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All Roads Lead To The Throne

@honestsycrets / honestsycrets.tumblr.com

Sy. XX's. Latina. Sometimes I write.
Please DO NOT repost my stories.
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Ice Cream 🍦 King || Happy Birthday @ivarsrideordie

It’s been a long day and the sun has yet to set. 

As you walk down the streets with him, you can’t help spot all the delicious treats. He probably wants something more than that. Food, some open-faced sandwiches or even something comforting to you, like a piece of pizza.

“Hey, there’s ice cream!” He grabs your wrist, yanking you in the direction of his favourite cool treat. 

Of course not, you think. He has a sweet tooth.

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That Hvitty smut anon might be on to something: road trip with Hvitserk?

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“Are we lost?” 

The GPS is on the fritz. You’re told, or so Hvitserk says, that it just doesn’t know these little backstreets like he does. You look over from the street you’re driving on, looking at the fat white map in Hvitserk’s lap.

“Na, baby being lost means you know where you’re going in the first place.” He laughs, reaching over and slinging his arm around your bare shoulder. “We’re wandering!”

“Wandering?” 

“Wandering.” He grins, flicking the map littered with black x’s-- sharpies. “We’ll find where we’re goin’. Eventually.” 

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The ship had strayed off course. His men were separated from others, and so, he thought that there might be trouble in reclaiming all of his force. But not so much the deep eyes that admired his men behind the line of trees. What men he had raise their arrows tight and high. 

“Wait.” He holds his hand, following the curvy shape of a woman behind a thin tree. She’s curvy, holding onto the trunk of a tree with equally dark, alluring skin. His mouth parts, caught in the trickiness of her eye. She bends her fingers at him and he wonders-- was that a sign to come closer?

“Is that a woman?” 

It was.

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Feed Me

Sigurd x Vampire!Reader.

“Is it rabbit again?”

The disease had stormed his wife’s body. Most nights, she was fine. She could eat the raw meat that he caught her. For one reason: the blood. It wasn’t her choice of taste. He knows when she’s coming down with something. The iron tasting meat loses its appeal and she snuffs it away.

“It’s venison.” Sigurd says.

“I don’t want it.” She responds. In the corner of the room, she lays under the abundant silken furs that frame the bend of her waist and billow of her hips. Sigurd sits beside her on a creaky, uneven chair. The embroidered aqua blue sleeves of his elbows sit upon his chocolatey trousers.

“You have to eat something, (Y/N).” Sigurd pleads though his voice is evenly confident.

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