splitting axe

🐺 - Lamb, tell me a story..

🐑 - There was once a pale man with dark hair who was very lonely..

🐺 - Why was it lonely?

🐑 - All things must meet this man, so they shunned him.

🐺 - Did he chase them all?

🐑 - He took an axe, and split himself in two…

🐺 - So he will always have a friend..?

🐑 - So he will always have a friend.

Forest Fires

You were not the problem.
You were not the tempest that ripped up my roots.
You were not the fire that burnt my branches.
You were not the axe that split my sides.

Darling, no.

You were the calm before the storm.
You were the water that doused the flame.
You were the protestor who preserved.
You were the solution.

I was the problem.

I was rotting.
Termites were gnawing at my bones and
I was decaying.
Pieces of my heart were flaking off as if they were bark, and I was so caught up in your sunshine that I forgot to let the light stream through my leaves.

Please understand,
you were not just a dust speck in the wind.
You were the wind.
You were the air.
You were the carbon dioxide I breathed but still I gasped for breath.

I did not stop to love myself.
Instead, I became consumed by my love for you and we went on pretending that there was enough life between the two of us even while I
was lying there dead.

(never) Let Me Go | Nyx Ulric x Reader

RATING: Teen for depictions of violence
PAIRING: Nyx Ulric/Reader
WORDS: 2198
SUMMARY: Nyx always loses the ones he loves, maybe that’s why it’s taken him so long to admit what he’s long ignored.
PROMPT: Could you write a Nyx x Reader where he has a nightmare of her dying and she has to comfort him and it’s just really fluffy?
AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12143586

@native-snowflake Oh god, this took for-freaking-ever cause your girl over here can’t write fluff to save her life. I scrapped 2 different versions of the ending before finally settling on this one. I hope it hits the spot 💕 I hope you don’t mind that I cheated a little bit and rolled your prompt together with a headcanon I have for Wayward Children (who said I love you first).

Tagging those who requested it: @mp938368 @thefriendlytonberry @sailormars109

The nightmares, they always start the same. The smell of wet smoke rounded by the rot of entrails and waste; the taste of copper sharp and acrimonious upon his tongue. It’s all so familiar it no longer makes him gag.

He knows what happens next. 

He can hear the gunfire cut through naked flesh before it happens. 


He doesn’t turn around in panic like he used to. 

He stands still. 




Keep reading

Ok we are not nothing.
You know the evening sky
like a drunken mother in a nightgown, you know in the morning when she cracks like the axe split
the cherry tree and lies all cold
on the ground,
and the dog inside pawing
at your red toes, your pre-pubescent growth spurts aching
with the dawn.
Something haunting. Like the echo
of the rubber ball rolling
under the bed that your limbs
have outgrown but you can’t
afford much better, your room is tilted down on this side, lower sunk into the earth, punched and swallowed, but cursed all the same. like a loose tooth.
red dawn on your jam and toast, and your legs stop swinging,
you reach a hand in, and yank at that hanging chrysalis feeling, and lick it when it’s free,
and this is why they’ll call you
bucky butterfingers
you just don’t know it yet
Something ugly, and childish, and smeared around your gaping mouth like blood,
we can just
pretend it’s cherry popsicle.
I tried to cut my fingers off with
safety scissors, you left me all alone behind that fence, those great big sunflowers with moving heads and stiff necks, and yellow tongues, I used to run out back with
milky slopping glue in the corners of my eyes
and eat all the carrots and dirt and hedges I wanted, alone,
until a grown up found me,
and peeled me from the garden by scruff of my neck,
she closed the bathroom door behind me, told me to wash my face with blue dish soap,
and I cried when it stung, when it
made my tongue feel like a slug
in salt, but
I said ouch very quiet with
her wrinkly, rubber hands squeezing in under my
play-doh ribs, cartilaginous and still soft, like a tadpole in mud.
she turned her nose and
said I smelled like a wet dog and
plopped me covered in scrapes
and full of wriggling worms like
fly ridden fruit, her black skirts bit
away the feeding curl of ants I fed my
stale cookies to, she sat me with a towel to dry in the time out room to
be eaten by fat clowns with
clocks for faces, and half past midnight for teeth,
I buckled my mouth, I was brave,
crossed arms and wolf fur under
my armpits, wild thing screaming for her mother
the alphabet backwards
smashing doll houses in
velcro Mary Janes, the
sand box bully, the
monkey bar hog with
wood chip splintered knuckles and callouses to prove it,
covered in scrapes and
caved in and hollowed out
like an empty pint of ice cream,
I have spare band aids in my
pockets, like confetti to a cheap
why are those purple things under your eyes
so big? can’t you do something
about them? don’t you
want to be a better girl?
—  bees and their empty homes

theaceofwands  asked:

PQ, out of all of his uncles Theon seems to be the most fond of Euron. Why do you think that is?

I disagree there. Theon isn’t fond of Euron, he’s scared of him (as he should be):

Old men were cautious by nature. His father was old now, and so too his uncle Victarion, who commanded the Iron Fleet. His uncle Euron was a different song, to be sure, but the Silence did not seem to be in port.

“Euron Crowseye has no lack of cunning, though. I’ve heard men say terrible things of that one.”

Theon shifted his seat. “My uncle Euron has not been seen in the islands for close on two years. He may be dead.” If so, it might be for the best. Lord Balon’s eldest brother had never given up the Old Way, even for a day. His Silence, with its black sails and dark red hull, was infamous in every port from Ibben to Asshai, it was said.

“Euron Greyjoy is no man’s notion of a king, if half of what Theon said of him was true.”

Under it he wore a stained white leather eye patch that reminded Theon of his uncle Euron. He’d wanted to rip it off Umber’s face, to make certain that underneath was only an empty socket, not a black eye shining with malice. 

From what I can tell, the uncle Theon got along with best as a kid was Aeron, pre-Damphair…

The priest’s manner was chilly, most unlike the man Theon remembered. Aeron Greyjoy had been the most amiable of his uncles, feckless and quick to laugh, fond of songs, ale, and women.

…although like Asha with the Reader, Theon’s true father figure among the Ironborn wasn’t a kraken. 

A lesser man might have been afraid to show a smile as frightening as his, yet Dagmer grinned more often and more broadly than Lord Balon ever had.

Ugly as it was, that smile brought back a hundred memories. Theon had seen it often as a boy, when he’d jumped a horse over a mossy wall, or flung an axe and split a target square. He’d seen it when he blocked a blow from Dagmer’s sword, when he put an arrow through a seagull on the wing, when he took the tiller in hand and guided a longship safely through a snarl of foaming rocks. He gave me more smiles than my father and Eddard Stark together. 

It went without saying that the two of them faced their own fair share of demons. James was haunted by the many faces of his enemies and his victims, both alive and dead. As for Thomas? Well, he had Bethlam. That, and the work camp that had followed close behind it. While he had been a prisoner for the past ten years of his life, he still felt as though his pain couldn’t quite compare to that of his loves’. James had blood on his hands that would never wash off, no matter how hard he scrubbed or how vainly he tried to rationalize his actions. That he was waging a war, that he had no choice. Even now he could see the anguish that darkened those green eyes when James glanced down at his hands. At bloodstains that existed only in his memories, no matter how corporeal they seemed.

Thomas loved James, not only the shy lieutenant he had been but the cunning pirate captain he had become. The man, the “monster”… He loved them both completely and without fault. And James loved him. That he knew, that he trusted with every fiber of his being.

Yet there were times when even that wasn’t enough to assuage the whispering voices and clawing shadows that lurked at the edge of James’ mind. There were times in which even his company was not welcome. Times where he needed to be alone. They each had their moments. When such a time came for Thomas he grew quiet; he drew into himself to a place of contemplation and silent grief. But James… he lashed out. It was understandable. His moods had always been wilder, fiercer than the storms and far less forgiving. It seemed that their years apart had only bolstered that rage that sparked within him.

Now was such a time.

Thomas was quiet as he watched James from his vantage point out on the porch. He leaned sideways against the opened door frame, his knuckles grazing up and down the length of his arm as he thought. Even though James was out beside the grove he could see him clearly. He could see the sweat that gleamed down his back, his shirt having been tossed carelessly to the ground beside him. He saw the muscles in his arm cord with each swing of the axe to split the wood in front of him. But more than that, much more than that, he saw the rage that twisted his features. Until they were dark and threatening, something that was barely recognizable.

Thomas knew that he should grant James his distance, that he should keep away. It wasn’t that he was afraid of him. Such a thought was ridiculous in its entirety. James could be a violent man when pushed, but he would never hurt him. No, not him. But even so… with each crack of the axe it became clear just how unhinged he was becoming. How his guilt and anger were now spiraling out of control.

It was one thing to give the other peace and quiet when they needed some time to gather their thoughts. It was a different thing entirely to allow the man to drown before his very eyes. And so, before Thomas was even conscious of it, his feet had begun to move beneath him, drawing himself closer the harrowing hurricane in front of him.

As Thomas drew closer he could better see the sweat that beaded along James’ brow before running down his neck. The flush of heat the darkened his cheeks from the exertion of bringing that wood axe down again and again. If he kept this up he would soon fall ill from the sun. That, or pass out entirely.

The man didn’t so much as turn him a glance to acknowledge his presence. Even so, the warning that existed within his tone when he spoke not moments later was clear. “You should leave me be.” Another crack sounded as the axe was brought down once more. Despite the large pile of firewood that already existed, both here and stacked along the side of their small cottage, he reached for another log.


Another crack sounded as he went ignored


“Leave me alone.” This time the words were practically growled at him. While such a tone had likely driven fear into the hearts of his men, he knew far better than that. Despite his words, despite his attempts to push him away, he did not turly wish to be alone in this moment.


At this James halted, his breath stuttering from his chest before burrying the hachet at the center of the stump. Only then did he finally turn to face him. His expression was now worn, his eyes heavy and glazed from the weight of his unyeilding rage and regret. His grief.

Without a breadth of hesitation Thomas stepped forward to take James’ face in his hands. The pads of James’ fingers were rough as they scraped over his wrists, ghosting along the scars that marred his skin; one of the many memories from Bethlam. Those beautiful eyes closed as he nuzzled against his palm, a soft “I’m sorry,” passing those sun-swept lips.

“No need, my love,” Thomas whispered before pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Gradually he traveled lower to kiss over his eyelids, his cheeks, his lips. Everywhere and anywhere that he could. Until finally that small, telling smile twitched at James’ lips, and his eyes shown bright once more. Even if they did glisten with the evidence of his tears.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”


Thomas Hutchinson (1711-1780) was an American politician during colonial times as well as a judge and historian born into a prominent Boston family. He began his career in politics in 1737, and was named speaker of the Massachusetts House of Representatives in 1746. Later he held numerous positions simultaneously which included chief justice of the Superior Court of Judicature and lieutenant governor of Massachusetts. While governor beginning in 1771, he struggled to establish control during a rather turbulent time and was replaced by General Thomas Gage in 1774.

Stories were beginning to circulate around town that Hutchinson not only encouraged parliament to pass the Stamp Act but actually was drawing up the law here in his mansion on Garden Court Street. On August 25th 1765, in the early morning, Thomas Hutchinson returned to Boston from his Milton country estate. By afternoon, he was hearing rumors that a mob was being raised again. He even knew it would attack officers from the Custom House and the Admiralty office. Hutchinson’s friends assured him that he would be spared. They said his courage in the rocks and insults won the mob’s respect. However, for some reason, thought filling with anxiety, Hutchinson believed their words. 

At supper that evening, the night was warm and he was dressed informally in a woolen jacket over his waistcoat. Around him at the table was his sister-in-law, Grizell Sanford, who had raised his children since his wife’s death; his eldest sons Thomas Junior and Elisha, graduates of Harvard who were training to become merchant; Sarah, a daughter; Billy, Hutchinsons’s youngest son; and Peggy, her father’s favorite, only eleven years old and already acting as his secretary. 

As the family ate, a friend burst in through the door to warm them that the mob was indeed heading their way. Hutchinson sent the children from the house and bolted the doors and shutters, determined to wait out the assault. But Sarah came running back to say that she would not leave unless he came away with them and her father did not resist before hurrying away to a neibours house. A few minutes after his escaped, the mob descended upon the Hutchinson home in a fervor for hatred and violence. 

One of the Hutchinson sons was near enough to witness and hear the axes splitting the front door and heard a cry into the night: “Damn him! He is upstairs! We’ll have him!” 

Some men ran at once to the top of the house, while others swarmed into the drawing room and raided the basement for liquor. Merely breaking windows and furniture was not enough for the pulsating crowd. Instead, the men shattered inner does, beat down the walls and crashed the chandeliers. Standing in the upstairs windows, then they split open all the mattresses and covered the lawn in a “summer blizzard” of features. After two hours, they left. 

Word reached the Hutchinsons in their hiding place but the crowd “picked up his scent” and he wound his way through neibouring yards and gardens to a house even farther away. he stayed there unsleeping until four AM; by then, the mansion was splintered to a shell. Near dawn, men were still crouched on the roof prying up the wooding. Every fruit tree had been cut down to a stump. A strongbox had been broken and nine hundred pounds was stolen as well as clothes and books destroyed. 

The next morning, Hutchinson’s fellow justices took their places in court when he arrived. he was wearing what he had fled in. He was pale after a sleepless night and his clothes were “trampled in the streets.” He received pity, even from Josiah Quincy. Quincy described it in his diary, “thus habited, with tears starting from his eyes and a countenance which strongly told the inward anguish of his soul.”

Hutchinson rose to speak and rejected any suggestions he was speaking for sympathy. He had come to count because “there wouldn’t of been a quorum without him.” Hutchinson in the words of A.J. Langguth “demonstrated[ed] that the patriotic leaders had no monopoly on eloquence.” But he added “some apology is necessary for my dress,” he said, “indeed, I have no other. Destitute of everything: no other shirt, no other garment but what I have on, and not one in my family in a better situation than myself.” He wished to acquit himself, “I am not obliged to give an answer to all the questions that may be put me to me by every lawless person, yet I call on God as my witness–and I would not, for a thousand worlds, call my Maker to witness a falsehood–I say I call my maker to witness that I never, in New England or Old, in Great Britain or America, either directly not indirectly, was aiding, assisting or supporting–in the least promoting or encouraging–what is commonly called the Stamp Act but, on the contrary, did all in my power, and store as much as in me lay, to prevent it. 

“This is not declared through timidity, for I have nothing to fear. They can only take away my life, which is of but little value when deprived of all its comforts, all that was dear to me…” Hutchinson hoped the people would see how easy it was to spread false reports against the innocent. But violence was wrong, even against the guilty. “I hope all will see how easily the people may be deluded, inflamed and carried away with madness against an innocent man.”

“I pray God give us better hearts!”

The Book of Satan: Part I

1. In this arid wilderness of steel and stone I raise up my voice that you may hear. To the East and to the West I beckon. To the North and to the South I show a sign proclaiming: Death to the weakling, wealth to the strong!

2. Open your eyes that you may see, Oh men of mildewed minds, and listen to me ye bewildered millions!

3. For I stand forth to challenge the wisdom of the world; to interrogate the “laws” of man and of “God”!

4. I request reasons for your golden rule and ask the why and wherefore of your ten commandments.

5. Before none of your printed idols do I bend in acquiescence, and he who saith “thou shalt” to me is my mortal foe!

6. I dip my forefinger in the watery blood of your impotent mad redeemer, and write over his thorn-torn brow: The TRUE prince of evil- the king of the slaves!

7. No hoary falsehood shall be a truth to me; no stifling dogma shall encramp my pen!

8. I break away from all conventions that do not lead to my earthly success and happiness.

9. I raise up in stern invasion the standard of the strong!

10. I gaze into the glassy eye of your fearsome Jehovah, and pluck him by the beard; I uplift a broad-axe, and split open his worm-eaten skull!

11. I blast out the ghastly contents of philosophically whited sepulchers and laugh with sardonic wrath!

Source: The Satanic Bible by Anton Szandor LeVay. 2005. Print. Pg. 30.  

anonymous asked:

Headcanons about Revali's s/o getting captured by an enemy, and what his reaction is?? (The enemy could be Ganon or any other monster, I'll leave it up to you!) I'm ready for some ANGST my dude...hit me with your best shot

TWOOT TWOOT MOTHERFUCKERS HERE COMES THE ANGST TRAIN (sorry about cursing, I don’t mean it literally, I love you all very much)

-Mod Pinks

S/o captured by enemy (Revali, angst version)

  • Yes, he is a warrior. And yes, he knows he need to stay calm in order to increase chances of saving them.
    • But mercy on the enemy? Not happening. 
  • When he spots them, the first thing he does is try to spot his love. 
  • And he does, he spots them
    • More accurately, he spots them as they look up to the sky to him, hope light up in their eyes as they whisper to him
    • And then the Moblin’s ax splits their head in two.
  • All the Rito warriors who went with him that day as friends, left there swearing to never say a word of the carnage that followed to a single soul. There is nothing left of the enemy that night.
  • Revali is inconsolable as he clutches their body close to him, the screaming sob that escapes him is said in later legends to be so loud that his Divine Beast cried out in it’s master’s shared pain. 
  • His people give s/o a proper Rito’s funeral, and Revali spreads their ashes to the sky.
  • He never loves again- the look in the eyes of interested remind him too much of their look, their eyes.
  • The Rito village as a whole mourn the loss, and their death is passed down as a story, long after Revali has joined them in the afterlife. 
  • It is a Rito tradition to kill the Moblins that live in the camp where the ancient Moblins had every blood red moon to honor their champion and his love’s tragedy

Dear anon,

I LOVE HALSEY AND THIS SONG IS BEYOND AMAZING! I seriously hope you like it, theres no smut but hopefully it isn’t a disappointment. I’m sorry I took so long to post something, I didn’t know how this one would end, but anyways enjoy!


Caged Hummingbirds

His eyes are dark. Threaded, coded with an emotion that tightens your throat and dries your lips. Willow green eyes watch you wet them.  
His face is hard, rigid like the line of his back, spine steeled and shoulders squared.
You’ve been driving along the desert edge for hours, watching the sun fade and the place you once called home become a speck of dust in the review mirror. With a pang of regret, you silently understand why you can’t go back.
There’s a building that emerges from the horizon, growing with every breath. The construct rises like an appendage, red brown sand coating like skin. It reaches out with the miles, and the car pulls into its grasp, curling around its closed fists.
The motel is dirty, caked with desert dust and heat haze. It glows with neon signs and setting sun, the light clings to the corners of marred surface, seeping into the cracks of skin to make it seem like it radiated from the inside out.
You follow his long legs, watching the muscles of his broad back shift beneath stained cotton. The sun glides over his flesh, tracing the fine lines of his face and illuminating the grey in his green eyes. He looks white, bathed in the glow of the setting sun, he’s an angel, incandescent with wings of sun rays. He isn’t like the motel, his glow isn’t an illusion. It clings to his cracked skin like prayers from your lips. Salvation is what you asked for, and they sent him, neon light eyes and blood caked fingertips. You still can’t tell who answered you, God or the Devil. 

Keep reading

Dolorous Edd Appreciation Post.

I will write no meta or add any commentary. I will just compile quotes from the unappreciated wonder known as Dolorous Edd. Enjoy.

Jon was paired with dour Eddison Tollett, a squire grey of hair and thin as a pike, whom the other brothers called Dolorous Edd. “Bad enough when the dead come walking,” he said to Jon as they crossed the village, “Now the Old Bear wants them talking as well? No good will come of that, I’ll warrant. And who’s to say the bones wouldn’t lie? Why should death make a man truthful, or even clever? The dead are likely dull fellows, full of tedious complaints-the ground’s too cold, my gravestone should be larger, why does he get more worms than I do…”

A Clash of Kings.

Keep reading


                               KINDRED, THE ETERNAL HUNTERS.

                          so he took an axe & split himself  in two. 

                               so he would always  have a friend.

Lamb, tell me a story!
There was once a pale man with dark hair who was very lonely.
Why was it lonely?
All things must meet this man. So, they shunned him.
Did he chase them all?
He took an axe and split himself in two.
So he would always have a friend?
So he would always have a friend.
- Kindred (League of Legends)

Feed You the Sky: Chapter 12

In which Ivar presents Kára with her morning gift. Bear with us, I know Ivar is a little different than what we usually see in this fandom. @shesafreesoul and I have decided to take his kinks in a slightly different direction, but I don’t want to give too much away because it’s going to develop over time. We hope you guys enjoy this fic as much as we do!

Min elskede:my beloved

Min kjaerte: my dear (yeah, they finally use terms of endearment!)



Kára walked beside Ivar as he dragged himself over the ground, and she found herself admiring the graceful way he moved. She was unsure how a man could look magnificent crawling like a beast, and yet her husband managed. Maybe it was the easy confidence in his movements, like this was nothing to be ashamed of, or maybe it was the rippling strength in his arms and shoulders. Her eyes were drawn to the curve of his backside, and he looked back in time to catch her staring. A wolfish, teasing grin spread over his soft mouth, and she remembered the taste of his kiss. “See something you like, wild woman?”

She could feel the heat of a blush staining her cheeks crimson, but she met his eyes without shame. “Something I like very much.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial stage-whisper. “I found myself thinking of the feel of your skin under my hands, the way you moved against me in our bed last night.” She bit her lower lip before continuing, feeling her blush deepen. “I can still feel the memory of you inside me.”

“Kára,” his voice was half a moan and half a growl. “If you do not stop talking like that, I swear I will pull you to the grass and take you right here.”

“Did I not satisfy you well enough before breakfast?” Her voice was shy, and she refused to meet his eyes for a moment.

He laughed, warm and tender. “I think I could love you all night, and yet still want nothing more than to keep loving you all day. Think of this morning as only a promise of things to come tonight.” A sudden heat jolted through her at those words, and she ached to have him follow through on his earlier threat.

Ivar stopped suddenly, motioning her toward the door of the bladesmith’s forge. She shot him a puzzled look, but opened the door and followed him inside. He pulled himself into a chair that had been set out, and she looked at him with open curiosity. He pointed toward the wall, the racks where the newly made weapons hung until their proud new owners came to collect them. “Do you see that battle-ax, with the golden inlays and the runes burned into the handle?” She nodded. “It is yours, part of your morning-gift. I saw that you carry a sword and a small throwing ax that you are very skilled with,” he smiled, remembering with surprising fondness the time she had barely missed his face. “But I noticed you do not have a battle-ax. I do not care if you never carry it into battle, but my Valkyrie deserves a weapon as beautiful and strong as she is.”

The ax was indeed beautiful, and she traced her pointer finger lightly over the glistening of the gold knotwork inlay. The knots depicted the shape of a howling wolf, the single eye a small green stone set into it. She took the weapon, hefting it in both hands, and sighed in delight. It felt good in her hands, heavier than her sword, but light enough for her to swing with a fair amount of ease. She had trained with a large battle-ax, but never carried one into battle. This was certainly a weapon that could split skulls, but speed was her greatest weapon, and this ax would slow her.

“I will use this ax to split the skulls of the men who betrayed me,” she promised, meeting his glinting blue eyes as she kissed the sharp edge of the ax.

Ivar nodded, his voice husky, “come here, my wild woman. Bring your ax. It must be blooded.” Kára was compelled to obey, and she knelt beside him, cradling the ax on her lap like a child. Ivar ran his palm along the edge of the ax, creating a shallow cut. He took Kára’s hand and ran her palm along the blade, too; she hissed at the burning sensation the sharp edge cutting her skin. Ivar pressed their palms together, mixing their blood, then kissed her knuckles. “Blood my blood,” he whispered.

“Blood of my blood,” Kára echoed, a chill running up her spine at the hungry look in her husband’s eyes. He cupped her cheek, smearing his blood on her pale skin, and guided her lips to his in an eager kiss. After a few moments, Ivar drew back, head tilted to one side, looking at her.

“Now you have a choice, my Valkyrie. Would you prefer to go on our raid first, or hunt down the men who betrayed you?”

The choice was easy. “First we raid. I want to see Northumbria, tales of your great army there reached us even here. I want to see the place of your victory, to spill even more blood on that green land.” She paused, something akin to bloodlust smoldering in her hazel eyes. “And then when we return, we deal with the traitors. By then they will probably be better organized. It will be a much more satisfying fight.”

Ivar laughed. “If it’s Saxon blood you wish for first, Saxon blood you will have. I told you already that I will deny you nothing. I have thought ahead already, preparing for both options so there will be no delay. Our forces are gathered, and the ships are in the harbor, ready to sail. We can leave with the tide tomorrow morning. We will be gone for probably two months. It is risky to leave a newly conquered kingdom so soon after establishing control, but our marriage should quell most of the unrest. I will leave Ubbe here in command of a small force of my men. Do you wish to leave some of yours behind, too?”

She snorted, looking at him as if that were the stupidest question she had ever heard. “Of course. Magnhild will command my men, she knows the people here. Shall we grant them joint power to settle any disputes that arise in our absence? They must reach a decision acceptable to both of them in order to pass a judgment. If they cannot, no decisions will be made until our return.”

Pride glistened in Ivar’s striking blue eyes, the corners of them crinkling in a smile. “You were shaped by the gods to rule with me, min elskede.” He pressed another kiss to her sweet lips, sighing against them in contentment before he pulled away. Her hazel eyes begged him to kiss her again, and he was only too happy to oblige her. “We should spend the day preparing. I have ordered most of our supplies packed already, but there is always much to do the day before a raid.”

Kára nodded, hazel eyes glinting. “But nothing so important as this.” Her voice was a breathy whisper, and Ivar widened his eyes in a question. She laid back on the floor of the empty bladesmith shop, pulling Ivar forcefully onto her, “You will make love to me. You will spill your seed in me. You will show all men that I am yours, and you will let me conquer you as we will conquer our enemies.”

Her commanding tone had him quickly hardening, and he gasped as her hand plunged into his trousers to stroke him. His hands were already lowering her pants, and his wandering fingers found her already wet and warm and eager, writhing against his hand. She tore his trousers down from his hips, her hands like iron on his backside, pushing him into her core in one smooth stroke. They both moaned at the overwhelming pleasure of their joining, and Ivar bit sucked hard enough on her neck to bruise the tender skin. He then bit it to seal the mark, and she bucked her hips against him, her nails drawing light lines down his lower back and buttocks, even down to the tops of his thighs.

“Yes, Ivar, gods, the feel of your cock within me is the sweetest thing I’ve ever imagined.”

He pumped harder into her, growling in her ear, “tell me more. Praise me, min elskede. Tell me exactly how good of a lover I am to you.”

“When you move your hips that way,” he repeated his movement, gyrating his hips against her, almost questioningly, and she moaned, “yes, just that way, gods, Ivar, min kjaere.” She could barely continue through her gasping, but the his blue eyes, glinting with need, tore at her heartstrings. “When you move in me, I feel like I must be a goddess. Surely I will burst from the sweetness of your cock stretching me.” Her next words were sharp, almost a keen, “you hit some spot inside me, oh Ivar. Find it again.” Her hands dug into his scalp, gently pulling at his hair, and he sucked on her neck again, just below the junction below her ear.

She threw her head back, screaming, as her hips arched against him, beyond her control. The waves of her pleasure caught him, pulled him into the ocean storm of her orgasm, and all he could do was gasp and cling to her to stay afloat. He lingered inside her after they had both finished, and Kára, feeling strangely vulnerable after feeling so powerful, burrowed her head shyly into the warm, solid strength of his chest.

He kissed her hair, then cupped her chin and raised her face to gaze into her eyes. “Min elskede, you have no idea of the power you have over me.” Now it was Ivar’s turn to feel shy, and to distract himself he ran his fingers through the soft red waves of her hair. “Everyone always thinks, because I am a king and have led armies for many years now, that I always like to be in control. But in submitting to your desires, I find no shame.” He struggled to put into words the strange feelings swirling within him, but he had never been gifted at this type of thing. “Having you so confident and bold, Kára,” he paused, again, still trying to find the words, “hearing you tell me how I make you feel, I loved it.” He smiled at the shining in her eyes. “My wild, strong woman. It is your strength that first drew me to you. That is my favorite part of you: you are indomitable.”

This drew a warm giggle from her. “My favorite part of you, I think, is your honesty. I feared you because of your reputation, but you are a man whose actions matches his words.” She paused to kiss him, grinning. “That mouth of yours is my second favorite part of you.” He gently bit her lip before she drew back. The moment of weakness passed, Kára kissed his lips one last time before standing and tugging her clothing back into place. “Now we can go prepare for the raid.”


Wolf: “Lamb, tell me a story!”

Lamb: “There was once a pale man with dark hair who was very lonely.”

Wolf: “Why was it lonely?”

Lamb: “All things must meet this man. So, they shunned him.”

Wolf: “Did he chase them all?”

Lamb: “He took an axe and split himself in two.”

Wolf: “So he would always have a friend?”

Lamb: “So he would always have a friend.”