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honestsycrets · 3 years

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Mine, Mine, Mine | [ Ivar x Reader, Domestic Fluffs ]

❛ pairing | King!Ivar x Queen!Reader

❛ genre | drabble

❛ summary | it’s hard work, appeasing everyone. after he comes home from raid, he just has one question.

❛ warnings | needy, moody, sassy reader, jealousy (reader), he’s just trying to keep up, mention of raid and kidnapping and all that entails.

❛ sy’s notes | hello, hello. after a bit of a health scare and some high-level school stress, i’m back. request from @whenimaunicorn for hand-holding under the table except this reader wasn’t nearly as sweet as i thought she would be and ended up being a moody bitch. 😂

Crowds filter into his great hall. They want his gold, to hear of his stories, his speeches that will be sung from the lips of a hundred skalds one day—another busy day at the crown of Kattegat’s throne. You move to the chair where you oversaw the depths of Kattegat’s problems while he was away, a timely revolt, and the outlaws you dragged into the sea.

He smells of sweat and sea salt. He’s left you waiting out at the shore for his flag so long. Then finally, he’s home. The men after glittering pounds of gold, sprawled across the table in front of the throne. The glittering gold on the table has dwindled down to nothing but scraps of bracelets. The women-- oh, you know how they stare, longing that one cherished kiss at the end of his speeches.

It was yours tonight. Like it always should be. You trace the place his lips were, revel in his lasting kiss, and feel his eye settle on you. For just one moment in the lasting moment of this hideously long day, it was okay. Your cheeks fill with a youthful warmth, embarrassed by his eye on your pursed lips. Your hand drops, swirling around the head of a seat his mother sat on once too.

“What is it?”

It’s almost routine, the way his calloused fingers trail over your knuckles. He gingerly caresses the top of your fingers, slipping between the spaces of your knuckles, grazing over and over again until he finds the confidence to hold your hand.

“Did you miss them?” he asks.

For a moment, you stare out at the swirling bodies—a blend of muddy hues, vibrant heads of blonde and ruddy brown. You don’t answer at first, looking down at your empty plate.

“Miss what?”

As if you hadn’t just been staring at the place he kissed.

Ivar brings his horn to your lips. It tastes better when he’s home as if nature knows when to sweeten the honey and freshen the mead. He must have been in a hurry to return home-- if he came in the depths of spring rather than raid away the summer. Perhaps it is because he had been gone more than a year. Only the word of messengers alerted you that his raid in Sweden with Bjorn had gone as well as it could with two stubborn Ragnarssons side by side.

“My kisses. What else? You stare so longingly at your hand every time I come back.” he prompts without much success. The raid was longer than it should have been, you know he knows that. More than time, though, you’ve gone without the warmth of his body strewn in yours in bed. His hand feels clammy.

“My sweet,” he says again. “Don’t ignore me.”

There’s a pretty privilege in seeing him duck his head down rather than stare directly at you, as he so often did to the men that served under him. Or above him when King Harald and Hvitserk were alive. He bobs his head in recognition that your mind was made up; you’d make him suffer, and he would sleep on one of the beds bound up by chains in the great hall. Just as he reaches for his crutch, you squeeze his sweaty hand.

“What did you bring me home from the raid?” you redirect his attention, reaching for the remnants of gold—bracelets of solid yellow gold, earrings with filigree, gentle and refined. You snatch an earring and bounce it in your palm.

“A sword.” Your Ivar chuckles. Warm, low, as if you needed anything else to warm your belly.

“A sword, he says.” He raises his hand to reach over the table toward the sword in question. You snatch his hand where it was suspended in the air. When everyone else brought home wives or thralls? Did he think you were stupid?

“Yes-- a sword. Is that so unbelievable?”

“It must be a tremendously beautiful sword to be picked among all the things in Al-Andalus.” you hum in the softest of husks. He knows the purpose; it’s a dance between you and him, a moment of love. You release his hands to loiter over him, trailing your fingers past his long fingerlike braids that tumble down his back. “Hvitserk told you all about the Mediterranean. Are the women there pretty?”

“Not particularly,” he lies.

You shoot him a wan look.

“Are you lying?”

A terrible laugh surges free from his throat. The women had to be pretty. The women there with russet or ivory skin, eyes as dark as night, or as warm as the wood that fortified your home with him. Some flirt behind their silks, even with you! You like the outgoing ones. You’ve always loved a strong woman as one yourself.

“Yes. Of course, they are. Why would I sail my men so far for ugly women?” he laughs, and you whop his shoulder, easing back into your chair.

“And all you brought home was a sword.”

“I know my wife. If I was to bring home a sunkissed beauty--” Ivar scrunches his nose up, a wealth of wrinkles bunches at the broad ridge. “You would be jealous.”

“Why would I be jealous?”

You snatch his cup from his fingers and chug it down. All in one. He watches a dribble of the liquid dabble down your chin, catching it with his thick finger in one long stroke up your throat to your jaw. You drop the horn upon the table and turn your head toward him, drawing your lips over his lips. You’ve missed the taste of his plush lips, tickled with a bit of salt and booze, despite his growing smile.

“My love, you are always jealous.”

#ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar ragnarsson x reader #ivar/reader #ivar the boneless/reader #ivar x you #Ivar the Boneless imagines #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings x reader

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honestsycrets · 3 years

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The Phantom | Ubbe x Reader x Ivar

❛ pairing | raoul!ubbe x reader x phantom!ivar

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | you're used to a life with the phantom when ubbe comes back into your life.

❛ tags | love triangles (as usual), POTO fic, phantom!ivar, raoul!ubbe, disabilities, mention of parental abandonment, general ivar appropriate violence

❛ Chapter I | Think of Me

#ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar/reader #ivar the boneless/reader #ubbe x reader #ubbe ragnarsson x reader #ivar ragnarsson x reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings/reader #vikings x reader

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honestsycrets · 3 years

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Big Bear | [ Modern!Ivar x Reader ] V3

❛ pairing | modern!ivar x reader

❛ type | snippet

❛ summary | he’s just a little mean.

❛ tags | ivar being a tease, mean ivar, height differences, bitchy reader.

❛ sy’s notes | i thought of @bonniebird when i wrote this. i think she’s one of the shortest girls i know 😂i was told i can write clunky, but I’m not going to let that hold me back! ❤️

“There’s my beautiful woman.”

Maybe it was cruel. But maybe Ivar was just mean spirited at heart.

“Are you serious?”

Walking with the massive stuffed animal tucked under his arm was a feat on its own-- but a feat that was worth it when he got to see the shock on your face. Of course, you were used to his antics after five years as his girlfriend. Ivar pursed his lips as you stood gasping at the doorway. Not a good one, he might add.

“Ivar! You bought be a fucking-- where am I to put this? It is huge!” you switched your weight from one leg to another.

“I thought you liked huge,” Ivar laughed. His head bobbed to acknowledge the height difference. More than a foot-- almost two. He enjoys being the big one. Making you very aware of that fact was essential! “I’ve sprayed it with my cologne. So you can give my clothes back as painful as it is to ask my scared little kitten that.”

“Nuh,” you bopped Ivar in the chest. “Cute. But that’s not how that works.”

He sighs.

“It was worth a shot. Now go ahead. Take it in so we can leave. ” Ivar grasped the bear by its red velvet collar and pushed it toward your chest. At 6’ it stood a great many heads taller than your pathetic 4’9.

Ivar suppressed his wee smile despite burning laughter crawling up the back of his throat. You grappled with the chocolate thing, dragging it into your home with much less ease than he had. “How am I supposed to find somewhere for this?! Ivar-- Ivar! Fuck you. Don’t you-- don’t you laugh!”

“Too late. I bought that full life sized teddy bear just to see you waddle. It was worth it.”

“Fuck you, Ivar.”

#ivar x reader #ivar/reader #ivar the boneless/reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar ragnarsson x reader #ivar ragnarsson/reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings/reader #Vikings x reader

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honestsycrets · 3 years

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Never and Always II: A Cold Bath.

❛ pairing | ivar x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | hvitserk wants to take an ice bath. oleg questions the reader about england.

❛ tags | verbal arguments, fear of Ivar, reader attempts to jump in sea, athelstansdaughter!reader, possible triangles, ivar isn’t the villain, implied previous ivar x reader, nsfw-borederline, oblivious hvitserk

The ice is frosty under your ass. A circle of ice had been cut, as you were told, for Oleg’s beautiful wife. After she was done with it, Hvitserk had this great idea. He slung his forest green tunic to the ground and unraveled his pants, all while you held your face between your fingertips. His hands ran together as he warmed himself up from the cold that slurried through the air toward his pale cheeks.

“What are you hiding for?” he laughs.

He’s in. You hear his body dip in-- but more than that, you feel his large hands on your calves, working up your dress from your knees. You squeak and peek through your eyes. His broad shoulders look… you gasp in a breath. He’s beautiful under the warm light of your room, when he’s pulling on his tunic, but better like this. When his blotchy and black tattoos are complemented by the frosty air. His hacksilver pendant rests on his hirsute chest. Just waiting for you to join in.

“Hvitserk, don’t--” you squeak, finding that his hands have left for the many ties on your sides. “I don’t have anything under this!”

He glances around. The unmoving guards are turned around. Like anyone would care to watch you. You might be a princess: but you’re far removed from the lines of royalty by which name you claimed.

“Since when have you cared?” Hvitserk mumbles, working them free. “Lift your hips.”

You obey. He adds another piece of clothing to the pile to the left of him, averting his eyes to yours. Was he looking? As Hvitserk offers up his battle-worn hands to yours, you realize he isn’t. He helps you scoot off the ledge and into the waiting waters-- and into his arms. Your chest bumps into his, cool waters hardening your nipples into erect peaks.

“It’s cold--” you excuse, setting your hand on top of his chest for support. You can’t help yourself: you swathe your fingers over his hacksilver pendant, tracing the golden corners of it nestled between golden hairs. His eyes linger on your finger. “I’m surprised you still have this.”

“Why?”

You press your lips together. “Paris was a long time ago, Hvitserk.”

He urges you back against the wall of ice to allow for some well-deserved distance between your bodies. You’re at a lack for his warmth, the way his hairy chest felt against your breast, or the way you had to ignore his nether regions as he swam in place.

“Not in my mind. In my mind, it was a day ago,” Hvitserk reaches for a pitcher of mead. How it isn’t iced over by now, you’re not sure. He gives you a cup and takes one for himself. “Have you and Ivar…”

“No,” you cut him off. “Not after he left my room.”

He drinks a full swash, bouncing between his pale cheeks before swallowing. You flush. “He hasn’t forgiven you.”

More than me, you’re reminded. The way his nostrils flared or heat behind his dark eyes. You’re a long way from Kattegat, but what happened… it’s there with you. You turn over in the icy pool and allow your hips to float freely while in thought. More than Ivar.

“He’ll get over it, Thor willing.”

Hvitserk joins you and finishes his drink. “We all thought he would marry you.”

You pour yourself another drink. “He proposed to me.”

“And you said…?”

You bore into the reflection of the cup.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Very well,” Hvitserk sighed, shifting himself around. With his back to the ice, he settles his arms back on the wall to balance himself. “You shouldn’t wear those rags from home. They do nothing for your body.”

The rags from home were safe. The clothes that Katya had given you were… showy. They were meant to make a spectacle. While here among the Rus, that was not what you wanted to do. You peer over to Hvitserk, “What would you know of my body?”

“I know you’ve filled out,” Hvitserk answers with his head tipped back. He lifts his head again, moving to sock your arm with his closed fist. “You should flaunt it. We might need a woman’s touch with Oleg.”

“I plan to keep myself as far away from that dog as possible.” You snap, turning your face down into your arm. Whatever the reason Hvitserk wanted you to dress more… alluringly, it was wrapped in political conquest. He noticed your body and yet, the moment that you waited for? It was… bittersweet. It was a pawn in the game of chess. “He has plenty of whores.”

“Not English princesses,” Hvitserk says pointedly.

“I am not English. I am heathen,” you splash your drink in his face. Hvitserk flicks his head to the side and then up. In that short expanse of time, you’ve pulled yourself out of the water. He watches as you snatch your brown bag of a dress and yank it over your head. “And you are a fool to think otherwise.”

“Princess,” he reaches out, catching your thigh in his sturdy grip. He applies an amazing amount of pressure to keep you in place until he can slip between your legs, floating whilst you pull the dress down. “I know I am, but I am a fool who wants to keep you alive.”

You slide out from underneath him. You could do that yourself.

Your little servant knew you hated the dress. Not minding that your legs were accustomed to slacks or that… your usual staples were drab. She was in tune with every instance of uncertainty you had. She’s a mouse of a girl, small but soft and loving. Her soft brown eyes pale and her body thin, she makes herself smaller when Hvitserk enters the room.

“What do you think?” you ask her honest opinion, spinning in place, and stopping to look at the woman in the mirror. She’s foreign to you. You gestured to your gown. “You think the boys will approve?”

She clasps her hands together, nodding with a bob of her long veil. She grins a wide gap-toothed smile.

“Why don’t you speak?” you ask her. “Are you mute?”

You swap a look as Hvitserk bounces past the wooden room divider and seizes your wrist. You had questions the girl whose presence flooded the room like a shadow and yet still slept in a bed near the door.

“There you are. You took my advice,” there’s a slight pause, then a smile. “Come, Ivar is waiting for us to say hello to Prince Oleg and his wife. Is this gold?”

There’s only so much you can ask of your Hvitserk now that he was awake and well. Apparently asking that he be attentive was too much to ask of him. His mind is constantly running; even when he is quiet.

“Yes, I think so.”

“It’s nice,” he remarks of the dress. You don’t know why you expected more. Or why it hurt when he glazed it over so easily. As though it meant nothing to him when it felt like it should have meant something. Of course, it meant nothing, you reminded yourself. He didn’t know it should mean something.

“I will see you soon,” you call back to your slave girl. She waves curtly and picks up the strewn clothes around the room.

The floors in Oleg’s castle seem to stretch for miles. All virtually the same; minus the change in the appearance of the guard. Some tall, some short. They all have the same dark hair and hard black eyes. You fiddle with the pendant of Thor that hands above your chest at Ivar’s room. Hvitserk dips inside, and moments later, appears with your once-was lover.

Ivar seems to wear all the same clothes. Baggy, ill-formed, horrendously brown. If you had to see Ivar in brown, you preferred the tunics from home. Shaped to his muscular arms, the neck slightly pulled apart, with a view of his muscular chest and the proud pendant of Thor, that matched your own, beating on his chest.

“--The dress.”

“I’m sorry?” you spoke, moistening your lips for the memory. Talk of this horrendous gown tips you off to Ivar’s voice. You lifted your head from staring at the intricate, but ugly ties at his chest to look him in the eye. He leans in and bumps into your chest.

“You look beautiful in the dress.”

Ivar always noticed you. The warmth that flooded your face wasn’t exactly something that you could withhold, not when he met your eyes with such force. He brought his hand up to your anxious fiddling and forced it to still.

“Thank you.”

“So then why would you wear it, uh?” he asks next. His nose scrunches up, bearing his gleaming white teeth.

“What?”

“He is a womanizer and here you are,” his head tilts to the side, rounding out. Here he goes. You can’t suppress your eyes rolling up as his hand twirls up your side, condescending: just like Bjorn. “--dressed in gold silks and a glistening crown. Calling for his attention! Do you not know the value of a plain dress?”

Hvitserk remains as still as the guards behind him.

“Hvitserk told me to dress up,” you hiss back. “Is that not enough?”

“Hvitserk--” Ivar bobbles his head, rolling his eyes in mimicry. “What does Hvitserk know of men? He does not even know what he wants most days.”

You let out your suppressed breath and pick up your skirts. By all appearances, Ivar was maintaining his image. He lurches out to seize your arm, stopping you in place from storming off back down the halls.

“I don’t say these things to--” Ivar breaks into a huff of air, “I say them to keep us safe. If we were home, you could wear whatever you wanted and it would not be an issue. Now stop making that face.”

“It is my face. What would you have me do?” you arch your brows up at him, challenging his words with a soft gleam in your eyes. “Wear a bag and pretend to be a proper Saxon girl?”

“You’re too mouthy for that. We could never fool Oleg like that.”

“The guards have already seen her,” Hvitserk leans forward. “Let her wear it.”

The weight of Ivar’s eyes fall upon you like iron weights. You remain voiceless when he turns on his brother like a snake, Ivar rules his lower lip in between his teeth. Then out. His expression remains hooded and dark as he starts down the hall. “This is your fault.”

The dress does not inspire many friends. It’s soft golden silk contrasts against brilliant sapphire blue. With its long waterfall sleeves and cinched waist, you should have a family of admirers. Instead, you have a proud dog and a scowling ex-lover. Oleg hums and prompts your name.

“I have recently heard you are a princess. An English princess.”

Here you go.

“Where did you hear that?” You can play along, despite the words that had seized up the contents of your belly. Ivar was right. This was a game. Your mouth was dry with apprehension for his response.

“I’ve foreseen it,” he says sharply. Or on the lips of his guards. “I’ve not come by the manner in which my beloved Ivar came upon you so haply.”

“He didn’t. His father Ragnar and his dearest friend, my father, Athelstan did,” you told the prince in punctuated words. “My mother Judith abandoned me with them. She knew I would not survive in Wessex.”

“As a baby?”

“Yes,” you say. “But I am a heathen.”

“I’ve no doubt of that. I know a heathen when I see one. Tell me of this-- Alfred the Great.”

“I know nothing of him,” you rap your knuckles over the table. “Only that he is my twin.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. I was raised by a boatbuilder, you see. Ragnar’s cruel punishment.” You wish that he would stop asking you so many questions. It was a long time since you dreamed of England and the family that you could have had. Maybe, you could have met Ivar there. He would have hated you.

“And of England?”

“You should ask Ivar. I’ve never been.”

He leans back in his chair.

“That is fine. It has been a long day-- and I anticipate, a longer night. I hope you enjoyed your ice bath with Hvitserk.” In that split second, Ivar turned his head over toward you. The pain resurfaces a power you never knew you had over him. Regret hits you like a shield on the battlefield, forcing you to lurch in your chair, setting a hand on his thigh. Ivar’s eye snaps down to your hand over his calibers.

“What bath?”

Oleg chuckles, warm and cruel. “They bathed together in Katya’s pool. Did they not tell you?”

His head hangs, focused on your delicate palm over his firm thigh. Out of the corner of his eye, his raw stare centered on you. You have noting to be ashamed about. You were not his anymore. You had no reason to feel as if you had, yet again, betrayed Ivar the Boneless. You had done nothing wrong!

Oleg snatches the cloth to clean his face. He wipes crumbles from his beard and drops the cloth on the plate. He excuses himself with his young wife. “Let us talk of England tomorrow, Ivar. I am— interested.”

“Ivar--” your voice sounds small. Too small for a woman whose life was once wound up in being on the battlefield beside a man like Ivar the Boneless. You feel small as you struggle to explain, swirling in a whirlpool of thought. Ivar throws off your hand from his thigh and closes his eyes. With one smooth inhale and exhale of breath, he stands up. He doesn’t have to ask Igor to stand up either. The future grand prince is up, trailing his steps, a puppy after the larger dog that might as well be his father.

“You should go to him.” Hvitserk breaks the silence after Ivar’s thrumming steps fizzled out. “Explain that it wasn’t what he thinks it is.”

That earlier that day, you hadn’t felt a zing of excitement when Hvitserk’s naked chest bumped into yours. That attention of his you craved-- it was nothing. Hvitserk’s hands are turned over his clothed chest now. You try to swallow your pride.

“He knows what it is,” you turn your face toward Hvitserk. Oleg’s many servants pick half eaten gold dishes from the table in front of you. Your eyes pricked as you ran your hands together. Your gown feels somewhat hotter, somewhat harder to stand in. Hvitserk tilts his head slightly. Something wasn’t right.

“Knows what-- what is?” Hvitserk asked.

You’re a coward. If you were half the man that Ivar was, you would be able to tell Hvitserk your deepest, newly realized secret. The air in your chest was punched out. You couldn’t, not now. It aches a whole in your chest. “It’s nothing. I should go.”

You walk back to your room with a knot greater than any battle had given you. You knew why; that your stomach was unsettled by Oleg’s push for England and its riches. The rich green soil and lapping beaches that Ragnar would tell you about. Back when you wondered of whom you came from. Who was Judith? Or Alfred? The thoughts were painful to recall as the child that had been so easily sent away. The door beside you whirled open. A hand launched out and yanked you into the dark room. The buckles alerted you to Ivar’s presence.

“Ivar?”

“Hush,” the door whizzed closed again. It falls with a heart shattering clank against its hinges. You wait til the noise outside the door has settled to walk toward a singular chair among blonde furs. It looks like home. You take a seat and wait for the impending ass whipping you anticipate is careening your way. In its place, Ivar snakes forth.

“He will want to fight Alfred.”

You tilt your head. “And? What concern is that of mine?”

“You know why.”

In the West, where your brother was, you would be faced with the obligation to fight one way or another. Surely Oleg knew your reputation for fighting with the brothers. But you could not-- imagine taking the life of your brother. Even if you did not know his quality.

“It won’t be an issue unless you make it one.”

“Hm,” Ivar reaches out. You jerk back, allowing his hand to curl back in. As his hand becomes a fist, he nods through his thoughts. “Then you had better not betray me a third time.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a second.”

He slips open the door.

“You’re running away, again?”

There’s a moment-- when you think he’ll just smile and close the door behind him. After all, with Hvitserk’s rantings and ravings, it was very easy to do so. You want him the rejection that will follow. Rather, Ivar stabs the ground and maneuvers around to face your accusation.

“I wish you the best in your first marriage with my own flesh and blood,” he mocks, spreading his hand out in half of a bow. “Good night, Princess.”

He might as well have said bitch.

#ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar/reader #ivar the boneless/reader #vikings imagines #viking imagines #Ivar the Boneless imagines

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honestsycrets · 3 years

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Snippets from Patreon | Red and Black [ Ivar x Reader ]

❛ pairing | ivar x reader

❛ type | snippet

❛ summary | ivar’s wife has trouble keeping his children.

❛ tags | miscarriage, mention of miscarriage, heavy angst, hurt and comfort.

❛ sy’s notes | hi everyone! I’m moving my posting day to Saturdays. In its place I have some pieces that I actually had not posted to tumblr from my patreon according to @alicedopey

His wife sobs helplessly, draped over the floor and soiled with blood. An abled man could drop to her, pick her up, set her on the bed, cherish her and love her to life. Ivar-- Ivar could not some of these things. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He drags himself to where you knelt in pain before your private altar, chipped with statues of Frigg, three crumpled flowers dried on top.

“I’m okay--” you say, though your voice is meek and frail, and you say it again. “Please, Ivar, go to bed.”

He sets you on your side to look at the blood before cursing the guards to life. What more could they do that you had not already? Your head drops on his naked chest, rolling cheek to the overworked lines of his tattoos, exhaling loud and clear for him to hear.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know. It’s not new,” you say. He swings his and around, cupping your long locks with one large hand. You grip his forearm with hands kept by black and red cord, wrenching forced laughter, that degenerates into sick choked sobs. He holds you there, allowing his tears to dribble past his cheeks-- but never allowing them to flow as evenly as yours.

I’m sorry, you mouth, over and over again. Only wishing that enough sorries could change the fact that at the end of the night, Ivar would take the red and black cord from your fingers. He would fix your altar where your prayers every night fell on deaf ears. Then, he would drape them on top of Frigg’s open hands where the other four were. And there, with his siblings, your little one would find his rest.

#ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar's heathen army #ivar/reader #ivar the boneless/reader #ivar x you #ivar/you #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings/reader #vikings x reader

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honestsycrets · 3 years

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Evergreen [ Ivar x Reader ]

❛ pairing | ivar x reader

❛ type | drabble

❛ summary | door six for @ivarsrideordie meets a request for setting up a christmas tree with Ivar.

❛ tags | drabble, mention of fighting, modern au, short and sweet.

All you wanted for the holiday season was a fresh tree. The one you had was big and tall and maybe close to touching the roof; sure. It should be perfect, in theory, but it was fake. Its plasticy limbs didn’t immerse your home in that homely scent of the season that Ivar insisted you light a quote on quote dumb candle for. Instead, all it did was remind you of how you probably should have taken your ornaments and Jul log outside. There had been many a fight about it.

There’s a loud booming knock at the front door. At this time in the afternoon, he should be at work. Perhaps he forgot something at home, you thought, bundling up in a warm burgundy blanket and slipping down from your comfortable couch toward the front door. Outside, your boyfriend howled your name like another dog. Much like your dogs, baying at the front door that daddie was home yet again.

With a pop of the lock, you swung the door open.

“Daddie’s home, Kohlie,” you said, bundled uptight. You quickly realized that no-- it’s not just Ivar who wheels his sad ass in after the latest fight, hauling the base of a clumsily chopped tree. There’s Hvitserk too. Across your man’s lap, you recognize the axe that his father left him after his death.

“You didn’t!” you giggled as you inspected the other end. The happy go lucky puppy, Hvitserk, bobbed in after Kohlie and Ivar, holding the opposing end of a tree that weren’t exactly the same size as your perfect fake Christmas tree. It had imperfections: like people. That was why you loved them. Different in their own ways! Unique; not like the tree that Ivar had brought home on a trip home after the supermarket. “It’s a real tree!”

“I did.” Ivar heaved the wheel of his chair, inwardly smiling and outwardly displaying his glee at your reaction with the twinge of a smile on his lip.

“Hate to break this up but— It’s not exactly the lightest thing you’ve bought.” Hvitserk grumbled as you closed the door behind him.

“Shhh, let me enjoy things,” you bit back. You alleviated the weight off of Ivar to waddle with Hvitserk, bossing him toward your favorite area: the bedroom. Ivar hates the lights. Moreso the glittery, obnoxious star on top. But he would put up with it; if he had to.

Oh and he had to.

“By the creeper window?” Ivar asks, motioning to the large bay windows you loved. Ivar was less fond of it: he installed the blinds claiming some creepy old man would see you changing despite the fact that he’d been sure to move thirty-- no, forty minutes out of the city.

“Yes, Ivar, by the creeper windows.“

“Just pick a place,” complains Hvitserk as he waddles with you. Once it’s leaned against the wall, he hops back down to Ubbe’s truck for the base. It’s not easy to get it up; but you two manage with Ivar’s impeccably picky guidance. Hvitserk excuses himself out, grumbling about his back-- just to make Ivar feel a little guilty.

It leaves Ivar scooting around the room to the plastic bin you had out for Christmas. Your hands land on the low back of his wheelchair, whirling him around. He releases his hold on his wheels and allows you to climb over him, cupping his stubbly cheeks and kissing his dry lips once, twice, three times-- he could get used to that.

“It’s exactly what I wanted. Just think about it! We can decorate it and have Christmas in here-- just me and you. Red and-- white? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Exactly what you wanted was a slightly patchy, tilty green tree. It smelled of Christmas and whatever other insect was probably crawling around on it. He’d been careful chopping this one down with his brother; and still, he knew he had work to do on it. Forget the lights, the ornaments: it would be a pain to crawl his ass under to water every single fucking day. Not to mention fighting with the temperature of the room. It was going to be a pain in the ass to deal with this thing.

“Are you listening, Ivar?”

But if you looked at him like that, he thought, it might just be worth it. Your lips brushed over his, teasing a kiss with gentle motions. When they finally clasp over his, he smiles through the kiss.

“If that’s what you want, baby.”

#ivar x reader #ivar/reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless/reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine

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honestsycrets · 4 years

Text

Mirror, Mirror III: Particularly Useless

❛ pairing | ivar x reader, implied!ivar x freydis

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | you’re panicking. and panicking. and panicking. and ivar isn’t helping.

❛ tags | verbal arguments, OI reference, body swap, witchy themes, pregnancy mention, time traveling, some fighting, confusion and anxiety.

There were two conclusions you came to.

One.) You had been dreaming as a result of leftover enchiladas-- of which Ivar had scrunched his nose up at-- and of which you had told him he had to taste to understand the intricate flavour combinations of. He and his sour skyr could never understand! (Then again, the skyr wasn’t half bad after you bothered to try it.)

Or Two.) This was very much real and whatever happened when you had cracked your fist in that mirror had splintered whatever curse was there and by proxy sucked you in thinking, just maybe, it was Ivar trying to break out. It seemed… plausible, right?

After all, the Ivar standing before you was much different than your snarky asshole of a… mirror-mate. Ivar 2.0-- or wait, maybe original Ivar-- cocks his head at you. He has a familiar glint in his eyes, masked by a love that makes your skin run clammy and cold, holding the deep blue fabric under your fingers. It’s more luxurious than anything you could imagine. Ivar reaches up to fix something in your hair. It takes a moment to register that its a tiara that sits on top of your head, etched in gold that rivaled the hair that tumbled down your back.

“Freydis?”

“Sick! I’m just-- sick,” you walk around him on the creaking boards, pulling yourself into this ancient bed with god-- was that animal fur? You pull yourself to lay down on pillows stuffed with down feather and stair up at the drab naturalistic ceiling. Your Ivar could have at least told you about his wife.

“Is it Baldur?”

“Huh?” you say, then snap back to the reality that yeah-- that stiff belly of yours was full with his son. You pick the tiara from your head and settle it down upon your belly. Ivar hobbles closer, settling his palm on your belly.

“Baldur.” He looks at you, pulling in skepticism, but you crack the weakest smile, suppressing the painful anxiety that wants to disguise itself in crass laughter.

“It-- it’s my head. I hit it-- I,” you excuse. “I should… sleep.”

Ivar smooths his hand over your stomach. “Rest. I’ll be with Hvitserk.”

Hvitserk-- that’s a name you recognize. At least your Ivar mentioned something relevant. He leans down with the aid of his crutch, placing a kiss that reverberates warmth across your forehead. You must have inherited her squishy feelings too.

“Goodnight, Ivar.”

As you descend into sleep, it all fades to black. The room is dark and heavy in its quality. As if it is its own little world of its own. There’s heavy darkness, almost stifling, before a laugh. It reverberates in the room, almost shaking you loose from the bed. You tug the blanket up over your head.

“You like that?”

That… was not the demon woman. Drawing the sheets over your head down, you realize that before you is the ancient mirror disembodied from the wall, and Ivar-- but your Ivar-- teases your cat with a chunk of cooked fish in a plastic tub.

“Uh, excuse me?” You push the blankets away, suddenly aware of your belly all over again, waddling toward the edge of the bed. “Are you giving him fish?”

“Cats eat fish.” Ivar quips.

“That! That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is?” Ivar asks, lifting his eyebrows upon his pronounced forehead.

“You’re SUPPOSED to be finding me a way out of here!”

Ivar angles his jaw down, and his jawline is so fucking pronounced. Almost aggravatingly so, how handsome, and peppered with stubble as it was. You’re so done with him already-- and the flush of feelings about him? Those, you remind yourself, aren’t yours. These have to be his wife’s feelings.

“And how would I do that when you are in my wife?” He stops, dropping a sliver of fish over your cat’s fuzzy head. His tone has taken on a spiteful quality judging on the way he leered at you: as if you were the embodiment of everything he hated. Maybe you were. “My very dead wife-- and my very dead son, I’ll remind you.”

“I don’t know!” you shriek. “But if I thought I didn’t know how to do anything before--”

“Don’t worry. Freydis was a particularly useless queen.”

“Shut up.” Your hand wanders toward your stomach. A very dead son, you think, then settle your hand over the growth. Whatever was in there-- wasn’t dead. It felt as if you had a fish in one of those carnival bags because you feel him move. “Hate to tell you, but he’s very not dead. What kind of name is Baldur anyway?”

Ivar drags a long sigh, shifting his head to face you. He visibly shutters as if the memory is front and center, bringing him back to the past where apparently, you were. “Baldur was the son of Frigg and Odin. He was the best of their sons. Radiant. Until…”

“Until?”

“Loki manipulated another into shooting him with mistletoe.”

“Mistletoe?” You snort obsequiously. “You named your son after someone who was murdered and didn’t think it’d go wrong? In any way?”

Ivar pulls himself up from the ground, holding the side of his calibers as he stabbed into the ground. And yeap, not getting that deposit back, not in the slightest. “It wasn’t meant to be prophetic.”

“Oh right, right. He didn’t think he’d be the one to straight-up murder his son!”

He had enough. His hand snapped to the side of his slacks, thrusting the perfectly kept axe at the mirror. It collapses into a hundred bitty pieces on the floor. Rather than sucking into the mirror, though, the axe repels into the wall beside your bedroom window. The shards pull back together.

“That didn’t work.” You lament, dropping back onto your bed, and it suddenly occurs to Ivar that your little trick to rile him worked-- until it failed. “I’m stuck as this blonde! What do you think happens next, huh? I’m going to be stuck here until you kill us?”

By the way he rips the axe from the wall, flipping it over and over, as if he doesn’t know what to say-- you have your answer. He really didn’t know what came next. You suppose if he had, he wouldn’t be stuck in that mirror for over a thousand years.

“Be careful what you say.” You glance up from your position on the bed. He goes on. “He isn’t as stable as I’ve become over the years.”

Said the man who literally launched an axe into a self-healing mirror. He scowls as he hears the thought enter your mind. You’ve forgotten he could do that. “He thinks he’s a god.”

“A what?” It humiliates him to even say the word. His forehead pulls in wrinkles as he battles to explain.

“We don’t have time. You are asleep here and now, but when you wake up… you will have to live my wife’s life. There isn’t much time.”

Your fingers rub your temples. “Esta bien just-- stay there.” You sigh, working out what exactly to tell him. He knows your daily activities. Work-- no work, quarantine. You thank god for the able excuse that a plague has brought. “There is food in the fridge and a remote for the television.”

He glances at the thing behind him, raising his eyebrow. He’s seen you do this a hundred times and still. “And your uncle?”

Fuck. Your uncle.

“Just text him.” You excuse. “He won’t bother you yet.”

“Text how,” Ivar holds up his hands, flickering his fingers. “I don’t know how to write in your language. I don’t take it he knows Old Norse?”

“Ivar. If I spoke Old Norse--”

“Fine.” He holds up his hands. “Find the seer,” he says. “He will help.”

Before you can ask him, the all-encompassing black takes ahold. Suddenly you’re there again, staring right back up at the ceiling. It’s many timber beams are years away from your reality at home with soft colours and an itty bitty rented bedroom. A shield sits above the bed illuminated by the presence of many expensive candles. You turn over, rolling onto your side to take a look at it. Burgundy red, with black spikes, and a line of sunshine yellow. It’s then that it registers. It’s easy when its Ivar in your room, because you know him, but you don’t know this man. Or this strange new-- wait, old -- world.

You’re on your own now.

The last thing Ivar wants to do is look at the mirror.

He’s been trapped inside for a millennium and some change, seen the change through the bounty of beautiful women, and their dresses shifting from long to micro-short. He’s wondered what his mother would have looked like. What Freydis-- would have looked like. His finger hovers above the silverwork: then, like that, pulls away.

“What do you think, huh?” he gazes down at the kitten, mewling between his calibers. He lifts his tiny head at Ivar. “No, come. I don’t know how it happened.”

He knows he has to get you out. Somehow. The kitten hops on the window ledge, and Ivar hobbles closer, watching the bodies of men shifting below. Sleeping in full chain mail and metal wouldn’t be comfortable--

You wouldn’t mind him snooping around, would you?

“Queen Freydis-- we should go back.”

That little slave girl is obnoxious. At first, you thought that she was just skeptical of you, but she trails your steps on the way out of Ivar’s great hall like an second shadow. The seer’s house, as an old woman said scurrying away from you, was in town. Anyone else you tried to speak to was respectful, but quick to get away from you. All except your little girl.

“King Ivar will return soon. You should be resting, he was quite worried about you. And-- and the baby,” she chirped, ten steps ahead of you thanks to this aggravating long dress. Thankfully men and women alike were careful about walking around you in long strides. Fear, you thought. Some women were more brazen, calling you Freyja, and you had no knowledge of who the fuck that was.

Wasn’t her name Freydis? Maybe it was a nickname. Or maybe you’re just stupid, your mind said unhelpfully. When you almost tripped over your skirts, you hiked them up in flushed anger. It was enough that you had to look like a doll. You refuse to be pushed around too.

“If you are so worried, you go get him.”

“Me?” she stopped.

“I’m too tired to walk back, eh? Go.” You flash a hand at her, making a motion with your index and middle finger of legs walking, then flick your hand up. “Let me go see this eh-- sear.”

“Seer?”

“That’s it. I hear he is very old and wise. He might tell me to get rid of you, Agni. Like I am tempted to do right now,” you sat your hand on top of your pregnant belly. It was cold, you knew. The people rushing by knew that too, frightened for the girl. But if it got her gone, that was all you wanted to do.

“I--” she bends her head down, kicking around the dust at her feet. She’s thinking a little too hard. You could see the sparks flying. Then she shakes her head, kicking off. “Stay here, please.”

As if that would happen. You wait until she slipped into the full crowd to turn the corner, face to face with the strange looking grey timbered house. Again, people are looking. There’s no mistake now, you’re sure of it. They’ll all know where you went. No problem.

“C’mon kid, off to the creeper’s keep.”

@red-rose21 @beyond-the-ashes @supernaturalvikingwhore @mblaqgi @wuxiesalt @hopplessdreamer @therealcalicali @rekdreams-fandom @moondustmemories @athroatfullofglass @poisonedjoinery @strangunddurm @shookforyoojung @peachesnpisces @tierneygonzalez @hexqueensupreme @nohemi2500 @queenmissfit @alicedopey @dmv49 @sallylebecks @terrainhead @mybarnesmyhero @youurkryptonite @lif3snotouttogetyou @vikingsmania @looneytunes20033 @bat-fam-blob @oneofthelothbroks @lovelynerdytraveler @chinduda @whatamood13 @honeyofthegods @ilvebeenabad @queenbeeta @wonderlandofsuAll@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever @destynelseclipsa @soleil-dor

#ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless/reader #Ivar the Boneless imagines #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings/reader #vikings x reader

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honestsycrets · 4 years

Text

The Milkmaid VII: Bright Lights

❛ pairing | ivar x reader, harald & ivar (friend?ship)

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | reader finds her way while ivar argues with a dog.

❛ tags | pregnancy themes, supernatural intervention, ivar being a bad dog owner, he’s a pet boy okay, just not today, angst, but not dark?, i’m not @lisinfleur 😂

❛ sy’s notes | no really he argues with a dog. i was gonna post a gif of ivar on this but my 5B gifs are real s h i t t y. redo.

He should throw your stupid dog down a well. Maybe, if he were lucky, Mimir would shake the knowledge out of the damn thing. But no, instead, he has no more leads to go on than he originally had. The kings stand considering from which direction the dog came from.

“He came from behind the barn,” says Harald.

“He came from the barn,” Ivar scoffs, jerking his finger in the direction. “You think my slave was hiding away in some barn in the cold of night?”

“Maybe if she were hiding from you.”

“That is so helpful,” Ivar snaps at the other king. His men, deep in the woods, shout: there is nothing here! Ivar then turns to Harald with that knowing, all too cocky scowl. He hates it, when he is right. “Do you know what is back there? Brush. Woods and wolves.”

“I’m sure you know what is back there.”

Ivar leers back to the other king confident of his astringent purpose for saying that. Ivar grips his crutch, hobbling a bit closer. “What are you saying, hm?”

“I am saying these things have a way of recurring.”

These things, Harald suggested, is the death of royal children. His child, Freydis’s child, and now… Ivar holds Harald’s gaze for a stubborn few moments before he hisses, not bearing to waste his time with the old king.

“I don’t know why I brought you Harald,” Ivar walks away from the other kind. Harald, now dressed, follows Ivar toward the line of trees. “You have no faith in the gods, no faith in anything.”

“Here I am,” Harald’s expression smooths over from bunched up wrinkles to a state of relaxation, despite his companion’s jabs. After this many years, he became used to the constant jeer of kinds underestimating him. “Are we checking in the brush?”

“If we have to.”

The woods hold their own secrets. Deep in their hearth, past the arching trees and branches that nipped the sky, there had to be something. At the very least, all it could hold, is a vast amount of nothing. He has nothing to gain from continuing to deny Harald. They find themselves following Vala’s tiny steps that carry them deeper and deeper before they stop. Vala turns in a circle. Then sits.

Stupid dog.

“The dog doesn’t know,” Harald grumbles. “Look at him, he is confused.”

Ivar glares at the dog, wondering why, why hadn’t he picked a grown and well-trained dog. He had to pick this thing. Because you wanted him so much. He shouldn’t have let you pick the dog-- you knew good, domestic things. Things of war, protection, and-- this, not so much.

The pup scratches the grown, sniffing and turning, whining and whimpering. And Ivar wants nothing more than to boot him with the butt of his crutch. The dog yips and Ivar’s about had it. He whirls around-- and finds the dog sitting there looking right back at him.

Pest.

If he had been smart, he would have chosen a well-trained hound. But no-- because his heart is weak when it comes to the complaints of his woman, he chose a creature that was as useless as it was cute.

The sun disappeared behind the fjord. You were left with the chill of night as Kattegat’s temperature plummeted below comfortable levels. Too cold to move but too afraid to let the fire run out, you chucked remnants of wood you gathered into the dismal fire until there was nothing but scraps that the fire would snap apart, cracking into its dying breaths. With nothing else to give to the greedy flames, you fold your hands into your woolen dress and pray tight lipped prayers to Frigg.

A small light, barely a flicker, caught your attention out of your peripheral vision. At first you thought it was nothing, perhaps the flicker of an animal’s eyes. If you stayed very still, the wild beast would leave you be, or you so you hoped. It would be tragic, you thought, for the wolves to have two of Ivar’s children. You your legs in a little tighter and curl into the Asvaldr’s plump belly, even as he whines impatiently for your attention.

“Shh, what if it is a beast?” you smooth your hand over his muscular body. “We shouldn’t worry about it, morning will come soon enough.”

Despite your pleads, Asvaldr’s limbs flailed with his attempt to get up. When he does, he effectively thrusts you to the dirt floor. Your hand snaps to your stomach with precaution, resting on your hip. “Asvaldr what is it?”

It was then you saw it for what it was.

A whimsical bouncy flourish of light between the wall of thick trees over a prominent rock. You swing your legs around, using the ground to shove yourself up. Asvaldr clopped closer so that you might hold his reins to support your stance.

“A wisp?”

Asvaldr clops a closer, dragging you along with. It had been some time since you had seen one of these things. The bouncy lights that dragged you, so you heard, to your fate. You chase the wisps into the untraveled path of the forest that way, hanging onto your master’s horse, and praying to the gods the wisps path is a good one.

Well, chase is being kind, when you walk like that.

Ivar’s eyes chase the edges of old trees. They are tall, well grown, wild. All the good plants are wild and free to hold spirits that are just as wild and free. He moistens his cracked lips for the fifth time, debating--

Perhaps Harald had been right. Perhaps you wanted to run to get away from him. Everyone else shared that sentiment. Margrethe, ran from him. Freydis then-- she tried to run from him.

At least he took care of that one. He made sure she didn’t run.

“Ivar!” Harald paces until he finds something, lackadaisically whistling at Ivar. Ivar takes his crutch and jabs it into the hard dirt, carefully scaling the mountain side to where the other king was. He stood about the crispy remains that weren’t yet cool. “Ashes. She was here.”

The stupid little shit yips at his feet. They scan the surrounding area for clues that you had been there. Moist poignantly, he finds, is an overlooked trail leading away from the campsite. He realizes that there is something there-- better than a burnt out campsite or sweep of luck.

A bouncy red flame.

It held his attention for longer than it should have. “Thank the gods,” he finds himself raising the hammer of Thor to his lips, placing a kiss to it, before setting it back upon his sturdy chest.

In looking at Harald, he realized that the old man did not see what he saw. But it was there, jovial and light. “And where are you going?” Harald called out to him. Harald growls a half hearted response and disappears into the trees behind his so called friend. It had better been a lead.

“Come on, old man. You’re falling behind!”

Ivar believes in the ways of the gods and the norns. There is not a fate that lay before man that was not woven from their fingertips. From the strong standing trees to the ones that have collapsed and bore their craggly roots, the trees have an understanding with the nine worlds that humans did not. Humans unlike Ivar, whose faith was uncrackable.

He pressed down from the rolling hill down toward the fjord, scaling with a curse behind every step, because his crutch was complaining as he moved down the hillside. How he could walk the battlefield freely, like a titan, and now plummet to the ground with sand was beyond him. He breaks his fall on his elbows, and to his surprise, his bones don’t crack. He knows Harald is watching him agape as he hurries on his forearms.

“What are those?” Harald at last sees it with that dumb, lost expression splattered across his face. “Is there a Valkyrie here?”

“Do you see a Valkyrie?” he looks to the sky, then across the streaming waters that washed by, searching for the sight of a swan. There was none. He can’t help tease. “Perhaps its all that ale you’ve been drinking.”

Harald’s face is flat and free from a response, just the small, scoffing laugh as he looks about.

At least, Ivar knows, it isn’t in his head this time. Last time-- as it were -- was Freydis’s lies. At least now, here, he knows that Harald sees exactly what he sees. The wisps, fireballs of the norn’s might, leads down from Norway’s rise and drop to the lapsing waves of the water to the grainy shore.

“Hold this,” he hands the crutch he’s been crawling with to Harald.

The scouts he’s gathered fall in a defensive position around the kings. Harald stuffs the crutch under his arm, following Ivar, who now snakes over the ground toward the rocky bend of the beach like he’s fifteen again and innocent to the world despite the men around him. He can see his brother’s long bodies splashing in the cool water against the warm orange that reflected on the sun. Then Hvitserk and Ubbe would come with their spears and Ubbe would show him a feast of fish while Hvitserk had none. Sigurd would have one.

Nostalgia isn’t a good taste on his tongue. That boy-- the one who dreamed of being able to hunt with his big brothers? He’s not a boy he wants to know. He doesn’t want to know the boy that would have rathered slit his throat if only it wouldn’t destroy his mother. So he turns his head across from the still waters and looks toward the forest. At the banks of the waters, he recognizes a decrepit sight-- not from anything he’s ever seen, but something he’s always felt.

“As much as I hate to break up a good moment,” Harald kneels down, holding the crutch over his trousers, “We were hunting your very pregnant slave.”

“Shht,” Ivar snaps back to Harald. “Look there.”

“Look where?” He lurches then, grasping Harald’s wrinkled face and jerks it into the right direction across the waters. A long, grated sigh breaks free from his lips. The waters do not look deep, no. It strikes Harald as strange, as he knows he’s passed by here with his warships, and they’ve been deeper still than the crystal clear waters before. He turns toward his men to shrill something-- when he finds the only company they have is the cold chill of the sea.

Ivar looks back at him, reclining on the palms of his hands, before his head tilts-- and a shit eating smile makes its way up his face. He clicks his tongue like a man would after a lost animal.

“...I’m the donkey then.”

There is a cabin.

It is a thin looking thing that would make anyone question why it was still standing. It’s heavy brown wood stands, but it has clearly been burned by the crispness of its black edges. Someone did not want it to stand. But there it was, proudly displaying a shield that spun above the top of the double doors. Pure blood red with one lone symbol: a raven soars the expanse of the shield.

“This must be your father’s cabin,” Harald says, verging on a dry laughter. Ten years, and here he was, static in the same position he’s always been-- behind Ragnar’s legacy. He sets his hand over a twig like fence that reflects Ragnar and Lagertha’s condition prior to taking up raiding once again. Ivar cradles the crutch, using it like a horse’s bit, over Harald’s throat.

The farm’s gate is shaky at best. When he looks out to the fencing, he recognizes a wispy figure dashing into the gate. That handsome, cut jawline with curls. Inquisitive eyes free of any exhaustion. If he were asked, he knew it could never be.

But it looks like him. It’s his father’s whimsical young figure that dashes in, kissing the soft cheeks of a girl he’s never known, and a brother he wish he never had. Another figure stands at the gate; his energy wispy and white. Athelstan, he recognizes the name, not the body.

“So it seems. Have you been here before?”

The girl stops from watching her father and her brother. Harald pauses, helping Ivar off his sodden wet back, and onto the ground. Ivar upright, the crutch fit under his arm. He’s taller than he’s ever been. More handsome than he’s ever felt.

She offers her hand, and Ivar can’t help look up to it in question. The girl-- he’s never known her name. Only that she was at the midpoint between girlhood and crossing into womanhood.

“You’re my brother, Ivar. I am Gyda,” her voice, it’s softer than the waves that lapse the shoreline. “Have you come here to look for someone?”

“My w--” Ivar stops himself. “My slave. She’s with child.”

“I see.” She hovers there, transparent, but defined in features that paint her energy a rich gold. She was radiant. “I sent Baldur after you to help you find her.”

His heart catches in his throat. A quick glance around reveals nothing. There is no boy next to Harald and he. Harald, sensing the discomfort, glances around the farm to the cooing animals. To the handsome visage of Ragnar and Bjorn, ducking and weaving. Ivar recognizes a pang of longing across his friend’s face. Harald steps over the wooden gate.

“I don’t understand.”

She smiles. “My nephew.”

Somewhere, through the mist, he spots the fireball of light. Something in the deep of his mind reminds him of that cursed little soul: Baldur.

#Ivar x Reader #Ivar/Reader #Ivar & Harald #ivar the boneless/reader #ivar the boneless x reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings/reader #vikings x reader #honestsycrets fics

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honestsycrets · 4 years

Text

A Cat Called Creamsicle | [ Ivar x Reader ]

❛ pairing | ivar x reader [ modern ]

❛ type | drabble, creamsicle square for @mzliterarydreamer

❛ summary | a cat and a box of ice cream.

❛ tags | bad employees (this is a thing for me okay), mention of death, mention of ashes, wheelchair use, referenced homeaid, pets.

He looks at them every time he passes into the room, running his hand over his mother’s dark stained wood. His mother’s canopy bed is sadly cold although he can still smell her perfume, wafting thin and light, and god he misses being able to climb into her bed and listen to her string him a story of the old gods.

She’s gone now.

“Ivar?” His watch alerts him to the door jangling, swinging open downstairs with a harsh slam. He would have jumped if he hadn’t known it to be his home nurse. Mother’s inheritance assured he’d live plush and comfortably. With the stipulation that-- of course, a home aide came to check on him every day.

“I’m coming.”

Once he makes his way down the stairs, he realizes that there’s something different this time. You stand with a small kennel under your arm, clicking the small suitcase you’ve rolled in. “What is this?” he asks.

“Creamsicle!”

Cream...sicle. You set the kennel down and unlock it, reaching in to pull out, what is a small orange tabby cat. His chest plumes white, like some arrogant little fluff ball. Ivar draws back the wheels of his wheelchair to get a better look at what kind of flea-bitten mongrel you had brought over. The cat is just as bewildered, stiff like a board, and glancing around for a way out. He’d ask why the hell you brought it over if he didn’t already have a sneaking suspicion on what the hell was going on.

“It’s… a cat.”

“I’m glad you’ve noticed.”

“Why did you bring me a cat?” He presses as if he hadn’t known why. You’ve always been a vocal woman about the need for Ivar to have more playmates than just his mother. Now that she was gone, he didn’t know who to socialize with. You bend down, peeling him away from the floor to clasp on a collar. With a bowtie bell.

God.

“Well, Mr. Lothbrok--”

“Lothbrok was my father,” he barks. He knows how you like to tease-- just because you weren’t familiar with his culture and were more acquainted with his fancy-ass company name. “Ivar Ragnarsson,” you correct. “You’re in desperate need of company.”

He’d argue if it weren’t so damn true.

“And a cat fixes that how?”

You sit on the ground beside his finicky fucking cat, rubbing your palm over his orange ringed tail as the cat hops over your scratchy baby blue scrubs. “It’s company for my off days.”

Ha, Ivar thinks. It’s a shit piece of company for an even shittier principle.

Most men his age were out, running, drinking-- and instead, he was here in his mother’s obsequiously big house, trying to make every room a little less lonely. It wasn’t working. Maybe you noticed that, too. The way he moved like some robotic wraith seeking to make himself feel better. Perhaps at the cost of his mental state which-- according to unhappy Mr. Clipboard on your suitcase said, he was miserable.

The cat seems intimidated by him. Anytime he wheels remotely the wrong way, the thing bolts like a rocket. “Get out of there,” you motion to his wheelchair. “No wonder he’s scared, you’re bulldozing him.”

With a long dragging sigh he pulls himself onto the cool tile floors. “There.” He raises his hands up, then down, slapping his thighs. “See, it still doesn’t fucking like me.”

You reach out, chasing his large hands out, and brush him as if you’re a grown woman teaching a small child to pet a cat. “You have to treat him nicely,” you whisper, and it sends chills all the way down, chasing his worries… away. Annoyingly far away.

It’s funny how touch can do that.

“Do you have to do that?”

You pull your hands away from his palm, clearing your throat a bit as you rustle in your things. Ironically, you pull out a box of those American treats you’re such a fan of. He spots the yellow box as the car finally seems to meld into his palm.

“You didn’t--” his smile begins to peak. You withdrawal a cool bar, popping it out of its bag with the smallest motion. “One for you,” you hand it over to him. “One for me.”

Somehow, he’s here on the floor eating orange creamsicles with his nurse and a newfound cat, not at all sure how he’s gotten there. “You’re in this deep?” he finds himself asking, unable to tear himself from the realization that you’re watching him suckle the cool treat. Unlike your other coworkers, it wasn’t as if you had anyone else to visit. Ivar was the only patient you had day in and out. He likes it that way-- the thought of you caring for someone else-- when this is so intimate? No.

“Looks like it.”

“Isn’t that against your job description?”

“Maybe if you wanted me.” There’s a silence in which Ivar debates that very fact. Then, as he comes to his conclusion that he can’t argue, you lean over to him. He feels the coolness wafting off your lips. “I put my two-week notice in.”

Ivar leans forward, smashing his cold lips against yours and nearly squishing poor creamsicle in the process. The cat leaps away. Ivar’s firm hand holds you in place against his mouth, and he never really needed to, because your hands have found the soft fabric of his shirt, kissing him with bruising, needy quality.

“Ivar--” you mutter. His tongue prods your lower lip before taking a hearty nip at it, and you squeak, dragging your face away. “--fuck!”

“Sorry,” he says as he pulls back. You shake your head, suckling the rivulets of cream running down your wrist. He watches in discomfort as you suckle it dry and finish your frozen treat off. “My ice cream was melting.”

“Can we go upstairs?” he asks, pink-cheeked. You stand upright, picking up the box full of creamsicle treats. If you went up there you already knew what would happen-- but Ivar’s excitement was too much to bear. You start toward the kitchen, flicking your head to motion him to get his ass up there. He fumbles into his wheelchair as you put the ice cream away, then start the journey up the stairs.

“You owe me dinner later, Mr. Ragnarsson.”

@beyond-the-ashes @supernaturalvikingwhore @mblaqgi @wuxiesalt @hopplessdreamer @therealcalicali @rekdreams-fandom @moondustmemories @athroatfullofglass @poisonedjoinery @strangunddurm @shookforyoojung @peachesnpisces @tierneygonzalez @hexqueensupreme @nohemi2500 @queenmissfit @alicedopey @dmv49 @sallylebecks @terrainhead @mybarnesmyhero @youurkryptonite @lif3snotouttogetyou @vikingsmania @looneytunes20033 @bat-fam-blob @oneofthelothbroks @lovelynerdytraveler @chinduda @whatamood13 @honeyofthegods @ilvebeenabad @queenbeeta @wonderlandofsu @tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever

#ivar x reader #ivar the boneless/reader #ivar the boneless x reader #Ivar Ragnarsson x Reader #ivar ragnarsson/reader #ivar/reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings/reader #vikings x reader

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honestsycrets · 4 years

Text

Thank the Vanir | [ Ivar x Reader ]

❛ pairing | Ivar x Reader

❛ prompt | It was bananas with Ivar, but I changed it to Apples. Written for my patron @alicedopey

❛ summary | None of your friends know the truth; you rather they stay that way. Ivar celebrates a new beginning.

❛ warnings | impotency implied, functional family dynamic (no brothers bitching at each other as in the show), pregnancy mention, soft!ivar, squabbling OCs, pure f l u f f

❛ sy’s notes | here is the first of my squares filled for my Summer Patreon Party event! Best to start off with my favourites: pregnancy. I don’t have other preggo fics this event so, cheers! Another fic will hitcha tomorrow.

Ivar hates it when you don’t listen to his suggestions. They are simple enough; Don’t stress yourself with the birds. But you have this awful habit of not listening to what he asks. He breaches the doorway of his Great Hall after a long day in the soft sun.

“--he was this big,” says your blonde headed friend Alva, whose hands were like a man’s, plump and strong. Ivar wonders what magic she has. It has to be something to bring in the sort of men that she did. Maybe it was her mouth.

“Big or small?” prompts your lifelong friend, Revna. Her hand weaves your hair into divine memorized patterns. Under and under, they both weave patterns into your hair. Revna mouths around a pin, easing it into place on your head. “Are you so sure?”

Though you’re tired, exhausted even-- the women sit on the ledge of his throne, braiding your hair into something new and pretty. He glances off from his place at the mouth of the his Great Hall, listening to your friend’s incessant chittering between his men eating their dinners at the many tables.

“Big! I told you, big!”

“Little Hvitserk isn’t that big. He is more like…. This,” Revna clasps her hands over Alva’s hands, leaning them in, then barks in her haughty laughter looking toward you. “Isn’t he, isn’t he?”

“Ah! What would she know!?” Alva pouts, looping ties around your pre-existing braids.

“Perhaps it is genetic!”

“There finished. There, look how pre-- Wait,” she leans in, her black eyes prodding you for an answer. You hide behind your bowl of berries. It’s not time yet for your favourite fruit-- apples-- to be in season. So you’re stuck with the tart berries, shaking your head in disapproval as she spoke. “You’ve never slept with Hvitserk, have you? Wait. They shared that slave. What was her name, what was her name…”

“Margrethe.”

At last you speak. It’s something soft and gentle, something that prompts him to limp closer to save you. His calibers shift in place and his body follows suit with them. His back straightens and pulls up, each jab pierces the wooden plates under his hovering. You sit up, swatting the girls to hush, suddenly animated.

“No, of course she’s never fucked Hvitserk. She only has eyes for Ivaaaar. And why would she? Hvitserk looks like a misshapen woman. What are you thinking?”

“He does not!”

“Revna stop. He’s coming, he’s coming.” you swat her, tugging your finished braids over your shoulder, standing up with a hand on your swollen stomach. “Girls,” Ivar’s hand flicks out, then back in again, taking its place over your belly. “You won’t mind if I take my wife?”

But they argue like birds in a tree over a chunk of bread. They’ve already forgotten about you with their eyes square on his body-- he can feel them looking at him, debating his brother’s size based on his size, and there they go again. Ivar is grateful that he wasn’t challenged in getting erections, only keeping them. Revna doesn’t care for Hvitserk, not as much as her other half. His beard is patchy and he looks like a bitch! You did not! Look at Ivar!

“Hurry, they argue,” you rush toward the doors of Kattegat, imploring him to walk through his people gathered there. Ivar stops just outside of the grand double doors of his hall, turning his head toward the chariot waiting there.

“They may be annoying,” he mutters, but his hands wander, and find your beautifully braided hair underneath a finely set crown. “But they do beautiful braids. You look perfect.”

“You should let them do yours.”

“You expect me to sit with them?” You could see if now. How they would argue over the stupidest things-- like whose cock was bigger-- or ask how big Ragnar was. Even though, as word had it based on the women in the outskirts of town, he was a sight in his youth.

“I rather you do it. Come, get on first.” Ivar adds. You pluck up your skirts, mounting his chariot with ease.

“Where are we going?”

“On a ride,” Ivar gestures. “Have you told them?” he ponders. You hand off an empty bowl of berries to a thrall there, pulling the long train of your dress up preemptively. You rather not trip after all. You wait until Ivar has mounted before responding to his question-- only when he’d snapped his reins. Cool air whizzes through your hair as he rushes through town.

You glance between the rushing buildings where Hvitserk’s hut was. Thora’s home with Hvitserk billowed smoke. There was no point to telling them private secrets; They would always tell them. Most of Kattegat did. “Tell them what?”

“That I didn’t--” you cut him off.

“I don’t know what you mean, Ivar. Sigtryggr is your son.”

He snaps the reins a little harder, flying through the gate of the home and into the open well ridden roads. “He is.”

“Where are you taking me?” You ask, noting the flat fields that stretch on for miles. On the outskirts of town, the fields become rich forests, richer still with your favourite fruit: apples. You’d not realized that while the apples were not in harvest, their blooms were in full display now. In the trees were their soft, bouncy blooms that contrasted against the dull brown of Kattegat’s unkempt buildings. They had not been painted in some years and so the colours dulled some. There’s something intrinsically beautiful about the simplicity of nature. Ivar comes to a stop, stepping off to tie his horse off.

“I don’t remember there being so many wild apples in this area.”

“There weren’t,” Ivar hobbles over. “I imported them from York.”

The timing had been happenstance. When he came home from York to conquer Lagertha, he did not know that they would bloom in time for your pre-determined pregnancy. They could have not bloomed at all. He thanks Thor, his pendant beating on the exposed flesh of his chest, that it did. The god’s favor was his.

“A celebration for your conquest,” you tease, stopping above a tree that spoke to you in a particular way. “How sweet.”

He envelops you from behind, forgetting his crutch on the ground. It thunks among tall grass as his hands come around you. A small wind wafting through your hair, carrying wind to the fjord. You turn your head toward it-- toward him.

“A celebration of new life with my wife,” he cradles you in a warmth of security that is his arms. His term of celebration-- its better -- infinitely better than yours. You reach back and smooth your fingers over his coarse hair. A new crown, a new marriage, and above all-- a new life. There’s a lot of new this year, a lot of reasons to be happy and pray for a healthy delivery.

“Thank the Vanir.”

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44 @readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever @beyond-the-ashes @supernaturalvikingwhore @mblaqgi @wuxiesalt @hopplessdreamer @therealcalicali @rekdreams-fandom @moondustmemories @athroatfullofglass @poisonedjoinery @strangunddurm @shookforyoojung @peachesnpisces @tierneygonzalez @hexqueensupreme @nohemi2500 @queenmissfit @alicedopey @dmv49 @sallylebecks @terrainhead @mybarnesmyhero @youurkryptonite @lif3snotouttogetyou @vikingsmania @looneytunes20033 @bat-fam-blob @oneofthelothbroks @lovelynerdytraveler @chinduda @whatamood13 @honeyofthegods @ilvebeenabad @queenbeeta @wonderlandofsu

#ivar x reader #ivar the boneless/reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar ragnarsson x reader #ivar ragnarsson/reader #vikings imagine #vikings imagines #vikings/reader #Vikings x Reader

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honestsycrets · 4 years

Text

Mirror, Mirror | [ Ivar x Reader ]

❛ pairing | ivar x reader, freydis x ivar (past)

❛ type | multi

❛ warnings | time travel, body swap, congenital deformities, ableism-mention, angst, modern!reader, viking era 5B Ivar, past ivar x freydis, mention of congenital deformity, some horror elements, two ivars, 5A situation, time travel, Freydis’s soul is le poof, minor Freydis, mention of blood, self confidence issues, “mm is a total mindfuck.” witch!freydis, POC reader, cursed!ivar.

❛ chapter I | The Curse

❛ chapter II | Freydis, My Sweet

#ivar x reader #ivar/reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless/reader #vikings imagines

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honestsycrets · 4 years

Text

Mirror, Mirror II: Freydis, My Sweet [ Ivar x Reader ]

❛ pairing | ivar x reader, freydis x ivar (past)

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | the mirror cracks. what comes next is a mystery to everyone involved.

❛ warnings | past ivar x freydis, mention of congenital deformity, reader body swap, some horror elements, two ivars, 5A situation, time travel (?), Freydis’s soul is le poof, mention of blood.

❛ sy’s notes | thank you @laketaj24 for helping me fix the error on my gif.

The room, if it was a room, was black. It stretched as far as your irritated eyes could see. Your hands are the kind of red that stemmed only from digging knuckle deep in guts, the kind you get from bleeding a little too long, spilling, or tearing. It soaks into your skin, oozing into your mouth, bloody and deep.

“Where’s my baby?”

The voice, gentle and soft, sounds nothing more than sorrowful. It stretches out like thin fibers of cotton that you usually rub your make up off with. Your tongue stretches out to moisten dry lips when you feel it-- those divots on your face.

“Ivar?” You tremble over the word with your hand traveling up your lips, realizing that it’s not just your words that are uncertain and strange, but the entire groove from your lips up, hooking up like someone had taken two fishhooks and dragged down your nose bilaterally. Like your baby pictures.

“Where’s my baby?!”

It’s louder now. As if only a few steps behind you.

“I don’t know, please! Leave me alone--” you answer, scuffling over your steps, rushing forward. Forward is better than backward. Back there-- the crazy lady shrilling her cries, and you regret hitting that mirror-- the pounding memory of Ivar’s words: I killed my son, I killed my son, I killed my son, ringing into a big ball of tension in one powerful uppercut. “Ivar, you ass!”

At last a ray of light outlines the frame of Ivar’s wooden bed, draped in warm furs. His handle dangles from the ceiling, allowing him to pull his legs around when you both would wake up, and you’d tease about what he had on his great big day today, a whole lot of nothing! But he isn’t there. You stretch out toward the bed. It’s the only safety you can hope to cling onto.

“WHERE’S MY BABY?!”

When you turn, she isn’t there, but her voice booms, shaking the whole foundation of your nightmare of your dream like a banshee. Everything bounces up and down and you fling yourself onto the furs, burrowing your knuckles into its soft and forgiving fabric and clawing yourself on his bed. Then, under the covers. “FUCK! Make her stop!”

“--isn’t there!” his voice cuts through the darkness, mid sentence as if he had been saying it all along, but none of the words had gotten through. “Pull yourself free. It’s her illusion. An illusion of the gods!”

The ringing and shaking of the illusion fizzles out to a steady hum. Then, pure silence. You grasp your shoulders and hold yourself tight as it numbs out. At last-- peace. You sit up in his bed. “Where are…” around you, the room pieces together, dropping in as if they are coins flipped into an ocean, manifesting in dark wood and horn. “...you?”

“Here with you.”

You slip out of bed, looking down at yourself. A long white grown tickles your ankles, your feet on scratched up floorboards. Everything is dull and brown and red and black. Too red and black-- “Oh god,” you turn around, whizzing like a top. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

“I suggest you forget your god,” it’s his voice in your ear, as familiar as if you’ve held a phone to your ear, but he’s nowhere to be seen. “Pull the cover off the mirror.”

In the corner of the room is a mirror with a thick blanket drawn over it. You tremble stretching out toward it, “No no no no. No.”

“You haven’t touched it. Are we doing this again?”

“No!”

When you rip off the sheet, you recognize your very stupid looking king on the other side of the mirror. Except-- he’s there, in your room, by the fake flowers and shittily soft decor. And here you are in his abode, wringing your hands through your hair.

“This is not-- no.”

“It’s nothing,” he insists. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm down! I’m in your-- your weird Viking castle!”

“It is a Great Hall,” he aptly corrects whilst shaking his gloved hand at you. “Not a castle.”

“Why am I here!?” you shout at the mirror, hitting it this time. It hits back, reflecting your hand off of it with a painful sear. “Fuck!”

“I would assume it’s because you broke my mirror which I didn’t need you to do.”

There’s a rustle behind you. An anxious girl-- no more than ten, peeps in carefully. She bows her head as she looks at you, considering your thin dress shyly. “Queen Freydis?”

“Freydis?”

“Answer her,” he whispers. It sounds as if he’s in your head. And great, scribble that one down in the books, Ivar is talking to you in your head. That tops off this strange and unusual day.

“Do I took like a Freydis to you?” you think back, snappy and short.

“Hurry.”

The young girl hurries to your side, holding your hand and easing you down onto the bed. You gaze into those warm honey brown eyes, sure that there is no greater sack of shit than you in that moment, lying to that pretty face. You clear your throat, “I’m feeling... ill,” you excuse.

“Is it the baby?”

“The what.” You shriek.

“Perhaps you should lie down,” the young girl settles you in bed. “I can call a healer… King Ivar would be want you to rest.”

Oh sweet fuck-- Ivar? There’s two of them?

“No there’s not two of us,” he barks back in your mind. You turn your head toward the mirror, finding him motioning you to quickly lay down. He’s dimmed the lights to your room. Your room with a cushioned bed. Lights that flickered unlike the candles that the slave girl-- and god, a slave-- lit.

“Should I find King Ivar?”

“No!” you shout in unison with Ivar. “No,” you then amend, reaching out to console her with a hand to her arm. “I should rest.”

The girl peers at your hand, almost confused, but then nods her head. Her short hair bobs with the loose collar around her throat before she disappears into the other room. You watch her walk out before knocking your forehead with your knuckles over and over again.

Should’ve left him in the fucking mirror! you reprimand yourself. Because that’s the only way things really make sense. If you had left him there, you wouldn’t be here, knocking your head in trying to make sense of nonsense.

“I didn’t ask for you to help me,” Ivar hisses, you turn your head over to look at him in the mirror, and he flinches. Initially, you don’t know why he’s acting so weird-- staring off at you like his breath was snatched clean out of his throat.

What?

“Freydis?” The pillow is itchy under your head, the quills of a bird knocking into your hair, suspiciously pale blonde under your fingertips. It’s long-- longer than it had ever been. You look down at your long body, suspiciously round, and very well pregnant with a lump that knocks your thighs.

Now you notice, you fold your arms over your chest. It’s just me. Sorry to disappoint.

He snaps out of it, bowing his head down, and looking at your fluffy cat that is crawling all over his calibers. Surrounding him is the room that he’s seen so many damn times he sat on the bed, considering how he got in the mirror over and over again. Except now he can look at the angles of your room. He lurches for the crutch the mirror spat out in a bloody mess of glass. The mirror has pieced itself back together. No blood. No glass. Just… his crutch.

“I’ll be there soon.” Ivar pulls himself up to stand, clacking around your room. “Mistr will tell me what happened.”

Me? You’re right there, buddy.

He rakes his fingers over his temple. “Not me as in-- King Ivar. Not me.”

Uh-huh, you think. That makes so much sense.

“You look like my dead wife,” he says all at once. His fingers reach out to touch the glass. The glass bites back, repelling his fingers from sinking into the mirror themselves.

Your dead wife? Great.

“If you’re fated to be there…” be where? Ivar hisses, slamming his fist into the mirror. A shock runs through his body, knocking him away from the glass. “... in my wife! Then something has changed.”

I’ll fucking bet. I’m pregnant.

Before he could respond, he saw the shift in the leather pleats not so far away. “Cover me!” You peer over the furs-- which are wildly warm-- and stand up on your swollen feet to cover the mirror from prying eyes.

“Freydis? Ah, what are you doing?” there is a clacking behind you, snappy and quick. When you whirl around, there he is. In the flesh, standing tall. You point your finger at him, then turn to the mirror again. Ivar has shut up.

“I--” the man before you looks like him. He is tall, more tall than you remember him being, with playful eyes. His tunic has a layer of heavy leather braided over top of it, darker than his hair. There’s a jovial youngness to the way he encounters you. When he looks at you it’s nothing short of adoration, love, and respect. It… scares you. It’s Ivar-- but Ivar was in the mirror-- so if that was Ivar, who was the man before you now?

You double take to make sense of it, and you’re doing that a lot, but Ivar 2.0 grasps your hand with the one not supporting his weight. “Come, lay down, lay down. You’re not well, my sweet. Has something happened? Have the gods visited you again?”

“That…” your voice comes out pathetically soft. Freydis? No one answers your thought. She’s not here-- the girl, the woman called Freydis? Her soul had gone. You’re not sure if she had gone, or if you had ping ponged her to some other unfortunate shit body. His hand shifts from yours, cupping the back of your neck, forcing you to look into his eyes. You want to look away. But… you instead force a smile. “...doesn’t even cover it.”

You couldn’t tell him. Not yet.

@beyond-the-ashes @supernaturalvikingwhore @mblaqgi @wuxiesalt @hopplessdreamer @therealcalicali @rekdreams-fandom @moondustmemories @athroatfullofglass @poisonedjoinery @strangunddurm @shookforyoojung @peachesnpisces @tierneygonzalez @hexqueensupreme @nohemi2500 @queenmissfit @alicedopey @dmv49 @sallylebecks @terrainhead @mybarnesmyhero @youurkryptonite @lif3snotouttogetyou @vikingsmania @looneytunes20033 @bat-fam-blob @oneofthelothbroks @lovelynerdytraveler @chinduda @whatamood13 @honeyofthegods @ilvebeenabad @queenbeeta @wonderlandofsu @tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44 @readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever

#ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar/reader #ivar the boneless/reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings/reader #vikings x reader #ivar ragnarsson x reader #ivar ragnarsson/reader

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honestsycrets · 4 years

Text

Hard Sell II: Mother’s Approval

❛ pairing | ivar x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | he’s too shy to say anything.

❛ warnings | verbal argument, crazy family, 4B ivar is my favourite ivar

He sits by that rock looking out at the pier. As he reclines there, watching the waves pull and push onto the pier, Aslaug watches him too. There’s something on his mind, she knows, a mother always knows her son’s needs. She stops by the rock, the back of her hand brushing his prominent cheek bones, and waits.

“Ivar…”

He grunts, turning up from the waters, and regards her softly. “Mother.”

“There are no raiders leaving.” She notices.

“Mm.” He nods, turns his eye back, and she suddenly realizes what it is that he’s looking at. There, in the waters, his best friend pokes at the water with a long pole. She strikes, then fails, and the man beside her roars in laughter, getting a kick of heavy water toward him.

She mentions your name, “I see now.” Her foxish face pulls together, amused. “And the boy?”

“Cousin,” Ivar answers, settling his chin back on his forearm. “So he said.”

“She won’t marry her cousin, Ivar.” She settles beside him. The strange thing of his mother, as he always thought, was her infatuation with him above all his sons. The only one who truly and really loved him. Maybe then-- she was something protective of that role.

“Maybe not,” he grunts.

“Yet still no husband,” her voice pulls, amused. He hates it when she does that. Pointing out something that he knows, and could do something about, but hates all the same. He lowers his head down, barely peering over the leathery gloves.

“No, no husband.” Ivar agrees.

“Any reason why?”

Ivar’s fingers flicker. A growing annoyance-- because despite that chat the other day, nothing had changed. He saw you pick up your skirts, clinging to the form of your legs, and move onto sandy land. He also saw the confidence in which you carried yourself when you knew others were watching. You liked the eyes. His eyes, especially.

Something had to be there. You wink in his direction. It’s for him, he knows that now, and yet… You turn to place your hand back in the binding that the healer had given you to keep it taut against your chest. You’re an awful person to take care of. Always disobeying orders despite the break.

“Ivar!” You shout out to him, rushing to his rock, when you stop. It’s as if you’ve noticed something is astray. Or rather, someone.

“Aslaug,” you bow your head to her. Aslaug’s features soften, grasping Ivar’s arm. There it was, that display of dominance, and Ivar knows that this is the precise reason why you hadn’t done more to chase him. Ragnar didn’t love his mother like Lagertha. Every fool knew that. The way he… he cringes, turns his head away, finds his mother’s eyes.

“Any luck in the waters?” she asks, minding the fishing stick in your hand. You flip the pole in your hand, lowering the prod down to her as your cousin throws a wet sack over his back. “‘fraid not. Einir over here scared the fish away,” you accuse.

Did not, Einir scoffs, blowing out a small tuft of air. “She’s just a shit fisherwoman. Does better watchin’ than she do catchin’” he motions, pausing when Ivar’s eyes catch his, hot and hard. Almost as if to ask him to say that again, no really, say that again. “But-” he punches your arm playfully. “We’ve gotta get to the longhouse. Got some fish for dinner myself. Uncle’s waiting, huh?”

“You should come,” you gesture to Ivar, then pause. Aslaug-- she’d certainly wouldn’t complain if Ivar went, but you keep in mind that Ivar is her lifeforce to Midgard. “You too, Queen Aslaug. Father makes a good roasted fish.”

“Perhaps.”

That’s not awkward. You excuse yourself, punching Einir with your one good hand, even if its still holding the fishing pole. Fuck you, he makes out. Aslaug’s eye follows you until you disappear, then her arm snaps free of him, running instead through his hair.

“Do you want to go?” she asks.

Ivar, gazing back at her, nods. And they go together.

Your family works hard. So it only makes sense that they play hard, booze hard, laugh hard. Aslaug is familiar with this sort of company, but at the same time, she isn’t. They drink over one’s lap, husbands and wives drink of one horn, brothers brawl in the longhouse over the stupidest shit-- there’s your brother now, thrusting Einir across the floor and into the bench like beds that lined the walls.

“Do they always fight like that?” she asks.

You inhale, picking at the roasted fish, regretting all your life choices in that instant. “More or less. Einir calls Eyr something, Eyr calls Einir something, right Ivar?”

“You do the same thing.”

“I do not! I haven’t called them names.” You cut him off quick, tapping Ivar’s prominent forehead. Somewhere along the line, Ivar’s head had met your lap. Aslaug found this unsavoury. If only because she’d never seen him like this before, but the way he smiled, pure and wide, was something that she couldn’t fight about. “...today.”

“Tch,” Ivar clicks his tongue. “Continue to delude yourself.”

“Asshole,” you tell him, like its just you and him. But his mother is there, lips churning into a frown, obviously wise to your words. She leans on the edge of the chair.

“So,” she says, setting her own empty plate aside, and balancing the ale in her fingers. “Ivar says you’re uncalled for.”

“Uncalled for?”

“Mother.”

“You’re unmarried,” behind her, the rustling of Einir and Eyr comes to a complete stop. As does the loud, booming festivities of the evening. Instead they cue into her words. “Surely you aren’t going to remain unmarried. Do you have plans?”

By the gods, Ivar sits up. The safety net of having Ivar there has gone, and in its place, your hands run together with uncertainty. “I hadn’t thought of it. Spend all my time at home or with him.”

“You should.” She says. “There are plenty eligible men in Kattegat of your class.”

Of your class-- your eyes bulge, and so do Ivar’s.

“What does that mean?” Einir stands upright, though with a stagger, given the welt above his eyebrow swelling out. Blood trickles into his lashes. “Ya don’t think she could marry up?”

You gesture your cousin to calm himself, but he’s a farmer’s man, with a raging temper. He’s been busy knocking down timber for trade all night. He’s willing and ready to go, and you sense as much off the way he sets one of those fat palms on your shoulder, standing like a wall of offended muscle.

“Why my girl could marry a goði,” your father chimes in with a slur, and you squeeze your brow, “Father please.”

There’s no real stopping your father, nor your brother, nor your cousin when they started. “In fact! Just look’it ol’Ivar!”

He freezes, staring up like a deer caught in the hunter’s grasp, begging with the old man not to say something. Then, knowing he would, his fear turned to abject anger, his broad nose squeezing tight.

“She’s gottim wrapped around her li’l finger.” He shoves his wife’s shoulder, roaring in a laughter that is almost mocking. “A prince righ’? A prince.”

Aslaug isn’t fazed. Rather she searches you for a reaction. How would you handle this? Ivar’s face was hot and red, swelling up like the surge before the hurricane at sea. Your hand shoots out, cupping over his. Fingers lace up, drawing his attention from the momentary need to lash out, and replacing it with a soothing calm.

“I’m sure she could.”

You release tightly held air.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Since when have you been sorry?” Ivar asks, settled over his rock with his hood drawn up over his shaggy hair.

“Since, uh, now?” you come to sit beside him on the rock, pulling up your dress. His eyes catch the unprotected skin, cementing it to his memory, and he knows he’s in trouble then. His eyes tear away. “No difference. He was right.”

“About what?”

The cool air rushes by, reminding him of his mother’s words: Still no husband? And yet, you could have one, if Frigg willed it. His throat has clammed up on him, dry like a rock. “You have me around your finger.”

It’s ridiculous.

“You can’t be serious. He was drunk Ivar. He didn’t mean that--”

He could. He would. And he is.

“...I do.” His voice quakes, like he’s too shy to actually say it, that I want you-- that I like you-- maybe love you. He’s not sure of it and yet he’s never been more sure of anything else before. He only knows that it feels right when you gaze at him through the crowd, seek him out like a morsel of food among a plate.

He’s sure, more than ever, that this is what he needed.

“Well, I… of course.” You say, your head connecting with his shoulder, breathing in the scent, then exhaling. “You’re my best friend.”

If he died without hearing those words again, he’d be a lucky man.

“...of course.”

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#ivar x reader #ivar/reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless/reader #Ivar the Boneless imagines #ivar ragnarsson x reader #vikings/reader #vikings x reader

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honestsycrets · 4 years

Text

Tell Me The Truth | [ Ivar x Reader (Peaky AU) ]

❛ pairing | ivar x reader, ubbe x reader, freydis x reader

❛ type | doubleshot, peaky blinders au

❛ summary | despite what you want, the lines on ivar’s hand don’t lie.

❛ warnings | bad palmistry, cursing in another language idk how accurate it is (whore), peaky blinders au (very loose), gypsy!reader (stereotypes i’m sorry okay?), requested piece, “hallucinations”, idk what the song name is that I included anymore.

Read the patterns on my skin

He has big hands.

Let the fire somehow get in

The kind you get lost in.

See my heart line is intact

The kind that hold a whole world in his hands

So this is what I lacked

And don’t even know it yet.

“See something?” he breaks the long-winded silence. You, cradling his hand, find yourself staring at the long lines of his palms between curtains of candles that illuminate your caravan. Yout thumbs run over the lines of his large hand, comparing them to your memory, marking out everything you saw.

“Instinct. Same thing I always see. Your natural talent for adaptation. The need not to hold back,” You slur, taking a long drag of the singed cigarette between your index and middle finger. You draw out a flood of smoke into his face, grey and light. He swats away the smoke and emerges from it, his pale face cut like a bag of crisp diamonds, or whatever else he packed in that baggie.

You reach your hand out toward it, and he rests back in the chair, a picture of a great man, one that anyone should fear. Under all that, the energy radiating of a boy on an uncertain path. It wouldn’t help him to know that. Maybe he’d take off that grey cap and swipe you in the face if you said that.

“What else?” he closes his fist, tucking the bag into the pocket on the inside of his suit. You scowl, lips pursing, the coins on your wrist tinkling as you flick your hand toward him, caught in indignation.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Ivar,” you say, pronouncing each word sharper than the last. “Every time you come here it is the same--”

“You’re holding something back.”

He says it with such evenness. You knew he would. He draws the button of his suit jacket together, obscuring the chain on the inside, and the buttons latch together. You roll your lips in-- god, he’s become so beautiful. It’s been some time since he came back from Paris, his body changed, and yet he’s the same boy you knew before the war. Your lips are sealed. Keep sweet. Keep quiet.

“It’ll hurt,” you tell him, despite the fact that you know you aren’t talking about yourself. It wouldn’t just hurt you. It would hurt… deeper than that. You stand up, forgetting the instruments of your trade, the cards on the table and the crystals. Everything that would help Ivar get what he wanted from you: answers. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you.”

The scoff bursts from your lips in a short-lived chortle.

“You’re a man. Not just any man-- one of those men.” You say, and though you stand all straps and coin and cloth, you bring his hand to your lips. A chaste kiss blossoms along his scraped and bruised knuckles. “It’s what you all do. You’re destructive.”

“When have I ever hurt you? We’ve known each other… mm, how long?” He stands up then, his gloved fingers settling on his cane to steady him. He’s tall when he’s at height, pumped up on medication, he turns his head to you.

“Twenty-four years,” you say. “Give or take.”

His dark lashes pull from eyes rimmed in that god awful blue. You run your hand over your shawl, slipping it off your shoulders and setting it on the table. His eye flickers, catching fresh skin. “So tell me,” he whispers, turning his head, and you struggle against what he asks of you.

“You should go.” You tell him, backtracking toward something or anything other than the truth. That he is, or he isn’t, one of those god awful blinders. He steps forward. The floorboards scream under your feet, and suddenly your pressed to the bed you share with your own ghost of the past.

“Say it again,” he tells you. This time he raises his tanned hand to your cheek, flicking once, snatching your attention with one smooth swat across your cheek. Just enough to get your attention. “Call me it again.”

“You’re a Blinder. That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” you call him by name, and its enough, because the wrinkle in your nose is enough to say what you think of those sorts of men. He holds your gaze, sorting out the remnants of lost affection, all mixed and masked in some foreign longing. He devours your fear, voice lilting nice and soft, sucking you into him. “Now you’ve got it--”

Ivar snatches your throat, pitiful under his large hand. “That’s right. Now answer me what I came here for.”

He’s grown big. You think back to that boy that used to come to play when Aslaug would come to visit her forefather’s home. How he revered the scars of his big brother, mapped stratagems for him with Ubbe, and worked so hard.

Now he nearly had everything that you told him would come. All but a few things that you worked so hard to suppress despite knowing that nothing and no one could keep one back from their true calling. You never failed to answer him in the past. That’s what he needs. Someone real to latch onto.

“You’ll find love. That’s what I saw in your palm.”

One day. But it wouldn’t be today. Even tomorrow. He’s settled enough with the prospect to release you, step aside and fix his coat.

“I already knew that. We’re opening the pub tomorrow,” he tells you. “Stop by.”

“But Ivar--” you protest. “She won’t be what you think she is.”

“Shht.” Ivar says, flipping his cap and settling it back on his head. “You worry too much.”

It’s not an order. Not by the way he says it as he hobbled to the door, stopping for just a second, long enough to share a bated breath with you. “Stop by. There are men there. Elias didn’t give his life down there to see you here.”

He wouldn’t want you to be alone. In his memory you give Ivar a very short nod, remembering those god awful mines. The ones that caved in on themselves and—“I’ll see you. Have to get to the docks, eh?”

There are men there, he said.

You drew your shawl over your shoulders, obscuring the beaded dress as much as you could, and opened the door. Inside there were men. Ones that buzzed around the room like bugs, swarming and drinking, and you made your way forward squished between chests and backs, booze and cigarettes.

“Anotha’ whiskey da’lin, anotha’ whiskey!” the night had only just begun, and yet, the men were already trashed. Behind the long stretch of a barstool stands a girl. Her hair chopped at her nape, painfully pale, with a look in her eyes the same of a dull horse. Freydis, her name flickers across your head, like a great dull name. Before you and behind you, a chill runs down your arms. Hairs lift, and you look straight ahead, past the warm brown waxed countertop, through the women there. She smiles like tainted ink in a pure pool, spreading her tainted nature around in a pool of stupid men.

Take care’a my boy, a voice whispers. Your head snaps, bouncy curls at your neck, and you mind yourself to stay firmly in reality, rather than in the plane between, where no one here could be.

“(Y/N)!” That deep voice, thick and heavy, reeks of an old friend. Appearing beside you, you find the tall one: Ubbe. It’s been some time since you’ve seen him.

“Ubbe…” He’s grown taller, if possible, with a handsome beard where his brothers faltered. His eyes shine with a warmth Ivar usually lacks, despite the war. It’s not changed him in the same way that it changed the others.

“Surprised to see you here. You hate drunks.” He offers you his elbow to take.

“Ivar invited me,” you grumble. Invited was a kind word for what Ivar did. Because really, it was no invitation-- not when you wanted to know where he was, where he… “Besides, it is nice to see the boys.”

Bjorn was nowhere to be seen. But Hvitserk was drinking heartily at the bar, throwing back booze after booze, while Sigurd played jauntily with a small crew by his side. None of them looked like war-stricken hounds. Except-- Hvitserk, yes, Hvitserk. Hvitserk looked like--

“The boys,” he laughs. “And me?”

You suppress that damn laughter and turn toward what was really on your mind. “When did that curvă show?”

“The girl?” Ubbe sets his hand to yours as if there are more important things to focus on, but there isn’t. Your head follows her even after Ubbe has rounded the corner to the back office. “Ivar’s new girl.”

“Margrethe--”

Ubbe shakes his head. That’s the end of that. Margrethe, expired. Freydis-- the new girl. His new girl. Dead girl walking. And still she’s the lucky one. The envy in your belly twinges. Then it burns.

“Are you okay?” Ubbe asks.

“Do you want to have whiskey?”

“Now?” he prompts.

“Well,” you shift over the table, spreading your legs over the table, slightly dangling. “Ivar did say there would be men here. It could be like old times.”

He lingers in front of the door, likely feeling a thousand thoughts, but it’s pointless really. His eyes close, just enough that you know he’s debating it-- and what for? Had Ivar not made his choice? He’s tempted enough. Despite the rattling of voices behind that door, he’s thinking about it. You shrug off your shawl, clap back on heels, step by step, until you’re there-- in front of him. He can’t. Not at first, not until you bring his hands around your back, pressing into him. He willingly squeezes your ass, leaning his head back, gazing at you to weigh your seriousness.

“Like old times.” Like old times implied being second-- second to his baby brother. But for one night, should he really care? Ubbe spins you around, jerks your ass to his back, and you feel him growing hard against his slacks. He thinks back to all those days before coming back, swatting your hips with emphasis.

“Go get the whiskey.” You move-- toward the stash, but he stops you cold. “No. Go get it from Ivar.”

#ivar x reader #ivar/reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless/reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings/reader #vikings x reader #ubbe x reader

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