Jagna lay there on the fur mattress, his chest heaving from the raw fuck he'd just given Layana. She was sprawled beside him, her blonde hair a tangled mess across the wool pillows, her full breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath. Sweat glistened on her pale skin, and between her thighs, his cum leaked out slowly, mixing with her own juices.
The air in the longhouse smelled thick of sex, woodsmoke from the hearth, and the faint herbal scent of the rushes scattered on the clean plank floor.
He wasn't done.
His cock, still half-hard and thick as a wrist, twitched at the thought.
He rolled over, pinning her beneath him with his athletic frame.
She gasped, green eyes flashing with that mix of fear and lust that made her so fucking addictive.
"Jagna," she whispered, her voice husky from all the screaming.
"Fuck that," he growled, his brown-blonde hair falling over his storm-grey eyes as he grabbed her wrists, holding them above her head with one big hand. His other hand slid down her body—over the curve of her hip, the firmness of her ass from years of riding and fighting. She was no soft village girl; Layana was built like a warrior, with strong thighs that could crush a man's skull, but right now, she was his. He positioned himself, the fat head of his dick pressing against her slick entrance, still swollen from the last round.
She bit her lip, arching up to meet him.
"Gods, you're so hard," she murmured, but her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in.
He thrust forward, sinking balls-deep in one smooth motion. Layana moaned loudly, her pussy clenching around his length like a vice. He started moving—slow at first, grinding deep, feeling every inch of her heat. "That's right," he said, voice low and commanding. "Take it all. You're mine this morning."
She bucked against him, nails digging into his shoulders. "Harder, nephew. Make me scream again."
He picked up the pace, slamming into her with the force of a storm. The bedframe creaked under them, furs bunching up as he fucked her relentlessly. Her tits bounced with each thrust, nipples hard and pink, begging to be sucked. He leaned down, taking one in his mouth, biting just enough to make her yelp. She loved the pain—mixed with the pleasure, it drove her wild. Her screams echoed in the room: "Yes—fuck—Jagna, deeper!"
He was lost in it, pounding away, his balls slapping against her ass. Sweat dripped down his back, his muscles flexing under tanned skin honed from axe work and raids. This body was a gift—stronger than any man's, healing fast from wounds that would fell others. He could feel the power surging, making his cock throb thicker inside her.
Then—knock, knock, knock.
The door rattled. "Jagna! You in there? Wake up, you lazy bastard!"
Jagna froze mid-thrust, cock buried to the hilt. Layana's eyes went wide, but she didn't push him off.
Instead, she grinned wickedly, clenching her inner walls around him like a tease.
He growled, annoyed but not stopping.
"Who the fuck is it?" he shouted, voice rough from exertion. As he yelled, he pulled back and slammed in again—hard. Layana bit down on her fist to stifle a moan, her body shaking.
"It's me, Harald! Your father sent me. Open up!"
Harald—his closest friend since boyhood. Tall, red-haired, and loyal as a hound. They'd raided together, drunk together, and shared stories of conquests.
But right now, he was a cockblock.
Layana whispered, breathless, "Go, Jagna. See what he wants."
Her hands pushed weakly at his chest, but her hips rolled up, grinding against him.
She didn't really want him to stop.
"Fuck that," Jagna muttered. He thrust again, deep and slow, making her gasp. While he fucked her, he shouted back: "What does he want, Harald? Can't it wait?"
Another knock, more insistent.
"No, man! Your father's calling for you. Urgent business at the townhouse. Get your ass out here!"
Jagna cursed under his breath.
The Jarl—Earl Haraldson, ruler of their settlement, a fat old prick who hoarded wealth and doled out raids like favors. If his father, Rogthar, was summoning him there, it meant something big. Politics, maybe a raid, or trouble brewing. But gods, Layana felt too good—wet, tight, her pussy fluttering around his dick like she was close to coming again.
He gave her a few more hard thrusts, just to spite the interruption.
She whimpered, eyes rolling back. "Jagna—please—"
"Quiet," he ordered, covering her mouth with his hand. One last deep push, feeling her body tense. Then, with a frustrated snarl, he pulled out. His cock slapped against his thigh, slick and throbbing, unsatisfied. Layana whined at the loss, her hand reaching down to touch herself, but he slapped it away. "Not without me."
Annoyed as hell, he swung his legs off the bed. The room was warm from the hearth, embers glowing in the stone fireplace. He grabbed his clothes from the carved wooden chest—fine wool breeches dyed deep green, a linen tunic embroidered at the edges with Norse knots, like the patterns on village saris back in his old world's memories. No ragged hides here; everything was proper, stitched neat, boots of soft leather laced up the calves. He dressed quick, buckling his belt with the iron dagger sheath. His hair he left loose for now, falling wild over his broad shoulders.
Layana watched him from the bed, propped on her elbows, legs still spread shamelessly. Cum dripped from her onto the furs.
"Come back at dusk," she said, voice sultry. As he turned to leave, she sat up, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into a deep kiss. Her tongue invaded his mouth, tasting of salt and desire, her naked body pressing against his clothed one. She bit his lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood.
"Promise me."
He smirked, a tyrant's gleam in his eyes.
"I'll be here. And next time, no interruptions."
He squeezed her ass one last time, then strode to the door.
Outside, the morning air was crisp, the settlement stirring to life. Houses stood sturdy—timber frames with plastered walls, thatched roofs sealed tight against rain, small gardens with herbs and root vegetables. Paths were cobbled with flat stones, not muddy tracks. People moved about in colorful tunics and cloaks—women in embroidered skirts, men in breeches and vests, all clean and mended. It was like those Indian villages he'd glimpsed in his past life: orderly, communal, with a touch of vibrancy in the dyes and patterns. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the distant fjord sparkled under the sun.
Harald leaned against the doorpost, arms crossed, red beard braided neat. He was built solid, axe at his belt, but next to Jagna, he looked almost ordinary.
"Took you long enough," Harald grumbled, eyeing Jagna's flushed face and messy hair.
"What were you doing in there? Sounded like you were wrestling a bear."
Jagna clapped him on the back—hard enough to make Harald stagger.
"Something like that. Let's go."
They walked side by side toward the center of the settlement. The townhouse loomed ahead—a grander longhouse, twice the size of others, with carved dragon heads on the gables and a flag whipping in the breeze. It was where the Jarl held court, doled out justice, planned raids. Around it, the market bustled: stalls with wool cloth, iron tools, dried fish, amber beads traded from the east. Voices haggled in Norse, laughter rang out, children darted between legs—proper village life, no squalor.
As they walked, Harald glanced sideways at Jagna.
"Listen, brother. Be careful with Layana. Her husband's back from the last raid—Bjorn the Bear, they call him. Man's a beast. Arms like tree trunks, temper like hammer. If he finds out you're bedding his wife... gods, it'll be blood."
Jagna just laughed, low and fearless. He patted Harald's back again, this time lighter, like reassuring a pup.
"Let him find out. I'll handle it."
Besides, she's worth the trouble."
Harald shook his head, muttering. "You're mad. But hell, you've always been the strong one. Just don't drag me into it."
They reached the townhouse steps. Guards—two burly men in chain shirts over tunics—nodded them through. Inside, the hall was warm and spacious: long tables of oak, benches lined with cushions, tapestries on the walls depicting old sagas. A fire roared in the central hearth, casting flickering light on the gathered faces.
Jagna's family was there. His father, Rogthar, stood tall at the head—grey-streaked beard, eyes sharp as ever. The man who'd raised him in this life, taught him to swing an axe, raid the coasts. Beside him, Jagna's mother— the woman who'd wept tears of joy at his birth—sat composed in a embroidered gown, her face lined with worry. A few uncles and cousins milled about, plus the Jarl himself: Earl Haraldson, fat and balding, rings glinting on his fingers, seated on a high chair like a king.
All eyes turned as Jagna entered. Rogthar stepped forward, clasping his son's arm.