King Ivar spends much of his time with his infertile first wife: neglecting his second wife, the mother of his children, a Freyjasdottir. Eventually, it catches up to him when a foreign King Sverri invades his lands.
tw: abuse, character death, etc.
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With Kitta out of commission, Ivar seemed to have a lot of questions as of late. A lot of very good, prudent questions. He asked you why you were spending so much time with Hvitserk. Why Hvitserk had to be in your rooms late at night even if Ragnhild was there to see– or in the dewy and cold mornings, why was he shirtless? Often spending the nights caring for Kitta, he knew what this was.
It was a game.
"Does he really think we're fucking?" Hvitserk reclines onto your bed. One of his muscular arms slips underneath your shoulders. You snuggle into your friend's arm while Hvitserk draws triangles in the shape of Valknut along the outside of your arm. A tickling reminder of your father's drawn flags every time his boat came over the steady horizon.
"Like rabbits." You answer. The only question you had was... if he thought that, why hadn't he come barging in to explode at Hvitserk? Maybe he was scared for his little Kitta. She was in a bizarre state, between this world and the next. While caring for her with the thralls you learned she was cognizant of what was going on and yet, she could not do anything for herself. It was as if someone pricked her with a svefnthorn, if only she was asleep.
"Do you want to fuc-" Hvitserk's words fall dead on his lips. You look up to his lips, then away only to find Ivar standing at the foot of your marital bed bed. His hand is tense on the axe of his belt, a grip tighter than iron on the crutch supporting him. Ivar slides his axe out of his belt and into his hand. He bounces it, spinning and twirling, with his eyes intent on his brother like a hunter after its cornered prey.
"Get out of my bed." Ivar flicks his thumb towards the door. Hvitserk doesn't need another warning. He slips out from behind the sheets with trousers still in place. No proof that he was naked in bed with you. Hvitserk sweeps up his overtunic from the floor and sets out for another area of this vast hall. The twirling of Ivar's axe stops as his eyes prowl after his brother, watching as he retreats from the room.
Then he looks at you.
"You promised you wouldn't fuck him." Ivar whispers deftly low. You recall the promise– the one you made prior to them leaving for the glittering lights in the sky. Ivar drags himself onto the bed.
"What are you talking about, husband?" You ask as Ivar drags himself across the bed. He boxes you in underneath his body, dropping onto his forearms to keep you properly contained. His hips grind against yours, the firmness of his growing arousal more evident with every movement against you. You assume it to be out of his usual rage-- to have had Hvitserk shoving himself in on something he deemed his.
"Don't lie to me! How many times have I caught him in here?" He's raving now, his tongue sputtering spittle so quickly that you could barely keep up. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? Does he fuck you better? Or do you just like small dicks?"
It's the gratification you want and need. Kitta may have gotten to see the beautiful colours of the sky (or maybe she hadn't) and you? You had your husband all to yourself while she got better. What better use of it than to make Ivar see red? You gasp when one of his hands drops down underneath your dress, prying your thighs apart. He prods your entrance with dry fingers as if looking for evidence of his brother's love.
