged.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Again, Ivar is a very passionate and devoted lover. Most times this will express itself in a raw, sort of untamed way. Some may label this rough - the way his hands firmly grip your hips, the firm snap of his hips and the incessant way he kisses and bites anywhere he can reach can certainly feel like it. Everything he does though is born from love, from devotion.

Occasionally, he slows. Ivars passion become gentle and sweet, drawn out like strings of honey - seeking comfort in you.

You can feel the warmth of his release coat your walls, a pleasant hum of satisfaction in your veins, not as pulsing and exhausting as you’re used to. You make to raise yourself from Ivars cock, from his lap, to cuddle up beside him, when his hands that so softly caress your hips tighten for a split second. 

"Don’t move", Ivar whispers, the first words he’s spoken since he’s entered your heat. "I want to stay like this for a while." You don’t decline.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Since Ivars relationship with sex started off the way it did, sex isn’t really about "getting off" itself. Don’t get him wrong, Ivar enjoys having sex, enjoys cumming, as much as any man. It’s just that he doesn’t crave for it, if it is not with you. 

Ivar doesn’t need sex - he needs sex with you. Ivar doesn’t need release - he needs release with you. If he can’t have you he doesn’t bother.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding Kink

Ivar never thought he’d be able to have kids. He didn’t even think he’d be able to fuck. When one fateful night with you led him to discover that he could in fact please a woman, sex was the only thing on his mind. For weeks you spent every night in Ivars bed, his head in between your thighs, your mouth around his length and his cock deep in your cunt. It was a comment from one of his brothers over breakfast that planted an even deeper desire into his heart. 

Ivar had teased Hvitserk for looking so tired, knowing full well his room was right next to Ivars and that Hvitserk had probably been kept awake by your squealing the night prior. It was then that Ubbe, in an attempt to prevent a fight, almost mindlessly commented: "Don’t fret Hvitserk. Not much longer and he’ll have put a babe in her belly. Then Ivars tiny room will no longer suffice and we’ll be rid of them."

Trust Kink (?)

Hear me out. Ivar’s never really had anyone he could trust completely, some he’s comfortable being vulnerable around. Likewise, he’s also never had anyone that trusted him, that willingly was vulnerable around him. And whilst it took a long time for your relationship to progress to this state, now that it has Ivar cannot get enough of it - this feeling of safety and belonging. 

As such, everything that reminds him of this, anything that is proof of this precious trust is an instant turn on for him. His hand around your throat, him caging you under his body, restraining your hands above your head, cutting your clothes from your body using his dagger… 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

As explained, Ivar does not take kindly to his time with you being interrupted. Therefore his room it is.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Short answer: You. Long answer: Also you. 

As explained above, once Ivar realized he could have sex, there wasn’t a lot of holding back on his side. He was insatiable. Though, the thing that gets him going more than anything else is the realization that not only could he fuck you, but you wanted him to.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Hurting you.

Anything beyond reddish handprints in the places he grabs you, love bites across your throat and chest and the wobble in your step the next morning is a hard no. Ivar cherishes the trust you two share - he’d never think of doing something to break it.

Sharing.

Even though, when possessive or jealous, Ivar sometimes talks about showing off how well he pleases you, it is all talk. He’d never consider someone intruding in such a vulnerable situation. Besides, you’re for his eyes only.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

"I can show you that there are other ways to please a woman too, if you so wish."

Ivar remembers you whispering those words against his lips the first time you were intimate together, gently reassuring him. After the first few times following that day, when his eagerness to feel your walls wrapped around his cock as fast as possible had slowly calmed from a raging fire to a steady flame, those words of yours kept echoing in his mind. You’d proposed it as an alternative, so technically there was no need for that now, but Ivars curiosity was peaked.

His breath is fanning over your lower stomach, Ivars blue eyes are looking up at you for guidance, between placing kisses on and nipping at your skin. 

"You told me you’d show me. I do not know how to make you feel good like this." A breathless laugh falls from your lips. "I promise to tell you if something does not feel good." 

Ivar huffs but relents nonetheless, his nips and kisses moving lower, a few of them straying to the inside of your thighs, before his tongue suddenly licks a broad stripe up your cunt. Something between a whimper and a moan tears from your throat and Ivar decides right then and there that he wants to hear that sound over and over and over again.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

As explained under I = Intimacy, Ivars love making is usually very passionate. If not fast, his thrusts will at the very least be hard and deep, hands firm on whichever part of your body he chooses to grab, his love bites just on that fine line between pleasure and pain.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He isn’t exactly opposed to the idea, it’s just that your circumstances don’t really allow for them. Between the daily bustle of Kattegat, your respective duties throughout the day and Ivars reluctance to have sex outside the safety of his chambers there aren’t really opportunities for quickies. 

It’s fine by the both of you though, you prefer to take your time anyways, especially the calm and intimacy afterwards is treasured by the both of you.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Ivar is ever learning, he’s willing to try most everything you’d approach him with, so long as it doesn’t fall under his hard no’s. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

In the beginning Ivar was insatiable. Once he got you into bed you could expect not to leave it or go to sleep for quite a while. 

That is still the case, though the way you spend your time in bed has changed. The two of you used to go as many rounds as either of you could take until sleep took you.

As your relationship blossomed, it became less about sex itself and more about being intimately connected - whether that be foreplay, sex, or basking in the afterglow of it all. Rounds became fewer, but more drawn out. On the days Ivar seeks comfort, the intimacy of you laying on his chest afterwards, warming his cock, both of you speaking in hushed whispers have become his favorite part.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Since it’s the early 800s … there are no toys. The closest thing would be his daggers, perhaps some rope.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Ivar has no patience to actually tease you in terms of withholding his physical affections. He excels at making your squirm with his verbal teasing though.

You’re circling your hips above him, eyes screwed shut, clearly focused on chasing your release, but slightly overwhelmed by the pleasure all the same. A sudden pressure makes you moan out and look down to where Ivar has placed his hand against the little bulge in your lower stomach. 

"Look at that", he grins, "Look at me all the way inside you. Such a little thing, can barely fit me." A frustrated whine bubbles up in you. Ivars face morphs into one of mock concern, "What’s the matter sweet thing?" "Please..", you whimper. "Please what, hm?" 

When his question goes unanswered, the rock of your hips only growing more frantic, Ivar sits up, the sudden shift of the angle of his cock making you gasp. "Can’t even make yourself cum, is that it? Poor, dumb little thing" A quick, filthy kiss is planted on your lips, and you don’t even have the time to reciprocate before your world spins and you’re suddenly on your back.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

"I don’t growl." Ivar halfheartedly glowers down at you, you grin in return. "Oh, you definitely do."

"I do not."

Your grin grows mischievous, "Mhm, fine. I do suppose it was far more interesting how you whimpered when I li-"

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

You joined Ivar in his bed every single night, following the day you first laid together. After a while your monthly bleeding made its appearance one morning. You thought this would surely put a temporary stop to your shared nights of passion, but Ivar surprised you. 

As soon as you sit down on the edge of the bed you’re ambushed. Giggling you let Ivar lay you down on your back and eagerly welcome him into your arms once he dips down to kiss you.

As always the kiss deepens and your hands wander - yours to his hair, combing your fingers through his silky strands, whilst Ivars hands caress your sides. When his fingers slip under the hem of your dress, you draw back from the kiss and halt his hand on your thigh. Immediately Ivars face furrows and his hand lifts to hold the side of your face. 

"My moon blood started this morning", you answer his unspoken question. Ivars eyes widen and he props himself up on his hands, lifting his hips off of yours. For a second you think he’s disgusted, but your worries disappear as soon as they come. "Oh fuck - am I hurting you, smár brandr?"

Pulling his body down onto yours again, his weight and warmth actually comforting, you shake your head. "No", you reassure him, "I’m just bloody. Some women say release eases their discomfort, but it’s not exactly… appealing to most men."

To your surprise Ivar barks out a laugh. "Some Vikings we have in Kattegat then, hm? Bothered by a little blood." Shaking his head, his hand makes his way under your dress once more.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

To quote TPAW:

"Looking down at what you have just undressed, you are surprised a second time this night. For all the burdens the Gods have made Ivar carry, they sure have blessed him with a gorgeous cock. Its head is flushed a lovely shade of red, and with a length and girth that promises a delicious stretch once inside you, it was simply perfect … and hard - very much so."

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High. That’s all I am going to say. Sometimes the gods can see it all the way from Asgard.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

You’re usually asleep before Ivar is. He very much treasures just laying with you. Tracing shapes on your back, enjoying the warmth of your body next to his and watching your pleased face lowly morph into the relaxed expression he associates with you sleeping.. this is probably the most peaceful time of his day. 

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Previously a shieldmaiden, Y/n knew the feeling of war, of loss, of hurt, but the feeling of safety was the one she knew how to decipher strongly. Constantly being aware of her surroundings was her life until now. She felt ready to die until now.

Betrothed to the love of their life, one could feel invincible. That’s how Y/n felt now. The battles faded from her dreams and the shield had been put on the wall to rest. Feeling highly aware of her company no longer, she felt safe. She felt she’d found a home for the first time in years. Kattegat was the town, Ivar was her home.

As a youngling, she’d pictured a happy family with a strong and loving man. Then, when she was introduced to shieldmaidens as a teen, her dreams changed. But as an adult who’d followed through with their dream, she was reminded of the one she’d tossed aside. And like that, she had two dreams.

Ivar was a hard person to miss, and his face was hard to forget. Not just for his disability, nor the words spoken of him, but for Y/n’s attraction to him. While others saw a cripple, she saw Ivar. While others saw a monster, she saw a king.

Soon, she confessed her attraction. “I’m interested in you...Ivar.”

“Why?”

She almost cackled at his innocent response. He’d probably asked that of her because of the townsfolk, yet she didn’t believe a single word they spoke. “I just am. I was taken away by your beauty and luckily my heart agreed with me.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that to you?” They shared a small chuckle and a gaze that wouldn’t be their last. Since then, secret glances and smirks were passed between the two, secret until the day he’d swore his heart to her and they were betrothed.

They announced their betrothal together, and although the people cheered, they looked about as interested as a child did in schooling. Deep in her heart, Y/n knew something was wrong. She leaned into Ivar’s side and clenched his hand that rested in her grip, smiling reassuringly when he looked to her with concern. But she wasn’t as calm as she seemed.

One day in the town, a man made his comment known to the future-queen. “I would not be so eager if I were you, miss. That man deserves no more love than his father. A laughing stock.” It made no sense. Sure the brothers spoke of their father with just as much negativity, Bjorn excused, but Kattegat was used to Ragnar as far as she knew. Frankly, she didn’t know much about him.

“But you’re not me.” The man nodded at her point then shrugged to show his lack of care. “I’m a shieldmaiden. I’ve seen gore and felt pain, believe me, I can handle myself.”

He chortled mockingly. “Not for long.”

“Just what exactly are you implying?”

“The cripple. He’ll mess up sooner or later, and you’ll be the proof.”

Her tone was stern yet her voice cracked on the verge of sorrow. “Ivar has never hurt me.” She tried to turn, walk away and ignore the rudeness of the stranger.

“Sure, he hasn’t. Yet.” She hurriedly paced away with anger and fear coursing through her body. The man’s cackles from behind her were unnerving. They sent goosebumps crawling over her skin. “He deserves no love! Especially not yours, queenie!”

As much as she’d hoped it was, that wasn’t only the time the people of Kattegat let her in on their disliking of their betrothal. It happened over and over again, always when Ivar was not present with her. Recognizing the pattern, she began to have Ivar go with her whenever she had places to be. She thought she’d successfully evaded the appalling run-ins. However, when Ivar left her for a split second, the heinous meetings she’d forgotten about had returned.

“Be warned, shieldmaiden. If you don’t call it off, we’ll spare you a life with the crippled freak ourselves.” And just as ominously as they’d appeared, they disappeared. No words were exchanged aside from their warning. A chill shivered down Y/n’s back and she swore she forgot how to breathe until Ivar was next to her, by her side once again.

Y/n was too nervous to tell Ivar, but then again, there was no need. He could see how nervous she was. The whole kingdom could. From the way she never seemed to be mentally present, to the how quick she was to jump at the littlest of things, as well as how concerned about her surroundings she became. It wasn’t until a week before their wedding that Ivar managed to get it out of her.

“You carry your weapon everywhere with you, despite me having my own. What is bothering you, my love?” He tried to gain her attention, but she continued to to avoid his tender eyes. “Do you not trust me?”

His genuine confusion startled her as she shook her head rapidly. Her distrust was announced in bold print, hence her sword being on her hip daily. She was not one to shy away from setting a boundary...apart from this one time. Ivar was one of the few she actually trusted, it hurt that he didn’t know that, that he thought the opposite.

She wept into his chest, wetting his clothes with her sorrow. His hand brushed up and down her back in a comforting manor but her sadness nipped at his curiosity. Y/n explained the events that always seemed follow her when she was in her lonesome. She ranted about the fear that overwhelmed her, carrying it like Atlas carries his burden, the weight of the world on his shoulders equal to the weight now resting on her own.

“Do you agree with them?” The soft tone of his voice held the same worry as it did when he inquired his place in her trust.

Her head snapped up, ensnaring his gaze with her own. “Of course not!”

“Then why listen? It is up to us whether we let their words hold power over us, and if you truly love me, if you truly want to be with me- ...Don’t let them put a gap between us.” His forehead rested against hers as he whispered.

“But...Ivar...they would do anything to stop us from being wed. Even kill me...or you.”

“People can do worse things than kill you.”

She knew he wasn’t talking about her, but simply stating a fact. After all, he was a cripple, and people talk. People talk the worst of things. Those words, the rumors, they all affected him much more than death ever could.

The situations clicked in her mind. The things that happened to him applied to her own life, how negatively the talk in Kattegat had affected her. At this point, killing would be a mercy. A mercy from the cruel whispers that were spoken about or too someone. A mercy from the harsh, judgmental, downgrading glares. 

“Promise me you won’t back down.” His blue orbs flickered with hope.

Y/n lifted her head to take his face in fully. A matching glint was all Ivar could see in her own orbs before their lips collided. Her hands came to rest on his warm skin as her lips found his. Despite the chilling events that had followed their announcement, they wed with one feeling in mind...apart from love.

“What is it Hati?” He asks his hateful nephew. “You seem to have quite an opinion over there.”

Before Hvitserk could turn to warn his son-- Ivar holds up his index finger as if to motion Hati closer. The young man walks closer, ambling on his bloodied boots up the steps.

“That man and his son raped MY mother! Then, he threatened to carry her off.” He sneers, taking one step before another up toward his uncle. “I would kill him again if given the chance.”

As much as Hauss’s remaining children jeer, Ivar’s gloved hand leaves his lips, looking to the deadpan seriousness in his nephew’s face. Then, he glances over to Sven whose green eyes have gone cold and dark.

“Is this true?” He asks both Hvitserk and his remaining son.

“It’s true.” Sven speaks before his father. One of the remaining sons of Hauss jerks forward and interjects on the interrogation of Hvitserk and the bruised Hvitserkssons.

“Of course they would say that to cover their asses. I swear on my sacred armband that Father had been vying for (Y/N)’s attention prior to this beardless shit stealing her away, he would not have done that.” Hvitserk simply stares as the blonde man rants in his rage. “Bring her here! Have her testify!”

“Fine.” Ivar waves his hand. Hvitserk’s features finally drop. No, he never wanted to put you through trial.

It was not some time later that you came into this Thing. Everyone had their own opinions of what had happened and as a mother and wife, you had your own agenda coming around the side of your young family. Ivar looks to you, wiggling his index finger as if to urge you closer toward the throne-- neglecting the heated looks from the others. Almost sweetly your brother in law reaches out to grasp your hands. Not that he usually did, but you had been the last to notice your body trembling under the weight to maintain the honour of your home.

Ivar needs not ask. “Those men conspired to take your honor, didn’t they?”

The sons of Hauss rage for the rare softness that Ivar contracts against you. Yet you only nod, looking down to his rough fingers stroking your own. Your one time family friend and widower Hauss-- and his sons are fresh in your memory.

“Yes.” You choke. “They raped me.”

The men snarl and the crowd breaks out into not-so-quiet whispers. Silence! Ivar shrills, turning his eyes back upon your delicate jawline in the wonder and love you recognize from the fresh fourteen summer old boy you once met with Hvitserk.

“Then your husband and boys were maintaining your honour.” Ivar says in a statement though it was intended to be a question. You scoff softly, nodding.

“They were.” You look down. “I have the wounds of Hauss’s weapon between my legs.”

Ivar brings your hand to his lips in a soft, consoling kiss. Then leaning back to sit upright in his throne, he releases your hands, motioning you to stand to the right of him.

“Then there is nothing to hold my brother Hvitserk or his sons upon. Release them.” His fingers flick several men toward Hauss’s remaining family. “Kill the rest and give to Hvitserk their goods in retribution.”

The men of the Hauss line shriek in outrage and yet, their screams are quickly snuffed out by Ivar’s loyal men coming down upon them.. Ivar’s hands weave together with a small scoff. You look upon the slaughter then to your husband whose eyes are cemented upon you.

“The only way to get rid of a threat in society is to eliminate it completely.” Ivar says low, the sclera of his eyes tinging in blue. “I will protect you all.”

Hvitserk’s binds are loosened. He rushes forward, dipping down underneath your knees to pluck you up off the stairs. He breaks past his sons who fall in line after him out of this place. Though the Thing would go on for some time longer, they had no more business here.

The old home was sold.

“I can’t go in there.” You told Hvitserk-- and while he was never so sure how long lasting these effects were for rape, he knew he couldn’t take you back in there. He took up his brother’s Ubbe’s old cabin instead. Your new fluffy black cat was in your arms as you moved inside, admiring the strange place.

“Mother where do you want your loom?” His sons asked. You weren’t looking at either of them, rather, your eyes were on the floor as they had been.

“The corner is fine, Hati.” You bend to let go of your new cat, moving through the room to your chest with bread that was put away there to be later warmed in front of the fire. Hvitserk had been working tirelessly upon new locks in front of the door. His sons set down the heavy loom and then go to their father.

“How did they get in?” Hvitserk asks.

Sven and Hati look aside. “We didn’t lock it.”

All this out of carelessness. He squeezes his lips tight, looking up in nothing short of rage to his sons. They know already what he is about to say. They were careless-- and their mother paid the price of being too trusting in a city like Kattegat.

“It wasn’t their fault.” You say, beginning to kindle a warm fire pit within the room. “I did not know he still desired me.”

Hvitserk sits up on the balls of his feet to look at you in all seriousness.This was not your fault. It never was your fault and he aches to tell you just that while your voice cracks. He looks out toward you, small pins of pearl decorating the lovely curl in your hair. He finally decides to move to you, picking you up from kindling the fire to stand onto two feet. His thumb and index finger cradles your chin and while he leans in for a kiss-- you pull back. Your feminine hands rest upon his chest, shaking your head.

“I can’t, Hvitserk. It’s too soon.” Just like that, you leave the room for the great marital bedroom that is separated by Ubbe’s red curtains.

He hasn’t had to do this in years. Sure, maybe once or twice you denied him a month. But Jerking himself off under the silken sheets was unfamiliar to him. When he finally came undone under the sheets, his bed quaked softly while he went to fetch his shirt to clean himself with.

“I’m sorry.” Came your voice on the otherside of the bed. He hadn’t realized you were awake-- but he probably should have. It wasn’t like he was all that quiet when he touched himself after all.

“What are you talking about?” Hvitserk asks, cleaning himself off.

“That’s my responsibility.” You motion toward his flaccid cock when he tosses his tunic away. Hvitserk drops back in his sheets, chewing his lower lip while in his thought. Maybe it was one-- but it had been his own responsibility to protect you no matter the cost. He failed… and he failed hard. Just as every man failed the women he raped on his own raids.

“I hope its more than that.” He teases to lighten the mood.

“Hvitserk…” You warn, voice low. He knows that voice to be the one before he got slapped with something. He rolls onto his side to face you, reaching out and pulling you up against his stiff, fuzzy chest. You rest your cheek upon his chest, thinking.

“Don’t force yourself.” He says before you could suggest-- perhaps him allowing you to touch. You huff out soft puffs of air from your nose, bringing a hand up to tease the coarse hair on his chest.

“You could go buy yourself a bed thrall.” You suggest finally. “If I cannot please you any longer…”

He tenses, his palm tight upon your shoulder. He’s had them before. There were some he brought home from raids that remained respectful toward you-- but they were rare. Even more so, you were a picky thing when looking for something for him to stick his cock into.

“So you can be jealous?” He asks.

“I wouldn’t be jealous!” You shrill back at him.

“Yeah.” He snorts. “Sure.”

"By the gods Hvitserk", out of breath from your laughter and still slightly giggling you approach him. "You do know there are plenty of trees with nests around?", now standing in front of him you widen your arms for emphasis as you chuckle, "You needn’t grant the birds refuge in your hair!"

Rolling his eyes Hvitserk turns back to face the sparring group of young men he was previously watching, and presumably instructing, giving you a close up view of his hair. His ash blond tresses are tangled beyond recognition, leaves and sticks caught in between different strands of hair and…

"Oh my", reaching for a thick strand atop his head you splutter, "Why is this part so much shorter than the rest?" Giving a nonchalant shrug, whilst never taking his eyes off the fighting men, Hvitserk replies, "There was a big knot and I didn’t have the patience to comb it out - Oi Gorm! You’ve got a fucking shield, use it for Odin’s sake!"

Baffled you gape at him, even though he can’t see it, before promptly smacking the back of his head. "What the…", Hvitserk glances at you over his shoulder whilst rubbing his head, "What was that for?"

"What was that for?", you mock him in an exasperated tone. "By the gods Hvitserk, it is truly time you married, for you appear to be lost without a woman." Reaching into the pouch sewn into your fur coat, feeling around between coins and other odds and ends, you pull out a small comb and instruct Hvitserk to "Sit on the ground".

At this he turns around to fully face you again, obviously trying to figure out why you want him to leave his spot on the trunk. Once he spots the comb in your hands he rolls his eyes, though he does so with no real malice. "Don’t bother", Hvitserk tries to dissuade you, "But if you’re oh so greatly bothered by my appearance I will have a thrall look after my hair tonight, alright?"

Huffing you cross your arms over your chest, tapping your foot against the ground, "No, not alright! We have guests visiting from Trondheim and I will not stand by and watch a Son of Ragnar walk around as if he’d just had his head mauled by Fenrir."

Seemingly coming to terms with the fact that there’s no way to deter you now, Hvitserk sighs and slides down to sit on the ground, enabling you to take his place on the tree trunk and leaving you in the perfect position to tend to his hair.

After loosening what remained of the old braids and combing them out, which was quite the feat in and of itself, you start braiding. Picking up small sections of hair, you create a braid going straight down the center of his head, using the short hair you'd noticed earlier, before doing the same twice on each side of his head.

Keeping a more laid back arrangement in mind, as you will definitely still send Hvitserk to his thrall later to get proper scalp braids fit for vigorous training, you create the braids in a way so that only the first few twist run along the scalp, leaving the rest of the braid to hang loosely.

Bringing the five braids together at the back of his head, the combined end hanging only slightly below his neck, you create two more braids, left and right to the joint one, from the remaining, longer hair. Once those are done you join them at their respective ends as well, the tip of this one resting further down than the first, below Hvitserk’s shoulder blades.

Throughout the process easy conversation, as well as jest and banter, flows freely, the occasional silence more often than not broken by Hvitserk’s comments on the men’s fighting. "For fuck’s sake Njal, with stance like that the next gust of wind will knock you over." ;"I’ve seen blind men react faster than you Trygve!" ;"What did I tell you, huh? Use your damn shield or I’ll send you on your first raid without one, Gorm!"

Whenever Hvitserk makes such remarks you chuckle, always having enjoyed your friend’s carefree humor, especially in light of recent events, your laughter only intensifying when your shaking causes you to yank on his hair, making the man below you hiss as if fatally wounded.

Once you announce that your work on his hair is finished, Hvitserk leaps form his position on the ground and charges at who you now know is Gorm, shouting about how he’s gonna show him why he "better use his fucking shield."

Chuckling at Hvitserk’s antics, and sending a quick prayer to the gods in Gorm’s name, you turn your back to the sparring men, intent on continuing your interrupted walk. Only now do you realize how much time has passed, as the colors in the sky indicate that the evening is well on its way.

Deciding that it is way past time for you to head back to the city, you start strolling along the path you came from, letting your gaze travel leisurely over your surroundings. Over the houses growing bigger the further your walk, the waves crashing against the shoreline far off in the distance and the fields near the training grounds, where a few thralls are still busy tending to the crops growing there.

Peaceful certainly isn’t the first word you’d use to describe Kattegat, with the city and its citizens seemingly never resting, but that is precisely why you enjoy your daily walks oh so greatly. Taking things in from a distance, looking down on what usually seems so grand yet so small from up on the hills, being far away from the bustling market, masses of people and your newly acquired duties, everything seems so serene - truly peaceful - giving you a chance to let your mind wander.

Feeling a gust of wind blow through your hair, the cold slowly creeping down your neck, onto your back and into your bones, you pull the hood of your heavy fur coat up over your head, enjoying the last few minutes of your little retrieve, as you can already hear the sounds of the city grow louder.

Eventually stepping through one of the gated side entrances to the city leading directly onto the main market square, you find that even your modest clothing and the hood covering a significant amount of your face doesn’t make you any less recognizable. The few people happening to glance in your direction briefly bow their heads in acknowledgment of your presence and the vendors closest to where you walk by each greet you with some version of "Good evening, my Queen."

Queen. A word you have yet to get used to being addressed as - that you may never get used to being addressed as.

You nod politely at each person that acknowledges you, but keep walking, until your eyes fall onto a girl talking to a man at a stall just a few feet from where you’re standing. "Estrid!" Hearing her name she turns around and, after spotting you waving in her direction, hastily excuses herself from her conversation with the vendor, hurrying over to where you’re standing.

"My Queen", the young woman pants once standing in front of you, now hugging the basket once held in her hand to her stomach, "my apologies, I wasn’t aware you hadn’t returned yet. What can I do for you?"

Queen. Yes - definitely never going to get used to that.

"How many times must I remind you to call me y/n?", you ask Estrid, smiling kindly at her when she lifts her head to look at you, her brown, shoulder length hair no longer hiding her face. "I’m sorry, my Queen, but I hardly think it is appropriate to call you that", chewing on her bottom lip she nervously looks over her shoulder, "especially in public."

"Oh, nonsense", laughing lightly you put a hand on the girls shoulder, leading her to walk with you. This debate, if you could even call it that due to your respective positions, has been ongoing ever since you’d picked Estrid as your personal thrall not too long ago. Not that you’d felt the need for one, much rather having been persuaded by those around you.

"You know how I feel about that title", squeezing her shoulder gently you turn your head to look at her, "it is overwhelming enough to have most everyone else say it, I needn’t hear it said from someone who spends so much time with me as well."

Slowly Estrid’s shoulder relaxes under your hand and you finally hear her sigh out a quiet "Alright". After a short silence she looks up at you and finds herself faced with your expectant expression, one eyebrow raised in anticipation. "Alright… y/n."

Grinning you remove your hand, bumping her shoulder with your own. "Now that wasn’t so hard was it?" At this you hear Estrid giggle quietly, "I suppose not", her response followed by a comfortable silence, until you reach the edge of the market, leaving stalls and vendors behind, houses of all kinds now lying in front of you.

"So", the both of you slowing down to a halt, Estrid turns to question you once more, "What was it you needed, my Q- y/n?" Fondly shaking your head at her almost-slip-up you realize you’d truly forgotten about your reason for calling the girl. "Oh right! Well, as I’m sure you can tell, I may have lost track of time on my walk", you explain, "do you happen to know how much longer it is ’til the feast tonight?"

Tilting her head in thought, a cute quirk of hers that you quite adore, Estrid considers your question for a moment before replying, "I’d say the feast is a good two and a half hours out, if not longer, it is set to happen later than usual. I know the food preparations are well on their way, but I haven’t seen anyone readying the Great Hall yet."

You hum in acknowledgment to her explanation, when she perks up, "Oh, shall I assist you in getting ready? Do you wish to take a bath perhaps?" Smiling at her eagerness, you decline, "No need Estrid, thank you, I truly only meant to ask you about the feast. Actually - you’re relieved of any duties tonight, why don’t you go and enjoy the celebrations as well?"

Seeing her face scrunch up, ready to protest, you lift your hands to shush her, "Ahah, no, I won’t hear it. You do not get to decline." Hardening your expression in mock seriousness you continue, "Enjoy yourself. That is an order", the ridiculousness of it all making the both of you giggle.

Estrid beams at you, curtsying with a small bow of her head, "Thank you." Waving your hand as to say "it is nothing", you turn around, calling a "I will see you later, Estrid" over your shoulder, intent on finding- wait, you have absolutely no idea where he could be.

You stop, spinning on your heel to find Estrid still stood where you left her seconds ago, though making to walk away from you, "Oh, Estrid", you call, catching her attention, the girl promptly closing the few steps between you again. "One more thing - have you seen Ivar?"

Recognition spreads across her face, "I last saw the King in the Great Hall, the earl of Trondheim has left their meeting there not too long ago", Estrid explains, further supplying: "Perhaps he is resting in your bedchambers there?"

King. Now, whilst at odds with your own position, it always seemed to you as though King was a title made to be held by Ivar. It was like the gods had crafted it especially for him - and only for him - any prior bearers only trying it on for size, never quite living up to it. You were sure of this the day you had met him, the day you married him, the day a crown was first lain upon his head - you just failed to prepare for what would come along with your husbands destiny, how it would shape your own.

Shaking your head of those thoughts with a sigh, you thank Estrid, who curtsies once more, before finally heading on your way for good now, this time with an actual destination in mind.

Even though you deeply enjoy the time you spend in your daily walks, with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company, your mood brightens when you think of seeing Ivar again, even more so at the prospect of getting to spend a few hours alone with him before the feast. Perhaps that is why you find yourself at the Great Hall sooner than expected, time passing by quickly with your mind consumed by thoughts of your husband.

Husband. Oh, another one of those words, though you’ve got no thoughts to spare on that right now.

Leaving the grand wooden doors behind you, you’re intent on walking straight to your shared chambers, up and behind the twin thrones, where you’re sure a nice warm fire will be waiting for you alongside Ivar. You’re surprised then, to see him still standing ahead a table, looking down on a map, though you feel like he is more so looking through and not at the paper.

Nevertheless, you’re delighted to see him and wrap your arms around him from the side, once you’re standing next to him. He’s not surprised by your touch, evidently having noticed your arrival despite his apparent distraction, though he does feel tense.

"Hello love." Your greeting is spoken against his cheek, your lips leaving a soft kiss there. You walk away towards your chambers without waiting for a reply, only supplying "I’ll go warm up in our chambers", as you’re sure he’ll follow you, the "Join me?", thrown over your shoulder more so said out of habit than anything else.

"I did not realize how much time had passed", you continue, once you’ve stepped over the threshold to your room, pleased by the warmth there, a glance to your left towards the fireplace confirming at least one out of your two earlier suspicions.

Walking over to one of chairs surrounding a table standing at the wall to the right side of the room, you chuckle as you remember the chain of events that led you to be so late. "I passed Hvitserk at the training grounds, helped him with his hair. You should have seen-", draping your heavy fur coat over the chair you’re interrupted by Ivar replying from behind you, "Oh, I know. I saw."

Turning to face your husband, who’s now entered the bedchamber as well and is leaning against the wall opposite of you, standing right on the rug next to the fire, you tilt your head in question. "I was showing the earl of Trondheim around, all the way up to our fields", Ivar starts and immediately you sigh, wanting to reprimand him for needlessly straining his legs for a task that could just as well have been done by one of his men.

You don’t get the chance to however, as Ivar continues, "And imagine my surprise, when I saw my wife in the distance, sitting behind my brother, braiding his hair … laughing." There’s an odd tone to his voice, an edge almost, that you didn’t notice before, evidently having been to distracted, though you’re not quite sure what to make of it.

"You know", pushing those thoughts aside, as you’re pretty sure you’re imagining things, you keep your words light and teasing, "As I was trying to tell you - before I was ever so rudely interrupted - you should have seen his hair! I swear, no bird could have built a greater nest."

Your snickering dies down quickly when Ivar, who’s normally very eager to joke about his older brothers, doesn’t seem to share your amusement. If anything he seems even more tense than before, making your eyebrows knit together in confusion. You’re about to question Ivar if something is wrong, already fearing him to be in pain from his legs, when he speaks again: "You’ve never braided my hair before."

Baffled a second time this day, you blink at him, now thoroughly confused, for you are unsure whether he is joking with you. Deciding that this must be the case you jest, "Well that would be because you do not look like a scraggly rat when your hair is unkept."

Once again your attempt at humor falls on deaf ears, Ivars expression souring as he lets himself slide down the wall to sit on the rug with his legs spread in front of him. Instead of engaging in further conversation, as you would expect, he busies himself with readjusting and tightening the ties of his leg braces.

Realizing that, for whatever reason, he is giving you the cold shoulder you begin to question, "Alright what is it Ivar? Did I do something?" Receiving no reply, except a scoff, you grow agitated and, crossing your arms over your chest, you raise your voice, "Ivar I am talking to you!"

At this he lifts his head, a defensive look on his handsome face, "I just told you, did I not?" Agitation is evident in his tone as well, and your confusion grows even further, which must show on your face, because Ivar scoffs once more and tries to dismiss you, "Just forget it."

Shaking your head in frustration you reply, "No Ivar we will talk about this, whatever this is." When he fixes you with a stare that clearly expresses that he wants you to leave it, you throw your hands up in the air, "I just really don’t understand why you’re so irked about me braiding -"

"It’s not about the fucking braiding!", Ivar roars, his entire body shaking in rage, giving you a glimpse of the person so many men fear. Despite your elevated position, due to Ivar sitting on the ground as opposed to standing, you feel cornered and you flinch, recoiling a step back.

You’ve seen Ivar angry many times before, though his anger was never once directed at you, since you always managed to calm Ivar, not necessarily with words, but simply with your presence. A blessing you’ve always thought yourself lucky to have - though the Seer had laughed at you for your use of the word 'luck', explaining that Freya herself had crafted your bond with Ivar long ago, the goddess delighted by such a perfect match.

Your reaction to Ivars outburst therefor not due to fear, for you know he’d never hurt you, but much rather a display of shock.

It appears Ivar was startled as well, his face falling upon seeing your reaction, and taking a few deep breaths, he reigns himself in. When he speaks next, all agitation has left his voice, his words now carrying a defeated, almost shameful tone, "Forgive me."

Taking a deep breath yourself, you wave away his concern, "There is nothing to forgive". Your lowered voice matches Ivars, both of you having lost your respective tempers upon seeing the effect your agitation had on the other. Walking towards and then kneeling to the left of him, seeking to be closer, you lift your hand to gently grasp Ivar’s chin, letting go once his eyes have found your own once more, "Talk to me."

Sighing, your lover relents. "It is truly not about you braiding Hvitserk’s hair", he says, "It’s not even about my stupid brother either, it’s…". Seemingly struggling to find the correct words, or perhaps just with his own vulnerability, Ivar looks around the room, as though he’ll find answers in the oaken furniture, or the golden flames of the fire.

When he next sets his gaze on you, there is a sense of resolution in it, though you feel it is not without an air of sadness, and Ivar’s tone confirms your intuition. "I want to make you happy - the happiest woman in all of Midgard", he raises a hand to cradle your face and gives you a small smile, "but whenever I see you with another man I worry that I may not be able to do so - that I am holding you back."

Dropping his hand from your face again, Ivar continues, "And everyday I fear that you will see it too." Your heart squeezes at his admission, to see your husband so insecure unsettles you greatly, even though you’re not quite sure what has him thinking you could ever be happier in another man’s arms.

"My love", you begin, sliding your legs out from underneath you, moving so you’re leaning on your left hand, which you place between Ivars legs, your face now directly in his line of sight, "Where are these thoughts coming from? Why are you doubting my love for you? Why are you doubting yourself?" You shake your head in disbelief, Ivar’s previous words echoing in your head, "Look around you Ivar! Look at what you’ve achieved, all the people you lead-"

"That is not the same", Ivar interrupts you again, though his voice remains soft unlike before, "I do not doubt my abilities as king. But leading people - commanding people, it is a different matter. I can portray myself as I wish, put on any front I want if I so desire to, but I can do no such thing to win your love."

You’re still unsure what Ivar is talking about, but then his gaze falls upon his legs and his expression becomes sorrowful, "You will see beyond the braces holding me up, beyond any titles evidence of status and power, and beyond anything else that people may perceive, just to one day discern that what lies beneath is nothing more than the same cripple I have always been."

By the end of his tirade you have tears in your eyes, but you compose yourself, for it is now your time to speak, and you need him to understand. "Ivar look at me", you request, and when his blue eyes raise to meet yours, the dejection that’s present in them breaks your heart.

"Firstly, you needn’t win my love, for you have done so many years ago." Breaking the eye contact between the two of you, you look down at his legs, your hands following your gaze, starting to unbuckle the braces on his right leg. Sensing that Ivar wants to protest, you give him a stern look, one that tells him that you’re not done talking.

"I always say that I do not like when you call yourself a cripple. Now, that is not because of the word itself, but because of what you make it out to be." Once finished with the buckles themselves, you pause so you can remove the brace and after placing it aside, you then turn your attention to his other leg.

"I know you’re a cripple Ivar - you were sitting when we spoke our vows. I loved you then and I love you now. You speak as though your accomplishments are meaningless because of your legs, when in truth it is the other way around: Your limitations are meaningless, because you did not let them stop you from chasing your ambitions."

Now also done with the buckles on his left leg, you repeat the process of removing and placing aside the brace, and raise your head to meet Ivar’s eyes with your own. Smiling at him, you speak truthfully, "I am as proud of you when you walk, as when you crawl."

At that a smile graces Ivar’s face, the sadness vanishing from his eyes, an air of calmness taking its place, that is, until you speak your next words, "You should leave the braces off, at least for the rest of the night. You know it isn’t good for you to wear them so extensively."

Ivar begins to protest, only getting out: "We have important visitors -", as it is now your turn to cut him off. " know of our guests from Trondheim.", you assure him, "And I understand your motivation to make an impression."

When Ivar raises an eyebrow as if to say "So?", you continue, "Just like me, and anyone else who knows of you, they too are aware of your condition. Your braces won’t make them respect you - your triumphs, words and actions will. If anything, those are even more impressive when one considers the additional challenges you have faced and continue to face every day."

Swinging your left leg over both of his to straddle his thighs, mindful of holding most of your own weight, you cradle Ivars face in your hands. His blue eyes look up into yours with so much adoration your cheeks burn, and, certain you’d otherwise vanish under his intense gaze, you avert your eyes, focusing instead on where your fingertips are drawing invisible shapes on his cheekbones.

Ivars finger lifting your chin is what makes your eyes raise once more, the small wrinkles around his eyes the only indication that he is smiling, before he leans in to gently capture your lips with his own, an action that makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. Or are they butterflies? Surely such small creatures couldn’t possibly be responsible for the storm swirling in your stomach anytime Ivar touches you so softly - like you’re precious, something to be cherished.

When Ivar pulls back from the kiss your lips chase his, earning yourself another one of his smiles, those reserved only for you. "I love you", the words flow from his lips, said as though they are some fundamental truth, pulling your own confession from deep within your chest, "I love you too". Though truthfully, you’ve never needed any convincing to speak those words to him, for you couldn’t keep them to yourself, even if you tried, the phrase demanding to be spoken - and you always do, you’d shout it from your throne in the Great Hall for all of Kattegat to hear, if it were appropriate. Speaking of…

"Do you have any more obligations before the feast?", you ask Ivar, who in response only shakes his head, slightly surprised by your question, at such a time. "Good", you beam at him, lifting yourself out of his lap. Ivars expression quickly morphs from intrigued to very much displeased, which you pay no mind, going first to retrieve something from your coat, then from your dresser.

Ivars intrigue is quick to return, when you come back to where he’s sitting, with a comb and a few thin leather straps in hand, motioning for him to reposition himself on the rug, so that you may sit behind him. He does so wordlessly, comfortably sinking into your chest once you’re seated, as to grant you better access to his hair.

Before you can begin braiding, Ivar catches your left hand to bring it to his mouth, placing a kiss on your knuckles. You don’t have to. You lean in closer, your lips pressing to where his shoulder meets his neck. I want to.

Unlike with Hvitserk, no words are spoken in the hour or two it takes you to braid Ivars hair, a comfortable silence allowing you to just bask in the others presence, not even disturbed once you hear the sounds of preparations throughout the Great Hall through the door to your chambers. The steady movements of your hands only occasionally interrupted by the kisses Ivar peppers on your fingertips, the palm of your hand, the inside of your wrist - you matching him one for one, your lips meeting his neck, cheek, that special spot behind his ear.

No fair

You really know how to make me cry

When you gimme those ocean eyes

You were intimidated. After all, for all its beauty, the ocean certainly harbors many dangers, though you had a feeling you’d drown oh so willingly in Ivar. Getting to work, you were surprised by your blurring vision, fat droplets rolling down your cheeks and to your chin, from where they’d fall onto the man below. You had always been able to easily distance yourself from your patients pain, having sat through the screams of amputations and the likes of which without batting an eye, but once you saw the agony written so plainly on Ivars face, his eyes scrunched shut, hiding that breathtaking blue from you, there was nothing you could do to stop yourself.

I'm scared

I've never fallen from quite this high

Fallin' into your ocean eyes

And that terrified you, your hands trembling in the bowl you were washing his blood off of your arms in. Less than two hours had passed. Two hours in his presence was all it took for you to fall, to be certain that it wasn’t air keeping you alive - that you what you truly needed was to go under in the cerulean of Ivar gaze, forever cursed to only feel like you’re breathing when his water fills your lungs. When you made to leave, to get someone else to watch over him, Ivar called out for you to "Stay. Please", his eyes pleading and you unable to deny.

Those ocean eyes

I've been walkin' through a world gone blind

Can't stop thinkin' of your diamond mind

Conversation with Ivar was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. They say that the eyes are the window to one’s soul, granting a glimpse at what lies beneath, a reflection of ones thoughts, emotions and very being. If that was truly the case, you could only imagine the gods frustration whilst crafting Ivars. Some perhaps considering giving him diamonds for eyes, though ultimately settling for something more earthly, having Ægir* capture the oceans in two tiny orbs, in their best effort to portray the multifaceted nature that makes up Ivar.

Careful creature made friends with time

He left her lonely with a diamond mind

And those ocean eyes

He was reserved, but just like the inevitability of the flood returning after a tide, it seemed as though no force on earth could stop the strengthening of the bond between you and Ivar. You had thought that maybe once his wounds were healed, once he was free to join his brothers again on the last few remaining raids, that he would stray from you, but he always returned. Perhaps, he could no longer breathe without you either.

No fair

You really know how to make me cry

When you gimme those ocean eyes

Upon your return to Kattegat you’d both gotten so used to the other as a primary need, surely not even Odin could have separated you now. Navigating life with Ivar wasn’t always easy, calm waters at times replaced by stormy ripples, so intense you’d hear nothing other than the roaring of the crashing waves around you, but you always managed to lead each other safely back to shore.

I'm scared

I've never fallen from quite this high

Fallin' into your ocean eyes

The day you first told Ivar you loved him, you were as terrified as they day you almost lost him, before ever truly having him. But, like that day, there was nothing you could do to stop yourself, so you had let yourself fall… and landed safely in Ivar, his own confession surrounding you, welcoming you like the ocean on a hot summer day. The both of you were letting yourself drift, your love for one another enough to keep you afloat.

Those ocean eyes

No fair

You really know how to make me cry

When you gimme those ocean eyes

Now, looking down at the head resting on your lap, those eyes you adore more than anything else staring up into yours, you feel at peace. The blue supplying your lungs with the water they’ve grown so accustomed to. That is until Ivar walks up to where you’re sitting, the child on your lap excitedly cooing up at him, rising and walking on wobbly legs to his father.

I'm scared

I've never fallen from quite this high

Fallin' into your ocean eyes

You almost grow sad at the thought that your son is old enough to walk already, until your gaze settles on the bump of your stomach, remembering the Seers prophecy, that many more sons are to follow - seven in total. Studying the view in front of you, Ivar hugging little Iuar* to his chest, the beauty of their eyes only overshadowed by their radiant smiles, you’re reminded of the intuition you had so many years ago in your tent, smiling as it now rests confirmed: Yes, you’d oh so willingly drown in

Those ocean eyes

*Ægir is a jötunn and a personification of the sea in Norse mythology

After the funeral and Lagertha properly arrested for the murder of his mother, Ubbe came home with his portion of his mother’s things. Among them was a dark brown, oak chest painted with deep red paint. You broke into the chest the second he said you could, plopped on the dark brown floorboards of the kitchen while Ubbe pulls the cork to a bit of deep red wine.

“Oh my god are these your baby pictures?!” You bob your head, a nestle of tight curls bobbing. Ubbe glances over his shoulder at the items you pull out of the little chest. A warm blanket, symbols of Freyja, onesies and little shoes. In your rich sepia hands is a deep red photo album. He turns with your and his glass in his hands, scooting to sit beside you. He hands you yours, swirling his wine around.

“She kept chests for all of us.” Ubbe says. You crack open the deep red album, looking at a photo of Aslaug in labour. You never saw a woman look so damn good after hours of agony but then-- flipping a few crinkly pages, you choke out a laugh.

“God damn, Ubbe!” You laugh, running your fingers over the side of round, bright red baby cheeks swollen to all get out. Your lips pull into a bright smile, pulling up at your deep bronze cheeks. “You were ugly! Who made you like this?”

“Shut up.” Ubbe grumbles, flicking a few pages to the so deemed ‘cuter’ baby pictures. “I was not.”

You lift your sculpted eyebrows high up on your forehead, bringing your wine to your lips with a balking laugh around the rim. “I don’t know about none of that, Ubbe. White babies always come out weird.”

“All babies are cute. They’re babies.” Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say either because Ubbe turns to look at you with a line of crinkles above his forehead. Babies were cute. You could dress them up in whatever which way and make them look adorable. That was beyond the point. Physically, you think, white babies were the least cute.

“Don’t worry Ubbe, most white boys grow up fine.” You shrug off talk of ugly babies, closing the album and leaning over to tickle his beard with your manicured fingertips. It should have been some sort of consolation, but he’s clearly pouting with that look in his very light almost airy eyes.

“Well then you won’t have an issue having one?” He asks though the statement is as deadpan as any statement you’ve ever heard out of your brother-in-law Ivar’s lips. You almost choke on your wine, pulling it from your painted lips.

“Are you asking me for a baby?” You return a question.

“Ugly ones, apparently.” Ubbe finishes his glass, pushing it away and inspecting you carefully. “You want one, don’t you?”

You laugh. “Of course I do!”