Chapter Text
Ghost, he’d said his name was. You still weren’t sure if he was lying. Who has a name like that? No one good, you thought. No one decent.
No one who was worthy of grazing your doorstep, your late father would have said. Decent men have names. The ones that don’t are either criminals, dead, or soon to die in the raids.
Only the foolhardy reach Valhalla, he’d said.
But Ghost was hardly a man. Maybe half a man at best, towering over you and even your little house. Half man, half giant. He had to be.
You glance at him, watching you from the edge of the forest as you carry your bucket from the pig pen and back to the shed. You can’t help but see the skull he wears for a face, and the eyes that you swear hide an uneasy glint. He’s still there. Looming. Never approaching beyond the forest edge. A huge silhouette you could almost swear was a statue if you didn’t know he was made of flesh.
Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to get him to go. Not after what he did. But it’s been two weeks. A man should move on.
Any decent man would leave, you’re pretty sure your father would have said. It’s not proper, for a man to stare at a woman like that. Unless the woman is paid for her services, or he’s her man.
Or she’s his woman.
You let him be. The rains come, and he stays. You get used to it by first snow. Still, he stays.
Like a statue in the snow, white powder pooling in the folds of his clumsily made clothes.
He stays. And when the first winter storm comes, you invite him in. He nods, eyes boring into you. The skull mask hides his face and intent, but it cannot mask the small grunt he makes when folding himself in half, having to crouch and turn sideways to fit through your door.
By Odin, is he massive. You’d known, of course, but here, in the confines of your home, being twice the size of a man is evident immediately. Even kneeling on the floor as he is, forced in by the laws of hospitality, he fills up a significant portion of the limited space, muscles glistening as the snow on his shoulders starts to melt, leaving trickling trails of wet droplets on his skin. If he minds, he doesn't say anything, his eyes staring at you just as much as you do him.
“You take a lot of space for a ghost,” you blurt out without thinking.
He gives you a look. And he stays. You don’t send him away after the storm, and he doesn’t ask for anything. Ever. Just does the same thing he always does, though now a lot closer. Looming. Watching. Taking space in your small home like the statue of flesh and blood he is, his form tangible and inconvenient to work around. Occasionally walking into the forest and coming back with fresh kills. How he does it, you don’t know. They never have any cuts or visible wounds—and you’ve never seen him with a weapon of any kind.
Then comes an unassuming day.
The men come in a group of three—one whose father had been friends with yours silently following the strong one, and the shipwright’s son. You know their names, their father’s names. You know them, where they live and what they likely want. It starts fine enough, tension rising as they make their case, even offering some of the foreign coin freshly plundered for the trouble. Circular and stamped with lettering you could barely read, on the coins they display a pressed image of a man from the side, with a rounded nosebridge and silly circles in his hair.
At their insistence, first you grimace—then frown, and when your father’s friend’s son averts his eyes long enough you switch from glowering to direct unkindness.
It’s the strong one that snaps, grabbing on to your arm, meaning to take you with them—a bad idea. The second you struggle, your silent protector emerges from the treeline, imposing with his mere presence. You look to him, then to the deer carcass on his shoulder. His body language changes, muscles tensing up as he sees the grasp on your arm.
The men tense up too, the strong one letting go of you in favor of reaching for his axe, but the shipwright’s son stops him.
“Best you boys go home,” you say to the men. “I’ve got company, as you can see.”
Your father’s friend’s son glances at you, fear and underlying hurt in his eyes while the other two stand still, eyes honed on Ghost. Thankfully, the shipwright’s son is the smarter of the two, eventually coaxing his friend to leave, and the third one follows them off as meekly as he followed them out. One by one, they file out, and you exhale, gesturing for Ghost to come sort out his kill with the meathook you’ve set up for him in the new lean to shelter.
He doesn’t say anything. You don’t either. And the winter continues.
The season keeps time by measure of dark days and icy storms, only kept at bay by the warmth of your hearth, the plentiful food—you haven't needed to break out any of your stores yet—and the feel of the giant's furtive eyes on you. You wonder if he knows you look, too.
You’d thought you’d spend Jól alone. Perhaps visit the longhouse — you’d been invited — but leaving your Ghost alone felt wrong. In your heart, you did want to celebrate with him. This is why you sat at your hut after the blót, alone but not. Never alone with his eyes on you. Fed. Drunk on the sweet mead made for the occasion.
You’re definitely drunk. You can feel it, warmth loosening your body and your tongue. The mead is good, as it always is, and with this recent hunting you’ve had a lot more of it this year—having surplus to trade with other people in the village.
“It’s stupid. I keep thinking. Why are you still here? You can’t like me. I’m nothing, and besides—“
Your words are temporarily paused by a drunken hiccup. He pokes at the hearth with a stick, the size of a toothpick in his hands, body relaxed as he sits on the furs on the floor.
“—besides, it’s not like we could… you know, even if you wanted to. You’re too big. So why… Why stay?”
You sway a little, sitting down on the floor. It takes you much longer than reasonable to realize he’s stilled.
“Not nothing,” he mumbles. It’s quiet—relatively speaking, anyway. A man like him, his size, with lungs like his, must have tremendous difficulty being quiet. “Took me in from the cold.”
You hiccup drunkenly again in response, then shake your head. “You don’t feel the cold.”
“You didn’t know that.”
He looks at you, unnaturally dark eyes peering straight into your soul. He speaks again, this time louder.
“Thought I’d freeze. It was a kindness. You didn’t know. And I took advantage. Been taking advantage.”
You blink slowly. You might be a little inebriated, but what was he on about? Taking advantage?
He looks away.
“Still am.”
His voice wavers, a breathy undertone to his words.
“I’m a coward. Hiding, hiding. Always hiding.” He admits, his eyes back to the fire. You hiccup again.
“You’re not—“ you say, reaching out to him—and the second your fingertips touch his shoulder, he tenses up. Doesn’t move. You press, partially because it feels right, and partially because… well, you’re drunk—and when he’s sitting down like this, his shoulder is a good height for you to keep balance.
“You’re not hiding—“
He doesn’t let you speak.
“Still wearing the mask, aren’t I?” He raised his voice for the first time. “Still skulking around like a coward—“
This time you interrupt him.
“Why?”
The question stills the air, stops the spiral before it begins. Your hand moves again, sliding from his shoulder and across his cool skin, feeling the mars and scars under your fingertips—long-healed, thin scars across his shoulders—and to the back of his neck. To the edge of the cloth keeping his mask.
“Why?” you repeat again. Less demanding, this time. Softer, with new meaning. It feels odd to have him under your hold like this, as if you were in charge somehow. As if he wasn’t a massive, hulking beast of a man. As if he couldn’t push you aside without a thought, or even accidentally.
You can’t see his face. But you can hear his rattled breathing. He doesn’t respond.
You stand in silence for a moment. And by the gods, you’re too drunk for this conversation. So you relent. For now.
“I won’t force you. You don’t need to tell me. Just… think about it. Yeah?”
You keep your gaze on him for a moment longer, and he remains silent. You try to not let it hurt you, and make to look away, to leave him to the hauntings of his own mind—then he nods. Unsure and hesitant, but meant for you to see.
Your hand acts on its own as you gently squeeze what little of his shoulder you can encompass, and head to your bed with uncertain step. You sleep soundly under the watch of your sentinel, ever-dutiful.
Turns out, having a man in the house is a big help. Aside from the meat, many jobs around the home and the outside structures just… get done, even in the cold. Even the things that would be too high for you. Even the things too heavy or difficult. He even fixes up the barn.
He gets closer to you — and you to him, fueled by the routines and domesticity of winter. Glances turn to looks, and looks to conversation. You keep working around him, and he stops flinching away. You even become as bold as occasionally physically pushing him around with a playful grumble if his bulk is in the way in the way that it often is, granting you an amused chuckle as he moves. You’re emboldened by it, and the way his shoulders relax seems to indicate he’s smiling too, somewhere, under that mask.
It feels so normal somehow. Aside from his size, you settle into a kind of normalcy you didn’t know you were craving. The kind that’s easy, and makes everything around it easier. And when you get a chance to buy mead again, your father’s friend gives you extra for free. You take it as the unspoken apology for his son’s behavior that it is — and even as he keeps alert, granting you many subtle, poorly disguised words of warning about strangers, you don’t let him into your home to finish the delivery.
It wasn’t an occasion, really. You didn’t have an excuse, no one made you. You could feel the questioning looks — but your heart felt light, stewing vegetables and roasting meat.
In a way, maybe that was it. The first time you felt unburdened after the death of your father. Like maybe you could be safe. Maybe you wouldn’t have to think about how you would manage alone. While you had no illusions about him sticking around come spring, at least for the time being, you were safe. Safe from any beasts looking your way, human or otherwise. And he wasn’t a stranger anymore.
You fed him well that night - and drank well yourself, happy and a little hazy as you first sit down, then getting progressively more so as you keep talking. The alcohol loosens your tongue, telling Ghost about your father, and how you came to live alone.
Eventually you feel more solemn, so you lay down, right there and then - opening your arms on a whim… and surprised, but pleasantly so, when he lays down with you. Too drunk to question your hands, you pull him close as best you can, earning a chuckle and a grumble as he moves himself between you and the hearth.
You feel the furs under you—a mix of textures from soft to coarse, all on top of the floor of hay, bundles mismatched from the ones used for bedding and from those simply waiting to be made into something else. His head feels heavy, pressing against your stomach, his nose gently rubbing against your exposed belly button.
His shoulders cant forward, and his body follows, muscles shifting, silhouetted against the orange glow of the hearth. Like with big beasts, you can see his back and shoulder muscles in motion under the skin, unable and unwilling to make your mead-addled head stop your clumsy hands from squeezing his shoulder. The huff releasing from his mouth even through the mask heats your skin.
“You smell like…” he groans, shifting again, his mask fully pressed on your stomach, as if he’s trying to stop himself. Heavy. Big.
Your hips press up to meet him, trying to play as if he was a normal man, but all they find is the top of his chest.
He chuckles, the vibration of it coupled with the way his shoulder slides under your hips pressing into your needy cunt—and to your shame, you’re needy enough to whine. It’s been a long time. Too long. Too, too long.
Your body isn’t used to this. Even the dull pressure is enough to force your eyes closed and your breathing to a flutter, as the mix of alcohol and stirring lust swirl in your head, heat pooling down low in your stomach.
“It’s unfair,” you whine again, grabbing at him where you can, but all you can reach is the mask, or the fabric on his head—and as you do he tenses, pressing his face harder against your belly.
“No.”
It’s all you get in response. But your legs spread, and he presses into you. Fuck, he’s big. Big. “I’m ugly. You don’t—“
You sigh, your head leaning back onto the furs.
“I don’t care—“
“No,” he reiterates, now with more urgency. You close your eyes, your hand still grasping at the fabric.
“No,” he says again, whisper-quiet “I’m—I’m ugly. A beast. An animal. I'm not right. I can’t—”
You release your hold on the fabric, and, keeping your hand on his head, your thighs slowly move up, pressing against his cheeks. You don’t know what to say. The heat in your cunt and the alcohol in your gut fight against what few words you have left.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, his hips pressing against the furs. “Fuck.”
“Blindfold,” you exhale, part exasperation, part desperation. “Blindfold me, then.” You squeeze his head a little with your legs when he doesn't respond immediately, reaching for him again in any way you can.
“You’re human, I can’t—I’m—you’ll—” he babbles, his breath heating up against your skin, his hands moving from the floor to your sides, your hips, all your soft parts—putty in his huge hands. You’d feel smothered if he wasn’t so gentle. You want more. Need more.
“I—I can take it,” you swallow air, your hips pressing up—or trying to, just squirming in his hands. You can’t move—not much anyway. Not that you would really want to. You don’t want to leave. You don’t want him to stop. Never. Never ever.
“You can’t,” he grumbles, and you whimper at the injustice of it. His breath is hot, and his hips press against the floor again, this time with more urgency as his face trails lower on your hips, his hands lifting up your skirt.
“No wonder you smell so tasty. You’re not wearing anything down here.”
You nod, eyes opening, your own hands trying to hide your blushing face.
“I—I didn’t think—“
“Fucking hell. You know I can smell you, don’t you? This cunt, leaking…” his eyes squeeze shut, and you can feel his tongue pressing out from his mouth, against the cloth of his mask.
“Close your eyes,” he commands, and you do, lids pressing shut and surrendering to the mercy of the sensations that follow. Fabric parting, something rough against your pubic mound, cold and hot pressing roughly against your skin as you exhale.
“Ghost—” you gasp. Your hands scramble for him again, failing. Failing. Failing to catch anything before one of his hands easily catches them both, holding them up, forcing you to stop grabbing at his mask.
“Easy, girl,” you hear his words as much as you feel them against your mons, his nose pressing against your clit as his breath ghosts at your cunt.
“Fucking… leaking,” he repeats, any sign of eloquence long gone, his breathing uneven. Even without opening your eyes, you can feel his body shifting as he bucks against the furs.
Almost against his own will, he presses his nose against your core and takes a deep breath. He must’ve lifted up the fabric at some point because you can feel the cold nose between your folds, forcing out a gasp from you. You feel the warmth of blood as it flows close to the skin of your chest, your cheeks.
“Ghost—“ you twitch, your hips pressing up, your wetness smearing against his face. He grunts, and you can feel his face scrunching up.
“We can’t. I’m—I’m a beast—“ His voice wavers. It sounds desperate. “Too big. You’ll split.”
It’s unfair. So unfair, your brain tells you. “No. No.” You grind against his face, and he doesn’t move away, his tongue pushing out without his permission, tasting you, desperate for more.
“You don’t know what you do to me.” He opens his mouth, sloppy tongue against your clit turning soon to a greedy suck, his mouth engulfing your whole sex Your thighs shake. If you had your eyes open, you’d be seeing stars.
“What—” is all you manage, thighs pressing against his cheeks, locking his face in your cunt.
You hear a voice you’ve never heard before—a rolling groan resonating against your pussy, growling and breathy as his hand on your hip grasps harder, not bruising but close to it.
He exhales and in a whimpering, uneven tone pushes out the words. “Please. Let me. Let me in.”
You hesitate, eyes closed—but spread your legs nonetheless. Fuck, turns out you’re one of those women. The ones your father always side-eyed in the village. And you don’t care. You don’t care. You don’t care.
“Please. Please,” you whine, spread open like a common whore. Fucking hell, you’d do anything in this moment. You’d do anything to take him all. It doesn’t even matter if you’ve never seen him, if you never see him. It doesn’t matter that his dick is probably thicker than your thigh. The way your cunt pulses and leaks as you buck into his face is proof enough to your addled brain. You’d take it. You’d take it all. You’d manage somehow.
Most importantly, you’re keeping your eyes closed. You don’t want to chance losing this—
The thick, wet tongue pushing inside you silences you, heat flooding your core as you feel the size of it stretching you open, pressing against your walls. Your back arches—you can’t help it, the way you can feel his hot saliva mixing with your slick, the way his tongue twists and turns inside you. He grunts against the mess, his hips bucking against the furs, occasional thrusts turning into a slow, rhythmic humping. He needs it. You need it.
He laps at it, soaking himself in you, slick drenched on his cheeks, dripping down his jaw and throat. “Nectar of the fucking gods,” he says, meant for you or for himself, you don't know.
But his words are reverent—and you’re tempted, oh so tempted, to open your eyes and look down at him just to see his worshipping eyes. “Ghost—I—I want to look,” you whimper, only for him to let go of your arms, and move his hand to your jaw instead, forcing you to tilt your head back.
“No,” he says, his grip tight even when his voice cracks. He buries himself back into your cunt and your complaints die on your tongue. Your eyes force open, and all you can see is the wall and ceiling of your home, wood panels going blurry as you moan in unison.
Your hands, now free, scramble to grab at him even though you can’t see much, finding… hair?
Hair.
He’s taken off the mask, the hood, everything. And even though you can't see, you can feel it—the soft, short locks against your fingers as you curl them against his scalp, grabbing a fistful of whatever you can reach, roughly tugging at it to move his head, pushing him deeper even as you begin to see stars, again and again.
And despite being able to resist, he doesn't, simply moaning into it—into you, his tongue deeper in your cunt, his rutting turning desperate, his pre smearing on the floor and himself, pooling obscenely under him as he ruts against the furs. His hips roll, trying to find something, anything, his dick hard and leaking out of your sight and your reach.
Desperate, he tries to get closer as you pull on his hair, his hand around your jaw tightening as his entire body shifts forward and presses your head against the foot of the bench. You’d complain if it weren’t for your limbs twitching and your throbbing walls around his tongue, and for your eyes rolling back, and for your field of vision narrowing into a pinprick as his tongue slams into your slick mound, as your own cries fill your ears, half pain half unspeakable pleasure the kind of which you’ve never felt before, the kind that sears through your pussy and your stomach and your heart and your throat and all the way out of your mouth in a mess of crying and writhing ecstasy—
Your vision explodes into a kaleidoscope as you hear his cry in return, feel his hot tears on your sex, and his breathy groan as his body shifts again, his seed spilling out of your field of vision. He doesn’t move away even as your cunt clenches around his thick tongue, desperate for more. Even now, he wants more. Greedy, lapping up anything and everything you have to give, tongue swirling for more even as your cries turn to overstimulated moans and you fight to look at him, his arm holding you still.
Eventually, he slackens against you, his breaths hot against your folds, before his tongue laps up the rest of the mess on your still-quivering cunt. He trails up, dragging but not quite kissing at your skin.
“Gonna—gonna stay,” he grunts against your stomach, panting, releasing your hip and reaching down to his dick, fingers dipping into the pool of spend before causing you to spasm again as he presses his cum-smeared finger into your cunt. The act catches you off guard, pushing more whimpers out of you, even his finger thicker than expected. “I have to. Just in case it takes,” he murmurs, only half-coherent, as he pumps, once, twice, and you moan again. It's too much, but he keeps going, and it doesn't take long for you to climax anew. He still pumps a couple more times before pulling his finger out of you, leaving you empty once more. Stretched taut and released once more.
It takes you a while to get back to yourself again—and by the time that’s happened, he’s got his mask back on, and your face released.
As he takes a cloth and wipes the rest of your mess, it occurs to you that he didn’t do the same to himself. The damp spot on the cloth under his mask confirms it, though you’re too tired to make a deal of it. A conversation for another time. But there is something else.
“Ghost,” you murmur tiredly, reaching for him again. This time, he moves into your touch, those unnaturally black eyes staring straight into your soul.
This man could be part Jotun and bring forth Fimbulvetr himself, and you wouldn’t care. He’d stay. He’d keep you, somehow. You don’t know how, but you know it somehow. Or perhaps that’s just the afterglow, and you’ve gone insane.
“Simon,” he whispers. “That’s what my mother named me.”
He doesn’t move, but you feel the tension in the air. A plea, or a challenge, you didn’t know. But you rise to it.
“Simon,” you whisper back.