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nothingtolosebutweight · 21 hours ago

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Don't turn your back on me - Epilogue

The music reached him before he even stepped inside their home.

Heahmund paused in the stairwell, one hand still resting on the apartment door, the other cradling a paper bag against his hip. The melody floated softly through the walls, light, patient keystrokes drifting down the hallway. He didn’t recognize the tune this time. Ivar rarely played covers these days. Most of it was his own. Improvised. Sometimes not super coherent and harmonious, but always with its own unique touch.

The door swung open with a soft click, and the warmth of home wrapped around Heahmund instantly, golden late-autumn sunlight spilled in gentle bands across the hardwood floor, the faint scent of Ivar’s shampoo lingered in the air, and the hum of life threaded gently through every detail.

Heahmund didn’t call out. Instead, he lingered for a moment in the doorway to the living room, the shopping bag now resting at his side. Ivar sat at the piano, back toward him, framed by the tall window that overlooked a quiet stretch of forest and the edge of a small lake. His hair was a little messy, still mostly damp, and his entire body moved with the music. Not just his fingers, but his shoulders, his spine, the subtle tilt of his head. Every motion flowed, as if the notes were not played but released from somewhere deep inside him, poured into the keys like breath.

Grace was curled up in her little bed right next to the piano bench, one paw tucked under her chin, ears twitching now and then in a lazy rhythm. She looked entirely at peace, like she was attending a private concert. As if the soft hum of Ivar’s playing wasn’t just background noise but something she needed.

Heahmund often joked that she must’ve been the reincarnation of an old soul, a retired concert pianist, maybe, or some sharp-tongued patron of the Paris opera. There was no other way to explain why she always settled in, gaze half-lidded in something that looked suspiciously like musical appreciation, as soon as Ivar started to play.

She still didn’t let him cuddle her. But Ivar’s piano skills? That, she seemed to worship, besides the treats she got from him.

Heahmund watched them both, eyes soft with affection, heart full to the brim.

He loved Ivar more deeply than he ever had the first time around - not in volume, but in clarity. The kind of love born from choosing one another again, with eyes wide open and hearts a little scarred, but still reaching for another. He loved Ivar’s sharpness, his defiance, the way he moved through the world like it owed him nothing and everything all at once. But he’d come to love the quieter parts just as deeply, the version of Ivar who got lost in his hobbies, who hyper-focused on details no one else would notice, who took it upon himself to rearrange Grace’s bedding twice a day and pretend it wasn’t because he adored her. He loved the Ivar who curled into him at night without a word, silently asking for closeness, warmth, safety. And just as much, he loved the version who whispered dirty things against his skin when pure closeness wasn’t enough anymore, when touch became hunger and softness turned to fire.

And he felt loved as well. Ivar said it often, without hesitation, without needing a reason or a direct reply as reassurance. But more than that, he showed it, in gestures that hadn’t changed much from before: the cookie placed by his tea cup before he even asked, a hand on his back in passing, fingers absentmindedly brushing his during movies, a kiss pressed to his shoulder just because. The big difference to now was in the timing. Back then, it had often come after fights, tangled up in guilt and apology. Now, he gave it freely, because he wanted to. Not to repair, but to reassure. And for Heahmund, that truth carried a different weight. It felt honest in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been missing before. Not performative, not cautious. Just real. Steady. And in that steadiness, Heahmund found something new for himself too: a calm confidence. A deeper sense of security.

Life was good.

Not perfect, because nothing ever was, but peaceful in all the ways that mattered.

Ivar had gone back to university at the end of summer, motivated, focused, and with a kind of calm determination that hadn’t been there before. The transition back into a structured daily rhythm came surprisingly easy, not because it was effortless, but because he wanted it this time. Ivar embraced the routine, even relished it. He liked most of his courses, merely tolerated some classmates, and came home nearly every day with stories or, as Heahmund would say, passionate explanations of things he’d learned.

Heahmund listened to every word, often smiling quietly, not interrupting. He loved the way Ivar’s eyes lit up mid-sentence, the way his hands moved when he explained something he found exciting. It wasn’t just about university. It was about seeing him build his future. He wasn’t drifting anymore, convinced he’d never get far because he thought he was too broken to even try. Now, he was steering, with intention, with clarity, and a quiet belief that maybe he could build something lasting after all.

Heahmund’s work had found a steady rhythm, too. It was busy, sure, but manageable. The kind of busy that kept him sharp—challenging enough to really dig into, yet structured enough to maintain a healthy work-life balance. For about two weeks now, he had been able to work solely from home, his laptop set up at the big oak table they’d chosen together. Before that, he’d still flown to Ireland now and then, partly for work, partly to close that lingering chapter by clearing out the apartment he’d held onto longer than necessary.

He might still have to fly back occasionally for a team event or some on-site meeting, but even that had started to feel different. Less like an obligation, more like an opportunity. Something he could turn into a short family trip, or a weekend getaway with Ivar, to show him more of the country he once called home.

When the last note trailed off into quiet, Ivar sat still for a beat longer, fingers hovering over the keys like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of whatever had moved through him.

As Heahmund started to applaud, Ivar turned slightly, his eyes lighting up the moment they landed on him.

"Are you just gonna stand there looking love-struck," Ivar said with a crooked grin, "or are you gonna come say hi properly?"

Heahmund bent down to pick up the shopping bag, rummaging through it with exaggerated care. When his hand finally closed around what he was looking for, he pulled it out with a theatrical gesture.

"I bring tribute."

Ivar’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, then widened with delight as he recognized the wrapper.

"Is that~?"

Heahmund held the bar aloft, wiggling it between his fingers. "Limited edition. Last one on the shelf. I had to fight off a twelve-year-old."

Ivar gasped in mock admiration before breaking into a warm laugh.

"You’re the best."

"I know," Heahmund said, still grinning as he crossed the room, dropping the bag on the sideboard on his way. As soon as he reached Ivar, he leaned in for a kiss.

When he pulled back, Ivar didn’t waste a second, snatching the hyped-up chocolate bar from his hand, unwrapping it like a starving man, and taking an exaggerated bite.

"Hmm~" was all he could manage, eyes fluttering shut in pure bliss.

Still chewing, Ivar generously held the chocolate bar out in offering, visibly relieved that Heahmund took only a modest bite, small enough not to provoke protest. Even love had its boundaries.

Right after, he caught Heahmund’s wrist and tugged him closer. "Come sit with me for a bit," he ordered, scooting slightly to the side to make room.

Heahmund didn’t hesitate and settled next to him, their knees brushing, bodies aligned in easy closeness. Ivar’s fingers drifted back to the keys, the notes drifted through the room in a gentle, unhurried rhythm. Nothing formal, just something quiet to fill the space.

Heahmund leaned in slightly, putting one arm around Ivar's back, watching with interest the way Ivar’s hands moved, how his fingers paused, then danced again, brushing one key, then another, creating something light and fragile. He followed the motion for a while, then tentatively reached out and pressed a single key in response.

The note rang out, a little louder than intended. And foremost, clumsier than he had expected.

Ivar didn’t flinch. He didn’t tease or laugh. Instead, he simply shifted his hand to leave space, inviting Heahmund in without words.

Heahmund tried again, more cautiously this time. His touch was uncertain, fingers hovering awkwardly above the keys. He had no real skill, no grasp of scales or phrasing, but he watched what Ivar was doing, listened to the sounds that each key created. And when Ivar played another soft note, Heahmund echoed it the best he could. Eventually, he found a note that fit. Then another. Ivar adjusted his pace, softened his chords, made room for the unfamiliar weight of another hand at the keys. His melody curved around Heahmund’s, adjusting in quiet encouragement.

They played like that for a while, nothing planned, nothing perfect. Just finding tones that fit, echoing each other’s rhythm, sometimes clashing, sometimes resolving, but always continuing. Ivar led, Heahmund followed - then, sometimes, the other way around. A call. A response. A rhythm, slowly shared.

And together, they made something simple and imperfect - and theirs.

And maybe it wasn’t always in sync. Maybe it wasn’t always pretty.

But it was alive. It was growing. It was theirs to shape.

The world outside could do what it wanted.

Here, inside their home, all was calm. All was well.

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

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nothingtolosebutweight · 6 days ago

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| Pairing: Ivar x Heahmund | Words: ~5300 [AO3] | Masterpost | Warnings: None | Notes: @sodjdhsns - you asked for chapter 8 - here it is :D I'll post a little epilogue in a few days and then this story will be finished.

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8. Love of my Live

"I don't like the area where this one is in," Ivar said, his voice carrying a forced neutrality that didn’t quite mask the sharp edge underneath as he pushed the paper on the table in front of him further away from himself, as if he could push distance between himself and the current topic with this gesture as well. He wanted to have nothing to do with it, wanted it to vanish from his sight.

Heahmund glanced up from the paper he held in his hand, arching a brow. "Okay. Fair point. But just to be sure, you do recognize that this apartment meets every other point on our wishlist?"

A shrug followed. Wordless. Defensive.

Ivar didn't meet his gaze. Instead, he picked up a loose corner of another real estate listing next to him on the couch, tearing a tiny piece off of it. He rolled it between his fingertips, then flicked it toward the floor. The fifth one already.

Grace, who had been curled up nearby, perked up, interest widened her pupils. Lazily, she pounced on the scrap like it was prey, nudging it forward with a paw before leaping after it with wild kitten theatrics.

Heahmund’s eyes lingered on her for a second, grateful for the absurd calm of a creature who expected nothing more than something to chase. Then he turned his attention back to the listings in his hand, purposefully staying calm.

"What about this one here?" he asked, holding out another flyer with a hopeful tone, his finger tapping on the image of a sleek, well-lit flat. "It's a bit further from the city center, but it has the large balcony you said you wanted."

"It’s way too expensive," came Ivar’s immediate reply after just one short look.

"It’s not. We can afford it easily."

"Only if you pay more than your fair share. I don’t want that."

"You’re a student with no income. Should we look for a tree house, then?" Heahmund smiled slightly, trying to keep the tension light.

Ivar rolled his eyes, the gesture as loud as a groan. "Don’t be stupid."

"Then tell me, love. According to your logic, what should we be looking for?"

"I can pay my part of the rent," Ivar muttered, crossing his arms. "I pay my share here, too."

"Your parents do."

"Don’t fact-check me!"

The room tensed. Heahmund had to bite back a chuckle - he knew better than to let it slip now. Ivar wouldn’t see the humor, not when he was this coiled up. He’d take it as mockery, wouldn’t see how plainly the stubbornness was written all over him. He was in a defensive mode - his default setting when his feelings didn’t match his logic.

They were arguing. Again. Recently, it felt like they couldn’t have one productive conversation about their new home without it spiraling into this. Frustration. Mistrust. Silence followed by snapbacks.

The apartment search, which had started with cautious optimism, had devolved into a minefield. Every suggestion Heahmund made was deflected. Every viable flat was turned down. And though neither of them had extravagant wishes, nothing seemed right. Mostly, Ivar didn’t seem convinced by anything.

Heahmund slowly counted to three in his head before he reached over to grab Ivar’s hand, gently, but with intent. He shifted closer on the couch until their legs touched, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to the curve of Ivar’s neck, just below the ear. That spot usually softened him. Today, Ivar only stiffened.

"Can I ask you something?" Heahmund murmured, lips still brushing skin. "But you have to promise to answer honestly."

A low grunt was the only answer he got.

"I’ll take that as a yes," Heahmund said, a faint smile ghosting across his mouth. When Ivar began to turn his face away, Heahmund gently caught his chin, guiding it back just enough for their eyes to meet. "We don’t have to make a decision now if it’s too much, but let us talk about one thing, alright?"

Again, Ivar did not express his opinion verbally; instead, he gave a small, grudging nod.

Heahmund recognized it for what it was - a signal that Ivar was at least trying. He resisted the urge to sigh. This was familiar terrain. There were days when he felt more like a crisis manager than a boyfriend, but at least now, after a few joint therapy sessions, he knew the terrain better. He knew when to push and when to gently coax the door open, which Ivar didn’t always realize he was about to close.

"So, are you capable of answering a question?"

"I’m not retarded," Ivar snapped, immediate and sharp, eyes narrowing, his body still stiff, alerted.

Heahmund didn’t flinch, holding his ground. "I know. And you know that’s not what I was implying." He squeezed Ivar’s hand again, not just to touch him, but to anchor him, quiet, intentional contact that said I'm here. With you. Not against you. His thumb moved in slow circles across Ivar’s skin, the rhythm steady and calm, like a heartbeat passing through fingertips.

Ivar looked away but didn’t withdraw his hand. His jaw was still tight, his spine taut as a wire, but Heahmund could feel the subtle shift, the way Ivar’s shoulders dropped ever so slightly, the smallest sag in posture that betrayed exhaustion more than anger. His fingers no longer clawed at the torn paper. Instead, they stilled, uncertain, trembling faintly. Then, slowly, almost shyly, Ivar turned his hand in Heahmund’s palm, until their fingers aligned and laced together.

Heahmund nuzzled his nose against Ivar’s neck, kissing the spot right after. Once, this moment would’ve tipped. Ivar’s sudden tension, the deflective sarcasm, the silent push-away. Before therapy, before their break, this would have been the point at which everything would have gotten out of hand, at which shouting would no longer be far away, threats of violence hanging in the doom-filled air.

But not today.

"I’m not looking for a fight," Heahmund said calmly, voice quiet but steady. "I’m trying to understand. For me, it feels like you’re looking for faults in every apartment, because you’re not ready to leave this one."

"I just don’t like the options. It’s as simple as that." Ivar shifted, trying to pull his hand free, fingers twitching with the impulse to retreat. But Heahmund’s grip tightened, gentle but unwavering. A silent message passed between their palms: You don’t get to run this time.

"But none of them? Not even one?" Heahmund tilted his head slightly, studying Ivar’s profile. "You said yourself last week that the last one was almost ideal."

"And? I changed my mind later. Isn't that allowed?"

Heahmund paused for a second, pondering about the best way to proceed so as not to pour fuel into a growing fire. "Of course it’s allowed," he said, nodding. "But... what changed?"

Ivar didn’t answer.

Heahmund waited. That too was something he’d learned by now - not to fill silence out of discomfort, not to rescue Ivar from sitting with it. Eventually, Ivar glanced up, annoyed by the quiet, maybe, or by the patience that somehow irritated him more than confrontation ever did.

"Maybe I don’t want to move," Ivar finally muttered, shrugging with exaggerated indifference. "Go ahead, call me selfish. Or dramatic. Or whatever fits today."

Heahmund let out a quiet sigh, then leaned in again to place a soft kiss on Ivar’s head. "Thank you for being honest."

"That’s it? You’re not going to tell me I’m being unreasonable?" Ivar asked, irritation layering in his voice.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don’t think you are."

Heahmund squeezed Ivar’s hand tenderly and wrapped his other arm around his waist, drawing him in until Ivar was nestled against his chest. He would have preferred to face him directly, to read every shift in expression, but he knew better by now - eye contact would only make Ivar feel cornered. So he let him have his little cave.

"I understand that you’re scared. And I know you hate change," Heahmund said, his fingers stroking slow, calming lines across Ivar’s stomach. "I know this apartment feels like a part of us to you. "But moving won’t undo what makes us us. It just means we’re writing the next chapter somewhere else, together, still."

He hesitated for a moment, then added quietly, "I need that new chapter, Ivar. Not because I want to forget what this place meant to us. There were good things here. Really good ones. I treasure those memories too, believe me." His smile was soft and brief, fond as those moments replayed in his mind like the closing credits of a film. But his smile faded quickly, making room for a more serious expression.

"But they’re not the only things this place holds. It also holds everything we didn’t know how to handle back then. Every fight. Every silence. I still see the dents and cracks in the walls from the nights things boiled over. And every time I unlock the front door, I remember how it felt to stand there before I left. How empty I was at that moment, knowing I couldn’t fix us."

As the words settled between them, Heahmund pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Ivar’s head, lingering just a heartbeat longer than usual. His hand slid upward from Ivar’s stomach, fingertips brushing over ribs, before wrapping around him fully, his arm settling gently across Ivar’s shoulders, coming to rest just beneath his collarbones. His elbow rested on Ivar’s chest, the side of his wrist tenderly grazing his throat.

Ivar stayed quiet, body still pressed to Heahmund’s chest, breathing slowly and even. He reached for the arm looped around him and laid his hand over it. His fingers didn’t push away, didn’t resist. Instead, they moved lightly over Heahmund’s forearm, tracing the faint hairs, the warmth of his skin.

"I don’t want the new place to be something you just agree to because I pushed for it. I want it to be yours, too. A space you actually like. Somewhere you’ll want to come home to, not just because I’m there, but because it feels right to you, too." Heahmund continued as Ivar stayed quiet. "That’s why I need your input. What matters to you? What would make you feel comfortable, safe…maybe even excited? And when your opinion shifts, when something that seemed okay suddenly doesn’t feel right anymore, I want you to tell me. I just need to know where your head is at, so I can make the right suggestions. I know the idea of moving is still hard. for you, love. I’m not asking you to love it overnight. But I want to go through this process with you. Not alone. Not dragging you behind me."

Heahmund paused, waiting to see if Ivar would like to say something, but he stayed quiet. His fingers, though, betrayed him. Restless, they kept tugging gently at the fine hairs on Heahmund’s arm, twisting them in slow, uneven motions.

"I know it’s a lot to ask. But please…try. For me."

Ivar listened, jaw tight. Nothing Heahmund said sounded unreasonable. If anything, it made perfect sense. He wanted to give him what he asked for, he really did. And he knew he should be grateful that Heahmund still wanted this. Wanted him. That he kept being patient and kind, even now, even when Ivar was being difficult, unable to hold onto the openness he’d promised.

The thought tightened something in his chest. Guilt rose quietly, shame curling in behind it. He let out a long breath, then rubbed along his jawline, fingers pressing hard - as if he could force the tension out by sheer force.

"I feel like I’m failing you again," Ivar muttered, finally breaking his stubborn silence, his voice rough at the edges.

"You’re not," Heahmund replied immediately, his arm tightening slightly around Ivar.

"You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better."

"I’m not saying it to make you feel better," Heahmund said. "I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re still here. Still letting me in, even when it’s hard. That’s not failure, Ivar. That’s you trying. And that’s enough."

Ivar let out a dry, humorless laugh. Sharp and brief - quick, instinctive, like he couldn’t help but brush the words off.

"Yeah. Trying. Great." He shook his head faintly. "I’m sure that counts for something in the grand competition of not being a total mess," he mumbled, sarcasm covering the fragile crack beneath.

Heahmund didn’t react with words right away. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a slow, steady kiss to the back of Ivar’s neck, letting his lips rest there for a moment. "Let me remind you that I don’t need a picture-perfect Ivar," he said softly after a few moments, whispering against damp skin. "I don’t expect you to flip a switch and be happy all the time about everything...although I would wish for nothing more than for you to be happy."

Ivar shifted, uncomfortable, and Heahmund responded by softening his embrace. "But are you not mad? That I’m…like this? That I can’t just… be normal about it?"

Heahmund shook his head, voice remaining calm and steady. "Your feelings, no matter how overwhelming, have a right to exist. You’re not wrong for feeling them. I just don’t want you to carry them alone."

Ivar didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to. Instead, he turned around, slow and a little clumsy in the movement, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask for comfort and was doing it anyway. Heahmund understood immediately and opened his arms without hesitation, shifting just enough to give Ivar the space to curl in.

Immediately, Ivar folded into him without resistance, his body fitting into the familiar lines of Heahmund’s like muscle memory. He pressed his face into the crook of Heahmund’s neck, nose brushing the warm skin there, breathing in deeply. There was something familiar woven into Heahmund’s scent - skin, laundry soap, the faintest trace of aftershave. But also something that wasn’t so easily named. Something grounding. Safe. Something that always made Ivar’s shoulders drop, his jaw loosen, his heartbeat slow down just a little.

"I love you," Ivar whispered against warm skin, letting the words sink in as he pressed a soft kiss there, more instinct than intention.

Heahmund tightened his new embrace, one arm around Ivar’s shoulders, the other at his lower back, holding him close, like something precious.

"And I love you."

And that, more than any answer, was enough for now.

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The apartment felt empty now.

Not in the way people often said when the furniture was gone, but in that strange, disorienting way a place changes once it no longer holds your life. The walls were still the same off-white, the air still carried a trace of citrus and old wood. But the warmth was gone, like it had quietly packed itself into boxes and followed them to the new address, leaving only cool shadows behind.

Heahmund stood at the threshold to the living room, keys idle in his grip, staring into the quiet that had settled over the room like dust. No echo of footsteps, no hum of routine. Just stillness. As if even the apartment itself had accepted it was time to let go.

"You’re not crying, are you?" Ivar’s voice came from behind, teasing, but soft-edged.

Heahmund didn’t turn, just let out a breath of a laugh. "Would it make you feel better if I were?"

Ivar stepped up beside him, shoulder brushing his. Instinctively, Heahmund’s arm looped around his waist, and just as naturally, Ivar rested his head against his shoulder.

"Maybe. I could use the leverage. Imagine what I could achieve with a photo like that."

They shared a quick laugh, one that didn’t carry any heavy weight behind it. Not one that had been used too often in the past to soften mood swings. This one felt like familiarity, something easy and light. Silence settled over them again as they stood together, eyes drifting across the space that had once been theirs. A space that had held sharp words and long nights, laughter and sorrow. There were echoes here - of arguments and apologies, of first steps toward healing and nights spent curled up to each other, some in tense silence, some filled with moans and soft confessions of love.

This apartment had been a greenhouse for their relationship, fragile growth beneath harsh conditions. A sanctuary. A war zone. A home. Now, stripped to its bones, it felt small. Not in size, but in story. Its role was complete.

"Are you alright?" Heahmund asked eventually, voice low, glancing sideways as Ivar raised his head to look at him.

After their last serious conversation, the apartment hunt had gone faster than Heahmund would’ve thought possible. Not because Ivar had changed completely overnight - he hadn’t. But something had shifted nonetheless, and when a too-good-to-be-true listing had appeared - open layout, huge rooftop terrace, tall windows, tucked quietly outside the city - Ivar had been the one to nudge Heahmund’s phone toward him, murmuring, "This one doesn’t look too awful."

From there, things had moved quickly. And now they had a place with enough space to grow new things, enough space to build a happy future together, and - according to Ivar - enough room for ten more cats. But sometimes, in the quiet between tasks, Heahmund caught himself worrying, watching Ivar a little too closely, looking for cracks. Wondering if he'd pushed too soon. If Ivar had only gone along to keep the peace, without having had the space to truly make peace with it himself.

"Yeah." Ivar answered, smiling at Heahmund. "It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would."

The truth was, it had hurt at the beginning.

The first empty boxes had felt like monsters - open-mouthed and greedy, ready to swallow everything familiar, everything that felt like his. He’d stared at them and felt the quiet panic rise, convinced that packing meant losing, that the life he’d carefully pieced together would vanish into cardboard and tape.

But that mood, dramatic and raw, had shifted quicker than he'd expected. Not because he suddenly loved the idea of change, but because something about the change brought Heahmund to life in a way Ivar hadn’t seen in a long time.

They’d packed together, far more slowly than their timeline allowed, constantly distracted by shared memories, pausing to argue mock-seriously over what to keep and what to throw away, interrupting themselves with dumb jokes or sudden kisses.

With every box sealed, Heahmund had grown lighter. Not just emotionally, but physically too, looser in his movements, freer in his words. There was a new rhythm in his steps, an ease in his voice. More and more, Ivar had begun to see the smiles, real ones. Not the polite, practiced kind. Not the worn-out smiles Heahmund gave when trying to be strong for both of them. These were honest, whole-body smiles, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made Ivar’s chest tighten with the feeling of love and attraction.

Shared moments within those last weeks instantly replayed in Ivar’s mind like bright, fleeting reels, as he thought about the reason why his heart was not too heavy right now.

Heahmund dancing barefoot in the hallway of the new flat while reorganizing bookshelves, swaying awkwardly to music he claimed to hate. The way he’d snuck up behind him mid-painting, streaking blue paint across his cheek, laughing like a kid who’d just broken a rule on purpose. The sound of his giggle, bubbling up out of nowhere. The glint in his eyes when they made plans for the new place - not careful, cautious plans, but excited ones.

Ivar had always loved Heahmund’s measured calm, his unwavering presence, the adultness of him. Heahmund had always been the stable one. The voice of reason. The anchor when his moods turned jagged and unkind. That strength had made him feel safe.

But this lighter Heahmund, the one who teased and grinned and chased him down a hallway with paint on his nose, this version had made him fall in love with him all over again. Madly.

And for that alone, Ivar would’ve packed a thousand boxes more.

The old place didn’t matter anymore.

Because what he was gaining, what they were becoming again, meant so much more to him.

"I'm glad to hear that," Heahmund said, slowly breaking free from their rigidity to finally take the last necessary step.

Heahmund’s expression softened as he leaned in to kiss Ivar, saying goodbye to their apartment with gestures full of affection this time, a lightness in his heart that stood in big contrast to the time almost two years ago. Back then, he had felt a different kind of weight in his chest. Leaving had felt like cutting something off. An arm. A future. He had been sure never to come back.

But this, this was different. Now he was leaving with something.

With someone.

"You know," Ivar said, nudging Heahmund lightly with an elbow, "if we’d moved when you first wanted to, our new home wouldn’t even have been on the market back then."

"So your stalling was actually strategy?" Heahmund asked, amused.

"I like to think of it as fate using my resistance as a tactical delay."

"You’re insufferable."

"You’re welcome."

The teasing didn’t feel like covering anymore. It wasn’t hiding tension. It was light. Easy. Honest.

Heahmund turned his head slightly, eyes fond as he got serious again. "You did good."

Ivar looked at him sidelong, something flickering behind his gaze that he didn’t quite let surface. But his voice was soft when he answered. "So did you - and now let’s go before you actually start to cry. Grace is waiting."

Again, Heahmund’s mouth switched into a smile. "She’s surely sunbathing on the terrace, not missing anyone right now."

"I bet she is, like the damn queen she is. She settled in quite quickly, right? But still, she won’t sit with me even though I’m the one with all the best snacks."

"She did brush against your leg last night."

"She tripped."

"She’s warming up," Heahmund said gently.

Ivar gave a skeptical shrug, but didn’t argue any further; instead, he nudged Heahmund toward the exit, not wanting to dwell any longer within those empty walls.

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The sun cast a warm, golden haze over the rooftop terrace, settling on the cushions of outdoor chairs and the freshly planted herbs along the railing - a newfound hobby of Heahmund’s, much to Ivar’s amusement. The grill sizzled quietly in the background, while the terrace was already buzzing with laughter and conversation. Ivar’s family had nearly all arrived, filling the space with their usual noisy presence.

Everyone had brought something, and the large table they had bought just two days ago was already put to its first serious test, loaded with drinks, snacks, and bowls full of overly ambitious side dishes.

This barbeque was a way of saying thank you, because, as much as the brothers liked to complain on any other given day, when it had mattered, when Ivar and Heahmund had asked for help during the move, they’d all shown up. Even Sigurd. No eye-rolls, no convenient excuses. Just steady hands, car trunks full of boxes, and more banter than actual muscle.

Heahmund leaned against the railing, a cold glass of lemonade in hand, watching Ivar soak up the attention from his family like a cat the sunlight. He was joking with Ubbe, stealing chips from Hvitserk’s plate while balancing a bowl of salad in the other. His cheeks were flushed with warmth and ease, his entire posture relaxed. He radiated that unique blend of mischief and peace, and Heahmund couldn’t look away, soaking up the familiar chaos that almost always came with the Lothbroks.

He loved Ivar’s family like his own. He always had. He had never just been tolerated; he had been included. Loud dinners. Long movie nights. Backyard fire pits that went on well into the night. For someone whose own family was scattered - some close, some not, and most emotionally reserved - their warmth and bond had healed something in him he hadn’t even known was broken.

Which had only made leaving them all the harder.

He hadn’t just walked away from Ivar back then. He’d walked away from them, too. No explanations. No goodbyes. Just a single, final message to Ubbe and then silence.

So when they invited not just Ivar, but him as well, to their monthly dinner about two weeks after his return, his first instinct had been to decline. To stay quiet. To avoid the discomfort he knew would come with seeing them again. He’d nearly convinced himself that skipping it would be easier, that there would be other chances, way later.

But in the end, he had gone. Because deep down, he knew putting it off would only stretch the distance further. He couldn’t avoid Ivar’s family forever. And truthfully, he didn’t want to. Still, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so nervous. The drive over had been quiet, his thoughts loud. Were hugs too much now, after once being second nature? Was a handshake too impersonal, after everything they’d shared?

As expected, the first interactions had been stiff, awkward even. The small talk, stilted. Eyes had lingered too long on him for his liking, filled with quiet curiosity, and beneath it all simmered questions nobody dared to ask aloud. But they were there, unmistakable: Are you staying this time? Are you going to break him again?

Heahmund couldn’t blame them, though.

But thankfully, the natural warmth of Ivar’s family had softened the edges quickly. The initial tension ebbed within the first hour, pushed aside by familiarity, humor, and shared history. Those watchful glances turned kind again. And later, on the Lothbroks’ spacious balcony, comfortably decorated by Aslaug herself, there had been honest conversations. One with Ubbe. One with Ivar’s mother. Not planned. Not forced. Just…overdue.

That same night, Heahmund had stood alone outside for a while, the garden lights below casting soft halos against the dark. His eyes had stung, though no tears had fallen. The weight in his chest had felt different then, not heavy with shame, but full of something quieter. Relief, mostly. Relief of not having been cast as the villain. That they hadn’t reduced him to the man who left, that he hadn’t been treated like a mistake they had no choice but to tolerate for Ivar’s sake.

Both Ubbe and Aslaug had been unexpectedly open. They hadn’t sugarcoated anything, but neither had they come to blame him. Instead, they’d admitted their own regrets. That they hadn’t seen how much Ivar had been unraveling back then. That they hadn’t realized how much weight Heahmund had been carrying alone. And before they’d said goodnight, Aslaug had looked at him with that steady kind of softness only mothers seem to possess, and made him promise that - should there ever be a next time, even if she prayed there wouldn’t be - he’d come to them sooner. That he’d ask for help. That he wouldn’t carry it all alone again.

He’d promised, quietly, earnestly, eyes already threatening to betray how much it meant to him that they hadn’t welcomed him back out of obligation. That they did it because they still saw him as someone who mattered. Not just to Ivar. But to them as well.

The sharp ringing of the doorbell broke through the chatter on the terrace, leading Heahmund to put down his glass and straighten up.

"I’ll get it," he offered, already walking inside to get to the front door.

"I’ll come with you," Ivar said, squeezing past Hvitserk, who only rolled his eyes and shifted out of the way.

Right as Heahmund opened the door, Sigurd raised his arm, bringing the item he held closer to Heahmund’s face.

"Housewarming gift," Sigurd said with a smirk. "Hope red’s still your thing."

The smile on Heahmund’s face faltered, not dramatically, just a slight twitch at the corners as his gaze dropped to the bottle. Merlot. Gift-wrapped. Innocent to most. But not to him. And certainly not to Ivar, who had come to stand beside him, one hand lightly grazing Heahmund’s back as he leaned in to see what Sigurd was holding.

"You brought wine?" Ivar asked, the words rough-edged, like he was still processing his thoughts.

"Yeah? Why~?"

Without missing a beat, Heahmund stepped in. He plucked the bottle from Sigurd’s hand with a smooth motion and a quick muttered thanks, then turned halfway, catching Ivar’s eye, sending not a warning but a requesting glare. Not here.

"Sigurd," he continued as he turned back to their guest, tone light, "glad you made it. The others are already up on the terrace. Go ahead, we’ll be right there."

Before Ivar could push further, starting an argument, Heahmund leaned in just slightly and whispered, "Kitchen. Please." His hand brushed Ivar’s arm, not forceful, just enough to redirect. And to Ivar’s credit, he didn’t argue. Not yet. He followed the order, jaw clenched, footsteps tight.

"What the hell was that?" Ivar hissed as soon as the door to the kitchen clicked shut behind them. "He knows."

"He probably didn’t think anything of it. Probably bought it five minutes before arriving, in a rush."

"That’s the problem. He never thinks," Ivar muttered, gesturing toward his own head. "I should push his skull against a wall. Maybe that’ll help get things moving up there."

"Ivar." Heahmund’s voice was a careful mix of warning and amusement.

"Just a little," Ivar added innocently. "In a loving, brotherly fashion."

"No one gets slapped in this home," Heahmund said with a smirk, pulling him close, arms sliding around Ivar’s waist with practiced ease.

"Not even Sigurd?" Ivar asked, his fingers lightly tracing along the curve of Heahmund’s upper arms.

"Not even Sigurd," Heahmund confirmed, brushing a kiss against Ivar’s temple. "Promise!"

"I promise," Ivar muttered, reluctantly. With the glint of mischief only he could pull off in the middle of a moral lesson, he added, "Though I might bribe Grace to teach him a lesson instead. Maybe I’ll lure him into petting her fur. That shiny black death trap. One touch and she’ll claw his soul out."

The mental image made Ivar grin, and Heahmund chuckled softly against his skin.

They stood like that for a moment, close, calm, connected. Then Heahmund leaned back just enough to meet Ivar’s gaze.

"I survived Ireland," he said. "With pubs on every corner and whiskey on every shelf. One bottle at a family barbecue isn’t going to undo me."

"But…"

"No buts. I’m okay," he said gently. "Recovery isn’t about treating alcohol like it’s poison. It’s about not needing it. And I don’t. Not anymore."

Ivar’s eyes searched his, caught somewhere between worry and trust.

Heahmund lifted one hand to cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly across skin. "It doesn’t have power over me. I’m happy, Ivar. You make me happy."

A small smile found Ivar’s lips, hesitant at first, almost shy, but it stayed. Then, slowly, it tugged wider, forming into a grin.

"Must be the blowjobs," Ivar said, deadpan.

Heahmund let out a low laugh and kissed him again, longer this time. "They might be a contributing factor," he murmured against Ivar’s mouth, grinning into the kiss.

When they parted, Ivar’s hands slid down to rest on Heahmund’s hips, holding him there for just a moment longer. He let out a small breath, like he was finally done being mad at the world, at Sigurd, for the moment.

"We should go back," he murmured. “Before someone eats all the good stuff." That this someone was mainly named Hvitserk, he didn’t need to specify.

Heahmund nodded, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Ivar’s mouth before stepping toward the door. He held out a hand, and when Ivar took it, their fingers brushed, then laced together with the kind of ease that comes from choosing each other, again and again.

ლლლლლლლლლლლლ

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

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nothingtolosebutweight · 22 days ago

Text

Chapter 4 is online 🤓

Masterpost: Devil with a God Complex

Characters: Ivar & Heahmund - [Mention of Heahmund/SlaveGirl & Ivar / SlaveGirl] Warnings: One-Sided-Attraction, Voyeurism, Hurt, Ivar will be a bit of a creep, Cum Eating, Cunnilingus, Murder, Possessive Ivar, Rape - in a way that Heahmund wont give consent to what Ivar will do to him in Chapter 4 Summary: The day had begun quietly, unremarkable even, until a faint sound disrupted Ivar’s focus—a moan, intimate and raw, that seemed to beckon him. Compelled to investigate, he stumbled upon a scene that stoked a fire of betrayal and resentment deep within. Consumed by anger and humilation, he realized only vengeance could quell the torment now searing through his veins. ✌🏻 @ivarlover

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 3 is online ✌🏻

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

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nothingtolosebutweight · 25 days ago

Note

Have you watched the tudors? With Jrm as king Henry?

Yes, I did 💕

#answered

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nothingtolosebutweight · 1 month ago

Note

Hey! 💕 Do you have any plans for when the next chapter of your recent story might drop? No pressure, just super excited!

Hey 💕,

thanks for reaching out and no worries, a little pressure works perfectly for me to get things done 🤣

I don’t have a specific date in mind at the moment for the next update. After a few weeks where I had very little time and honestly felt like I had forgotten how to write altogether, I’ve slowly started to pull myself out of that slump over the past few days. I also managed to break through a creative block that had been holding me back in the story for a while.

At one point, I just couldn’t move forward. I kept getting stuck editing parts I had already written instead of making progress, and nothing new was really coming together. But just two days ago, I finally was able to push past that and started writing new stuff again.

Right now, I’m considering whether to update with a shorter chapter soon, just to post something and show some progress, or to keep going a bit longer and let a few more things happen in the story before releasing the next part.

Also, what was originally planned as a four-chapter arc has grown a bit. It's looking like it might stretch to around six chapters instead, just to give everything the space it needs to develop properly.

#answered

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nothingtolosebutweight · 1 month ago

Text

Great to see you found the time and muse to continue this wonderful story 🥰

Adrift Chapter 22) Never will, never have

Chapter 22) Never will, never have

.-.-.

Piglet slaughtered the boar; cooked a heavy stew of the organs, smoked pieces of the meat, and from its fur she made a haphazard attempt at assembling new trousers for Ivar. Most of his clothing had either been torn by the tusks or by Piglet as she’d saved his life.

The overall mood at their little camp was still tense, but bearable. The two young women hardly shared a word and, if so, it was an order by Piglet.

Yet, bearable, and Ivar had decided he was going to make the most of his condition. The moment Piglet’s dark eyes shot a smoldering glare toward Valerié, he’d stiffen his body and stifle a moan. Her indignant composure would easily evaporate and she would tend to his every need. Which, up until this point, consisted merely of either holding his hand or feeding him.

He could live with the babying for now, by the Gods, right now he was indulging in her care and gentleness. Just one more time, he’d tell himself, at least three times before supper.

Piglet’s devotion towards her faith did not go unnoticed; the three of them sat by the fire as the mouthwatering smells of roasted boar wafted into the air. Valerie had observed Piglet thoughtfully, slurping stew from a wooden bowl.

“You are eating berries,” the one kissed by fire affirmed.

“I am,” Piglet answered, the embers in her eyes glowing. She’d positioned herself aside Ivar and spoon-fed him boar’s stew.

Piglet’s growling stomach and meager meal hadn’t gone unnoticed by Ivar either, but he’d lived through enough holier-than-thou moments with her to touch the subject.

But Valerie unfortunately took the opportunity to be inquisitive: “why?”

A tirade about halal, Allah, and her true and utter devotion flourished until the poorly skinned meat caught on fire. A shared panic, attributed to the potential of a raging forest fire, encouraged collaboration from both female parties. Even if one handled the pressure better than the other. Piglet raked the stake out of the fire and started stomping on the burning piece of meat while Valerie bounced on the tips of her toes screaming bloody murder.

Ivar merely exchanged gazes with Utstott before the bird hopped over to the trampled piece of meat; an abundant meal for one small white raven.

“Now look at what you did!” Piglet exclaimed, slamming her fist into the direction of Utstott’s feast.

“What I did?!” Valerie jutted her chin toward, and clapped her hands on her hips.

Piglet’s body swayed towards Ivar, still vividly gesturing to the spoiled meat. When his response lacked words; his eyes bounced from one woman to the other and back, jaw slightly ajar. Piglet let out a frustrated grunt, resolutely turned on her heels, and marched into the fortress of trees.

Well, milking his way out of this was a good strategy for at least half the day.

.-.-.

Although the hostility lingering over their camp hadn’t completely dissipated; Ivar had to say he was content that his blood hadn’t spilled for nothing. Piglet huffed deliberately loud but ignored Valerié who on her turn refused to get her hands dirty and focused on untangling her hair and getting dirt from underneath her nails.

Ivar remained comfortable at the ox cart wheel and ate his fill of freshly killed boar. Chewing on a tough piece of meat, he thought with melancholy about the previous part of his enemy he’d eaten; the heart of the Giant.

Utstott must've somehow understood why Ivar’s torn lip morphed into a sinister smile. The bird, eaten so fat he struggled to flutter off cackled; an almost human laughter.

A few days passed, which Ivar used to eat, sleep and heal enough to be fit for travel.

Piglet squeezed his shoulder lightly after both maidens hoisted him into the back of the cart.

“Soon we don’t need her anymore,” she whispered in his ear. In response Ivar nodded sheepishly with a blank face until Piglet settled behind the reins. Then his face dropped as he watched Valerié collect the last bits of their belongings. Her body was more voluptuous then Piglet’s and she wore all her beauty with sheer confidence, showing her wares with every strutt.

He knew that what he felt for her was plain physical attraction; but did that matter? He’d suffer through the Giant’s flogging or another boar attack all over again just to find himself back between her thighs.

No, he wasn’t ready to lose Valerié just yet, even if it meant he’d be the one who’d be kissed by fire; one slip of her lips and Piglet would know he wasn’t Ivar half-a-man.

“Let’s get out of this shithole,” Valerié complained and as she puffed down next to Piglet, “and find some civilization.”

.-.-.

He wasn’t drunk, but his battered body contained enough alcohol to make his muscles ease and his head feel foggy. The combination of ale and the toll it took on his body to recover lapsed him in and out of consciousness. His head and feet lulled from side to side on the steady rhythm of the oxes. Ivar felt strangely rooted inside the cart and was almost afraid to even think about it; he felt content.

For a while the only sounds came from the forest; mainly birds and little insects. Ivar listened thoughtlessly, occasionally opening the water sack for some more ale.

Then Valerié gasped and exclaimed as their cart broke through the line of trees. Her thrill was born of relief; situated at the heart of a plain drained by two small converging rivers lay a walled city. Surrounded by small settlements, the place reminded Ivar a bit of Dorenstad, a city he’d rather forget.

Soon he learned the name of the walled city; Dijon, famous for its wine, according to Valerié. As the oxes trotted on, Valerié's excitement was contagious. As the woman kissed by fire summoned all her knowledge of the city, Piglet made their cart accelerate.

Such a large city meant one thing; a proper Inn, food, a decent bed, and a hot bath.

And for once, they had silver to pay for all of it. Plus, a fellow traveler who spoke the language of the inhabitants.

Ivar’s blissful bubble popped as his brain tried to recollect when it was the last time he had a proper bath, considering the one he took inside the tavern Valerié had worked. Before, before his life as a slave, before being stripped of his royal title. During his entire ordeal inside the walls of the Castle de Haar he’d never been granted more than a bucket of cold water to clean himself with. After escaping, he and Piglet had been either on the run or surviving. Wolves, bandits, mosquitoes and quite recently, boars. Never a true moment of rest.

Ivar honestly could not remember the last time he’d felt fully clean, when there wasn’t any dirt underneath his ripped nails.

Through his lids he stared at the dirty feet swaying by the same rhythm of the oxes, Piglet’s sols were callous enough to walk any type of surface. Dirty, she’d been dirty since the day she’d met him.

Ivar swallowed a lump and reached for his ale again ashamed that it hadn’t dawned on him before, that his trial in the walls of the Haar were a fraction of the years and years Piglet had been suffering, mainly alone; wrapped in rags and stench.

He never asked her how long she’d been enslaved; from time to time the question had circled inside his head. But he never asked, not even now. He rather not bring up the subject. For once; knowing Piglet she’d rather cut off her tongue then answer. And second; he couldn’t bring himself to think of how her life had been before the Giant chained him up inside the stable.

Alone, she must have been alone for quite a while. Her only ‘friend’ being falsely accused of witchcraft and burned alive; the rest of the inhabitants shunning her for her skin color. Teerkind, tarchild; the name the linen maidens had branded upon her. She’d been an outcast and, aside from the animals inside the stable, no-one wanted to be close with such wildling.

Except for one person.

Ludolf de Haar.

By the Gods the ecstasy of ripping off that bastard’s jawbone.

Although eating the heart of the Giant had been a personal victory, caving in Ludolf’s face with his own jaw had been vengeance on a whole different level.

The Giant had been Ivar’s personal tormentor; nearly drowning him in a well, almost cutting off his right hand; all the useless beatings, the punishments. He’d barely survived forty minus one lashes of the whip. The brute had humiliated him countless times, made him shed tears, blood, and sweat.

But the Giant had been an opponent; one who Ivar strangely respected; hence he’d eaten his heart.

Ludolf had never shared that position. He hadn’t been Piglet’s opponent. No, he was her worst nightmare. Men.

From time to time, Ivar would dream of destroying Ludolfs face; that lopsided smile ripped apart by his fingers.

But in those dreams, he’d never see the destruction of Ludolf through his own eyes. No, he’d watch himself in the act, from a few feet afar, craning over his own shoulders. And it had taken him a while to realise who’s point of view he’d see; Piglet.

And all she saw were two completely opposite abominations of men; both carrying a different mortal sin.

Ivar hated Ludolf more than the Giant; because Ludolf took something from Piglet. And because of that Ivar knew he could never have what he wanted from her. “Why do you keep looking at me?!” Piglet snapped, agitated, and it took Ivar a moment to realise she hadn’t directed her snarl towards him. Through his lids he watched Valerie brush her hair back behind her ear, gazing contemptuously at Piglet: “I’m simply trying to establish what’s so special about you and worth dying for,” she scrunched up her nose, giving Piglet a long look-over and a dejected shrug, “I can’t see it mon petite, you have a pretty face, but so do many other femmes. You stink, are obnoxious, short-tempered, thick-headed. And I know for a fact that you don’t spread your legs. So, I honestly can’t understand why he loves you so feverishly.”

A sound escaped the back of Piglet’s throat, her shoulders shot up and her back became rigid as a board.

Ivar felt his heart pound with such a ferocity that he felt like it would beat straight through his chest. Fighting a rising panic he kept his eyes shut, falsely pretending to be asleep.

“Oh don’t tell me you’ve never given it a thought,”Valerie continued smugly when Piglet failed to speak, “did it never dawn on you before that the poor crippled fool in the back is utterly and completely devoted to you?”

“You’re a whore,” Piglet sounded as if air had been knocked out of her lungs, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know what I am and that’s exactly why I know what I’m talking about, you blind stupid girl. Believe me when I tell you I’ve seen the degradation of men the moment their cocks take over their brains. I endure their lust, their hunger and will myself through all the filthy things they want me to do. But… bordel de merde… his face will forever wear the scars of that boar. If that’s not the most honorable thing a man can do for love I don’t know what is.”

Valerie’s word cut Ivar deep and it strung up a fear that unmanned him. His heart lurched and he wished it was from anger, but truth be it; it scared him to death that Valerie had been able to cut him right open and put it out on display.

Piglet wasn’t supposed to know he’d give up his life for hers in a heartbeat. And how he wished he could take it to his grave.

But now, the love he bore for her lay out in the open and it left Piglet at a loss for words.

“I fucked him, you know?” Valerié snorted and let out a dry laugh, “I fucked him and he still wants you, an enigma, the both of you.”

Panic seized his brain and he shot up, eyes wide open in an attempt to calculate the damage of Valerié’s last confession. “No…” Piglet’s voice was numb with shock, slowly tending toward him.

A nameless dread engulfed his chest and clawed it’s way up into his throat when he noticed how terror stole her words and how she cowered back as she saw him for what he truly was and always had been.

A man.

Panic flared in her eyes and then they rolled all the way back.

.-.-.

A/N: So… this chapter did not go as I had planned but gosh am I happy it didn’t! It’s been a very long time since I’ve been able to write and although Ivar and Piglet live rent free in my mind, I truly did miss putting their story into actual words. So, what I personally like about this chapter is how in the previous one Ivar came to terms with the fact that Piglet managed to build him back up, into a better version of himself (yay, took me a while but yay Ivar-redemption-arc!) and in this one knows that his feelings for her will never be answered equally. And then Valerié drops the F bomb and honestly I’m not sure how the two of them will be able to recover from this.

Anyways, I’d be happy to read your thoughts!

Xoxoxo Nukyster

The kickass beta: @sarahh-jane

The tagged ones:

@youbloodymadgenius

@xbellaxcarolinax

@saldelys

@shannygoatgruff

@pieces-by-me

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa

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