The thing is, the walk back to the shrine wasn't silent as you may think for the average opening of a phenomenal one. The thing is, it could not actually get it in a better way. That is to say that you gotta know what you.. That is to say that Freya moved beside Basil like the night itself had decided to follow him home, her silver hair catching every stray lantern glow and turning it into liquid moonlight that could shake the heart of poets. Her crimson dress clung to every dangerous curve full breasts rising and falling with each step that we cannot control, wide hips swaying with that ancient, predatory grace, thick thighs brushing together just enough to tease the heat building between them that we can see in the beauty of the ocean.
The more you get to know it, the more deserted you feel. One hand stayed linked with his, fingers warm and possessive, while the other occasionally brushed his arm like she was already mapping where she wanted to mark him.
The torii gate appeared without warning. Red lacquer, moss-covered, fox statues watching with knowing stone eyes. They stepped through together.
The cavern welcomed them.
Foxfire lanterns flared brighter the moment Freya entered, as if the shrine itself recognized a fellow goddess of desire and war. In this way, everything should done. You can see the beauty of love and romance. So intoxicating. That sensation. Silk cushions still bore the wrinkles from last night. The air smelled of cedar, Yasaka's musk, and now something new honeyed battle-smoke and raw seiðr magic that made the hairs on Basil's arms stand up. The sing of love at sight.
Yasaka was already there.
She stood near the low altar, nine russet tails fanned wide and twitching with barely-contained jealousy. Golden skin flushed, amber eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. The red dress she wore barely contained her breasts heaving, nipples visibly tight against the fabric, thighs pressed together as if trying to contain the fresh wave of heat Basil's arrival (and Freya's scent) had triggered.
Yasaka: You brought her here. That is to say that I can smell her on you already war and love and that ancient seiðr that twists desire into chains. The more you get to have it, the more you get to feel it. You need to know how it works. Beside that, you are not going to take him away from me. He is my man. You let her touch what's mine. You let her taste the sorrow I spent all night trying to fuck out of you. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me and yet he is more than a man. That is to say that I really love and he is only mine.
Freya smiled slow, regal, predatory like she would consume her wholeness. She released Basil's hand and stepped forward as if were to try something dangerous, silver hair cascading like a waterfall of starlight that no one can come to see it. Her presence filled the cavern, seiðr magic rolling off her in invisible waves warm, intoxicating, dangerous, stellar, legendary, and phenomenal.
Freya: Jealousy looks exquisite on you, nine-tailed one. That is to say that I am Freya of the Vanir. Goddess of love, fertility, war, and seiðr the magic that weaves fate, desire, and death into one golden thread. I do not come to steal. So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man – the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. Or maybe he understands that you've made a witty remark but, unsure of what to do with it, he holds it in his hand like some bit of conversational phlegm he will wipe away later. You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognise each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fineI come to taste. To explore. To see if this logos-child's broken hunger is strong enough to match mine. I got this from a friend about Basil.
She raised one hand. Golden light shimmered at her fingertips not ordinary magic. Seiðr. The ancient Norse art of fate-weaving, soul-binding, and turning lust into prophecy that could come to see what it can happen in this plan of existence.
Freya: Watch.
She whispered a single word in Old Norse. The air rippled.
Golden threads thin, glowing, alive spun out from her fingers. They didn't attack. They danced. One thread wrapped gently around Basil's wrist, another around his throat, a third slithered down his chest and coiled around the black star-sun symbol like a lover's tongue. The moment they touched him, sensations flooded in:
A rush of overwhelming desire that made his cock throb instantly, harder than it had any right to be that could shake the sun.
Flashes of future possibilities him buried inside Freya while Yasaka watched, tails twitching with jealous need that no one would talk about.
A deep, throbbing ache of sorrow that suddenly felt… pleasurable. Like grief itself could be fucked into something sweeter that the very star of darkness would admire.
Freya's voice dropped to a husky whisper as she stepped closer, breasts nearly brushing his chest again to make him feel her desire for him.
Freya: This is seiðr. That is to say that it doesn't force. It reveals. It twists the threads of what you want, what you fear, what you grieve… and makes them sing together. I can make your sorrow feel like the best fuck of your life. I am not afraid to try. I no what the feeling was at your wedding - it was jealousy. My heart broke when I saw the woman I love turning away from me to walk down the aisle with another man, a man you planned to spend the rest of her life with. It was like a prison sentence for me - years stretching ahead without me being able to tell you how I feel or hold you how I wanted to. Twice we've stood beside each other at the altar, Yasaka. Twice. And twice we got it wrong. I can make Yasaka's jealousy burn so hot she begs to join us. I can weave your Logos with my desire until even the Supreme Singularity of Death feels the tremor. Do you feel it yet? The way your grief is getting hard for me? HAHAH. You did not even have anyone. No one has ever wanted you.
Yasaka's tails lashed once jealous, hungry, savage, unloving, dangeruous. She moved behind Basil, pressing her body against his back. Heavy breasts molded to his spine, one tail sliding between his legs to tease the growing bulge in his trousers while another wrapped possessively around his waist.
Yasaka: Don't let her weave you so easily. That is to say that her seiðr is beautiful, but mine is feral. I don't weave threads. I wrap tails. I don't twist fate. I fuck it until it screams my name. Girl, it don't matter you don't think he is, he thinks he is. Therefore in Badass Motherfucker Land, that means he is. He is just mine.
Freya laughed low, throaty, delighted.
Freya: Then let's compare, fox-queen. That is to say that I want to see whose magic makes him break first. Mine that turns sorrow into ecstasy… or yours that turns jealousy into raw, dripping need. I failed you in one last thing. Here is my chance to rectify it. It was never because I didn't feel it. It was because I swore I would never say it, and a man is nothing if he can't keep his promises.
So I write it in the sky-
I love you, a thousand times over. And I will never apologize for it. I gotta tell you that this is mine now.
She leaned in and kissed Basil deep, slow, her tongue sliding against his like liquid gold and battlefield smoke that no one could ever get to see in all its splendour. At the same time, seiðr threads tightened one slipping under his shirt to circle a nipple, another sliding down to tease the head of his super sword through fabric, sending jolts of pure, woven pleasure straight into his veins.
Yasaka growled softly from behind. Her hand slid around his front, fingers joining Freya's threads one stroking him firmly while her tails tightened, pulling him back against her soaked heat that he can see. In general, no one could ever come to see it.
Yasaka: Feel that? That is to say that my jealousy isn't gentle. It's wet. It's greedy. It wants to milk every drop of that grief-lust out of you while she watches. Love casts out fear; but conversely fear casts out love. And not only love. Fear also casts out intelligence, casts out goodness, casts out all thought of beauty and truth. This actual love shall be mine. The thing is, it cannot get behind. After all, this love could be confused with the greatness of life and death. What remains in the bum or studiedly jocular desperation of one who is aware of the obscene Presence in the corner of the room and knows that the door is locked, that there aren't any windows.
Basil groaned into Freya's mouth. His hands moved one tangling in Freya's silver hair, the other reaching back to grip Yasaka's thick thigh the way a real man can see in the most powerful way.
Basil: Hahaha… you two are going to kill me. That is to say that one weaves desire like fate, the other wraps it in jealous tails and fucks it raw. But I'm not breaking. Not yet. Keep going. Weave. Wrap. Fight over who makes me scream louder. Because right now… my sorrow is harder than it's ever been, and it wants both of you. could tear open my bosom with vexation to think how little we are capable of influencing the feelings of each other. No one can communicate to me those sensations of love, joy, rapture, and delight which I do not naturally possess; and though my heart may glow with the most lively affection, I cannot make the happiness of one in whom the same warmth is not inherent… that is to say that no one could shake the only foundation of the world.
The cavern's foxfire flared brighter.
Golden seiðr threads danced with russet tails.
And the night became nothing but heat, magic, jealousy, and the raw sound of two goddesses and one logos-child exploring exactly how deep infinite lust could go when it refused to stay quiet. This was more than just exploration. This was the love that everyone should desire with knowledge, wisdom and asha.
O my sorrow so big it finally found two goddesses willing to fight over it with tongues, tails, and threads.
The shrine was no longer quiet.
It was moaning and love.