shannygoatgruff - Tumblr blog

shannygoatgruff · 2 years

Text

@xbellaxcarolinax I just love your writing. I’m mad it took me this long to finish this one, but I had time today so I needed to catch up. There is such a grace in your writing. I miss it! Great work, per usual!

Unnatural Force (Part 2)

Pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

Word Count: 3372

Warnings: angst, implied sexual content, mild enemies to lovers, canon divergence

Summary: When Rollo’s nephews visit his duchy in Normandy, you, a Frankish princess, are immediately smitten with King Ivar. Feelings are mutual but duty must come before self-interest. Ivar has other Ideas.

Again, another very special thank you to @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie for beta reading this monstrosity as well as making beautiful moodboards. Thank you so much for your help. I wouldn’t have done it without you <3

Also, this was written for @pomegranates-and-blood, a request that she asked for a million years ago. Sorry, I’m only getting it to you now. I had horrible burnout. Anyway, the prompt was from this list and was:

a hug that some might consider as ~too long~

but make it angst. This part is the angst 😂 This is the final part btw.

Moodboard image and gif credits go to Pinterest and/or the original owner.

Part 1

...

Hvitserk wouldn't call it friendship.

He wasn't as dense as Ivar thought him to be.

Sure, most of his time in Normandy was spent drinking, fighting, hunting, and fucking, but he wasn't blind.

He noticed.

He noticed the way your fingers grazed his brothers ever so gently over a frequent game of chess, and he noticed how Ivar reciprocated.

He noticed whispered conversations between the two of you, almost silent, in mostly empty corridors. And how could he not notice such tender looks you shared? Or how when one would disappear, so would the other. He noticed how eyes lingered for longer than necessary when feasting at night too. It was almost impossible.

Almost.

But Hvitserk noticed.

He recalled the warning Rollo had given them a few days into their visit.

"The princess is off-limits." Rollo had said, hands folded over the table. Between them was a chessboard, a game being played between the Duke and Ivar.

"Your wife?" Hvitserk had snorted the question. To be quite honest, he didn't care much for Rollo's wife. His dick went limp at the sight of her.

"He means her cousin." Ivar had corrected, hand resting on his chin as the other moved across the board.

"Correct," Rollo had agreed, "off-limits."

"But she's a pretty thing," Hvitserk had whined, taking a sip of his wine, "don't be so cruel, uncle."

"I wasn't asking, Hvitserk."

"Your concern is quite curious, uncle," Ivar had begun. "You have grown soft all these years in Normandy."

"She is like a daughter to me," Rollo had raised his glass to his lips to take a great gulp of Burgundy wine, "and I'm sure you'd feel the same if you had something to protect. I will not be questioned in my own home. Do I make myself clear?"

Hvitserk couldn't remember the last time Rollo had been so stern.

"You've nothing to worry about," Hvitserk had leaned back in his chair, "especially not Ivar. He has no interest in these Frankish women, isn't that right brother?"

Ivar had only grunted in response.

Oh, how wrong Hvitserk had been. He'd been wrong about a great many things, but this? This was surely something that amused the gods.

One night, after having ravished a particularly underwhelming lady, Hvitserk had silently made his way back to his chambers, unbothered by his messy hair and open breeches.

When turning a corner he’d abruptly stopped, taking a few steps back until he was hidden with enough of a view to eavesdrop. Hvitserk could have snorted at the sight before him. Of all the rules to break, Ivar went ahead and broke this one.

There were no guards by your chambers, meaning they were changing their posts.

But what amused Hvitserk the most was you. You had his brother pressed against the wall, your face mere inches away from Ivar's before planting a gentle kiss over his mouth.

Ivar had reciprocated immediately, a hand gripping onto his crutch while the other rested on your face, gently pushing a few strands of your hair behind your ear. He’d whispered something in your ear before you reluctantly pulled away from him. He’d taken your hand and pressed his lips over your knuckles, a familiar smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as you quietly complained. "I will see you in the morning," was all Hvitserk heard of that conversation. Ivar surged forward for another kiss and ushered you into your chambers. With a final look, you smiled and softly shut your door.

Ivar had stood there for a few more moments, his finger grazing over his bottom lip. He’d stared at your door as if he could look through it, then turned with the help of his crutch, and walked down the corridor to his own chambers.

No, Hvitserk wouldn't call it friendship.

Seeing his brother this way was surprising yet refreshing. If Rollo were to discover this he'd surely rage. But that was if he found out, and if he did, it wouldn't be from Hvitserk.

Hvitserk had smiled, finally rounding the corner.

If he could call it anything, then he'd call it love.

┕━━━━━━━♔━━━━━━━┙

“Stop staring at him,” Gisla scolded, “you look foolish.” Her dark eyes were stern and her thin lips were set in a line.

“It does not hurt to look, cousin.” Your eyes fluttered over the golden rim of your cup, sparing Ivar another glance. Even in the dim light of the hall, you could make out the blue of his eyes and how the evening shadows danced across his chiseled face.

He met your gaze without fear, and something within you stirred.

“You are a Frankish Princess. It is unbecoming behavior.” You loved your cousin to death, truly, you did, but not even the saints could grant you patience to deal with her.

“Gisla, please,” you huffed, “you’ve been in a mood for weeks and it bores me. My eyes are mine to do with as I please. If I wish to look, then I will.”

“My father, the king, will not be pleased to know his niece has a wandering eye for heathens.”

“He married you off to one.”

“Rollo is a changed man,” she snapped, patience wearing thin as well, “but his nephews continue their pagan ways.”

“And why should that be any concern of mine?”

“Because you desire King Ivar.” Gisla’s tone dropped significantly, masked by the dull music she preferred during feasts, but you heard her well enough.

Your cheeks flared as you denied the accusation.

“He is handsome,” you said in a small voice, “but I don’t desire him.”

“Good,” she nodded, “because arrangements are being made for your betrothal.”

You almost spilled your wine at her words. You knew the day would come. You were a princess after all and niece to the king. It was out of your hands.

“You are well past marrying age and I will not allow you to wither away. You are a princess.”

“So you remind me every day.” Gisla easily ignored your glare.

“Then you should understand your duty to the kingdom.”

You bit your lip, choosing to remain silent. Your fingers moved to grip your skirts at the knees, nails jabbing at the skin through the fabric. You risked another glance at Ivar sitting across the room from you.

He was already watching you like a hawk, ever so vigilant, with a crease between his brows.

“Excuse me.” You tossed your linen napkin over your plate of untouched food before pushing your chair back.

Gisla rolled her eyes as she watched you stand. “If I could do it, cousin,” she began, pressing a bright red grape to her lips, “so can you.”

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“Princess.”

“King Ivar.” You greeted him in return, head bowed and eyes glued to your hands. You stood by a window not far from the feasting hall, overlooking the castle gardens.

“Why are you hiding?” His fingers gently skimmed over the nape of your neck like a whisper, pushing your hair off to one side.

You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing for mere moments to savor the feeling of his skin on yours. “I’m not hiding.” You mumbled the lie.

Ivar leaned his back against the stone wall beside you, moving his arms toward his front and over his crutch as he always did. He had a curious expression, one that demanded answers from you.

“What did your cousin tell you that angered you?” His chestnut hair shone in the candlelight and you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out to touch the braided strands. They were smooth under your fingertips, soft like royal silk. Ivar smiled, capturing your hand to place a chaste kiss on the underside of your wrist. “Stop stalling, Princess.”

“Gisla believes I desire you.” You didn’t spare him a glance as you said the words. You knew he would be grinning like a cat.

“Don’t you?” The amusement lingered in his tone.

You scoffed, turning to catch sight of him.

He was watching you intently, a smile still in place as he leaned in close. “It is a mutual desire," he shrugged, “I suppose things have changed between you and I, hm?”

“That is a shame.” You said with a sigh.

“And why is that?”

“The betrothal would have been much easier.” You lamented. You could feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, clouding your vision.

“What are you talking about?” Ivar demanded.

“Gisla says I am to be betrothed.” The words came in the form of a whisper, a bit choked, but he heard you.

His smile, once so bright at the sight of you, dropped, eyes immediately hardening. The silence dragged on as he processed the information. You noticed the crease between his brow again, the sneer on his lips in utter distaste. Gently, he pulled away in favor of fidgeting with his crutch. He stabbed the pointed end deep into the hard ground. You imagined it was the same way he pierced his enemies during war.

“When?” He bit out.

“Soon, I presume.”

“You can’t. I forbid it.”

Your watery eyes narrowed as a snort fought its way past your lips. “You may be a king but you don’t have that kind of power here, Ivar.”

Your words hit a chord within him. He lowered his eyes for a moment as if deep in thought. “Then I will seek out Rollo for your hand in marriage.” He said it so confidently that you almost believed him.

He would marry you?

Something fluttered in your belly, something warm and intense, filling you to the brim with something you’d never felt before. You wanted to chase after it, hold on to it for as long as you could. You reached forward and kissed him, breathing in his scent unique only to him.

He melted into you quickly, his gloved hand gently stroking your cheek. It was far from the behavior he presented at the Norman court: cold and calculating. You knew you'd be seeing that side of him again.

You pulled away from him reluctantly, your brow leaning against his shoulder as you sniffled.

“You cannot,” you whispered sadly, feeling him shift under you, “it is not up to Rollo to make any decisions. It is up to my uncle. He already gave away his daughter's hand to a heathen, he wouldn't do it again with his niece.”

More silence followed.

Ivar’s proposal had been a silly thought.

┕━━━━━━━♔━━━━━━━┙

His name was Sigmund of Spoleto.

He was a distant cousin of yours and a gentleman of a Lombardian duchy in the Byzantine east.

You’d heard quite a few things about him in the past as family gossip traveled overseas quicker than lightning. He was but a few years older than you and already had an army under his command, though he wasn’t much of a leader.

“Sigmund the Pure” is what he was sometimes referred to in passing. He was destined for monastic life as the second son, but the death of his older brother meant he was to take up arms as the future duke of Spoleto. Yet, his heart was not that of a warrior’s.

The future duke was halfway to Normandy by the time Gisla had informed you of the betrothal and in a few short weeks, he had arrived.

“I did not want it to be this way.” Rollo spoke quietly, head slightly bent towards you.

You stood beside him, Gisla, and their children, ready to greet Sigmund and his entourage.

“Did you know?” You asked him, keeping your tone as even as you could. Your nails bit the soft flesh of your palms as you kept your anger at bay.

“Gisla does not tell me much these days.” He replied, his light eyes on the approaching carriage.

You said nothing, choosing to keep your eyes on the grass below.

Rollo understood your silence well. A hand found its way to your shoulder, his thumb brushing gently over the silk of your dress in comfort. “I’m sorry,” he said, “it pains me to see you this way.”

“It is my duty.” You knew it wasn’t fair to speak to him so dryly. Rollo had limited power and it was out of his hands but you still couldn’t help the anger that festered within you.

“But I know where your heart lies,” Rollo replied softly.

You finally whipped your head toward him.

He dropped his hand down, placing it behind his back in the proper way he was taught, acting as if he’d said nothing of importance.

“What?”

“Your heart,” he repeated, “is unfortunately in the hands of my nephew.”

“Did Gisla—”

“—I had my own suspicions.”

Before you could utter a response the sumptuous carriage pulled up close, horses and cargo pulling up just behind it.

“I just want you to know,” Rollo began, “if it made you happy, you would have had my blessing.”

┕━━━━━━━♔━━━━━━━┙

You soon discovered Sigmund was a musical man, highly skilled with the lute.

He performed at the feast on the night of his arrival, his tenor vocals making you wonder if he was castrated.

A self-proclaimed poet, Sigmund had written terrible sonnets and sang melodies in your honor, all composed during his journey. When he wasn’t singing his throat dry, he spoke animatedly on ecclesiastical topics, keen on demonstrating his intelligence. He did not seem pure, but rather prideful. You thought perhaps his title should be changed.

But Gisla was quite impressed. You, on the other hand, were not.

His visit to Normandy was brief due to other pressing matters but it was enough to leave you with an impression.

You didn’t like him.

And you knew Ivar didn’t either.

The Northern King could not hide his glares, lips always pulled down into a seemingly permanent frown. His knuckles turned white when gripping his crutch, as if ready to strike at any moment. His anger was often met swiftly with frightened servants or his own men. Sometimes it was Rollo who suffered Ivar’s wrath on nights when he had too much Frankish wine in his belly.

Your wedding was arranged for the next year.

You would be Duchess of Spoleto by then, no longer a Frankish princess, and Ivar would be long gone, ruling a kingdom in a land that was once a fairytale to you.

Summer transitioned into autumn.

Preparations were made for the departure of the Northmen before the frigid cold set in. You counted down the days till they set sail, masts high and ships full of Frankish gifts.

You still watched Ivar from afar no matter how many times Gisla scolded you for it, and Ivar's eyes never faltered from yours. How could he say so much with those eyes?

Guards failed to report to their nightly posts by your door, no doubt Rollo’s doing. At least he had control of his own home.

From that point on, nights were reserved for when you could finally be alone with Ivar.

You savored the taste of his mouth, the leather underneath your hands, the scent of his skin because you knew you’d never get the chance again.

┕━━━━━━━♔━━━━━━━┙

“You are welcome back anytime.” Rollo smiled at his two nephews, his short hair dancing in the cold breeze.

Gisla stood beside him, bearing a smile she hadn’t worn since before they arrived.

You were rigid, jaw set tight and throat tightening in discomfort. You swallowed thickly as your eyes watered.

“We plan to visit very soon,” Hvitserk replied immediately, grinning when Gisla audibly scoffed, “it has been a pleasure, Duchess.”

“I cannot say the same.”

Hvitserk shrugged, turning to you with hand outstretched. He kissed your knuckles as soon as you placed your hand in his. “Be well, princess.” For all the joy Hvitserk displayed in that one smile, you found it difficult to return it. He took a step back, allowing Ivar to say his farewells.

“Princess.”

You bit your lip at the sound of Ivar’s voice.

“King Ivar.” Your eyes were downcast as they usually were when you couldn’t face reality. The ground underneath your shoes was muddy from last night's rain, staining the hem of your fur-lined cloak. Perhaps it would have bothered you once but now you hardly cared.

Ivar’s footsteps over mud was a distinct sound, catching your attention. His leather boots were in your line of vision but you could not bring yourself to look at him. You felt you would shatter under the pressure of his eyes, knowing he was waiting for you to acknowledge him properly.

“Princess?” he tried again, “please, look at me.”

You bit your lip, finally gazing at him through your lashes. A stern expression clouded his features.

You could hear the murmurs of the nobles in the distance, gossiping no doubt. Gisla made a noise of disapproval but you both ignored it. Without another moment’s hesitation, you reached for him, embracing him as tightly as you could.

His arm snaked around you, chin resting over your wind-blown hair.

The murmurs increased, and you could hear your cousin hissing at Rollo to pull you two apart.

The Duke did not.

How long had you embraced for? Two, three minutes? It felt like a lifetime before Ivar pulled away from you, meeting your eyes once again.

“Don’t forget about me.” You uttered, your hands not quite leaving his shoulders.

“We will meet again.” It sounded like a promise.

You didn’t know whether to be delighted or upset. “Will we?” You questioned, your tone dripping with skepticism.

“This is inappropriate!” Gisla hissed, “Rollo, you must stop this.” Again, she was met with silence.

“Mhm,” Ivar assured you, releasing you completely to take in the sight of you. Disheveled hair, tired eyes, and over-bitten lips. He smiled. “In Spoleto. I am sure the Lombardian fool would not mind a challenge.”

“What do you mean?” You lowered your tone, hoping he’d do the same.

Instead, he reached over to push a few strands of your messy hair behind your ear as he so often did.

“Do not think for a moment that I would not fight for your hand, Princess.” You tried searching for any hint of humor in his words but was only met with stone-cold seriousness.

“Are you daft?” You asked incredulously.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re the one being ridiculous! All the princesses in the world and—”

“I want you,” Ivar said with total finality. “Must I repeat myself again?”

You shook your head as a hysterical laugh erupted from you involuntarily. “You are daft, Ivar the Boneless, a complete madman.”

He grinned, shrugging off the lighthearted insult. “If by daft you mean determined, then I must agree.”

You laughed again, a bright smile breaking through at long last. “You promise to come back for me?”

“I swear it upon my gods, must I swear it on yours for you to believe me?”

“No,” you shook your head, “I believe you.”

“Good.” He pressed a kiss to your brow, letting his lips linger for longer than he should have before pulling away. A few minutes later both he and Hvitserk loaded the ships, and off they went.

“Good riddance.” Gisla sneered, pushing past you and Rollo to usher her children inside and away from the cold.

“She will accept him in time just as she has accepted me,” he said to you, placing an arm over your shoulders and steering you into the warmth of the castle.

“What are you talking about?” Were you and Ivar not quiet enough in your discussion?

“Oh, nevermind.” Rollo waved a hand aimlessly before disappearing off into a corridor.

You paid him no mind, sprinting up toward the balcony with blurry eyes. Finally, after holding in tears for what felt like a lifetime, you let them overflow and consume you.

You smiled through the tears, wiping your cheeks with trembling fingers. Despite seeming impossible, you knew Ivar was telling the truth. Somehow, you knew he'd come back for you.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

You sighed, resting your elbows against the rough stone edge of the balcony, watching with sad eyes how the waves cradled Ivar’s ships until they were nothing but tiny specks dotting the horizon.

┕━━━━━━━♔━━━━━━━┙

...

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shannygoatgruff · 2 years

Text

Unnatural Force (Part 1)

Pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

Word Count: 4448

Warnings: angst, implied sexual content, mild enemies to lovers, canon divergence

A very special thank you to @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie for beta reading this monstrosity as well as making this beautiful edit and other moodboards that I’ll be posting because I couldn’t choose just one Thank you so much for your help. I wouldn’t have done it without you <3

a hug that some might consider as ~too long~

but make it angst.

Not as angsty as I would have wanted but you can be the judge of that once part 2 is posted. Hope you like it, Luce :)

Moodboard image and gif credits go to Pinterest and/or the original owner.

If you stared hard enough, you could see ships dotting the horizon.

“My nephews will arrive in time for the feast.”

You turned away from the balcony as soon as you heard the familiar voice, immediately dropping to a curtsey.

Duke Rollo sighed, waving a hand around before gently gripping your forearm.“None of that,” he said, helping you up with ease, “twenty years in Normandy and still, I am not used to such formalities.”

You smiled and turned back towards the sea, watching the tiny specks bob over crystal waves. “How long are they to stay at court?” You asked in practiced Norse, watching how the duke’s smile stretched from ear to ear at the sounds of his mother tongue. He’d taught you well.

“By Autumn’s end,” he answered back, “more than half a year.”

“And are they truly as terrible as the noblemen say?”

“Worse,” he grinned, “they are beasts.” There was a fondness in his tone that spoke volumes.

“Tell me about them.” You insisted.

Rollo chuckled, gently placing a hand over your hair as he so often did with his small children.

“Hvitserk had always been my favorite,” the duke admitted, “he reminds me of myself in my youth, wild in battle and searching for glory." A moment passed before he continued. "And he eats like a pig.” You burst into a fit of giggles, your hands pressing against the cool stone railing of the balcony.

The breeze carried fresh spring blossoms in the air, and you caught a few petals in your palm before asking your real question, the one that had burned in your mind for quite some time. “And what of King Ivar?” The name slipped past your lips like a secret.

“He is my brother’s son,” Rollo shrugged, grasping a petal between his fingers, “an unnatural force.”

You did not need him to explain further.

You knew the stories, the murders of the Saxon kings, the pillaging of York. So much destruction seeped from his name alone, and yet, the duke welcomed him with open arms to Normandy, ignoring the growing tensions at court against it.

You glanced up at Rollo, tracing the lines of his profile, his aging eyes, and his dull skin. For all your searching you never found what made him heathen. It seemed impossible to view him as anything but a Frankish nobleman.

Gisla had always been vocal of Rollo’s beginnings as a duke.

His mannerisms were atrocious. He drank wine like a man dying of thirst and he ate like every day was his last. He kept his hair braided in his early days at court before cutting it short and assimilating into Frankish society. You weren’t old enough to remember him as a heathen but you liked to imagine it.

Sometimes, his silver pendant slipped out from underneath his tunic, the foreign trinket settling against rich fabrics. You questioned him about it as a child and he proudly displayed it to you, turning the silver trinket between his fingers to make it shine in the light.

Mjölnir is what he called it. The word twisted on your tongue for days, the unfamiliar sounds making you giddy.

“Do you miss being Viking?” You asked him curiously.

For a moment you thought Rollo hadn’t heard you. Perhaps it was something he did not wish for you to know.

He turned to you, a smile hidden behind his graying beard.

“Come,” he said, speaking to you in Frankish again, “we must get ready for the feast.”

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You understood why Rollo considered Hvitserk his favorite.

The young man enjoyed a good feast. He was quite lean despite all the food he consumed and could handle his drink almost as well as Rollo could. He was lively and boisterous, able to light every candle in the hall with a smile if he wished it so. With him, the duke seemed like an apparition from his past. You believed it was enough of an answer to your question from earlier. Rollo was still a Viking at heart.

Then there was Hvitserk’s brother, King Ivar the Boneless.

It was a strange title to you. You descended from a line of kings that earned titles of admiration — Charlemagne the Great and Louis the Pious — to you, “boneless” was not a title of admiration. It was in reference to his legs you realized, though you assumed the stories were an exaggeration before Rollo confirmed them.

You had watched him disembark his ship, the crutch he used to help him walk seemingly glued under his arm. If he felt any pain, he hid it well.

An unnatural force, Rollo had called him.

His features were striking but hard as stone. While his brother was lean and golden-haired, Ivar was much broader with thick shoulders and hands, and a large chest covered in leather. He seemed to be dressed for war. His dark hair was long, braided back tightly towards the nape. His fingers were wrapped around a golden cup of wine as if to take a sip but he never did. His eyes shifted around the hall, observing, memorizing every corner, searching for deceit.

So, this was a heathen?

Suddenly his gaze fell upon you. You felt your heart race but whatever was in the wine that night made you courageous. You refused to look away. His eyes, such a distinctive shade of blue, held a brightness to them. The look alone was powerful, commanding respect. You had grown up at the heels of powerful and respected men. Such a look did not intimidate you anymore.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the king turned away. You did not miss the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips.

You quickly looked down, fiddling with the forgotten fruit on your plate. Your curiosity had peaked, and after a few moments of contemplation, you stood.

“Where are you going?” Gisla asked immediately, eyes shifting from her plate to you like a snake. She had been in a mood for the entire morning once it was announced that Rollo’s nephews would be arriving, spitting venom at whoever was within her reach. She was particularly of ill humor towards her husband, snapping at him like one of his hunting dogs for most of the day.

“To greet our guests.” You barely managed to say the words before your cousin glared, her short brown hair brushing against her shoulders as she shook her head in disagreement.

“Absolutely not. Sit down.” She reached for you, ready to grab your wrist and force you back into your velvet seat. You swiftly moved away from her, a victorious grin on your face when a subtle scowl clouded her usual blank features.

Your hands began to moisten as a servant pulled back a chair beside the heathen king. You took it, rubbing your soft palms over your knees. You asked for your glass to be filled with wine. You know you’d be needing it. You searched your mind for the right words before leaning toward the northern king and uttering:

“Welcome to Normandy, King Ivar.”

He turned to you. There was a look in his eyes and a twitch to his brow. You were the last person he thought would speak his tongue.

“Princess.” Your royal title sounded as smooth as butter, his voice hidden within the chords of the music echoing throughout the hall. It was all he said to you before turning back to his wine as if already bored with your presence.

“I’ve heard many tales of your late father,” you found that he was in no mood to engage in conversation but still, you pressed on, hoping to garner a reaction from him, “that he was a great warrior for your people.”

The king paused as if deciding whether to entertain the conversation or not.

“That is true.” He nodded slowly, his icy eyes following the dark wine he swirled in his cup.

“But,” you took a delicate sip of yours, “I hear that you are even greater.” Your words were like honey over a succulent pastry. To this, the king gave you his full attention. The corner of his lips twitched into something you could not fathom to be a smile or a grimace.

“That...is also true, princess.”

You pursed your lips, watching as he finally decided to reach over and rip a piece of roasted boar. He pressed the meat past his lips, and you followed the movement of his angular jaw as he chewed.

“Rollo seems quite fond of you.” He pointed a greasy finger toward his uncle, animatedly speaking with Hvitserk.

“He is like a father to me, my Lord.”

The king snorted at the title with a shake of his head. Did all heathens hate formalities?

“I assume your cousin is not pleased with our arrival.” From a distance, the duchess glared at the pair of you. It was another look you had grown used to.

You answered him as politely as possible. “In very few words, my Lord, no.”

“It is a shame, we’re quite friendly people.” You could hear the amusement clear in his tone.

“I do not think friendly is the right word.”

“No?” His smile grew. You marveled at how it seemed to change his face, like a fire pit roaring to life. You leaned towards him a bit, just enough for his eyes to widen at your sudden boldness.

“No.” You answered back. You felt your lips curving upwards in a genuine smile. Having heard all the stories of recklessness the man beside you had committed seemed to vanish. Somehow, the proximity did not bother you. It didn’t seem to bother him either. “May I be honest with you, my Lord?”

“You will come to know, Princess, that I greatly appreciate honesty.” His brows curved in anticipation.

“You are not as frightening as everyone claims you to be.” Your revelation resulted in a choke of laughter, short but airy.

“Looks can be quite deceiving.” He remarked.

You stood suddenly, careful not to overstep your boundaries, though you thought perhaps you had already done so. “Indeed.” You said to him with a curtsey, your silky skirts whirling about your ankles as you took your place beside your cousin again.

Ivar lowered his head with an amused huff before taking a small sip of his wine.

┕━━━━━━━♔━━━━━━━┙

The first month of their visit was uneventful, much to your dismay.

Court was always dreadful during the wet season, the sky shedding its tears in the form of rain showers.

You mostly spent your time indoors, as all good princesses do, partaking in needlepoint circles with the other ladies. Such tedious work made the hours long and filled with endless gossip surrounding the heathen brothers. Nothing pleased you more than to escape such miserable duties, disappearing down empty corridors instead.

You often found yourself seeking out the Northern king, hoping to catch a glimpse of him whenever you could. He mostly sat brooding, keeping to himself while the duke and Hvitserk prattled on about things of the past.

Ivar knew who his uncle preferred.

Sometimes he played chess with Rollo in silence, ivory pieces scraping across the board as the game progressed.

But it seemed you were not the only one seeking him out.

On nights when storms raged over the countryside and the court was drunk off imported Burgundy wine, you found that his eyes sought after yours, too.

The skies cleared significantly by the second month.

Hunting parties were organized weekly as a way to explore the surrounding terrain. Stags and rabbits were in abundance and no one was left hungry at the duke’s table. The fresh air did the court some good and the warmer weather resulted in a change of wardrobe.

You wore your absolute best, picking colors you thought suited your skin. Your hair was now adorned with jeweled diadems nestled neatly into thick strands.

“This is terribly unlike you,” Gisla commented one morning over an early meal.

“What is?”

“Your hair, your dresses,” she listed, “who are you so besotted with?”

“You presume, cousin.” You simply said, your delicate fingers plucking a piece of dried fruit from an elaborately painted bowl.

“Since when did you care about which crown matches with which necklace?” Gisla eyed the stones that adorned both your head and collarbone. She knew you well enough to know the answer.

“I always have.” You defended weakly.

Your cousin tilted her head, giving you one final look before accepting your answer. “You look lovely.” She finally said.

You beamed.

You hoped Ivar thought so too.

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You were beginning to think the heathens had grown quite tired of their dull visit by the third month. They didn’t pay you any mind, or at least, it felt that way.

Hvitserk was kind enough, gracing you with a bow and a polite smile whenever your paths crossed. He went out of his way to keep his distance. It was in great contrast to the talk at court.

He was a womanizer.

He had one too many dalliances with several of yours and Gisla’s ladies, and every other night, gentle sobs could be heard from the antechambers that connected one room to the other.

You were royalty; perhaps he did not want to tread on such dangerous waters, not that you’d allow him to approach you in such a way. A lady-in-waiting was much easier to fool around with than a princess.

Not that it mattered.

But what did matter to you was Ivar, and only the Lord knew the reasoning behind your quiet fascination with the king. The fascination continued when Rollo had insisted on training with his nephews, claiming old age would never take him.

You had never seen the duke fight. He had given up his sword the moment he married your cousin, something that had apparently displeased him for years. It was hard for Rollo to accept his protected life as a duke after a lifetime of war.

You would watch them from the balcony.

The sword was a particular favorite of Hvitserk’s. He reminded you of a skilled dancer with the way he moved in swift circles around his uncle, light on his feet. The older man easily lost his breath every time.

And Ivar, you noticed, favored the bow.

As soon as an arrow was placed in his hand, he would make his mark in seconds and every time he did, he looked up towards the balcony knowing you’d be watching him.

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“Do you play?”

You looked up from your old parchments, the Latin you were practicing disappearing from your mind without a second thought. A hand reached out toward you, a chess piece in a loose fist.

You blinked only to find King Ivar towering over you, his body leaning heavily on his crutch.

"Not very well." You admitted, finally finding your voice.

"Let's change that."

You found yourself in front of Rollo’s chessboard, a gift from your uncle, the King. The duke was not fond of the game, leaving the polished ivory board to collect dust for years. That is, until very recently.

Your hands began to moisten as you both set the pieces in silence. A moment more and the game commenced rather quickly, Ivar ruthless in his strategy.

“Who taught you to play?” You demanded, watching Ivar's quick fingers snatch away one of your pawns.

“Someone far more capable than whoever taught you.” He teased, easily advancing closer to your side of the board.

You flushed but released a huff of amusement. “I’ll be sure to let my tutor know you are not impressed with his methods of educating his pupils.”

Ivar chuckled. It was something short but sweet and enough to warm you with a sense of accomplishment. He wasn’t so tough, now was he?

“And this person who is far more capable, who are they?”

“King Alfred.” He answered.

“Of Wessex?”

“Mhm.”

"He’s king now?" You were intrigued. You felt like you knew Alfred well despite never having met him. Many of your ladies once served in the court of Wessex, bringing with them stories from across the English channel.

Whatever look took hold of your features did not seem to please Ivar.

"Fairly recently," he shrugged, "he’s a rather lousy king."

"Impossible," you scoffed, stealing a pawn of his, "I hear he was a beloved prince."

"I get the impression that you hear all manner of things." His expression didn't reveal much but you were aware of his ongoing teasing.

You smiled, moving your eyes from his and back toward the board. Stories of other kingdoms were what entertained you. Normandy had always been such a bore.

"I do," you answered, quickly clicking your tongue as Ivar's knight approached your rook, "and I hear your brother is breaking the hearts of many ladies at court." You wanted to burst into a fit of laughter, watching how Ivar suddenly pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. You held your composure if only for the etiquette lessons forced upon you from a young age.

He sighed, drumming his fingers over the ancient stone table.

"Hvitserk was never a subtle man—" he began to explain.

"—I hadn’t noticed," you interjected, another of his pawns in your hand.

Ivar paused, the corner of his lips twitching into a smile. "Unfortunately," he finally said, momentarily ignoring the game. His gaze was intense, enough to make anyone squirm in their seat, but you held firm, staring right back. "Hvitserk was ordered to keep his eyes elsewhere."

"By whom?"

"My uncle."

"Duke Rollo?" You had stopped paying any mind to the game long ago, you weren't going to win anyway. "Why?"

Ivar rolled his eyes, an unbecoming gesture that would normally bother you if it came from anyone else, but not him. "He views you as one of his own. A dóttir."

Ahh. Of course. You smiled, idly fiddling with your rings. "He is like a father to me." you agreed, repeating the same statement from the night you met.

Ivar nodded, releasing the smallest noise of understanding. "It explains why he doesn’t want you to be my brother's plaything."

"And does that order fall on you as well?” There was that boldness again, rearing its head at the sight of the Northern king squirming in his seat in the way he wanted you to.

He paused again, chess piece hovering over the board. It would have been a checkmate if he put his bishop down to claim your king. When had he gotten to your queen? You hadn’t noticed.

"I like to think I am above such orders," he gently placed the piece down, pushing aside your king much gentler than you thought he would ever be. "Checkmate."

"You win," you sighed, leaning your chin on your hand. “We both knew you would.”

His lips twitched again and pride bloomed over his features. “You will learn in time, as I did.”

“Meaning you’d like to do this again?” You asked, ignoring the hopefulness that ran thick in your tone.

Ivar shrugged, moving his hands over the board to rearrange the pieces into their rightful place.

“I suppose something can be arranged if you ever plan on beating me, hmm?”

“One day, King Ivar.” You smiled.

He nodded before grabbing hold of his crutch, hoisting himself up with little effort.

“I’ll leave you to your…” he motioned toward the parchments beside you, long forgotten.

“Latin.” You finished.

“Right.” He took one final look at you, a proper one that had heat creeping up your neck, burning your cheeks. Blue eyes traveled from the strands of your hair down to your shoulders, stopping at your collarbone to observe the ruby-encrusted cross that hung right above your bodice. His brows knitted for mere seconds as if the Christian symbol caused him discomfort but it disappeared and was replaced with something else. He quickly cleared his throat, turning away from you.

“Red suits you, princess.” Ivar inclined his head toward you in respect. You could hear the stab of his crutch and the scrape of his boots against the stone floor.

You turned to watch his retreating figure, pressing your fingers against the cross with a smile.

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By the fourth month, the heathen king was more than happy to seek out your company, even if it was in the most unlikely of places.

The chapel.

You were sleepless that night. Your mind fizzled with inappropriate thoughts that had your skin heated under cotton sheets. Your fingers had inched down toward your abdomen, slowly reaching the bud that was desperate for touch.

Pleasure exploded within you, hard blue eyes appearing behind your closed lids.

A smirk. The imagined touch of calloused fingers.

It was enough to push you over the edge, throat fighting to release choked whimpers.

You had done this more than a few times, fingers exploring places you knew you shouldn’t. But this time was different, this time you felt overwhelmed with a burning lust that felt like flames searing your skin.

With a sigh, you dressed in your night robe and made your way toward the court chapel. You supposed you should atone for such unnatural thoughts toward a heathen. Perhaps, then, you would sleep.

The chapel was empty as expected, save for the priest that walked around extinguishing dozens of candles. Christ on the cross was now shrouded in darkness.

You debated repenting your sin to the priest but decided to pick a pew closest to the door.

He bid you goodnight with a bow before you were left alone with your thoughts once again.

You didn’t know where to start. You held your rosary beads between your fingers, rhythmically pushing past each bejeweled bead while reciting prayers of forgiveness you were taught long ago.

Something wasn’t right.

You found yourself unable to properly repent as you recited the practiced words. You did not feel any guilt. You had a few minutes of silence before the door opened and the familiar scrape against the stone floor echoed throughout the small chapel.

Ivar sat beside you with a grunt, leaning his arms on his crutch.

You turned to look at him, already feeling your blood boil beneath your skin. You dropped your rosary in your nervousness, the beads landing beside Ivar's feet.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, Princess." He leaned forward, grabbing the rosary and handing it over to you.

"You didn't frighten me," was your immediate response, snatching the rosary from his outstretched palm.

He smirked but said nothing more.

"I never imagined you willingly entering a chapel." You commented, your nervousness slipping through your icy act. You wanted to appear nonchalant, not like a besotted princess, though you felt you were failing miserably.

"I did once," he said, "in York."

You knew exactly what he meant and snorted at his apparent disregard of the horrors of a day that was well documented.

“Ivar the Boneless, youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok, poured molten gold into Father Alwin’s mouth, sending the beloved priest into the arms of the Lord.” You easily recited the Saxon words written on parchment, a document hidden away in the Frankish king’s library.

Ivar eyed you curiously.

"I wanted to make an impression," he shrugged, turning his eyes back to the crucifix that hung above you both. "Why are you here, Princess? You never seemed particularly...religious."

"I could not sleep."

"Why?"

You paused. "Intrusive thoughts." You chose your words carefully.

He hummed, jabbing his crutch gently into the ground.

"And why are you here? Was I unaware of your baptism?"

Ivar scoffed with a gentle shake of his head. His hair was not intricately braided but loosely tied back, dark strands moving against his equally dark tunic. "Don't be ridiculous. I was in the corridor and I saw you entering the chapel…so I followed.” A shrug ended his explanation.

“Roaming the corridor at this hour?” You pestered him with more questions, silently enjoying his growing irritation.

“I could not sleep either.” It seemed he had more on his mind but was holding back whatever it was he meant to say.

"Why?" You placed your hand flat against the pew, the coldness of the stone not enough to cool your heated hands.

“Intrusive thoughts.” He repeated your phrase, eyes peeling away from scrutinizing the crucifix to look into yours. Despite the moon draping in through glass windows, Ivar’s eyes reflected the dark shadows within the chapel, almost appearing black. You normally couldn’t read his expressions, he guarded himself well, but you thought perhaps you could decipher this look.

Longing.

One of his hands released its grip on his crutch, placing it dangerously close to yours.

You didn’t need wine to encourage you this time. You looked down, letting your fingers carefully curl over his with bated breath. It was exactly how you had imagined his skin to feel. Rough to the touch from what you assumed was a brutal upbringing, but it was no different from Rollo’s hands, or the king’s.

You pulled your fingers away almost immediately but he stopped you, gently intertwining thick digits with yours.

You gasped at the action, lifting your eyes to find that Ivar was already looking at you, searching for any sign of discomfort. When he found none he seemed to release a breath he’d been holding in.

“Before your arrival,” you began softly, “I asked Rollo about you.”

“I’m sure he had nothing but good things to say.” The statement was sarcastic but you could hear the amusement hidden within his words.

“He called you an unnatural force.”

“Did he?” His fingers danced over the skin of your palm before taking your hand in a reassuring grip.

“Mhm.” You hummed.

“Does it bother you?” His thumb settled over the pulse point on your wrist, feeling how fast your heart was beating.

You knew he could easily snap the fragile bones of your wrist, that was no mystery, but you knew at that moment it was far from his intentions. Your breathing settled when you looked at him.

Insecurity swam in his eyes, brows curving down in an unfamiliar look that left him vulnerable.

You smiled, and with your heart ready to pound out from your chest, you shifted to peck his lips.

It was quick and soft. His lips had slightly parted in surprise when you pulled back slowly.

“I find it to be quite attractive.” You whispered over his lips with a smile, your eyes closing as you felt the tip of his nose gently brush over yours.

He released a chuckled breath through his nose. “I’m relieved to hear it.”

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Gorgeous :')

...

Tag List:

#beautifully written that's my dog this bitch here

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shannygoatgruff · 3 years

Text

Only Fan(s) - A Thriller

Genre: Thriller

Pairing: Modern Ivar/OC

Warning: Language, sex, stalking, obsession, kidnapping, sexual assault

Rating: MA+18

Summary: Sometimes OnlyFans subscribers want a little more than internet pictures. Sometimes they want to be your ONLY fan…

Header by: @flowers-in-your-hayr

Thanks to @xbellaxcarolinax for being my beta.

Disclaimer: This story will deal with some topics that might be a little uncomfortable for some people. As always, I’ll try to tackle the hard stuff as tactfully as possible.

a/n: I know it’s been a minute. I’m always thinking about these stories because I want to finish them, just can’t seem to focus on writing at the moment. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Part iv - Date with Destiny

Finding Ivar Lothbrok should have been easy. Between the two of them, he was the stable one. He was the one with the iron-clad schedule that consisted of drinking, smoking, and partying. Torren’s schedule was a bit more... fluid. She tended to go wherever the wind, or whatever car she acquired, would take her. Naturally, Ivar had the occasional meet-and-greet, red carpet, and/or Comic-con engagement that he had to attend, still, he was pretty easy to keep tabs on. All one had to do was look at (stalk) his social media accounts, and his whereabouts were posted for everyone to see.

Knowing where he’d be and finding out where he lived were a different story. Torren had done her due diligence when it came to locating the town in which Little Kattegat was located. It only took about two days and a few Google image searches of the background of a few of the photos and she had it narrowed down to a general area in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

From what she could tell, the closest town to where he lived was pretty small, and there were only a few large estates hidden in the woods. How hard could it be to find? She was willing to drive to every single house and knock on the door to find him if she had to. But it would just be easier if there was loud music and a bunch of cars in the driveway. That way she could tag along inside with the rest of the guests to get to her man.

Her shirt landed in the pile of dirty clothes in the center of the bed, as she reached around to unhook her bra. “I really need to tell Baby Boo to stop putting all of his business out in these streets,” her brows furrowed as she shook her head, “What if some crazy, psycho bitch started stalking him, or some shit? Then I’d have to kill a bitch.” Torren’s head whipped around and she narrowed her eyes at his picture, still stuck on her wall, “Is that what you want? Huh? You want me to cut a bitch to prove to you how much I love you? I will, Bae! You know I would do anything for you. I’m your Ride or Die...”

And being his Ride or Die meant that she needed to keep better tabs on him if she was going to protect him from someone crazier than her, God forbid. She was only able to do so much on this prepaid phone, and going to the library to get online was becoming a pain in the ass.

She’d considered stealing a laptop or iPad from the library but was still on the fence about the idea. Of course, the alternative meant going to stupid ass libraries and threatening little kids to get off the fucking computers, and that completely sucked ass.

She always felt rushed when she logged onto her Bae’s Only Fans page from the public library. Without fail one of those little bastard kids would get the library Nazis to kick her off the computer, or bar her from the library altogether for watching porn.

Ivar’s page wasn’t porn! It was art. It was sexy. It was love...his love for her. Stupid bitches.

She had encountered far worse things than getting kicked out of the library, but some of these small towns usually only had one or two within their county limits. If she got banned, how was she supposed to check up on Ivar? In the time it took to log in until she got kicked out, she'd be lucky if she could check 2 of his accounts. What if he had some important information on another platform that she hadn’t checked yet? What was she supposed to do then?

Her relationship with Ivar was hanging in the balance, and she'd be damned if some snot-nosed kid or fucking uptight librarian would fuck that up. She needed a computer. But, on the flip side, when she finally got her man back, she wouldn't need one anymore. She could ask him directly what their plans were.

There was a lot to consider and that took time; time that she didn't have right now.

The thick layer of Nair shaving cream she had applied to her already hairless crotch, was just starting to tingle, signaling she had about 5 minutes left before the sweat-inducing, burning sensation would kick in alerting her to wash the cream off. Until then, she had time to consider an outfit for the night.

She knew Ivar well enough to know that he would want her to be sexy for him, but not so much to distract him from work. She could have gone for something slutty, like those skanky bitches he partied with. She could have gone for more demur, but then she would remind him too much of his bitch ex-wife and completely turn him off. The last thing she wanted on their first night back together was for him to be thinking about that bitch. She could have gone for a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but Torren never did simple.

No, Ivar would want her to be herself. That's what he loved about her. That's what attracted him to her in the first place. She would be sexy without being skanky; she would be demure without being a prude.

Fuck! It was already 7:33 p.m. How in the hell did she miss the beginning of his Live? Now she was running late.

She was supposed to be dressed and ready by the time his Live came on that way she could be out the door as soon as he finished. If she was going to make it to be on his Only Fans live stream tonight, she needed to get to his house before he got too distracted. Now, she’d have to watch his Live, while her cooch burst into flames before she had a chance to take a shower and finish picking out her outfit.

If there was one thing Torren was, it was punctual. It was bad enough that she was about 40 minutes outside of his town, but it could take her up to 2 or more hours to find his house. She only hoped that he didn’t plan on starting any real freaky shit on his Only Fans page until around midnight, cause it looked like she wouldn’t be getting there before then, anyway.

With the smile still plastered on her face, Torren turned on the hot water for a shower, forgetting that the water didn’t get hot. She didn't mind, much, especially since the cold water gave her a break from the heat in her room.

Phone in hand, she watched him, as she planted herself on the dirty bathtub floor, cross-legged, and started to get herself ready. Starting with her toes, she shaved each one, just below the knuckle, followed by her fingers, arms, pits, and each leg, from groin to ankle, three times. When the burning from her nether regions was so intense that she couldn’t tell her tears from the shower water dripping on her face, she quickly washed off the cream.

All she could do was hope that she hadn’t broken the skin this time. The last time she had let that damn Nair stay on, just past burning, the skin broke and she bled. She was not having a bloody hoo-ha tonight.

With that taken care of, she gently used the razor to remove any other pubes closer to the inside that needed to be removed. Then shaved her backside. When she had more time, she was going to get the internal hairs bleached, but she needed to find out what Ivar preferred.

Shaving ate up so much of her time that she only had a few seconds to rub some body-wash that she had stolen from a drug store over her body and hoped it got rid of the smell of the summer heat. Her hair? Fuck it...she’d wash it another day, for now, this cold water would have to be enough. She’d spritz some perfume and hair spray in it and it would smell fine.

Torren finished her shower, and walked out of the bathroom dripping wet, only using a towel to wrap around her hair. She was glad it was so hot in her room that her hair would air-dry quickly. She finger-combed her damp tresses to complete that ‘just got out of bed, but it's styled’ appearance. She knew how much he loved when her hair looked like that. It would remind him of freshly fucked hair.

She spent extra time applying her makeup, even using an extra dark, thick application of eyeliner. She usually went for more subtle warm colors. They matched her tan skin tone better. But, tonight, she had bold, dark makeup, complete with varying shades of purple and blue eye shadows, and dark purple lipstick.

Torren was glad that she decided to match Ivar’s clothes this evening. The swim trunks and smoking jacket he wore would compliment her beautifully. She wanted everyone to know that they dressed alike, the way real couples do. If he was going for less is more, so would she.

She settled on black leather chaps that tied up on the sides, and tight blue boy shorts that left the bottom half of her ass cheeks exposed. The blue shorts brought out the blue swirls in his trunks; she knew he'd appreciate that touch. Her top was a blue bandanna that she wore as a halter with a short black leather jacket with tassels on the sleeves.

They screamed “couple” in her eyes.

Completely satisfied with how she looked, Torren locked the door to her motel room and started down the hall. She deliberately stopped by the window and peered through the partially opened blinds of the people staying next door to her. She knocked on the window to get the attention of the young couple inside. Judging from their appearance, they were too strung out to know who she was, or that it was her music that they constantly banged on the wall about. She didn’t care. She still flipped them off before making her way to the stairs.

Reaching her hand through the busted window of the blue Ford Taurus to unlock the door from the inside. Torren slid into the driver's seat and leaned over to find the two cords that she had pulled out from under the steering column when she stole the car. Flicking the cords together, she listened as the engine reluctantly turned over.

She put the car in reverse, looked in the rear-view mirror at her makeup, then pulled out of the spot. As she turned onto the road leading to the highway, she listened to the knocks, bumps, and hisses that her car made. There wasn't time to do much about it now; not when she was on her way to get her man. But, she made a mental note to do something about it later in the week. The only thing she could do was turn the music up louder to drown out the car noise.

Truthfully, she should have stolen a better car than the piece of shit Taurus that she found in the parking lot of the Quickie Mart while driving through Tulsa, Oklahoma. There were plenty of better cars there to choose from but no one would have wanted to take this one. It was so sad looking that she took pity on it. She had been doing the owner of this crap car a favor, by taking it off of their hands.

The car was truly fucked. The oil light stayed on, and it drank gas like her mother drank liquor. The car had protested every inch of the ride across the three states that she traveled through in one day. She knew that it would only be a matter of time before that piece of shit breathed its last breath.

She needed to get gas again, but fuck that car. She had already refueled four times since she stole it. Gas wasn't cheap and she wasn't putting another dime in that gas guzzler. Speaking of money, she made a mental note to steal another credit card. It would only be a matter of time before the owner of the one that was tucked snugly between her left breast and strapless bra, would eventually realize that it had been lifted from the table in the diner, and canceled.

Laptop, butt bleaching, car, credit card, and more eyeliner from Walgreen's…her To-Do list was growing. She really needed to take some time off and take care of the necessities. Not tonight, though. She had other things to do. She couldn't do anything else, right now, but get to her man. Besides, once Lothbrok was by her side, he would help her remember all the things she needed to do.

As she came off of the highway exit smoke started billowing out from the engine. It backed up through the exhaust system, and came through the vents, inside the cabin. It was ironic – the air-conditioning vents in the car didn't work, but they seemed to work well enough to clog the inside of the car up with thick white smoke. She drove a few more miles before the smoke was so thick that she could no longer see. As she pulled the car over to the graveled shoulder of the road, the car knocked and shook, before it finally cut off.

Just her fucking luck.

She reached under the dash to flick the cords against each other again, trying to force the ignition to catch again, but it wouldn't. The engine had nothing left to give her. "Fuck Murphy and fuck his fucking law," she said calmly as she pulled the hood release.

She opened the car door, taking care to place both black, platform boots on the ground before lifting her backside from the seat. Placing her sunglasses on her eyes, she walked with one foot in front of the other to the front of the Taurus and placed her hand on the hood. It was hot, but not so hot that she couldn't feel under the front of the lever.

As she lifted the heavy metal hood and placed the rod in the slot to hold it in place, Torren let the smoke from the engine engulf her. It was quite a head rush breathing in the thick engine smoke through her nose, and exhaling it from her mouth. She patiently waited for the smoke to thin out before she bent, at the waist, over the engine. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she knew that someone would see her looking over the engine and stop to help her.

Now, if only someone would actually come down this dark stretch of road, she could be back on her way to Ivar.

It didn't take long before a pair of headlights rounded the bend of the road, just off to her right. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she accentuated the leather, chaps against her hips, and lifted her ass higher in the air, to catch the driver's attention. She couldn't help but smirk when she heard the tires of a large vehicle turn onto the graveled pavement in front of where she broke down. She didn't turn to face the car or the driver. She didn't care who they were or what they looked like. She had an appointment to keep and this pit stop was fucking up her timetable.

"You need some help?" A deep voice asked as its owner approached her.

Torren took a moment to peer around the hood, noticing that there were no other cars around. "Broke down," she answered, continuing to bear her weight from one hip to the other. She placed her hands on the metal frame of the car, arched her back, and looked at the man over her shoulder. "You know something about cars?"

"Yeah," he replied, moving around to her side, looking at her, and not the smoky engine.

She gave him half a smile, as she noticed him notice her. "You a mechanic or something?" She asked standing up. She rubbed her hands together to remove some of the visible engine soot while considering the guy in front of her. He was about 6 feet tall with a moderate build. He was dressed in blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and Timberland boots. He didn't look like he was more than 25 years old. Judging from the way he was looking at her and from the ring on his left hand, he wasn't too worried about her car, or his wife, for that matter.

"Nah, not a mechanic, but I work on my own car... in my spare time." He smiled when she did. She was gorgeous, in that slutty kind of way. She wouldn't be dressed like that and leaning over the hood of a car if she wasn't looking to have some fun. "Lemme take a look at it."

Did he work on his car? Hopefully, that meant that his ran better than hers did.

Torren moved over to the side and let him take the position under the hood. "I'll be right back," he explained before walking over to the bed of his F150.

Grabbing a flashlight from the trunk, he took a second to admire the view of her, from behind. If he could get her car moving again, she would hopefully follow him to this cheap motel he knew that was just up the highway.

He leaned in close, taking a whiff of her hair, "You overheated…want to check the coolant level."

She had heard him say something else but she had stopped listening; she was too busy watching the street. "You want me to try to start it?" she asked, removing her sunglasses before making her way to the driver's door. She wasn't sure if he answered or not. She had no intention of driving the Taurus again, even if he could get it started. She just needed to get something out of the car.

She slid into the seat and reached down on the floor. She found the hard metal object on the floor of the passenger's side and gripped it tightly. As she walked back around to the front of the car, she heard him talking, presumably about the car, or maybe he was asking her out. Who the fuck knows? She was on a tight schedule and all of his chatting was holding her up. She stood by the side of the hood, looking at the angle he was leaning over the hood. Quickly, she lifted her arm, and with one powerful blow, she struck him in the head with the crowbar that she used to procure her now-defunct car.

Torren stood over his body, looking at him intensely. God, it felt good. The rush of knowing that one minute this dude was towering over her, and the next he was on the ground. She had dropped his ass. She was the one with the power.

"Thanks," she said, digging her hand in his pocket to retrieve his cash, credit card, and the keys to his truck. She wiped the blood on the crowbar on his shirt before walking to her new mode of transportation.

Torren sat in the truck's driver's seat and turned on the engine. She had managed to cross two things off of her To-Do list without even planning to.

Thank God the truck had air conditioning. All this heat and humidity was bound to make her hair frizzy. She cranked the AC up as high as it would go and sat still for a moment enjoying the cool air. After a minute, she adjusted the seat and tilted the rearview mirror to look at herself. She was starting to sweat and her eyeliner was starting to run just a bit at the corners of her eyes. She dabbed at the black liner to even out the lines, and then pushed the mirror back to where she could see. Giving the area another once-over, she made sure that no one else had seen her interaction with that guy on the ground, before pulling out from the gravel and onto the paved street.

"Ugh!" Torren yelled. Chester Bradley, the printed name on the credit card, had shitty taste in music. She pushed the stereo button on the steering wheel to do a scan of the radio. Anything was better than country music. Once she found some trap music on the XM radio, she turned up the volume and pulled back onto the highway.

Part iii/

Tags: @ideagarden-blog1 @youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @a-mess-of-fandoms @didiintheblog @conaionaru @peachyboneless @flowers-in-your-hayr @heavenly1927 @zuxiezendler @waiting4inspiration @saldelys @revolution-starter

#OnlyFan(s)#modern ivar #shannygoat #shannyland #Date with Destiny

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shannygoatgruff · 3 years

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youtube

Catherine Wheel - Crank

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shannygoatgruff · 3 years

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Sweet. Baby. Jesus

I know I don’t post that often, but when inspiration strikes, I have to. Stumbled across this today online - why lord, is he so beautiful?

#alex høgh imagine #alex hogh fanfiction #alex høgh #baby daddy #why is he so beautiful #how do you like your alex?

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shannygoatgruff · 3 years

Video

Lightning by @madslanger - video featuring Alex.

I want to kiss him!!!!

Source: Alex’s instagram - ig@alexhoeghandersen

#alex høgh #alex hogh andersen

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shannygoatgruff · 3 years

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Fries Meet Guys: ALEX HØGH ANDERSEN - I DIDN'T THINK I WAS A PERSON WHO SHOULD TALK ABOUT ANXIETY - Part Three: Anxiety, Success, Acting

Taglist: @ivarsrideordie @tgrrose @shannygoatgruff @youbloodymadgenius @alexein13 @jupiter-sagittarius @youaremyfamiliar @jadelynlace @al-lwiisa @familyfriendsfotografienature @katarokkar11 @ivarhoegh @hell-rio @spiritdesirre @alexhandersenblog @peachyboneless @geneeu

PART TWO HERE

Well, when you walk in the show, for example, it's hard and it causes you anxiety. Do you think other people perceive that you feel that way, or are you good at holding on to that façade?

In fact, I think I should be honest, I might have put on a façade, and I think it was to save myself and maybe also not to be difficult with my colleagues. This is something I share with my friends and my closest family only. They have been very understanding, so I have been really good at talking about this with them from day one. I want to stand on my head, it's out of my hands and I do not know at all what is happening. When I started to get really anxious, I felt really bad and I was completely screwed this past summer, I was at work, basically in a living hell. I knew that the only way I could kind of survive that was to talk to people. I simply don't know what to do. It was a completely natural reaction on my part, because I had to have some answers.

I had no idea I was going to sit in a podcast or in the radio show with you guys and talk about anxiety. I had no idea when I came home from work at the time because I didn't know if it was taboo. People talk about those things but I've never talked about them before. I've never experienced that.

I'm generally a very private person. The more famous you are, the more private you become. And I’ve always been a very private person and just don’t feel like sharing so much publicly. I am not top news, but I also have control over things and I share everything with those I love. And it really puts a lot of value in it, and it has meant the whole world to me. Absolutely. I wouldn't be where I am today without them. If I had not surrounded myself with people I trust and love, and who have been good at listening, and who have helped, and who have thrown all sorts of wise things into my head. Sometimes I really need to listen to their opinion. It happens quite often.

I'm just sitting here thinking about all these things you're telling me about you. You're explaining yourself very well and you're very good at talking about those sensitive topics. But are you good at communicating? Let's say when you have anxiety, or for example, are you good at crying with your friends and family?

Unfortunately, I would also have to sit down, hug my parents and accept the fact that they may not understand what I'm going through. It's terrible to say, but it's still a long way to go for my parents to understand. We've cried several times, me and my mother. We also had verbal fights and yelled at each other because of that. I have a hard time with them every now and then.

What I mean by that is having the ability of just let go and pour your heart out. Lying down and say: “I'm in bad fucking shape”.

I want to say that it's so hard to let go like that. I haven't figured this out myself, but it's completely different from having all the control while being relaxed. It's really weird. At the very heart I might also be a hell of a controlled and self-conscious person. That's what acting is about if you think about it. Every time I experience a different situation I can't unsee camera angles from outside and what not. And it's strangely crazy. I think a lot of actors will recognize themselves in this. I think I make my own movies all the time at some stage in my head. When it comes to family and friends it's all about how good they are at making you feel comfortable with them. I guess it's more than a personal conscious or unconscious choice.

When I asked about your profession you said you're an autodidact actor.

[Alex laughs]

What does it mean not going to acting school? What does it mean in your line of work and in your performance?

Stage fear was a big thing when I started.

Was it specifically at the beginning of your career?

Yes, but when I got the role in Vikings it was especially challenging. It was a hell lot of work and I honestly got more practical experience than any trained actor. Unfortunately I was in a foreign country and in the beginning it was hell. Very anxiety provoking. The fact that I've always had a nice amount of confidence created a strange combo. Absolutely wild alternating current back and forth all the time. I've got enough confidence to know damn well it helped me kick the door down and trust my own choices. If you do not trust yourself and your own choices, then you will become even more self-conscious. The first year you are in the moment and you trust it. You need it to give your 100%, if you don't, you're just able to give 80%. Because one thing is when you go to the casting, you say your line and that's it. Then you land a fucking job, and you have to troop up and go to work 9 to 5. For some people. For me it was more 5 to 8, but I can do that. In that moment you don't even know if you can explain yourself in English. It's a complete fucking joke and you will find out how much you're strong. At some point I decided to drop out of college and I asked myself if I could jump back on it and if I could see my friends again and stuff like that. It was a completely insane upheaval. But yes, there is the immediate self-confidence that cracks through and helps a lot, but it went downhill short afterwards.

END PART TWO

Ask me in messages if you wanna be tagged // Feel free to like, comment and share, thank you!

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shannygoatgruff · 3 years

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NSFW Prompts / Ink Drinker Modern Vikings AU Request [Ivar x F!Reader]

catch up on the series here!

requested by: @quantumlocked310 / “I had to see you again” (prompt will be bolded) / requests are closed!

author’s note / content warning: mentions of work shenanigans, brief mentions of past abuse, lost of smut [female receiving oral & cream pies]. banner is by @firefly-graphics

word count: 2500+ words

pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

You don’t want your feet to carry you where they are; you don’t want your arm to move with its own accord against the door, but it does. Your body betrays you in a way as your mind quiets itself and you knock on Ivar’s door. You knock on his door and you’ve only been sleeping with the man for three months.

Keep reading

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shannygoatgruff · 3 years

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Happy Birthday Slash! You’ve been the love of my life since I was 15 years old, and I love you more and more each day! You are still the sexiest man alive, in my eyes.

I’m so proud of your 15 years of sobriety and of all of your musical accomplishments! My parents had Hendrix. I have you!

#slash #slash's birthday #happy birthday slash #best guitarist ever #baby daddy

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shannygoatgruff · 3 years

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I am here for all of it!!!!!!

Part II of the Changing Course saga:

Adrift, Chapter 1: Tale of the land surrounded by a sea of sand.

Adrift; so as to float without being either moored or steered.

Chapter 1) Tale of the land surrounded by a sea of sand.

.-.-.

There was an ancient wisdom in the old growth forest, one unknown to men, simply because they refuse to listen. Humans, unable to comprehend the unmoving force of nature and myth. If only their ears could pick out the tiny tingle of elves’ voices, mistaken for songbird’s chirping during spring. Fairies appeared as summer bloomed, able to move from their toadstools world and simply vanish before any human hand could harm them. The forest breathed in more life than any men could detect and hid it’s enchanted residence with ease.

At least, that was what was written in Runes; some marked them as ancient history, other’s scoffed it off as simple bedtime stories for children.

The depth and truth of the possible enchanted creatures didn’t matter to one spirit in particular. It only cared about the essence of the folklore stories; the forest was a perfect refuge.

Utstott’s ability to vanish was as powerful as his ability to appear when absolutely necessary. All he needed was shadow and darkness to use as passage, to roam from one world into the next. The giant oak trees cast out just enough sunlight allowing him to move with great speed through the forest.

In one moment, Utstott would position himself atop a fallen tree branch, like a quiet and worried observer. The next, he’d move hastily, soaring high above a two-wheeled cart, struggling to maneuver over the wobbly roots and branches of the forest floor.

The first night Utstott reappeared in the realm of Midgard, he had been so furious that he wanted to peck out the eyes of het teerkind. But blinding the freed slave maiden would have only made it harder to rescue his savior.

So, aside from throwing her scornful glances with his one good eye and pecking furiously at her sleeves, there wasn’t much more revenge Utstott could claim. The bird possessed unworldly powers, yet the white raven had his limits. And in a world where there were so many predators, Utstott had to cut his losses and rely on het teerkind.

It had taken Utstott days to track her down and it had taken a few more for her to turn around. Weren’t it for the ringing of Utstott’s ear piercing caws all throughout the night and until dawn, the bird reckoned she might’ve never turned her two-wheeled cart around at all.

Utstott’s full grown white feathers ruffled in delight when he started to recognize the narrow, sandy path leading the cart back into the centre of the forest. It meant they were getting close.

The bird took off from the cart and resumed his watchful position, landing back on the broken branch along the torn down tree. Green moss had softened the place; it would have been a favorable deathbed for the poor cripple who’d collapsed after days of suffering.

The hunger had been the cripple’s main obsession and he’d been eating things that weren’t human food. Tall grass, acorns, and eventually dirt. Severe malnourishment does that to a person.

But thirst was worse than hunger, the cripple discovered after a while. Summer had blessed the forest with rain and provided enough drops on leaves and small puddles. But as the summer heat claimed its place, the water evaporated rapidly .

It left the poor young man to endure and hallucinate as migraine set it’s fangs into his skull. His lips, both of them withered and chapped versions of what they should have been, mouthing to his cherished mother to take him home. His throat was dry and sore; every lung full of air robbed more and more water from his body.

Utstott hopped upon the chest of his savior, concerned and tilting his head as the light faded from the cripple, whose eyes were growing more and more glassy by the minute.

The white raven wished it had the ability to speak; to say that help was on its way in the form of a donkey, a cart, and a traitor.

The cripple’s hands shifted, fingers trembling and forming into a powerless fist as he could not bring himself to lift his hand and pet the bird.

Utstott’s blue eye took notice and he gently pressed his beak against the balled fingers of the cripple. Just then, as a bird’s hearing is far more advanced than that of a human, Utstott perked up at the sound of pinecones crushing beneath the wheels of an unstable cart.

Digging his pointed beak into the chest of his savior, the white raven struggled to keep him conscious; help was so close and on the way.

The two-wheeled cart eventually managed to steer through a maze of roots without tumbling over. Cautious, the driver stepped down and took a long hard look at the motionless body surrounded by moss.

Kneeling down, she took out the water bag and brought it to the cripple’s mouth. Like a young nursling he started to drink, nearly choking on the desperately needed liquid.

The glazed layer covering his eyes instantly faded, revealing a look of solid stone; cold and riddled with dark skepticism.

“W-why,” his chapped lips managed to mouth, “w-why come b-back?”

Their eyes met as the young woman tilted the water bottle to his lips once more and she whispered: “Because I couldn’t bare to be the reason for your death.”

.-.-.

In a land surrounded by seas of sand there was a tale about alamaneun, the cursed one. Like humans, a Djinn is created with fitra, neither good nor bad. The path of their future is as blank as a canvas. Yet, there could only be as much evil as goodness in the world. For every right there needed to be a wrong, and as it lays in human nature it was easiest to condemn the other party.

Djinn were held accountable for misfortune, possession, and disease in many Islamic folklores.

One tale stood out most, it was older than the written word and the first version was told not in writing but in drawings. Throughout time the tale changed, bended, but the essence remained the same.

Thy shall not murder an alamaneun, a cursed one, for the Djinn will be freed from flesh and chose to possess the slayer.

Many cursed ones would be cast out, scared away, spit upon, and throttled. But only fools would actually make the choice of murdering an alamaneun. Even the most hated possessed would not be robbed of their lives. Yet, many suffered the same fate; to be outcast among their people and live a poor and lonely life.

But sometimes fate worked in mysterious ways. Every once in a while, one of the cursed ones managed to have a fortunate start in life.

The land surrounded by a sea of sand was called Nubia by its inhabitants. The country knew many kingdoms, settlements, and villages. But the most dominant and prosperous of them was the Kingdom of Kush, the capital of the country.

It was ruled by Sultan Kashta, known for his kind heartedness and many wives, called the royal harem. His first wife, Queen Pebatjma, was still the one he adored most and it brought him much grief when she died during the birth of her youngest and last daughter.

The country entered into national mourning for several weeks, in which the King enlisted his younger brother to take over the royal throne- his heart too shattered to rule.

Misfortune and tragedy struck twice within the palace walls, for the youngest daughter suffered a cruel fate. Not only would she grow up without knowing her mother’s love, she was a cursed one. She was a weak child, plagued by terrible seizures and spasms. If she wasn’t unconscious she’d weep; none of the many wives of the King managed to hush her pains away.

As if by magic, the poor young daughter of the King gained strength and weight the moment the national mourning stopped. Her father, the King, saw this as a sign from Allah and resumed his royal duties.

Many years went by and the young princess grew up inside the palace, blessed with many mothers and siblings. She’d never known hunger, nor pain. Due to her status as a cursed one her life was sheltered and, aside from the royal gardens, she never took one step outside. Her world was that of a caged nightingale, gilded and smothered by the love of her father and many stepmothers. For the young princess was the spitting image of her mother, the last tangible memory of a woman that died so her child could live.

This tale of the cursed princess of the land surrounded by a sea of sand could have had a simple, happy ending. But greed had bittered the younger brother of the King. His taste for power awoke when he’d taken over his older brother’s royal tasks during the weeks of national grief. The taste of ruling had fed his appetite for control and as the years passed, that taste grew into an insatiable hunger, turning the younger brother sour and green with envy.

Abu Zakariya murdered not only his older brother in a bloody coup-no, his cruelty knew no bounds-the royal harem was also butchered, staining the walls within the palace red. The women had begged, not for their own lives, but for the lives of their many children.

Abu Zakariya made the women watch when the royal guards decapitated all of his nieces and nephews.

All, but one. For none of the guards dared to kill the cursed child. Petrified to take over the Djinn, the guards chose to lose their own lives rather than take that of the youngest princess. It maddened Abu Zakariya beyond measure.

He ordered that the resisting guards be slaughtered too and, to his surprise, the guards calmly sank to their knees and embraced their death.

Then, the angered future king took fate into his own hands and raised his knife, ready to strike the young princess and seal her fate.

But before he could plunge the lethal weapon into her heart, the princess’ eyes rolled back and the Djinn took over all control of her body. It was right then and there that her uncle realized his youngest niece could not be murdered, not even by his hands.

Instead of being executed like her father, all her mothers, and siblings, the youngest princess was shipped off to Infriqiya to live an invisible and sober life with the nomads.

It would not be the life suitable for a princess, but it would have left this tale with a somewhat decent ending. She could have been happy, being raised among camels and heat in the midst of the sea of sand. She might have been happy.

If only.

Because, during her voyage towards Ifriqiya, her ship was raided by Giants. Tall and broad men with golden hair and blue eyes, as perfect as the summer sky.

Instead of Infriqiya, the ship sailed to Sicily, a region in Italy. Known for its famous slave markets.

.-.-.

A/N: Welcome to ‘Adrift’ the second part of the Changing Course saga. If you haven’t read the first part I highly recommend to read it first: Masterlist - ~*_It is not my fault_*~ (tumblr.com)

Since I started publishing Changing Course I knew there would be a second part, I mean the ending was just a bitch of a cliff hanger. And to be honest I really adore Piglet and Ivar too much to stop writing.

I’ll leave it at this, because I do not want to spoiler too much. Updates will take time because I have an extremely busy life right now. But please bare with me, it’ll be worth the wait! :)

Xoxoxo Nukyster

The kickass beta: @sarahh-jane

The tagged ones:

@youbloodymadgenius

@xbellaxcarolinax

@saldelys

@shannygoatgruff

@pieces-by-me

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa

@readsalot73

@lauraan182

@conaionaru