Freya's Howl Ch. 02 - Burn

This wasn't home, but it wasn't that weird Cult house either.

The walls were wrong. Too clean, too unnatural, and the light was almost too precisely ambient. The floor was soft and plush like it had never seen feet before, and every piece of furniture seemed to have been curated by a designer with too much money, too little warmth, and an AI-generated pinterest mentality.

Lucy turned slowly, her bare feet luxuriating in the feel of the fibres between her toes, and walked to the floor-to-ceilng window. She blinked at her own reflection first. Her curly brown hair was loose, but she wasn't irritated by the feeling of it on the back of her neck like she usually was, her face pale as was normal during the cooler season, and she was in what looked like a black slip. Like that one Brad had made her wear when he took her to a swingers party years ago just so he could get in and fuck other women while Lucy sat at the bar, drank all of his BYO Captain Morgan and tried to avoid the creeps who kept kept trying to touch her without her consent. The dude behind the bar had been hot, but he'd been busy. So she'd left. And Brad'd been kicked out. Joke's on him. Fucker.

The world beyond her reflection caught her eye. It was dark, and city lights flickered like a pulse. Her chest tightened. That was Melbourne's skyline. She'd know it Tower rose against a black sky, then dissolved into the terraces of Machu Picchu, veiled in white mist. Then a spire of steel like the Burj Khalifa cut the sky, collapsing into a canopy of green like the Amazon treetops seen from above. It twisted again, and she saw Giza's pyramids lit gold, then Tokyo's neon pulse below the Skytree.

Nothing stayed long enough to make sense. Each image cut out like an old film reel, too fast and jagged for her to place. It was almost as if her mind was trying to sort through locations and line it up to where she apparently was now, but it was failing.

Lucy pressed a hand to the glass. It was cool. It felt real. But she didn't remember arriving or how she got here. Did she drive? Catch the tram? Jesus, did she walk? She didn't remember leaving work. Hell, she didn't remember work at all.

The floor beneath her feet felt like wood now, and here was a low hum. She turned to find herself standing in the same room she'd sat in earlier. Less sterile than the penthouse, wood beams and stone, a fireplace to her right, armchairs and couches scattered about. The room seemed to be empty, but it was filled with shadows.

And men emerged from those shadows.

Five of them. Broad, bare-chested, their bodies unreal in the half-light. But their faces wouldn't stay still. One moment, she saw men she'd known: blurred images of lovers and strangers, a crush from high school, a man from a Tinder date who'd ghosted her, and then their faces flickered.

Familiar one moment, then changing, like they were scrolling through different archetypes in a thirst trap algorithm.

The black-haired punk with his rolled sleeves and forearms inked, shadows under his cheekbones and a sardonic gleam in his eye, like he knew every filthy thing she'd ever fantasised.

The cop, with that no-nonsense stance that screamed you could try to run but I'll catch you.

The woodsman, like a golden retriever in a flannel shirt and braces, resting the acxe he held against the wall as he stepped forward.

The highlander, windswept and intense, boots planted wide like he'd carried a war on his back and wanted to fuck someone about it.

The gladiator, quiet, coiled, dangerous, like he could break her neck or make her come with the same hand.

And beyond them all, sitting in a throne, a Viking. Blonde, too beautiful, too still, not looking at her like a man looks at a women, but like she was a country to conquer. And at his feet sat a young man with an ever-changing face between a child, a pixie, a pup and a uni student. Neither of them moved, they just sat there, watching as the five other men approached Lucy with their ever-changing faces.

They didn't speak at first. They prowled. Slow and deliberate, movements fluid, almost synced. They were closing in slowly, unapologetically.

"Freya," said the Viking. It wasn't a question, or even a greeting. It was a prayer, possession, an invocation.

"Freya," the others echoed him.

It felt reverent. It felt religious. The unhinged kind.

That frothing, glassy-eyed king of worship you saw in documentaries about cults and revivals, when someone collapsed on the ground screaming with joy and terror, speaking in tongues. That desperate intensity that reeked of obsession and prophecy and lust braided so tightly it hurt.

She wanted to laugh. This had unsettlingly strong Jonestown "drink-the-Flavour-Aid" vibes. But her throat had gone dry.

Their gazes weren't polite, they didn't smile, their bodies moved like water, like predators who'd scented blood, or heat.

Lucy's pulse was shallow and tight in her neck. Her heart had kicked into gear. Fear first: primal and precise.

They surrounded her, their hands tracing the line of her shoulders, her hips, her spine. Gentle at first, then firmer, stroking, gripping, exploring her as though she were some sacred thing they'd been waiting to worship.

"Stop," she tried to say, but it came out broken, breathless. Her body betrayed her, arching into the touch, gasping when fingers brushed over her ribs.

Her body betrayed her before her brain could catch up. Her nipples peaked beneath the slip and she felt her core pulse like it had caught the scent too.

She was wet. Oh God, she was so wet.

"Look at me, Lucy," the Viking said.

Her head snapped up, eyes locking on his. He was leaning forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching with the calm authority of someone who could command storms.

"Do you feel it?"

And then, suddenly, completely and utterly, Lucy knew: these men were hers.

Not in some romantic, swoony, storybook way. Not in the way someone might say "my husband" or "my girlfriend" or "my lover".

No. They were her supplicants.

The Viking's lips did not move when he said, "Give them an order, Freya."

Lucy lifted her chin and spoke clearly, "Stop."

They did. Five men parted from her body but didn't step back.

Wow, I didn't even have to say "Simon Says" first, she thought.

"Sit."

Five men dropped as one.

"Good boys," she murmured.

The fear suddenly evolved into lust. She felt the heady thrill of it surge up her spine like a livewire. The silk melted from her body as she padded across to the couch and every pair of eyes followed her like sunflowers following the sun.

She pointed to the floor in front of her as she lowered herself onto the couch, "Heel."

They crawled to the space in front of her.

"Beg."

They moaned, soft and desperate. One of them even whimpered, "Please."

Lucy spread her thighs wide and leaned back against the cushions.

Her voice was steady when she made eye contact with the Viking and said, "Eat."

Suddenly, there were hands, mouths, tongues everywhere, covering her, devouring her like she was the altar and the offering.

And she was burning.

The woodchopper's mouth was on her cunt, eating like it was his last supper. His tongue was stroking deep, slow, then fast, then slow again, like he was trying to learn her by taste alone.

Her right leg was stretched to the side of his broad shoulders, and her toes were in the mouth of the Cop. He sucked one then the other into his mouth greedily, tongue gliding across her soles like she was honey-drizzled. His eyes were closed, and he moaned like each toe was a sacrament.

The Gladiator was pressed against her right side, his mouth hot on her breast. He licked her slowly, then kissed a circle around her areola before closing his lips over her nipple. His tongue flicked, coaxing it into a peak which he suckled, wet and rhythmic, like he could draw the ache straight out of her chest. Every so often, he would bite just enough to make her gasp, then kiss the sting away like he was sorry for hurting her, even if she liked it.

And on the left, the Highlander was silent, focused, and controlled. He didn't moan, didn't whimper, he just took her other breast into his mouth with the slow precision of a man doing penance. His lips were softer than Lucy expected, his tongue slower, dragging over the sensitive tip of her nipple and making it pulse. Then he sucked deep, steady, and never looked away from her face.

Finally, the Punk moved to the back of the couch, beside the Gladiator.

"Please," he whispered, hungrily.

Lucy didn't answer, just tilted her chin towards him, and her eyes dropped to his mouth. He leaned in and kissed her. Hot, wet, worshipful. Like the taste of her lips would redeem him. She opened to him and welcomed his tongue into her mouth.

Her hips rolled once, just once, into the Woodsman's face, and he moaned like she'd allowed him to breathe for the first time.

She was surrounded. Tongues on her breasts, tongue in her cunt, tongue on her toes, and a tongue in her mouth.

And every one of them was hard. Their trousers tented, twitching, aching, untouched.

All for her.

She didn't move to touch them. She didn't have to. Hell, she didn't want to.

Lucy had never been worshipped like this before, and she was going to soak it up like hot spring water.

They were on her, in her, around her, tongues and lips and teeth, making her gasp, almost enough to make her beg, if she were the begging type.

Tonight she wasn't.

She wanted to let them worship her.

The woodsman's mouth locked onto her clit, relentless now, tongue flicking in tight, brutal circles that made her thighs shake. The highlander and the gladiator suckled at her breasts like it was the only thing keeping them alive. The cop was sucking her toes like they were made of chocolate, and the punk was kissing her like her lips were liturgy.

"Lucy," came a voice from across the room. The Viking was still sitting in the chair, watching with those glowing amber eyes.

"Yes?" she breathed.

"Come."

The word cracked through her like lightning. Pleasure detonated in her veins, and her scream tore free just as her head dropped back against the couch, and her hips arched as Lucy shattered.

Her cry cracked the ceiling, and it opened like curtains at the theatre, revealing a sky filled with stars, and two moons that she didn't recognise. One small and shaded green, the other huge, swollen, and bright.

Lucy's body locked tight, muscles jerking, stomach hollowing out as the orgasm ripped through her from cunt to chest to scalp.

All five men moaned into her.

Her vision blurred, her heart thundered.

And suddenly, she burst into flames.

---

She shot upright, legs tangled in sheets, heart pounding like mortar fire. Her hand was still between her thighs and, for one horrifying second, she was sure she'd spontaneously combusted.

"FUCK!" she yelped, slapping at herself like a woman trying to put out invisible flames. She kicked off the blanket, smacking her thighs, her stomach, her chest.

But there were no flames, no blistering skin or singed hair. Just leggings and a singlet, and a heat rolling through her body like she'd swallowed lightning. Her fingers were wet, her leggings were soaked, and her thighs were shaking.

She blinked, dazed.

This... was not her flat.

There was no hum of traffic, no magpies, no bins crashing onto asphalt, no neighbour's kid wailing over a minor inconvenience. Just wooden beams overhead, handmade furniture, a fireplace full of cold ash. Two huge windows framed a farmyard and sunlight spilling in like a smug bastard.

Lucy clutched the sheets to her chest, breath ragged, scanning for anything familiar.

The door caught her eye. Wooden. Heavy.

Bolted. From the inside.

Her stomach dropped. Her head filled with static.

"Oh, shit."

She looked down at her slick hand like it was evidence from a crime scene.

"Coma ward," she assured herself, squeezing her eyes shut. "You're still dreaming."

Her brain wasn't buying it. She'd had dreams inside dreams before, but never like this, never with this raw, sensory clarity.

A new thought slammed into her.

Or you're dead and this is the afterlife.

---

Lucy padded into the kitchen barefoot. Her skin still hummed from the dream. Terror tangled with the kind of orgasm that left you light-headed and suspicious of your own subconscious.

And, naturally, they were all there.

All of them from last night plus a few more. Like they'd been carved out of a fantasy casting call.

She lingered in the doorway, caught between fight-or-flight and fuck it. Nine pairs of eyes settled on her like cats watching a bird.

Her clothes didn't help. Her black leggings and singlet clung like paint, betraying every line of her body. In Melbourne, this was something she could wear to Woolies. Here, it may as well have been Fetishwear.

Lucy squared her shoulders. Fine. If this was a dream, she was running it.

"Morning," she said, like she hadn't just screamed herself awake, "What's this then? Staring competition? Did I win something?"

Barista-boy leaned against the table, gaze sweeping down her body with practiced insolence. What was his name again? Max? Matt?

"We heard you scream, love. Sounded like someone was either killing you or making you very happy."

She gave him a flat stare. "Just a dream."

Gladiator-vibes tilted his head, "A dream that made you cry out like that?"

"Yep. Not taking questions."

Joss was drowning a mug of something, brown liquid sloshing all over the bench. The new man beside him, solid and dark like an Allblacks prop, nudged him gently. Joss fumbled and rushed to grab a towel.

At the head of the table, tall blonde watched her, still as a stone. His silence and the remnants of the dream made her pulse hammer in her ears.

She sat down at the table and folded her arms moments before Joss placed a steaming mug in front of her like it was an offering.

Lucy frowned and sniffed, "Is this... coffee?"

Joss nodded, blue eyes wide and eager, "We roasted the beans ourselves."

Lucy took a sip. The bitter heat hit her tongue, and a groan ripped out of her from deep within her soul. "Oh thank Christ, there is a fucking God."

The woodsman by the oven raised an eyebrow, "There are many, actually."

"No," Lucy said, shaking her head fervently, "coffee is God, and that is all. Amen." She tipped the cup back and drank again.

Barista leaned toward the redhead beside him and muttered, "If that's what she sounds like over a cup of coffee..."

"Don't, Maddox," came a dry warning from across the table.

Lucy opened her eyes and pointed at the offenders like a teacher taking a roll.

"Alright," she announced, "No more Werewolf #3 and Hot Cop. I need names."

She pointed at the ones she knew, "You, Mr. sly-grin-fuckboi. Maddox."

He gave her an exaggerated bow. "You can call me whatever you like, gorgeous."

"Noted. Won't.

"You're Joss," she said to the boy. He lit up like a sunrise.

She winked, then turned to the broad man near the fire. "You carried me back last night. Very builds log cabins shirtless vibe."

"Hener," he grinned. "I manage the homestead."

"Of course you do."

She pointed at the cop. "You look like you've arrested someone just by frowning."

"Rhoan," he said simply.

Then her gaze landed on the one with Idris Elba's face.

"Roland," he offered.

She exhaled, "Like I needed another reminder of that fucking disaster of a movie."

Next was the gladiator with bronze skin, scars, resting murder face.

"You look like you stab people for fun."

"Laziel," he said.

"He does," Maddox added. Lucy ignored him.

She pointed to the All Black near Joss. "Aunty vibes. You?"

"Tama," he chuckled. "And thank you."

"Redhead. Highlander."

"That's Damish," said Joss helpfully.

"You look like you'd sing folk songs while running into cannonfire."

He gave a small smile, "Just name the tune."

Finally, her gaze settled on the blonde.

"And you," Lucy said, narrowing her eyes. "Mister 'looks like he doesn't know whether to psychoanalyze or cook and eat me'. What's your actual name before I give you something worse?"

"Caelen," he said, calm as ever.

Lucy tilted her head, "You said something last night that sounded like 'eye-dick.'"

"Aedarch," he corrected. "It's a title."

"Right." She sipped her coffee. "Well, Caelen. Thank you. For... all this."

She waved her hand vaguely.

She took another sip of her coffee. God it tasted good, definitely had to be a dream to have coffee this good outside of Melbourne.

"So," she said, "you're not a cult. I've been Jumanji-ed into a D&D world full of sexy shirtless dudes, and I'm your sacred totem fire - absolutely not a prisoner. Allegedly. Miss anything?"

"No," said Caelen.

"This is, what--your longhouse? Hunting lodge?"

"You're in the pack's den," he replied.

"Funny-looking den. This looks remarkably like a house to me."

"The house is built above it," Roland explained. "The den is where the unbound live."

"Unbound?"

"Unmated. Unpartnered. Sworn neither to hearth nor kin," Damish said.

Lucy snorted. "So basically a Roman legion but with more abs and less wine."

Nobody argued, and somehow, that was worse.

She turned back to Caelen. "Okay. Serious question. Is this Australia?"

"This is Eshk."

She blinked. "Cool. That explains everything."

She dropped her forehead to the table and groaned.

"Alright," she lifted her head, "Fine. What are you all anyway?"

Blank stares.

"I mean biologically," she said, "Don't play dumb. I saw you last night."

Caelen answered first, "Fyrmeh."

She raised an eyebrow, "Werewolves?"

"We are not wolves," Rhoan said, sounding offended.

"So... no howling at the moon?"

"We do not howl," Caelen said. "And we are not bound by the moons."

"Plural. Right." She leaned back, folding her arms, "So what, then? What are Fyrmeh? Are you, like, descended from some ancient tribe who melded with animals, or were you created by some plague?"

Laziel answered, "We are of the oldest blood."

"We descend from the Great Serpent," Roland added.

Lucy blinked. "Like a rainbow serpent?"

Caelen inclined his head slightly. "We are what remains of him. Like leaves from a tree."

"OK so, you're like spirit warriors? Do you have some grand purpose? Are you sworn to fight off some evil scourge against humanity?"

He didn't flinch. "No. Do you?"

Lucy did flinch. That hit too close.

Caelen's gaze held hers. "We live our lives just as other races do. There is no grand purpose for our existence, much like you. We shift at will to hunt, or fight."

"And the rest of the time," she said, waving her hand vaguely over the nine of them, "you're just... dudes?"

Caelen nodded.

"Alright, oh Captain, my Captain. Why am I here then? How does a broken Aussie human nobody fit into this equation? I mean, I'm not like you lot, yeah? Does that mean you have to bite me? Do we go through some awkward exposition montage where you start telling me some 'ancient prophecy of the fiery outsider'?

Caelen didn't blink. "There is no prophecy."

"So I've just been dumped here as some kind of cosmic joke with no punchline?" Lucy gave a short, helpless laugh, "I mean, I did want a change of scenery, but this is a bit extreme."

"You're not taking this seriously," Rhoan said.

"Fuckin' right I'm not," she shot back, "Because as far as I can tell, I'm unconscious on a hospital bed somewhere while my brain free-runs through every horny D&D and supernatural trope it can think of. What's next? You're gonna tell me I have to fuck all of you to activate the magic bond?"

The room went still.

Eight pairs of eyes flicked to Caelen.

Lucy's smirk faltered. "Wait. No. Seriously?"

Caelen didn't look at her right away.

"Not all of us," Caelen said finally, his voice very soft as his amber eyes met hers across the table, "Just the unbound."

"Oh, well that's fine then," she deadpanned, "Wouldn't want to seem greedy."

"It secures the bond between Freya and the pack."

Lucy threw her hands up, "Of fucking course it does."

"It's not an obligation," Caelen added.

Lucy narrowed her eyes, "But?"

His pause said everything. "But, bonding with us strengthens the connection. It ties you to the pack, and the pack to you."

"Wow," Lucy said, leaning back in her chair. "This just keeps getting better."

Laziel stepped forward. "Freya... not all packs give choice. If you fall in their land, they take you. No ask. No wait."

"And you'd be made to copulate with every male, whether you wanted to or not," Rhoan added.

Lucy's smirk faltered. "Okay, thanks for the fun PSA from the Department of Trauma. Good to know."

Tama leaned forward, voice gentler. "We're not like them. Caelen would never allow it. But without a bond, others could still try to claim you. Being Freya is... complicated. Some will want to steal you just for the power it brings."

Lucy blinked. "So you're telling me, if I don't play 'sacred bonfire girlfriend' to this pack, some other pack might try to kidnap me and... what? Chain me to their communal bed?"

Maddox was serious for a change, "That's the short version."

"Cool," Lucy said flatly, "So this is Outlander with mystical stakes. Keep me safe from the red coats who think I'm a witch and marry me off to Damish?"

"Lucy," Caelen's eyes settled on her, "You don't owe us anything. Whether you share yourself with us or not, as long as you remain in this territory, you are under our protection."

She blinked at him. "You know, I was just hoping this dream would throw me a nice little quest. Kill the dragon, steal the treasure, maybe learn an inspiring life lesson along the way. But sure, fuck all of you. Why not? Sounds way easier than fighting a beholder or a mindflayer. I mean, admittedly I have been having a bit of a drought lately, so it makes sense this is where my mind would go."

Maddox leaned back, "Sounds like the best quest I've ever heard."

"Fine," she sighed, "Horny brain is going to horny brain. Let's see where this goes. Where's the roster? Do I need to pencil in time slots? Maybe colour-code this thing so nobody feels left out?"

Nobody answered. The silence was suffocating and her own words echoed in her ears.