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honeymaki · 2 years

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viking izu 🥺

Warnings: fem reader, fem pronouns (wife, queen), slight body description (fat thighs/pussy) fingering, mentions of public sex, size kink, exhibitionism, vouyerism, breeding mention(s), alcohol mention. Unedited.

You are in luck cause I was rereading my Viking!Ushijima and Viking!Izu would be so similar, so hard and battle worn and scarred and heavy, but he’s victorious and a legend, like Odin himself, maybe even a son of Odin, a son of god with the way he swings his axe and sits on his throne made of iron, wood and bronze. He wears furs in the winter, a great cape made of bear pelt and wolf hide, secured with a huge torc that always leaves an imprint on your cheek when he holds you close, encases you in fur and skin and warmth when the wind whistles through the great hall on nights when Jack Frost is angry.

King Izu is huge, rough and hardy and he licks at the mead dripping from your lips, two thick fingers squeezing your cheeks and grinning when you heat and simper and whimper beneath his strength. Hushes you in a deep rumble, kisses the skin beneath your eye and promises you his bed after the feast,

“Be good and entertain for a while, then you can have my seed,”

And the promise has you up and refreshing horns, pouring ale and mead and sitting on your husband’s lap to feed him pork dripping with honey and fat, small hand clutching his neck to tip his head back far enough for his throat to strain. Music plays, men shout and tussle, women chatter and steal away into the shadows, warriors sharpen their blades and growl at the children who scramble between the legs of the long table. None of them notice the giant hand slipping beneath your kirtle, none of them hear your whimpers and begs because Izu looks so wanton and tempting in his furs and breeches, chest wide and broad, stone and iron hard, panting with the syrup he finds waiting for him at the crux of your thighs. Plush fat gives way for his touches, eyes dark and staring at the heave of your chest in the firelight, listening to the whines and gasps falling shamelessly from your mouth. His thumb, baring a ring and the width of something too big to call human, pressed against your cunt, wool suddenly too hot and too tight, hall suddenly too loud and too open with the way King Izu grips and pulls at you,

“It’s been two years since we wed,” he whispers in your ear, “And we’ve yet to bless the throne,” dark honey spreads down your back and you cast your eyes over to the empty chair, huge and sharp and unyielding, like the fingers bullying between your legs, “Maybe your insistence is enough to break me this one time, your neediness is maybe something I’ll take advantage of,”

“‘Zuku…,” you’re whining and squirming and suddenly his warriors are looking at you upon their King’s lap, legs wide and baring you to all.

“The gods look down upon us, Odin gave us his blessing wife, we should honour that,” Izu licks a stripe up your neck, wet and hot, puffing against your skin.

“I just want you,” his hard lust simmers into something softer for a moment, upon hearing your words and Izu’s lashes flutter at the scent of you, lifting through the sweat, through the food and the wool and fur and leather and wood. The hall of his forefathers might be packed to the brim, as it always should be, but right now? All he sees is you upon his knee and the way you look up at him with all the love in the world. His hand grows more bold, more insistent, palm kneading the throbbing ache of your cunt and there’s no quelling the mewls of agreement spilling from your tempting lips.

“I would take you in front of them all, show them how a King, a god, treats his queen-, Izu’s lips are rough and hot against your ear, breath catching on the delicate skin of your neck and you shiver, curling into his chest and gripping the sides of his cloak, hands so small and fragile against his mass and wrath. He takes a moment to kiss your temple, mouth resting sweet against your skin, eyes dark and casting shadows upon any who dared look at the way you squirm and writhe for him, and the fingers bullying between your thighs,

“But alas my queen, as much as I value and love my kin - no one but me sees you bared and fucked but me. So stop trying to make me bend you over the table and breed you in front of them all, are we clear? Because your cunt full of my seed is only a sight only I am privileged to witness, I promised you my cock after the feast and my cock you shall get, but only if you’re patient,”

A whimper escapes your lips when rough fingers slide between your folds, fat and dripping with need, spreading for him with an almost audible slchk that has Izu imagining such awful, filthy scenes. Even if he put you in your place, told you to wait, told you to be patient, told you that only he is allowed to see you stuffed and fucked - there’s a strange revelry in folding your into the blessed table with his cock battering your insides, in front of all his kin, his warriors, your friends. A king is nothing without his queen, and what better way to show that then fucking his queen full and making sure she’s dripping and swollen with his cum?

The thought makes Izu a tad bolder, despite his warnings to you, a strong finger parting your cunt and crooking deep and hard, causing you to arch and barely hold back a howl, the resounding squeak alerting red eyes to the musing of his king and queen. You should be plenty satisfied with this, a finger, maybe two, pacifying your need to be filled with something thicker, stronger, just until the last men fall drunk to the floor. And - in a way, you are. He’s holding you tight, close to his chest, one hand on your waist with his mouth pressed parted to your hairline, swallowing with every clench of your cunt around his fingers, imagining it’s his cock, imagining the feel of your velvety walls on his tongue, counting down the moments until he’s able to carry you to your bed, his bed. Tongue tasting the sweat of your temple, Izu encourages your writhing and contorting, the hall a little quieter and a little calmer, enough for you to lift your thigh and allow your king easy access to press his fingers harder, deeper, faster,

“Izu, mmmh - please, Izu,” you’re licking your lips, arm wound round his neck and Gods; you can feel yourself dripping down his wrist. It’s something, something akin to what your king is thinking, having his thick, rough fingers between your thighs when you know others can see, can muse, can hear what he’s doing. The thought has you collapsing against him, pitching with a whine and a quivering belly, thighs closing around his arm and trapping him, cunt flooding his hand and wrist.

“Good girl, that’s my good girl hm?” Izu kisses your cheek, then your jaw, the spot behind your ear that has you shivering,

“Do you think they will notice if we sneak away now? Please, I can’t take it anymore,” Your voice is shaky but the need still bubbles in your belly, and Izu huffs,

“Already? I’m still inside you,” he grumbles, “Most of the warriors noticed long before my fingers were in your cunt, my queen, you are insufferable,”

But…he still stands, clapping his chiefs and warriors on the shoulders with a slippery hand plastered to your back. He still bids farewells to those he fought for and with, despite his gruffing and grunting, despite complaining to Bakugo about ‘the duties of a with a hungry wife’; Izu is hard enough to leak over your stomach when he gets you bared beneath him, and is desperate enough to fuck you too many times to count into the mattress and furs and pillows.

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