#;fics

Looking back on the horror of it all, you supposed having your throat cut would have been the kindest thing the cruel King could have done to you, at least it would have been quick. But this prolonged journey of constant abuse had broken your spirit, so much so that you no longer had any fight left in you. Northumbria and Ælla were now in the past, he had auctioned you off to the highest bidding Alpha– a tyrant named Lord Bolton who had paid a generous amount of gold to secure you as his property. The thralls who had been tasked to get you ready to leave Northumbria had heard whispers about him and told you of the terror that awaited you, they said he enjoyed skinning people alive and hunted women and children with packs of starving hounds. If that was to be your fate, you would find a way to end it.

‘Make sure they are nice and tight.’ Ælla had grumbled at the blacksmith who fitted the shackles around your hands, his beady black eyes watching your face twist in pain.

‘They are as tight as I can get them, your grace.’ The Englishman had responded, noticing the way your eyes watered and not wanting to hurt you further.

‘I said tighter!” The King bellowed. “Get out of the way, let me do it!” He shoved the blacksmith to the side and grabbed his hammer out of his hand, eyes wild with sinister intent as he swung the heavy tool down and smacked the metal shackles that bent painfully around your wrists.

You cried out in agony, your eyes squeezing shut and legs buckling beneath you at the last savage act the Northumbrian King would inflict on you before he sent you away to your new captor. He watched on as you writhed in pain, and the blacksmith watched him, disgusted by the cruelty he had witnessed but unable to defend you in fear for his own life.

‘Throw her in the carriage, Lord Bolton is awaiting his new pet.’ He glowered down at you and tossed the hammer aside, watching on as the thralls scrambled around you and dragged you towards the horse and carriage that would transport you to Mercia.                                                                     

The journey had been rocky as you sat in silence, your eyes red and puffy from a mixture of crying and lack of sleep. Now you were just exhausted, unable to shed another tear as you gazed longingly out of the carriage window at the vast empty fields, forests and mountains that passed you by. You thought about the ways in which you could kill yourself and fantasised about them in your mind. A rope would do the trick, you could hang yourself from the window of your room when you arrived at Lord Bolton’s estate, though you weren’t sure if you would even be given a room. Maybe he had another cage ready for you, the thought alone made bile rise in your throat. Perhaps you could find poisonous herbs and swallow them before anyone had the chance to take them from you, it would be a painful end you assumed but it was far better than being skinned alive.

“Stop!” One of the soldiers mounted on one of the two horses that pulled the carriage along called out. “I need to take a piss.”

“Oh, hurry up would ya! I want to get job this done quick; you know how Ælla gets if we don’t get back on time.” The other soldier complained, their voices muffled as they talked amongst themselves.

The carriage slowed to a halt, and you couldn’t help but feel the tiniest slither of hope fill you as you sat up from the position you had been slouched in, eyes widening curiously as you peered outside. Farmlands as far as the eye could see surrounded by forests that you could hide in if you were quick enough. Flicking your gaze down at the door handle, you felt an overwhelming need to try your luck one final time. Grabbing at it, you shoved it down only for it not to budge. You tried again and again until you realised that the door had been bolted shut. Of course, it had.

“Shit.” You breathed, panic rising within you as you slid over the wooden bench to the opposite door and peered out of the window to see one of the soldiers stroll down an embankment, whistling a tune to himself as he went. When he disappeared out of view, you tried the second handle but felt your hope dwindle as it too didn’t move.

“Oi, stop moving around back there!” The other soldier shouted in a thick English accent, banging his heavy fist against the carriage as he peered at you through the peep hole at the front. “Yes, I see you – sit back and shut up. You hear me?”

Clinching your jaw, you fell back against the bench and dropped your sore hands into your lap again, truly defeated.

“I’m talking to you.” The soldier sneered at you.

“I heard you.” You mumbled quietly.

“What was that? Speak up, I can’t bloody hear you!” He called out, glaring at you as you stared back at him.

“I said I heard you!” You snapped; your voice thick with anger at your failed attempt to escape.

“Vikings!” The soldier who had disappeared down the verge reappeared in a frenzy, his voice filled with rising panic as he scrambled to jump back on the horse. “A shit load of ‘em, move! Move! Fucking go!”

“Shit!” The other soldier panicked and yanked at the reigns of his horse, whipping the beast as hard as he could to get it going. “Move, you lazy bastard! MOVE.”

You gasped and leaned forward to look out of the window again, hearing them before you actually laid eyes on them. A sea of voices shouted in the distance and the sound of their infamous horn bellowed in the air, letting you and your captors know that they had seen you. Yet again you were thrown into another fast-approaching predicament.

The carriage shook vigorously, sending you crashing into wooden frame in front of you with a pained groan as the horses were worked beyond their abilities. They neighed in protest, but the soldiers didn’t let up, instead bearing down on the animals who galloped along the uneven roads in desperation.

Hissing at the ache in your wrists, you cried out as you pushed yourself back up to sit on the bench but it was no use as you were thrown to the side of the carriage when the horses dived down a rocky hill, causing you to tumble to the wooden floor with a thud. One of the wheels cracked and split in half, the wood pinging from the carriage and tumbling to the ground causing the wooden prison to bounce unevenly.

“We ain’t gonna make it!” One of the soldiers shouted. “They’re gaining ground. I’m not dying over some stupid bloody omega, you’re on your own.” It was then that you heard metal break against metal, and the carriage squealed in protest as one of the horses broke loose.

“Ælla will kill us if we desert our posts!” The other soldier shouted. “You traitor!”

“Those bastards are going to kill us, you stupid cunt!” And with that, the soldier and his now free horse galloped ahead, leaving you alone with the other.

“Ah, God sake!” The other soldier hauled the reigns and pulled his horse to a stop, diving from the saddle before sprinting back to where you were. Yanking the bolt out of its place with a grunt, he ripped the door open and snatched your arm. “Get up, we need to move or both of us are dead!”

“Let. Me. Go!” You growled, fighting against him with kicks as he dragged you alongside him off the main road and down into a shallow riverbed. “Am I really worth the trouble? You can run away now and leave me, Ælla will never know!”

“Shut up!” He hissed, turning to grab you by the jaw. “Shut your mouth and listen, if they hear us down here, they’ll kill us.”

“I’m going to die anyway, and I’d rather die now than in the hands of Lord Bolton!” You groaned, struggling against his grip on you. “HELP!”

He threw you down into the shallow water with a thump when you shouted, panicking as he looked around for enemies. “You really are a stupid little cow, you think Bolton is bad? These monsters will torture you in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.”

You scrambled to your feet and glowered up at him, your dirtied cotton dress heavy with water, your knees scraped and your nose bloodied from the hard fall. “Then you do it. Kill me.”

“What?” The soldier scowled at you, his hand hovering over his sheathed sword. “Are you mad?”

It was then that an arrow hurtled past your face so fast that if you blinked you would have missed it, the sharpened steel head whizzing through the air and spearing itself through the throat of the Northumbrian soldier with a sickening squelch. You stumbled back on your feet and fell into the water again, eyes wide with terror as he clutched at the bleeding wound in his neck. You watched on helplessly as he hacked and gargled on his own blood before collapsing to his knees and falling face first into the running stream. 

Blood pooled into the once clear water and you quickly pulled yourself to your feet, knowing another could be shot in your direction any moment now. Looking up to where the arrow had come from, a shaky breath hitched in the back of your throat when your gaze fell upon the heathen who stood in a black chariot up on the grassy riverbank. His piercing blue eyes were fixated on you as you stood on shaky legs, black bow secured in his grip with another arrow at the ready. If he fired now, you would be dead. But he didn’t. Instead, he silently watched you for a moment and as you breathed in – you smelt it. You smelt him.

There was no mistaking that powerful scent, and it clung to your nose and filled your lungs, almost intoxicating you. A mix between firewood, mud, the sea and his natural musk.

 “Alpha.” You murmured.

He lowered his bow then and you heard more Vikings in the near distance, their horn bellowing loudly to alert their ever growing presence.

“Don’t be stupid, surrender to me now and you won’t get hurt!” He shouted down at you, the very real threat in his Nordic accent accompanied with a sadistic smirk that sent a shiver rolling up the length of your spine. “Don’t make this anymore harder for yourself than it already is, slave. Let’s not have you end up like your friend down there, huh?”

You bolted in the opposite direction, not giving into his command. If you truly wanted to survive then you decided it was best to take your chances.

Scowling at your poor choice, the Viking lowered his bow into the chariot and pulled free another weapon – a bolas. The long chord had two steel weights shaped like spheres dangling from either side, perfect for situations just like this. He clinched his jaw and swung the chord above his head a few times, getting the momentum just right before he threw it in your direction with a grunt. You ran as fast as your legs could carry you, hearing nothing but your own heartbeat in your ears and the river splashing with your hurried movements and just as you thought you had outrun him – the chord swung around your calves and trapped your legs together in a vice-like grip.

“Ah, NO!” You screamed as you collapsed in a heap, landing directly on your shackled wrists.

Pain, so much pain. 

It was over, you were captured once again.

“Bring her to me!” He commanded his men and removed his helmet, setting it down in his chariot to reveal a head of dark braids as his army finally caught up to him.

You didn’t bother moving and instead sobbed quietly to yourself, knowing your fate had finally been sealed. It wasn’t long before you were hauled to your feet and carried back in the direction you had run from, two Viking warriors flanking you on either side as they yanked you up and out of the river. You said nothing when they shoved you to your knees before the chariot.

The distinctive sound of metal clunking against the ground filled your ears.

Clunk.

Step, step.

Clunk.

Step, step.

Peering up from the ground with teary eyes, you noticed the black makeshift crutch and a pair of unsteady legs bound together by leather straps and metal before you looked up again to see the one who possessed them. It was him, the alpha. You had heard stories of a crippled Viking ravaging the country, his name rang like alarm bells in your mind – Ivar the Boneless.

“I did warn you.” He said breezily, mocking you as he limped forward until his crutch came to rest right by your bleeding knees. It was sharpened into a point, a weapon and crutch combined. “Tell me, slave – how is it that an omega came to travel with Ælla’s men? The last time I checked, that fat oaf has no use for your kind. He is no beta, and he certainly is no alpha, so you can see why I am puzzled.”

You weren’t interested in speaking to him and so remained silent, but soon learned this was not an option when he grabbed your throat with his free hand. You grimaced and wrinkled your nose in discomfort as he pulled you to your feet in one swoop, his leather glove squeaking as he squeezed your throat and forced you to look him in the eye. “I really need to know why, you see…” He breathed, his brow furrowing angrily as he stared down at you with contempt. “…Ælla murdered my father and so I am going to kill him and all those who are loyal to him, and if you are loyal to him then-“

“I am NOT loyal to Ælla!” You interrupted him with a growl, all teeth and disgust.

“I’m not so sure.” He said lowly, narrowing his intense glare upon your face.

“He tortured me for months!” You snapped back and lifted your pained wrists. “And then he shackled me and sold me like cattle, I was on my way to my new master before you and your men chased us down. I am not loyal to Ælla.”

The Viking considered what you had to say and stared at you for another moment before releasing his grip. “What is the name of this alpha you were sold to?” He asked curiously, leaning back on his crutch.

“Lord Bolton.”

He shrugged at the name as if it meant nothing to him. “I believe you.”

“Will you let me go now?” You asked now that the intense interrogation seemed to be over. “Please?”

“No.”

“No?”

“What, are you a parrot?” He sneered, glaring back at you unkindly. “I said no. You are coming with me; I am not done with you yet. What is your name?”

Glowering at the Viking, you gulped back the urge to spit in his face and instead sighed deeply. “Flora.”

“You live to see another day, Flora. Count your blessings, tomorrow might be a different story.” He smirked, dragging his eyes over you in judgement. “Do you know who I am?” He asked, his eyes darkening deviously as if he already knew the answer about to leave your mouth.

“Yes, you are Ivar the Boneless.” You glanced down at his legs when you named him before finding his eyes again, noting the way he tensed. “Son of Ragnar Lothbrok.”

Licking his tongue against his lower lip, he grinned and looked wolfish. “Of course, I am.” Pointing his crutch at you in a veiled threat, he narrowed his blue eyes at you deviously. “But to you, I am master, and you will address me as such.”

“I have no master.” You bit back at him and he chuckled. 

“We will see.” Waving at his men, Ivar addressed them with a boldness. “Take her and bind her to my chariot, we are going home!”

You made his men drag you to the man-made contraption and bit into your tongue until you tasted blood as they secured your shackled wrists to the wooden frame. Ivar limped behind and pulled himself up with a low grunt to stand behind you, his armoured chest pressing into your back as he put his helmet back on and leaned over you to grab the reigns. The alpha quite literally was breathing down your neck as he whipped his white stallion into motion once again.

“To York!” He roared his command and his men roared back in support, sounding their horn once again as they headed North.

Because despite the gravitational pull, the pleasant warmth he feels when Yin’s undivided attention is centered on him, Yin isn’t his. Would never be his despite the voice in the back of his mind that tries to convince him otherwise. This is a partnership. A business transaction. A way to give themselves a better life than anything they could have built working at that shitty restaurant breaking their backs like a pair of fucking servants, dirt poor for the rest of their lives.

“Will you work with me?” Yin had asked him then, sparking the fire in War’s veins that spread and caught like kerosine on crack. He would never admit it, but even then he had been Yin’s already.

***

An hour later, War is well on his way to I Don’t Fucking Careville, half the bottle already making a warm little home in the seething pit of his stomach. It has helped to tether the inexplicable rage, keep it at bay, even as Yin drunkenly sways in disjointed rhythm in front of him like a sad uncle pathetically gyrating the air at some family party. War’s eyes follow Yin’s movements, his head subconsciously (or perhaps a little drunkenly) tilted to the side as he watches Yin lift the bottle to his mouth and take a generous gulp of the expensive bottle of Dom he had insisted on splurging on in honor of their guest. His gaze stays on Yin’s mouth, traces the curve of it, the purse it makes as Yin winces with the alcohol’s unforgiving burn, and finds himself thinking about another drunken night only days ago when that mouth was on his before it trailed like whispered embers down his neck, his torso, following a path that led much farther south than War usually let anyone go.

But it was Yin.

And for Yin, he would burn down the world as he took himself with it.

He swallows hard at the recollection, takes another long swig of the alcohol as a knock interrupts his unwanted trip down memory lane. Yin immediately lights up like a Christmas tree and War resists the urge to throw the fucking bottle.

***

The music plays quietly from the speaker in the corner, some old-timey jazz number Yin had picked thinking it sounded a little like music a stripper could dance to. War resists the urge to tell Yin that the stripper would fucking dance to Hansen’s Mmm Bop if he throws enough money at her, but Yin had wanted the experience to be as authentic as he’s seen in movies. War supposes he can understand the fantasy; encouraged it, even.

Another drink, slow and steady.

Then an eyeroll to end all eyerolls as he regrets his life decisions.

He pays attention to the room now, the stain on the carpet from the tomato juice Yin had spilled trying to drunkenly make himself a Bloody Mary, the scratches on the wooden coffee table from War’s fingernails a few nights before. He closes his eyes, lips hard-pressed into a line so tight it causes him to exhale sharply through his nose at the memory.

Another swig.

He’s going to finish the entire bottle at this rate.

If Yin has noticed anything, he makes no mention of it. Shows no sign that War’s discomfort at having this trashpile bodyrolling in front of Yin as he showers her with a wad of cash is anything of immediate concern.

War doesn’t know if this makes him feel worse or if it makes it easier to forget things they had done together that now takes an entire bottle to almost block out.

Another swig. And then another. The edges of his vision have started to cloud, hazy wisps of fuzz framing everything with a filtered glow. His mouth quirks at that, grateful for it, but cursing it all the same because it’s never fast enough, never potent enough until he’s seen too much, felt too much, before, finally, the forgetting begins.

He drapes his arm over the side of the couch, relishes the numbing buzz he’s starting to feel, the tingle on the ends of his fingertips exacerbated by the acute awareness of Yin’s hand, close enough to touch if his fingers flicked toward it just so.

When the girl twists her blonde strands around her fingertip and gives Yin a cloying look that makes War’s stomach turn, he clenches his fists to pause the tremor rolling through his body, the instantaneous way his breath is sucked right out of him.

He catches Yin lick his lips, his mouth parted in awe and eyes slightly shuttered as the girl undulates her hips toward him, the strap of her trash red lingerie falling down her arm as she uses her free hand to unhook her bra. Her fingers then reach for Yin, toying with his open collar before brushing wisp-soft touches along Yin’s bare skin.

Smashing the bottle tightly gripped in his hand is starting to sound pretty damn good now, if it weren’t such a waste of expensive liquor.

Yin exhales achingly slow in response, and War feels a twitch in his pants, curses his weakness with it. He momentarily tracks the girl’s movement, rolls his eyes and fights the urge to vomit up half the bottle he’s consumed when he catches Yin’s eye. Yin tilts his head toward her, an offering of sorts, come here, have fun, do it for me, and War shoves himself to his feet, feigning sickness and waving off Yin’s silent invitation as he barrels into the bathroom.

A half second is all it takes before his pants are halfway to his knees, the belt buckle only partially undone as he slides his hand into his boxers and exhales relief at the first stroke. He bites his lip, the taste metallic and bitter as he breaks skin. The pain is nothing compared to the wrenching ache that had bloomed in his chest at having been made to watch whatever the fuck that was going on outside the sanctuary of the bathroom.

He grunts as he strokes faster, dropping his head back against the door with a soft thud. Eyelids hooded. Eyes glazed as images of Yin kneeling before him flood his brain like a hit of coke directly into every brain cell his inebriation would allow. His body reacts as it remembers Yin’s mouth, remembers the heat it left on the tip of his cock, the flick of his tongue before he took War into his mouth entirely, devouring him like a man starving, desperate. Reverent.

War keeps pace like that, matching his body’s memory of Yin’s movements, the stunted rhythm, the stifled moans as War had thrusted into the back of Yin’s throat, and sooner than he’s ready, War feels release claw out of him, his free hand clamping shamefully against his mouth as streaks of white spurt at intervals across the tile floor, his body rolling through the sensation in jilted spasms.

He bottoms out, sliding graceless on the soiled floor and breathing hard through his nostrils. If Yin were to discover him, he would never be able to explain without bringing up something else he is fairly sure neither of them want to discuss. He closes his eyes, forces his heartbeat to slow, remembers the way Yin’s eyes had looked at him when he was sure War had been satisfied. The near worshiping way his gaze had darkened, the trail his tongue had left on the split of his lips when he licked away remnants of War from his mouth.

Heat prickles behind War’s eyelids and he presses a palm against them, an imperceptible shake of his head the only thing he allows of himself to mark his inexcusable stupidity. After all, sex and love are different things.

But it was Yin.

And for Yin, he would burn down the world as he took himself with it.

A few minutes later, he hears muffled voices — an argument maybe? — then a shuffle of movement, faint footsteps. A door slams, rattling the paper-thin walls. He’s too tired to see what the commotion is about, too fucked out drunk and frankly, a little humiliated with his own little party to bother leaving the comfort of the small space.

A great crack of thunder tore through the sky above, startling her from her memories. The sound made everyone on board flinch in surprise and Freya for a moment thought the heavens had split open. Commands were shouted between the Vikings in a language she couldn’t speak or understand, but she watched their faces and seen for herself the fear in their features. This was not good.

We are going to die out here, Lord please save our souls. 

She thought, trying to quell the rising panic in her chest along with the horrific sea sickness that swirled inside her belly by closing her eyes and pretending everything was fine.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Opening her eyes at the sound of the familiar voice, she found Ivar looking back at her from where he sat opposite her. She could have sworn he hadn’t been there before, or was her mind playing tricks on her? It didn’t matter. She was terrified, and no amount of reassurance from the very man who had stolen her from her land would make her feel at ease.

“I’m not.” She lied through chattering teeth, not convincing even herself of her own attempt to seem fine but she carried on with the act anyway, glowering back at him to let him know she could handle herself. “How long until we get there?” The question left her lips as more of a plea, but she hoped she didn’t sound desperate. 

The corner of Ivar’s lips curved into the subtlest of smirks and his deep piercing blue eyes narrowed just enough to make her doubt herself, he was good at that, too good. It was if he was silently mocking her, scheming some devious plan in that wicked mind of his.

He knows I am afraid, and he likes it. 

“Three days if we are quick.” He told her, never once looking phased by the chaos of the sea around him. There was a small pause before he continued, furrowing his brow. “Is this your first time on a ship?”

“Yes.” She breathed, lowering her eyes to her gloved hands to avoid his gaze. “I hate it, I hate the s-sea.” She stuttered, feeling colder by the second.

“You’ll grow used to it.” He sighed breezily and rolled his broad shoulders into a shrug. “You may even start to like it, in fact I’m sure of it.”

“I doubt it.” She murmured, shifting her weight until she turned herself away from him. Laying herself down onto the hard deck, Freya curled herself into a ball and closed her eyes, hoping to fall asleep until they arrived to where they were going.

Ivar remained seated, not moving to join her but instead keeping a watchful eye on her instead.                                  

                            ❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅❅

Some time later, Freya started awake. Her entire body trembled from the freezing rain that pummelled down onto the ship from the grey clouds above. Groaning, she pulled herself up into a sitting position and winced at the dull ache in her neck from the position she had been sleeping in. How long was I out for? She thought. With teeth clinched, she tried to stop her jaw from rattling but she was freezing. She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes anymore, and her chest was so tense that she could no longer breathe in without hurting. Her ribs were tender, as if she had been punched a few times.

“I’m dying…” She whispered, tears pricking her soft eyes. She believed she wouldn’t survive this perilous journey to Norway and maybe that was a good thing. Just then as she gave into the deep depression that washed over her, Freya heard a dragging noise sound coming from her side.

Ivar. 

Her stomach lurched in surprise when she saw the Viking crawl up the deck and into the space next to her, his strong arms carrying the bulk of his weight on calloused hands that were bound with black leather wraps. She supposed crawling was how he got to one place to another when he didn’t have the support of his cane. It was unsettling to witness, almost snake-like.

“…I…” She attempted to speak up, tried to muster enough strength to tell him she was ‘fine’ and to tell him to get away from her but her mouth seized shut involuntarily with the chills. She didn’t want his company, she would much rather freeze to death alone than have him anywhere near her. He was the sole cause of her misery.

“Sssh, don’t talk.” Ivar hushed away her futile attempts to protest and pulled himself up to sit by her side. She leaned away from him, not wanting him to witness her vulnerability and mock her for being weak, but as much as she expected him to bite at her with some sarcastic comment, he didn’t. Instead he began untying the tassels that held his black fur cloak in place around his broad shoulders. “I promise you that things won’t always be this way, we will be home soon.”

His voice was smooth as he tugged the cloak from his back and wrapped it tightly around her shivering frame. Freya didn’t know how to process the gentle way he handled her, she truly wanted to run from his foreign touch, but she had nowhere to run to. Feeling herself sink into his chest in defeat, sadness swelled in her chest as he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in close to him to keep her warm.

“You took everything from me…” She whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks and onto his black armoured chest. “I have nothing, I have nobody.”

Ivar’s eyes softened at the sound of her pitiful voice, and he let his nose dip into her hair as he stroked her back. He was fully aware of the fact that she hated him, it was to be expected but in time she would see things from his perspective.

“I took from you what needed to be taken.” He told her lowly, allowing his lips to linger against the top of her head. “Your life back in Mercia would have amounted to nothing if I had not have saved you, princess. Your pig of a father was willing to let you be raped and die in exchange for his own life. He gave this ‘evil Viking’ his permission to do with you whatever I wanted, so if it had not been me to raid your town and some other raider had got there first --- you may not have been so lucky. Remember this when you try and convince yourself I am some monster dragging you into the dark!” 

“He never would have done that to me.” Freya lifted her head then and glared at the Viking who held her gaze. “You’re lying.”

Pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth, Ivar raised his brow and leaned in towards her, his nose brushing against hers. “You think so?”

Freya tensed as Ivar challenged her with that look, the kind that buried itself deep in her soul.  “He told me you were tucked away inside the chapel with your bishop when I nailed him to his cross.” He continued. “He told me you were beautiful with eyes as green as emeralds and hair as gold as the sun, and he wasn’t wrong. You truly are beautiful.”

“Stop.” She whispered, pulling her teary eyed gaze from his face. “Please, just stop. I don’t want to hear anymore.”

Her voice broke then and she slumped into herself, defeated by heartbreak. “The truth hurts sometimes, but it needs to be heard. There must be part of you that believes the Gods have plans for us.” He told her bluntly. 

Freya didn’t know if she believed in anything anymore. She was at a loss. Ivar the Boneless was the grim reaper, wherever he went death followed along with a murder of crows. And yet as much as she thought him to be a monster, she leaned into his solid chest and listened to his heart thump steadily against her ear. A monster doesn’t have a heartbeat. She thought to herself. A monster would never be as warm as he feels to me now. Breathing in the fur cloak that had his scent all over it – a mixture of the sea, soil, musk and firewood, Freya decided he didn’t smell all that much of a monster either. Closing her eyes, the Mercian princess felt herself drift.

“I think your Gods brought you to the wrong Freya.” She broke her silence. “I am a Christian, you are a Viking --- we are not the same.”

“They are never wrong.” He told her. “It is true, you are a Christian and I am a Viking. I don’t understand it myself but I have faith things will become clearer in time.”

Freya was asleep before he finished his sentence, exhaustion taking over. Leaning his head of dark braids back against the wooden stern, Ivar sighed as he let the princess sleep against him. His fleet of ships continued their perilous path towards Kattegat. 

When he’d found himself tangled with Kise in an empty coat room of the banquet hall, the music blaring from somewhere close by, Aomine had tried to think of a million excuses why it’d been a bad idea. But between the end of his fifth glass and Kise’s mouth burning a trail along the curve of his jaw, his excuses had disappeared into a haze filled with sloppy, heated, wanting kisses that continued well into the night, promise of basketball forgotten.

All he remembers is a hangover from hell, aching limbs, and Kise’s half-turned smile as he lay naked beneath the crumpled white of starched sheets tugged around legs that had been wrapped around him only hours before. He’d snuck out that morning, a texted apology and an impulsive kiss against Kise’s wayward strands all that was left as a reminder of what he’d tried to forget.

If Kise was bothered by his abrupt departure, he didn’t let on. Instead, he’d called for lunch a few days later and by the time they’d hooked up at least a dozen times (thirteen, but who was counting), Aomine knew he needed to make a decision. Needed to end things before it became so complicated, he’d drown in it like he did at thirteen. He thought he’d learned his lesson, even when, at fifteen, Kise had swept him in again before he’d realized it was too late to turn back. But now he’s older, wiser. More adept at recognizing the pull, the wreckage Kise would leave.

It seems, he thinks as he narrows his eyes at the publication he’d tossed on the table where Kise had been sitting with a model Aomine vaguely recognizes, that his decision has been made for him. Makes it easier, he tells himself. Makes it so I never have to go through this shit again.

But the thought only makes him angrier, more upset with himself than anything else that he’d let it happen again. That he’d been so stupid. 

The magazine lays open on the table, pages crumpled beyond repair, but somehow managing to flip open at the exact page responsible for inciting Aomine’s ire in the first place.

Kise’s picture stares up at him, wrinkled but still vibrant, still teasing, his finger pressed secretively against lips Aomine knows well. But the look isn’t meant for him; instead, Kise is pressed up against someone else. Someone, who up until an hour before, Aomine had been sure was just “a friend from work”. 

His fingers curl into his palms, nails biting into the skin, intent on breaking it if only to feel something else besides the hurt and confusion churning like venom in his gut, the irritation singing in his veins. The sting keeps him distracted as Kise stands in front of him, guiltily biting the edge of his lip while he fumbles for an excuse. 

Because anything he says right then is just that. An excuse, a half-hearted attempt to keep Aomine’s temper in check, a way to smooth things over.

Aomine should have known better. But he is just as stupid, just as gullible, just as fucked as the first time he let himself fall, let himself drown, wreckage be damned. 

“Aominecchi, it’s not what you thi–” Kise starts, his half-empty glass of whatever blue fruity thing he’s decided to have this time around knocked carelessly aside when he’d jumped apart from the model he’d shot with earlier in the day. Aomine gives the guy a once over, attempting to shove away the image of his arm around Kise’s shoulder, whispered conversation meant for places probably less public than some crummy bar. His steeled gaze scrutinizes the pale skin, the perfectly symmetrical face, the black button-up with sleeves rucked up to the guy’s elbows. Easy on the eyes, he thinks. Exactly like someone Kise should be with.

“Wasn’t thinkin’ anything,” Aomine replies with a knowing smirk in the guy’s direction. It earns him a confused grin in return, and even in the darkness of the bar, he can feel Kise’s burning gaze on him. “Just thought I’d drop this off. It’s what you wanted to talk about, right? You could’ve just texted. It would’ve been a hell of a lot faster to get it over with than draggin’ my ass down here. Nice article, by the way,” he says with a dry chuckle, before he hands the other guy a handful of bills and pats his shoulder and, because his insides feel hollowed out and he needs something, anything, to make him not feel as dumb as he probably looks, he lashes out with a snide, “he likes the blue drinks, but the green ones will do the trick faster.”

Kise’s expression is enough to level him, to ignite the guilt that joins the silent agony he refuses to acknowledge. His companion continues to look just as confused as before, but Aomine doesn’t stay to hear what either of them has to say. He turns and deadpans, tosses a mocking salute over his shoulder before weaving his way through the crowd. The air outside is cold, biting, but it tempers the stifling heat suffocating him moments before. The wind permeates through his clothes, runs a shiver up his spine. He tugs his coat around himself, intent on putting as much distance between him and whatever the hell just happened. 

“Wait, Aominecchi!”

Aomine quickens his pace, curses himself for the sting behind his eyelids, and shoves his hands into his pockets as he pushes through despite the chilled wind whipping his face. Belated, he realizes his breaths have shallowed, and when a hand grabs his arm to pull him back, he exhales with a gasp as he whirls around to find Kise, wild-eyed and hair mussed, expression just as wrecked as Aomine feels. 

Walls building back up, brick by brick, he deadpans before yanking his arm away. “I don’t have time for this shit,” he says, tone even. A little exasperated at having been made to have this conversation. But betraying nothing else.

“If you’d just let me explain–”

Aomine snorts, shakes his head. “It’s fine. You needed to get laid, I was there, it was convenient. I get it.”

“No, you don’t. It’s not like th–”

“I read the article.” Aomine rolls his eyes at Kise’s incredulous look. “I know, surprise, surprise. I actually do read your shit. Would’ve been nice to find out I’m ‘nobody special’ without havin’ to read it outta some fucking magazine, but hey, can’t lose what you didn’t have, right?”

“Aominecchi,” Kise tries again, voice tight. Aomine avoids looking at his face on purpose, doesn’t know if he can stomach what he’d find if he did. “When I did that interview, it was the day after you left me in the hotel and I didn’t know what that was or what we were because you disappeared and I–”

But Aomine puts a hand up to stop him. “That was a mistake. I shoulda stopped it then ‘cause I knew where that shit was going. I knew it like how I knew it wasn’t gonna work back in high school ‘cause I was good enough for you to fuck around with when no one knew about it, but not good enough to tell anyone about–”

“Aominecchi, please,” Kise whispers, desperate now, his hands twitching like he’s trying to keep from reaching out. Aomine knows the feeling. 

“It was me. I fucking let it happen and I shoulda known better.” Aomine scoffs, bites the edge of his lip to keep his voice from shaking before he continues, “I mean, you’re you,” he says plainly, rambling now, waving a hand at Kise like it should be obvious that the universe is fucking with him. “I shouldn’t be in love with you.”

Kise stills, eyes wide and Adam’s apple noticeably bobbing. It’s a minute before he speaks, but when he does, it’s hesitant, unsure. “What?” he squeaks, taking a step back and shaking his head like Aomine had said something in a foreign language he couldn’t understand. 

With a hand at his nape, Aomine shrugs. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, meeting Kise’s gaze and holding it; a glint of a challenge. “I’m ‘nobody special’… remember?”

“I lied!” Kise throws his hands up in the air before tangling his fingers through his hair in surprising frustration. “I didn’t want to sound more pathetic than I already felt. I thought when we’d met up again that maybe this time, it’d be different. This time, I wasn’t going to mess it up. We’re not as dumb as we both were before, we’d had time to figure out what we wanted, and I even canceled my date so you’d come to the party with me.” He sucks in a shaky breath, the tremble of his lip something Aomine fights to brush away. “But you left. And then I thought I was so stupid for thinking I could be to you what you’ve always been to me–”

It takes a second for Aomine to register what Kise had said, but when he does, he plants a hand on Kise’s face to shut him up as he tries to piece it together. “Hold on, what?” 

Kise bats his hand away. “You were always looking at those magazines and you never seemed to be interested in what I had to say or what I was doing outside of basketball, so I thought, I don’t know, that I would end it before I got hurt any more than I already did,” he says, voice quiet. His lip juts out in a small pout, the glance he gives Aomine a little helpless, a little embarrassed. “That guy you saw me with inside? That wasn’t what you thought – he was trying to talk me into confessing and I was too chicken to do it ‘cause I didn’t want to mess up whatever we are. But I did that anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter if you know now.”

Aomine lets the words sink in, takes in Kise’s mournful expression before he closes his eyes and doubles over, laughter echoing through the near empty parking lot. He braces a hand against his knee, presses the other against his side to alleviate the cramping pain. Kise waits for the laughter to subside before he squats in front of Aomine and tentatively ventures, “a-are you okay? I don’t get what’s so funny…”

Aomine shakes his head and straightens, offering to help Kise up. “You’re an idiot, y’know that?” he says, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his heart thrums against his rib cage and that he’s still holding on to Kise’s hand. 

Kise looks affronted at the insult, but something in Aomine’s expression must have looked less tense, less angry than it did a moment before because he scoffs and tries to cross his arms without letting Aomine go. Their eyes meet and they both burst into hysterics. It isn’t until they’ve both calmed down that Aomine realizes how closely they’re standing together.  Kise seems to sense it at exactly the same moment, his eyes zeroing in on Aomine’s mouth when he bites the edge out of anticipation. 

“So, um,” Kise murmurs, so close that Aomine feels the warmth of his breath, catches the hint of sandalwood. Aches with the memory of it, the familiar yearning for something he thought he’d never have. “What now?”

“You’re an idiot, I’m an idiot,” Aomine says with a shrug, arms fitting around Kise like they were always meant to be there. “We can be idiots together? Wait, that sounds stupid and cheesy and just forget I sai–”

“Daiki,” Kise says with a small grin, lips so agonizingly close that Aomine can almost taste him, “I love cheesy. And stupid. Almost as much as I love you. Now, are you going to shut up and kiss me or do I have to–”