#ooc . wracked with envie

[cannidoll]

those of you here for my t.wst muses , please note that i've moved them over to a side blog : unblots !! thank you and sorry for the inconvenience <3

[pomegranates-and-blood]

In loving me, in loving you

My Masterlist

Pairing: Modern!AU Ivar/Reader, (background Floki/Helga, Björn/Snæfrid, Ubbe/Torvi, Sigurd/Blaeja & past Ubbe/Hvitserk/Margrethe, Ivar/Margrethe)

Summary: Ivar returns to Kattegat with you for the first time in a long time, resulting in a lot of unresolved issues haunting him. 

Word Count: 11.3k

Warnings: 18+. Modern!AU. Fluff. AAAngst. Smuttish stuff (kind of dubcon for a bit there). Ivar’s issues (as for specifics? Take your pick, we’ve got body issues, abandonment issues, sexual intimacy issues, I can go on. But I’m serious, they are there, plus quite a bit of ableism, and a lot of Ivar’s issues with his self worth and his self perception. Also a tiny dive into Ivar’s sense of self when it comes to other people, how he ‘is always acting’ because he is always watched/under scrutiny). Mentions of surgeries, broken bones, and hospitals (nothing graphic except a bit on the broken bone part). This might be OOC, idk. And, lastly, my writing (I’m rusty af, I’m trying but idk)

A/N: This is my entry for @maggiescarborough​‘s 400 Followers Celebration, with the prompt, “Making breakfast together.”

I am so late to this, I’ve been really slow with writing lately (for the past six months lmao). You have already reached another milestone and here I am with an entry for the previous milestone’s celebration, I’m so sorry. You deserve all of us and more ❤️

Title is from the quote: “I am afraid of you. In loving me, you hold a knife to my throat. In loving you, I tell you exactly where to cut. We are two against the world, yet I still do not trust your hand in mine. This is new, and I am terrified.” (a.j.) Which, y’know, fitting.

Btw, setting: modern, Ivar is around 23-ish and the others are aged accordingly to that, Reader is non-Danish but spent a few summers in Kattegat (that’s all the specification on her), ‘canon’-ish compliant, Aslaug and Ragnar are dead but the brothers are on good terms or as good as it can get with this wild pack of morons, Björn is getting married for like the third time. That’s all that’s important.

As an insider tip of sorts: permanence and happiness are interchangeable for this idiot, even if he doesn’t realize it 😉

Ivar catches sight of your leg bouncing up and down on the seat by his side, and before he thinks twice about it, he puts a hand on your thigh to stop you.

Your gaze leaves the window to drop to his hand on your leg, and delicately, with a gentleness that still catches him off guard sometimes, you trace the tips of your fingers over the back of his hand, following invisible lines.

After a deep breath, voice low, you murmur, “It is always a little nerve-wracking when your boyfriend first brings you home, you know.”

He scoffs, “Kattegat isn’t home.”

Ivar finds that saying that out loud serves as a reminder for himself as well.

You lift your gaze to him, and offer a small shrug.

“It’s still the place you grew up in,” He envies you for that easy nostalgia you can feel towards the town, and the way you speak of it as if it were something perfect and something you miss makes anger boil under his skin. He rolls his eyes at your words, earning a pinch on the back of his hand to make him meet your eyes again. You tilt your head to the side and offer, “Have you ever thought about how, if my family had continued to vacation there, you and I would have met a lot sooner?

He has. Meeting you when you did is one of the things he is most grateful to the Gods for though.

At his silence you turn back to look out the window, intertwining your fingers with his.

“Aren’t you at least curious to see what has changed? Six years is a long time.”

“Nothing changes in Kattegat.”

Permanence isn’t something Ivar is used to, something he has let himself get used to. For everything that has made his life what it is, there is no permanence, for any of it. Not in people, not in stability, not in anything.

Except this damn city. This city has always been here, and it will always be here, and nothing here changes, it seems. Unnaturally, strikingly permanent, that is Kattegat to him.

Coming back to it is unsettling him more than he likes to admit, and he knows you are aware of that. He hates that, he hates the fact that you know, the fact that you understand.

The world is changing, and we must change with it, Ragnar told him once. He isn’t sure if it was Ragnar that told him that, if he’s honest. Maybe it was Björn, or Ubbe, with one of their neat little tricks of opening their mouths and letting their father speak through them like some twisted version of a marionette.

Ivar understands what he meant by that. Maybe more about the world changing than about how he has to change with it, but he understands.

Everything changes, and people come and go. They have ever since he has memory, from his father to his mother and everyone in between, and so Ivar has gotten used to not counting on people staying around for long.

But even as people come and go, even as everything changes, Kattegat doesn’t. He feels that in the stale air, in the ground under his feet that -impossibly, he knows- makes walking harder.

There are people approaching the car even before it has fully stopped, and Ivar gathers he must have been glaring when you squeeze his hand and tease,

“Just one week, baby. Think you can hold off on killing Sigurd for that long?”

He only offers a grunt of, “No promises.”

He rationally should have no reason to worry, right? You have met everyone here before, and especially since you and Ivar moved in together over a year ago, you are close to Ubbe and Hvitserk -much to Ivar’s dismay-; there’s no crazy shit his family can pull that you haven’t lived the condensed version of with him and his two brothers.

Still, coming here fills Ivar’s stomach with a strange sort of dread, makes him feel like the other shoe is about to drop but the bastard is making sure to torture him before finally hitting the ground.

“Oh, you must come to the house,” Helga is telling you before you are through with your greetings, grasping your hand in both of hers with a bright smile. “The crane Floki built for me made painting the Iceland landscape I showed you much easier.”

Your eyes are wide when you ask, “You finished it already?”

Floki giggles, a proud smile that makes the lines around his eyes deeper when he looks at his wife.

“She did. Her best so far.”

“Where?”

Floki seems unbothered by Helga’s hands reaching into the pockets of his jacket searching for the car keys, instead offering you a gesture of his head to the car and his wife who is already on the way to it.

“You’ll see.”

You leave Ivar behind with a rushed kiss, almost skipping your way to where Helga awaits in the car.

“A crane?” Hvitserk asks as they watch you two leave, and Floki shrugs.

“She’s running out of parts of the house to paint on,” He explains. “I caught her too many times stealing ladders from my workshop to make platforms, figured I’d make her something more permanent.”

“You built a crane inside your house.” Ubbe states, to which Floki only offers a quiet giggle with a familiar glint in his eye.

“Just the living room.”

He spends the rest of the day catching up with his uncle, and they all figure by the time the sun starts to set and you and Helga haven’t returned that you two got caught up doing something.

A bubble of anxiety starts in Ivar’s chest at the thought of that, of what you might be doing with Helga. Maybe you are walking around Kattegat, meeting old friends of hers and Floki, seeing all the things that might have changed since you last visited, finally seeing all the things that haven’t changed and that would never change.

He now sits in the living room with his brothers, half-listening to a story Floki is telling them about his and Helga’s latest trip to Iceland, absently turning his crutch around over and over, making it twirl on the hardwood floor. Ivar cannot help but think of all the things you might learn -about his family, about him- while he isn’t there to prevent it, to fight against it, and finds that the restlessness inside him quickly and certainly builds into irritation, anger.

But the fears are unfounded, he realizes as the front door opens, as he watches you return with a jar of sourdough and a skip in your step.

“Ivar, look what Helga made for me!”

“We’re not keeping another one of those.” He grumbles, but you ignore him and continue talking towards the kitchen to store it until you leave.

“What’s so bad about that?” Blaeja questions quietly, a small frown between her brows.

“She treats it like a…a pet.”

“We need to remember to feed it, but this time it will grow, trust me.” You’re telling him as you walk back into the living room, sitting by his side and resting your head on his shoulder.

Ivar offers a shrug of his free shoulder to Blaeja, who only smiles.

Lowering his head to speak to you, he insists, “Just call it refreshing, love.”

You look up at him, leaning to press a few kisses towards the corner of his mouth, smugly pleased that by the time you reach his lips he cannot keep the foolish smile that curves at them.

Stubborn and purposefully infuriating, you only say, “It needs feeding, Ivar.”

____

He will admit he has missed having Helga and Floki so close, he will admit he grew used to their presence when he was a child and he could never quite outgrow that foolish feeling of safety he has around the two of them. No matter how many times they visit in Copenhagen or meet with him and his brothers for a short vacation near Vestfold, there is a strange nostalgia, even if bittersweet, to being here with them.

And not just them. He realizes as people start to leave, as Björn and Snæfrid retire for bed and Sigurd and Blaeja follow soon after, as Torvi’s kids fall asleep and she whispers her goodnights before Ubbe helps her carry them upstairs; that he lets go of a tension he hadn’t realized he held, a tension he isn’t sure if he ought to blame on the travelling or on this town.

But here, now, he doesn’t have to think about how he sits and how he moves his legs to settle in his seat, and when he stands he doesn’t have to try and make his gait more regular even past the strain it puts on his body. He can forget, around them, around you.

For better or worse, in this small group of people -Floki, Helga, Ubbe, Hvitserk, and you- he has found the few people crazy or stubborn enough to actually stay long enough to make him almost believe in something close to permanence.

But it is stupid, it is hopeless, to get used to this. Any of it.

People don’t stay, people aren’t permanent. Even if they want to be, even if he wants them to be, he knows that.

You jump in your place excitedly, drawing Ivar’s attention to whatever it is you are talking about with Helga.

“Yes, ‘Serk has told me about them!” You say, eyes bright, “I don’t remember much, we only spent a couple of summers here. I’ve been dying to go, to be honest.”

“I can take you,” Helga offers, leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, and smile wide and sweet. “I can show you where I buy the pigments for my paints.”

“Go where?” Ivar interrupts, something in his chest tightening at the bright smile that curves at your lips when you turn to look at him. “Where…where is she taking you?”

“The street markets, near the pier.”

“No,” He blurts before he can think twice about it. He feels eyes on him, and he hates it. Still, he keeps his gaze on you, and tries amending, “I can…I can take you instead.”

It still sounds harsher than he intended, but he doesn’t care.

He cannot have you go there, mingle amongst the people -and he knows you will, because the all-too-bright smile and the stubborn kindness make people flock around you, too closely for his liking most of the time; and if you go with Helga it will only be worse- and…and get closer to Kattegat, have a closer look at it and all the things that remain the same in this damn town. He can’t let that happen.

They will remind you how you are dating the crippled son of the man that gave them glory and ruin, they will whisper about how he became talk of the town when he tried sleeping with his brothers’ fuckbuddy and failed miserably, they will tell you about all the things they know about him and all the things they see in him.

Ivar cannot have you see him like they do. He cannot let you go to them without him there to make sure you can look at him and see the man he has become -a man that has somehow convinced you to stay with him for over three years now- instead of whoever they will try to make you see him as.

He sees it in the faintest of furrows between your brows, that you want to argue, that you want to ask questions, that he isn’t fooling anyone. Still, Ivar holds your gaze, and with barely a narrowing of your eyes, you shrug and accept.

“We’ll go in the morning, yeah?” You tell him, the intonation of a question in your tone but you don’t wait for an answer before you turn to Helga again, “We can meet for lunch, go to the fields by Scar Mountain? I’ll finally take you up on that painting lessons offer.”

Ivar isn’t sure if he should appreciate or be wary of the way you seem to easily diffuse the strange atmosphere that had taken over the room at his refusal to let you go to the markets without him. But, as Helga starts telling you of the vineyard at the back of the estate that you could go to instead, and whatever story Hvitserk was telling Floki with broad gestures resumes, he gathers he can ignore that for the time being.

What he can’t ignore, however, is the way Ubbe looks at him now. He knows that look, because that is how he would look at Ivar when he was younger –your eyes are very blue today, Ivar, maybe you should stay inside-, that is how he would look at Ivar when Sigurd made a show of making sure everyone knew he couldn’t even sleep with a woman -Ivar, do not listen to him, what they think doesn’t matter-, that is how he would look at Ivar when he returned from that fucking trip where Ragnar decided to leave him in some old Christian’s hands only to find his mother dead -it was sudden, Ivar, there was nothing anyone could have done-. He hates that look.

Ivar grits his teeth, and looks away, feeling his expression twitch in an anger he cannot -and doesn’t want to- hide.

The night goes on as expected, and the group of people remaining becomes smaller and smaller as catching up doesn’t seem that much of a priority over sleep anymore.

With the complaint that the car ride here on top of the plane ride was too much for one woman to handle, you stretch your arms over your head. Even though he is almost certain you didn’t mean to, you succeed in drawing Ivar’s gaze to the small expanse of skin that is revealed when you lift your arms, and the pang of something the simple sight sends through him makes him feel as if it were the beginning, and he were once again craving every centimeter of skin, of you, that he can be granted, feeling as if every part of you was something strangely unattainable even when within reach.

With the request that he doesn’t leave you waiting too long that you whisper against his lips before kissing him goodnight, you go off to bed. Ivar watches you go, ignoring Floki’s eyes watching him.

Now it has been hours since you have gone off to bed, but he can’t join you yet. Ivar would blame his inability to sleep on the stress travelling put on his body, but he knows if he starts lying to himself he is in deep shit.

Returning to Kattegat has fucked with his head, he knows that, and he’s about completely sure you know that too.

And now this town takes from him his sleep, even after all it has taken. Ivar forces the part of his mind that whispers his sleep is not the last thing Kattegat will take from him to quieten, and walks out to join his brother on the small porch overlooking the back of their family’s estate. They are the last two awake it seems.

“Couldn’t sleep, eh?” Hvitserk asks, leaning one shoulder against a pillar.

“The Gods surely blessed you with Sight, haven’t they?” Ivar retorts, deadpan.

“Right when they blessed you with a great personality.”

“And why are you awake, hm?”

His brother shrugs, “You are all coupled-up over there, I want to avoid getting scarred for life by hearing any of you go at it.”

“Nothing you haven’t heard before; you and Ubbe used to fuck the same woman.”

“Not at the same time,” His brother retorts, but Ivar makes a face at the obvious lie. Before he can start arguing, Hvitserk concedes, “Not soberly at the same time.”

“That’s more like it.”

“So, who do you think will be next?” Hvitserk asks, leaning against the pillar again and looking out at the vineyard with distant eyes.

“Next?”

“It will look bad on all of us if the next wedding is another one of Björn’s,” His brother explains, drawing a chuckle from Ivar. Still, he acquiesces with a movement of his head, because he does have a point. “And Ubbe won’t marry his brother’s ex yet. So, Sigurd or you?”

He snorts a short laughter, maybe a tad cruel, “Blaeja isn’t marrying Sigurd, she isn’t that stupid.”

Casually, his brother insists, “So you, then?”

Hvitserk is many things, but subtle isn’t one of them. Ivar is almost glad this stupid dance is over and his brother is asking what he had been meaning to since the start of this conversation.

“I know you like to believe you are smarter than me, brother, but we both know you aren’t,” Ivar bites out, gritting his teeth at the way Hvitserk doesn’t fall for the taunt, instead only looking at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. “Floki told you, hm?”

“No, Floki told Helga, a-…”

Ivar sighs, “Of course he did.”

“And she told me,” Hvitserk puffs out his chest, “I’m still her favorite.”

He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes at his brother’s boastful claim, and instead taunts,

“At this rate, I think Y/N is her favorite,” His brother scoffs at his words, but doesn’t deny it. After a few beats of silence, Ivar takes a breath and presses, “So everyone knows?”

“No, just Floki, Helga,” Hvitserk lists off, head titled to the side, “And your dear brother, whom you didn’t bother telling you were planning on getting hitched.

All the answer he offers is a grunt, and he doesn’t bother elaborating on that, turning his attention back ahead.

“Does Y/N know?” Hvitserk teases, but there’s something else there, in his tone. It sounds a lot like Ubbe’s voice. “Because, even I’d say that’s something y-…”

“Of course she does, we’ve talked about-…she knows,” He interrupts, frowning, running his thumb back and forth over a ridge on the handle of his crutch. “You think I’m going in blindly to ask her to marry me? I’m a cripple, not an idiot.”

A few beats of silence, and then,

“Why haven’t you, then?”

“That is none of your business.”

“I’m asking anyways,” Ivar rolls his eyes, adjusting his grip on the crutch and walking back inside. Hvitserk chuckles, “You’re leaving it at that?”

“You continue to amaze me with your deduction skills, my brother.”

____

Happiness doesn’t leave a scar, you told him once, and he still remembers how his eyes were drawn to the curve of your smile that day as much as they are today, it is not so easy to remember it, but it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

He remembers grumbling something asking when you had achieved such wisdom, in a wry tone that made you narrow your eyes but still smile at him. But the words stuck with him, infuriatingly so.

Because now, taking a moment to let his eyes trail over your features relaxed in sleep, taking a moment to take in the image of you in his space, soft, loving, trusting; the image that has been so consistent and so craved it has almost become a necessity to him at this point -and needing something sometimes makes people believe it is permanent, that it will stay only because they will it to, and he fears letting himself believe that this, you, is something he can keep-; Ivar feels his chest grow tight at the thought that this will not leave a mark.

The way your voice curls around the short sound of his name in the morning doesn’t leave a mark, even if it never fails to make shiver run down his spine. The shine in your eyes when you offer a crooked smile and quick-wit to his teasing doesn’t leave a mark, no matter how the stuttered beats of his heart because of that damn smile try proving otherwise.

Late conversations, your voice low and almost a whisper as you tell him you love him, your eyes shining with adoration he sometimes still believes to be a lie, the trembling hope that if anything else this might stay that fills him as he dares speak of a future; none of that has left a mark, none of that will. When he loses this -because everything changes, nothing is permanent, he knows that- what will be left for him to remember any of it by? How will he look back at this and still believe it anything other than a hopeless and quickly-lost dream if there is no mark to speak of, nothing permanent that dream leaves behind?

He gathers a ring on your finger would somehow make things more permanent. It is certainly a better option than the slightly-less-centered version of himself he was a few months into the relationship offered, which was to somehow convince you to tattoo yourself for him.

But every time he thinks about asking you, every time he thinks about finally putting that ring on your finger…Ivar is haunted with questions of what will be of him when -if?- it all eventually ends.

Tonight, he settles for the pleased little sound you let out when he settles in bed with you, and he tells himself there’s little promises of permanence to be found in the way you sleepily turn to snuggle against him. In the quiet murmur of his name you offer as a greeting as Ivar gathers you in his arms, he tells himself he has to accept there will be no scar to show for times like these, times with you.

Once, he could have been content, he could have left the worries of having no scar as proof of this happiness behind. But ever since returning to Kattegat, happiness doesn’t leave a scar sounds too alike happiness is nothing.

____

Growing up as the son of the Ragnar Lothbrok, more specifically as the crippled son of the Ragnar Lothbrok, left Ivar very aware of people’s eyes on him.

His brothers would argue that he feels eyes on him when there are none, but he knows better. They are always watching, either with that disgusting pity in their eyes at the poor cripple, or with that startled fascination at the crazy son of the legend, but they are always watching. Even when they are ignoring that he is there, they are watching in a way.

Returning to this town feels like returning to all those eyes on him, to all these people that know who he is, what things were like before.

Returning here feels like he is once again who he was before he even left, like all these years didn’t matter, like all he has done doesn’t matter.

And it doesn’t, really, does it?

These people won’t care what he does, what he achieves; he will always be the same to these people. Nothing changes about Kattegat, not even who he is.

Here he will always be Ivar, who his own father wanted to give away when he was born. Ivar, who was always in such danger of breaking his bones. Ivar, who tried and failed miserably at sleeping with a woman. Ivar, who would never be equal to his brothers, who would never live up to his legend of a father.

He looks at you now, your eyes sparkling as the lights and sounds of the street market reach you, your smile bright and unbearably soft, and he wonders how long it will be until all you see of him is what they see.

How long until there’s pity in your gaze when you look at him? Poor Ivar and his legs, his pain.

Or how long until there’s fear? Unpredictable, crazy Ivar, with his temper, with his anger.

How long until you don’t look at him with that softness he once resented anymore, with that adoration he sometimes loses himself in? How long until you realize you can’t love him?

Because you can’t. Love him, that is.

No one can, no one has. Not here, not like this.

Not that he would ever tell you -it is somehow more pitiful to him than having had to tell you he had never been with a woman before you-, but Ivar hasn’t really known what it is like to love, or be loved. Not by anyone that chooses to, that isn’t his family.

Trusting someone to love him, to actually accept his love for them is not something that is…easy, for him. He is not in control if he is letting someone see him for who he is with only the hope that they will love him anyways, he is not in control if he is offering away his heart with no safeguards that the person holding it is there to stay; and if he is not in control, he has nothing.

And yet that is exactly what he has stumbled into with you. In more than one way -but sadly the more fun ways are not the most important ones- he has given up control.

To Ivar it feels like dangling over a cliff, and having let go of the rope he was desperately grasping at even as it chaffed and burned away at his skin, in exchange for the hold of your hand, hoping you wouldn’t let him fall. You haven’t, yet.

With you he has had no choice but to let you know him, has had no choice but to grit his teeth through each time words tumbled from his lips like you had somehow put him under a spell, has had no choice but to accept your softness and your warmth without calling it pity, has had no choice but to have you see everything that makes him Ivar ­-the Ivar you met in Copenhagen, the Ivar the people of Kattegat will always see, and whatever is in between-  and hope you will want him anyways.

But he knows when it is someone’s hand he holds and hopes to keep him over the edge, he is surrendering too much to trust, to love. Eventually, you will let go, and no matter how much he tries holding on, you will slip through his fingers. Eventually, you will grow tired of holding on, you will realize what you are holding on to, and you will let him fall. No amount of trust you can make him put in you or love you can promise him will make Ivar believe that losing you is anything other than inevitable.

Now you both are passing by familiar streets, and he feels eyes lingering on the two of you, on your fingers intertwined with his, on your easy smile contrasting against his grave features, on the delicate and bubbly steps you take even past his uneven and slower gait. He knows they do, he feels their eyes on him, and he, as always, finds himself wanting to stand taller, to make it so that they can’t ignore him, so that they can’t overlook him, meet their eyes and force them to see him and accept that someone like you is someone he can call his own.

The soft touch of your free hand on the inside of his arm startles him into focusing only on you.

“Is Sigurd allergic to anything?” You ask, offering a small shrug at the question you can see written in his face. “Figured I’d cook something tonight. I know ‘Serk can’t eat anything with onions, but I don’t know about Sigurd.”

He has yet to tell you Hvitserk is not allergic to onion at all, just hates them vehemently because Ubbe and Floki once made some caramel-covered onions and had six-year-old Hvitserk bite into it. His brother still gags at the memory, and when you held your phone to your ear about to order them takeout on a night so many months ago Ivar cannot remember much about it, and asked if there was anything they couldn’t eat, Hvitserk didn’t hesitate to yell onions. And it stuck, and for over three years of dating Ivar you have believed his brother is allergic to onions, somehow.

Ivar leans closer, eyebrows raised and chest growing warm when your eyes fall to his mouth, having seemingly distracted you with the teasing curve of his lips.

“What’s the fun in telling you, hm?”

Whatever you open your mouth to say is stopped by a laugh somewhere at your backs. And Ivar knows, he knows, that it has nothing to do with him, nothing to do with you, but it still feels like it.

He remembers coming into some bar so many years ago, looking for Ubbe in between grunts that they move the fuck out of his way so he can roll his wheelchair in between the sea of people, he remembers the laugh, mocking and obnoxious and just loud enough so he would hear it.

He remembers, he remembers the tone in Ubbe’s friend’s voice as he taunted, who’s the cripple?

He remembers that idiot and all the others, he remembers all the stares and the mockery and the disgust. Kattegat doesn’t change, Kattegat would never let him forget.

And you say something, probably an answer to his taunt with a smile on your lips that anywhere but here he wouldn’t hesitate to lean down and taste against his own; but he cannot hear anything past the rush of blood in his ears.

Turning around quickly unbalances him, and Ivar stumbles back before he can catch himself, catching his foot on the sidewalk and falling against a bench.

He feels the bone break before the pain can reach him, that pressure building and snapping is familiar to him by now. And in that small window of time, in that unending little moment, he bitterly thinks that if he weren’t Ivar, Ivar the crippled son of Ragnar, Ivar that they must pity or ignore, Ivar; all that little stumble would have been would be a fall and nothing more.

The pain reaches him, blinding pain that feels like molten steel poured on him, travelling with the speed and ruthlessness of lightning up his leg.

Yet all he can think about when the scream of pain makes its way past his lips no matter how much he tries gritting his teeth past it, is how now they will see, now their attention will be on him. Not on him, on who they see when they look at him: Ivar, poor fucking Ivar.

He grasps at the arm you offer before he even realizes it is there, and trying to blink past the blinding pain, Ivar grunts as he moves to stand up again.

“Wh-What are you doing?” You ask, but still you grip tightly at his forearm, offering him balance. “Shouldn’t we ca-…”

“No,” Ivar bites out, breathing past the pain. He feels nauseous, but he refuses to embarrass himself further and just puke his guts out in the sideway, so he makes himself breathe past that too. Maybe breathing past so many things is the reason why his breaths are so fast, why no air is really entering his lungs. “We drove here, we can drive back.”

____

His damn leg is put on a cast and he’s sent home with words of numbness should be expected since there’s a damaged fibular nerve, and keep an eye out for any pressure building around the ankle, and the usual pitying look and the pat on the shoulder before the take care of yourself.

On the drive back you are quiet, and Ivar hates it. You’re never quiet, and he almost wants to demand you say something, anything, even if it is what you are really thinking and it is a confirmation of what he’s already sure of: you’re having second thoughts.

He was stupid to think this was somehow going to work out in his favor. That this was going to last. People don’t stay, good things don’t last, they aren’t permanent.

Nothing is permanent. The stretches when his legs are stronger, or his pain is lessened, are always going to end, he has been used to that ever since he was a child. That means the bad stretches don’t last either, yes, but they always return, because the good is never permanent.

He told Ragnar once -the last time he saw him alive- that he wished he wasn’t so angry all the time; because for as long as he has had memory Ivar has been so fucking angry. At Fate for being such for him, at his father for his absence and for everything else, at his mother for her special attention, at Ubbe for his pity and at Sigurd for his jealousy, at himself for his weakness, at everyone, at everything.

For as long as he can remember he has been angry, because for as long as he can remember there has been nothing he can count on being permanent, being…safe. Not even his body lets him have that, that certainty that even in the midst of chaos there’s something he can hold on to.

Because one fucking stumble and how he’s broken his fucking leg and you aren’t fucking talking to him.

Ragnar told him he would have been nothing without his anger, and even after all this time -even after that dismissal from his father to what his answer was that still stings- Ivar still holds on to that lost cause that only makes more anger grow in him, because…he could have been happy.

Leaning his head back on the headrest of the car seat, driven mad further and further by your fucking silence, Ivar hears his father’s words and thinks bitterly how the old man was always right.

Happiness is nothing.

You didn’t know what you were agreeing to when you so easily talked about a future with him, he sees that now. Coming here, especially now, will make you realize what it entails to live with him, will make you understand -like he does- that good things don’t last and his damn legs make sure no one forgets that.

And once you realize that, you will be gone before he can even start to fight against it.

And while a part of him is filled with anger, anger that feels vicious and all-encompassing and blinding, because how dare you, how dare you play with him, how dare you turn your back to him; what is there to do?

What is there he can do or say to prove to you a life with him is worth having?

If he had never brought you here, if he had never come back here to this fucking town, then maybe he could have; because maybe he could have made sure you see of him what he has become and not what he was.

But he never could stop being him, could he? He could never stop being the boy he once was -it’s mental to think as himself six or so years ago as someone entirely apart from who he is now, Ivar is aware of that, but…thinking about it that way helps, he can’t explain why, but it does- and the longer he spends in this fucking town the more he realizes that.

Still, he tries, he tries reminding you -reminding everyone, even himself- that he made something out of himself past who he was here, that he is more than the poor cripple they insist on seeing.

And the days pass and he feels more and more on edge because of that need to remind all of you of it, he feels like he’s driving himself mad, he feels like he’s somehow confirming that nothing changes in Kattegat.

He snaps at the slightest of Sigurd’s taunts, he dismisses Ubbe’s pitying attempts to help him with biting words, he throws cruel accusations Hvitserk’s way; and he knows he’s going about this whole thing the wrong way, he does, and he knows that there’s even less of a difference between who he was then and who he is now if all he does is lash out, but at least this is something he can control.

They would never understand, none of them, not his brothers, not you, not anyone. He’d rather be hated, he’d rather be considered crazy, irate, anything; above being ignored, above being considered some poor cripple they ought to pity.

As long as Ivar gets to be the one to decide what they see, how they feel; he doesn’t care if what they see is a monster, if what they feel is hatred, or fear.

As long as he is the one that decides what or who he is, nothing else matters.

Ubbe approaches him one morning and offers him a pair of keys, slapping them against his chest with a frustrated grunt.

“You are going crazy in here, and are driving all of us crazy too,” His brother tells him, pulling his hand back, and as Ivar catches the keys, Ubbe puts a hand on his shoulder. The look he levels him with is stern, fatherly in the way Ivar hates. “Stay the rest of the week there with your girl. Return for the ceremony with less of…all of this.”

____

You let go of that infuriating quietness the further away from the estate you get, leaving Ivar to wonder if you hate it as much as he does, and, if you do, leaving him to wonder why.

Still, sharing this little cabin with you, sharing space with you like this, it makes him all the more aware of your silences. It feels strange, all of this, it feels…foreign.

Like living on borrowed time.

Now Ivar sits on the bed, already having showered and taken the meds, including the new ones, on the first night you spend alone in this cabin, unable to stave off the feeling that he must do something, unable to shake off this restlessness that whispers of powerlessness.

When you step out of the shower, the towel the only thing hiding you from him, Ivar calls your name, extending a hand towards you.

With a smile halfway between teasing and loving, you step closer, tilting your head to the side.

“Something you want?”

If you want him to say it, that’s fine by him.

“You.” Ivar replies without hesitation, smiling darkly as you walk closer to him.

He’s grown used to this intimacy with you, has grown to crave it. It is as easy as breathing, even if breathing is exactly what becomes difficult, to move with you on this.

But somehow this time feels different, somehow there’s an edge of anxiety, of something else, lurking on the corners of his mind, looming over him.

Still, Ivar keeps his eyes on you as you walk closer, trying to dispel away any thoughts of times other than this as he lays almost naked on the bed, waiting for you to walk to him and bare yourself for him.

You do, a small smile on your lips as you let the towel drop at your feet.

He admires her naked body in the low light, but a part of his mind, a part of his mind that becomes louder and louder with each passing second, lingers on the robotic way she took her clothes off.

Instead of letting his thoughts chase themselves in circles, bringing up useless memories, he reaches for you hand grasping at the back of your thigh before slowly trailing upwards, grabbing more tightly at the curve of your ass.

You chuckle quietly, roughly, hoarsely, and move even closer.

You pull the sheets covering his legs back, not hesitating for a moment, not faltering at the sight, and for some reason that is what makes Ivar feel the most on edge.

Her expression carefully blank, Margrethe grabs onto the edge of the sheets and pulls them back quickly, as if she wants to get this over with. The expression remains blank, and Ivar has never felt more humiliated, more rejected, by an unexpressive -resigned, disgusted, uncaring?- face before.

Your hands on either side of his face, bringing his lips to yours distract him for long enough, but he feels as if he is trying to move underwater, as if he is trying to return the kiss but he can’t quite make himself move as he wants to.

He is suddenly once again inexperienced, scared, unprepared, unwilling, and…and he can’t do this.

Pushing you away but refusing to get far away enough by grasping at the sides of your hips, maybe a tad desperately, Ivar tries catching his breath.

What if he fails? What if he…can’t? What if he can’t and you take her place in his memories? What if he goes back there, what if this proves he never…what if this proves nothing ever changed?

You take your hands off him -he knows why you do that, he knows because there was a time when you knew by the cadence of his breathing when he couldn’t take any more of your touch, and he hates that you think the same applies now, because it doesn’t, because things changed-, but Ivar shakes his head at the lack of you.

“No, no. T-Touch me, I don’t…I don’t want you to stop.”

He doesn’t want you to pull away, that is true, but there’s a borderline-painful edge to the way feeling your touch on him is overwhelming him that he doesn’t know how to put into words.

“Ivar, y-…”

He interrupts you with a hand on the back of your neck, bringing your lips to his almost forcefully, almost desperately.

“I want you,” He tells you against your lips, opening his eyes to search yours. “Do you want me?”

“Of course. I always want you, always will.” You promise quietly, fervently.

He nods at your words, trying his best to keep them resonating in his head, and moves you both so that he is laying on top of you, holding himself up on his elbow for one moment -one moment, to take in the sight before him, to make sure there’s no disgust, no fear, no resignation that he was too blind to see before- before he buries his face in the curve of your neck, trailing kisses and bites wherever he can as your hands roam over his back.

He wants you to want him. He wants to know you need him as much as he needs you, he…he needs to know you crave the feel of his skin against yours as much as he does, he needs to know you get as drunk off him as he gets off you.

He needs you to want him, he needs you to accept him, deficient body and horrible temper and all. The realization dawns on him like a weight dropped on his chest.

With the uncanny ability you have to sense his discomfort -he has no doubt it was a skill you mastered in those first months of the relationship, where every time you got close enough he felt like he would unravel at the seams, and not in a good way-, you pull back from the kiss, your hand on his shoulder to keep him away.

“Baby…” You start, but he shakes his head at whatever it is you are to say.

Claiming your lips again, Ivar doesn’t hesitate to slip his tongue into your mouth, chasing after the taste of you, chasing after the muffled little moan you let out against his lips, chasing after the way your hold on him tightens as if you cannot have him close enough.

It hasn’t happened in a long time but it happens now, that when he settles above you, pressing against you between your parted legs, when you lift your leg to trap one of his, he feels as if his body suddenly grows cold. The urge to push you away, to make you stop touching…touching them, to do something so that you do not feel them, to do something so that you can forget; fills him and makes his heart double its pace in his chest.

He's being stupid, he knows he is. It’s you, it’s…it’s different.

So he gives himself no time to think, he continues the trail of his mouth down your body, catching your nipple between his teeth and working it just enough to make you shiver and press against him.

He wants to prove to you that it’s different. That he is different. He has to.

Ivar loses himself in this, in you, for long enough that he can actually start to relax and think that he did the right thing, that he was right, that he can prove now that it is all different, that he is.

But your hand reaches to palm him over the cloth of his boxers, and running through his veins there’s nothing but fear.

He forces himself to still under your touch, even if he has to grit his teeth to keep himself from telling you to stop; and his hands clench into fists at his sides, no longer able to hold on to you in exchange for holding on to whatever control he has left.

He feels like flinching away from the touch, even if it is the same touch he has found himself desperate for many times, even if it is you and he trusts you and things changed.

But they haven’t, not here. Nothing changes in Kattegat.

For all the turmoil something as simple as your touch caused in him, for all the fear and helplessness it made him feel; it doesn’t compare at all to the way you pull away makes Ivar feel.

“I can’t…I can’t do this.” You murmur, not able to hold his gaze. As you sit up on the bed, moving away from him.

No, no, no. This can’t be what you see of me. I’m different, I’m more. I can prove that, I have to, just let me.

He feels like throwing up, that is all he can think about. He feels bile churning at his stomach, because you…you can’t…

“Are you disgusted because you have to touch the cripple, is that it?” He blurts out before he can stop himself. Your eyes widen with affront, but at least you are looking at him again. Decided to make you say what you’re really thinking, even if he has to make you hate him to get you to admit it, to get you to drop the ruse, Ivar presses, “Are you ashamed that you’ve fucked me before, now that…now that we’re here, hm? Answer me!”

A scowl marring your features, you bite back, voice raised as well, “Are you hearing yourself right now!?”

“Why don’t you tell me the truth, hm? Admit it, you’ve seen what it is like, what I-I’m like and y-…”

“Ivar, slow down. Breathe.” You instruct, suddenly alert. But he notices the way you reach up to touch him and stop, and why are you stopping when everything is normal, when everything is different than it used to be?

“No,” He argues mechanically. He thinks he shakes his head, or maybe that’s just his heartbeat rushing in his ears. “Tell me the truth.”

“You know the truth, Ivar,” You reassure him again. “But I’ll tell you, if you just…just breathe for me.”

Anger boils away at his blood, making him feel restless, powerless, caged.

And suddenly your softness isn’t love anymore, suddenly the adoration that used to shine in your eyes is nothing but a lie, a lie that he has told himself or you have told him. It is pity, it is disgust, it is a twisted kind of cruelty.

The words leave his lips like a curse, “I don’t need your pity.”

“Are you going to talk to me or your own thoughts?” You ask instead, a helpless little chuckle falling from your lips, “There’s no answer I can give you until you listen to me, baby.”

“I’m listening.” He insists, but he knows his heart is still thrashing wildly in his chest, he knows he is still breathing unevenly.

“Love, we’ve spent the…the last three years together. The best years of my life, mind you. I love you, so much,” You explain slowly, and when you finally reach with your hand and don’t stop yourself, you cup the side of his face, thumb tracing under his eye. Ivar grits his teeth to keep himself from leaning into the touch. You offer a small smile, “You think a broken bone can change that?”

He breathes in slowly, tries making it steady, and argues, “It isn’t…it isn’t just that.”

“I know,” You tell him without a breath of hesitation, “But nothing changes the fact that you are…you are remarkable. You are so damn smart, and so determined I’m tempted to call you stubborn,” You offer a smile and he grows warm at the sight of it, offering a small smile of his own, even if he feels as fragile as spun glass right now and that small gesture might as well be the crack in the glass needed for it all to fall to pieces. “You are strong, and resilient, and…and a nightmare to deal with sometimes, but I love you, yeah? I love you because of who you are, and you are the man I love, the man I’m proud of, whether we are home or here or anywhere else.”

“Don’t lie to me.” He says. He meant it to sound like an order, but whatever strength he wanted to put behind his words is gone, and it sounds like a plea more than anything.

You lean close, pressing your brow against his, “Never.”

He feels exhausted for some reason, and there’s this dull pain in the center of his chest that hasn’t left yet; but more than anything Ivar feels the burning weight of shame upon him. He feels as if he somehow failed, he feels pathetic.

Those feelings seem to only heighten when you get out of bed, the cold seeping into his bones in your short absence.

He settles on his side, but refuses to close his eyes because he is somehow sure the flashes of images -memories- will come back when he does.

At some point you return to bed, and he feels the material of the long-sleeved shirt you choose to wear when it grazes over his skin as you mold your small body behind his, your arm thrown over his torso and resting near his heart.

Your breaths trailing over his upper back are a rhythm he can find himself getting used to, a calming pattern that lures him into relaxing into the soft mattress.

Still, because there’s a part of him demanding he hold on to you, Ivar lifts a hand towards yours. For some reason touching your skin seems strangely overwhelming, and instead he grabs on to the sleeve of the shirt right over your wrist.

He closes his eyes, and counts your breaths until he falls into a dreamless sleep.

____

The next morning he finds you on the small porch of the cabin, an empty cup of coffee on the table by the side of your chair, and your gaze on the landscape ahead.

Swallowing past the apprehension that seems to take over him, the insistent feeling of having ruined something, Ivar moves his chair until he is sitting right beside you.

Biting his tongue even though more than anything he hates your silence, he waits for you to speak.

“I think you know already, but…you are different here, Ivar.”

“Different.” He repeats, a question even if he doesn’t voice it as one. He keeps his gaze ahead, but when you reach to hold his hand, he doesn’t stop himself from lifting your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss over your fingers.

“Since we got to Kattegat, you seem…on edge. I don’t know, I just know I hate it. You aren’t as different in this place, with me, but…” Your words end with a sigh, and he turns to look at you. You tilt your head to the side, a quirk on the corner of your mouth as you clarify, “Before you argue, I am not saying I change you.”

He bites back irritation, closes his eyes for a moment against the strengthening of the headache that hasn’t left him since he woke up, and presses, “What are you saying then?”

The words are quiet, strangely solemn, and the curve of your smile turns a little sad when you look at him, “This town does. Has.”

Without another word, without awaiting an answer, you stand up and walk back inside.

He reluctantly admits -to himself, he is not letting you know that you are right anytime soon- that he does feel the change in the couple of days he can spend holed up here pretending the world outside of this cabin is anything but Kattegat.

And before long you are able to fall into a routine of your own, not unlike the routine of your vacations to Vestfold together, or of your daily lives together in your apartment. The pain gets manageable pretty early on, and he is used to living life with a broken bone or a splinted leg; and though that means the has to use his chair more than the crutch, he accepts it for the time being.

“I never got to ask you,” You start on the last night you will spend here alone, since tomorrow you are moving back to spend the last night before the ceremony in the estate with the others. You are walking to bed dressed in one of his warmer shirts, and Ivar prompts you with a quiet hum, but he is more focused on the expanse of your bare legs that on whatever you want to ask him, if he’s honest. Throwing your legs over his lap, careful not to jostle his left leg too much, you press close, one of your hands -as always- finding a way up his shoulders to play with his hair, and continue, “How will Björn get married?”

Not bothering in keeping himself from feeling your soft skin, he trails his hand up and down your thigh, venturing under the hem of the shirt and squeezing lightly on the curve of your ass before moving back down your leg.

“He usually manages by convincing some poor woman he can make a good husband. My guess is with a lot of sex,” He retorts, knowing he is smiling like an idiot at the way you roll your eyes, chest growing warm when you breathe a short laugh. Still, you tug lightly at his hair in reprimand, and after leaning down to press a kiss under your eye, Ivar amends, “I don’t know what you mean, baby.”

“Like…what will the wedding look like? What do your people…do?”

“At weddings? Get married, usually.”

Frustrated, you press your lips together, before slowly breathing out. Ivar finds your anger equally adorable and hilarious, and cannot keep the mocking smile from his lips.

“Will you insist on getting on my nerves or are you answering anytime soon?”

“Are you giving me a choice? Because I-…”

“Ivar!”

He tries placating the anger with another kiss, this time closer to the corner of your mouth, before he explains as best as he can what a ceremony would look like.

As he tells you about the handfasting and the colors and symbols the bride would most likely wear, he cannot help but imagine what it would be like, to see you dressed in red, little accents of gold, a small crown of flowers braided into your hair.

Ivar licks his lips, finds himself a little lost in your gaze, finds his heart doing a stupid flip in his chest when he notices the entranced expression you wear as you listen to him. Maybe you want this too, as much as he does.

You have talked about this, of course you have, late conversations about what a life together would be like, and quiet confessions that you see yourself marrying him one day. But this, talking about it like this, with you looking at him like you want him, like you love him; somehow feels different, feels more…permanent.

You keep asking questions, and he keeps answering. He could never give the fervent and in-depth explanation Floki could to any of your questions about the Gods and the Old Ways, but he tells you about the wedding traditions as best as he can.

Your eyes have fallen closed a while ago, around the time you asked why there was a Mjolnir embroidered on Snæfrid’s wedding dress, and Ivar’s are as well, though he remembers his did around the time he started to explain bride running.

And, now laying on your sides on the bed, he lets himself doze off in that quiet that follows the last of his answers, keeping himself just awake enough by continuing the movement of his hand, trailing up and down your back.

Before he can convince himself that he should shut his mouth, before he can remind himself that he is just chasing after crumbs of a promise of permanence that he shouldn’t be trusting anyways, Ivar mumbles your name, opening his eyes to find you already looking at him.

“What would your wedding be like?” He asks you, searching your gaze as if he can somehow find the answer to the question he isn’t asking written there. “What…what do you imagine when you think of that?”

Your smile is a little tremulous, and he finds his heart trembling alongside that faint curve of your lips.

“I have to admit, a wedding dress of all red does sound appealing,” Your words make the breath catch in Ivar’s throat, but before he can say anything you lift your hand -your left hand, he isn’t so sure why he’s so aware of that- and trace his face with the tips of your fingers. “As long as I’m marrying you, I don’t care about the rest.”

He searches your gaze, half-convinced he heard something wrong, half-convinced still that it is impossible somehow. You offer only a small shrug of your shoulder, and a smile he feels his chest pull tight at how much he craves to feel pressed against his own lips.

But he has to ask, he has to make sure, “Wh-What are you saying?”

“I’m not giving you an answer; you haven’t asked any questions.” You retort with raised eyebrows, but there’s a warmth in the smile that breaks past that façade that lets Ivar breathe freely for what feels like the first time.

With a chuckle that sounds trembling to his own ears, Ivar closes the distance between you, kissing you, eager for the taste of you and for devouring the faint moan you muffle against his lips.

He kisses you slowly, deeply, knowing he would kiss every inch of you if you didn’t insist on keeping his mouth trapped -willingly, he would willingly be trapped by you always- against yours, your hands as certain as his, as demanding as his, as they pull him towards you, refusing to let any space come between you.

Ivar reaches between your legs, moving your panties aside and almost groaning against your skin when he feels how wet you are already.

You arch into his touch, filling Ivar’s veins with that electrifying, addicting warmth; making his heart thrash in his chest with that restlessness and that tranquility; making his throat tighten with that certainty of being wanted. Your hips raise to grind against him through both your clothes, and he gasps at the contact, breath ghosting over your neck, making you shiver and pull him closer, impossibly closer.

Your hand somehow finds itself on his hair, and you tug with enough force to make him hiss as a shiver runs down his spine at the sharp sting of pain lingering on pleasure. Obeying and lifting his head to you, Ivar meets your gaze.

Your own eyes dark, you pull him against you, kissing him with the same passion as always, with the same gentleness intertwined with hunger as always. Pulling away with the faintest of bites over his lower lip, you trace a maddening little trail of kisses from his mouth to the line of his jaw, until your mouth is right by his ear.

His eyes flutter closed at the breath you linger on before speaking, making everything heighten in anticipation.

Voice hoarse, you confess, “I want you, Ivar.”

He doesn’t need to hear anything more than that, though he does anyways, drawing moans and whimpers and breathless calls of his name for as long as you let him, forgetting himself and the world around him in the silk of your skin, in the spell of your kiss.

____

When Ivar wakes up you aren’t there, but he is almost certain what woke him up was the sound of your voice somewhere in the house, so he puts on a pair of sweatpants and moves himself onto his chair to go looking for you.

He finds you sitting on a counter on the kitchen, a small pile of dirty dishes at your back and a lot of flour scattered about the kitchen, your gaze engrossed on your phone.

“What are you doing?” Ivar asks, left thumb going back and forth over the edge of the push ring of his chair.

You lift your gaze, offer a smile that is purposely bright.

“Making the best breakfast of your life.” You boast, an adorable jut of your chin upwards as you smile proudly.

His eyes narrow, “Why?”

“You’ve had a shitty week,” You shrug, “I know from experience good breakfast helps with that.”

Your words, the memory they invoke maybe, do manage to make a small smile pull at Ivar’s lips, even if it is flickering and doesn’t last much.

He was a good three weeks into knowing you, already way too far into you, and you had gone radio-silent for five days until Ivar found an excuse to confront you and make sure you weren’t ghosting him. Looking back at it he knows he could have done something less abrasive, but here he is now so maybe it wasn’t that bad of an idea.

His grand idea was simple, really. He went to a restaurant you had taken him to on one of your first dates, that specialized in local food from your country; and bought -a probably absurd amount of- food, then going to your place and offering to cheer you up with almost-cold breakfast.

The part of the story you won’t ever hear is how the reason the food was lukewarm at best that morning was because he spent a solid twenty minutes by the elevator to your floor, berating himself for being so pathetic and chasing after a woman that was probably trying to get rid of him like this, until he realized he might as well take the leap, find out how you really felt about him, and finally approached the door.

It is one of the things that stuck, even if he isn’t sure how or why.

He’d order something from that restaurant whenever you were missing home, and sometimes had them deliver something to you when he wasn’t there; and you’d try your hand at making some Danish treats and meals whenever he isn’t doing well. It is a strange ritual between the two of you, but Ivar has always been grateful for it.

He isn’t that grateful for it now, because he…he cannot accept being this emotional over fucking breakfast and that expectant little smile you grant him. He cannot. He isn’t.

Clearing his throat, he moves forward, asking, “And what did you make, hm?”

Your smile brightens even more, and Ivar’s chest pulls tight at the sight. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he so moved by this?

“Birke,” You state, still unbearably proud at the simple little rectangles of dough you have lined up on the baking sheet. Lifting your phone that you still hold in your hand, you explain, “Torvi told me they need to rest there for…like five more minutes.”

Searching for anything to say that doesn’t give away how much this simple gesture, this permanence of that silly little ritual of you even here in Kattegat, has affected him, Ivar meets your gaze and offers a challenge.

“Still scared of trying to make Æggekage, hm?” He teases, chuckling softly at the way your expression immediately morphs into affront.

“I am not scared,” You clarify, petulant. “I’m just…better with things that go in the oven.”

“It goes in the oven, if you finish reading the recipe.”

You make a face at his reminder of the first -and only, so far- time you’ve tried making the omelet-like dish.

“Very funny, Lothbrok,” You deadpan, “You could have told me.”

Ivar shrugs, “Wouldn’t have been as entertaining.”

“You watched me eat raw egg and flour, you dick.”

“Just two bites.”

He opens the fridge and grabs the carton of eggs, passing it to you without a word. Putting your feet back on the ground, you ask,

“What are you doing?”

“I’m teaching you.” He retorts easily, still feeling helplessly exposed right now, even if this -a morning with you, your adorable attempts at trying to win some stupid argument, the soft and disgustingly domestic look of all of it- is by now something he has grown used to, something that has been…permanent, in its own way. Maybe that is why it makes him feel like he’s unraveling at the seams, because he’s faced with the idea that this could be permanent, and he doesn’t have to let go of this idea just yet, because Kattegat couldn’t take you from him, because you want to marry him, because there’s permanence in this, in the two of you.

From your place at his back, you taunt, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not a good cook, baby.”

Ivar scoffs, but the smile still pulls at his lips.

“Better than you.”

He tells you to get around mixing some of the eggs, while he goes about picking the tomatoes.

Before focusing on your task, you trail a hand over the line of his shoulders, making Ivar stop and tilt his head towards you.

Your hand on his shoulder moves to grasp gently at the underside of his jaw, making him tilt his head further back, and without hesitation you lean down and capture his mouth in yours.

Ivar is still somehow startled by the softness of your kiss, drawing in a sharp breath when your lips press gently against his.

As you pull away your hand drifts down his throat, making him shiver.

“I love you, yeah?” You whisper quietly, searching his gaze.

Ivar nods, maybe a little dumbly, lost in the adoration that so clearly shines in your eyes.

“Yeah,” He confirms just as quietly, clearing his throat when he feels it tightening. “Love you too.”

Satisfied, you move to get a bowl to mix the eggs in, but Ivar stops you, hands on either side of your hips. Leaning down, you rest your weight on his shoulders, hands joined together at the back of his head, and tilt your head in question.

“I’m going to marry you one day.” He promises, searching your eyes as he does, unable to stop himself.

You smile at him, bright and in love and softer than he deserves, and kiss him softly before pulling away.

“You better.”

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading! I hope this was alright. I’ve spent the better part of a week focusing on this and pulled an all-nighter to finish editing it lol, and I think I’m happy-ish with the result, even tho it might have been a lot, idk.

Anyhow, would love to hear your thoughts, thank you ❤️

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[blade-of-marmora-blog]

a little more on nimac, i’m legitimately thinking of making a sideblog for him now

he’s leaner than antok, and a little shorter favors agility over strength, has the muscle to prove that he’s a speedy little shit he would tentatively be considered as a technician/saboteur, given he works more with messing around with tech and laying upgrades out onto shit he was raised alongside antok, and therefore knows of all the embarrassing shit antok has ever done in his life he can also freely pick on the guy without any severe backlash from him nimac is also a fairly soft walker, due to being used to flitting about after lights out, and so he doesn’t want to disturb his fellows

i also have concepts on what he’s like in an empire setting, and if he was in neither setting. help.

[mygif2u]

what a wonderful way to burn

Pairing: Boslena Character(s): Rebekah Bosley/Elena Houghlin Rating: T Warnings/Tags: None (yet)

Elena is on the cusp of becoming a Townsend Angel when a rumour that she is sleeping with Bosley surfaces. It comes a month before their final assessments are set to begin, just as she is topping all her classes in training.

Elena really should be used to it by now, having people try to undermine her success, and attribute her achievements to everything but her hard work. It's different this time around though, when it's not just her place at Townsend on the line, but her heart too.

Read it below, or on AO3

A/N: What do you do when you've got writer's block for one fic? You write another of course! This was meant to be more fluffy than it is, and probably ended up being a bit OOC, but hope you enjoy it anyway.

Thwump.

Thwump.

Thwump.

Elena gritted her teeth as she laid blow after blow on the training dummy in front of her. She'd lost track of how long she'd been hitting the damn thing, but she knew it was late.

That in itself wasn't new; Elena had always been one to go above and beyond with anything she applied herself to, whether that was working on elaborate experiments to win her school science fairs, or holing herself up in the library at MIT for midnight study sessions. Or more recently, pushing her body at the gym further than she'd ever had to make the grade as a Townsend Angel.

What was new was the burning tightness in her chest that had driven her from her bed and into the gym's boxing ring. A tightness that felt like a knife digging into her lungs, something that she could only ignore by pummeling the ever-living shit out of a human-sized chunk of plastisol. A chunk of plastisol that wore the face of one Eva Johnson, the very reason for her late-night workout.

Really, Elena should be used to it by now, having her skills, her knowledge, her success, belittled, or attributed to everything but her hard work. She should be used to earning the envy of her peers, and the disdain of her superiors, instead of the connection and respect that she craved from them. After all, she had been one of two female engineering graduates from her MIT cohort, and the only woman at Brok who had worked on the Calisto project.

But Eva implying that she was only still at the Agency because she was sleeping with the boss, no the Boz, broke something inside of her in a way that no backhanded compliment or sexist comment had ever done before.

Thwump.

Thwump.

Elena cursed as her latest strike glanced off the training dummy. She knew, could feel, her strikes slowing and muscles shaking, could feel the time she took to land each hit grow longer. She wasn't going to let up in her intensity though, even with fatigue weighing on her entire body. She knew she should probably call it a night (or was it morning now?), but she wasn't going to stop and let Eva fucking Johnson throw her off her training. No, she would show her, and everyone else, that not only did she have the right to be there, but that she was going to make a damn good Angel.

If she couldn't keep working on her speed, then she would have to work on her technique.

Yeah, that was it.

If an elbow strike executed with a perfectly timed snap of the hips was going to impress Bosley enough to give Elena a score that would earn her those Wings, then so be it. If that was what she needed to do so Bosley would pay more attention to her than the other recruits, then so be it. If that was what she needed to do so Bosley would look at her the way she looked at Bosley then -

A choked sound tore from Elena, and the tears that were suddenly blurring her vision meant that her last swing at the training dummy missed entirely. Her momentum carried her forward, and she had just enough wherewithal to grab at the dummy before crashing to the floor of the boxing ring.

Sobs wracked Elena's slightly frame, letting the sharpness in her chest be expelled with each shuddering exhale. All her life she had thrown herself into everything she had set her mind to, and it only ever earned her resentment and rejection. Schoolmates she had counted as friends had turned their backs on her when she was awarded first place ribbons and medals, college classmates she had bonded with refused to work with her after finding out she was topping all their classes, and colleagues at Brok she'd been nothing but supportive of would take credit for her prototypes they had never been able to work.

She thought it would have been different when she came to Townsend - after all, Sabina and Jane had accepted her, nerd jokes aside. But they were hardly at HQ often enough to count, too busy saving the world to spend much time keeping Elena company. And Bosley - well, that was the only reason she even gave her the time of day wasn't it?

The idea that this woman, who had seen and done so much, who had lived such a colourful life, would take any interest in her outside of how quickly she could defuse a bomb, or commandeer an aeroplane, was outrageous. And while they may have spent a number of lunchtimes and between training catch-ups together, sharing things that they - or Elena at least - didn't share with anyone else, Elena knew it was something Bosley did with all the recruits.

On top of all of that, they had been told, in no uncertain terms, that being involved with anyone from the Agency during their training was forbidden. Anyone breaking that rule would face disciplinary action, up to and including, both parties being kicked out of Townsend. Even if Bosley did feel the same - which Elena was sure she didn't - there was no way they would be able to do anything about it.

So Elena really didn't know where Eva got the idea that Bosley would give her any special treatment, or that there was anything more happening between them. No matter how much she wanted there to be.

--

Elena laid there for what could have been seconds, or hours. All she knew was that it was still dark when her breathing evened out, and the tear tracks had dried on her cheeks. The tightness in her chest had at one point been released, leaving her feeling raw and ragged.

Elena closed her eyes and breathed out a long sigh as she realised what she had to do. She couldn't let herself be turned inside out like this. If she wanted to stick around long enough to actually get her Wings and take her place as a Townsend Angel, then she needed to ignore the petty bullshit Eva wanted to start with her. And, she needed to free herself of the hold Bosley had over her.

The first part wouldn't be too hard; she'd had plenty of practice brushing off other people's jealousy when it came to pursuing her goals.

The second part Elena wasn't so sure about. She wouldn't be able to help the draw she had to Bosley, had felt it the moment she'd seen the other woman step out of that sleek Audi at the beginning of all this. Elena clearly wasn't going to be able to hide it either, if people like Eva were picking up on it. All she could really do was keep clear of Bosley until she was inducted as an Angel. By then she would be posted somewhere around the world, far from HQ, and wouldn't need to see Bosley again outside of the odd mission or two.

Elena felt her stomach sink at the thought but pushed it aside. She needed to do this, for both their sakes.

With that decided, Elena shifted to prop herself up on her elbows, wincing in pain at the movement. She could feel all the aches in her muscles that her earlier adrenaline had numbed her to, and she groaned when she remembered that she was scheduled for more physical training in just a few hours. She should probably catch the sleep where she could, and while she hated the thought of trudging back to her room, she hated the thought of being caught out cold at the gym even more.

Forcing her leaden-weighted limbs to cooperate, Elena managed to roll over and crawl to the edge of the ring when the voice of the last person she wanted to be seen by rang out.

"Elena?"

Elena froze. Turning to face the entrance to the gym, Elena saw Bosley, concern radiating from every inch of her. It seemed like she'd just come back from a job, if the beaten up boots, grass-stained overalls and loose bun were any indication. It was quite unlike any other time she got to see Bosley; her hard edges seem to have been smoothed out now that she wasn't in her fresh-off-the-runway threads or Townsend issued training gear. Elena couldn't help but think that she liked seeing Bosley like this.

As the other woman approached closer, Elena blinked twice, hoping her eyes weren't still as puffy as they felt. At least her nose had stopped running.

"Hi."

Elena cringed at the way that one word croaked out, and Bosley's frown deepened in response.

"I don't think I've ever seen you here this late."

Elena tried to think of an answer that wouldn't sound trite, but her tired mind couldn't come up with anything convincing. Instead, she sent Bosley a smile that she hoped looked relaxed. "How do you know I'm not just early?"

"Because it's 3 am, and you look dead on your feet, Houghlin."

Elena opened her mouth to rebut her, but instead huffed out a sigh. It was no use trying to lie or mislead Bosley. Elena had done it before, and had always ended up getting called out on it.

"Come on, I'll walk you back to your room."

Elena balked at that. On any other night, she would have jumped at the chance to spend a bit more time with Bosley. But with Eva's words, and her own decision to avoid Bosley so fresh in her mind, she hesitated. "I'd like to, Bosley, but people will talk - "

"I don't care, I'm not leaving you like this, Elena."

Despite herself, Elena felt a flutter in her chest. Something about Bosley's insistence to accompany her that night, after what must have been a gruelling mission - as the exhaustion in her eyes gave away - made Elena want to accept, her earlier determination to stay away from the other woman be damned.

She took in Bosley's resolute expression and inhaled a deep breath. She hoped she wasn't about to make a big mistake.

"Ok."

A brief flash of relief seemed to pass over Bosley's face, and she acknowledged Elena's response with a small upturn of the lips.

Elena ducked under the ropes around the ring and walked towards Bosley. Her heart nearly jumped as Bosley's hand came to rest on her shoulder. It was something Bosley had done many times before, and Elena knew the warm weight was meant to be comforting, but the events of the last 12 hours had left her feeling slightly off kilter, and so she couldn't help tensing at the touch. It disappeared a moment after, and she felt a pang in her gut at the loss.

The walk to Elena's room was done in silence, and she tried to ignore the worried looks she could sense Bosley giving her. She refused to let Bosley catch her eye in the moonlight that filtered through the windows of Townsend's halls; the tips she'd learned in masking facial expressions during those Body Language training sessions might fool most other people, but not Bosley. Apart from having far more experience than her at both reading and concealing emotions, Bosley had known her for long enough to still be able to read her like a book.

Though Elena knew that turning her literal cheek would only make Bosley even more concerned and suspicious, that was better than her seeing the storm of emotions that were swirling across Elena's face. Anything to keep her from piecing together the real reason Elena was up that night.

As they reached the door to Elena's room, she prepared to bid Bosley good night when the other woman spoke up first.

"Elena."

She winced internally. It had been too much to hope that Bosley would let her retreat into her room without addressing her less than receptive behaviour. Elena braced herself for whatever admonishment, pep-talk, or direction to get psychoanalysed by Saint that Bosley was about to give her.

"Mhm?"

"If you were in there for as long as I think you were, then you're going to need a massage before your muscles seize up tomorrow."

Elena's brain skittered to a stop. Whatever she had been expecting from Bosley, it was not that; no way was Bosley suggesting what Elena thought she was saying.

She could hear the blood roar in her ears at the thought of Bosley's hands on her skin, kneading the aches out of her muscles until she was utterly boneless. Elena wasn't sure she would be able to handle it, let alone with her fragile, sleep-deprived mind. Even without her newfound decision to forget all about Bosley, it just sounded like a terrible (heavenly) idea. Besides, she was getting ahead of herself, it wasn't like Bosley had specified she would be giving the massage.

"Oh, ah, you don't have to worry about me, Boz. I'll just take a hot bath and let Saint fix me up in the morning."

"He's not here, he's gone to tend to a few Angels working on a mission in Seoul."

Ok, so in that case Bosley had insinuated that she would be giving Elena a massage. Elena's realisation of that fact must have shown on her face as Bosley continued, "Look, you don't have to. Either way, I don't think you're gonna be in great shape in the morning - this will just make it suck a little less."

Elena frowned, torn at the decision she was presented with.

On the one hand, Bosley was right; she was going to be in a world of hurt tomorrow. Anything that would alleviate that could mean the difference between making it through the obstacle course at training, and not moving from her bed until the early afternoon. With their final assessment only a month away, she couldn't afford to miss any classes.

On the other hand, there were eyes everywhere at Townsend; if it got out that a Bosley was seen going in and out of a recruit's room in the early hours of the morning, they could both lose everything they had worked so hard for.

And - potential expulsion aside - Elena just couldn't let Bosley see her like that, couldn't expose herself more than she already had that night, not if she wanted to get over her at least. She didn't want to break her own heart again, no matter how tempting Bosley made it for her.

So Elena tried, one more time, to push Bosley away - to spare her the trouble, and Elena herself, the heartache.

"That's nice of you to offer, Bosley, but I don't want to make you miss any of your classes or meetings tomorrow."

The concern etched into Bosley's face gave way to a tenderness that made Elena's breath catch.

"I'll take care of those. For now, Elena, let me take care of you."

Elena felt emotion well up in her throat. No-one had ever said anything like that to her before, and the sincerity in Bosley's tone and the affection in her eyes made Elena look away.

If Bosley was going to put it like that, then Elena wasn't going to refuse her again. Feeling apprehension and something else weighing in her gut, she stepped aside and let Bosley into her room.

Elena's heart thundered in her chest as she followed Bosley inside, closing the door behind them. Her unease grew as Bosley took in the mess that was her normally tidy room - study notes that were usually filed away were stacked haphazardly on her desk; her bed cover laid on the floor from where she had tossed it, frustrated with not being able to sleep; and her pyjamas hung on her desk chair from when she'd thrown them off to slip on her workout clothes and head to the gym.

Elena couldn't gauge what the other woman was thinking, and that, plus the fact that Bosley was in her room, pushed Elena to the verge of freaking out.

"Um, Boz, I'm all sweaty and gross, so I'm just going to get cleaned up and - "

"Elena," Bosley cut in.

"Yes?"

"On the bed. Now."

Elena's cheeks flushed; she wouldn't deny that she had dreamt those words from Bosley under very different circumstances. For the sake of her sanity, though, she brushed that aside and moved to comply, laying face down on her bed. Trepidation crept into her as Bosley settled beside her.

"Alright, I'm going to start on your shoulders and upper back, then will move down to your lumbar. Is that ok with you?"

Elena nodded, then realised Bosley couldn't see the gesture. Instead she uttered a muffled "Yes."

Elena tried to suppress the shiver that ran down her spine as Bosley laid her hands on her shoulder blades.

"Just relax."

Easy for her to say, Elena thought. She breathed out lowly before uttering a quiet "Ok."

Bosley got to work then, kneading at the knots near her shoulder blades with precision. Elena almost let out a quiet groan at the sensations. Each squeeze and release of her muscles sent tingling waves down to the tips of her fingers and toes, and she sunk further into her bed under Bosley's touch. She had no idea if being an excellent masseuse was part of the Angels' skill set, or if it was just Bosley, but Elena could feel herself unravelling in the most exquisite way. Stroke by stroke, Bosley soothed her frayed nerves and aching body.

Silence descended between them as Bosley continued her ministrations, the quiet broken only by Elena's slowed breathing. Her mind had gone foggy from the utter bliss that Bosley was bringing her, and the warmth from Bosley's hands lulled her closer and closer to sleep. Just when Elena felt herself about to drift off, Bosley's voice spoke up.

"So, do you want to tell me why you were at the gym so late?"

All at once, Bosley's words were like ice pouring down Elena's spine, and her eyes snapped open.

"I -", Elena wavered, " - was working on my form."

"Does that usually involve bursting into tears?"

Elena stiffened. The hands on her back slowed and the pressure from them lightened. The weight of them still remained though, and as they continued to rove over Elena, she would almost dare say it was like a caress.

"Your eyes were still red, darling."

Elena swallowed hard. Well, there was no point trying to hide it anymore.

Elena pushed herself up to a sitting position on her bed, and as she did so, Bosley's hands drifted until one of them was resting on Elena's shoulder. Elena felt no need to shrug her off this time.

"Eva," Elena began, before stopping to gather herself. Bosley's thumb started gently rubbing circles into Elena's skin, and the contact helped Elena muster up her next words, "Eva said the only reason I've been getting good scores in training is because we're sleeping together."

The hand on Elena's shoulder stilled at the admission. As though that was the sign Elena had been waiting for, words rushed from her mouth like the bursting of a dam.

"Which is stupid, because it's not like you're into me like that; I'm not even sure if you're into women like that. I mean, I don't even know your real name - "

"Elena."

Elena stopped her babbling at Bosley's interruption, and looked away in shame. She felt Bosley place her fingers under her chin, and she tried to avoid meeting Bosley's gaze as she was guided to face the other woman.

"You know I'm not the only one assessing your progress."

Elena did know that, and she knew Eva knew that - the Agency had been pretty straightforward with the recruits about that part of the assessment process. It made Eva's accusation all the more ridiculous. What Elena didn't understand was why Bosley was telling her this.

"All the other Bosleys involved in your training have given really good feedback on you, and though I'm friendly with some of them, none of them would give you a score you didn't earn."

Oh. That was why.

"But I don't think what Eva said came out of nowhere."

Elena's heart jumped in her throat. So there it was. The unspoken question in all of this. As much as Elena may not have wanted it to be true, Bosley had to know the answer, right? A woman with that much experience had to have seen Elena's eagerness to see her and spend time with her, and have drawn the conclusion Elena had been trying to hide for months now. Or, if she didn't know - which Elena found difficult to believe - then she was fishing for the answer. Elena gulped.

"I mean, she's had it out for me for weeks."

"She could have done anything else to mess with you, Elena, so why this? She's jealous, yes, but not stupid. She wouldn't make a claim like that unless - ," Bosley paused, " - it was even half believable."

Elena felt her stomach sink like a stone. So she did know. Really, it had been stupid of Elena to even consider otherwise.

Bosley reached out and took Elena's hand in hers, but even with the steady grip that tethered them to each other, Elena felt like she was about to topple over the edge of a cliff.

"Look, this is my fault. I thought I had better control, and it got taken out on you."

The anxiety that had started to churn in Elena's stomach lessened slightly, and her brow furrowed in confusion. Bosley sounded almost...apologetic. But over what?

Her mind ticked over, seeking an explanation, as Bosley continued on, "We're not supposed to have favourites, but I -"

She faltered then, and looked away. It confused Elena even more, and she found herself getting a little bit worried. Bosley seemed nervous, and in the entire time Elena had known her, this was the first time she had ever seen Bosley like this. It was the first time she seemed unsure - about anything.

"I'm a bit soft on you Elena...softer than I should be."

The meaning of Bosley's words don't sink in at first. Bosley had always scored her fairly during her training, and never shied away from giving direct and honest feedback, even if it wasn't always what she wanted to hear. But as Elena took in the stiffness that had set into Bosley's posture, and the hushed way she had said those last few words, as though they were directed at herself rather than Elena, she realised Bosley wasn't talking about her grades.

It made something shift in Elena's mind, made her re-evaluate every interaction she ever had with Bosley, from their first meeting on the outskirts of Hamburg, to that very moment in Elena's bedroom. How Bosley would seek her out all the time, more so than for any of the other recruits. How it would be Bosley's perfume that lingered in the blankets Elena would find herself draped under when she woke up in the library after some late night studying. How Bosley would risk her place at Townsend if it meant making sure Elena was ok. It was enough to give Elena hope, no matter how slight, and it made her feel brave.

She took a deep breath, before she leaned further into Bosley's space, stopping just a hair's breadth apart from her. Elena desperately wanted to close the distance between them, but she had to be sure Bosley felt the same, that she wanted this just as much as Elena did.

Tension crackled in the air between as they sat, unmoving. The spark of Elena's earlier bravery faded as the moment stretched on, and she flushed red with embarrassment at Bosley's inaction. What was she thinking? Bosley had been part of Townsend for so long, had worked so hard to become the first Angel to be promoted to Bosleyhood. There was no way she would risk losing that over a lovestruck recruit, even if she did feel the same.

Trying to ignore the sting of her rejection, Elena murmured an apology, and was about to pull away when the other woman surged forward, pressing her lips to Elena's.

Every thought that Elena had fizzled out of her mind. She must be dreaming, must really have fallen asleep in that boxing ring, since there was no way this was actually happening, no way Bosley was actually kissing her. But as Bosley's lips moved against hers, and her fingertips brushed the shell of Elena's ear as she drew her closer, Elena realised she was very much awake, and that maybe she hadn't been alone with her feelings after all.

Bosley pulled away abruptly then, and Elena followed after her for just a moment, before she was stopped by Bosley's hand on her chest. She avoided Elena's gaze as she stood from the bed.

"I should go."

Elena nodded mutely, feeling bereft of Bosley's warmth. That confirmed it; Elena had wondered, but now she knew for sure that Bosley had ruined her for anyone else. Now that she had a taste of her, Elena didn't think she would be getting over her any time soon, if ever.

"Good night, Bosley."

Bosley walked to the edge of the room before she stopped by the door. Placing one hand on the door frame, Bosley turned slightly to face Elena with an unreadable look.

"Rebekah."

That one word left Bosley at just above a whisper, and Elena almost didn't pick up on it. But she did, and Elena swallowed thickly, not daring to believe what Bosley had just said.

"What?"

A long moment passed then, long enough that Elena thought Bosley would just leave without answering, when she turned more fully to face Elena. The new angle allowed her to see the softness returning to Bosley's eyes, and Elena could feel warmth rising in her chest even before Bosley spoke again.

"My name. It's Rebekah."

Elena closed her eyes to take in those three syllables, committing them to memory, and attaching them to the woman who had been on her mind for months. No, there was definitely no way Elena would be getting over her. When she opened her eyes again, Bosley was gone.

Elena sighed, and flopped back down on to her bed.

There would be time to worry about the implications of what they had just done, and what Bosley had just shared with her, in the morning. It was highly likely that their days at Townsend were now numbered, but Elena found that the thought did not pain her as much as she would have expected. Whatever happened, Boz would take care of her, and she knew, if the opportunity ever presented itself, Elena would do the same in return.

For the first time that evening, she smiled.

"Good night, Rebekah."

A/N: No promises here, but I may do a second part from Bosley's POV. Thoughts?

[cannidoll]

Omg i love your username

thank you! i got the inspo for it from this very specific scene

[cannidoll]

ohhh bitch. i love jennifer check. im following u back immediately omg

welcome , i'm unhinged about my fav succubus on here <3