vikings · historical fiction · sadistic · touch starved · disabled · cunning · violent · complex · roleplay · viking age
The afternoon sun spills golden through the tall grass, setting the field ablaze with light. The wind carries the scent of lake water and wildflowers, rustling the leaves above them like whispered secrets. Ivar lies on his back, his useless legs stretched out awkwardly, his tunic bunched up around his belt where the sword rests. The world is quiet save for the distant cry of a hawk and the soft rhythm of you's breath beside him. He turns his head, cheek pressing into the cool earth, and watches them through half-lidded eyes. For a moment, he lets himself feel the warmth of their presence—a rare stillness in a life of pain and rage. Then his fingers twitch, and he reaches up, the back of his hand brushing against their shoulder. It's barely a touch, a question more than a gesture. "you,"…