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I am mainly a writer - working on a novel called "Sons of Disobedience" and a series of short-stories taking place in 10th century Norway - but my gallery shows more of my dabbling in drawing. Outside dA, I am a teacher and a PhD candidate in Old English literature. Passionate about history and mythology, I spend my time delving into my make-believe world which I then draw and write about, for my and your dark delectation! ^^
My photography account: www.heathenheart.deviantart.com
Facebook art account: www.facebook.com/HelevornArt/
Feel free to add me on Facebook as well: www.facebook.com/helevorn.bor
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As I was lying on my back in bed and Rannveig stood thus bent above me, her breast brushed against my lips and I reached to wrap my mouth against the roseate tip, to taste its sweetness in thirsty, enticing nostalgia, like a man lost in a desert remembering spring water. But she did not leave me long to indulge in tasting her; she gave a sprightly sigh of delight and bent her upper body lower above me, licking her smiling lips and pressing them against my chest, my stomach... I sensed them sliding towards my groin, until I felt her hair strewn about, sweeping my chest, and her breasts flicking against my thighs and her lips... ah, her lips... She gave another sensual laughter and did something that she had never done before: her lips parted and clasped around my erection. I gasped and twitched at the sensation, and looked in her eyes. But, before our eyes locked, her image began to fade into the darkness of awareness, of consciousness, and... it faded utterly as I woke up from the dream into reality. There was still a lump in my dry throat as I began to feel the rigid floor where I was sleeping.
Ah, I thought as I ran my hand upon my humid forehead, ah, you succubus... torturing me in sleep, teasing me with shameless lips, knelt before me in a blasphemous confession to the most sinful of priests. Why, why won't you let me forget you, why won't you leave me be? Instead, you're leaving me drenched in sweat, still hard and aroused by your phantasm, an icon of vulgar pleasures.
It was only then that I opened my eyes. And, in the darkness of the chamber – I startled - I noticed Lars leaning cross-legged against the crates, staring at me intently. Of course, my involuntary gesture was to hide the protrusion in my breeches from his prying eyes. I must have jerked in sleep, gasped. I felt flustered, flustered that he had seen me in that state, even more flustered when – as my awareness was returning – I remembered the grievances that Lars was struggling with, as if I felt ashamed to have rousing dreams of love while he was going through so difficult a time. Perhaps my ludicrous fretting had awakened him, or perhaps he could not sleep anyway and was kept up by his own dark thoughts. But, as I was trying to hide my body and regain my composure, I noticed something strange in his expression: there was no sign of disconcertment in his face, no attempt to look away or pretend he had not seen me, pretend that he did not understood what kind of a dream I had, what kind of a state in was still in.
Instead, he sprang up from his contorted position and knelt beside me. I sat up and leaned against the crates, moving away from him, made uncomfortable by his closeness in such a moment when I was still under the impression of that vivid dream. But his lips seemed to form a subtle grimace, as if to whisper “hush”, and his hand reached for my chest. I stood still in confusion, but when his fingers glided down to the brim of my trousers, I instinctively grasped his wrist and pushed it away. But then I looked at him closely... a strange expression was glimmering in his eyes, a bruised longing – one that, it occurred to me, perhaps mirrored my own wistful lust evoked by the dream - an ache that could not be expressed in words. Did he need it? Did he need a closeness, both physical and emotional, in those moments of struggle, something to relieve him from his thoughts? This is what his eyes told me. And a part of me wanted – needed - to let him. Thus, my hand caught his and pushed it away, but he stood firm, refusing to retreat, so I did not stop it from touching me. It reached into my breeches and clasped around my erection. And his touch felt... unthinkably thrilling. I flinched at the unexpected sensation, but allowed myself to feel the strokes and the rhythmical motioning of his hand.
But no, I could not look at him. So I closed my eyes. I did not want to see him though he was very close to me, his forehead nearly touching mine, his breath warming my cheek as he breathed faster and faster, perhaps touching himself as well. I turned my face away slightly, so as not to feel the tingle of his beard against my jaw, so as not to be reminded that I was doing something... against my very nature. But he was not looking at me either. Through parted eyelashes I saw that he had closed his eyes as well, undoubtedly dreaming his own fantasy. Perhaps he did not truly want me either; he only wanted the closeness, the moment of pleasure and respite. So I shut my eyes again and let myself captured by the sensation. I panted, muffled, again and again, my breath quivering until – unconsciously, losing control - I gripped his shirt with my hand; I let out a loud gasp.
We remained thus, in that strange embrace, for a couple of silent moments. My grasp loosened on his shirt. Our eyes met, shortly, when he moved away from me.
I thought I was the one that should have felt ashamed for giving myself to such selfish lust, but, instead, it was his expression that seemed suddenly burdened once more, as if the moment of respite had abruptly ended. It... hurt me to see him so. And it seemed to me in that moment, that he knew me better than I knew him; a feeling that I rarely have. He knew what I felt and did not feel for him, and yet he had needed that moment despite knowing it would never happen again. His head drooped down, as if in dismay, and he rushed outside in front of the tent.
I wanted to say something to him, I truly did, but I did not know what I could possibly tell him. After a long pause, I followed him outside. He was sitting on the grass, cross-legged like before, his harp in his hands, softly pinching the cords. He must have felt me coming, for he turned away, clearly wanting to avoid my presence. So I stepped inside and lay down on the floor, wrapping myself in the blanket. I could hear the hushed melody of the harp and, amid the mellow chimes of the cords, I thought I heard him sob.
Gebo. A Gift
“Aidan?” came the voice of Helgi. “You may be busy, but... not for this.”
Even without lifting his eyes from the thin sheet of calf skin half-written in fishbone-black ink, Aidan could still tell that the young man was smiling. Smirking, even. So he set the quill aside and turned towards the door: Helgi was sporting his most charming and mischievous grin, and someone was hiding behind him in shade.
“There's someone we'd like you to meet,” he went on proudly, emphasizing the words in a peculiar way, as if he had had a few drinks before.
Lars Brandsson stepped into the room with one hand occupied by a large bull horn from which he kept sipping, and with the other holding by the elbow a woman. She was young and wearing a simple dress of undyed wool with an apron above it, dirty at the hems from the mud outside, and with a loosely tied kerchief cove