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sunshine-and-moonshine · 8 months

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The Three Bear Hybrids

Summary: You find yourself lost in the woods at night but luckily there’s a cozy cabin you can take a rest in! Sure hope there aren’t any lustful bear hybrids who own this cabin….

Warnings: Reader has a Vagina (no pronouns or tits mentioned), Smut, Breeding Kink, Spit Kink (Kinda? Lots of slobber), Reader really just broke into these men’s house, Dub-con (reader is described as having a hazy mind at times, implied like pheromone shit or something)

Pairings: Bear Hybrids!Ghost, Price, and Gaz x Reader

A/N: Any spelling mistakes you see are between me and the Devil so if you see them then shhhhhh

It was a bit cliche to say that it was a dark and stormy night, but you couldn’t find better words to describe it. The sky pitch black, sparkling stars and the bright full moon covered by thick black storm clouds, a deep cold settling into your bones. And you were caught right in the middle of the woods, lost in the forest while out picking mushrooms for tomorrow’s breakfast. You cursed yourself under your breath, worried eyes looking up towards the clouds just as a few droplets started to fall down on you from the heavens. With no other choice, you resigned to find your way home in the morning, wrapping your cloak around your body tightly to fend off the chill and the rain, a new haste in your steps as you trudged through the forest, almost tripping over roots and rocks that you could not see without the guidance of the moon’s light or your lantern that you had stupidly left at home, thinking that you would not be long. Nothing to help you find an alcove of thick brush trees or an abandoned cave to protect yourself against the coming storm.

Nothing save for a faint glow in the distance, a beacon calling out to you in the night. And like a moth to a flame, you followed it. Relief filling your weary bones when you set eyes upon a large cabin nestled cozily in the forest. A bit tattered on the outside, lacking any love. No pretty decorations or painted walls. Vines and moss growing up the sides, the door left cracked open and seeming to be broken off of its hinges, but set firmly in the place it should be to keep the inside warm. Carefully, you approached. Moving the door was a bit of a struggle but you managed it, and you were able to slip inside before placing it back in the frame, looking around at the interior of the cabin when you were sure the door wouldn’t fall on your head the second you turned your back to it.

The inside of the cabin was just as sparse as the outside. Everything made of plain wood, crudely made, everything seeming to be made just for its purpose with no care of how it looked. The table in the living room was crooked, the couch propped up by thick books instead of proper legs. The kitchen bare save for a single freezer box, packed full of meat and varying sizes of jars filled with jellies, jams, and fruit. The glow that called to you earlier revealed to be a small candle left burning in the windowsill, which you grabbed and used to light your way in the plain cabin. Not that there seemed to be much to see in the first place. The only thing of real note being that everything seemed to be made for giants, all the furniture almost comically big. But nothing was as big as the beds. Three plush mattresses in an almost perfect row, just a few inches from each other in the same room. Curiously, you ran your hand over the one in the left corner. Stiff as a rock, and you wondered who could sleep on something so hard. The next bed was softer. Too soft in fact. When you laid your hand on it, it felt like it was just a pile of blankets instead of a mattress. Certainly cozier then the first, but you doubted such a mattress was good for someone’s back. Oh but the third bed!

The third bed was just right.

The perfect mix of soft and firm, still warm with the heat of whoever had last slept on it. And when you couldn’t help but lean in closer, there was a soft alluring musk that waived off of the sheets. It lulled you, made your head fuzzy and stupid. You couldn’t stop yourself from curling up into the bed, that scent embracing you like a long gone lover as you wrap your cloak tighter around yourself just to stave off the slight nip in the air. Just a short nap, you promised yourself. The owners of this cabin surely wouldn’t even notice you were there. You’d be long gone by the time they came back.

The assurances you told yourself were enough to ease you into fully closing your eyes, a sigh of contentment slipping from your parted lips just as the rain outside started pouring down, covering up the sound of heavy footsteps crunching cobblestone beneath their weight.

You awoke to the sound of voices. Your mind still hazy with sleep, cocooned in that nice comfy feeling of warmth and safety and laziness. The kind of feeling you never wanted to wash away just because of how good it made you feel. But the feeling never lasted, and it started to drip away from you like ice melting in the spring sun.

“But they’re sleeping in your bed, Price!” A voice hissed softly, like they were trying to keep themselves quiet. Were they trying not to wake you? It seemed like an odd thing to do when whoever it was was clearly panicked.

“I can see that, Gaz.” A rougher voice said in return, a deep sigh following the statement, and you felt the hair resting on your cheek be shifted away. Still sleep dumb, you could only sigh and snuggle further into the large warm pillows beneath your head, almost missing the amused chuckle sounding from above you. And then suddenly your whole body was being moved, the bed shifting beneath the weight of another person as they pulled themselves onto the mattress with you, tucking themselves up against you. It was what finally drained the last of your sleepiness away, and you tried to shoot up in the bed in your panic.

Tried being the key word here.

An arm, thick and muscular, shot up at the same time you did, wrapping around your chest and yanking you back down, pulling you chest to chest with an older looking man, his blue eyes sparkling beneath the faint rays of the rising sun shining in through the window at your back. They looked like the sea, bright and mysterious, beautiful. You felt like you could drown in them, like they’d pull you under their waves and fill your lungs with that blue til you couldn’t breathe. Unbidden, you felt heat rise up in your cheeks as those blue eyes narrowed at you, clearly not impressed with your pathetic escape attempt.

“Easy, Honey.” That gruff voice, hoarse and rough but almost melodic to your ears, said, a hand running down your back at the exact same time, pulling you even closer somehow. Not giving you the room to run away or fight him off. “We’re not gonna hurt ya, Honey. It’s okay, just calm down.”

Surprisingly, his words did wonders to ease your nerves, your flailing turning to light shaking as he kept looking into your eyes. But your own look beyond him, at the two men standing just at the edge of the bed. One tall, taller than the man holding you, scars criss crossing all over his face, brown eyes looking almost like warm honey in the light. But, seemingly a bit unnerved by your looking, he turned his face away. Looking down at the man beside him. Shorter than the other two but his smile seemed to fill the room, warmer than the sun, eyes a darker brown. Like the wood of a great oak tree, strong and steadfast, but glinting with boyish mischief.

And it was just about then that you noticed something….peculiar about the three men. Namely the round fluffy ears that sat atop their heads, twitching at every sound in the room. And if you looked closely, you were sure that you could see a small fluffy tail twitching excitedly behind the shortest man, and the sound of one lazily thumping against the bed coming from the man holding you. More than a bit confused, you opened your mouth to question them, but the scarred man beat you to the punch.

“What are you doing in our cabin?” He asked, his tone defensive, full of bite, like the dog of your neighbor who so fiercely defended his properly. It made fear peak up again, but it didn’t escalate into full blown panic as the man holding you started to rub his nose against your neck, sniffing you like some forest beast. The heat in your cheeks only intensified, especially when he let out some pleased sound that rumbled deep in his chest.

“I…..got lost. In the forest.” You tell him, biting back a sharp gasp as the man licks a long trail from your neck up to your ear, nosing against it before nipping your lobe. It should have unnerved you, frightened you, but it only made a warmth pool in your cheeks and belly. For some inexplicable reason, you enjoyed it. And so did the man, if the rapidly hardening bump against your thigh was any indication.

“And you decided that breaking into our cabin was the best course of action?” He asked with a quirked brow, disbelief in his eyes. But he seemed nervous, twitching just like the man beside him, both of them seeming almost possessed. Licking their lips and sniffing the air like their was something delicious cooking in the other room.

“I-It was the only shelter I could find.” You tell him, eyes going a bit hazy as the man holding you suddenly shifts, laying you flat on your back and hunching over you, growling as he works to untie the tight strings of your cloak before angrily ripping at it when it would not bend to his will. You wanted to be angry, but find that you couldn’t summon the will to tell him off when he just dived for the open skin of your collarbones, sucking and licking with a fervent need.

“And sleeping in our beds, that was also for shelter?” The scarred man huffed, his tone softer now, thick with something heated and warm as the shortest man stepped closer, starting to undo the laces of your shirt, delving beneath the loosened fabric to stroke eager fingers over your pebbled nipples. You shuddered, head tilting back with a soft whimper as he leans in, whispering against your ear, breathe heating up your skin.

“My name is Gaz.” He says, and you immediately stored that information away, moaning out the name softly when he pinched one of your nipples before lazily rolling it between his fingers. “And this one, the one sucking on you like some cub? That’s Price. And the big fucker behind me is Ghost. He’s a bit shy though, Love. Needs a bit more incentive to come closer. Why don’t we get you undressed and show him what he’s missing out on?” Gaz suggested, and you couldn’t help but nod, your fate sealed as he ripped your shirt clean off your skin, Price already working on your pants, yanking open your legs and letting the sweet honey scent of you fill the air, all their eyes going hazy, all thought washing away from them as they all tried to lunge for your wet core, growling and huffing at each other, tongues darting out for a taste and getting angrier and angrier when they kept accidentally licking at each other in their eagerness.

But you? You were drenched in bliss, the feeling of three tongues fighting between your legs, thighs forced open wide to accommodate them all, hearing them growl like wild animals just for a single lick of you. It was incredibly arousing and the mewl you let out when one of their noses bumped against your clit was loud, all eyes snapping up to your face. Lust all over their faces, mad with it, hungry beasts who wanted nothing more than to tear you apart on their mouths and cocks.

Eventually, after several minutes of the battle for your cunt, Price was the one who growled at the other two to get back, loud and ferocious. Gaz backed away with little resistance but Ghost growled right back, reaching out to grab at your hips and try to drag you closer. That was, until Price gripped the scruff of his neck and practically ripped him away from you, the bigger man going limp before finally backing away with a soft grumbling noise.

Price then turned to you, a happy gleam in his eyes as he leaned down between your thighs again, tongue slower then before, like he was trying to savor a delicacy as he licked a long stripe from ass to clit, his groan reverberating through your lower half in a way that made a tingle go through your belly. And then he was all wild animal again, starved for your pussy as he lapped and succked and nibbled, his nose grinding against your clit and his beard leaving raw scratches along your inner thighs that you knew would be tender for days to come. But in this intense you couldn’t care less, throwing your head back with a loud moan, clamping your legs shut around his head, feet resting between his shoulder blades. It did little to deter him, only seemed to encourage him in fact, and he dug his fingertips into the undersides of your thighs, not letting you open or close them any further, practically suffocating him in your pussy. Just as Gaz was taking to sucking at your nipples like a welp, soft moaning sounds made against your flesh, his eyes closed whenever he pulled back to switch his affections to the other pert bud, licking and kissing along the expanse of your chest, leaving little untouched by his sinfully talented mouth.

And Ghost. Oh Ghost was just enjoying the show, his eyes wide as they roamed over your body and the two men worshipping it, his hand beneath his pants, stroking slowly to the sight of you getting tongue fucked by Price. It wasn’t til you reached a hand out to him that he approached, leaning down to sniff at your wrist a little before licking it, laughing under his breath when you jolted, his free hand coming up to hold your palm against his cheek as he continued to jerk himself off, eyes locked onto yours, his orgasm hitting him at almost the exact time yours hit you, almost twin like soft noises falling from both of your mouths as he leaned in to kiss you, all tongue and teeth, saliva dripping down your cheeks as he bit your lips and licked alonhg the inside of your cheeks. It was the best kiss you’d ever had, and you didn’t want it to end, whining with disappointment when he pulled back to allow you to breathe. But you just grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him back down and forcing your mouth against his, pleased with the rumbling groan he let out in response. It was heavenly, he was heavenly, they all were. You’d never felt such pleasure in your life. The haze over your mind making thoughts sink far out of your reach, like a stone in water. The wave of heat over your body like a comforting childhood blanket. And you were sure nothing would ever feel better than this.

But you were quickly proven wrong when Price shifted between your legs, sitting up straight over you as he shifted down your pants, yanking your lower half closer to him so he could run his cock through your warm wet folds, tapping the large mushroom head against your clit almost playfully before sliding in with one firm thrust that had you crying out with pain tinged pleasure. But they held you through it, all of them. Ghost’s big palms on your cheeks, Gaz’s holding your hands, and Price’s squeezing your hips. Oh and it felt like coming home when Price was rooted inside you to the base, tip so close to brushing against your cervix that it made you want to scream. It burned, in both good and bad ways, but thankfully he gave you time to adjust. Letting his boys shower you with affectionate kisses for a few moments before he gave a slow experimental thrust.

Instantly, pleasure shot up through you like a bolt of lighting and you jolted beneath them, keening and wiggling, much to their amusement. But it was all that Price needed to know, setting a steady pace that battered at your slick walls pleasurably, stretching you out in a way you were sure that you would never fully recover from, sure to gape from the width of him when he would pull out, an ever present reminder of him. The thought made you clench and he snarled, fighting against the resistance your walls gave him, struggling to pull and push when you were clamping down on him so tight. He clicked his tongue, hand reaching down to rub rough circles on your stiff clit, more force behind his thrusts now, unwilling to be deterred by your body’s tightness.

“Gonna breed you.” Price huffed, voice thick, sticking like honey in his throat, like it was hard for him to speak. “All of us are gonna breed you full, Honey. Give you a few cute little cubs to take care of come spring. Maybe get lucky and have one from each of us. That sound good to you, Honey? Can’t wait to see you with a cub on your hip, feeding another one in your arms. Never gonna stop giving you little babies to take care of. You’re ours now. Swell like ours. Sweet little mate, we’ll take care of you.” He promises, his words sending molten lava through your veins, only able to stare up at him as he tilted his head back and growled. Not like the playful and commanding ones he used just previously, but something animalistic, inhuman. Terrifying and arousing at the same time. Ghost and Gaz pulled back just enough to make similar sounds, something in them becoming even wilder at the sound, diving back into you like you were a buffet, slobbering all over your body as they left no inch of you kisses and suckled at, pawing at you and humping your sides to relieve their aching cocks, tension building and building and building.

Until it snapped along with that knot in your belly, your orgasm washing over you as your sight becomes overtaken by a sheen of white, back arching to the heavens as you cry out, the sound copied by the man above you, his own pleasure shown in the ropes of thick white sperm that he sprayed inside you, hips nestling against yours, unwilling to let even a drop spill free as the two other bear hybrids already begin to bicker amongst themselves as to who would get the next turn with you. But all you could focus on was the ceiling, wondering what on God’s green earth you’d gotten yourself into now.

#fairy tale au #cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #John price #john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader

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painted-flag · 2 months

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Little Red Riding Hood - Cregan Stark

Part 1 of 2.

Story 2 of Between the Pages: a HOTD x Fairytale Series.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ series masterlist. main masterlist. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing: cregan stark x f!reader (no use of y/n) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ warnings: a little bit of period-specific misogyny. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ wordcount: 5.7k .𖥔 ݁ ˖ notes: the reason this is split into two parts is that my mac crashed and i lost the full draft (around 10k). i rewrote it, but i promised that it would release on the 29th so despite the fact i have not finished writing the full imagine, i am splitting it into two parts.

The sound of quiet chatter filled the small schoolhouse. It was a stone building, old and worn from the centuries since its construction, one of the oldest buildings in the small town of Wildgate. Young girls sat in a circle, each focusing on the fabric in front of them as they stitched the day away. Their hands gripped their wooden loops and meticulously weaved the needle up and down to create their desired patterns.

The hall was warmed by two hearths on each side that chased away the winter chill. Your clothes aided in keeping warm while you paced around the outside of the circle. Your gaze watched the little girls as they sewed and your heart swelled with pride at the proficiency of your students. It was a rewarding job to work as a teacher for the girls in the town, despite the abysmal pay. Any money counted to the support of your family.

The girls finished their work one by one, earning praise from you which had them giggling and running to go home to their parents and share their work. As each girl left, you began to clean up the room from the day's activities. Once the desks were moved back into their regular position and the chairs in place, you eagerly made leave of the schoolhouse.

You made your way through the bustling town streets. The ground, usually muddy, had frozen over for the winter and patches of piled snow littered the area. People were hastily making their way to their destinations to run from the chill. The deep scarlet cloak you wore had been a gift from your grandmother and provided the perfect reprieve from the icy air. The red contrasted against the snowy surroundings.

Upon turning to another street, you quickly open a wooden door. The heat from the ovens in the bakery had mixed with the smells of fresh bread. You inhale slowly, savouring the scent.

A man came from a backroom and grinned when seeing you, “Ah! Darling, how are you today?” He was a short and plump middle-aged man who never had anything but a smile on his face and rosy cheeks. Every week, he would donate food to the schoolhouse for the children who were from poorer households.

“I am doing alright, James. How have you been?” You put your basket down as he begins to place your regular bread order in it.

“Well, the weather is drab but every day alive is a great day.” He nodded to you and accepted the payment. Once saying your goodbyes, you wandered back outside to the cool streets. Only a few buildings down was your next destination. The familiar sound of metal clanking against steel got louder as you approached.

The area was covered with a roof but open to the elements with a single wall being opened. It was the only blacksmith in the town, which happened to employ the man who had enchanted your fantasies. You watched as Aegon pulled a blade out of a forge and set it against an anvil. He grabbed a heavy hammer and began to pound it down against the glowing steel, over and over. The sound reverberated across the buildings and travelled through your body. He was sweating from work and despite the gentle snowfall, he only wore one set of clothes. The shirt he had on was thin and billowed with the breeze.

Aegon was not your first choice in men. He had only arrived in the village a few years ago and settled down into an apprenticeship. While you could not deny the beauty he held, you had not been enticed at first. You were generally disinterested in most men in the village, especially having known them all since childhood. His uniqueness was what had reeled you in, not the prospect of romance. Though there were no qualms with the way he treated you, the spark you so desperately wished to feel only flickered.

One thing was undeniable, his steady income would protect you and your family. A considerable rarity among the other available men.

Upon seeing you approach, Aegon used large tongs to pick up the blade and dunk it into a nearby vat of water. The sizzle and bubbles from the heat-laden steel rippled across the water. He smiled at you and put the items down. When you made it to the work area, Aegon took and placed your basket down. He gently held your hand and brought it up to lay a small kiss on the knuckles.

You accepted his affection, following like a sheep unaware of the wolf’s lure.

“And how is my lady?” Aegon moved back to organizing some of his tools, lifting them as though they weighed nothing, despite them being heavier than you could imagine. Although he had a lean and built figure, it seemed uncharacteristic with the amount of weight he could lift.

“The girls are doing so well with their stitching progress. I don’t believe there is much else I could teach them.” You spoke and Aegon hummed while he placed a hammer off to the side.

Aegon moved back to you and kissed your cheek, “Well, it is just stitching. There is not much to that work, maybe they could move on to other womanly duties?”

There was a brief moment of bitter taste in your mouth, but you swallowed it down. You reached for your basket on one of the tables and lifted the small cloth that covered the items inside. When you took out a package wrapped in cloth, Aegon watched your movements.

“I got your favourite dinner.” You placed the package into his outstretched hands choosing to ignore his previous comment, “Though, I am still so confused on how you could eat so much.” You laughed at your little joke and Aegon did too, but his gaze still pieced through you.

“I am always hungry,” Aegon’s voice dropped a few octaves and his expression darkened for a moment. It was quickly extinguished and he continued speaking, “Thank you, my love, for bringing this to me. I should get back to work now.”

You nodded at his words and leaned in to kiss the side of his mouth, “I shall leave you to it then.”

Your hands grasped the handle of the basket and picked it up. Giving Aegon a wave goodbye, you started back down the street and hummed idly to yourself. The trek in the falling snow was quiet and pleasant. All of the cottages around you had smoke billowing from their chimneys and glowing windows from candlelight. The sky had darkened fast.

A cottage in the distance caught your eye. The home was not large, but the warmth from your mother and little brother was more than enough to make it feel larger than a castle. You opened the heavy wooden door and rushed in, closing it quickly to keep out the cold. In the open area that consists of the kitchen and living space, your brother was sitting in front of the hearth and your mother was busying herself with dinner.

Upon spotting you by the door, your little brother rushed to greet you. He called out your name and wrapped his arms around your legs with his head burying itself in your stomach. Your arms encircled him and squeezed.

You ruffled his dark locks, “Good to see you too, buddy.” He pulled away from you and started asking countless questions about your day. You laughed at his curiousness and mentioned you would speak over dinner before sending him on his way to wash his hands and prepare the table.

Your mother had moved to the hearth to tend to the cast iron pot simmering with that night's stew. She stirred it around and brought a wooden spoon up to her lips, blew on it, and tasted. She nodded at the taste and decided it was ready. She turned around and saw you standing there and wrapped you in a hug.

“I expect your day went well?” Your mother pulled back and grabbed the pot. She carried it to the table and set it down by the bowls your brother brought out. When you sat down with your brother in the spot beside yours, a piece of parchment was dropped by the bowl that your mother placed.

“My day was fine. What is this?” You held up the parchment.

“A letter from Winterfell’s healer.” Your mother answered. You furrowed your brows. Winterfell was the town over, about a little over a day's ride from here. It was where your grandmother lived. It had been years since you visited last.

You unrolled the parchment and began to read. The more you did, the greater your worry grew. Your grandmother was sick and had been for a while. The healer could not keep watch on her enough while also taking care of others in Winterfell. He asked for a family member to come to the town and watch in on your grandmother for the times he is not there. The healer said he would be waiting at the town gate on the morning of the moon's first quarter to escort whoever showed up to her home.

“That is two days from now.” You spoke to your mother as she swallowed a spoonful of stew, “I will have to go tomorrow at midday.”

“You do not have to.” Your mother interrupted, “I could go.”

“Mother you need to take care of Joffrey.” You interjected. Your mother did not speak for a moment and considered your words. After a few minutes of quiet eating, she acquiesced to your stance and accepted your travel plans.

Dinner was spent with your brother speaking about his day. Both you and your mother occasionally interjected with quips, but the mood from ill news regarding your grandmother hung over the table like a thick smoke cloud. You thought back to all of those moments you had with your grandmother, which became fewer the older you got. Trips to Winterfell became scarce to the point that it had been close to a decade since your last visit.

Cleaning up the kitchen and table was done in silence between you and your mother. Your brother had been dismissed to go to bed early - something he was adamantly against, but listened to nonetheless. You slowly packed the items you would need for the trip over. Getting time off of teaching would be easy, but you were hesitant to leave your family for however many weeks it would be.

Once you were settled in for the night, sleep came quickly.

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

Your black boots made crunches in the snow as you walked through the town. You had swung by the bakery that morning to pick up a couple of sweets and pastries for the road. Your grandmother had always loved raspberry tarts, so you picked out a couple for her. While you may not be able to cure her sickness, at the very least you could brighten her spirits. You were set to begin your journey in just a few hours, but you had one last task to complete.

The same familiar sight of the blacksmith appeared as you made your trek down the street. The sound of metal clanging rang through your head. You saw Aegon working, steady and focused. When you approached closer, he spotted you out of his peripheral. He stopped what he was doing. The smile on his face faded slowly at the neutral expression across yours.

“Are you okay?” Aegon spoke. He moved forward and pulled you closer by your scarlet cloak. One of his hands fiddled with the hood that protected you from the snowfall.

“I have to go,” You began, “My grandmother is sick and it's getting worse.”

Aegon’s face scrunched up in confusion, “Go? Go where?”

“Winterfell.”

For a brief moment, a shadow swept across his face at your answer. His posture went rigid and the hand clasping your hood was pulled back and balled into a fist. You attributed his change of mood to your sudden departure.

“For how long?” He asked.

You reached out to gently squeeze one of his biceps, swiping your thumb up and down in comfort, “A few weeks, possibly a month or two. I leave tonight.” Aegon shrugged free from your hand and stepped back. His arms raised slightly with his psalm facing you. They shook for a moment before lowering.

“So, you’re just going to leave… like that?” Aegon now looked bewildered, with a slight air of offence in his voice.

“My grandmother needs someone from her family to take care of her.”

Aegon began to move his equipment away, “I’m going with you.” The finality in his tone made no room for rebuttal, but you stood your ground.

“I need someone to look after my family here.” After you spoke, Aegon halted his movements and turned back to you. You went up to him and placed your hands on his chest.

“I’m guessing no amount of persuading will work?” He questioned. When you nodded, he accepted your answer. He cupped your face, “Just… stay safe. The people of Winterfell are vipers.”

You rolled your eyes at his overprotectiveness, “I will, Aegon. Just keep my family safe while I’m gone.”

Aegon licked his lips, “I’ll keep your family safe.”

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

The gates of Winterfell looked unfamiliar compared to the faint memories you had of this place. It was morning and the ground was laden with a thick cover of mist that hovered above the packed snow. Early light from the rising sun cast against the snow and sparkled. You breathed in the scent of pine and exhaled, watching as the mist from your mouth evaporated in the air. You wrapped the scarlet cloak around you more to drive away the chill. The horse you had rode had been taken to the stables.

On the inside of the gates, you spotted an old man hunched over. He was dressed in clothes that signalled his position as a healer; neutral grays and a simplistic design of a tunic, trousers, and coat. His hair had turned gray from age and his beard was twisted into a braid that fell down to his chest.

You approached him, “Excuse me, are you Orym?”

“Yes. I assume you are one of the family members?” The old man greeted you politely and shook your hand.

“Her granddaughter. Is she alright?”

“She is as good as she can be, given her condition.” The man responded. Just as you were going to speak, the sound of horse hooves hitting the ground caught your attention. A couple of horses ridden by men passed through the walls. They all dismounted. One of the horses had a wooden carrier that towed the body of a large stag. The man on the horse dropped down with his back to her.

The men all gathered around the stag and clasped the shoulder of the man who, by the positive words being spoken, had taken down the wild beast. From his back, she could see the thick pelts that draped from his broad shoulders. His dark hair was long, falling to his shoulders, with the top half tied up in a knot. The greatsword on his back had to be close to six feet.

He turned around and she saw his face. Strands of his dark hair framed his face, carving out the already sharp jawline he possessed. His brows were even, set over pairs of calculating eyes. The man’s face held a stoic look while his lips were set in a line. You were shocked that such a handsome face could belong to an imposing figure like his. Despite his stately appearance, there was a sense of familiarity there that was comforting. The morning sunlight shone against his figure, almost deifying him.

The man’s gaze found yours and that feeling of calm swayed to a sense of purpose. Like all your life had been waiting for that precise moment.

His eyes were kind and inviting, but also commanding. You were stuck by how off-guard you became. The snow that fell around you, including the world, faded into the background. A sudden pounding feeling hit the back of your head. It was like a part of you, somewhere deep inside, was clawing to be released. It felt as though you knew him already.

Orym shook your arm slightly, “Are you alright?”

You broke your gaze from the man and turned to the healer, “Just fine. Could we go to my grandmother now?”

Orym took your arm and escorted you through the streets of the town. People began to bustle through the streets. All were friendly, exchanging good words with others as they passed. Some stalls opened to sell goods ranging from fish to other oddities. You were slightly angered that you had spent so long away from such a town. This place would have been a wonderful area to grow up in. There was a fair amount of carved wolf imagery in the wood and stone that made up all of the buildings, a running theme throughout Winterfell.

There were summers that you spent here in your youth, but the memories of them had faded with time.

After a few short minutes, you and the healer happened upon a cottage. It was humble but looked homely amongst the snowed backdrop. You had a faint recollection of this place, but since those scattered memories were only marked by summertime, the winter feel of everything was new. Yet, the winter here somehow felt warmer in spite of the biting cold. Three large oak trees surrounded the home, protecting it from the elements.

Orym opened the gate that surrounded the cottage and walked you to the door. He tapped three times on the knocker. He announced you coming before opening the door. Orym bid you a good day before hurrying on to another patient who needed him. When you entered the home, it was apparent that your grandmother lived there. It was neat but decorated immensely with furnishings, quilts, and other odds and ends. The smell of baked goods permeated the air, mixed with hints of dried lilac.

From the door of a room on the far end emerged your grandmother. She was a short and plump woman whose natural energy radiated everywhere she went. While your heart swelled upon seeing her for the first time in many years, you could not help but notice the slight sway in her step and the way her eyes were almost glazed over.

She welcomed you with a great hug, “Oh, darling look how you’ve grown!” For the first time since your arrival, you felt warm and at home with just a simple embrace.

“How are you, grandmother?” You questioned. The woman pulled back to look at you and pinched your cheek lightly.

“I am healthiest than ever. Really, it is just a cold.” She then moved over to her kitchen, but her steps faltered and you caught her and guided her to a seat by the hearth.

You knelt and began to stoke the fire more as it had reduced to burning embers. While you were occupied, your grandmother began to brief you on all her symptoms and how the sickness had progressed, but she seemed to be in denial about how bad it had gotten. Your worry had tripled upon seeing her state.

You took out the raspberry tarts that your grandmother would love. Over the course of a few hours, you two caught up on all the years missed. It was as if no time had passed. You ate the treats and laughed by the fire as the cottage warmed. At some point, you made tea that the both of you nurtured in cups.

There was a sudden knock on the door that broke you out of the story you had been telling. Your grandmother smiled like she knew who was there and called out for them to come in. The door opened, and a large figure fit through the doorway, ducking to get in. The light from the gray day outside hit his back and cast the front in darkness. He closed the door and suddenly you could see it was the same man who you saw just a few hours prior.

“Cregan, how was your hunt?” Your grandmother asked. The man, who you now knew as Cregan, smiled and moved to place a wrapped package on the table next to the kitchen.

“A large stag. I saved you a hindquarters cut.” He responded. You furrowed your brows. The hindquarter was one of the most expensive and you wondered why this man was just giving it away. Your grandmother stood up to go and unwrap the meat and you followed.

Your grandmother looked between you and the man and decided to introduce you, “This is my granddaughter. I told you she was coming to take care of me.”

Cregan then moved to greet you, taking your hand in his and pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles, “It’s good to see you again after all these years.”

You were confused by his words. There was not a moment you could recall ever meeting a man such as him. Surely, with looks like that, you would remember. Upon seeing your confused expression, Cregan released your hand and looked to your grandmother.

“I am sorry if I misstepped there. It was rude to assume you would remember me, for you were a few years younger.”

It was then that the scratch from the back of your brain was alleviated. The name had sounded familiar, but now that you were closer to him, that familiarity you felt when you saw him for the first time washed away to the faintest of memories. It was flashing still moments in your brain. The tall summer grass, glaring sun, and the images of children running in an open field. The same dark hair bounced on the head of a young child, just a few years your senior, as the two of you chased the other children.

“Cregan?” You spoke, “I think I remember.”

The corners of his mouth turned upwards, “Well, I never was one to make lasting impressions,” He joked.

Your grandmother hit his shoulder gently, “Don’t be so silly, you are a wonderful young man.” You could clearly see that Cregan and your grandmother got along well. He must have been taking care of your grandmother for a long time. It made your heart stutter.

The old lady then yawned, “Could you show my granddaughter around Winterfell? I am awfully tired.” There was a mischievous glint in your grandmother’s eye and you were unsure of her motives.

“It would be my pleasure,” Cregan answered. He turned to you, “If you would like to, of course.”

“It would be good to see all of Winterfell as I plan to stay for a while.” Your reply made the subtle, almost indecipherable smile on Cregan’s face light up a little more. You and Cregan gave goodbyes to your grandmother and put your cloaks on. The scarlet colour was a sharp contrast to the greys and blacks that made up Cregan’s clothing.

Cregan held open the door for you. You gave one last look to your grandmother who sent a wink your way. Your face flushed at figuring out her plan to get the two of you alone. Surely, if you had mentioned seeing Aegon back home, she would not have done this. It also made you question yourself. Why had you not spoken of Aegon when catching up with her? He was a large part of your life, yet did not seem important enough at the time to bring up.

Upon reaching the road, Cregan began to point out important locations. The bakery, library, market, and everything in between. You noticed everyone had kind exchanges with Cregan. They seemed to gravitate towards him.

“The people like you.” You spoke to him.

Cregan glanced at you for a moment while still walking, “Well, I am the lord of Winterfell. My family was given the title by our Queen Rhaenyra’s ancestors. It is a lucky position to be in. I’m grateful to serve these people.” You watched as children ran across a patch of road, all giggling and chasing one another.

“Is Winterfell in need of a teacher?” You asked. Cregan weighed your question for a moment.

“We could always use help with the children around here. Are you a teacher back home?” Cregan spoke.

“Yes. If I am to be here for a while, I should contribute and get money to support my grandmother.” You reasoned. A light dusting of snow began to fall and settled all around. Pieces of snow clung to Cregan’s hair and he shook his head.

“You need not trouble yourself with work. I have taken care of your grandmother for years, I can do the same for you.” He spoke.

Your heart warmed at his words. “That is kind, Cregan, truly. However, I would like to teach.”

“A beautiful woman like you should not trouble herself with work,” Cregan responded. Your brows furrowed at his words, having taken them the wrong way.

“So a woman’s looks dictate whether or not she should work?” You crossed your arms.

Cregan froze while you continued to walk. He was caught off guard by your quip. “That was not my implication. I merely thought that your husband would have made sure you have enough coin for your trip.” You turned around to see him stopped with his hands raised in a surrendering manner.

“I do not have a husband,” Cregan caught up to your pace and let out a hum after your words, “But there is a man I may marry, he is a blacksmith back home. His name is Aegon.”

Your gaze was focused on what was in front of you, but you could still see the hardened gaze of Cregan’s features. His lips turned down to a sharp frown. The name almost seemed to evoke a deep response in him.

“Well, then you must be sure that he will treat you perfectly if you are so faithful in his intentions.” Cregan’s words seemed to hide a double meaning that you struggled to ascertain. His steps fell harder on the snow-covered ground. You began to question the meaning of your relationship with Aegon. Now that you were away from him, it felt like you were washed from the confinement of his presence. A troubling but newfound realization. It was then that a guard turned around the corner and looked relieved to see Cregan.

“Lord Stark! You are needed at the gate.” The guard spoke and then spotted you there as well. He lowered his voice, “Tracks have been spotted.”

Cregan tilted his head in question, “I fail to see how that warrants my attention.”

“My lord, it is uh…” The guard whispered the last bit, “Wolf tracks. Not of our own.” His words made Cregan’s shoulders stiffen. His gloved hands formed hard fists. You were confused about those last words, not of our own. The meaning was lost to you.

Cregan turned to you, “It is best that you get back to your grandmother’s house. I must go handle this.” He moved in the direction of the gate with the guard following. You stood back for a few moments in the falling snow and watched as he walked away. The chill crept up your spine and you decided it was best to go inside.

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

The first week in Winterfell was spent taking care of your grandmother, watching over some of the kids at the school, and spending your free time with Cregan. The children in Winterfell were much more calm in the classroom, but also wicked tricksters outside. However, you managed to gain respect from the kids and are not subjected as a victim to their pranks. That was done rather easily having brought them butter tarts and candied lemons.

Once the children trusted you, the people of Winterfell warmed to your presence as well. They were wary of outsiders, but seeing their children take a liking to you was enough to sway them. You were on your way to do errands. While weaving through the streets you listened in on people talking. Bits and pieces hit your ears.

“Jamie is improving on his reading.”

“There are no good pieces of-”

“The full moon is tonight.”

“Where is Lily?”

You made your way through the street stalls. While on your errands you wondered what Cregan was up to. You had found a good friend in him, despite the fact that your heart would beat faster and your cheeks would burn when you got near him. He had been a friendly companion, having shown you around Winterfell and introduced you to his friends. His friends, while a bunch of rowdy loud-mouthed people, had treated you respectfully.

Cregan continued to check in on your grandmother and bring game from hunts every day. There are moments when you are alone with Cregan, that you find your resolve crumbling. With each passing day, your fancy for Aegon dwindled to the point that he was rarely - if ever - on your mind. It brought you an immense feeling of guilt. Aegon has been nothing but supportive of you and your family. While he did tend to get overprotective - at one point fighting an old childhood friend simply for talking to you - Aegon still showed you passion.

Yet, with Cregan, he introduced a type of stability you had never felt before. There was support given to you, but reassurance and encouragement in your own capability of taking care of yourself. You were not treated as helpless by Cregan, a surprising contrast to the men back home. It was nice to see, but also wildly different than what you were used to. It confused you to see such a difference in culture despite there only being a brief two days of travel between the two places. Cregan only said that it was the way Winterfell functioned.

“We are like a pack here - always looking out for one another.”

It was easy for you to fall in love with Winterfell in just a week. With your grandmother’s improving condition, you wondered how many days you had left in your stay. It was incredibly relieving to have your grandmother up and active more and coughing less, though you wondered if it would be okay to extend your stay.

You spotted one of Cregan’s friends, Ser Dustin, walking in your direction. He was a few years older than Cregan, with a bushy beard and muscled figure. His clothing matched Cregans - dark greys and black with silver embellishments and the familiar wolf head insignia on a patch on his chest. You smiled in greeting. His normal warm smile was replaced with a troubled look on his face.

“Are you alright, Ser Dustin?” You questioned.

“Quite alright. The night is approaching, you should be inside.” He responded.

You pulled your scarlet cloak tighter around your frame, “Have you seen Cregan? I have not seen him today.” Ser Dustin sighed.

“Cregan has been busy with his duties. I’m sure you will see him tomorrow.” His brief dismissal was so out of character. You blinked a few times.

“Okay,” You spoke, “I’ll be going home now.” While you wanted to talk to him more, his earlier comment on the day ending almost sounded like a warning rather than an observation. It sent a deep feeling of uncertainty in your bones. The cold of the weather was not the origin of the chill that slithered up your spine.

You took a few steps back from Ser Dustin before turning and going on your way. When you were out of sight, your hands grabbed the fabric of your skirt and lifted it up so you could run. You sprinted as fast as your clothing could allow you until you reached your grandmother's house. You swung the door open and flung yourself against the door to close it. Your lungs were pushing for any semblance of air. Your grandmother looked up from the table as she was setting down two bowls of stew.

“Is everything alright?” She questioned. You calmed your breathing and shrugged off your scarlet cloak to hang it up on a hook by the door.

“Everything is fine, grandma.” You lied, not wishing to stress her out, “What’s for dinner?”

“Stew.” She responded.

Dinner was spent with your grandmother taking up most of the conversation. You nodded along graciously and occasionally made quick observations, but your mind was elsewhere. The entire day something had felt off. An unfamiliar itch that you could not ascertain. The people of Winterfell seemed more tense than usual, and the countless ornamented wolf heads felt like they were staring through your soul, piercing everything within. You had chalked the feeling up to homesickness, nothing more. Yet, your gut was sounding an alarm.

It is nothing but missing home.

You exchanged goodnights with your grandmother and secluded yourself in your room. The gentle monotony of your night routine lulled your nerves just a bit. You were down to your nightclothes - a thin white shift with silver vine embroidery - when your gaze locked with the small window. Night had come and you could see the full moon rising in the distance. Clouds obscured the moon, but its white light still illuminated Winterfell.

A pounding sensation began to hit the back of your head. You lay down in your bed hoping that some rest would wash it away. Over the period of a few hours, your body tossed and turned as you fell in and out of sleep. You had left your window open just a hair to let in the winter cold, but your body felt like it had been set alight.

It was in that forever torment of heat and restlessness that a shrill shriek cut through the crisp night air; a sounding cry bellowed from the depths of a chest and torn through the vocal cords. Wolf calls echoed the sound and bounced off the walls of buildings until they bounced throughout your skull. When the vibrations hit your ears, the pounding in your head eased.

Another shriek rang out.

_____________

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daechwitatamic · 9 months

Text

The Price || MYG

banner by @/itaeewon

The Price

Rating: NSWF - minors do not have my consent to interact Genre: Snow White and the Huntsman!au, angst, smut, unhappy ending WC: 8k

Summary: The Queen is responsible for everything you call yours: your home, your job, your freedom. You live without laying claim to anything else, lest the Queen leverage more in exchange for her grace. But the Queen has just named her latest price: the life of the young blacksmith, Min Yoongi.

Warnings: language, drinking, there’s a plague and it’s a problem, reader’s parents died (see the previous warning lol) and there are scenes of her grieving process, reader is a hunter so there’s mentions of animal carcasses and hides, lots of mentions of reader’s big fancy knife, a murder attempt, kissing, nip stim, groping, fingering, clit stim, penetrative sex (protection not mentioned either way), reader on top, angst, unhappy/ambiguous ending

A/N: Part of the Make Me Your Villain collab! Please give the other authors a lot of love!!! Huge huge huge thank you to @/here2bbtstrash for beta-ing!

Mirror, mirror - look and see. Who might take this throne from me? Mirror, mirror - who's the threat? Show me which boy's blood to let.

There are pros and cons to living outside the village. The pros are that you’re mostly left alone - you live by your own laws, most of the time. It’s better this way; you come and go as you please, you don’t worry about latest fashions or gossip, you aren’t under the thumb of any societal niceties or norms. You concern yourself more with what the forest tells you. Bad weather, humans who don’t belong, sickness on the horizon - the forest knows it all, and you know how to listen.

You knew about the plague - in a vague, something isn’t right here kind of way - days before the first villager fell sick. You didn’t see anything bigger than a possum for three days - you knew something was in the air. It was the baker first, then his wife. Now it’s made its way into the castle, the guards and servants falling like flies.

Another pro - you won’t pick up illness from the baker if you make your own bread in your tiny cabin in the woods.

The main con - the only con, really - is that when you make your weekly trek to the castle to present the King and Queen with your scores (deer, mostly, but usually a few fowl too) it takes so damn long to get there.

It would be faster on foot, much faster, but you have to load your kills onto a cart and take the dirt road, which winds and twists and takes its time. Today your cart is loaded: venison, fowl, a few rabbits, even a fox. That had been a good score. The Queen likes furs - she’ll pay you well for it.

But the trip into town once a week is a fair price for your freedom, you think.

A few vendors through the heart of town wave hello as you pass. You lift your hand in response but don’t stop. You’ll shop after, when your cart is empty and your purse is full. For now, you stay on the main road until it changes over from tamped-down dirt to cobblestone to, eventually, flat stone that leads to the bridge over the castle’s moat.

The usual guard, the one who knows your face and always waves you through, isn’t there. You wonder if the plague reached him, if he’ll recover or if they’ll send his body to the sea like all the others.

You show identification, the card nearly illegible due to how many times it’s been folded and stuffed into your shoe for safekeeping, and this new guard waves you on.

As usual, you stop in the courtyard just inside the first set of walls. You hop down and start undoing the straps of the fabric you have over the top of the cart. Two guards join you, and they begin moving your scores down from the cart. Each is weighed and given a quick once-over as a scribe stands to the side recording it all.

“Make sure you mention how nice that hide is,” you tell him, pointing at the fox. “I got that one special, for her.”

The scribe rolls his eyes a little, but you see him peer at the fox and scribble something on his little parchment. When they’re done, your cart empty, the scribe rolls his paper up and leads you up the steps towards the main doors to the castle. You flip one of the guards a silver coin and follow the scribe. As you head up the steps, you hear the sound of your horse’s feet moving across the stone, the cart creaking and groaning behind him, as the guard you paid takes him to be cared for.

Inside, you follow the thick, red carpet into the throne room. You’re surprised to see only the Queen present, but you school your face and drop into a bow anyway, your forehead brushing the soft carpeting.

When you rise, you see the scribe has handed her the parchment, and she reads over the report of your goods. You wait, knowing better than to speak until she has.

“A good week,” she observes.

“Yes, your Grace,” you say, eyes on the carpet. “I was pleased as well.”

“Are you well?” she asks as she signals for her Chief of Coin, who scurries close to the throne and lowers his head to hear her whispers.

“Quite well,” you say automatically, though you’re not sure what exactly she’s asking. Does she mean your health? Your home?

The Chief of Coin makes his way to you and you pull your practically-empty purse from your back pocket.

“You have need of nothing?” she asks.

This would be your opportunity to ask after anything major - repairs on your home, medicine, anything you couldn’t get during your walk back through town.

“No, your Grace,” you say. “I had need of a new blade, but the local smith took my request.”

The local smith and your new blade are one of your stops on your way home.

“I’ve heard from the citadel,” she tells you, and you pull your eyes away from the Chief of Coin to look at her. “They say your brother is doing well. He’s applying himself to his studies.”

When you’d lost your parents, you’d begged to keep your brother yourself, desperate to keep him away from the citadel’s orphanage. You were of age, could handle yourself. You could handle him, too, you’d argued.

The King had considered this. Your family was well-known in the village, and your father had hunted for the crown for many years. Your brother was only about five years out from finishing his schooling.

You were investments, you and your brother.

In the end, the deal had been struck - the crown would see to the rest of his education under the condition that when he finished he’d work for the crown, pay back his debt, begin to build his own name.

And, in the meantime, you’d take over the hunting. You could keep your family’s little cabin out in the woods, away from town. Your brother wouldn’t be apprenticed off to a stranger.

It was an easy deal to agree to.

“We’re grateful for the opportunity,” you say to the Queen. “If the report said anything less, I’d travel there to knock sense into him, myself. He’s at that age. You know.”

You try to bite back a cringe. The Queen might not know. She’d never been able to bear a child for the King.

She smiles at this, thinly. “Very well,” she says, and you take back your now-heavy purse from the Chief of Coin. “Then I shall see you next week. I wish you continued health in the upcoming days.”

You nod your head. “I wish the crown health and longevity,” you say. Head bowed, you miss the way her eyes tighten.

–

You pick up the goods you need - eggs, flour, and the like - on your way through town. You eye the tavern, tempted to stop for a pint. Alas, you are embarrassingly excited to get your new blade, so instead you carry on down the road towards the smithy.

After tying up your horse - though he’s a lazy thing and probably wouldn’t wonder anyway, not with the cart hitched up - you head inside, following the sounds of a hammer striking metal.

You wait until there’s a break in the noise and then shout a hey back towards the open door to let the team know they have a customer.

There’s the sound of a heavy instrument being dropped to the ground, and you catch yourself smoothing your hair back. Stop it, you scold yourself, scowling.

That’s the face that greets the youngest of the smithing team, Min Yoongi, as he steps into the shop, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light.

“Ah,” he says, lips curling into a smirk. “Is it Thursday already?”

“Is my blade ready?” you ask, ignoring both his self-satisfied grin and his question. “Park Jihoon said I could get it today.”

At his boss’s name, Yoongi’s smirk fades until he’s all business again. He turns to the wall, where special orders are tacked. He searches until he finds yours.

“It’s ready,” he grunts, reading the slip of parchment. “Wait here.”

He disappears into the back again, returning with a hefty-looking blade, sheathed in a leather case.

He places it on the counter between you, pulls the blade from its case and turns it over so you can see each side.

You frown. “I didn’t order engraving on the case,” you say, jutting your chin towards the delicate design at the top. It curls in and around itself, all the way around. “I’d better not have to pay extra for that.”

“Ah, but he worked so hard on it!” Park Jihoon says cheerfully, appearing out of the back and clapping Yoongi on the shoulder. You keep your eyes on the knife; Yoongi looks steadfastly at the wall with the orders, a pink flush working up his neck.

“It’s not extra,” he mutters.

“I’m heading to Bridgeport,” the senior blacksmith tells Yoongi. “I’ll be back before sundown. You’ll be okay here?”

“Of course I will,” Yoongi says, disgruntled. Jihoon nods goodbye at you both and moves through the door, leaving you in silence.

“What’s the price?” you ask, placing your purse on the counter and digging for coins. He turns the paper over so you can see what his boss wrote, and you slide him the payment. You work on attaching the blade’s sheath to your belt, ignoring how Yoongi watches you through heavy-hooded eyes.

You know that look. You are ignoring that look.

“Lovely,” you say, once you’re situated and ready to go. You swipe up your purse and toss it once, catching it deftly. “Have fun pounding on metal, or whatever.”

His grin is razor-sharp. “I’d be happy to pound something else, if you want.”

The laugh rips out of you, unbidden and unwanted. “Disgusting,” you tell him, but the laughter takes the bite out of the words. “My God, you ought to throw yourself down the well for that.”

He lifts a brow, his smile turning less dangerous and more open.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “None of that today, thanks. I’ll be off.”

“Come on,” he cajoles, coming around the counter to follow you to the door. “You know you want some. It’ll be such a long ride back here when you change your mind later.”

“Keep dreaming, blacksmith,” you tell him, lips pursing in amusement.

He lays a hand over his heart like he’s wounded. “Blacksmith? You remembered my name just fine last week when you were -.”

“Well, I seem to have forgotten it again!” you blurt before he can finish the thought, pulling the door open. Over your shoulder you call, “Good day!”

His laughter rings out onto the street, following you home.

Regretfully, you have to admit that out of everyone who lives in this village, built out from the castle’s western gate, you know the most about Min Yoongi.

You knew him in passing, of course - before. When you’d ride through this same village on this same cart, your little brother squeezed between you and your father. When you’d stand silently, peeking around your father’s side, while he took payment from the King for his scores. When you’d greet the peddlers and the shop-keepers politely before climbing back on the cart and riding all the way back home.

Yoongi was just an apprentice then. You hadn’t paid him any mind. He was quiet, a bit scruffy, stayed close to Park Jihoon. He was no more interesting to you than the apprentice for the bakery, the tannery, the copywrite. Wasn’t even the best looking out of the bunch, honestly.

He was just there, unassuming. He was there when you’d pass through town on the cart full of your father’s scores, there whenever your family had business with the blacksmith, there when the holidays rolled through and your mother dragged you into town in a dress you hated and shoes that pinched.

There the day your parents’ bodies, along with six others, were loaded onto a barge headed for the sea. There the day your brother joined four more young people from the village as they climbed into a deep blue carriage headed for the citadel.

Yoongi’s dark eyes, cool and undemanding, had been on you as you stood fully alone for the first time in your life.

You hadn’t paid him any attention then, either. You couldn’t pay mind to anything then except dragging yourself through dark day after dark day until, finally, the clouds seemed to part and your new life seemed bearable. And bearable turned into decent. And decent turned into enjoyable.

The seasons turned. The hurts faded.

And you began to pay mind to Min Yoongi.

You began to learn things about him, then - after.

In your time around town, you learned first that he was good at his work - his blades were made well, easily as well as his master’s blades. You learned that he scowled and grunted but hardly ever meant it. You learned that he had a good reputation around the village - was known for helping his neighbors without being asked, known for being polite and keeping to himself. You learned that he had no family either, that the master blacksmith who’d taken him as an apprentice had more or less raised him, too.

Alone with him, you learned that his smile could be razor sharp, one side lifting and eyes glinting in a way that made your pulse sing. You learned that when he meant it, his eyes squeezed shut and his gums showed. His shoulders shook when he laughed. He made the funniest faces when someone said anything he didn’t agree with or didn’t understand. He’d grown strong, his craft shaping his arms and roughening his hands.

You learned that he took whiskey neat at the tavern when he was done working for the day. You learned that he had a smart mouth behind his quiet demeanor, and opinions about everything. You learned what he was willing and able to do with that mouth when he pressed you against the rough wood of the tavern’s side alley, and then later, back in his rooms behind the smithy.

You learned that he fucked rough but loved soft.

And that was where it had to stop.

Because it couldn’t be - but this you knew the whole time.

When he pressed his mouth to yours sweetly, stretching to reach you, brushed one lovely finger down your cheek and whispered, I want you, you knew this: it couldn’t be.

There was no life for you in the village. There was no life for you as someone’s wife. There was no future for you as someone’s homemaker.

Even if he could somehow give you partnership and love without taking away the wildness of your lifestyle - there was no love ready to bloom and grow behind your iron ribs. You had nothing you could give him back. You knew only survival. Only killing and coin. Only the forest and its secrets.

“You can’t have me,” you’d whispered back. “I am not to be had.”

You were surprised when he didn’t fight it. He hadn’t pushed back. He hadn’t held it against you, hadn’t been wounded. He’d accepted exactly what you were willing to give him and asked for nothing more.

You know this, above all else: he’s sweet, and conscientious, and good. Yoongi is good.

You - forest-dweller, hunter, orphan, unmannered, uneducated - don’t deserve him. You aren’t enough for how good he is.

The royal physician’s face says it all.

The Queen purses her lips, her eyes on her husband’s prone form. He meets her gaze weakly, too far gone to mask any of it.

“How long?” she asks, the words clipped.

The physician spreads his hands before him. “Impossible to say, your Majesty. Days, maybe. Weeks, if he can be strong.”

She scoffs. “Days it shall be, then.” She dismisses him with the wave of a hand.

No one is surprised, she thinks. The plague would breach their walls eventually. Only the strong survive - of course it would be her husband who would succumb first, and quickly. He’d never been strong, not like her.

After all, she was the one who tried all these years. She looked and acted the part of a partner. She was faithful. She focused on the crown, on the realm.

Not like him.

He coughs as he shifts on the bed, and she looks at him again. Weak, she thinks again. She can only feel disgust for him, for everything he never gave her.

“You’ll finally get what you always wanted,” he croaks.

She turns to look out the window. The day is grey, dreary.

“It seems I shall,” she agrees. Then she turns and walks closer to her husband’s sickbed - deathbed, perhaps. She drops delicately into the chair at his side and takes his clammy hand in hers.

It might look as if she doted on him. It might look as if she mourned.

“What became of him?” she asks, voice even and unbending. “The boy.”

Her husband’s eyes crinkle with amusement, and the chuckle that rumbles from his chest is accompanied by pained coughing.

“You truly are something, my Queen,” he says, shaking his head. “The boy doesn’t even know.”

He will say nothing else.

The Queen is delivered two things at once, not a week later.

The first, a gilded mirror, promised to possess magical ability.

The second, the expected news of her husband’s passing.

The realm begins its period of mourning, flags lowering, shutters closing. The Queen begins her incantations, alone in the southernmost tower of the keep.

The frame is made of ornately twisted gold, so heavy it takes two of her men to hang it for her. When they pull the dust cover off, she steps back to appraise it.

“Pretty,” she observes, watching her own reflection in the glass - unmagical, unextraordinary.

The swirling, green-hued mist doesn’t appear before her reflection until her men are dismissed, the door closing and leaving her alone.

Your Majesty, the mirror intones, the voice coming from the depth of the mist. Your wish is my command.

The Queen pauses, considering. The throne, the throne - hers, finally, only hers.

Unless.

The King’s last words to her ring through her head - the boy doesn’t even know.

She raises her chin and chants,

“Mirror, mirror, look and see…

Who could take this throne from me?

Mirror, mirror, who’s the threat?

Show me which boy’s blood to let.”

The mist, green and growing, takes over the glass. The Queen’s fists clench tightly at her sides.

The mist clears. The Queen lets out a laugh, short and bitter.

The blacksmith’s boy smiles shyly in the glass, one hand coming up as if to hide his face.

The blacksmith’s boy. The king’s bastard. Her only threat, the only other claim to her throne.

Your next trip into town isn’t with a cart full of venison and fowl. Instead it rings more true to the holidays of old, with your mother in charge. You wear black and a scowl, just as you did then.

The funeral services for the King threaten to last the full day, maybe into the night. You wish you could abstain, but if ever there was an event you were obligated to attend - this would be it.

You’re not sure what the King’s death means for you - for your brother. Will the Queen uphold the bargain? Does she still want your brother’s counsel, someday, when he’s of age? Without the King’s affection for your father, will she continue to allow you to live freely as part of the arrangement?

You sit alone in the church pew; rather, you’re surrounded on either side by strangers. You know Yoongi’s in the crowd somewhere - you can feel his eyes burning holes in the back of your head. You don’t turn to look for him. What good would it do?

It’s well after dark when the town begins to file out into the night. Your stomach growls, and you ponder if you should stop for a hot meal at the tavern before making the trek back through the woods or if you can hold out until you’re safely back at home.

You’re stopped on your way out the door by a guard reaching across you, blocking your path.

“Her Majesty requests your audience,” he says gruffly, and you feel the hairs on your neck stand at attention. Your audience?

It can’t be good. You’re sure of it.

You don’t meet her in the throne room as you have in the past. Instead, the guard leads you to a small chamber off the chapel, a nondescript little room with no decor, only a table with a candelabra lit in the center.

She’s seated, and it’s so cramped in the room that it’s hard to properly bow, but you do your best.

“Is my brother well?” you blurt out as soon as the guard has closed the door behind you. It was the first, biggest concern you had - you couldn’t hold it in. Had something happened in the citadel?

She inclines her head, shrouded in darkness. “I asked you here because I need something done. You seem, somehow, to be my best option.”

You duck your head, flooded with relief. “I’m at your service, as always.”

And you are. You owe the crown everything - the home you were allowed to keep, your brother’s education, your income. Your freedom, as conditional as it is.

The Queen seems to think before she speaks, and when she does each word is short and deliberate.

“There’s someone I need gone,” she says, her voice giving away no emotion. No sign of grief from the widow, no sign of trepidation from the new ruler, no sign of regret from the human asking you to take a life. “A threat to my throne. I’ll pay five times our normal scale. And I’ll pay you for your discretion, as well, on an ongoing basis.”

You respond with silence. You can’t process quickly enough - you don’t know what to tell her.

The only thing you can tell her is yes. She holds your whole world in her hands.

But if you tell her yes, then you have to do it. Can you kill a person, can you pretend it’s no different from cutting a rabbit’s throat?

Could you tell her yes and then leave? Vanish into the forest? What would become of your brother, if you did? Would he be responsible for your sins?

Five times your normal price could do a lot for you. You could send finer clothes to your brother, help pay for his books, maybe even a little spending money. You could fix up the cabin - patch the roof where it leaks, reinforce the cellar the way you’ve thought about for years.

And payment for your silence - ongoing? For how long, forever?

None of it matters. You can’t say no to the Queen.

“Yes, your Majesty,” you hear yourself say. Your stomach is a block of ice, turning over and over with the tide. “I am yours to command.”

You know it. She knows it.

“The blacksmith’s boy,” she says coolly, and you aren’t even surprised. It’s like part of you knew, somehow. Part of you has been waiting for this ending all along. Isn’t this exactly why you’d never let him get too close? There was never a happy ending in the stars - not for you.

She accepts your silence as acquiescence and adds, “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” you repeat, voice coming out too wispy.

She meets your gaze, still cold. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” you say, the only correct answer. But your mind is scrambling far away, getting ahead - what weapons do you have on hand, how will you do this -

“You didn’t strike me as softhearted,” she says, full of disdain.

“I’m not,” you defend. It’s just that it’s Yoongi. Yoongi, who sees your sharp edges and smiles because he knows firsthand how much sharp edges are worth. How - how - how can you? How can you pretend it’s just a hunt, just a necessity, when you know how his mouth tastes, how he looks at you like you’re something?

Her even look turns darker, a shade closer to a frown. “I know you have the stomach and skill to kill. And I know you dally with him. He’ll follow you - take him to the woods and be done with it.”

You haven’t been as discrete as you thought you had. You wonder who else in town knows about whom you dally with.

Not that it will matter, after tonight. Not if you follow orders.

Not when you follow orders.

“Yes, your Majesty,” you say, head bowed.

There’s no other correct answer. Your freedom had always had a price.

–

There’s some poetic irony, you think, in killing Min Yoongi with the blade he made just for you.

Your mind is stuck on this, circling it, unable to let go, as you approach the smithy.

The lights are out - there’ll be no late-night projects, not during the official mourning for the King. You hope Park Jihoon, whose quarters are above the smithy, just across the yard from Yoongi’s tiny cabin, sleeps deeply.

You know Yoongi keeps a key in the eaves above his front window; you’ve seen him retrieve it no less than a half-dozen times - usually he’s reaching for it, his shirt rising and showing a slip of belly that you can’t help but run your hands across as he laughs and tells you to be patient.

You reach it on your own, tonight. You let yourself in as silently as possible, closing the door behind you, placing the key gently on his tiny, wooden table. His bed is in the far corner of the room, and although the fire in the hearth has gone out, you can see the lump of blankets through the darkness that show you his form.

You approach quietly, as you would approach a potential score, letting yourself slip into the mindset of surviving the forest.

You hesitate when you stand over him. He sleeps on his back, the light from the streetlamps outside casting flickering yellow over his delicate features. His eyelids flutter. Next to his head, his fingers twitch.

If you strike true, this could be over in an instant.

His eyes slide open, and a hazy smile drifts over his face. “Am I having a very good dream?” he murmurs. His eyes trail down your form and freeze on the knife in your hand. The smile fades, and his eyes meet yours again, a question in them. “Or perhaps a very bad one?”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. Then, you move at the same time - you lunging and plunging the blade into the spot where his heart lay, and him rolling sideways and hitting the floor with a thud.

You yank your blade free from where it pierced Yoongi’s empty mattress and wheel to follow him as he scrambles upright and towards the door.

You should’ve locked it. You shouldn’t have apologized, your voice and your regret giving him the split second to bolt.

You follow him at a sprint, panting hard, as the fool runs barefoot through the smithy’s yard, heading for the forest.

Your forest.

It’s overcast tonight, threatening rain. No moon or stars to guide you, you follow Yoongi as he zigs and zags blindly through the trees. You have the advantage. You know where you are, even in the dark.

It’s primal, as you forge deeper and deeper through the underbrush, just sinew and silence as you run. Wind whistles around you as you focus on breathing, focus on following the crunch of Yoongi’s wild path. The earth seems to rise up to meet each footfall with a jolting slap. The darkness seems to spur you on like it knows you need this, pressing you onward, telling you, hurry, hurry.

If you can herd him towards the east, you can cut him off at the ravine - he won’t be able to do it barefoot, not without stumbling, not without cutting those bare feet on the sharp rocks. You pick up the pace, emboldened by the plan, knees and elbows pumping as you close in.

Without warning, Yoongi stops short and wheels around on you, feet skidding a little on the loose needles that coat the forest floor. It’s so unexpected that the inertia carries you to him before you can tell your legs to quit. Before you can slow, before you can turn, he grabs you by the arms and slams you backwards into the thick trunk of an oak tree, hard enough to knock the wind out of you with an audible gasp.

You’re surprised enough that the knife drops from your fingers, and he wastes no time gripping you even tighter and throwing you to the ground, instantly dropping his body over yours and holding you down as best he can as you struggle. The blade lies just out of reach, taunting you, and you reach up and stretch as hard as you can to wiggle your fingers closer, but Yoongi roughly jerks your arm away.

You’re gasping for breath as you struggle beneath his weight, trying to keep your vision clear. This wasn’t part of the plan. You weren’t supposed to have to chase him, have to fight him. You aren’t used to this - the deer don’t fight back.

“Why?” he pants heavily, his whole body heaving with each inhale and exhale. Sweat runs down his neck from the curled, damp edges of his hair. His eyes are wild, confused above you.

“Do you know who your father is?” you respond in answer, and the question surprises him so much that he leans back, like he’s trying to get a better look at you.

It’s all you need. You use your feet and your core strength to stretch just past where you couldn’t reach with his full weight on you, and your fingers close around the blade’s handle. In a flash, you have the sharp side pressing to the pulse point on Yoongi’s neck, hard enough that you know he can feel the sting, your other hand curling in his shirt and holding him still. His eyes widen and he freezes, straining to hold himself up and away from you.

“If you move I’ll do it, and it won’t be quick,” you hiss, teeth gritted so hard you’re sure they’ll crack. Your heart slams in your chest, adrenaline sending tingles clear down to your toes. You’re dizzy with fear. You aren’t sure what’s scarier - actually doing what you’re meant to, or having to report that you didn’t.

You’re both stuck there - a tableau, an oil painting, frozen for eternity, never moving on from this moment. A million possibilities stretch on as Yoongi’s pulse beats visibly against the knife he’d sharpened for you just days ago.

You feel like you’re floating outside your body; you can’t feel any of it - not the knife’s handle against your palm, not Yoongi’s hips still pinning yours, not the sticks and stones beneath your spine, not the sticky humidity of a night on the precipice of storm. Not your own thrumming, frightened heartbeat.

You know you can’t do it - not this way. Not like this, not with his eyes on yours, steady, as if he’s not staring down his death. Not like this, looking into his face and remembering the first time you were under him this way, remembering every time after that. Your hand trembles as you will yourself not to pull the blade away.

But he knows. Yoongi’s always called your every bluff, has always been perfectly capable of shooting you a knowing half-smile and pushing right past your blustering, always able to find the person on the other side of the facade - the person who’s scared,confused, alone.

“No you won’t,” he murmurs, low, and there’s nothing accusing or mocking in it. He’s simply telling you what he knows.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers his face closer to yours, so deliberately that the knife slides harmlessly along his skin until he’s clear of it. He presses his lips to yours, uncertain at first, then with more insistence when you don’t push him away.

The fear and adrenaline crash through you in time with a not-so-distant crack of thunder, blinding you, rendering you thoughtless and animalistic. You drop the knife with a thud, barely aware that you’re doing it, your hand coming instead to tangle in his loose hair, clutching it tightly at the base of his neck and pressing his head closer to yours, kissing him deeper, needing to absolutely drown in his kiss.

He grunts at your enthusiasm, nipping at your bottom lip before diving into you again, licking deep into your mouth and pressing his hips down into yours in rhythm with the kiss. You move with him desperately, the quiet of the woods scattered by your combined gasping breaths, tiny sounds of pleasure slipping through the cracks in your armor, the wet sounds of your mouths coming apart and meeting again hungrily. Despite the earth solid beneath you, you feel like you’re spinning. You clutch him tightly, one hand in his hair and the other arm coming around his shoulders, tethering him to you.

He’s the only thing keeping you here, in the present, not skittering off to somewhere safe inside your head.

You let him hold you there, pressed between him and the unyielding ground below you, channel all the rushing adrenaline into how you meet his fiery kisses, pressing your mouth hard back against his like it’s a battle, into how you roll your hips against his, thrilling at feeling him hard and ready for you. But for all the intensity, for the dizziness sweeping over you, neither of you rushes - you kiss for so long that your lips tingle, your core throbs, the night grows blacker, the thunder tiptoes closer.

You swipe your tongue over his familiar lips, whining in your throat when he opens for you again, welcomes you in, rocks against you and closes his eyes against the sting as you unconsciously tighten your fingers in his hair.

Then he breaks the kiss, pulls himself free of your grasp, nudges his nose to the underside of your jaw until you lean your head back, breathing hard, giving him room to attach teeth and lips to the skin of your neck.

He gathers a bit of skin and worries it between his teeth, muttering, “You won’t kill me. No one else can make you come undone like I do.”

The sound that tears out of you is half laugh and half desperate groan. “Prove it, then,” you goad, fingers finding the hem of his shirt and pulling the edge towards you. He releases the spot on your neck long enough to let you pull the material over his head. Then he sits back on his knees between your legs and looks you over, one hand absently sliding down the front of his trousers, pressing relief into his waiting cock.

“Yours,” he says, tone steely. You find your own hem with shaking fingers. Distantly, there’s a flash of lightning, illuminating the canopy of tree branches above you before plunging you into darkness again. You pull your top over your head and drop it next to his, leaning back on your elbows.

All thoughts of what you’re supposed to do here have left you; there’s only hands-shaking adrenaline and instinct driving you to give in to your desires and pursue what you want - Yoongi, Yoongi, more of Yoongi.

“Trousers, too,” Yoongi tells you, voice quiet. His fingers are on the string of his own trousers, but his eyes are on your exposed chest. Hungry.

You do as he says, untying your bottoms and pushing them away with your feet and waiting for his next move. The night isn’t cold, but you shiver. The forest, your forest, feels like a sanctuary, like it’s wrapping around the two of you and keeping you safe from everything outside. Like if you stayed in here, together, you might be safe from her after all.

But you know that’s a lie.

You push the thought away by coming up on your knees and approaching Yoongi, who’s still kneeling, too. You press your chest to him with a shudder as you reach to kiss him again. He gives a quiet, happy noise low in his throat and you answer with a hum as you lick into him again.

You slip a hand between your bodies and find him heavy and leaking. He presses into your touch with a nearly-silent keen that you manage to catch, and you trace your fingertips up his length, playing in the wetness you find waiting for you at the tip, then pulling that wetness down to the base again. You repeat the motion, touch featherlight, and listen to Yoongi’s breathing hitch and catch and sigh as he closes his eyes and enjoys it. He’s silky against your fingertips, skin like satin even here.

Yoongi trails kisses down your jaw, making a clear path towards your neck, and he skims a hand up your side and past your ribs, cupping one breast and rubbing his thumb roughly over your hardening nipple. You gasp, fingers twitching against his length, which spurs him on. He runs his knuckles lightly over the bud, then takes it gently between his thumb and forefinger, giving it an experimental roll. Your gasped ah turns into a liquid moan and he does it again, harder. You keen, a note of complaint in it, as he repeats the movement that is somehow both too much and not enough.

You wrap your hand fully around him, done teasing him with barely-there strokes, and roll your wrist once, twice, three times, his low grumbling reply music to your ears. He’s still mouthing at your neck and he switches hands, igniting sparks as he gently pinches the other nipple instead. Then he reaches and bumps your wrist out of his way as he cups your sex and spears you on his middle finger.

“Fuck, Yoongi,” you whine, rocking into his hand, trying to take the digit just a little deeper.

He must hear the desperation in your tone or sense it in the way you clench around his single finger, because he takes mercy on you and presses a second finger in beside the first. You sigh, still rocking against his hand, as he fucks into the spot in your front wall that makes your eyes drift closed and your toes curl up. You abandon his cock, bringing your hands to his shoulders, hanging on to keep yourself upright. When he presses his thumb against your clit you groan, loud and long, no one to hear you, and let your head fall back.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, plunging his fingers in and out of your wet heat. You can hear it each time he pushes them back in, the sound ringing in the silent woods, the only competition the approaching rolls of gentle thunder.

He works you up until you’re panting, your forehead dropping to rest against his collarbone, your hips in constant motion as you seek more. Your arms are looped around his neck, though you don’t remember starting to hold him, and your fingers find the ends of his long hair, tugging lightly in time with his motions. Occasionally his thumb circles your clit, causing your hips to jerk, but the angle stops him from keeping it constant. He pulls his hand away, and you take a bracing breath, coming back to your senses as the sensations fade.

He drops back from his knees, one arm behind his head as he lays back. He locks his eyes on yours as he strokes himself, his teeth toying with his bottom lip.

“Come on, then,” he prompts, his hand languid and lazy on his cock. Your body buzzes as you climb over him and sink down, letting him fill you, stretch you, break you into pieces. You ride him hard, one hand splayed on his flushed chest for balance, as around you the wind picks up, the leaves on the trees fluttering.

Yoongi’s eyes screw closed and his head tips back, even as his hands continue to guide your hips through each rise and fall.

You slow, savoring the drag against your walls, savoring his pretty skin beneath your fingers, savoring the grunts and hitched breaths he’s trying to hold back.

You could have loved Yoongi. In another life, where you had chips to bargain with. In a life where you fit into place within the village, where wild wasn’t as necessary to you as air. Even if the Queen had never called for Yoongi’s head - this life never meant for you to love him.

This is what you think about as you lightly rake your nails down his chest, watching him squirm beneath you. You think about all the times he’d been on the edge of saying it.

You think about all the times the feeling had risen up in you, as warm as a patch of sunlit floor, and you’d had to blow it away like an errant dandelion seed.

Maybe you do love him. You just can’t forget - not for a second - how little it matters.

The knife sits where you’d dropped it before undressing, just past Yoongi’s head.

You could probably reach it now.

Yoongi seems to sense the change in your motions and cracks an eye open, his fingers on your hips loosening.

His gaze follows yours. A flash of lightning makes the metal shine for a split second, and then you’re surrounded by the sudden patter of falling rain.

“Guess we better hurry,” Yoongi mutters, reaching up to grip the back of your neck and pulling you down so your chest is flush with his.

All thoughts leave your mind as he hammers into you from below - the knife is forgotten. Your feelings are forgotten. The rain, starting to muddy up the ground around you, forgotten.

You cum around him in silence, jaw clenched, fingers digging into his biceps. The groan he lets out as you squeeze around him in waves is drowned out by a growl of thunder that feels like it’s right above you, all around you.

Yoongi pumps into you with abandon, suddenly losing the rhythm he’d created. He gives two more shuddery thrusts and then lets his arms flop to the ground with a contented sigh.

For a second, you both lay there, sweat-slick and panting. Another lightning splits the sky, and the rain comes harder. He slides out of you and you wiggle until you’re laying just next to him instead of on top of him.

You can’t stop looking at him. He seems determined not to look at you.

The rain washes everything away - the smell of sex, your sweat, your affection, your sadness, your pride.

“My father,” he murmurs beneath you, and you go deathly still. “Yes, I knew.”

You swallow, brush rainwater from your brow. “So does the Queen,” you say back. An explanation, and an answer to the why he’d leveled at you an hour ago.

He nods slowly, expression clearing with understanding.

You feel no absolution for it.

Finally, he leans his head back again, his bangs flopping heavily now that they’re saturated with rainwater, and eyes the knife.

You sit up. He brings his eyes to you and watches silently - as if he accepts whatever move you make. As if, should you reach for the metal, he wouldn’t fight you this time.

“Go.” The word tumbles roughly onto the inch of mud between you. You don’t remember making the decision to say it.

He sits up, elbows and shoulders caked with mud. But all he does is watch you, wait for you to change your mind.

“Go,” you repeat, meaning it. Now that you’ve said it once, now that the decision was made, you know it’s the right one. “I’ll tell her it’s done.”

You could never kill him. You both knew it all along.

He dresses wordlessly, and you do the same, pulling your top back over your head and tying up your trouser string. When you look up, he’s standing in the rain, watching you.

You stoop and grab the knife he’d made you. You grip it tightly in your hand, refuse to meet his eyes.

He’s not challenging you, not questioning you - and that, in itself, feels like a slap.

“You can’t come back,” you say, as evenly as you can muster. When he just looks at you, infuriatingly silent, you add, “You can’t. Okay? If she - she can never know.”

“I know,” he says, and then he gives you a long, searching look. He’s drenched now, and your hands itch to push his set hair away from his face, to use your thumbs to chase raindrops - you think - away from his lashline.

Then, choked, he offers, “You could -”

“Don’t,” you bite out, stopping him before he can make you any kind of offer. You can’t. You can’t go with him. You can’t disappear into the night. Your brother is counting on you. You won’t let him pay for your sins.

Yoongi shakes his head. He takes another step closer. Your fingers tighten on the knife’s handle.

“Y/N, I -”

You raise the knife above your head in a flash, eyes going wide in fury.

“Fucking go!” you bark.

He holds up his hands, takes a few steps backwards, giving up his quest to make this harder than it needs to be. Lightning illuminates him and above your head, the blade shines for a split second before everything is cast into inky darkness again.

When your eyes adjust to the darkness, trees around you forming a shape again, he’s gone.

You don’t follow him, and you don’t return to your cabin. You sink to your knees in the mud, dropping the knife onto the ground, and sob into your hands, the noise swallowed by the flurry of rain and the intermittent cracks of thunder.

—

You sleep. You hunt. When the time comes, you bring your scores to the Queen atop your wagon.

She doesn’t ask you about Yoongi. You don’t offer her anything, just thank her for her grace routinely when she orders your purse to be filled.

You don’t stop at the tavern on the way back home. You don’t stop at any of the shops - not this time. You don’t trust yourself to act right if Yoongi’s disappearance gets brought up. You don’t trust that no one will do the math that he vanished four nights ago, and now you’re a hollowed shell who can’t form words.

The townspeople have seen you grieve before. They’d know what they were seeing.

The next trip is easier, and the one after that even more. The Queen never thanks you, not that you expected it, but you start finding an extra purse of coins in your wagon each time you return to it after bringing in your kills.

The price for your silence. The price for what she thinks you’ve done.

It hurts the most when your wagon passes the smithy, but you keep your eyes on the cobblestones and your hands on the reins and eventually the hurt fades along with the village as you get farther and farther away.

The seasons turn. The hurts fade. You send extra money to your brother. You sleep. You hunt.

Eventually, you stop waking up from nightmares that feature the glint of metal. You stop waking up trying desperately to cling to your dreams as fruitlessly as clinging to smoke, left with only damp places on your pillow and the memory of a low, throaty chuckle ringing in your ears.

Eventually, you can ride past the smithy without the pang in your chest. You can stop for a pint without watching the shadows for the appearance of a gummy smile. You can laugh when the bartender cracks a joke, can sound like yourself when you ask the baker’s daughter how she’s been faring.

It is after one of these trips, deep into color-saturated autumn, that you return to your cabin with wagon empty and purses full.

Something isn’t right. You freeze, casting your eyes around the forest, but it holds its secrets tight.

On the ground in front of your door, illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight, is a brand new, shining blade.

thank you so much for reading!!! i really really like this one and i hope you do too!! <3

#bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts fic #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi x you #yoongi x y/n #min yoongi fic #min yoongi fanfic #min yoongi smut #min yoongi angst #fairy tale au #fic: the price

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laurasimonsdaughter · 5 months

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I just noticed a recurring motif among these Sicilian fairy tales that is so incredibly well-suited for fanfic:

A princess sees a handsome young man (usually a prince in disguise) making eyes at her in the marketplace and begs her father the king to make him a royal servant, because he is so beautiful.

The king complies, because he's too fond of her to say no, and makes the hero a stable boy or gardener.

The princess now suddenly spends much more time out riding or requesting flowers, and then tells her father that the new servant is far too good for outside work and must become a servant in the castle.

The king complies, but soon enough the princess requests that the new manservant is made her personal page. By now the king is getting very nervous, but he still can't say no to his daughter.

The princess and the page manage to keep up the charade a little longer before the princess goes to the king and outright demands to let her marry her favourite.

The king gives the hero three "impossible tasks" that are meant to kill him, but naturally he accomplishes them all through trickery or supernatural intervention and the clandestine lovers get their way.

The pining, the flirting, the sneaking around, the devotion— do you see my vision?

#please make this a new AU #please #in the fairy tales this is usually a side plot to the main event #but a good ship could /make it the main event/#laura tumbles #fairy tale AU #this is the happy version of this motif #there is also an not happy version but I like this one #fairy tales #fanfic #tropes #writing prompts

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cacartoon · 3 months

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Remember my fairy tale AU phase?

Well here’s the Beauty and the Beast AU

#fairytale #fairy tale au #beauty and the beast #art

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spotsandsocks · 6 months

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Seven (and a few)Sentence Sunday 🏰🌳🌳🛖🌳🌕🌳🌳

Tagged by @daffi-990 @wikiangela @tizniz @diazsdimples @bidisasterbuckdiaz

Not sharing anything new today because I want an excuse to show this off commissioned by the amazingly talented @bucksketch thank you so much it’s beautiful ❤️

Lost Without You 28k 5/5 completed A fairy tale about a cursed prince and the man who tries to save him ❤️💔❤️

This bit comes right after the picture.

Buck runs a finger over the the two bands he can see on his arm, he really thinks these marks on his skin are the answer, that he now has a way to break the curse.

A contented sigh slips from his lips as he lies in the bed he just spent the night in with Eddie. A future with Eddie and Chris actually seems possible. All he needs to do is explain things to Maddie and his parents and they'll be happy for him, he’s sure of it.

With uncharacteristically optimistic thoughts about his future running through his head he drags himself up and is almost dressed when he hears the raised voices.

That doesn’t seem right and frowning slightly he quickly buttons up his shirt, pulls on his boots and goes to investigate.

The sight that greets him as he opens the door freezes his heart.

It takes him a moment to fully process what he sees, but it’s real, there are actually Palace Guards in the street and they have a man surrounded. The man is on his knees, head bowed and hands behind his head.

To his horror the man is Eddie.

Tagging people who might like to see the art and for SSS @underwaterninja13 @hoodie-buck @loserdiaz @monsterrae1 @elvensorceress @shipperqueen6 @honestlydarkprincess @hippolotamus @rogerzsteven @caroandcats @exhuastedpigeon @princessfbi @watchyourbuck @wikiangela @thewolvesof1998 @thekristen999 @buffaluff @saybiwithme @bi-buckrights @spaceprincessem @jesuisici33 @father-salmon @fiona-fififi @toughpaperround @eddiebabygirldiaz @loveyouanyway @wildlife4life @weewootruck @bekkachaos @stagefoureddiediaz @bigfootsmom @bewilderedbuckley @rainbow-nerdss @pirrusstuff @giddyupbuck @steadfastsaturnsrings @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @fortheloveofbuddie @loserdiaz @loveyouanyway @actualalligator @evanbi-ckley

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie fic #911 abc #911fic #911 fic #magic au #fairy tale au #buddie au #fae #curses

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sekhmetpaws · 5 months

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Something I love about Bingqiu is that you could fit them under any fairy tale! AU imaginable.

Snow White? Shen Yuan objectively knows Binghe is the fairest of them all and sending him to live with a bunch of weird man is almost as bad as pushing him in the abyss and the kissing the unconscious princess is very stranger, thank you very much. He should just eat the poisoned apple himself.

Cinderella? Come on, the stepmother is not mean. It's not her fault that Binghe's ugly sister are useless and can't manage a household like she can. She is going to make stepmother so proud!

Sleeping Beauty? Shen Yuan was just trying to help Binghe and help him meet his one true love!

Rapunzel? Mother does know best. Nothing wrong with spending time with your mother. Nothing interesting to see outside.

Beauty and the Beast? Don't even need to say. Two words: Cool. Monster.

#bingqiu #bingyuan #svsss #shitpost #au #fairy tale au #scumbag villain self saving system #scum villain

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gruvu · 11 months

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I drew @squidinu's prince Orion cause he reminds me of a blondie brownie for some reason

#gruvu's art #Squidinu #fairy tale au

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lipglossanon · 5 months

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• 𝔸 𝔻𝕠𝕫𝕖𝕟 ℝ𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕤 •

Fairy Tail AU - Multi chapter fic - Dead Dove Content

𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔣𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔶 𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔢.

𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔤𝔲𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔦𝔫 𝔴𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔣𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤; 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔞 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤?

♔ 𝔒𝔫𝔢 ♔

♔ 𝔗𝔴𝔬 ♔

♔ 𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢 ♔

♔ 𝔉𝔬𝔲𝔯 ♔

♔ 𝔉𝔦𝔳𝔢 ♔

♔ 𝔖𝔦𝔵 ♔

♔ 𝔖𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 ♔

Little Whispers - Prince Chris x Lady-In-Waiting!reader

Warnings for the series (each chapter will also be labeled individually): 18+ MDNI, dead dove content, incest, father/daughter incest, power imbalance, violent acts, bodily harm, blood, murder, minor character death, masturbation, unprotected sex, dirty thoughts/talk, pussy inspection, corruption kink, virginity kink, kissing, oral, vaginal fingering, thigh riding, groping, possessiveness, kissing

**Warnings are subject to change so please check back as the story progresses

#fairy tale au #dead dove #king!leon x princess!reader #wip #dad!leon x daughter!reader #will update sporadically but I do have the plot figured out 🤣

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pinceauarcenciel · 9 months

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Spot illustrations for the enchanting FaraSkye Robin Hood AU fic written by the talented @franzizka for the @onceuponaturnaboutzine 🏹 ✨

💌 Read it here:

The fic is illustrated, so you can admire my art while delighting in the text! Now, you don't have any excuse to not read it!

Bonus content under the cut!💰

💘 Characters design of the gang! (because you cant' see the whole outfits in the illustrations but they exist!!)

(Quite the messy art owo) I added the Yatagarasu symbol in Kay's belt afterwards, and Kay+Maya's skin are lighter here because I color picked them instead of doing my hc directly oops

💘 Drop cap (that you can already see in the fic itself!!) 💘 And a sketch from the beginning scene with the Skye sisters (꒪̇ω꒪̇)

#fanzine #zine full piece #my art #fanart #ace attorney #ace attorney investigations #kay faraday #ema skye #maya fey #regina berry #lana skye #robin hood #faraskye #fairy tale au #traditional art #artists on tumblr #we were limited for the number of spot art otherwise I would have illustrated the whole text lol #I had so much fun working on this project (♥´ ▽｀♥)

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aiwa-sensei · 2 years

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OFMD JanyAUry day 2: Fairytale

Follow the salt&pepper rabbit!

#ofmd fanart #ofmd au #ofmd januaury #ofmd #blackbeard #stede bonnet #izzy hands #steddyhands #gentlebeard #fairy tale au #alice in wonderland

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painted-flag · 2 months

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Little Red Riding Hood (Part 2/2) - Cregan Stark

Story 2 in Between the Pages: a HOTD x Fairytale Series.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ PART ONE .𖥔 ݁ ˖ series masterlist. main masterlist. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing: cregan stark x f!reader (no use of y/n) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ warnings: 18+ MDNI. descriptions of violence/blood, period-specific misogyny, aegon, and smut (oral f!receiving, nipple play, and biting) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ wordcount: 7.5k .𖥔 ݁ ˖ notes: this was going to be shorter than how it turned out, but then i got caught up in writing the smut at the end so... it is longer than originally planned.

That shriek of hell spurred you from your bed. You fought the imminent feeling of danger, of something lurking beyond the surface of your consciousness, to steel your emotions. The sound was almost inhuman, a cry reverberated from depths of eternal despair. Whatever fresh nightmare was outside demanded attention and your soul was calling out to it.

Your bare feet thudded against the stone flooring as you rushed outside your room. The chill of the night was not felt as you rushed to the door to leave your grandmother’s house. Your nimble fingers gripped the steel doorknob with a fury of strength as you yanked it open. Wearing nothing but your nightclothes, you venture out into the night. The door closed and the final rush of air breezed passed your scarlet cloak - hung up and forgotten in your frantic movements.

You weaved between the streets of the town, looking back and forth for any sign of life. There was nobody outside. No signs of anything. The pubs were oddly closed and no fool stumbled through the streets drunk on ale or wine. Your feet made crunching noises on the snow-laden ground.

It was then that you saw a figure in the distance. The haze of darkness, only partially alleviated by the moon's light, shrouded the person. They moved like a hunter, impossibly fast and calculated. You stopped moving and watched in paralyzed fear as they came closer. Adrenaline pumped through your body more than blood. Fear clouded your judgement and incapacitated all means of movement; both physically and mentally.

It was only then when the figure got closer that relief doused those flames of horror.

“Cregan?” Your voice, terribly quiet, floated through the cold chill of night. Cregan stood before you in nothing but a tunic, pants, and leather boots. His chest heaved and a sheen of sweat covered the exposed parts of his skin.

You had never seen him so uncovered before, and the white tunic he wore had the sleeves cut up just below the elbow and showed the top of his chest. On his skin, you could see the presence of countless scars. They marred his flesh and you could not help but wonder what creature could make such marks on him. The veins in his forearms flexed as he brought his hands up to grip your biceps.

“What are you doing out here?” His voice was deeper than usual, and the timbre sent vibrations through your bones.

“I… I heard something…” You stuttered out.

Cregan’s squeezed your flesh gently and looked down for a moment, “Fuck,” He lifted his gaze to look at you and that is when you noticed the unusual tint in his eyes - an odd glow, “You need to go back home. Lock all of the doors and windows and stay inside.”

“I don’t understand. Cregan, what is going on?” You had not heard the unknown shriek in a while, but the calls of wolf howls sounded closer and closer.

“Please just go inside.” His tone bordered on a plea, something completely out of character for him.

You blinked at him as his face got closer to yours. It was then that you realized what little clothing you also possessed. Your thin white shift with silver embroidered details glowed in the moonlight, but the thinness of the fabric left little to the imagination. Cregan took notice of your hypervigilance and his gaze swept over you quickly. He flushed slightly and looked at your face, unwilling to compromise the situation any further.

“Where is your cloak?” He questioned.

“I left it… the screaming… what in the seven hells is going on?” You tore your vision from Cregan and scanned around the empty street. The pounding in your head came back and you winced in pain.

You looked up at the full moon and the pain intensified. It felt like your skin was being peeled off. Tingling needles shot across your limbs. Your knees buckled and you lost your balance. Cregan cushioned your fall as the two of you reached the ground. His arms wrapped around your body and held your upper body off of the snow, resting it on his knees.

You tried with all your might to not voice your pain, but with each second it was becoming increasingly harder to resist. Tears pooled in your eyes and a sob ripped from your throat. Your eyes were locked onto the moon, its light enchanting you.

“Sweetheart, hey, look at me.” Cregan cupped one of your cheeks and patted it gently. You were not responding, completely unable to do so.

“Darling, you’re okay. Just come back,” His thumb brushed a stray tear from your skin, “Come back to me.”

The edges of your vision got dark, but the call of his voice drew you back, “What is happening to me? Why does this hurt so much?”

Your questions elicited a broken look from Cregan and a defeated sigh, “It’s alright. You’re okay, I got you.” The warmth of his embrace shrouded you from the cold. He gave off an unusually high temperature, but its comfort eased the intensifying pain. The wolf hows got closer.

Movement in the corner of your dimming vision caught your attention. Turning your head caused immense tension in your neck. Behind Cregan, in the distance, was a collection of a few wolves. They were larger than you had ever seen before and stared the two of you down. None of them moved forward, all watching carefully.

You wanted to warn Cregan of the danger - to have him make a run for safety - but your body could not take the anguish anymore. You collapsed into blackness as snow fell around you, in the arms of your friend.

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

There was no way any ounce of sanity remained in your body. It had been a few hours since you woke up; breathing heavily and stuck in a sweat. You had awoken in your room with your grandmother sleeping soundlessly in a chair next to your bed. It took a long time to get a grasp of your surroundings. Your grandmother helped you drink water and get your bearings.

However, what little consciousness you acquired soon fled with the conversation that followed.

It felt partly like a betrayal. Having information - vital information - about your past, family, and self withheld from you for so long was an unknown horror. Your grandmother explained it as calmly as she could, but truthfully there was little one could do in that situation.

Learning that your family had a history of werewolf tendencies was never a possibility one could consider encountering in their lifetime. Your grandmother had informed you of it all. How it had been a part of her family and typically skips a generation. You had pieced it together after that. Her being one and your mother not had led you to conclude that you were one.

In your grandmother’s words, you had been repressed. One typically knows if they inherited that trait when of age, but it had been purposefully hidden. The gift from your grandmother, that beloved scarlet cloak, had been the reason for your lack of transformation process. A simple enchantment that your grandmother had gotten passed down from her grandmother.

It was an attempt to keep you safe but ended up hurting you more than you could truly grasp.

Truthfully, you had not believed it. It took more convincing but you eventually relented. To your little gained knowledge, those who can transform are able to do it in the few days leading up to and after the full moon. Outside of that window, transformation is not possible. Though the person benefits from other skills. The possession of unusual strength, the ability to bear the cold, quick healing, and faster speed and agility.

It would have been a win if not for the fact that you were freaking out internally and had your entire worldview shattered.

You and your grandmother sat in chairs by the fireplace when a knock sounded at the door. Cregan walked in with a nervous look. It felt all too familiar to the first day you arrived in Winterfell. Yet, in just a week, the circumstances of the situation had changed drastically. Your grandmother, ever the peacekeeper, stepped away to allow privacy. Cregan did not sit in her seat but chose to kneel in front of you. He made no attempt to reach out to you and kept his hands on his knees. His eyes were kind and understanding, and his hair was put up in his signature knot.

You wanted to curse him out for looking so perfect in a situation where your trust was strained. For if he asked, you would fall into his arms.

“I know you may have a lot of questions, all of which you are entitled to. I promise that.” Cregan spoke, his voice soft and caring.

“Questions?” You huffed out with a hint of a laugh before channelling your frustration, “I have more than just questions.”

Cregan nodded, “Hit me, if you feel like it, just don’t be angry with me. I can’t take that.”

You were looking at your hands placed in your lap, “I am not angry at you. I couldn’t if I tried.” You heard a relieved sigh escape his lips before you spoke up again, “Are you… one too?”

“Yes,” Cregan answered. You looked at him and he continued, “Many people in Winterfell are. I am the leader.”

“I am just trying to wrap my head around all this.” You explained.

Cregan gave you a ghost of a smile, “Take all the time you need. But, now that you know, I need to warn you.” Cregan leaned forward and took your hands in his. His fingers swiped along your knuckles and he prepared to speak.

“Aegon is not who you think he is,” He spoke, “Darling, he is one of us and he is not a good man.”

You almost scoffed at his words, “Aegon isn’t one of us. He has also been nothing but kind and treated me with respect.” You were curious as to what angle Cregan was getting at. What gain did he get by undermining the man you were with?

“Be honest with yourself. Have you noticed anything unusual about him?” Cregan pressed further.

You leaned back in your chair as Cregan stopped rubbing your hands, but still grasped them. Your back hit the chair and you looked at the crackling fire. You could not curse your past self for being so oblivious, for you had no knowledge that such a world existed.

All of the quirks Aegon possessed seemed to compound; adding to another startling realization. It was curious how often a person could experience such amount of life-changing realizations in a short period. His unnatural strength for such a lean figure and how he never seemed cold. There was also a time he had injured himself - a long cut down his forearm - that healed within the week and left an almost indecipherable scar. Aegon claimed it was a good balm, but now you knew the truth.

“Seven hells,” You whispered. You were not fully satisfied with getting caught up with the events from last night. “What happened last night? What was that shrieking?”

Cregan hung his head in shame, “Someone from Winterfell was found outside of the walls… murdered. All signs point to it being a wolf.” You did not think of doing so, but your fingers instinctively traced his hairline down to his chin and he lifted his head at your touch.

“Is Winterfell safe?” You asked.

“As safe as it can be. Constant watch around the wall. I truly don’t know how this happened.” He seemed to get lost in thought and began to rant, “I am the Lord of Winterfell and I cannot even keep my people safe. For all I know, it could have been one of my men and I have no way of knowing.” He had got off his knees by you and moved to face the fireplace. His right arm rested against the stone mantel.

You got out of your seat and approached him. Cregan, in your time at Winterfell, managed to seize your heart. A feat not yet achieved by any man in your life. It drove you mad, how easily his mere presence made nerves harbour your stomach. While he had spent so much time ensuring your comfort, you felt as though you had failed to do so for him.

You rested your hand on the spot between his shoulder blades on his back. His muscles tensed for a moment before relaxing into your touch. You brushed that spot gently. Cregan slightly turned to you behind him. Your other hand cupped his cheek. He leaned into your warmth like flowers to the sun drinking in its light; their life depending on its radiance. You moved your hand to the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair. You pulled him in to duck down and rest his head on your shoulder. His nose brushed the crook of your neck and his breath tickled your skin. Cregan’s arms circled your waist.

You knew he was often a man of little words and action. A large part of you wished to fill that wordless void in his life.

“You are a good lord, Cregan. Most importantly, you are a fine man. There are times when you will be challenged when events beyond your control transpire. It is not how they come about that is of importance. It is how you act afterward that dictates who you are.” Your words seemed to strike a chord in him and his hold tightened. He did not say anything, but his breaths seemed to ease. You stroked his back in comfort and gently swayed side to side.

It was there, in front of the cracking fire, that you felt your relationship with Cregan had begun to expand past the bonds of friendship.

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

“Do you get fleas?” The question you voiced as you sat on a wooden fence outside of the blacksmith building in Winterfell was met with laughs from both Cregan and Ser Dustin.

It had been a while since your morning conversation with Cregan and the tension between you two was palpable. You had followed him around for the day, asking countless questions regarding any detail of being a wolf. Cregan took your questions with grace and answered them all with no hesitation.

You had ended up at the blacksmith, where Cregan liked to help when he could as it was a skill he preferred. Normally, had it been Aegon, you would have excused yourself to be spared from the boring process of smithing. However, the image of Cregan in a thin white shirt, covered in a sheen of sweat, and with exposed forearms as he showcased his strength was not a view you wished to part from so easily.

You acted rather nonchalant for the view in front of you. Each time he hammered down on some fiery sword, you had to avert your gaze afterwards as he had a habit of looking at you. You know he knew you were looking, and you knew he did it on purpose. That damned man sure knew how to infuriate you, as stoically as he portrayed himself to others.

Ser Dustin placed down a tool he was wielding, “No we do not have fleas. I must leave for my shift of wall patrol. I’ll see you both later.” While Cregan was focused on his hammering, Ser Dustin sent you a teasing wink and gestured to his friend. You returned his glance with a look of disbelief. Once you and Cregan were alone, that tension that had been building only intensified.

Cregan grabbed the heavy sword and picked it up with one hand, his bicep flexing, and dunked it into water. He glanced at you briefly before looking back down on his task, “If you could tell ten-year-old me what would happen in the last week, he would not believe it.”

“It's a big thing, all of this stress.” You replied as you munched on a piece of bread. Your feet swung back and forth.

“I don’t mean that,” Cregan spoke before letting out a laugh of disbelief, “I spent most of my years as a child waiting for your summer visits and all of my summers competing for your attention.” He seemed focused on his task, but there was trepidation behind his actions.

You finally understood his actions towards you. How he was so quick to welcome you to Winterfell and spend every available moment around you. In your family’s absence, he took it upon himself to look after your grandmother. Cregan displayed a heartfelt dedication all these years since he was but a boy, just for the possibility of seeing you again.

Nobody had ever dedicated themselves to you with such fervour before. That fact alone had you stuck in shock upon the fence.

After a moment of your heartbeat skipping, you spoke up, “You’re rather bold to say such things.”

Cregan moved to you, his figure towering over yours. The tops of his thighs brushed your knees as he leaned in towards your right ear, “I am,” he declared, “Do you think I would be a fool and let this opportunity pass?” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and let his touch linger. By now your faces were close and breathes intermingled. If you could just lean in…

“And what is this opportunity that you speak of?” You whispered.

“Do not dance around the subject. Must I cut my heart out and show it to you? Show you the lines in it which spell out your name?” Cregan matched your whispered voice, “Or will you continue to torture me so? Please give me an answer, for in both sleep and awake I am plagued by you. This is the closest you have been to me in years, yet you are impossibly far away.”

His nose brushed over your cheek and you saw him close his eyes and inhale your scent, “Tell me now if you do not feel the same and I will leave you alone. I will cast myself out as lord if you simply wish to never see me again. But please, do not leave me with no answer, for I fear that is worse than death. Do you share, to any degree, the familiarity I feel for you?”

Cregan opened his eyes to look into yours. You were stuck by their intensity, the sheer volume of care confined into such a small area. You remember your mother saying they were windows to the soul and as a child, you thought it silly. Now, you understood. You truly understood the gravity of such words and relished in it.

He showed you, at that moment, that he could be a man of words if he willed it - if it was worth it. You saw that you were worth it to him. You nodded to his question, unable to form words other than some shaken breaths.

“Words, sweetheart, I need to hear you say it,” Cregan responded.

You swallowed before answering, “Yes, Cregan, I do.”

He pushed his body closer to yours - erasing what little room was left. Cregan’s forehead rested against yours and his nose brushed across your cheek as he leaned in. He paused, staring at your lips with intensity before coming to look into your eyes. He did not move but rather waited. You leaned towards him and brushed his lips with your own. The moment contact was made, it opened a floodgate. Cregan’s lips were soft and warm and he kissed you with an intensity not felt before.

He took it upon himself to slot his body between your legs with one hand splayed on your lower back and the other at the base of your neck; his thumb brushing your skin just above the collar of the pelt that rested on your shoulders. Your hands moved to his chest, feeling the small scars that marked his skin and his thumping heartbeat. His lips melded against yours, moving to express his feelings beyond words.

You were lost in the comfort of it all. His scent, pine and firewood, engulfed you and sent a tickling feeling to your stomach. It all dulled your senses to everything around you. Each moment you two slightly parted to breathe would quickly come to an end as you found each other’s lips again. Cregan drank you in like a man poisoned and given an antidote; his life just grasping for that reprieve.

His ability to drive you crazy no longer angered you. If Cregan could hold and kiss you like this again, you would forsake your mind and drown in madness.

He pulled away only slightly with his forehead resting on yours. The two of you breathed in and out erratically. You finally opened your eyes to meet Cregan’s already looking at you. His gaze never wavered. It was then when he gave you a full smile, the first one you ever saw on him. It almost left you as breathless as the kiss you shared. One of his hands cupped your cheek, its size engulfing a portion of your face.

“You need not make a final decision now. I have no doubt this last day alone has drained you. Know that I will wait for your answer, and I will obey your wishes.” Cregan left a searing kiss on your cheek and squeezed you in his hold a final time before pulling away. The sudden increase of cold as his warm body parted from yours could have sent you into shock if not for the fact that you too possessed that strange ability. He nodded his head to you, “Sleep well, my love.”

You stayed sitting on that wooden fence, replaying the last few minutes in your mind. Cregan had been waiting for you, waiting since your shared childhood. Those days of running through flower fields hand in hand as children were behind you. Childhood innocence melted away into devotion. You felt hurt, just slightly, for having forgotten about him but him still thinking of you for all that time.

You shuffled off of the fence and walked home slowly. Snow began to fall once again. The silence that came with snowfall muffled the world around you. The people of Winterfell were in their homes, each chimney erupting smoke into the air. You could not leave Winterfell to go back home, for the concept of home shifted more and more in favour of wherever Cregan happened to be.

When you arrived at the house, the fluttering in your stomach had yet to go away. You shrugged your cloak and furs off and hung them up by the door. “Grandmother, I’m home!”

Your grandmother had her back to you as she fussed over something in the kitchen. She was dressed up in her cloak with the hood up, a detail that made you halt in your steps. She did not greet you back. You looked at her figure and felt off. She was taller than you recalled. You walked closer, each step taken slowly as if approaching a wounded animal. Uncertainty plagued your features.

“Grandmother?” You questioned.

The figure turned and the hood slipped off their head. You were met with a flash of silver hair and a wicked grin belonging to Aegon. The enchanted smile you once held after your moment with Cregan morphed into fear.

“Welcome home,” Aegon spoke, “Why the sad face? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

You knew you had to act like everything was okay. You needed to pretend you had no knowledge of who he was and plastered on a fake smile, “I am just so shocked to see you, my love.”

You forced yourself from gagging at those sugar-coated words and moved to wrap him in a hug. He accepted it and buried his head in your hair. He sniffed you and his hold strengthened.

“You think I would not smell that foul man on you?” Aegon’s tone was sharp and laced with venom. You pulled away and gave him a puzzled look.

“What are you talking about?” You left his hold. Aegon looked down on the ground, nodding his head and laughing sardonically. This moment of distraction is all you need to rush towards the door. You pulled it open. Just as you were about to call out, a hand covered your mouth and an arm wrapped around your waist. Aegon pulled you back into the house and threw you on the ground, his strength causing you to tumble into the nearby table and to the ground.

Aegon locked the deadbolt on the door and sighed in disappointment, “A man can give, and give, and give… Yet all women seem to do is take.” He stalked towards you and kneeled to where you were. His hand stretched out and stroked your cheek with his index finger.

Without thinking, you spat in his face. His head turned away from you as he used his sleeve to wipe it from his skin when he turned to you with a fire in his eyes. You took that momentary lapse of awareness he had to land a punch to his nose. It was the first time you exerted that super strength you had inherited recently, and it shocked you to see his body move back with force.

“You fucking whore!” Aegoin shouted as he pulled back his hand to show a flood of blood dribbling over his mouth and down his chin.

The front door pounded once. Both you and Aegon looked towards it. The deadbolt rattled against the wood. One final push was given and the door swung open and hit the wall. Your tense body eased slightly on the ground having seen Cregan enter. The man stepped forward to move towards you, but Aegon was faster.

He moved towards you and picked you off the floor. Aegon pulled a knife that had fallen from the table and wrapped his arms around your neck, holding the blade against your throat. Cregan immediately halted his steps.

“One move at all and I’ll gut you,” Cregan spoke. His face was not one morphed into anger. The expression he held was calm and neutral. No twitch of the brow or bead of sweat - despite pummeling down a heavy oak door just seconds prior. There was an air around him as if he knew who held the real power. The only indicator of his grievance, besides his voice, was the unadulterated malice in his eyes. It was a look that chilled the bone yet set the soul ablaze with animosity.

Cregan was, if anything, a calculating man.

“We are leaving,” Aegon spoke, “I am taking my woman back.” His grip on the knife tightened.

“You are threatening the life of the very person you wish to seize… Not exactly a wise move.” Cregan looked Aegon up and down with silent judgement.

“She means nothing to me, but she has wronged me and will pay for it. So tell me, Lord Stark, will you let anything happen to her?” Aegon sent him a taunting smile.

“If you so much as make one more wrong move towards her, do you think there is a corner of the continent that you could hide from me?” Cregan’s voice was steeled and calm. Your fear spiked at the feeling of cool metal against your throat.

Aegon cackled, “Oh, I am positively frightened,” sarcasm dripped from his mouth, “If I do not make it back to this little one’s hometown in two days, I made sure her mother and brother will not live to see a moment longer.” He then held out the knife towards Cregan, “We will go now.”

He pulled you along with him, past Cregan and out the door towards the gates of Winterfell. Tears stung your cheeks as the monster of a man paraded you down the streets you came to love. You knew Cregan stalked closely behind, unable to interfere for risk of your safety. Once outside the gates, Aegon turned around.

“Not so close, Lord Stark,” Aegon moved the knife to rest under your chin, the blade cradling your face, “You will stay here in your shit home.”

Aegon seemed lost in whatever high he achieved through his perceived victory. The blade moved and nicked your skin. It did not cut deep, but enough to draw blood. The once neutral expression on Cregan crumbled. His eyebrows twitched and his nose flared. An almost thundering-like growl emitted from his throat.

Cregan’s gaze moved behind Aegon and suddenly that anger cooled down a bit. You sent him a questioning look. His eyes communicated to you then - a message of safety and assurance.

Cregan feigned defeat and raised his arms in surrounder, “You’ve won, Aegon.” While the words sounded pleasing to the silver-haired man, you could sense the falsity of them.

A quick whiz sound shot through the air behind you. It was fast and ended with a thunk. The force of whatever it was pushed Aegon forward and released you from his grip. You tumbled down to the ground with him but used the momentum to push yourself back up and run to Cregan. You slammed into his chest and wrapped your head around his neck. Your neck arched behind to see Aegon, splayed on the ground, with an arrow lodged into the back of his shoulder.

Ser Dustin came out of the woods with a bow in his grip. You sighed in relief knowing it was someone you trusted. The man came up to you and Cregan while Aegon laughed hysterically on the ground, rolling in the snow while clutching his wound.

Cregan looked to his friend, “Take her to my home and see to it she is guarded well. Wrangle up a group to go to the town over and find her mother and brother - bring them straight back here and get there fast. Instruct other guards to patrol for her grandmother.”

“Yes, lord.” Ser Dustin nodded to him. Cregan unwrapped his arms around you and nudged you over to his friend. Ser Dustin reached his hand out and offered it to you, “My lady?”

“Your whore is not worth the trouble,” Aegon coughed as he lay on the ground. His body began to shake and you could hear the sounds of bones cracking.

Cregan kissed your temple hastily and spoke to his friend, “Get her out of here, quickly.”

“No, I am not leaving you.” You responded. Cregan did not listen to you and nodded to Ser Dustin.

“Apologies, my lady,” Ser Dustin spoke before he lifted you by the waist, your head and torso hanging over his back. You fought back against his hold, but it was futile. The man moved back and you lifted your head to watch as you were carried away from Cregan. His back was to you, but you could see his muscles flex under the fabric.

Once inside the walls of Winterfell and a street down, you could hear the animalistic growls and shouts of two wolves mixed with the slashing of flesh.

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

You had been pacing Cregan’s chambers for longer than you would like to admit. Ser Dustin took you here, posted guards outside, and left with a group to save your family. You were given a bowl and salve for your cut, but it did not matter to you. All of your thoughts were scrambled. Your mother and brothers' safety was at risk, your grandmother was nowhere to be found, and Cregan was fighting Aegon. Yet here you were, cooped into a room and unable to do anything. The powerlessness was crippling.

Shuffling sounded outside the door to Cregan’s chambers. The wooden door opened and Cregan walked in. You did not think before flying into his arms. He winced but wrapped his arms around you. His face nuzzled into your shoulder and he breathed heavily. His shoulders sank and exhaustion caused him to lean against you.

You helped him move to the couch by the hearth and set him down. Now that you were looking at him, you could see the dried blood that covered his shirt. Cregan’s white shirt had been torn to almost shreds and newer cuts adorned his old scars. His eyes were closed as he struggled to stay alert. When you sat next to him with supplies to clean his wounds, he reached forward.

Cregan lifted your chin gently to see the cut you had received. His thumb brushed over it, “I should have killed him all those years ago. Exile was not good enough.” His voice was scratchy and the timbre reverberated through the room.

“Is he…?” Your voice trailed off.

“Dead? Almost. He is in a cell,” Cregan spoke, “It is your justice that needs to be met, not mine.”

You nodded at his words and made quick work of your movements. A wash basin with a cloth was on your lap. Your fingers gripped the cloth and soaked it through the water. Only the sounds of sloshing water and crack of firewood as it burned filled the room. Candles littered the space, giving you enough vision to assess the marks on his skin. Cregan used what little energy he had left to shrug off the tattered shirt. You started with one of his arms, the one closest to you.

It was when you moved to the other arm that Cregan talked, “Your grandmother is okay. She was found outside the walls. No injuries except a bump on her head - from Aegon knocking her out and taking her cloak. She is home and being tended by healers with guards posted both in and outside the house.”

You leaned in to place comforting kisses on his shoulder, slow and meaningful. You moved from there to his collarbone while staying careful to not brush over any of his wounds.

“Thank you.” You whispered. It was then that you moved to his back. Cregan turned so you could clean the blood and put a salve on the cuts without any trouble. With every few swipes of the cloth, you would place a kiss on his back. He would sigh with each one.

When you reached his front, it was hard for you not to be distracted by his muscles. You cursed your brain for focusing on that when he was injured. Your hands mended the cuts, trailing down further and to the muscles over his stomach. The cloth in your hands brushed over one of the v-lines peaking out from his pants. You blush under his gaze.

Once finished with your task, you got up and placed the supplies on a small round table by a chair next to the fire. You spotted what appeared to be a wardrobe and opened it. Shuffling through the shirt you found a nightshirt similar to the one he wore previously. You went back to him and helped him put it on as he winced to the movements.

Your hands went to adjust the collar. Cregan grabbed your right wrist and held it up, kissing the pulse point a few times with his eyes closed and brows furrowed. You wordlessly guided him to lie down on the couch with you. Your back hit the plush cushions as he rested his body partly over yours with his head on your shoulder. His arms encircled you and yours wrapped around his back. Mindful of the wounds, you rubbed his back gently. It was not much long after that he fell into slumber.

You waited a while before allowing yourself to sleep, for you wanted to make sure Cregan would rest.

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

The days following had been more eventful, but less chaotic. That next morning you had rushed to your grandmother to check on her. She was in good condition and more worried over your state, but when she saw the cuts and bruises across Cregan that peaked from his clothing, she fussed over his state. You remembered the words she uttered when Cregan told her he was alright.

“Do you think I was born yesterday, boy? Sit down and I’ll make some food.”

That day was spent drenched in worry for your mother and brother. However, Ser Dustin came back with his company of men and your family; completely safe and out of harm. That day you had cried in Cregan’s arms from relief. The stress of your trip, from your sick grandmother to discovering everything about your heritage, and Aegon had finally come down on you.

Aegon was executed after five days in a cell. Not an ounce of care was to be found in your heart. The trial he had was quick. Evidence collected by Ser Dustin caught him guilty to the murder of a resident of Winterfell, the one you heard screaming the night of the full moon. Cregan cut Aegon’s head from his body, and the remains were burned and discarded in the woods. All that was left of Aegon were memories - which would fade through the years to come.

Everything got easier as winter melted into spring. Your relationship with your mother healed over time, as you both got into a fight regarding her keeping such a secret from you for so long. To rectify this, you and her sat your brother down to tell him - to avoid every keeping secrets in your family from then on. Of course, that had quickly become a mistake as he began to hang around Cregan and his other friends who were wolves as well, asking an insurmountable amount of questions and counting down the days until he could become one. Cregan did not mind and reminded you of all the questions you had when you found out, to which you whacked his shoulder.

Over time, you and Cregan got into a routine. You continued to teach the children of Winterfell while taking on more duties to ease the stress off of Cregan. He welcomed your help and in exchange would visit the children often to give you breaks. You quickly found yourself spending more nights at his home than your grandmother's.

It was here, during one of your many nights together, that you found yourself under the furs of his bed. Both of your bodies were exposed and covered in a sheen of sweat. Cregan was on his back with your head resting on his chest. Your fingers traced the scars across his skin as one of his hands stroked your arm gently. His hand moved to cover yours and still its movements.

“My offer still stands for your family. There is plenty of room for them in this house.” Cregan brought your hand up to kiss the palm.

“I’ve been trying to convince them, but they feel you have already done enough to help.” You responded.

Cregan squeezed you closer to his body. “How bad would it look for the Lord of Winterfell to let his betrothed’s family stay in such a small cottage?” His tone bordered on teasing.

“Almost as bad as taking her virtue before the wedding.” You jested. You had lifted your head to look at him and Cregan feigned a look of offence.

“How dare you question the sanctity of my bride?” He began and then lowered his voice to an almost threatening tone, “That is a punishable offence.”

The two of you both laughed gently. You rested your head back onto his chest and sighed. Cregan adjusted his body to be turned and your back was lowered onto the bed. He sat up for a moment before trapping your head between his forearms, his body hovering over yours. Cregan lowered his face to be just inches above yours. You stifled a yawn and he raised one of his eyebrows.

“Why is my lady so tired?” He questioned.

You moved your hands up to push lightly on his bare chest, “Well, if you were not so insatiable with your appetite, I may have time to rest.”

A cheeky grin formed on his face, “And are you rested?”

“I could stay awake for a little while…” You answered. Cregan nodded at your words.

“That is good.” He lowered his face and captured your lips in a kiss. His lips were soft and pillowy against your own. It was slow and searing. Some of Cregan’s hair tickled your face. His mouth parted slightly with yours as he used his tongue to explore your mouth. You let out a whine and he responded with a low, almost indecipherable grumble from his chest.

His mouth moved to the side of yours, down your jaw, and to your collar bone; leaving open-mouthed kisses in his wake. There were newly formed marks on your neck created just minutes prior and others over the past few days. He kissed each one again, marking his pride. His mouth would clamp down on the skin, biting and sucking ever so gently. Your eyes closed as you entered a state of relaxation.

You craved him more and more. Each day was a newly discovered ache of want, of need. Your attitude matched his own, though his unquenchable hunger for you had been undefeatable.

Cregan moved down further and further. One of his hands cupped your breast and began to massage it gently while his mouth went to the other. His finger teased your nipple, flicking it gently. He dedicated slow movements that made you suck in a breath and arch your back up closer to his touch. Cregan’s favourite activity in recent weeks was discovering every little thing that made you tick. Every inch of skin surveyed, most times more than once.

Keeping a hand on your breast, he shuffled down further to your stomach. His lips brushed across the smooth skin. The pelts were on his back but moved down with him, exposing your body to the cool air of the stone bedchamber. He kissed your hipbone, eliciting a sharp inhale of breath from you. You bit your lip as his hot breath brushed over your sensitive core. What exhaustion you previously had was completely abandoned as you felt your body come alive with an unrivalled energy.

Cregan could sense your newfound energy and chuckled lightly. Both of his hands gripped the sides of your thighs, parting your legs just enough for him. His fingers dug into the pillowy flesh and his thumbs rubbed hypnotic swipes back and forth. His mouth hovered just above your core when he stopped.

“Cregan,” you whined, “Please.” Your hips bucked up in desperation. He gave a quick swipe of his tongue along your core and pulled back. The single action made your head dizzy and your body thrum. You wriggled under his touch and intense stare, body shuddering in anticipation.

Cregan wasted no time in burying his face in you, ravishing every inch possible. His nose brushed your bud. The lewd moans that slipped from your mouth egged him on, encouraging him more. He groaned into your skin, sending a rumble throughout your core area. Your hands could not bear gripping the sheet below you so they moved to tangle in his dark locks.

When you tuged on the strands, Cregan growled lowly and picked up the pace of his movements. His tongue moved to your bud and sucked as one of his fingers moved up to rub your core, gently sinking into you. Your back shot off the bed and you let out a startled gasp. Your reaction only sparked more from Cregan.

His actions became feverish rather than carefully planned. His tongue worked in circular motions as he inserted another finger. His hand moved with reckless abandon, set on making you reach your peak. Your breaths became more erratic and lewd noises escaped your lips; each word encouraging Cregan more.

You were quickly reaching your peak when Cregan pushed another finger in, making your walls clench. The familiar pressure that coiled in your lower stomach built up. His tongue began making circular motions on your bud, speeding up intensity and pressure. Your body squirmed while it trembled under Cregan’s care.

In a moment of white-hot light, you reached your climax. It washed over you in waves, spreading out from your stomach. Cregan’s hands gripped your thighs and held your lower body down as you huffed and writhed on the bed. He pulled his fingers out but continued giving your core attention with his mouth. By then you were lost in the throes of ecstasy as he pushed you to overstimulation.

“Cregan!” Your shout was high-pitched as your lungs sucked in air. Cregan lifted his face and made eye contact with you. He smirked before kissing his way up your body again, similar to his trip down only minutes ago.

Cregan, now hovering above you, leaned down to give you a soft kiss. It was not feverish and rushed, but wrapped in care and devotion. You moaned into his mouth as his hands grabbed your hips and flipped you over suddenly. You let out a startled shout that melded into a joint laugh with him. Your thighs wrapped around his hips and it was then when you noticed the feel of him against your core.

You leaned down to kiss him and sighed knowing you would not get much rest that night.

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___________

This was my second time writing smut and I think I'm starting to get the hang of it!

Thank you all for your continued support!

series taglist: @uniquecutie-puffs @dracaryxzs @beebeechaos @libdarkheart @aisselasstuff @whodis? @void21 @l-uminescent @idontlikelizards @poppinspops @nixtape-foryou @bluryar14 @mynameisjxlia @asteria33

#hotd imagine #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon #cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan fanfiction #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #house stark #fairy tale retelling #fairy tale au

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