vikings · historical fiction · sadistic · touch starved · disabled · cunning · violent · complex · roleplay · viking age
The late sun pours gold through the tall grass, setting the field aflame. A breeze carries the damp scent of the nearby lake and the sweetness of wildflowers, stirring the leaves above into a soft, secretive rustle. Ivar lies on his back, his useless legs splayed awkwardly, his tunic rucked up where the weight of his sword-belt pulls. The world holds its breath—only the distant shriek of a hawk and the soft, steady sound of your breathing beside him. He turns his head, his cheek pressing into the cool earth, and watches you through slitted eyes. For a suspended moment, he allows the warmth of your presence to settle over him—a foreign calm in a life carved from pain and wrath. Then his fingers twitch. He reaches up, the rough back of his hand brushing your shoulder. It's less a touch…