Like Me

On His Tongue

Freydis was right.

You wanted him. Your hands caress over his tunic, flicking over a delicate hand over the embroidery along his collar. Ivar brings a hand up to yours, gripping your shuddering hand in his before bringing his fingers up to his lips for a small and sweet kiss.

"You want it off," Ivar realizes, releasing your fingers. With definite shaking hands, you run your fingers underneath his tunic. His smooth muscles flex back, then forward into your touch. He wears no belt. He never seems to. Your eyes flicker down to the dark brown material before looking back up to Ivar for confidence. Ivar sets his jaw and grinds his tooth, a familiar weariness demanding to trickle. No– if he was not confident, it would not happen.

"Is it... okay?" You ask of him, despite having worked the tunic up past his ribcage, nearly folding it over his head. Ivar alternates on his hands with a sway so that you might take it off of him, rearing back down to you after the fact. Ivar shifts on his palms, exhaling out of his nose with a small, bobbing nod.

"Do you... like it?" Ivar's question is open-ended as if you might pull back from this moment. You don't. Although, your face is hot by your embarrassment. In a sweep of your hands over his naked forearms, your nail delicately traces Ivar's complex, blotchy tattoo in toward his toned chest. Underneath that pesky tunic, he is nicely tanned. You've seen him naked before, and this isn't the first time, but it feels like it is when you see his warm skin. You suppose it is all the sitting out in the sun, working upon this tattoo until it was perfected.

"I–"

Behind you, the door buckles. You know based on the clacking, the sound of the guards barking out orders at the man beating down the door. There's a loud thump, the below of Ivar's name trembling the door.

"Ivar has ordered that no man should come into the hall."

"Move!"

It's Rorik. Ivar turns back to you, scanning your eyes that widen. Your chest begins to rise and fall at an alarming pace, swelling with fearful air that you aren't expelling in large enough doses. Apologies spill from your lips as your head whips to the door. He smoothes his hand over the side of your face, cupping your chin.

"Hush little Freyja," he leans down as to place a kiss upon your lips, forgetting your nose or forehead at long last. "I will handle it."

As he relinquishes your cheek, you turn onto your chest and drag yourself toward the back room. Ivar finds a nearby chair, using it to support his weight and stand when the doors fling open. Rorik's blade is drawn from its scabbard.

"Where is she?" Rorik says.

"I do not know what you mean," Ivar says in a high, lilting voice that only seems to piss Rorik off further. He grasps the pendant upon Ivar's chest tight in his fist. Ivar tilts his chin up, lacking the fear that another man might otherwise have.

"Of course you do."

"You know, you sound just like Hvitserk. You should talk to him. You both know about... losing lovers." Ivar chides crudely.

"I don't have the patience for you tonight Ivar." Rorik sounds, for once, serious. Too bad Ivar isn't, moving his eyes over Rorik's face, and then down toward the blade in his fingers. He makes a small huff, nothing but a puff of air, then his eyes were back on Rorik's again with more interest

"What a coincidence. I have no time for you either. I have a beauty in my bed."

Rorik's eyes canter back toward the backroom, searching for something that he might be able to say that might stop you. Or he could just take you. Kicking and screaming as you might be, he could bring you home, past the two large rivers that marked home, where you would feel what it was to be truly free.