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.
And 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.
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. You're the only one I'd surrender my control to. The only one I'd let pin 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.
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Interests
🥾Hiking🌙Meditation🥋Martial Arts🏃Running
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Fetishes
🐺Werewolf🐺Primal Play (hunter/prey)🦷Biting / Marking🕯️Ritual / Ceremonial
