A/N: Finally a thing @fore-lskett Gif belongs to classyxosassy.
The resounding thud of the music, swirl of hips and jingling of scant lingerie all reminded you of what you did for a living. As you slide the door shut from a private room, your forehead rests against the door in brief reprisal. A slight bout of pressure to your bare midriff alerted you to come back to your senses.
“Ms. (L/N).” A voice, low and unabashed, with a click of his tongue. “Why were you over there?”
You didn’t have to look over your shoulder to know who it was. The boss, Ivar Lothbrok. On either side of him, his brothers stood donned in suits that looked damn good. But not as decadent as the slender pinstripe suit with cerulean tones in both tie and handkerchief tucked away in his front pocket.
Almost clumsily, you rush to explain. “Lagertha wanted—“
He sneers at the words you rush to get out. “Upstairs. Now.” He barks.
You all but fall over your glittering golden heels to move, move, move. Your heart did flips in your chest spurred by Hvitserk’s light chuckling as you ran up the stairs. Your fingers sloppily jiggle the handle open, falling in with a hint of shock.
“Ivar.” You say, turning with wispy gossamer silks floating behind your hips. Ivar slams the door, photos of his sweet dead mother dancing on the walls as he bore holes into the ground. His lips were sewn shut.
“It was just a job.” You move your palms, jingling under bangle and jewel, to grab the sides of his face. Ivar jerks away from your hands snarling.
“A job where you shimmied your ass on her lap.” Ivar barks out. You scrunch nose and eyes as you look around to a mirror, over to the fiber thin strings of jewels of your bra that hide perky nipples away.
“You did hire me as a dancer, Ivar. You overcomplicate things!” You say, sliding your hands onto your hips. For a good chunk of change you danced. For Lagertha, it was clearly personal. An act of dominance over his favourite of toys?
“You don’t dance for Lagertha.”
The slam of his crutch on the ground makes you jump. His fingers leave his lips where he thought of his next words.
“You don’t dance for Hvitserk or Ubbe or even Harold.” Your heels wobble as you back up, shocked by the weight of his words.