#Bishop Heahmund

[jrhysmeyers]

Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Bishop Heahmund | Vikings, 5x06 — The Message

[revvlation]

- I want to believe that in this world there is someone, who never lies, cheats or compromises.

- I am the one, Ivar.

- We'll see...

[thunderfaucet]

Longest hyperfixation since Catwoman lol. I truly don’t know how to blur this from casual scrollers. Apologies in advance..

[mnzbrg]

whatever this was...... PEAK homoerotism.........

[nothingtolosebutweight]

To Be Forsaken, Yet to Love

Pairing: Heahmund x Ivar Words: ~9400 [AO3] Warnings: Soft Smut,. Soft Ivar, BJ, Mention of Blood Summary: Ivar and Heahmund’s stolen moments of intimacy come to an abrupt and violent end when their supposedly secure space is breached. With their bond laid bare and tensions running high, they are forced to confront not only the intruder but the fragile reality of their forbidden relationship. Note: It's my response to a request I got a while back that got me writing again. As so often, it got a bit out of hand, but I hope the anon who sent it likes it :D

Ivar turned lazily onto his side and pulled the thick blanket closer against his naked chest, snuggeling deeper into the comforting warmth. The room was pleasantly cool, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the cold would creep into his bones if he didn’t shield himself from it.  The result would be days of immense pain. Something he didn't want to deal with just because of a little carelessness.

As soon as he was comfortable, his eyes slid over to Heahmund, his normally preferred source of warmth. The former bishop, a native Englishman, stood not far from him, leaning slightly over a table they were using for their strategic planning. Spread before him was a rough outline of southern England, an area they were determined to get their hands on, as it would be an excellent base for further expansion and, with it, Viking supremacy. 

From his position, Ivar could see that Heahmund was still naked. That his beloved had probably seen no point in putting his clothes back on when he had gotten out of bed not so long ago, knowing full well that he would not keep them on for long, made Ivar's lips curl into a dreamy smile. He loved the fact that the Englishman seemed to have no shame when it came to his body. In his eyes, that was an admirable quality.

He also could see that Heahmund was holding one of the miniature battle figures in his hand, momentarily indecisive on where best to place it. Their tactical debates were often heated, each of them staunch in their approach and Ivar was quietly looking forward to dissecting his beloved’s plans later, but now was not the time for that.

They had already fought and won numerous battles on English soil, their reputation spreading terror to distant monasteries and fortified castles long before their arrival, making it all the easier to occupy new territories. No English force had yet managed to halt their advance, thanks largely to Ivar’s shrewd strategies, skillfully supported by Heahmund. His brothers, Hvitserk and Ubbe, fought beside him as extensions of his will—Ubbe, steady and skilled with the sword, respected among their warriors for keeping the unruly horde in line; Hvitserk, fierce with the axe, whose fearlessness stirred courage among the men. Together, the three formed a united force, bound by blood and purpose, with the English warrior as the perfect complement. Once a prisoner, the former bishop had proven himself in every battle as both a strategist and a fierce warrior, earning his place among them by consolidating their forces with his sharp mind and loyalty.

Currently, Hvitserk, Ubbe, and most of their warriors were out scouting, so Ivar, Heahmund, and a small group of other Vikings were left by themselves in their temporary fortress. Normally, Ivar would have joined the exploration, but too many days had passed without the chance to be alone, undisturbed, with his favorite warrior. Although their current shelter was spacious, offering ample room for the brothers and warriors to avoid each other when necessary, there was always the risk of someone walking in at the wrong moment, always the risk that the wrong pair of eyes would see something that should not be seen by others.

This time, Ivar had excused his reluctance to join the others with his aching legs - a fact he normally hated, but which he liked to use to his advantage whenever it suited him. As for Heahmund, his decision to stay behind had probably attracted no attention as well; his role as Ivar's fiercely loyal bodyguard was undisputed. At least, both men hoped that their warriors believed this to be the main reason.

With the fortress nearly deserted and only the two of them left in Ivar's section of the main building, they had already seized the rare chance to satisfy their growing hunger for each other. The intimacy they had shared still lingered in the air, a faint sweetness clinging to the memory of their reunion. Though the storm of longing within Ivar had momentarily quieted, it still burned beneath the surface, far from extinguished.

For now, however, Ivar was content simply to watch his lover, his body still heavy with pleasant fatigue from the previous exertions. He observed as Heahmund took another miniature figurine into his hand, studying it with quiet intensity before placing it thoughtfully someplace on the table. The soft light streaming through the window traced the contours of Heahmund’s bare form. Ivar’s eyes drifted over Heahmund’s thighs, tracing the lines of muscle with a blend of melancholy and wistful admiration. He let his eyes wander higher, lingering on the pale curve of Heahmund’s backside, which stood out starkly against his otherwise more sun-kissed skin. A grin played at Ivar’s lips as he allowed himself this quiet indulgence.

Heahmund’s movements were fluid and captivating, each gesture revealing the strength that lay beneath his skin. The muscles in his arms flexed and rippled with every subtle motion, drawing Ivar’s gaze like a moth to a flame. Scars traced the lines of his body, remnants of battles fought and won, each mark a testament to his resilience and valor. A particularly prominent scar ran across his left shoulder, a constant reminder of a fierce clash with an enemy that had come perilously close to ending his life. Now, it only served to enhance the rugged beauty of his physique, a presence that radiated a kind of strength that was both intimidating and intoxicating. As Heahmund leaned further over the table to study something that Ivar couldn't see from his position, light and shadow met in another mesmerizing dance on his back. The soft morning light caressed every curve of the warrior's muscles, following the lines of his shoulders down to his well-defined back. Even the small dimples on his lower back seemed to invite the light’s touch, as if compelled to follow each seductive outline.

Ivar moistened his lips, could almost taste the familiar flavor of Heahmund's skin, feel its warmth on his lips as the spark of admiration mingled with a hint of insatiable desire. Those dimples in particular held a certain pull.  Two small spots he loved to press his lips against, knowing the effect they had on his beloved. Each gentle kiss there would send a tremor through Heahmund’s body, making him shudder and even whimper softly, a sound Ivar relished and couldn’t get enough of. It was a contrast that he found utterly fascinating: that his fierce and unbreakable warrior, so strong and unyielding in battle, could melt so completely under the simplest, tenderest touches. The way Heahmund, who could command armies and withstand pain, would yield to his gentleness gave Ivar a special form of satisfaction—a kind of power he craved to hold. The strength he saw in Heahmund made his moments of vulnerability all the more precious, a private surrender that only Ivar knew. Heahmund was his favorite plaything, his body a territory that Ivar never grew tired of exploring, always eager to discover another hidden treasure, marked by the sweetest moans.

In the silence that lingered in the room, a thought drifted back into Ivar’s mind, one that had first come to him the night before. His gaze wandered briefly to the opposite wall, where three paintings hung in ornate frames. Yet it was only a fleeting distraction; his eyes soon found their way back to Heahmund, magnetically drawn.

"Your painters here in England are wasting their time and resources," Ivar murmured, his voice rough from the prolonged silence, breaking the stillness without offering any further explanation. He let the words hang, a quiet provocation. His eyes rested steady on Heahmund, waiting to see if he would take the bait.

Heahmund stirred, almost imperceptibly, as the unexpected sound of Ivar’s voice pulled him out of his focus. He hesitated, though, not responding right away. Instead, he completed the placement of a horse figure near the mountain ridge on the map, his fingers lingering deliberately over it. His hand drifted to his beard, rubbing it thoughtfully as he cast a final, scrutinizing look over his arrangement, buying himself time and perhaps quietly teasing the young Viking by delaying his response. When he finally turned to face Ivar, he caught the familiar smirk and the glint in those sharp eyes -clear signs that Ivar was baiting him, eager to spark one of their playful arguments. Heahmund could feel his own smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, ready to rise to the challenge.

"And what exactly does that mean?" he asked, turning to place another figure on the map, pretending to be not that interested in Ivar's answer.

"The paintings are dull," Ivar replied, knowing full well that his answer would not grant satisfaction.

Heahmund paused in his movement, his expression hardening slightly. He felt a flicker of anger, although he knew full well that his beloved was only teasing him. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the criticism had struck a nerve. Although he knew exactly which paintings Ivar meant, he turned, following the boy’s gaze toward the wall where the contested works hung. These weren’t just any paintings; they depicted Christian scenes -saints and biblical figures- vividly rendered in detail. Heahmund had admired them in silence ever since he had first entered Ivar’s room, captivated by their depth and craftsmanship. As a (somewhat) devout Christian, the sight of such sacred imagery stirred him deeply, and Ivar's mockery felt like a personal affront. He had never cared much for luxury, yet these paintings; opulent & intricate, held a power over him that he couldn’t fully explain.

"It doesn’t surprise me that you don’t understand art," Heahmund muttered under his breath. He made an effort to keep his tone calm, not allowing his irritation to show. "You  are indeed a heathen, through and through." With a light push off the table, he walked toward the wall where the contested paintings hung, feeling Ivar’s watchful gaze on him. As he reached the first painting, Heahmund paused, his gaze falling on the delicate image with quiet reverence, his fingers brushing the air as though he could trace the delicate brushstrokes. "This painting here shows the Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus."

"Ahh, of course, the virgin again, who bore a child," Ivar interjected, voice thick with mockery.

"Yes, the woman who bestowed a miracle upon humankind," Heahmund replied, doing his best to ignore the ridicule in Ivar’s tone. He drew in a steadying breath, pausing for a moment as he considered how best to introduce the next painting without giving Ivar more ammunition to mock. "And here, you see—"

"Shh," Ivar cut in, tone as dismissive as ever when they spoke about Christianity. “I don’t care about your boring saints. They’re dull, and so are the paintings. If you ask me, it’s all a waste of materials."

"But no one is asking you, my little Viking." Heahmund retorted, drawing in another calming breath to steady himself.

"A pity, really. I have far better ideas." Ivar’s smile, initially playful and full of amusement at their banter, shifted into something darker, a predatory gleam settling in his eyes as his gaze dropped, fixating on his lover’s naked front.

"Oh? What would that be? Paintings full of blood and gore? Paintings of your false Gods?” Heahmund was well aware of Ivar’s hungry gaze, and though a heat stirred within him in response, he didn't feel shame, knowing exactly that Ivar liked what he presented so freely to him.

"That would be my second choice."

"What would be the first one then? Tell me, I'm intrigued."

"My first would be that they should do portrait after portrait of—" Ivar’s voice softened to a murmur. His eyes detached themselves from Heahmund's crotch, roaming slowly upwards, tracing every curve and line, until he finally met Heahmund’s steady gaze and amused smile. Admiration flickered in his eyes, and he wet his lips again, savoring the vision before him. "-You," he finished at last. "Just as you are right now. Perfection ." His voice was almost dreamlike as he imagined how those paintings might capture this proud warrior in front of him in all his untamed beauty. With a subtle gesture, he extended his hand, silently beckoning his beloved to come closer.

A chuckle escaped Heahmund, revealing a touch of bashful embarrassment. While he was well aware of how highly Ivar thought of him, he still found it difficult to accept such unreserved praise. It was both flattering and, in a way, almost absurd to him, knowing how differently he saw himself compared to the pedestal his beloved placed him on. "I'm not sure many would share your opinion on that matter," he replied, a faint smile still lingering, deepening the lines at the corners of his eyes. The warmth in Ivar's words, paired with the intensity of his gaze, created a seductive pull Heahmund couldn’t resist. Instinctively, he felt the pull to step forward, to close the distance between them. Yet, despite the growing urge, he held his ground, allowing the tension to simmer, denying Ivar the satisfaction of immediate compliance.

"The people who can’t see how perfect you are, those are the ones you truly can call heathens." Ivar’s words were still playful, but there was a certain sincerity behind them. He gestured toward the empty space next to him on the bed, repeating his silent invitation with another subtle yet firm motion, urging Heahmund to finally come closer.

Still conquered with fluster, Heahmund softly shook his head, his features growing more serious. "I’m no more than a simple warrior, Ivar," he said, his voice soft and humbled. "I’ve seen what’s on these walls, seen the divine paintings of others, extraordinary personalities. But I am far from perfect, not worthy of such a canvas." He deliberately ignored the new invitation, his gaze firmly set ahead, as if he had not noticed the motion at all.

With a sweeping, almost impatient motion of his hand, Ivar seemed to physically brush Heahmund's words out of the air, as if determined to erase them. He couldn’t accept that Heahmund couldn’t see his worth, his perfection—not to mention the fact that he hadn’t obeyed his wish immediately, which only added to Ivar’s growing impatience. "Come here. Now," he commanded now, his voice still calm but laced with unmistakable authority.

Heahmund, however, remained unmoved, one eyebrow raising as he held Ivar’s gaze, the earlier warmth in his expression now shifting into a playful smirk. "Be a bit more polite," he replied, his tone light with teasing defiance, "and I might consider it."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Ivar’s face, his jaw clenching as a familiar frustration tightened in his chest. He could almost feel the old sting of past dismissals -the bruised pride from moments when his men had dared to question him. Though he knew Heahmund’s resistance wasn’t true defiance, only part of their playful bickering, that reflexive irritation rose, echoing those past moments when his authority had been tested. But as quickly as it surfaced, he forced the feeling away, knowing it had no place here. He let his expression soften into a sly grin, shifting into a more upright position as his hand came to rest theatrically over his heart, the movement letting the blanket slip from his shoulders to reveal more of his bare chest. A detail he knew Heahmund wouldn’t miss.

"My most honorable warrior bishop," he began, voice dripping with sarcasm. "How could I dare ask for anything without first acknowledging your unparalleled greatness?" He punctuated his words with exaggerated hand gestures, his smile barely contained. "You, the second-best warrior of all time, whose skill and strength are only overshadowed by the gods themselves. May I humbly request that you grace me with your presence?"

A soft chuckle filled the room, a sound shared between them as Ivar ended his playful performance, the sound a welcome relief from the burdens of their world. Moments like this, filled with teasing and flirtation, were rare treasures for them. Away from prying eyes and heavy responsibilities, they allowed themselves to savor the lightness of each other’s company, a fleeting escape they both deeply cherished.

Heahmund smirked, amusement lacing his short reply, ‘You may ’ as he strode toward the bed with deliberate grace, closing the distance in a few strides. Leaning down, he brought a hand to Ivar’s jaw, his palm gliding over his cheek before his fingers traced a light, deliberate path to his ear. The touch was a blend of tenderness and quiet dominance, a clear statement  that he claimed control. Their lips met softly, the kiss charged yet unhurried, neither of them willing to delay the connection they both craved any longer.

Ivar’s hands immediately found their place on Heahmund’s back, pulling him in closer, his fingertips skimming the warm skin of his neck. 

Heahmund could feel the pull of the embrace, the way the arms tightened around him, urging him down into the softness of the bed and closer to the warmth of his beloved’s inviting body. The warm, musky sweetness lingering on Ivar’s skin enveloped him, carrying traces of their shared intimacy, pulling him deeper into the desire to conquer him once more. He felt the urge to give in completely, to surrender to his instincts, but he held back just enough to maintain his balance, mindful not to put any of his weight on Ivar’s legs. Gently, he lowered himself, his lips still grazing Ivar’s, savoring the taste of his soft lips as they parted, inviting him to explore further. He deepened the kiss and opened his mouth wider to let their tongues meet in a sinful play.

The warmth of their breaths mingled, and Ivar let a soft sigh slip from his lips, catching the gentle smile that played on Heahmund’s face and mirroring it instinctively. Happiness had once been a concept he’d openly scorned, a fool’s dream, an illusion for the weak, or a crutch for those desperate to escape life’s hardness. He’d sneered at it, taking pride in his strength to live without such trivial feelings. Perhaps, deep down, he’d simply protected himself, unable to imagine ever finding a reason for real joy in a life marked by endless struggle. But here, in moments like this, he felt happiness stir deeply in his chest, simmering and insistent and so powerful, he felt he was about to burst if he didn’t let his felt joy out in a smile or a quiet confession meant only for the ears of his most beloved warrior.

"You’ve captured my heart, Heahmund. Left me defenseless," Ivar whispered as they parted briefly for air, his voice soft and steady, his eyes slowly opening. He sought the stormy silver of Heahmund’s gaze, always deeper and more intense in moments like these. That look, so charged with desire, was irresistible to Ivar, not just because of its raw intensity, but because of what it stirred within him. To be seen like this, wanted so fiercely by someone like Heahmund, filled him with a confidence that made him feel invincible. 

But Heahmund kept his eyes closed, savoring the intimacy, reluctant to break the spell. He knew if he would open them, he’d be lost in the endless, stormy blues. Slowly, he shifted his hand from Ivar’s cheek, trailing it gently until it rested over his heart. His fingers lingered, feeling the steady pulse beneath the skin. "Then let it be my duty to guard it. For all eternity," he murmured, his lips brushing against Ivar’s ear, leaving a trail of soft kisses before returning to reclaim the sweetness of his beloved's lips, swallowing the sweet sound Ivar made in response.

Just now, feeling the warmth of Ivar’s body against him, Heahmund recognized the chill of his own skin and instinctively leaned deeper into Ivar’s embrace, fingers fumbling with the edge of the blanket to slip under it as well. Mindful of Ivar’s fragile legs, he gently ended their kiss and shifted to settle beside him. Draping an arm protectively around the young Viking’s chest, he pulled Ivar into his embrace, spooning him with a tenderness that spoke of quiet devotion. He pressed a trail of soft kisses to Ivar’s forehead and cheek, propping himself on one elbow for better reach.

A faint shiver passed through Ivar at the initial coolness of Heahmund’s touch, but it quickly dissolved as he softened into the strong arms that held him with unspoken promises of safety and love. Ivar turned slightly to glance back, a small, contented smile tugging at his lips. He loved being showered with such affection, every tender gesture felt like a balm to that quiet, yearning part of him that had rarely known care beyond his mother’s loving touch and gaze. In Heahmund’s arms, he felt truly cherished.

That Ivar was touch-starved was something Heahmund had realized quite early. So, whenever the circumstances allowed it, he tried his best to offer the kind of comfort Ivar seemed to crave but rarely asked for. He took his time, placing soft, lingering kisses along Ivar’s forehead, cheek, and neck. His fingertips gently traced the contours of Ivar’s chest, feeling the strength beneath the smooth skin. A question that had crossed his mind earlier, one he had held back, resurfaced, almost forgotten but too tempting to leave unasked. He leaned closer, nudging his nose against Ivar’s ear, his breath warm against the sensitive skin.

"So—who exactly is the first-best warrior?"

A soft chuckle escaped Ivar, amused by Heahmund’s curiosity. Before his answer, he stole himself a quick kiss. "My father," he then began, his voice rich with admiration, and a flicker of pride lighting his eyes. "Ragnar. He was - is the greatest of all warriors." 

Heahmund’s brow lifted in surprise. He had expected a boastful ‘myself’, but was surprised by the sincerity of the reply. Being wise enough not to prick in such a delicate matter, he merely nodded in understanding, though his mind wandered for a moment. The way Ivar idolized Ragnar, and the way he seemed to transfer the same idea of perfection onto him, stoked the embers of sadness within him. He wondered if the absence of Ivar's father had left a void so deep that even now Ivar clung fiercely to anyone who showed him even a small measure of care, clinging to them so that the void was filled, not hurting anymore. There was this little spark of fear in Heahmund that Ivar was placing more value on these bonds than they perhaps deserved, and that he was blinding himself to any flaws that might weaken their value. Sometimes, he even couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt, fearing he might be taking advantage of that need, unknowingly exploiting the child within Ivar who simply wanted to be seen, craving genuine affection and recognition.

Deep in thought, Heahmund’s fingers brushed reverently over the cherished body beneath him, savoring every inch of skin his touch could claim. He began by tracing soft circles over Ivar's shoulder, the gentle yet intentional movements radiating a quiet devotion, before letting his fingers drift downwards, following the delicate line of Ivar's spine as if it mapped out a path meant only for him. The slight tremble, the soft sighs that escaped Ivar's lips, and the way he moved under his touch spoke to him, causing the heat to build up in his crotch in response. With a gentle, encouraging pressure on Ivar's shoulder, he conveyed a wordless request, and Ivar responded instinctively, shifting onto his stomach, quickly rearranging his legs as well. Heahmund’s warm lips lingered in the curve of Ivar’s neck, alternating between soft kisses, tender nips, and a teasing tongue that seemed to trace a melody on his skin. Each stroke of his tongue sketched a note, and Ivar’s low, breathless moans brought that music to life, filling the room with the sound of their shared devotion.

It wasn't that Heahmund didn't love Ivar; in fact, it was precisely his love that made him question if, unknowingly, he was taking advantage of him. He harbored deep feelings for the young Viking, savoring their moments together more than he would have thought, back when their bond had first formed, always finding ways and excuses to be at Ivar’s side. These feelings had brought a richness to his life, filled him with something he had never known before, but which felt wonderful to Heahmund. His heart brimmed with fierce affection, an unrelenting desire to fulfill Ivar’s every wish and, most of all, to protect him and the bond they shared. There was no doubt in him that he would fight to defend what they shared until his last breath. Yet, in his quieter moments, he couldn’t help but wonder if Ivar's professed love was really the result of his free will or if it came from a place marked by the lingering wounds of loss and rejection.

Determined to silence these creeping thoughts, Heahmund refocused on the present, responding to each of Ivar’s sounds with a soft, approving hum and a series of kisses that grew bolder with every eager movement from Ivar, each press of lips against heated skin met with growing urgency. His fingers paused at the base of Ivar's spine and lingered in a delicate, rhythmic dance, as if he would paint his own masterpiece there. Each tender touch elicited blissful, rewarding sighs that grew into a moan as Heahmund's middle finger slid further down, between the plump buttocks where he felt the remnants of their last shared passion at his fingertip.

The thought of their last encounter made his lips twist into a wicked grin. A spark shot through Heahmund, causing him to instinctively press his hips closer against Ivar's back, eliciting another shaky moan from his lover - guttural and laced with desire. Heahmund's voice grumbled in soft approval, a low, contented hum that he murmured against the damp skin in front of him. Just the feel of his cum, and the knowledge that Ivar was still marked as his in some way, was enough to make his growing arousal harden even more. He slid his finger deeper, drawing slow, deliberate circles with his fingertip, smearing the sinful wetness around Ivar's entrance, making good use of it in anticipation of what was to come. 

Ivar's brief tensing did not go unnoticed, and Heahmund paused for a heartbeat, but quickly realized that it was not caused by physical discomfort, but rather a flare of shyness, as Ivar was still insecure about being touched in such an intimate place.

"You can trust me," Heahmund murmured softly, his voice a low reassurance. He paused a moment longer, leaning slightly forward to catch a glimpse of Ivar’s face, wanting to be certain his instincts were right. His assumption was confirmed when he saw the softness in Ivar’s features and was met with a reassuring smile. Satisfied, Heahmund lowered his head again, pressing a kiss to Ivar's shoulder before letting his lips trail downward, following the line of his spine again. "Just as I place my trust in you," he added, his words meant as a promise, reminding them both of the mutual exchange. His lips halted at the tailbone, where he began to place tender pecks around the area.

The skin across his entire body began to tingle, and Ivar could almost feel the tiny hairs rising where Heahmund’s lips had made contact. He sighed in pure pleasure, soaking in the sweet tenderness being offered to him. His hand instinctively reached behind, searching for the back of Heahmund's head. When his fingers brushed through the dark strands, he gently tangled them, tugging lightly as he urged him closer. "I love it when you thrust in me," he said, grinning widely, making an effort to pronounce it as clearly as possible, determined to get the pun across.

Ivar could sense the warm breath brushing against his lower back as Heahmund laughed at his response. A moment later, the finger that had just been teasing him was pushed into him, instantly wiping the grin from his face and replacing it with an expression of pure desire. Ivar inhaled shakily, letting the breath out in a deep, drawn-out moan as he pressed himself closer, his grip tightening in the dark hair.

Heahmund shoved his finger deeper, brushing in fluid motions against the inner walls, satisfied with how this little act already caused Ivar to lose his mind. Carefully, he took some skin between his teeth and nibbled on it before moving on to sucking, leaving a reddish mark. Immediately afterwards, he ran his thumb reverently over the spot, pulling his finger almost completely out of Ivar before pushing it back in, eliciting another delighted sound. With small biting movements, he made his way to Ivar's side, hovering over him and causing the blanket to slide down a little.

The cool breeze that immediately enveloped his body was a relief to the young Viking, whose skin had begun to glisten with sweat as the heat beneath the blanket had grown nearly unbearable, suffocating. With a swift movement, Ivar pushed the fabric down further, freeing both himself and Heahmund, who seemed to be in just as much of a hurry to be freed, taking it into his own hands to remove it completely by pushing it aside.

"Turn around," Heahmund whispered, his lips gently brushing over Ivar's hip. He waited for Ivar's unquestioning obedience, guiding him with a gentle hand as his lips caressed each new piece of accessible skin. To assist with Ivar’s unresponsive legs -a privilege he’d long since earned- Heahmund withdrew his finger and placed both hands carefully on Ivar's thighs. With the utmost care, he positioned them so they lay comfortably parted, giving him the access he needed and craved. After ensuring Ivar was comfortable, Heahmund leaned over him, capturing his lips in a brief, tender kiss -a quiet reward for his beloved’s trust and also for his willing surrender.

Heahmund let his gaze wander appreciatively over Ivar’s form, pausing at the sight of his flaccid cock resting against his belly. The contrast to his own arousal, hard and throbbing, was unmistakable, and he couldn’t help but recall how, in their earlier moments of intimacy, the sight might have stirred doubts within him. Doubts about his skill, about his capacity to truly bring his lover satisfaction. But he understood now, more clearly than ever, that this was simply how Ivar’s body was, a physical reality that had nothing to do with his enjoyment. The shiny drops of pleasure that had gathered at Ivar’s tip told their own truth, a quiet testament to his ability to get aroused nonetheless. It was more than enough to silence any remaining doubts, to urge Heahmund onward with confidence.

An unspoken urgency passed between them, a shared understanding that needed no words. Ivar’s hand found its way to the back of Heahmund’s head, fingers threading through his hair with firm insistence, guiding him lower. Heahmund complied with a quiet smile, shifting himself comfortably alongside Ivar’s hip and with seamless ease he slipped his middle finger back inside Ivar's body, soon joined by his index finger, moving them both with a careful, practiced rhythm.

Once more, Heahmund found a perfect canvas in Ivar’s lower belly, and every kiss and brushstroke of his lips added to the intimate portrait he was painting there. He traced his way over the warm skin, kissing, licking, biting in places, satisfied with each shiver and quiet sigh that followed. He lowered his head and kissed the path he had already traveled, his mouth moving purposefully towards Ivar's length. Heahmund's lips hovered just above it, his breath warm on the sensitive skin, before he finally closed the distance. His tongue reached out to capture the salty beads that had gathered at the tip, savoring both the taste and the soft, shaky breath he drew from Ivar's lips. His fingers pressed deeper, and the rhythm of his movements became more and more synchronized with the reactions he received as a reward.

In an agonizingly slow movement, Heahmund ran his tongue over Ivar's shaft, applying pressure to it before closing his lips completely around the flaccid cock, taking it deep into his mouth. He moved slowly at first, savoring the taste, feeling every subtle tremor in Ivar's body as he intensified his actions. Heahmund basked in the sounds, which increasingly turned into lustful whimpers, each sound shooting directly into his own arousal, almost creating a painful hardness. With every breath Ivar drew, Heahmund swallowed the newly released salty drops, his fingers never leaving, working in perfect harmony with the gentle movements of his mouth, coaxing his beloved closer to the edge.

☆~~~~~~~☆~~~~~~~☆

They were both lost in the moment, the world outside seeming distant and irrelevant. In the warmth and comfort of the room, they felt safe, hidden away—free from the possibility of intrusion. The knowledge that the scouts were still out, and that no one would dare enter Ivar’s private quarters without warning, allowed them to forget all precautions and vigilance.

The steady footsteps that approached their protected space went unnoticed. Normally so alert, so attuned to every sound, neither of them could pull their focus away from the intimate connection they were sharing. They didn’t even realize that the steps had stopped -right in front of their door.

With a sudden, loud crash, their last shield of protection burst open.

Ivar’s heart skipped a beat as the door flew wide, the intrusion hitting him like a sharp slap to his senses. His body froze, every muscle stiffened in disbelief as a wave of shock and confusion surged through him. His breath caught in his chest, and for a moment, everything seemed to blur, his mind scrambling to catch up with the harsh reality of the situation. Thoughts swirled in his mind, a thousand different questions and fears, but none of them seemed to settle. The intimate world they had been lost in shattered instantly, replaced by the raw vulnerability of exposure. The only thing clear in that frozen moment was the shadowed figure standing in the doorway, their presence like a cold gust of wind cutting through the heat of their shared moment.

Heahmund’s reaction contrasted with his own. Despite being every bit as startled, the warrior jerked back, his instincts kicking in immediately. Without hesitation, he tore himself away from his love and quickly covered him with the blanket to hide his vulnerability, knowing that Ivar did not want anyone but him and his brothers to see his legs. Heahmund’s eyes scanned the room, assessing the danger with swift efficiency, before flicking to the wall beside the bed where his sword rested. His posture stiffened, every muscle in his body coiling in preparation to fight, to kill if necessary. His focus was entirely on protecting Ivar, ensuring his safety. There was no concern for his own exposed state; the only thing that mattered now was shielding Ivar, keeping him from harm.

The intruder was equally shocked by what had unfolded before his eyes. His eyes were wide open, the disbelief in them almost palpable. His mouth stood open, but unable to form words. The shock was undeniable, but slowly his features hardened, the stunned expression melting into something colder, more distant - disgust. A mocking smile curled around his lips, his eyes narrowed in contempt. His childish, resounding giggle was the first sound to break the silence.

"Floki?" Ivar finally managed to whisper, his voice trembling, the words barely audible as doubt clouded his mind. His heart raced, his hands clutched the blanket in a desperate need to ground himself, and his breath hitched in his chest, as if uttering the name aloud might somehow make the man in the doorway vanish. His mind struggled to reconcile the figure standing before him with the man he thought he had lost forever. A year had passed since Floki had sailed away -wild, unpredictable, the father figure he had always looked up to. Ivar had watched him disappear over the horizon, certain that it would be the last time he would see his friend, his mentor. The finality of that moment had haunted him. And now, here he was, as though no time had passed at all. A flood of emotions surged through Ivar, conflicting and overwhelming.

"You know him?" Heahmund’s voice cut in, sharp and questioning,  his eyes never leaving the stranger in the doorway. His posture was tense, his gaze fixed ahead, but his mind was already calculating, taking in every detail and wondering if he had met the other Viking before. His sword was already firmly in his right hand, its familiar weight activating all his warrior senses, reminding him of the necessity of defense.

Floki stood motionless, a sneer crossed his face, and his eyes darted from Ivar to Heahmund, narrowed with anger and a cold sense of betrayal. The silence in the room was heavy. He saw no reason to introduce himself, especially to a man who stood naked before him, and therefore continued to shamelessly rub the harsh truth in his face that Ivar, whom he loved like a son, seemed to have lost his mind and had gotten completely lost in the crossroads that separated right from wrong. With a derisive snort in Heahmund's direction, Floki finally turned his gaze to Ivar, looking at him with something akin to disappointment, waiting for him to speak up.

"It’s Floki…our famous boat-builder. He raised me. Left me behind after we took York," Ivar finally said as Floki made no move to introduce himself. His voice was barely above a whisper, the accusation clearly audible. He stole a glance at Heahmund, looking for some guidance, but his lover’s face was clouded with confusion and caution. 

Ivar’s gaze returned to Floki, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself, letting his words sharpen as he found his footing. "Welcome back…I guess." The sarcasm in his tone was a deliberate armor, a familiar layer of deflection that slipped into place almost instinctively. Witty bravado had always been his first line of defense, a way to mask the vulnerability that churned just below the surface. His lips curled into a thin smile. Hope sprouted in him that Floki was just putting on one of his dramatic plays, that this crushing expression of disgust and disappointment was only a pretense and he was about to pull him into one of his hugs that would be bordering on bone-breaking, strong but heartfelt, as they had done so often in the past. 

Despite his mask of confidence, Ivar felt his face heating up, shame burning through him under Floki’s withering gaze. The look in Floki's eyes struck him deeply and twisted what he had enjoyed only moments before into something he would now prefer to hide and undo. Nevertheless, he forced himself to hold Floki's gaze and a plea formed in his eyes. A plea for understanding, for even a shred of leniency. Floki had once been like family to him, but now the distance between them felt huge, almost unbridgeable.

Floki’s expression hardened, his lips curling into a bitter sneer. "By the gods…Ivar, what the hell are you thinking, you little fool? Or when did you stop thinking?" he spat out. His words were laced with venom. The familiar, wild intensity of the man Ivar had grown up with was unmistakable, but now it was wrapped in a coldness against himself. Something Ivar hadn’t experienced before.

Instinctively, Heahmund moved closer to the bed again to further shield Ivar, as if his presence alone could cushion the intense anger blazing in Floki's eyes. He shifted his sword to his left hand, the weaker one, and reached for his scattered clothing, hoping that he could at least put his undergarments back on while the two of them talked.

The slight movement drew Floki’s attention. His gaze dropped to the pile of armor near Heahmund’s hand, and his eyes narrowed as they lingered on the chest plate, emblazoned with a cross - a clear and defiant symbol of the so-hated foreign god. His gaze shifted to the crucifix that was lying next to the pile and his expression hardened even more, hit by memories from his time with Ragnar. Memories of Ragnar’s trials with faith, of Athelstan’s influence. Bitterness twisted his mouth into a sneer, and his mocking giggle, both sharp and scornful, cut through the silence like a blade. Quickly, he spat in the direction of Heahmund and his god, present through his symbolism, making it clear that he still held little of the Christian faith.

"You truly are Ragnar's son," Floki mocked, his gaze shifting back to Ivar. "Making the same foolish mistakes your father did, worse even." His words were dripping with contempt as he turned to face Heahmund, his hand drifting to the axe at his side, drawing it from its holster with a steady, deliberate motion before he pointed the weapon at Heahmund. "I wondered what pulled me back here after swearing I’d never return," he continued, voice cold as ice. "But it seems the gods sent me to free you from this… obstacle."

Heahmund tensed as Floki’s words sliced through the air like a challenge. He shifted his sword back into his prominent hand, raising it in defiance, ready to defend them both. But before he could move further, Ivar reached out, his hand settling on Heahmund’s back - a calming gesture, an unspoken plea for him not to strike first. The touch was subtle, but it was enough to stop Heahmund in his tracks, his grip on the sword tightening, but he held still.

"You think you’re here to ‘free’ me?" Ivar’s voice was equally cold, biting, and full of frustration. "You abandoned me after York, left me to fight my own battles. And now, after all this time, you think you can just storm in like some vengeful ghost and lecture me about what’s right?" His lips curled into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, his words a mixture of sarcasm and an ache barely held in check. "Is this how you imagined your grand return, Floki?" His gaze intensified, eyes locking on the older man. "To come back and break me again? Robbing me of the only person who still cares for me? Who I love?" The last words left his mouth with an edge, raw emotion flickering behind the sharpness.

Floki let out a dismissive sound at the mention of love, his expression twisting in disbelief. But Ivar quickly silenced him with a raised hand, cutting off any further disrespectful words. "If that’s your intention," Ivar continued while his hand slid under his pillow, searching for the hidden dagger there. He gripped the handle tightly, the feeling of the metal against his palm was grounding him, reassuring him that the decision he had made was the right one. He would fight for his happiness, even if it meant to turn against his old friend. "...maybe you should turn around now. And then really never come back."

Floki’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the axe as a surge of anger washed over him, but underneath that anger, uncertainty lingered. He loved Ivar like his own son—he had raised him, shaped him into a self-confident young man, a man he believed cherished the gods. The thought of seeing him fall to the wrong path, to be abandoned by the gods, lost in the same mistakes as Ragnar, twisted Floki's insides. The gods, he believed, had their reasons for pushing him toward this inevitable confrontation. With a sharp exhale, he surged forward, striking at Heahmund with a force that could have cleaved a man in two. Heahmund parried the blow effortlessly, the clash of metal ringing through the room, mixed with Ivar’s desperate scream to stop.

Heahmund quickly countered with three sharp blows, each strike deflecting Floki’s attacks with practiced precision. The power behind the exchanges sent shockwaves through the room, but both held their ground, not yielding. Floki’s rage only grew, each failed strike pushing him further, but Heahmund stood firm, his sword a solid shield against the Viking’s fury.

Ivar lunged forward, desperately trying to intervene. "Stop!" he screamed anew, his voice a mix of panic and command. He tried to stabilize himself so that he had a firm grip, but the softness of the bed didn't really give him that security. In an attempt to stop Floki without hurting him, he tried to grab his arm to hold him back, but before he could get a firm grip, Floki pushed him aside with a rough shove. Ivar staggered, falling to the side, his face contorted with frustration and anger. The moment was fleeting, but it was enough to get Heahmund's attention. His silver eyes, fixed on Ivar for a second, filled with concern, his worry for him obvious.

The short opening was exploited and with a feral grin, Floki swung his axe with deadly precision, landing a brutal blow to Heahmund’s side. The sound of metal hitting flesh echoed, followed by a harsh gasp from Heahmund. He staggered, but managed to stay on his feet, overrun by pain. His hand shot to his side, pressing hard against the wound, but blood quickly spilled between his fingers. Despite the searing pain and his body wanting to give in, he forced himself to stand as tall as he could, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his gaze locked on Ivar, trying to stay focused even as his body trembled.

Ivar froze, his heart sinking as he watched in horror how Heahmund struggled to stay upright, blood staining his skin. In that single, harrowing moment, it felt as though his entire world was collapsing. A torrent of fear and rage surged through him, igniting into a feral, unstoppable fury. Without hesitation, he leapt from the bed like a berserker, the dagger clenched between his teeth, his focus narrowing to a single target: Floki. In a blur of motion, Ivar lunged at his former friend, his hands latching onto Floki’s ankles just as the older Viking raised his axe for another strike. With a burst of raw strength fueled by desperation, Ivar seized them, unyielding. With a sudden, vicious twist, he wrenched the ankles sharply to the side, his whole body throwing strength into the movement. The force was enough to unbalance Floki, who toppled backward with a grunt of pain, his axe slipping from his grip. The sickening thud of Floki’s fall barely registered to Ivar. He didn’t care if he had injured the older Viking. His only thought was Heahmund, whose labored breaths and pain-contorted face carved into his heart like a blade.

"Ivar, please…please stay back!" Heahmund gritted out, still desperate to protect his love. Staggering a few steps, he pressed his back against the wall for support, his sword trembling in his grip as he braced himself for the next assault. His only thought was to protect Ivar, even as his strength waned.

But Ivar ignored the plea entirely. Instead, the implication that Heahmund didn’t see him as fit for battle ignited a fire within him, a stubborn determination to prove otherwise. With swift, almost reckless movements, he dragged himself across the cold stone floor, his unprotected legs scraping painfully over the uneven ground. He stopped in front of Heahmund and looked resolutely towards him. His trembling hands worked urgently, pressing the first piece of cloth he could grab firmly against the wound. He tried to apply enough pressure to stem the crimson flood, but it was futile. Within seconds, the fabric darkened, the red overtaking it completely. The metallic scent of blood filled his nose, a smell he once found thrilling but now felt suffocating. Fear crept into his bones, coiling tighter with every warm pulse of blood that seeped through his fingers. The thought of losing Heahmund -his source of happiness, hit him like a physical blow. The wet warmth on his hands clashed violently with the icy dread inside him, intensifying the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him. But he forced himself to hold steady, refusing to let go, refusing to lose what mattered most.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ivar saw Heahmund lift his sword again, the effort alone forcing another surge of blood from the wound. Panic surged in his voice as he pleaded, "Stop, Heahmund. Don’t strain yourself!" He quickly turned his head, his gaze locking on Floki, who stood dangerously close once more, silently observing the scene with an unreadable expression and his weapon raised, ready to strike again.

"Don’t you dare take this away from me!" Ivar nearly screamed, his voice thick with raw emotion. Tears, born of fear and rage, welled in his eyes but did not fall.

Floki’s expression twisted as pity crept across his face. "It’s wrong, Ivar. He defiles you, tarnishes your name in the eyes of the gods! The things you’ve allowed this weakling to do to you are abominable. You cannot lay with another man!" The frustration at Ivar’s blindness to this truth was etched across his face until a sudden realization made him pause. His eyes widened as a new thought struck him, and he hissed, "It must be Loki trying to lead you astray! You should be smarter than to let him trick you!" His tone grew relentless, as though trying to hammer his truth into Ivar, believing that this was the right thing to do, the only way to save him.

"It’s not for you to judge. If you kill him, you’ll kill me," Ivar retorted, his voice steady with stubbornness, yet trembling with a deeper pain.

Floki’s gaze softened, but only for a moment. "Ivar..." His voice was almost pleading now, as though reprimanding a son he didn’t want to see fall into despair. "The gods have always shown me what is right. And what you’re doing... it’s a curse."

Ivar took a moment to let Floki’s words sink in, perhaps giving his old mentor a fleeting hope that he had finally broken through. But as Ivar turned to Heahmund again, his heart swelled with warmth and admiration, emotions that stood steadfast despite the fear coursing through him. His gaze softened as memories surfaced, unbidden yet vivid—the tender moments, the love Heahmund had shown him, and the way this man had unlocked feelings he had never experienced before.

In stark contrast, Floki’s voice from the past echoed in his mind, recounting tales of the gods and preaching how to live a life pleasing to them. Those lessons, once a foundation of his belief, now felt distant, as though belonging to someone he no longer was. The weight of everything -Heahmund’s pain, Floki’s judgment, and his own emotions- pressed on him as he turned back to his mentor, a deep breath steadying his resolve.

Ivar’s voice was calm yet filled with unshakable conviction as he broke the tense silence. "I chose this path. If it’s the trickster’s one, then so be it. Even if the gods turn their backs on me, I’ll still have Heahmund by my side. Nothing else matters. No god, no fate, no curse can take from me what he gives me." As the last words left his lips, he felt a hand place itself on his shoulder. Although Ivar knew the touch was probably more for Heahmund's support than his own reassurance, it filled him with a new strength. This simple gesture of solidarity burned away any remaining doubt and further strengthened his resolve. He straightened his posture slightly and defiance flashed in his eyes.

Floki’s eyes narrowed, his doubt laced with frustration. "So you’d give up everything for him? For a Christian?"

"Yes." Was Ivar’s simple response.

"Do you even understand what you're doing, Ivar?" Floki’s expression hardened, his tone almost pleading now.

Ivar gave a small nod, his gaze unwavering. When he spoke again, his voice softened, but his words carried a weight that made them feel unshakable. "I understand more than you ever will, old man."

Floki shook his head, his desperation to sway Ivar rising to the surface. "You will have no god protecting you any longer if you choose this path."

"I’ve already chosen this path. The decision is made," Ivar declared and at the very same moment, Heahmund’s voice broke through, strained but resolute. "I will protect him."

Floki let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "You, a dying man, speak of protection?" He gestured sharply at Heahmund’s wound, his voice dripping with disbelief. "You can’t even protect yourself, let alone him."

Ivar’s expression hardened, anger flashing in his eyes. "He is not a dying man! It’s just a scratch," he snapped, though the words felt more like an attempt to convince himself.

For a moment, Floki’s face softened again, the fire in his eyes shifting to something more complicated - regret, perhaps, or understanding- but his stubbornness remained. "You’re both fools if you believe what you’re saying."

"Then let us be foolish," Ivar shot back, his tone unwavering.

Floki’s gaze lingered, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. "Then this is the last time you’ll hear my voice, Ivar. The voice of reason! If you truly want this, I’ll leave you to it."

"Go then," Ivar said firmly without thinking twice. "Go, and let me find my own way, with Heahmund, and no one else. The gods will not decide my path. You left me once, and I survived. If you can’t accept my choice, please leave again."

Floki stared at Ivar, taking in the young man he had become. A flash of pride surged through him, followed by sadness that he wasn’t able to convince him from the right thing. Before he turned and stormed out of the room, he shot one last look at Heahmund, his eyes conveying the message that he should do his best to keep his promise. 

With each step that faded into a distant echo, his heart throbbed with pain. For a brief instant, he allowed himself to feel the full force of his loss. The man who had once been like a second father to him was gone,  again. It was a wound that cut deeply, reopening scars he thought had long since hardened. Yet, as much as it hurt, he knew this was inevitable. Their paths had diverged irreparably, and while he clung to the hope that Floki’s love for him would never truly fade, he also understood that his own choices had set them apart. This was his decision now, and he would carve his future with his own hands.

Shaking off his sorrow, Ivar pushed himself back into motion, the ache in his brittle legs a dull reminder of his frailty. The cold, hard floor had left them numb, but he ignored the discomfort, his focus solely on Heahmund. With painstaking effort, he supported his lover as best he could, crawling alongside him while he leaned heavily on his sword, his steps faltering under the weight of his injury, every breath a struggle.

Once they reached the bed, Ivar guided Heahmund down with gentle insistence, his hands trembling but steady enough to help him settle. The sight of the crimson stain spreading across Heahmund's side still frightened him, but he clung to his previous saying that it was just a scratch. They would maybe laugh about it in later times.

With care and urgency, he set to tending the wound, his hands working quickly despite their trembling. His thoughts swirled with the ache of loss and the fear of losing more, but as he glanced up at Heahmund -his anchor, his hope, his future- he found strength in the love reflected back at him.

He had lost one piece of his heart tonight, but he silently vowed that he would not lose another. No matter the cost, he would protect the happiness he still had. The gods, fate, and curses be damned. He would hold onto this love with everything he had.

[0nelittlebirdtoldme]

My own RMSE fic - for a fandom I haven't written for before!

Vikings (TV) | Ivar the Boneless/Bishop Heahmund | 3700 words | Smut | M/M  | Rated E | Relevant Tags: Dubious Consent, Power Dynamics, Age Difference

“I subject myself to your orders,” Heahmund just says calmly, his words lacking any emotion. “Utterly. Fully.”

But it isn’t good enough for Ivar. “Prove it.” His teeth shine white in the dim light, glimmering up to the other man.

Or: Ivar demands for Heahmund to prove his loyalty to him.

Pretty sure @alcorc once expressed interest for me to write Viking fic (if i misremember, please forgive me). Also tagging @mikaharuka and @argyleheir, in case any of you feel like checking it out 🖤

[therealvikingstrash]

Vikings and Vikings: Valhalla Recs!

Phew, it's been a minute since I've done one of these. Now back with a new design and additional fandom! Keep in mind that this rec list is my personal taste and yours might differ. I managed to read twelve fics despite the year I had and I think twelve fics for twelve months is a good number. (list below the cut)

Crossing the Abyss by @northernxstories - E - Multi - 23,6k

A beautifully written Space AU with polyamorous pairings. The relationships between the characters are just as interesting to read about as the bigger story of their journey. And I don't think I'm biased in the least, just because I made part of the art. This story is a whole treat!

Summary: The Kattegat was a unique vessel, designed to cross the expanse of space known as the Abyss. Once a ship enters the Abyss, the stresses surrounding the vessel increased exponentially and there was no known means of navigation in the starless void. Captain Bjorn Ragnarsson, known as Bjorn Ironside for his ability to survive seemingly impossible battles, has relied often on his brothers, Ivar, Ubbe and Hvitserk, and his sister, Gyda, to crew his ship.

Ivar was determined to defeat the impossible Abyss and has heard of a scholar who has invented a method of navigation that might be able to accomplish the task. Gyda and Ivar came up with a plan to get this information and if necessary, kidnap the scientist. Once on board the ship, the scientist is faced with unexpected challenges and rewards. However, before they can attempt the journey, Gyda must face her past.

October Rust by @bouncehousedemons - T - Ubbe/OFC - 1,9k

Wonderful imagery throughout the whole fic and and a great continuation of Salt of the Earth and Sea, which I also highly recommend to read! Summary: Ubbe assumes his lover has met a grisly demise, until an unexpected reunion with his brother proves otherwise.

polish the blood and the bruise by @underragingwaves - M - Hvitserk - 4,7k

Soldier Hvitserk, veterinarian Ubbe and a kitten. All very strong points to sell this fic, but please, it is so much more! If you like military themed stories, are a sucker for angst and family bonding this fic will hit all the right spots. I love it dearly and I'm sure so will you. It's also a nice crossover with Vikings: Valhalla characters.

Summary: Hvitserk came home from war, or so they tell him. Most days, he begs to differ about whether he ever made it out of the desert.

Reactions of your Kind by @ulfrsmal - E - Ubbe/Hvitserk - 3,1k

A bit of forbidden action in a hot spring and very nice mental images being painted along the way. Kudos to the lovely author!

Summary: Plagued by thoughts and desires he shouldn’t have had, Ubbe retreated to the hot springs outside of Kattegat… and had his bath interrupted by the one person he’d hoped wouldn’t see him so weak.

Sleepy Mornings by @ritual-unions - E - Ubbe/OFC - 7k

This is a story that reads like devouring your favorite food, while savoring it for as long as possible. Tender and electrifying and Ubbe is so very in character, I love it.

Summary: Winnifred lives a sheltered life as a Christian woman in King Alfred’s court. Not truly understanding the meaning of sexual pleasure her new husband, Ubbe Ragnarsson, is more than willing to show her the path.

I wish I knew how to quit you by @niishiki - E - Ivar/Heahmund - 1,2k

To make it short, if you love the naughty forbidden church sex, old/young pairing and Ivar being a little shit, this is a must-read.

Summary: Bishop Heahmund is a man of God - yet, he finds himself unable to resist temptation time and time again.

Til the light comes back by @naps4bats - T - Emma/Canute - 5,4k

I really liked how canon was translated into modern day AU and how well it worked! It's a lovely story with all the characters we like and don't like but still love to read about.

Summary: Emma and Canute enjoy a brief romance during a power outage. A couple of weeks later, they find their real lives intertwine.

Summer Days, Summer Nights by @encomium-emmae - T - Emma/Canute - 3.5k

An absolute lovely read for this pairing, set in a modern day AU. I like me some competitive Emma and Canute duo!

Summary: During a week of mandated vacation at a beach resort, Emma encounters a dark-haired stranger. Too bad he turns out to be a first-rate jerk.

Lost Amongst the Meadow by @emma-ofnormandy - M - Emma/Canute - 1,5k

A canon compliant piece that fits perfectly like a missing scene!

Summary: Canute wakes to an empty bed and sets out to find his wife in the early summer dawn.

to look at me and think of conquest by @mercurygray - M - Godwin/OFC - 2,5k

Absolutely adore the OFC Edith and her chemistry with Godwin. This 'verse has a few more little stories on tumblr and they are definitely worth checking out in the authors #edith eadig tag!

Summary: Godwin of Wessex knew how to be useful. He’d been Aethelred’s advisor before he’d been Edmund’s; before the Danes had left he’d made himself invaluable to Canute, too. And now that the first wife had taken up residence, it looked as though she, too, was availing herself of Godwin’s offered expertise.

Godwin has also never been a man who needed help - but he won't be able to deceive the Queen on this particular matter alone.

I Will Join You by @shelivesinhermind - Gen - Leif & Liv - 641 words

Missing scene potential. Wonderfully written and the respect Liv deserved to receive after her death.

Summary: A funeral for Liv.

The End of the Beginning by toughtobeashamgod - T - Freydis/Harald - 1,1k

Directly set after Freydis kills Kåre and even though it's rated T, it's a little bit gory due to the description of blood everywhere. Nevertheless, this fic was a nice little read and fits seamlessly into the canon 'verse.

Summary: They had come so far into this new world, only for it to end so quickly.

Read and share, share and read, loves! ��️

[toshkakoshka]

bishop heahmund and ivar the boneless are the reason why pope francis started calling em faggots btw

[heavenlymorals]

Of Christ and Yuletide

Summary: As Ivar stared out the Kyiv skyline, watching the people down below, Prince Igor asks him to come inside, which then to leads to discussions regarding the winter holidays.

This is my entry for the NorsetalesforWinter winter event hosted by the wonderful @nothingtolosebutweight and @barnes-lothbrok ❤ This is the first fandom event that I've ever attended and I hope you all enjoy~

Kyiv was Lord Hodr’s plaything. 

Or, in other words, Kyiv was cold. Unbearingly cold. Gods, it was almost stupidly cold. It was the type of cold that burned your skin to settle in your bones, leaving you lifeless, with lips the color of purple royalty and skin the color of the skies. In the back of his mind, Ivar was sure that Kattegat was colder than Kyiv, considering, if his navigational skills weren’t completely useless, that the city was south of Kattegat, but still. 

The cold made his lashes thick with frost and skin more delicate than silk. It made his hands kin to ice. It made his heart go numb and his soul ache. Perhaps that was the cold of Kyiv. Not the breath of winter as he blew over all, forcing them all to wallow in a sub-zero decay, but the cold that he felt inside him. Clamoring, wasting, a monster with jagged teeth whose stomach was an endless void, a glutton for anything and everything. Who took, and took, and took, and left one with nothing. 

Loneliness. The monster was loneliness. Once again, and forevermore, Ivar was lonely and this time, he had only himself to blame. Not the gods, not the people of Kattegat who wanted nothing to do with him as a Prince or as King, not his parents, not his brothers. 

Only him. 

And truthfully, that hurt more than anything. 

He sighed and balled his fists a couple of times before flexing out his fingers. Why he did this, he had no idea. Ivar then wrapped his hands around himself, pushing the thick black coat that he was given closer to his skin. He was on one of the balconies of the palace and was leaning against the railing, his crutch beside him as he supported his body on the thick railing. 

The wind blew with vigor, the force almost knocking him off his feet. A harsh shiver forced its way up his spine again. The wind became harsher when Ivar realized that it was accompanied by snow. The snow dusted Kyiv all over. Perhaps a bit childishly, Ivar tilted his head upwards and flicked out his tongue, catching two snowflakes, which melted immediately. He felt odd as he thought about when was the last time he did that. Kattegat. Yes, Kattegat.

Pathetic.

He sighed and began to look outwards again. 

Kyiv was cold, an image straight out of Niflheim, but it still held its own beauty, one that can only come from a people who learned to accept Kyiv for what she is and build their lives around her identity. Ivar was in awe as he stared out, at the temples-turned-churches, at the towers touching the sky and the clouds, at the people down below illuminated by golden light as they carried torches to quickly take shelter from the snow. He then looked up. The sky was streaked with clouds, and behind those curtains, the stars peaked out, numerous, glittering, sprinkled everywhere. The moon was a crescent and provided little light, thus the torches had to make do.

He then began to wonder as he watched. About many things. Many stupid, insignificant things. About the cold. About the snow. About the lives of the many people who scattered under the balcony. The animals too. 

Suddenly, he was that young boy back in Kattegat, bored and tired and hurt from watching his brothers play without bothering to include him and thus crawling to the market district in Kattegat to sit behind a crate or two to just watch people. They never noticed him. He was invisible, about as invisible as the mistletoe that is destined to kill Baldr by the hand of Hodr. The cripple will kill his better half and then the world will end. 

Or so, that’s what they say. The Seer once said that he shared the likeness of both the “good son” and the “forgotten son” of the lords on high. What that means though, is still a mystery, and since the Seer has been killed (by your own hand, you monster), Ivar didn’t bother with it. The Seer’s words only hurt his head and damaged his ego in the most inconspicuous ways. 

In any case, he watched people and began to learn a lot. There was a woman who had five children and not one of them was her husband’s. There was a man who poisoned his brother for his inheritance and blamed his death on sickness. There was a man who hated another man so much that as revenge, he would fuck his enemy’s young daughter, a shapely, pretty thing, right behind his house. Ivar saw the good, the bad, the admirable, the deplorable, everything as he watched Kattegat. 

“Ivar? It is very cold. You come inside?"

And he watched him too. Igor, Prince Igor to be exact, was the young boy who owned all the skies and lands of the land of the Rus. Or would own. His soft voice, still delicate by the sheen of childhood,  was made choppy by the whistling wind and the fact that he was speaking in Ivar's Norse tongue, or at the very least trying to. It made Ivar smile, that the child would willingly struggle just so he can make Ivar more comfortable by speaking his native tongue. Ivar was sure Oleg taught him, but still.

 Oh, the innocence of children was something so pure, so beautiful. Even someone as debauched and tainted as Ivar could see that. Igor was the prince-to-be-king of all the Rus. He shouldn’t care about such things, shouldn’t even think of them, but the fact that he did was precious.

It made Ivar’s heart ache. Poor, poor child. So naive to reality.

Ivar turned his head around and answered the Prince in his Rus tongue. He learned it rather quickly. Oddly quickly. Same with the Saxons’ language. It was a gift that the brood of Ragnar and Aslaug seemed to have. To learn and master tongues in such a limited time. 

“Hello, Prince Igor. It’s quite alright. It’s not that cold.” Liar. If it weren’t for his pure stubbornness, he probably would’ve shattered like a delicate sculpture made of ice after someone throws it at the ground with passion. Igor knew this, for he raised one eyebrow and looked at him as if he was a fool. 

“I hear…I heard your brother Hvitserk once mutter that you are crazy. He must be right if you think that this is not cold. I can see ice on your lashes. What are you even doing out here?” Igor attempted to continue his Norse speech but promptly gave up and like a fish to water, it was quite obvious that he was far more comfortable with his native tongue. Ivar smirked at that and smirked even more at Igor’s observation of his mental state. He wasn’t even wrong. 

Ivar then shrugged and continued looking forwards. “I am watching. The view is rather interesting.” 

Igor’s delicate face scrunched up in confusion. “What is there to watch?” He then skipped to the balcony where Ivar was and heaved himself upwards a bit on the railing to have a better view of what captured Ivar’s eyes. Almost automatically, Ivar’s left hand left its folded position and hovered like a fly over Igor’s collar, there to catch him in case something happened. Igor did not notice, to which Ivar was glad.

 One time, when Oleg peeled Ivar away from Igor for another moment of odd affinity between them, he fleetingly and perhaps bitterly joked about Ivar’s “motherly tendencies” (Oleg’s words, not Ivar’s) towards Igor, to which Ivar had taken offense to, though refused to properly acknowledge, as Oleg was like a storm, and like a storm, you cannot choose whether or not it’ll spare you. 

It made him think, though. About that part of life that he was so close to, or at least thought he was so close to having. For as much as he bullied Ubbe, wherever that bastard was, for wanting to “settle down”, he did find parts of it to be attractive, such as the joys of fatherhood, real fatherhood, not the spectacle that Ragnar made of his four other children, to have them only to have them, as ornaments to his name and not as actual sons. Maybe it was just the primitive nature of man, or maybe it was Ivar’s desire for a normalcy that fleeted away from him like he was the plague the second that he was born with his wilted limbs, but Ivar longed for fatherhood.

That was the reason, he was sure now, why he allowed Freydis to carry on with her “divine child” charade for as long as she did. He was not a fool. He was not crazy, though many would seem to disagree (even himself, at times).. He knew that he couldn’t father a child. He knew that he couldn’t conceive a child by his blood. But still. It was such a pretty fantasy that he allowed it to continue until it became pretty no longer. 

Sweet Baldr. Sweet child, weep no more, for you are in the embrace of the gods. It pained Ivar still, to think of his son. It pained Ivar to think that the only reason why he killed him was so he wouldn’t have to suffer the same way Ivar had and still has to suffer. Ivar made himself a name because of his ferocity and his tenacity, yet still, he was miserable. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Igor’s babbling. 

“There is the baker! He’s got with him some sacks of grain. And there is the smith, he’s closing up his shop. And there is a mother and her child, and there is the priest, and there is a man drinking, and there is…well, there is nothing interesting.” 

Ivar chuckled a bit and gently patted the top of Igor’s head. He would ruffle his hair if it wasn’t covered by his hat, which he noticed was crooked, as Igor probably only wanted to quickly find him and then come back inside. Almost automatically, he fixed the position of the hat, which Igor didn’t even care to notice as his eyes were still in a hawkish mode as he stared down Kyiv. 

“There are many interesting things if you take the time to think, even if the view itself doesn’t seem interesting, Prince Igor. Look over there,” Ivar explained, pointing to a small scene of two men speaking to each other in a shifty way, their heads turning to random sounds like dogs, all perked up, “it’s just two men talking, but why are they so paranoid? Why are they looking around every now and then? And what about that woman over there?” Ivar pointed to a woman who was clutching something close to her chest, a bundle, taking an effort to conceal it as much as possible, “what is she hiding? What is she doing?” 

Igor tilted his head a bit, like one of those colorful birds that Ivar had the pleasure to see during his travels on the silk road, all blue and yellow, and then crossed his arms on the railing. “I don’t know…Maybe those men are planning something special and are trying to keep it a secret from their families. For Christmas maybe? And maybe the woman is just trying to keep whatever she's holding warm? A baby?” 

Ivar blinked a couple of times at the innocence of Igor’s reasoning and then smiled. Perhaps he was in a charitable mood, so he didn’t bother to bring forth more nihilistic possibilities of the behavior of these people. “Hmph, you’re probably right. But still. The behavior of everyone, no matter how insignificant, stems from something, and sometimes, those things can be important. To you, especially, as you are royalty.”

Igor rocked on his feet back and forth for a bit, probably fidgeting to keep himself at least just a bit warmer. Or maybe it was just the mannerisms of children. One of the two.

“Well…Every royal family has spies, Uncle Oleg told me once, though he was drunk…” Igor began.

Ivar nodded. “Yes, he’s correct, they all do. How else would we get anything done?” 

“So if I want to know stuff, I can just send them to do it for me! It just seems so boring…I’d rather go to the puppet shows.” 

Ivar laughed. “Of course, you can, but you can always trust your own eyes far more than you can others, especially if you have the moment to do so. Humanity is so colorful, my dear Igor, and many of those colors are so, so ugly.” Ivar sounded wistful, and philosophical, as he stared up into the sky and watched the streaking of the stars.

Igor raised his brow and looked at the Norseman before replying a few moments later. “...You should probably come inside, Ivar. The cold is making you say weird things.” 

Well then. 

Before Ivar could answer that cheeky revelation that isn’t even wrong, Igor grabbed his empty hand, the one that wasn’t grasping the crutch, and all but forced him to come inside. Attentively, Igor made sure to watch the way he moved so as to not hurt Ivar, which Ivar found sweet but rather unnecessary. He didn’t say anything though. Perhaps he was growing soft like Ubbe, but he found the gesture to warm the coldness that he willingly forced himself into, to continue his timely tradition of people-watching, something that his late mother told him he had in common with Ragnar. 

A few moments later, Ivar found himself in Igor’s room. Igor led him to sit on his bed. It was heavenly warm, a very lovely contrast to before, and Ivar took notice of the decorations that quaintly painted the room in splashes of rustic charm. Rustic and so, so familiar. 

Igor must’ve noticed his staring and then climbed on top of a table to pluck off an ornament from the tree that the servants put in his room. He then jumped back down, with all the enthusiasm that a young boy can have, and handed it over to Ivar, who nodded and then began to look over the thing, taking note of the details, the grooves. The ornament was made of light-colored wood and depicted the scene of a woman and man looking over a crib with a child while a lamb sat down in front of the crib. He tilted his head a bit.

“I am assuming this is for your Christmas holiday, yes?” 

Igor nodded. “Yes. That’s Mary and that’s her husband Joseph and the child is our Lord, Jesus Christ.” 

Ivar’s thumb grazed gently over the face of the wooden child and then smirked when he touched the lamb. “And what’s the lamb for? Is it a sibling to your Christ?”

Igor let out a giggle and then gasped, putting his hands over his mouth. “You can’t say stuff like that, Ivar!” 

“Why not? Would your Uncle Oleg get angry?” 

Igor shook his head violently. “No, no, he’d probably laugh, but still! The priest told me that good Christians shouldn’t joke about such things. It’s blasphemy.” 

Ivar smirked and then gave back the ornament to Igor. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m no Christian, then, hmm? Don’t worry your little head about blasphemy. And anyway, she gave birth to your Christ without a father. Is it that unbelievable that your Christ may share blood with a lamb?” Inwardly, Ivar thought about the man who told him that story. Bishop Heahmund. Strong, butch, vicious, lying Heahmund. 

Perhaps he should’ve expected such treachery from the man, but like with Freydis, he was enamored by the image that he bestowed upon the man without him ever knowing. He wondered where Heahmund was now, whether he was alive or dead. Back when he was King of Kattegat, he hoped to the Gods that Heahmund was dead, rotting with the maggots, his death anything but honorable. Now? Not so much. Technically, Heahmund did what was asked of him. He fought for Ivar. Almost died for him too. Besides that, he had nothing connecting him to Ivar other than a debt of gratitude for keeping him alive which the Christian never wanted. In a strange way, Ivar missed him. His talks, his odd stories, his stalwart allegiance to his god. It was attractive, in an odd, odd way. He couldn’t try to explain it even if he wanted to.

His odd infatuation with odder Christians did not end with Heahmund. There was Oleg too, though he was cut from a different cloth. He cared little about the odd Christian rituals that Heahmund was obsessive over, though that could be credited to the fact that he was a Prince and not someone whose reputation and legacy come specifically from the Church, like Heahmund. Both men indulged in their carnal desires, as any man should, but whilst Heahmund was ashamed of the matter, coy even, Oleg couldn’t care less. He drank, he fucked, and when he prayed, it wasn’t for forgiveness, but to expand his influence, the reach he had in these snow-capped lands. 

He liked that. How unapologetic Oleg was. How he cared little about what anyone thought of him. That was obvious. It made him so charismatic and so magnetic that even Ivar became trapped in his web of gilded words and pretty promises. And how pretty there were…

He was also wary of how unapologetic Oleg was. That made him dangerous. It made Ivar feel like a wife who was always alert because her husband would always come home reeking of mead and ale, which would then make his moods unpredictable. For how generous Oleg was to him, Ivar also knew that it had much to do with his forced submissiveness to the man, a state of being that humiliated him whilst also keeping him very much alive, which, at this point, was all he craved. 

“Uh…Yes? It’s too strange. Do you have a figure in your faith who gave birth to an animal?”

Ivar nodded and Igor’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes. There is the Jotun Angrboda, who gave birth to a wolf and a snake, Fenrir and Jormangandr. Her consort, Loki, another Jotun, also gave birth to an eight-legged horse named Sleipnir who our King God Odin rides, though in his defense, he was in the form of a mare when he did so.” 

A few moments of silence pass. “You say it like it’s so normal!”

Ivar shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. And besides, Loki and Angrboda aren’t gods like the Aesir or the Vanir, so we don’t care to give them their own carvings during this time.” 

“During this time?” Igor questioned, the fire from the fireplace making his blue eyes shine like precious jewels, the type that vain women would kill for to pluck and put on a circlet or a necklace. What a precious boy.

“Yes. Back home, I’m sure the people are getting ready to celebrate Yuletide.” His voice was wistful, nostalgic. Perhaps even a little melancholic. Igor could tell.

“Yuletide? Isn’t that a celebration for your gods? Uncle Oleg told me once. He showed me a carving of two of your gods that you make whilst celebrating. He got it from a Danish tradesman. If I can find it, I’ll show it to you,” Igor offered and Ivar couldn’t help but smile. He could read Igor very well, now. 

As much as the boy was sprung up to show Ivar the intricacies of the culture of the Rus, one that came from the wayward Norse who made their own way in this mysterious land, he was also just as aware and interested in Ivar’s ways, of the Norse’s ways. He could sense that Ivar missed Scandinavia. If he were to find the carving, he would give it to Ivar. Oleg shouldn’t care. He gave it to Igor after all. He had many more trinkets. 

“Yes. During Yuletide, we celebrate our Gods and ask them for prosperity. Children are also told by their parents that they must behave, or else our King God, Odin, will take them away with his Wild Hunt. In return, they are given gifts. Small gifts in their shoes, as they leave out hay for Sleipnir in them, and bigger ones under a tree. Similar to the ones you have here. Those carvings that you spoke about? We hang them on the tree. An honor to the gods and whatnot. Your decorations and garlands reminded me of that, I suppose.” 

Igor nodded and then smiled. “Well…Is the Christian God one of them that you celebrate?” There was a hopeful gleam in Igor’s eyes. It amused Ivar. Oh, Christians…

“I don’t think our gods would be amused if we were to dedicate our celebration to only one god. We have many gods, not only one, child.” Back in York, if Heahmund was to ask him something similar, though he never would as even acknowledging Ivar’s gods or celebrations for those gods would probably burn his tongue, Ivar would be smug and grin and tell him that his Christian God was a selfish God who expected too much and would only be satisfied by his followers turning to groveling worms. But this wasn’t Heahmund. This wasn’t Oleg either, who appreciated Ivar’s Norse ways, but who found them as valid as wives’ tales.  

“And besides, don’t you Christians believe in only your Christ god,” Ivar continued. Igor shrugged before getting up to start pacing around his abode, opening chests and carding through piles of trinkets and knick-knacks that were placed neatly around the furniture, on the tables, and in the chests. 

“Sure. But if Uncle Oleg can be a god, why can’t you celebrate more than one? Whenever Uncle Oleg hosts parties, it’s always like a holiday. A holiday dedicated to him, the prophet.” 

Ivar chuckled. “Do you truly believe that your Uncle is a god?” 

Igor shook his head and continued looking around for, well, whatever it was that he was looking for. “No, but it sometimes seems like it. He sees and hears everything. You can’t do anything without him knowing, and if he doesn’t know, he will find out, and then…if it’s something he doesn’t like, you disappear. Maybe he hasn’t created the world, but, as far as the Rus is concerned, he is a god.”

Ivar blinked a couple of times. And what a god he was, that Oleg. He gave Ivar a life of luxury, the warmth of another body, and the prestige of a prince that Ivar took to like a hand that would fit a well-worn glove. And Ivar was grateful for that, perhaps even indebted. Yet Oleg took. He took and took. He took his autonomy, his freedom. He was a prisoner here, no matter how pretty Kyiv was. 

It felt strange to hear such, well, daunting words coming from a child. But in a court filled with nothing but lies, treachery, and shadows, such revelations would be obvious to a boy, especially one that is a heir to a land so vast and so wise. “Your Uncle is no more a god than I am, Igor. And I promise you, with everything I can do, I will make sure you are no more a prisoner of this gilded cage.” 

Igor stopped his little search for a few seconds before starting again. Ivar stayed quiet and let the boy continue on his quest. A few more moments later and Igor seemed to have found what he wanted. In his hand was a small wooden carving, similar in shape to the one he showed him before, the scene of Christ being born, but one depicting something else. He skipped over to Ivar and gave it to him, a smile on his precious face. Ivar looked down at the carvings and took note of the two figures carved on them. 

Both of the figures were wearing male garments, thus they were gods, not goddesses. The figure on the left had a smile on his abstract face, with hair that reached the small of his back. The wood was not stained there, thus the figure’s hair was golden. Near his head were lines depicting sheens of light. The figure on the right was more somber in his emotions and though his hair was of a similar length to the god on the left, it was stained, thus he had dark hair. On his face, interestingly, were bandages covering his eyes and in his right hand was an arrow. 

Ever the pious man when it came to his gods, Ivar instantly knew what the carving was hoping to predict.

“That’s the carving I told you about! See, that’s the two gods. Their names are Baldr and Hodr.”

Ivar nodded his head and looked the carving over, a soft smile gracing his red lips. “I can see that. You can tell. Hodr is blind and Baldr is said to be so beautiful that light emits for his visage.” 

Igor nodded, taking note of the information before asking another question. 

“What are they the gods of?” 

“Oh, many things. Baldr is the god of beauty and light, obviously. The summer sun as well. Purity and innocence and righteousness. He is also said to be one of the wisest gods, one whom all would go to ask for advice,” sometimes, Ivar wished he asked Baldr for wisdom instead of Odin, eccentric as he was, “and to the right is his brother Hodr. He is the light god’s twin and opposite. His domain is darkness and cold and winter. They prefer Baldr, my people, but without Hodr, Baldr’s gifts would hold no value.” 

Igor nodded and then grazed his thumb on the arrow in Hodr’s hand. “Why does he hold an arrow? Is he a god of the hunt as well?”

Ivar shook his head. “No, no. Well, not that I’m aware of. That’s the arrow he will use to no doubt kill his twin with in the future.”

Igor’s eyes widened. “Why would he do that? Was he jealous?”

Ivar laughed. “Anyone would be jealous of Baldr, but no. His mother, our mother Goddess, Frigga, wished for no one to kill her son, as he informed her that he began to have nightmares of his death. Other than just completing the role of protecting one’s children, she also knows that his death would mark the beginning of Ragnarok, the end of the world, and the end of the old Gods’ reign. She then goes across the realms and asks of everything to take an oath to never harm her son. Every animal, every insect, every rock and plant. All except one. The mistletoe.” 

“Why would she ignore the mistletoe?” Igor asked, furrowing his eyebrows. He climbs onto his bed and sits next to Ivar, pressing his side to Ivar’s. Ivar, almost automatically, wrapped one of his arms around Igor, pulling him closer to him. 

“It was too young. In any case, the Jotun Loki, the one I told you about earlier, was jealous of Baldr, and thus found out about the mistletoe. He carved an arrow from the wood and went to Asgard. The Aesir were busy entertaining themselves by throwing things at Baldr, knowing that he wouldn’t be harmed. Hodr, being blind, didn’t take much part in the fun. Loki came to him, giving him the arrow, and told him he’d help him take part in the commotion. Hodr took the opportunity and Loki guided his hand. He killed his brother, not knowing he even could, and Loki slipped away, thus the blame was put on the god of the night, even though it was an accident. And when that happens, Fimbulwinter will begin. It will be three years with nothing but winter. And then Ragnarok will happen, the twilight of the gods.” 

Igor was silent for a few moments and then looked up at Ivar. “That’s…That’s very sad. I hope it won’t happen.”

Ivar smiled and then ruffled Igor’s head. Igor yelped and batted away Ivar’s hand, which made the Norseman laugh. “You’re a Christian, aren’t you? How can any of this happen if none of them exist,” Ivar asked playfully. Igor huffed. 

“It’s still sad, though!” 

“Yes…Yes, it’s sad. Here,” Ivar brought the carving to Igor’s hands but the boy gently pushed the offer away, which puzzled Ivar.

“Keep it. It’s a gift. Maybe it can remind you of home,” Igor said, smiling, and the tone of his voice made it clear that the boy would not take no for an answer, thus, Ivar refused to refuse his offer. And besides, it made him warm inside, this touch of Scandinavia, a place he missed dearly, for, with all its faults, it was home. Igor deserved far, far more than Oleg or Ivar. At least Ivar was proud to admit that his fondness for the young boy did not only stem from his title as a prince and future heir.

“Are you sure,” he then settled to ask. 

“Of course! You’re my friend Ivar. On Christmas day, I’ll get you a bigger gift, I promise.”

Ivar snorted and hugged Igor closer to him, giving him a firm kiss on his head. “Thank you, Igor. I'll get you a gift as well.” 

Igor grinned and then yawned. “You don’t have to, but thank you, Ivar…”

It did not take long for the young boy to fall asleep and Ivar didn’t have it in him to let the young child go. 

So he didn’t.

He held him tight and pressed him close to him, much like how a wolf would do anything to protect its pups. 

Ivar closed his eyes and began to dream of a future that had more to him than just this mindless existence, one that existed just to suffer in misery and pity.

Who will Ivar the Boneless be? In the future, what will his life, his fate entail? 

He had no idea. 

Kyiv was cold. But for now?

For now, he was warm. 

[bluemargotrobbie]

Seren e Ivar ( + Headmund)

Tras la captura de algunos guerreros ingleses, entre ellos , el Obispo Headmund que tras curarle las heridas. Seren empezó a pasar más tiempo con el sacerdote ..

Pero a Ivar no le empezó a gustar que su hermana se junte con cristiano..teniendo en cuenta que desde siempre Ivar y Seren son mejores amigos...

📚: 𝙈𝘼𝙎 𝘼𝙇𝙇𝘼 𝘿𝙀𝙇 𝘿𝙀𝙎𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙊 (publicado)

🖋: Sol_Andersen93 (wattpad)

🌎: Vikings

💌: Ragnar Lothbrock & Bjorn Ironside

👤: Elizabeth

[shadewood]

Его тело можно было сравнить с дикой местностью, красотой гор и берегов, целый земной шар, территория провокационных изгибов.

[jrhysmeyers]

Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Bishop Heahmund | Vikings, 5x06 — The Message

[baeaisling]

Bishop Heahmund is the best character in ages

[thunderfaucet]

Heathen & Christian

[mnzbrg]

something was in the air when i made this

[nothingtolosebutweight]

A little (fast-written and not thoroughly proofread) something for the Summer Solstice Event hosted by @vikingsevents. I combined day 4 (Sweet, Salty, Metallic) and day 5 (Moan, Whimper, Scream) and created a Vampire AU (doesn't every writer need one at some point xd and JRMs role as Dracula gave me the perfect pic). I'm a little late, but I'm here :) Pairing: Heahmund & Ivar Words: ~4000 [AO3] Warnings: Mention of Blood (what a surprise), M/M Blowjob, Mild Smut

If his heart would still be beating in his chest, he was sure it would have stopped the moment he finally put his lips on the soft pillows he had painfully longed for weeks. Or rather, for centuries. It felt like a gentle death, and in a way, he actually died the second their lips touched, uniting in a kiss. 

In an instant, he felt as if he had been reborn. His old self ceased to exist. The suffering self, driven by pain. All the pain of the past centuries, all the suffering that had accumulated during that time, slipped away from him, peeled off like a skin that no longer belonged to him, making way for the hope of a future in which love and passion would once again become his driving forces.

Caught in the maelstrom of his sensations, he gave himself completely to the feeling that the lips, which at first only hesitantly pressed against his, triggered in him. He would have loved to take possession of them directly, to feast on them like a wild animal that had had to wait too long for new prey.  He was hungry, wanted more, but he held back. He mustered all his willpower to do so. Even though it was difficult for him, he instinctively knew that he had to give his counterpart the time to slowly get used to the feeling he was most likely experiencing. It was probably unfamiliar to him and overwhelming at the same time. Not the kiss alone, but the wave of emotions it unleashed. He was sure that he wasn't the only one feeling this way, but that the boy in front of him was also stirred up inside. He felt the uncertainty and probably also the disbelief about what was happening in his tentative approaches, heard it in his fastened heartbeat and shaky breaths.

Sweet - was the prevailing thought that burst upon him, unannounced like a storm on the high seas, as soon as their lips parted a crack, clearing the way into a world full of new sensations. He felt as if there was a slight hint of caramel, or perhaps honey, on these soft pillows, which further enraptured him. He wanted to devour every last trace of this delicious taste, chased after it like an addict after his favorite drug. 

A smile formed on his lips, and had he not disturbed the kiss with it, he would have shaken his head in disbelief at his own surprise at the beguiling taste. Of course, his sweet prince still tasted like the sweetest temptation he had ever tasted. He hadn't gotten that nickname for nothing. Back then, a very long time ago.

He caught himself thinking that he could do without blood for the rest of his life if only he could sip on those very lips every waking minute. They were the elixir he needed more to live, the loss of which had made him an empty shell.

A stupid thought, perhaps, but he was far from being wise. Not when he was close to the one person he love the most and which he had believed he had lost forever.

The fact that he was here, unarmed, and without even having thoroughly checked his surroundings beforehand, was already proof enough that he might not be in his right mind.

The boy, who so willingly allowed himself to fall into his arms, was Ivar - the youngest scion of the Lothbrok family, whose roots as famous hunters went back a long way. Hunters who had tried for several generations to banish him and his kind from this earth, yet they had never been successful. At least in his case. Many of his kind had fallen victim to them, which had only magnified his anger and hatred toward those people, and perhaps it was now up to him to fall into the easiest of all traps that would cost him his survival.

He was walking on dangerous ground, but this kiss alone was already worth the risk. With not a fiber of his being could he imagine that the Lothbroks knew what old soul was slumbering in this boy when not even Ivar himself seemed to comprehend why he too was drawn to him as well. Ivar could have killed him already. He had several opportunities to do so, since he was too careless when near him, but Ivar hadn't done it, instead, the boy surrendered to the kiss as well, letting himself be guided by something hidden deep inside him.

Gently he let the tip of his tongue trace this sweetness and silently begged for further entry into this paradise-like cave.

He had fought many battles in his life already, had brought down many enemies who were begging for their lives on the brink of death. During those times, he also faced many weapons that were specially created to cause him pain and the most suffering before his ending. But never before had he felt anything like fear or a sense of weakness. Never had he felt defeated or unable to fight against something life-threatening.

However, the soft moan that escaped Ivar's lips when he opened his mouth a little wider, which led him to take possession of it immediately, made him feel a sense of weakness for the first time. He felt weak to the bone, on the verge of crying because he couldn’t believe his luck. 

Ivar could stab him right in his cold heart, he wouldn't mind right now, but apparently, his luck hadn't run out yet. No wooden peg dug deep into his chest, but a shy tongue invaded him now, began to circle his, and nestled against it. Another moan sounded. This time from his mouth, and he could feel how it was working its magic on Ivar as well. He could hear his heartbeat increasing, could feel the tremors dancing across his skin.

His sweet prince pressed himself closer against him, wrapping his arms around his waist. Seeking hold, he was more than willing to give it to him.

Of the many battles he had already fought, none was as difficult as this one he was now fighting with himself internally.

Triggered by the sweetness that had overpoweringly anchored itself in his senses, he was overcome by the urge to want to possess Ivar, with every last molecule that made up his existence. He wanted to have him all for himself in fear of losing him again.

It was easy to say that continuing life without him would be unthinkable for him. Exaggerated poetics for most, but he knew that these were not just empty words. He had already had to live through it, knew how bleak his existence had been for the last centuries.

He had already lost him once. About 300 years before. Hunters had ripped him away from him in a brutal way. They had used Ivar as bait to lure him out of hiding, driven by the painful screams of his beloved. Pain caused by consecrated silver arrows that had been drilled into his legs in various places.

At that time, he had not been able to free him and thus had not been able to save him. In the end, he had only been able to watch in horror from a distance as they had beheaded his most loved one. Thus destroying a love that had lasted over 200 years. His existence thereafter was marked by hatred. His drive was revenge against all those who had been involved in this cruel event. Including their descendants. No one should be allowed to walk the earth who carried the blood of those people who had taken the dearest from him.

The dark time seemed to be over now. Although darkness was still his accomplice, needed for protection, it no longer ate through his insides.

Ivar was back. Even if so far only as a shell, he was sure that also his consciousness, his soul would soon push back to the surface. He was as sure of this as he had been at their first brief eye contact that this young man was his Ivar.

- His eyes, those azure depths, had been the first thing that had given him away. Back then, a few weeks ago, when they had run into each other in the twilight. A brief crossing of their eyes had been enough and he had lost himself in those familiar eyes. Had lost all sense of time, overwhelmed by all the memories that had burst upon him at that moment. They both had stopped for a moment as if they had been forced to stand still by some supernatural force and just looked at each other in silence.

That brief moment had been enough to trigger a realization in him, and when his senses had returned and with them, Ivar's heartbeat had reached him, he had been absolutely certain. Many people were nothing special. They were lost in the steady rhythm of the faceless mass, but there was something special about his sweet prince. A striking unevenness that sounded to his ears like the most beautiful classical song, whose tonal perfection no one had yet put on paper. He would recognize his heartbeat among millions and millions, had never heard a comparable one since he was robbed of his beloved.

Only briefly had he been able to catch a glimpse of Ivar's legs, trapped in metal braces, before the young man had awakened from his stupor and continued on his way, turning around again a short time later and eyeing him once more with interest. 

The sight of the maltreated legs had triggered sheer rage in him and only with difficulty had he been able to suppress the scream that had been brewing inside him. Just like the memories that rose along with it, at the same time. -

Flatly, he pressed his tongue against the warm skin on Ivar's neck, licking over it with relish. The throbbing of his heartbeat made itself felt as a gentle vibration on his tongue. He heard the rush of blood flowing through the human shell and the thought of wanting to taste it overwhelmed him. Greed took over. When already on the outside such a foretaste of the sweetest nectar was waiting for him, how delicious would Ivar's blood be then?

His grip around Ivar's waist tightened, his nails deformed into claws almost leaving small holes in the fabric. His sharp teeth grew, scratched over the sensitive skin while he alternated between licking it and covering it with kisses. He was seconds away from plunging his teeth into the thick vein, ready to satisfy his curiosity and hunger, but the tip of a sharp object pressing into his side, right below his rotten heart, made him pause. 

Carefully, he licked over the tempting spot once more before lifting his head and looking Ivar in the eye. 

Already as he moved away, the pressure at his side also eased, even though the sharp end still lingered menacingly close to his body. Nevertheless, he was not afraid. He could read in Ivar's eyes that he had no intention of driving the peg deeper. It was merely a warning. The marking of a border that should not be crossed.

Devoutly, as if it weren't only Ivar's legs that seemed fragile, he enclosed his face with both hands and examined it for a moment, putting all the love he had for him into his gaze.

"I promise that I won't harm you. More than that, I promise that no one will ever hurt you again. No one will ever lay a hand on you again and cause you pain. From now on, I will protect you. No matter what it costs."

He saw Ivar frown as he let the words sink in. They didn't seem to make any sense to him. How could they, if he didn't remember?

"I don't need protection. I can stand up for myself."

The same pride as before gleamed in Ivar's eyes. The same confidence that almost bordered on arrogance, which had fascinated him even way back then. He smiled at him and nodded in understanding.

"I know. And yet I will protect you. I am your loyal servant and anyone who harms even a hair on your head will die. Like all the others before. That is my promise to you." He kept his voice soft, almost a whisper, even when no one was around to overhear.

"No one has ever hurt me."

"Your legs tell a different story."

He watched Ivar as he looked down at himself for a moment as if he had to see once again what had been done to him. Something so terrible that even centuries later it was still manifest in his body.

"I was born this way. It's nobody's fault, it's just the genes." Ivar sounded puzzled. Partly unsure maybe if this was actually the reason.

He stroked over the soft skin on Ivar's cheek, felt the first stronger hairs forming on his jawline under his fingertips. He left it at that. It was obvious that Ivar didn't remember the details and that he was struggling with himself inside. He could see it in his inquiring gaze, could almost hear the questions that Ivar was surely asking himself inwardly, undecided about what he was actually doing here. But his interest seemed to be stronger, his desire for closeness far from satisfied.

By initiating the following kiss, Ivar also made a statement that he was not here to talk. While he had been shy and cautious before, he now took what he thirsted for more confidently. Willingly, he opened his mouth, welcoming the foreign tongue into his realm.

He could feel the warmth of Ivar's breath mingling with his own cold one, creating an electrifying current that surged through their bodies. The touch of his lips was soft, yet firm, their movements synchronized in a passionate dance. Their tongues and lips met with a hunger that bordered on desperation. Breathy moans and sighs that echoed in the air were like a symphony, created by their desire and need, a testimony to the intensity of their connection.

Once again the heartbeat of his once-lost love accelerated, his skin became warmer, exuding a pleasant fragrance that crept into his nose, taking hold of his whole being. Everything around him was once again forgotten, declared unimportant.  His world was Ivar and Ivar alone and he took this place as self-confident as ever.

His hands roamed over Ivar's back, possessively, yet tenderly tracing patterns along his spine, further igniting the fire that burned within them. Ivar's fingers clawed into his hair, pulling him closer, deepening their kiss even more. They only separated to get rid of each other's shirts. In a hurry, they tore them off their bodies and threw them carelessly on the floor, where also the wooden peg had found its resting place in the meantime. 

The air crackled around them and fire blazed in their eyes as they looked at each other breathlessly for a moment. Their bodies yearned for more, their hands could not leave each other, slid exploratively over naked skin. Once again their lips found each other, sealing their testament of passion anew.

He started to open Ivar's pants, slid his hands in the sides, wandered to his butt, and dug his fingers into the plump cheeks, kneading them while he pressed Ivar closer, letting their hips gyrate against each other. Another moan was breathed into his mouth, unleashing another storm of desire to unfold. Without effort, he lifted Ivar up and helped him wrap his legs around his waist before walking to the bed on the other side of the room, continuing to kiss as if Ivar didn't need oxygen either.

When he reached the bed, he bent down and let Ivar slide gently onto the mattress. He propped himself up with his hands, and bedded himself on top of him, gyrating his hips again. Their moans mingled and Ivar leaned his head back to catch his breath, thus invitingly presenting his seductive neck to him. Without hesitation, he let his lips slide back there, kissing his way over the throbbing vein. He didn't linger there long, feeling how Ivar was tensing up again. Purposefully, he slid to his collarbone, licking his way down to one erect bud, nibbling on it, causing Ivar to voice his delight.

The scent that emanated from Ivar wrapped him in an invisible cloak.  It had changed in the last few minutes, had intensified, and he felt like he was lying on the softest pillows, carried by the warmth that poured out of him.

The hands that ran through his hair, clawing almost painfully tightly into it, unmistakably pushed him deeper. He let Ivar guide him, but still took the time to explore his upper body first with tongue and lips,  spoiling kisses here and there.

A tremor ran through Ivar's body and a sound of relief escaped his mouth as he opened his pants further and hastily pulled them down to his knees along with his underwear, freeing that part of his body that craved attention the most.

Desirously he looked at the wet shimmering tip, which stretched towards him. The witness of Ivar's lust was emblazoned on it, arousing in him the need to taste it. Turning his head sideways, he licked the hot flesh with the flat of his tongue, saving the best for last, when he finally absorbed the drop with the tip of his tongue, letting the salty taste melt on his tongue.

Ivar whimpered as his lips closed around the tip, begging for more with the next gasping exhale. He was only too happy to comply with this request, given that his own hunger for more was far from being satisfied.  Nibbling, he let his lips glide over the head, savoring each new drop of pleasure as it rose to the surface. He relished the deep sighs that were coming from Ivar's mouth, bathed in the knowledge that it was he who was giving him this pleasure, these moments of absolute bliss.

Once again he licked over the entire length, noticing the trembling that flowed through Ivar's fragile legs, before he opened his mouth and placed it around the tip, this time taking it deep inside him. Immediately the grip on his hair tightened, urging his head deeper.

Sucking blood was a necessity for him to stay alive.

Sucking Ivar's cock was like a revelation that made him feel alive again.

The pulsing that spread through his mouth made him feel like he had a heartbeat of his own. He took Ivar deeper inside him, letting the sensation penetrate further down his throat. The sounds emanating from Ivar became more and more indignant, his hips reared up, his movements became desperate. He tried to follow the rhythm, willingly letting himself be used for Ivar's own pleasure, not letting the roughness deter him. He let it happen, enjoying the satisfaction he could give Ivar with a little sucking and bobbing his head up and down. He hadn't felt this fulfilled in a long time.

And something else distracted him, making his thoughts wander off.

The buzz of Ivar's blood sounded loudly in his ears. Two thick veins on his lower abdomen sought his attention. They stood out clearly. He saw them pulsing, and he could almost see through the skin how the surely delicious blood was pumped into Ivar's lower body at a hurried pace. His hunger for it grew with every second. A growl came deep from his throat as the urge finally overcame him, bouncing as a vibration against Ivar's cock, eliciting an equally guttural moan from his sweet prince.

He freed himself from Ivar's hard grip, sucked the tip of the shaft again intensely, and then let the cock slide out of his mouth completely. His tongue slid one last time over the length, made its way to the thigh on which he breathed fleeting kisses. Kissing and licking, he approached the lower belly, took Ivar's cock in his hand in the meantime, and continued pumping it in the same rhythm as he had previously spoiled it with his mouth. He increased the pressure around the head, sliding his thumb over the wet tip, rubbing the juice of their lust into both their skins.

Licking his lips, he came closer to one of the pulsating veins, firstly, just pressing his tongue against its pulse, letting it pass over him. He felt how the greed turned his features animalistic and how his teeth extended. It took all his strength, but he raised his head briefly to take a look at Ivar. A smile flitted across his features as he once more realized how gorgeous he was. His beloved had his eyes closed, his features tense with pleasure, his lips slightly open, breathing heavily. His fingers clutched at the sheet to his left and right, and his hips continued to thrust toward his hand, demanding.

He is mine was the prevailing thought as he lowered his head again. Forgotten was the previously made promise.

A scream fought its way through Ivar's lips, triggered by the shock when he couldn't hold on any longer, sinking his teeth into the soft skin of Ivar's lower abdomen. The metallic taste of his blood immediately filled his mouth, increasingly befogging his senses. Greedily he sucked the juice of life into himself, was overwhelmed by its delicious taste which he now well remembered.

Ivar reared up briefly, trying to push him away, but his resistance was only half-hearted, disarmed by his hand still pumping Ivar's arousal in a steady rhythm. He continued to drink, feeling the twitching in his hand grow stronger until he heard Ivar moan loudly. The feeling of warm drops landing on his cheek caught his attention and out of the corner of his eye he saw how Ivar slumped limply back onto the mattress, trying to catch his breath. 

Weak hands tried to push him away once again, but he hadn't had enough, kept sucking the delicious blood into his mouth, intoxicated. 

"Heahmund, please don't."

The soft, almost brittle voice of Ivar reached his ears and with a jolt he came to, jerked his head up and pressed his palm on the small wounds to stop the bleeding, but also to avoid being overrun by lust and hunger again.

He hadn't heard that name for a long time, had never used it again after his biggest defeat so far. The memory that came with it was too painful.

They looked at each other. Silently, yet he read so much in Ivar's eyes. Realization shimmered in them, accompanied by tears that tried to flood out. With the back of his hand, he first wiped his mouth, removing the bloody residue from his lips, before leaning down to Ivar, stopping just before his lips. With his thumb, he collected a tear that had made its way out of the corner of Ivar's eye as a glittering pearl.

"My sweet prince," he whispered before sealing their lips again, encouraged by the hand that had settled on his neck, pressing him closer.

The taste of his own blood didn't seem to deter Ivar. Much more it spurred him on, made him become more impetuous again. It was going to be a long night. Of that he was sure. A night in which he would hear his old name even more often, breathed and moaned and accompanied by sweet sounds.

It was time for a new identity anyway and Heahmund knew exactly which one he wanted to revive.