NSFW Prompts / Ink Drinker Modern Vikings AU Request [Ivar x F!Reader]
request by: @quantumlocked310 & @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom (I combined two!)
author’s note: you can find the complete NSFW prompt list here, and you can find the request by the love of my life, I mean @quantumlocked310 here. the notes on this post contain the request from @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom
content warnings: angry sex (spanking, doggy & creampies); prompts will be bolded.
synopsis: Ivar wants to help you, and you just want to forget.
✎
You couldn’t say you had better coping mechanisms, dark humor and caffeine fueled mock-heart attacks were usually how you dealt with what horrors came from work. Bottling things up, shoving them under the rug that simply could not hold much more. But you never called Ivar a name out of anger. Or out of any emotion other than petty annoyance because there were times you couldn’t believe “Jack Ass” wasn’t his legal name.
Bitch.
You’d been called that before, by patients, by your ex, by Hvitserk if there was a loving application to the wording and there always was. But with how the name dropped off of Ivar’s tongue over the phone, there wasn’t an ounce of love in sight. And when the line went dead after his small outburst Ivar knew something had nipped at you. He just wanted you to consider the problem from his perspective—Ivar wasn’t one to talk about his own mentality and although he wasn’t the best example, he still saw someone professionally. You lacked that luxury and he thought you should do it. And you thought you should not.
“Why do you have to be a bitch about this?”
Sigurd even sucked in a quick hiss when the words left Ivar’s mouth, and then when his brother pulled the phone away from his ears quickly, damage was done. Ivar mumbled something about a smoke, anger on his face as he stomped through the shop, but Sigurd couldn’t tell if it was anger for you or anger for himself.
You were no happier when you went home after an unplanned extension to your shift. Taking a patient to the medical center almost an hour away on their own wish was your least favorite thing to hear when your shift ended five minutes prior. Anger might as well spill from your pores as you walked in to see Ivar at the dining table, a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and eyes on you. And he looked pissed.
“Sit down.” He demands.
“Fuck you, Ivar,” You spit back.
“No, you don’t get to do that if you’re going to be a bitch about this,” Ivar says and he stands. You can only laugh, spoiled and rotten as the joke rings through you and annoys you even farther.
“Like you’re someone who talks about their emotions,” You say, stepping in through the threshold.
“I never said I was,” Ivar starts. “But there’s someone who gets to hear them once a week and all I want is for you to fucking think about that. That’s all I asked. Because I only know half of what you see on a daily basis, and what I know ain't great, and I can’t imagine what else there is.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not a medic,” Your words come to be blunt as you walk past him.
“Oh my fucking god,” Ivar groans and pushes the chair back to thunk his weight across. “Why aren’t you letting me help you?” His words come next and you hear the bottle being opened, and you hear the sloshing of the liquid across the lowball glass and then your hear him toss it back. “I just want to fucking help you,” And Ivar is speaking to the table top now, eyes pinching shut as he scrubs his hands to cover his face. There’s another pour into the vessel and he tosses it back again. “Call me when you want to talk.” He says as he stands, feeling far too unwelcome, pulling his leather jacket back on and fishing through his pockets for his lighter and final cigarette. You hear the stomp from his boots and the deadbolt unlatch and you turn stalk out from your room. Now with bare feet that waltz you back over to where he is, slamming the door into its home and Ivar turns. There’s a look of confusion on his face, unlit cigarette ready to fall from his lips as your eyes bore back up to him.
“I’ve had a shit day—one where nothing goes right no matter what because some people can’t be pleased. Even when I drive them to the medical center, an hour away, and they have to wait in line to get checked in. Do not come over here to be a dick because I don’t want to talk to a shirk about the stupid shit like that. Have you ever seen a burnt body, Ivar? I’ll talk to a shirk about that—but not petty shit that comes with my certificate because it’s called petty shit for a reason.” You say lowly.
“Then what do you want me to do?” Ivar replies.
“Take the fucking cigarette out of your mouth.” And as soon as he complies you’re tugging his face down to yours. His hands move clumsily for a brief second, shocked in a sense with your change of emotions, and they finally latch on to your face. Your feet take you backwards, Ivar with you and you’re all but dragging him. There’s a wait for him to take control, and when you stand back alongside your bed simply looking at him, he catches his cue.
You’re spun quickly, pushed to bend across the sheets and his hand is over your pajama pants. Slapping a palm across your ass and the sting sends your mind back to the present and it makes you moan. It makes the sharp thoughts dull and you ask him for another one. And another one. A balancing act starts between both of his hands, swatting your back side again because with each time you moan louder, you get wetter and Ivar is still trying to quickly get his own jeans off with his free fingers. He watches you climb up the bed, leaving the shorts in your wake and your wiggling from your shirt, on all fours before him. His jacket lands somewhere behind him, climbing up after you and you’re covered by that man, his hand back along your ass as he slaps it to darken a brilliant shade of red.
“Hang on,” He says lowly by your ear and he can’t help but dip his fingers between your folds, parting you to see how wet you’ve grown for him. A moan slips through your mouth as he does, pulling his fingers back and sliding your juices across his shaft, lubricating his journey and there’s a final slap before Ivar pulls your hips back. As you arch your back in response he grabs a hold of himself, nudging your thighs to part with his knee cap and there’s no slow pace as he pushes himself into you. Spreading your walls roughly and the tip of his cock pushes against your sweet spot instantly, melting into the sheets and your hair is yanked forcefully from his grasp. “I just want to fucking help,” He grumbles from behind you, gritting his teeth and he wants to stay mad at you but the ways your body conforms for him makes it a battle he’s willing to lose.
“Harder,” You beg and he hasn’t even moved yet. “Ivar, harder,” And he watches your fingers dig into the sheets as his free hand grips your hip bone. “Please—I need you so badly,” You whimper and that catches him. “Just make me forget,” The first thrust he offers you snaps you up the bed, rutting the headboard to bounce back off of the wall and you moan. “Harder,” Comes your plea and he drops your hair, free hand taking home to your other hip for leverage and he pulls back to slam into you even harder. The wetness radiating from your cunt echoes to meet the noise of the headboard as Ivar fucks you, your mouth dropping open and the angered thoughts from the prior hours are all gone. Taken up by the pleasure as his body meets yours, torso coming to cover you and Ivar reaches forwards, bending your body so your back meets his chest, and his lips can rest on your ear.
“I want you to forget everything and everyone else, but me—and this,” Ivar whispers in your ear, craning your chin as his hand slithers to grab your throat, sending his point home as his cock pierces you, causing you to whimper as your only way to respond. “And I want you to come all over me,” He grumbles, his voice faltering as his hips stutter, trying to starve off his own end to make you meet yours first. You can only nod in response, not even sure that he sees it as your climax creeps across your skin. Taunting you just out past your grip and the frustration makes you whine.
“Harder—‘m so close,” You whimper and one of Ivar’s hands drop suddenly, pushing against your clit and that sends you to cry out, dropping forwards as his hips moves as fast as his tired body will let them. Snapping up as his wrist moves to try to match it and he feels your walls grab him like a vice, a scream of his name rolling off of your mouth as you lurch in his grasp, soaking him and the whole complex surely hears you come. Crushing aftershocks of your orgasm ripple against Ivar’s shaft and there’s a few final slower thrusts, stuttering as he halts when he comes, the sound of his long groan heavenly on your ears while his arms all but crush you. Panting soon echos between the two of you and Ivar’s quite certain his back popped out of place with the force of his orgasm. As he trails his lips to your temple, gone slick with sweat that lingers from his own hair line, you finally apologize.
“Don’t need to be sorry—I get it,” He says quietly and the grimace from his earlier words are lightyears away. “Just tell me what you need so I can do it,”
“This,” is all you can reply.
“This might have to wait like an hour,” Ivar mumbles, his lips moving to your shoulder blade. “I can’t feel my back,” His confession sends laughter to ring from your lips, his echoing not too far behind and its the first sliver of decency you’ve actually felt since you left for work that morning.
“Bring the whiskey back,” You say, turning your head to seek out his lips and when they plant along yours you can’t help but hum.
“Don’t like it when you’re upset,” Ivar adds, slowly creeping away from you, slipping back out and you climb through the sheets. In the plush oasis you curl around with the duvet, watching Ivar pull back as his eyes scan to find the path where his clothes were haphazardly flung. Red boxers are back on and he’s looming back over you, grabbing your cheeks to push them together with his fingers as he places his mouth on yours. “You’re not a bitch,” He tells you as his lips move only millimeters from yours.
“I’ll be the first to admit that I am,” You say, cheeks still squished together and Ivar can’t help but smile. He’s back a few seconds later with the bottle, tossing it to roll along the sheets and you’re quick to take a hearty swig. “Is he taking new clients?” You ask as he climbs in beside you.
“She is,” Ivar says back, palm out reached and you hand him the bottle.
“You have a lady therapist?” You say and he nods, setting the bottle back on the night stand.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Ivar tells you and you turn, moving to rest back along the sheets and his head comes down on your chest, slinging an arm loosely over your waist as he gets comfortable. And then he’s squeezing you closer as your hand take to his hair. “Wait—hold on,” Ivar says after a minute, laying back next to you and you’re suddenly pulled, laid across his chest as your naked body moves limply and he snickers at how easily your limbs are oozing. His arms are around you then, pushing hair from your face as he curls the ends around his fingertips, sliding those same digits down your spine, the swell of your bare ass, and then back up again. The warmth of his hand presses against you as you rest over him and he pulls the covers back over the two of you. “That’s better.” Ivar whispers and he presses his lips against your hair.
“Thank you Ivar,” You say from your spot.
“You’re welcome baby, get some rest,”
“I love you,” and Ivar squeezes his arms around you once more as you say that, the words always sounding better each time you speak them.
“I love you too Y/N,”
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