It jumps

Ohhhh my god these zoom-ins look utterly dubious, ohhh god have mercy

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.