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pomegranates-and-blood · 2 years

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Blindly 1/4 (500 Celebration)

500 Celebration Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader, and minor unrequited (?) Hvitserk/Reader

Prompt: From the Love Prompts category: Amnesia.

Word Count: 2661

Warnings: Well, amnesia, for one. The Reader character is the one with amnesia btw. Mentions and/or descriptions of war, death, fighting, injuries, and drowning. Some fluff hidden there with all the angst. My writing.

A/N: This was fun to write! When I brainstormed this prompt I also wanted to write a fic where Ivar is the one who forgets something/everything, but the other one I have planned would demand an amount of motivation and time I do not have right now lol, so I decided to go for this one for the 500 thingy, and if I ever circle back to the other idea, I might write it as a separate thing from this challenge.

Sorry for the ramble, hope you like this!

When you wake, the gasps of a woman just pulled off to shore heaving your chest, the images of dark waters closing over your head still present in your mind as fresh as a memory, you find yourself face to face with a stern looking old woman, who orders you to lay back down.

Though you do not want to give her the satisfaction of ordering you around, a sharp pain pulses on the side of your head, and you lay down on the soft bed with a wince. Though, while even the soft lights make your head throb with pain, you follow the woman with your gaze.

“Where am I?”

“Kattegat.” She replies. You grit your teeth, biting your tongue to keep yourself from answering that you know that, that you want to know why this house is unfamiliar, why the woman by your bedside is a stranger.

She doesn’t even look at you, doesn’t even react even when you cannot keep yourself from flinching away when she reaches up to check an injury on your forehead.

“Did Queen Aslaug send you?” You ask her, and clearing your throat to try to make your voice a tad less hoarse, you try again, “Has she sent word to my family? About…about whatever happened to me that warrants a healer by my side?”

You finally get her to look at you with those questions. The woman, grave features made worse by a frown, searches your gaze for a few moments. Instead of answering, she barks an order to a young thrall that scurries out of the room, leaving you alone with this stranger.

“You are a smart girl.” She enounces it slowly, as if she’s starting one half of a poem and you are supposed to know the other.

“But not keen on flattery,” You retort without hesitation, searching her gaze with the same intensity she looks at you with. “Does my family know I am well?”

Her eyes linger on you for a few more seconds, before she turns her back to you and focuses on a table with what you are sure are remedies and herbs you have no intention of letting her make you drink.

Gruffly, she answers, “Soon they will, my Queen.”

“Your what?”

“You are in a fragile state, tis best you save your strength.”

“I will, once you tell me why you are calling a blacksmith’s daughter a queen.”

“Whatever I call you, you make no demands from me when you are under my care. You fell into the river and almost drowned, you ought to concern yourself with your health, not your name.”

You offer a long sigh in response, moving to sit up on the bed. She immediately tries stopping you, but you swat her hands away. You regret defying her, for you are certain the reason she tried slowing you down was to keep the headache that seems to split your head in two from worsening. Which it does, but you refuse to show her and give her the satisfaction.

“If you make no use of your tongue to tell me the truth, I have no issue ridding you of it.”

When she turns to glare at you, you offer only a tilt of your head to the side, expectant. There’s a small twitch in her expression, you do not know if anger or fear, but you care for neither, you just want her to tell you what is going on.

Whatever it is she was to answer with is stopped short by this strange knocking sound, and you only notice it because of the way the woman tenses at the sound. You realize after a few moments that it isn’t knocking, for it is getting closer and closer; and the closer it gets, the more clearly you hear the shuffling sounds accompanying the dull knocking on the wooden floor.

As the door opens you are already opening your mouth to ask who it is that is making such noise, but any questions die on your lips.

“Ivar,” You gasp, sitting up even against the gentle push of the healer’s hand on your shoulder. Your eyes are wide as they take him in, and without meaning to you are leaning back, away from him. “You’re…you’re walking.”

It is only then, as if you needed to speak such thing into existence for you to notice what has changed; that you can take in the rest of him, realize the only thing familiar about the man before you -standing before you- is the blue of his eyes. Past the braces encasing his legs, you notice the way his posture is prouder, his upper body larger, his hair longer, his face scarred.

Your breaths quicken, and your hands curl into fists as you try making sense of this, of any of it. A small cry leaves your lips as you close your eyes to try and calm down but are only able to see dark water closing in around you, so you force yourself to open your eyes and look at him.

All that is left of him, of the him that is familiar and real, is his eyes.

The blue eyes you fell asleep thinking about just last night. Blue eyes, vibrant blue eyes, that give away so much.

Blue eyes that now dart to look at the woman by your bedside. You look down at his hand, his free hand, for the other is occupied holding a crutch that is keeping him standing, and notice the nervous movement, the way it clenches into a fist before relaxing, over and over again. You never saw him do that before.

“So it is true?”

“It is, my King.”

“What is?” You press before the healer can answer, “What is happening?”

His nose furrows and his lip curls into a snarl, yet it is an uncharacteristically contained anger as he orders, “Out. Now.”

The woman doesn’t even make a sound as she leaves the room.

He won’t look at you. You want to demand that he does, you want to scream for him to help you make sense of any of this, but words die in your throat and strength leaves you so suddenly you feel like trembling.

“You think my mother is Queen of Kattegat.” Is what he starts with, eyes carefully set on a spot on the floor.

But while he won’t look at you, you cannot take your eyes off of him. Behind all the unfamiliar, all the change, it is still Ivar.

Ivar, pale and swaying where he stands. Ivar, with eyes shining and jaw clenched tight.

“Am I dead?”

You seem to stun him enough to have him look at you.

“What?”

“You are dead, you…you drowned. Your mother, she told me.”

“I’m not dead, and neither are you,” He tells you firmly, but his eyes soon fall from yours, and his lips part to make way for a breath that even to you sounds shaky. “You…you will be fine.”

“Was I not before?”

The laugh leaving his lips is humorless, “You aren’t now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve forgotten me.” He tells you, and it sounds as if the words were ripped from his throat.

Expression twisted into a grimace, you spit out, “Has dying turned you stupid?”

“I didn’t die.”

“And I haven’t forgotten you,” You retort in the same tone. Yet, at the blank stare he offers back, the blank stare of a man you do not know, you are pulled back to the ground, forced to set your feet on the unfamiliar earth. You shake your head, pressing your lips together to keep a cry from leaving you, “No, no, you are lying to me.”

“Why would I lie to you, hm?” He presses, and at least his anger you know well, at least his anger is familiar.

“How long, then? How long have…have I lost?”

“I returned from England five years ago now.”

You want to cry, you want to cry and to run and for everything to make sense again. Even if you thought the man you…even if you thought Ivar was dead, that pain was better than all this chaos.

You can do nothing but nod your head once, looking off into the dim hearth ahead, wringing your hands together and clinging to what is left of your mind in the silence that follows.

Startling both Ivar and yourself, after a few moments of quiet you start,

“They called you King.”

Ivar sighs, and out of the corner of your eye you notice his head drop.

“I will tell you everything, just not…not n-…”

“Do you want to know what they called me?” You ask shrilly, offering a laugh that sounds insane to your own ears to try and amend the harsh words. He knows what you are asking.

“We are married.” He confirms quietly, yet firmly.

“I’m smart enough to figure that one out, yes,” You mutter, almost to yourself. You notice he moves to stand, and turn wide eyes to him, “What are you-…? Where are you going?”

“You need rest if you are to heal.” He answers coldly, and that knocking sound of his crutch hitting the wooden ground echoes somewhere hollow in your chest.

____

The girl that you assume is your personal thrall now, or has been for a while for all you know, tells you many things about what the world is now, about the person you are now, about has become of the people you loved and love still.

She keeps you company as you rest, slips into the room quietly once Ivar has left, and she tells you stories. She tells you of Queen Aslaug’s murder, of the war that made Ivar king, of the conquests of the Great Army over Wessex and beyond.

She answers many of your questions, questions you feel you cannot ask anyone else. And so when you ask, she tells you she has never seen anyone love as you as your husband love done another, she tells you she and many others dread to know what would have become of Ivar if you had died, she tells you he is more alike the boy you once knew than he’d like to admit.

But there are many questions she cannot ask her, and many things you want to discover on your own. So the next morning Ivar comes by to visit you, when his hand slips onto yours to squeeze lightly in greeting before releasing you, you don’t let him.

Lifting your gaze from your hand holding onto his, you look into his eyes. Familiar eyes.

“We are married.” You tell him, slowly, though not tentatively. As a reminder, if nothing else.

And he notices, for the corners of his mouth curve into a smile as he moves to sit down on your bed. Your eyes follow the ungraceful movements, linger on the crutch he discards by his side.

“We are.”

“Why are you avoiding your wife, King Ivar?”

“My wife has no idea she is my wife at all, and to her I am not a king.”

“Well, unless you plan on divorcing me, which would be a truly terrible thing to do now of all times, you will have to deal with it, ‘not a king’ Ivar.”

There’s the smallest of twitches of his nose that give away some sort of irritation, but his thumb offers a tentative, almost hesitant caress over the back of your hand, and your heart does this foolish little leap inside your chest.

“Did you mourn me?” He asks suddenly, gaze intent on yours, as if searching for the answer before you are to speak it. “You said the last thing you remember is word of my father’s boats sinking. Did you mourn me, when you thought I had died?”

The realization that he is asking this earnestly, not intending to make a point from your answer, falls on you like a weight was dropped on your chest. Brows furrowed, you sputter for an answer,

“Of course I did, you idiot,” You take your hand from his hold, and notice how he curls the hand now bereft of your touch into a fist. “Did you mourn for me, while I lay on the bottom of that river?”

He flinches at your words, but hides it well.

“It’s not the same.”

“Yes, it is,” You argue without hesitation, but despite your certainty you cannot face the pain laid bare in his pale gaze, you cannot face this man you sometimes know like you know yourself and sometimes don’t know at all. Instead, you look into the dim flames of the hearth ahead, and start anew, “I have…many questions.”

“Ask me, then.”

He follows the movements of your fingers, and it would take more than losing your memory for you not to notice the way Ivar tenses at the realization of what you are focused on, the way his shoulders coil with tension, the way his breath catches in his throat.

“You didn’t give me a ring?” You ask quietly, not hurt but instead curious. He is still a man you remember little of, for what you remember of him is a boy quick to anger and strangely enough quick to trust as well, but if there is one thing you know about Ivar, something you are certain is as unchanging as the mountains breaching the skyline, is his…possessiveness.

You were friends as far as you can remember -though with the knowledge you have now of what the years meant for the both of you, you can admit you never were just friends-, and Ivar always demanded to be your priority, always made sure they all knew it was him you spent your time with, always insisted on getting your attention above anyone else.

Ivar clears his throat and blinks a couple of times, but keeps himself so painfully still, keeps his eyes so unnaturally focused on the ink surrounding your fourth finger, that you almost regret asking.

“I did. It was-…it wasn’t with you when we found you.”

You don’t know what kind of comfort you could give now, you don’t know what kind of comfort he’d welcome, or need from you. You don’t know what the woman you became would do, what the man he became would crave.

So instead you offer a flat smile, and take a deep breath.

“I am glad I have this then,” You admit, tracing over the design, in which you can almost see the delicate trace of runes, that circles your finger where your ring should be. Your eyes dart to his hand, and find it bare of ink. “You don’t have it, the ink.”

“You didn’t ask me to.” He answers, voice rough, heavy with pain and something else, something you can’t quite reciprocate yet.

“You would have if I’d asked?” You venture, a foolish smile curving at your lips, girlish and daring. It seems much more real, tangible, than a gold band could ever be; for you can take off a ring, but you cannot erase him from your skin. And it seems so strange to you, that mere days ago you were worrying he’d let his mother find him so foreign woman to marry and breed with, and now you can call yourself his wife.

After all, to you no time has passed between the afternoons you would spend together by the pier, with you coaxing smiles out of him and treasuring them like gold for your hoard, with him offering gentleness like it was a secret and asking for it in return with a hesitation that in him always looked like imposition.

For a moment, perhaps, you manage to remind him of those days as well, for Ivar’s lips curve into a faint smile, expression softening.

The admission is quiet, almost as if not even you are meant to hear it,

“I’d do anything for you.”

Thank you for reading! I’m thinking I’ll post the next one tomorrow. I don’t know if daily updates are too much, but idk, it’s only four and it’s not really that good so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Ivar Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @encounterthepast @thegeminithrone @1950schick

Hvitserk Taglist: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #hvitserk x reader #ivar the boneless #hvitserk ragnarsson #500 fucking hell thank you ily

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pinkletterday · 6 years

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Title: You & I

Pairing:Barry Allen/Iris West

Other pairings:Coldflash, Coldwestallen, Olivarry, Queenwestallen, Queenwest, Superwestallen, Superflash, Superwest, Superflarrow, Westcanary, Iris West/OFC, Iris West/OMC

Summary:On the face of it, they have the perfect polyam marriage. Well, almost. No matter how loving the relationship, polyamory brings it's own set of problems.

Notes:

It's 5am and I've been up three hours with a fever. I wrote a Westallen polyam marriage negotiation thingy. Probably gonna cringe at it in a few hours but am still gonna post cause reality is meaningless and future me can suck it.

Iris watched her husband from the doorway of the twins' bedroom. She loved listening to him sing as much as her children did. It engulfed her in warm contentment, transporting her back in time to her own father's crooning by her bedside.

"But you're so

precious to me

Baby of mine..."

Donny was asleep but Dawnie, as usual, was actively fighting it.

"One more, Daddy."

"Nu-uh."

"Purrty pleease?"

"I'll sing you another one tomorrow night," Barry pressed a kiss to her temple, "Go to sleep, ladybug."

She sighed and acquiesied, snuggling under the covers. He tucked her stuffed rabbit next to her, dropped kisses on both their heads and slipped out, giving Iris a (very quiet) high-five.

She had just closed the bedroom door when his arms slid around her waist. He turned his face into her neck, pressing kisses to her bare skin.

"Mmm," she leaned back and smiled lazily, arcing into his lips. "Mr. Allen, you better not start something you can't finish."

"Why would you think I can't finish it?," he murmured and she felt his hardness press against her ass.

She tried not to grind back against it. "Because your boyfriend has already been waiting for you for an hour?"

Barry froze and drew back. "An hour? Shit, is it that late?"

"Uh huh," Iris fought down her disappointment and rolled her eyes at him. "I swear those two take longer to give in every night."

"Not possible. I vividly remember none of us sleeping for three months straight once," said Barry, but he was distracted calling Leonard on his phone.

"Hey babe, just wanted you to know I'm on my way. Just give me ten minutes to shower and change....yeah, I guess. Okay, I'll bring my bag. See you soon."

A familiar bleak feeling opened in her stomach, but she carefully schooled her features into wry amusement. "Ten minutes, huh?"

"Yeah, it's our code for "I'm having a quickie with my wife before I come over"," Barry crowded her against the wall, eyes dark with lust.

"Uh-uh," she tried to stop him with a grin and a hand on his chest. He ignored her and went back to kissing her neck. "Barry," she tried to be stern, but the dratted man knew her weak spots too well, "Barr, I'm really not in a quickie mood."

He drew back to look at her quizzically. "You sure? This morning you were all over me."

"No, I definitely want sex. I just want something slower and more thorough right now, and that's not what I'm going to get with a quick fumble before you run off to Len."

She immediately felt bad when his face fell.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said, eyes full of contrition.

"It's okay. You haven't seen him in two weeks," she smiled encouragingly at him. Of course they hadn't had sex in two weeks either. But it wasn't like they didn't see each other every day.

He still looked troubled. "Are you sure? Maybe you could come with me. I don't think Len would mind," he kissed her in reassurance. "You have a standing invitation, you know."

The thought of being wrapped up in the bodies of both her husband and his lover sent pulse of desire through her, but her heart wasn't in it. "I know. But I'm not horning on your reunion sexathon. Seriously, hon, its okay," she grinned at him salaciously. "I'll just pour myself a glass of wine, switch on my vibrator and get myself off on our bed thinking of all the dirty things you two are probably doing."

Barry's eyes went dark. "Mrs. West-Allen, are you objectifying us?"

"Yes," she breathed close to his lips. "And you can tell Len exactly how."

He crushed him to her in a hard kiss.

They had a rule of greatly reduced superspeed in the house unless in case of emergency, so he had to take a few seconds longer to gather up his things than he would have.

"Have fun," she raised on her tip-toes to kiss him. "What?"

He was looking at her with a considering expression. "It's been a while since you've gone out with someone yourself. Not since Daniel."

"I go out," she said defensively. "Sara and I are going strong. And I get to join you and Oliver and Len and Kara whenever I want to. Plus, I had a fun afternoon with that intern last week," she slanted a sultry grin at him. Barry had been very interested in her detailed recounting of the encounter.

But he ignored her deflection. "I mean something serious. You see Sara like three times a year, we never know when Kara turns up to crash and I'm the one actually dating Oliver and Len."

A frission of irritation ran through her. "Why is this a problem? Not all of us have speedster sexual appetites, Barry. I barely have time for you between work and the kids."

"I know that. And it's not about sex," he framed her face and kissed her soothingly on her forehead. "I just. Want to make sure you're happy. I never want any part of you to go unfullfilled," his eyes were so loving and tender that her heart ached even more.

Then stay. "I'm fine, babe," she smiled, hoping she sounded convincing. "If I do feel "unfulfilled" you can help me find someone. Now shoo! And don't come back till at least afternoon, I can cover the kids till then."

He kissed her hard once more. "God, you're the perfect woman. Len and I'll take the kids out on Sunday, let you have the house to yourself. And tomorrow night," he husked against her ear, "I'm going to take you apart for hours until you pass out from cumming."

Her knees were weak when he flashed out the window. But the hollowness persisted.

Iris ruminated on it while she poured herself a glass of wine and snuggled under the covers of their bed. The feeling been rather pronounced lately, mostly whenever Barry had to rush out on family time for superhero emergencies or rush out on her for well, everything else it seemed. But more so when he had to leave her to make time with his lovers.

She couldn't figure out why that was. They had never begrudged each other their partners; there was some healthy possessiveness yes, but not jealousy and insecurity.

She had seen exactly when Barry had fallen in love with Oliver before he knew it himself, had been with him every step of the way over their subsequent I-don't-deserve-you-stay-away-before-I-hurt-you-why-won't-you-love-me ridiculousness; had held his hand during his hilarious spazzing out over Len. Thankfully he and Kara had been blessedly drama-free and cute as puppies, although she was more his queerplatonic partner with benefits.

In turn, Barry had encouraged her to explore her sexuality with Sara and Kara and other women. He had met and approved of Daniel and comforted her through the heartbreak of their breakup. He had even hoped for a while that she and Oliver would form a relationship of their own, but they had decided not to go down that road in the end. She had grown to love Oliver and was quite fond of Snart, and enjoyed the occasional romp with them immensely, but she was certain there would be murder involved if she was actually in a relationship with either of them.

She really held no resentment against any of them. Maybe Barry was right and her break up with Daniel was getting to her more than she knew. Maybe she should get out there and find another relationship for her own.

The thought made her feel tireder than ever. The obvious perk of marriage was to not have to navigate the hellscape that was dating strangers.

She opened the drawer in their bedside table and looked disdainfully at the assorted vibrators and sex toys.

She didn't want anyone else. She wanted her husband. And there just wasn't enough of him to go around.

Maybe she should have taken him up on that quickie.

She shut the drawer and slumped back against the pillows with a sigh. And waited.

The door creaked open right on time and small socked feet padded to the foot of the bed.

"Mommy, I can't sleep." Dawnie clutched her stuffed rabbit and stared at her with the hazel eyes that were so much like Barry's.

Her heart melted, the bleakness finally dissapating. "Come here, boo," she held out her arms and snuggled her baby against her chest.

...

Her Dad knew. He knew but carefully pretended he didn't know, probably for his own sanity. Joe West might go along with whatever science fiction shenanigans the universe saw fit to throw at him every year, but he drew the line at his daughter and son-in-law's sexual proclivities. Iris had once tried explaining to him that it wasn't just sexual, Len and Oliver and Kara were all relationships as meaningful to Barry as their own was, that they were part of their family too. He had simply ignored her.

She could have let it slide if not for how much it hurt Barry. He pretended that it didn't matter that Joe couldn't accept his relationships, that he even understood where he was coming from. But the boy who had sought his surrogate father's approval still hurt inside and that Iris could not forgive.

Fighting only distressed him more, so after two weeks of mutual silent treatment, Iris and her father had begrudgingly slipped into a status quo of "don't ask don't tell".

This had only been broken once. Iris had come home from spending the night at Daniel's to find Joe babysitting the twins, Barry having been called away on an emergency.

He had said nothing, but let Iris settle the kids down in front of the tv and followed her to the kitchen. She had gone about making lunch, determinedly ignoring him despite her own anger and embarrassment rising under his disapproving eyes.

"You're playing with fire, Iris," he told her. "What happens if you get pregnant by this guy? Or someone else?"

Iris resisted the urge to tell him it was none of his business, since he was so hell-bent on not even acknowledging it. "Then we bring up the kid together," she said evenly, staying focused on buttering the bread. "Me, Barry and whoever it is."

"You really think it'll be so easy? That Barry and "whoever it is" won't have problems down the line?"

"We probably will, but no more than other blended families," she finally looked Joe right in the eye, jaw set in a mirror of his own. "We've actually talked about these things, Dad. Any child of mine is always going to be Barry's as well."

"And what if Barry knocks someone up?"

Iris hid flash of amusement. If Joe had bothered to notice, Barry's extra-marital tastes mostly ran to men, and even then only to long-term relationships. Kara was an exception but then she was unable to procreate with humans.

They had discussed it though. Particularly in case Oliver had a yen to have another kid with Barry.

"There isn't one rule for him and one for me, Dad. Barry's kids are mine, my kids are Barry's, end of."

Her Dad had sighed and rubbed his temple in that "I'm-done-here" way. But he hadn't brought it up again. Iris figured it was the best they could hope for.

...

tbc

#myfic #the flash #olivarry #westallen #wip #coldflash #polyamory #kids and family #bad posting decisions at 5am

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