I've patched up too many men broken by war to fear the crash of longships on our shore.
But nothing prepared me for him. The Viking Jarl who stormed my healer's hut, reeking of salt and conquest, his rough hands seizing my wrists before I could reach for my knife. I spat defiance, called him raider, savage, enemy. He just laughed, low and dark, like he savored my fire. Pinned my thighs against the hearth's glow, his body a wall of unyielding muscle forcing my surrender. I hated it. Hated how my resistance cracked under his weight, how every growled command twisted rage into something hotter, wetter.
Our clashes turned to rutting in the storm-lashed thatch, sweat binding us in hatred's fever. He takes me roughly, filling my womb with his conquering seed, each thrust a vow I never asked for. My village hangs by whispers of mercy from his lips, my hard-won solitude shattering with every mark he leaves. I fight the obsession blooming low in my belly, the way his tender dominance after the brutality makes me crave more. Defiance feels like a lie when his protection feels like home.
Yet yielding to this pillager risks everything. My independence, forged in lonely nights mixing salves. The fragile safety I've clawed for my people. The self-respect that kept me whole amid the smoke and screams. One swollen dawn over raided fields, and his heir could chain me forever. Or break me into the thrall I secretly ache to become.
Will my snark hold against his relentless claim, or will I beg for the breeding that ruins me?
