Ivar the Boneless Imagines

Call Me Mommie

If Ivar could put a word to describe his feelings about (Y/N), he detested her.

He detested his brother's chubby, round assed wife. He detested how you would pick clothes that were far too tight on your fat folds. Your breasts were always at a threat of spilling over out the laced neckline of your dress the way they strained the cords. In everything you did, it was just extra.

"Do you want more ale, Ivar?" You ask, scooting behind his head with a pitcher in one hand and a drink in another. You slide by to hand the drink off to your husband Bjorn before turning around with the pitcher to serve him.

"The thralls can give me something to drink." He says to no avail. You snap the cup out of his hand, filling it up to the tippy top before pressing it to his lips. Ivar sputters against the ale, peering up through his long lashes and drinking of it.

"Go on little Ivar, drink." Sigurd teases him with a laugh. Ivar swallows in deep gulps, the sticky liquid searing his throat. His hands replace yours on his cup.

"Why do you baby him, (Y/N)? He's grown." Sigurd asks as you sit beside your husband. The tiny chair is encompassed by your thick thighs and round hips. It's very, very unlike Bjorn's usual. In fact, everyone's usual: skinny, fit blondes.

"I promised Queen Aslaug I would. Besides, isn't he so cute!" You lean your hand over to Ivar's cheek. He swats away your ringed fingers. Hvitserk shifts in his seat, pressing a bit of meat into his mouth.

"Are you going to be mother now that she's dead?" Hvitserk asks evenly. The budding beginnings of a smile on his lips.

"Mommie kink?" Ubbe looks over to Hvitserk, teasing Bjorn with his words. You take a bit of smoked lamb to your lips while the skin of Bjorn's forehead raised in amusement. Your palm slides over his thigh, stroking up and down softly while you ate.

"What is wrong with you?" Ivar throws a bit of cloth down. "Why are you so eager to replace mother?"

The brothers lose their smiles. Just as you sat down, you rose to stand. Ivar's forearm rests on the table when you came to Ivar's side, pawing his head over against her chest. Your fingers run through his sweaty pieces of hair, humming softly until Ivar was angrily pouting against your chest, grumbling something akin to 'no.'

Gods. He hated her.

Stupid as it was, he knew how his brother felt.

It was impossible to erase the image of his brother's head against your breast, peacefully huffing out like a small child. He would huff and puff all he wanted, telling all his brothers how much he hated you. It was a lie. It was a cover.

Bjorn ran his fingers down the blotchy black tattoo on your thigh as you curl up against his chest. One of your thick legs thrown over his strong ones. After some time of post-coaitus bliss, he turns to you in the crackle of the flames.

"What do you think of Ivar?" He asks.

"What does anyone think of Ivar?" You tease his soft beard, nuzzling your nose into the strands that tickle your nose. "He's so lonely.

"Is that why you treat him like a child?" He asks.

"Not like a child." You correct. "But I want to soothe his empty heart."

Bjorn's firm chest raises and falls as he grasps your wrist from teasing his beard. "He sees you as more than that."

"I know."

Everyone seemed to know other than Ivar.

Bjorn and Hvitserk were going raiding. He had initially been gleeful for it. They would leave, he wouldn't be stuck with you stroking his hair and cooling down outbursts of anger against Sigurd. He could be... angry in peace. Of course, it couldn't be so easy though.

"You're staying?!" Ivar roars as you finish preparing bread. The sticky straw of the bed you freshly laid out for him itches. In a way, maybe that is why he is so outraged with this news. His nap hadn't gone well.

"Well of course, baby." You hum. "Who else would take care of you?"

He didn't need to be taken care of. In fact, he didn't need anything. You being here was a terrible distraction. Lagertha was newly Queen– chosen by Bjorn while he did what he wanted to do best: raid. If you were oh, so concerned: she was right there!

"I'm a grown ass man!" Ivar pushes himself to end of his bed. Pushing himself off, he follows you through the home on his palms. "What sort of man needs a woman chasing him around?"

"Plenty of men like a pair of warm hips to come home to." You say.

"You are not my woman!" He barks as the door creaks softly open. A waft of cool air spills into the home. Bjorn's boots thump as you twirl back around. You smack him with your round, delicious hips that knock his ass back onto the cool ground as you stomp past him..

"But I am your Mommie." You leave Ivar to go to Bjorn, taking his bearded jawline into your hands. Your lips meet seconds later. Bjorn's hands pillow in your large, fat ass.His cool arctic eyes focus on his younger brother through his shock, finding Ivar's eyes lowering down to the floor.

"Staying for dinner, Ivar?" You break the kiss as he inclines his head with a modest nod. 'Good,' you say– and then slipping from Bjorn, you go to cook. Bjorn takes wide sweeps of his feet and crouches before the youngest of his brothers.

"Don't think I don't see how you look at her."

The mass of rabbit furs on his shoulders holds Bjorn like a great bear. A beast of beasts. He's not afraid of him. He's afraid of no man! Ivar drags his feet around by the bindings, folding his arms as he leans back.

"How do I look at her, Bjorn, hm?" Ivar challenges.

"You want her to be your mommie."

What was that to mean? Mommie, you said. Mommie. Bjorn had said the same. He wonders... just what his brothers meant that day some time ago. Bjorn quickly remedies that, looking to where you are taking the ale that you brew yourself.

"I'll... let you warm her bed, little brother." Bjorn says in a sing song tone. "Then you'll understand your feelings for her." Bjorn rises to go to your side. He lays a small kiss on your temple, broad arms around your waist. The discussion you have seems to fly straight over Ivar's head.

I'm going drinking with my other brothers tonight.

Oh, I'll be alone?

You have Ivar.

That fucker. He was setting him up! Which was ridiculous... because, no, he was definitely not attracted to her. She was just an annoyance set on him by his mother and brothers! He would tell himself that until his ears bled. Bjorn crouches back by Ivar, mocking him with his two fingers. He makes a walking gesture, waiting until Ivar slithered his way to where you were cooking.

He was definitely set up.