Work Text:
Tell me the name of that feeling
A soft, almost barely audible moan escaped Ivar's full lips as he slid his back deeper into the water with a slow and relaxed motion; his hard muscles would finally be able to relax again, and he could finally get some rest.
And even though his body was visibly relaxing and the warm water in the tub was a real relief for his battered bones, one part of his body still remained tense and awake - his head.
His head was full of all the things he had seen and felt in the last weeks. It had not only been the conquest of York, but also the power of his army, his war power. He had stepped out of his brothers' shadows and shown the world what Ivar the Boneless was made of. He was no longer the ridiculous cripple, the crawling spawn of Ragnar's loins - he was so much more. He was the bloodthirsty monster, snarling, that the English would report on for even longer. He would go down in history as a bloody demon, a tyrant of conquest. As all that mortals and Christian monsters feared.
A slight flash passed through his teeth, and he emitted a light, amused snort; his body sank a little deeper into the soothing, warm water that steamed lightly in the darkness of the night, which looked like a mysterious mist full of magic in the dim candlelight of the tent. A slight rustling sound interrupted his inner peace and monologue as one of his servants entered the tent. He bowed, as it was proper - Ivar merely opened one eye, and nodded slightly at him.
"What is it, Svensson?" he cooed softly, still relaxed by the warm water; his body literally slumped in the soothing position, finally coming to rest.
"You had asked for the Christian. He's here now."
"Ah." Ivar murmured; his limbs tightened a little, and he leaned his head against the wooden back of the tub. "Let him in."
Svensson nodded, and only a few moments later he entered the tent.
His heavy, gray eyes had the same scowling expression as always, and his nose was slightly wrinkled. Ivar knew what the Christian was thinking - he had watched him, for days, for weeks. How a young father would appraise his most precious son, watch how he would develop in the community of the village.
But he, Heahmund, was not like the others. He was someone Ivar had never met before in his life - he was someone Ivar had wanted immediately, at all costs. He was like the mirror image of the warrior Ivar had always wanted to be, the one Ivar could have been if his crippled legs had worked. He was a glorious fighter, with a unique swordplay and a pride that matched Ivar's. There were many things that separated them - their religions, their views on good and evil, which they had discussed in endless conversations and hard, cold-hearted rounds of hnefatafl - and yet there were many things they had in common. Pride, honor, stubbornness, pigheadedness. Ivar loved this rough side to the bishop, this stubborn way of standing up to any authority even in the face of death. It was sometimes as if he were like Ivar, planted like a soul mirror image in a completely different place on earth.
"Ah, bishop, your grace. I was beginning to think you'd refuse my invitation." Ivar groaned, amused; he had pushed his back a little higher out of the tub and was staring into the face of the tall, somber-looking Christian; his eyes, as if cut from blue marble, clung to the Christian like a curious predator. A wince passed through his face as the Christian made a mocking, slightly deprecating bow.
He could see the displeasure in the gray eyes, in those misty, cloudy eyes that had a strange effect on Ivar's body temperature. He always got hot when the bishop was around, always. It could be freezing outside, raining, storming, but the strong gray fished glowing hot coals from Ivar's insides.
"That would be a choice for death, I suppose. Only I wonder why you bring me here now?" the Christian murmured; his deep, dark voice leaving a soft film of excitement over Ivar's skin, oozing softly as the immersion in the warm water.
"What is wrong with now? When your king calls you, you must come, no matter when," Ivar replied amused, his torso rising more out of the water, leaving a stronger view of his taut, bare chest. Ivar smiled softly as the bishop glanced briefly at his chest, and then the gray eyes fastened on his eyes again.
Fascinating, this man.
"You're bathing. What makes you think I want to see that?"
"Because it's an honor. Not everyone gets to go to this audience, your grace."
"Don't call me that." the warrior grunted as his hands slid to the hilt of his belt. Storm-gray eyes wandered around the tent, glancing at the lightly flickering candles as Ivar rested his forearms lightly folded on the edge of the tub.
"I'll call you what I like. You are my slave." Ivar hummed softly, watching with fascinated eyes as the Christian's hands tightened around the line of his belt; he could hear the soft, used leather creaking slightly, like a bittersweet echo in the silent tent. Only the water rippled lightly as Ivar rested his head on his forearms, his eyes still sharply on the Christian.
"And what did you want to see me about? It's late, and I already barely slept last night," was Heahmund's rough reply, and Ivar had to hide a touch of goose bumps, soft and gentle, as the big man stepped closer to the tub with heavy steps.
Until now, there had always been a table between them, or the Christian had been in chains - there had always been a barricade between them, and to have the intoxicating closeness of this man now so close and dangerously unguarded with him excited Ivar deep to his spinal cord. Deeper still - to his loins, where he felt a soft tingling sensation. It was a strange, unprecedented sensation that felt as sweet as the first throat Ivar had cut back then.
Ivar lifted his gaze, and with a soft movement of his head, indicated to the Christian that he should kneel down, directly in front of the tub. It lasted a moment, during which a struggle seemed to take place in the gray eyes - the struggle between the lack of accepting authority and the will to be able to leave as soon as possible.
That was, if he did what the young heathen prince wanted.
A relaxed hum slipped from Ivar's lips as the somber Christian actually knelt in front of the wooden tub and looked at him; the gray of his eyes still sparkled in supreme discomfort, but this aura particularly appealed to Ivar. At first, in the very beginning, he had hated Heahmund for his perfection in everything, for his beautiful and strong appearance. Meanwhile, after many weeks with this slave at his side, he admired him. He wanted to be like him - a free warrior, strong and fearless.
"I was looking for company.", Ivar grumbled softly, returning Heahmund's gaze throughout, despite his steadily growing excitement inside. He was glad that he was doing a good job of hiding the inner heat that this closeness was causing in him. No trace of his inner heat penetrated his cheeks, his face seemed as mockingly beautiful as ever.
"For company, find yourself a woman, Ivar."
"What if I don't want the company of women?"
They looked at each other, and Heahmund's brow furrowed slightly. His look was critical, and Ivar knew he wanted to hide gross surges of anger. Heahmund knew full well that Ivar's tent was well guarded; the fabrics of his tent were thin and let through many a scrap of conversation. Ivar had thought long and hard about asking Heahmund to join him, tonight, this night. But he had not been able to hide his heated dreams about the fierce Christian, nor endure them. He did not know how to do it. How to get rid of this deep lust for something or someone inside.
He was his slave, he had to tell him.
Ivar blinked slightly, resting his chin in a slightly crooked position on his forearm, his blue marble eyes still fixed on Heahmund.
"What do you ask of me?" Heahmund's voice was deeper now, harsher. The gray in his eyes seemed like a soft rain shower, and Ivar couldn't help but think of their first encounter. The smell of that toxic closeness was baked in, and even now the Christ smelled like a warm summer rain, paired with the sweet scent of tart wood and smoke. Ivar loved that smell.
Ivar licked his lips lightly; his body was burning inside. And his heart was also beating immensely under the inner pressure, under these thoughts - but he had waited enough. There was no other way.
"I don't know how to- I want you to give me...- what you once gave to that slave girl," Ivar hummed softly, intoxicated as if in a stupor of alcohol. And that he saw no shock in Heahmund's eyes, only the tart burn of curiosity, made his loins boil.
"I can't give you that. It wouldn't be right.", Heahmund groaned, and he was about to lift his body to stand up; until Ivar's wet hand clamped around his wrist, tight and demanding. It was the first time in his life that Ivar wore an expression of pleading in his eyes, even though he swore he would never want to wear it again.
"Please. Just this once."
Silent moments passed, with only the gentle rustle of the wind outside, and the distant hum of voices in the camp. The gray eyes stuck on him like bittersweet honey on bread, and Ivar squeezed the warm skin in his grip harder.
Heahmund uttered a low murmur, then knelt down again; his hands touched Ivar's forearms, gently, and for the first time, full heat shot up Ivar's face because of that touch.
"I guess I can't say no, if it's a request. Sit back, and close your eyes," Heahmund murmured softly, and it took Ivar a moment to fully realize what was happening here.
A slight tremor went through his body as his forearms disengaged from the edge of the tub and he let his back dip very slowly into the water; his skin burned, burned from the soft touch of this rough man. But there was something else that ran through his limbs: fear.
It came up in full force as Heahmund tried to dip his right hand into the water; far too quickly, Ivar's hands enclosed that hand, held it up. His body shook, and he didn't dare look at Heahmund.
"Is there no other way? I can't- ," he whimpered, but Heahmund's words came whispering to his ear like a soft orchestra.
"Just trust me. It won't hurt."
It wasn't that Ivar was afraid of pain, he had known it all his life. It was the fear of this new kind of touch, by a body so similar to his own. With Margreth it had been a disaster, his cock had not worked, not even her kisses had made him hard. He didn't want to suffer that embarrassment in front of him, not in front of Heahmund. But Heahmund was adept at breaking free of his clinging grip, in a rough but not bossy way, and Ivar bit his lip hard and let him. He had to.
As Heahmund's hand dipped gently into the warm water, Ivar's body stiffened involuntarily; he squinted his eyes, pressing his back firmly against the wooden wall of the tub. He could feel from the slight movement of the water Heahmund's hand slowly moving down his belly, sliding lower.
All the way to his cock, which was still floating limply in the water. It was a warm, soft touch of a hand, with a lot of feeling, as Heahmund closed his hand around the soft piece of flesh. Ivar was glad the Christian couldn't see his legs through the water.
"Shhh, it's okay." Warm words he would never have expected from Heahmund like that - Heahmund's mouth looked rough, made for shouting, for giving orders, for fighting. And yet, a soft gasp escaped Ivar's lips as the hand completely encircled his cock, moving softly around his flesh.
Ivar's hands clawed at the sides of the tub, seeking a foothold in the hard wood. He was dizzy with excitement, with fear, with all the feelings that were all at once gathering inside him at this intimate touch. And yet he felt that it was different with the Christian. That everything was so completely different than anything ever before.
He was getting hard, his worst and most cursed body part which he had always hated, which he had never been able to bring to hardness himself, with whatever fantasies, was suddenly about to increase, thrust after thrust, with every soft hand movement of the Christian around him. The feeling of what these movements and this success caused in him found no name in Ivar's mind. Probably because there was no name for such a feeling.
Beguiling.
He could feel Heahmund's breath near his face, softly; he felt the soft trembling of the great body, a kind of tension. Ivar's nails clawed harder into the wood, seeking more grip. The movements triggered a beautiful feeling inside him. So warm, so burning, so soft. It was like a feeling of pleasure, only so much more beautiful. Ivar's eyes squeezed tighter, and a soft moan escaped him, completely detached. He really tried to keep it as quiet as possible - he didn't want anyone but Heahmund to hear it.
The hand around his hard cock squeezed a little tighter, and that pressure coupled with the warm water was a boon to his senses.
"See." Heahmund whispered, and the beautiful movement quickened a bit. Ivar's body twitched, and he began to sweat; small, soft beads of sweat settled on his forehead, and the feeling grew stronger. The feeling that had no name.
"More.", Ivar breathed, exhaling heavily; his arms tightened, trying to withstand the pressure inside his body that was inevitably spreading. He was almost going crazy, especially in his loins, from the tangle in his lower belly, when he heard a similar breathing from Heahmund.
"It won't take long, then you will understand what the slave girl felt. I can feel it." Heahmund gasped the words so breathlessly that Ivar let out another moan; his shoulders shook, as his body did. He pressed his head against the wall of the tub, needing support, as he was afraid to fall.
Heahmund's thumb suddenly brushed the tip of Ivar's cock in a gentle, circular motion, stroking the swollen muscle, and Ivar moaned out loud. It was an incredible feeling, violent, unprecedented. Forgotten were the slit throats, the rush of blood, if he could have this forever.
"Can you..." Ivar asked, stuttering, followed by a moan, and his body reared up slightly in the tub. He heard Heahmund inhale deeply, his face so close.
"Tell me."
"Kiss me. Please."
A bittersweet pause, in which the thumb stroked the tip of his cock once more, making Ivar's body quiver - and then there was heat against his face, indescribable heat, and a pair of warm lips settled on his, kissing him beneath the fierce feeling in his body. A soft kiss, a pause - and then a second kiss followed, deeper, softer, more passionate. It burned on Ivar's lips, and the warm feeling in his body became unbearable. He wanted to die, die in that sweet feeling. The hand around his cock closed harder around his hard, heated muscle, moving faster.
And with the next breathless kiss, Ivar came.
He moaned as loud as he dared, gasping for air as his cock spilled into the warm water and over the grip of Heahmund's hand, as the most beautiful feeling rose him to heaven and paralyzed him, emptying his entire head at last, finally, and gripping him in a deep, wonderful world of feeling and closeness.
And still in those seconds, his head suddenly found a name for this feeling, for this incredible climax: Heahmund.
His Christian detached from him at some point after his cock slowly went limp in his hand; yet his whole body tingled, leaving nothing but limpness and soothing fatigue, and a heartbeat as if war had just broken out over his body.
When Ivar opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was the wonderful gray that suddenly seemed to carry a completely different meaning, and Heahmund's face, which seemed so much softer than usual. It was almost as if they had both shared that feeling, at least for a while, for a tiny moment.
As if Christian and heathen had been one for a moment, fused into one religion that bore the name of the god lust chiseled on its body.
"I forbid you to ever do anything like that to a slave girl again." Ivar hummed after a while, and he almost warmed in his body again, ever so gently, as a sort of grin formed at the corners of Heahmund's mouth, though barely visible.
"Do you think you can?" the Christian replied, and Ivar chuckled lightly.
"I'm your king, I can do anything. And if I want my slave near me from now on, he must obey."
For Heahmund was his, his alone. And that was not going to change from now on.