Ivar the Boneless Imagines

My Girl

At a young age, he knew. He simply knew.

You were his soulmate.

The words meant nothing to him at first. Woo, a fucking wife to take the joy out of being a Viking. To come home to and watch swell with a child. Great. That was sooo exciting. But... as he grew, the words became actions.

The way you cared for his wounded legs when mother could not. Or sat to drink with him when his brothers had their newest whores. When loving you became easy... he wondered if he should make his move. Mother encouraged him to.

But then he came along.

Ivar knew he would be trouble from the looks of him. A strong Viking. Firm arms, a show-off. He would swing his axe around during training carelessly, knock men off their feet like the beast he inevitably was.

Ivar hated him.

Especially when he came that winter with a half-shit poem that he probably wrote every other woman in Kattegat and still, you fell for his sweet lies. But that day was different. There was a heavy pang in his chest before it happened. He just knew. That night before you came into the great hall and fell into his mother's arms, sobbing.

"What is she so upset about?"

Ivar lifts his head to Sigurd's question. Rightly so, Ivar should have known what she was upset about. The heaviness in his heart wasn't his. He knew no more about why she was sobbing than why the sky was blue, but it had been itching him all day to ask. When you finally surface to dinner, Ivar pours you a drink. He extends it out for you to take and yet, you pull the chair beside him and collapse.

Your cheek presses against his strong arm and you further wrap your arms around the wool fabric of his brown tunic, sniffling as you clutch him tightly. It fills him with something warm and different when you hide there with him. He wonders what was the change, and yet, you tell him past the bubble of tears dripping down your cheeks.

"He found his soulmate."

The elation, mixed with his rage, causes Ivar to rear up. A hard disbelieving stare wears his face. Met his soulmate, he hears. But what he also hears is a waste of time– that you could have been with him. Or, at least, he could have told you of his feelings for him.

"Found his soulmate..." he whispers. "He was cheating on you?"

You say nothing for some time, but make some half-cocked reply that sounds just like that silver-tongued motherfucker. "Is it cheating if she's meant to be his?"

"Yes." Ivar leers, "It is."

You glance up, bleak behind the bubble of tears dripping down your cheeks. He turns over his fat thumb to wipe away the tears dribbling past your chin. His thumb sweeps up, just under your eye, then flicks the tears away.

"I knew it before you came in." Ivar begins, unsure why he chose now to say. But it was done. He presses on. "I felt your pain."

"You felt my..." you sit upright now, staring into his unwavering eyes. "Of course you did. I felt yours too. When you..."

"When I?"

"Found out about us."

About the man. About his love and his kisses– the way that he touched your waist and, oh, it fills him back up with the same rage to think of it again. A pain masked in the rage of reliving the past year.

"Then you're meant to be mine."

You wrap your arms around your chest, softly massaging your forearms. There was some fear, he knew. The way that you hated his fighting with Sigurd or how your heart broke when he fell attempting to walk. A long enough break gave him pause.

"I think so," you return. "The gods help me."

"Help you?" he brings his cup up to his mouth.

His brothers speak up.

"Good luck, (Y/N)."

He still doesn't understand why they give you the best of luck. After all, you were the one swayed by pretty words! Wouldn't he have to keep a watchful eye on the men that would inevitably come to pick scraps from his table? As he ponders it, your hand inches over his. The tears rub away from your face, still raw, he notes. But your hand– it laces in his. And he knows.
It was going to be okay.

As long as he got rid of that man and his soulmate first.