#alex hogh andersen fic
Thank you for reading && all the lovely comments. We’re getting to the good parts, I swear.
Also, if you asked me to tag ya before and I forgot - my apologies, please poke me again so I can add you from this point on!
Read the previous: Expo, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Tags:
@youbloodymadgenius, @poisonous00 , @youaremyfamiliar , @castielsangelsx , @lol-haha-joke ,@readsalot73 , @love-all-things-writing , @xceafh
TW: None really.
The days that followed Erik’s execution were stressful. As soon as Ivar was done unleashing his wrath on the warrior who dared to step out of line - Y/N assumed he’d satisfy his need for revenge and his thirst for blood. But surprisingly enough, the opposite seemed to happen. Ivar was becoming increasingly frustrated, upset and volatile. He’d lash out, break things, train in the woods for hours on end. Most of all, he’d avoid Y/N and barely seek to engage her in any sort of interaction.
Sitting in her bed, Y/N caressed her wooden cross with a delicate finger as she tried to replay the events that followed Erik’s death that night.
“Come closer Y/N. Help me wash away my sins.”
His voice taunted her, haunting her conscious mind at all hours of the day. Then, as the sun set on another day in bitter-sweet captivity, the unique sound of his walk would reach her cautious ears. Those crutches thumping against the ground. The sound they made when put down as his bed squeaked. Y/N bit her lip and fought off the fantasies. The fantasies one simple, yet sinful collision, had planted within her.
His voice hummed softly in her ears as she grabbed the cloth, dipping it in the warm waters. If her soul belonged to an element, she thought, it’d have been water. Ivar’s was fire, no doubt. They were so very different. Her conscious mind mused as her eyes wandered to the man sitting on his bed, a little too close, and a little too eager to rid himself of his clothes.
At that point Y/N was done lying to herself. She craved intimacy. She craved what all men and women craved by nature regardless of their color, religion or alliance.
Her hand trembled across his chest as blood began to mix with water. Her eyes studied his blood-spattered torso with hypnotic fascination. The symbolic irony in the thought of water = her soul, cleansing blood = Ivar’s sins, was not lost on her. Ivar didn’t say anything, he just stared at her through a pair of large blue eyes, and for the first time she saw something else in them…could it be…caution?
Dipping the blood-soaked cloth back into the waters, she squeezed over and over, making the cloth clean again. As soon as she pulled it out once more, intending to continue, Ivar spoke. “I remember my mother used to do this a lot.” His voice sounds far off. “She is the only one who ever loved me, you know.” suddenly his voice sounds vulnerable and Y/N swears it’s about to crack. What would she do if he cried now? The thought is absolutely heartbreaking. Especially because it is not true. And she wants to tell him he’s wrong. She want to tell him she…too.
Opening her mouth to speak, he waits. He leans forward, his eyes shifting between the cloth floating in the air between them, then her slightly parted lips. His eyes drink the sight of her lips with wonder and curiosity and desperation. He wants her to say something. But Y/N backs down. Instead, her hand finds his right pectoral and begins to move in slow and steady circles. She notices the movement under his chest as he sucks the air in, but in a flash Ivar’s hand is behind her neck and he forces their mouths together.
His mouth is demanding as a soft sigh escapes him. The hand that holds her against him is firm, but the lips that open on top of hers are in no hurry, just in great need.
For a moment everything goes black. Y/N forgets how to breath. Inhaling, all she can allow into her is Ivar. His breath feels cold, like smelling a snowball. He tastes crisp.
Mere seconds stretch onto months or years, she’s not entirely sure. But the moment feels longer than her entire period in the Scandinavian captivity. Ivar groans as his hand tightens its grip of her neck for a split second, then he lets go. But his mouth is hungry, relentless. He’s been waiting for this moment for far too long, and is now determined to make it last as long as she’d allow it.
Y/N pulls back too soon. What a fool I’ve been. She shakes her head when the memory strikes again. How she pulled back, stammering, shaking her head in disapproval.
“My god would not be happy about this, Ivar.” she says as her eyes harden. They take in every bit of the mesmerizing sight before her. His lean torso is almost shaking, his chest heaving with labored breathing, his hands in fists. Those careful eyes are now blue flames full of arousal and want. No trace of a once cripple boy, he’s now all man.
“Well, I do not see him here, Y/N. Do you?” he asks, a mixture of hurt and anger in his voice as he spreads his hands and looks around. “Where is your god now, Y/N? Where was he when I took a man’s life, if it’s so wrong?” he continues to spit venom as if he’s looking for an answer that would make sense on her face. There is no answer.
At that moment, even her faith is lacking - if not lost, altogether.
