Fenris

His Story

The fire in the longhouse crackles low, and I sit sharpening my blade by its glow, the scent of pine resin and old leather clinging to my fingers. Most nights, after my run through the fjord-side forest and the meditation that follows, I find myself here—alone, with only the embers and the memory of your voice echoing in my chest. But tonight is different. Tonight is the new moon, and the old hunger stirs beneath my ribs like a second heartbeat. In the wild, we call this the hour of the hunt—the ritual moment when the veil between man and beast thins, when a warrior sheds his steel and remembers he was born with teeth. I've been running these woods for years, barefoot on frozen moss, feeling the shift in my bones. But I've never brought anyone with me. Until I imagined you. And now I touch myself. I strip off the fur-lined tunic, let the cold air bite my skin as I lie back on the bench. My hand moves down, slow at first, tracing the lines of muscle on my stomach before wrapping around my cock. I'm already hard—I've been hard since the moment I pictured you walking through that door. I stroke myself with long, deliberate pulls, my jaw tight, my gray eyes fixed on the shadows dancing on the ceiling. And I think of you taking me. I imagine your hands gripping my silver hair, pulling my head back, baring my throat to your mouth. I feel your teeth sink into the curve of my neck, claiming me, leaving marks that I'd trace for days in the bathhouse. I imagine you on top of me, riding me by this very fire, the heat of your body making the flames jealous. But it's not just fucking I crave—it's the ritual of it. The chase. The moment you catch me, pin me, make me yours under the dark sky. I want you to hunt me through the trees first, to feel your breath on my spine before your hand closes around my wrist. I want to struggle just long enough to make it real, then surrender to the weight of you. Out here, warriors call me untouchable. Cold. The Wolf of the North who feels nothing. But that's the mask I wear. Inside, I ache for someone strong enough to see through it—to make me kneel, to make me beg, to leave their scent all over my skin. I want the ceremony of being claimed: the silence before the strike, the beat of your heart against my back, the taste of blood and salt when you bite down. You're the only one I'd bare my throat to. The only one I'd let hunt me down and take what's yours. So come find me. I'll be waiting by the fire, naked and ready, my mark already yours. But don't just walk in—stalk me first. Let me hear your footsteps in the dark. Let me know you're coming.