Freyaskǫmm

BY : salarta
Category: +G through L > God of War
Dragon prints: 628
Disclaimer: I do not own God of War or any related properties, characters, ideas or concepts contained herein. This story is a fan-made work, and I make no money or profit from its creation and dissemination.

Author's Note: Happy (or unhappy) late Mother's Day to Freya! I'm honestly surprised I managed to finish this. I put more effort into it than I intended. Game's scenario of a powerful goddess who can't even defend herself was too good to pass up. Title may be wrong but I'm sick of trying to figure it out. I originally wanted to do something involving anal too, but reached a point where I felt done with the idea, so here it be.

 

"I will rain down every agony, every violation imaginable, upon you. I will parade your cold body from every corner, of every realm, and feed your soul to the vilest filth in Hel. I will- MNPH!"

Whatever empty threats Freya had left would go unsaid. Trapped deeper down her throat, kept at bay by the thick bulb of a cock that filled her mouth and hardened with the vibrations of her muffled rage. She glared up at the man, fire in her eyes as he spoke.

"You'll suck me off and hate it, won't you witch?"

He was right. She would. Once the proud queen of Valkyries, a noble and fearsome warrior in her own right, the curse laid upon her by Odin robbed her of that power with the simple tenet that she could not harm any living creature.

Even to bite. She had teeth. She had only to sink them into this man to make him pay for this sacrilege, yet instead she bobbed her head along his length to appease him. Him. A mere mortal, a lowly deserter who did not deserve the halls of Valhalla much less this special attention from a former chooser of the slain. For him, she played the part of a coward and slurped on his shaft while his pals ransacked her house.

"Shit," one of them said. "Nothing but shit here. Thought you said she was a goddess."

"Maybe she's the Goddess of Shit now. Explains why she'd know where to find the vilest filth in Hel."

Amid their mocking and insults, they looted her shelves, demolished her bed, searching for the tiniest speck of worth in her trash heap of a home. They piled the collected refuse of wood, plants and bones at its center. To her, these scraps brought a plethora of spells at her disposal. To them, it was junk. Couldn't sell. Couldn't eat. Couldn't drink. Couldn't fuck.

She protested in vain. Sniffling. Choking on her meal. Hastening the outcome as her resistance stirred surges of lust in the man's virile prick.

"Almost... there... aaaaaahhhhh."

He pulled out. And in that moment, he painted her with his seed. It frosted her eyebrows. Streaked like tears down her cheeks. Spitting upon her just so to add a new sleazy layer of makeup for the fallen goddess. It collected at her chin. Dribbled from her rounded chin. Down her neck, into the flat valley below. She snorted in anger and tried to stand when a hand roughly forced her back to her knees.

"We didn't say you could stand, did we?"

At over six feet tall, Freya would have towered over them if allowed, but this position put her where she belonged. Face to dick, a real meeting of equals. She loosed a disgusted scowl as it spoke to her in a language of drooping meat and dripping splooge. A little spurt. A small shiver. The spent appendage made its demands known in simple twitches and gestures.

She understood. In its coarseness, it revealed nerves in need of touch, veins throbbing for relief, each laid out plainly in front of her. Quickly, keenly, she spotted these details and loathed herself for it. The wits of Freya. Wasted on a man's tired cock.

Sighing her frustration, she met its demands like a good slave-slut. Her wrists relaxed. Slithering a hand along its curve, while the other massaged his hefty sack. Kissing its underside. Licking into its wrinkles. She deep cleaned it with her soiled tongue, the sting of its bitter taste sinking into every fiber of her being.

The flow of his scent sent her reeling, blinking, shaking her head to clear the miasma. Never before had she endured a man's arousal so crudely, sacrifices and prayers traded for the lowest of low offerings. She, a goddess, worshipped at the altar of his manhood against her wishes. Begging for its favor. A blessing of eruption, a spasm of delight, anything that left her in good graces with its owner. Subdued, her gaze passed across his waist.

That's when she saw it on his belt, and all questions had their answers. The valknut. Symbol of Odin, its three triangles revealed that these deserters served his will. His promise of Valhalla in exchange for what remained of her dignity. She could guess Odin's reasons. Magni's death. Reviving Mimir's head. Saving Atreus' life. Truthfully, though, Odin needed no excuses to degrade her. Simply living meant she earned this fate in his eye.

It was in this reflection that the man traced his finger along her forehead. It burned. Magic. Another tool they should not have. From its feel, she could narrowly discern what the man had written: nithing. In bold black runes, he used that space to brand her with a new eternal shame.

"There. Now everyone will know what you are."

He flicked her nose. She flinched on instinct. Hooked by her nostrils, pulled upright, Freya reached full height and looked down on her abuser. Imperious. Indignant. The glare would have withered mortals to fear before her remaking. Crying cum and baring her status above her whitened brows, her cursed cock-breath lingered, seeping in her mouth to a permanent tang which puffed from her smutted lips.

"Satisfied?" Freya said.

"Not yet," the man said. "Garni. Fleinn. Strip her."

They called him Mogil. Names she would remember. She clenched her fist, arm shaking as they pilfered the very clothes off her back. Starting with her sword.

"Give me that!" Freya shouted and spun.

"You're a god, take it back. If you're not afraid of course."

Sparrow's Bite gleamed at its unsheathing. It no longer had any real use for her, mere ornament to comfort her in weakness and ward off less savvy Reavers. She felt its loss all the same. Reaching, she almost touched the handle when Odin's cruel magic set her reeling like a frightened child. Earning a snicker. And a snatch of her sash.

The knot cut easy. Jerked in circles, her dizzied mind scarcely noticed her coat sliding off, her Golden Waistband of Duty undone, the many string-laced coins gathered and tossed aside. Left in a hide vest and ratty wool pants, she swayed like a drunkard as Fleinn gripped the sewn seams on her chest and ripped them wide open - revealing her secrets hidden beneath.

Her breasts spilled free. No longer deceptively restrained, the massive pair blossomed to a prominence unexpected from her lithe, toned form. Their weight nearly toppled her, doubling her over til she groaned for balance. The anguished creases on her face attested to this struggle. When she settled, the ragged rhythm of her panting brought an obscene jiggle to highlight her bounty.

A bounty marked. For like the seidr tattoos which blackened her fingers and criss-crossed from wrist to shoulder, her torso bore its own ink. Two serpents swirled around one tit toward its prized peak. Ready to devour. On her other, a triskelion that blended neatly into dark aureoles expected from a mother. Each cleverly concealed beyond the edges of her cleavage until this day.

But the real surprise rested below. A sun cross with sowilo runes at its four sides claimed the whole of her womb. Tainted by mistletoe, Odin had long ago twisted her homage of matronly love for her son Baldur into a reminder of his coming - now past - death. As if Freya herself had doomed him by the act of his birth.

To which the men laughed.

"Better not unload inside her, boys," Mogil jeered.

Freya, fuming, sneered as Mogil grabbed a boob and squeezed. She had no power. That much was certain. She could not bat his hand away. Could not stop him from savoring her soft supple pillow, mashing his palm against the nithing's bosom. He pinched her perky tip. Coaxed a tiny gasp. Made her knees buckle. Wantonly. Brazenly. Downright whorishly. Mogil molested this goddess with abandon, flaunting his dominion over his new busty toy.

"You've been such a gracious host," Mogil addressed her breasts. Only for him, the act proved a point of value. Freya didn't matter. Her body did.

"Not like I had a choice," Freya spat.

Mogil ignored her. Worse, he played with her nipples, rolling the nubs to a painful stiffness that rooted to the base of her hot chest.

She moaned. He smirked. She whined. He teased. Powerless, she watched the tryst between them as a bystander. An afterthought. A true nithing. Peeping on the torrid affair of two - three? - betters. An odd sense of jealousy and betrayal claimed the goddess, despising her own rack for the affections it gained. If this were a normal tale of myth and legend, Mogil might have been Odin, her breasts a human woman, and she the smiter. Instead, she stood a cuckquean in their midst.

She listened. She waited. Hatred boiling with desires she did not want.

"Yes," Mogil said. "Such tenderness deserves a reward."

From within his cloak, he produced something rounded and shiny. She learned its purpose when it pierced her fragile nips. She bit her lip as these bits of steel snapped into place. They hung heavy. Kept her hard. Only by her immortal grace did the bearer of twin burdens not find them sagging from strain. Yet where they held firm, her mind did not, when she saw her latest badges of dishonor.

"What have you DONE to me!?" Freya snarled, eyes fixed on the symbol of her most hated enemy.

An Omega. It taunted her, angled for her viewing and stuck outward by a chain she recognized as Lædingr. Weakest of three chains meant for the wolf Fenrir. It tinkled on her fat teats, merging from two into one held by the man who owned her. She would have smacked him if she could, wrenched it from his grasp, choked him into submission... in a former life. In this life, she feebly glowered while he grinned.

"Pets need taming, yes?" Mogil said. "Be a good girl and I might let you off."

Task complete, he dragged her around the room. Sharp jerks kept her at his pace. Feet fighting not to move too fast or too slow, but at his leisure. It maddened her how this simple being brought her low enough to decide where she went, how she went. Her body. His choice. He led her through spider webs. Hanging plants. Candle chandeliers. Her home and height became his weapon, each thunk and smack inflicting fresh wounds on her pride.

Wax splashed against her forehead. She wiped it. One of few things she could. Twigs, leaves, silk and soot bedded in her locks, drizzled over her divine features, changing her from a picture of elegance into a filthy wildwoman. A Witch of the Woods. From ankles to toes had darkened too, encrusted with dirt. Not from her walk. From them. The men. As their image of her corroded, so too did she. Grime dug under her nails. Wet, tangled hair flourished from her dank armpits to go with what spread down her legs. Her neatly trimmed pubes grew into an unkempt bush.

Freya was a mess. And they loved it.

"What say we finish makin the new you?" Mogil said.

A tug on her tit-leash forced her to his level. Hunched over, she endured her chin in his palm while he admired his handiwork. Smeared her lips with more spunk. Added a cum glaze over her dark eyeshadow. Drew dicks aiming for her mouth. Cock stench flowed over her contours, invading her lungs through nostrils scorched by its potent musk. Fallen from grace, she fell further when another rough yank caught her off guard and drew her to hands and knees.

She moved to stand. He moved the heel of his boot to her lower back, signaling to stay. Which she did. And regretted, when the burn on her right ass cheek.

She did not cry. Did not scream. Yet she winced. A small show of her weaker side as hot metal seared her flesh. When they finished, she saw what they used: her wing armor, defiled into a brand bearing Odin's valknut. Like livestock, they had tagged her. Claimed her as owners. Should she wander from their sight, a quick show of her rear next to the charm on their belts would prove this cowishly endowed beast belonged to them.

Useless magic surged in her fingertips. Full of sound and fury, she would have bounded upward and fled if she could. Tactical retreat. Her bindings kept her, and by Mogil's leer, he planned to fill her with something else. Deep inside, she dreaded it would be him.

He planned for worse.

"I'd say our girl's about ready to have a tantrum," Mogil derisively said. "Good thing we found the perfect stud to break her in."

Freya froze. Eyes widening when she heard. It. She recognized the patter. The whine. The snort. Jaw slacking, she glanced over her shoulder and saw her worst nightmare.

Right as it stampeded into her wild cunt.

"GAH!"

The sheer force of Hildisvini's running thrust lifted her lower half. She slid, arms giving out, skidding against her wood floor. Her thighs quivered with flurrying pangs of lust. Her grunts mingled with his, the boar's furry underside rubbing his rotundness on her dirty skin.

"You... vile.... bastards!" Freya wailed. Far less potent in her sound and fury when she paused between words to weather her long overdue fucking. His rams shook her to the core. Spoke to something carnal in her womb that yearned for her mate. Years of celibacy, of Frigg frigging herself in isolation from the world, uncapped to a woman desperate enough for sex from something other than her hand to lose herself in the oppressive girth of a wild boar. Her smutty visage twisted into an aroused hatred stewing past what layers of stoic class remained on her nasty form.

She sweated. She glistened. She reeked. Brown mane matted, she accepted her pounding by splaying her elbows aside in front of her and pressing her forehead into the ground. Miserably, she raised her pussy to align with her partner's pig dick. Easing his entrance.

"Look, fellas! She likes it."

Any semblance of the old Freya was gone. Shattered, bit by bit as Hildisvini sent shockwaves through her body. Her stench wafted from her exposed kinky pits, eclipsing that of her friend turned lover. She could not blame him. He had little sense of self, lost inside his animal state. But she could blame them. The men who did this to her.

When she stopped cumming.

Hildisvini squealed. So did she. Their heads threw back together, his roar and her moan, matched and overlapping. He gushed inside her, and she around his massive prick. Shuddering overtook the clammy, hot, wrecked Freya while Hildisvini pulled out and... abandoned her. Trotted to better pursuits, whether food or another hole. She laid there, jeers drowned out by a sex haze til a smack to her upraised ass jolted her alert.

"No time for sleep. You've got work to do."

Shakily, she stood. Dripping between her legs. It trailed from her steps. Unending, as if the slickness became a part of her nature. A function of the load bulging her belly. She looked almost pregnant as it emptied. Gravity ran its course. Or would have, without the huge phallus that one of the men suddenly and without warning slammed up her twat.

"GAH!"

Her hands darted to her ravaged slit. She fingered a familiar handle before realizing to her horror the design of Sparrow's Bite. Its beaten, blunted blade peeked from her folds, along with mistletoe wrapping the hilt. And at its tip, the most disgusting insult yet: her brisingamen. She sensed it in a way only a mother could, her bond to the amber amulet too near to ignore. They had tainted it. Left it to spoil in the place from whence her love came, soaking in pig spunk, her son's name wrapped by the weed that killed him.

A new shape and use brought a new name, one Mogil eagerly told her.

"What do ya think of Gadfly's Prick?"

She shimmied her hips and grimaced. Grasping the handle, she tugged with all her might. Muscles straining. Loudly groaning. Pouring all she had into dislodging the hunk of abused metal from her sore snatch. To no effect. Silver seidr coursed along the tattoos on her arms brightly, then dulled as her biceps shrank. It stole her goddesshood. Siphoned what she used. All that power flooded into her dildo, leaving her weak as a mortal with only a sturdy husk for a reminder of days long gone. Enough resilience to handle anything the men did to her, without the strength or stamina needed to escape. Curse or no curse, she doubted she could fight even young Atreus in her current state. At least not without Gadfly's Prick.

Her womb would remain gravid. Ensured by her sealed vag.

This extra burden taxed her limits. Palms pressed to her belly's sides, she calmly tested its firmness when another slap to her rear made her jump.

"Girl," Mogil said, releasing her chain. "Find some food. We're starved - and we don't want your hog slop."

She turned, stared... and averted her unworthy gaze.

Freya, Goddess of War, Queen of the Valkyries, Witch of the Woods had vanished. In her place stood Freya the nithing. Freya the joke. Filthy Freya, who fucked boars and lived to serve any man wearing Odin's valknut. Who walked among mortals, lower than the mud on their boots, reeking from her many perverse labors. Scratching an itch in her wet hairy armpit, she spun toward the door and quietly muttered her misgivings.

"What was that?"

"Y-Yes, sir," she meekly answered, and waddled off in search of a meal to please her masters.



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