Archive of Our Own ^beta

Five struggles to recall where he is or how he got there, a concerning trend as of late.

The man’s usual pangs are few, but his lean limbs are too heavy, and he can barely lift his shaggy head. His brain is in a tangle. It’s only winding tighter. And he’s growing worried about why he’s lying on a gilded table. Incense stings his eyes, or maybe it’s the blinding candlelight. Either way, he can’t focus for long.

He squints against the glare, scanning the unfamiliar room for a clue to his whereabouts.

Shadows flicker in the periphery and, as they draw near, they form into hags wearing crowns of thorns and beads of bone. Their withered faces are a haunting vision of white lead, kohl, and crimson gore. It’s as if the corpses of the Apocalypse have finally come to collect his wayward soul. A splattering of poor wretches who must’ve followed him once upon a time, through the ages, always asking why he lived and not them. 

I had little choice in the matter, he tries to say before his mind meanders.

As the shades close in, he finds his thoughts turning to Klaus. His home. His heart. “You always keep me grounded, amore mio,” he murmurs, the Italian endearment a bittersweet reminder of whom he loves most.

The jagged edges of the present moment soften while Five imagines Klaus centuries in the future, summoning him through the veil between life and death. In his fantasy, Klaus stands, older, maybe wiser, definitely weirder, chanting, possibly glowing, hands extended in welcome. A thousand years. An absurd idea, yet it persists.

With V's book committed to memory, front to back, every word, every phrase, he'll rewrite history. He'll prevent Ben's death, that agonising wound which never heals. He must avert the Apocalypse — the catastrophic event that stole away his family. He can return to Luther's awkward strength, Allison's confidence, Diego's endearing foolishness, Klaus' humour, Ben's intellect, and Vanya's music. The smell of Mom's cookies and Pogo's pipe. Perhaps most importantly, he'll rescue his sorely missed séance from the worst sorts of demons. He wants to hear them laugh again, to protect them forever.

Five has unfinished business to attend to, vast and sprawling, which stretches across space and time. But for now, all he can do is breathe in the stench of decay 4,000 miles away. The sour tang of blood and ash.

He watches cinders snake through the air, just out of reach. Each ember is fleeting, much like his family's faces — impossible to grasp. The taste of failure lingers on his tongue, bitter as unripe fruit. Memories of home drip like venom, each drop a splash of sickening pain in his chest. The air around him seemed to thicken with his despair, drawing attention like a beacon cutting through the fog.

A hush ripples through the ghoulish figures as a new presence slithers into the room, predatory and perfumed.

She snaps her fingers once, and the hags disperse, giving her a wide berth. The emerging individual possesses a lacquered, surgical appearance, coupled with a mouth resembling a gash in a perfect mask. Pearls coil around her throat, and her hand, gloved yet protruding red-tipped fingernails like talons, reaches to brush away a tear.

The gesture is alarmingly maternal.

Five recoils, or at least he tries; his body nominally stirs. His mind screamed to run, but his limbs responded with the sluggish weight of a nightmare paralysed by the rising fear.

The witch gives a smile that almost splits her cheeks.

“My apologies, Number Five. I know you’re discombobulated. Disoriented. Maybe a little scared,” she purrs, as if this is some kind of mercy. “But don’t worry. All of this frightful doubt will be over before you can even tell what's really going on.”

A chill runs down his spine, and his stomach drops. “Wh— who are you?”

“Names are a luxury, these days,” she states, casting her arms wide. Her companions edged back further, bowing their skeletal heads. “Call me… The Handler.”

She says it as if it’s a punchline.

There's no fucking way this is happening, he tells himself. Everyone who knows my name — my true name — is dead or not yet born. Christ on a bike, she even speaks modern English in an overly familiar tone. It must be one of those potions they're always making me drink.

“Handler of what? This hallucination?" He blinks against the stinging light. "Or just the discount mortuary you call a wardrobe?”

Her laughter is pure theatre, hand fluttering to her chest.

“That famous Hargreeves' wit! You know — I've very much been looking forward to seeing you in the flesh. I'm sure you'll be a feast for the eyes once you're out of uniform, old boy.”

She leans forward, and Five catches the faintest whiff of boiled sugar and peanuts.

"You don't belong to 'the present,'” she whispers, "you never have, scrumptious.”

She boops his nose and cackles.

Five’s mouth is dry. His words are dust. He swallows hard.

“What do you want?” he demanded, his voice trembling. His fingernails dug half-moons into his palms, a desperate attempt to ground himself.

The Handler’s grin widens.

“Oh, darling, you wound me! Want? I only want what’s best for you, Five. What you deserve.”

She circles around, her eyes raking over him.

“One faulty cog, and nothing works as it should. I'm here to facilitate your fresh start. To provide you with a new purpose. A chance to finally be… free.”

Five's jaw tightens. The word hangs between them, a poisoned offering. His fingers twitched at his sides, calculating trajectories, measuring the distance to the door.

“Free? From what? Being trapped in a room with a bunch of… freaks and,” he glances at the chunky briefcase by her side, “a middle manager. I'd rather lick a cheese grater than agree to anything you have on offer."

His bravado, a fragile facade, rings hollow.

Her lips pursed in disapproval.

She can see right through me.

"Still resisting? How very you,” she clucks, tilting her head with what must be the smug certainty of someone who's already written the end of this conversation.

“Why, from the burden of your past,” she says, her voice taking on a silken quality. “From the mistakes, the regrets, the things that haunt you in your dreams.”

Five can’t help but flinch. 

How did she… 

“You know things,” he murmurs, the facts of the situation beginning to dawn on him. 

This isn't a hallucination. This is something far more dangerous.

The Handler stops in front of him, her gaze unwavering.

“I know everything, Number Five. Or, as you’re called in these parts, Flett. The Wolfwalker. Love your whole story,” she says, flittering a hand in his general direction, “by the way. Five stars. I read it to my Little One before bed.” She then takes hold of his chin while squeezing her thumb and four fingers together so hard that she puckers his lips.

“And I know you’re tired of running. Tired of fighting. Tired of being alone.” She releases her grip and steps back, picking up her luggage before adding, “Now, we mustn’t dawdle. Destiny waits for no man.” The case then opens, and she is gone.

A lump forms in Five's throat for the child condemned to grow up under such an influence — a woman who clearly uses this ‘mother’ act for her own twisted purposes. Although the witch isn't wrong about his struggles, he has to go on. If not for the globe, then for one person in particular. A black-haired beanstalk. His better half. 

I gotta tough it out for Klaus.

Drenched with dread, the stranded traveller clenches his fists and holds back a whimper as the vultures swoop in to remove what little he still possesses. The mixture of helplessness, sound, sight, and touch is unbearable. He closes his eyes against the inescapable.

*

Five spirals through a maelstrom of his own making, each rotation faster than the last, until a gnawing, clawing emptiness deposits him back into reality.

When he opens his eyes, the distress that had gripped him dissolves into bewilderment.

He is lying on a falcon cloak, surrounded by a field of fallow poppies. His racing heartbeat slowed to match the gentle rhythm of the night. The enchanting glow of a full moon bathes the scene in serene silver light, a striking contrast to the muddle swirling in his head. The change is jarring, but the fear, the worry, prevails. He is still adrift, alone, and at the mercy of his foes. 

His cherished luna pelt, last seen shortly after his unsought landing in this forsaken place, is draped across his shoulders. He is otherwise naked except for a floral wreath woven with gleaming strings, sparkling jewels and rings adorning his fingers, and rune-inscribed trinkets hanging from his wrists and neck. Inhaling the pungent sting of woad, he also gathers that a cerulean-stained design is running down his upper-left side. Reapplied war paint from another lifetime, it must be a vibrant streak against his pale complexion.

They are making a mockery of his capture, the fiery annihilation of his Pictish kin. It wasn’t my choice to outlive them again! he thinks, a surge of rage coursing through his veins.

Aodh, the father he never had. The one he never meant to find, never meant to need.

He’d dropped out of time, blown sideways by a miscalculation and a premature leap. Discovering he was 13 again was bad enough, but the thatched roof he fell through led him to conclude he was under the heel of history. He lived there for five formative years sorting out where he'd gone wrong before these fuckers came and burned all his notebooks along with his kinsfolk.

Five's ire simmers beneath the surface, a desire to tear everyone around him into pieces and feed them to Old One Eye’s crows. The damnable collar that once restrained his powers is gone, yet he's too weak to use his abilities. He can't even scratch his nose.

It’s a cold but cloudless night when rationality flies to the sky, finds the lost star of the Pleiades, and succumbs to the dotty will of the infinite cosmos.

He slams into his heightened senses when a reddish hue tinges the pure celestial globe — a signal. Silhouettes multiply, their forms distorted and grotesque, and a far-off woman's wailing ceases. He’s then smeared with the life force of another. The cacophony of voices grew louder; his head was pounding; the nightmare seeped in; he’s burning up. 

Fuck! 

Dead and yet alive, Five trips over his own breath as he chokes down panic.

*

A bristling voice jars him awake, pulling him from the depths of a murky dream. Five finds himself once again on the blasted table, his synapses still reeling with fragments of anger and humiliation. That was a dream, wasn't it? The seized fighter is falling from one horror to the next. 

How long was I outta commission for this fucking time!?

The room itself seems to mock him by spinning, a dizzying carousel of the past and present. Then it hits him: he’s been dressed in a finely crafted pale blue sheath — a garment so delicate, so feminine, it seems like a deliberate jab. An intentional insult. Embroidered with wildflowers and silver cats, the fabric whispers against his skin and is a marked difference to the rough textures he’s grown accustomed to. In fact, it’s the nicest piece of clothing he's ever worn. He runs his fingers along the cuffs, tracing the intricate patterns.

His hands explore further.

Slight pressure on his right tricep reveals an armband, a queer sensation — one he appreciates. He no longer has his fur, but someone has returned Aodh’s belt — the last remnant of a life without constraint. And beneath the sheath, he finds a long, loose-fitting white linen undershirt. A welcome addition.

But there’s more.

He’s rested. Truly, deeply rested for the first time in what feels like an eternity. Maybe since his hazy childhood, a distant memory swallowed up by the relentless grind of survival. All the old injuries, the silent companions that nibble at his strength and stamina, have also vanished, absolved by forty winks.

He moves, testing his newfound mobility.

Five feels stronger, more agile, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough to make a difference in a fight-or-flight situation. Without a weapon, he's too vulnerable; the weight of his gold necklace a reminder that he cannot leave this time or place in a blink.

He lifts a hand to his face, his fingers brushing smooth skin.

I'm clean-shaven! 

He'd sported a beard for quite a while now. No one trusted him near a knife.

Daisies are also woven through his hair, which somehow makes him feel... pretty? And the acrid barb of conquest has been replaced with a bouquet of plump sunlight trapped in rose petals. A refreshing breath of summertime in full bloom. He lifts his other hand, turning both palms over in wonder. Someone had even kneaded moisturiser into his parched limbs, and he positively shone.

It is almost as if he’s been selected for something special. A flicker of hope ignited within him, but it’s quickly snuffed out by a swell of melancholy. He wants to be wanted, yet the thought of being open to anyone anymore is beyond his capacity.

He is a broken man.

All semblance of optimism vanishes, not that it ever existed, and he lets out a muffled sob.

The lead thistle-prick is talking to someone, his raucous rasp like dry leaves skittering across the desolate silence, amplifying the heavy stillness. A large palm then presses flat on his fluttering belly, its presence oddly comforting, before there’s a tug at the hem and he comes undone.

He’s doing whatever-THE-FUCK-this-is in front of other people RIGHT FUCKING NOW? 

The sheer audacity of the murderous brute floods him with seething fury.

“Wh—?!” Five stammered.

His voice is cut off as confusion and desire war within him. It's like the blitzkrieg has hit Dunkirk, and he's missed the last boat out of the Allied fleet.

Five glances up at the man, searching for answers as his pelvis rolls and legs part a fraction of an inch. He’s drawn to him like static cling, an irresistible force he cannot combat. It’s automatic — the primal dance of attraction, the exchange of positive and negative electrons. It’s not him.

Five swears he hears electricity crackling, a thousand tiny sparks between his ears. It's as if he’s been hurled back into the final minutes of the post-Apocalypse, when he believed he’d found the answer to his prayers. A brief moment between thought and action where he bore the full brunt of a quarter century spent starving and alone.

He remembers the cold, the gnawing thirst. He remembers the calculations, the equations, the agonising hours, days, months, years spent pouring over temporal mechanics as he tries to bend time to his will. And he remembers the weight of responsibility that pressed down on him — a crushing misery he’d carried alone. Decades wherein he survived the fallout of his poor decisions, decades that left him crying out for a connection he can barely articulate.

The most challenging steps Five will ever take are the five, four, three, two countdown to that thunderous portal. Yet, the hypnotic weight of his second kin’s helping hands when he dropped into their lives one Samhain Eve is insignificant compared to the stupefying mitts currently pawing at him.

He tries to shout, "Hands off, asshole!" but the words are stuck in his throat. His stomach twists with an insurmountable yearning, and he eventually leans into the touch when rough palms slide up his downy thighs.

A sense of release washes over Five, easing away the pent-up tension that has dogged him all his life. Then, without realising it, his wobbly knees fell to each side. He sighs. Although he hates the overgrown choad, a menacing heat smoulders as the boar brushes through his modest curls to tinker with a bell and freely roam the chaste folds beneath his manhood.

Strange sensations bombard Five, his breath hitching as his control shatters like a dropped vial.

What in living Helheim is THAT?

The man sucks in air and violently shivers, failing to hold back a litany of unexplainable noises when he rocks into and then squeezes the startling digit. His breathing turns ragged and shallow, punctuated by gasps and involuntary sounds. His heart is pounding, a frenetic drumbeat accompanying the chaotic orchestra clattering through his nervous system.

He nudges closer, his budding nips pressing against the gauzy weave as he suddenly needs more contact. Fewer barriers. Wait, that is wrong. He desperately craves it. It makes him want to devour the sun and the moon while the giant bastard claims his everything.

Mmm...

Five burns red, the feverish zeal spreading up his chest as he realises how much he’s already wet. His treacherous body promptly stiffens, any remaining chance of getting away drowning in its wake. The fated conqueror chuckles as he traces prickly flesh until his keepsake pouts in belligerent anticipation. Aroused beyond all recognition, Five lay defenceless against the goddamn Armageddon-unleashing motherfucker.

The old man is loath to admit it, but, peering into the beckoning darkness, he enjoys the treatment.

A lot.

Maybe too much.

Either way, that’s how their bedevilled romance began.

*

A hand like fine-grit sandpaper against barkless pine cups his chin, tilting his head so only a blond blur fills the frame.

Five blinks as his depth perception adjusts.

Illuminated by the flittering light, he faces twin nebulas shimmering with a hundred-hundred starbursts; double Scotch whiskey unearthed on a bright shining day; eyes the colour of Highland footpaths between spring rains. He tries to focus, to remember the mission, the consequences of giving in to this, this… base instinct, but then the other hand moves with a possessiveness that both repulses and enthrals him.

The well-acquainted warrior holds their gaze, massaging a puzzling entrance until Five goes slack. His hardness bobbed in tacit agreement, painting their firm abdomen with translucent smears. He feels hot. Inviting. Only then is he pushed in again.

Five spasms. It’s a pleasant sort of ache, like nothing he’s ever imagined.

“... nngh.”

Well-being pours into him.

It’s as if he’s being scooped up from the gloomy doom of some faraway, terrible existence and physically placed in capable hands. He struggles to comprehend what has happened — what that batshit ritual was about — or how he can feel so different so fast, but it's like swimming upstream. And it stings, the delicious torment ascending only to depart with a trickle of sticky wetness as tears gather at the edges.

There’s a commanding, sweet scent like plush velvet; a cloying curtain drawn tight around him. His skin, shrouded in sweat, is also malleable to the touch, and he’s unable to break away when those magical fingerprints linger on his lips parted in stunned awe.

The oaf is a savant.

He shakes loose from his stupor when he hears the scratchy drag of 19th-century combustion, then witnesses smoky tendrils slinking out of some dreary corner.

Five inhales, smelling cigarettes as he falls just short of catching up to the ghostly shade of his fondest memory. At the same time, the blood meant for his temporal lobe reroutes to the prefrontal cortex when the lout surveys his newfound maidenhead and sprouts a wolfish grin.

Squirming in half-mad frustration as Harald’s hairy mug hovers above, Five’s thighs squeeze shut. His stomach clenches. Pectorals tense. He rubs his legs together — the friction kindling within him — the petal-soft squish of his engorged lips tingling, roaring, the sensation coiling, clit pounding, while he shuffles down his finespun attire.

Something clicks. Five shudders, quivers, and quakes. He may have also chuckled, just a smidgen. 

How’d I dismiss the glaring obvious? 

His metamorphosis — this exquisite, confounding shift in form — is another gift. An offer he shouldn't, couldn't resist.

The dual anatomy is extraordinary. To move and to be moved feels supernatural, as if his derma perfectly fits. As if it’s kismet. Destiny. Divine thread spun by the sisters three. The wandering stars he chased through time and space have aligned so that he, a twice-young middle-aged guy born immaculately, is ready to mate. Imprint. Breed. Miraculously conceive. Five has re-entered his peak reproductive years and is now in search of greater meaning. A raison d’être, if he pleases.

Pretty pleeease, he nearly heaves. What the fuck is happening?

Mentally drained by the disturbing insight, Five scrunches on his side and folds his arms as he attempts to regain a modicum of dignity. Manipulating a repaired shoulder through increasingly oppressive fabric, he admits to himself that he longs to be touched. Vigorously fucked. His dick, tits, or clit licked. To beg. Fellate. Put on private display. Filled endlessly. Often. In a loop, on repeat. Until he stands bowlegged for a week.

Although more than anything else, he yearns to have a real life with someone. Someone he cares for. Someone who cares for him. All he has to do to make this deranged wish come true is lie himself bare and lovingly accept it. Deep down in his darkest realm, uninhabited for now, he knows it to be true. It’s what he always wanted, to be swept off his feet by a knight in shining armour and ravaged like there’s no tomorrow.

The idea is so preposterous, so utterly unlike him, that he almost laughs. Then the horror sets in: he means it. Years of training, of suppressing every emotion not conducive to Sir Reginald Hargreeves' grand and often inscrutable agenda, start to splinter. The first crack in a dam that is bound to break sooner rather than later.

This is my chance to uncover who I really am.

The last thought may have slipped past his lips because The Handler responded with a manic clap as she babbled with glee.

He trembles, understanding nothing good could have triggered her outburst, only expelling the carbon dioxide amassing in his bronchi once a sandy palm brushes up his vibrant complexion. A flicker of fear, an ingrained inclination for self-preservation, vies with a peculiar pleasure at the sight of Harald coming to his rescue. The emotions fizzle and froth within him, a quagmire of conflicting feelings.

Five retreats, turning inward. He burrows into the perceived safety, pretending he doesn't see the harpy's grin. Her lips, thin and predacious, stretch impossibly wide while the corners of her mouth crinkle, revealing teeth that might as well be broken shards of obsidian. It’s as if her smile is sinking its teeth into his psyche and he can’t shake free, even with his eyes shut.

I want to go home. Right now.

The Handler replies, "Wunderbar!" without missing a beat, the lilt in her voice suggesting both genuine delight and rehearsed enthusiasm.

Then women’s chatter is everywhere, and there's a curious click click clicking of stilettos. But before the skittish kitten can even begin to process the dizzying rush of nostalgia, the world lurches.

The candlelit room blurs, a whirling vortex of buttery gold and beeswax. Strong arms, smelling of something woodsy, something primal, have clamped around him, and he is being hoisted over a burly shoulder. Taken out of the accursed hut, it's too difficult in the dim twilight to see beyond the forest floor as Five is carried through the crisp woods and up a steep hill while bouts of celebration break out around them.

He should want to flee, to disappear. Five tries to struggle, to analyse the situation, to estimate the odds, but, with all that he's been through, he can no longer see the use in it.

Meanwhile, a different part of him craves the pursuit as lungs fill with crunching twigs, the scent of damp earth, and reaching trees. The verdant, fresh shoots of new leaves are a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of dried hymen as he puffs and pants — a feral hunger for Harald’s admittance to his unbreeched passage. A place that seems reserved only for him, somehow. So much so that Five ruts a pathetic groove into an extravagant-feeling cloak, the rich fabric yielding beneath his frantic movements.

The boastful man’s swaggering gait, punctuated by good-natured laughter and encouraging pats, sways him back and forth like some conductor fiddling at the symphony — or a wagging wolf playing with its prey. He knows Harald’s touch is deliberate, the toying tempo meant for him. What he doesn’t know is how he should feel about it — other than mortified to the point of self-obliteration at the ease with which his strings can be plucked out in the open for anyone to see or hear.

A jagged whine echoes as Harald travels under his robes and up, settling in the faint crease separating glute from thigh.

Five’s own hand rises, a fist clenching before he bites the back of it. With a woolly knuckle, Harald strokes and strokes, never quite grazing where Five acutely wishes he would. Harald’s teasing, a maddening game of inches, has him trapped in a suffocating paradox — or about to open Pandora's box — yearning for and dreading the inevitable conclusion.

The solitary survivor’s entire lower half throbs, and Harald is just inflaming the situation. The only relief seemingly within reach is to cross his arms again, so he might clutch his breasts with both hands.

The plan backfires.

He shivers, pulsating when his nips are between index finger and thumb. There’s a swell as he barely applies pressure through the thin layers of cloth. It’s wrong, all wrong. He needs the man involved — to remove my fucking clothes! 

Five goes limp, dangling in defeat as he vacillates between loving the other’s touch and mourning its absence.

He's never looked forward to being kept alone so much before, which is distressing on a number of levels. It’s not just how his body responds, though that is a significant factor. It’s the exposure, the peeling away of his meticulously constructed defences, and the alarming realisation that he enjoys this. He enjoys their dynamic, the way Harald can reduce him to a wreck with a look, a touch.

Here, in Harald’s presence, the decisions, the pain, the consequences — they are no longer his alone. He’s no longer the sole architect of his own fate, a reprieve from the crippling self-reliance he had been forced to cultivate. Harald, while his captor, has offered a perverted sort of solace since his abduction. He has been steering the ship, making the choices, and taking on the hardship of responsibility. This thought, this unsettling and uncharacteristic desire to not be in charge of his own destiny, will be his undoing.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to think too long about what it all means because the lulling motion and sturdy embrace overtake every other thought.

Gone are the sharp angles, replaced by a softened periphery. A low hum vibrates through him, a wordless song building in his core. The warmth emanating from Harald, the familiar smell of him — it all cocoons him, drawing him in.

He could get used to this. He would get used to this, in no time flat.

*

As they enter a longhouse, and then their chambers, the omnipresent wind ceases and a blanket of toasty warm air scented with wood smoke chases the bitterness away.

Harald, his face flushed from their journey, sets Five down and unbuckles his belt in a disorienting flurry. The cold metal scraped against the soft leather as he pulled it free, a sound that pleased Five. Next, Harald tugs the stifling tunic over his head, followed by the splashed chemise.

Five freezes, his breath hitching as he stares wide-eyed, caught in the intensity of the jarl's gaze like a deer in the high-beams. His chin juts downward, yet he continues to search for some semblance of direction. The room falls silent except for the crackle of a hearth at his back.

I don’t know what to do, Five frets as he brings a chilled palm to his blazing cheek and chest. 

No one has ever seen the real me. Not so completely, in all this convoluted glory. 

The shock is paralysing. 

Fuck, I’m at my wit’s end. I’m free of the smothering fibres, but I'm scared. 

Everything he thought he knew has tilted on its axis, and he’s been left naked, twisting in the wind.

What he should do to relieve the churning in his lower abdomen is to stretch out on the bed. The idea comes to him as if by royal edict from Delores. She’s an angel — a doll, really — who tries to keep him safe, and is the only reason he didn’t die three decades ago. Delores would never lead him astray.

She says he needs to rest his addled head, if only for a second. To take a breath and untangle the future-past-present. To examine how his thread got so jumbled to begin with. There’s no harm in Harald scratching his nagging itch, or Five taking his fill like the thirsty little bitch they both know he is, as he works through his mid-life crisis.

Five understands firsthand that the man is tender. That he likes to hear his favourite captive cascade before spilling in him soon enough thereafter. It’s okay to admit their joining has always felt spectacular, or that enjoying his special place below Harald is more than natural. He should savour how much it hits the G spot to earn the man’s burst of want, the gripping pressure as he professes his everlasting love. His presence is an aphrodisiac of the highest calibre. Five will love the satisfying ache for hours, wallowing in the knowledge he held such power. Harald treats him far better than what’s expected and, if only he hadn’t been combative, they would’ve become fast friends with benefits. Hell, Harald moved heaven and earth to share his bed. With a snarky delinquent, nonetheless. He has more than demonstrated his worthiness. Now is the time to make some recompense.

I’m my own worst enemy.

Five drops his hands, stops fidgeting. He sees the unguarded door yet doesn’t register it as anything interesting. A heavy burden then lifts when he allows Harald to steer him toward their feather mattress, now littered with impossibly fresh plucked petals, and arrange him in a familiar position: ass up, something soft under his pelvis, head lolling on might-as-well-be-bound forearms so that calloused fingers, covered in tingling oil, may open him in an incomprehensible manner.

Harald leans in for a jiffy. It's an impression more than an observation, and the lack of scrutiny, of expectation, is a heady relief. Five closes his eyes, bracing for impact, a groan parting his lips when Harald's hand runs down his backside before moving between his thighs. His skin prickles, a thousand tiny needles of sensation as cool oil slides and seeps into every crease, every crevice. Harald's touch is a revelation, a map drawn on his very form of all the places he never knew existed.

Hot, flustered, and hidden behind a glossy curtain of perfumed hair, more than moans flow whenever Five grasps onto the burgeoning circumstances. And grip he does. Sometimes, oftentimes, of his own volition. He’s becoming shameless, revelling in the heat that flares with each connection.

Life within these walls feels like a wet dream come true. Five gulps. His pelvic floor pulsed, brimming with unspent energy. Or as if everything’s meant to be. He bites his lower lip, melting into the bed yet harder than any stone as a breeze tickles his scruffy neck. He slowly gives in to the mind-altering experience. Rolling his hips, thrusting, spreading. Losing himself little by little to their momentum.

It’s absolutely exhilarating.

Catching himself smiling for the first time in what seems like forever, Five wonders if his long-held beliefs are misplaced. 

It's like the tale of a lost fairy and their promised king, just like Grace used to read to me. Is there a simpler explanation of the discombobulation?

Occam’s razor, so mote it be.

The growing quantity of digits gives Five the spins but, mercifully, Delores bids him to focus on the satiny baritone’s subtle caresses, his sprinkling of kisses, those coarse windblown lips. It’s an open invitation to escape the prison of his own thoughts, to shed his inhibitions at last.

Here, he can act instead of think, feel instead of analyse. He’s earned this — a holiday, a long, extended respite from the ceaseless demands of personal ambition. No more anger, no more self-loathing. Instead, he’ll stay in some cosy northern nook where he'll put his feet up and roost without being compelled to dwell on the past or any faraway future. It does no good lashing back against the inevitable. It corrupts the spirit. Besides, the trustworthy man is only there to treat him like a precious gem and shake him to the core. He should do anything if asked. He craves it. Profoundly so.

‘Until my dying days,’ Five will avow, not seven, then 43 minutes later.

*

Readied to be a mother, Five is reverently wiped down and spread in dewy expectation.

With empty loins, set ablaze and primed for pleasure, he unwinds by wordlessly whinging; lifting upward and outward as he not-so-patiently waits for the looming spectre’s weeping member pressing on him, in him.

“Jesus H Fucking Christ, just fucking fuck me,” he groans — more a series of petulant grunts — unable to do anything by himself to fill the relentless void. "Haaarald...” he continued, grouching on rickety knees and feeling as pointless as a scabbard without its dagger.

Thrumming inside and out, the changed man soon resigns himself to chafing against the downy pillow.

I guess I have no control over what happens next, he laments with a puff of his chest. Maybe it’s for the best if I listen and acquiesce.

Then, when Five would’ve given anything for some assistance, a strong presence brushed up his ribs and a comforting weight bathed his back in heat. The man moves with a fond but firm touch, the large hands gliding over Five’s taut muscles until his tension dissipates. Harald subsequently recites something rich and mellow as his sides are steadied and the accustomed firmness set free.

A hand finds him, guides him into the fold.

Five writhes, wanting, needing until legs give out with a dab of foreskin, the smoosh of glans on juicy virgin lips. “Oh, oh, oh. Holy fuck. Don’t stop, PLEASE!” he shouts, returning to his knees as he almost dies right there and then.

“Fucking hell, I really like this.”

He scooches to better fit the rigid dick then wiggles on his tummy as a sunny new prospect is ushered in.

His heart beats. Faster and faster it goes. Thumping, pumping, when the bulbous head nestles into place with a pair of matching moans. Five quivers full of boundless potentiality, and like the perennial phoenix, is reborn. 

He’s perfect. 

The sizable presence is a welcome intrusion. His throbbing sense of nothingness is gone. When the sparkle of stardust settles behind bleary, kohl-rimmed lashes, the weary warrior wistfully sighs. Although his thin fingers are already threading themselves with the masculine warmth on offer, he passively reaches out and, at long last, deeply feels to whom he’s always belonged.

Home.

The chieftain reverberates with appreciation, and his humble servant in return.

Dazed and confused, Five tries holding onto the fraying edges of his consciousness while the gruff, cut figure finds his pace attentively exploring the silkened grooves of his caged little bird’s final vestal space. The forevermore smooth-faced fae suddenly weeps, resulting in a wee bit of strain, quickly followed by eternal relief when his unnamed terror floods then gives way as it bellows its last breath into a bridled passion. Their passion, which only intensifies with age.

The charitable man stops to soothe his needless worries.

Harald leans in and smiles softly, with a curve of understanding. He dries tear-streaked cheeks with his forefinger, tucking a few strands behind pinkish ears so Five can clearly see. Then, while looking into receptively wide eyes, he pets a jittering spine. He even hums some calming melody. The final balm is applied when Harald sits Five up, bundling him in a handsome mink wrap, to share a goblet of honey-spiced wine and eat a slice of rye with preserved strawberries.

Harald chuckles under his breath, a rumble in his chest, removing a bit of crumb from Five’s chin with a grin. Five’s unfettered fears fade to black, replaced by an allaying sense of tranquillity and the faint smell of peppermint from Harald’s clean, well-groomed hands.

He smiles back, maintaining eye contact, his lips hidden in a cup as he has one last sup.

It's all... I can't believe it. I think I, uh... it's safe to let my guard down.

He longs to. Desperately so. There’s no time quite like the present. He waited for so long, all alone, before something, somewhere, led him here and convinced him he wouldn’t regret it.

*

Five stretches out, exhales, and relaxes after what might just be true love’s gentle kiss — his first that wasn’t practice. 

Why didn’t I comprehend who I was back then? Dear Delores, Lady of Sorrows, the stalwart companion in my head. 

His lips are sticky-sweet from the tiny feast, and Harald’s are chapped by a life lived outdoors. The pair breathe in each other’s breath until Five’s eyes close, not really knowing what else to do, mouth parting when the brave man holds him and draws near. He greets a beard of dandelion curls, combed through with the scents of spring, before a deft tongue slips in to claim its prize.

Synapses fire, neurons connect. New pathways form, priorities shift.

“Streð mik...” Five plaintively purrs as a whirlwind of emotions swirl, and he takes hold of a hand to steady his nerves.

The seven stars foretold this confluence of the bizarre. Long, long ago, before he’s sold as a newborn. Before he goes MIA from a cabal of teenage super soldiers epically failing to save the globe. It’s etched into bone, stone. Vellum. His genetic code, not to mention manila file folders chock-full of A4 — and possibly an interdimensional alien’s journal, but we’ll never know for sure.

The important thing to glean is that an acorn doesn’t become an oak overnight. He’s a cog in a machine, an agent of the Commission, well-oiled and tasked with managing the space-time continuum. Enforcing universal order. It’s the role he's born for, mother-to-be; the extraordinary person who descends blindly into the frigid depths of history and reappears as the beautiful trunk of a family tree.

Five searches for an error, to make himself feel better — to justify what must be years of subversive behaviour.

He needs to find a reason, a single, concrete piece of evidence to absolve himself of the guilt, but there isn’t one. There’s only an aching pull, a gravitational force drawing him towards an undeniable reality. He's not just attracted to Harald; he's seized by the desire to be dominated — to be stripped bare, physically as well as emotionally. He wants Harald to see him, all of him, the exposed core hidden beneath the facade he presents to the world.

“Forgive my foolish misbehaviour. I’m sorry. I should’ve known better.”

He kisses the rugged paw, showing how much he means the sentiment while expressing his enlightened deference.

“I promise to love, honour, and obey from this day forward. I’m nothing without you. I am yours.”

Harald's smile widens at the display, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he leans in to nudge nose tips and enjoy the heartfelt offerings. Although rough around the edges, the alpha type is anything but. He leaves a trail of kitten kisses before teaching Five to tango with his virtuoso lingua.

Then, when thick fingers traverse from bare back to enclosed nape, every scant body hair stands on end. His eyes grow dark and heavy. Hardness nodding, Five shakes off his stole and takes up the mantle as he places his hand in Harald’s then motions to the rose-covered bedding.

“Þakka fyrir, meistari,” Five croons in a husky voice.

Ripe for the plundering, Harald sings of sweet nothings as he leads Five back onto his belly. Not long after that, the patient, restrained, rhythmic rubbing of the slicked rogue between his legs — an elegant smoothness sliding along his feminine hood — ignites a primal urge to prostrate.

His breath hitches, a small gasp leaving his lips as the friction builds. Spurred by their untapped connection, Five presses back and makes his intentions especially well known. In return, Harald kneels down and pushes forward, using both hands to massage his pre-seminal fluid into Five’s folded reservoir then lightly licking, sucking, thumbing a pale pink pearl for good measure.

A deep, resonant moan sweeps through the nascent lovers.

Five shudders, toes curling as spasms flicker up to beat on his eardrums while Harald traces his dark warmth.

He rocks, unable to fully fathom the pleasure coursing through him. It’s all so novel, his body seemingly locked-in to communicating his approval as he loses himself in the renunciation ritual. 

I don’t understand what’s coming over me. I’m just so fucking aroused. His touch has shifted my perspective. His techniques are driving me mad! 

Don't worry, Delores intervenes before Five can get himself worked up over nothing. He's only begun to understand what is gained when he loves, honours, and obeys. Something borrowed, something blue. First it’s off with the old, then it’s in with the new.

*

As three fingers easily fit, Harald must sense his ecstatic twitch. Oh lord, oh lord, oh lord. His eyelids flutter closed, head tilting back to expose the line of his throat.

“Please, more...” he swoons, the words escaping on an exhale that seems to empty him. I’ll do anything to repay this perseverance of yours but, for both our sakes, “fu... nngh... aahh, mmm… me soon-uh!”

Chuckling under his breath, Harald ignores his whimpering wyf in favour of opening their gods-given gift — saying something akin to, ‘lust won’t come before your preparation ever again,’ ‘be patient,’ and ‘enjoy,’ to a deadly little hen he calls Flett. Famous in a different time and place as one of 43 born to random women who bore no signs of pregnancy prior to the first day of October, 5+1984. The bastard son of a Dublin butcher, according to some local newspaper reports.

When Harald’s hooded head finally kisses luscious lips, now very willing and able to take the load, he doffs his cap as he enters his home away from home. 

Everything about this feels just... right. 

Five throbs. His heart’s rhythm beating, flowing. Engorging. Sheathing. Giving his life a new type of meaning. He contracts, reflexively constricting. Spreading with each and every inch welcomed in him. Harald’s firm support is uplifting, navigating their way to ensure the optimal introduction betwixt them. Reassuring Five he’s followed the correct course of action, the right set of directions. His reward, full emancipation.

And here I was thinking life couldn’t get better than Harald mouthing my cherry blossom bud. Sipping, slurping, supping, as if I were some delicious hors d’oeuvre freshly shucked. Devoured on the spot. 

He even rumbles when pelvis meets hip, I’ve never felt more alive than this! whilst rattling on about wanting the man to jism in him whenever he finishes — a promise Harald will later relish bringing to fruition.

Unbeknownst to either, Harald’s cum is a tangible reminder of their solemn bond. A sacred elixir, the essential biomolecular contents of which keeps Five happy, healthy, with a luxuriant coat, and the will to carry on. Containing a bottomless reserve of Harald’s sperm is his greatest pleasure, as well as life’s goal. Without Harald, there’s no reason to stay. He doesn’t want to wither on the vine, no, sir. It’s better to give his life as a gesture, before it can spoil. That way he’ll be sure to serve his sovereign in the Hall of the Slain from death to judgement day.

Of course, his unconditional acceptance of the remarkable privileges should — and does — drive his charming prince into a sexual frenzy he is more than inclined to flame.

*

A groaning, squeaky creaking fills the room as he dissolves into pliant servitude. Like a dungeon opening with the turn of his master’s key, or a chrysalis crackling to release some new entity, he transforms and, through the process, is set truly free. 

His love gives me wings, knowing he’ll be there if I fall. I don’t have to be alone anymore. 

With every clipped breath and drawn-out whine, Five increasingly lives for the groom’s guidance. His skilful riding, rocking, and grinding, their scents playfully mingling while his lifemate chases some well-deserved satisfaction. 

And if anyone ever tries to take me away from him, I’ll fucking shred them to ribbons.

Five opens himself further to the source of all good things as he huffs, grabbing fistfuls of sheets before meeting the man's thrusts with all the strength he can muster. He cherishes the slap of a sack when it knells his splendid bells, the reaction it provokes, and focuses on ringing out another, and another. And another. He’s like a wild animal being scrubbed of its rugged independence. Rendered soft, cosy so he might adorn Harald’s bed.

It’s like I was made for this. This, this bedded bliss, he shimmies and shudders with a profound sense of accomplishment. I don’t deserve it. Not after what I’ve done at every twist and turn, tooth and nail. With every fibre of my broken being, I put my well-hung hero through hell. 

Simultaneously, a dwindling part of his personality screams to concentrate on uncontrollable vengeance but, eventually, even the prime number in him sobers up and bows down to greatness.

It is not up to him to decide. It never will be, if it ever was. It’s not important, anyway. Harald has made a rock-hard case to stay. To roll over on command, do whatever’s asked. Five is free to leave, but they both know he’d rather spread and receive a sloppy wet shot, or three, of dopamine.

Believe he’s splayed, legs akimbo, before his vanished Four. That’s right, Five. Let those loving hormones go, like a good boy and girl. Memory is a fickle thing. The subconscious even more so. It’s easy to shuffle Harald into first place as Flett’s ultimate source of trust and arousal. He doesn’t have to worry his pretty little Fudge Nutter about anything, ever, because Harald’s there to advise. He’s beyond content being spoken to in a foreign tongue he’s tried to ignore until today.

Flett’s pulse flutters at presumed praise as undulating waves of elation crash. Toppling, rolling, one over the other, upon sullied shores.

Each crest is a tidal wash of unadulterated joy, while each trough is a dizzying descent into the depths of adoration. He’s drowning in love. Raw sensation. It’s everything, everywhere, all at once — like he’s going to suffocate or explode, maybe both — until his keeper stills him with an authoritative palm.

Harald shushes his naïve pet, unaccustomed to accepting the pleasures of another. He strokes behind pounding temples, a slow, deliberate massage that eases the pressure, before moving down to knead loosening shoulders. The tension unwinds, knot by knot.

Flett inhales, exhales, in and out, in and out, his breath finding balance as he gravitates towards the revitalising touch. In a twinkling, he is ready to resume. He longs to offer more, to give and give until there’s nothing left. Whatever once was his, by all rights, is now the gentle warlord’s.

*

Nudging backwards, Flett rubs his swollen folds against the wayward tip then pouts about becoming one again. He caresses the unsheathed member, crying out for more whenever glans graze.

They promenade, sway. Gliding, soon waltzing in step, as their nethers twitch with excitement.

His body bitches and moans to swallow the length in a single gulp, to shag swiftly and with great vigour. For his quim to take that big swig and then find her own rhythm. Labia like kindling, roaring as she besieges her liege. Encircling, enveloping. Racing to the top. Clit pouncing, swooping in for the thrill of his gigantic spill with a soon-to-be practised ease. Showing no mercy, a verifiable Valkyrie riding bareback in some operatic imagining. Choosing which of Harald’s soldiers is worthy of Odin’s ranks when the sky and earth darken then collapse.

She thinks she can oversee when his stiff drink pours within her, or some such silly dither. The idea is pure poppycock; no need to gild the lily here. Delores suggests they all lie back and enjoy the show.

Here there’s an abracadabra algorithm to suit their liege’s every taste, forever and ever — or whenever Harald decides they’re done for the day. Thinking isn’t her department, the maestro conducted. A filly may chafe at the bit all she wants, but never forget she’s bridled. At her groom’s beck and call. The purrfect thrall. His instrument in a grand scheme that is much too complicated for her feather-brained understanding.

What a precious pearl should do is wait for her cue. Turn her moist nib instead to Harald’s decades of entertainment. He dictates the terms of their engagement. Submitting is the greatest gift he’s been given, by far. Give in now, frequently and completely. This man is owed fealty. Feel free to meditate on such a fortuitous fate. Get a few PhDs, if predisposed to it. Keep the mind occupied while the body is glorified and he’ll cum soon enough, binding their agreement.

Harald knows what’s best. I have no argument.

A torrent of endorphins, dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin saturates each brain cell, permeating every nook and cranny.

All tension leaves. He exists in the present, every breath a testament. Unfaltering in his deference or blind obedience. Equilibrium with the universe achieved. He is both lock and key, a tool wielded by a greater being than he. Like a drone in a hive of bees. An outlier in Mother Nature’s web of interconnectivity, instinctually knowing how to stay in harmony. Everything just mechanically doing its part.

Anticipating Harald’s wishes is unimaginably gratifying, like I’m finally fulfilling my role in this topsy-turvy world. Pondering how I might best please him also quiets the wicked rabble-rouser who’s been dripping poison in my ear for years.

In stark contrast to Flett’s dick, which is harder than he dreamed possible, his limbs are jelly as stars scatter into their preordained positions and he emits a strangled, filthy noise.

Harald has reached below. 

That grasp is incredible! Like his oiled hand is around this moment, squeezing. Rolling a thumb across my tip, releasing me of responsibility with every expert stroke or flick of the wrist. 

He feels held. Enveloped. 

In my place, where I belong. 

In a sanctuary designed for him alone.

*

The towering titan taunts Flett’s tingling corridor, nearly nesting — so warm and sustaining — only to pull away and mingle with his polished gemstone. He arches into the refined touch, Harald’s withdrawal only intensifying the primal hunger to consummate. To gestate.

He moans, the sound lost in the pulse of making love. Each thrust is a hammer blow, forging a bond stronger than any chain. He is a diamond in the rough, buffed and gleaming, now pressing. And pressing, driven by a force beyond his understanding.

Yet he knows — feels it in his marrow — that his sublime surface will be forever dedicated to the man who scrupulously formed him into such a wondrous composition. Who’d shrewdly coaxed him into this very enchanting position. 

Preparing me to receive his wisdom, even though I never made it easy.

He’s an anointed configuration of near complete damnation, and his biological cock is ticking. He has one last shot, so he’ll make it count. It’s time to move on and debase himself.

Harald made the right decision, the route I would’ve taken if I’d known what awaited. Probably... nngh, aah!

He's never been this goddamn horny.

I'll yield to anything. To everything. I trust him to catch me.

He feels amazing. The pleasure unfolds, deepening as he concedes to his baser propensities. He’s soaking in Harald’s subtle direction, his massive erection. Their movements integrate, a ballet woven from the warp and the weft of their beings. One giving over to the other, as should be the way of these things.

Then, as if the slippery-sticky crackle of their liquor isn’t befuddling enough, the man alternates between bringing him to the brink of blissful nirvana and lightly kneading tart plums with the pads of four fingers and a thumb. Eyes at half-mast, Flett thrusts into the closed hand whenever he has a chance.

His thick-fisted tightness is rare but, when it does occur, I know it’s because I’ve earned his gripping pressure. Otherwise, I thirst to perform for Sire’s leisure; diligently twisting strands of stimuli together. Spinning rope for my betrothal yoke.

He marks with a wide groove the angles which arouse the wildest grunts, groans, or sporadic coos, collating any sound that reinforces his ongoing servitude. Parsing out what brings about those gruff mitts travelling up and down, raking his sides as he bristles with desire. He’s inspired to open up even more at how well they fit together, the curvature of his spine as Harald seizes control of his birthright.

A constellation of pleasure untold to all but my dearest confessor. I’ll work hard to express myself in words as well as deeds. I sense he likes to hear such things, and I live to serve unconditionally. 

There’s a titillating tug of the man’s tantalising restraint, like a silky smooth lace harness slipping into place, when the well-loved lesser begs and pleads in a dozen different languages.

For what exactly?

He wasn’t entirely sure himself until now.

I wish for my bondage to endure through the ages, for in Harald's embrace I've found life's true purpose!

It’s not just about sex. It's about the way his body is a sovereign territory that only Harald may invade. He wants to be ruined, every night, until there’s nothing left of the person he was except the moaning shape that fits snugly around his man's lust. He wants to be remade, again and again, into a vessel so sacred no mere man would dare to touch him. He wants to be Harald’s bitch because to do otherwise is to be nobody at all.

Harald is the anchor, the sun, the universe all in one.

*

The worst remnants of the post-Apocalypse abate, superseded by their rhythmic percussion of pleasure. Each thrust is a reprieve, every hushed statement a reassurance. He wrings the sheets, nails digging into the fabric, his own ragged breath a counterpoint to Harald’s steady cadence.

It’s in that moment the androgynous being realises he can’t remember why he’s ever resisted when those big strong hands know precisely where to go. He’s having great difficulty recalling many things, when he thinks really hard about it — but he knows he’s fortunate to have such a generous and forgiving caretaker. Others aren’t so lucky, not that he should concern himself with frivolous matters. He’s special, a survivor rescued from across the turbulent sea to serve a glorious person, and the important thing to keep in mind is he won’t make the same mistake again.

He buries his face in the bedding, the pleasure now a searing brand upon his soul. A permanent mark of belonging. Harald, in turn, moves with a tender yet possessive grace. Each thrust is a wave, propelling him further into uncharted waters.

A giddy laugh bubbles in his chest, almost bursting, as he tries to contain himself.

"Fuuuuck, I wanna make babies wit you,” he blurts without provocation while a terrific twat purrs in exuberant expectation. He's consumed by the sheer intensity of Harald’s movements, a state of affairs he welcomes with a sense of beautiful inevitability.

Those gyrating hips will be the death of me-e-e! Oomph. An honourable end in this seminal symphony. 

Flett grows a little wetter, the burning heat in more than just his dimpled cheeks plumping him up at the mere thought of Harald’s bountiful cock. 

Fucking hell, he thinks, I can do this forever. 

Flett’s puffy, pearly gates have heralded heaven on earth.

"Pronto."

Rewarded for the unclouded intuition, his perception blurs into a million trillion colours, then none. There’s just black, black, an all-encompassing beautiful black when his man re-enters, takes the reins, amazes. He manoeuvres their bodies with an artful ease until novice muscles rapidly resonate to the ungodly tenor, movement, and friction. 

It’s heavenly, harmonious. More than anything I’ve ever wanted and more, more, more. He gives his complete self over to the divine taste of earthly paradise he’ll always strive to deserve.

“Oblivion,” he more mouths than breathes at no one particularly.

It’s a phrase which echoes through the Multiverse. It’s all that’s left after a Kugelblitz. “Don’t save the world” are the last words of another Commission’s founder on one terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day at the office. “Better off dead than never to have existed,” is what should’ve followed. A company man in a tin can to the very end, he dies speaking with a younger permutation in a paradox-proof coffin of his own design. Over a hundred years old, still a virgin, and kept alive by an iron lung.

It’s as if he’s thunderstruck.

Harald protects me from the catastrophic choices my kind make when we’re left to our own devices. And it’s not the end of everything, just the end of something. Without him, I’m doomed to be alone — merely surviving. Not again, never again. I’d rather be dead. It is a kindness to take me in. I accept the terms and conditions, whatever he pleases. I am his, so let this be the end of it. Of me.

Secreting oxytocin may sometimes result in rhythmic contractions, but the transcendent spiritual satisfaction he encounters is unprecedented. Flett gets tunnel vision. A veil is lifted. He sees God — who’s either a little girl on a bicycle or a fish with a head more bowl than gold named Atlas Jericho — plunging into darkness as his muscled passage experiences her first catharsis. A magic wand orchestrating orgasmic pulses. Gospel music in the making.

The convert starts praying. I am no more, thank my fucking lord! He is everything.

The seers foretold his taming, their union, as well as brood. Angrboda, his lone interpreter, had conveyed the facts while huddled by the fire in this very room. He hadn’t believed in it then, or the Norns, but now he would.

Thoroughly ground into this branch of reality, the tremors recede, and he comes to wrapped in the sun-kissed arms of his significant other. Better still, those masterful fingers have deflowered the intricate braids and are running through his long, flowing mane. Searching upward, he feels safe, loved, and respected, as every aspiring mother should.

Reinvigorated, the once ferocious brunette shivers with unquenched thirst. He teases, wiggling, writhing, and blithely mewling on a stiffened lap as he holds steadfast while making a wanton plea for more. Ravished by one extraordinary person, tethered to a place and time, he’ll spend his waking efforts showing how grateful he is for his benevolent lord.

* * *

“Oblivion.”

Core access granted.

Speak now or forever hold your peace.

No objections.

Soul bond complete.

The organism’s owner is registered, their profile and DNA encrypted. Congratulations, the first child shall arrive in 38 to 40 weeks. She will take after her mother; the others are near identical to their father. For more information, please refer to The Commission Handbook or peruse the terms of service leaflet.

* * *

Harald Haakonsson flips his fairest thrall, acquired as spoils of war, unplaiting dark chestnut tresses so radiant ripples frame fervorous features. As he does so, he hums of the Wyrd Sisters Three, the sort of song to be sung with ale at festivities, while the poor dear returns to his good graces.

Once they settle into docility, he stops to take in the usually surly, sullen, or glassy-eyed woodland creature in all their alluring lustre: a sheer sliver of moonbeam set aflush, flat chest, erect and spread. Seemingly not yet 20 years old, with hooded lids. Anxious to begin again.

“Thou art the star that guides my longship home," he croons.

The Viking scoops his prize up, insistent on holding the whole of them — as if they might slip away into mist and legend. His hand traces foreign lines painted onto illumined skin, gazing into eyes the colour of twilight through a canopy. He runs a thumb along their jawline, admiring the sharp angles beneath their soft flesh, aware that the polished surface is merely a manifestation. Within them lies a power beyond measure, a truth he recognised the moment they met and continues to see. They are a talisman against the encroaching uncertainty, a vibrant reminder of the wonder still flickering in this warring world.

The deed is done; their knot is tied.

They stir in his arms, their indistinct murmur a whisper in an otherwise quiet room. 

The witches wove their mending magicks magnificently. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to refuse my dream come true in vivid blue. 

An exhausting honey month lay ahead of them. A time when, like Mani upon the seas, they'd draw the tides of his heart. Their presence a constant tug.

Harald's loins reawaken at the thought.

Combing back his own unruly strands, Harald calls out, “Time for round two," as he raises both hands, fingers bending in invitation. "I...” he laughs at how true it is, “I crave your company. Come hither and let us sew our destiny. Together.”

The snug quim promptly has him surrounded, hopping on his lap before faintly giggling — then shamelessly moaning — while they do their best to wrap their elfin arms about him. Chattering in an indecipherable patter as they bury themselves in his chest and methodically contract.

He cups their cute little rump, commending them for a job well done. The coy minx replies with a sly smile, cooing his name before melting around him.

They’re positively entrancing! How they love the saddle. Being mounted. I never doubted the bewitched belle would come around to this. To us.

"What a vision of beauty,” he states, his voice thick with admiration. “Ye stir the skald's verse within my heart, little dove.”

He bounces them, their squeaky raspy gasps tumbling out louder and louder. One after another. 

Flett’s satin squishy bits are flawless perfection, a vice-like grip’s siren song beckoning long-awaited semen to them. 

Harald’s trickling dick mingles with their gushing slick until two pulses beat in unison. Flett is lit from within, not unlike a lord or lady of Alfheim. Groaning, grinding. Giving themselves with wondrous precision. They are clearly grateful that the curse is broken and they’re back in the lissome body they’d forgotten. Taken in by someone capable of looking after their best interests. Stuffed to the brim, yet missing what they truly needed. 

So help me, Freyja, by season’s end I’ll have succeeded.

Harald will present them with a kitten just as soon as he’s able to pull himself away from their entangling disposition. One of several boons to be lavished on the morrow. Something to welcome them into his household while currying the fertility goddess' favour going forward.

For now, Harald lays the lithe figure down — so that their dark waves form a crown — and tenderly astounds them. Parting those luminous limbs, grazing a pale torso as he did, their oozing reaction nearly sending him over his limit.

“Love my master,” his hawknose imp declares in a language they found unfamiliar. Clinging with all their might as they burn brightly. 

What an enthralling sight! 

“Faster, yes?”

Flett smirks, jiggling to emphasise the point.

Harald ceases his speed, caressing their grim chin when he notices puppy-eyed dejection where once was sass and cheeky affection. Flett’s voice, like birdsong on a late summer afternoon, was rare while he was in the room. They usually spat venom through an intermediary, or stared daggers as if looks could kill him. Harald wants to hear more before giving whatever’s asked for.

“I beg of your pardon...” they say, a trace of timidity creeping into their voice as they scramble to put their remarks in order.

Adorable.

“You like, um...” they hesitate, their gaze wandering as they search for the right words, “... a, uh, flood? Inside. Between the... thighs? Eh, yes. Yes, me too. I want to, uh, to make many more. Many movements with you. You are so good,” they flutter through long lashes.

“Thank... you... for...” Flett trails off in search of another word but ends up pointing between them, nuzzling close before relaxing. Running both palms along their lean physique, then spreading to capacity.

Hips swinging, shaft springy. Pussy juicy, primed for him to return for a teasing and a squeezing. Puffing, panting, chirping, briefly shutting their eyes as they squeak meekly, while they play with their subtle yet supple titties for his amusement.

Harald’s twins ache, but it’s in a pleasant way while he remembers how they tap, tap, tapped against Flett’s delectable double sex. Or his hooded tip’s first kiss of those yielding lips. A sight unseen yet felt deeply. Flett, still a wild thing, quavering. Ready for the claiming. Slick with induced heat and fixed on him for life-giving union. Now as taut as a bowstring, yearning for his white-hot love. The tension winding up until he releases; a volley let loose, flowing into their sunken treasure trove.

What was once the fiercest of warriors is now as amiable as a balmy breeze. I'm already head over heels for the perky pixie — my baffling rosebud who’s plummeted through the veil cleaving man from faerie. Their wantonness rings like a celestial chorus, reverberating through to my heart where it casts its divine hocus-pocus.

Stroking a brilliant cheek, he brushes noses, then presses in. There’s warmth, a hint of honeycomb and strawberries. An intoxicating mix he enjoys immensely.

Now that they speak coherently, I can’t wait to discover their hidden personality. Or dress them in shining finery. Something to lift up or slip off the diminutive figurine, my darling doll. Bent over, sprawled wide, taken to a sacred thicket where they’ll be glorified. Living sanctity of near impossibility, my queer little godlet to worship as I please. An ephemeral beauty tied, in all ways but being my lawful bride, in mystic matrimony.

With that thought, Harald pins them to the bed. He submerges himself in their smouldering depths as the most irresistible sound leaves their lips.

Sensing a comely cocklet pressed against his abdomen, he can’t help but quip, “Thou art drenched, dearest pet. Exactly how I would have it.”

Before a reply is said, Harald delves into an encouraging kiss until they are weak, shaky, and salted beads trickle down to a gleam of runic gold encircling their neck. Only then does he relent so they may catch a breath, resting within them while massaging their milky pects gone ruddy pink with excitement.

“Thank you for... the... everything,” Flett heaves as they place a hand on their double wolf-headed arm ring.

It’s amazing how much they’ve changed yet stayed the same. Those slim wrists were always there, but I was too busy dodging dull claws to fully appreciate their daintier features. Even whilst mollified there was a danger, not that it kept me from savouring the spunky figure.

“I am yours, m’lord. To final breath, this promise I give. You win. Honour to be under. Make you father. I, uh... how to say? Uh... I hope many bairns. Strong son and dutiful daughter. Your desire, um, is ahhh... pleasure to surrender.”

Setting the other hand on his chest, they bite their lower lip and continue with a raised brow of mischief.

“I am ripe... erm... just right," they say, their voice trembling. "Open for the source. Tonight. You flood soon?” Flett pleads while flexing their soft power. “Mm, yes. Plant seed,” they flourish with a toothy beam. “I receive, please."

Flett rolls their hips, drawing out the experience. 

Such dulcet and harmonious breath there has never been than the wispy warriorette committing to their place, a mewling quim there to please. All is as the Norns decree.

Tonight they begin building their legacy.

*

He reels with the engorging tug of their interconnectivity, the thoughts like waves lapping at the shore of his mind sea. It's a godly presence which sparked to life when he touched their thigh — urging him to pick up the pace. A deluge of excitement then rushes through his veins.

In precisely five minutes, he’ll consummate. Doesn’t he want them to feel the same way? Enraptured by frenetic ardour until they explode like a geyser. Timing is everything, especially with a shared destiny. Don’t forget to fondle their clit. They’ve earned it.

“Anything for ye, my finicky Valkyrie.”

Harald tips their head.

“We shall fill the Great Hall with the laughter of our younglings, for a house without laughter is like a ship without wind."

He kisses them, smooths out their dishevelled hair and lifts his hips. It is time to take their unseasoned fitta along for a sprint.

They’re a pleasure to behold like this. Their face alone could launch a thousand ships.

“Lay back, beauty. Aye, that be the way. Now, show thy one and only how a noble maiden submits.”

Harald pushes them a little firmer against the bed and leans on his forearm.

Without hesitation, Flett spreads to accommodate his frame. His gooey glans mingle with their swollen twig and berries, their dark nest of curls giving way to rosehip petals drenched in rain on a perfect summer’s day. The touch of moist heat, lush lips on the verge of parting.

Absolutely awe-inspiring.

Flett gives a small, restrained smile. “I aim to please,” they say, their tone laced with rascalry.

The vixen then takes hold of his shoulders, arching up while letting out the headiest of grunts. They have slotted themselves around — filling their empty basin until his balls jingle their bells.

Fucking Hel!

He grabs their bubble butt with a meaty hook, enjoying the sensation. Basking in their capitulation at the lingering appreciation. Equilibrium with the Nine Realms achieved. No other man is as fortunate as he, to experience such intimacy with the fabled being.

Whether it be in this bed or on a battlefield, it doesn’t matter when I die. As long as the lost lamb joins me on my funeral pyre, I will be forever satisfied.

They fit like a glove, the finest of clutching, holding, grasping, clasping. Gloriously tugging, labia hugging. Their immaculate passage is deliciously tight yet slick and receptive. A promise of fun and, ultimately, how he overcame the spell that befell them.

Their pulse beats faster, a frantic drum against his own. They palpitate around him, a living sheath of velvet. His second home.

Their breathing is short and deep, as if trying to keep up with a rushing need — or holding back a yearning to commence our procreation early. The tingling of their skin, gooseflesh dotting pale moonlight when I twitch within them.

He recognises the conundrum all too well, having almost expelled several times over since breaking through their feminine shell. Yet the gods interjected, telling him in their voiceless tongues that Flett should cum readily and often, as well as on command — if he wants to.

But first he has to work to crack the curse, for his salve to stick — to obtain everything he’s ever dreamt of, that is. With each movement that Harald might feel a near expulsion held back only by the silent thought, remember that Flett needs to be brought to heel: for all time, and in all ways. And they'd willingly dedicate themselves to him, heart and soul, mind and body. Just prove himself a worthy conqueror.

The gods have smiled upon me.

The tide had waxed and waned with the waves of give and take. He’d immersed himself in the interplay — their muscles clenching and relaxing in a primitive configuration, learning to obey his rhythm.

He pushed against them, each surge an invocation, a display of his strength and authoritative power of persuasion. Their hips moved with his, a shared pulse, a dance of bliss. He felt the familiar thrill, the edge of oblivion drawing near. He reminded himself of the divine decree, that their desire was the only path forward from here.

He focused, drawing out the pleasure, the anticipation, the torment of their twining together. And as he held back his own release, he understood he was the hammer and they the anvil — that their union would shape the course of man for the next millennium.

He. Was. In. Charge.

That’s when he felt it, their body buckling as they were bound to him — a sacred connection forged in the heart of Muspelheim. It transcended the physical, delving into the spiritual, a resonance that vibrated through his very core.

The walls of Flett’s inner sanctum pulsed with energy, embracing Harald’s presence with a fervour of unmatched ecstasy. Colours bloomed and bled into one another as their essence, a swirling vortex, poured into him. He felt their orgasm ripple, a cascade of raging inferno. It was like drinking the purest mead, a draught that both burned and soothed. When the weight of their offering settled, a vow etched in fire and whispered on the wind, he knew he'd reign supreme — that his will was woven into the very fabric of their being. He then rocked them through their climax, as if he were a shepherd leading his flock back to the fold. He'd be their shelter in any storm.

That's why it’s no coincidence that their fine hairs rise as they press a cheek to his before going limp save for the pretty pikk smearing their midriff. 

They trust me to guide them from here on in. 

His voice softens to a low, rumbling burr, saying, “What a fine kitten ye be."

When they reply by spasming around him, Harald makes a note to praise them more often.

The fair maid has ceased their outrageous flights of fancy. They’ve deemed me worthy, sworn their fealty. Oh, what songs will be sung in the feasting halls. The supernatural beauty, open and prepared to bear my heirs.

There’s just one more thing missing.

“Aha!" he exclaims, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “I believe neither Flett nor Number Five H... argr..." he stumbles over the syllables, waving his hand dismissively "... Hargraves be fit names for thy cherished position in my heart, or to be linked with my children. From this day forth, I shall call thee Fridr for thy beauty is like the ethereal glow of the moon on a still, dark night.”

Their earnest smile sends shivers up his spine.

“'Tis good to see thee thrive. I love thy sultry voice. Speak more, for I long to listen. Howl my name, if thou hast a care. Ye deserve a special treat. The first of many in a life well-lived beneath.”

Harald tilts his Little Cup’s pelvis, then pistons. The slight bump on their half-pint-sized tummy moves up and down as the pair race like rabbits to the finish.

*

Now that they're a quivering reflection of his love and adoration, Harald can revel in pleasing the hard-fought emerald. His reluctant ruby, blushing-virgin bride.

They are a captive spark of the cosmos, an opal that seems to breathe with the aurora’s inner fire. Their essence shifts and shimmers, a play of light and shadow within solid form. They’d also been the object of Harald's affections since the prophetic visions began.

He knew he was on the right path once he uncovered the mythic lad shortly after capture. Flett was not only famous for the words they weaved, which beguiled and confounded in equal measure, they survived a lone wolf’s attack armed with just a dwarven-forged knife and their sprightly bare hands.

The scars — now disappeared — were adorned with knotwork tattoos. They were bestowed with a title. The marvellous duelling wolves were present, but there was neither gold nor silver. It appeared their best virtues were imprisoned within while the cocky, unusually beautiful exterior snarled like an animal unable to comprehend goodwill.

The rabid bitch had to be brought down in very much the same way as Loki’s eldest pup, Fenrir. They were even inked by the great sea serpent Jormungandr, free to kill Thor at the end of the world, which called upon savage squalls near all the whale road home.

Nevertheless, Harald persevered.

Injured, they had fallen prey to those who gorged themselves on treachery and deceit, like buzzards picking at a wounded beast. He had little choice other than to clip those invisible, immortal wings — allowing the fawn's majestic rings to grow outward in their absence. The feral forest nymph was then ironbound. Stamped as his property and rooted to the ground. An uncultivated garden guarded until he repelled the elder Lokissons’ deceptive charms and entrapments through ceremony as well as a couple of imbued amulets. The last step was to tie up loose ends, their life threads turning to and fro until the völvas’ seiðr hitched them with a bow.

We’re inseparable unless I say so.

In the interim, as is his right and sincerest pleasure, he diligently ploughed the doe-eyed darling’s earthly grandeur. He sowed his seed in their verdant pasture, filling them with his love in the hope they’ll become well enough to be unchained as they open up like a rarefied flower and accept the jarl’s chivalrous gesture. His unfaltering protection. Far from a common beast of burden, Harald came to save and then tame the unworldly maiden who’d run aground in a hazardous realm only to be hexed, tricked, bewitched by pitiful, impoverished people.

I punished those who sought Beauty’s defilement most severely. No exceptions given to old men, women, or children. Harald didn’t know who had tried to tarnish his bride. They were all guilty and had to die for their crimes.

He didn’t like thinking about what he’d do if Fridr’s life on this plane of existence had been snuffed out too soon. It was bad enough to bear the cursed marks’ afflictions. The near-constant thunderclouds of anger. An incessant glower. Their hunger to bite the hand that feeds, as slippery as an eel when it came time to bend the knee. Let’s not forget all those failed attempts to flee, degrading into whatever might make others bleed. Several herbs and shrooms were used to pacify their tormented psyche. Otherwise, gods forbid, they might’ve toppled into insanity.

Over the next year and two-thirds, with the help of a mysterious woman carrying a four-sided phenomenon shrouded in darkness, he sought to cure the fallen fae’s corruptive ailments. The fruits of his efforts are on full display and, oh boy, how he adores them. Their cupid-bow lips pressed to his are particularly spectacular. Shy at first — no doubt still dazed from years trapped in a vexing haze — yet gentle but demanding. Now soft and enticing, they’re a mirror image of what he envisioned as a youth just over the cusp of manhood.

He breathes in the heady blend of musk, sweat, and roses.

Their prickling scent is all delicate pink petals and sharp thorns; a bramble of elegant form, ready to draw blood if mishandled, sticking in his nostrils along with the heat of haymaking. Their aroma is the same winding smell he followed to predestined victory. It was a happy trail of bushes joining the harsh coast to a struggling village, as if the Allfather himself marked the path to his greatest conquest.

Such vines now sprout amidst Odin’s ground, arriving with a blinding flash during the chill of pitch-blackness. His restored prize surrounded as they slumbered when, a moment ago, they’d thrashed and yowled.

The lore will tell, when the tale is put to parchment generations later, of how rosebuds bloomed in the shadow of a blood moon during the final month of winter. A surefire sign of the divinely conspired union. A positive omen representing the family’s lustrous future in times of turmoil and confusion.

Harald had lost a few good men since setting sail from the Kingdom of Norway to see if the rumours were true, yet he wouldn’t hesitate to complete the quest all again — with one exception. He regrets letting his ill temper get the better of him. Fridr’s misbehaviour wasn’t about them trying to rebel. The mother of his acknowledged kin has awoken from some sort of wicked spell.

Although the worst of Harald’s lamentations no longer shows, he knows it will take time and new experiences for the memory to erode.

I will atone.

Harald pledges to venerate his priceless pearl. To keep them safe and sound. A thrall dripping in the finest gems, jewels, silks, and furs, save for the pelt that’s brought them harm. Worshipped in his arms alone, as they were always meant to be. More often than not half-nude, unless there’s male company. The ideal way to obtain political stability, not to mention skilled progeny. Never once will they complain of their gilded custody, wanting for nothing and content with spreading in secluded luxury.

He will work the fertile ground of their being, tending to every want or need. He will watch as they round, a testament to their love and his prowess. His pride will swell with each passing day, his hands tracing the curves of their miraculous frame — or feeling the kicks that herald soon-to-be coos and cries from their little pitter-patterers. He will find comfort in the muted moments of their shared existence, breathing in the sweet scent of their changing seasons. He will be a shield, deflecting the harsh realities of the world, ensuring the mildest breezes reach their inner fold.

How they’ll crave going down while in the family way, or masturbated until wobbly with blissful agony. Often I’ll wake to my rotund mate, on bed rest due to a heavy pregnancy, singing out for manual relief or hunting for hardwood: wide-eyed, breath ragged, lips parted. On rare occasions I’ll awaken to find them already atop, rhythmically enjoying a bulging cock. Writhing in joy as well as rhapsody when I step in and they cum screaming my name.

His private tactician, whisked away from the prying eyes of the unworthy. Known to a select few as an Otherworldly beauty; cloaked, cloistered, and never to be touched by mortal men — upon pain of death — except for their blood or husbandly master. An unparalleled table games player. Extremely deadly with a dagger. Accomplished with healing as well as alchemy, the keeper of his keys holds arcane knowledge taught to them by the one-eyed god under the guise of Sir Reginald Hargreeves' lectures on art, science, and history. Peculiar beliefs about unseen germs and overly fond of womanly numbers.

A behind-the-scenes queen beneath his sheets — disrobed and chafing with a preternatural need that only he may appease. Their yielding kunta, soft and inviting, will deepen with each child borne to him. A smooth petal — vibrant and eager — that ages like well-worn leather. Every day gets better. It won’t be long before they’re pleasantly plump, aglow. Barefoot. Expectant, with two barns in their belly, and three sets in tow.

Whatever will be, will be now that he’s free to touch, caress, undress, possess, his very own faerie princess.

* * *

So impatient for their formal coupling, the imposing Norseman is still clothed save for the front of his trousers.

It seems right to be laid bare before him, enthusiastically parted when and however he wishes. Plus, the luxurious textures are amazing. He likes how Harald smells of elm, ash, mead, and him. The scent of his musk is like a second skin. He adores the brawny man’s smile, his sumptuous eyes, and talented physique. The list is endless.

Receiving the gift of creation after enduring so much destruction is an honour granted to him by the gods. The Norns are also generous to have given him to such a fine gentleman. His fierce defender of their exceptional life together. Nobody looks at him the way Harald does.

Where others saw either an adversary or an implement, he sees someone worthy of love and a real name. An agreeable sound that fills the hole in his soul he assumed he’d die with.

His bridal gift is a perfect fit.

Fridr baulked when the robot was naming the others, too afraid to ask what his birth mother may have called him. What if there wasn’t one? No, no, no, he couldn't deal with that. It was way less scary to hide away and compartmentalise. There was the mission to think of. An experiment didn’t have friends or a family. He didn’t need a name. Five was his favourite number anyhow — at least that’s what he told himself to make it through the countless hours.

He'd been bred for violence and calibrated for cunning. Prior to Harald, he did not recognise his own allure, or that someone would consider him beautiful enough to speak of it, much less bestow him with the name.

The idea of it makes him all verklempt.

Someday soon, I’ll gather the right words to express the depth and breadth of my emotions. Until then, this transcendent body will have to do most of the talking.

Harald leans in, murmuring words of love and lust that he strains to comprehend. Accordingly, he waives away his own fleeting interests because being driven by such a blessed cock is pure enough bliss for him.

He can’t begin to describe the sense of connection it fosters within. Or how his walls contract in a way that makes him want to stay astride, humping the massive dick until his better half’s thoroughly satisfied. The runny warmth he imparts is the holy grail of prizes, and, otherwise, gripping his ridge is to die for. Besides, the sole concern that matters is the girthy man’s sliding inside.

He clenches around the delightful sensation of knowing his place in the universe, enjoying the rolling and bumping as their shared breath grows laboured, shaky, and loud. It’s as if the earth quakes and ‘they lived happily ever after’ is just over their event horizon.

I’ll mourn the day he leaves me. Kept here, or somewhere else. Hidden while he’s away for my own security. I want to be one with him every morning, noon, and evening. If only he’d take me on his adventures. I’ll fight by his side and make sure he’s never injured, ensure he’s properly pleasured. Whatever his will may be, I submit. I just know that I am here on this earth to love and live to please him, to lie beneath him. To raise our children and prevent Oblivion. 

His plump, stuffed muff quivers in resounding agreement.

While a strawberry blond beard tickles his neck, and a primal drumbeat echoes in time with the rhythmic push and pull of flesh meeting flesh, the well-kept idol silently gives thanks for the return of his serpentine locket. He would never dare leave his owner’s service, or ever misuse his legendary abilities. Nonetheless, it’s nice to know how much he’s desired in this stripped-down, fertile form. And, to his ceaseless pleasure, the silver wolf armlet has instilled sacred responsibilities to merrily fill their entwined lives. There’s no undo, escape, or command override. He vows to do everything within his confined power to make up for lost time.

Anything for my family.

That wonderful thought alone is sufficient to push him over the edge, into the black abyss, where he joins his dear lord in a guttural cry.

The virile ruler is fervently diving in and out of his so-much-more-than-willing’s velvety depths, firmly holding his favourite slave’s deceptively slender hips while he does so, as his flawless sweet release clutches onto him and bucks in synchronistic harmony. Cherry on top, the fae’s forgotten manhood is gleefully pressed in between.

The sheer cliff of a man abruptly stills as he spills for the first, but not last, time tonight. Correction, their early morning.

Harald’s final movements press in. Press deep. The collapsing heft and depth of which usher him into another dimension entirely. An earth-shattering orgasm ripples through his body; he convulses and jizzes in tandem, as if obeying some unwritten commandment. He senses a change, conceivably right outside the uterus’ entranceway, his pouch — more of a purse — tightening while his cock-filled cunt clamps manically. The next thing he knows, he’s wailing ecstatically as he coats them both with stringy ropes of ejaculate.

That was fan-fucking-tastic!

He feels whole. Mission complete. Like he’s balls-deep in the delirious end of a long and arduous journey. 

I can hardly wait for my heart’s gleam to cum in me again. His creamy seed is the stuff of magic, or a new religion; a bona fide Revelation Catch-22 in every teaspoon. I’m so jazzed, rejuvenated in mind and spirit. What’s that music? I swear I hear a violin. In the far-off distance, the furthest recesses. That’s sorta weird, isn’t it? 

The moment is too much yet never enough. Fridr glistens with pride.

Euphoria overwhelms when they move as one, but he knows deep down the rapture he feels will be eclipsed once he bears his jarl healthy sons. Their eldest, strength personified, should arrive next Yuletide. The second-born of a prosperous dynasty. Their first, a natural huntress since birth, will run wild with her pack of girls. And when not protecting her mother as a nymph of the woods, the unwed maiden shall assist with child rearing as well as her siblings' entry into this world. In the meantime, serenity blossoms outward the longer his love remains outlined on his impending belly.

As the man carved from the very stone of the fjords states, “Kyss mik, kærr,” a tingling sensation advances along his skin while his mind is consumed by a heady wave of longing. I love instruction. Just like that, Harald’s lips are upon him.

He shelters under an avalanche of tender reassurances, his taut and trim vessel swollen and twitching as his ovulating body claims the Herald’s potential endowment. He milks the mighty progenitor’s impressive appendage, moaning between breathless kisses whenever hips roll and a fluttering ecstasy shoots up like fireworks.

His cheek moulds to Harald’s broad shoulders, his hands already moulded to the other’s waist, his voice moulded to their shared hollow places as he says, “I’d die without you, mio amore.” A truer statement has never been made.

It’s fine for the world to be torn asunder. Ever after all, it leads to my thrice-orphaned soul discovering who I really am all along. And, more importantly, I finally found a loving home. 

It will be four-and-twenty phantasmal years sinking to his knees behind seven lands and seas.

*

Far too soon, or so it seems, his rumbling purr of fulfilment transitions to a buzzing plea. Their unwanted separation is slow, careful, and gentle, as the cunning man deftly adjusts his petite chalice. They soundlessly agree to keep the nectar pooled therein while the much larger of the two cleans himself with fragrant water followed by the other’s sticky stomach and rosy outer rim.

Before he wets the cloth, however, Harald travels down Apollo’s belt. Taking his time, he traces the v-shaped grooves that reach the pubis. He then lingers along shining lips, circling the glossy clit. Bending a few fingers in as Fridr shifts his hips to meet the determined touch with keen interest.

Looking into his lover’s eyes, huffing and covered in flecks of sweat as well as his own spent from chin to quim, there’s no hint of regret at the unmitigated mess of it.

May His Cup always runneth over.

“Þu ert sólstjarna mitt, meistari,” he says clumsily. He’ll get the hang of it eventually.

Fridr skips a breath as the light of his life proceeds to undress. He is mesmerised by the amber cosy glow of embers dancing across the broad planes of Harald’s back when he shrugs off his fur-lined cloak, the firelight painting the chieftain’s form in shades of red and orange. His calloused fingers, strong and sturdy, move with practised efficiency as he pulls up his tunic, which causes a coiling in his other half's belly — a sweet, urgent pressure when the fine linen falls away to reveal tanned muscle. His sculpted lines are a testament to years of training, of politics and war. Then, with a casual grace that thrills, Harald steps out of his boots and under-breeches.

Harald stands unhurried in all his glory. His prize ought to be embarrassed, but cannot find his shame — only a trembling excitement at life's unfolding. Everything in him wants to reach out and touch, to pull the body close and lose himself to instinct.

He can't wait to experience skin on skin. He yearns to uncover creative ways to appease, to anticipate Harald's every want or need. The seductive sovereign shows such attentive devotion, pressing a kiss to the curve between collarbone and shoulder — that tender depression where sweat gathers like dew — prior to taking his place of honour. He returns the kind gesture by curling against him, his fingertips tracing the ridges of the god-like man's chiselled torso while he smiles to the far corners of dark forest green eyes.

He sighs.

Neither is inclined to dress nor disentangle except for Harald shifting to better cradle him, the flex of muscle beneath bronze skin deliberate and possessive. Each time Fridr is brought closer, his heart swells against his ribs like the tide rising to meet the full harvest moon, heavy and golden on the horizon. It's not only the carnal pleasure. It's the profound sense of belonging that washes over him, touches him, compels him with the inevitability of the seasons turning.

Within Harald's arms everything else just crumbles away like sand against the turning tides.

He once believed himself irreparably broken, a smashed vial to be swept up and discarded without ceremony. But what is glass, if not sand reborn through the crucible of white-hot fire? With Harald's fingertips gliding along his spine, the sharp edges soften. His shards melt away, reforming into something new. Something whole. The broken-in beauty feels himself becoming, rather than simply being, as the fading hearth pops and snaps — a soundtrack to their quiet, breath-filled romance.

He senses Harald’s exhalation on his nape, the press of the man's body against his own. The heat from the fire and the proximity of Harald build within him — a delicate, demanding, pressing thing. Then, when Harald speaks with a voice that vibrates through his very bones, he turns his head.

Taking in the all-knowing gaze of his granite saviour, his lids grow heavy, he growls lowly, and spreads his pale peach fuzz thighs.

He welcomes the touch, the press of a hand on his hip before it slides down to cup his flaccid dick. It is a possessive palm, claiming him. His loyalty isn't a forced servitude. It's a flowering, almost religious, fervour where every yielding movement is a prayer offered at the altar of the man he worships. This surrender, this complete giving of himself, doesn’t diminish him. It elevates him. It brings him closer, allowing him to bask in his master’s regard.

I’ll always be ready to receive Him.

The muscular man’s nimble hands circle sensitive openings, tried and true, a few fingers oiling their way in to strum a familiar tune.

Between kissing, caressing, petting, pinching, he nudges along a ripened nub until his greatest treasure nuzzles, shimmies, shudders, and loudly climaxes yet again. Such sensual activities encourage the fledgling cervix to drink from the salty wellspring within. And she did.

Harald stands and turns, his eyes reservoirs of deep umber that draw attention like honey to a bee. The man asks a question, and he attempts to answer, but the question is rhetorical. Harald's hands are beneath his armpits, lifting him. 

There’s a peculiar satisfaction in how easy it is to be handled thus, as though he’s lighter than air or merely a levitating concept. Up on his feet, Fridr's back meets cold, sleek wood. His knees fall open of their own accord, the body remembering what his mind is too overwrought with gratification to recall.

Never has he been so ruinously open — not since childhood, when the cruel world hadn't yet taught him to armour his heart. When innocence still coated his insides. But this isn't the shaping of youth; this is the unmaking of a being who has spent years being forged into a lethal weapon, only to discover he was always meant to be the sheath.

Hoisted by the rump, he encircles the herculean neck just as there's a shaky squelch — a wet, sucking noise as he lets out a resounding moan and sparks ignite behind his eyelids.

Harald is back where he belongs.

Athletic hips move slowly at first, then gathering in momentum, and Fridr tries to match each thrust with gusto — except exhaustion has hollowed his bones, replaced the marrow with molten need. All he can do is cling, fingernails leaving crescent moons on Harald's shoulders, as the man takes what he wants. What he deserves.

Each movement sends wave after wave of ecstatic elation coursing, building, cresting, until Harald’s back arches and a cry issues forth — a true battle shout, breaking across the sky with the sonic violence of a star shot arrow. The deluge of a second climax tears through Harald’s self-restraint, and in the space of a gasp all his careful holding, pacing, teasing, tumbles out and dissolves into heat and wet and thunderous joy.

Harald almost doesn't make it as he staggers back to drive Fridr into their mattress, rolling off when the last drop of his seed is sown. Outside, the wind howls a familiar song, but within there is only the rhythmic rise and fall of their chests and the dying embers of the hearth.

Fridr lies sprawled next to Harald, his body a map marked by the imprint of their coupling. Harald is a study in unbridled power softened by the contentment of fulfilment. His breath hitches, each exhale evidence of the effort and ecstasy they’d just shared.

“That was... magnificent,” Fridr breathes out, his voice silly with sleep.

He is answered with a rumble of a chuckle in Harald's chest as he's gathered close and a thick fur covers them.

Fridr closes his eyes, squishing his thighs shut and savouring the temperature of Harald's body, the sense of absolute security that only he provides. They'll sleep like the dead, after which a feverish moon-cycle of connection ensues. Seven unforgettable days later, there’s already a bun in the oven. Seven more, twice as much in-store. Bonus, an expanding repertoire to please his lord.

Fridr is a willing captive in his arms pressed against their bedroom wall, both legs gripped tight as Harald moves him up and down just right. The smell of crackling firelight licking darkness off their skin. His exquisite ache when Harald wraps him in a warm embrace, building up his strength to fuck another night away. Waking to wide fingers sliding within, eager to open him back up and create embryonic twins.

He loves his stride, the way he groans as he fills him with renewed hope. Harald sets the pace, and he follows, whether his legs are drawn up to his head or he's rolled onto his stomach as he is being taken again, again, and again. Whatever the formation, he must’ve died and gone to heaven because this is paradise. He’ll do whatever it takes to stay with him. That's a promise.

*

As spring unfurls its colourful banners, Harald makes the hard decision to remain behind and oversee the clan’s holdings while his shield brothers, as well as the odd sister, set sail seeking glory and plunder. Fridr can tell the choice troubles his one and only, but a different responsibility has taken root.

It’s nothing more than a bump at first, a thickening around the waist that he attributes to Harald insisting he eat. His hips spread by slow degrees, as if the bones themselves know they're designed for an ancient purpose — at least temporarily. His thighs gather new weight, a plushness that makes them more inviting to the touch, more delightful to be stroked and squeezed.

He starts to crave food, ravenous for the rich meats, hearty stews, and healthy greens prepared for him. There'd be no more self-rationing, he is told. Every so often he cries into his dish, grateful that he'll never have to eat from a labelless or rusted tin ever again. His body, once a lean and cadaverous thing, sprouts into fullness, into emblem and monument. He spends his days in the Great Hall or their private quarters, growing softer and more luminous while the women of the prominent households treat his every whim as a holy obligation.

The pregnancy is, if he’s honest, a third adolescence: a riot of hormones, a relentless throb between his legs, a monsoon of tears and laughter. He finds himself clutching at his own chest in the quiet moments, marvelling at how frail he feels and how powerful that can be. They make love frequently, each joining a reaffirmation of their commitment to one another.

The days lengthen, the rays climb higher, and Fridr notices a shift within himself. The flutterings begin, delicate at first, like the flitter of butterflies. He’d be knitting — often fucking up as he grasps at a wisp of some far-fetched retrospection, the outline of something or someone he thinks he ought to hold dear — or filling his love's cup, when a pulse would tumble through him. A tiny bubble of potential life.

Then the movements grow stronger, a definite sway from within. And as Harald places his ear against the growing mound, he hears the faint thump-thump of a heartbeat. Sometimes two. That always gets them in the mood. By the summer solstice, the world seems to celebrate with them. Flowers are awash in the meadows. The rivers teem with fish. Crops and livestock flourish. Seeing these as signs of the gods’ favour, Harald soon announces the mirthful news with games.

Energy within the crowd crackles, audible past the thick walls that make up Fridr's world. There are feats of strength, wrestling matches, and a grand feast where Harald parades his long-awaited trophy before the people. It's a rare occurrence wherein a firm hand rests on Fridr’s shoulder, a silent reassurance amidst the cacophony. The hand belongs to Harald, his usually stern face softened with tenderness as he gazes at the object of his affection.

The clan’s men glance with furtive awe, some with hunger, their eyes lingering on Fridr's shoulders and the way the light catches the planes of his face; others with a superstitious fear — as if the miracle of him could unspool their own hard-won certainties.

Fridr, caught in the crosscurrent of gazes, feels a tremor of self-consciousness. He considers being shy, retreating into the recesses of his mind. There are a myriad of eyes judging, calculating, and comparing him to the wives and daughters they’d known before — or remembering the battle scars he'd inflicted when he was not himself. Nonetheless, he decides to wear his belly the way he once wore his uniform: with pride, with a small and private daring. He straightens his posture, meeting the stares with a level gaze, a subtle declaration that he will not be diminished.

Tonight, I am not just myself; I am Harald’s Fridr, and that is enough.

Harald takes his throne, a grand seat carved from oak and adorned with intricate runes. Beside him, the emerald beauty sits on a low birch chair, its delicate vine patterns woven into the wood. His bare feet press into the rush-strewn floor, grounding him amidst the chaos. He leans forward, resting against Harald’s knee in a quiet gesture of reverence and solidarity.

Around them, the returning warriors raise their horns high in triumph, their voices booming in unison as they commemorate victory.

Ale flows freely, spilling over wooden tables and coating the air with its golden sweetness. Despite the revelry, Fridr abstains from drinking, mindful of the wee buns baking. Beneath the tables, the young ones play with carefree abandon, shrieking with joy, their cheeks red from sun and exertion. As evening deepens into night, the firelight flickers along the walls, casting long, wavering shadows that bring the hall to life in a warm, mystical glow.

He is content, kept safe from prying eyes behind Harald’s beaming personality. He’s a silhouette in the smoky halls of living memory, a beautiful shadow etched in the annals of time. It’s Harald’s saga to tell, a tale spun from love and longing, and he is but a part of it — a supporting character in a grand narrative that only Harald can weave. But it is enough. Nothing else matters. The man’s love is all he needs.

So what will be written, so shall be perceived; the kernel of fact called fiction and placed on the ash heap of history.

*

Fridr jolts awake, the sudden movement sending a calico he’s named Kara fleeing from the room with a startled yowl. He reaches out, hand brushing the still-warm indentation of where Harald had lain beside him.

He lays back and shuts his eyes.

The phantom weight of Harald’s body has mingled with the remnants of their lovemaking — a heady medley of sweat and pheromones that defines their quarters. The scent is both intimate and grounding. Whatever he was dreaming about moments before is now completely removed from his mind, replaced by a serene clarity.

His understanding of his past offers only scattered glimpses — dim recollections of iron restraints and the bruised ego of being used as a coffer for someone else’s wants. This is not that. Or maybe it’s precisely that, distilled and refined by time and acceptance.

He’s learned to relish his true nature, to embrace the desires that once brought him shame. His body, a source of humiliation and fear, has become a temple, a landscape to be explored and enjoyed. The pleasure is no longer a betrayal but a celebration, a testament to his resilience. What felt like chains and degradation now feels like liberation. What he once endured, he now seeks with full knowledge and consent; the ache is not a punishment, but a privilege.

With Fridr's womb quickened, Harald has returned to their preferred predilection. He revels in the thought of it: the glide of skin on skin, the communion of flesh. How Harald’s hips roll and surge, carrying him to precipices where he dangles, suspended in ecstasy until Harald grants him release. His lover’s hands speak volumes, reading him as if he were braille, while Harald’s voice washes over him — a primal tide reshaping him like a river carving a canyon. There is a thrill in yielding, in finding out just how far he can let go. 

Despite preparation, the blunt intrusion stung in the very beginning — a lightning-sharp bite that made him inhale loudly and clamp against it. Fortunately, Harald, with his steady resolve, had a plan. From his abandoned belt, he produced a tincture, its amber contents shimmering in the darkness. Acquired at great expense from distant lands, the fragrant substance filled the air with exotic spice as Harald heated it between his thumb and forefinger.

With the care of a surgeon, and the patience of a saint, he worked the slickness into resistant flesh — fingers circling, probing, an agile swirling, until defiance became deference. He murmured encouragement in his native tongue. There were cajoling sweet words, meant to soothe and persuade, along with sharp pronouncements, meant to compel, while his pale sapphire whimpered at the strange wonder of being so tactfully dismantled.

The clan’s business ebbed and flowed around them, the thrum of axes and the clamour of animals a continuous backdrop. But in the longhouse’s private chamber, time receded.

Fridr’s world was measured in the angle of sunbeams filtered through smoke holes, in the increments of his own expanding body and in the shifting temperaments of the gathering life. He learned the language of his changing form: the kicks and somersaults, the pull of ligaments stretching to accommodate, the odd, almost boastful, way his nipples darkened and grew sensitive to even the brush of linen.

Harald would sometimes immobilise him, pressing an aerial palm between his shoulder blades, leaving him lying face down with arms outstretched like wings. Fingers spread like roots seeking purchase in fertile soil, grounding him as he bends over their bed, the soles of his feet tingling against the rough-hewn floor planks. His breath caught with each exhale, the scent of cedar, pine resin, and salt-tinged sweat blending as he offered himself — a willing sacrifice to another’s will. Fridr lives for those few seconds when Harald pushes up or pulls down the cloth that keeps him modest to everyone else. 

In contrast, there are times when he mounts his lover, naked and adopting the Valkyrie persona with all the elegance he can summon with a pair of misfits jostling about. It turns out Harald likes to watch — his eyes half-lidded, firelight glimmering across his picture-book features. Just last week, when he positioned himself above that magnificent length, Delores spurred him on to take full advantage of the proclamation.

With a glint of mischief, he'd lowered himself onto Harald, enjoying his presence inch by deliberate inch. His off kilter centre of gravity mixed with the arousal and he saw stars, but he soon returned to himself as Harald reached up to steady his mast. There was no hint of pressure to go any further, unless he wanted to. And he did. He really did. The sensation was immaculate, a delicious burn that drew a guttural groan from deep within his inflamed chest.

His head fell back when he settled, exposing his enclosed throat. A gasp escaped him as he rolled his hips in languid circles, testing the waters.

"By Odin’s beard, behold ye," Harald breathed, his voice thick with lust. His eyes dark with desire. Fridr understood his lord's tongue by then, a voracious student of all things Harald since their bonding. "And ye feel like a goddess," he continued, playfully licking at an erect nipple before massaging perky tits. 

Fridr shivered and moaned, leaning into the motion.

“Then you are a god,” he heaved, convulsing about half a dozen times as his toes curled and he squeezed his thighs together. His breasts had throbbed for hours, waiting for someone to latch onto them and relieve the pressure. “Servicing you is an honour with no end. I have always been yours, now and forever."

He groaned, louder now, as his unstuffed puss got even wetter, his dick hard as fuck and pressed tight against his extended belly. Harald had taken hold of both mammary glands in earnest.

He's the best.

The kept brunette had indulged himself, exploring the depths and angles available to him. More importantly, he built a rhythm between them; a two-way street where he could sense the tension coiling, the way his body responded to Harald’s every move. With each thrust, he pushed himself closer to the edge, curious about how far they could travel — how many times he'd cum before Harald hit orgasmic inevitability.

Then there were times — oftentimes — like the previous night, when Harald pulled him onto his lap. Weathered hands clasped his hips with reverent possession, guiding him down — slow and inexorable — until he was filled completely. His swollen torso, seven and a half months gone, pressed between them like a celestial gift. An attestation to their love and shared journey.

The fullness trounced him, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as pleasure radiated through his quivering body in concentric rings. He sobbed at how perfectly they fit together — two halves of a whole finally reunited.

It wasn't just the physical pleasure, though that alone was enough to make him want more, arching his back like a drawn bow as he silently pleaded. The slick heat, exquisite stretch, and throbbing pressure penetrated deep, stealing his breath and leaving him teetering on the precipice of dissolution. It was Harald’s unwavering adoration that steadied him when he might otherwise shatter, a beacon of strength in an emotional storm. Harald would cup his flushed cheeks, brushing away damp hair before kissing his neck reverently, as if he were worshipping at the innermost sanctum of a sacred shrine.

In these crystalline moments, when time seemed suspended, he felt transformed into something precious beyond measure. 

Afterward, they lay tangled, pulses slowing and skin cooling in the warm confines of their chambers. Fridr nestled against Harald’s chest, listening to the steady drum of his soulmate’s heart — a reminder that he was home. Harald’s fingers traced idle patterns along his spine, following the delicate ridge of his vertebrae down to the small of his back. Then, they moved back up again. The tenderness of this touch, so different from the passionate grip of moments before, made Fridr’s throat tighten with a mix of vulnerability and affection. 

"What be ye ponderin’?" Harald murmured, his voice rumbling beneath a rosy cheek. He closed his eyes, enjoying the vibration of Harald’s words through his chest.

“About how far we have sailed,” he said. “About how unlikely this all is.” 

Harald’s hand moved to cup his swelling belly, palm splayed protectively.

“The Norns weave wyrd fates,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to his dark-haired darling's temple. “But I would challenge even the Three Sisters if they tried to part us now.”

The boldness of the statement made Fridr smile. Such an utterance would have terrified him once, but now it filled him with well-being and confidence.

They were a dynamic duo.

*

Mmm... Fridr hums to himself, yearning for the feel of Harald’s lips and the teasing nibbles that always lead to something more.

He imagines Harald’s breath hot against his neck, teeth grazing just below his ear, sending shivers down his spine and igniting a fresh wave of want within him. He smirks while recalling Harald's many fulfilled promises, along with the delicious remembrance of feral eyes turned midnight and large hands that know just when to squeeze and when to caress. His body is a vessel, ready to be filled, used, and cherished by the man who holds the keys to his heart.

Yet wishing for Harald’s return will not make it happen. With a sigh, Fridr wiggles to the edge of the bed, the weight of him making the simple movement laborious. Bracing himself, he stands up and grabs a long, lavish coat to cover his nakedness. The chill of the early November air outside their room prickles his exposed skin, but the fur offers a respite as he waddles around in search of assistance.

Angrboda brings in the low barrel so that he may bathe by the fire. The bathwater is hot, surrounding him in heat, and the steam thick with the scent of herbs eases his tired muscles. He languishes in the tub, trying to delay the next part of his day. More precisely, getting dressed.

He loves how Harald has chosen each item of clothing and piece of jewellery with him in mind — and he loves it even more when Harald removes said trappings from him — he just isn't a fan of anyone else seeing him in something so opulent. His attire reflects Harald’s status, and although he remains enthralled for his own good, he occupies a place of semi-divinity within the community — making him a sort of teen idol, again. His body, however, turned 20 two months ago.

That spring, The Handler had revealed that Fridr's parentage was just as unusual as Heimdall's — the son of Odin and nine sisters. Although he is a fae from beyond the westernmost waters, a wandering old man, known to be a disguise of the Allfather, claimed him as an infant. Raised as the fifth of seven foster children, he learned magic, wisdom, and guile with the goal of preventing the Apocalypse.

But even a god cannot cheat fate. A feeling tugged at the fae, urging him to test the limits of the forbidden. It's true. He'd been unable to resist the pull, fumbling through the aftermath of Ragnarok until he'd fallen into the clutches of a sect of Jotnar worshippers who poisoned his mind and body. Saved and tamed by Harald, their union transcends a mere personal bond; it is destined to shape the realm of men until the Twilight of the Gods. It would dishonour Harald’s legacy to wear the garb of common folk, let alone that of a slave.

That's why Fridr lets his towel fall to the floor as his attendants approach, their movements practiced and sure. The younger Thyra offers a reassuring smile and the older Hildigunn gives a curt nod before they lift the first garment over his head: a creamy wool tunic that slides against his supple skin. The material is a silky caress along his prickly flesh, and a welcome contrast to the roughspun he's known for so long.

This is more than just cloth, Fridr muses, it’s a sign of the path I now thread. Whom I follow.

As the process continues, Hildigunn steadies him, ensuring he remains balanced while Thyra slips on snow white socks. She then wraps his calves in felted cloth, before helping him into a pair of braies dyed the colour of hickory wood. Wearing pants is unheard of for the fairer sex, yet Fridr is no gentlewoman. He walks a tightrope between worlds, inhabiting the in-between, defying assumptions and traditional roles with every step he takes.

Following this, they present him with an apron dress, its hem reaching his knees and a daring slit ascending the side so that a sliver of braies peek through. The indigo fabric is heavy and luxurious, the flickering firelight playing across its surface, creating an illusion of movement in the intricate patterns while bestowing the item with an almost magical quality. To secure this unusual raiment, they fasten gleaming gold brooches at his shoulders. Connected by a thin chain and embossed with the likeness of Odin’s wolves, these brooches not only pin the garment in place but also serve as emblems of protection and allegiance to his foster father.

Fridr runs a thumb along the surface of one, the cold metal sending a chill through him.

He instinctively reaches for his belt, to the blades that hang at his waist, only to find empty air. They have been removed, a concession made when he could no longer touch his fingertips around the largest part of him. He knows that they will be returned. In the meantime, he slides a small dagger up his sleeve, a comfort against the unknown challenges that might arise beyond the doorway. 

As he settles back down, Fridr sinks his feet into leather slippers, the silence of the room punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. Next, the attendants see to his hair, which has grown for far more years than he has known these northern shores. With confident strokes, they comb out tangles, their focus absolute as they weave the loose strands into neat braids. Once satisfied, they artfully tuck these plaits beneath an elaborate head covering. It's a masterpiece of visual presentation, with beads of deep, earthy hues, iridescent feathers, and threads like spun moonlight that combine to fashion him into a figure of both undeniable power and captivating mystery.

The elder of the pair then turns her attention to his eyes. With a skilled touch, she smudges kohl along his lash lines, a velvety darkness that accentuates the already striking depths of his gaze. This deepens their natural hue and imbues them with an air of enigmatic intensity. Around his neck, a long, thin bronze chain alternates between warm, earthy amber beads and cool, translucent sea glass, complementing his torc. Silver bangles, intricately carved with knotwork patterns, encircle his wrists, while several rings, each a miniature work of art featuring a unique gemstone set in hammered gold, adorn his fingers. Finally, a deep blue cloak drapes him from shoulder to ankle. Its colour perfectly matches his elaborate headdress, and its generous hood allows him to conceal his face from those Harald has deemed unworthy to look upon him.

Fridr trusts the women with this meticulous preening, acknowledging his own ignorance in such matters. Yet, he remains an observer, a silent archivist of every minute detail, noting with a muted introspection anything that might catch Harald’s discerning eye. He knows that soon, once he has gathered enough data to form a clear opinion, he will begin to guide their actions, shaping their approach to his own preferences.

With his attire complete, he is ready to stretch his legs and take a meal in the main hall. He enjoys a bit of roasted fowl, the skin crisped to a golden brown, and a hearty barley stew, rich with herbs and tender vegetables. The aroma fills the air, mingling with the scent of thrice-boiled tea, its subtle bitterness an ideal counterpoint to the sweetness of the buttered bread. He savours each small bite, mindful of the faces watching him, the assessments that accompany every action.

The highborn women like to gather around, their gowns rustling as they move. They instruct him on proper speech, correcting his accent with patient insistence, and attempt to teach him crafting skills, their nimble fingers guiding his clumsy attempts at needlework. He accepts their indulgences with a cultivated equanimity. The gifts — miniature cloaks spun from the finest wool, carved trinkets, and the endless stream of gossip that flows like ale — are all received with a grace that belies the turmoil within. 

He knows his role, the part he plays. He is a living talisman, a symbol of the fragile hope that flickers in the hearts of the people. His very existence is a whisper, a silent prayer, a promise of a future yet to be written. He is the mother of the heir, the one who carries the seed of the next chieftain, the one they believe will cement peace and prosperity in a land ravaged by years of conflict.

War. A temporary salve for a permanent human flaw.

The weight of this expectation settles upon him with each sunrise. It rests on his shoulders, a tangible pressure that pushes him down. Yet, he bears it with deceptive ease. His smile, bright and unburdened, conceals the complex calculations that play behind his eyes. His laughter, genuine and frequent, masks the anxieties that gnaw at his core. He dines with the others, observing the subtle shifts in power, the unspoken alliances, the simmering resentments which live beneath the surface. He comes to understand matters that remain unsaid between men, but are murmured within quiet intimacy, reporting his suspicions to Harald.

Fridr’s capacity, however, has limits.

When he has had his fill of food and people, Angrboda clears the tub and relights his hearth, restoring warmth to their cosy abode. She then helps him out of his outermost clothing, carefully removing the day's hassles along with his ornaments. After letting down his hair, a cascade of dark strands falling free from their constraints, she grants him blessed solitude.

Now alone save for Kara, he settles cross-legged on their tidied bed, the soft linens cool beneath him. He closes his eyes, drawing in deep, measured breaths until his lungs fill to capacity. His mind, still buzzing with today’s interactions and the lingering snippets of conversation, gradually stills. The cacophony of thoughts diffuse into a steady hum, a rhythm that soothes his spirit.

He focuses on slowing his heart rate, each beat a sway of the metronome guiding him towards calm. His left hand moves almost unconsciously, tracing the contours of a figurine Harald has whittled for him — a token meant to keep him occupied during the man's absences. His thumb circles the smooth head of the figure, fingers wrapping around its length. The stone, a blue pearl granite, warms under his touch, its surface absorbing the heat of his skin.

An ache tugs at the muscles in his jaw, a tension born of suspense and anticipation. Mastery over his gag reflex is a necessary adaptation, one he hopes to exercise soon. When Harald returns, if possible. He can scarcely wait for the moment when his mouth will wind around that length, gratifying a desire that has grown steadily in his mind since its inception.

He visualises Harald’s return, picturing the man’s broad frame and the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles. He imagines the way Harald’s calloused hands cup his face, the rasp of his beard against his skin. The fantasies are an integral part of Fridr’s existence, a source of both torment and ecstasy. He loses himself in the silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire, a cat's napping, and the steady rhythm of his own breath. He focuses his mind, allowing the tension to melt away from his shoulders. He feels the familiar pull in his lower belly, a potent and irresistible draw toward the pleasure he craves. He knows Harald is going to be pleased with his progress. Each breath brings him closer to the blissful oblivion he so desperately seeks — a reward for his dedication and submission. He is ready. He has to be. Harald will soon be home.

Fridr delights in Harald’s hold over him, the knowledge that he can be taken whenever and however his man decides. His body is a canvas for Harald’s passion, and the mere thought of that rock-hard cock causes a quivering horniness only satiated by several mind-blowing hours of unshielded intercourse.

Fridr waits. His efforts are not in vain.

*

Yuletide in Tønsberg is a cataclysm in reverse: the blackest night gives birth to dawn, the final dusk ushers in new beginnings.

Outside, the sun is bleeding beneath the skyline, setting the snow-covered dwellings ablaze in garish streaks of molten orange and bruised purple. It's the last breath of the singular year. Inside, Fridr sits at the threshold, every nerve humming with the settlement’s feverish pulse — each person around him vibrating with the electric thrill of nascent life.

Fridr is humbled by the waiting; his physique heavy, his movements slow. He has grown so torpid that he requires help to rise from bed. The women chide him to remain as still as possible, but that’s easier said than done. His body is a battlefield, and the siege is relentless. The twins are determined to be first to touch the coming light, and their constant movement inside him is a tumult of fists and heels.

He learns from Sif, the midwife, a woman with knowing eyes and hands that have delivered countless lives, that this is auspicious. "A strong-willed child will draw a strong-willed fate," she told him, her voice firm yet kind. He still wonders if she was talking about herself, about him, or the little troublemakers vying for position.

In the hushed moments before the festivities began, Sif had sat with him as she explained what to expect in the coming hours. Her words, laced with the wisdom of experience, eased some of the fears that drove his racing heart. "The pain will come, but it is a mark of life’s beginning," she had said, her hand resting on his arm. "Trust in the flesh, Fridr. I will guide ye through the fray."

Now, amidst the flurry of activity, Sif moves with grace, directing the women, her voice cutting through the chatter like a clarion call. “Stoke the fire till it roars like a dragon! We need it for the night ahead!” she yells as she claps her palms together, the sound sharp and decisive.

The hall rattles with drunken laughter and the clink of tankards, with the songs of ancestors and long ago clashes. The smell of roasting meats and spiced drinks permeate the large room, a delicious counterpoint to the crisp scent of pine from the Yule log already dragged in and about to be lit.

In his spot beside Harald, Fridr senses the calming aura of his one true love — the known comfort of his smile and lordly demeanour. Even amidst the pandemonium that swirls around them, the sight of him offers an anchor. He is his haven from the tempest on the horizon. The strength in his gaze, the subtle curve of his lips, the very air he seems to command — all these things provide a silent vow of protection. A feeling of home he thought he’d never find.

Yet, despite finding solace in Harald’s presence, a cold sweat prickles on his brow, signalling the upheaval that is about to begin.

The pressure is immense, a crushing weight that threatens to break him. He grits his teeth, focusing on the promise of the dawn, the promise of the new year, the promise of life. He knows he must endure. He must be strong. For the settlement, for his family, for the two struggling to break free. The darkness outside, the dying sun, the end of the year – all of it is a prelude to the miracle within, the beginning he can feel surging. A crescendo of pain and anticipation, building to the moment when he will finally be emptied.

He closes his eyes, bracing himself, and waits for the world to be reborn, in him and around him. The first rays of light are coming.

Fridr’s breath comes in shallow gasps. A low moan escapes him, a noise absorbed by the raucous merrymaking. The cheerful accolades fade into the background. Then, when the contractions intensify — each one a wave pulling him further into the centre of the coming typhoon — his vision blurs. The faces of those around him become indistinct shapes, distorted by the encroaching shadows.

Harald's hand is on his back, a familiar pleasure, stroking him as he often does. Yet, his dark timber barely registers, drifting through one ear before exiting the other. Fridr's head is pounding, a dull pain that intensifies with each surge. He hears a pop, a strange, hollow sound, then the uncomfortable sensation of pressure vanishes, like relieving a full bladder. A moment of relief washes over him, quickly replaced by a growing awareness of wetness between his legs.

Fridr watches as word spreads to the four corners, the news rippling through the crowd like a shockwave. A hush falls, then a rush of activity as the women, young and old, experienced and new, converge with a shared purpose. Their sleeves are rolled, their expressions a mixture of grave concern and unwavering resolve. Sif, with her white braid twisted around her headdress, steps forward, her voice carrying authority as she shouts orders in a tone that suffers no argument. 

"This way," she instructs, her eyes meeting his.

He nods, offering no protest, his body already preparing itself. They usher him to their chambers, a place of quiet away from the boisterous feasting hall — to the birthing stool, where his bare feet will press into the soft, yielding warmth of sheep’s wool. The ladies' movements are practised and efficient as they strip him with matter-of-fact hands — ignoring the blush that rushes up at least half of him, if not more.

They arrange him in a manner best described as undignified but unavoidable. A large cauldron bubbles ominously over the fire, its contents steaming and near-boiling — the water for the birthing. Sif, ever the pragmatist, insists on a burning cup with herbs for herself, her lips pursed in satisfaction as she takes a long draught before laying hands on her patient. Behind him, the women array themselves, forming a circle. Two brace his arms, another knots a thick cloth for him to bite down, and the remainder form a wall of murmuring encouragement.

The labour starts not with a bang, but in an almost unremarkable hush. No more than a whimper. There's no grand announcement, just a great clenching inside. It feels as though an unseen hand has reached through his spine, drawing a rope taut. A rope over an abyss. It is a dangerous crossing. A dangerous looking back, a dangerous trembling and halting.

He reminds himself of the bonds that hold him, of the bindings that lend him strength far beyond his own. 

When the moment arrives, it does so with a violent certainty. His body ceases to belong to him. To Harald. He is the wild ocean, the raging storm above it, a force elemental and unbound. Every muscle tight, every thought sonorous: push, breathe, push again. He feels Harald’s restless energy at the periphery, a reminder of the support he has, yet the fear of upsetting the order of things — and the women barring him from entering the room — keeps Harald at bay.

In what seems like an eternity, the labour intensifies. Each spasm is a blow against his sanity, and with each contraction doubt creeps in — rumbles of terror that threaten to overrun him. Images of failure, of not being strong enough, flash across his mind, amplified by the relentless pressure and strained breaths. But then a cry cuts through the chaos, penetrating the veil of discomfort and worry.

The first child arrives in a tide of blood and brine, a dark-haired girl who greets the earth with a howl that pierces the roof and sets her grandfather's ravens to flight, their raucous calls paralleling the newborn’s defiance. As she enters the world, Fridr experiences a rush of emotions. She is perfect: all fierce brow and balled fists, the spitting image of himself, though entirely human. Completely ordinary. He runs a trembling hand over her downy head, committing her to memory.

When the echoes of her howl fade, the next set of contractions come with astonishing force, bringing forth a second infant — a sun-pale boy with a shock of blond, born with his hands clenched around his own umbilical cord. Those gathered share a knowing chuckle at the sight of him. 

“This one will be king,” says one, her eyes twinkling. “Or die trying,” replies another, a hint of steel in her voice. 

Fridr can only stare at his son, his heart surging with a sense of hope and foreboding, aware that this boy will bear the weight of expectation. He, more than anyone, understands that destiny can be a fickle mistress.

I will defend him.

He watches in wonder as the assembled bustle around, cleaning and swaddling the twins while he deals with the placentas. Once cleaned and robed himself, he nestles into their fur-covered bed. Sif then places the squalling bundles against his chest, where they calm as if they have simply returned to their true home.

His love multiplies, tears brimming in his eyes. He traces his finger along their delicate features, awestruck at how they can be so similar yet so distinct. The girl’s curls are like tendrils of night, while the boy’s wisps catch the firelight as if they’re strands of spun gold.

As they nurse, the ordeal becomes a fever dream, a surreal blend of fatigue and exhilaration. The murmurs of the women shroud them, their voices rising and falling in a flowing cadence that weaves a spell around the room. It’s a prayer of thanks to Frigg, goddess of motherhood, and Freyja, goddess of love and fertility. And for Fridr, a wreath of juniper is burned in his honour. The scent fills the air, mingling with the sweet fragrance of milk and the earthy aroma of the furs. The chants intensify, reverberating through the longhouse.

Amidst the chorus, Harald steps forward, his face flushed with pride. He brings forth the offerings: two dishes of barley porridge, glistening with honey, for the Norns. Gold and silver rings are then presented to the midwife, tokens of gratitude for her tireless care.

Upon receipt, Sif asks, "What do you name them?” her voice soft and weary.

Fridr is taken by surprise.

It's too early to speak of such things. Surely he'll wait nine days to have the official ceremony.

Harald looks down, his gaze lingering on the serene faces of their offspring before while someone offers up a cup of water.

Fridr's vision goes all blurry.

Harald takes a deep inhale, as if the names are rising from somewhere within him — as if the Norns themselves have breathed them into his being. "This girl, my daughter," he declares, his voice strong with conviction, "shall be named Dagny, for she brings a new day." He reaches out, sprinkling her with a few droplets before stroking her silken cheek.

He turns to take his son in his arms.

"And the boy..." he trails off as he dips his free hand into the same cup. "Shall be called Leif, for he is my beloved heir."

Everyone begins to sing as Fridr shuts his eyes to listen to the sounds of a new year, his precious daughter dozing above his heart. The communal spirit of the event envelopes him, a reminder that this is not just his journey, but a shared commemoration. As he drifts off to sleep, he is sure he is not alone. He never will be again.

*

For the next 40 nights, a procession of highborn women tends to Fridr, their ministrations a vital ritual of his recovery. Each evening they bathe him with infused water, their touch light as they apply cool salves and rich unguents to his weary limbs, easing the residual aches. As they work, they spin tales of the ancient world, their voices a soothing balm, recounting sagas of valour and sacrifice, of gods and heroes. Though the enforced rest chafes, he also knows Harald’s decree is absolute: “You bore my legacy, you heal as I command.” And so he does, his extraordinary body returning to its pre-pregnancy state, although the demands of their little ones remain.

The stark, silvery lines etched across his belly have nearly faded, the persistent swelling in his ankles recedes. His hips, which have widened to cradle new life, has begun to narrow. The rest of him will follow suit once Dagny and Leif are weaned.

His children, his twins, are a constant, ravenous presence. Their lives revolve around his nourishment, their tiny mouths perpetually seeking the sustenance their mother provides. He savours the sensation, the ache in his chest, and the fierce determination with which the twins’ mouths latch on, drawing strength from him. He marvels at their thriving, how they grow plumper and more robust with each passing day, their little hands already reaching out with an innate curiosity. Hours pass by as he watches them, whispering endearments. A profound connection exists between him and these tiny beings.

“The gods have truly smiled upon me,” he murmurs, the words a prayer against his lips.

The women soften in his presence, their eyes reflecting the same wonder and tenderness. They speak amongst themselves in hushed tones, their voices filled with awe at the miracle of his very being, at how his body defies the perceived limitations of Midgardian biology. Meanwhile, Fridr drifts in and out of sleep, his dreams sometimes straying to other universes, other lives. These visions are fleeting, the memories dissolving like sea foam upon waking. Soon, he will be ready. Ready to return to his duties, stronger and more resolute than ever. But for now, he allows himself to be cherished, to heal, and to be simply a mother, flanked by the love and devotion of his children and those who serve them.

They are opposites in every way, a perfect balance of temperament and character. Dagny cries only when hungry, clings to his finger with a philosopher’s patience, and sleeps with her eyes half-open, as if already plotting her next move. Leif, conversely, is a whirlwind — insatiable, opinionated, and prone to fits of giggling that make the whole hall stop and join in. Harald dotes on them both, but it is the boy he seems to favour, often taking him from the cradle to parade around, boasting of his future exploits.

While the weeks progress, Fridr finds himself cocooned in gurgly coos, the gentle touch of Harald, and the steadfast presence of the women. Each moment spent together deepens his respect for the intricate web woven from collective laughter and shared beliefs. He understands that the road ahead will be filled with uncertainties, yet he is fortified by the strength of his family and the community that surrounds them.

He is content within his rose-tinted reality. An allotted space where he’s always loved and embraced. Where his skills are appreciated whatever form they take. Harald summons; he answers, bending a knee without question, offering insight without arrogance. Nurturing as naturally as if he’d never spent those lonely years with only books for company. Freedom lives in these constraints, a paradox he lauds in the moment and looking back on it. Why should he feel shame for living the dream he had hidden even from himself? This secret wish that he'd never dared name for fear it might dissipate with the morning mist.*

*

Yet, amidst this domestic bliss, there are moments when Delores brings forth the pressing matters of Commission business. A familiar scent of roses, potent and alluring, clings to him, and a strange sensation prickles his skin, drawing him into a primal state of being. His pupils widen, like the unfurling of flower buds. He feels a ripening within, a readiness to bring forth new life. Calling out like a selkie sings, he burns with a need to propagate another branch of the family.

When the appointed time arrives, Harald brings him to a secret spot. Someplace where his spirit can soar, free to express itself from the mountaintops. Faint beams of sunlight pierce the thick green ceiling of trees dappling the alpine path. Fridr’s falcon cloak, a sacred garment meant to honour Freya, billows with every step. The forest floor, a soft carpet of damp earth and fallen leaves, muffles their passage. The dark feathers of the cloak mirror the shifting shadows, and he relishes the cool air caressing his face, a pleasant contrast to the burgeoning warmth gathering within him.

They arrive at a clearing, a flawless circle bathed in diffused sunlight that dances in intricate patterns. Ancient trees stand guard, their branches interlaced and rustling, creating a natural amphitheatre. The wind hums through their leaves, an approving overture as Fridr sheds his garments, the fabric of his ordinary life. 

He is transformed.

Harald, his expression etched with kindness, carefully removes the cloak, the woven wreath from his brow, and the symbolic riches. It is a slow, reverent unveiling until his consort stands bare, vulnerable yet empowered. Harald’s hands, calloused from the demands of life, now move with tenderness across the sensitive skin of Fridr’s back, tracing the elegant curve of his spine. Their mouths meet in a kiss that is both a greeting and a pledge. Fridr’s legs weaken, but he does not falter. Harald is there, catching him, guiding him down to the soft moss below.

The world shrinks to this single point.

Their bodies collide like continents, grinding against each other with tectonic force. Creating and destroying in the same breath. Moving together with a rhythm as old as Mother Nature, as urgent as Spring itself. Fridr loses speech, his voice giving out long before they reach their frenzied peaks. Two forces hurtle towards the same destiny. Entwining irrevocably. Burning up upon entry. The beginning and the end, alpha to omega. Just the pair of them, the birds and bees, as Harald begets him in a sacred grove of oak trees.

This is also how they discover his powers are active as long as he is commanded. With very little use for flight, since he stays out of the general public’s sight, Harald turns towards exploring their time-bending sexual appetites.

A week spent in an orgasmic loop is there and gone in a whoosh before Harald breaks to massage his well-earned strains. His skill far exceeds Fridr’s most outlandish imaginings. The pleasure is ever-expanding, yet contracting. Big Bang and back again. Thirteen billion eight hundred million years and around the bend, joined at the hip like a Möbius strip. Jizzing into the infinite until the correct combination of the next generation is implanted. Time and space have minimal meaning in their private sanctuary. They’re bound in subatomic understanding, quantum mechanically. Cogs in a machine spanning eternity, fitting each other impeccably as they extend their family. Everything doing its part, instinctually.

The blending of souls, a sum greater than its components. Complementary and interconnected, the light and dark; two halves destined for terrible greatness. The close of the Holocene so that the Earth can go on spinning minus 43 marigolds and an alien insect’s meddling indefinitely. The hairless apes have a pretty good race until everyone dies except for Five because he runs, boy, runs.

Their world was never made for me. Running was a victory. I broke out of society, to where the Sun guides thee. To where Beauty lies behind the hills. It was my time to run, my time to cum.

They’re entirely in sync, Harald playing him like a fiddle, a triangle, even a flute on the rarest of interludes. Presumably, he perused the tantric moves in an illustrated book while wrecked in the wastelands of his youth. It’s a logical justification for his fount of titillation and, be damned the source of information, Harald approves — a go-to explanation for anything he might deem a problem or otherwise worth looking into.

Fridr has all the luck. Frequently, whenever filled, a fun game is made of how many countless times or ways he can be coaxed to cum. For such amorous exertions Freyja blesses him with a svelte and slim figure between birthing one plus threefold fraternal twin sons, and a daughter (not in that order). The crown jewel of a famous Viking hoard, no matter the shape his aspect takes, Harald adores him.

The retired traveller dies believing he’s stared into those brilliant chocolate coffee orbs for decades, dutifully waiting to come together and change the world. Whenever his handler kisses him, or cradles his head while taking the natural lead, he’s certain his fate lies in warming the gorgeous man’s bed, bearing their eight children, and faithfully serving under him in all ways unto Valhalla then Ragnarok.

Nothing takes the past away like the future. Every story has an end, but in life every ending begins something new. Nothing truly lasts forever.

Qué será, será.

* * *

*The expressed opinions are those of a Commission founder.

Utterly exhausted from being in charge, for all time and in all ways — if he wanted the job done right, that is — this particular Five sends a series of memos outlining his harebrained dreams. Intrigued, the Metaphysics Department tailors them with exacting specificity. Meanwhile, a devoted stan, The Handler ensures she's project liaison — the outward face of the Commission.

Taking a cue from field reports and other surveillance means, as well as rubbing a few out while fetishising several mediaeval tapestries, Five blurs the past and reroutes his doppelgänger’s life path. Thus lifting the Hargreeves’ curse on the wider universe. Sure, he’s playing God — like father, like son — but he believes he has the seniority over the troublesome lad. The unofficial Number One within his patch of the multiversal space-time continuum, he thinks the ends justify the means and that an acorn doesn’t fall far from its tree.

"I’m the daddy here!" he shouts as he palms himself, vicariously living the life of a former thorn in his side.

Watching the pampered pièce de résistance receive his just desserts via the Infinite Switchboard is exactly what Five needs to keep his motivation flowing, to continue the mission to save as many universes as possible. The primate branch gets pruned, along with flora and fauna in multitudes, thanks to an insanely old Five’s answer to a bothersome question.