#I find the tattooing process relaxing. I don’t look relaxed bc I’m just always tense but it is and I’m sleepy)

[headofocs-inklesspen]

New tattoo (the only thing I’m now not 100% is maybe it should’ve been placed higher? Idk it’s my silly little nuclear tattoo and it’s there to be silly and happy so I’ll live. Just means it’s still visible with shorter sleeves and not just tank tops.)

[rhabakoli]

Targets On Their Backs

So, here it is, Part two of this HC by one of @dreamwritesimagines followers, bc I can’t seem to stop myself.  It’s about 2.2k words, 4 pages long, and it’s quite... something. 

Also, if anyone has a better title, shoot. 

Gala and Ubbe had moved Ragnars bed into the new room, while you were walking around in circles, holding you son to your chest and humming softly, trying to keep him calm and quiet. He had started fussing, when Eitr flew out the door. The bird had yet to come back, which made him restless. Ubbe sat on a chair, feet on the table and played with his dagger, his axe on his lap. Even you, inexperienced in war and fighting as you were, could tell what he was doing. “Do you think there’ll be another attack tonight?” He scoffed. “If there’s more than just the one assassin, they’d be mad to try. But I’m still not leaving until someone is here, who can at least throw a dagger.” “I can throw a dagger.”, you murmured. You almost accidentally hit your husband, but who had to know. As it was, you still were glad he wouldn’t leave. “Thank you, Ubbe.” 

He made a dismissing gesture. “You’re family. I can’t let anything happen to you.” Gala put the last furs on the bed and then came over to you. “Do you need anything else, before I go?” You smiled at her. “No, thank you, Gala. Get home and rest, today has been… well.” She nodded, gave Ragnar a little wave and was about to leave the room when Hvitserk stepped in, his arms laden with books. They almost collided but he reacted quickly, shifted the weight in his arms and steadied Gala by grabbing her shoulder. “Excuse me, I didn’t see you, Pri-” “It’s Hvitserk.” One corner of his lips pulled upwards. “I don’t like when you call me by my title. I’ve told you before.” “Yes, Hvitserk.” He lit up when she said her name and then went to put the books on your table. “You’re gonna stay here for a while, I thought you might like to have your books here.” “Thank you.” You noticed Gala turning towards the door once again. “Hvitserk, won’t you join Gala on her way home? I am not comfortable with her being alone after the attack.” He didn’t need much convincing. Gala looked at you with wide eyes, before blushing and pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders. Your brother-in-law motioned to the door and bent slightly at the waist. “M’lady.” Ubbe snorted and winked at you, when you turned to him. “Subtle, Sister. Real subtle.”

Ragnar was sleeping in his bed with Eitr, now clean again, residing on the head end of it. She was staring at the door, as if she was expecting someone to storm in at every given moment. You went over to her and stroked her soft feathers, kissed her small head and spoke to Freyja, expressing how grateful you were for her present. You stood there for a while, watching your son and your bird, and you tried not to think about all the ways tonight could have ended. Your son could be dead. Eitr could be dead. Hel, more guards and Gala could have been killed. Oh Gods, Gala. The poor thing had been through so much with you, already. You’d have to prepare a present soon. Something to express your fondness and how much she was needed and appreciated. Maybe you could find her another cat. Surely, Earl Erik could give you some pointers, perhaps he knew someone who had kittens. Then, something else came to mind. “Ubbe.” At you voice, he raised his head and turned slightly in his seat. “Who’s the best at throwing? Daggers, I mean.” “Ivar.” He turned around fully now, sitting backwards on the chair, one arm on the backrest, the other hanging over it, swinging his axe slightly. “Why? Do you want to learn?” “Least I can do, no?” Ragnar gave a little snort, making you look. His soft baby hair was in complete disarray, and you wondered who he had it from. He had a lot of it too. You wished you could ask your mother. “Y/N, do you think that’s the best idea?” “I can’t always rely on you all. At some point, someone’s going to get through, get to us when no one is around.” You straightened your back, raised you chin as you threw him a look. “You said it yourself: You won’t leave until someone’s here who can at least throw a dagger.” You shrugged. “And daggers are way lighter than swords, after all.” Ubbe laughed and shook his head. “You and Ivar really deserve each other.” “What, because it’s uncommon for a woman to handle a weapon?” “No, not for born Vikings. But they also can hold a sword for more than 5 seconds.” “I am not christian anymore, am I?” “I think you’ve never really been.” He leaned his head on his hand, tilting it to the side. “You’ve adapted way too fast. Maybe it was fate after all.” “Thank you.”

Ubbe turned towards the door, when you heard voices. Soon, the door opened. Ivar stepped in, closely followed by Bjorn. “Ivar, you can-” “I know what I can, and what not.” He looked furious. “Don’t try to tell me what to do.” “I’m not, I’m just saying, maybe you should-” “You should shut up.” Ivar came straight towards you, letting his crutch fall to the floor and pulled you close to him. Immediately, your arms were around him and you were pressing your face against his neck. Bjorn threw his hands in the air in a slightly exasperated move and shook his head. You peeked out underneath Ivars jaw, seeing Bjorn pointing at you. “Talk some sense into him.”

Then he turned, gave Ubbe a slap to his shoulder to make him move. At the door, he stopped, smirked, bent at the waist, with one arm stretched to the side and went after the oldest brother. After the door closed, Ivar relaxed a bit. He softened his hold on you and looked over the cribs sides, watching his son sleep. Eitr flapped her wings once and let out a hoarse croak. “Ah, I’ve got something for you.” You raised your head, surprised. “Are you talking to my bird?” “Yes.” Your eyebrows almost left your forehead at that. Ivar ignored you in favour of your bird, who watched his every move. Your husband conjured up a piece of meat, dark, juicy, fresh as could be. He lifted it, Eitr following his hand with her eyes. When he was sure she’d react, he threw it and watched the falcon catch it midair. “You… did you slaughter a goat just for that slab of meat?” He laughed. “No. The cook did.” “But you specially went to get it.” He looked down at you, frowning slightly. “Yes. She murdered an assassin coming after our child.” The look on his face turned grim. “I’d serve her a whole horse, if she was able to eat it.”

You slept awfully. Every other noise made you wake up in a panic, frantically looking towards the crib, where Eitr still watched over Ragnar. Ivar awoke right with you, always, pulling you back down against him, shushing you and stroking over your hair in an attempt to soothe you. Thus, you were exhausted and pale, with red rimmed, dry eyes. You could hear the guards outside talking, muffled voices and laughs. Ivar slept next to you, seemingless dead to the waking world. You slowly got up and went to see your son, who was just like his father. There was no denying it. He was sleeping on his belly, spread eagle in his crib, a bit of fur gripped in one tiny fist and drool collecting on the sheets. You weren’t saying Ivar the Boneless, most ruthless Viking to live, was drooling in his sleep, but… well, if his sleep was deep, contrary to usual... “Y/N.” You jumped, barely keeping in a yelp. “Ivar.” You swallowed your fear, trying to calm yourself. “Did I wake you?” “No, love.” He sat back against the headboard, raising an arm towards you. Quickly, you went over to him and joined him under the covers. His hand came to lay on your back, not breaking contact, even as you positioned yourself against him, arms around his neck and leg thrown over his hip, the other curled against his side. This way, you were eye to eye with him. “Morning.” Ivar nudged your nose with his, pressed his hand between your shoulder blades and kissed you good morning. He came away humming and a serene smile splayed on his lips as he pressed little, soft pecks all over your face and down your neck. “How is the little prince?” “He’s well. Sleeping, drooling, just like his father.” You squeaked, when Ivar bit you in turn. “You dare being this brazen towards your king?” His voice was rough from sleep, deeper than usually. He let his fingertips of his free hand wander up your thigh, pushing up your shift in the process. “I can do as I please, I am the queen, after all.” “Hmmm.”, he rumbled. “That you are.” He grabbed your bum with both hands and lifted you, placing you in his lap. “Ivar!”, you protested. “Oh, shh.” He took your face in his hands, studying it, tilting it from side to side and lastly brushing your hair back from your face. “Are you alright? I know you didn’t sleep well.” “As alright as one can be, after last night.” You stroked over his shoulders, followed his tattoos down his chest. “And I feel like I should ask you that question. You couldn’t have slept much either, with me waking you up all the time.” He shook his head, frown in place. “No, don’t you worry about that. I am more used to it.” He heaved a shaky breath, stopping your hands on his skin by laying his own on top of them.”Y/N.” The way he said you name, made you fear the worst. “What?” “I feel like it is my fault.” “What, the attack?” You were ready to launch in a long rant about his tendency to talk bullshit, when he stopped you. “All of them. Your poisoning, the tea-” His voice broke and he cleared his throat, as he laid a hand on your belly, probably thinking about the child that would have been your first. “The attack on Ragnar.” You took his hand, kissed the palm of it, silently encouraging him to go on. “You can’t deny, it’s been a lot, and it’s been awful for you, for the child as well…” He took a deep breath, eyes now glassy. “And I-” He clenched his teeth, jaw muscles tensing so hard, you were afraid he’d never be able to release them. “I think I should let you go.” “What?” You felt as if he had punched you in the guts. “How did you even-” He clamped a hand over your mouth, big, round eyes looking up at you, pleading. “A better man would let you go, release you from your vows, so you can go away, far away and live without a target on your back.” His eyes hardened before he closed them, hands coming to the back of your head, pulling you back down to him. Ivar breathed you in and leaned his forehead against yours. His hands fisted your hair, holding you close. You mirrored him, stroking your hands up his chest to his jaw, thumbs dragging over the bone. “I am not a good man, love. I can’t let you go, I am too selfish. I need you close, I need to know where you are at all times, so I can protect you, shield you.” It was no lie. He was too headstrong, too impulsive to be a truly good man. But he was good enough for you. He was loving, gentle, with you as well as Ragnar. He even bettered his behaviour towards his brothers. And that you told him. Your fingernails scraped over his skin, brushed through his hair, calming him, as it always did. “You don’t need to be good, to be right for me, Ivar The Boneless, King of Kattegat, most feared Viking of all lands.” He watched your face, hands now on your hips, simply holding you against him. “I don’t think sending me away would do any good. I’d be an easier target, even. I’d still be your wife, I wouldn’t have the heart to deny it. And why is that?” A small smile showed on your husbands face, before he answered what you’ve asked him innumerable times now. “Because I have it.” “You do learn, after all.” Eitr let out a coo from her spot over the bed, a sign that Ragnar was waking up. And true it was, just moments later his baby-blabber filled the room. He was happy and talk active in the mornings, making you dread the time when he’d be actually able to form words. “So don’t think like that. You might be selfish, but you are not at fault. It is the people who seek your throne, your misery, who are to blame.” Softly, you pressed a kiss to his lips and then got up. “The young prince awaits.”

**

Part 3