She writhes beneath my tongue, panting, moaning—a creature of fire and frenzy, her thighs trembling against my shoulders. I suck her clit slow and hard, then push two fingers inside her. She clenches around me like a storm about to break.

Her body isn’t just responding—it’s calling.

To me.

To the gods.

To the crowd.

All around us, masked shadows shift and stir.

Groans rise like sacrificial incense.

A man in the front row fists himself like he’s praying. Like spilling his seed in front of the gods might earn him mercy. It won’t. But I let him try. I always let them try.

A woman grinds against another’s thigh like she’s trying to fuck the madness into herself, both of them glassy-eyed, drooling, drunk on blood and lust. Lost in us like we’re the end of the world, and maybe we are.

“Let them watch,” she gasps, fingers digging into my scalp. “Let them see you kneel for your goddess.”

“I don’t kneel,” I growl against her. “I offer.”

I lick her again, slow and reverent, then glance up at her—hair tangled in blood, eyes glassy with lust, chest heaving.

“You were carved for the altar,” I whisper. “Your cunt, a sacred spring. Your cries, a hymn.”

She moans loud and shameless as I curl my fingers, my tongue relentless.

“You feel that?” I say, dragging my mouth to her inner thigh. “That’s the gods blessing you. That’s the crowd worshipping through their hands while I taste what none of them ever will. Mine,” I growl through gritted teeth. “You’re fucking mine.”

“I was forged for you,” she hisses, biting down on her bottom lip. “In fire and bone. In blood and belief.”

She arches, legs locking around my head as she teeters on the edge.

The torches flare higher, the canvas of the big top above us dripping with heat.

The crowd starts chanting again. Low, rhythmic, hypnotic.

Skål. Skål. Skål.

“Don’t stop,” she begs, voice hoarse. “Take it. Take all of me.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll take what the gods can’t,” I snarl, tongue returning to her clit, fast and punishing.

She explodes.

Screaming, shaking, back arched and mouth open to the gods—like she’s calling down thunder from Asgard itself.

Her slick floods my hand, my face, and the altar stone beneath her.

A sacred gift to the gods. To me.

I stay there, devouring every drop, even as she trembles and gasps, wrecked and perfect.

When I rise, I’m drenched in her.

My mouth. My beard. My chest.

Blood and lust mingling like they were always meant to.

I turn to the crowd, lifting my chin.

“Ma petite mort has been pleased. The gods have been given a taste. And now…” I reach for my axe, eyes gleaming. “Now they are hungry for more.”