#it doesn't hurt that i started watching black sails today

[arcane-vagabond]

I don't wanna get anyone's hopes up, but I have opened the Fool's Fare Chapter Ten doc...

[imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl]

Unexpected Places (Pt. 01 of 11)

Pairing: Ivar the Boneless X Reader/Bjorn X Reader

Word count: 2.8 K

Summary: As a princess, you've lived in a golden cage all your life, always a piece on someone else's game. But everything changed when the Norsemen came crushing down on Wessex, like waves in a violent storm. Their king spared your life and decided to take you with him to his kingdom, in what felt more like a rescue than a kidnapping. There, you were not only confronted with a completely different culture and lifestyle, but also with two of his sons. The oldest one has his eyes set on you, but it's the youngest one, Ivar, who gets who claimed your attention since the first sight. And he seems to have an unnamed interest in you. Of course you hoped whatever that was would pass, but when unexpected feelings start to flow a different way, things begin to change.

Next part (02)->

{Vikings Masterlist}

×

Sailing Into The Unknown

Walking fast, you keep up with the two Norsemen coming right behind you. Unlike the rest of your maids, who were caught hiding or trying to leave the castle, you were found in your chambers. You knew they'd find you, one way or another, and you'll have much more to gain if you keep fear and despair away from your mind.

You knew this day would come. Your father, the King, was sure of it, and so were you. The political implications of King Ecbert and King Aelle in the last years brought you to this moment. An attack was imminent, and when you were told the Vikings were once again clashing on your cost like the waves, you knew this was inevitable. The only thing you can hope now is that they'll either let you live or give you a quick death. You're a threat, that's obvious. Aethelwulf may be the heir, but you're forth in line after his two sons. And that puts you in a dangerous position.

A yelp from one of your maids gets your attention, and you give her a look. You get why they're scared. These men look like monsters to them, speaking a strange language, dressed in dark, hard material, covered in blood. And everything they were told about the Norsemen, is that they're all savages. Worse than animals, soulless. Fortunately for you, one of the few things you actually wanted to do that your father allowed was to learn the Vikings language. Ecbert taught you himself, and you feel relieved to know what they're saying.

When you reach the main hall, you're pushed to the center, near a table. The maids all stick together, trying to pull you with them as they fall to the ground, using their skirts to dry off the tears. But you stand up, looking around. The place is flooded by them, the so-called monsters. Some are chatting, laughing even. Some of them have their eyes on you and on the other ladies. There's no way to know what will happen next, but you know who's in charge here.

The legend, the man they believe to be a descendant from the Pagan god, Odin. Ragnar Lothbrok. If you want to stand a chance to get out of here alive, that's the man you need to talk to. And, as if being called, he comes from the hall, alongside two other men. He looks, at the same time, exactly how your father described, but also very different. A paradox. His eyes scan the room, and, as you make your way over him, they lay on you.

One of the men who were with him come forward, standing on your way. Looking up, you sustain his stare. “I wish to speak with Ragnar.” You say, trying not to smile at the confused expression on the man's face. Nobody here expects you to speak their language.

“Princess (Y/N).” Ragnar sings songs, and the man steps aside. He has an axe in his hand, playing with it as he comes closer to you. “I was just having a small chat with your dear father.”

“Did you kill him?” The answer is obvious, but still, you need to know. The funny expression on his face changes and he pinches his eyebrows together “My father always said that, if he had to die at all, he'd like to be killed by you.”

“Oh.” He exclaims, glancing at someone behind you. “His wish was granted.”

Nodding to yourself, you look down. You have been preparing yourself for this moment ever since the news of Ragnar's return arrived, but still, your heart sinks a little. “Alright then.” It sounds stupid to ask him to simply let you go. This won't happen. Still, you don't want to face death scared, like your maids, crying and yelling. So, standing before Ragnar, you push your hair away from your shoulders, exposing your neck. “Do it already.” With both hands on your hips, you take a deep breath.

But Ragnar doesn't move, his lips break into a smile. Slowly, he leans closer, his mouth on your ear. “What are you doing?”

“I know you'll kill me. But I don't want to go like them.” Tilting your head at your maids, you shrug your shoulders. “I don't want to be taken as a slave either. So I guess that's it, king Ragnar.” Unlike him, you keep your voice as loud as before. You don't mind being heard.

“Do you–”

Ragnar is cut off by someone's shouts. Soon enough, a man comes, being held by two of the Norsemen. When they move a little, you recognize Edward, the man you were supposed to marry in a short amount of time. He's hurt, a black eye and a wounded lip. The men throw him on the floor, and he stands on his knees. Perhaps you should pity him... But no. It may not be kind of you, but you can't pretend you feel something you don't.

“Princess (Y/N), my lady.” He mumbles, trying to get to his feet and failing. “Stay away from them.”

Ignoring him, you turn to face Ragnar again. “As I was saying, there's no other option in this situation, so you might as well get done with it.” Giving the axe a look, you raise your eyes again. “I'm ready.”

“Don't be stupid, (Y/N)! Get away from him!” Edward shouts, and you run a hand through your hair, frustrated. Even now, he still tries to tell you what to do. You're tired of being ordered around. At least in death, you want to make it on your way.

“Shut up, Edward!” You burst out, moving to stand a few feet away from him, talking in his language since, of course, he wouldn't even dream of learning the pagans tongue. “It's over, don't you see it? We're both dying today, and honestly...” Now, you can say it. You can finally say it, and you can't help but smile. You'll be dead in a minute, but you never felt so... Free. “I'm happy my fate is to die by the Vikings... That's far better than marrying you.”

When you're done talking, Edward jerks forward, too fast, managing to grab your arm with one hand and hitting your face with the back of the other. You taste blood on your mouth, falling to the ground, but easily pushing yourself back up as the Norsemen pull him back, away from you. “You little whore!” He tries to set free, but it's useless. A laugh escapes your lips. “I'm so glad you'll die today. I'm so glad you'll join your devil of a father.”

With a hand on your jaw, you stare at him, shaking your head lightly. “You call then savages, but you were the only one in this room to hit me.” Turning away from him, you return to where Ragnar stands, watching the whole commotion. “So, king Ragnar?”

You can tell he's thinking. About what, you have no idea. From what you've heard, they don't need much thought before killing someone. “I could kill you right here, princess, but this speech you just gave got me interested.” Pacing around you, he swings his axe, resting it on his shoulder. “My wife, a former princess herself, might actually like you.”

“Aslaug?” A man says, and Ragnar looks at him. Following his gaze, you see a man with blond, dirty hair, pulled back in some kind of braid. “She hates Christians. I don't see how she'll like this one.”

“Well, I've never seen a Christian act like this. Have you, Bjorn?”

“No.” The man admits, eyes finally meeting yours, just before you look away from him.

“Well, my wife has been pissing me off lately, so anything that might distract her for a bit sounds like a good idea to me.” He speaks slow, and some people laugh. “So, Princess (Y/N). I will let you chose your fate.” He's back at your face, looking down at you. “Would you rather come with me to Kattegat, or would you rather die here, with your crying maids?”

Giving the women a look, you weigh the odds. Death is final, the very end. Life is full of possibilities... But are you willing to risk it? “Would you keep me safe? I mean...” Gesturing at the other men, you sigh. “I'm sure you understand what I mean.”

“Nobody touches the princess,” Ragnar yells, his voice echoing through the walls. “Is that enough?” He asks you in a much lower voice.

“I guess it is.”

That said, he walks away. Following him with your eyes, you see as he stops by Bjorn. Bjorn Ironside, his oldest son. His name is also well known here. Ragnar tells him something before disappearing, and his son gives you a look. It doesn't take long for you to understand Ragnar told Bjorn to keep an eye on you, since, as you walk down the beach to the boats, Bjorn silently walks beside you, like a bodyguard. He helps you climb up on to the boat, a strong hand on your waist, pushing you up.

When you finally start sailing, you get an idea of their army. Too many boats, filled with far too many warriors. You can't help but make your way to the back of the boat, watching as your home grows distant. But calling it home is a compliment. This was just somewhere you lived, surrounded by people who always expected something of you. Where you were forced to act a certain way, just because you were unlucky enough to be born a princess.

What's coming now, is completely unexpected, unforeseen. If anyone ever told you you'd be sailing away from Wessex, in a Viking boat, you wouldn't believe them. But the feeling that really gets to you, leaving you utterly perplexed is that you feel... Good. Free, even. You can't even count how many times you desired you could just disappear, leave everything behind and go somewhere entirely new. Maybe you're crazy, your mind completely lost already, but you somehow find joy in it. In sailing away, into the unknown, with the very people you were taught to hate and fear.

But this is far better than what your future was holding back there. An unhappy marriage with a disgusting man. This is far better.

Days after you left Wessex, a violent storm starts falling at daybreak. The rain comes lightly at first, but by the moment you stand up, it starts pouring. One of Ragnar's friends, named Floki, stays on the edge of the boat, holding on tight with one arm, the other stretched out. He's laughing, saying things you don't quite understand the meaning of. It's about Thor, and Odin, and othter of their gods. He seems unaffected by the crashing waves. Stumbling, you leave the protection of this dark fabric they hanged above the ship, getting on your knees next to Floki. You don't know what's soaking you, the rain, or the waves, high enough to hit the boat.

“Hear this, Princess?” Floki yells, trying to make himself heard above the deafening sounds. “This is–” A huge wave hits both of you, and Floki almost falls back. But he regains his balance, laughing even louder.

“Will the boat sink?” You ask him, yelling at the top of your lungs. “I can't swim! If we sink, I'll drown.”

“So will I,” Floki answers, glancing at you before turning his attention back at the ocean. This makes you burst into laughter too because you never thought someone who can't swim would face the waves like this.

“(Y/N)!” Someone calls, and you turn around, pushing wet hair away from your face. Bjorn comes your way, grabbing both your arms and helping you stand up. “What are you doing here?”

“She's mesmerized by the powerful waves!” Another wave, hitting both you and Bjorn as well. You're knocked down, your back against Bjorn's chest. But despite the sting you fell on your leg, Floki's laughter makes you giggle. These people are crazy. Nobody on Wessex would be this happy, this carefree in such a storm.

“Come.” Bjorn pulls you with him, back to the safety of the handmade roof. He helps you settle down, and as he does, you lock eyes with him. You've never seen blue eyes like this. “Stay out of the rain.”

“Floki is in the rain. Why can't I?” You snap back, not really enjoying the bossy tone.

“Let the girl have her fun, Bjorn.” You recognize Ragnar's voice, and you find him rowing, trying to keep the boat moving despite the violent waves. There's an empty seat beside him, so, pushing yourself up, you make your way there.

“Mind if I help?”

“If you think you can.” He breathes out, and you nod, grabbing the oar. “Keep it steady... Push, then pull.” He tells you, and you mimic his movements. The thing is heavy, and it takes only a few seconds for your arms to start hurting. But you keep up, ignoring the looks you're getting. No woman would be allowed to do such thing in Wessex. So you're enjoying it, even though you're strength is nothing compared to the rest of them.

When the heavy clouds are blown away, and the sky is once again blue and serene, you bend over the edge of the boat a little, just to better see where the ocean meets the sky, on the horizon. The chaos was replaced by a low chattering, laughter, and giggles. You're mostly on our own, not really speaking to anyone but Ragnar. He's a curious man, and he's curious about you. You're not sure why though.

“Here.” A voice makes you turn around, sitting down. Bjorn offers you a cup of water, which you take and drink after muttering a ‘thank you’. When you give him the empty cup, you wait for him to walk away so you can resume your horizon watching, but instead, he settles down beside you, letting out a heavy breath. “We'll reach Kattegat in a few days.”

“Finally.” You burst out, playing with the tips of your hair. “Sick and tired of this boat already.” Chuckling, you glance at him. He's already staring. “So... Bjorn Ironside. What are you doing talking to a Christian? People here don't really seem to be fond of me.”

“The truth is they're trying to figure you out.” Bjorn lowers his voice, and your eyes scan through the men. “Ever since you stood up with your neck exposed to my father's axe.”

It doesn't seem much of a big deal to you. “I just didn't want to die like those other girls. Whining and crying.” Shrugging your shoulders, you sigh. “I mean, I really thought there would be no other way, so I'd face death with some dignity.”

“Don't tell anyone I said this but...” He leans closer until you feel his breath on your ear. “You kinda sounded like a Viking right now.” Then, he stands up and leaves, back to his chores.

You're confused, to say the least, but you guess that was a compliment coming from a Viking himself. Taking a deep breath, you move to where you were, staring at the calming waves.

And Bjorn was right. Eight days after, you're arriving at Kattegat. The many boats stop at the decks, and yours is one of the first. There's a sea of people here, waiting for their loved ones. As you step out of the boat, you don't really know where to go. Everyone is hugging, kissing, telling about the successful raid. You just start walking then, following the flow until you feel someone grabbing your arm. “This way,” Bjorn says, tilting his head at where his father is going. “He wants to introduce you to Aslaug.”

The Queen who hates Christians. Great.

The main hall of Ragnar's house is full. First, he talks to the people, telling them everything they took, everything they found. There's a huge fire in the center, flames reaching high. You're at the corner, half-hidden behind Bjorn's shoulder, eyes flying through the place. You quickly recognize the Queen, seated on a chair beside Ragnar. She's very pretty, dark hair cut off to her shoulders. But she looks... Bored. Very uninterested in this.

By her side, close to the floor, you find a pair of eyes set on you. It takes you by surprise since you weren't expecting anyone to find you among all the people. But he did. Ragnar told you a little about him. His youngest son, Ivar, the Boneless. The cripple. It's not hard to recognize him, but your eyes don't search for his deformity. They're locked on his face, trying to read it, trying to understand why he won't look away.

Suddenly, everybody standing in front of you moves, creating a passage that leads to the very center of the hall. Glancing at Bjorn, you see when he gestures for you to go. And so you do, stopping only when you're standing before Aslaug. She doesn't seem very happy about it.

“And who this might be?” She asks, taking a sip from her cup.

“This is King Ecbert's daughter, princess (Y/N).” Ragnar answers. “She has some spirit, so I thought she'd make a good friend for you since you too were a princess once.”

“A Viking princess.” She snaps, looking you up and down.

You should probably say something, but what? The woman doesn't like you, and why would she? The big question now is what will happen to you next.

“(Y/N) isn't like the other women,” Bjorn speaks up, and you give him a look. He's pacing around, playing with a knife. “While her maids were sobbing and begging for their lives, she stood before Ragnar, accepting her fate. I've never seen one of their women do anything like that.” You don't get why he's doing this. Probably Ragnar's orders, or something like that. “She even helped with the oars when a storm reached us, after staying on the edge with that crazy ass Floki over there.” He gestures at the man, who loudly giggles.

“And what does this all mean?” Aslaug breathes out, clearly annoyed.

“Why don't you give her a chance, wife?” Ragnar sits back on his chair, taking Aslaug's hand. “Talk to her, see if there's anything in common and if you don't like her, well... I can send her to live with Lagertha.”

“Who's Lagertha?” You mutter, to nobody in particular.

But the name makes Aslaug sigh, and she stands up, putting the cup down. “Fine then. Come with me.”

With no other choice, you follow her inside. But on your way, you walk by Ivar, who's holding a clutch. You try hard no to, but your eyes find him nevertheless. He quickly looks away, and you keep walking, deciding not to give it much thought. He probably despises you like most of the people here.

Aslaug has some slaves prepare you a warm bath. And, much to your dislike, she stays in the room as you take off your clothes and step inside the tub. But it doesn't take long for you to relax as one of the girls starts washing and brushing your hair.

“Did you sleep with my husband?” The question comes with an angry voice, and you're not sure what startles you more. The anger or the question itself.

“Of course not.” She gets on your sight, pacing around.

“Do you want to sleep with my husband?”

Then, it clicks. She thinks Ragnar brought you here because he desires you. And that's a very dangerous thought for a Queen to have. “No, I don't.” Resting both your arms on the edges of the tub, you look up at her. “And even if he wants to sleep with me, I won't accept it. That's not the reason why I'm here.”

“And why are you here, so far from home, little princess?” She doesn't sound like she actually wants to know, but you get the feeling that this time you can actually say the truth. Here, there's no reason to keep it hidden, locked in. You can say how you feel about everything, even the things that could've got you imprisoned or even dead in Wessex.

“I'm willing to tell you if you're willing to listen, Queen Aslaug.”

At first, there's silence. But then, Aslaug drags a chair, placing it near the tub before sitting down. “Well, since I have nothing better to do at the moment, let's hear it.”

×

@multific @revolution-starter @crackhead1-800 @youbloodymadgenius @clown-boyyy @kitten0394 @castielsangelx-blog @goldlion07 @alwaysadreamingoptimist @midnightmystic

[seek-its-opposite]

AU where Queequeg doesn't die?

(I’m so sorry but he does technically die in this, but later and of natural causes.)

1.

Scully’s father taught her how to swim and how to find the North Star. He quizzed her on the 50 state capitals (Scully, flushed with exhaustion after a late-night stakeout, once recited them all for Mulder in an empty diner, a decibel too loud, her hands so expressive she almost knocked over her coffee) and sailing knots (she laced up Mulder’s boots when his arm was in a sling and he lost feeling in his toes). Her father showed her how to drive a boat, which she really is a natural at, she swears, alligators aside.

There’s water pooling between Mulder’s toes when they get back to their motel, one $500 deposit later, to find Scully’s indignant Pomeranian chewing through a throw pillow. Mulder remembers what else she said her father taught her: Respect nature because it has no respect for you.

Scully, remembering the same, just sighs and takes a shower.

Later, with wet hair and a dry sweatshirt, she takes the dog into the yard to do his business before the long drive, and Mulder leans on the door frame and imagines a whole new natural order. He imagines Scully on vacation, driving the Blue Ridge Parkway with the windows down and never shivering with him on a rock in the dead of night. He shouldn’t have joked about cannibalism. He’s already consuming her, a little more every day.

Out in the clearing, Queequeg yelps, and with one swift tug he pulls free of Scully’s grasp and sprints toward the tree line, his leash dangling behind him. Scully takes off running after her blurry pet, and Mulder takes off running after her, all three of them disappearing into the woods like a children’s book.

They catch up to each other at the edge of the lake, Queequeg yapping at the waves. Scully scoops her pet into her arms.

“What were you thinking?” she asks her dog, in a tone Mulder knows well. He puts his hand on her shoulder.

They’re turning away from the shore when something splashes behind them. Mulder glances back at the water, grabs Scully’s arm, and squeezes tight.

“Scully, look.”

They spin around in tandem, just in time to see a long neck rising out of the waves.

Queequeg makes the drive back to D.C. on Mulder’s lap, like a conquering hero.

2.

After that, Mulder keeps a bag of treats in his glove compartment, pocketing one or two every time he shows up at her door. But when he comes knocking late one Friday night with his hair in his eyes and a bottle of wine in his hand, there are no treats and no Kleenex in his pocket, and Queequeg growls, nipping at his heels.

The cops are already taking him away when Mulder, the real Mulder, shows up, out of breath. His palms are black and blue.

“How did you know?” he asks Scully, kneeling before her on the couch. She clasps her hands around her shins, hugging them closer.

“You were terrible to Queequeg,” she says, and surprises even herself when she laughs.

He sits with her for hours, her on the couch and him on the floor, coaxing her dog out of the corner with treats to win him back as Scully gradually uncoils. It’s after midnight when, sleepy and reclined, she reaches out to brush her fingertips against his shoulder.

“Mulder, you’ll take care of him, right? When I’m gone?”

He almost chokes. Her eyes are closed and her arm flops over the edge of the couch, easy and trusting. She looks so comfortable, healthy. If he prayed, he’d be down on his knees begging for a way to turn shape-shifting inward: not to make himself look like someone else, but to make reality line up with how it already looks. To be the kind of man who comes over to see her on Friday after work just because.

He squeezes her hand. When he weaves her fingers into his, he can’t feel his own bruises.

3.

She lives, and lives again. They get the X-Files back only to wind up packing Lacoste polos and pearl earrings for a trip to the suburbs. He waits for his life to stop feeling like an illusion.

“We should take Queequeg,” Scully says, her hair curling around her ears. “Help us look the part.”

Mulder agrees. He’d say yes to anything she asks for right now, with the keys to the basement in his pocket and a matching set in hers. Nothing about this case seems like an X-File anyway, so the dog shouldn’t be in any danger.

(There’s also this: He likes the idea that even one part of their real life makes them look like a happy couple.)  

It occurs to them both too late that nice suburban couples don’t have dogs named after Melville characters. They explain his namesake, and explain it again. Queequeg, their perfect alibi, hates Scruffy and yaps at him all through dinner. They don’t get much information out of the Schroeders.

Still, when they trade off late-night walks, or when he brings her coffee in the morning and Queequeg jumps on the bed, Mulder sees them from a distance, like he’s watching someone else’s home videos on the camcorder: Scully and Mulder and their wet-nosed pet, the picture of domesticity.

He remembers her a year ago speaking low and sweet to her daughter, asking if she liked dogs.

4.

In truth, they don’t know how old Queequeg is and are both privately surprised he makes it this long. He goes grey around the snout and catches less air during games of fetch, but he remains otherwise as stubborn as ever.

A week after Scully kisses Mulder on the couch with his arm in a sling, she comes back to his place with her overnight bag under one arm and her dog under the other, and she doesn’t leave all weekend. He remembers the old wisdom about dogs and their owners. He loves her relentlessness fiercely; he never dreamed it would look like this, like her hand clutching a fistful of his sheets as she sleeps.

Maybe it was always this simple. Maybe they never had to make their lives look like anything else.

Warm and worn out, they stay in bed so late on Saturday morning that Queequeg whines in the doorway. Mulder regards the dog with a finger over his lips as he fumbles for his jeans.

Scully stirs and pushes herself up on one elbow. The sheet slips from her shoulders; she is perfect, perfect. He leans over to brush the hair out of her eyes.

“Don’t move a muscle,” Mulder tells her, tapping her cheek. “Don’t ever move.

“I’ll be right back.”

5.

There are still scars on his cheeks, three on each, like cold fingers grabbed his face and pulled. Queequeg rarely leaves his dog bed anymore and hasn’t begged for treats since Mulder’s return. The truth is there are none in his pocket.

Scully calls, her voice measured, and asks him to come right away. When he asks if she’s hurt, if it’s the baby, she says no, she’s fine, but he does need to hurry.

He finds her on the couch with Queequeg beside her, stroking the dog’s head and whispering something soothing.

“Scully, what’s wrong?”

“It’s time, Mulder,” she says, not looking up. “I’ve called the vet.”

“Queequeg?”

“I can bring him in anytime today. I thought—” She catches her breath. “I thought you’d want to say goodbye.”

She can’t stop herself from crying any longer, and Mulder, who until now has been hovering a few feet inside the door, finally comes over to kneel before her, offering a tissue like a white flag. She takes it and forces a wobbly smile.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffs.  

“Scully, what are you sorry for, honey?” He puts his hand on her knee.

“You just got back,” Scully cries, wiping her eyes. “You shouldn’t have to be around death right now. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“No, Scully, no.” He shakes his head and fumbles for understanding. He was dead and now she’s pregnant and her dog is dying, and he can’t seem to stop saying her name. “Scully… I would never want you to go through this alone.”

He remembers too late that she already went through this alone with him. With his body.

He reaches out to pat Queequeg behind the ears.

“He’s been sick for a while, Mulder. I did what I could.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he says. He’s looking at the dog. Scully shivers.

He drives her to the vet with her dog in her lap. He drives her home and holds her hand.

Later, he sits beside her on the couch, the air unstable between them. Her fingers and his are wrapped around separate mugs of hot tea, and Scully closes her eyes and inhales the steam. Her place is quiet, shadowy.

“He was a good dog, Scully,” Mulder says. “I mean, aside from that time he ate his owner.”

Scully breathes out a half laugh, eyes still closed. “That wasn’t his fault, Mulder.”

“Still. I’m glad he never ate you.”

“I’m touched.” She opens her eyes.

“Remember,” he sets down his mug and rubs his hands together, “when he found Big Blue for me?”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell anyone,” she says. “After all that.”

She reaches to place her drink beside his, straining over her belly.

“Scully.” He almost gasps. It’s the most obvious thing in the world; how can she not know? “I didn’t have to tell anyone. You were there.”

He takes the mug from her hands, gently, and puts it on the table. Scully starts to smile and suddenly she’s crying, hot and silent.

“Hey,” he leans over, wiping his thumb across her cheek. “Hey, Scully.” She shudders at his touch, then buries her wet nose on his shoulder and whispers things he can’t yet understand. He repeats her name into her hair, over and over.

Her father taught her that everything dies. Her mother taught her to believe in resurrection.