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Sweet But Psycho

Chapter Text

You’re just like me, you’re out your mind

I know it’s strange, we’re both the crazy kind

You’re tellin’ me that I’m insane

Boy, don’t pretend that you don’t love the pain

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Ivar lounged in the sitting room, polishing a new knife his mother had given him. He smiled as the metal practically glittered as Ivar rubbed his cloth along the blade. He set down the polishing compound and sat up, holding the knife up to the light and admiring it for a moment before putting it in its sheath and cleaning up. Behind him, the door opened and Ivar rolled his eyes as he heard Sigurd say, “Are you polishing that knife again, Ivar?”

Ivar gave him a single glance as he passed him, going to the bookshelf and scanning the books. Ivar mimicked him behind his back before he said, “Yes. There was still some traces of your blood on it.”

Ivar smirked as Sigurd turned around and scoffed at him. The knife wasn’t especially new, but it was his favorite, so he had it on him at all times. Just last week while Ivar was practicing new tricks with it, Sigurd pestered Ivar to the point of Ivar throwing the knife at him, digging into his shoulder. Remembering the episode, Sigurd gave a small wince at the pain that pierced his shoulder from the memory. Sigurd shook his head and said, “It’s just a knife, Ivar. You have hundreds.”

“So?” Ivar said, shoving the knife into his pocket as he stood, gathering everything up, ready to leave.

“So, what? Because Mother gave it to you, you have to carry it around like a baby blanket?” Sigurd asked, following his brother out of the room, having found the book he wanted. Ivar glanced at him with a brief glare and said, “It’s not a security blanket thing, Sigurd. It’s just my favorite. I can have a favorite knife, you swine. It just happens to be one Mother gave me.”

“You know she only gives you shit because she feels sorry for you,” Sigurd said. “Poor, little Ivar. All alone in the world. To keep yourself safe, you bust out Mummy’s knife.”

Ivar rounded on him, pressing his chest to Sigurd’s, pushing him back a few steps, though the threat did nothing to wipe the smirk off his face, in fact, it even grew. “I’m no longer a child, Sigurd.” Ivar hissed. “I do not need Mother to protect me. Nor Ragnar, nor Bjorn. They’re the ones who should be protecting you if you wish to continue to infuriate me.”

Sigurd snickered and pressed two fingers to the center of his chest and pushed him back. “Whatever you say, Brother,” Sigurd said, moving past him and walking down the hall. Ivar growled and gripped the rag in his hand. He shook his head and made his way to the garage, storing the polish and the rag back where they belonged. He crossed the space to his own little cupboard and opened it, checking over his knives and guns. Harald Finehair, the Lothbrok family’s newest friend, was coming over to accompany Ragnar and his sons to their range to go shooting, Ragnar desperately wanting to get Harald’s gun business.

Running the Mafia wasn’t easy, nor was it simple to make friends in this game. But with his sons behind him, Ragnar stood a chance to rival Harald, though he didn’t know it, to be the reigning Mafia boss in Norway. It wasn’t necessarily Ragnar’s dream, but if it would grow the legacy he wanted to leave to his sons, then so be it.

Behind Ivar, the door opened, and he cocked one of his guns as a warning, in case it was Sigurd. But Ivar uncocked it when he heard Hvitserk chuckle and Ubbe’s voice say, “Relax, little brother. Sigurd isn’t with us.”

Ivar turned and pointed the gun at his brothers with a smirk and said, “I can still easily shoot you, though.”

Hvitserk went to his own station as Ubbe walked over, plucking the gun from Ivar’s hands. He waved the gun a little, indicating it wasn’t cocked, then tossed it back to him. Ivar smirked and put it back in its spot, closing and locking his cupboard before turning to his brothers.

“And what are you gonna bring to the range, Ubbe? Hvitserk?” Ivar asked, looking between the two as Hvitserk pulled out an ornate looking shotgun, smirking as he cocked it and aimed at various things in the garage. It was one Hvitserk was given when he was 12, a gift from Ragnar and their Uncle Rollo. Ivar chuckled and turned to Ubbe, saying, “And you?”

Ubbe glanced back at his brothers, smirking as he brought out a plain wooden box, setting it on the table in front of him. Resting the shotgun on his shoulder, Hvitserk sauntered over, looking over Ubbe’s shoulder, Ivar leaning closer as Ubbe’s cupboard sat next to his. Ubbe opened the box and gently took out the .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson Revolver and held it in his hands. Hvitserk let out a low whistle as Ivar stared at the gun. It was Ragnar’s prized possession and as his firstborn with Aslaug, Ragnar gifted it to him, also when he turned 12. All the boys admired the gun and desired it, but ultimately, it was given to Ubbe.

With a smirk, Ubbe glanced at each of his brothers and said, “Think Harald will be impressed?” He chuckled and set the gun back into its box and putting it back in the cupboard, locking it up. Ivar sighed and slid off his stool as he sauntered toward the door and said, “I just don’t understand why Ragnar can’t just throw money at him and throw a dinner or something. Why are we dragged into it?”

“Because if Harald sees that Ragnar’s sons are loyal to their father, then they can be loyal to him as well,” Ubbe said as Hvitserk quickly packed his shotgun away and joined his brothers, heading back to the manor.

“And where does the range and us pulling out our best guns come in?” Ivar asked, giving him a look. Ivar strolled right into the kitchen and grabbed a fresh croissant from a plate that sat on the island, while Hvitserk raided the fridge and Ubbe grabbed an apple. After he took a bite, around his chewing, Ubbe said, “To impress him, Ivar. If Harald sees the hardware we have, he’ll also be more inclined to do business with us. You know Harald has a love of antiques and shit.”

Ivar rolled his eyes and shook his head as he picked at the croissant. “Well, you let me know when he gets here. I’m going into town.” He said, moving toward the door. Ubbe called out to him, “Ivar, he should be in today! Sigurd and Hvitserk are going to the airport to pick him up!”

“So, have them come get me before then!” Ivar called over his shoulder. Ubbe sighed and glanced at Hvitserk, who simply shook his head as he shoved another nugget into his mouth.

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