❛ summary | annoyed with ivar, his wife hides something that ivar can't tolerate being without
❛ warnings | wife hiding important things in relation to his oi, wifey is a bitch, whining, smut, annoyed ivar
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Since Ivar became king, he let it go to his head.
He drank with his men. He walked around Kattegat with Whitehair. Arranging this, doing that, and never once thinking about you. You! Who fortified his ass in ways thralls couldn't. You made his mead and ale from fresh honey, worked the bread with your queenly hands, and gave him all the sweet kisses that he could need.
But! Nooo. Ivar had things to do.
Things that you would not know how to do, so Ivar said, and so he had to do it. For the good of the people. Of Kattegat. Initially, yes, you allowed it. You were busy anyway. Busy kissing the tops of baby heads, dispursing necessities to poor families, and busying yourself.
Eventually, it caught up to you. You are too sensitive, Ivar said. Like a Saxon woman now. So you would pout and roll away. But enough became enough that morning when Ivar shrilled your name.
"(Y/N)! Where is my crutch?"
You sat upon a chair working the hook of your earrings through your ear. You use the reflection of a smooth gold pan to look at the earrings in your ear.
"Hmph," you say, trickling your finger over the beads. If he was going to ignore you, you would look your cutest. "I don't know. Wherever you left them. You did come in late last night, remember? Drinking with your men, again. Leaving your pretty wife here all alone–"
"(Y/N)," he warns from the bed.
You turn upon your seat, fixing your long hair. A loud thump alerts you that Ivar has dropped on the ground, swishing his hips down over the ground to your chair. You set down the rosy pink of the ground and dried powder when he presses down upon your thighs, kneeling on the side of you. Your lips purse.
"I am sorry I cannot be here with you as much as I should."
Mhmm.
"Now where are they?"
Now that wasn't an apology at all.
"I don't know. Maybe you left them in the hall with your men. Or with that blonde. What was her name–"
Ivar's head bows against your thigh. If you were guessing, it had to do with his annoyance. But you don't really care about that. He deserves a little bit of suffering for leaving you all alone in that great big bed of his father's. You're sure that even Queen Aslaug had not been forced to do such a thing when King Ragnar was there!
"I do not have anyone else, my sweet. You know that."
"Do I? I don't think I do," you say, turning your nose up.
There's some heaviness in the way that he looks at you, pulling back to sit upright. "(Y/N), what is wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong. If you want to be with another woman, go right ahead."
Ivar doesn't understand where this has come from. He has never had eyes for another woman. Ever, and you know that. He knows what this is about, really, it's about his lack of time in your bed. Ivar pulls himself up onto a chair beside you. You finish what you were doing, then look toward a hand extended toward you.
"You are feeling neglected," Ivar reasons. He wouldn't be wrong in that assertion. You take his hand, lips still in a pout, guiding yourself against him. The bracing of his legs is cool against your legs in your short nightgown. He guides your hips over his lap, smoothing your hips in a roll over him. Ivar's hand comes upon your ass, pulling you up on his lap.
"I have been busy more and more. But you know I only have eyes for you," Ivar says, and you look away, humming again like the spoiled brat you've become. He admits, he has probably spoiled you more than most kings would spoil their wives.
"(Y/N)..." Ivar mutters until you do pay attention. His hand comes over your ass in a soft pop, catching your attention. "Listen to me."
Firm now, as if he won't take no, and you like that. Your lip quirks, playfully amused when he talks to you in that voice that meant you had better listen because he was trying. Try a little harder, you egg him on with those big, beautiful eyes.
"Maybe I should be such a way." You say, gripping Ivar's shoulders to balance yourself. He sits upright when you make such an assertion, not wanting you to say what you were about to say, but realizing it was about to come from your lips at the same time. "I am beautiful too. I'm sure I can lure a man to flirt with me."
"You..." Ivar rear backs against the chair, his eyes with a wildly annoyed quality. "You wouldn't do that."
Would you? Ivar thinks, and you wouldn't really, not by that small smile that made its way on your lips. But he can't help think of every man who ever called you beautiful. Or congratulated him on a good catch. Or the rumors of how much a waste you were upon him. His hand quivers at your ass, digging his fingers in with bruising quality. He strikes his palm over your round ass, working the fabric higher.
You moan, equal parts in pain and desire, sliding your hands closer to his neck. Ivar's nails scrape over your ass when he pulls back, striking your ass again, your nipples peaking behind the dress. From the palm of his hand, a heat grows. At the place where the red sting grows, out toward your nipples, and trembling hands. He stares at you with absolute clarity on what you want. The punishment and the pleasure of being with your husband.
"You're probably already wet," Ivar says, topping off on another snapping smack that rings through the room. His hand leaves your ass to pull off that dress in bruising quickness, throwing the offensive fabric to the side. His hands travel back down your waist to your ass, cupping your cheeks. His cock tents his trousers, riding the friction of your moist heat dripping over his pants. A familiar need splits your face, and he knows what you want and need.
"You are," Ivar finds, his large hand at your neatly kept pussy. He hasn't eaten it out in some time, and he knows what this outburst is. Sexual frustration, that's what it is. You don't have words for it, only jealousy. You want more of his hand gliding over your pussy, riding it as if it were his cock or thigh for the pleasure. It's the most glorious, wonderful feeling in the world. Better than any crown or coin he could give you. You want more.
"Look at me. Yes. Good," Ivar reaches out to grasp a lock of your hair, forcing you to contort when he pushes a finger inside of you. It widens out inside of you, causing your walls to clamp hungrily upon him. When he pushes another finger forward, you jolt up his fingertips. Your hands find his neck, cupping it with affection as you obey his next words. "Ride them."
The sudden rush of pleasure spirals. Blood pounds to your clit, and you know he wants to see an orgasm this closer and personal. You've done this a hundred times with your own hands, but when it's him, it's that much better. You need more. It comes in the rush of pleasure throwing you into sensory overload, the frantic squish of his fingers slowing your thrusting hips. But Ivar won't let it go, intensifying the way his fingers thrust and hot rubbing against your clit until it's ridden all out.
"What do you want," Ivar asks, back against the chair now. Your hands fall down, loosening his trousers stubbornly because you have a great need of him. His eyes trail down to his dick, feeling it jump free from his pants.
"More," you whine.
"You're such a brat," Ivar says.
But he knows. If you want it, he'll give it to you.
