Archive of Our Own ^beta

Your heart feels louder than your footfalls, pounding into the cold ground that stings your joints. There was something about this day that told you it would not be like any other.

The Lady of the house confirmed the pit in your stomach in a strong testament. Her harsh features were gaunt, looking into the fire as if it spoke to her. You are glad to have been in her graces, as she whispered to you of bad things to come upon this land. You heeded. 

In your heart, you knew it was a given, hearing of the few remaining lands near your Lord’s. The people trickled in, weary, downtrodden, telling stories of Danes raiding Saxon lands. 

You know your Lady heard them, she was stolen from the Danes as a prize long before you came into her care. The Lord won a battle and took her. She longs for her old life again, you can see it in her eyes.

That is why you listen to her when she whispers to you.

“Put on another layer of stockings and clothes. . .”

She has predicted rain, snow, the beginning’s of harvests and the floods; you trust her. 

You put on the stockings. . . not the clothes. . . 

Not that it helps you now. It is more of a hindrance to your running, ribbons once tight loosen, leaving them slipping down. 

But you will not stop; you cannot.  Not if you want to escape with your life.

Sputtering, you fly past the wood high stack, cursing as your shoe flies off. You leave it. You must. 

Further into the sparse forest you fly, cursing the vassal Lord for removing the willowy trees to expand his already too big yard. How much more room could one man want? He makes no use of it, drinking and smoking indoors, smacking at the bottoms of poor maids as they tend to his whims. 

A grimace crawls onto your face. You hope he is the first dead, but that would be too simple. He has surely sent his men—boys who volunteer bravely, in hopes of securing wealth from their families when they die. 

You heard the yelling and horns; those are Danes. Here to spill the blood of Saxon, God-fearing boys.

It is not if, it is when.

Breaking from your haze of thoughts, you see a black streak beside you, thicker than the Pine trees, more upright than fleeing animals. Stomach turning, you realize the man from before has caught back up to you. You flank left, booking it to the ravine where you can put more distance between you both. 

You are lucky it has not snowed, it makes it easier to run. The cold still bites, but you are not wet, not weighed down, giving more chances to speed away. 

You saw him the first time, waiting near your Lady, worried looking as she darted here and there in her rooms, pulling on her old furs and bundling her treasures. Slipping them into her boots and other gaps on her person. You could hear a scream from outside the window, a steady chant after, and you felt the air leave your lungs.  

They have come. 

A scream left your throat as the door splintered under a broadsword, a large hand sticking through to fiddle with the latch. You think it is pointless, he may as well have shouldered it down from brute force alone; he could. 

Moving quickly, you grabbed your Lady’s arm, pulling her towards the window, but your Lady, she smiled. You were so taken aback from the pureness of it, you nearly forgot your present panic. Ears ringing, you look at the door, watching the hand retreat to push it open, revealing a man.

A man. Taking up the majority of the doorway, you suck in a breath as he ducks to step in. You have never seen a thing like it.

There’s a man from the village, a few minutes walk from the manor, who came, specifically on the Lord’s orders. A man who worked on the fields, taking off his shirt in the beaming sun as he tilled the land and sweated with his healthy glow. He was seen as the biggest there, smiling boyishly at the girls who lingered on the edges of the field to see him. 

He is no more than a boy in comparison. 

You can tell by looking that this man is brawny, built to survive the seasons, or lack of, in the North. Unafraid, unmoved, untouched. You look at his hands, spattered with blood much like his sword. 

You do not truly remember what happened next, too afraid to even deduce the panic that overtook you. What you do know is though the rush of blood in your ears, you heard his gruff voice speak the language of the North, head tilting in question at your Lady. Then as she replied, his head turned to you. 

You know you wasted no time jumping out of the window. 

He wouldn’t give chase. You are one girl, an average, afraid girl who wants her life for her own just a bit longer. 

But he follows.  

And now you’re here, chased after by a man who does this for sport and fun every few afternoons.

The village along the north border comes up fast, and you weave through it, swallowing screams when you pass mutilated bodies while looking for the most inconspicuous of homes. Blood still rushes through your ears, heart rate drumming, drowning out the other screams and yells to a minor degree. 

There is a home set ablaze, orange and red, light smoke billowing from it. You creep towards it, absorbing its harsh warmth for scant seconds before like prey, you hear a thunk. Someone inside screams. Two voices. Your stomach turns. Another snap sounds, and it is not from popping wood. 

You see that dark figure.

You cannot stop running. 

Even as your chest stings from sucking in cold air and your bones creak and ache from your jumps and leaps landing heavily on the cold, hard ground, you cannot stop. An arm is in your path, severed, somehow still twitching. You barely clear it, skidding and looking over to the poor boy who cries for it. Blinking tears from your eyes, you wish him a swift death, slipping from the blood on the uneven path with a squeal. 

You turn around once to see if the man is close, and you see his foot creep around the corner you just hit, the softness of your body blows past an open door, making you grunt in pain. You whine a little as it sets in, deeper than muscle, but you cannot stop, limping to a shack settled between two small homes. 

It is your very life.

You pray that he’ll give up seeing the way you hide from him, but you’re not so lucky.

Shutting the door, you look around before cursing as there are no windows except two small ones on the front. You scramble into a corner instead, whimpering as a shadow redirects the light from the small rectangle. The door opens, and you are greeted with the predator.

He does not move fast, head tilting at you again as you cry words to your God, looking around in vain. He doesn’t even move like a predator, or maybe not one you have seen. 

You have seen wolves hunt prey, hunting dogs as well, even some birds present themselves the same, scooping unsuspecting bunnies from the ground and trapping them between their maws, biting when the grip is right. They often toy with their food, wearing them down easily compared to their extensive stamina in bursts of hyperactive energy the prey cannot  replicate. 

This man. . . he nearly saunters in. Easy. Lazy.  

And you pull further away, shaking so bad you can barely see. Your hand catches you, barely, when your knees buckle, on the counter near wooden utensils. You grab them, hurling them at the shadowy man with forceful shrieks. He bats them away, dodging even the cutting block you hurl, chuckling while doing so. 

Sobbing, you scamper further away, to no avail, fighting back as he descends upon you and grabs your forearms. You fight, fight, fight, until you are overcome with tears and can no longer, heaving with cries as he pins you to the wall with his hips. The Dane shifts his grip, gathering both your wrists into one hand easily and holding them there. 

His large paw nears your face, and you turn your head to and fro as he mutters in his mother tongue. The backs of his fingers brush your tears away, wiping your cheeks clean once before more follow against your will. He gets closer, hand stained with your tears smoothing over your head as he threads his fingers through your hair, raking through and gripping the back of your skull. A fear builds in you and you panic.

“No, no, no,” you pull at his strong grip, hurting yourself more than getting free. You are greeted with a growl, the first sound from him you understand, and he presses his weight into you until you give in, whimpering with compliance. 

“No,” he cocks his head, a gravely tone shaking you to the core. It shows his authority in this situation and you have no choice but to abide.

In fear, you chance a look to his face, a daring move considering.

Lips pressed into a line, you see a scar on his wide mouth, nestled in the corner before looking past his angular nose to his green eyes. Shaded by dark eyelashes, you shiver a little when his eyes never leave yours. You blink rapidly and they never stray. Black hair shaggy around his face only makes his features stand out more. With his thin, straight eyebrows, you watch his forestry eyes look over your features once more before settling in yours again. There is a wild look in his eyes, like he has found something.

He was rather handsome, you are loath to admit. Thought older than you by many moons and scarred in the few inches of skin he allows, the fact still stands.

Another time, he speaks in his Mother tongue, eyes drifting down and this time you follow, sucking in a breath at the tear on your shoulder that exposes your under layers. This particular rip leaves the front gaping. 

You should have heeded your Lady. . . 

The look is back, and soon after his wide grin, his free hand reaches up and he palms your breast, squeezing. You gasp, wiggling away from this treatment. This perversion is not something you would allow, not from the Dane holding you prisoner. 

Your voice is shaky, “How dare you!” You feel humiliated and he chuckles at your plight. His fingers did not stop, pawing before letting go, slipping under to touch you directly. 

You gasp again at his cold digits through your thin shift, his large hand centering over your stiffened teat. Your heart picks up further as you wrench your hand from his grip, to the surprise of you both, and swipe at him. Before he can react. Right across his face.

You can see your breath between you, heavy in the air, and as he turns back to you slowly, you see four red lines on his cheek. You dug them in good.  

He roars, the Dane shaking you so hard your head hits the wall behind you, leaving you gasping as if all air has left you. He slams you against it again, and you choke on your spit, barely catching a breath as he does it again. Hard. You could swear your shape is now indented into it. You give up. You’re no match. The only thing holding you up is his grip and you cry, hysterical, eyes shut tight, not caring how pitiful. 

“Please, please do not hurt me,” you feel his grip on you, firm, no longer painful. You would have fallen if it were not for his hold. “D-do not hurt me.” 

This is never something you imagined happening to you. . .

Carefully, he picks you up, lifting you to the counter beside you, now devoid of makeshift weapons. You sniffle as he pushes your legs apart to stand between them, taking up a great deal of space in front of you. You’re easily cloaked by his shadow, leaving you shivering from the lack of light. He has exposed you to him, all your soft, sensitive parts bare to him. Your legs jerk closed in hopes of keeping him further away, but you end up making no way due to the stalwart nature of the Northman, and with that, the fight left your body as soon as it came. Again. 

He paws over you, hands greedy as you elbow and shove them away with great effort, that ends up as a weak batting. He seems to not even feel your pushes, ignoring you in favor of mapping your figure over your dirtied and ripped dress. A strong tug of your belt has it loosened and with it he rips the flap further, fingers making quick work of the front of your underthings. The one shift keeping your modesty. Coarse fingers play with the neckline, creeping to the ties on your shoulders, and you know what he plans to do.

You protest it, again, no , softly leaving your lips. He doesn’t heed you. Your eyes well with more tears, freezing hands over his warm ones attempting to impede any progress he might make with the ties. A sob builds in your throat, leaving when he gets the knot out and shoves the other shoulder down, leaving your arm pinned awkwardly to your side as he grabs the other. 

Tears escape, and you feel your skin prickle at the cold of the air. You pull at your arm, only succeeding in making him grab both. He grips your elbows, prodding them closer and crudely smiling at the way it pushes your breasts together. Your sob escapes finally, vision blurry, and you feel his knuckles brush along your cheeks once more, wiping at your tears. Shaking him away does nothing, he is too strong and you’re left with little fight. In your aborted tugs, you’re all too aware that it makes your chest bounce softly, making a spectacle that he indulges in.

“No. . . hurt,” you shudder a wet breath, looking at him as he speaks your language brokenly, not meeting your eyes. The gloomy, green irises never stray from the way your chest heaves in your turmoil. “Good, pretty. No hurt.” You think he has just learned the word, the way it rolls from his tongue, choppy, unsure. 

How would he ever know the true meaning? Is there even an equivalent to ‘hurt’ in his tongue?

The Northman, your attacker, lets go of your sore arms, his own surrounding you as he reaches to the back of your head. It stings from the earlier struggle and you wince when he closes his fist in your hair. If you did not feel dizzy earlier, you do now, hissing with more tears trailing down your face at the stretch of tender skin. Mossy eyes flick to yours, and you make not a sound.

He is close, so you can see the scratches you made earlier on his face, red, welting, even a prick of blood welling at the end of the bottom one. Straight across his cheek, ending at the scar on his mouth, the only things marring his otherwise clean face. He looks over your features, close, and you shudder, lips feeling bloated from your anguish. The man’s other hand drags across your shoulder, collarbone, to your chest. 

Again, he gropes you like before, broad palm cupping your breast and squeezing. He does it again, and another time, looking down and seeing the way it so easily forms to his unyielding grip. You bite the inside of your cheek, holding back a whimper as he tests the weight, smiling as if he is pleased by the outcome. 

“Soft lady,” he whispers with a well-timed squeeze, looking into your eyes as if you choose to do well for him in this way. Letting him paw at your precious parts like any base man would.

His hand ghosts over the shape of your naked breast once more, brushing over your nipple softly, and you whine at the light touch. It drops to your thigh, brushing the slits aside and moving inwards, towards–your core.

You have never been touched there! Nevermind by yourself and only that a handful of times.

Your thighs twitch, moving inwards with little use. He looks back to your frightened expression, rough thumb brushing over your soft, trimmed curls. He smirks and opens his mouth to speak, cut off by the sounding of a horn.

Disappointment crosses his face, and he looks over his shoulder to the door. You take the chance and cover yourself. You know it to be the sound of departure, and you’re gladdened. He is finished, you’re free to go.

“Dress,” he grunts, pulling back from you and waiting. You hop down, doing so to the best of your ability. He tugs at you, leading you out of the shack and towards the North. Pointedly not where you came from. You fight weakly, slipping once again in blood. . . There is so much of it. He doesn’t show that it even bothers him, ears catching the blow of the horn a second time. He looks at you, thin brows pulled tight and yanks on you. You wrestle against him, stuttering that you do not want to go with him, but he puts an end to it, whacking you on the back once and dispelling all of your air. You slump, thrown over his shoulder as he walks to his men. 

Coughing, you beat feebly at his back, coughing to catch your breath. There is no recognition.

You slump on his shoulder, wheezing and devoid of all fight. 

જ⁀➴

You drift off, his swaying a strange comfort to your frazzled nerves, coming to only when you hear the whinnies and clicks of horses and their riders. You cannot see much, but you can hear the Danes speaking to each other in quick words foreign to you. There are a few that stop to talk to your captor, laughing at his responses as his are clipped and uninterested. 

A man lays his hand on your back, and from the slim profile, you know it is not the man who took you. You yelped, kicking tiredly and your captor stopped to bark at the man who had startled you. He seemed angry, grunting at the response as if it weren’t pleasing to his ears before walking faster. 

He ignores many other people who call out to him, pace quick to avoid more interaction as he paws you again. His hand rubs up and down your thigh, disturbing your stockings as he squeezes at your calf. You think it is a comfort tactic, forbid that he takes comfort despite your unwillingness. He grunts discovering your lack of shoe, hand encasing your frigid toes in warmth, another found solace.

The man must reach where he needs, since soon, he bends and puts you down before you’re ready. Your balance off from the day and now blood rushing down, you sway and he catches you, one hand by your waist, the other on the back of your neck. You feel bruised all over, sore and tender, but the hold helps you stay upright and redshift your blood. 

You do not chance a look at him, still unbelieving of your situation. 

He pushes you lightly, propping you against a stunning black mare, as sturdy as her rider, shifting lightly on her hooves. You admire her, seeing the Northman adjust his sword and dig things from gaps in his clothing to store in the saddlebags, much like your Lady.

Your Lady. . . You’re not sure how to ask about her, but from your last memories, you have to ponder that she is in good hands. Back with her family. 

She looked a great deal like the man hovering over you, if only a little softer. 

Your Lady should be fine. 

“Lady,” you hear, close to your ear. You jump, stopping your self soothing pets of the mare, looking over your shoulder and drawing away at his close face. “On.”

On? Oh, he means for you to get up there. You do not think you could even on a good day, and now with your joints tight from cold and your sensitive constitution, there’s no way in Hell. 

“I-I cannot,” you shake your head, eyes drifting over his chest. His heavy furs are supported by a strip of leather across his brawny chest, and a small knife is tucked into a made pocket there. You wish you had seen it sooner. Sucking your swollen lip into your mouth, you look up at him, neck craned. “I am sore, it is cold, I can barely move.” A chill runs up your spine, and you're surprised that the man shields you from the icy wind, caging you in against the horse's front flank. Your chin is on his chest, and you look away when his gaze becomes too intense, cheek brushing on the supple leather. 

Those wide mitts touch you again, brushing down your back to warm, stopping at your hips. “On,” he says, gripping tightly and picking you up as you squeak to catch up with him, lifting onto your toes though you have since left the ground. His grin tells you he found your sound funny, and from your new height, you kick at his chest. He bats your foot away, smirking as he clambers up to the saddle with you. You are cloaked anew, trying not to let him see your shoulders stiffen from his proximity. He disregards it, like everything, adjusting you between your displeased sounds and pulling you close. 

The reins are in his hands and he flips the corner of his cloak over your back, nudging you to rest your head at his throat. You go, feeling frail in his presence, sighing again at your position.

Despite her build, the mare is light on her feet, taking well to the combined weight of you both. Though you must feel like nothing in comparison to her rider. You envy that strength, sniffing before giving in to rest.

You are sure he will wake you again soon.

જ⁀➴

You never get fully comfortable enough to fall asleep, rather staying in a hazy doze. It is tiring, hearing the yelps of the Northerner’s, their coughs and spitting, the random bang of shields when horses stray too close together, and raucous laughter that seems to linger in your head. Yet, you endure, stiff as a beam from the ache settled into your poor sit bones. You know your legs have since fallen victim to the sleep you crave.

Ever so dazed, you go along with the Dane who’s captured you, sitting up when his fingers dig into your side, and letting him help you down. Looking around him, you’re welcomed by tents, most made of animal furs and sturdy poles of wood. There’s little fires scattered under the overhang of many, bigger ones away in case of fires. 

Your mouth presses into a line. You had an inkling that you would be taken to their camp, but did not expect it to happen so fast. It makes sense though, they had time to stake out the Lord’s lands, knowing the changes and when the gates would be covered sparingly or heavily. For show, of course. The men meaning them were green as the Garden of Eden, unknowing of the horrors that came with combat. 

Limping a little, you trail after the hardy man, tripping when you look anywhere other than the ground, wary of your new surroundings. You were not meant for this.

Soon, there’s a tent, much like the others, but much larger. You do not know whether to be thankful of its proximity to the woods or to believe it is a challenge he poses to you. The predator has already shown you how he can hunt down prey, hot on your tail since you met eyes, you do not think you’re ready for that dreadful feeling again.

Ushered inside, past the little fire that he stops near to set down his sword, you feel warm. Finally warm. The fur must work as a great insulator. You look up, admiring the construction with wide eyes, keeping track of the man from the corner of your eye. He is stripping. . .

He was not being padded by his many layers. The true build of him is as brawny as his silhouette suggests. You swallow, you have never met a man his size, the men–boys?–you were around never breached his height or width. And it is clear it isn’t for show. The Dane strips his shirt and you’re unsurprised to see many a scar, some looking fatal. . . yet he stands.

It makes you nervous. He is much bigger, built solid, immense, it leaves so many things up in the air. 

He could do anything to you. . . 

You try not to think of it, warily meeting his shady eyes as he turns, chest boasting thatches of thick hair. No wonder he is so warm, he is closer to a bear than a man, covered in a dark fur that insulates him. A large hand reaches down, over his hip, and scratches, and he grunts, startling you into meeting his gaze again. He wears a deviant grin, stalking closer to where you feel rooted, stopping an arms length away. 

“Lady,” he speaks, voice low. In an instant you’re aware of the people milling about outside, you can hear them a bit, joking and talking. You step back, ankles getting caught in the furs lining the ground until you hit his cot. He grabs you, pawing at your hips until you’re still.

In another life, his strong hands would be welcome, pleasureable. Now they make you tense. 

“Me, Toji. Fushiguro.” A hand leaves your hip and he presses it to his chest, you cannot help but look at his thick fingers in the coarse hair. “Me, Toji,” he looks down at you, head tilting, ruffling his messy hair, “hmm?” the hand is resettled. 

He is telling you his name. Toji, the Dane, the Northman, your captor. He is named Toji. You want to hate how it humanizes him. Toji blinks at you, making another humming sound before you realize he wants to know your name as well. 

Your ears catch the sound of banging pots outside the tent and your eyes follow. Toji moves back into your line of sight, and you sigh before giving your name. 

His eyes narrow, and he mimes the word, prodding at you to say it again, eyes attent on your lips. Your nose stings, but you do, biting your lips when he repeats it with a nod. 

The Da–Toji’s hand closes around the back of your head, fisting hair near the same sore spot that hit the way and got tugged at not too long ago. You do not react, keeping your tremors in your core, afraid to act out in his territory.

Your head is pulled closer, and he lifts it, making your rock onto your toes to keep the tension off, and he kisses you. You whine, hands balling at your thighs as his lips move softly over yours. They are warm, rough from the cold like yours, but he pulls back and licks his, and yours, ignoring your protest. Toji’s lips keep moving while his other hand works at your upper covering, sliding it off of your shoulder again and the other until it pools at your feet. You twist a little, crossing your arms to keep your last, thin garment on, taking the plunder of his lips, until he stops. 

Toji’s hand moves to your shoulder and you push him away, uselessly, as he pucks at the last tie on your collarbone. It falls down and you hold it up quickly, crying out when he takes the initiative and rips it down the middle, quick as a whip. He turns you around, wrapping the fabric up and tying your hands with it. 

Now more exposed than the time before, you weep, and he turns you to face him again. His cheek brushes yours, disturbing the tears as he massages your waist. Pulling back, the man looks over your naked figure, and you cannot stop crying, knowing from the shack what was bound to happen.

“Pretty lady,” he whispers, saying it again with your name attached to the too sweet complement. Maybe it is the only one he knows. You’re sure if he knew others, they would be used in its place.

He palms your breast again, large hands engulfing you easily. You choke around gasps as this motion and the cool air hardens your nipples. Gooseflesh swarms your skin, and you hear a gluttonous grunt leave the man. Toji only does so until he bores of it, hand roaming again. 

“Ah!” you squeal when he lads a hit on your behind, moving away from the sting and right into his hard chest. Toji groans at the feel of your plush chest against his, and you hiss at the bite of his wiry hair. He holds you there, the other hand joining, leaving a spank as they rub and massage. You cry into his shoulder, attempting to muffle it, horrified at the sensations and what they do to the both of you.

“Shh, pretty,” How, you want to cry, but swallow thickly instead. Something prods at your lower stomach, and you have felt it before.

Toji’s hand reaches between you, his hairy chest stimulating your nipples as he moves, and as you rasp, he shucks his pants and kicks them away.

After his adjustment, something velvety touches you mid-belly, and you go stock still. It is thick, weighty on your person. Leaving little trails of viscous wet that linger and cool on your skin. 

“No,” you whisper, fearing more defiance might not work in your favor.

Toji did not heed you, taking your chin and tilting your head to kiss him again. He does the biting and sucking, you’re a passenger to this experience. Your lips tremble with shaking sobs, but he doesn’t prod, pulling away and turning you to the bed. 

You are draped across the bed, forced into having your ass in the air, and you feel then Toji comes close, feeling his heat along the backs of your thighs and the ghost of something between your legs. You cannot fully comprehend how it stands, but it does and you feel the bob touch your soft parts. 

He reaches for your core, drawing his husky fingers though your folds. Your wet aides in the slide; you are filled with shame, more tears leaving your sore eyes. When will they end? When will this end?

Toji leans over your back, directly by your ear, wet girl, he whispered, voice thick with want.

“No, Toji, no,” you reprimand, twisting with difficulty, getting nowhere with your restraints. “I’ve never. . .” you weep into the furs. 

“Ne-ver?” he chops though, again. Another word he is never heard of. You cannot take it, shaking your head. He will not ever get it. You hide your face, squirming away from his fingers that rub and prod over your slit, making a mess of the wet over your lips with no problem.

You fidget more, only getting his growl as he pulls back and holds the tie, letting his hand continue its assault. 

You cannot stop crying, this would never happen to you at home, where you should be. The men there would need permission to touch you, to even look at you. 

A finger of his pushes in, and you grunt at the effort it takes to not drop to the bedding, feet kicking as your wet eases the slide. You hear him speak to himself, he uses his native tongue, there’s no other explanation, and you wonder what he mutters about. He liked what was doing, made no obvious plans to stop, and given the location, he doesn’t have anything that may make him pause. You can only pray that he is gentle with you in your time; you barely know of what comes after.

He calls your name, and your ears ring at the intimacy of it, especially with his deep purrs, “wet girl, good.” you clench around his fingers, and you’re surprised at how good it feels, squeezing again until your quiet weep turns into a soft moan. A third finger joins and you grunt at the stretch, feet kicking at the fullness. You’re nearing too full, but it is a little. . . good.

Ah, ahh, ah, you pant as Toji pumps you full with three fingers. 

It. . . doesn’t feel so bad once you’re used to it, a little comforting like the single digit and then the two, but you feel the warmth leave you as he pulls his fingers out. Pretty , he says as custom, and you feel tingles as you think he looks at you. . . 

The wrap is untied from your arms, and you’re urged further onto the bed. You stretch your sore limbs, folding them under your head as you settle in. 

Your arms–they’re free! But what could you do? Much of nothing. . . you do not even know the first thing to do if you got free, there’s no real use. Toji could hurt you again, tie you up worse. You have to believe your goodness will result in less pain. 

Plus, whatever he was doing. . . it felt nice.

“Lady,” he murmurs. Toji leans down, brushing your hair to the other side and settling his chin at your shoulder. His weight is kept off of you, still there enough to give you his warmth. You suck in a little breath at his furry chest, eyes closed to encase yourself in this state of bliss. 

You feel his tip rub at your empty opening, and you can feel the flutter, the hunger deep in you reaching out to him in kind. His hardness slips between, and you squeak at the rush, whining at his chuckle. He pulls back, setting the heavy, leaking tip back at rest as he presses kisses over your neck. You press back lightly, squirming over his length; you cannot be sane. Your eyes are shut still, you’re in a world of your own. His hand drifts from your waist, moving his hardness to notch at your plush opening, and you gasp at the stretch already. Bigger than his three fingers, there’s no way. . . 

As your eyes open, you suddenly realize, this man meant to take your virtue. A stranger, a godless Northman who stole you away and killed your friends. You were scared, pushing up to your elbows and getting nowhere with his quick grip. His hips do not move, forcing you into pausing less you do the job for him.

“Bad girl, stay,” he advises, warning more like. 

“No, no it will hurt, Toji. Hurt; hurting me,” you repeat, knowing his knowledge of the word. You say your name and hurt, hoping to convey.

“No hurting.” you want to sob again.

His hand palms your ass as you strain forward, rounding your hip and smoothing over your tremoring belly, and lower. It isn’t until his fingers spread your wet lips that you understand, and with his wrinkled middle finger tapping at a bud between your weeping slit, you shiver. 

Ohhh, you moan, twitching the way you would when you touched that spot on accident while washing or wiping. He does it again, and you do not even notice when your winking hole sucks at the tip of his length. 

Lost in the feeling, you buck back more, gasping when he fills you deeper, inching more and more into you, filling the empty space with you singing his praises louder and louder. Circles are drawn onto your bud, and with a wet chin, you feel your ass meet his pelvis, snugly, totally impaled on him. 

“Good girl,” he rumbles, “pretty. No hurting.”

Your lids flutter at the fullness, neck going limp and Toji kisses you again, nipping a wide bruise. You whisper it back, no hurting, squeezing around him when he shifts his hips eliciting a hiss from the hairy man. Something heavy lands on your bud when you clench again and Toji moves, bouncing on it with a pat. Hairy, hot, you grind into it to no avail when he moves his hands to your hips.

“Toji,” you whine.

“Warm lady,” you sigh as he pulls out a little, and makes the little pat again. You keen. Wanton. Needy. Seeping with your need that coats him in thin layers. Bliss is caught in your throat as he pulls out to the tip and progresses back in, patting you again. His hands rub you back and butt, soothing you when you eat up the space he uses to pull away for thrusts.

It is gratifying, this level of debase need, addictive. No wonder you have happened upon so many doing the same, hanging off the other with gasps and yelps. You feel a changed woman. You feel your throat vibrate with your sounds, moans and whines and everything else you cannot name leaving you rapidly. You feel Toji’s when he presses his chest to your back. Deep, guttural grunts and gasps that shake into you. He goes still, and you whimper, pushing your ass back and humming at the pat you receive. 

Shh, he whispers, and as if the curtain is pulled back, you know why. People are still milling about, it is the middle of day and your wanton sounds can be heard. If you can hear them, they can hear you. Your stomach rolls and you whimper, fear crowding your mind. 

You turn to Toji, looking into his black eyes, “I d-do not want them t-to hear me. . .” you voice tremors. He looks over your face, sees when your fingers cover your lips to cut off sound and tilts his head. His hand brushes your hair down, caressing before he pulls out. You gasp at the loss, letting yourself be guided until your back is on the furs and you face him. Toji lifts your legs on the side of his waist, squeezing your thigh and kneading before he reaches between again and presses back into your open slit, keeping the pace from before.

This way is–intimate. Toji’s furry chest brushes your nipples and his face centers above yours. His breath fans over your face and you wonder if yours does the same. Your hands curl around his bulging muscles at either side of your head, ankles crossing at his back. Though you miss the soft pats to your core, your moans pick back up at his skillful thrusts. 

Toji kisses you, muffling you as you forget your earlier fear, and this time, you return the fervor. He moans back, and you feel something building in your stomach, wanting to dissolve somewhere. You pull back, blubbering quietly, trying to tell him something you cannot describe as your face pulls. He must get it because soon, his pelvis digs into yours, enough to tickle against your bud, and you explode. 

Toes curling, heels digging, you gasp as it washes over you, threatening to drown you as it keeps coming. Toji’s lips on yours save you from the yelps you emit, he takes them, and the whimpers from your oversensitization. Your jaw opens as you can only pant to keep sane, and he tongues your mouth, gently, urging yours into motion. You follow his dominance, mewling at him sweetly.

You feel tremors dying down, and as you do, you feel sad. Did Toji not like it as much as you? You turn away, eyes slitting but strong fingers stop you. You persist, surprised when his other hand reaches for the back of your neck. He needs you to see him? You feel shameful, but so do anyway.

“Stay,” he pants, “pretty eyes, stay at me.” you do not get it, eyes welling anew with tears you thought dried out. You shake, afraid he might find it unappealing and blink them away, but he kisses you. Hard. teeth nipping roughly and you think he is displeased. But when he pulls away, desire, lust still clouds his eyes, and you grunt with him when his thrusts grow heavy. 

He speaks gibberish over you, eyes glaring down at your face and you shiver at the intensity. You blink a moment too long, and he jumps on it, twisting your chin until your eyes open, meeting his wild ones. You whimper again in fear. 

“Mine,” he pants, growling as he catches his breath, “mine, my lady, mine!”

The few final thrusts shove you into the cot, and his hands scramble to keep you in place as he sheathes himself fully in you, hilted and jerking inside. You feel warmth, feel his tip smash against a part of you that already aches deliciously, and he grunts over you. Your hole is flooded with him, and he stays buried, holding.

You tremor, hips shifting in discomfort from his full weight. You feel him become soft in you, the loss of the plug leaving you your tender core aching and seeping with him. He pulls out finally, looking deeply into your eyes. 

Stay, he releases you with a word. His burly form wanders to a small hanging of cloths, and he pulls two, drying his length with one, and coming to you with the other. He eases your knees apart, again, cleaning you and hushing when you squirm. You are still sensitive. 

Toji tosses the cloth before grabbing your ankle. He finally pulls your singular shoe off, then works on the knots to your stockings. They land askew on your thighs, and for an unknown reason, you start to weep again. He pulls them off, moving to your other leg sans shoe, tugging it down before looking at your foot. He pulls a splinter out of your heel and you wail softly.

How dare he care after stealing you, killing those you knew, and groping you like you were a doll. You’re at his mercy alone, the mercy of the godless. And now he expects you to taste the drops of his kindness? To be grateful that it isn’t worse? 

He hurt you once. . . after you hurt him. But never again. You feel confused, sobbing into your hands again as he wipes the dirt and blood from your foot with another rag. You feel as if you're swimming in despair. Lost in the forest with him as your only way point, you feel horror at the thought, hacking before breathing shallowly.

You cannot even think straight as he finishes and leaves you trembling on the cot, covering you with brown fur and patting your back. You cannot pull from his comforting touch, and that repulses you.

Rest, stay, he stays your name, leaving though the flap, clothed again. 

You have no other choice. Picking the evil you at least could survive with better than walking aimlessly in woods you do not know. You will stay, less another, worse man gets you. . . you shudder at the thought.

You must ignore it all, grow with it, take the punches. You roll over face away from the dimming light of day that peaks though to top of the tent. Ignore it all.

The warmth of furs eases you to sleep.