Work Text:
Being the recipient of that coy, malefic smile for once, of a man that Barnabas had unleashed upon those he couldn’t waste himself talking to, reminds the Waloedan king now of complaints from Benedikta. She often made arguments against Harbard’s position; that she thought him too young for the role, too green in ability and pretty of face, but one specific reason for her ire stood out to him now.
That sometimes she felt like a mouse being played with by a cat when she interacted with Harbard. That if allowed to, Harbard would take as long as he pleased, rather than be quick about business the way Barnabas preferred to conduct. This prolonged game of fun had only translated into his own chambers. He had not heeded the warning of the canary.
Harbard had spent the better half of the hour ignoring a direct order he had given him. To rid him of title for the evening and do what he wanted.
Instead, he'd laid him here on his own bed, putting more worship into Odin's body than a disciple deserved. The first order had been to do with him as he pleased, so that Barnabas might concentrate on something aside from today's irritations and disappointments. But rather than heed it, he'd been gradually working up his body in reverence with his mouth.
With a dramatic flick of his wrist the last piece of his wardrobe was discarded to the floor in a manner more befitting a nameless visitor. Slowly, he’d been stripping him of his clothing until at last, he laid bare for his Lord Commander to drink in the sight of. It was slow and affection laced, and his eyes were always on him, but under it all it was just play to make him throb as he waited. He’d not touched him once since this began and despite this, Barnabas had been responsive like someone green to an army and its frustrations. He realizes he's held his breath and lets out a low sigh, covering his eyes with his forearm. He can hear an airy laugh which has him staring down Harbard coldly from the crook of his elbow.
Harbard raises one of Barnabas' legs, letting it drift over and behind his shoulder, pressing his lips to the muscular form of his thigh and working down to where it connected to his hip. He was, as always, hesitant to leave a mark on him. Be it because Harbard had been bemoaned to by Garuda that she suspected ‘outside interference’ from evidence of the previous time Barnabas had taken his Lord Commander to bed, or out of a level of respect Harbard still could not break himself from. Each and every touch, though he still felt the contact left behind, left no marks on him.
It weighs on Barnabas' patience and pulls a dissatisfied sigh from his mouth. Ever to be at service, Harbard attempts to beg order from him again. To ask him what he wanted, always catering to his will.
"You are very tense, your Majesty, what--"
"I said you are to relieve me of this crown for the evening, Sleipnir. Do not use title with me." He practically growls with how pent up he feels. The demand stills the hand of his second.
As the order truly sinks in, there is a moment where Harbard's eyes look down from his face in thought and instead focus upon the scar on his chest. He runs his thumb over the sensitive skin and Barnabas watches his lips curl up in a pleased smile, having made a choice. “Anything you ask of me, my Liege.” He confirms with confidence.
But Odin reaches down with his other arm and tugs at the braid in his commander's hair in punishment for yet another title, enough to pull him from his spot between his legs. Making Harbard wince but otherwise make no noise as he moved with his hair. “Anything, who ?” he asks.
“Anything, L-- Barnabas ...” There is a slight falter to his affirmation as ‘Lord’ almost snuck out. He lets him have it. Harbard inhales deeply as he mused over his next move, and then looks down to him with intent.
He leans over his king, weighing his form on one elbow, the other hand pushing his long fringe of hair from his eyes so that Barnabas could see his face fully. That same hand then lifted the arm hiding his lord’s face. Barnabas feels like his eyes are unnatural, too vibrant when he truly looks closer. Almost blinding.
“If you wish me to take the crown for a day, I warn you, I will wear it myself.” His tone is playful in caution as he removes his king’s other hand from his hair and kisses his knuckles in devotion. The threat pulls Barnabas’ interest from the dullness he usually feels. He wants to know that reality for a moment.
“Then do so, My King .” Barnabas replies lowly, watching him with hunger. It almost seems like heresy to swear oath to his own egi, but something about it made the blood in his veins race.
The smile that Harbard has is practically wicked, and seals Barnabas' order to overtake him.
“Do you remember whose face this was, Barnabas?” he asks, wanting to make Barnabas settle more into the role. After all, it was their past. There was a time that he was not his King, for he was not a king. A time they both appeared stuck in. To remember would breathe life into it.
“ Veldermarke... That is where I met you.”
“Yes, and I almost had you there,” Sleipnir’s hand pushes a finger through his braid and in one even movement, pulls it free, the tie dropping into the sheets as he leans back, “but I do have you now , don’t I?” The plaits fall away and keep all of Barnabas' attention.
That was all he needed to believe, just for a moment. That accent to his hair, one that Barnabas’ hand regularly added, was the only thing that differentiated his face from the long-vanquished king’s. It was there every time he called upon him, and still held a tie he remembered using on him the day that followers who’ve long since deceased held him a coronation ceremony.
A sign that he was Barnabas'. Like a spell, an old foe was upon him again as he looked over the king of the evening.
Harbard could tell the effectiveness of this theatrical little show of his, a squint to his eyes as he smiled, settling himself, still fully clothed, on his nude ‘captive’. Barnabas grits his teeth for the relief from just this little pressure. “I trust you are comfortable, good sir?-- That was a request, now, do not pout at me so. Answer your liege, Barnabas.” He rocks his weight again to insist and Barnabas grits his teeth.
“What use would you have of my comfort?” Barnabas asks as Harbard lifts his wrists to the wooden headboard of his own bed. What little magic he provided to him was used to tether him there with his own element, a warm black tendril of darkness; Harbard's fingers plucked at it in show, teasing him that he couldn't hide behind his arms any longer.
Surely, he knew he could break this if he tried? He was tempting him to. This was a game of resistance. How long before he recanted to his own will.
“To know that you cannot concentrate on something else to remain reserved as you usually are, of course.” Barnabas must have looked confused at his explanation, because Harbard ground into his crotch again with a sway of his hips to push a low groan from his creator, pulling just what he wanted out of him. Sound. “I will not have you hold back now like you do with your blade, Barnabas. That is how you ended up under me this evening.”
Though he has never known real defeat, just the thought is tantalizing. Spending his effort for naught and then being at his whim in the spoils of battle. A side of Odin the rider has never ventured into. Ever clever Harbard knew these bits and pieces he refused to acknowledge of himself, and he would use them.
He comes in closer to kiss Barnabas softly, savoring a first that was by his own demand. He pushes his tongue past his lips to hear him gasp into his affection. Barnabas, who has only ever taken what he wanted and who has not had anything taken from him since before he sieged the Eastern continent of the realm, is rough in his response. Bumping his teeth into Harbard’s lips and leaving them reddened once he breaks from the kiss.
With a lick of his lips and eyes watching Barnabas intently, Harbard leans back and rids himself of his leather pauldron, again with the intent of not marking his rider. It falls to the rug on the floor with a thump, the metal chain sliding across the stone with a chime. Slowly he starts to pick the fingers of his gloves away, and Barnabas' eyes watch every moment until the first, then the second, is discarded. “My handsome prisoner, the rebellious leader of the western lands of Ash.” His hand touches his chin with a small smile and a mischievous little exhale of laughter. “Whatever shall I do with you tonight… again, are you comfortable?”
“Cease asking-- I told you to do what you wanted.” he hisses as he feels hands graze over the skin of his pectoral and settle around teasing a nipple. All of this attention to him was not what he’d envisioned, all of these questions of how he felt. Useless as it was, Harbard looks triumphant even though he had barely started. “Harbard.” He warns him again.
A pale hand claps over Harbard’s chest and he has to lean against his own shoulder in tiny, amused sounds. It makes a winding feeling churn in Barnabas’ chest and he almost pulls against the binds to get at him. He hated being laughed at. This-- No, he would not be provoked.
“Dearest Barnabas, I am doing what I want. For as long as I care for. I want to hear your voice. And that includes making you tell me how you feel under my touch.” His hands reach over again, squeezing at the flesh of Barnabas' chest and smiling as his fingers sunk in gently. This kind of degradation brought aggravation and heat to his face, and he lets out a sigh that stutters in his throat. He was drawing it out. Barnabas glares at him with a sneer as his hands tweaked at his chest again, his legs betraying him and writhing. “Oh, such a serious face. Well, if you won't tell me I will just have to make sure I treat you with extra care like a good host.” He chuckles with such sweetness it practically made a war-torn warrior like Barnabas sick. The man above him was determined to dote on him, even when in power. He didn't know if he could patiently take being treated so ‘delicately’ if it meant that Harbard would take even longer to touch him in favor of playing with the other half of his torso.
“I am comfortable.” He gives in finally. The first point lost of many in what was yet a long duel between them.
“So eager now,” he says it like he did not just spend ten minutes coaxing it out of him. Him and his damned patience. “Are you so excited to give yourself to me? Do you need me to touch you here?”
He feels him grind into his cock again and Barnabas cannot stifle the gasp it pulls from him. This would not be bearable if he did not choose such soft clothing, albeit easily stainable. He throbbed and the chuckle from Harbard all but confirms he could feel it. After this long, he needed the contact. “Yes.” He answers shortly but the ‘hmm?’ and squeeze of his that punctuated Sleipnir’s response makes him repeat it with a furrowed brow. “Yes, sire .”
“So difficult to be honest with ourselves, isn't it Barnabas?” The reward was movement, and he is left exposed to the air again. A moment later, Sleipnir returned to his original place between his legs. “Now, then: as I originally intended.” His hand came to Barnabas’ attention suddenly. A small, familiar jar in his hand. There is no time to concentrate on it as Harbard wraps bare fingers around the base of his cock and began to pump slowly. “You are to make every sound that wishes to escape you. That is my desire of the man I have conquered.”
Barnabas is sure he can manage to keep himself composed enough not to croon like an animal and narrows his eyes in defiance. The sudden awareness of fingers pressing to him, seeking entrance, tests the unspoken theory very quickly. Though he rocks his hips away, the hand follows, and he cannot hold back a gasp as his body relents and the first digit sinks into him slowly. He can even feel his back arch as he seeks to escape the sensation. The movement guides the head of his cock into the waiting mouth of Harbard and he rewards him with a deep moan. A second point to the white king.
He's so very warm, and Barnabas’ chilled flesh can't help but seek to push deeper as tongue dragged up the underside of his shaft and over the sensitive head. In a moment the glans disappears back into his mouth. He almost thinks Harbard has the intent to push his tongue into the slit with how he works it, before he returns to take more into his mouth once again.
His head heavy, it flops back into the bedsheets with a sighing groan, positive feedback that feeds his captor's efforts to make him writhe. Barnabas' twisting results in one leg returning to over Harbard’s shoulder, the way his heel pressed into his back when he tensed only driving Harbard to work his body more deliberately in moments of response. A second, lubricated finger joins the first in invading him as Harbard worked his way down, taking more of him into his mouth with each bob of his head. The combined wet warmth and a deliberate bending of fingers in tandem was working him up easily. Rather than break his binds, Barnabas instead gripped at the wood of the headboard, the joints creaking from his strength. “Fuck—”
Harbard practically buries his nose in the hair at the base of his shaft, distracting him from the stretch he could feel for a third. His knee bends and he can hear-- feel him hum amusement against him. The heat was almost enough to drive him to the edge. But in that moment, Harbard pulled away.
“Bastard--” the insult is short, cut off by deliberate pressure inside of him to his prostate. The idea that he could stop any more of his noise was lost.
“Barnabas, tell your king how you would serve him.” His order is soft, but firm. The fingers within him press deliberately into his prostate to coax this demand from him, rocking into a bundle of nerves that made his cock twitch unattended on his stomach. Barnabas can feel himself grinding his hips down into the touch rather than away anymore, desperate for relief. Harbard repeats his order, one he knows he's given him before himself, “Tell me to fuck you.”
“Fuck you--” He gasps out. He would not be bested by his own tactics. He wanted it already; he'd waited long enough. He feels Harbard gently pull away his fingers to instead present himself as eager replacement. His pants pushed down around his knees in haste betrays Harbard’s own want. Barnabas looks up to him and wraps his leg about the smaller man. His last point before the black king fell. “Fuck me, my king .”
Harbard's lips part into a smile, and he takes his time, as he did with every damned thing, easing his way in slowly, making Barnabas twist his head to the side with a groan. Slow pumps to his cock and a gentle attention to his sack help him relax until the same movement causes him to rock forward. Just the change in angle pulls a choked pant from him. “There?” And again. And again until he had to squeeze his eyes shut. Barnabas arches again from the feeling it burns into him and can feel a hand brace his waist in support.
“ Stop --"
“Does it hurt?” a shake of his head and Harbard laughs, “So just because it is overwhelming?”
“It is not--" he hisses again, fists balled tightly above him. This was not the first time he had bed a man, and not the first time his back had been the one against the covers. But Harbard simply knows him, he can read every little expression and sound. It was his job. Now he was using it against him.
“Then I should not stop?” he presses their bodies closer, trapping his cock between skin and the soft cloth of Harbard's shirt. “You are already pleading during our audience, but you do not know what you want?”
Barnabas opens his mouth to respond but Harbard ruts into him again, and all that he managed was a groan into his shoulder. Harbard peppers the side of his neck with light kisses and praise, playing his role in the fantasy eagerly for him, “Your form fits against mine so well. A perfect soldier is worth keeping this close. I would keep you in my hand.”
“None are in my reach like that. Even when in my company.” The thought of being close due to sex had a long bitter note in his mouth. Harbard knows well who he means and it’s not the other, fairer company he keeps more often. This pushes Harbard to press again into him deeply and demand his attention stay unsplit.
“Is that so? Do I not reach you so deeply that rather than your sword or helm, you would make me the symbol of your country?” This is not the persona of the Veldermarke King. This was Sleipnir addressing him directly.
The sudden drop in the role leaves Barnabas with nothing but a sighing pant in response. He didn’t know what to respond to this sudden question with, to his own frustration. It leaves him vulnerable, and Sleipnir uses that moment to roll his hips into his relaxed form again and pull a deep groan from the other man. Barnabas twists his head to the side to try to muffle himself, but Sleipnir gently turns him back with a ‘shhh'. “Do not hide from me, dear Barnabas, am I not a part of you? You deny yourself.”
“You are not--" he gasps, he practically writhed under him, completely exposed. But this is what he ordered of him, to stop him now would just be admitting weakness.
“Not a part of you? But I am,” he declared surly against his ear, before leaning back to rock in rhythm into the one below him, deliberate to make him cry out for him now that he knew that he could. Barnabas doesn't recognize his voice as it comes from his own body, his breaths more often vocal than not. Harbard just drinks it in over him, adding to his claim. “I am what you need of me.” He smirks on a humored note. “Even though this appears to be more than I am used to, I will fill the abyss you feel. As many times as you need me to.”
This oath almost makes Barnabas lose himself, he yanks at the binds. To his surprise, they simply let him go. His arms cannot find Sleipnir’s back and shoulders quickly enough, cannot pull him closer with the urgency he felt. His nails were going to leave marks. “You are not just me--" he gasps. This must not be the answer expected of him, as Sleipnir's brow perks up and he makes a soft ‘oh’.
“You see me as more?” The chuckle that comes from him is oddly gleeful but there's no elaboration on why. He presses himself in closely so that he can claim another kiss from Barnabas. The adjustment to kiss him pushes his cock in at such a pleasurable angle that Barnabas can feel himself trembling. He hates his body for betraying him like this, loathes that Sleipnir reads him so well. Sleipnir rocks into it with short, knowing movements of his hips and Barnabas cannot hold back his reward of a long moan. “Yes, just like this? Are you close? Let me help you.”
“No—" he didn't want to stop. He wanted to stay in this moment. But even as he fought his own climax, he could tell Harbard was no longer going to take that for an answer, pounding into him faster now with deliberate pumps to his cock to push him toward his finish.
“I have all evening, the entire rest of my existence. You gave me your crown, Barnabas. Now, let go .”
On order from his own Commander, Barnabas relents. Or his body does, spilling himself up his own chest as he left scratches down Harbard's back. There is no mercy as an even rhythm of thrusting makes sure it lasts as long as it could.
His chest pounds with the beat of his own heart as the grip he held on Harbard laxed, only to grab onto him once more as the egi's movements stuttered to a stop and he attempted to pull away unfinished. Barnabas can see this is his attempt to keep from dirtying him.
“Not satisfied?” came a surprised, breathless question.
“Again.” Was the only order he gave as he pushed a hand to the small of Harbard's back and guided him back inside.
Harbard shudders out a small ‘fuck, wait’ attempting to prepare, but even Barnabas' own sensitivity would not stop him. Harbard groans as he fights to keep himself together rather than finish just from the sensation.
All evening was promised to him. “ Again .”
“Again.” Harbard echoes in trembling affirmation, his eyes watching as he once again bottomed out within his king.
-------
The candle that had been left on the table had all but burned down, prompting Harbard to rise with a sore sigh, retrieving a new one from the side cupboard of the nightstand and lighting it with the end of its predecessor. Barnabas watched the new candle be lifted and then squashed into the malleable remains of the previous one to keep it upright. In the morning he would use a knife to pry the wax from it. A glass of water is retrieved from the desk and handed to Barnabas, who takes it to drink in its entirety. The cup joins the new candle on the nightstand.
Quietly, he watches Harbard, completely nude, begin to collect his belongings that had been long since pulled off of him in the night’s activities. His pale form was covered in red marks from his mouth and fingers. The order had been to leave them to disappear naturally.
Barnabas lays there, wondering what feels off in the moment, aside from Sleipnir’s usual intention to leave him alone once they finished. This was not the first time the Lord Commander chose to give him space.
But it was the second time that Barnabas found it unnecessary.
Leaning forward to pick up his clothing from the side of the bed, Sleipnir tucks some of his unruly hair behind his ear. “I will return in the morning with food and will advise you are not to be disturbed. After all, you can just call me.”
Barnabas’ hand finds something within the bedsheets. Its partner demands that Barnabas does not let him leave. Not yet.
He grabs Harbard by the arm and yanks him back into the bed when only the man's shirt has been pulled over his head. “Stay.”
Harbard obeys without question. The room is silent otherwise.
His king's fingers slowly twist through the hair on the right side of his head, and a moment later a braid has tamed some of the wavy fluff he called hair. The found tie keeps the new plaiting in place.
Sleipnir reaches to touch it and smiles to his King.