Chapter Two: The Gods' Crude Gifts

The headache dug into his skull, searing like the cruel touch of a hot iron. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, the world around him fading as fragmented memories clawed their way to the surface. It was a dark room, unfamiliar and shrouded in shadow, the air thick with an oppressive weight that felt both divine and damning. Faceless figures loomed in the blackness, their voices booming in a language he didn't understand but felt deep in his bones.

"You will live again," one voice said, ancient and cold, carrying the weight of a thousand forgotten sins. "But no power, no glory, no hero's path. You'll be a creature of filth and hunger, where you belong."

They had stripped him bare, not even bothering with false promises of grandeur or destiny. Only the cold truth—reborn as a gutter rat in the shittiest part of the Seven Kingdoms. His only boon, a sneering mockery of a blessing: free from disease, immune to the curses that plagued those who sought pleasure in the darkest corners of the world. No pox, no boils, no festering sores from a night spent with the wrong kind of woman. A perverse gift, as if the gods themselves were watching with disdainful amusement, eager to see how low he could sink.

His vision cleared, and he was back in that filthy alley, the woman still eyeing him with a mixture of boredom and desperation. She hadn't moved, didn't need to; she'd seen enough men like him—lost souls scraping the bottom, looking for any scrap of warmth they could buy. Thomas's hands went to his pockets, feeling for whatever coins the previous owner of this body had left behind. They came up empty, just bits of lint and a broken button. But there was something else, something that pulled at his thoughts—another gift.

His fingers brushed against a small, leather pouch tucked into the folds of his ragged tunic. It was simple, unremarkable, but it thrummed faintly against his touch, almost warm. He pulled it out and opened it. Inside were gold dragons, silver stags, and copper pennies—far more than a peasant boy in Flea Bottom should ever have. It was enchanted, he realized, bound to him alone. The gods, spiteful in their humor, had at least seen fit to give him this: enough to eat, drink, and indulge for years without worry.

Thomas did the quick math in his head. With this money, he could live comfortably, gorging on the fleeting pleasures Flea Bottom could provide. The house his new body came with—little more than a hovel—was free, and work, though grim, was always plentiful if one didn't mind the muck and misery. But the real prize lay in front of him now: the woman, with her dirt-streaked skin and hollow eyes, offering herself for a single knut. He could keep her—have her whenever the itch clawed at his brain—for a fraction of what he possessed. She could be his personal whore, bound not by chains but by the cold, unfeeling lure of coin.

He reached into the bag, pulling out a knut. The copper gleamed dully in the muted light, stained and roughened by countless hands. He held it up, watching as her eyes followed the coin with a weary hunger. Without a word, he tossed it at her feet, and she scooped it up with a practiced quickness, her smile thin and mechanical.

"Get on your knees," he said, voice low, almost a growl. There was no pretense here, no need for soft words or feigned tenderness. She was a transaction, plain and simple.

The woman obeyed, dropping to the grime-slick ground without hesitation, her knees splashing in a puddle of something foul. She lifted her skirt, baring herself without shame, exposing a body worn thin by years of hard living. Thomas's breath hitched as he stared at her—the bruises on her thighs, the grime smeared across her skin, the sharp jut of her bones. She looked up at him, expression blank, waiting for him to take what he'd paid for.

He stepped forward, undoing his trousers, the leather stiff and resistant. His cock was already hard, twitching with anticipation, throbbing with the dark thrill of knowing he could have her without consequence. He grabbed her by the hair, twisting the greasy strands around his fist, and pushed her face into the wall, the rough stone scraping her cheek. She let out a muffled yelp, but it didn't stop her. Nothing would.

Thomas spread her legs wider, his other hand sliding between them, feeling the wetness already gathering there—a mixture of sweat, filth, and the faintest hint of arousal. He shoved himself against her, the head of his cock pressing at her entrance, slick with grime and desperation. He thrust in, rough and unceremonious, burying himself deep inside her. She gasped, a ragged sound that cut through the thick, rancid air, but she didn't resist. She couldn't afford to.

He pounded into her, hard and fast, the slap of his hips against her ass echoing in the narrow alley. The filth of the street clung to their bodies, the muck splattering up with each thrust. Her hands clawed at the ground, nails scratching through mud and waste, her breath hitching with each rough movement. Thomas grunted, his grip tightening in her hair, pulling her head back until her neck strained. He loved the power of it—the control, the utter lack of pretension. She was his for as long as he wanted, no need for sweet lies or tender touches.

The rhythm of their bodies was primal, unrefined, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure up his spine, each guttural moan from her lips only fueling his hunger. He could feel her tighten around him, the involuntary spasms of her body betraying whatever numbness she tried to hold onto. He rammed into her faster, chasing his release, his breath ragged and uneven. The stink of the alley was overwhelming, a filthy perfume that mingled with their sweat and heat.

He came with a harsh grunt, spilling himself inside her, uncaring, unafraid of anything beyond the momentary rush. He pulled out, letting his cum dribble from her, mingling with the filth of the street. She collapsed against the wall, panting, her cheeks flushed, eyes half-closed as if this was nothing but routine.

Thomas stood over her, tucking himself back in, his mind a whirl of twisted satisfaction. He looked down at her, this broken woman who had become his first indulgence in a world where he was untouchable in all the worst ways. She glanced up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, not even bothering to clean herself properly.

"See you tomorrow?" she asked, her voice flat, devoid of hope or despair—just acceptance.

Thomas nodded, feeling the faint echo of the gods' cruel laughter in his mind. He turned away, the ache in his head returning but not enough to drown out the satisfaction coursing through him. This was his life now: dirty, base, but his to control.

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