#and Ragnar was a FUCK UP no I will not elaborate

[15-lizards]

Contrary to popular opinion those hyper masculine dude bro shows (Vikings, The Last Kingdom) about vengeance and reclaiming your birthright and conquest are in fact not for your dad. They’re for the seventeen year old girl who has just discovered themes about familial trauma, unbreakable cycles, and the pain of the human condition.

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

Bones in the Ocean

Aaaand three years since I've written anything for this bastard, and now he's back in my head. I knew this would happen. It's sort of a companion piece to Captured, although they're not really necessary to read together. I just used the same shieldmaiden construct for the basis of my reader-insert. Will eventually feature some rough smut/hate-fucking, but this is just the introductory part, really.

TW for choking and Ivar literally being on a suicide mission (nobody actually dies, though!)

Ivar x Reader.

Ivar is convinced the gods made a mistake when they let him survive the shipwreck he got into when he accompanied Ragnar to England.

You are Ivar's most prized shieldmaiden, and even though you seldom get along, there is nothing you wouldn't do for him. Including accompanying him into Rán's fishing nets, if that's what he needs of you.

AO3, if you prefer

You secure the final knot, satisfied as the sail snaps above you. Your hands burn just a little from the way the rope had slid through your fingers, the ship eager to be on her way as a prancing yearling. “This really is Floki’s best work,” you muse, not bothering to look down at Ivar. You’d just as soon talk to yourself, anyway. At least you aren’t a dick most times.

“A boat and a shieldmaiden worthy of the gods,” Ivar answers darkly, and although you feel his heavy eyes on you, you fight the urge to meet his gaze.

“And a warlord descended from Odin himself,” you finish softly, ignoring the goosebumps that rise on your arms and the back of your neck. You swear you almost feel the one-eyed god here, but you are not Floki and you cannot commune with gods, no daughter of legendary warriors worthy of their halls. Only the most loyal battle-companion of Ivar the Boneless, the shield at his back and the sword at his side in battle after battle; the one he conquers when victory on the battlefield is simply not enough; the one he always threatens to sacrifice to the gods before every battle.

“Warlord,” Ivar spits bitterly. “I am not worthy of the title.”

The mood on the small vessel is tense, even the wind itself suddenly goes still. It wants no part of this madman’s errand. You reach for the rope, thinking maybe you should reef the sails and start rowing, but the wind picks up and the sails swell again.

You finally look over at Ivar for the first time since you lost sight of land, and immediately wish you hadn’t. He’s gazing toward the horizon, a faraway look on his beautiful face, icy eyes the softest you’ve ever seen them, the same perfect blue as the ocean beneath the ship. The wind plays with a wisp of hair that’s come loose from his elaborate braids, and your fingers itch to tuck it behind his ear.

You don’t dare touch him, with that faraway look in his eyes and a madman’s quest on his mind. For what must be the thousandth time since you swore yourself to Ivar, shield and sword and soul, you ask yourself what you were thinking, but you already know the answer. Any warrior can serve an easy lord, but  an easy lord will not get a warrior into the halls of the gods.

And just like that you’ve made your choice, drawing your axe on instinct alone in the half-dozen steps it takes you to cross the small vessel. He hears your footsteps and unsheathes his sword, full lips curling into that smirk you know so well, the one you love and hate, that makes you want to worship him and kill him all at once.

“Warlord,” you answer him, fierce and low, as his sword brushes your blow aside. “Son of Ragnar.” You chop toward his sword-arm, he dodges quickly. “Ivar the Boneless.” Your swing glances off the shoulder of his leather armor, but you don’t have enough force behind the blow for it to sink into flesh.

Ivar, however, is not so considerate. Quick as lightning, his arm twists up and his fingers clamp around your wrist. Before you can even react, your axe clatters to the ship’s belly, your wrist twisted and fingers useless. “How am I supposed to sail this boat if you break my arm?” You bite out, trying in vain to pull your arm from his merciless grasp.

“And how am I supposed to right the mistake of the gods if you kill me before we reach our destination?” He retorts, voice low and silky.

“Mistake! They didn’t want you, Ivar! The gods don’t make mistakes.”

He yanks you even closer, pulling you off balance and increasing the nearly unbearable tension in your wrist, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. His face is an inch from yours; his breath ghosts over your skin as he chuckles softly. “Not a mistake, then. A punishment, to leave me behind, since now I must suffer the arrows that fly from your tongue.”

“Punishment for what?” His eyes are unfathomable, holding all the secrets of the sea, and you know without a doubt you’ll drown if you don’t force yourself to break his gaze.

“For not sacrificing them to you the first time I saw you,” he breathes, his other hand moving up to rest on your throat, just below your chin. His thumb strokes over the pulse-point there, and he chuckles at how frantically your heart is racing. “The instant I saw you across that battlefield, dealing death to Saxons, I knew you would deliver me victory after victory. I knew I had to give you to the Valkyries, to earn those victories myself, and yet.” His grip on your throat tightens, the edges of your vision darkening. “And yet I could not. You are my downfall, Y/N.”

“And you are my victory,” you rasp around his iron fingers, barely a gasp. You fight his grip on your arm and neck to lean toward him, and he relents just enough. The kiss is all teeth and the taste of blood; the giddiness of air when Ivar releases his grip on your throat.

He tangles his fingers in your hair to tilt your head back and inspect the marks of his fingers, and his smile is something feral, his eyes hard and hungry. Your cunt is throbbing as he inspects you, and he must see the want in your eyes because his smile shifts into a cocky smirk. “This is not the proper time, Y/N.” He releases your hair and plants his hand in the center of your chest. You stumble as he pushes you toward the steering oar in the rear of the ship.

You grab the oar, and the ship turns to your lightest touch. If you weren’t so worked up, you would be able to admit that it is the most responsive ship you have ever steered. As it is, all you do is glare at Ivar, and his laughter fills you with fury. You should have never looked at him to begin with.

[jadelynlace]

Bb can u tell us more about ink drinker ivar’s past too? Why was he depressed? How did he deal w it? What were his past relationships like?

I love how you call me Bb. ♡

*Trigger warning for depression, suicide & self-harm. Read with caution.*

Ivar's depression came from a chemical imbalance in his brain. Sprinkle in an absent father (who only knew how to love if he was signing a check), and a mother who suffered horrid postpartum depression. Ivar and Hvitserk (in this AU) are fraternal twins, Hvitserk only being a few minutes older than Ivar. Which he won't let him forget! Aslaug favored baby Ivar over baby Hvitserk and was on her own to raise her older boys as well. Yay! Ragnar! You suck! I will go as far as to say Ivar's depression is likely genetic, and his circumstances growing up weren't...wonderful.

"Mental health problems do not happen to my boys." Well Ragnar, maybe get your head out of your ass for thirty seconds and take a look around. Hvitserk suffers from them too, but that's a story for another time. Another ask. (Hint, hint.)

That doesn't mean Ivar didn't have a decent childhood. Floki, as always, was the father figure Ivar never had, and Floki was the one who told Ivar to find the things he really likes to do. Aslaug noticed as Ivar was in grade school how quickly he would complete his math homework, and how all of his worksheets, for any subject, were covered in doodles. He was in advanced math classes by middle school/junior high and going through sketchbooks on a weekly basis.

Things sort of went downhill in high school. His senior year, Ragnar tried to pop back in for a hot second and did not approve of Ivar's hobbies. It hurt him, a lot, more than he ever admitted to. There was the self-doubt, worthless "seed" planted in his mind and he grew numb. The numbness lead to self-harm. To feel something, and to punish himself for who he was. I'm not going to elaborate much further, for everyone's sake.

In college, after confiding some in Hvitserk about his mental health, Ivar swallowed nearly two bottles of OTC pain killers, with a bottle of whiskey. And woke up in the hospital with his stomach pumped. There was a ten-day inpatient stay, and he made little progress with such.

His appearance changed in college: bulking up, more and more tattoos, longer hair. It went...noticed. It went noticed and, with Ivar's trust issues, he took on the Fuck Boy persona over who he really was. The one-night stands were fun, tangled in sheets with a lover. Waking up alone wasn't. Flings here and there, but never anything serious, as Ivar still tried to be someone he wasn't. He wanted a real connection, not one that started with his dick and ended in some girl's cunt.

He was Uncle Ivar to his nephews, the one who would draw with them and help them with their homework. He was the one who played with Bjorn's boys when Bjorn wouldn't. He was the one who took to realizing he wanted a family because he never really had one. He watched his older brothers (Bjorn and Ubbe) hardly ever step into a fatherly role. He watched them become Ragnar.

Floki cued into that pretty quickly. He's Floki, after all. He knows everything about everyone all the time. He finally got through to Ivar to see a therapist, right around the time you were employed and paired up with Hvitserk. Who, as I have said before, at the time, went through a horrific breakup. You're a calming force in both of their lives, it's known, those two boys are so alike in that sense. They’d rather die than admit to it, though. Ivar's closest thing to a girlfriend was an on-again, off-again chick who was using Ivar for her own benefit. He never really knew love. He knew his mother's love, he knew Floki's love. He never knew love.

Until he met you.

[laketaj24]

Training

►◌Author's Note: This was kinda freaky lmao. I thoroughly enjoyed writing and I think Ubbe won but I did not write the request lmao. Who do you think won? Drop a reply below lol My taglist and requests are open! I hope that you enjoy it! thanks again ►◌Pairing: Reader x Ivar, Reader X Hvitserk, Reader x Sigurd, Reader x Sigurd. ►◌Warnings: Some Smut. It's freaky lol. Enjoy. ►◌Requested: Not sure if your still doing requests but if you are could you do one with ivar and his brothers trying to see who could make you cum the hardest and faster, with ivar winning by making the reader squirt

►◌ This is a continuation to Permission

Ivar had been particularly distant with you. He stayed away always with his brothers or that damn blacksmith. And it was supposed to be a punishment, you were sure. But this wasn’t a punishment. You were fine with his distance. You’d taken to training with Hvitserk. You wanted to learn how to properly fight. Hvitserk started with you easy. He swung the wooden sword down at your shield and immediately you jumped down. Your feet landed hard and you blocked him. “Look at you.” He smiled. Hvitserk’s smile was infectious. You brandished a smile and stood beside him. “I have been practicing.” “It seems you have time on your hands.” “I do.” You chose not to elaborate on the matters at hand. Everyone knew Ivar the Boneless was known to have mood swings. This was just lasting longer than you normal. “He will come around,” Hvitserk said. The training was over. The huge drops of rain hit the sand and you ran back to the hall, with Hvitserk in tow. “Tomorrow,” Hvitserk dropped his sword in the corner. “at dawn we start balance training. Your left foot needs some work.” “Sure thing.” You returned the smile and parted ways. He sat with Sigurd and Ubbe at the table closest to the throne. You made your way to Ivar. The snare on his face, however, was directed to his older brother as he took his seat and paid no mind to the scowl from the king. Hvitserk never really paid him any attention, it bothered Ivar. “How did your training go?” “It went well.” You kissed his cheek and to your surprise, he took your hand and kissed it. “I missed you watching me…” “I will train you one day.” He said simply. “Tonight actually.” “Tonight?” “Yes. Tonight.” Ivar laughed and he rolled his eyes. “I think you need a good session to help you with your… balance.” “Hvitserk is a good trainer.” You whispered. “I swear it was only training.” “Y/N, if I thought it was anything else I would have hung him upside down from the post already. Calm yourself. It is just training.” Ivar slid the plate full of vegetables to you. “Eat your food, I am sure you are worn out.” “Thank you.”

The festivities in the hall went into the early morning and like always there were the brothers, still at the table. They told animated stories of their raids and the gods. But this time they were all drunk, the mead had taken their effect. Even on Ivar. “Ubbe, do you remember the night we met the shieldmaiden in Ireland?” He sat perched on the steps in front of his brothers. The hazed smile made you feel warm as he pulled you closer. “Ahh, I do.” “Remember the game we played with her?” “I remember you losing.” Ubbe gruffed. “As well as you Hvitserk.” “I did not lose, you won because you tried too hard Ubbe. You always have to win.” “I try.” He took another gulp of the mead and turned to you. “I do not know if our brother would want his wife to play the game but from what I saw last time… I would like her to be.” “Yes. Yes, she will play. Clear the table.” Ivar laughed. “Take off your clothes.” He whispered to you. You stirred uncomfortably.  “I am tired.” “I did not ask you that.” He clenched his teeth. “Get up and shed your clothing.” He paused. “Now.” “Ivar, you have loosened up,” Sigurd smirked. “Only because I know my wife.” You wondered what the games was, you shed your clothes and sat on the wooden table in front of the four of them. The cool ale dampened your flesh. Ubbe stood up from the table. “Would you like the rules Queen Y/N?” “It is a contest to see which one of Ragnar’s can you make you cum the hardest. Your job is easy… lay on the table and enjoy yourself. Simple enough right?” Sigurd stepped closer to you. “You go first then.” Ubbe sat down next to Ivar. “Make her cum. We will be the judge.” “My pleasure,” Sigurd smirked. He moved closer to you. His hands slid up the curve of your sloped thighs and his warm fingers sunk into you. It was new, his fingers were not like Ivar’s. They were longer, not as thick but talented none the less. He started slow, he pushed them into you once and then twice and then he curled them. He lightly touched your g-spot and your back bowed but then he pulled his fingers from the spot and pushed them back into you. Your pussy ached for more, harder faster. And like he could read your mind, Sigurd obliged. He delved his fingers into you at a steady stroke gently sweeping his thumb over your clit before pressing back into you. And the little trickles of your orgasm warmed your body. And then, you came. Your body tensed as the rush of pleasure halted your breath and your legs collapsed. Sigurd leaned forward and pressed his lips onto your pussy and then stood. “Your go brother.” Hvitserk rolled his eyes. “You did well. Kind of weak, but you’re not me… right? What are the rules brother?” “He just explained them. Hvitserk!” Ivar laughed. “You never listen.” “Just making sure.” Hvitserk pulled at your legs until they hung from the edge of the table. He then drug the wooden stool across the floor and took his seat. “Then I will start.” “What are you doing?” Ivar hissed. “There was no rule saying how she cums… just that she does.” “You cheat.” “Are you scared Ivar?” “I fear nothing. Continue.” The venom in his voice made you nervous. Hvitserk did not care. He lowered his head between your legs and his thick tongue delved to the pink of your pussy. His tongue flicked your clit and then his lips were around the swollen bud and you sucked the cool air of the hall in through your teeth. Your nails dug into the wood. And then his tongue dove into your pussy. Your body, still reeling from the work of his brother nearly triggered as you held your breath. He knew how to coax you there. He sucked flicked and licked you until your body reeled and then he added a finger into the mix. You refused to cry his name. You knew your husband well enough to know he would knock Hvitserk from his seat before he allowed another man’s name to leave your lips. Your body convulsed as his fingers pushed deeper inside of you. Your body coiled with pleasure as you clamped your thighs around his head and you came with a moan that waved through the hall. Hvitserk bit his bottom lip as he resurfaced from between your legs. His lips glistened with your cum. “Thoughts.” “weak.” Ubbe grinned mischievously. “I will let her calm down. I wouldn’t want you all to think I was cheating.” Ubbe nudged Hvitserk but the gleam of excitement was in his eyes. You sat up. “Take a rest Y/N. You’ll be weak soon enough.” “You are so cocky Ubbe. I cannot wait to prove you wrong.” Ubbe waved him off. Minutes passed and you sat back next to Ivar, His black cloak draped your body and all you wanted to do was sleep. Your body was tired, from the boys from training. You wanted to rest. You nestled yourself into Ivar’s arms listening to the boys' banter about their intentions for you. Your eyes grew heavy but as soon as they closed Ubbe’s hands lifted you from the steps and bent you over the table. “Are you sleep, Queen?” “No.” you lied. “It is okay, you will wake soon enough.” He snatched the cloak from your body and his hand came down on your ass. The stinging blow of his hit radiated your entire body and then as if it was nothing three of his fingers entered your body, they spin and they are back inside of you. Your body quaked. And another blow was administered, quick, stern and unexpected. You scream as he pushes his fingers back into you feel his cock through his pants. Hard and against the mounds of your ass you thrust back. “Rub yourself against, show that cocky husband of yours how eager you are to be fucked by me.” He whispered as he lowered his weight onto your body. His fingers mimicked his movements, and for a moment it felt as if he was truly fucking you, the movements, the grunts. “It’s okay to fuck back.” He growled. “your ass on my cock makes me want to fuck you.” He whispered. It was his words, you were certain. Your body exploded. The stream of cum seeped down your leg and Ubbe stepped back. All eyes were on you, including Ivar’s. “Your go baby brother.” Ubbe laughed and sucked his fingers. “don’t you move.” He said to you. “I want you just like that so I can train my brothers on how to make a woman cum apart… lose herself.” Your deep breaths ragged on as you listened for Ivar to drag himself over to you. He stood. His cane in one hand and made his way over to you. He sat on the same stool Hvitserk had and pulled you down to his lap to face the brothers once again. He spread your legs and his four fingers slapped against your clit stopping any pleasure Ubbe had given you. You yelped and then he’s inside of you. His fingers prod passed your tender overworked flesh and you scream. You were sore but Ivar knew what to do with those skilled fingers as he forced them inside of you and continued to fuck you. You missed being touched by him. His selfish tactics to punish you had worked because though all three of the brothers made you cum. Ivar knew how to make you lose all control. Your legs squirmed as he plummeted into your pussy. He moved quickly teasing the flutters of an orgasm start. Ivar could tell. He always knew. He slapped his four fingers onto your clit denying you that pleasure again and pressed his two fingers upon your clit. He rubbed in circles, quicker than before and just as you were there again, he slapped your clit and slammed his fingers back into you. You screamed in frustration as you tossed your head back in exhaustion. His fingers played you well. Your body built up again as your toes curled and the pure sense of elation covered you. Ivar continued to fuck you with his fingers and used his thumb to add just what you needed to get there. Your body triggered and the cum squirted out of you on to the floor. The brothers’ eyes were wide as a scream pierced their ears. “Good girl.” He laughed manically and placed a kiss on your neck. “All of you, training is over… get the fuck out.”

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[lisinfleur]

The Right Choice

Author’s Notes | This one was kinda hard to elaborate, but I hope the final piece is good for you, sweet @chinduda! Thanks for the request! Universe | Vikings Pairing | Hvitserk x Reader Info | Halfdansðóttir! Reader, No War AU, requested by @chinduda for 5CW5 Words | 1794 ⁑ Warnings: None

The first time you saw each other you had fourteen years old and was following your mother to say goodbye to your father at the docks. He was leaving to The Mediterranean Sea, following the great Björn Ironside, accompanied by your uncle Harald and Björn's younger brother.

Hvitserk.

You remember you thought he couldn't be so older than you, cause from the top of his twenty years old, there wasn't a single strand of beard in his face. And yet, you thought he was gorgeous...

He complimented your mother and smiled at you gently, but everything you could do was a respectful reverence, trying to face the ground so, in your mind, he wouldn't see how burning red your cheeks were in front of him. You remember he giggled, probably thinking you were a beautiful child.

Because of course, for him, you were nothing but a child.

The same couldn't be said now...

Five years later, you felt more confident to look at his face when he came to visit, once again, following his brother Björn and accompanied by your uncle Harald. The fourth of them - adding up your father - were planning to return to the lands they discovered in their maps, now updated by their last visits to those unknown places; for more treasures and gold, maybe more slaves.

He was different. There was a light beard around his jawline and a mustache, giving him an older look, more imposing. His face was also marked with one or two new scars, marks of the many battles you heard he and his brothers had fought together. He surely would have more stories of his adventures to tell...

You couldn't avoid noticing how he gasped at your sight. It brought a smile to the corner of your mouth. You weren't a child anymore, not in his eyes; and it was clear.

"Is this your daughter?" Hvitserk asked, looking at you and your father readily noticed his interest, raising one eyebrow.

"Yes, this is Y/N, Hvitserk," Halfdan answered not too pleased of the way Hvitserk was looking at you, causing your uncle Harald to chuckle in one of those characteristic laughs of his.

"Let the young speak, Halfdan," your uncle said, patting your father's shoulder. "She's 19 now, sooner or later you would have to deal with it, brother." Harald joked, earning a displeased smile from his brother and a laugh from Björn, while Hvitserk just curved his lips.

"It's not my fault you made a beautiful daughter," Hvitserk said, causing your cheeks to become lightly redder and your lips to curve in a smile. "You can't blame me for looking at her..."

"She's kissed by Freya indeed," your mother said, touching your shoulders and getting a smile of yours that faded into a redder face when she continued. "And she's single..."

"Wife!" Halfdan warned at the same time your voice sounded, embarrassed.

"Mother!"

Björn was already taking a seat, probably weakened of laughing that much.

"My brother is also single, by the way," he tried to keep the pace of the idea, causing your mother to smile.

"Husband, your daughter won't be forever the little girl you see. At her age, I already had your son and she was being born, remember?" she called your father's attention, but your eyes were locked on Hvitserk's greens, looking straight at you.

He was so beautiful... As beautiful as you could remember. Or maybe more.

Hvitserk grew up to be a gorgeous man, after all. And somehow, that blue cloak combined with the white fur over his shoulders was only making him look even more attractive. His hair was braided different as well: the four locks you could remember were now attached to each other in the back of his neck forming a single braid, giving him a more mature look.

You were so absorbed in your contemplation that you sighed surprised when Hvitserk's index and thumb touched your chin, lifting your face softly up to look at his eyes. He was smiling again.

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," he said, causing your cheeks to finally go out of your control and burn red again, just like that day at the docks. "She's beautiful, she's your daughter, and I'm past the time to find a good wife and make some children. It would be a good way to approach our families, Halfdan."

"And you won't find another like him, so stop frowning this forehead, husband!" your mother said, causing even Hvitserk to giggle this time. "What? He's a son of Ragnar Lothbrok! A prince and a good warrior! You were speaking good about him not so far from his arrival! Don't deny it!"

"I was, I was," your father admitted, still upset. "But I was talking about how he's a good warrior, not a good husband! I wouldn't marry my daughter to a Lothbrok. They have the bad fame of collecting wives!"

Björn coughed, shrugging towards Hvitserk when the greens of the younger one glared at him sharply. The bad fame of his older brother was disturbing his brand-new plans.

"Björn is already in his fourth!" your father exclaimed, evoking Björn's reputation one more time against your suitor. "Ubbe is not different! Why would you be? First Margrethe, now Torvi. I wouldn't be surprised by a dispute in between you all to know how many wives a Ragnarsson can have!" he insisted, annoyed. "You guys are like your father. Ragnar also didn't sit his butt with a single wife!"

"Well, I'm not my brothers, Halfdan," Hvitserk said, wisely. "Nor my father. I can't earn their glories, dress their cloaks, or pay for their crimes. I had to sink my hands on the battlefield's mud to unbury my own treasures and their gold won't be around me in Valhalla. Nor will be their children or their wives. You said well: My father had more than a wife. My brothers are doing the same. But I had enough women in my youth to be fully satisfied with my adventures, my friend. What I seek now, is a woman to bear my children and stand by me."

You felt your cheeks burning again when his eyes turned towards you. A loving smile in his face as his thumb was still caressing your chin you softly leaned into his caress.

"I'm not a boy anymore, you shall know that already, my friend. We fought together times enough for you to know I'm not the same. I have enough to provide your daughter with a good life, proper to the queen she will become one day, as soon as I settle myself as king of some land I end up conquering." Hvitserk began to speak about himself, clearly proposing your father an arrangement in words that caused his older brother to straighten himself at the chair and your uncle to do the same.

The things weren't a joke anymore and all of them noticed that in the way Hvitserk was showing his feathers like a peacock to your father's eyes.

"I already have lands that are mine, where she will be properly settled in a good house, hers, despite my place in Kattegat's hall is still open. It would be a good chance to merge the halls of Kattegat and Vestfold in a solid alliance we never really established in between our kingdoms. I'm sure my brother and king Björn won't disagree with my words, such as King Harald would also be able to foresee these benefits I speak of. Am I wrong?" he turned his words to the kings at the table and Björn twitched his lips, looking at Halfdan.

"I'm not speaking in my brother's favor, but I have to agree with his words... We always fought together and dedicated allegiance to one another, but the kingdoms of Vestfold and Kattegat had never really bonded to each other."

"It would be a good chance indeed," your uncle said, interested, looking at Björn for an instant. "Not speaking in your brother's favor? Why not?"

"Exactly. Why not?" Halfdan asked readily, seeing in this little observation a small chance to get himself out of that unexpected situation.

But Björn's smile caused your father to feel hopeless of getting rid of that proposal.

"I don't need to. My brother's achievements speak for themselves. None of my brothers need my word to show themselves proper suitors for a woman of our kind. I have to say you're on your own, my friend," Björn patted your father's shoulder and you saw Halfdan sitting at his chair with a long sigh.

"It wasn't what I was expecting when I invited the two of you!" he mourned, causing everyone to laugh again and Hvitserk's charming giggle to reach your heart like a precise arrow. He was so gorgeous when smiling! So natural and sweet...

"I'll bring more mead! Y/N, come on! Go prepare that herb bread you do for our guests!" your mother said, causing your father to sigh once again.

"Wife, Hvitserk eats like a damn goat! She's already catching his attention! If she cooks for filling his stomach then I won't be able to take him out of my heels with this mad idea of marriage!"

Björn laughed harder, looking at you.

"Marry your herb bread with some sour cream and you'll have my brother on his knees for your father to give him your hand, girl," he said, receiving your father's elbow in his ribs, just laughing a little more of Halfdan's annoyed expression.

"Oh, you stop teaching them the ways to each other!"

"She makes the best sour cream you ever tasted!" your mother spat to Hvitserk, causing your father to almost explode a vein in his forehead.

"WIFE!"

"What? Halfdan, accept it! Instead of being so mad you should be establishing a good mundr for the groom!" she said, and you couldn't avoid giggling this time.

For Hvitserk's pleasure since he was hearing your laugh for the first time. His hand softly slid to the side of your face and his thumb caressed your cheek, in a comfortable and warm touch you could really get used to feeling.

"For these sweet laughs? I'll gladly pay whatever you want from me, my friend," Hvitserk got you blushed again with his sweet words your father didn't take long to ruin.

"Oh, you prepare yourself to be poor, prince! I'm losing my daughter here! I'll fucking clean your pockets!"

The men laughed again and Hvitserk smiled at you, caressing your face one more time before taking his place at your father's table.

Your heart was beating like a drum. You never thought the gods would bless you like that. But it seems the sweetest of the Ragnarssons would be your husband after all...

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[honestsycrets]

Locked In I

Gif Credit: Mine.

Warnings

Dark!Hvitserk

Alpha!Hvitserk

Violence

Death

Kidnapping

A/N: There will only be one more chapter of pure smuts.

Too many years working in the NICU left you with a need for an escape. There were too many parents going back home to an empty nest, too many tears and ugh, you were done! You needed to do something new. So obviously, the choice wasn’t going to step down or even an observation unit. Shit no, you had decided to go to the one place most nurses would not dream of going.

“Morning (Y/N)!” A prisoner gave you a howling whistle from around the large, grey bin. You sigh, strolling on past them with neat and pressed scrubs as grey as the bin they were loading with sets of clothes that smelled all too male. You should have worked at a goddamn female prison.

“Morning boys.”

Six months working at this maximum-security federal prison and you got real used to their bullshit. You refused the oversized puffy jacket at the expense of the wandering eyes of men. Your non-slip sneakers bounce over the cement floors to your wing of the prison in toward the many beds that were littered about for cases demanding your and other nurse’s medical attention.

“He isn’t here yet?” You say, bringing back the heavy box of jiggling fluids. You hand it off to one of the other nurses who only answers with a shake of his head.

“He’s waiting in the room.”

Walking into the room, you can all but feel the tension like tight strings about your neck. The dark haired guard darkens the corner of the room with his hand on the utility belt about his hips. On the sole medical bed in the room, a willowy man sits. His long limbs rest boredly in his lap as he curls over himself, looking over his shoulder as you cheerfully address the guard.

“Good morning Jessen!” You say, far too sweetly for the gloom and doom guard that kept his place. He grunts in response, flicking his head in the direction of the inmate upon the crinkling paper covering of the bed. The young man turns his head up to look at you, his hair matted with dark, irony substance. You move over in a swish of your ponytail, dragging up your stool to him with a metal pull up tray of items. Your computer flashes to light.

“Hi there! I’m (Y/N)!” You say far too cheerfully, shaking your mouse erratically and pulling up the correct tab.

“May I have your number, Mr…” You look over to the clipboard.

“79135-380.” He speaks in an indolent voice, deeper than you were prepared for. You expected a boyish one in place of the deep one that probably have not sounded like an incantation. You tack at the computer, huffing ‘stupid shit’ just so under your breath. He notices it while you turn around, letting the computer load to a new screen.

“You’re the one that was attacked by a Ragnarsson, no?” You ask.

The second the words fall from your lips you know that they are wrong. The boy in front of you bares his teeth, a mouthful of bloody teeth running over his lip. A momentary closer examination tells you although he is bloody, that blood is not his. It’s dry, cracking over his skin like an itchy second skin.

“No.” He purrs, a sound that runs pleasurable vibrations down your spine. “I am Hvitserk Ragnarsson, nurse.”

What had you just said? Your veins seem to run rigid because no blood is returning to supply your heart in that moment. The only Ragnarsson in the facility and you so happened to call him out by name! His sullen eyes snatch yours, threatening you to look away and submit to him. It’s the name of the game. You can’t seem weak. Even being feminine here is a risk. The place reeks of bad-tempered Alphas and meeker Betas. This man smells like he would pop his knot into you, fuck you over the cold floor until your hips broke and leave you there for Doctor Svensen to find.

“Ahem.” The guard sweeps over the room, knocking Hvitserk with his elbow to break his eye lock. Hvitserk nearly snaps his jaws off at the guard and so you reach for the correct tools to stitch his cracked wound dripping blood over his limpid eyes. You’ve done this a hundred times over the past few months. Standing in front of Hvitserk Ragnarsson, son of the great criminal Ragnar though-- there was little like it.

“Your heat… is comin’ up.” Hvitserk states. “Your pussy smells sweeter than lollipops.”

You wish you could erase the excitement that brews between your legs, banish the thoughts from your mind as you work on perfecting these stitches as soon as you can. “Watch your mouth.” The guard says. Hvitserk’s lips shut, flicking his eyebrows up to your discomfort. The pain of applying the stitches in do not even phase him. Only after finishing do you inspect the rest of his body. Compared to the man on the receiving end of the Ragnarsson rage, Hvitserk bares nothing more but light bruises.

Unfortunately, his counterpart didn’t quite see the light beyond the tunnel when he went into surgery himself. It happened far too often when Alphas were corralled and forced together in prison in such away. They… went under cabin fever.

“I’ll see him back to remove the them.” You clean your hands, moving away from the Ragnarsson whose eyes never leave the tightness of your scrubs to the back of your ass. You feel him watching you clean yourself up until the guard jerks Hvitserk to stand, shoving him by the black t-shirt plastered with fat, white logo across his back. They shove to the door and you can’t deny yourself the last pleasure of seeing him one last time. As he slips out of the door, your hand is at your chest. This isn’t the first time that an alpha has gotten to you. He smelled it on you like a true breeder. One of those awful men that went feral and chased the innocent public to breed and prosper his line.

“You doing okay there, (Y/N)?” An older nurse, Dagny, stands in the entrance of the room. You look to your bloodied paper sheet that needs to be cleaned.

“I don’t know.” You say truthfully. “He… he scares me.”

“He should.” Dagny comes closer, her black hair rolled up in an elaborate updo on the back of her head. “That boy is no good.”

Well, you were in a prison. What did you think they were in here for? Stealing the last bit of bread on Christmas morning? Sexual attraction gave no shits what you felt was morally correct. The only thing your cunt cared about was what was under his clothes. Damn, you needed a lay.

“He’s all wound up in his Dad’s business. Dealer, breeder, loan shark, murderer. Boys like that get euthanized around here.” Dagny sits down on the stool, her round body rolling back and forward while you fetch the gloves to clean up the mess left behind by the Ragnarsson. You tuck a piece of hair that you left out of your ponytail behind your pierced ear.

“Sounds like my kinda man Dagny! I think need a lay before I’m out all week in my room.” You laugh. Dagny shares in your amusement, rolling her hand around your back as she rises up.

“Go out to the bar and catch a stud.” She encourages.

“Shit yeah, cirrhosis and hepatomegaly? Count me in!”

You both laugh.

Twenty five to life, they told him.

His basketball bounces off his hand with a repetitive thump, evading his only company. Harald lurches for him only for Hvitserk to abruptly yank to the other side, shooting his orange ball into the hoop.

Twenty five years to think about his choices, the judge said.

It was something about tying a perfectly good body to a hot water heater to watch him squirm and making him choke on his gun before blasting him to bits. To be honest, he didn’t even really remember the face.

He only remembered the fact that the loan with an incredulous amount of interest was not paid off. So he did the guy a favour. He didn’t jack his wife, na. She had a face like someone took a steaming iron to it. Stealing kids wasn’t his thing either-- poor fucks didn’t have a choice in what idiot they were born to. The only one to pay this time was the debtor. It was nothing personal, it was cold hard business. That was exactly what the prosecution played off of.

“Hvit.” His co-defendant, Harald, calls out to him. As he snaps to attention, he realizes a fight burst in the court a few over. Instead of one, two rival gangs duke it out with fist and shank both. Blood squirts over the cement floor underneath mass produced white sneakers. Hvitserk’s lips pull in a wry smile, hand underneath the crotch of his black pants. The older man stops beside him as guards filter out into the court only to receive members of the gangs jumping them too. One such guard catches the door, a mischievous smile against his trim beard. They wait for the guards from the towers to come help their fallen brothers in arms before darting out for the open door. Harald keeps an even jog with him inside the main halls of the prison.

“Let’s go get that bitch you were talking about.”

You’re not exactly sure what happened. At one point, you were speaking to Doctor Svensen and Dagny about your leave starting the next day. No omega wanted to smear their sweet, fertile juices over a place like this. The men were easily roused. The next moment the door was met with a repetitive thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

“It’s Jensen.” Doctor Svensen says. On the other side of the door, the guard stood. The doctor stood up from where you were placing limpid viles of insulin away in a tiny refrigerator, humming to the thump of Mad World beating on your bluetooth. Then suddenly, your music is drowned out by the sound of the strain of sneakers sliding across the white tiles.

“You can’t be in here!”

“Dagny!” Doctor Svensen repeats over and over as if it could help. There’s a loud pop that rings your ear drums, causing you to drop viles from your trembling fingertips that have gone all but white. Another pop has your body dropping with limbs like the cheap gelatin offered in the commissary for triple the price. You damn your omega response causing you to go catatonic. Your eardrums ring and instead are filled with the shushing of limp weight being dragged across the floor.

“Ha-ha! There you are.” You recognize the first voice as belonging to the man you saw only a few days prior, swaying to stand in front of you. You can’t look to the side of him-- you’re too scared to. “Help him move them, uncle. I have what I want right here!”

Hvitserk drops down to kneel in front of you, jerking you clean off the floor by the neck of your scrubs. Finally surfacing on two feet you realize-- quickly so-- that those are bodies they drag with gloves into the utility closet. Hvitserk is far busier shoving you to stand. He yanks your scrubs over your ass to grab a palm full of lace and flesh before alternating appreciatively toward your tits.

“I fuckin’ love omegas. Fuckin’ perky fuckable things.” He leans down, smacking your breast with his palm. In utter humiliation, you feel as if your legs can’t move. Perhaps its the paralyzing fear filling your bones that you might also end up like Dagny and Doctor Svensen whom are now in the closet. He shoves you by your elbow towards Rollo. He thrusts you in his direction while taking fresh guard uniforms Rollo brought in with him.

“Scream and I’ll kill you.” Rollo whispers in your ear, tucking a piece of hair away from your neck. The prisoners emerge in new uniform, handcuff your arms behind your back and make their way out of the hospital wing and out of the nearest exit. If only you had a voice to scream, you would have. The second you hit fresh air, your knees give out in protest. Beyond the three gates-- a black convertible sits curbside. You don’t want to go, you don’t want to go, you don’t want to go.

“Let me go!” You whine, looking from one of the guard towers to the other. The guards inside look out toward the courtyard where the normal prisoners argue. It’s blaringly clear that they are on a time limit-- one that you could very easily fuck up.

“Pick her up!” Harald orders under your sharp wail. Rollo shoves his meaty fingers into your mouth, snuffing out your scream while running through one of the many gates leading out into the alternative gate. Despite your teeth grinding down on his fat digits, they breach the final gate with your ID. Hvitserk rips open the door to the dark car. They hunker down into the car, Rollo shoving you a little harder than necessary inside. Hvitserk slides in behind you, yanking the back of your scrub top to yank you onto his lap. Rollo slides into the front seat by the driver.

“Took long enough.” The older man says kicking the car into reverse, breaking from a line of parallel parked cars. The top of his head cropped short, not at all matching a wily salt and pepper beard on his chin.

“Sorry Dad.”

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[imgoldielikehawn]

Choices  Ragnar Lothbrok

Pairing: modern Ragnar Lothbrock x Woc 

Rating: Mature 

AN: The arrangement as been made ;) Enjoy 

The sound of his voice mixed with the scent of his seemingly expensive cologne made my head spin. I needed a moment to compose myself and get my head in the fucking game. I leaned back in his grasp and looked him in the eyes.

 “I’ll have a few conditions of my own of course.” I said sternly.

 He didn’t even flinch as I stood from the chair and walked around to my own chair and sat back.

 “Have a seat Mr Lothbrok.” I smirked and pulled out a pen and my notepad.

 “This is a first, most women just agree.” He smiled and made himself comfortable in the chair.

 “Well, I’m not most women.” I frowned. I was wearing a knee length dress which made for a show when my legs rested on top of my mahogany desk. I did not miss the twitch in Ragnar’s neck when my dress rode up.

 “I can see that..” His eyes were hooded and I enjoyed watching him squirm.

  “First, we will go on no less than three public dates before you even get into my pants.” I looked over at him and waited for him to object, when he didn’t I continued. “ Second, you will choose the dates and times and last but not least if we have no chemistry after the first time having sex then we will call it quits.” I finished and waited with my hands clasped.

   “I can agree to everything you asked. Our first date will be tonight. However there is one term I would like to add if you don’t mind.” He looked to me.

 “Go on..” I nodded.

 “We will swap phone numbers and when ever I call or text you, you Will reply.” He leaned back into his own seat and now waited for me to respond. I’m not going to lie I was a bit taken aback by the controlling feeling he gave off but I had been pretty specific about my own demands so I knew he would have something to say.

 “Alright then, its settled.” I stood from my chair and he followed suit.

 “Its going to be a pleasure doing business with you Rayne.” He smiled at my outstretched hand. He leaned forward and beckoned for me to do the same. When I did he leaned forward some more and then reached out and pulled me into his lips. Fuck.. His lips were smooth and inviting. When his tongue entered my mouth I thought I was going to faint. Just then he pulled back and walked right out of my office. I sat back down in my chair trying to pretend that my pulse wasn’t through the roof off of one simple kiss.

  That night I was a wreck, I didn’t have girlfriends so I had to choose my outfit on my own. I was halfway through my closet when I came across an old dress that I hadn't worn in ages. It was my motivation dress for when I lost weight and I had never got around to trying it on after my weight loss journey. I knew it was perfect, I grabbed my heels and walked to the bathroom to shower and do my makeup.

  I thought back to mine and Ragnar’s brief conversation through text message. He sent over a current up to date lab results letting me know he was clean from any sexually transmitted ailments and I did the same.

 He would be here in about two hours so after my shower I styled my hair into an elaborate bun and did my makeup. I went for a smoky eye and a dark lipstick. I wanted to give off the same feeling of dark and mysterious like he did.

At 6:55 I looked down out of my window when I heard a car pull up. This wasn’t just any car either it was a fucking limo. I did my best to hide my excitement and fear as I slid on my heels and gave myself a once over. My cell dinged and I walked to the dresser to take it off of the charger. It was Ragnar telling me to come down. I quickly replied and headed downstairs, when I stepped outside onto the porch he was standing against the Limo in a tux and I felt a rush of heat to my core and face.

  Suddenly I started to wonder if I would make it three dates. I walked to the car and a handsome smile came across his face.

 “Rayne, you look beautiful.” He took my hand and kissed it. If a bitch could blush she would have.

 “You don’t look too bad yourself.” I said biting my lip. He opened the door for me and I sat down inside the limo. I was going to scoot over for him when he stopped me.

 “A lady never slides, I will go around.” He closed the door and I could hear the sound of his footsteps.  When he joined me in the limo I was engulfed in his scent again.

   The ride to the hotel was quiet. I didn’t mind, my mind was reeling and I needed time to gather my thoughts and maintain my composure.

The limo came to a stop and Ragnar immediately got out and was around to my door in an instant. I took his outstretched hand and was standing against him.

 “I hope I can wait three dates..” He said planting a kiss on my forehead. There were photos snapped left and right and the flash made me nervous at first.

 “Don't be shy, the world just wants to know who you are.” He smiled and placed a supportive arm around my waist as we entered the hotel lobby. Everything had been decorated to the nines. There was art displayed on every wall and before long there was a rather large group of people heading toward us.

 “Rayne, these are my sons.” he gestured to a group of five men that had made their way over to us. I could see right away that these were some of the men at my club the other night and now that I could get a good look at them I realized that each one of them were incredibly handsome.

  “Hello.” I said making sure to keep my head held high and my eyes kind. They each took their time introducing themselves and before long I was having a great time. There were plenty of women giving me the evil eye as they said hello to Ragnar but he really didn’t pay them any mind.

  I had wondered off my myself to look at the art when Ragnar found me once again. He had two glasses of champagne in his hands.

 “I was wondering where you slipped off too.” He said handing me a glass.

 “I got caught up in the artwork sorry.” I giggled and he smiled back at me.

  “Come, I want to show you something.” He said mysteriously. We walked away from the growing crowds and deeper into the hotel. We came to a pair of double doors and Ragnar pulled out a strange looking key and opened the doors.

I was shocked to say the least, it was a huge library, the floor was marble. I didn’t get much time to look around before he was upon me.

Ragnar whipped me around so fast that I dropped my glass, he hardly payed it any mind as it shattered on the floor. His lips were pressed roughly against my own. My head started to spin again and I couldn’t help myself as I pushed his dinner jacket from his broad shoulders. He backed us up to the desk in the center of the library and I pushed my long dress up so that my lower half was exposed to him.

 “I wont fuck you like I want to.. but I can do other things.” he smirked, his hands ran up and down my thighs as I looked up at him eagerly….

  “I will stop if you want me too…” He said as we both panted.

Did I ? 

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[shinondraws]

67. “If it wasn’t illegal, I would totally murder your ass.” For Nessa

(The hear wave is messing with my head so bad but here’s the last prompt! Nessa would say that to literally anyone so I figured I’d turn it around and have someone say it to her instead.)

It’s not a big deal, really, Nessa told herself as she made her way to Steven Stone’s house. But it wouldn’t hurt to ask an expert’s opinion on what to do in a situation where a certain ancient shrimp may have gone amok. Ragnar isn’t very big so he can’t cause too much damage but he is fierce enough to drive an entire beach full of people into panic. Apparently inflatable toys awakened its hunter’s instinct which is something Nessa was trying to go for, just not like this.

Had she known that Steven had just received a very displeased call from his father, demands of action from the rangers, various complaints about the Champion not doing his duty and on top of all news that his recent findings on evolutionary stones already being reported by some other geologists, Nessa would probably have chosen another time to bother the man. It was all a sum of great deal of misfortune and bad timings. But she didn’t know that. She only happened to stumble into the worst possible situation, and her trying her best to explain that she fucked up her fossil training was that one thing that finally drove Steven over the edge.

Nessa had seen him get angry before on multiple occasions. He seemed to have different ways to express his anger in different situations - and with different people. There was a more passive anger, the kind that was more polite and that gave the target a chance to realize their mistake first. Then there was disappointment, a more direct and vocal kind of disapproval that pointed out exactly where the target had gone wrong. And lastly there was the raised voice that didn’t bargain but gave commands and left no chance for the target to escape. He would be heard out and he would be obeyed.

But now Steven’s face was completely deadpan and his voice so hollow it sounded like it came from another dimension.

“If it wasn’t illegal, I would totally murder your ass.”

It must have been the first time that Nessa saw behind the well-polished outer layer of Steven Stone, the Champion of Hoenn, the heir to Devon Corporation, who was well respected among any group of people. It was a glimpse of someone who had used up all the care for appearances and politeness. He was absolutely livid.

Had Nessa been smart she would have heeded that observation and backed away slowly. But she was always a tad more arrogant than smart and when the opportunity had just been served to her on a silver plate she couldn’t help herself.

“Well, it’s a good thing you abide the law - so I don’t have to.”

The sound of an elaborately carved wooden chair hitting the floor and Steven’s hands slamming on his heavy desk startled Nessa but it was Steven’s piercing stare that made her jump back a few feet. For a moment she actually thought the man would crawl over his desk, jump onto her like a wild Pyroar and just tear her into pieces. She instantly realized how unlikely that was to happen and cursed herself for reacting like startled prey.

“Get. Out”, Steven growled. Even if jumping over the desk and beating Nessa up would be too much for the man who typically keeps his cool, Nessa was still glad the desk was there between them.

“Okay”, she lifted her arms up, feigning surrender. “Okay, I’ll go.” She turned to the door but didn’t exit before she got to carry out one more act that screamed “lack of survival instinct”.

“Just don’t forget you were the one who gave Ragnar to me and told me to raise him. You’re gonna love hearing about all the other new things he learns under my care. Hey, maybe I can even teach him to swear!”

The door shut just in time to block a flying rock of some kind. Nessa rolled her eyes and prepared to face the Mossdeep monster. “What would Steven do?” didn’t give her the answers. Apparently what Steven would do is scream and throw things, and that is something Nessa had already tried on Ragnar. Back to the starting point it is, then.

[riting]

It is Dense and Bears Repetition: Notes on Rehearsals of Asher Hartman’s The Dope Elf by Neha Choksi

i.

I might as well as confess: to witness some things over and over is a fascinating pleasure.  I like seeing rehearsals not merely because they revel in repetition, but because they necessarily incorporate change overtly and experientially for everyone present—including me, the embedded witness.  

In April 2019, I started attending rehearsals for Asher Hartman’s The Dope Elf. The piece uses characters akin to northern European mythical creatures to explore the legacy of white supremacy in the United States. The first—and because of COVID the only—showing of this work took the form of three elaborately-plotted plays, with scenes following each other according to a sometimes inscrutable logic, unfolding over three consecutive days. (There are more plays to come in later showings.)  The actors lived on-site, slipping between self and role, in a trailer-park-like installation in a cavernous space.  This double use of the site—as actor accommodation and performance venue—points to the way in which Hartman sources each actor's multiple characters at least partly in each actor’s own shadow self and emotional make up.  One might say that he is similarly mining America’s shadow self, beset as it is with the ills, aches, and pains that attend its settler-colonial DNA and live on in its trauma-bearing white supremacist structure.

Rehearsals had begun in early 2019, four months earlier, and I continued attending intermittently over the course of the next four months.  I wanted to see how Asher’s thickly-worded, joyously-crafted works came to be within a community of actors.  The actors were Zut Lorz, Philip Littell, Joe Seely, Paul Outlaw, Michael Bonnabel, and Jacqueline Wright as the Dope Elf.  I was interested in Hartman's rehearsal process, but I was equally interested in what it might mean for me to revisit something again and again.  I was then repeating kindergarten, attending school daily as a kindergartener for my own lived performance project, and I was interested in repetition as a productive space, generating surplus meaning and unfolding thoughts.

ii.

Rehearsal-as-work is itself a knotty concept: the repetition is simultaneously labor, process and product/ion. Think of Ragnar Kjartansson’s Bliss at REDCAT last year, in which a three-minute excerpt of the finale from the Marriage of Figaro—the part where the philandering Count successfully pleads forgiveness from the Countess—is sung by the cast repeatedly for twelve hours. That “Contessa Perdono” finale is well-known and thus it was not difficult to take the whole in.  The nuances and differences in each serial repetition and its sheer duration made the piece work.  But take a typical Asher Hartman play—erudite, wordy, noisy, and well-jointed—and I would have to say: the labor, process, and production are all dense and bear repetition.

I attended at least ten rehearsals, two fund-raising performances, and a tech meeting. The rehearsals had been in progress for several months by the time I joined, and took place either at Asher’s studio or at another location which had space for scenes with extensive movement.  Some of the scenes that I saw rehearsed again and again were etched in my brain, but largely the onslaught of language and prowess of the actors overtook any attempt I might make to disentangle the narrative threads. The language was fiendishly intricate and the actors enrapturing. The most important takeaway for me was how the experiential onslaught of an Asher Hartman play doesn’t diminish upon repeats. It grows into something more powerful, the way poetry learned by heart does, at least for me. Because I purposefully never read the play script, and because I saw bits out of sequence, I remain to this day largely puzzled about the storylines, if one can even call them that; however, my sense of the texture of the characters and the power in each word they uttered increased with each repetition—even within a single rehearsal session. Here is a one section of Asher’s text that I heard over and over and faintly understood to be about a tussle between rival interests for control of a place called Bodysnatch Lane. Here the Princes of Undeath, who is also an American bore, is excavated nightly, in a recursive bit that alludes to American hauntings and mimics my own labor of repeated rehearsal viewings.

The more I saw this scene rehearsed, the more I knew it to function through the language, consciously playing with the listener’s bewilderment.  And yet the resurrection mingled with the deadening injection conjured the haunting numbness around meaning that repetition can produce. When I first tried to write a draft for this report on the rehearsals, it came out something like this:

It is dense and bears repetition. It is tightly packed and could be repeated. It wants to be dense and enjoys reiteration. It was fitted like a Rubik’s cube and could be manipulated ad infinitum. It can be opaque and will bear repeated viewings. It was fluid and vast like an ocean and allowed for continuous indefinable waves to wash over me. It was impenetrable and welcomed the battering ram of persistence. It is self-referential and needs recurrence to be communal. It will be dense and will bear re-enactment.

It was my experience in a nutshell.  Novelist Tom McCarthy points to something similar in reference to Winnie in Beckett’s Happy Days: though Winnie says she is going to perform the exact same action of removing her mirror from her handbag the next day, it is not actually possible for a repetition to be exact—the memory of the earlier action changes the perception of the later one.  It is not a repetition so much as a re-enactment of an action that is first tested and then re-enacted; and then there is a re-enacting of the re-enactment. What happens to one’s experience of time when faced with these recurring enactments? It becomes potentially endless. You become committed to reviewing the material, regardless of whether the time embedded in the material itself is slight or vast. The act of revisiting the rehearsals and the actors' own repeated endeavors conjured the feeling that this could go on forever, this honing, this shaping, this readjusting.

iii.

Asher’s skill shone in building on the actors’ proclivities and input to craft each character's behavior and inner life.  If the actor’s personal tastes and tendencies, known to Asher from prior collaborations and extensive unpacking while first working on this piece, were fundamental to writing the characters, they remained essential during rehearsals.  Characters' unknown histories, unconscious drives, unrevealed passions and clarified micro-aggressions were all attended to, heightened, or left to simmer and bubble into the work.  The crux of it, at least as I felt it presented in the words of the piece, was that all the characters—and thus we humans—are needy in some way or another. Those pushes and pulls of the actor’s and character’s needs were key in how I saw Asher tend to the work, the larger purpose of which is seemed to be a deep illumination of the needs and psychic pains inflicted by the demands of the white suprematist superstructure.  As a director, he was always reassuring and relentlessly positive, sticking to the principle of “Yes, and…” (which the improv world recognizes as a way to build on each past action, constantly relaying the baton).

By the time I was in attendance, there was not much improvisation in rehearsal. However, the actors had a lot of leeway within the structure the language provided.  Asher was open and supportive, and refrained from giving too many stage directions.  He was compassionately engaged, listening, noticing; he attended to the slightest shifts in tone, mood, and body positions.  Feedback did not happen at every rehearsal. It was only after multiple rehearsals that there might be a roundtable to go over his notes.  The result was a seemingly non-hierarchically-motivated, mostly supportive, and non-critique-heavy space.

Still, each actor had a different relationship to Asher and his work.  There were outbursts of: “The writing is so fucking good!” and “I am not a good enough actor...”  There was a sense that: “It’s [the script] so spare, we don’t need an extra layer of Beckett.”  And: “There is no theater space in LA for this... it is really Asher’s imagination!” This attitude asserted the primacy of the director, and Asher didn’t really try to mitigate that sense.  It was his work in the end.

iv.

Rehearsal was work, no two ways about it.  It was an act of refining what would be many scenes over multiple days for a public performance, with Asher trying to pin down the tenor of each section like a slippery wrestling opponent. Horseplay was limited to what could benefit the work.  Rehearsals were calm and organized.  Each day's agenda was decided roughly the week prior and revised as-needed.  

Carl Weber once described his first visit to a Berliner Ensemble rehearsal for Brecht’s Urfaust in a way that made work and relaxation seem identical:

I walked into the rehearsal and it was obvious that they were taking a break. Brecht was sitting in a chair smoking a cigar, the director of the production, Egon Monk, and two or three assistants were sitting with him, some of the actors were on stage and some were standing around Brecht, joking, making funny movements and laughing about them. Then one actor went up on the stage and tried about 30 different ways of falling from a table. They talked a little about the Urfaust-scene 'In Auerbachs Keller' […].  Another actor tried the table, the results were compared, with a lot of laughing and a lot more of horse-play.  This went on and on, and someone ate a sandwich, and I thought, my god this is a long break.  So I sat naively and waited, and just before Monk said, 'Well, now we are finished, let’s go home,' I realized that this was rehearsal.

The loose method of the Berliner Ensemble was generative for Brecht, but at this point in the process, Asher’s rehearsals involved not so much trying thirty different ways of doing one thing, as much as honing the one thing that Asher's language had established. With each repetition, the company digs deeper into what is already there. Asher and the actors never treated the rehearsal as a break, nor the breaks as potential spaces for tackling  rehearsal questions.  The non-work-related breaks were short ones. At one rehearsal space, this meant fueling up on the much-favored licorice and other snacks.  The second space forbade eating of any kind and the breaks were just solo and chitchat time. The only other “breaks” from being on the floor with the text were either discussion of matters pertaining to racial context, mythological sources, character background, or feedback notes.  And, of course, warm ups.

Here are two of the warm-ups Asher led on “Movement Mondays”:

Imagine legs with magnets that go down to the start of time through layers of rock.

Imagine heads beaming into infinity.

Now let’s do some body rolls and exercises to move the body.

Now let's do energy readings of each other.  Feel the energy field.

(Here I tell AH, “I don’t know if I get it.”  Trying to reassure me, AH says, “Most people can’t visualize it.”  I say, “I’d rather be touching.”  “Imagine that as a bumper sticker,” is the joke reply.  So, I imagine cars touching or crashing.)

And:

Pick someone to follow without letting them know you are following. Don’t indicate to them or to anyone else. If you are being followed, lose your follower.

Get connected, or get paranoid.

Don’t lose sight. Concentrate on a part of someone else’s body, follow it, then join it, that is, attach to that part somehow.

Unfold out of the conjoined position slowly.

Asher’s method was to let the actors show off, go big, and play, and then rein them in and slow them down.  There were injunctions to remember gestures from last rehearsal.  A few times, when Asher referred to a narrative thread or story development, the actors looked confused.  Asher had to explain that he hasn’t written that part yet; he was considering it. Things were in flux in Asher’s head, for sure. Although individual lines were not undergoing much revision, entire sections were being added or dropped. Sometimes lines were cut because of something an actor did inadvertently that worked. Asher was open to that.  

The discursive space around the work seemed vital to everyone. During a snack break, Joe said that having conversations with Asher felt like being a kid on grandpa’s knee. Philip talked about what it meant to have Asher channel Philip's own real-life drives into a character. “I wanted to scare people, to confront infirmity and death,” he said. ”And I am always up for an anguished argument with my sexual life.” Joe added, “I wanted to experience love, but Asher subverts [that desire]. He starts at A and ends at 17.” In working on the piece, he felt challenged to “own my own gravitas which I often negate.” Zut said that the work challenged her ability to take up space, on the one hand—”and then I become the void.”

v.

Here are some of Asher’s interjections to the actors culled from multiple days of rehearsal:

“Hold it, don’t speak.” “Let it go.” “Stop right there.” “If you feel like it.” “Find the gesture.” The Old Woman character says: “I am not there yet. You want me to find it.”

“Yes.” “Hold it.” “Release that.” “Just go really still, Joe, and use your voice.” “That’s good.” “That’s a great note.” “Decide whether you are going to inject him.”

“Really slow it down.  Register gestures if you want; I won’t orchestrate it.” “Lets slow it down... 3…(trails off), just in short phrases.” “So slow it down, pause and allow him to reveal how he feels.” “Assign each person a color.” “Take the fluidity and naturalism out; replace it with slow tics and stares.” “Are you creating this scene or observing it?  You can never be a part of it.” “Use angles, not arabesques. Open, not clumps.” “She has a full fridge and pays her internet bills, as background.” “These two might eat in the same restaurant together.” “Repetition is making you rush. But there is no need to rush. This script needs space, pauses, multiple speeds.”  

vi.

The manner in which rehearsals are conducted says something about the director’s conception of society in which this theater is made. Asher made a generous space with room for intuitive reflections. Even my position as an observer became the subject of discussion. Nothing was recorded; everything was left to be reviewed in the director’s head and the actor’s somatic memory. Only the text was not improvised but pre-written and pre-memorized.

The rehearsal world always mirrors the larger world’s concerns, whether intentionally or not, and the language-trauma embedded in the text allowed the actors at times to ask larger questions that took a distinctly political turn. Asher explained that in conceiving this play he was thinking about white supremacy through Viking/Nordic/Teutonic lineages. The mythic past he conjures in the text leaks into the world as it is today, and into the plays-to-come. He urged actors to remember that, in the world of the Dope Elf, “There is no morality—there are no limits, no codes, not even like the Mafia, since the Mafia has a code. Here if you don’t kill, you will be killed.”  At the same time, “The relation between gods and ordinary people is close.” 

Conversation slipped back and forth between the world of the play and our world. “What the whites have done is pretty mind blowing. Think of Haiti,” Asher said. Racist behaviors and habits, he insisted, are embedded in our culture: “Everything keeps repeating again and again.” 

Jaqueline responded that she wanted no part in that repetition.

Asher turns the conversation to violence.  One way to deal with violence, he says, “is to move toward it.” Another way is to insist that you “won’t be cornered.” 

In that situation, he said, “the dance changes, and it can work.” 

vii.

Let me focus on one scene.  It is about John and Alfred, a couple who have been together 30 to 35 years, but who now are unhoused and making do on the streets. The scene focuses on Alfred’s attachment to and concern for a bird that used to always visit him and has since gone missing; it touches on the resentments that this attachment draws out from John.  The menace isn’t far from the love.

Asher. (to Michael, who plays Alfred) Is there anything [present in your exchange with John] in terms of your desire for him? Michael. This scene made me realize it is fluid. I do have feelings [for him] but this sex is just to get him off since I have no place [else] to go. Asher. Do you have any skills? Michael. No. The actor does. [The character, Alfred, is also an actor.] Asher. When did he [last] work? Michael. He does odd jobs.  He used to be good at decorating and keeping house but has lost the patience for it.  He was probably a florist. Asher. Is he cooking? Michael. He cooked more [before]. Asher. Making the house nice? Michael. Yes. Asher. Is he home most of the day? Michael. Yes. Asher. TV? Gardening? Michael. No and yes. Asher. What are you reading primarily? Michael. Biographies, so he has knowledge and taste, but he has lost interest [in the world].  He is just surviving. Asher. Who is this Bird? Michael. My baby. I watch it every day.  Always the same place, same branch every day. Bird brings me joy, but I envy its happiness, its energy, its flight. Bird represents something out there.

Asher. (to Philip, who plays John) You have headphones and exploit opportunities to use them so that you don’t have to listen to him. Who controls the relationship?

Philip. [There are] Two controls.  I was the sparkly star but I lost my nerve.  I control my helplessness.  Helplessness [was] a catalyst for [our] eventual homelessness. I am in charge of keeping it light. (Pause)  I lost my nerve 10 years ago. Asher. What happened? Phillip. I lost my work. Asher. What [work] do you do? How [did you lose it]? Helping? Philip. [I was] helping people with parties, going through stuff, discarding estate sales, [addressing] people’s needs, [like a] flea market assistant. (Pause.)  I am good value. I haven’t made good friends and the sexcapade market has declined. But at home I am the upper hand guy.

Asher. (to Michael) Do you fear him? Michael. I used to but not now. Asher. Do you have any contempt? Michael. A great deal, for losing himself.  He is caught in the undertow and cannot get to shore.

Asher. (new subject) What is the time of day? Michael. Evening, early evening. Asher. What time does the Bird come? Michael. In the morning, and then [it] comes and goes all day. It’s not come today or [for] a few days.  It’s scary. Philip. I remember 10 years ago he had a bird in the apartment.  Not sure. We are living in the same neighborhood [as when we had a home, even though now we are homeless and on the streets].  Trying to be vigilant.  One of us has to be vigilant otherwise we will lose all our stuff.  We’ve probably moved a few times to get away from someone, like “O, he pitched a tent here.”

Asher.  Let’s try the scene again but close to each other, as close and wrapped up [and intertwined] in each other. I am asking [because I want] to get [at] this enmeshed, growing on the nerves feeling. When he says, “he’s my baby” about the Bird, how do you feel? Philip. I am your baby, asshole. Asher. If there is a discomfort in the body, use it. [How] agitated are you, Philip? Philip. Yes, I am not listening, I am not. Asher. Do you love the bird more than you love this man? Michael. Love the bird more than John? No, but it represents something.

The repetition with a difference succeeds in getting John to feel more disconnected and uncaring within the embrace.  Is that Asher’s purpose?  I can only guess.

In the third run through, as a result of the intertwining of the two actors' bodies, Michael/Alfred’s intensity increases, as does his touching, tapping, nudging, pushing, and shoving of Philip/John. Halfway through, they find themselves contorted and seated back to back, but Alfred keeps turning around to look at and engage John. Alfred’s words explode, his face hyper-emotional.  Up and down, staccato to smooth.  

This next section follows the bird discussion, and is about finding stray toothbrushes and unwanted used cans among the sleeping arrangements.

Asher. Do you enjoy it? When you find it [the toothbrush], does it feel like a victory? Philip. [What it feels like is:] I've got you now! It is a horror, but I've got you now! (Pause.) This loss of love section is clinical. We have common cause, [are] traveling companions, etc.  We agree the world is horrible, monstrous. Asher. Are you trying to make this relationship work? Michael. Yes, it is difficult and he [my character] wants to kill him [John], but [John also] wants to be the one to end it. I am trying to make it work and he is not trying. Asher. Redo the section about the loss of love you’ve incurred in this relationship. [And the part about how] you want a refund).

Again, another run-through.  And after:

Asher. John is very honest, almost cruel, you know? How he feels, how he reacts. Michael. It’s their comfort, in a way, to be that honest. Philip. We still play games with each other.  Pretending to know the Bird, and pretending not to listen, but to be listening, etc. Phillip can get anyone he wants, but John is a failed version of me.  Vanity is very me.

What was clear through Asher’s probing questions was that he was not directing the motivations or providing them in toto. Rather his trust in the actors and in the fact that not everyone knew what was in each other’s minds was relied and built upon. Each repetition pushed the work of the rehearsal forward.

The questions and answers generated more awareness while also inviting a realization of how little we know about each other—and indeed of ourselves. This yearning to connect and engage, the characters' missing each other and finding each other, and that craving embedded in John and Alfred's language moved me deeply each time in rehearsals. This, maybe, is where an important facet of white supremacy enters the work. To see the other people in one's life as irritants, to resent the sense of being stuck with them—this is how the structural force of racism wears us down.

viii.

I could feel the pressure mount as pencils-down time approached. The drive to access some authentic perfection and virtuosity remained. Rehearsal periods end. So how do we distinguish between a rehearsal and a performance, aside from all the tech and scenery? Theater can succeed and fail any time. You may prepare and prepare but you are always starting over. Renegotiating the unspoken bedrock of slavery and settler colonialism that is the terrain of our American society might require some of that tenaciousness and faith. Rehearsal can be a labor of pointing towards and then dismantling something – whether white supremacy, slavery, or settler colonialism; whether on the scale of history or the scale of an individual life. I never learned how this section with Alfred and John, dislocated from the rehearsal room to a performance space in Portland, worked as a repeated mise-en-scène. It does not matter. What I experienced the first time I heard it changes in retrospect, with each new repetition, and enlarges the connections I make with the real world pressures outside. The work remains suspended in the doing, and in our awareness of its re-enactment.

The Dope Elf is intended as a sequence of six plays. The first three plays was presented at Yale Union as part of the Portland Time Based Art Festival. The performance environment was open to the public September 14-22, with performances September 14 & 15. The fourth play in the cycle is currently being filmed to be viewable online through The Lab in San Franscisco in 2021.

Asher Hartman is a multidisciplinary artist and writer based in Los Angeles. His work explores personal and emotional histories in relation to ideologies that structure Western culture.

Neha Choksi is an artist who lives and works in Los Angeles and Bombay.

All drawings by Neha Choksi. Photographs by Ian Byers-Gamber.

[jadelynlace]

Hey friend, can you please elaborate on Ivar and his feelings about family and becoming a father?

Friend. I can.

When it comes to family, Ivar is both up and down. His mother, Hvitserk, on his good side. Ragnar, not so much. Bjorn, Ubbe & Sigurd….eh, indifferent. They exist. Woo. His family is messy, five heads with testosterone will do that, hell, having siblings is a battle. He loves them all, he does, just some at an arms length.

His closeness with his nephews is known. They can go to Uncle Ivar when they’ve fucked up. Ivar is the “well if you’re going to do it, do it here” type of adult. He has a tendency to think he’s the saving grace for those boys. He loves them, he does, but they’re not his children.

Ivar can’t wait to have children of his own. God, how complete it’ll make him. He’d never rush you into anything you don’t want, but sometimes he just wants to shake you and start begging, just to try for a baby. He’s imaged everything; their looks, personalities, full names for both boys and girls. How many kids he wants. The schools, the hobbies. He drives himself mad with it all—just thinking of the possibilities.

He would also be the most anxious. Research after research after research. Scaring himself with statistics, the tragedies that can occur. Reading about the changes your body will go through. He doesn’t have a pregnancy kink, he swears. He does. He so does.

Don’t even get me started on when you tell him.

[oddsnendsfanfics]

Two Strangers : Want You

Genre: Fan Fiction (Vikings) Pairing: Ivar/Reader Warnings: N/A Rating: G Length: Drabble Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: Alright, everyone has been so patient and very kind with this series. Thank you, thank you. So please, enjoy. 

Two Strangers Master List

Ivar was miserable and his idiot brother, Ubbe, wasn't making it better by inviting everybody they knew over for dinner. Slouched in his wheelchair, Ivar gritted his teeth at Hvitserk who was energetically waving his hands around mid-story.

He'd woke up this morning, his back was paining and his left knee felt as though someone has used his knee cap as a football over the course of the night. The pain had been taken care of rather quickly, but the hurt in his ego would need some time.  When he had tried to FaceTime you; Ivar had been met by a brief glimpse of your face which wore a frown as you hurriedly told him that you were off to tend to a work emergency.

Some one year anniversary this was going to be.

Ivar was spending it surrounded by morons, an unfair assumption since none of this could be blamed on any of them. Listening to people be happy, while he wasn't had always drove Ivar a little crazy.

“Ivar,” Ubbe's girlfriend,  Margrethe, gently touched his shoulder to grab his attention, “Do you need me to get you anything?” She was getting up, it was nice of her to ask. Ivar's reply could have been nicer.

“Did I ask for help?” His blue eyes glared at her.

“I'm sorry, I was only offering.”  Margrethe shrugged it off. Ubbe had warned her, when she had arrived that his little brother was in a mood. Again.

“Ivar,” Ubbe scolded as he would a child.

“Ubbe.” Ivar mocked his older brother, rolling his eyes.

“Because you are in a bad mood, gives you no right to treat all of us like shit.” Ubbe pointed his finger, in a dad-like lecturing way, at Ivar. His tones and actions were almost as if someone has brought Ragnar back and placed him next to Hvitserk on the couch.

If his father were here, at least someone would be kind enough to allow Ivar his self-pity.

“Whatever,” Ivar grumbled, pushing himself out of the living room. If they needed him, unlikely, they would know where to find him.

His bad mood had been on going, he heard Sigurd inform someone in the living room, as he rolled down the hall. Ivar had been snapping and yelling at everyone, with no real reason, for the past two weeks. If he told them, then they would mock him or try to tell him that he was being paranoid.

For the last two weeks, every time Ivar tried to contact you, it was a disaster. You were either too busy to FactTime, your calls were almost non-existent, and even your texts were short one word replies. Ivar wasn't stupid. He knew that the possibility of you finding someone else or losing interest in him was very likely.

Your mother sent him a message almost daily, asking how he was, or sending him silly little jokes or links that she felt he'd enjoy. Ivar didn't want to mention the strain to her, in case your new found interest – man or otherwise – wasn't common knowledge. The one time Ivar attempted to bring it up with Ubbe, his older brother rolled his eyes and told Ivar that you were probably busy with work. His advice had been to give you space.

Space?

Ubbe was crazy.

The next time Ivar got to talk with you, for more than two minutes, he was going to tell you just how he felt. Ivar Lothbrok was no a toy, he could not be used and then replaced, not without a damn good reason. If it was distance, then Ivar wanted to know. If it was him, then he deserved to know. Whatever the reason, Ivar wanted you to look him in the eye and tell him.

Every time he thought about it, Ivar could feel the urge the cry creeping up. A good cry wouldn't hurt, but that was best left for when he was alone. Not in a house full of people. If one of his brothers found him crying over a girl, they would never let it go. Ivar would carry that with him for the rest of his life and he couldn't have that.

Getting as comfortable as he could, Ivar laid in his bed, his phone on the stand beside. Glancing at the device, he willed it to ring. For you to be on the other end, giving him some elaborate reason for not being able to give him the attention he wanted so desperately. He wanted to hear your voice, your laugh, as you told him about some crazy work project or other event that had been keeping you away from him.

Just last night, Ivar had debated getting on a plane and going to you. To find out what was happening, but the fear of finding you possibly with another terrified him. The thoughts swirling Ivar's mind were far from fuzzy or pretty. Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes tightly, to make it stop, Ivar felt his annoyance rise when his bedroom door opened.

On the other side of the door stood Bjorn; the tall, blond casting a shadow as he loomed. “Ivar?”

“Would it kill any of you fuckers to knock?” Ivar asked irritated. Would it kill anybody in this family to knock? It was as if none of his brothers had ever been taught that courtesy. Being the baby meant he was never given the same respect as the older boys. Even now.

“What's wrong?” Bjorn asked leaning against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest. “Hvitserk said you were pissed off.”

“Nothing, now leave.” Ivar waved his hand, dismissing his brother. “Let me be pissed off, if I want to be.” Ivar sighed.

“Well, if you feel like socializing, Torvi made you a plate and I have some things that I want to talk about. All of us.” Bjorn narrowed his stare. “It's about the company.”

Having taken over the management of their father's company had been huge for Bjorn, daunting and exciting, having Rollo named as the owner had made things a lot easier for the eldest Lothbrok. Eventually, the boys would get their turns, but until they were able, having everything turned over to their Uncle had been wise of their father.

“Can we do that later?” Ivar groaned, resting his forearm over his face.

“Whatever, suit yourself.”  

“Suit yourself,” Ivar mocked his brother, when Bjorn shut the door. “Go pester your new daddy and leave me alone.” Ivar grumbled to himself. Feeling a little guilty at the comment, Harald wasn't all that terrible.

Laying on his bed, gazing at the ceiling, Ivar heaved a sigh of agitation.  You had your own life and he could accept that it was busy, but to be brushed off so easily and casually had hurt. Closing his eyes, Ivar could see you in his imagination, a perfect image loomed behind his eyelids. Your smile, your smell, your touch, your laugh – it was all there. Ivar felt his heart skip and flutter, his worries and fears were finally coming true.

One day, Ivar hadn't expected it to be so soon, you would find someone else. This put a wrinkle in Ivar's plans, as he was going to ask you to marry him the next time he saw you. Sigurd had even insisted he asked using Aslaug's ring from Ragnar. Ivar had always imagined the ring would go to Ubbe, being their eldest son, which is why Ivar would give it to him soon enough.

Evidently, it wasn't meant to be. Ivar was destined to be Ivar, the boy whose legs didn't work, living with his brother who had taken pity on him. At this rate even Hvitserk would find a mate before Ivar.

Yeah, well, fuck you! Ivar snorted.

A gentle knock on the door interrupted Ivar's little hate fest. Growling, he didn't bother to respond. Slowly the door pushed open, a brief commotion from the other side flooding through.

“Ivar,”

“What?” Ivar sat up, snapping at the intruder.

Couldn't they leave him alone?

Sitting up on his elbows, to continue his growling, Ivar felt his cheeks go red seeing you standing just inside the bedroom.

“If you don't want me to bother, you, then...” You pause somewhere between leaving and cussing him out.

“No, no please.” Ivar scurried to sit up properly, not without you noticing the wince of pain. “I'm sorry, I thought you were  Margrethe with some stupid question, again.”

“Lovely to see you, too.” You smirk, gently closing the door. Your feet barely touched the floor, before you crawl into bed next to Ivar. “Bjorn told me that you weren't feeling well.” You rub your fingers through his hair. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.” Ivar leaned his head into the crook of your neck, happy to have you here. His fears slowly easing and drifting away, as you continue to stroke his hair. “I thought you had a work emergency?”

Most of his anger toward you melted the second he looked at those eyes of yours. Ivar wouldn't and couldn't ever stay mad at you. How could be ever be mad at such a perfect being? His very recent thoughts making him feel foolish.

“I was at the airport, when you called. I was getting on my last flight, to get here.” You smile sweetly, kissing his temple. “I didn't want you to know, so I lied.”

“You flew all the way here, just to be with me?”

“I have been miserable without you,” You reply, your stomach filling with butterflies.

“Me too.” Ivar whispered with a sheepish grin. “How did you get here?”

He had been so wrapped up in his self hate that he had managed to ignore this as a possibility.

“Bjorn picked me up..” You explain your arrival. “I was the reason he wanted you to come out to the kitchen,” You giggle quietly. “He knew you'd never come out, but telling you that there was business to talk about was worth a try.”

“I'm so glad that you're here.” Ivar whispered, his face hid in the crook of your neck. “This is the best fucking surprise.”

“I couldn't leave you on our first anniversary.”

Ivar stayed with his face hidden, inhaling your scent, enjoying the closeness of your body and his. “I thought you were ignoring me, because you didn't want me. Silly, huh?”

“Ivar,” You softly scold. “Of course I want you, never think otherwise. If you want me, then I am not going anywhere.”

“Don't.” Ivar smirked against your skin, his lips brushing your jaw. “Next time, you want to surprise me, at least leave some sort of clue.” He groaned. Ivar hated surprises.

“Well, there is more to this surprise.” You reply feeling your nerves begin to creep in. “You see, I wasn't entirely lying about having to be at work. I don't work today, but I am starting a new job on Monday.”

“So, you're not here long?” Ivar pouted, rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip.

“That's the thing,” Your heart is hammering in your ears. What if Ivar isn't as thrilled about this as you? “If it's okay with you. I start work for Bjorn and Rollo on Monday. It's just until I can find something in my field, but who knows? If I like it, then I may stay there.”

“Wait,” Ivar's brow furrowed. “You're moving here? To work for my brother? Are you fucking kidding?”

“No!” You shake your head excitedly. “I'm really moving to Kattegat. Unless, you don't want me to? Then I can always tell them that I won't take the job.”

“Of course I want you here! You're going to move in, right? I mean we'll have Ubbe, but he isn't home most of the time, and that won't matter anyway. This is my house, too. If you want to live here, I mean. I could always ask Floki if one of his apartments are for rent? Why didn't you tell me?” The questions just came spilling out, before Ivar could stop them.

It was hard not to laugh at his excitement and panic, he was obviously shocked by the admission.

“I had already planned to live here. Ubbe and I have already discussed it. I'll pay my share of everything and...” You pause, holding a breath for a second. “I didn't tell you, because I was nervous that you would try to talk me out of it. Or that you wouldn't want me here, although I knew that was crazy.”

“You're fucking right, it is crazy” Ivar smirked, leaning in to kiss you excitedly. Rubbing his thumb against your cheek, his eyes are practically dancing with sparkle. “I couldn't think of anything better.”

@pathybo , @imgoldielikehawn , @sparklemichele , @titty-teetee , @kirah32 , @kduran04 , @capitanostella , @badassbaker , @bloodyivar  , @normanallthewayforever  , @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme , @imyourliquor-youremypoison , @nikky-the-writer  , @seremedyxiii , @rrwilson66 , @fortress-fiction , @deleteidentity , @tornupandbored , @hoeghfabulous , @ateliefloresdaprimavera  , @mydarlingwhim , @kenzieam , @fuckyeahalexhoghandersen , @jar-of-love , @tinymoonshine , @angelswannawearmyredshooz , @romanchronicles , @captstefanbrandt , @genxmama , @manuugxlvis , @lizency , @lost-in-my-thoughs , @byzantium-glytch , @iamwarrenspeace

[laketaj24]

The Alliance

Ivar X WOC pairing, set post civil war

Warnings: None yet.

I got my first request!!! Super stoked about it. It will be a series as well. This request was by @fivesecondsofsarang and it’s something different. A woman of color but of Pakistani descent. I hope you enjoy let me know your thoughts!

Ivar had planned the ceremony with his shieldmaidens, this spring solstice there would be a human sacrifice for gratitude for the defeat of Lagertha and the reign of the Lothbrok dynasty. He hated to be in the spotlight, it was not one of the perks of being king but he never complained. He built on to the great Hall he was born and raised in and had lambs and pigs roasted for the feast.

“Are there other kingdoms celebrating with us?”

“No.” Ivar stared at the board diguring out the next best move. “Why Ubbe?”

“Strange boats just docked. Do they have clearance?”

“I do not know who they are? What do you mean strange?” Ivar raised his eyebrow at Ubbe.

“I’m sure you know what strange means Ivar.” Ubbe groaned. “Must you make everything so difficult? Do you want them to meet you or no?”

“Yes Ubbe, grimly today are we?”

“Torvi and I had a spat.” He sucks his teeth.

“Why worry yourself with a woman. Fuck them and leave them alone. Better yet get you a slave.” He grins and Ubbe leaves obviously irritated. “Am I Not right Hvitserk?”

Hvitserk swipes one of Ivar’s pieces. “For once I think you are not a mad man.”

The Princess swayed as if she walked on air as she made her way through the city. This is clearly not what she wanted, of course. Her father insured that she would be well treated if the treaty passed but this place was rainy. Puddles filled the streets and the people all appeared more than the average amount of dirty, We at least some.

“Father, I thought this was a grand kingdom.” She said from under her veil. She was to be presented to this queen as an alliance. But she could already tell she didn’t want to be here.

“Ayesha, dear. Be quiet please. We do not know their culture and your attitude might not be taken lightly.”

She heeded his warning and remained quiet until they arrived at the entrance of the great hall. The young warrior turned to her. “How should I announce you to my brother?”

“Princess Ayesha of Karachi.”

He peered trying to catch a glimpse of what was under the veil. “Why is your fave covered? What are you hiding?”

“It’s of good virtue to hide ones face.”

“It’s rude here.” The blue eyed warrior warned. He opened the door. “King Ivar,” he said with slight contentment. “I announce to you King Samir of Karachi and his daughter Princess Ayesha.”

Her eyes lock on the cute dimpled man in front of her. His dirty blonde hair flowed down his back and his smile was friendly unlike the dark haired man beside him. He winked at her and she felt herself blush.

“King Samir, forgive me, I’ve never heard of this country.”

“But yet you have raided every country surrounding it. I figure it will only be a matter of time before you reach my lands. And I have heard of your tales of brutality.”

He rolls his eyes and gestures to the blond next to him. “I’m heard of in places I have never heard of, and who isn’t going to be more famous then Ragnar.” He smirks. “What brings you here?”

“I would like to form an alliance with you by marriage. You take the hand of my daughter and I will send with her one hundred ships and over three hundred warriors. They will travel with you anywhere and defend this country.”

“Why would I accept her hand in marriage?”

“She is the most desired woman in all of Pakistan. Many have offered her a hand in a marriage and all were denied by me. If my daughter is to be wed I prefer she be with some lone as notable as her father and as fierce as herself.”

Ivar’s blue eyes accessed the woman in a color he had never seen before. He could see nothing but the elaborate dress. “Take the veil off.” He hissed.

“It is tradition for you to accept her hand in marriage before she is revealed.”

“What makes you think I want a marriage?”

“King Ivar,” Samir stepped towards him with his arms crossed. “You raid our shores every spring, so you think we have not noticed the pattern. How long before our countries align against you and bring war to your shores?”

“Is that a threat?”

“A simple observation.” Samir smiled flashing his pearly white teeth. “I will form an alliance with you and nothing can stop us. I control the coast you can make camp in my country. I just need to insure the safety of my people.”

“I will consider your offer.” He said stating at Ayesha. “I will announce my decision tonight and you will show me her.”

“If you say yes, I will.”

“It is agreed.” He slammed his hands down on the rail of the chair. “Let us feast and drink.”

Ubbe sat next to his brother. Ivar picked over his food never looking up. “What Ubbe?”

“This alliance will bring much wealth to Kattegat.”

“They offered no gold or silver.”

“They offered a fleet of ships and warriors and access to the most plentiful place I have ever seen. Say yes and I will lead the expeditions there.”

“What do I get out of it?”

“A wife.” Hvitserk chuckled.

“Very funny Hvitserk.” He says as he chunks a piece of meat towards him. “I have considered it. But what if she is not pretty.”

“Who says you are pretty Ivar?” Ubbe pushes his head jokingly. “What do you have to lose besides slaves in your bed?”

“I will see Ubbe.”

The festivities continued throughout the night until Ivar finally stood up. “People of Kattegat I have decided I will accept this offer of Princess Ayesha as my queen. King Samir, show me her.”

Ayesha’s heard beat rapidly as her father faced her. “Father.”

“Don’t be frightened.”

“Of him?” She scoffed.

“Don’t be rude.” He corrected. Samir lifted the green veil and Ayesha stepped forward. Her thick black hair flowed in waves down her back and her dark eyes only made her chestnut skin look flawless. She wore a golden crown with jewels on her head and beads draped down her chest to where her shirt lifted from her skirt and revealed a tad bit of her mid drift.

Ivar’s mouth dropped open as she walked towards him. “Ayesha.”

“It’s Princess Ayesha to you young King.”

He reached out to touch her face and she snatched his hand away from her face. “Do not touch me!”

He sneered and gave a devious smile. “Excuse me?”

“I did not speak a language you didn’t understand. You don’t touch me.” She looked him up and down and walked out of the great hall.

“Skol!!” Hvitserk yelled to ease the tension and the hall erupted in celebration.

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A/N: I’m sorry I write so much 😂 if you would like to be removed from the tag list please inbox me and I’ll take you off! And if you would like to be added let me know and I will throw you on there!!

[laketaj24]

Game On Part 3

Ivar/Hvitserk pairing with WOC reader

Warnings: Hella Smut

Hvitserk’s favorite place to go was a pizza restaurant, they served the best cheese sticks and most importantly their red wine was addicting. He ordered you your own small pizza and himself a large and you sat at the back booth watching everyone that walked in.

“You look amazing tonight Y/N.” Hvitserk whispered in your ear.

“Thank you.” She try to hide your smile but it’s pointless. “What’s the special occasion? The last time you brought me here you you had big news. Your brother was coming home.”

“I do have big news,” Hvitserk gulped down his beer. “Bjorn is traveling to Africa to explore new business opportunities for Lothbrok Industries. There is an internship open and with the end of the winter semester drawing near, I’ve decided to take it.”

You bide your temper and bite your lip. “Hvitserk you did not discuss this with me?”

“I know, I figured you’d be glad that I was leaving to better myself. I live with my parents.”

“By choice,” You scoff. “You have money Hvitserk.”

“That’s because father has given it to me. I haven’t earned anything myself.” He pauses frustrated and gently pulls your face towards his. “I really want to be able to take care of you with my own wealth. I want everything we have to be because I earned it. Ubbe left the house and even Sigurd is talking of leaving. We can’t live under them our whole life.”

We have, your heart thudded against your chest. “You didn’t lead with that.”

“I think of you with everything I do. I didn’t think I had to explain it to you. We’ve been friends so long and finally you’ve given me the chance to show you I can be more. I want to do well.”

“Okay.” She smile. “How long will you be gone?”

“Just one month at a time. I get to come home one weekend a month. And we can FaceTime, and talk everyday.”

“I can handle that,” You say reaching for your glass.

“Perfect.”

You stayed away from the Lothrboks Estate when Hvitserk wasn’t there because Ivar rarely left. You didn’t trust yourself with him for good reasons. With one look he made you compromise everything you’d stood for and with the right words you’d be underneath him. Your self control had no place when it came to Ivar. But you still watched him daily He spent his time designing software and holed up in his room or on his social media sites ranting about anything that pissed him off.

The house rarely had Yule decorations but this year Aslaug seemed festive, excited about the solstice and the festivities. You rushed to your car in efforts to not speak but Ragnar never let that happen.

“Y/N!” He yelled from his truck.

You raise your eyebrows in annoyance and turn to him. “Hey!”

“Have you talked to Hvitserk?”

“Yes,” you pause. “Such a great opportunity for him.”

“To find his greatness, I agree.” Ragnar crosses the street. “We are having a Yule celebration, generally it’s just family but from what I hear you have grown quite acquainted with Hvitserk. Say you will come, tonight at 8?”

“Hum, I have a final.”

“Non sense, you can come for a few.” Ragnar glances you up and down and it doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable just makes you acknowledge that’s where all the handsome traits came from. His green blue wide eyes similar to Ivar’s but his sense of humor bled Hvitserk.

“Sure!” You agree. “What time is good again?”

“Eight, I look forward to seeing you there! Join in the feast.”

Great now you had to skip lunch because the Lothbroks feast were elaborate and if you didn’t eat it insulted them. You skipped lunch only eating a fruit bar and some water to hold you over. You chose the red sequined dressed that accentuated your hips and made your skin look like milk chocolate and you finally tamed the beast of a sew in on your head adding some curls and a red small bow to hold it on one side. And Eight was there before you knew it.

You walked across the yard to the grand home that lit up with festivity and before you could knock an overly excited Bjorn greeted you.

“Y/N.” He drug out the last letter and handed you a pint of beer. “Come in!”

“Thanks Bjorn.” You blushed as he took your jacket tossing it in the jacket room next to the door. “Happy Yule.”

“Same to you.”

“Y/N!!” Hvitserk said pushing Ubbe out of the way. “You look like a Valkyrie.” He kisses you on your cheek and grips your hand. “Come they are dancing in the hall room.”

“Sure.” You followed him and watched his crazy uncle Rollo throw an miniature axes at the board and the women dance and sing chants. They celebrated far more than your family, for they were acclaimed descendants of The allfather himself. But the noise and excitement only entertained you for an hour before it annoyed you. You wondered out of the room upstairs to your favorite place in their grand home, the star gallery.

You sat and peered up at the stars from the half bed that lay under the window.

“You could ask before you wonder through a home that doesn’t belong to you.” Ivar said from the corner of the room.

You jump because you hadn’t noticed him sitting there in the darkness. “You shouldn’t be hiding.”

“It’s my house.” He said leaning forward.”

“I love this room.” You say after a few awkward moments of quiet.

“We played up here, I remember.” Ivar crawled over to the bed and pulled himself next to her. “Why are you not downstairs?”

“It got loud.”

“We are viking, we are always loud.” He laughed.

“Why are you up here?”

“They annoy me.” He said honestly. “Hvitserk not smothering you tonight?”

“He’s three sheets to the wind.” You say with a slight eye roll. Then your eyes meet his and immediately you’re filled with lust. You slightly pull your legs closed to hide the sudden ache and you gaze back up at the stars. “Are you going to Africa?”

“Why would I go to Africa when what I want is here?”

“What do you want?”

“I think I’ve told you once before.” His voice lowered and his eyes cut over to you. “It’s been almost two months and you haven’t even tried to see me Y/N. Am I only good for my fingers?”

“Ivar.”

He swings his feet over on the bed and lays back. “Sorry.” He throws his hands up.

“Are you really?”

He chuckles and his laughter only adds to your excitement. “No, not at all.” His fingers climb up your legs leaving a lingering tingle until he’s under your dress. “No underwear?” He growls. “You do listen.” With no warning he pushes his middle into you pumping it until the small coils of pleasure start to well in your abdomen. You raise your hips off of the bed and remember what you are doing. And leap upright in the bed.

“Ivar this wrong.”

Ivar grips your arms placing you on top of him. “Are you married before the gods to Hvitserk?”

“No.” You mumble.

“Then what is wrong?” His words don’t make sense but you no longer can concentrate as his thick fingers grip your neck and his lips collide into yours. Everything is at a chaos as his tongue pushes through claiming your mouth. You stifle a moan and you’re barely able to catch your breath. Then Ivar lays back pushes you over his face. “I want a proper taste.” He groans into your thighs. He pushes your legs further apart and his tongue presses between your folds. Everything you were thinking left your mind and all you wanted was more. You plant your arms behind you on his chest and throw your head back as he continues to lap up everything you have. He pushes a finger in mix curling to tease your g spot only to make you come faster. And you do, you reach a high so glorious the stars appear brighter and there is no one in the world but you and him. But he doesn’t stop nipping and sucking at your clit sending more and more small spasms through your body. Knowing you were going to scream he reached and covered your mouth and flipped you over. Ivar kisses you on your neck and then once more deeply on your lips. “You like how you taste?” He whispered. “It’s all I could fucking think about for two months.”

You nod your head unsure of what will happen next and then he rolls off of you. “Hvitserk will come find you.” He fixes your dress. “You should go.”He’s right. Hvitserk was a curious guy. You sit up on the bed and Ivar strokes your hair. “This is not how I remember you.” He pauses. “What happen to those curls?”

“They’re under this…”

“Shame,” he gives you one more kiss and crawls back over to the corner of the room from where he came.

“Ivar.”

“Go, we have a whole month to talk.” He gave you a small smile. “Happy Yule.”

You don’t respond to him because somehow you figure his innocent act was definitely part of his game. You open the door closing it quietly behind you. Only to be startled by Ragnar.

“Busy tonight are we?” He gave a half smile.

“Ragnar,” your voice fades.

He throws his hands up. “My lips are sealed. They are grown men. Either way one of my sons will be lucky Y/N.”

He walks away and you stand there dumbfounded. “Fucking weird.” You whisper as you follow behind him.

Tag list: @sparklingbluepebbles @titty-teetee @kimistry27 @byzantiumglytch @whenimaunicorn @imgoldielikehawn @sparklemichele @fuckyeahalexhoghandersen @readsalot73 @oddsnendsfanfics @kawennote09 @vaisabu @vbiggs03 @genxmama @tinymoonshine @oneday-i-will-fight-luke17 @kenzieam @forbidddden-snowflake @sincerelysinister @suz-123 @sunnyfortomorrow @2loveeverything2 @wilddrabble

A/N: Thanks for reading!! Remember HMU if you want to be removed/added to tag list and let me know what y’all think. I’m low key #TeamIvar 😂 but I’m bias.