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nothingtolosebutweight · 3 months ago

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Give me Love, Give me Bruises

Pairing: Heahmund & Ivar Words:~2700[AO3] Warnings: None Note: It's been a while since I last wrote something. Bear with me :) Summary: A warrior bound by faith crosses paths with a fierce Viking prince, stirring desires he never dared to acknowledge. As loyalties blur and beliefs are tested, he’s forced to confront a truth that could change him forever.

Heahmund stood in front of a makeshift mirror, his fingers ghosting over his neck and collarbone down to his chest, tracing each purple-blue mark with a solemn reverence he had once reserved only for holy relics. Each bruise felt alive beneath his touch, radiating a warmth that pulled him back to the memories that had left them there. To him, they appeared almost like a map—a landscape of moments that had changed him.

His reflection gazed back at him, shadowed eyes from a sleepless night, lips slightly parted as he drew a shaky breath; and yet he felt more whole than he had ever felt in his life. The colors blooming across his skin—deep blue, faded purple, hints of tender red—were a language written not by pain, but by passion. These marks told a story different from the scars carved by war, a story he had never thought he would live, one that left him both shaken and strangely... fulfilled.

His body had been a map of scars long before he had ever set foot on Viking soil. Each cut, each welt, each thin line had once been a testament to his faith—a warrior-priest’s hard-won display of worth. From his earliest memory, Heahmund had been taught that his flesh was a vessel for God’s will, each wound a mark of his piety and devotion. He could almost hear his father’s rough, distant voice urging him to bear pain without flinching, to accept the suffering of this world so that he might earn a place in Heaven. As a child, he had risen before dawn on his family’s meager farm, hands blistered and raw from the land, already showing his devotion to hard work and, eventually, to God. His parents, poor and God-fearing, had spoken to him of destiny, duty, and the divine path that lay before those who served without question. "Faith demands strength," they’d said, and he’d clung to that belief like a lifeline, like a fire in the cold. Through the years, that fire had only grown fiercer, driving him to forsake comfort, to wield the sword as fiercely as he wielded the Word. Every scar was a reminder that he was a warrior not only in body, but in spirit. Every healed wound, every bloodied knuckle and bruised rib, whispered the same message: You are worthy of heaven. You are worthy of Him.

But heaven had, in recent years, so often felt out of reach, despite all his sacrifices. It had been as if each scar demanded more from him, as if he could never offer enough to feel truly worthy. He had been endlessly grasping at worth, only for it to slip through his fingers like water. And so, he had fought harder, prayed with greater fervor, punishing himself for every fleeting moment of doubt. Yet, deep down, Heahmund had known himself to be a sinner, perpetually drawn to the temptations of the flesh, unable to fully suppress his desires. This inner conflict gnawed at him, convincing him that there was something fundamentally wrong with him—that he could never be worthy enough, no matter how much he strived for purity. With these doubts, fueled by his sins, new scars and markings had only added to his body, enhancing the portrait of his devotion. His flesh had become a canvas where each act of self-flagellation and every attempt to punish his inadequacies left a fresh layer of pain. He had carried the weight of this shame in silence, believing that his constant struggle was the true price of his devotion, each misstep reinforcing his belief that he was destined to fall short of heaven’s grace.

But now, that old certainty seemed like a distant dream, a truth swallowed by the earth along with his old life. These fresh marks he bore now, scattered like small, hidden treasures, were no trophies of a righteous battle. They weren’t from swords or fists, but from the lips and teeth of a young man who should have been his sworn enemy—a person who had, against all reason, become something far more than that.

Ivar.

The young Viking prince, with his sharp smile and keener wit, had broken Heahmund in ways no enemy blade had ever been able to do.

Their first meeting was not long ago and still fresh in Heahmund's mind; it had been impactful. He had heard of Ivar long before—tales whispered among the townsfolk of a son of Ragnar, feared and despised by the Saxons for his cruelty and ruthlessness. But Heahmund hadn’t paid these stories much heed; he hadn’t let himself be influenced by the rumors. To him, Ivar was simply another heathen blasphemer, another enemy to be slain for God’s glory.

But when he had finally laid eyes on Ivar, he saw something far darker than mere tales had prepared him for. Ivar sat, blood-smeared and wild, before his chariot, shouting commands in his own tongue, his laughter sharp and unhinged, echoing over the battlefield. Even his warriors kept their distance, as if wary of a beast barely restrained. For a brief moment, Heahmund himself had felt the chill of dread, the feeling that the devil himself had come to drag them all into damnation.

A few days later, he was taken as a prisoner, humiliated by being stripped of his title, his armor, and his very purpose.

At first, Ivar had been every bit the taunting captor, relentless with his mocking words, his sharp-edged laughter echoing through the cell like a taunt from the devil himself. And yet, as the days passed, Heahmund had begun to notice the subtle shifts in Ivar’s tone, the way the jeers softened, curiosity creeping into the Viking’s gaze. What had once been disdain seemed to morph into something else, something more intimate and enticing that neither of them were able to name or ignore.

Heahmund could still feel the thrill of those quiet nights in his cell, each memory lingering like a taste he couldn’t rid himself of. He remembered those moments in the dark, the brief glances they stole when neither of them was supposed to be looking. There had been a strange, subtle heat in the air, a charge that neither would acknowledge, but neither could overlook either. And there were chuckles and laughter—hesitant at first, almost reluctant, as if admitting the other capable of humor would open a door best kept shut. In those late hours, when even the guards outside had fallen silent, it felt as if the world beyond had ceased to exist. Their voices filled the empty spaces where violence and death had once reigned, each word and shared glance like a whisper of a truth too dangerous to name.

He’d told himself it was just the strange bond between captor and captive, a temporary understanding created by his isolation and forced dependence. But each dawn that broke only left him feeling hollow, the daylight a jarring reminder of the boundaries that separated them. And yet, with each passing night, he found himself pulled deeper, left with questions that gnawed at him long after the silence returned. Why did he crave the sound of Ivar’s voice, the sweetness of his laughter that seemed to reach places Heahmund thought he’d long buried? Why did each of their conversations leave him restless, his heart beating like a war drum, though there was no fight to be had?

He’d noticed the way Ivar watched him, an intensity in those sharp blue eyes that felt like a hand reaching out, testing, waiting. When Ivar finally came to him and offered neither torture nor escape, but something like companionship, he agreed without a moment's hesitation, as if something deep within him had taken over his body in that instant. In that moment, he felt no doubt, only instinct guiding him forward, as if an inner voice compelled him to respond in a way he could no longer resist. That day he had been freed from his physical prison, but inside he still felt trapped, bound by this silent, unspoken longing for Ivar's attention, which had become as real to him as a cage.

Not long after regaining his freedom, he had begun to notice the subtle, seemingly accidental touches that passed between them. A hand brushing his arm as they walked side by side, fingers lingering on his shoulder, the ghost of warmth from Ivar’s palm that never seemed to fade. Each touch felt deliberate, testing, as if both were tracing the edges of something unspoken yet undeniable.

Over and over, he told himself it was nothing, a trick of his own longing, yet every glance they shared, every brush of skin left him questioning. Was he imagining this pull between them, seeing only what he craved to believe? Or was Ivar truly reaching out, challenging the silence that had settled between them? Each touch, each lingering look, felt like a promise just on the edge of words, and he had found himself caught between hope and doubt, unsure if he dared to believe what he felt growing between them.

His doubts vanished the night Ivar made the first bold, unyielding move, crossing the delicate line between them with a kiss that felt stolen, rough, and commanding. It wasn’t tender; it wasn’t soft. It was a fierce claim, a demand that drew Heahmund back into the dynamic of captor and captive, Ivar asserting his power while masking any trace of vulnerability behind the roughness of his lips. Yet, beneath that fierce exterior, he was able to sense the hesitation woven into Ivar's forceful kiss—a struggle for control that concealed an insecurity he dared not to show.

Instead of pulling back, he had answered that roughness with a gentle warmth, pressing forward and softening the kiss, letting his own guarded tenderness speak for him. He could feel Ivar’s surprise, a brief hesitation as if bracing himself for rejection. But as his touch lingered, a new kind of understanding had settled between them. Slowly, Ivar’s grip eased, the harsh edge giving way to something more genuine, until finally, his defenses softened, and he let the command fall away, meeting him with an openness that was as fragile as it was real.

In that moment, he realized that his yearning for Ivar’s affection was more than mere desire. He had been irresistibly drawn to this young man, this fierce spirit, in a way he had been unable to comprehend until now. It clashed with everything he had ever known, forcing him to question the very foundations of his beliefs about right and wrong.

That night, Ivar had branded him in a new way that no scar could. It was the Viking prince, his Viking prince, who had marked him again and again from that day on, as if staking his claim.

Now, in the stillness of their chamber, in front of the mirror, Heahmund looked at those bruises, not as evidence of conquest but of surrender—a willing surrender that, in all honesty, still frightened him far more than any battle.

"You are mine. You belong to me, now," Ivar had whispered last night while they’d shared the bed, his voice low and fierce. Those words had done something to him, tearing down walls he hadn’t known existed, leaving him exposed and yearning. It should have felt like a betrayal—to his faith, to the path he had carved out of duty. But it hadn’t.

It had felt right.

Heahmund's fingers lingered on a particularly dark spot at the base of his throat, the pain of which blossomed into warmth under his touch. It was a fresh mark. One of many that had been inflicted on him last night. They had argued, his words sharp, layered with the fear of something he still couldn’t name. Ivar had kissed him hard, fierce and unyielding to silence him and maybe also as if to remind him that he didn’t have to carry every burden alone. That he was allowed to feel, to need, to belong to someone other than the God he had served with such devotion.

But those kisses hadn’t stopped there. Ivar’s lips had wandered, trailing along his skin, marking him with purpose. Each bruise was a testament to their connection, every kiss placed with care and intent—words of affirmation, recognition, and desire whispered softly between them. Ivar had taken his time, ensuring each mark was deliberate, each caress imbued with a promise that Heahmund was worthy of love and belonging, far beyond what he had ever imagined.

Now, in the flickering candlelight, Heahmund began to see himself anew, with a clarity he hadn’t known before. The scars he once wore with pride now seemed meaningless, each one a reminder of a life spent in pursuit of something distant and unfulfilling. He had struggled all his life to prove himself to a God he had never seen, to chase after a heaven he would never touch, and for the first time, that pursuit felt agonizingly insignificant. Heahmund realized how much of himself he’d sacrificed to a calling that had only left him empty, bound by duty yet untouched by the very warmth he really craved.

These new bruises—Ivar’s marks—spoke of intimacy, of vulnerability, of a love he had been told was sinful but which felt more sacred than any prayer he had ever uttered. This love had already filled the void inside him, however short a time, in a way that his faith had never done.

Heahmund looked back at his reflection, swallowing hard with realization as he traced another mark at the side of his chest. He saw the map of his rebirth, with the bruises forming the constellations of a new belief that he more and more dared to acknowledge. It was a creed of self-worth, of love given freely, not earned through pain or penance.

His voice broke the silence, a whisper barely above a breath. "I am worthy," he said, testing the words as if they might shatter on his tongue. "Not for what I suffer. But for what I… feel."

A part of him still recoiled, the teachings of a lifetime wrapping like chains around his heart. But another part of him—the part that Ivar had awakened with each touch and kiss—rose to meet those doubts. He was no longer simply a warrior, no longer merely a priest; he was a man who had dared to follow his own heart, straying from the path others had carved for him.

The creak of the door stirred Heahmund from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Ivar standing in the doorway, resting heavily on his crutch. A smirk tugged at his lips as he took in the sight of Heahmund in front of the mirror.

"Admiring my handiwork, priest?" he teased, stepping closer until the scent of him, earthy and warm, filled the space between them.

Heahmund chuckled softly. "You could say that." He reached out a hand, offering support that Ivar accepted without hesitation.

"I'm far from finished," Ivar murmured, setting his crutch aside to trail his fingers over the bruises and marks scattered across Heahmund’s skin. His touch lingered, deliberate and intimate, as if he were contemplating where to leave the next trace of his affection.

Heahmund's gaze softened as he looked into Ivar's eyes, where he detected a depth of feeling—affection and tenderness mingling with an undeniable heat. "To be your canvas," he breathed, his voice low and gravelly, "would be my greatest honor."

As he leaned in, their lips met in a kiss, soft but certain. Not for the first time in Ivar’s presence, but now even stronger than before, Heahmund felt what it truly meant to belong, to have something worth fighting for without losing oneself. From now on, he knew he was fighting for something worth his soul, but not for a God who demanded ceaseless devotion. Instead, he was giving himself to a Viking who had taken his heart and made it his own.

Heahmund surrendered, not to faith, but to love—and in that surrender, he discovered the essence of his truest self.

#heavar #vikings #ivar the boneless #bishop heahmund #vikings fanfiction #vikings fanfic #my stuff #my writing #vikings heahmund #heahmund x ivar #heahmund & ivar

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nothingtolosebutweight · 2 months ago

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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.

#heavar #ivar x heahmund #heahmund x ivar #vikings #ivar the boneless #vikings fanfic #vikings fanfiction #bishop heahmund #my stuff #my writing

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