#sophies400

[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 ❤️

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​​​ @xbellaxcarolinax​​​ @1950schick​​​ @ietss​​​ @peachyboneless​​​ @encounterthepast​​​ @maggiescarborough​​​ @fae-sedai​​​  @zuxiezendler​​​ @crazybunnyladysworld​​​ @stupiddarkkside​​​ @northumbria​​​  @aprilivar​​​  

[castielsangelsx]

Oh My (Ivar x Christian!Reader)

A.N: done for @maggiescarborough​‘s follower celebration writing challenge!! Hope its okay, just getting back into the gears of writing. following the prompt: character gets hurt

Summary: despite your tense arranged relationship with Ivar, his injury did not prevent you from showing affection which even brings you two closer. 

-------------------------------

It all was a rush. With anxious sweaty palms, you stood by the calamity as the raid just outside the hall threatened your safety. You stood amongst the other Viking women who tended to the wounded and cared for the shield maiden’s children as they fought for Kattegat.

You rarely had the chance in England to work in the ways of war. Yet, your title as Queen of Kattegat pushed you headfirst in the battle. There was no time for hesitation as you continued to press into the wound of a Viking, whose beard was stained with blood. Which was becoming an all too familiar sight.

The cheers of victory soon rang through the hall and onto the relieved expressions of the women around you. It was a mutual appreciation for peace that meant we had won. With a thankful smile, the anxiety and worry you had for your husband grew. Rubbing your bloody hands onto your dress before getting up off the floor. The man clutched his arm and gave you a thankful but hesitant smile and nod as you got up off the floor from your kneeling position.

Your marriage is but only a few months old, which meant the romance you had expected to have grow was all but a nightly dream. But that didn't cause you to worry any less, as he was still the man who ensured your safety and place by his side.

"Has Ivar returned?" You asked one of the thralls who attended a man whose chest required stitches. She shook her head, but before she could even answer you, Hvitserk appears at the doorway, grasping onto Ivar, as Ivar's arm is latched on him for support. You rush over to him in pure worry and concern, noticing the giant gash running from his cheek to the side of his mouth, his left eye bloodshot, and a large bloodstain at his stomach. Which you assumed was not his own blood.

"Oh my." He almost looks ashamed. The gash looked painful, and that's all you could think about. How much he was in pain. You grab onto the other side of Ivar to support him. Ivar lets you help him, but he doesn't say anything to you.

"Help me take him to our quarters," you instruct Hvitserk. Hvitserk does so without question. Noticing the exhaustion on Hvitserks frame, you assist him onto your shared bed before you smile at Hvitserk warmly. "Thank you." You grab onto his elbow and nod. "Go rest," Hvitserk does as you say and gives you a smile before he heads off. Thralls rush in with bowls of warm water and cloth, herbal smells begin to emanate in the room.

"Are you in pain, Ivar?" You ask, examining his face closer. He doesn't say anything to you. You ignore it and don't let it affect your feeling of concern. Rinsing the cloth with the herbal water, you use your free hand to softly hold his chin as you dab the cloth softly onto the scar. He flinches and hisses, almost pushing you away in the process.

"Ivar, it's okay, let me clean it, please? It will get infected if I do not clean it."

Continuing to dab at his face, wiping away the blood, Ivar let you willingly clean the wound.

"You were very brave Ivar, I am very proud. You managed to defend Kattegat from an attack without warning." Ivar looks you in the eyes, almost with a shocked expression. You smile warmly, your faces being so close to one another you feel his warm breath fan against the side of your face. You were relieved. This sudden appreciation for your husband grew.

"You think so?" He asks. His body shifts forward slightly as you continue to clean his nose from any blood. You nod enthusiastically in response. "I think so, and besides, after this, you'll be able to threaten and scare off more Christian monks with the clean scar." You smile widely, and the corner of his mouth lifts up in amusement.

"Do I scare you?" His question shocked you, but you shake your head. "No, Ivar." He nods, but you continue, "not anymore." The water was a milky red, and noticing the further stains of blood on his jaw, you attempt to call for more thralls, but Ivar grasps your hand before you could walk away. He holds your hand in his own, and you look to him with wide eyes.

"Ivar."

VIKINGS TAGLIST: @youbloodymadgenius @gruffle1​ @pomegranates-and-blood​

[youbloodymadgenius]

Home (Modern!Ivar x reader)

A/N: This is my entry for @maggiescarborough​‘s 400 Followers Challenge. Congrats again, love 🌺

This is another silly, fluffy thing. It’s probably boring, sorry 😔

Since Ivar is undoubtedly a Scorpio, this story takes place in November 😉

The prompt: surprising the character on their birthday.

@geekandbooknerd​, thanks for beta reading this for me ♥️ And @inforapound​, thanks for helping me out ♥️

Thanks to google translate too 😉 jeg er allerede begyndt at lære dansk: I've already started to learn Danish.

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😊

Divider by @firefly-graphics​

Summary: On his birthday, Ivar is in a very bad mood. The only present he wants is you, but there is an ocean between you two.

Warnings: Ivar’s bad temper (is that ever a warning??); soft, soft Ivar; fluff+++.

Words: 3209

When his phone rings, Ivar's first thought is to throw it across the room. Looking down, he then sees the name on the screen and closes his eyes. Snippets of his days run through his mind: how he had snapped at Ubbe – I don't give a shit about what you're saying, brother; how his outburst had brought to tears his new personal assistant – if you don't even know how to make a fucking coffee, I should probably fire you; how Harald, his longtime business partner, had hung up on him, angering him even more – you may be smart, Ivar, but when you're such in a bad mood, you're worthless. I'll call you tomorrow.

 Ivar knows he needs to calm down. He's so pissed off – at everything – that his right quadriceps is constantly spasming, his thigh as hard as rock. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he sighs loudly, pinches the bridge of his nose and eventually grabs his phone.

 "Mor?" He's sure his mother won't fail to notice the hint of sharpness in his voice. She won't acknowledge it, though, used to his temper.

 "Hello Darling." There's a tremendous amount of love packed in those two little words, yet it doesn't bring a smile on his stern face. "I just wanted to let you know that Sven is on his way. He left Kattegat forty minutes ago. He is going to take you home."

 Clenching his jaw, Ivar stops himself from telling his mother that Kattegat, for him, is no longer home. Not anymore. The truth is, he doesn't know where home is. Home isn't his luxurious loft in in the very center of Copenhagen either. Home should be where you are. But you're so far away…

Ivar clears his throat. "I still don't get it, Mor. Why should I go with your chauffeur? You do know I can drive, don't you?"

 "Oh, honey, of course I do. But we've been over this, remember? You had to work the whole day, on your birthday, and I just want you to relax. Traffic can be brutal this time of day. Just let Sven bring you home. Maybe take a nap in the backseat, or just allow your thoughts to wander. I want you to be rested tonight, sweetheart." His mother pauses for a few seconds, and when she speaks again, her words are careful, her tone almost hesitant – so unlike her, his heart softens a little. "You did pack a bag, didn't you?"

 Ivar can't help but roll his eyes and then settles his gaze on a brown leather duffel bag right next to his mahogany desk. He knows that whatever his mother might expect, he won't stay the night. And if she doesn't allow Sven

to drive him back to Copenhagen, he will just call a cab. He won't argue about it right now, though – everything in its own time.

 Letting out a small sigh, Ivar nods uselessly, a hand running through his hair. "Yes Mor, I did."

  Sven knows better than to talk to him and, in the backseat, as the car speeds down the highway, Ivar closes his eyes and tries to relax. Anger still coursing through his veins, it turns out it's a nearly impossible task. It seems as if everything has gone wrong since he woke up and he's therefore mad at the whole world. He's mad at all those stupid, infuriating people he had to interact with. He's mad at Sven for taking him to Kattegat. He's mad at his mother for inviting him for his birthday. He's mad at himself for accepting. He's even mad at you, for not being here; for not making the impossible possible. For leaving him alone. And no matter if deep down he knows how unfair it is to you; because of course, you'd be here if you could. But he can't help it. He's mad at you because he misses you, every day a little more, to the point where the ache in his heart is far worse than the pain in his legs.

 And today, he misses you like crazy. To the point where sadness floods his mind. To the point where anger takes control. Because today may be his birthday, but it's also the anniversary of your first kiss, first and foremost. And he wants you here, right next to him, for now and forever.

  Fourteen months ago, after yet another surgery, and because even if he knew all too well that he couldn't stay by himself while recovering, the mere thought of his mother's overprotective presence made him nauseous, he had flown – fled – to Canada, to Floki's. The old fool had welcomed him with open arms, turning one of the many guest rooms of his house into a high-tech physiotherapy space. That's where he met you. At first, you had been just his physical therapist, then his date, his girlfriend, and now you are his lover. And if he's back in Denmark for nine months now, you're still in Canada. He had thought he could handle a long-distance relationship. He couldn't have been more wrong. Your absence just kills him.

 As a boat whistle can be heard, Ivar slowly opens his eye and then looks around. Frowning, he scratches his head, confused and annoyed. Since the Lothbrok mansion is located on a hill overlooking Kattegat, there's never any reason to go by the seaside to get there. Never ever. "We're on the wrong road, Sven. Why are you going to the shore?" Ivar speaks in a demanding tone of voice that doesn't impress Sven one bit.

 The obedient chauffeur barely shrugs. "I'm just following orders, Sir. Your mother's orders."

 Now riled up, irked, Ivar snorts, his nostrils flaring. "My mother asked you to drive me here?" Without waiting for an answer, he takes his phone out of his back pocket, gasping as Sven comes to a halt in front of The Nimb Hotel, the hotel palace of Kattegat.

 When his mother doesn't pick up the phone, a sinking feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, he tries to get ahold of Hvitserk, Ubbe, and even Sigurd, but to no avail. Fuming, his hands curling into fists, Ivar clenches his teeth. Did his mother organize a fucking birthday party even though she knows he hates that? She wouldn't dare. No, she wouldn't.

 Oh, fuck. Sure, she would. She totally would. And it'd explain why she had been so adamant about having Sven drive him. She wanted him here, in this fucking hotel, and not at the mansion. It explains why his brothers don’t answer the phone. Because they know that if they did, he would yell at them to fuck off. He can’t believe it!! What’s got into his mother?? What the fucking hell??!!!!

 For a split second, he hovers a trembling pointer finger over the screen of his phone. Calling an Uber and going back to Copenhagen would be so easy. But as tempting as it may be to just run away, he knows he won't do it. He can't. Because it'd hurt his beloved mother, and the thought is unbearable, even though he's angry with her right now. That's why, whatever she may have planned, he'll deal with it, putting on a brave face for her sake.

 And that's why he doesn't object when Sven opens his door, "This way, Sir," his hand gesturing toward the hotel entrance, flanked by two ostentatious marble columns. Ivar uses his hands to place his right leg out of the car and he then slowly stands up, one hand on his crutch and the other on the car door, before following the gray-haired chauffeur, a permanent scowl on his face.

As they walk through the lobby, he is surprised when Sven leads him onto an elevator, pressing the twelfth-floor button. He would have thought that his mother would have privatized the hotel restaurant. But the restaurant is on the main floor. What's on the upper floors other than rooms? A roof terrace, probably. His mother would never throw an outdoor party in the middle of November though. Nothing makes sense.

 Confused, Ivar tilts his head while the lift is going up. "Where are we going?" Sven doesn't react to his harsh tone, just repeating his reply from earlier. "I'm following orders, Sir. I am walking you to where your mother ordered me to walk you." He doesn't utter another word, getting out of the elevator as soon as the door opens.

 Ivar tightens his grip on his crutch and follows him to what seems to be a hotel room. Or more specifically, and as it's written on the door, the executive suite. More and more bewildered, he watches Sven swiftly knocking on the door before using a card key to unlock it. Holding it open, the chauffeur steps aside, "I've been asked to tell you that the sunroom is over there," waving his hand slightly to the left, Sven then gives a slight nod to an astounded Ivar, "I now take my leave, Sir. I wish you a delightful evening."

  As Ivar slowly crosses the living room, the slight thud of his crutch on the hardwood floor alerts you of his presence. Shivering with excitement and your heart pounding in your chest, you struggle but don't move, don't say a word; not yet.

 Taking a tentative step into the sunroom, which, he's sure of it, offers during daytime a breathtaking view on the bay of Kattegat, a dumbfounded Ivar notices the candles first – there are candles everywhere, their soft glow creating an intimate ambience – and then the table for two elegantly set in the middle of the room.

 "What the fuck is going on?" Ivar grumbles, irritation obvious in his voice, and you know it's time for you to show up, or he may leave. Stepping toward him and into the light, you absently rub your sweaty palms up and down your black dress, your heart now beating so hard and so fast you wonder if he can hear it. This is it. The moment you were waiting for, for weeks now. You couldn't be happier, and yet you can't help but be nervous. Could he reject you? You don't think so but with Ivar, you never know… Swallowing the lump in your throat, and even if you can barely breathe, you manage to crack a smile at the exact moment he sets his eyes on you. "Happy birthday, my love, and happy anniversary too."

 Ivar's jaw drops, his eyes widen, and a soft gasp escapes his plump lips. He wobbles for an instant and you quickly close the gap between you and him, steadying him by placing both your hands on his hips. Your touch shaking him out of his stupor, he blinks a few times, his piercing blue eyes never leaving your face. "Y/N, is it… is it really you?" With a trembling voice and tears in his eyes, he stutters, dazed and surprised. "By the gods, what… what are you doing here?" His arm finding your waist, Ivar pulls you closer. There's a whirlwind of emotions on his face, but there's mostly love. You're sure he won't reject you.

 "Did you really think I was going to miss your birthday?" Standing on tiptoes, you give him a long kiss before whispering in his ear, "And I missed you so much, my love."

 Rough fingers caress your face as Ivar looks down at you incredulously. "But… I… I don't understand… I… I thought you were busy with work. But you're here… How?"

 "By plane, obviously," you quip playfully, and your lover rolls his eyes and shakes his head, before suddenly frowning. "That's really a wonderful surprise, Y/N, and I'd love to stay here with you but we… we should go… My mother… I think she's waiting for me, for us… You know, since it's my birthday, she wanted to throw…" Ivar stops talking when it dawns on him that he has been – to his delight – tricked, and you just smile. "Mother never planned a party, did she?"

 It's your turn to shake your head. "No, she never did, you're right. She knew I was coming and since I needed a little help, she agreed to play along. Tonight, it's just you and me, my love." Ivar's eyes sparkling with joy, your smile grows wider. "She's expecting us for lunch tomorrow, though."

 Nodding, Ivar flashes you a beaming smile that falters almost immediately as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. As he stifles a hiss of pain, you wrap his right arm around your shoulder and your left around his waist. Without a word, you lead him to a corner of the sunroom, help him to sit down on a huge nest chair and finally breathe a sigh of satisfaction as you snuggle into his side.

 His hand running up your arm, Ivar cups your face and looks at you fondly. "You being here with me is the best birthday gift ever." He then kisses you passionately, his hands roaming your back and your fingers threading through his long hair. When he breaks the kiss, he still holds you close and you lean into his warmth, your head resting on his chest.

 "When are you flying back?" Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, Ivar clenches his jaw as you pull away just enough to look at him. You know he hates the idea of you leaving him once again. You don't have time to answer him as he keeps going. "Guess you'll stay through the weekend, but when is your flight? On Monday morning?"

 A mischievous smile playing on your lips, you wrap your fingers around his hand. "There's no flight, Ivar, not anymore. I'm not going anywhere. I'm afraid you're stuck with me, my love."

 Swallowing, Ivar just stares at you for long seconds, a frown on his confused face. "What… What are you talking about? If this is a joke, it's a very bad one." He eventually manages to say, his bottom lip trembling.

 "I swear it's not a joke." You reassure him as you readjust your position, straddling him carefully. Your thumb stroking his cheek, you give him a quick peck before explaining yourself. " I hate our current situation, and I know you do too. I don't want to live like this anymore, between two flights, between two countries. I don't want to miss you anymore. My life is with you, my love. And since you can't exactly relocate the Lothbrok Company, it's up to me to move, which I'm happy to do."  

 Dumbstruck, Ivar remains speechless for a long time, but you can tell by the smile on his lips that he's thrilled by the news. Tilting his head, he finds his voice again. "You are serious? Wow! You do realize you'll have to find a new job, learn another language? That's not nothing."

 "Actually," you place your hands flat on his chest, "I've already found a job. Floki still has strong connections here, did you know that? On the same day I made up my mind, he was already making calls. He has been amazing, truly! I start working in a rehab clinic within a fortnight. As for the language…", you stop and inhale deeply before saying hesitantly, "jeg er allerede begyndt at lære dansk." Ivar's wry smile tells you that your pronunciation could have been better, but you don't mind. It's a first step. "Anyway," you exclaim, beaming, "You know me, I love a challenge!"

 "I just can't fucking believe it!" Ivar shines with happiness and it melts your heart. His next question, though, makes you wince internally. Because on that particular point, you're suddenly afraid you've put the cart before the horse.

 "Where are you going to live?"

 Lowering your gaze, you begin to fidget nervously. "I…", you clear your throat, closing your eyes, "I was thinking… well… Maybe I could… I don't know if…" As soon as you realize you're getting nowhere, you stop; you know you have to muster up the courage to be straightforward. Releasing a short sigh, you tilt your head up. "I was hoping we could live together. I mean if you want to. It's fine if you don't, I'll rent an apartment."

 Literally thunderstruck, his eyes fixed on you, Ivar swallows loudly. "You… You…" He stammers, an incredulous expression on his face. "You want to live with… with me?"

 As you nod while muttering under your breath "Only if you want to," a broad smile spreads over his lips and he blinks a few times. "Of course, I do. But you do know that", his sheepish look is unmistakable, "I'm not exactly easy to live with, right?"

 Relief floods through you and you burst out laughing as you remember what he put you through when you were his physical therapist. "I do know you, my stubborn, grumpy, short-tempered and moody lover! And guess what, my love? I wouldn't want you any other way. Plus, as I said, I love a good challenge!"

 Without even trying to hide his elation, Ivar throws his arms around your waist, giggling, "It's a deal, then," before peppering light kisses all over your face. His mouth barely an inch from yours, he's about to kiss you as your stomach rumbles. Embarrassed, you want to hide your face but Ivar, all smiles and laughing eyes, grasps your hands, squeezing them. "Guess we should feed you."

 Checking your watch, you stand up reluctantly. "Actually," you point at the table behind you, "we should be served a meal in less than five minutes." Reaching out, you grab Ivar's left hand as he hauls himself to his feet, handing him his crutch once you're sure he found his balance.

 Now towering over you, Ivar gives you a thank-you smile. "So, tell me Y/N, what's the plan for tonight? Besides dinner, I mean." The naughty grin adorning his features tells you the answer he's hoping for.

 "Well," you can't resist teasing him, "I was thinking maybe we could take an after-dinner walk on the shore afterwards, and later, there's this wonderful documentary about penguins I wouldn't want to miss, so yeah, that's the plan."

 "Ooooh, look at you!" You can't help but laugh your head off as Ivar's smile falters, a crease forming between his eyebrows and pouty lips shouting his displeasure. "I'm just kidding, my love," you soothe him, your thumb grazing his mouth, "there's this whirlpool-bath I'm dying to try in the bathroom if you're up for it. And after that, I'm going to make love to you, my birthday boy." Ivar's breath hitches as your hands squeeze his butt cheeks playfully. "And then we'll sleep. And tomorrow we'll go and have lunch with your mother. And when we're done there, you'll…" Overwhelmed with emotion, you stop, your eyes filling with tears.

 "I'll…?" Ivar asks as a crooked smile tugs at his lips.

 You swallow away the lump in your throat, intertwining your fingers with his. "You'll take me home, won't you?"

 There are tears in his eyes as well, but when Ivar nods, the smile that flashes over his face is a wide, shining one. "Yes, my love, I'll take you home."

 🛡⚔️🛡

@honestsycrets​ @lisinfleur​ @waiting4inspiration​ @saldelys​ @gearhead66​ @inforapound​ @readsalot73​ @milkkygirls​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @shannygoatgruff​ @zuxiezendler​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @hecohansen31​ @lonewolf471​ @ivarthebloodyking​ @fuckindiva​ @tgrrose​ @didiintheblog​ @peachyboneless​ @funmadnessandbadassvikings​ @ethereallysimple​ @destynelseclipsa​ @coco2315​ @mlchael-guerin​ @pieces-by-me​ @xceafh​

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Nothing But A Scratch

Ivar x Princess reader

Word Count: 3155

Warnings: Tiny mention of violence, a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, Ivar may be out of character (Shrugs).

Summary: Ivar is wounded during battle.

My entry for @maggiescarborough’s 400 Followers Writing Challenge! Congratulations Sophie! 😊❤️For some reason, I always write more than 2k for your challenges 😂

I’m not exactly sure what to say about this. I struggled quite a bit writing it. I’m really hard on myself 😅Hope ya’ll enjoy!

Prompt: The character gets seriously hurt.

According to google translate (An unreliable source, I know), moron in Russian is Debil.

Thanks to @shannygoatgruff​ for beta reading

...

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself.

The enemy sword was swift, the blade slicing through his armor and deep into the flesh of his belly.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when blood began to pour from his wound and past his lips, the adrenaline pushing him forward.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when he swayed on his feet, his crutch no longer of use to him.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when his legs twisted, and his body collided with the muddy ground, completely vulnerable and surrounded by his enemies.

…

Ivar dreamed.

He dreamed of Kattegat in the days of his youth, back when he trailed behind his older brothers through the dirt with his hands, only to come to the painful realization that he would never be like them. He dreamed of his mother and her tears, his pride separating them despite how much she pleaded for him not to go.

He dreamed of the salty waters of the Northern Sea and the unforgiving winds that destroyed their ship, splintering it to pieces. He dreamed of Ràn dragging him into the depths of her dark abyss, collecting another prize for her realm of the drowned.

He dreamed of England’s sandy shores, of land ready for the taking, and of the weak-minded men who ruled over it. He dreamed of little Prince Alfred, now a King, holding out his hand to offer him friendship in the form of a chess piece.

He dreamed of Ragnar in the way he remembered best, tired, and decrepit in his final days, a hermit, and yet, in his eyes, he was still the greatest man who ever lived.

It is not your time yet, Ragnar told him, the world is at your feet. Be ruthless.

He dreamed of Kiev and its massive wooden gates, golden palace walls, and luxurious Byzantine silks. He dreamed of the ambitious Prince Oleg, and of sweet, sweet, Igor. He dreamed of emotionless puppets made to stand with perfect posture while he still struggled to keep up with his own.

He dreamed of the Rus princess with the mysterious umber eyes, always seeking him out in a room. He dreamed of her dark hair hidden under white and gold silks, and of the jewels that adorned her neck and wrists, as befitting a princess.

He dreamed of her smile, never fully reaching her eyes, and of the way her fingers stroked his cheek at night when the fires burned bright against the darkness when her maids kept close watch outside her door.

He dreamed of the smooth expanse of her skin, of her gasps of delight, and her moans of pleasure. He dreamed of her mouth on his, the urgency they both felt as she left crescent moon shapes over his shoulders, clinging on to the precious time that seemed to slip away.

He dreamed of the day he stole her away from her brother, away from the shelter of the Kievan court, and into the safety of his arms. She watched her brother die that day, by the hands of her own nephew, her dark eyes glossing over, but never daring to let the tears fall.

He dreamed of making her his wife, of her in a crown of wildflowers and the sun illuminating the different shades of her hair.

He dreamed of her smile, finally reaching her eyes.

He could hear her calling out to him, begging for him to come to her.

Ivar, please, she cried, Wake up.

He tried searching for her, arm outstretched and fingers reaching in futile attempts. It was impossible, his body fighting through what felt like tar. He sunk deeper into the darkness, away from her soothing voice, and into Ràn’s abyss where Ivar the Boneless was forgotten.

…

It had been a week before he had shown any signs of consciousness.

7 days of fever, chills, and silence that had him teetering between Midgard and Valhalla.

For 7 days his army laid low after their truce with the Saxon king. For all the attacks Wessex had endured from the Northmen, he valued peace over war, forgiveness over vengeance. A true Christian king.

Alfred was not ruthless.

For 7 days the heathen army waited impatiently, wondering whether the youngest son of Ragnar was to survive, or whether a funeral was to be organized. Some believed he would die. Of course, the wound he received at the hands of a Saxon warrior was a deadly one. A deep gash across his stomach had been opened to infection, causing the fever to take hold of him the first few nights. His legs, more shattered than ever, would make surviving seemingly impossible.

But still, they waited.

The former princess of Kiev waited by his side, as still as a statue of a saint. She kept watch over him at night when the rest of the army was asleep, feeling more lost than she ever did in her brother’s court. She prayed for his soul rigorously, cross clutched tightly in her hand, hard enough to leave an imprint in its wake.

7 days of uncertainty, of prayer and fasting, of fear and loneliness. 7 days of hope and hopelessness, surrounded by untrustworthy men.

But still, she waited.

…

It was the dead of night when Ivar broke from his delirium.

He wasn’t on the battlefield anymore. He couldn’t hear the screams of his fellow warriors, the clashing of sword against sword, nor could he smell the scent of iron spewing from the blood of both enemy and ally. It was just...darkness.

Perhaps he was in Valhalla, he thought, though if that were true, then the stories were wrong. It was rather underwhelming.

But no, he was not in Valhalla either, not by the scent at least. It smelled of dried herbs, and of that revolting root the Rus princess often drank as a tea. What was it again? Ginseng?—

And then he forced his eyes to open, lashes ripping apart after spending days glued together.

Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he felt as if he were suffocating under the pile of furs thrown over him. His heart was beating erratically, nearly bursting from the confines of his chest as his body fought to stabilize itself.

He wheezed, his throat feeling dryer than the deserts of the Silk Road. His tongue darted out in an attempt to wet his cracked lips with little success.

Moving was an issue. He couldn’t. It hurt.

His attempt to sit up failed as a yelp ripped free from his lips, croaky and in pure agony. He fell back against the makeshift cot with a grunt.

The pain was excruciating, hot, and vicious in his lower abdomen, like a raven fighting to claw its way in. His legs, though always in a fragile state, felt worse than they had in the years since adopting the use of his braces and crutch.

He struggled to crane his neck, quick to map out his surroundings as best he could. He was in his own tent, that much was evident, as he always had it specifically set to his liking. His weapons were laid out in a corner, along with his ruined armor, crutch, and leg braces. The useless things landed him in a cot, fighting for survival.

“My love?” Her voice was enough to calm his wild heart, his neck snapping in the direction of her voice.

The princess’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from what he could only assume had been days of weeping. Beside her was a steaming cup of tea, producing that horrible smell of Ginseng that made him want to gag. When had she the time to steal the root before they left Novgorod?

Wrapped around her wrist was her gold beaded rosary, bright and shining in the candlelight. She held the cross tightly in her small fist, knuckles white from the pressure. He wondered how long she had sat by his side, praying, waiting for him to recover.

Her fingers dropped the cross, her soft hands reaching for him. Ivar could feel her hot tears drip over his bare chest as she leaned over him.

“Ivar—” She choked his name, sobs already taking hold of her body as she cupped his warm face, “You’re awake! Thank God!” More tears poured from her eyes as her mouth quivered. She lowered herself to her knees, grabbing his hand and placing kisses on the surface.

Ivar wanted to wrap her in his arms, to tell her he was fine, that the gods have not taken him yet, but his arms felt as fragile as his legs, weak from days of disuse. Instead, he brings his fingertips to her flushed cheeks, forcing her to look up at him.

“Hey,” He croaked out, using his thumb to catch another falling tear before running his fingers through her hair, “Stop crying, please, love.” His voice was not much more than a whisper. He sounded more like an old toad than a human, but it was enough to bring her weeping down to mere whimpering.

“It has been days, I thought perhaps…” She trailed off, sniffling before continuing, “I feared the worst.”

The princess was far more worried for his well-being than he ever was.

Ivar was quite content with the idea of falling in battle and ascending to Valhalla. She had not agreed with such sentiments.

It is not your time yet, his father had said to him, the world is at your feet. Be ruthless.

“It is not my time yet,” He repeated Ragnar’s words, his hand continuing gentle motions through her soft hair, “Valhalla will have to wait a little longer, hmm?”

“Valhalla,” She hiccups, shaking her head, not fully understanding the Viking fascination with death, “Not with the way you throw yourself in battle.” She mutters, wiping her eyes.

She stood, going to the far side of the tent to fetch a bucket with a wooden ladle. She brings a hefty scoop of water to his lips, holding his head up carefully to aid him.

He drank like a mad man, the water running past his chin and down his neck.

“Debil,” She chastised him lovingly in her native tongue, eyes still moist, “Idiot. Where were your warriors?”

“Fighting for themselves,” He gasps, the cold water soothing the dryness of his throat, “Or have you forgotten the ways of war?” He croaks, his lips curling into a smile.

“What would I know of war, my love?” She offers, setting the bucket and the ladle aside once he had his fill, “Or have you forgotten I was but a sheltered princess.” She tried to make a joke of it, but she only sounded miserable saying such words. She brings a hand to smooth down his wild hair, braids unraveling into a long-twisted mess.

“In war,” Ivar begins, eyes fluttering as her nails scratched at his scalp, “You either survive or die.”

“And I suppose you wanted to die then?” A bitter tone was followed by a bitter smile. He cleared his throat, his tired eyes watching how her expression shifted through so many emotions.

His reply was honest. “If that is what the gods intended for me, then so be it. It would have been an honor.”

“What honor is there in taking me from my home, and leaving me to live out my life away from my own family and amongst men I do not know?” She snapped, though the anger was short-lived, and she lowered her eyes.

She was intrigued by Ivar from the moment she had set eyes on him, like a moth to a flame. She was happy to have left with him, happy to have relinquished her title and to have left such a sour life behind. Ivar offered her freedom, adventure, and love, things she never understood the meaning of in Kiev, but she was a fool to believe he was invincible. She had seen him rally crowds to chant his name, had seen his strengths despite his weaknesses, and yet, he bleeds red as every other man does. War takes the lives of men, and Ivar was not immune to such a fate. He welcomed it.

“You are all I have in this world, Ivar.” She spoke gently, as she did when he dreamed of her. Her fingers shifted to trace over the dark lines inked upon his heated skin. The fever had barely broken, but at least he was conscious now. “Please, my love, all I ask is that you stay alive.” Her lips quivered, “I do not think my heart could bear to see you like this again.”

Ivar felt his heart sink.

He knew she wasn’t made to live in a war camp amongst warriors. She was born into a life of gold and silver, into luxury that so many others could only dream of, and yet, she chose to go with him, a fallen king with worthless legs and a heart as dark as coal. He once had the world at his feet. He would do it all again, for her. He had to.

“Do you regret it?” He finally asked though something within him feared her answer.

“Regret what?”

“Regret leaving Kiev with me?” He reiterated, observing her features for any hint of disappointment.

“No,” The response was immediate and without hesitation, “I have been happier with you than I have been all my years in that palace.” She sighs, her hair creating a barrier between them when she lowered her head, “Oleg was not a good man.” Her words were laced in sorrow. Her brother's death still weighed heavy on her heart.

“You deserve more than this,” He said, eyes closing for a moment before bringing them back to her. Her dark brows curved up in a worrisome expression he’d seen on her many times before. “You have given up so much for me, a lonely cripple,” He chuckles when she made noises of protest, “Only the gods know why.” She considers him in silence, noting how unreal the blue of his irises were.

“Ivar?” She questioned, setting her palm on his warm chest and over his heart, silently thankful it was finally beating at a normal pace.

“You’re a princess, my love. The battlefield is no place for you.” He places his hand over hers, giving it a light squeeze.

“All I ask of you is to stay alive.” She spoke softly, her lips curving into a smile, though it wasn’t enough to reach her eyes. “I will not ask you for anything else.” She feared being alone, and rightfully so. She’d been alone all her life in the Kievan court, as expressionless and empty as those Byzantine puppets Oleg was so fond of, donning smiles that never reached her eyes.

“My sweet girl,” He chuckles with a shake of his head, “Come, I wish to embrace you.” Planting both hands firmly on the sides of the cot, he forces himself into a seated position, groaning all the while, feeling the fire burn in the pit of his belly. He grunts, eyes screwed tight as he forced himself upright.

“Ivar!” She scolds, more worried than anything else, “Stop moving! You’ll fester your wound.” She peels off the furs to reveal the gauze wrapped tightly around his mind section, the once white cloth now stained red. “Christ. I must call the healer.”

“Don’t,” Ivar pants, tugging her wrist and quickly bringing her to his side, “Please. I wish for a few minutes to ourselves before I must face the world in this weak state. Grant me this one thing, hm?”

“But your wound—”

“What, this?” He jerks his chin down toward his abdomen with a tired smile, “It is nothing but a scratch.”

“Ivar.” She warned him.

“Princess.” The amusement was clear in his tone, artfully masking his pain. He gripped her waist, tugging her forward and into his arms with a grunt. She smelled of the English forest and of summer blossoms. “I will never leave you.” He mutters the promise into her waist, still ignoring the pain, “I will give you everything you deserve, my love.”

“What of your army?” She questions quietly, fingers dancing over his bicep, “And the Saxon king? Your brother tells me he seeks peace.” Ivar scoffs.

“And he shall get it...for now.” He concludes with an angry twitch of his brow.

“What do you intend to do?” She laid her cheek over the messy strands of his chestnut brown hair.

“Recover, and take you away from this miserable land I should have never brought you to in the first place.”

“Oh, Ivar,” He felt her plant a kiss upon his hair, “I belong wherever you are.” He grunts, gripping her tightly as if she would slip right through his fingers like sand.

“Marry me.” He mutters into her soft linen dress, suddenly feeling as shy as he did when he was a boy.

“Hmm?”

“Marry me.” He said, louder this time, needier, a plea falling from his lips as he tightened his hold on her. He shifts his head to look at her, imagining her with a crown of wildflowers nestled in her soft tresses. Her eyes grew round at his statement, lips parted as if to speak.

“Truly?” She asks, “Or has the fever gone to your head?” Ivar rolled his eyes fondly.

“Why would I bother asking you if I did not mean it, hmm?” His chin lightly grazed her abdomen as he peeked up at her through his lashes. “I will make you a queen, lay the world at your feet if you allow me.”

How many tears could this woman produce? He thought though he was more than satisfied knowing they were tears of joy when she erupted in giggles.

“I accept,” She wiped her eyes before arching down to place a kiss on his lips, “But, under one condition.”

“Oh?” Ivar pulls away from her, brows raised, “Go on, what is it?”

“You must drink the ginseng tea,” She offers, taking the lukewarm tea and offering it to him, “The healers would prescribe it to Oleg whenever he came back wounded from battle. It will revive your strength and clear your body of infection.” Ivar eyes the cup wearily, nose flaring at the abhorrent smell. He didn’t like it.

“It smells horrid.” He complained.

“You fight battles against fearsome enemies, and yet, are too afraid to drink an herbal tonic?” She scoffs. Ivar narrows his eyes, considers her words before muttering under his breath.

“...Very well.” He takes the cup from her, face pinched after taking a sip, “Are you satisfied now? Will you marry me?” She nods fervently, her hands laced together in her joy. A blinding smile settled on her lips like never before.

It finally reached her eyes.

...

@heavenly1927​ @didiintheblog​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @leilabeaux​ @shannygoatgruff​ @inforapound​ @walkxthexmoon​ @hecohansen31​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @peachyboneless​ @fuchsiagrasshopper​ @pomegranates-and-blood​

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

The Olive Branch

Author's note: Here is a modern AU one-shot I wrote for @maggiescarborough 400 follower challenge. My prompt was breaking up. Congratulations hun and thanks for letting me take part! It was something completely different for me to write and I hope everyone enjoys!

Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Fem:reader

Word count: 3400

Warnings: Angst, language

Your relationship with Ivar had run its course. You had known it was over the moment you overheard him talking about you in his office to his brother. What had begun as a sweet gesture to surprise your boyfriend for lunch had ended with you sneaking back out the building before he could find out you had been there. You still didn't remember most of that escape, as you had been too busy forcing yourself not to cry or scream from hurt.

It was a Tuesday, and you were fortunate enough to have a day off from work. You decided to be spontaneous, picking up soup from your favorite deli to surprise Ivar with for lunch. His job didn't always allow him the time or luxury to stop to eat, but today you would make sure he was looked after.

You and Ivar had been seeing each other for nearly six months, and you felt that in that stretch of time you had made it past any difficult hurdles that could turn a relationship sour. It wasn't perfect, but little arguments and disagreements had to be weathered in any relationship, and you got to a point where you were both comfortable with each other's faults and tendencies. When you had met one another's families without hassle, you figured that was as good a sign as any that this was something special.

You didn't go to his place of work often, but you knew your way around well enough to find his office. He worked for his family's exporting company, a numbers game that consisted of suits and ties, and corporate gatherings. Ivar had once described them to you as ass-kissing at the highest level, and after attending a few black-tie affairs by his side you understood his point.

You made your way down the brightly lit corridor that was all freshly polished floors and heavy oak doors with gold inlaid nameplates. The designer of the office had spared no expense on the finishes, and you felt underdressed compared to the expensive attire of the workers.

As you rounded the corner to Ivar's office you could see his door was ajar. He was speaking with someone, and as you neared you recognized Ubbe's voice. It didn't sound like work talk, it sounded more like Ubbe was discussing his family. You were about to walk in to interrupt when your name was suddenly brought up.

"So, how are things going with (Y/N)?" Ubbe asked.

There was a long pause before Ivar answered, and that filled you with dread. "Okay, I guess."

"You guess? I thought things were going great."

You understood Ubbe's point. You thought things were working out well between you two.

"I don't know. Recently I've been feeling that it's run its course between us. I don't think there's a future there."

Your heart was in your throat, and you thought you were going to be sick. Ivar could be distant, but you had no idea he was at the end of his rope when it came to your relationship.

"Really? Ubbe sounded as confused as you felt. "What brought this on?"

"It's whenever we do something in a social setting. She's not a bad girlfriend, but she's too shy for any of my work functions, and she isn't spontaneous enough."

"Right, as opposed to Freydis?" You heard the crunch of leather as Ubbe took a seat. "You're still hung up on her."

"I can't help it," Ivar shot back. "She was perfect for me. She fit in with my lifestyle. (Y/N)'s a good person, but she's too simple. I'm...bored when I'm with her."

A good person. Those were the only kind words he had to say about you, after dating for months. You knew about his relationship with Freydis in little detail, and only that they had broken up because she moved away for work. Maybe he should have gone with her. You were feeling bitter and used, and you couldn't listen to any more of the disparagement. You even felt guilty about eavesdropping, but you wondered how much longer he planned on keeping this from you if he was so miserable.

Your feet started in the opposite direction, reaching the elevator with your head down and the lunch you had brought hanging loosely in your grasp. Your breathing had turned labored in your attempt to keep the tears at bay, and you kept pressing the button to shut the double doors before you were forced to endure a long ride down to the lobby in the company of one of Ivar's coworkers.

The moment you were on the ground floor you began fast walking to get outside, and you threw away the lunch in the first trash bin you passed. Your eyes stun when the chilly wind brushed your face, and you knew the tears you had struggled to hold in were beginning to fall. You hoped to God people weren't staring, and you kept at a brisk pace in the direction of anywhere. You and Ivar didn't live together, so you at least had your own space to hide.

As you approached the train station, your phone buzzed with a message. It was from Ivar. You wondered what words Ubbe had plied him with to get him to reach out. Usually, a message from him when you knew he was at work would have been a delight, but now you were already into second-guessing. It was a simple invite to dinner, but you knew you wouldn't be able to sit in a restaurant and pretend everything was alright. You replied with an excuse.

Sorry, I'm not feeling well today. Raincheck

Ivar's reply was quick and to the point with a simple 'okay, feel better'. But you wouldn't feel better. Your relationship was over, he just wasn't privy to the fact yet, and you didn't want to end it with the embarrassment and disappointment still so fresh…

ooOOoo

And that's how it was for the next two weeks. You distanced yourself from Ivar while gaining clarity about the situation. The hurt turned into a dull throb, but you also accepted that it wasn't his fault for feeling the way he did, even if that was cold comfort to you. It was best for you both if you ended it and moved on.

"I think we should break up," You finished saying to Ivar as he had tried to gift you a diamond bracelet. He had dropped in unannounced again, a habit that had started after you blew off the dinner. Your visits consisted of sitting in silence on opposite sides of the sofa, and you could barely bring yourself to kiss him when he would leave.

He must have sensed something was off the past few times you had seen each other, and the bracelet was his way of trying to bridge this new gap. Now he was giving you a blank stare, trying to play catch up on whatever details he had missed that led to this behavior from you.

"Alright," He started slowly. "Can I ask why?"

Because you're bored with me, your mind shouted, but you swallowed the bitterness and forced a smile. "We've been growing apart for a little while now. You must have felt it too."

"I've felt that you've been brushing me off," Ivar said as he fell back into the armchair across from you on the sofa.

"What do you mean?" You tried to act surprised by the accusation, but your voice raised a tick. You had never been a good liar.

"Well, just now when I tried to give you the bracelet, you looked disgusted. I might as well have been giving you a can of surströmming."

"That's not--" You started to say, but he cut you off.

"Not true? No, I think it is. And what about that dinner last week? Were you even sick?"

You felt small under his strong gaze, but you weren't about to let him spin this whole thing back on you when you knew the truth. "No, I wasn't sick. I guess I just didn't want to go to dinner with you because I felt it was pointless."

"Pointless? If you'd decided that, then why did you wait until now to break up with me?"

"I've never broken up with someone before," You admitted, the first truthful thing to come out of the conversation. It was always you getting left behind, and it felt strange to do it to someone else. You still had feelings for Ivar, which didn't make it any easier knowing he didn't feel the same, and possibly never had. "I thought you'd be relieved anyways. You must have felt the same, that we were drifting apart."

"I didn't realize you felt that way," Ivar replied, frowning at his lap. "Ubbe didn't say anything to you, did he?"

You tried not to react, but your blood froze in your veins and your heart trembled. "No, why would he?"

And then you realized Ivar suspected you knew about the private conversation with his brother, only he mistakenly thought Ubbe had blabbed to you about it.

"It makes sense now, why you've been pulling away. He told you, didn't he?"

"About how I'm a good person, but that I'm too shy to fit in with your social circle," You blurted out, your anger rising.

Ivar was stunned by your abrupt attitude change. You never raised your voice for anything, even when you'd argued. "So he did tell you."

"No Ivar, Ubbe didn't tell me anything." You rose from the sofa and turned your back on him to stare out the window. It was a beautiful day. You let out a mournful sigh. Too bad you wouldn't get to enjoy it. "I came to see you that day, to surprise you with lunch. I guess you wouldn't consider that spontaneous enough though."

"(Y/N)," Ivar started and over your shoulder, you could see him pushing himself up from the chair with his cane.

"I don't want to hear it," You interjected with your hand up. "This is why I didn't want you to know I knew about that. I didn't want to hear your excuses."

"That was a private conversation you weren't supposed to hear."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Ivar frowned, and he seemed annoyed with you as if you learning the truth had inconvenienced him. "No, but I should be the one upset with you for trying to break up with me without telling the truth."

"I'm not trying to break up with you, I'm done with you, Ivar," You told him, and your blunt tone caused his face to fall. "Maybe I shouldn't have listened to that conversation, but I'm glad I did. It spares me from being in a relationship with someone miserable and bored when they're with me. Did you expect me just to not say anything and carry on as if nothing had happened?"

"We could still talk this through." His voice sounded timid, and you didn't think he meant it.

"Talk through what? You're still in love with someone else, and I won't be your poor replacement." You strode to your apartment door and held it wide open. "Please leave."

You half expected Ivar to stay put and want to argue this through further. He was nothing if not confrontational, and while you admired his inner strength, you did not want to find yourself on the receiving end of Ivar Lothbrok's ire. But in the end, he didn't say anything. His cane thumped down the hallway to the door, and as he strode by you, you kept your head down holding your breath. You don't know if you were hoping he would do something to change your mind, let you know that it had all been a misunderstanding, but that wasn't the case. Ivar left, and you found yourself closing the door long after he had gone.

Now that it was final, you didn't know how to feel. The past few weeks you had been preoccupied with internalizing your heartbreak. You had held it in for so long, that now your well was empty. Your relationship was over, and if you were going to move forward you would have to cleanse your life of Ivar. Grabbing a box from your closet, you began to pack away anything he had ever given you.

ooOOoo

It was such a cliche, the expression about missing something after it was gone, but it was currently how Ivar was feeling. A month had passed by since your break-up, and time had slowed to a crawl. He hadn't seen or heard from you since he had left your apartment that day. You had returned a box of his things when he had been away at work. Hvitserk had been home to retrieve them, and Ivar had asked how you seemed. His answer; fine.

At the top of the box was the bracelet he had bought you in a last-ditch effort to try and save the relationship. You hadn't even worn it. He didn't know why he had put in the effort to save the relationship since at that time he had convinced himself it was no longer something he was invested in. Perhaps Ubbe had gotten through to him, but by then it was already too late. You had heard everything, and it had led to a devastating end.

Ivar knew why he had second-guessed being with you. He knew from the moment you met that you were the complete opposite of Freydis. You were timid, and your interests lied in things you could do independently as opposed to a social setting. Not like him at all. After growing up different from his disability, Ivar made sure he thrived in large groups as an adult, no longer wanting to be the one isolated in the corner of the room. Being with you had reminded him that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, and he never thought you were weak as a result.

But then he had seen Freydis' engagement announcement online, and he was suddenly mourning the loss of his past. Never follow an ex on social media, that was Hvitserk's advice, and he should have listened. He and Freydis had said their goodbyes two years ago, though more reluctantly on his part. She was everything no one thought he would ever have in a partner. The beautiful blonde had chosen the cripple, and his ego had soared to new heights.

Food tasted better, the air was cleaner, everything was different from his supposed view from the top. Ubbe had reminded him that it hadn't been as perfect as the memories he clung to. During that time with Freydis, he had abandoned much of his ties to his family, and he had picked up the bad habit of spending money to the point of debt. When she had left him for new career goals, he had gradually returned to earth with the other mortals and realized he had been an asshole.

He had a momentary lapse back into that spell all because of one picture online, and unfortunately, it had bled on to you. Now all he could think about was how much he had hurt you, and with no real excuse good enough to justify such atrocious behavior.

A knock on his door came, and he threw the bracelet back into the box of his belongings that had made their way from your home and now back to his.

"Hey, you want dinner?" Hvitserk asked, poking his head in.

"Not hungry."

"Still feeling sorry for yourself, huh," Hvitserk said as he leaned upon the doorjamb.

"If I didn't, nobody else would," Ivar grumbled petulantly.

"And how do you think (Y/N)'s feeling?"

"I don't know, you said she was fine."

Hvitserk ran a hand down his face. "I was covering. If anything she looked...disappointed."

Disappointed in him more likely. He was a disappointment, and not because of his legs as he always feared. When the news of his break-up with you had spread through the family, they all were annoyed with him for making that choice. None more so than his mother. She had been vocal over the years of her dislike for Freydis, and while Ivar knew his mother would have a difficult time accepting any woman he brought home, she had come to reluctantly welcome you into the fold. The rest of his brothers didn't hold back on hurtling their own brand of criticism, each as unique and harsh as they were creative.

"What should I do," He asked aloud, and Hvitserk looked startled by the question. He was the last one in the family anyone looked to for advice, but Ivar already regretted not taking the bit about exs and social media to heart.

"Apologize. That's the only thing left, even if it won't be enough to remove the hurt right away. She needs to know you regret what you've said."

For the first time in a month, Ivar felt a smidgen of hope. "Do you think there's a chance we could start over?"

"I don't know about that. If she holds onto those things you've said as the truth, then she might have a hard time trusting you again. Those relationships never work out," Hvitserk said with a shrug.

"Maybe I should go over there and talk to her," Ivar said, already rising from his bed.

"I wouldn't," Hvitserk replied looking guilty. "Thora's over there now, and she's still pissed at you for hurting (Y/N). If you don't want to end up in grievous harm, I'd stay away for now. Sorry."

Ivar sighed as he plopped back down. "No, I get it."

"Try reaching out slowly, and work your way from there," Hvitserk suggested.

"You're surprisingly not as dumb as you look," Ivar taunted, and the first grin broke out on his face. It felt good to use those muscles again.

"I know, I'm brimming with knowledge and ready to impart wisdom," Hvitserk said with a laugh. He stood up from the door and looked ready to return to the sitting room. "You sure you aren't hungry? I haven't ordered yet."

"I think I could eat. Just give me a moment, I need to finish putting this stuff away." He indicated to the box, and Hvitserk nodded in understanding before closing the door behind him.

Ivar pulled out his phone and searched for your name. All of the things he had to say couldn't be composed of one text message, but he could extend an olive branch and hope it didn't come back as ashes.

I know this is probably coming too late, but I need you to know I'm sorry and I miss you. If you want to, I'd like a chance to meet and explain things, that's it -- Ivar

He hit send before he started to ramble or worse chicken out entirely and not send the thing. He didn't know if you would reach out right away, and he didn't want to know. Getting up from his bed, Ivar hobbled on his crutch, leaving his phone behind in his room to join his brother for dinner. Hvitserk must have sensed his change in mood, but he embraced it rather than asking, and they didn't bring you up again. It was the first time in a month he felt like himself, no heartache over Freydis and no self-pity over losing you. After a late-night of buffoonery, and pizza and beer, the brothers returned to their rooms.

Ivar ignored the phone sitting in the middle of the bed, avoiding it as if it was some cursed thing. He went about his nightly routine, all the while he felt the pull to check if you had replied. He hoped you had. Even if it was just to tell him to fuck off, something was better than no answer. After getting his legs settled beneath the covers, he lied down in bed and shut off the lamp on his side table. Before going to sleep it was time to check if you had seen his olive branch. The glow of his phone lit up his face, and his breath hitched. You had replied. His eyes flitted back and forth, tracing your words to make sure they were real.

I miss you too. Let's talk soon.

Ivar fell asleep right after, with renewed vigor in his heart. He would work to earn your trust back. Whether that meant as a couple or just as friends would be up to you, and Ivar would respect what you decided. So long as you were still in his life, everything would be alright.

Taglist

@pomegranates-and-blood @siren-queen03 @peachyboneless @didiintheblog @soleil-dor @zuxiezendler @pieces-by-me @xbellaxcarolinax @heavenly1927 @everyartistwas-firstanamateur @youbloodymadgenius @xceafh @strangunddurm @shannygoatgruff @1950schick @tgrrose @castielsangelsx @rose1729 @ladynightshade30 @mlchael-guerin @dangerouspsychicgardenflower @ritual-unions-gotme @readsalot73 @lonewolf471 @poisonous00 @alytavzla

[pieces-by-me]

You have me

Words: 2459

Summary: Hvitserk went through the same thing once. But can he help her get through it too?

Warnings: Mentions of death, drug abuse, angst. (English is not my first language)

Prompt: angst = comforting the character after the death of someone dear to them.

-So this is my little thing for @maggiescarborough​ 400 follower writing challenge. I wanted to post this sooner but I just got stuck. I hope you still enjoy reading this and that you like it. Also this is my first time writing for Hvitserk. 400 is such a big step and I’m sure you already grew but still I’m really proud of you! I hope you have the best of days 🌼

Hvitserk frowned as he entered the house. Empty again, like all the other times he visited the small hut at the outskirts of Kattegat. It looked like someone broke in and ransacked the whole place. Tables lay on their side, legs broken off. Clothes torn apart on the ground. Books, books the inhabitant loved dearly on any normal day, lay spread across the room. Pages kinked and ripped. No one was there and the hearth in the back looked like it wasn't used all day.

“Oh Y/N”

Y/N was not at her home but Hvitserk knew exactly where to look for her. There where three possible places. A little clearing in the woods filled with small yellow flowers, the offshore piece of land that was hidden from the people of Kattegat or, and he hoped she was not there again, the hut between the stables and the eel fisher. The same hut he himself used to visit in need of his next fix. A dingy and hideous place for such a person as her.

He went to the forest and beach first without any luck of finding the girl he searched for all day. How can she be there again? He only brought her home late at night and it was barely noon on this day. The dark blond haired men went with his fingers through his hair as he stood in front of the door he himself stood so many times. Deep breaths in and out to calm his nerves. Without knocking he went inside and was met with the disgusting smell of vomit, shit and death. Any man would say it was not a pleasant blend of smells.

Lost eyes found his. But none of them were with a shade of light he used to see in his favorite pair. Anywhere he looked he saw old men and younger once. Lying on the floor, snoring away or cowering in the corner. Trying to escape the ghosts. For just the smallest of seconds he thought he saw a burnt figure standing in the back stretching their arm out towards him.

“Snap out of it!”

The inner call to himself brought him back on his search. But after checking almost everywhere he gave up and went back to the entrance. Where could she be? Why wasn't she here?

Then the sound of a woman vomiting on the floor in the west corner, hidden under old fishnets and rotten blankets, made him stop. Sadly the sound was all too familiar to him.

Hvitserk made his way over to the ball of fabric the women hid under. The body shaking and heaving after throwing every little bit of food and water up. Drenching the floor in sick and tears.

Taking in a deep breath Hvitserk bend down to lift up the tattered bundle of cloth.

When he revealed the women he was met with the disoriented eyes from his childhood friend, Y/N. Unfocused, dull and broken. Thats all he could see in her stare.

“Y/N? Come on I'm taking you home.”

With only one word she broke his heart again.

“Mikkel?”

No he wasn't Mikkel. He couldn't be. Everyone in Kattegat knew about the little man that died unfairly and far too soon. Mikkel was Y/N's little brother. The one that made everyone smile. The one that always had a plan or idea to brighten up your day. The one that was good.

12 years and he was just ripped away. The saddest part was that nobody knows how he died.

One day he was found in the woods. Drenched in blood and cold to the touch. Some said he died because of the cold and then animals showed up, others said he was ripped apart by wolfs and then some, the once that were cruel, swore he was murdered and left there to rot.

Who would murder a 12 year old child that never did anything evil?

All these unanswered questions plagued Y/N's mind. Hvitserk could see that day after day. He could relate to that far too well. He also seeked out the bliss of not knowing and swimming in mushroom dreams and mead. But he got out. He had his little brother to help him. To get him out of this pit. And he would be damned if he let you stay in it. She may not have her little brother anymore but she had him.

“Y/N it's me, Hvitserk. Come up we have to get you back. You're freezing and you need something to eat.”

A rare clarity settled in her eyes at his voice. And with that clarity came anger.

“How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone!” It was supposed to be a scream but her voice sounded horse and bitter. Not enough use made it brittle and not enough water made it harsh. She spoke in stuttering sentences. Broken just like her.

“And I told you every time that you will not get rid off me.”

With that he grabbed her arms, pulled her up and swung her over his shoulder. Maybe a little harsh to just take her, but he did this often enough to know that talking to her wouldn't work.

Her failed attempt at punching his back felt like jumps from a flea and her demands to be put down didn't make it out of her mouth. Because after only five minutes of walking like that she threw up again. Lucky for Hvitserk's pants nothing more then water came out.

When he made it back to her little hut he brought her right to her bed. Or more to her pelt covered floor. Y/N was just laying there. Not saying anything and not looking at him. But she was also not trowing up anymore so that was good. Hvitserk used the time that was spend quiet with cleaning her hut and trying to fix her table as best as he could. But after two hours she still said nothing. She wouldn't even look at him. He knew that she was not happy with him, but he was not happy with her either. Though he wouldn't tell her that. He knew she needed time and help. And he would be here and help her. Help her get on her feet again.

“Why are you still here?”

Her voice sounded through the hut but it sounded fake. Not like her own.

“You didn't eat the whole day so I'm staying until you have something else in your stomach then mushrooms and alcohol.”

“I'm not hungry”

“We both know you're lying so just stop it already.” Nothing was said after that for another while.

The sun was close to setting and Hvitserk was getting worried. Y/N didn't move or say anything while he cleaned her room and made some mediocre soup. This couldn't go on any longer. He thought that after a while she would accept his help and get better, but no matter what he did she shut him out even more. Maybe it was not enough. His help. Or maybe it was the wrong way. Waiting for her to come to him.

As he looked at the women who was so dear to him he had enough. He wanted her back. As selfish as that sounded. He wanted to hear her laugh again. See her smile. Having her arms around him. He wanted to stumble upon her on the market and ask her how her day went. Not having to search for her and find her with the other addicts in a dingy hut. He wanted to find out what happened to Mikkel so that he could bring her a little closure. Something that would bring her mind to ease, so she wouldn't have to imagine the worst scenarios about her brother. He just wanted her.

Hvitserk went over to her lying body and saw that she trembled again. Not out of cold, or hunger but out of craving for something else. Small noises came out of her mouth. What is he supposed to do? All his attempts at getting her back on her feet were fruitless. Putting his hand on her shoulder her trembling and sniffles stopped.

“Leave me alone Hvitserk.” She wanted to sound strong. To make him hear how much she didn't want him there, even if it would be a lie, she wanted him gone. But her voice was frail and came out not louder then a mouse's squeak. His eyes grew hard at that. That was enough. He would not sit there longer and look her withering away.

“Stand up.”

Nothing. She didn't move even a little bit.

“I said stand up!” His voice raised to a level far from loving. With a tight grip on her shoulder he turned her around. Glassy and confused eyes met his. She didn't think he would make her stand up. Normally he would leave and hope she would sleep and get better. But not this time.

“UP!” Screaming may not have been the best way but it brought her to her feet. Raising with her shoulders still in his hands he stabilized her, she was far to malnourished and weak to stand on her own. Y/N stood in his arms for the first times in weeks but the look in her eyes showed that she would rather be anywhere else. Anger replaced confusion and her voice found new strength.

“What the hell is your problem? I said to leave me alone! Why can't you just do that?”

“You gave me no choice! Everyday I search for you! Everyday I find you in that hut that slowly kills you! And everyday you send me away, just to get back there! Not this time. I will stay near you and won't let you leave until all these foul things leave your body and your need for them stops.”

“I don't want you here!” Her screaming broke his heart. 'She does. She's just not herself right now'

Hvitserk had to belief that, otherwise he would tear up. And he couldn't. He had to be strong for her.

“You only want me to leave to get back to your mushrooms. But I'm not letting you go. I won't lose you”

“You don't understand. I need them.” Tears were falling from her eyes. Not a care in the world how she looked. She lost the care a long time ago.

“You don't. You just need-”

“YES I do!! I can't bare it. I don't want to! I won't!” Her hands grasped at his shoulder now. Trembling and shaking like leaves on trees. And just like leaves her body was slowly being pulled to the ground. But she held on to him and he held her. “Please....just leave” Her voice was small again. Tired and cracking.

“You have to.” His voice mirrored hers. Quiet and small. He didn't want to scream anymore. He felt her closer then ever. Not just her body but she was there. Her old self showed itself. Just a glimmer. But that was all he needed.

“You have to or otherwise this will never get better. You will loose yourself in this.” For the first time in too long she looked into his eyes. Hearing his words.

“You'll have to feel this. Pain and grief. And everything that comes with it. Fear, anger, panic and all the other ghosts. Otherwise you will never feel love or joy again. You will get through this. And I can help you, if you let me”

Trembling lips, flowing tears and choked gasped where his answer for a while. But he held her eyes with his. He was here and wouldn't go anywhere.

“Mikkel died. He is dead.” She never spoke it aloud. Those words never left her lips and now that they did she broke. Her body falling and sobs escaping her lips. Screaming at the pain that made itself notable after weeks of being extinguished and pushed away. Her brother was gone.

“I don't want to feel this!”

Hvitserk caught her falling figure before she hit the ground. Taking her in his arms. Holding her tight as to squeeze all her parts back together. He caressed her back, hoping it would bring her comfort.

“This is normal. You will survive this. Everyone does. You will come out of this. You are not alone even if you think that right now. I'm here. I will not leave you. You will survive this.”

His words and strokes were met with screams of agony. Clawing at his back as if it was the only thing keeping her together. Grounding her in a way that only he could do in this moment.

Sobbing into his neck. Tears also falling from Hvitserk's eyes but he didn't care. He held her as long as she needed. Slowly after what felt like hours her body slowly shut down. Exhaustion weighing her down. Soft whimpers only left her mouth now but her arms stayed strong holding onto him.

“I'm here. You have me. And you will get through this.”

And she would. With time she would. She nodded her head. Never being more grateful that he didn't leave her. He helped her. The only one she couldn't push away. She wanted to thank him. Crying to him that she wound't know where she would be if it wasn't for him. But she was so tired now. She would tell him. But now she needed sleep.

Hvitserk felt how her body slowly slacked against his form. Pulling her completely into his arms and of the floor he laid her back on her furs. Brushing fallen strands of hair out of her face she looked up at him. Her eyes looked like her own again. Not fully glowing but a sparkle of hope nested itself into the far corners of them. Holding on to his hand she squeezed as much as she could. Her voice still quivered but he heard the honesty in her words.

“Thank you.”

Sending her a smile he only nodded his head. Her eyes closing fast and she was pulled under by sleep. Still clutching his hand.

He sat there beside her for a while just looking at her features. She didn't look pained for the first time. And his small smile grew. After a while he stood up. Reheated the soup on the hearth and waited for her to wake up. She would have to get back her strength.

Y/N would get through this and he would help her every step of the way.