Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Píntame con tu boca ensangrentada

un cielo del amor,

en un fondo de carne la morada

Estrella de dolor”

- Federico Garcia Lorca, Madrigal de verano. (1920)

Pleasantries were out of the picture.

Askeladd flung open the door to the barn. A thunderous clash of wood on wood announced his arrival to the boy hidden from view. The hay dispersed under his feet enclosed remnants of dried blood, speckles and coagulated puddles. Not too big, so that meant the others hadn’t been through in their searches. He sighed, a pounding headache already forming.

“Fools ” He thought, fed up with their shit.

Deeper inside, the clumping of hay distributed in a thinner layer among the dirt. The puddles of blood took the shape of footsteps there. Dragged and distorted intensely. The signs of a struggle. Askeladd could guess at least one unlucky bastard had been dragged out of the hay to the slaughter. He laughed. Dimwitted they may be, but at least he trusted their violence was effective where it counted.

However, for him work was only starting. As he scanned the hay, his eyes couldn’t quite locate what he’d been looking for. Yet he knew the boy must be there with him. He could smell him.

“Come out will you?” He called out, standing over the mess of muddy soil. His gaze, sharpened from waiting in darkness, traced the mounds in the very back of the barn. No movement betrayed the position of the prey, but he knew, alerted by the intensity of bewildered eyes on him, that he was close “I’m not repeating myself”

The hay remained stubbornly still.

He sighed, half annoyed and amused. The insensitive letting of air quickly begged him to inhale deeply. Senses scanned about the environment. Hay sprawled to each corner reeked of freshness and the old heat of sheep. From the same, some of the reminders of feces clung to the wood. Under the overpowering smell, he could get the stench of blood. Frailer than that of the victim taken from shelter, there was the metallic scent calling him from before they even reached shore.

It was from blood too, undoubtedly a fresh wound, perhaps a scraped knee. Though light, it assaulted his nerves with a potent wave of desire. A pull around the area of his belly creeped upwards to his throat, drying it with the heat being birthed around his loins.

Another whiff of intoxicating air begged for the next to become deeper, more desperate to wolf down the last and the following. Each to a bigger intensity as the vastness of the barn seemed to seize down to only him and the source of his current madness.

Spellbound, he walked forward guided by the call of drying blood. Movement still evaded his eyes under the mounds. It mattered little, his sight would succeed only after nose had pinpointed him to the very place where the perfume finally met an end.

His eyes locked in the hay, he purrs imitating a viperine snake “Found you”

The lie uncoiled the tension from Thorfinn’s legs. His jump flung hay above the head of Askeladd, almost distracting his sight from the bolting form. Yet, sight perturbed, but not instinct, his hand still closed around the neck of the robes the child dressed in.

Like a cat held by the scruff of the neck, Thorfinn’s breath was rudely interrupted with the sudden pressure of fabric upon his throat. As he was lifted, his legs kicked the air in discomfort. He only finds stillness when the hold becomes better, less punishing on his skin. He sees his captor then, eyes marrying fright and anger alike.

“The Gods must be kidding” Askeladd spat, offended at the unflattering vessel of such sweet scent “You're a mere child!” His nose scrunched up, refusing for a moment to breathe the misleading aroma. The lack was worse than the surprise “But- Damn! That smell”

Dipping his nose into the hair of the child, straw blonde strands of hair filled his vision to almost completion. Their glimmer was distracting, vibrant enough to push back all memories from his own interrupted childhood. A perfectly fitting color for a boy, although, the softness was more akin to the caring hand of a woman. A point to favor, if he was to be sincere.

A pleased grin draws in more air, attempting to taste onto his tongue the better part of the unnerving fragrance exuding from the boy. Air lacking on his lungs was no problem, instead, how little he could aspire of the enchanting perfume made him desperate.

Seldom had he ever been so hungry for another creature in his life. Not even the beauties or the virgins presented to him after their most fructiferous raids had woken him the way this scruffy kid did. He had taken his fair share of pleasures, yet not ever enjoyed himself to the depths expected from a man his age. Much less, from a viking.

He searched for more of the teasing around the hair. Soap and a certain washing solution invaded his nostrils, and though sweet on themselves, their distraction dimmed the want enough to wonder about what he was doing. A puzzle forgotten in the pulsing of the carotid vein of the boy.

There he remains, intoxicating his mind on the allure of blood under the skin.

His eyes look up to the strained yelp, him breathing upon sensitive areas conjured. He found the angered sight of hazelnut eyes. Plain but still full of a shine he had long since lost. Hissing teeth clattered under his intense stare. He wondered what he looked like for the boy. A depraved old cot manhandling him was an idea. There wasn’t enough fright on his eyes, so it was an unlikely deduction.

“Have I scared you? Sorry, you ran quite fast, brat”

There wasn’t an inteligible response to his words, only another contained growl from the infantile tone. Stirring on his hold, the small hands found him. The useless struggle fought the perch of his fingers upon the cloth. The sting of short nails did nothing, except spike the amusement on his features. That in turn, exacerbated the child’s anger.

“Let go of me you bastard!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do just that. I was curious, that’s all, brat” Not even the disappointment of learning this creature was the one exciting his mind to unexplored reaches was as much a deterrent as knowing the interaction should be futile. It wasn’t a raid for slaves, but a head. His hand avoided going for the sword, only for a moment longer he wished to understand his own want “You tripped, right? Scraped your knee”

The limb resisted the hold of his hands. To the same effectiveness obtained the whole evening. The child was easily overpowered. Fabric already worn from the friction of his fall gave way easily, revealing the wound protected in dried blood.

His mind, already fogged on the idea his nose provided, fired up on the darkened red upon silk smooth skin. This small wound would heal with no mark to show. An annoying notion he felt entitled to correct.

Dulled nails dug under the scab, prying it away uncaring of the pain made known with contained cries. Fresh red dripped, enticing anew the twist of fluttering about his manhood.

“Damn you” He muttered, fighting for control of his own impulse. There were better ways, he knew, though animal urges made for better challengers than a thousand vikings “You smell sweet, too sweet”

Fingers pried taunt the tender flesh under them, extending the shallow cuts contaminated by dirt. The slight warm droplets of blood felt shooting on his rough digits. He squeezed the flesh together, forcing even more to come out. Deeming it insufficient, another try lets the drops roll down his wrist.

The pinch made the boy shout, a strident sound making his ear hurt. Dropping soft kisses to the scalp he pretends to soothe the noise. In response his face is pushed away, pulling hairs from his goatee free. He digs his nails in the already abused skin, parting the wound deeper and more painful, eliciting more rounds of discomforted noises.

The boy begins flailing his legs savagely to free himself. Shaking the wound into a worse condition. The hot of his blood staining his and Askeladd’s skin inciting the adult to further the damage as much as possible.

A curse or two doesn't stop the motion, yet the movement becomes annoying. Askeladd renounces the bloodied leg for a moment.

“Stop squirming like that, I’ll break a bone”

He 's ignored. The boy keeps at it, swaying his frame around pathetically. The man exudes his amusement on a breath. Then, he hugs the body of the child against his chest. Trapping both of the kids arms under his own, the squirming becomes scarcer, the panic more discernible.

Thorfinn understands he can’t fight the hold of an adult, much less one whose muscles he can feel stealing breath from his chest just from carrying him. He’s always known he’s small, but never felt this small. Pathetic for not even being able to use his stature to hide, let alone to fight. Weakness tears a wound on his psyche, a harrow greater than his skin getting torn brings the tears to his eyes.

He’s moved around to the will of the man, forced to quiet down and take the unwanted attention. A horrible realization hits him when the man takes a seat in the hay. His small body fitted between the legs of the adult, Thorfinn can feel at his back the ghost of something hot and hard.

A heave dies on its way up. Fear freezes his heart but not the fountain of his eyes.

Ashamed for the wetness rolling down his cheeks, a rageful scream forms on his chest, dimming under the confusing tickle of a tongue on his neck. What his voice gives him in the end is a cry for help.

“ Father! ”

Curses would befall the devil possessing Askeladd to lower his guard when enemies still stood. In the privacy of the barn, drunk on such poisoning delicacy, reason had little influence to warm him about treats looming around them.

The craving on his eyes peruses the glimmer of red upon his hand. The sheet of the stain thin, cooling once out of the body in his arms. Strangely aromatic for a liquid not meant to become freed from the veins where it runs frenzied. Even under the skin, miles from him, he can find this smell taunting him in dreams.

He puzzles over an idea, passing through his fingers the blood with reverence. The need to taste it brings his hand closer to his lips.

Smell and sight are mere suggestions for the miracle unfolding upon his tongue. Taste! How could he ever hope to live without such taste?!

Ovation or word come lacking upon the relish straight out of Valhalla, Heaven or whichever outlandish paradise man can come up with. It flounders the muscles of tongue, unraveling pleasing waves of his own blood to boil. He takes more samples of the sweet liquid upon his fingers, cleaning them off every drop time and time again.

It makes him mad, a complete contrast to the frightened child on his arms. Suddenly he’s aware of the trembling frame and sobbing.

Amidst the sense of drunkenness, he has enough mind to decipher the disgusted grimace. It’s not the face of dying prey, but one reading his strengths to bite off his throat given the moment. It amuses him as much as makes him feel revulsion for himself.

“ What the fuck am I doing? ” He thinks, biting down on his thumb with a sharpened canine.

The drop is bigger than the one he’s taken. Time is not wasted when he shoves his digits inside the mouth of the boy, freed blood dispersing across a squirming tongue.

His expectations are not many, the child was young, too young for him and the pains of adolescence. There was no premature development to give into, just the affirmation of belonging to each other. The taming pulse shows him an unwilling, yet positive result.

Askeladd smiles tenderly, admitting an apology to be heard.

“You’re a child, what a bad joke”

The no turn back moment is interrupted by seemingly, a miracle from Odin himself.

The door finds the wall for a second time in the night. The melody of the raid follows the thunderous sound. In the distance, screams of pain from the innocent follow the laughter of their attackers.

The isle was ill prepared for a raid, men too old and worn from winter to lift the swords not touched in generations. The youngsters, eager but untrained, fell equally under the battle hardened pirates. None stood a chance of survival, except the ones already running across the snowed grounds for a safety they might not find under the cruelty of an incoming blizzard.

But even the cold might be gentler with them than their fellow humans.

Surrounded on all fronts, confused out of his routine by the most unexpected of dangers, Thors despairs not being stronger. The reach of his arm can only protect the few lives in his home, and the neighbors who are still strong enough to take running over the frozen hills.

In between the multiple frightened faces, he misses the one of his own son. Not out of negligence, the boy hasn’t been among them for longer than the start of the raid, chasing Leif like a curious duckling. The man himself he saves from the hands of the pirates, guiding him half the way before he is told of where Thorfinn has been concealed. The frenzy of his heart calms to the sight of the barn, standing still and apparently in quiet.

Then he hears the scream, and all crashes down for him.

It’s panic, clambering confusion and fear which forsakes all caution so he can go and save Thorfinn. The silence of the barn is illusory, as he comes into the reach of the door, he can hear the distress. Above that, his ear grants him the pants of what he first believes is an animal. It can’t be anything else, he can’t phantom it to be a person in there with his son.

The dark part of his mind supplies the pictures of war trophies, plundering and savagism. He’s still in denial it can be that, all until his eyes adjust to the dark and the scene he witnesses begs him to get a second look at his dinner.

Blood is not rare, he’s seen more than enough through life and sadly this night. Upon his children, though painful to look at, it is common. There’s meaning in blood. It fills the body of sustenance and allows the organs to thrive upon its presence. Outside, it might become the source of despair and hurt, but also connection. The consumption of it, an effective seal among perfect matches.

Affronted by this man -glazed eyes from ecstasy accompanying his blood speckled mouth- Thors must first swallow revulsion before willing his hand to grip his sword. Electricity runs up his arm, starting his muscles into tremors he must fight to not drop the steel.

“Let go of my son”

The stern of his voice is not taken seriously. Mocking boredom dulls the shimmer upon blue eyes. Recognition turns his expression with a degree of first annoyance, and then soft pity.

He looks at the child, asking his questions into a newly lit defiant glare “Your son? Is he your father?” When letting go doesn’t happen, Thorfinn bites down on the thumb inside his mouth, causing a bigger crease of blood to flow down his throat “What an unfortunate coincidence”

Askeladd scans the room, as well as the enemy, and the position he finds himself in. Then, he chooses to show a cowardice he doesn’t feel. Dislodging his hand from the cage of teeth, he unsheathes his sword from the belt, thrusting the blade against the boy’s frail neck.

“You’re Thors right, the Troll of Jom?” To his question he affirms the presence of the sword. A warning to prevent both lying and avoidance.

Instead of either, Thors repeats “Let my son go”

A step is taken, and he forces the blade closer to the skin. Working down his urge for drawing more appetizing blood.

The father stands still, thinking about what offers he can make to secure the safety of his child. With him trapped in that pernicious embrace, there’s few options and fewer time. He chooses to abide, stretch their interaction in hope he can come up with something in the meantime.

“Why have you come here?” The question is corresponded with a tilt of the head “To this island so far north, in the middle of winter. There’s no treasure you and your people will find. If you were so desperate for resources, we could have offered them with no trouble. So why attack us?”

“We’re vikings, asking is not something we do often” He snickers, catching with his eye a slight glimmer behind Thors. He signals with his head, he’s entitled to a longer conversation with the father of his boy “Though, you’re right. We would not be here if not for a little incentive”

The child squirms, stopping on the squeeze to his shoulders. The perfume of blood clings to him so persistently.

“Maybe two” Askeladd clarifies, locking his eye to the heap of blonde hair.

Thors steals his attention back to business “If you get one of those two incentives, will you retreat your men from the village?”

“Perhaps. But, don’t you think it’s a bit too late for that?”

“There’s still lives that can be saved. You gain nothing from senseless slaughter”

Made sense, he was numb to pleading, yet found the barbarity repulsive all the same. Ignoring such regards, all blame from a fast departure could be dropped on the strange country they transversed. Not much could be done against the elements, and if they were to get the job done before it worsened, all the better.

“Which one are you willing to offer?” He asked, already knowing the answers. The furtive glance over the shoulder told him what he needed to know. This man was a strong warrior.

Thors guided his sword down “Like I have a choice”

“You’re right again, you don’t”

He gives a silent hint. Then, a spear cuts the chilling air with a whistle discreet enough he might have confused it for the song of a bird.

The bleeding spreading down his chest spoke of no such beauty. Breath stolen upon the impact, Thors took a moment to completely interpret the depth of the damage. It wasn’t his heart which received the hit, but the tip crossed him from back to front so cleanly the arteries around it were severed from the frenzied organ.

He avoided looking at the metal protruding from him, instead, training his eyes to the frightened ones of Thorfinn.

“Make good on your word… now let go of my son” A smile reaches his lips as the sword was taken away.

Hesitation only tightened his hold on the boy enough time to engrave the feeling of his small frame on his arms. Not a moment after his arms open, he sees him run straight to the crumbling mountain of a warrior.

“ Father! ”

His cries hang onto the mind like the small hands gripping onto his legs. Thors looks down at his son with exhaustion and love. He could only pray to Odin for his and the villagers safety. Part of him sighed in relief for the look the viking gave him, one promising to keep his word.

Light leaves his eyes while he’s still standing. The chill reclaiming dominion over his body transmits from his fingertips onto Thorfinn, lowering the temperature of the child's heart with grief and hatred.

“I’m sorry, brat. He wouldn’t have consented to taking you with me…” Askeladd makes a sign to the other man outside. Retreat must begin, whatever bounty found is to be retrieved swiftly. With that in mind, he considers snatching the boy onto one of his ships. He feels nauseous to the thought “I shouldn’t either, you don’t deserve this kind of a life”

The cold sweeps into his clothing, freezing the breastplate in a way that makes the temperature of his body dive. It must be the climate, not the thrashing impulse to envelop the boy in his arms a second time. Is the breeze prickling his nose into a sneeze, not the irresistible fragrance carried by it.

He doesn’t turn, nor does he stop on the way to the ships. He fears he won’t be able to leave by himself if he does.

At the safety of the open sea, stoving away from a cold storm, Askeladd feels at ease knowing he’s done the best he could do for his boy. Though he doesn't doubt there will be resentment, he’s granted him a chance at replenishing his life.

Little does he know that the scent he greedily inhales is not remnants on his clothes. He remains ignorant until one of his men makes it known to him, and then, Askeladd has no idea if he should be worried or grateful.

Chapter Text

"Y aunque no me quisieras te querría

por tu mirar sombrío,

como quiere la alondra al nuevo día,

sólo por el rocío"

- Federico Garcia Lorca, Madrigal de verano. (1920)

Thorfinn is seventeen the first time Askeladd loses the self control he's acquired through the years. He doesn't blame the boy, empty headedness was a secondary symptom to losing his father at such a young age.

Careless as he could be, memory from lingering predatory sights served as enough of a warning to keep him from allowing any bleeding in his presence. In that image he entertained fantasies of being reduced and immobilized, a stronger deterrent than whatever lingering touch was left on faded scars.

Feasting on his hard earned dinner, Askeladd catches the pleasing scent from open wounds on the boy.

Truth is, he’s tried to ignore the allure of the love call since before even sitting down. The struggle, long and unnerving, kept him from focusing on the battle. Hardly he would slack on his duties as a leader. It’s a point to his pride, if nothing else considering the type of savages he calls subordinates. Yet to the taste of his swordsmanship, all departures he’s caused tonight were less than dulled carnage.

Nothing’s worth noting. Just that the mind fog, usually reserved to pretend away his revulsion for viking ugliness, decided to linger until now. Infected in the sweet scent of his boy’s veins, it was warming him up in all the right ways at the wrong moments.

So then, he’s not angry at Thorfinn’s irresponsibility, just annoyed and unpleasantly horny.

“Goddamned, brat” He mutters on his fourth horn of mead. Maybe drunkenness was the answer. If he passed out on ethylic coma, he might wake to a sharpened mind, devoid of this unnerving yearning.

Beside him, Bjorn raises a brow above his puzzled look. He’s half heard the curse, though fully known to whom it was directed “What?”

“Testing my nerves again” Askeladd continues, staring up at the sky in search of Odin’s guide.

Not like such things have ever come onto them, the small part of fool he has still clings to the ancient hope of intangible beings that every man seemingly is entitled to. Childhood teached him that it was nothing but flesh and bone taking on the role of maker and destroyer, judge and executioner. All that happened or not depended on a living being, not prayer.

Only in these moments where he swayed on the line separating emotional feelings from nervous reactions, he found himself closing the distance with whatever Godly presence was still listening.

“He’s old enough now” Bjorn supplies, forsaking the bite of mutton he was to take. Then continues the questionnaire, perusing his mortified expression regarding aging “You should be able to smell that, don't you?”

“I do”

Of course, mute, deaf and motionless, the Gods knew how to make fun of humans. Particularly of creatures like Thorfinn and the friend beside him. Certainly male, in all but their genitals. The why was a mystery and explanations were not given ever about such developments.

That experience might be their strongest bond, besides Askeladd and violence. It still kept them distanced. The boy had grown distrustful and angry, inclined to push away even the placated presence of the giant. And he, in turn, found that receiving a scowl and bared teeth once in a while had its own degree of obnoxiousness. Menses were the common ground where even the stubborn brat dropped his head to ask Bjorn for help in curing the ailments of maturity.

For Askeladd, a week of rag meant stirring himself on his loins and bedding until unconsciousness coerced him from taking the boy forcefully. Times only became harsher, and Askeladd more restless, as he grew.

“He’s still a child” The tenderness invading him for his sheer existence spoke, albeit, blood on his hands and nether regions could testify the contrary.

“Is he?” Bjorn chuckles. This man has always been a riddle “I saw him the other day, messing around. Lingering around the men while baiting. He's quite shameless”

A pang of guilt reaches him after the comment. Askeladd turns to him with irked and dejected eyes. Jealousy and warning together. He knows not to push around such ideas, as well as the men know not to pursue any intentions with the boy even under the most dire of circumstances.

Askeladd is still receptive to the possibility it seems, his lack of claim asking for payment.

“I could go check on him”

“No need, I'll do it. He's my problem”

“... If you say so”

There's no ulterior motives Bjorn can detect on his voice or his face. Albeit, the bites on the boy the next day don’t surprise him. It worries him still. So he offers comfort for the boy with adulterated herbal tea and a word. The verbal thanks he receives stirs his heart. He understands the apprehension of his leader then, Thorfinn was, in the end, still a boy.

Askeladd gulps down the last of his alcohol on a single swing and stands up. No shadow of drunkenness on his step as he walks straight to the barn. The torture of smell intensifying all the way until he’s in front of its doors.

There’s movement inside. Subtle. Not meant to be found by untrained eyes. The stillness after it means he’s not wanted, but yes, expected. There’s awareness when reeling in danger.

To his entrance, there’s no welcome aggression or insult. The silence is decorated by the sweet scent of metal. Pulls of instinct guide him inside, letting his eyes roam across the floor, where he savors the stains left upon the hay. Vibrant red signaling the freshness. It seems to glimmer under his hungry eyes. Blood is on his mind, and faster than he can comprehend, spit forms around his tongue with the desire to drop on his knees to lick up the red.

He controls his desires. A must when he can feel the irritated look following his steps and the trajectory of his eyes. Breathing in, he speaks.

“Will you come out, or I must pull you out?”

The hay remained stubbornly still, but a growl under it responded to his treats with treats of its own “What do you want?” The voice was wary, tired from blood loss and the fight he had endured. Askeladd could feel guilt for ordering the boy into the unbalanced match with Thorkell. The strategy made sense as an idea, executed, it was a disaster.

“You haven’t tended your wounds, have you? Let me see, I'll help you”

“Fuck off” The shake of head didn’t escape his eyes. Then, after the movement, there was a silent hiss. Concealing pain was a hard task when exhaustion stole all chances to pinpoint the origin. Thorfinn still tried, he was that obstinate.

Askeladd’s patience grew thinner against the waste of time that denial presented. He struts to the monticle where the boy gave himself away, where the lure of blood became stronger. The unmistakable ghost guiding his step to the exact place where a rumble of warning beneath mimics a wild dog.

“Go away, damn baldy”

Despite the bite input on every word, no dagger is thrown his way.

“I could leave you to bleed out until you can't squirm” He pauses, cementing his intention to wait crossing his arms on his chest “Or you could let me and I will give you a duel later”

Silence comes first, considering the options and endurance of the old man, then a defeated mutter of anger “Keep your hands where I see them or I’ll kill you”

Lessons taken through pain are the most present as he uncovers his frame from the hay. Defensive, his father’s dagger is clutched atop the arm hanging off his shoulder. The bone might be in place, yet, the effects of being upheld like a meatslab remain like a throbbing across muscle and nerves. He can practically feel the current of air Askeladd’s hand makes reaching for him. Contrary to the expected tug, the extended hand decreases his impulses for a violent response.

He ignores it altogether, taking a painful step he can’t hold for long. His tumble is corrected by Askeladd, who aids him to take just another step until he’s out of the hay.

Anxiety creeps to his chest under the steely gaze. The guard keeping it all in, is still the knife in his hand. Warmed leather onto his palm carries the ghost of his father onto his skin, assures he can deter this man when – Not “if” he knows Askeladd better than himself– the lust behind his eyes takes over.

Through the removal of his upper clothes, he remains wary and observant. The safety of his weapon depends on the capacity of his body to move. He’s not defenseless, his dentadure is still full and the dependable arm moves with fluidity. Definitely not at his worst, but even at his best he couldn’t hope to win against Askeladd.

“He gave you a proper beating, right boy?” The question comes unprompted, out of the simple necessity to distract his mind from the relish laid before him. The quality of the bruise he smears with ointment hints at the raw strength of its author “Couldn’t see you for a while, I really thought you were dead”

“That’s why you left?”

He almost sounds resentful for that. Askeladd wonders if he had been scared when he saw them leave for shore, abandoning him to the enemy.

“My bad. You understand we couldn’t have asked nicely to give back a dead brat right?”

“I wasn’t dead”

“Should have guessed, twisted trunks can’t be cut”

A praise prayer had gone over Askeladd when he saw the boy come from between the threes. Water on his clothes dimmed the signals of his presence until he was close enough. He had been overjoyed to see him in a piece. All gladness showed in derision as was typical for him.

Thorfinn didn’t disappoint, acting fierce to his words while he limped away. An act he couldn’t maintain for long, dragging himself behind the line under influence of his wounds. Adrenaline drained the borrowed energy from his muscles to every forceful step.

Askeladd had first noticed the blood as he threw the boy onto the first cart available, all disgruntled ferocity and tossing disturbed the concealed wound enough to rekindle a bleeding tamed in crud bandaging.

The boy had shut down seeing the red dripping, then fastened the rag around his tight to contain more coming out. It was a notch too slow, Askeladd was already eyeing him with the same need drilling a hole in his nape at present.

“Are you done?” He asks once bandaging has been tied around his shoulder. The audacity of his body to relax once the better part of the pain is gone is unbelievable.

Askeladd watches him slip back into his undershirt, covering the map of battle scars across his form. He could spend hours tracing the lines until going blind. All of them are small temptations in their own right.

He rises a brow and looks down, to the obvious stamp of red over his pants “Almost, let me see your leg”

“It's fine” The boy turns from his perusal, resting his hand with the knife over the stain.

Askeladd chuckles “Oh sure, you weren't limping so pathetically you had to be carried for sure. Let me see it”

“I said it's fine!”

The bark of a stray is filled with fright, evident terror disguised behind the tearing fangs. All for show. If the boy wanted to bite he would be bleeding already. Perhaps that’s what he fears, to see what Askeladd’s blood would do to his appetite.

“You're still bleeding” He affirms, showing him tread and needle “No need to be afraid, brat. I'm not an animal”

The denials do nothing to soothe the apprehensiveness on Thorfinn’s face. He’s seen him fight, slaughter and torture. Above that, he’s had the scrutinizing eyes trace his body over the clothes more than enough. Almost every memory from this man involves blood and discomfort, few are the times he can picture actually feeling any sort of safety around him.

“I'm not scared of you” He says, glancing away from the smug look granted at the removal of his pants. Sitting back, attention returns to his distraught leg, Thorfinn finds the wound still as painful as it was before. Askeladd though, peruses the arrow point with almost delighted interest.

“I’m impressed you could walk around almost normal with this here” He cleans the dried blood off the point with a rag, provoking a hiss with the movement “Sorry, I have to take this out so, brace yourself, brat”

Thorfinn has nothing to brace himself with. He bites on the handle of his knife to contain his pain.

Luck has granted him the mercy the arrow remained on his outer thigh. Unable to pierce any muscle, nor any important blood vessel. The wood protrudes off one side, where he had enough mind to break it, leaving the point to slightly come out the other, lifting his skin in the tubular shape of the body.

Helping himself with the blunt side, Askeladd pushes the arrow further in to gain a better surface to pull. The slow drag tightens the bite on the knife. Agony paints a grimace on Thorfinn, the expression ignored to favor the strips of blood coming along with the weapon. The tantalizing drops create cataracts splattering the hay red.

Unexpectedly, a sudden push tears a muffled cry from him, the point has finally revealed its edges.

“Almost done. Breathe, boy”

Thorfinn fights the uneven puffs of air. The stickiness of sweat across his brow lights up his face against the dulled light of a lamp on the corner. A plea on his eyes is taken into account before continuing with the torturing treatment.

Askeladd pats Thorfinn’s calf “You’re doing well” He praises before folding his palm into the arrow head to pull it in one fluid motion. A scream follows the victory.

The wood is bloody, so is the point and the hay where Thorfinn has sat. Blood is on his hand, drying on his fingers and smearing under his nails. In his palm, a throbbing begins where the edge has cut him, deepening the red with fresh sustenance. The wound fills with his blood and that of the boy.

An entrancing scene broken by will and a thud.

“ Fuck! ”

Thorfinn spits the knife out, losing sight of it overwhelmed with pain.

The man laughs, dropping the arrow to admire his own cut “Don’t you cry now, it’s done”

Murder looks can’t stir the man from his work. He cleans both openings with ale, the overpowering smell of alcohol mixes with the blood. Flaring pain invades the whole leg, turning another curse into a growl.

The stitching is not as painful as the cleaning, his skin is resilient and accustomed to being pierced. Life on a battlefield has taught him to fend for himself. Normally he’s numb to these proceedings, done on his lonesome most of the time. Askeladd is no healer, nor unskilled, but he could be gentler maybe.

Scanning his features reveals he’s focused on the wound. Dilated pupils following the movement of his fingers as he pushes in the needle and joins the edges of the wound. Pressure brings the occasional drop to roll down his leg, Askeladd’s eye seems to glimmer following the trajectory of dark red. Down his calf and even to between his legs, where the undershirt cuts his vision from the show.

The undeniable urges across his facade alert Thorfinn to turn back into the safety of his clothes and weapons.

“I’ll take it from here” The boy says, grabbing the roll of bandage beside him. Askeladd cuts the knot of thread with his teeth, too damn close to his thigh “Go away now, geezer” He turns, pretending to ignore the shiver his breath elicited.

“Not even going to thank me, brat?” The tone pulls his eyes back to where they shouldn’t leave. A nonchalant expression conceals his next move. The windows to his soul can’t lie, what he asks for is clear as the glimmering blue.

Thorfinn thinks of stabbing that desire out of him, he searches for his knife to no results.

“ Leave ”

He pretends to be menacing. The mockery he receives back irritates him, almost as much as the anxiety raising the beats of his heart when he’s shown his weapon in unkind hands.

“Give that back, fucker”

A chuckle. The handle is presented to him like bait. The mistrust with which he reaches proves to be correct. His wrist is pulled, the knife forgotten as he’s forced to come face to face with Askeladd.

He receives the whisper straight into the ear, warming his face up with the tickle.

“You like to pretend this does nothing to me” His hand is guided downwards, placed above tightened clothing that conceals the woken manhood of Askeladd. Thorfinn pulls himself as if it burned him. The mere idea of what he’s felt crossing wires on his brain “And to you”

Before investigating hands can get a feel up on him, Thorfinn wrestles himself from the hold. His battered body doesn’t get him far, he’s trapped in the arms of Askeladd, back to chest and squirming like a worm in his embrace.

“ Let go, bastard! ” His panic comes as rage. The violent movement rekindles the existence of bruises and the recently closed wound on his thigh. It bleeds above the stitching, enabling reconsideration as a fresh wave of thirst tightens the hold around him.

Reason faces defeat against his desire, Askeladd envelops the boy firmly with his left so his right can cover the screaming under his wounded palm.

“You still like to pretend” He pulls the boy back, refreshing his memory while he lets him savor a taste of his blood “Like you didn't crawl into my bed all those nights you were cold” Tremors run through the body in front of him. Poison on his veins effectively convinces the fight out of him.

The continuation of his words chips his advances ”And that I wasn't thinking about what I would do with you once you were man enough to not cry”

Thorfinn throws his head back, catching Askeladd by surprise and managing to cause some damage. The blow only breaks his lip, he smiles derisively on the lack of strength. He’s got blood to thank for that.

“ Get off me! ” The boy yells once his face becomes free. The broken tone becomes honest as the hand disappears in the space between his legs “ Don’t-! touch me ”

“Not quite man though, Freya's had her hands on you” He murmurs onto his neck, leaving a red kiss of blood on the soft skin. Underneath, his hand traces the shape of moist lips softly. He’s convinced one of the noises he forces out is a whimper of shame, so he reassures the boy in case he’s right “Don't worry, man and women are not defined by the certainty of their parts”

Thorfinn attempts to elbow him, the disadvantage of size and position gives him no results. Strength to resist melts with the hot touch above his cunt. He curls onto himself, attempting to disturb the teasing that transforms his growls into pants.

Futile rejection dims slowly, the mix of blood the other has left onto his lips works to loosen the memories of murder and revenge. The nausea knotting his stomach uncoils into an escalating feeling of inebriation. A cloud of bliss invading his mind as the taste on his tongue works in tandem with the caresses. It grows to the movement of fingers exploring him, pushing away the clothing and finally coming inside to stretch him.

Acute pain on his nethers disperses the confusing sensations. He comes to realize what’s being done to him and he struggles again. The cries reaching his lips come from the puncturing drag of the digits.

Its pain to which he becomes noisy, Askeladd confuses the signals, becoming insistent in his motion.

“ Stop it ” The hiss is followed by a yelp.

The pulse of his carotid lures Askeladd to the space under his chin. Licking the place clean of salty skin, he finally gives in to the impulse to bite on it so his tongue can be caressed by the jump of altered beats.

It’s a shame he can’t bite hard enough to draw blood. His canines do their best, against the elastic skin of the youth, they remain clean from the desired relish. The scent never fades, there’s enough spilled across the hay and in the leg of the boy. The insignificant solace this offers urges him to forsake care and just push the boy on his back, dip his lust into the tight walls of his body.

Affection born from their bond cautions him to not act rash. There’s a world of damage to be done in such an intimate action. Dull gazes of maidens taken savagely haunt him even now, intoxicated on his desires. He wishes nothing of that, so his fingers abandon the forceful exploration, returning to caress the slit, smoothing the drag with the fluids he’s collected and the blood coming from his palm.

A tremor extends from legs to shoulders, swaying the locks of blonde hair. Askeladd grins, meeting a slight turn of hips that admits to guilty pleasure spreading through the boy. He guides him, discreetly letting him gain his own pace.

His hips buckle, grinding against the backside of the boy, wanting more than the friction of clothing. A harsh push is followed by a gasp. He does it again and learns it's not only the presence of his hand awakening lust, but the promise of his hardness that tames the scowl on the boy.

Hatred is not gone, Thorfinn still believes he will choke the man before letting him in, nonetheless, violence can’t flourish under the gratification the bundle of nerves between his legs keeps liting. The fight is gone from him the moment a push on his back and the front breaks a barrier he’s never been aware existed. The irresistible pull of this foreign feeling moves him against his will, searching more of whatever this is.

His voice leaves his mouth on a moan that leaves him breathless, pliant in the arms of Askeladd.

Subdued by his unexpected orgasm, the world seems to turn for him. Recognition fails him until the hazel of his eyes is invaded by the blue of Askeladd. He stares down at him, a pleased expression denotes another win in his favor. Thorfinn can’t be sure if it vexes him or turns him on, whichever option, it doesn’t change the compliance in which he receives the sight of the man’s cock.

It's not the first time he contemplated it; one or two discret looks during the communal baths has given him an idea of size and girth. Seeing it now, aligned with his cunt, it differs greatly from his memory. An intimidating realization he hides in a growl.

“Bastard, I’ll kill you”

In the menace, he deeply inspires the remnants of the pleasant aroma of butchery making his knees weak. It's the want of his heart, to make this hateful man scared of the incoming kiss of death. A yearning revived with nightmares of the night he lost his father, dormant only with the tease wind brings him even over blackened smoke.

Askeladd’s blood must run down his hands, stain the white of his skin red and redder still when he tears out the malicious heart pumping life in him. Blood is his yearning, the reason why he wants it is misguided.

There’s a smile on Askeladd’s face when the small hands close on his throat. They tighten their grip as he buries himself on the price he’s coveted for too long. The heat is enrapturing, and the squeeze on his shaft, although painful at times, begs him to close the distance between hips faster.

The impulsive shove provokes the boy. He shouts and pushes him. The lack of effect doesn’t mean it isn’t a bother. He grips both wrists from his shoulders and pushes them down, holding them firmly against the hay.

The vulnerability dominating the eyes of Thorfinn serves to start him moving. A sway in which he can testify the morphing of pain into want, angry grunts into pleasured mewls. Thorfinn is only dishonest with his words, everything else screams he keeps filling him.

Exertion on his body gets him to bite his lip, reopening the cut in the process. As a strip of blood runs down onto his goatee, the pupils of the boy widen. No exchange of breath would be as gratifying as the hungry eyes asking for a taste of his bloody lips. He gives it, exchanging his blood for a deeper thrust and the relish of sweet moans engraving on his mind.

The melodious symphony his hips produce slapping the skin of the boy mingles with the pleasure distilling out his throat. The place he wanders to ridding the notes seems a forbidden gate, paradise a ludicrous man like him should never even glimpse. Clearness acquired when his frenzy puts him over the edge at least advises him to remove himself before soiling the boy further. The spent of his ecstasy smeared into the navel of Thorfinn and not his womb.

He’s a wise man, and the creature panting under him is still too young to carry such burdens. This one he’s forced him to endure too, it’s been too soon. And while a part of him rejoices finally taking what’s his, another curses his weakness for the young blood.

The exhausted gaze finds him. Contempt lighting the hazel confesses he too, has reached the forbidden with his hardness. The pride fills his chest, evident as irritation twists the pleased expression.

“Don’t think…” Thorfinn pants, pulling his hand asking for freedom “This changes anything… There will come a day when I slit your throat”

This threat is not empty, he means it. Hatred has not seen its end with the high of sex. It’s a deep wound that can’t be fucked out of him. Nothing to be mourned about it, willingness is no problem for vikings, and the seduction through blood is more effective than regular courting rituals. Blood’s their binding contract, and the bribe that keeps them together in dire and pleasure.

Chapter Text

Mi pegaso andaluz está cautivo
de tus ojos abiertos;
volará desolado y pensativo
cuando los vea muertos.

- Federico Garcia Lorca, Madrigal de verano. (1920)

To no shadow of doubt, remorse follows dead men more often than the breath of the reaper. Its presence, overwhelming for the senses, squeezes the heart in a vice grip that, sooner than not, brings it to perpetual stillness.

Defying the grip, the heart of Askeladd beats, frenzied and replete of blood. Its pulse a drum caresing the ear of its listener. The panicked flutters seem a sweet lullaby, calming down Thorfinn’s own beats with their constant rhythm.

He sighs at their presence. The man is not dead yet.

The secondary thought rekindles his fears. Wild eyes scan the room, their focus shifting from one reflection of steel to the next. Enemies, too many to count, surrounding them with their weariness displayed on clenched teeth and sweaty brows.

Thorfinn imagines himself standing, slaughtering his way through them the same way the fallen man before him had done. Not quite the same. He does not have the advantage of distance with his knives. Should he make himself with a sword, he still has to wonder how to carry Askeladd without disturbing the fatal wound nor leaving him open to more injury.

Options wither before his eyes, the steps taken in his direction focus his sight on a certain curtain of blonde hair.

The prince. His blue eyes glimmer with a shine that doesn’t belong to him. Their striking strength disturbs Thorfinn. This is not Canute, not the puny pretty creature he rescued from the claws of danger. He can’t find any familiarity with this man. Not with him carrying a sword reeking of Askeladd.

It’s a stranger directing his words to him, reaching gently towards him. For strangers, kind or hostile, wounded dogs bite.

The throat of Canute is spared, instead his cheek receives the slash of his metaphorical fangs. His reward is in violence, a punishing hold on his neck forcing his face to kiss the bloody soil. The hand holding the knife is twisted across his back, the other, bandaged still, is pinned with a knee that lets him feel the weight of the giant upon his fractured bone.

He foams at the mouth, curses the one keeping his body from Askeladd. Signs of rabies are displayed for all to see, and he doesn’t relent to the suggestions he must be put down. Before they can try he might send half of them to the doors of Valhalla.

“ Stop it! ”

The command is not for him, but he listens and he obeys against odds. The tone mimics that of the one he’s followed willingly since childhood. Timbre is wrong, all wrong because he cannot even see the soothing blue eyes praising his obedience. More words follow, his quietness requires he’s assured.

“It’s fine. Being cut like this… is a necessary amend” He growls even after the pressure is lessened. The other mutts might be subjected to his spell, but he isn’t. The fight in him remains long as the heart of Askeladd beats.

“The other still breathes?” No audible answer, but someone must be nodding out of Thorfinn’s sight “Take them away, I’ll see to their punishment later”

“I think he’s almost dead, your majesty. Better see him to Valhalla at once”

Thorfinn reacts to the suggestion. Baring teeth and declaring murder for the chatty idiot. The leader of the Jomsvikings steps back, intimidated in the ferocity of his stare alone.

“Don’t. Death in private is not a fitting punishment… for the ones who murdered the king” Canute pauses, seizing the other man with the overbearing stare of power “I’ll make examples of them”

The shiver running down his spine is evident. Though he knows it's stupid, Thorfinn chuckles. Is that one really a leader of the strongest warriors?

“Keep it down, kid. Don’t ruin your chance”

As Thorkell says, the advantage they’ve been offered depends on appearance, convincing this audience that they are seen as unfavorables in the eyes of Canute and his court. The usefulness for which the prince allows them to live must remain concealed. It's a battle of make-believe, the first to fall out of character dies.

An actor without a script, Thorfinn is not sure if he’s meant to thrash and yell when being lifted. The doubt is not perpetual, he kicks the fool wanting to take him from the hold of Thorkell. His restraints are better accepted when coming from a hand he knows, one that can hurt him but chooses not to.

Canute seems to understand, ordering the giant to escort them into the quarters assigned to them at arrival. Not the dungeon. As he puts it, the early death of the other man will be imminent otherwise, and meaningless.

Whoever moves Askeladd is to be careful. Damage will be repaid. Either by order of the prince or the rabid brat only the giant can contain.

His eyes follow the shape of the man, laid on a sheet and carried in hurry across the halls of the residence. The call of blood mixes with the butchery that had covered the better part of Askeladd’s clothes. It’s a scent trailing behind them, marking their passing in a red carpet that glimmers for Thorfinn.

The hold on his arms not only guides him, but stops him bending down to lap the blood from the dirt.

Thorkell lets him contemplate the shallow breath lifting Askeladd’s chest when he’s placed on the bed. No freedom is given to him even when the rest have left. His overheated expression is fixed on the body, wishing to take the place of fabric and soak in fresh blood. Hide his blush with the dark red he can see dripping from that terrible wound.

He doesn’t express his thanks to the giant sparing him the shame of losing his self-respect. First keeping him secured with his hands, then changing the jailer for a length of rope that doesn’t extend to his legs. He tumbles the boy onto his ass for that, then takes a seat and almost instantly begins snoring. The aftermath of carnage is too boring for his liking.

Resigned on the floor, still alert for the blood, the caress Thorfinn imagines possessing his body travels the distance of his nose, his sight all the way through lungs and stomach, settling under his navel and finding home in the warmth of his groin.

Tickles more insistent than those he remembers feeling before his menses nag him uncomfortable. Urge him to part or cross his legs so they can be soothed. He does either, aware every expression aside from violence will not be understood by the man guarding him. And will be horribly interpreted by the healers swarming the room.

That shame he keeps to himself. And the want attempts to be disguised as caution when one of the older women in the room pays him mind. It’s not his blood staining his clothes, but yes, tarnishing the performance with the breathy sigh he lets out for the undressing of Askeladd.

Removing the fabric frees the alluring spell in a steady wave that waters his mouth and loins.

His pride refuses to admit he craves to impale himself on Askeladd until he can be filled with his seed. His mouth twists for the repulsion, while the second pair of lips on his body drip on the prospect.

The finer workings by which blood binds him to Askeladd evade his understanding. Far as he knows, the match is not only fueled by carnal desire. If it was, the multiple couplings settled on Gorm’s villa would be good only for breeding. Surely is just the quantity of the bleeding that triggers some rudimental survival mechanism. Irking his body to search his partner and make good of the efficient union their existence represents.

To tame his impulses, he turns away from the healing process. Out of his sight, only the fading smell tortures his mind. The reel, less intense, permits him to reflect on whatever nonsense has left him in this state.

He remembers an exchange between the leader and his friend. Words he wasn’t meant to hear, but still did, distraught and sore while he pretended unconsciousness above the hay.

“ I fucked up ” Askeladd said behind his hands.

To support his statement, Thorfinn had bruises on hips and neck from bites. The wound on his leg, reopened with teeth and nail, had to be restitched by a calmer hand once the frenzy was interrupted by his lack of response.

He had truly become unconscious on the last ride of bliss, courtesy of a tongue working wonders of his insides. Wakefulness had returned almost instantly but he’d chosen to pretend the opposite. He couldn’t hope for rest or freedom otherwise.

“I don't blame you, the hay is soft around these parts” He heard laughter, half meant. Nervous more than anything “ You could be gentler next time ”

“ Blame it on the blood” The justification came along with a soft touch on his brow. Calloused fingers brushing his bangs softly “I never meant to do this ”

He must’ve been sincere, there was no next time to speak off. Partly because Thorfinn had become twice as warisome towards Askeladd after. Heedfully choosing his bedding as hidden from him as possible. Midwinter, it was painful until he was commanded to care for the prince. It was tolerable then, comfortable aside from the reluctant interactions with royalty.

It hadn’t been to his will, nor to his liking facing the fretful face of the prince at every hour of the day. The fun had only begun once he had tired from the flinching gaze and confronted the other head on. Spitted on ranks or whatever held the tongues of the other savages from speaking. To him, Canute was a weakling, incapable of lifting a weapon and therefore, useless under his eyes. He had nothing to fear for bad mouthing his precious head. Except a cuff from Askeladd.

The lack of respect had unraveled the other, letting him speak with Thorfinn freely. They weren’t friends. Familiar acquaintances was a better word, the kind where one could bully the other and still find a laugh after the annoyance. The boy had found him better company than the brutes. Canute knew how to cook a meal and make his grins less condescending.

Now that he sat in his shadow, it was harder to find the wimpy sapling wearing the mask of a king. The crown on his brow sat smugly, almost mocking the death of its last user. It was a thing stained of blood, reeking on the carrion of any man who had once fought for it.

Its presence on Canute wasn’t quite the mismatch. A part of the taller youth was already accustomed to the weight, the other still resisted the change.

“Leave us”

His command was law for the peasants dipping their heads and turning tail out the room. Thorfinn cared little, tilting his head and pouting his lip in a snare. Strange country, a strange man glaring down at him, it was theater. Nothing true but the calls instinct made on his body. That gave him strength.

“You resent me?” Canute directed to him first, making way closer to his tied up form.

“You did that on purpose” Before he can ask verbally, Thorfinn sneers “Miss, Princess ”

The remaining healer in the room, an old man with a long beard, turns in alarm for the disrespect. A laugh pulls his face in a greater grimace.

“I can’t deny my lack of skills with the sword, not all of us grew tied to the miserable life of plundering” He’s not ever felt safer when trying to insult the other teen. Nothing to do with the ropes. A certain camaraderie had been planted with their disagreements “But, Thorfinn. I won’t deny it is convenient. Men like you both are not born everyday. Less, under my rule”

“I don’t work for you”

His smile is radiant, something close to the ray of sun that stirred a porridge with his hair up like a common kitchen girl “Then work with me, cur ”

“Is that even allowed, Princess? ” He gains nothing acting up, but in his nature it is and it will remain until he’s cold and buried. Years might pass, or perhaps a couple hours considering the state of affairs “What do I get?”

“What you want, as a viking and a man”

The implication, although clear, is left in the air, presumably so he can think it through. Both know there’s no refusal to come. The wait for a response is simply out of habit.

“If he lives, I stay” Thorfinn says “ If he dies...”

“He won’t, I promise you”

The complacent of his smirk is on his mind until movement on the bed steals his attention back to Askeladd. The healers doing, disappointment affirms shadows on the young face.

The wound is almost fatal and, as the man explains in a huss, had the sword been a centimeter higher, this would be a funeral. He stutters and doubts before continuing his discourse. Awareness of the menacing eyes upon him ties his tongue almost ineffectual.

“He’s… lost too much blood, unfortunately. I can’t assure he might not pass during the night” He swallows fear “These are the critical hours, I’m afraid your majesty”

Canute barely blinks. That he grips onto life even now calms down any concern “So, what’s there to do?”

“Not much, wait and see how he fares”

“What are his chances?”

“ Oh! Enough, your Majesty… I guess. Keeping his body warm is necessary, though”

In the corner, Thorfinn perks up before anything else is said. He knows he's made an embarrassing mistake as a grin is thrown his way.

“Can I trust you with that, Thorfinn?”

“Fuck off”

Though, his ferocity of words doesn’t reach his eyes. They glimmer, widen the void among his hazel irises as his hands become freed from ropes, his legs unfold to carry his weight back to the side of the comatose man. There, his breath elates, drawing in an intoxicated inhale soured by the healing incantation of herbs smeared across the chest and wound.

Knowing himself scrutinized, Thorfinn doesn’t dare let his eyes from Askeladd. The reflection of care on them should uncover a weakness. It’s already known by Canute, even Thorkell despite his meatheadedness.

“There's a guard outside, of my thrust. But the doors can be locked from inside. In case you fail to rest”

“I'm not thanking you for anything. You put us here in the first place”

Thorfinn sentences, to which, resolute and newly reborn, Canute merely smiled kindly.

“But I'll thank him, once he wakes. And you, even if you don't like it”

“Why?”

He doesn’t hesitate as he continues speaking. Yards away from the shy boy who had to recheck his tongue to every word it conjured.

“For becoming my enemy”

Thorfinn’s face turns to him, the foreign discourse distracting his smitten mind enough to erase any trace of longing from his features. What he finds on the other furthered the puzzles wrestling the hand of vengeance for control.

The wakefulness of day seems to wash away with the blue of Canute’s stare. Such gentleness might be confused for pity in other circumstances, but the dignified smirk and uphold of royalty corrects the initial irritation. He sees him, not as one who picks strays from the dirt, discreetly awaiting for gratefulness and reward, but as a man brandishing his vulnerability so carefree wind might blow him to dust.

He’s accepting of his ineptness, all the failures that might come along when gliding blind against the storm that’s downed on him. He knows they’re saving his skin from those more cunning and influential than him. And showing him this, to a wildling who even if crawling upon the dirt and rot would still spill guts from enemies, Canute has no fear. No worries on his composed, fair face.

The importance Askeladd saw on him becomes quite clear for Thorfinn now. A king was born every minute, but one kind was a rarity. A precious stone chipped from a wall of coal.

Words from his father traverse his skull as he finally responds, doubt subduing his tone.

“I’m not your enemy… I- I only have one enemy”

“Do you now?”

Canute’s derision is forgiven. No. Thorfinn has no answer to that question. He might lie down to sleep to find an answer. Might sleep for long, long hours until he’s found an answer. Sharing the heat of blood coloring his cheeks, with the anemic body of the man he swears he hates.

He only swears. Because as hours pass and thoughts sail adrift; some sinking to oblivion, others speeding into tangibleness; the beat of his heart matches Askeladd with an uncanny intimacy.

Chapter Text

Junta tu roja boca con la mía,
¡oh Estrella la gitana!
Déjame bajo el claro mediodía
consumir la manzana.

- Federico Garcia Lorca, Madrigal de verano. (1920)

Battle rages on in his dreams, dragging his mind like a rag doll on a hounds mouth. Dripping on the exertion of plundering he wakes, although, not to carnage and savagism, but the stillness and dark of a barn. Warmed hay under his body serving him as both bedding and heater.

Adding it, a rough linen blanket keeps the assault of a winter chill from seeping into his cotton undershirt. The assistance it offered was risible, still, his body refused the dive of temperature. Beside him, the culprit lied sucking his thumb.

Askeladd arched his brow. The enigma lied not on when, but how had the kid sneaked into his resting place without detection? Was he really that tired? Or had he grown complacent of the small presence, confident that his little flea wouldn't cut open his throat?

“Look at you” He whispers, softly taking the hand from the mouth of the child “How can you sleep like that? You make me jealous” Spit drips from the small fingers, leaving their moisture over the fabric and letting the mouth continue watering the hay.

Those small drops wink in the dimmed light of a torch. The dying flame, incapable to survive the wind, gives its last light for no eyes, but the saliva of the child. Its heat seemingly spreads onto Askeladd, gaining on the pulse of his veins until they boil.

Absent-mindedly, he guides the small fingers into his mouth. The soft nibbles he leaves on them are unfelt, so the only testimony of his deed is on the mixed saliva that’s dry and gone in an hour.

He has his flavor now, at least. Not only from blood but from indirect kisses he still scolds himself for taking.

The child has nothing special. Not a grain of beauty present on his rounded face. The rosy cheeks that as of late begin to hollow in under the assault of hunger, no longer incline his fingers to pinch them teasing the boy. That’s been exchanged for another need, not an innocent gesture to be laughed about, one that he resists biting the inside of his mouth.

Askeladd can’t find an explanation for such cravings. This is a child he has on hands. The type of creature that, on friendly times, he’s adamantly pushed away from him so they might not even graze his trousers with their dirty hands. In war, relishing the plunder, their faces covered in snot and ash knotted his stomach in grips so vice that adults pleading seemed like rose petal caresses.

He peruses the boy’s face, searching around the plump of childhood for reason for his actions. Ones taken and others he will not dare indulge. The hazelnut eyes, marked with dark bags of bad rest, remain closed under thick eyebrows. Small lashes. Thin dry and broken lips. The blonde hair that's grown past a once well defined line into uneven strands Thorfinn still forgets must be cut and brushed in time.

Taken abruptly from the care of his mother, he has no concept of a proper washing routine. Askeladd tried to teach him, dragged him kicking and cursing onto a river where he explained it was a sword that might kill him, not water and soap.

The boy had permitted the chiding, the insult and even him roughly de-fleaing him with dry hair. Attempting to undress him so he might bathe had gotten him bitten. Their struggle attracted Bjorn, strangely, the boy had taken refuge behind his legs, declaring he’d take his eyes out if he tried to touch him again.

He hadn't made any connections at the moment, only taken his leave under the assurance that Bjorn would see to the cleaning of the boy. That soon became their normalcy. So once in a while, his friend would abandon their saturday gatherings to obligate him into cleanliness.

Maybe those shared times, or another miracle he wasn’t grateful for, had made the boy into an early bloomer. He was only ten and already facing the discomforts of the rag. Inadvertently teasing Askeladd with the blood from his genitals.

“You said you didn’t want me touching you, so what are you doing here?” As if to answer him, a sneeze shakes his frame. He drags him closer, pushing his forehead onto his chest so he can hear his heart. The beat resembling that of his mother’s embrace calms him down into further dreams “Such a dumb kid, and here I am, head over heels for you”

His words are left to the air, unheard if not in a dream that’s forgotten come morning. Thorfinn has pride, and he would wake sooner than him and leave believing it's only his shame that remembers sleeping at the side of the enemy. He misses the look following him out the barn.

Before that happens, Askeladd watches him sleep for longer. Admiring his youth in slight envy. He knows himself far from the midnight hour of life, knows that only at the battlefield he can be considered a veteran. Knowledge doesn’t erase the acute aches growing more insistent to each drawn breath, nor the voice of unfolding bones.

Thorfinn is still ignorant to such mortifying ailments. Recently engrossed in the natural workings of his body, it’s clear he has lived too little for him. Albeit, if to the sword, he’s already aged past his ten springs.

The idea doesn't move him for long. To worry about the wounds of a world he cannot control would make him a mad man. He’s better off erasing it from his immediate thought. Let it keep its rot and grow slowly to be weeded sporadically so it won’t override the garden of reflection he’s constructed in the privacy of his mind. Ignorance is bliss, and he’s the one who better knows. An educated fool of war. Like so many before him, he can’t fathom a way out of bloodshed, not even for the good of the small thing in his arms.

Violence’s circle grew to every corner where men dared to set foot in, uncaring of age, race or even upbringing. It was an author of sorrows. Staining the soul and converting blank pages of flesh into poems composed of jutting red scars. Twisting word after word to create elegies claiming for justice, eye for eye. Killing to not be killed. An end to justify the spilled blood at their feet.

It was nonsense after reaching the ending verse. Just another gobbledygook of words to pass the time.

Years later, greyer than he was on that night he shared warmth with Thorfinn, Askeladd had already been marked by more than enough cheap poetry from the hand of violence. Admittedly, he was tired out of mind from dancing in its compass, dispensing onto others what he so much condemned his sire for.

Death laughed at his face. The reverb of its chuckles reached his ear in his own voice. He had known then, it wasn’t death laughing, but him.

An absurd scene, acted with an absurd overuse of the violence that vikings oh, so much admired. The poetry for his charade would have to picture the madman wearing the skin of wolves. Pointed teeth protruding his grin in the grimace of a gargoyle. Hollers straight out of Hel shaking the ground.

Disappointment would dominate the true witnesses, as it was no beast slaughtering the guard and the king, but good ol’ him.

The shoot of adrenaline from claiming the head of the king is not as strong as the elation, love, zest and everything else Thorfinn ever represented washing the suicidal out of him with his scream. The cork had come undone in the beat of his heart, spilled wine from his parted veins. Blood to paint the paving stone of history with the landmark of his carcass. Exalting Thorfinn’s hunger for the last time.

But he hadn’t died there, killing is no job for a king, and he comes to understand when the light of a torch botters his eyes into consciousness. Seemingly, letting him to his death wasn’t on the prince’s plans.

He wakes renewed. Aching from numerous places including the fiery throat from which he attempts to breathe. That bother affirms him from the place of dreams where the better mind tries to coax him back. It doesn't happen, so he’s awake. Unmobile, wondering when his sight will offer him a clearer vision of the ceiling above his head.

As it does, more senses awake. Degluting air, a sample from bile remains behind his tongue as the clogged throat washes down tastes from iron and the illusion of mead. He wonders if they’ve been forcing the medicine into him this way. The sting confirms his suspicions, as does the apparent betterment of his general state.

Valhalla has closed its doors on his face this time, and while a part of him is uncaring of the fact, another ponders the worth of his survival. If the prince pretends to cut him a deal, there’s only so much he can have him do while maintaining his alliances. And given his current status as kingslayer dead he might serve him better. The prince must think the opposite, to risk so much of his reputation and waste resources on a dying bastard.

He doesn't understand the whims of the noble brat. He decides to not attempt to interpret them for it proves to be more challenging than expected, given how his head spins when he tries to lift his body.

There’s a weight pushing on his chest, having him lay himself down. He grunts on the pressure input to his wound, and what he assumes might be a hand dips lower. The roll of bandages denies him the contact of skin, and he can’t yet grasp himself enough to turn his head.

Still, a stir beside him hints his dazed senses that there’s not only his body laid on the bed. His arms can’t feel for much of anything, they don’t even obey his command to rise. Forcing his muscles into contracting themselves only gets him to harbor the beginning of a cramp and a chide that reveals the identity of his companion.

“Stupid geezer, stop moving” He does, commanded by the exertion of his muscles more than the menacing tone that begins to break down into a pur “Damn it, you’re bleeding”

The sniffs don’t perturb him, nor the return of touch, instead, he smiles as his body registers something other than the multiple aches. Heat expands under the caresses that explore his chest, lightly teasing the bandage where the stinging wound claims the attention of his boy. Over the bandages, he’s painfully denied the gratification of the tongue running above his pectoral.

Askeladd has blood illuminating his pale face as he manages to say.

“Fuck. I died and came to Valhalla, right?”

He turns, coiling the muscles of his neck so he might stare at Thorfinn. The heap of hair he finds, but not the eyes nor expression. The boy hides himself between his chest and the blanket. The warmth exuded from his naked body though, has no place to conceal its presence.

“You wish-!” Thorfinn gasps, tangling his leg with Askeladd to give some stimulus onto his cunt “Damn, baldy” A grunt comes, clenched teeth receive the full blow of the small bleeding under the bandages. Then, falling into old habits, he hisses “Fuck you”

“Say please, boy”

The exhalation of air tells him he considers it, but his head has not been surrounded by his bleeding long enough to fall into that trap. Instead, the boy finally graces him with his glazed eyes.

The calling of yearning from that void inspires his own to relegate blue and share on the desire. Hunger warms up his anemic body, guiding whatever is left of blood on him to his manhood. Bits remain running through him, enough to allow his arm to finally rise and cup the chin of Thorfinn.

Shaking his hand off the boy rejects his softness. Askeladd doesn’t take it kindly. The grip that returns to his jaw punishes the defiance, bruising his skin with the imprint of his fingers on both checks. The fierce stare follows on his pull.

Allowing himself to be brought closer, Thorfinn bites on his lip before repeating his motion once he’s onto the lips of Askeladd. The kiss has no blood, only the desperate rubbing of lips that steals from his breath and his spit. It 's enough for the better end of him to be awake too. Throbbing stiff on the tease of heat enveloping his hips with well muscled thighs.

His hand drops from the jaw, dragging red lines on the white skin with his nails. Thumb and index find the crease of arteries. Strongly signaling were the teasing blood hides, jumping in excitement to be freed and consumed. Askeladd presses on them, interrupting a moan from forming as the breath is cut. He only holds the boy still by the neck until his smirk finds compliance staring back at him.

“If I had know you could look at me like that, I’d let you stab me more often”

Want can’t be denied with words, same as touch is not erased when it blesses flesh with a scar. The impact of both overwhelms Thorfinn into a scream. Pain heightens the fountain already spilling down the navel of the man under him. And when blood flows from his neck, staining the teeth and goatee, he willingly slides until he feels the cock brushing against his ass.

It doesn’t push back against him, Askeladd barely has any strength to remain biting onto his neck as he raises up, let alone push his hips to fuck him. Thorfinn gets to understand that’s up to him, if he wants it, and looking down onto the blood drenched face, the shit-eating grin daring him to continue, he gives in to everything he’s started.

“I fucking hate you” He says, disappearing inside the blanket for a second time “Stupid baldy. How dare you do this to me”

The hand he feels on his hair is there only to share in about the expressions he will miss by not drooping the blanket. The advice of the healer remains plain for him: Not letting Askeladd go cold, not even if his body seems to burn on desire.

“Sorry, I'll make up for it” He promises, gasping on the first lick onto his cock.

The strands he grips onto come taunt as his fist closes on them. His inches worked slowly into the mouth of Thorfinn pulsate, massaging his tongue with the blood stiffening the cock. He mourns the presence of the blanket, keeping his sight from admiring the way the boy engulfs the whole extent of his hardness.

Imagination and sensation let him enjoy the relish. The tongue running down from head to base, wetting the way for the fist that envelops him so Thorfinn might gather some breath. Doing that, he pants onto the head, coming down to lick the slit clean from the precum that begins to accumulate.

Aiding himself with his fist, the boy takes in his cock again. The blanket tents and goes flat when he bobs his head, moaning on the way down and dripping saliva as his lips circle the head.

“Can’t believe it’s the first time you do this” Askeladd cooed, lifting the blanket to admire the boy.

Thorfinn’s lips are red and glittery from spit as he huffs “It’s not, stupid” The frown on his face softness in shame.

Stern, Askeladd asks, using his other hand to brush part of his bangs behind his ear.

“With who?”

“Doesn’t matter, I was drunk, and they’re probably dead”

“So it’s more than one”

His eyes can’t find bravery enough to face Askeladd, so instead, he turns to being pleasant again. The fist on his head opens and closes, caressing his scalp softly. Even as he breathes in, relaxing his throat to fit the whole thing in, the touch remains tame.

It makes him nervous not feeling the encouragement, like part of the fun for Askeladd relies on him being the only person he’s ever been with. Of course he’s given in before to some pleasures, but nothing’s ever felt like it did with him. He doesn't fear to be rough, or performs quickly so they’re not found. There’s no fear in his eyes if he leaves a mark that will be seen. He’s genuine and direct when it comes down to what he wants from him.

That dignified attitude vexes him. He knows the man for using his charm to gain his way into the bed of others so often the girls on Gorm’s villa used to refer to him as a silver fox. He’s not a white dove either, so why should it bother him if Thorfinn has gotten use of his cunt or not.

Irritated, he lets go of the cock, raising his head enough to speak eye to eye. All that lits anger on him put on his voice to speak “I’m not drinking that shit, let go or i'll bite your thing off”

The grip on his hair does the opposite, tearing a hiss from him as some strands come loose forcefully.

”Don’t tempt me, boy” The menace of his tone is too pretentious for a man in his state, Thorfinn knows, and still, he opens wide to take him again “I don’t care who you’ve used to practice, just that they did you such a skilled whore. I would have thanked them, cutting their dicks and not their heads”

Thorfinn chuckles, regarding the grunt he provokes with pleasure. So that meant it was jealousy, not judgment. The prospect fits better for his own pride. He means enough for Askeladd to have him be angry for looking at others.

Now, his eyes lock with Askeladd as his hand guides him on and off his cock. Testing the flexibility of his throat when he begins a punishing pace that should have made him gag already. No such thing happens, and it’s the same degree of amusing as irritating.

Askeladd buckles his hips at the same time as he pushes Thorfinn’s head down. He hears him choke and sees his eyes fill with resentment. Hostility threatens his shaft with teeth. The thrill puts him over the edge, freeing his cum as deep into his throat as possible.

Nose diving on the pubic hairs, the boy accidentally inhales when the seed invades his larynx. The conjunction of esophagus and throat misreads signals, forming a cough that gets tears in his eyes. Instead of letting him regain his breath, Askeladd holds him still around his cock, enjoying the vibration around his climax.

Taking pity of a silent tear rolling onto his navel, he finally frees him. Humor transmits in a cruel laughter as Thorfinn continues trying to expel the remnants of seed from the wrong tube, the rest already gone down the other.

“Fucking bastard!” He growls between breaths, cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand. His ire is less than it should be when he notices the man has already begun to grow stiff again. That’s another point to his favor, apart from the size of his length “I thought old men couldn’t get it up so soon again”

The comment is made perusing the cock with honest fascination, seizing it against the light of the well illuminated room.

Despite the annoyance, Askeladd receives the admiring look with a smirk. The bloodied line of his mouth extends as Thorfinn takes back his place above his waist, guiding himself into the hardened cock with expertise.

“I’m not that old, brat”

“But you’re old, geezer” He clenches his teeth, unused to the feeling of the hardness breaching his cunt. From the head to the base, he must brace himself into Askeladd before dropping until the cock has sunk in him “Old enough-! ”

“-To be your father” Askeladd finishes in a thought. No, that’s not a conversation they are having when he’s being enveloped in such delicious heat. Nor when he can bask on the lascivious stare of a boy he’s basically seen grown from a toddler into the unabashed teen mounting him.

“So I didn’t take your maidenhead, that’s a pity” Askeladd musses, enjoying the view of his cock disappearing inside Thorfinn.

“I’m not a maiden-! Asshole!” He pants, finally full.

There’s a moment of contemplation, then, he raises his hips, working his thigh muscles taunt and relaxing them to seat himself. He follows the pattern, soon finding the angle in which his legs begin to tremble. Words freed from his lips become incoherent, understandable only in the language of lust.

His movement is followed with the occasional buckle managed under harsh breaths. The slaps of skin echoing in his skull enhance the arousal accumulated on his groin. He admits then, surrendering to the lecherous instinct.

“But-! from here-” He mewls, rubbing his clit against Askeladd “I hadn’t-! Hadn’t done more than the mouth and-! the ass!”

Askeladd tetters “Bjorn was right. You’re a shameless brat”

His hands perch his waist, using what strength has been granted to his body to lift Thorfinn higher. Dropping him harshly so he feels the malcontentment learning about his trysts brings him. The bruising on his skin augments the crescendo of moans.

“At least you’re not as empty headed as I thought… When did you even stop thinking about killing me?”

“It 's-! Not that! Ah! Your-! blood smelled good!”

"And you didn't want to ask, boy?" The moan following his question gives him a second wind, he trusts into Thorfinn with fervor, rejoicing the spams around his hardness.

"I'd-! die first! I have to kill you!" He can only moan after his confesions, the overwhelm of orgasm dizzing his mind, but not enough that he couldn't hear Askeladd's questions.

“So you’d still-! kill me after all this, Thorfinn?”

The question is sweeped under the loud moaning of the boy. Beads of sweat run down his forehead, rolling transparent until they reach the bite on his neck. Their clear nature becomes tainted upon touching the wound, displaying their travel in crimson red rivers that fall onto Askeladd’s belly. Droplets of red rubies that the viking drinks up greedily, swarming their source with attention.

Thorfinn feels the hot breath upon his skin, tickling his earlobe to coerce a high pitched whine. Then, working a magic he cannot understand, morphs it into a shout from both pleasure in his womb getting rearranged, and pain from his skin tearing under the mistreating teeth.

Everything is a great contradiction, from the willingness with which he surrenders to the high of Askeladd, to the punishments he receives with delight. Soaking the hay of the bed on spent and blood. A paradox revolting as the question that’s been put forward.

Understanding how he can ever love a man who he despises is not something he might find yet, not distracted by the waves of ecstasy racking his body.

Since it’s not only the beauty to take in. Not only the fanfare and pretty lips moving to form ovations of syrupy love. The ugly comes along. The rake waking in the morning to dried spit and hatred at the corner of the mouth. A beast whose frowning wrinkles swallow the light. Corrugated skin from deep scars that he eagerly waits to lie caresses to.

It’s his murderous hand tangling on his hair while lips kiss on his neck only to bite down when captured by his rapture. Words spoken with tenderness upon the bruises they’ve left. Every part of savage that any of them share must be there along with their adoration. Perhaps the same could be done about his hatred?

“I could… I could kill you, Askeladd” The admission is said while he licks his teeth clean from the droplets of blood he’s greedily taken from breaking the man’s lip in a furious kiss. His anger having taken over when he received the cum inside his cunt instead of outside “But then… I would kill myself”

Askeladd chuckles, he has no more strength on his muscles “So we can reunite at Valhalla?”

“No, Valhalla is a lie, stupid. And if it wasn’t, it would be too good for us… I just haven’t thought, what I want to do when you die” Finality is in his voice. Decision on his eyes when he licks his arm clean from the soaked bandages “So, I’ll let you live until I decide”

The grin is not ill intentioned, it's familiar and warm, so he doesn't stare into the eye of Askeladd with the typical anger being looked down provoked. Thorfinn finds he likes whatever is being given to him in that look, be it praise or the hopeful eyes of a teacher, seeing his student unfold his views on the world. That, or a man who knows himself loved.

Either way, old habits die hard, so he still pouts his lip as he sneers “Fucker, you always look at me as if I was a child, I am not” He reaffirms his statement shoving his hips onto the flagging cock. It attempts to correspond his provocation, the exhaustion is greater than desire this time.

“Sorry” But Askeladd makes a point to not sound repent at all, and he shows it smirking further “It’s hard to erase the image of you sucking on your thumb”

“You’re a gross old geezer” He says, blood dripping down his neck and setting on his gullet like the seed warmed up on his womb.