ULFHJART (Wolf-Heart) ᚹᛟᛚᚠ× ᚺᛖᚱᛏ

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/48833890.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Category: M/M
Fandoms: Dahmer (TV 2022), My Friend Dahmer (2017)
Relationship: Jeffrey Dahmer/Original Male Character(s)
Characters: Jeffrey Dahmer, Original Male Character(s), Original Child Character(s)
Additional Tags: Viking!Jeff, Reincarnation, more hybristophilia, Extremely Dubious
Consent, Historical References, Slow Burn, Middle Ages, Dead Dove:
Do Not Eat
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-07-24 Updated: 2023-10-10 Words: 8,544 Chapters: 5/?
 ULFHJART (Wolf-Heart) ᚹᛟᛚᚠ× ᚺᛖᚱᛏ
by pretty_bxy

Summary

The year is 990. Birgir Vilulf is the most feared ulfheðnar (wolf warrior) ever seen. He goes
from settlement to settlement in his boat, killing every person he finds in revenge for the
death of his mother. He hopes to eventually find the seiðkona (witch) who put a killing curse
on his beloved mother.

Trygve Helvig is a teenager the same age he was when he was first taught to be a warrior. For
whatever reason, something about the young man moves his cold heart into sparing his life.

In the modern day, another young man wonders if he and the modern killer, Jeffrey Dahmer,
were fated soulmates.

Notes

"What can I say except you're welcome?"

Yeah, this came out of nowhere. After Marchenhaft, I said I wouldn't put myself through the
pain of doing a Norse-inspired story again. Yet something about writing Jeff as a Viking was
just too tempting. The muscles? The hair? Re-capturing the star-crossed lovers trope that I
seem to love so much? (What can I say, I'm a Reylo.)

I don't even know where I'm going with this, just read it.
 Prologue

Modern day, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA

Everyone else hated him, but I never did.

Of course, being only in my early twenties, I was never alive during his lifetime—not during
the murders, the trial, his imprisonment, or his untimely death. I think the first mentioning of
his name in my presence was by a friend of mine in high school. Naturally, the black
population around here views him as a sort of Boogeyman, and this friend of mine was no
different. He spoke of him in a hushed whisper like someone in Europe might’ve the Black
Death. Much like a plague, he swept through their neighborhoods stealthily, leaving death in
his wake. And yet when I looked him up in the library, expecting a sinister facsimile of a man,
like a troll or goblin, I found only a Germanic sculpture of beauty. His eyes were dull and
looked impossibly sad. His hands seemed small and delicate, hardly the tools of destruction
expected of a multiple murderer. I was obsessed from day one.

They say finding out about Jeffrey Dahmer leads you down a cycle, where you’re curious at
first, then you slowly start to feel sympathetic. The sympathy becomes intermingled with
disgust, before you acquiesce to the fact that a man can be both evil and tragic, scarred yet
relatable. My intrigue started with how someone so unobtrusively human could commit acts
so unspeakable. It eventually led to where I am now… which, dare I say it, is in love.

A lot has changed for the community since Jeff was here. We’re a lot more open. I wish he
could experience it. I wish he could know a world where being a man who loves men is no
less shameful than being heterosexual. Sure, you still run into an occasional bigot, but they
get shouted down by most everyone.

I do have a boyfriend, and he knows I have an “unhealthy obsession” with Jeffrey. But what
even he will never know is just how far it’s gone.

His eyes haunt my dreams. His voice echoes through my subconscious mind now. I have
visions of meeting him on a street corner, down where the old 219 once stood. We talk, we
mingle in the crowd, we saddle up to the bar. I kiss him, and his lips are soft, and I rub my
nose into his slight stubble. I can smell his English Leather cologne. He kisses me back, first
on the lips, then he gets more daring, and I can feel his tongue against my pulse. I want him. I
want to show him that there is still a chance he can know love. I’ll lie still for him, I’ll let him
do whatever he wants. I feel my pants tighten, and as I let my eyes wander, I see that he, too,
has a bulge, and he knows I know.
He asks me if I want to be alone, and I ask myself if it’s worth the risk. He watches me
carefully as I think it over, his pale blue eyes growing dark under the overhead kaleidoscope.
He boldly runs his hand up my thigh and I shiver, desperate for us both to remove our
clothes. My heart drums along to the driving beat of the club, and he grins at me. And that’s
where the dreams cut off.

One of these days, I pray my dreams go further, just so I can know. Logically, I know they’re
not real, and that if they were, he would probably have kept me. I would’ve been another
victim. But nevertheless, I dream them. They feel so real, I swear, I lived them somehow.

The more I see him, hear him, and think about him, the more I’m convinced of it. It sounds
insane, but in my heart, I know: I was there somehow.

I knew Jeff. I held him. We made love.

Perhaps it wasn’t back then, when he was prowling the vibrating dance halls, keen on taking
someone home.

Perhaps it was another time, in another life, when things were much simpler.

Perhaps he met me, showed me mercy, and we, against all odds, fell in love.

Tenth Century, within modern day Latvia, against the Baltic Sea

His ship on the horizon was like the first crack in a glacier, high atop a mountain.

As he grew nearer, it was the fissure spreading, and by the time he ran ashore, it was the
inevitable plummet of the ice into the waters below.

Those he slayed were like the boats swept up in the tidal wave, and indeed, in the aftermath
of his raid, it was as if a force of nature had consumed all.

This force went by the name of Birger Vilulf, but was more commonly known as Ulfhjart,
because unlike many other a warrior, he did not just wear wolf’s hide—his ferocity and
callousness went down to the bone.

All knew that when this creature finally succumbed—certainly not in battle, as no one would
dare challenge him—that undoubtedly, he would be a feast for the Niðhöggr. No man so evil
would ever sit in Valhalla.

He came wearing a black wolf hide, a beast he had killed and skinned with his own two
hands, wielding both a sword and battle-axe. He had been trained in the art of death when
barely a teenager, by a blacksmith on a far-off island. His body had been honed by endless
war training, and bore the self-inflicted marks that an initiate into the clan of berserkir would
know well.
Birgir is fifteen. He has been asked to come to a high hill above the blacksmith’s shop at
dusk. The blacksmith meets him with a cord of wood and they stoke a bonfire. Out of a large
sack, he pulls out several items: a dagger, an axe, the hide of a wolf, a drinking horn, and
finally, the dismembered body of a goat. The hide of the goat has been peeled back from its
skull, the muscles gleam in the low firelight. It has been mostly gutted, however, when held
aloft proudly by the blacksmith, some stray entrails dangle from its desecrated body.

“What is this?” asks Birgir, very young and afraid. “Why have you brought these things?
Why have you brought me here?”

Without a word, the blacksmith stands, tosses him the dagger, and then sets upon him with the
axe. Birgir, being young and swift, is very agile, and dodges many a blow by virtue of this
alone. However, the ledge they are upon is small, and he comes perilously close to tumbling
off of it and over the fjord. His heart beats away in his small, slim chest like a shaman’s
drum, and the air in his ears is the whistling of a brummr being spun. Backed up against the
cold rock, his eyes glistening wet, his guts coiled into a knot, his bladder faltering in his tunic
pants, the blacksmith vaults at him, his eyes blazing and crazed, and he can only stage one
last desperate attempt at stabbing forth to save his life.

Birgir thought of this night often, so very, very long ago, and looked back on it with a sense
of pride. For it had been the night that he had become a man, and been embraced into the
ways of the ulfheðnar. He had sent that blade into the soft, meaty underside of his friend’s
elbow, and they had both screamed in pain and rage. He had thereby earned his first wolf, and
the insides of the goat that had once disgusted him had thus become his dinner. In the decades
that had transpired since, he had even feasted upon the insides of men, and just as hungrily.
The oath of the ulfheðnar was to only do so when one’s hamr was in that of a beast, which he
kept, however this did not detract from his pleasure.

Speaking of pleasures, he found that he had killed just about every man in this village. It was
time to take a conquest.

The first time Birgir had laid with a woman, he had been a young man. Having raised a
village and still in his wolf pelt, he had clutched a maiden by the neck and used his dagger to
free her from her clothes. He fondly remembered how in her state of terror, her breasts had
heaved from her exhalations. It had hardened his manhood to behold such a sight, and so he
had taken her. Other women he had not had to conquer by force, as his legend often preceded
him. He recalled another day when, after a night of slaying, the concubines of a dead king
had lined up to experience his body. One woman would place her supple lips around his shaft
and suck him heartily; another would then lie down in the grass and raise her haunches into
the air. He had taken them all with relish.

Still, he found that he enjoyed it more to take his lovers by force. He thus trudged through the
bloodied ruins of the village he had ripped asunder, seeking his reward. His keen ears
detected a small whimper, and so he trailed it.

Throwing down a hut’s door, he expected to lay eyes on a woman. How disappointed was he
to see a young man instead. In fact, this lowly creature, sniveling and shuddering in the dirt
of the hut he cowered in, was an adolescent. He looked to be the age Birgir was the night he
had been initiated.
He would make do.

Birgir then snatched the lad from his puddle of piss and tears and set upon him. With one
hand around the pathetic worm’s neck, he extracted himself from his trousers. Before the
poor thing could express another whimper, he buried himself into him up to the hilt. He
loosened his grip only slightly so that he could be accommodated down the lad’s slim gullet.
Birgir then thrust in and out of him as if committing a kill. Typically, this was when the
warrior would close his eyes and savor the sensation. But something made him keep them
open this time.

Thus, his steely blue eyes set upon those of the youth he was violating. As the pathetic
creature’s throat constricted around his length like a serpent filling its belly, its dirty face was
drenched with tears. The youth had disassociated out of his mind, and was somewhere far, far
away. As his conqueror was a wolf, he was a lamb, trembling and anticipating a gutting. His
chin was drooped, his eyes were locked shut, a vein was pulsating in his forehead. His neck
muscles were as tight as the skin stretched in a drum frame. His hands were clenched and his
fingers were hooked into the dirt like a hawk’s talons into its kill. Everywhere Birgir’s eyes
darted, there was the strain of monumental exertion, but not of might, but of terror. The prey
was mentally preparing for the end of its life, counting the moments it still had left to breathe.
As a result, his tongue lay dry in the bottom of his mouth, his cheeks sucking not flesh, but
for air. As if feeling Birgir’s eyes, his now opened, and they were less windows to the soul
and more bottomless pits of despair.

“Stop.”

Birgir clutched the lower jaw of the young man and disentangled himself from him. He then
snatched him to his feet, standing on tip-toe, so he could almost stare straight into his face.
For what seemed like an age, the sniveling thing panted loudly in the silence of the hut, his
face dirt-covered, tear-streaked, etched deeply with confusion. Birgir only scowled in return.

“You’re not very good.”

“I’m… I’m sorry—”

Birgir dropped him back to the ground and he collapsed in a heap, not looking up.

“I should kill you.”

The youth began to tremble even harder, arching his back and covering his head. It elicited a
strange feeling in Birgir, one he hadn’t felt in many, many years, one he thought himself
thoroughly incapable of.

Mercy.

He kicked the youth in his flank, toppling him over onto his back and crying out in pain. He
then snatched him up yet again, only this time, he tossed him over his shoulder.

“Where are you taking me?” the young man asked, barely above a whisper.
Birgir did not answer. The scrawny little ragr would know soon enough.
 One ᛟᚾᛖ
Chapter Summary

In the 10th century, we get to know Trygve Helvig, who is being held captive by Birgir
Vilulf, a one-man wave of death sweeping across Viking colonies and slaughtering all he
sees. He is only fifteen years old and is terrified of the situation he's trapped in. Since he
can't escape, he better make the best of it as much as he can.

In modern day Milwaukee, an unnamed young man struggles with his feelings of
closeness to the city's version of Birgir, Jeffrey Dahmer.

Chapter Notes

A few things to note:

I'm sorry that I forgot to define ragr in the last chapter. This essentially means a coward,
and also has the connotation of being a homosexual. It's like the Old Norse equivalent of
being a sissy boy.

In this chapter, we have veslingr, which means about the same thing, a small, unmanly
man. We also have níðingr, which means a horrible person.

If I miss anything, please feel free to let me know!

Finally, happy Lughnasadh! That's not Old Norse, it's Celtic, because I'm mean and have
to confuse you. Just relax and go eat some bread.

Tenth century Europe upon the Baltic Sea, approaching Danmark

On the sea, there were several things necessary to do in order to survive.

The boat was small, only a færing, meaning that it wasn’t designed to cross open seas. As
such, Birgir kept it tight to the coastline, which was just as well, as he could easily dock it,
conceal it, and head inland to wreak havoc. He was strong enough on his own to maneuver it
as its only rower, but having the veslingr with him now made things easier. It also was
advantageous to dock and send him ashore to gather supplies for the two of them; he had
made it clear that any escape attempt would be met with death, so he knew the little bastard
wouldn’t run away. And it also proved to be quite the motivation when it came to their
quality. The first time he had returned with a horn of mead, Birgir could have kissed him.
Sometimes in port, the mood would strike, and Birgir would haul him from a half sleep from
back by the rudder and toss him up against a tree. He would then order the veslingr to fondle
him until he was satiated. This could be done with few threats; it seemed the youth was
getting used to it.

Within three days, they had reached the port of Hedeby, and the plan there was to find a
larger ship. The night before, they had a lengthy discussion of how docking in such a large
settlement was going to go.

“You are to go into the market with this,” Birgir explained, handing the lad a portion of
smoked fish, “and barter with a clothing merchant for a Skjoldehamn hood. If it is not
enough, you are to give him two silver coins. Not one more, not one less.” Birgir then tossed
him a small pouch of coins. He did not explain where he had obtained them, and wasn’t
asked.

“Once you have done this, and brought it back to me, and only then… will we get food and a
place to stay for the night.”

Staring rapt into the bag of silver, Birgir caught the lad’s jaw and glared down into his eyes.
“Remember: run, and I find you, and I skin you alive.”

Modern day Milwaukee, Wisconsin

I don’t know why I keep coming here. It’s like I’m drawn here against my will. It’s almost as if
he’s calling out to me, from wherever he may be.

The building’s gone. It was torn down not long after he was caught. The site holds a sort of
solemn, dark holiness to me. It’s like stumbling upon the shrine of a god who’s long since
been forgotten. Only here, nobody’s forgotten Jeffrey.

It’s stupid to keep coming back here. I was almost jumped the last time. Someone had been
coming out of one of the surviving buildings of the Oxford apartments, and boy, had he
looked angry.

“Sick of you freaks,” he’d said. “Ever since that Netflix shit. People still live here. Get the
fuck out!”

His voice being so loud, it had carried, and before long, three more gangsters had been on
the scene, glaring at me.

I shouldn’t put it that way—they’re just people. None of them asked for Jeff’s crimes. They
might have even known some of those families, or at least known the residents of the old
building. I don’t know.

It made my boyfriend mad at me. He said it’s one thing to find the case interesting, but it’s
another to actually go there and reopen old wounds. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m going too
far with this thing.

He doesn’t know that I’ve been writing a letter. A letter I’m going to be sending to Lionel.
If he knew that, I think he’d actually kill me.

How ironic.

Tenth century port of Hedeby, Danmark

“Who is your master, boy?”

The barrel-chested merchant stared ponderously down at Trygve, who had attempted to hand
him one of Birgir’s coins. He had taken it, looked at it with a measure of intrigue, and had
then asked this question.

“W-why do you ask?” stuttered Trygve.

“Because these coins are from Normandy. You don’t see these much in this day and age.”

Swallowing hard, Trygve only said that he had only just met his master, and they had yet to
speak about his past. With a shrug, the merchant had then acquiesced, and handed him the
hood.

Beaming, Trygve had graciously accepted it, and had been on his way. If not for who he had
ran into next, things would have progressed exactly how the old níðingr had wanted.

However, someone had seen the transaction over his shoulder.

“Oh, little one!”

Stuck walking behind a slow oxen cart, no doubt bringing freight to port, Trygve had glanced
around before realizing he was her point of interest.

Standing on a street corner appeared to be a tall, slim, swarthy woman in a frilled skirt and
corset. Her eyes sparkled with mischief out from behind her curls as she seductively ran her
hands up and down her body. She bent over slightly, and if only by the grace of God did her
tits not tumble out of the top of her corset.

Trygve, immediately enthralled, completely forgot everything of what he was doing, and its
importance. The next thing he knew, he had his slim, pale face buried between those beautiful
tits.

“Is this your first time?” she cooed to him, massaging his back, lightly grazing her French-
tipped nails up and down his spine. “Don’t be shy, now.”

Trygve could not answer, because he was nursing. He suckled her teats so hungrily that they
were soon fully erect and saturated with spit. She then spread open her thighs, exposing her
warm and inviting slit. Not knowing much of what else to do, Trygve stood and pulled his
pants down. His little cock was standing at full mast and was dribbling shamelessly. He
straddled her on the cot and began to rub it against her, and she began to softly moan. He was
just trying to figure out how he was supposed to insert it into her when a scream and a crash
came from downstairs.
His mind reeling, he barely began to register what might have happened when who should
appear but Birgir in the doorway. His teeth were exposed, the gums and lips pulled fully
back, and his hands were balled into fists, causing his arms to bulge with veins and flush with
sweat. At some point in his rage, he had ripped apart his tunic shirt, causing his chest,
crisscrossed with scars of old battle wounds, to be bare for all to see.

Maybe it was the situation he currently found himself in, but Trygve was absently aware that
the sight of his captor and conqueror made his cock twitch.

“You… you dare abandon me for some cheap harlot,” he snarled, jabbing his finger at them
both.

In a tremulous voice, Trygve attempted to apologize, but was interrupted by the woman’s
laugh.

“I wasn’t cheap!” she tittered. “I believe he gave me one of your silver coins.”

Snorting, Birgir unbelievably cracked a smile. “Very well. That means I have paid for you.”

In long, stomping strides, Birgir came towards the bed, his calves bulging like his arms. He
walked like a predator, muscles rippling under his skin, circling it twice before coming to rest
at its edge. He then tugged down his pants and exposed himself. Trygve was by now used to
his length and girth, but the woman wasn’t. Her eyes went wide and she beamed.

“Rich in the flesh as much as in the pocket! Come here, sir.”

With that, Birgir mounted her, driving his impressive cock inside her with one swift stab. He
fucked like he fought, without mercy, without pause, while Trygve looked on covetously. The
woman squealed out her delight as her large, dark breasts bounced and she arched her back.

Suddenly, without a spare thought, Birgir’s hand shot straight out to his side and he seized
Trygve’s cock. With barely a moment to shriek out his surprise, Birgir began to masturbate
the younger man with much relish.

“You aren’t ready to partake in her!” he roared jubilantly. “But that does not mean you can’t
mark your claim!”

Trygve began to feel a pressure building up in both his groin and lower belly. Had he had a
father, or a brother, or any stable male figure in his young life that had explained, he would
have known what was happening in his body. He had only seen a man and woman laying
together once, and that had been on accident, when his mother had sent him with food to his
uncle’s. All he had remembered, as this had been years prior, was his uncle having his face
between her tits as his cock had moved in and out of her. Thus, when he had been invited to
lay with this woman, he had mirrored what he had once saw. But now, Birgir was
manipulating his organ the way he would demand Trygve do to his much larger one. He now
knew, by these experiences, that it would finish when he left his seed upon the ground. Still,
he had no idea that this action was accompanied by orgasm.
His heart raced in his small chest, and he began to feel light-headed. It was a zenith,
something akin to what Birgir experienced when changing his hamr. Still, nothing could have
prepared him for the explosiveness of what this trance would lead him to. Without warning,
he felt his calves, backside, and lower back tighten. He looked down at his cock, only to
witness the astounding sight of his seed flying out of him, landing upon the woman’s face.
She cracked a smile, then she arched her back and let out a shout of pleasure. Birgir then
followed swiftly afterwards with his own growl and a tensing of his abdomen. He let go of
Trygve’s cock, stood, and pulled up his trousers.

With a cackle, he turned to Trygve and remarked, “Felt mighty different from a piss, didn’t
it?”
Then, as if remembering something, he yanked down his trousers once more.

As Trygve watched in amazement, Birgir then urinated over the legs and belly of the woman.
All she did in response to this was giggle.
 Two ᛏᚹᛟ
Chapter Summary

In the modern day, we learn more about the unnamed narrator.

In the realm of the gods, we learn of Loki's challenge to Odin.

And in the Viking era, we see a deepening of the relationship between Birger and
Trygve.

Chapter Notes

A lot going on in this chapter! Don't worry, it will eventually make sense.

Also, I realized when checking my plot notes that I've been spelling Birger's name
wrong. You might say it doesn't matter, but it's a word in Old Norse that means "keeper."
(See what I did there?)

We're going to see a few gods in this story, although less than Marchenhaft. And keep in
mind, this happens in the same universe as that story and it might intersect at some
point.

Enjoy!

Modern day Milwaukee, Wisconsin

My home life as a child had been an awful lot like Jeff’s.

I was the youngest of four children, and my brother and two sisters were significantly older
than me. When I was born, they were all in high school. My mom was in her mid-forties, my
dad fifty. I don’t fault them for being absent; by then, they were feeling worn out.

My sister was a terror; honestly, she was probably a psychopath. Once my brother, the oldest,
graduated, and the second oldest, my other sister, moved away, I was fresh meat. She hated
me. She had been the youngest, the baby, before I had come along, unplanned by all
accounts. That was all it took for her to bear a vendetta against me. She made my suffering
her personal goal in life.

My brother went to a nice college across the country. The older of my two sisters got married.
My second sister got an abortion and hooked on heroin… Not that there’s anything wrong
with either of these things, but somehow, my family defended her over me. I was innocent, I
was provoking no one. And yet I became the family scapegoat.

I remember one day so clearly, because it’s been seared into my memory forever.

I was sixteen, and for whatever reason, I wasn’t in school that day. Blame it on something
stupid, like a PTA Day or a minor holiday. My sister, who was in her mid-twenties and was
not motivated to work or do much of anything, demanded I head to the store to buy her
cigarettes. She never provided me with any cash, by the way, it always came out of my
savings. But I said, whatever, and went. I walked three miles there, then three miles back.
Before she even let me inside, my sister had stood in the doorway, demanding I show her the
purchase to make sure I’d gotten her brand. I’d complied, and gotten them thrown back into
my face and screamed at. So, another three miles to walk.

I got back home again and found my sister on the couch, eating Chinese takeout leftovers and
watching some trash daytime TV. I tossed her the smokes, and was just mounting the stairs
when she had begun shrieking.

“These aren’t my cigs! These aren’t my cigs again, you moron, you fucking idiot! How many
times do I have to tell you? No menthols, no menthols ever!”

I’d felt my back tense, and my heart start racing. I was bracing for her to light one and put it
out on the back of my neck, which she’d done previously. Rising up from below that dread
was another emotion, however, something quite unusual for me. See, I had always been the
type of person to be the flight, or the freeze. But on that day, after walking my ass off, my
aching feet, her shrill screams, something had just… snapped in me.

I felt rage.

It felt so fluid, like a dance, when I had about-faced, stomped back down the stairs, stormed
right up to her, and slapped her across the face. I remember her smeared lipstick, the
confusion in her eyes, how she had looked down at the pack of smokes in her hands blankly.

I had stared back, feeling my breathing, hard and ragged like a beast, my fists balled up, my
eyes bulging out of my head. I wanted her to smart-mouth me some more, so I could hit her
again. I wanted to hit her in the stomach, to give her a black eye, to keep hitting her. I didn’t
want to stop. I suddenly had uncorked almost a decade of pent-up aggression and anger, and
it had no way of dissipating.

But her only response was a gruff “fine,” then she had lit a cigarette and kept watching TV.
No climax. No release. Nothing.

That was also the day I had started cutting.

In the end, it had taken every last ounce of strength to get out of that house alive.

Now I know what you’re thinking—Jeff was never abused. Jeff never had any sort of conflict
with his brother. Jeff never felt any violent impulses towards his family.
Yes, I acknowledge all these things.

But all the same, I was incredibly lonely. I felt like I was never truly seen. I never drank as a
teenager, because I swore, I’d never touch any sort of illicit substance and ruin my life. That
was my sister’s scene. She ended up overdosing not long after that, before I graduated, before
I tried to go to college before collapsing under the weight of my unresolved pain. My parents
never said it directly, but I knew that they blamed me for losing their little darling. I cut
contact with them after I dropped out my sophomore year of uni. I only occasionally talk to
my other siblings. Things are cordial, but we’re strangers, really.

While I do love my boyfriend, in the deepest recesses of my soul, he doesn’t truly know me.
He couldn’t understand how I almost killed my sister that day. I wouldn’t want to scare him
by telling him the story.

But Jeff would.

Ásgarðr

Upon Hliðskjálf sits the All-Father, and with his one eye, he beholds the encroachment of
Loki.

“Loki, God of Mischief,” asks He of Many Names, “why have you come to this hall today?”

With a devilish smile, Loki sweeps back his long, red hair. “I have a proposition!”

You see, Loki knows that Óðinn commands all berserkers, and their brethren, the wolf-coats.
He knows that his ravens, Huginn and Muninn, down to Miðgarðr to spy on the affairs of
men. He knows that the terrible Ulfheðinn, Birger Vilulf, is likely not destined for Valhalla,
as he has killed innocent children. And so, he wants to see if he can pluck the strings of fate.

“I know you keep your eye pealed over every man who fights using the art of skipta hömum.
What do you think of Birger Vilulf, All-Father?”

Óðinn thought carefully before he next began speaking.

“Hmmm… This man is wicked. He has killed many undeserving of his vengeance. And yet,
he is hamrammr, skilled in the way of changing form. We likely will have to convene a
special counsel to decide his fate.”

With a twinkle in his eye, Loki suggested, “What if, by some act of magic, I was able to
soften the man’s heart? What if the thick ice encasing it were to thaw, All-Father?”

Pausing to think yet again, the one-eyed old god smiled.

“Interesting proposition, Trickster… Very well. You may see if you cannot soften the beast.”
Tenth century port of Hedeby, Danmark

After the incident with the working woman, little else was exchanged between Birger and
Trygve. Birger returned to the boat to stow away his hood and coins, then proceeded off to a
tavern, where he soon was roaring drunk. A man who also must have been drunk—must
have, in order to accost a man with a reputation as foul as Birger’s—was soon bleeding upon
the floor. Thereby asked to leave the tavern, and not politely, Birger then returned to the boat
to sleep the liquor off.

For the first time in several days, it seemed not to bother his captor if Trygve wandered away,
so that he did. He had never been to such a large city, and the prospect of exploring it excited
him. Indeed, there was much to see. Within the market place were trades being sold the likes
he had never beheld before. He had heard that Erik the Red had begun a colony on a far-off
island, but as far as he knew, that was the furthest the people of his lands had traveled. The
market soon dispelled this—once he found a trader who spoke his tongue, he marveled at the
distances people had been. Here he held a piece of silk fabric from the people of the Song
Dynasty; he feasted his eyes on orange and blue gemstones from India; and he sampled a
kebab from the land of the Turks. The town was buzzing with activity, the voices of people
speaking all manner of languages, and the air was awash with the scent of woodsmoke, the
pitch of boats, the sea from one direction, and the ubiquitous stench of outhouses from the
other. It was almost too much for him, too much for his eyes, his ears, his mind. He couldn’t
get enough.

Once he had dallied for what he felt was long enough, he returned to the boat to find Birger
still sleeping. He decided that it had, indeed, been a very long day, so he found some cot
space by him. Just as he felt he would drift off, he felt something so foreign, so utterly alien,
that it nearly made him leap to his feet.

Birger was gently stroking his hair.

Whenever the man would lay hands on him, it was customarily rough, painful, tight. This
was so different. It was so unlike him. His body tensed in case it suddenly changed and he
would have to flee. But nothing did change. In fact, things only got weirder… and more
pleasurable.

Another one of Birger’s large, rough hands slipped under his shirt and began to lazily stroke
his belly. It rose, his untrimmed nails and calloused fingertips twisting around one of
Trygve’s nipples. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding and tried relaxing into it. Once he
did, Birger’s hand dropped to his thigh, squeezing it. His hand was so large that it covered it,
and then it slipped between his legs. For the second time that day, Trygve’s small cock was
handled by Birger, this time through his pants. He moaned in spite of himself, enjoying the
attention. It, however, did not last long. In his sleep, Birger was rolling his large body over on
top of him. He tensed yet again, not wanting to be trapped under the large man, yet found him
still to be gentle. Birger then began to rut his much larger cock, now hardened, against
Trygve’s, through both of their clothes. Trygve’s head fell back and his hands wrapped
around Birger’s broad shoulders. He allowed Birger to rub their cocks together, and felt his
joy leaking.

He was unsure how long this moment lasted. He was unsure if he or Birger ever climaxed.
All he knew was that something in the drink had brought out of a side to the warrior few had
ever known. He savored it, as if it were one of the treats from far off lands he had had at the
market.

At some point, they both fell asleep, Trygve cradled under Birger’s body preciously.
 Three ᚦᚱᛖᛖ
Chapter Summary

Trygve meets Birger's ship crew, including Svend, a revolting fellow who intends to
keep him as his little pet. He also learns that Birger intends to take them all to Ireland for
something and won't tell them why.

Chapter Notes

For the little weasel who shows up here just to complain that there's too much rape, well,
now there's even MORE rape. Seriously, Vikings did a lot of raping.

This is a relatively short chapter because not much happens. Lol simple as that. But we
do get to see Trygve start to question his feelings towards Birger, so it counts for
something.

Trygve awoke sometime later to the pounding of Birger’s fist against the door of the bilge. To
his surprise, he was met not just by his face, but by the faces of several more men, at least
six. They all looked rough and mean, but none bore a face as craggy as his.

“Wh-who are these men?” Trygve stuttered.

The men all chuckled ominously amongst themselves. Birger, who was extremely hungover
and thus, in an even worse mood than usual, muttered the word eldhúsfífl under his breath
and snatched Trygve by the hair.

“GET UP!” he roared into the youth’s face, electing to ignore his question.

To this command, Trygve sealed his lips and simply followed along meekly behind them. The
men headed down a thin strip of dirt road dockside, finally stopping before an impressive
ship. It was a knarr built for long sea travel with a mast over two men high, constructed of
strong, dark wood boards, and a long bow that rose into the sky and ended in a fierce point.

“This the one?” asked one of the men to Birger, who simply nodded. With that, they headed
off, presumably to fetch supplies.

Without warning, Birger suddenly snatched Trygve under each arm and roughly tossed him
into the water. Being so caught off-guard made him inhale a mouthful of water and he
emerged at the surface coughing and sputtering, shivering from the cold.
“What are you doing?!” Trygve shrieked, for the first time displaying anger in Bigir’s
direction. Unphased, Birger simply sniffed down at him derisively.

“You need to learn to swim.”

Still fuming at the gall of the larger man, Trygve glared up at him. “Why? You’ve never even
told me where we’re go—”

“SWIM! NOW!”

The only method that sprang to mind immediately in Trygve’s mind was the breast-stroke,
which Trygve’s uncle had taught him how to do when small. To placate the beast, he decided
he would do that, taking off down the canal adjacent the ships. He stole a glance at the
shoreline to see Birger, walking parallel to him, blankly staring. He couldn’t read the man’s
mood on his good days, let alone now, so he simply kept going. There was an island ahead
just before the canal forked inland, so he made that his target. His thin chest heaved and his
delicate arms pinwheeled, forging on as fast as he could comfortably go through the murky,
freezing water. He thought of his legs like roots of a vast tree weathering a windstorm and
ignored their dull ache. He desperately wanted to impress Birger, who despite his current
cruelty and apathy for him, Trygve had seen beneath, beheld a very different man. He was
capable of a much calmer temperament; dare he say, even affection. Like a man seeking
warmth in a blizzard, Trygve longed to see that side of him again, and would go to great
lengths to coax it back out of him.

Finally, at long last, Trygve reached the island and curled into a ball upon its mud shore. His
lungs burned, his heart galloped, and his body sang in agony. Not wanting to keep being
licked by the cold surf, though, he dug his fingernails into the silt and with the last ounces of
his strength, hoisted himself two lengths of his body upwards. There, he finally collapsed,
shivering, gut wrenching, eyes stinging with sand. Yet when he stole a glance back towards
Birger, he had managed a small, toothless smile, and that was enough to chase the pain and
cold out of Trygve’s small, bony vessel.

Speaking of vessel’s, he also faintly registered a familiar ship coast in, its bow coming
perilously close to his feet. Birger removed his linen shirt and sprung into the water. As he
swam, the bones of his back slashed by each other like dueling swords. Trygve, teetering on
the edge of passing out from exhaustion, barely registered Birger emerging halfway from the
water to drag him back in. He felt his head nestled into the crook of Birger’s shoulder, and
instinctively wrapped his arms around his upper half. He climbed the ship’s bow one-armed
and then tossed Trygve like cargo onto its deck. Trygve, shivering, nevertheless looked up
onto the glory of Birger’s frame. His shoulders were impossibly broad, and his abdominals
ripped like mountains and valleys. His nipples stood out like daggers, and his hips jutted out
like cliffs. As his trousers were wet, Trygve could just make out the outline of his large cock
against his thick, handsome thigh.

Birger walked by Trygve nonchalantly, not even sparing him a look. By contrast, another of
the crew, a thinner yet still muscular man with a shaved head and a thin braid, grinned
predatorily down at the youth.
“Is this one yours alone?” he asked Birger as he took a bench at an oar back towards the
stern.

“No,” was all he replied.

“I won’t be long,” chortled the man, who then proceeded to hoist Trygve up and over his
shoulder, carrying him down into the bilge, and he was too exhausted to protest.

Trygve emerged not long afterwards, somehow feeling even colder, and much more
miserable. His bottom was too sore to sit on, so he leaned against the stern with a frown.

Birger noticed his reappearance, and smiled only to know that he could take a rest. He forced
Trygve upon the bench and thrust the oar into his hands, then went up to the bow.

“Since it was asked of me, and not all of you were present,” he announced, his eyes burning
towards Trygve’s, who did not meet them, “we are headed to the land of Druids. It will take
five days to row, and then two days to walk to our destination.”

Then, as if to emphasize the point, he walked directly back towards Trygve, and for a
moment, the youth thought he might pause and speak directly to him. But he instead walked
just behind him, standing at the stern and facing the water.

“There’s no backing out now.”

This is going to be a grand adventure, I can’t wait, Trygve thought sardonically.

 Four ᚠᛟᚢᚱ
Chapter Summary

A stranger onboard the ship entices Trygve to explore his feelings for Birger, whereas
Birger lets his axe do the talking.

Chapter Notes

Funny how this all worked out: the Loki MCU series is back, I'm now cultivating a
relationship with Loki, and now Loki is fucking around with my characters. I can't
escape this bastard.

Sorry for not updating in forever. Life is being kinda shit to me. But I'm back writing, at
any rate.

The crew—Trygve with his sore ass included—rowed through the night at Birger’s behest,
stopping only at sunrise to rest for a few hours. They did not seem to mind, however, for they
all were hearty men. Trygve, on the other hand, was completely exhausted; his arms,
shoulders, and lower back all burned like the orb cresting over the horizon. Since he was the
only one who couldn’t seem to sleep, he was the only one who bore witness to that morning’s
strange event.

A seabird, with nary a squawk to announce itself, landed gently upon the mast. Before his
eyes, Trygve saw it expand and grow into a naked man with very long, red hair. The man also
had tattoos marking every inch of his chest and torso in a striking blue. Trygve also realized
that despite his lack of muscles in comparison, the man was also as large as Birger, if not
larger. When he realized Trygve was looking, he playfully raised a finger to his lips to shush
him.

“Fear not, young friend,” whispered down the man. “Think of this as just… a little trick.”

With these words, the man shimmied down the mast and crept to an empty rowing bench.
There, he set his head down and closed his eyes, acting as if he had always been present.

Having only allowed them an hour or so of rest, Birger rose from his sleep, stretched, and
then snatched up his horn. He woke them all with a mighty trumpet, and declared that they
should get moving.

Neither Birger nor the other men seemed to question their guest.
Their next rest was a few hours later, when they pulled up to port to find food and drink.
Trygve hung back, his sore back still so intense that it made him nauseous. That’s when the
stranger met him.

“Does something trouble you, friend?”

Having spied the stranger’s secret, it was awkward at first to open up to him. But the longer
Birger was not in Trygve’s presence to intimidate, the more he felt secure to share.

“I never asked to come along on this journey to… wherever on Earth he’s going. He just
decided to keep me rather than kill me.”

“Do you feel guilty?”

Trygve stopped to consider this. “I guess a little. But I’ve never questioned what the fates
have had in store. Not ever since my father perished.”

The stranger beckoned him to continue.

“Oh, it was just so stupid. He went out to hunt, and he never came home. The closest
explanation I’ve ever gotten is that he was felled by a stag’s antlers. It’s just so…
underwhelming. That was when I was small, so I barely remember him.”

The stranger then posed an odd question.

“Do you hold up Birger as a replacement for your father?”

It stopped Trygve in his tracks. He’d never thought of this possibility before. As much as he
disliked Birger, he also felt desperate for his approval, for pride to be bestowed from him. But
then there had been the other afternoon, when they had seemingly made love, and that had
complicated his feelings for him. He truly wasn’t sure how his feelings stood.

To this, the stranger put on a wry smile. “You seem very confounded, friend. Perhaps we
should go see him.”

Despite Trygve’s protests, the stranger walked onward. He seemed to know exactly where
Birger and the others were. True to Trygve’s suspicions, they were getting drunk. It seemed
Birger’s thirst for ale was as mighty as his thirst for blood and violence.

When they approached the group, Birger at first did not even notice Trygve, but the other
man had. The only thing known of him was that his name was Svend, and Trygve hated him
even more than he did Birger.

Birger finally noticed Trygve and, merrily drunk, invited him to eat with the rest of the crew.
He practically thrust a large piece of meat into his hands and pulled up a seat. If anything,
Birger embodied the Viking virtue of generosity well, as even at port, meats were expensive.
Unfortunately, said seat was right next to Svend. The stranger, unnoticed, floated in the
background, yet kept his eyes focused on the table. As Trygve attempted to try some
vegetables, which he deemed better to digest, he was distracted by Svend’s hand on his knee.

“We both know you’re not very hungry,” Svend slurred, “so why not come back to the ship
with me?”

Wordlessly, Trygve brushed the man’s hand away and went back to eating. He could, indeed,
stomach some vegetables. What he couldn’t stomach was the drunken advances of Svend,
who was thinner and less attractive than Birger.

Wait… had he really thought that? Was he reciprocating lustful thoughts in Birger’s
direction? Was this more than just a kidnapper and his kidnappee?

In confusion at his own racing thoughts, Trygve’s eyes flitted around the room, landing on
the stranger. In response, his eyes gleamed green.

The next thing he knew, Svend had a tight grip around his cock.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” Svend slurred more, his voice showing its first tints of
anger. “Come back with me to the ship. That’s an order.”

Trygve gulped and his stomach felt sourer than ever. He looked desperately towards Birger,
who was tossing back more ale. Suddenly, Svend took his boldest move yet, and leaned in
close and sent his wet, disgusting tongue into Trygve’s ear. In pure instinct, he swatted him in
the face as he might a bothersome fly. This made Svend react in rage and snatch Trygve
across the front of the neck with one hand and place the tip of a dagger to his pulse with the
other.

“You will come with me!” Svend roared, startling both the crew and other patrons of the
tavern.

Trygve noticed that the stranger was leaning against the back wall, looking larger and with
his original flowing red hair. His eyes, a brilliant green, shined noonday bright.

Birger set down his empty ale glass with a thud and rose from his chair. He wiped the foam
off his lips with the back of his hand. With that same hand, he then drew his own dagger.

“Unhand that boy,” he growled at Svend.

In the back of the tavern, the stranger’s head now touched the ceiling, and his eyes were
glowing straight out of his head.

Svend, undeterred, glared back at Birger. “Since when did he become your sole property?”

Birger took a step forward. He squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. It made him
look twice as large as Svend. He began tromping forward.

“I’m paying for the ale you’re drinking. I rustled you up like a hog from the slop it lay in.
Where were you at last port? A beggar asking for coins. You dare accuse me of stealing
property?”
With a snarl and with the muscles of his neck taut as the ropes of a ship, Birger bellowed
down at Svend, a wolf’s full fury in his eyes.

“I AM NO BEGGAR. I AM NO THIEF. I WEAR WOLFSKIN AND MY CLAN FIGHTS IN

THE NAME OF THE ALL-FATHER!”

Svend was shrinking back, and many in the tavern were fleeing. Few looked upon a warrior
so versed in berserkergang and lived. Their rage was legendary, as was their ability to kill.
Some even said that they were impervious to all weapons. He puffed out his chest yet again,
and reached behind his back, causing his simple shirt to tear in several places. From behind
him, his fingers deftly slipped into the holster on his belt. He removed his skeggøx, its handle
carved with the fearsome thurizaz rune, and ran the blade across his tongue, it immediately
springing forth blood, and he grinned a red smile. Trygve looked up in awe, having never
witnessed Birger kill despite the circumstances he had found him, and glanced to Svend,
whose eyes were the size of the plates they had eaten from. Trembling like a knarrträd, Svend
foolishly put up his arms as a shield.

There were then three cracks: two the sound of the blade passing through Svend’s arms, and
the third the sound of the blade going into the front of his head. Birger then twisted the
handle of the axe slightly and yanked it free from the skull of his fallen foe. He licked it once
more before placing it back into his holster. Defiantly, he glared at the rest of the crew, and,
finding no protest, he turned and walked out of the tavern, leaving Svend’s corpse where it
had fallen.

Once aboard the ship, the stranger was back to normal, and Birger had Trygve’s arm in his
grip.

“Start rowing!” he commanded his crew. “I will soon join you.”

With that, he hoisted Trygve up and over his shoulder. The youth was both terrified and held
a sense of triumph. Tossed down onto a pile of grains, Birger then began the second part of
that day’s violence.

Trygve tasted blood, and at first, he assumed it was Birger’s from licking his blade. But only
when the older man’s mouth withdrew from his did he realize, Birger had sunk his wolfen
teeth into his lower lip. Said teeth then also grazed Trygve’s throat in several places, then one
of his sensitive nipples. Birger dug his fingers into the remnants of his shirt and shred it to
ribbons, and Trygve beamed up at his mountainous chest. He only had moments to admire it
when Birger was then tearing off the pants below it. His axe, still bloodied by Svend’s body
and brains, thudded dully next to them. He began to grind his stupendous cock against
Trygve’s belly before forcing open his legs. Putting his knees under his body, he began
impaling Trygve as he twisted and writhed with tears running down his face. It hurt, yes, but
in a different way than it had with Svend. This pain felt less like a violation and more like an
initiation. He realized then that the pain was what helped Birger fight, it elicited his rage.
Here and now, this pain was to initiate them both into something more, something equally as
clandestine and sacred.

Birger’s broad hands gripped each cheek of Trygve’s ass and spread them so he could thrust
deeper. Trygve faintly felt the warm flesh of his balls slapping him, and it brought him joy
amongst the torture. It was a sweet torture, knowing he would be ripped to pieces, knowing
he would be twice as sore for the following day, and not giving it a care. He was being torn
asunder and unmade, then remade by the power of Birger. It would be like Baldr when he
finally returned after Ragnarök to sit upon his slain father’s grave: everything had been
destroyed, so that everything could begin anew.

With a husky grunt, Birger’s abs tightened, and he came. Not one for lingering, he sheathed
his weapon and left Trygve to his bed upon the sack of grain. He rolled onto his side,
knowing he was bleeding, knowing he was in an immense amount of pain, and yet wept with
a strange relief.

Killing Svend had proved one thing to Trygve: Birger loved him. Thanks to Loki.
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