It's nearly 4am and I'm listening to you play piano. I didn't know the first day we met that I'd close my eyes and hear your voice, so deep and smooth it vibrated to my heart, all these years later. I miss the long conversations we'd have, both lost twenty-somethings in New York City trying to navigate the world so (clearly?) mapped out by our parents and everyone's expectations. We lamented the pressures of understanding who we were, you sitting at your desk or on the bed, me hanging in the doorway still pretending I would leave at any moment to enter my room next door.
Even though we grew up oceans apart, we saw the world the same. You kept me sane under the weight of everything and I didn't realize how much I'd missed you until you were gone. I'm grateful for all of the circumstances that kept us from being passing strangers, that we were able to lay out our fears and hopes and have them land in the comfort of each other. Yours is a beautiful soul and I'm beyond grateful to have crossed paths.
I'm glad to see you're doing well. It looks like you got to keep the music and you'll be saving lives after all. I hope our paths cross again one day. Until then, I'll lay here and listen to you play piano.
Love,
Me
P.s. It's beautiful even though you never let me listen before. I knew it would be.
âYou are my girl.â Michael whispered in your ear as he hugged your waist, swaying with you rhythmically as the blues ringed in your ears.
You nodded lightly, hands on his back as you hung your head on his shoulder, shutting your eyes as you waited for a heartbeat to skip, for the wave of affection to wash you over like it used to.
Reblog this if you want readers to come into your ask box and ask for the âdirectorâs commentaryâ on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines.Â
Or, send in a âstarâ to have the author select a section theyâve been dying to talk about!
Summary: As a part of his therapy, Ivar writes letters to wind up and keep track of his mental health progress. He writes to his mom, he misses her. He writes to Sigurd, sometimes he regrets his departure. One night, he writes about her.
Warnings: Angst
Words: 3864
A/N: (3/5/20) I had this idea in my head that I simply could not let go.Â
(10/4/21) P.S: Canât promise Iâm back, but Iâm definitely turning to writing as a way of winding down. I hope you guys are alright.
Part I / Part IIÂ / Epilogue
Some nights, while the city sleeps, Ivar stays awake. Like an owl looking for a prey, the Ragnarsson remains seated upright at the edge of his bed, his now heavily tattooed chest exposed to the world through the panoramic window, heaving. Beating.
Some nights were amazing. He got his drivers license, and Freydis got him an adapted Bentley as a gift. He would spend the nights driving by himself down the empty streets of Kattegat, not worrying about speeding tickets or angry neighbours.Â
Not so long ago, he learned his wife was finally carrying a child, her round belly reminding him that he had a legacy to keep, now that the Lothbrok dynasty seemed to be more fragmented than ever. After spending thousands of krone on in vitro fertilisation, the universe seemed to work in his favour. Their favour. If the gods were unwilling to bless them two, science would. These were the nights that were made for celebrations, champaign showers and water for the mother to be.
Itâs absolutely alright, your reaction was enough for my heart!! Glad to be back, hopefully I havenât lost any writing abilities cause all Iâve produced these years have been essays.
Just finished the night you cared and my oh my that was amazing!!! It was gut wrenching in all the best ways. Itâs been a minute since Iâve read any fics so it was really nice to come back to that :D. I loved the way you wrote it; from start to finish it was great. That last chapter tho...so so gooood. I even shed a few tears in the bus as I read it. Got home and read it again itâs deffo my favorite chapter. You did a phenomenal job with it.đđIâm probably gonna read the whole fic again later today as well I really did enjoy reading it đđ
I canât believe you read it from the very beginning (and multiple times!!) Iâm smiling like a child!! Iâm also glad you returned to ficts, I have been out for awhile too but I guess corona and what it comes with the pandemic brought me back. Stay for as long as you want, and happy reading!
I just finished the night you cared and words in the smoke and that was the saddest shit Iâve ever read Iâm choking on my tears and I donât think I have cried over a fic before. You are amazing. Is that the end? Like I knew it wasnât going to have a happy ending but i canât accept it đ
Oh wow thank you so much for taking your time and send an ask, Iâm so happy it was emotional enough!! Also, glad to be your first;)
Not gonna lie, this is most likely the end of the series... I could write a similar version of this sequel with the readerâs POV but that wouldnât give the plot a progression in the same way this last part did (since Ivar is a rather complicated person to dissect) :(Â
A/N: End of my first Ivar fict! Hope you guys enjoyed it xx.
Part I / Part IIÂ
Listen to: Stubborn Love - The Lumineers.
âHe couldnât even look at his parents faces after that. I swear to the gods, master students are just undergraduates on crack.â You rambled lightheartedly, phone on one of your hands and the heavy luggage rolling right next to you. âOop, sorry.â You apologised to the old, white bearded man attempting to leave the building at the same time you tried to get in. âThank you.â You mouthed with a smile and a scrunched nose, trying to look past the dark sunglasses of the man holding the door for you.
Ubbe released a short and breathy laugh. You could not see him, but you knew him well enough to notice he sounded way too distracted to formulate a proper answer to your anecdote. You knew he had things to tell you, bubbling under the surface like water about to boil, waiting patiently for you to finish with what you had to say as he always did.
Part of you already knew what he wanted to ask. As much as you loved Ubbe, his drive was wired the same way as all Lothbroks: business, business, business. Sure, he was located in the HR department and understood the way you saw things. But, as a Ragnarsson, he could not see your desire of avoiding a life between cubicles and constant phonecalls.
âWell,â you exhaled, âIâm officially back home.â
âIn which hotel are you staying? I can pay you a visit as soon as I finish with these papers.â You could picture him letting go the papers on the table like white pigeons as he casually leaned back against his chair. You waited for the lift, eyes focused on the flicking numbers above your head.
Ubbe knew about your never recovered relationship with your parents. They never called you back, not even after the success of your new business was announced through local and regional media. Although for them, the news of you working for another sector other than theirs after the humiliation they had to endure at your graduation party may have felt like a slap in their faces. No one assisted to your masters graduation other than your remaining English friends. You did receive heartwarming messages from Aslaug and her sons, who apologised for not being there with you. It was a lonely ending for such an important stage of your life, but you swiftly got through it. Soon enough you got into a graduate scheme at the British council and a big part of you was relieved that you got to spend another year without facing the problems awaiting for you in Kattegat.
Now you had consumed all your borrowed time, leaving you drowning in the sterile sand clock you got yourself into, unable to put down roots in your hometown after your parents decided to pull them all out.
âHotel Boneless and Co.â You mumbled through a dramatic sigh, stretching your arms up and puffing your chest as you heard the ding of the machine and the pop of your bones. You were carefully rolling your suitcase into the mirror covered lift when you heard the wheels of a chair rolling loudly on the other line. âI can send you my location if you donât know where it is.â You joked as you pressed a button and stepped out of the lift.Â
Summary: Reader and Ivar @ past ghosts: hey demons, its me, ya boi.
Warnings: Angst, extra fluff, rare footage of sweet sweet Ivar.
Words: 12,102
A/N: This is a little bit long, so I decided to part it with a song recommendation for each part. You can listen to it while reading it.
Part IÂ /Â Epilogue
Listen to: Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve.
It took your family an entire week to contact you. By the time they called to request a meeting through their personal assistant, you had settled yourself in one of Flokiâs hotel rooms: the good man not only had a shipbuilding company, he also owned a few hotels in different parts of the world. Him and Helga offered you a small room in their Kattegat resort while you solved your dispute with your parents. Floki understood you, he wasnât the type who stayed in one place for a long time either. He himself was lost somewhere in Iceland, away from your family and the Ragnarssons. He wanted to create something big, he said.
The little hotel room, although located in the high street of the city where the lights and noise never dies, made you feel locked like a bird in a cage, imprisoned. The panoramic windows were like force fields that separated you from reality: the city veins kept working regardless of your absence, as you stared down helplessly with no restraints that kept you from leaving but no reasons for you to step outside. There was nothing there that indicated your existence, nothing that gave you the reassurance of a home. The gold and white walls screamed luxury, while your surroundings screamed loneliness.Â
A/N: One thing I want to make clear with the creation of this one shot is that, regardless of what this blog is supposed to be, the final decision on the content youâll see in this blog falls upon this bitch. I tag my all content and reblogs so you guys can blacklist what you see fit. Itâs what you get when you follow me, and I will understand when it comes to a point you wonât want me around your dashboard. However, that process is silent, fuss free. No need to make a big deal out of it. I donât need no loud anon commenting on what I should or I should not post. Letâs keep this place negativity free, aight? Love you guys xx
 Part II / Epilogue
Its bright. The warm lights, hanging down the high ceilings and falling down like crystal waterfalls shining like fairy dust, their shimmering accentuated every now and then by a camera flashing around the room. The music playing in the background sounded like the product of classicism and modern era clashing together, with the clinking sound of champagne glasses cutting the melody to celebrate your new milestone. Your family and closest friends gathered in the very centre of the hall, their polished tuxedos and flowy dresses giving away a clear statement of their wealth and power. Tonight, they were all here for you.
Yet, you didnât feel like part of it. Part of your own party.
Summary: As a part of his therapy, Ivar writes letters to unwind and keep track of his mental health progress. He writes to his mom, he misses her. He writes to Sigurd, sometimes he regrets his departure. One night, he writes about her.
Warnings: Angst
Words: 3864
A/N: (3/5/20) I had this idea in my head that I simply could not let go.Â
(10/4/21) P.S: Canât promise Iâm back, but Iâm definitely turning to writing as a way of winding down. I hope you guys are alright.
Part I / Part IIÂ / Epilogue
Some nights, while the city sleeps, Ivar stays awake. Like an owl looking for a prey, the Ragnarsson remains seated upright at the edge of his bed, his now heavily tattooed chest exposed to the world through the panoramic window, heaving. Beating.
Some nights were amazing. He got his drivers license, and Freydis got him an adapted Bentley as a gift. He would spend the nights driving by himself down the empty streets of Kattegat, not worrying about speeding tickets or angry neighbours.Â
Not so long ago, he learned his wife was finally carrying a child, her round belly reminding him that he had a legacy to keep, now that the Lothbrok dynasty seemed to be more fragmented than ever. After spending thousands of krone on in vitro fertilisation, the universe seemed to work in his favour. Their favour. If the gods were unwilling to bless them two, science would. These were the nights that were made for celebrations, champaign showers and water for the mother to be.
Some nights were alright. Ivar would come back after a long day of meetings and getting his ass kissed, to find Freydis immersed in her little personal projects. He would tell Erik to pick up some takeaway while he washed away the power and wrapped himself in mundane clothes. He would eat in silence, elbows propped on the counter and eyes on the horizon, watching the sun kiss the skyscrapers goodbye as he mindlessly put food in his mouth. Then he would take his new baby for a ride, to the bar he now owned with his brother Hvitserk.Â
Ivar would go there, check the inventory and the register, ask the employees how everything was going and what could he do for them. Sometimes he would also find Hvitserk at the bar, practicing the cocktail skills he had been mastering since he took over your share of the bar. Ivar would simply walk past, not entirely avoiding making contact with his sibling but prefering to keep a healthy distance from the person that substituted you. He started visiting the local more often after you left, feeling the responsibility to continue what you started. He found peace in the simplicity of managing a bar: at the office, he was a tyrannic boss, voice always booming through the walls, keeping both employees and investors in check. At the bar, he was just the young lovestruck Ivar he once was. He understood then, why you wished to escape from it all. You are just a memory now, but sometimes he still feels you around, checking on the girls, checking on him.
Some nights were... Painful. Therapy had a big presence in his life. He no longer needed a cane thanks to nurse Hansen, his physical therapist. But on some days, the stress and the weather would simply take a toll on his legs, forcing him to carry around that metal stick that reminded him that he was, in fact, human.Â
Before you left, Freydis figured out a question that would calm Ivar down and make him focus:Â âWhat would Dr. Nielsen tell you to do?â. That was how she got him to control himself and open up the last time he was onstage, the night she met you. They were just engaged back then. Oh, how quick did time pass. Ivar no longer organised events like that. He was too consumed by his two jobs. There were nights where Freydis would be on business trips, or out hanging out with friends until the next morning, nights where absences were felt more than presences. But he was coping now. Dr. Nielsen helped the youngest Lothbrok greatly since his great breakdown.Â
Ivar had thought he physically felt his heart break the night he got down the stage to find you, only to figure out you were gone after most of the guests had left the hotel ballroom. He felt compelled to call you dozens of times to ask for an explanation. After his calls went unanswered, he decided to drive around town in search of you, not knowing where to start, not knowing where to ask, anger poisoning his brain and taking over his actions. That night he stayed at Lokiâs after barging in to see if you were hiding there like âthe coward you wereâ. He hated the fact that you could make him feel that weak. It felt like he was putty and Freydis was fire, hardening him the more he was exposed to her. You were water, turning him into a pliable being, at mercy of your actions.
For five days in a row, he found himself staying at his office until late at night, observing his office telephone with attention and indecision, silently praying for you to pick up the phone, practicing the rage filled words he was about to rain down on you the moment you uttered a response. He prayed with ill intentions, but he prayed nonetheless. It was his last resort.Â
The earth seemed to crack open and swallow him whole the moment he gathered all his courage and dialed your number, only to hear an automated voice telling him that the number no longer existed. He sat there, phone on his hand as a white noise took over the voice message, thinking about the different possibilities that could have happened for you to cancel your line. Maybe, he thought. Maybe I really asked for too much this time.Â
âFuck no,â Ivar reflected out loud as he tossed his phone away, âIn no fucking way this is my fault.â
âIvar?â A distant voice reverberated through the glass corridors. It sounded familiar. The youngest Ragnarsson frowned, weirded out by the fact that one of his brothers was still in the office this late.
It wasnât just one of his brothers, but the three of them.
âWell, tell her Iâd never do such thing.â He answered, swatting his hand in annoyance. âI am surprised she came to that conclusion, knowing how busy I always am as the bloody CEO!â He exclaimed, letting the following silence fill the room as he flashed a disdainful look towards his brothers.
âWhy are you here, brother?â Ubbe finally dared to ask, observing his youngest sibling sway in his chair from side to side.
Ivar looked up for a brief moment, like a puppy who lost his favourite toy, and decided to tell them the whole story. That the had the hunch you were back from a strange event where someone knocked on his penthouse door. To that, Ubbe awkwardly shifted in his place, still listening intently. Ivar explained that he sent you an invite to his inaguration gala and how he asked you to stay for his speech so you could have a dance afterwards, unaware of the utterly personal turn his speech would take just because an old man decided to drink a bit more than usual that night. How he waited for you, called you and looked for you tirelessly, frustration filling his voice as he talked about how you had been avoiding him for a week now, changing your phone number in the process.
âIf she thinks she can avoid me by changing numbers sheâs dead wrong. Weâre business partners, for fucks sake!â He complained, registering the situation as a burden. âIâll find her new phone sooner or later.â
Unbeknownst Ivar, tension had been gradually building up as he spoke, his three brothers standing still in their places, not knowing how to break the news. Sure they knew this day would come, but none of the three expected to be trapped with the ticking bomb. It was way too soon. Too recent.Â
Hell, it was about you. It was most likely no amount of time would soften the blow.
Ubbe took a step forward, leaning on the hardwood desk. With a resigned tone, he mumbled:
âSheâs gone, Ivar.â He swallowed. â(Y/n) left Kattegat.â
Already motionless before, Ivar remained still. He darted his eyes to look at his brother, confusion and fear brewing within him, fueling a fire he thought it was extinguished the day he made Sigurd leave. With trembling lips but a determined voice, he asked how did he know. How did Ubbe Ragnarsson, the brother who would stab his youngest sibling in the back at the slightest opportunity, know the whereabouts of his woman, while he sat there completely lost, disoriented.
With an attempt of a soothing voice, Ubbe confessed that months ago he offered you a job position to work on a humanitarian project he had running in Haiti. Aslaug had stated in her will that she wished to expand the non-profit organisation she created to other countries and Ubbe decided to make his deceased motherâs wish come true. He told Ivar that while you rejected the offer at first, you ended up accepting it the night of his gala. That you made him promise to make the process fast and discreet, and that, while you insisted on paying for the plane tickets, Lothbrok Inc. paid for your travel expenses and necessities. You left three days ago, unnanounced, with only Ubbe at the airport to bid you farewell.
Ivar listened intently, motionless. His breathing was deep, yet steady. He never moved a muscle voluntarily, but his nostrils flared with every breath and his hand, hidden under the desk, shook incontrollably as he processed their words. His piercing gaze was focused on the oldest Aslaugsson, who was now relaxing and straightening his back as he regained his composure.
It felt like every action happened in slow motion, yet the blow came fast. In mere seconds, Ivar had propped himself forward from the chair, one of his hands grabbing the jacket Ubbe was wearing while the other, contracted in a fist, made contact with his right cheek. That is when Bjorn, who had been silent during the whole exchange, stepped in, grabbing the torso of his youngest brother as he struggled to keep himself standing, making sure he didnât hurt himself.
Sometimes, Ivar still hears his own screams.
âYOU TOOK HER FROM ME!â Ivar accused, eyes absent of tears but voice cracking at the end of the sentence. âSHEWAS GOING TO STAY,â He roared, fists swinging towards his brotherâs face. âAND YOU FUCKING TOOK HER FROM ME!â
He lost it that night. The screams he released came from the depths of his sorrow, his eyes only registering red while all his nerves could only feel the desperation taking over his soul. Ivar kept trying to reach Ubbe, unaware of how he repeatedly banged his legs against the desk as Bjorn tried to pin him down.Â
But what started as a justified outburst gradually led to nonsensical, rage-filled accusations.
âYou wanted to fuck her, didnât you? You wanted her and you couldnât stand the fact that she chose ME!â Ivar recriminated, grabbing a sharp glass ornament and throwing it to his brother. Ubbe pursed his lips, dodging the improvised weapon. âYou did this to get back at me, hmm? YOU WANT ALL I HAVE, DONâT YOU?â He seethed, eyes and mouth wide open, exposing his teeth like a menacing predator as he let out a guttural laugh.
Bjorn was having a difficult time restraining him. Years relying on his upper body strength gave Ivar the advantage of resilience amongst his biggest sibling, while Bjorn struggled to keep him in place. Ivar managed to grab the second glass ornament, throwing it as he shrieked.
âDONâT YOU KNOW WHO I AM?â his voice boomed in the room, palm pounding his chest as his free hand signaled the whole place. âYOU CANâT TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME, I AM IVAR LOTHBROK! YOU CANâT TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!â Ivar kept shouting, cursing as he spat towards Ubbe.
Hvitserk stepped forward, having seen enough, ready to take on his little brother. To his surprise, Ubbe halted him, his arm creating a barrier between Hvitserk and Ivar as he observed with intent and horror etched on his face.
That night, Ivar lost the little progress he made. He broke his femur, dignity left behind as an ambulance carried him to the emergency room.
As if that wasnât enough, he lost another family member to Lagertha that night.
With a reedy voice as he laid down in the hospital bed, he asked Ubbe one thing:
âBring her back.â He whispered, his eyes stuck in the ceiling, pretty certain that if he laid his eyes on his brother, he would kill him. âShe is working for Lothbrok Inc. now. Bring her back.â His request was met with silence. âThatâs an order.â He swallowed, nostrils flaring with each ticking second.
âIâm sorry, Ivar.â Ubbe mumbled. âThe SigurĂ°dĂłttir Trust is out of your reach.â He reminded him, reopening a wound that Ivar closed not so long ago. âThatâs what mother wished.â Ivar snapped his head at the mention of his beloved mother. The brim of his eyes were red like his sclera, a menacing gaze stabbing his brother as Ivar grabbed his wrist.
âYou have three days to gather your stuff and leave Lothbrok Inc.â Ivar seethed as he moved his face closer to his brother. âIf youâre not gone after that, I will make sure youâll leave the premises crawling like I crawled as a child.â Ivar swore, releasing his wrist as he let his head drop back to the sterile pillow.
Up to this day, Ivar still saw Ubbeâs action as a huge betrayal. He knew his older brother would return to his life as the new addition of Lagerthaâs legal team, Bjorn granted his little brother this little backup plan.
Tonight, his thoughts weighted a little heavier. His eyes scanned the city before focusing on his bedroom, where he finds the clothes he wore today discarded on the leather chair. Behind him, his wife slept peacefully, her baby bumb protuding more and more each passing day. His legs were alright, but with the absence of physical pain he could sense his yearning looming over his head.
Ivar sighs and stands up silently, his bare feet and metallic support dragging on the tiles as he moved to his home office.
Dr. Nielsen taught him the importance of adapted emotional releases. She actively discouraged Ivar from indulging in his impulses and told him to write them down instead. For business meetings, Ivar was told to count until 10, 20 or even 30 if he was encountered with bad news. When it came to personal affairs, Dr. Nielsen told him to write letters addressed to the pertinent subject. Ivar could write them and discard them, write them and take them to therapy or he could write them and send them to the addressee.Â
It wasnât the most effective exercise, but it kept his flame at bay. He needed to learn to do that, now that he knew he had a little one coming soon.
Sometimes he wrote to his mother, asking her questions about ruling an empire he wished he had the answer to. Those he kept, as a tool to reflect later on when his ambition peaked. The more emotional ones heâd take to Dr. Nielsen, a proof of his progress on his journey to... normalcy. The ones he wrote to Sigurd, those he threw away. In those pages filled with guilt and rage, he found himself cornered in a bleak past that seemed to refuse to let him go.
Tonight, he thought about you.
It wasnât like you werenât a constant presence in his mind, like an annoying tenant in his brain that refused to leave or pay rent. Ivar just chose to remember the best parts of you, those who could be found at the bar you owned, or on his bed when Freydis left him for the night. If he kept you alive that way, he would also keep alive that part of him he thought he lost. You were inevitable, like the pain after a blow or the kiss after a reencounter.
He wishes he could blame you. For leaving, for stepping outside the gala without waiting for your dance. For silently giving away your shares to Hvitserk, who the only thing he knew about bars was how to empty the alcohol pantry. But there is a part of him that cannot physically repulse you.
Ivar sits down and turns on the desk lamp in front of him. He finds his precious pen and puts a piece of paper on the desk. Before starting, he hesitates.
Dear (Y/n),
He groans, crossing the two words with disdain.
Hello.
âHello?â Ivar shakes his head, crossing the word again.
Hi, princess.
Ivar cringes. No.
Frustrated, he discards the paper. He had done it before. Why was it so hard to do it all over again now?
Just... Jump right in. Start from the beginning, start from the middle, start from the end if you prefer. He recalls the advice of his therapist. Sometimes, formalities are overrated. It may help when you have nothing to say, but it becomes a burden when you got too much to say. Ivar reflected.Â
And so he did.
Every night I drive through the streets of Kattegat I find myself looking for you wandering around, looking for me to give you a lift, for the memory of our first reencounters were the ones that helped us find redemption.
It is weird, but I still have the need to find you even though I know you are no longer here. The idea of you lives in my head, that I am sure of. The feel of you, that is what I miss.
I guess part of me feels like I still need to apologise for something that Iâve done.
At the sight of his words written on paper, Ivar blinks. He never consciously thought much more ahead of his negations, his feelings dictating the perspectives he kept imposing to his reality.
He sacrificed so much for you. He tried to change for you. He went to therapy, he learned to walk. Ivar tried to become the right man for you, he really tried.Â
He wished you were there to see it.
Ivar doesnât really know what he did wrong. All he knows is...
And now that youâre gone for good,Â
He shakes his head, crossing the last two words.
all I wish for is to be in the wrong this time.
Ivar huffs in frustration.
I wish I had been selfish, I wish I was the old Ivar. I wish I had begged you to stay, to manage this empire I never chos- by my side.
I know you would have never wanted this.
But I know you would have never said no to us.
Mindlessly, Ivar puts his pen in his mouth, a subconscious tick he developped not-so recently. Passing his hands through his hair, he sighed.
I started to smoke. He confessed. I know you never liked the smell, how it clings to my clothes, my mouth, how it lingered around the house when my brothers decided to have one one in their rooms. Ivar snorts at the memory. Not that youâre here to tell me off.Â
Freydis has been buying candles, theyâre all around the house now. The smell of the cigarettes blends with the essences and I technically get to have fire dispensers in every single room.
âMaybe Iâm waiting for you to magically show up and tell me to fuck off.â He whispers.
Suddenly, Ivar shakes his head, as if the physical gesture cleared his mind.
I guess Iâll have to stop soon, I have a baby on the way. He releases an airy laugh as he re-reads what he just wrote. Who would have thought, (Y/n)? A baby. Me. Your Ivar.
The young Ragnarsson lets out a tired sigh, strenghening his grip on the metalling pen as he mindlessly tapped on the crystal desk. With resigned resolution, he decides to write his last lines, telling himself that he is finally starting to accept reality.
I know youâre not going to come back. Not to the place we grew up at, at least.
If you ever do, I just want to let you know, as sappy as it may sound, that my heart will always be open for you, even when my arms are not.
I miss you.
I miss us.
Take care,
Ivar.
Dropping the pen, Ivar stares at his letter. His hands blindly search for an envelope, a frown etched on his face until his fingertips brush against the soft surface of the letter. You donât know, but he found your new address. He searched around Ubbeâs old files.
With a careful manner, Ivar writes down your address on the envelope.Â
He stands up, walks to his living room and grabs a jacket as he makes his way to the exit.
All of the sudden he stops right on his tracks, his free hand almost reaching to the door handle. Freydis seemed to have forgotten to put out a lone candle, a tiny fragrance dispenser resting on the entrance drawer.
Ivar may not be aware of a lot of things in life, but one thing he was certain of: smoke traveled faster than mail.
His hand was trembling slightly, but it managed to follow his instructions. With a swift move, Ivar positioned the ephemeral piece of paper on the fire, watching intently how the flames consumed his words and took them to you. Discreetly, he threw the burning letter in the empty bin, the lid cutting short the trail of smoke escaping from the container.
He makes sure ashes are all what it remains from his indecent confession and makes his way back to the bedroom. Slowly but steadily, Ivar returns to bed, nesting himself between the sheets before holding his beloved wife in his embrace.
Tonight, he was human. Tomorrow, heâll have to be a God.
The end.
Taglist:
Note: This is the old taglist I have noted from my past Ivar ficts. Please let me know if you want to be removed or added by sending an ask here.Â
Itâs something Iâve noticed over the past two years of using this site. It was gradual, imperceptible at first, something that most would brush off as a silly concern, or fault Tumblr algorithm for. While itâs true that Tumblrâs engine leaves a lot to be desired, Iâve noticed that even popular blogs have started to dwindle in terms of interaction or motivation. There could be a lot of reasons for this, but the biggest two Iâve noticed, experienced myself, and asked fellow writers about is this: (1) content being stolen, and (2) lack of feedback or interaction. Iâve never seen any logical person defend content being stolen, so I want to address point 2 instead.
Lack of feedback and interaction. Iâm not saying this on my behalf so much as Iâm saying this for friends and smaller blogs who have lost motivation to write. I was looking at my yandere writing blogs list the other day and noticed that a good majority of them no longer write. I usually update the list every few months, and by that point, more and more writers have stopped writing entirely. This isnât a problem confined solely to the yandere fandom; in fact, thereâs less writing blogs in general these days, especially ones that are active. I used to run a very popular BNHA blog with some friends, but that dissolved after our content was stolen and our followers stopped interacting as much. Out of our 8,500 followers, we hardly got 0.015% notes (~128 notes) on an average post. Tumblr is to blame for the lack of eyes seeing our posts, for sure, but that also means that at least 128 people saw one post and didnât leave a comment or ask. We were considered a big blog; imagine what itâs like on a small blog.
My friend recently made a post that summed this up perfectly:Â
âIâve seen people say âBe grateful that people even lurk on your page.â and, while I get the message theyâre trying to say, itâs more dismissive and hurtful in my opinion. Like youâre saying, âOh your writing is mediocre, you should be grateful people even LOOK at it.â
Me personally? Iâve heard the argument that AO3 is a better place to post fanfics, and while that might be true, Iâve had friends experience firsthand the lack of interaction there too. Iâve heard the argument that interacting with some writers is intimidating (me included). Iâve heard that argument that followers might be too shy to interact. Iâve heard the argument that writers should write for themselves and not for views / likes / reblogs / etc, and while thatâs ideal, itâs not sustainable for everyone. What works for one writer wonât work for another, but you know what will? Interaction.
That comment or ask that took you 2 seconds to write? We remember it. That reblog with the compliments in the tags? We remember it. Every single ânamedâ anon we get (heart anon, sunflower anon, etc)? We remember them. And the best part is? Itâs actually easier to do these things on Tumblr since you have the option to send anonymous asks or make a sideblog specifically for reblogs! Trust me, whether the lack of interaction is the cause of a lack of motivation or what have you, every writer appreciates feedback (donât be shy to offer some critique or compliments) or even a simple keyboard smash with some emojis. Even sitting down for 5 min a day per week to comment on your favorite writersâ new pieces makes a huge difference. Personally, since Tumblrâs activity feed is beyond terrible and I have over 1,500 posts, I donât always see new reblogs or comments on my content; asks though? Always see those, can never go wrong with those. If you donât want to reblog or leave a comment, then you can never go wrong with an anonymous ask.Â
As my wise friend says: writing is an art, and in order to improve that art, we need other peopleâs eyes to see what we donât.
For the sake of every writer (past, present, and future) on this platform, please share this post.
Aww thatâs sweet, so sorry I havenât brought more stories to life! I hope the ficts available are enough for now, been trying to write but at this point I donât even know for which fandom...
