cw: kidnapping; wife stealing/claiming; violence; dub/non–con; primal possessiveness; size kink; degradation; Game of Thrones AU
Your lip trembles.
The blade stays pressed just under your chin, cool and sharp against your skin, forcing your face up ever so slightly. The man—no, beast—kneeling in front of you is a wall of muscle and scar and heat. His eyes—one slightly lighter than the other—drip with something ancient and hungry, framed by dirt-smeared lashes and a jagged brow that twitches as he examines you.
He looks like he's deciding whether to eat you or keep you.
Maybe both.
"Mine now," he repeats, rougher this time, as if speaking slower and louder might help you understand. His accent is strange. Northern. Harsh and clipped. Something wild clings to it, untamed like the storm still howling outside the heavy furs of his tent.
You finally manage to open your eyes, just barely. Just enough to look at him.
And Gods above, he is not even trying to hide the way his dark gaze eats you alive.
You're soft, he notices—softer than any woman he's ever seen. Plump thighs squeezed together in fear, trembling arms pressed to your sides. Breasts heavy under your torn shift. Cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, all round and supple and so fucking sweet looking.
His cock twitches despite its weight.
You feel and smell the heat of it—his arousal like a second presence in the room, thick and impossible to ignore, even without looking down.
He reeks like blood, cold mountain air, sweat, and something darker. Earthy. Masculine.
"Y'scared?" he asks next, still crouched in front of you, voice dropping to something deeper, almost amused.
You nod—barely—but he hums low in his throat like a wolf who has cornered a rabbit. There's satisfaction in it. Not cruelty—blunt possession.
"You should be."
His massive hand, rough with calluses and healing splits, replaces the blade. He curls two fingers gently under your jaw and forces your face up all the way. You're not sure what you expect—maybe for him to strike you. Bite you. Take you like some savage creature from the fairy stories.
Instead, he observes.
And what he sees makes something shift behind those dark eyes.
His thumb drags across your bottom lip, slow and almost reverent, even as you flinch.
"Pretty," he mutters, low to himself. "Soft as they said. Thought they were exaggeratin'." He grunts in approval. "They weren't."
His voice is thick now, arousal and obsession twining together like roots around your ribs. Still, you flinch away again, trying to scoot back. Your ass barely leaves the fur before a growl rips from his chest.
It's not human. Can't be.
He lunges forward—not to hurt you, but to cage you, his huge arms planted on either side of your body. His face presses close, breath hot and sharp with his snarl.
"No."
You freeze, blinking up at him in shock, fear coiling in your belly like a pit viper.
"You run, I chase," he grits out. "You scream, I cover yer mouth. You fight me, I take anyway."
His cock is obscenely hard now, thick and flushed and resting heavy against your thigh like a threat. Or a promise.
"But..." he says, breathing hard, nostrils flaring as he pants and sniffs like an animal, his nose brushing along your neck, cheek, ear. "...you be good f'me, I'll treat ya nice. Feed ya. Keep y'warm. Give you my bed."
You swallow thickly. He notices. Always notices.
"I'm not like your other women," you whisper, voice cracking with fear. "I'm not... strong. I'm not a fighter."
Ghost stills above you at that. Then, with surprising gentleness, he leans in until his forehead rests against yours. You feel his breath, warm and steady now, ghosting over your skin.
"Don’t want another bloody fighter," he mutters, rough and hoarse. "Want a wife."
You inhale sharply.
"Wanna rut ya full. Fuck you full of my seed. Watch that pretty body get rounder with what I give ya. Carryin’ my pups. Mine."
Your stomach flips. Heat pulses low. Shame bubbles and burns up your spine like a lit torch.
His mouth finds your neck and he noses against it like a beast scenting his mate. His tongue swipes once, hot and wet. You gasp deep in your throat. He growls in return.
And then he pulls back just far enough to look you dead in the eyes and say, more low and sure as ever:
Simon is the largest, most skilled and ruthless warrior of the whole clan—and he's claimed you as his prize after the last successful raid.
He's never found a woman quite like you before.
The women he's laid with before were all lean and strong; wild warriors in their own rights, hardened by the harshness of the North. They'd kept his bed warm, and he'd enjoyed them all, yes, but never longer than a night.
You, though, you are soft in all the right places.
Fat and marbled by a different, more shielded life. Not really a noblewoman, but loved and doted on by your family as their only daughter.
When he finally brings you to his tent late at night, the skin around your neck and wrists are rubbed raw from the rope that'd been bound around them. You're shivering, scared, and still in denial about what happened.
How your life, your family, and everything you hold dear has been so cruelly taken from you in the blink of an eye.
As you kneel on a large direwolf fur rug in the middle of the tent, upheld by mammoth tusks and thick animal hides, the large Wildling brute rests his great axe against one of the bigger tusks before shedding the first layer of his pelt–lined clothing.
And you don't dare look at him, don't dare move, like a newborn fawn seeking cover in the high grass during spring; hoping he'll forget about your presence if you stay still and quiet enough.
But you're trembling so badly, muscles aching from the steady tremors, that you fear you might keel over any second if you don't will your body to obey.
The Wildling groans lowly in relief as the last of his heavy clothes are shed. He rolls his wide, muscular shoulders, takes his skull–bone mask off and stretches his thick neck from left to right to stretch the sore tendons.
He's broad, strong and meaty, taller than the tallest man you've known; covered in battle scars, though some look more like carvings of his or someone else's own making. They give his milky skin an even more skeletal and intimidating appearance.
Naked as the day he was born, without knowing any shame or decency, his large cock sways obscenely between massive thighs; pale as the rest of his body.
Your breath hitches painfully in your throat when he crouches in front of you and brings the tip of a blade up to tilt your chin to his liking. It's almost gentle, how he tries not to nick you—or perhaps he's just playing with his meal before snapping his maw.
And you keep your eyes squeezed shut tightly, face twisted in fear, bottom lip wobbling. A moment of tense silence passes before he slowly exhales through his nose before grunting:
cw: kidnapping; wife stealing/claiming; violence; non–con/rape; primal possessiveness; size kink; loss of virginity; Game of Thrones AU
"Take your clothes off. Or I will."
You don’t move. Can’t, too frozen in fear.
Your hands twitch in your lap, but your fingers are too cold, stiff like brittle like dead weirwood branches. Too clumsy. The torn remnants of your shift cling to your skin like a last thread of modesty.
So he does what he said he would.
He rises to his full height—tall and broad, casting your kneeling form in shadow—and with one last heavy step, he looms over you, one hand reaching down to rip what is left of the flimsy fabric off your shivering body in a single, careless tug.
You gasp. The cold bites first. Then the shame.
The attempt to cover yourself is merely met with a low growl of his.
Big hands—callused, rough, still bloody from the raid—wrap around your wrists and yank them down, exposing all of you to his gaze. You expect hunger, cruelty, but what you find in his dark eyes is something far worse.
It's possession. His claim.
Ghost stares for a long moment, eerily silent and still.
Then his gaze drags down. Over your ample breasts, your soft stomach, the curve of your thick thighs. His cock—still hard and flushed a deep pink—twitches obscenely. His nostrils flare and your face begins to burn under his molten gaze.
His breathing gets heavier. Still, he says nothing.
You're the one who breaks the silence; your voice thin, barely above a whisper in the tent.
"Don't hurt me... please."
His head tilts, though not in mockery, nor mercy, either.
He doesn't answer. Just lowers himself to the floor like a wolf stalking its kill from the underbrushes.
One hand slides up your thigh slowly and pushes your knees apart. You whimper, legs trembling, too weak and scared to fight while he keeps spreading them until you're bare beneath him, open and laid out on the thick pelt like caught prey.
"Show me."
And he groans, low and deep, once he finally sees your cunt.
Then he leans in. His face hovers above your plush belly, and his nose brushes against your skin, dips down to the gorgeous tuft of curls right above your mound.
He breathes you in, long and greedy, while your eyes begin to mist and your bottoms lip wobbles.
Then his tongue follows—hot and wet, licking up your soft flesh, over your belly, higher—until he reaches your chest.
His mouth closes around one stiff nipple without warning, and you yelp, body arching instinctively. He doesn't stop even as you cry out again.
Brutish hands knead your curves like he owns every inch of you; his mouth suckles greedily at your tit like he's expecting milk, wet sounds echoing through the tent as your thighs twitch with every pull of his lips around your sensitive nipple and flesh.
You gasp. You shudder. Your hands find his broad shoulders—but he merely growls again. A warning not to dare push.
Ghost is barely holding back, and the sounds you're making for him is not making it any easier for him.
Eventually—without another word or glance—he shifts again. Grabs your thighs, and drags you down beneath him with brutal ease.
His cock presses against your folds; thick, warm, and heavy. You feel the blunt head sliding against your cunt, bumping your clit, slicking himself up with your wetness while leaving his own arousal sticky on your skin.
You flinch, eyes squeezing shut with a quiet whimper.
Is this what you've heard other women speak about in hushed whispers around your village? How men and women are supposed to make a child? Your own mother never explained much, barely told you how to take care of your moonblood.
"It's too big—" you squeak, teeth gritting.
You've never dared to even shove a finger inside you before.
His hand clamps over your thigh. Not cruel, but firm. His only reply is a grunt—and then he starts to push in anyway.
The stretch burns. Your head tips back with a sharp gasp, eyes widening as your hips buck against the pain. He doesn't ease in gently, doesn't know how apparently, but he does it slow enough to feel everything.
Your gasp turns to a cry as he breaches your virgin hole; inch by inch.
He's breathing through his nose, jaw clenched, face pressed against your neck as he sinks into you. Silent. Focused. His strong hips shudder with the effort of holding back.
You claw at the furs while stars dance behind your tightly shut eyelids, body taut and trembling from the strain. You can feel his every vein, every inch, Seven Hells, even his pulse so deep already, and yet he's not fully inside.
"P-lease—n-no more—" Your voice cracks as he bottoms out with another breathy grunt against your throat; hips grinding flush against yours.
And Ghost stays there; buried deep inside, the fat tip of his cock snug to your womb.
You feel it. The tension in his whole body as he breathes deeply. How his hands twitch on your hips like he's trying not to snap and fuck you into the frozen ground beneath his tent.
He nuzzles into your throat. Not tender, though. Possessive and claiming. He nips at your pulse point, your cunt flutters and clenches around him involuntarily, and he snarls.
"Fuckin' knew you'd take my cock well."
And he grunts as he pulls back. Just an inch—and sees blood mixing with your slick at the pale base of his cock, dark curls sticking to heated skin. His pupils blow before his wild eyes flick up.
"Yer a fuckin' virgin," Ghost remarks. You don't answer, too focused on your own shallow breathing, until you squeak when he snatches a fistful of your hair to tilt your head, make you meet his gaze.
The silence that follows is thick.
His thumb presses into your cheek, holding your face angled up as tears spill freely over the apples of your cheeks. He studies you the same way he studies the horizon before a raid: calculating, instinct‑driven, as if he's cataloguing every sign of you, every flicker of fear, every tremor that betrays natural need under panic.
Then his jaw ticks.
He lets your hair go—not releasing you, just shifting his grip lower to your nape instead. One firm hand, anchoring and owning.
When he leans in again, his cold nose drags up your throat, slow, breathing you in like a vow no priest could nor would ever give. His puckered scars brush your skin. His breath is warm. His restraint is too visible; it somehow scares you more than the act itself.
One low grunt, barely more than another guttural growl shaped like language:
"Wife."
Not a question or a ceremony. A fact carved into the moment.
His hips roll once, testing the drag of himself inside you now that you're slick and broken open. Your breath punches out of you in another cracked little whimper. His eyes flick down to your lips at the sound, and Ghost dips his head to taste your mouth at last.
It's clumsy. You don't know what you're doing. All teeth and hunger as he licks past your lips. But it goes another direction now—claiming with intent, not raw impulse. You taste iron on his lips. You taste yourself on his tongue.
You taste his inevitability, and your eyes squeeze shut again as your lips part wider in silent surrender while Ghost claims you wholly.
