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eldrith · 2 days

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˗ˏˋ footprint in the snow ˎˊ˗ cregan stark

cregan stark x fem!lady!reader words: 12.1k synopsis: "The stones of Winterfell have always been blissfully cold against your palms, and Cregan’s presence has always naturally attended you." notes: hi!! this is my first cregan fic [so pls be gentle] but im excited to write for him more... still trying to work out his character but. ily @useralba and @dipperscavern ... febu frong anyways <3 i didnt edit this sorry but hope u all enjoy <3 warnings: canon-divergent au; dance does not/has not happened. north-centric AS IT SHOULD BE. characters aged 23+. slight jealousy, betrothals & poorly made up politics (actually made up so much lore sorry i do that when im nervous), brief mention of parental death, fluff, friends to lovers, smut (fingering, slight breeding kink), brief finger sucking what, light dirty talking. masterlist requests are open.

FOR AS LONG AS YOU’VE KNOWN, THE EVE OF WINTER HAS BEEN SAID TO COME IN A SHARP WHISTLE DOWN THE MOUTH OF THE PEAKS TO THE NORTH.

Sharp, precipitous - the wind that breaks bones and scatters breath; it howls through the northern curls of the Wolfswood, piercing its glacial breath through trembling needles of pine, hissing up and over the stone of the North Gate. Tales of chipped slabs of sharp, which fly from the Old Tower in a gale of old; stealing the breath from lungs old and new, whipping away parchment, stealing flight and life from those southern ravens white of feather as far as the Bloody Gate.

As a babe, your mother would sing of the sharp teeth of the Threnody; nursemaids and maester alike whispering of its wail against chamber doors even in the deepest of the castle. Your father, a less cagey spirit - still, he’d not stop the furrow of brow at the blow of hard iced snowdust that gathered within the stables on the outskirts of baileys.

And perhaps it is not yet time for the howling of the wind when the wolves still linger in the woods; when life may still yet subsist away from the spitting crackle of hearth within castle walls - but you do not feign ignorance.

Winter is coming.

It comes in wind; and, just as the Threnody of old, it is subtle and piercing, perniciously beautiful.

Lord Stark of Winterfell sits at the end of the hall, in a fur cloak that nearly swallows over the bulk of his wide frame; the lick of flames over his skin dance with the murmured din of the crowd as you watch, a cat-eyed weariness from your corner spot. It is not often this loud, though the Great hall has been much more full as of late - with the Southern company from the Reach, Winterfell has bursted at the seams just in the eve of Wintertide. A less than optimal time to host guests; but your Lord is a steadfast one, and knows an opportunity for trade when he sees one.

Your father speaks to him - you watch the men with vague interest until the elder catches your eye across the assembly; a gesture of his hand, beckoning you to their side. And the Lord Stark, face young, weathered - handsome as he is dour in the torchlight, nodding with a surprisingly warm gaze when your eyes meet.

You do not heed your father’s summon; you remain rooted instead, struck with a sudden fatigue as some odd taste of jealousy from the nest of your bosom peeks into your mind, whispering of the woman who sits only three tables away from you.

The Southern Rose. Her father, a man visiting to treat in way of increased wheat and salt trade with Winterfell; preservation starts soon, the harvest has found its end - leaves curl tight as a grip frozen in fist now, even near the Neck. She accompanied her father - words whispered from advisors of a potential betrothal - and as she is a girl just two years your junior, your father had instructed you to accompany her through her visit to Winterfell.

Truthfully, you’ve found her quite wonderful - a sweet girl, though fairly plain-minded: innocent smiles, soft polite nods. You spent the fortnight riding through the Wolfswood, needlepointing - tasks rather simple, though torturous only when you caught glimpses of Lord Cregan and his men in the yard, in the halls, or treating. A yearning festered in your breast during these past days - a desire to attend matters of the mind instead of, perhaps, such soft matters.

Though no fault of her own. A kind girl, you do swear by the gods - though each simpering look to the man who walks with Ice at his back twists a dagger deeper into your gut; A fine wife for a wanting Warden, the lords had advised - and you, with an ear pressed to the closed oaken door of Cregan’s hall like some bright-eyed maiden. An alliance with a house South would allow for a stake in the Southern lord’s trade route to Dorne; A smart match, perhaps, if Cregan searches for reach outside his North.

You’re not particularly convinced he does.

Though the hearths are large and heavy tonight, you yearn for that curling reach, that whisper of agony that cradles limbs into chests - and with a spare step towards the crack in the hall’s entrydoors, cool air pierces the tissue within your chest.

Outside is the swirling ink of the owl’s hour.

If you could see through the song of night, up and over the walls of stone which keep the first whispers of Threnody at bay - you might find the ridged roofs of Winter Town; and even beyond, those breathing hills that bring the Kingsroad up and back down. And cold, that creeping wolf, that slither of ragging which drags clouds to the ground and whispers promises of winter.

You press your lips together; Who would wish to look beyond such persevering beauty?

Cregan’s voice is low across the hall, though you can hear it through the din of the feast as he converses with his men; a swirl of affection, that comfortable specter in the corner of your thoughts. A glance back through the oak door to that sirened wail of glacial, ancient breath; the southern rose… and you, a pine in wildflowers.

The yard below the great hall swirls with untouched crystals; miniscule, they glimmer in the open air and twirl in a mesmerizing dance - the ale in your palms is much too warmed by the blood that pumps through you.

A young man beside you gestures rather agitatedly; and you, bristled with the realization that you allow the creeping draft to leak into the hall, step forward once, allowing the doors to once again shut. The hall is warm and your mind is fuzzy; you step away, hugging the outskirts of the wall and avoiding the heat of your cheeks.

Lord Stark rises in your peripheral when you begin the short promenade returning to your seat.

It is inevitable at any feast, his company - Cregan, a man only three namedays your senior and, even before becoming your Lord, a very close companion. Youths tied up in the training of noble roles, you and Cregan got on rather well - your father advised Lord Rickon, as a vassal house of the Starks; now, he serves Rickon’s son just the same.

Your brief respite near the exit of the hall is short-lived when his boots pave their way towards you, bisecting your path though you pretend to pay the man no mind, a grin growing on your lips - there is only a breath of his own amusement in the short cat-and-mouse game you begin on the way to the trestle table; the stones of Winterfell have always been blissfully cold against your palms, and Cregan’s presence has always naturally attended you.

Trots of hooves through the Wolfswood, trailing steps hurried through halls to keep up with long strides – a brief nod in passing when Maester Kennet would end the young Stark’s studies early. You’d learned to shoot a bow with him and his late brother in that very yard below; shared huffs of amusement when your arrow sailed wide.

And even now, well over your youth; it remains how it has always been, with your roots so very sunk into the hard earth of the North; the Kings of Stark over your family’s barony of land just half-day’s west of Winterfell. And when Lord Rickon drew his final breath - and some years later, too, when Bennard’s slow relinquishment darkened the skies - you never dared worry of how life might change.

You call him Lord Stark now - though in the quiet moments, he oft prefers Cregan; still the boy who convinced your father and his own to let you attend seasonal hunt, who sat with you in the rookery for hours of silence when your mother left the mortal realm; who did not protest when you insisted you did not wish to discuss it; who wiped tears from your weary skin so they’d not freeze; who waited patiently as you watched wind blow needles from the pines and ravens drop from clouded sky.

And you, still with some melancholy whisper from the air that blows crystals over the hills towards Last Hearth; a Threnody of your own, your chilled craving despite the warmth of your soul. Cregan calls you my lady now - though he was keen to do so just as oft in youth, despite the blushing of your cheeks and quick glances to the snow-licked ground.

He approaches you this evening with a storm of a stare and a hint of a smirk that, to any other, would look merely as his usual stoic countenance; though there is a bright in his eyes, a twitch upon his lip as he takes in the shifting of your boots upon the stone.

You busy yourself traveling to your seat without tripping upon your feet - but still he meets you, eyes hooked upon the curve of your jaw and sliding over the apple of your cheek when you arrive to your spot, concealing your smile with a nod.

A cacophony of laughter from the wolf’s council - you feel much more at home when the attention is off you and your Lord, hidden in the backlit corner.

The hall is warm; warm, when all you can see are dark locks, drawn brows, pink lips, stubbled jaw. Your heart clenches when his arm brushes your own, if only for a moment.

“Lord Stark.” Your voice swims; a wavering, perhaps from the mead that lingers on the back of your tongue, or at the stare that hooks itself upon your own. His eyes take you in - slowly, as if appreciative - an active repression of any fluttering at such a gaze, knowing him much too well to allow yourself a stirred feeling.

“My lady,” He greets back; he’s obscured you with his height from the brunt of the hearth’s breath - a small relief, as your chest grows hot under the slow roll of his tone and your eyes fall from the mountain of his comportment. His gaze finds the doors at the hall entrance before returning to you, alight with something less than mirthful but not completely chastising.

“Is the feast not satisfactory?” A drop of tease in a river of adherence; you hear it though, you feel it - and with the flow comes a tide of affection in your stomach. A small smile that smoothes your hot cheeks, “It is wonderful,” You mend, biting your lip, “I am rather keen to find momentary respite outside, though.”

He seems sated enough with your words, nodding just once. “You’ve always been one for the cold.” He absently observes as his eyes flick to the table briefly, “I suppose you’ve been kept inside the walls too much as of late, aye?”

A reminder of your recent charge - of the girl, eyes shining as clear as day, gazing upon the mountainous frame of Lord Stark from across the hall.

She much prefers the hearth to the raw air; and you’ve done nothing but acquiesce, placating the whims of the girl who might one day be your Lady Stark - an unpleasant thought, though one that could very well be a reality. Your throat tightens in a bough of unwarranted jealousy at the thought and, with a tight swallow, you nod to your Lord, gaze leaving his own.

Your fingers trace the silver prongs upon the table, left after you’d finished your meal half-eaten in search of the whispering sirens of flurry in the courtyard; you do not find it within yourself to speak, and perhaps that is why Cregan worries so for your disposition.

“You’re distant tonight,” he decides, eyes lingering for a moment longer on the flush of your cheeks - perhaps from the drink, perhaps from something else entirely - and though he is just inches away now, he makes no unnecessary movements - an approach calm, unwishing to ward off a skittish creature. A wolf upon a pup.

You, in your avoidance of his ownsolemn disposition, nearly miss the opportunity given for you to respond - and so you start with a breath and a lifted stare.

“Perhaps it is because I was not seated with all you lords at the grand banquet table,” you quip; a rather surprising use of attitude in front of such company. An inkling of rather instant regret - you ought to watch your tongue around the members of the Household.

Mercifully, Cregan only provides you with a stern glance and a lifted brow, that trickle of amusement only a breathed whisper across the cool gaze of piercing eyes.

He certainly is aware of your quiet yearning - perhaps in a degree more at least than your yearning for himself, which has never been spoken but has often been rather obvious - but instead to follow your father’s footsteps; an advisor to the Warden, a trusted voice, in the eve of wintertide.

You have, for all the exhausted topics Cregan and yourself have touched upon in your many years of companionship, not outwardly admitted such hypnagogic desires; implied, perhaps. But a dreamy wish, a foolish one for a noble girl like yourself.

His eyes swim between your own, perhaps waiting for more words that do not yet come. You should apologize for your tongue, though away from any other ears, it is oft that your Lord prefers you to speak candidly, uninhibited by much courtly restraint. It is indeed the most common times you’ve been successful in pulling a chuckle or laugh from the man.

Though this time, he makes the decision for you. “Too much ale?”

You lift a brow in challenge of the amused tone that barely leaks through, setting the mug down upon the banquet before you.

“Too much heat,” You excuse instead, hoping your fuzzy mind does not lead to slurred words as your jaw directs his gaze to the massive hearth that threatens to swallow him from behind - and then, with that quiet voice once again, “I apologize for my tongue, my Lord.”

A frown that looks heavenly on such a countenance- and a brief flush upon the strong ridge of nose; he shifts, vague but endearing from one large trunk of leg, corded with thick muscle, to another.

“You need never apologize for a gift. So long as you know well enough when to use it.” He murmurs - and after a stilled moment, you nod with tight lips, heart thumping quietly; unintentional as it may be, such words from him sends your desire for him into a gallop.

In an effort to conceal your affections, you laugh quietly against the heat of your cheeks. “You will come to regret such words, surely.” Your jest falls upon his ears and he hums low, finishing the ale in the mug held by large hands, eyes burning into yours even as he finishes the last gulp. “I doubt that, my lady.”

There is a draft that catches the edge of your skirts; it carries, beckoning you - the doors have opened, and Lord Cerwin steps outside with a swift nod to Lord Stark and yourself. Some break of the seal which held together your remaining composure; you let out a breath, eyes flickering back to the storm of interest that watches down upon your visage. “I regret I could not attend to you these past weeks.” He murmurs again- rather talkative this eve, it seems. You eye the goblet dwarfed in his large palms; perhaps the ale has done him in as it has you.

A flip of your stomach, heartbeat picking up at his words - attend you? He must see your expression; for he shifts as flames lick up the leather upon his back. “It has been nearly a moon since I placed a blade in your hand.” He mends, face solemn; a breath from your lips as you exhale shortly. Ah.

Many days - wind whipping at your cheeks, piercing through your heavy cloaks; Cregan’s few minutes found in spare days to show you parries and ripostes, castigating gently when you try a cheap sweep at his legs and barking in amusement when you fall upon your backside.

A small burst of cracking embers rise from the hearth just over his stalwart shoulder - you smile at the man before you, watching his own lips twitch at your small huff of amusement.

“There were more important matters,” Your voice light. “-Negotiations, alliances,” You clear your throat, “matters of the realm.”

His eyes, hawkish as he shifts once more; the shadow of his figure swallowing your own frame as your hand falls onto the table to stabilize yourself against his stare. “Aye,” He nods, gaze briefly flicking to the row of men at the front of the hall; your father finishes his ale, in discussion with Lady Gilliane and the Southern lord. “Tomorrow eve they set for the Kingsroad. And they will have my trade agreements.” His words come as some promise. You’d well noticed the thirty men and women preparing to leave Winterfell; they are guests at this feast indeed. You resist a snarking comment in rebuttal, instead heeding his politeness - and nod slowly.

Another guest leaves the feast and you follow the swish of her skirts and furs with your stare. Just out those ajar doors, tendrils of flakes fall from the skies. You long to feel them kiss the crown of your head, feel them settle upon the downy cloak that sits crooked upon your shoulders; a small draft that kicks again, and the chill begins to settle your flaming cheeks.

The Southern Rose sips upon a goblet of sweetwine across the way with her few ladies-in-waiting; she smiles brightly at you across the hall and you smile back, aware of the brooded stare upon your visage from beside you. “Only trade?” You finally wonder, unable to look at Cregan, finger tracing the wear of the wood below your palm.

After a small breath - Lord Stark must direct his glance towards the previous subject of your attention before turning back to you, a frown carved by the gods into the solemnity of his gaze.

Your heart jumps when he shifts, his arm brushing yours - fingers, large and calloused, adjusts the clasp upon your cloak, knuckles kissing the line of your jaw before dropping away.

Your cheeks are impossibly hot, though his are just as well. “Only trade,” he echoes, though there’s something within his tone - some secret assurance, one which sets your stomach in warmth. It is a simple silence which follows; his cloaked arm is warm against the fabric of your gown, though you do not mind it.

“I would not keep you any longer from your respite.” He finally decides, gesturing to the open oak doors, to the pull of chill; A dulcet resonance - you stare at the crawl of flames around his ribcage, flicking over the bulk of muscled mass swathed in furs. You nearly request he join you, though it is swallowed by the polite nod he sends to the girl who sits across the hall, watching with curious eyes.

“You have a good evening, my Lord.” You bid him, heart fluttering at the pearly soot of his gaze, at the warmth that leaves you as you take a step aside to gather yourself.

His eyes do indeed follow your movements, tracing the familiar bend of your spine from your peripheral.

“You as well, my lady.”

THE NIGHT BRINGS HOWLS OF WINTERTIDE.

And the morning reaps a chill that does not subsist from the core of your bones - even when you pace through the outer hall of the Great Keep, fingers tapping anxiously against the fabric of your skirts, cheeks sharpened by a flurry across the yard.

There is a great excitement that has stirred in your chest; some disbelief, tethered to the echo of men’s swords in the yard and of hushed whispers between bearded mouths in the halls - though as you recall Maester Kennet’s words written and delivered to your bedchambers late last evening after the feast, you cannot help but bite a smile back between your lips.

Schooling such girlish giddiness in the brunt of impending adversity, still your heart swells; a glance up the spiraled stones of the Keep’s exterior, you eye the grimed window of your Lord’s study with a huff of disbelief.

Maester Kennet informs you Lord Stark has accepted your request for private audience - just thirty minutes past your initial supplication - and so you begin to creep your way up the inner spirals of the structure, tracing the old stone with some newborn interest.

Your hands do not waver when they knock, though you’d hesitated just a breath when you’d made it to his study; Enter, you hear him call - ever practical in his deep tone; a flutter of affection blossoms, spring in the forest of your heart. You once again wipe your perspired palms along the length of your silvered cloak before heeding his beckon.

The long croak of the oaken door behind you drags against dilapidated stone; with a scratch, the hinge shuts and you slide into the warm chamber, blinded momentarily by wintering light.

Your lord looks up from his own desk and you trace your gaze along the outskirts of the study; a rather humble room, if the beauty of Winterfell’s castle could ever have such a thing - leatherbound histories, candles that once wept tallow, waxy tears now hardened into dots of bone upon his desk.

Lord Cregan indulges in his own sweeping glance over your figure wrapped in only lighter furs, your hands clasped and twisting before your dark dress.

“My lady,” he greets - a girlish tickle within your stomach spurs at the use of title, as though you’ve not bore it your whole life.

“My Lord, good morrow.” You greet, resisting a short rock upon your toes.

Cregan leans back in his chair, thighs spread as he wastes no words. “You awaited my acceptance from Maester Kennet,” He observes. At your nod, he continues, “You’ve no need to request an audience when you wish to speak with me. I’ve told you just as much before, have I not?”

Your smile, though faint, is genuine; you relieve yourself of the distance between you and Cregan, finding your seat with gentle grace just across him. You fix him with a glance, “And just as I’ve told you,” you echo, “-as long as you remain my lord, I shall remain mindful of your duties,” Your brow raises just so. “-Whether you wish it or not.” Your voice is rather coy, unable to contain the giddiness in your heart that arises, despite your maintained perplexion - the root of your visit to the Lord in the middle of the morning.

For half a moment, a flash of amusement upon Cregan’s lips at your familiar stubbornness; but then, he leans forward - large palms curling over the chair’s arms; you eye the worn wood enviously. “Of what do you wish to speak, then?”

You take a breath; a sweltering heat has begun to stir at the base of your neck - perhaps under the icy stare of the man before you, or the quick gallop of your heart within your chest; outside, the same whistling howl of winds that laces itself through the song of the hounds in the kennels below.

“I’m…” You shift after beginning, eyes flicking to the quill and ink well that lie abandoned beside him, letter halfway handscribed. A surprising bout of shyness you’ve been struck with under his attention, under the memory of the letter delivered to you last eve.

Your frown is one of far-off considerations, recalling the information that’d been served with your evening tea while you prepared for slumber last night, a syrupy sleepiness to your hands from the remnants of the feast’s mead; News, given by way of Maester Kennet’s handscript, informing you of your new station.

A twist of anticipation and determination; you level Lord Stark with eyes icier than his own.

“I suppose I’m rather surprised that you’ve appointed me to your council, my Lord.”

The truth is blunt - it feels relieving to rip it off your skin; and so you press on, watching the stern visage before you, wondering if you’ve ever noticed him looking at you without such tender absorption as you see now.

Your voice continues, strong. “-It’s uncommon for a woman to serve on the Warden’s council, unless she is the Lady of the House.” You fight to ignore the thunder of your heart at such a sentiment - you, Lady of the House - and add with a voice just as strong, “-and we both know I am no such thing.”

A call of raven outside; and a laugh bubbling off somewhere in the courtyard below, melting into a long howl of a hound in the kennels. Cregan watches you carefully, holding your gaze; moments pass under his stare, but you do not squirm - no, as always, you stare back.

“Would you not accept?” He wonders finally, tone rather unbiased - and for a brief moment, you believe his question is directed towards your latter sentence; a drop in your stomach, though you recover in a breath, swallowing thick.

You rush to deny it in your accidental hesitance. “-No, my Lord, I'm honored. It’s just rather…unexpected.”

The quiet looms, a cloud rolling over the morning sun; eclipsed in the backlit shadow of daylight by his frame, you begin to pick at the thread of your dress. A fine gown, hand-needled by your own hands just a fortnight ago.

And then, with a breath; his lips twitch ever so slightly - merely a brief uptick, but you know him. His stare, stark as the wintered sky as he nods curtly - you fight your own grin at the shift.

“You’ve a good mind for these matters,” his voice is even, face serious. “Some at my table will do well to learn from you.”

You let out a soft laugh, not particularly out of amusement but rather out of surprise at his words, heart stumbling. “I wasn’t aware you thought so highly of me.” You admit, though you both know this to be untrue.

His gaze doesn’t waver, and neither does his opinion. “I’ve always thought highly of you.”

The words lodge themselves true into your chest.

And yes, you’ve never been one to underestimate your own intellectual prowess, nor to shy away from an opportunity; though your mind still reels in befuddlement, and you press to hear more, to understand. “You have wiser men - those who served your father well before you.” You observe, tilting your head; a wintery sunbeam ices through the looser strands of your hair, and Cregan's grayed pools trace their colour in the sun.

“Aye,” He nods as his gaze returns to your own, “Your father is one of them.”

He is firm; an intimidation in his broad frame, the haloed bright of snowed refractions around his head. “Though it is not about who is wiser, nor who has served longer. It’s about knowing when to speak, and when to hold your peace. When to challenge me.” And Gods be good, his lips curve slightly; a whisper of a smile, some sweep of chilled wind over the face of a mountain.

Your heart stirs at his words, a rush of emotions that burst below your composed exterior. Memories of mulish disagreements, of sliding glares at his youthful visage and stubborn stomps of your foot. Your voice remains firm, though rather surprised. “Challenge you?” You echo with a small smirk.

“Aye,” he responds without hesitation. “Many lords surround themselves with voices that tend to echo their own thoughts. But you,” His gaze never leaves yours; pinned you remain, eyes unblinking against his, “-you will tell me what I must hear, even when it is hard. Will you not?”

Heat that blossoms over your cheeks as you nod at him - your throat is incredibly dry, “Yes, my lord.”

He hums, eyes in a brief flash over your sat figure before returning to you. “Good.”

And in the burgeoning moment, a pounding of your heart; you shift in your seat, flattered as a beam of wintered light graces the colour of your stare.

Your fingers still their nervous picking at your gown as you take a slow breath. “And if I do not always agree with you? If I say no, when you would rather hear yes?”

Cregan leans in just slightly. “I trust no other as I trust you. You'd not dare speak something you do not believe, simply because it pleased me.”

An absence of concern in your heart at his words, instead filling you with a fierce warmth that curls around the sweet ice coursing through your veins. “You have my word, Cregan. I will advise you as best I can when needed.”

His expression does not waver; though there is a flicker within his gaze. “I never doubted it.”

And then, a gust of breath from the heavens; a rattling gentle against thick pane of glass, though a chill still finds its tendrils in your bones when hard flakes of snow whirl against the exterior.

“The Southern company leaves this eve,” You observe, eyes glancing out the window, “It will do them well to set off before supper. Lest they become caught in the storm of Wintertide.” And then in your mind, an echo of lovely, sweet laughter; and a curl of unwanted envy at the woman behind the voice, a haunting within your own mind. You are plagued, it seems - thoughts of her kneeling before the weirwood, of his cloak round her shoulders.

“Aye,” Cregan's voice pulls you back, “We'll not hold meeting until they have left. House Cerwin’s host returns this eve, and I must attend to them.”

He rises, then - and you, with him, fingers clenched as you register his words informing you not with any air of casual discussion, but rather as a Lord does his vassal. You tamp a grin, nodding instead, following the warm guide of his hand hovered above your back towards the door.

“I will see you at my table on the morrow, my lady.” He promises when you turn back to him; with a rush of affection, you let yourself smile.

WIND WHISTLES BETWEEN NEEDLES OF PINE AND LEAVES OF OAK IN THE GODSWOOD.

A rather divine earth upon which you kneel, mind clear with the prayers you whisper to the heart before you.

It is growing cold, steadily these days - and though you have known the North your entire life, you rather forget how biting it can be when the afternoon snowfall comes.

You’ve seemed to have forgotten today, as well - your spine shivers just so, the cloak around your shoulders much too light for the tempest that has grown in the skies; flakes that kiss your braids and lick down your cheeks as you finish your intercession, eyes opening to meet the bleeding stare of the heart tree.

You choose to remain despite the frost that curls around your knees - and after a few moments of quiet, there are footsteps in the snow.

You know quite well the heavy drags of boots over the whitened crust of earth - a silence that echoes through the woods that you know can only be your Wolf.

He arrives, perhaps only moments before you register his presence; you had not known he had returned. With a thrill, you wonder if he came straight to you once crossing the gates back into Winterfell.

“My lord.” you greet, nodding as you feel his warmth behind you - and you can almost imagine the shake of his head at your knelt form.

“A northerner should know better than to come out in the cold without a proper cloak.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips, though you don’t yet turn from the tree before you. “The snow came after my prayers. I wasn’t unprepared.” You defend with a twitch of a smile - and then, just to your side, a leather glove extended for your grasp.

He pulls you to your feet with ease - and there you find Cregan, the low pool behind him echoing the breath of cloudy sky. His eyes are warm and knowing when you trace his irises with your own gaze.

Flakes continue, shed from the heavens; A white crown of winter falling upon his hair as he takes you in.

“I came to speak with you.” He says after the moment of quiet you allow; he drapes his thick outercloak upon your shoulders though you glance at him rather sheepishly at the gesture, second in nature in your long years of companionship.

It is remiss that your first few days appointed in the new station has seen a lack of advisory; alas, Cregan has finally returned after two days with Lord Cerwin and his host, and you will adjoin this evening for strategy.

“I thought as much,” your voice is soft; perhaps residual from your prayers whispered into the listening quiet of the Godswood. “Of what do you wish to speak, my lord?” There is indeed much to discuss now that the company has left Winterfell - winter comes soon enough, and the Wall indeed calls for your Lord’s visit.

His voice is only rougher as though the words take a coaxing to admit, “Before you were appointed, the lords at my table…” he begins, and your brow lifts as he stares ahead to the tree. “they spoke of a match.”

Your heart stills; you turn to face him fully, swallowing the dip in your stomach. “A match?” you repeat.

“Aye,” he confirms, “the Southern Lords proposed I take one of their daughters to wed,” He is rather impartial in tone. “Though my men… they advise I take a bride from the North.”

Perhaps it would be more of a surprise to you, had you not spent the better part of your freetime pressing ears to the council doors; indeed you are familiar with the pressure upon Cregan to take a wife.

“And…” you begin carefully, “Will you wed the Southern Rose?”

His jaw clenches; a flutter of flakes against skin though his gaze still holds you with an intensity to make your blood hum; “I denied betrothal to her,” he murmurs, breath puffing in a soft cloud of mist against thicker snowfall; he grows more quiet, then, and it stirs in your chest. “Though as for the proposal set before me by the men of my hall…” He pauses just briefly, and you blink snowflakes from your lashes. “It was not something I rejected.”

A sacred stillness; a raw breath from you as the implication of his words hit you - here, in the Godswood, before the heart tree.

The cloak he’s brought, wrapped around your shoulders, warming your chilled flesh; a kiss of sage and leather as you watch his visage - patient, waiting. Devoted.

A breath puffs from your lips in exhale.

“You speak of me,” you whisper; his eyes remain on yours, anchored to the press of your teeth into your bottom lip.

“Aye.” His response is firm, evergreen, rooted. “I speak of you.”

The trees of the Godswood whisper in that quiet way they can; breaths of creeping air that lived long before your ancestors were here. They watch you, how your fingers curl tighter into Cregan’s cloak - how your veins pump with the same blood that runs through his own. You had known this was a possibility - hints from your father’s mulling eyes as you and the Lord had returned from sparring lessons, cheeks winded and amusement laced into small glances and brushes of arms.

There is a long yearning affection that burns in your heart when you glance back up at his looming height, a small smile teasing your lips. Perhaps, as your fingers brush over heavy fur, you seek to cut through the thick silence which has found you tense with anticipation.

“Well,” you begin lightly, hoping to mask the tremor in your voice, “I suppose you would not be the worst choice for a husband, Lord Stark.”

Cregan’s brow lifts slightly at your words - and a flick of amusement swallowed by a softening; he does not brush off your words with the same playful jest you offer. A step towards you, a hand seeking your own, leather against worn leather. A hollow gust of wind across the gulley of pine to the side of you, and a red bloodleaf falls to your boots.

“I hope,” he says slowly, eyes anchored on his thumb across your knuckles. “to be the best I can be.” he continues, his voice unwavering as snow dusts his hair, his cloak.

You can only nod through a thick swallow, heart thundering. “You could never be anything less.” You ensure him. His lips part, pink against the light of afternoon; warmth spreads through your chest as his tongue wettens them just so under your watchful gaze.

“You’ve spent your life here,” he murmurs, “The North is in your blood as it is mine - Winterfell has always been yours.”

Cold, which nips at your skin and aches your bones - it is so distant now. Now, when his breath plumes between you gently. Now, as your hand squeezes his own, even faintly; Now, in a smile that you must bite back as your mind floats, his words rooting into your heart.

You grin, and it’s softer now. “You make it sound as though it’s already decided.”

Cregan’s broad form towers over you as he leans - though an effective protection from the wintered wind, you feel a shiver down your spine. “I would not presume to decide such things without your consent,” he ensures, “But the thought of another standing beside me… it has never felt right.”

And perhaps, then, he’s always known of your yearning - for how could you not know so familiar the face which looks you back in the mirror, whose heart bleeds your own blood; to know is to love, perhaps. You smile, your other hand falling onto his chest - beneath thick furs, beneath leather and tunic, a heart beats strong.

A palm, large and calloused as it graces over your cheek; you press involuntarily into his burgeoning warmth, a small smile upon your lips. “It is a good thing I suppose, that I could not imagine leaving Winterfell.” You admit - and then, fixing him with that same intent stare he brings to you: “I will marry you, Cregan.”

His breath, stuttering only momentarily as his eyes search your own - and then, a clear of his throat. “Then it will be settled,” his thumb lingers against your cheek, his touch warm against the cold that swirls - and it is more than what you'd wished for your whole life; after all, the Threnody would chase you right back to Cregan if you'd gone anywhere else.

“I will be yours, my lady.”

THE HOWL OF THE THRENODY IS A NEAR SONG ON THE DAY OF YOUR WEDDING.

The tub has been placed rather precariously aside the larger of windows awarded to your chambers; you sit in the smoldering heat of the bath, tendrils of oiled steam snaking up and curling into fog at the corners of your vision.

Outside, scarce birds chirp - a morning early enough, although in this sharp of wintercoming the creatures prefer to retreat to their nests as you stir in your own, sighing away a small dreamy breath.

It has been five and a half moons since your betrothal; your eyes flicker with a bout of excitement over to the wardrobe across the way, wherein hangs your gown and maidencloak awaiting your presence later this afternoon.

A smile unbounded, you press palms to your cheeks, attempting to cool them under the thought of what will come tonight. The handmaids have been asked away; a peculiar request from you, but you wish to enjoy a moment of serenity before you begin the day’s preparations - of which there are many - and you worry they will scarce find a moment to eat and enjoy themselves before they are tasked with your hair and your body.

It snows only in the way trees shake dust from their bones - a heavier pile of white which burdens lower limbs, and you watch the ground of powder stir when it is imbued by the weight.

Winter is near; words for so long, though now, it is true. And a fine day it is, the Gods have blessed you and Cregan - but indeed, the last of the alpine flowers have curled around a layer of frost, the lakes and ponds have crusted into flat planes thick of ice. Threnody, its whistling song in the dead of night, beckons - winter comes, and the North is prepared.

A hand falls submerged in the bathwater and you lift it once more with a stinged gasp; the skin over your middle knuckle is cracked and near raw. Maester Kennet administered a salve to it daily since your return with Cregan, Lord Cerwin, and your father - a weekslong trip to oversee the fortification of supply lines in the coming of winter’s harsh brunt.

Split skin, cracked by the iced wind; and a warm palm to hold you, lips brushed over the top of your temples in a murmur. Your cheeks burn hotter than the bathwater enveloping you; Cregan.

And true that when you lie in your lone bed each evening, plagued with an aching and catch-of-breaths that find you after the memories of chapped lips brushing your own, firmly tender touches that are more fleeting than they are anything else. When you are plagued with such thoughts, you truly think it had all been so much simpler before the betrothal.

Simpler; glances across halls - stolen moments while he’d chide to you in lessons, quiet words in the library or prideful smirks during a hunt in the Wolfswood. Anticipation is a torturous excitement, perhaps - his hands, you used to wonder - how would they feel against you?

And you know now - how they hold your cheeks, caress your shoulder, your back; you know, yet you must wait to let them truly hold you, to truly touch you how you so desire.

A sweet torture, restraint has become. Touches, kisses - far too brief, far too constrained. Your gaze falls upon the stain of red through the Godswood outside, your stomach turning with anticipation, with hunger.

And yet, the day advances.

A knock at your quarters starts you just slightly, clearing your throat as your head turns to the door. A stare at the oak, wondering if the doors to your marital chambers will look so similar as these.

The oils of mountain thyme and coltsfoot bead upon your skin when you sit upwards slightly, wondering aloud who awaits behind the door.

“-It is me, my lady.”

Not your handmaidens yet, it seems - Cregan’s voice jumps your heart into a gallop.

With a flush, you press your lips together, grasping the edge of the tub to rise from the tendrils of steam - the bleeding bundle of leaves which hemorrhage the treeline in the distance abandoned.

Perhaps only now, as you pad over thick furs upon stone to reach your robe, do you wish you’d allowed your handmaids to remain with you; if only to aid you with some slip that is less revealing than the thin satin you slip on. The stone beneath your feet is warm; you bite your lip gently.

“Come.” You call; only a breath before the oaken creaking reaches your ears - you’ve pushed your hair back, droplets of oiled bathwater cascading down your temple, over the edge of your chin, kissing the skin of your chest exposed with the loose robe you tie.

Perhaps you should better ensure your modesty - though by nightfall he will be yours, and you his. What difference does it make now, to let him see you?

Cregan’s frame is backlit by the corridor; a broad figure, ducked only slightly in such tall stature, shoulders brushing the stone sides of the frame - your eyes meet, though swiftly he averts his gaze, turning his head rather sharp as his chest shutters only slightly.

“My apologies.” His voice holds some tight restraint; you have no power to stop the warmth that spreads upon you at his tone, some hint of arousal at the drop in timbre. “I did not realize…” He trails off, lingering in the doorway - a glint of amber over his dark hair and you swallow a flustered giggle before it can escape your parted lips. “I will return when you are not occupied.” He decides.

You interrupt gently, shaking your head as your fingers press to your damp palms; an earnest hope he will not leave, now when he’s already here. “There’s no need to apologize,” you gesture to the table and chairs beside the hearth. “You may stay, Cregan. Please.”

His gaze does not return to you yet; palms, large and calloused with life and labor - you press your thighs together in a momentary weakness as your eyes trace over thick forearms that remove a thick fur cloak, dragging over veins which swim up skin kissed by afternoon light.

A quiet grunt when he sits himself in the chair, thighs spreading as his eyes finally meet your figure once more - gray as the clouded heavens, penetrating as you cross the room to follow him; how those eyes follow the trail of damp water droplets slipping beneath your robe’s loose collar - how they find the rivulets that slide down the bare of your thighs, dripping just slightly onto the stone beneath you. A heat in your cheeks, spreading low over your neck, chest - and lower more, as you find yourself before him, waiting for his eyes to flick up to your own.

Your chambers in Winterfell have always been much too large in your opinion, for just one woman - though they hold a most divine view of the Godswood; now, the room is impossibly small with the frame of him, silent, watching you slide into the chair across him.

“Does something trouble you, Cregan?” You wonder finally, searching the face drawn by a stern brow, how his jaw flexes at your question.

A half-shake of head; a beam of light once again has found his face, an ethereal sight of such a man softened by the wintered sun. He hums, “I came to…” He pauses momentarily, as though struggling to find his words; his eyes once more wavering as a bead of water slides down your damp leg. His eyes flick back to you, swallowing, “I came to ensure this marriage is not being forced upon you.”

A startle from you; though spoken with a lilt of care, such blunt words hit you rather suddenly, and your heart pangs. He does not see how you crave him, even after these last moons? How your cheeks grow hot under his attention, how your arm laces through his when he walks you to your chambers after meetings - how your lips seek his own in every darkened corridor you might scarcely find?

How you return your affections for him each time he murmurs them into your ear in solitude - how you have loved him since long before there was such a word?

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.” Your voice does not hesitate; neither does your heart. His eyes, so dark in the yards of Winterfell, so bright by light of your solitary quarters; though he does not respond for a brief moment, and in the silence you grow concerned.

“Cregan,” your voice is soft as you lean forward just so. “Do you want this?”

He blinks at that - daring to be surprised by the question - and for a moment, as his lips part, no sound comes out. The hesitation upon his breath strikes your heart; faint doubt lingers in your chest.

“I’ve thought about it long before the idea was brought to me.” He admits; a deep tone, eyes fixed upon yours as he murmurs. “Before it became a matter of duty,” his gaze is as steadfast as the words which fall from his pink lips, “I wanted you.”

The breath upon your lips hitch; a warmth that sprouts within your heart begins to spread, against the wide windows behind you, against the man who sits with knees nearly touching your own.

Tonight, you will meet him under the leaved arms of your ancestors; of those haunted, ancient spirits which call to you in the wind, who blow the Threnody through sharp ravines, who watch you with solemn edict. You will whisper words that have waited upon your tongue for years - he will drape his cloak upon you, and you will taste his faith when your lips find his own under the sight of the Old Gods.

Dark, his hair blows gently in the quiet of his breath - and perhaps struck by the sheer beauty of the North within him, that steadfast stare cooling the heat upon your skin - you rise from your chair.

His eyes, a hawk; they watch you, head tilting back as you rise to stand before him, your palm gracing his arm; a tinge of pink that creeps over his countenance, a low snowcloud over the breath of dawn upon his cheeks.

Under your palm are the thick muscles of his bicep; and a heat, one from his skin through the tunic, melting you just the same as his own breath catches. No hesitance from him at your boldness - instead a large, warm palm comes to cup the back of your thigh as you stand before him; and a thumb that traces over the goosepimples that grow at his touch.

A slide upwards and over his shoulder - your breath quiet, nearing labored as a rising growth of hunger stirs in you. Your eyes catch the armoire across the way, where you know your wedding gown awaits; the material gentle, lined with fur and coloured the refraction of cloud and snow - and wolves, silver and embossed with the darker patterns of your own house sigil.

The thought stokes your mounting desire for Cregan; your hand slides along the thick warmth of his neck, turning to cup his jaw. Rough stubble which catches on the soft of your palm when your thumb strokes his cheekbone; and eyes, those dark lashes, fluttering only slightly when he blinks up at you - silent, waiting.

You do not make your lord wait much longer.

“Cregan,” you whisper, eyes finding some wonderfully reflective taste of devotion laced through his own stormed gaze, and your breath falls with your confession. “I have long wanted you. I wish not to wait anymore.”

His chest moves with a breath - and in lieu of words, a calloused hand wraps around your spare hand, pulling it towards his own shoulder; guiding you.

With hot cheeks, you allow it - his breath is warm as it hits your cheek, though you gasp when his hands move once more with a gentle motion towards his lap.

You stumble slightly against his powered tug; knees, knocking together as you’re drawn upon his lap - and a small, breathy laugh from your lips. Some flutter of anticipation within you as his own hands come to steady you, taking in your flushed cheeks as he holds you firm atop him, steadying you with a hint of a smile ghosting his visage.

Gods - you’re close to him, now; closer than you have ever been. And his clothing, fine and smelling of sage, is warm against your robed figure - intoxicating.

“We need not wait much longer,” He murmurs now, “We’re to marry tonight.”

As if you’d not been aware - a smile grows on your face as you shake your head. “Yet it seems so very far away.” You sigh. His eyes do not waver; and in a passing moment, a bird calls outside.

Longing falls in puffs of breath from Cregan’s wanting lips; drank in and breathed back out by your own, you shift only slightly, feeling the stutter of his breath, how his chest brushes your own with each inhale.

You both simply stare - allowed, finally, to enjoy the arresting starkness of beauty laced through your veins and his own, that sturdy, hardy northern resolve that persists in the truest of souls.

Outside, there are preparations; household members prepare the hall - polishing the long trestle tables, setting goblets and trays. Cooks prepare a feast in the kitchens - garlands of evergreen and coltsfoot lifted to archways, Maester Kennet gathers texts and prepares the ceremony.

The skies are calm, low swirls of snow-caught breaths fluttering up and down when boots fall upon the ground. Outside, the sun bleeds its love unto the harder layer of snow fallen during the eve previous - and you will follow that path, that leads out to the Godswood tonight.

“You’ll have all of me soon enough,” He promises - and the tone; a deep stirring within you.

Your eyes fall to the man you’ve known for your better life; and still he watches you, hands firm and unyielding, gaze quite the same, melted only by the breaths that come from your lips and caress his own. Love, held in communal - that is what you feel when his hand slowly slides up the ridges of your spine, his chin tilting up to where yours begins to fall, as if called upon by the same spirits.

And slowly, shyly - as if you do not know Cregan as you know yourself, as if you do not know how he breathes, how he speaks, how he is - you lean forward.

His eyes flutter closed just as your own do, his fingers flexing against your waist.

The kiss that comes is nearly tentative; gentle as it is, it still shoots through you, a deep warmth and need when his mouth presses, a test against your own. Your fingers curl, of their own volition searching nape of neck, strands dark of hair.

His own hands, one sliding up your spine, thick arm circling you, pulling you into his orbit - and the other, resting where your hip meets the breath of thigh; a thumb, pressing just so into the divot, curling around the top of your backside, warm against the thin of your robe. Heat surrounds you when you pull away just a bit, your breaths mixing, eyes opening to flicker between each other.

And he pulls you back to him once more, a small hum in his throat when his lips slide to part against your own. Gods - you shiver, hands grasping the thick muscled frame of his shoulder and neck, shifting to press up into him, chasing that tingling chill of hunger.

Perhaps it is when you shift upon his lap once more, growing hot in your burgeoning desire - or perhaps when his tongue slides against your lip and you part them, coaxing him into you; he tenses, then, pulling back as muscles fall rigid under your hungry palms.

Your fingers trace the rapid beat of his heart beneath his skin. A teasing tug upon your lips, exhilarated at the blush that’s grown across his cheeks. “Have I made you nervous, Cregan?” your lips brush, tantalizing against his.

Cregan’s hand tightens slightly on your waist, the other reaching up to cup the side of your face; his palm dwarfs your visage, thumb brushing along your cheek before pressing against the soft flesh under your jaw, coaxing you to look up just so.

“No,” he says, though his voice has muffled itself as he brings his lips to the soft patch of skin against your throat, lips ghosting your own pounding heartbeat. Shivers of arousal through you; and a near growl as he hums, “though you have made me an impatient man.”

A thrill through you at his words - an admission rather echoed by your own sentiments, you nearly let out a small mewl at the aching desire gathering between your thighs.

And as his teeth scrape over the junction of your neck, you tug him gently back to look at you- a dark gaze, clouded by the anticipation of your coming union, of the coming night that will be spent within each other’s arms, finally. A sunbeam wintered and frosted across his chest and yours; they rise and fall together in your shared breaths of desire.

It’s hungry, eager when your lips once again find each other - noses sliding against each other, a sigh into your mouth. Cregan’s palms paw at your waist; and as you’re pulled tighter against his sturdy chest, the feel of his body hard beneath you sends a shiver of anticipation.

His hair is silken under your fingers; tugging gently as you deepen your embrace, Cregan lets out a short groan into your mouth. The sound vibrates through you - an ache of arousal that bleeds through each layer of skin, clothing, tissue that separates your soul from his own. His own grip grows rather impatient when your hips seek more of such a feeling; a raw, urgent indulgence, your mind reminds you there is still a wedding to be had - that you will need to prepare for it very soon.

The press of lips, a hot, open-mouthed trail down your jaw, your neck - and you gasp softly, your body arching into his palms. “Cregan,” your voice is a near whimper, some unspoken plea as you shift upon his lap once more.

A grunt, his lips pulling back from your flushed flesh - and a puff of air and a tightened grip to hold you against him as he murmurs.

“You test me, woman.”

It is a valiant effort on your part to resist a grin at the desperation laced through his breathy grunt - though you simply hum, smiling sharply. A thrill of need - breaths fall fast from your lips, spurred by the arousal that grows within his own dark stare. “Do I?” You wonder - and a stern look no more than teasing upon his visage, lips glossy with your previous kiss.

“Every day of my life.” He grunts, then - a low tremor of restraint that begins to break with a tempered softness he holds only for you. “You know what you do.” He murmurs upon your lips, large palms reaching the expanse of your back, tugging you into him.

With a flutter, you admit, “I do.” And how very close you are to giving in; to wait until this eve seems torture when you could simply ask him to take you right here, right now. A glance of heat between you and your soon to be husband - his breath falling upon your lips. “And do you know what you do, Cregan?” You wonder, a static of hunger spurring your hand to catch his wrist in your own grasp.

Eyes watch with hawkish interest when you guide his hand lower, lower - he drags his rough palm over the downy satin of your robe, swallowing thickly as you press his hand the the warm, damp skin of your upper thigh. His breath is hitched - perhaps given up on a response, or rendered unable to from the heat of your flesh upon his own.

A whisper of a curse, perhaps upon his lips - his eyes break from yours, the mountainous frame of his shoulders under your palm. It seems he has finished speaking with you - a tension has snapped, the final thread pulled; and though he teases you with a light kiss now, his fingers - they are not so patient.

A trail - one previously led by you as you’d tugged his palm to your thigh - is slow, achingly so as his fingers slip under the hem of your robe. Your breath hitches, now - and he, with a rumbled voice: “Tell me. Tell me what feels good.”

Shivers of arousal send your spine curling to seek his warmth; your hips buck just so, feeling the length of his own hunger press deliciously into you. “Cregan,” You can only murmur, and his head tilts just so. A tease - a gentle one at that, but still what you’d not expected; indeed it sends jolts of desire through your body when he hums, fingers digging just lightly into your thigh.

“Use your words, my lady,” His voice orders you, though there is some desperation in his wanting tone, “I’ll not move until you tell me what it is you desire.”

You've waited much too long for him to stop now, to duck and retreat merely from some pious embarrassment; and in your bout of shivered hunger, you groan. “Touch me, Cregan.” And, perhaps as a last-ditch hope he will indeed understand the extent of your desire, “I’ll do anything.”

A guttural sound escapes from Cregan's throat - the growl of a wolf, the howl of wind through a valley; and his lips brush over your jaw teasingly soft, as if savoring the power he’s found over you despite the strain of his own hunger. He says nothing, heeding rather quickly to your request.

Sharp gasps from you in succession when his thumb slowly presses over the pooled heat - a stolen breath or two before you let out a quiet moan, hips instinctively bucking into Cregan’s touch.

“Easy,” And his voice is no more than a whisper, some tender coaxing as his other hand steadies your hips, drawing you into the slow-burning torturous circles he draws with his finger. It is indeed a sensation you’ve tried to explore yourself on many restless nights in these very chambers - but his fingers sturdier, calloused, gentle - and his presence, warm and loving against the bright of day.

It is wholly too much and not enough at once, and when he shushes you gently against your lips, a shiver thrills down your spine.

Your hands grasp at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto as the pleasure slowly burns through you - his fingers explore you, your molten heat; and his lips press warm and insistent upon yours. A slip into the depths of him; some choice warranted only by breath of desire, by the knowledge that come this evening he will be your husband and you his wife.

His forehead falls against your own, breath uneven as you slowly buck your hips, letting his other hand guide you in a motion that sends pleasure curling around the tips of your fingers. “Wife.”

The word spurs you; with a jolt you whimper into him, voice breaking desperately as you keen into his large palm. Your lips find the thick column of his neck - a warm smell, saged and spiced; your teeth grazing along the beat of heart upon his throat, a grumble low in his chest.

“Husband,” You respond, though the word is strangled as one finger, dragging through your molten heat, prods at the entrance of you; with a gasp, you whimper, “please, please.”

He hums, shifting only slightly beneath you; a whimper from you as the heel of his hand presses deliciously onto your swollen bud, tensing your thighs as you swallow dryly.

“My sweet wife,” He repeats, brows drawn as his eyes rove over the exposed flesh revealed from your loose robe, “Tell me, how does this feel?”

Your eyes pitch back, hair tangling in his grip around your back as you shiver, his hand pressing into your cunt - “Good,” You respond pathetically, unable to formulate any semblance of reflection when you begin to see spots of pleasure in your vision; your fingers sliding to grasp at his neck, at his hair. “I’d- I’d like more,” Your face burns at the meekness of your own tone; only in the girlish fantasies, in dreams of Cregan climbing to share your bed under a heap of furs, have you allowed yourself to consider such things falling from his mouth.

A kiss to your throat, the nip of teeth gentle against your jaw. Perhaps, if you were any less enraptured with the thrill of his touch, you’d feel the small smirk that presses against your throat.

His breath is warm, though you nearly jolt as one finger presses slowly, languidly into you; you keen as he groans, feeling your tight warmth envelop him.

A very slow torment as he begins to move his fingers against you - you’ve grown rather speechless in pleasure. Eyes lidded, cheeks hot, lips parted as you watch him; and he nods smally, murmuring, “-Is this what you needed?”

A kiss to your lips, silencing any broken response that attempts to fall from your hungry mouth, fingers curling to fist his tunic as slowly, another finger joins his first.

His other hand, a strong grasp - he guides your hips in a slow roll that leaves you both breathless and gasping, your slow peak building after only a few moments.

Once again, his forehead falls against yours; the uneven stutter of his breath falls against your skin as he watches you intently, eyes gauging every sound you make, each furrow of your brow in pleasure as he takes you apart. “You mustn't-” You swallow, unused to your voice laced with such desperate pleasure, “-you mustn't dare stop,”

He dares to chuckle against your throat - a brief vibration as fingers press deeper into you, reaching the spot within that has your eyes rolling to the ceiling; you’re suddenly staring at him wide-eyed as his thumb finds your clit, and with a near whimper, you buck your hips.

And then he pulls back slightly, his eyes locking with yours - his thumb still lazily circles over you, pushing you closer to the precipice with every pulse of heat. His countenance is more gentle, though he watches your body keen into his touch with brows furrowed and a strong inhale.

“Tonight,” He murmurs, thumb stroking excruciating strokes over you, “I will take you as my wife, and you will take me as your husband.”

You’re nearing the very edge of bliss, muscles rigid, his voice low and thick as you buck against him. “We will finally have each other. Completely.” He promises, his stormed eyes never leaving yours. It mounts such pleasure; your eyes flicker to the armoire, wondering how he might use his strength later this evening to rid you of the gown’s intricacies; how his touch might burn you - how your touch might burn him.

How he might sound, as he finally pushes inside of you - taking you, as you’ve so yearned for him to; how you might one day be gifted by the Gods and swollen with his babe, round and glowing. How he might give you many children, and they will be rooted with the same fierce durability, same gentleness, the same love their parents have forged their whole lives.

Shivers down your spine as Cregan’s hand cants your jaw to face him once more, cradling your flushed cheek as his fingers take you apart so easily - so intimately, so knowing.

How could it ever be anybody else?

And that gentleness, so at odds with the raw need in his touch, so known by you - he, so known by you - each slow stroke of his fingers within you, dragging pleasure in waves. He says your name and it echoes in the pounding of your heart.

“Tonight, I will make certain that you feel all of me.”

You’re helpless at the pleasure he’s built - his thumb moves with a maddening precision as you clutch him, sage and pine and wildflowers and love; your lips part with a moan, the last threads of control loose.

“Do you wish for that?” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just slightly harder, sending a fresh wave of heat through you as you desperately try to stave off your crest if only in hopes he will never cease the words that fall from his honeyed lips. “Have you yearned for it, every night as I have?”

You are unable to respond as his words and ministrations bring you to your crest of pleasure, shuttering as your body bends into your peak. He grunts when your hand tugs at his tresses; though his hand does not cease as your cunt clenches around him, pleasure swirling and clouding your mind. “Yes,” you moan out finally, ecstasy pulsing through you as his lips trail over your jaw with jagged breaths.

His name, pressed from your lips into his heated skin as he guides you slowly through your wave. “Cregan,” You exhale breathlessly, lips pressing to his skin as you begin to fall from your peak, aftershocks tremoring through you.

His hand, leaving your hip to soothe up your spine - and an awakening of hunger when he presses you against the hard line of his own arousal; a shiver at the craving hunger it awakes within you.

Your legs have lost their tight rigidity; you are rather slumped within his grasp, the afterwave of your peak rendering you rather sensitive. His fingers slide out of you slowly, and you watch with parted lips as he brings his hand between your heaving chests.

A hunger rekindled when his fingers slide past his own lips, a grunt as he tastes you upon his tongue; and a whimper from yourself involuntary and helpless, unable to do anything more than pant in desire. He must see the hidden desire, as he grows merciful - with a slow motion he drags his thumb, to you - and slicked with yourself, over your bottom lip.

Your taste on your own tongue - earthy, mountain thyme and desire - sends a shiver of unknown desire through you - never in your darkest, impurest desires could you have imagined Cregan here, as he presses his thumb past your parted lips and upon the flat of your tongue. You stir against him and his breath hitches; a promise of the eve to come as he pulls his hand away from you.

It is upon his lap, with his arms around the bend of your spine, that you rest - within the heart of Winterfell’s castle come clangings, shouts of merriment as the beginning of the celebrations are set.

Your cheek upon his shoulder, his head against yours as you both relish the small bit of solitude you’ll have before you rejoin finally within your marital chambers this evening.

And, as it came, the day advances once more.

Your heartbeats have slowed, though his arousal is a present reminder pressed against the soft of your inner thigh; he presses his lips to your temple, emitting a reluctant sigh.

“I regret to leave you.”

You knew it would come; though you mind not, for in only a few hours, you will be with him once more.

“-but there are preparations yet to be made.” His fingers trace a gentle path along your neck - similar in devotion and exploration as the one you trail over his sturdy chest.

A playful thought crosses your mind as you consider him returning to his own chambers to prepare for your wedding: “Will you be shaving before the wedding, my Lord?”

Cregan's brow arches - perhaps at your use of his title or the question itself, as he inquires in response, “Would you prefer I do?”

You beam at him, cheeks heating in memory of the first time he’d asked you if you’d prefer he shave: No older than ten-and-four, when he’d returned from the Wall with his Lord father and you’d faked horror at the sight of the stubble gracing his young visage for the first time. He’d not listened to you then, though you were rather boisterous and impressionable as a young girl.

Much has changed.

“Yes,” You decide after a moment. He grins at you and it sends your heart into a race, his hand pulling your inner wrist up to his lips.

“Then it is done,” He decides, stubble tickling your soft skin as he presses a chaste kiss to your wrist. “I will call your handmaids back, if you wish.”

A gentle nod from you and he presses a kiss to your warm cheek, returning to his full height and setting your rather unstable legs onto the stone floor.

“I will see you this eve, my love.” he promises; your heart flutters at the term.

And after one last kiss to your knuckles, you watch him shut the oak doors of your chambers - the wind howls down the slopes outside, though Winterfell shines cold and unstirred. In the distance, the bleeding leaves of the heart tree shimmer, spreading a warmth through your chest as you slowly ease yourself back into the tub, waiting for the maidens to return and begin the preparations.

Birds chirp outside; there is already a new signet and silver wax prepared and sitting upon your desk - it boasts the sigil of the Direwolf. It is forever yours.

taglist/moots ; @softspiderling @cregan-starks @useralba @dipperscavern @benjinotes @earth4angels @nightfyres @astrxq @oldtowrs @ficlovegirlie @sanzuandmikey @dozcan123 @inkandarsenic @writtenapoiogy @vee-mage @xxselenite @cregnstark @princessvelaryon @princessbellecerise @hxtd @divinesolas @bucksplum @manhandlememando @housetargaryenloyalist @v3lary0ns

#idk what this was #sorry #cregan stark smut #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #cregan x reader smut #hotd x reader #hotd imagine #hotd smut

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starmapz · 1 day

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❝ in which ryomen sukuna surprises you on your birthday ❞ ❦ cw ; gn!reader. fluff. ❦ words ; 478

masterlist

The King of Curses doesn’t make himself easy to love, but it comes easily to you.

Although he makes it clear he loves you in his own somewhat twisted way, you don’t expect from him what you would from a more traditional partner. You don’t expect him to handle chores around the estate (though he’s begrudging that you do any to begin with), you don’t expect him to tell you about his day and make small talk before bed.

You certainly don’t expect him to celebrate human traditions like birthdays, especially when he doesn’t celebrate his own. He won’t even tell you when it is.

So when he requests your presence in his chambers, what you don’t expect is for the big bad king to be holding a small plate with a pastry in one hand and a long velvet box in the other.

Blinking in surprise, you approach him slowly, eyeing him curiously. “What’s this for?”

“It is your birthday, dove.”

You could laugh at just how uncharacteristically soft this all is for him, but what does make you laugh is the way he practically shoves the gifts towards you. Sukuna’s gifted things to you before, but they’re generally robes or practical items for around the estate.

Setting the plate aside momentarily, you gingerly open the velvet box, eyes widening at the sight of a necklace you’d eyed several months ago while perusing a market. Sukuna had ushered you along, seemingly too busy to pay mind to the necklace you had your eyes on, but it seemed that wasn’t the case.

“You went back for it?” You gasp in disbelief. He doesn’t say a word, four crimson eyes trained on you with a neutral expression as he observes your reaction. “Thank you, Kuna, it’s beautiful. I didn’t know you saw me looking at this.”

“I am always paying attention to you.”

You smile up at him, reaching forward to wrap your arms around the column of his neck as you press a cheerful kiss to his lips. Four strong arms wrap around your torso on instinct as you approach him, the tips of his fingers gripping you tightly.

You may not expect from Sukuna what you would from a traditional partner, but as he fiddles with the tiny clasp of the necklace with a frustrated grunt, you know that he cares. He shows his love through the little things, like not breaking the clasp in his frustration to open it as you giggle at the King.

When it finally sits around your neck, Sukuna huffs, but a rare tender adoration swirls in his sharp eyes as he admires you, adorned with a gift he got you for your birthday. His lips twitch up into a smirk as you grin, one more sign that although he may not say it aloud, Sukuna is hopelessly in love with you.

masterlist

❦ a/n ; a lil gift to myself for my birthday :) enjoy!

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mirisss · 21 hours

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SKZ reaction to their s/o being a loud introvert (ISTP)

SKZ x gn! ISTP reader

Thank you so much for the request 🐹! I hope you and everyone else enjoy it!

I tried to write as best as I could and I hope I did it justice.

I also apologize for switching POV/writing style in the middle of this but for some reason it felt better writing these two styles for the different reactions.

Warnings: None I think, maybe a slight mention of shyness, possibly a bit of anxiety if you squint.

Wordcount ≈ 1k

Bang Chan, Changbin, Felix, Han

These four would find it adorable that their s/o was comfortable enough around them to just act however they wanted to. When around strangers (Y/n) would be more quiet, keeping close to their boyfriend, and anxious about meeting new people. However, when it was just (Y/n) and Chan/Binnie/Felix/Han or maybe the other boys around, (Y/n) would be loud and outgoing, feeling safe and comfortable in their presence. Chan/Binnie/Felix/Han all felt their hearts swell with pride and love as they knew they were a safe space for their s/o, just as (Y/n) was for them.

Han related so much to how (Y/n) acts as they are quite similar personality-wise, so he understands why they sometimes don’t talk as they usually would if someone new is around or if there’s a large group of people. Though he loves that both he and (Y/n) can be outgoing and loud with each other, while it might be harder once the two are out alone as both are introverted, usually Han finds some courage in himself to be the more extroverted one but sometimes (Y/n) is the one to do that. No matter who is the more extroverted one, they both need the other to stand close by, holding their hand, so they don’t have to do it all on their own.

Changbin loves to talk and do things, he’s not afraid to make a fool of himself so he loves it when (Y/n) can act silly with him, whenever they are out and (Y/n) goes into quiet introvert mode, Changbin is their number 1 protector, always observing their body language and the second he sees them being uncomfortable, he’s picking up his jacket, ready to leave.

Felix might be an extrovert but many times he’s quite calm, compared to some others in his group, but with (Y/n) he always matches their energy, ready to be whatever they need. If (Y/n) needs him to be super energetic and bouncing off the walls with them, he’ll do it, if (Y/n) needs some quiet time just cuddling and watching a movie, he’s on the couch with open arms ready for a movie marathon. He loves the moments when they’re being silly and loud together but as physical touch and quality time is a big thing for him as well, he truly cherishes their quiet time.

Chan is a combination of all three boys above, he is a man who will do everything he can to make sure his s/o is safe, comfortable, and happy, so if that means (Y/n) distracting him from work sometimes with random conversations or sudden exclamations, or him being the one to make every phone call for (Y/n), he doesn’t mind it. As long as he gets to be with you, he’s happy to do anything.

Minho, Seungmin, Hyunjin, Jeongin

These four are wildcards, sometimes you can’t keep them quiet, and other times they’ll just be sitting in the chaos observing the world around them. So having a s/o that is similar to them but also often quite loud when it’s just the two of them or when they are around friends they feel safe with, is shocking at times. It’s easy to forget that your s/o is an introvert when they have been screaming song into the mic at the karaoke for the last 2 hours without a care in the world, but then they are reminded of the introvert they love as they are too shy to order a drink on their own.

Minho thinks it’s kind of cute and fits well with him, he’s often laid back, preferring to observe the chaos rather than participate in it, a man who loves doing acts of service so ordering a drink for you is just the perfect way for him to show his love for you. Seungmin is similar to Minho when it comes to the acts of service, of course, he’ll sing a song with you, oh you wanna sing it in a silly way, of course, he’ll do that, you want an iced tea and you’re too scared to order it on your own, he’s on it, he’ll even throw in an order for a dessert for you.

Hyunjin doesn’t understand where you find the energy to run around chasing Han throughout the dorm as you both laugh loudly, he isn’t even sure how this chase started but he will sit on the couch, smiling to himself as he sees the wide smile and the sparkle in your eyes, he loves seeing you like this, just living your best life, and then once you’ve calmed down a little, you go over to him, sitting down in his lap as he wraps his arms around, putting his chin on your shoulder, “Hey love, having fun?” “Yeah, how about you?” “I’m having a wonderful time watching you laugh and smile like this, wish I could paint it, you look so beautiful,”

Jeongin loves running around with his members, acting like a child, what he loves even more than that is when you join in on the playing. Running around playing with water guns, spraying each other, laughing, screaming, other people around on the beach only sigh and shake their heads at the nine young adults acting like 5-year-olds. “Want to go buy some ice cream?” He asks to try and get some alone time with you, “Of course!” The two of you walk away to the ice cream truck, you excitedly look at all the flavors, deciding on (flavor), and Jeongin decided on his own favorite flavor, you stand in line, but once it is time to order, you shyly looked at Jeongin who instantly understood that you wished for him to order for you which he happily does all the time.

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baelabong · 1 day

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ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴘᴀɪʀ

(ᴡᴏɴʏᴏᴜɴɢ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

plot: youre supposed to be studying but why is wonyoung the only thing running through your mind

notes: friends to lovers, wonyoung is just such a sweet popular girl, y/n’s lowkey a loser

rq: pretty sure someone requested wy fluff 😭

it’s a warm afternoon, and you’re sitting under the big oak tree by the track field, the one spot you and wonyoung always seem to end up at after class. you’re both supposed to be studying for the history test tomorrow, but clearly, only one of you is actually making an effort. your notebook is open on your lap, pages half-filled with notes, while wonyoung’s has been abandoned on the ground beside her.

"you know," wonyoung says, leaning back against the tree, her long legs stretched out in front of her, "we should hang out more after school."

you glance up from your notes, raising an eyebrow. "we hang out every day, wonyoung."

"yeah, but i mean without all the school stuff. no books, no homework," she waves a hand lazily in the air, her gaze drifting up to the sky. "just the two of us."

you blink at her, not sure where she’s going with this. "what, like... hanging out here isn’t enough?"

wonyoung turns her head, fixing her gaze on you. her eyes are bright, playful, but there’s something in her tone that feels just a little too casual. "no, i mean like a real hangout. you know... like a date."

the word hits you like a brick. your brain stalls for a second, scrambling to catch up. a date? you feel your heart do this annoying little jump in your chest, but you cover it up with a sarcastic laugh. you’re not about to let her get to you that easily.

"a date?" you snort, flipping a page in your notebook to look busy. "what, like coffee or something? how romantic."

wonyoung grins, and you can tell she’s enjoying this way too much. "could be coffee," she says, her voice teasing. "or maybe a movie. i’ll even buy you popcorn."

seriously? you roll your eyes, trying to focus on your notes, but you can feel the heat creeping up your neck. "sure, as long as you don’t fall asleep halfway through like last time."

wonyoung laughs, nudging your leg with her knee. "only if you pick something boring."

the thing about wonyoung is, she’s got friends everywhere. no matter where you go at school, someone’s waving at her, calling her name. she’s tall, taller than you by a lot, actually, so she stands out. it’s like she’s got this presence that fills up the space around her. normally, that would be intimidating, but you’ve known her for so long that it just feels... familiar.

but today, with the way she’s looking at you, it feels a little less familiar and a lot more nerve-wracking.

you try to keep your cool, though. she’s just messing with me, you think, but there’s this tiny part of you, this annoying, hopeful part that wonders if she’s actually serious.

wonyoung leans back again, looking way too pleased with herself. "what do you think?" she asks casually, like she’s not completely throwing you off. "wouldn’t we make a cute couple?"

"you’re ridiculous," you mutter, closing your notebook and stuffing it into your bag, trying to end the conversation before your brain spirals. you stand up, stretching your arms above your head to shake off the weird tension in the air.

wonyoung stands up too, towering over you, her grin still plastered on her face. "i’m not hearing a ‘no.’"

you shoot her a look, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "you know what, i think you should stop talking."

"or what?" she teases, taking a step closer, her height making you feel even more flustered. "you’ll fall for me?"

too late, you think, but there’s no way you’re saying that out loud. instead, you push past her, heading towards the school building. "i’m going to study. you can keep daydreaming about whatever it is you’re thinking."

"i’ll take that as a maybe!" she calls after you, her laughter echoing across the field.

you’re sitting on the couch in your apartment, surrounded by takeout boxes from the chinese food you both demolished earlier. the tv is on, playing some rom-com you’ve already seen a million times, but honestly, you’re not paying attention. and apparently, neither is wonyoung, who has been slowly but very deliberately inching closer to you the entire time.

at this point, her shoulder is pressed against yours, her leg brushing against your thigh every now and then. it’s like she’s not even pretending to care about the movie, and you’re doing your best to act like you don’t notice her being all... whatever this is.

suddenly, she speaks, breaking the comfortable silence. “hey,” she says, her voice a little too casual. “you ever think about what we’d be like if we were dating?”

you turn to look at her, one eyebrow raised. “why are you always bringing that up?”

she shrugs, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “i don’t know. it’s fun to think about.”

fun? you huff, focusing back on the tv even though your brain’s still processing what she just said. you roll your eyes, trying to keep it light. “you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m just saying,” she continues, bumping her knee against yours, “we’d be pretty cute together, don’t you think?”

oh my god. this girl is relentless. you can feel the heat rising up your neck, and it’s definitely not because of the stupid rom-com. “yeah, okay,” you mutter, still trying to keep your cool. you pick at the edge of the takeout box, avoiding her gaze. this is fine. everything is fine.

but wonyoung is clearly not done. she leans in a little closer, her voice dropping into that teasing tone she knows gets to you. “you’re into me, right? you’re totally crushing on me.”

you scoff, but your heart betrays you with how fast it’s racing. “wonyoung, stop being ridiculous.”

“admit it,” she says, grinning now. she’s so close you can feel her breath on your skin, and it’s starting to mess with your head. “you’d totally date me.”

oh, for crying out loud. you finally snap, turning to face her with a smirk, deciding to play along just to shut her up. “alright, fine. you’re cute, but i don’t know if i’d survive dating someone as annoying as you.”

wonyoung laughs, looking way too pleased with herself. “see? i knew it.”

you shake your head, finding her both insufferable and, annoyingly enough, kind of adorable. how did i end up here? you wonder, but the teasing has shifted something between you two. it’s subtle, but it’s there—an undercurrent of something you’re not quite ready to define yet.

the ridiculous tension lingers, though neither of you says anything. you just sit there, your shoulder pressed against hers, the space between you feeling smaller than it ever has before.

it’s late afternoon, and the warm golden light of the setting sun spills over the quiet neighborhood as you and wonyoung make your way home from school. you’re walking slowly, neither of you in a rush, with the faint hum of the day’s conversations still buzzing in your ears. the two of you had just come from your favorite café, where you spent a little too long sipping iced drinks and pretending you weren’t looking at each other every few minutes.

everything feels perfectly normal—until wonyoung suddenly stops in her tracks. she grabs your arm lightly, pulling you to a halt beside her. her touch is soft but firm, and it sends a jolt through you.

“hey,” she says, her voice quieter, more serious than usual. her tone catches you off guard, so you turn to her with a frown. wonyoung’s always teasing, always full of confidence, but right now, there’s a flicker of something different in her eyes.

“what’s up?” you ask, your voice casual, but your chest tightens as you sense a shift in the air between you.

wonyoung takes a small step closer, her hand dropping to her side as she bites her lip, eyes searching yours. “you know i wasn’t joking before, right?” she asks, her voice softer now, almost tentative.

you blink, thrown off by her sudden change in tone. “about what?”

wonyoung swallows, then meets your gaze again, her dark eyes steady. “about us. about the idea of… being something more.”

your heart skips a beat. it��s like time slows down for a moment, and you stare at her, trying to make sense of her words. she’s joking, right? you try to keep your expression neutral, but inside, your mind is racing. this is wonyoung, the girl who teases you endlessly, who always finds a way to get under your skin. there’s no way she’s serious.

“i thought you were just messing with me,” you say, keeping your voice light, hoping it’ll dissolve the tension in the air. because she has to be joking, right?

but wonyoung shakes her head, her lips curving into a small, almost nervous smile. “i wasn’t. i’ve liked you for a long time, y/n. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”

you blink again, your heart doing that annoying flutter thing it does whenever she gets too close. for a moment, you’re not sure what to say. all the teasing, all the flirting—was it real? had she meant it all along?

“you’re serious?” you finally manage to ask, your voice a little breathless.

“yeah,” she says softly, her eyes never leaving yours. “and if you don’t feel the same, that’s fine. i just… i couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.”

there’s a long pause. you stand there, staring at her, trying to process what’s happening. all the teasing moments between you suddenly seem a lot heavier, charged with a meaning you hadn’t dared to acknowledge before. wonyoung, the girl who always has a group of friends around her, the one who’s taller, more popular, more everything—she’s standing in front of you, confessing that she likes you.

it feels surreal, like a prank or some elaborate joke you’re not in on. this is wonyoung, of all people, you think. you glance away, feeling your face heat up, and immediately, you feel ridiculous for it. this isn’t how you imagined things would go, not that you had imagined this at all.

“you’re really ridiculous, you know that?” you mutter, trying to hide the blush creeping up your neck.

wonyoung laughs softly, but there’s a hopeful edge to it, like she’s waiting for your reaction, gauging every word. “maybe. but does that mean you feel the same?”

your mind blanks for a second. do you feel the same? you’re not sure. you’ve spent so long trying to convince yourself that wonyoung’s teasing was just that—teasing. harmless fun. the way she’d lean in too close, poke at you, make comments about how you’d look cute together—it was just a joke, right?

before you can answer, you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, and the sudden urge to escape hits you hard. without thinking, you take a step back and shake your head, trying to clear the overwhelming thoughts crowding in.

“i… i need a second,” you stammer, turning away from her as embarrassment floods your chest. you start walking faster, your heart pounding in your ears. she can’t be serious. this is wonyoung.

“y/n?” wonyoung calls after you, a hint of amusement in her voice. “where are you going?”

“nowhere!” you yell back, quickening your pace as you try to outrun the flush creeping up your face. your feet move faster than your brain, and before you know it, you’re practically jogging down the street. great, you think, now i look like an idiot.

you hear wonyoung laugh behind you, and within moments, her long legs allow her to catch up to you effortlessly. of course, she’s taller, you think with a mix of irritation and admiration. you don’t dare look at her as she falls into step beside you, her breathing annoyingly calm despite your attempt to outpace her.

“are you seriously running away from me right now?” she asks, her voice filled with amusement. “i didn’t think i’d get you this flustered.”

“i’m not flustered,” you grumble, speeding up even more. but no matter how fast you walk, she stays right next to you, her long legs making it look effortless. it’s infuriating.

“you’re totally flustered,” wonyoung says, clearly enjoying herself now. “you’re practically jogging.”

“shut up,” you mutter, your face burning hotter by the second. you want to deny it, to brush off her words like you usually do, but you can’t. not this time. not after what she just said.

“come on, y/n,” wonyoung says, her tone softening again as she reaches out and gently grabs your arm, pulling you to a stop. “i’m not trying to make this weird. i just… i had to be honest with you.”

you stare at the ground, trying to get your breathing under control. what am i even supposed to say? your mind is a mess of emotions, half of you wanting to push her away, the other half wanting to pull her closer.

“look, if you don’t feel the same way, that’s totally fine,” wonyoung says quietly, her hand still resting on your arm. “but i had to tell you how i feel. i couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”

you finally look up at her, meeting her gaze. there’s no teasing in her expression now, just a quiet sincerity that makes your chest tighten. why does she have to be like this?

you swallow hard, feeling the weight of her confession pressing down on you. your mind is still spinning, but deep down, you know the truth. you do like her. you’ve always liked her. you just never thought she’d actually feel the same way.

“you’re really ridiculous, you know that?” you say, your voice a little shaky.

wonyoung smiles softly, her eyes filled with hope. “maybe. but does that mean…?”

you take a deep breath, your heart still racing. “yeah, i feel the same.”

wonyoung’s smile brightens instantly, and before you can say anything else, she pulls you into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you stand there, frozen for a moment, before finally relaxing into her embrace, letting yourself enjoy the warmth of her closeness.

as you pull back, you feel your face heat up again, but this time, you don’t mind as much. “we really are ridiculous,” you mutter.

wonyoung laughs, her eyes shining with happiness. “maybe. but we’re cute too.”

you roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

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hoe4hotchner · 1 day

Note

Hi! Congrats on 3k love! So well deserved.

Stressor with Professor!Aaron Hotchner who have to deal with one of his students (she/her!Reader) which is a complete brat during his classes 🫣 ❤️

Thank you!!! ❤️

The art of provoking | [A.H]

Pairing: Professor!Hotch x fem!Reader CW: Smut, MDNI, 18+, power play, age gap (consenting adults), Hotch is the king of consent, also the minister of making sure you're okay, bratty behaviour, teasing, piv, student/professor relationship, authority. WC: 4.5k

Summary: Professor Hotchner navigates the challenges of a bratty student who tests his patience while concealing a deeper desire beneath their banter.

I'm sweating, i'm panting, my nose is suddenly not stuffed anymore!!!! I'm laughing uncomfortably in a good way. I went so overboard with this one that the only thing i can say is bon appétit, enjoy this very delicious meal i'm serving for you.

Join my Profiling 101 - 3k follower celebration here

The lecture hall was quiet as Professor Hotchner stood at the front, his voice steady as he explained the finer points of criminal law. His presence was commanding, as always, and his students hung on to his every word - well, almost all of them.

You sat near the back, arms crossed, your notebook untouched before you, except for the occasional bored doodles. You hadn’t written a single word, and the look of disinterest on your face hadn’t gone unnoticed. You always found a way to test him, whether arriving late to class, challenging his points with sarcastic remarks, or simply tuning out altogether.

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the material - you were one of his brightest students, in fact, you somehow managed to ace every single test despite your lack of attention in class - but you enjoyed pushing his buttons. There was something about the way his jaw clenched when you interrupted him, or the way his eyes would narrow whenever you challenged him. You liked getting a rise out of him, watching his usual exterior crack, even if only for a moment.

Today was no different. As Professor Hotchner continued his lecture, you slowly raised your hand, an amused smile playing on your lips.

“Yes?” he asked, pausing mid-sentence, his eyes locking on yours with that same unreadable expression.

You leaned back in your chair, feigning innocence. “I was just wondering, Professor,” you began, your tone laced with mockery, “how much of what you’re saying actually applies in real-world scenarios? Or is this just another theoretical debate you like to have in your ivory tower up there?”

The room went silent. A few of your classmates exchanged glances, but no one dared to laugh. They knew better than to cross Professor Hotchner, but you? You thrived on it.

His jaw clenched slightly, but his expression remained calm. He stepped away from the podium, folding his arms across his chest as he regarded you with a cold stare.

“Care to elaborate on that thought?” he asked, his voice dangerously smooth.

You shrugged, sitting up a little straighter. “I just think maybe we should focus more on what actually happens out there,” you said, gesturing vaguely, “rather than talking about hypotheticals all the time.”

Professor Hotchner nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “So you believe this class lacks practical application?”

“Maybe just a little,” you replied, biting back a smirk. You knew exactly what you were doing.

There was a brief silence, the tension thick in the room as he considered your words. Finally, he took a slow breath and walked toward the edge of the stage, his hands resting on the edge of the desk next to him.

“Let me clarify something for you,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Everything I teach in this class is rooted in real-world cases - cases I’ve worked on personally. If you’d been paying attention instead of trying to undermine every point I make, you’d understand that.”

You felt a flicker of satisfaction at the sharpness in his tone. He was getting annoyed. Good.

“Of course, Professor,” you replied, feigning contrition. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, you thought he might snap, might finally lose that calm, composed exterior he always wore. But instead, he straightened up, his gaze never leaving yours.

“See me after class,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Your heart skipped a beat. You hadn’t expected that. Usually, he just brushed off your comments and moved on. But today… today was different. Something had shifted in the air, and the weight of it settled in the pit of your stomach.

The rest of the lecture passed in a blur. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t even remember what he was talking about. All you could think about was what would happen after class. You’d pushed him too far this time, and now you were going to have to deal with the consequences.

When the lecture finally ended, your classmates filtered out, casting curious glances in your direction. You stayed seated, watching as Professor gathered his papers at the front of the room. His movements were slow and deliberate, and it felt like he was taking his time just to make you wait.

Eventually, the room was empty, and Professor Hotchner glanced up, his eyes meeting yours across the room.

“Come here,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

You hesitated for a moment, then stood, walking down the aisle toward the front of the room. Your heart was racing now, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you neared him.

He didn’t move as you approached, his eyes locked on yours, his expression unreadable. You stopped a few feet away, suddenly unsure of yourself, but you weren’t about to back down now.

“Do you enjoy testing me?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

You shrugged, playing it cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stepped closer, closing the distance between you in an instant. He was towering over you, his presence even more intimidating than usual.

“I think you do,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The air between you was thick with tension, and you could feel your pulse quicken as Professor Hotchner loomed above you, his eyes locked on yours. He was close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough to make you realize that you may have pushed him a little too far this time.

His gaze was intense, scrutinizing as if he were trying to peel back the layers of your defiance to see what was really the root of it. You didn’t back down, though. You couldn’t - after all, this was the game you’d been playing for weeks, and retreating now would feel like defeat.

“Testing you?” you repeated with a hint of mockery in your voice, though it wasn’t as sharp as before. “Maybe I just like seeing how much it takes to get under your skin.”

His jaw tightened slightly at your words. He hadn’t expected you to admit to it, and certainly not with such brazen confidence. His eyes darkened, and his expression turned serious, a subtle shift that sent a thrill through you.

“I think you enjoy this far more than you’re willing to admit,” he said slowly, his voice was calm. “You push and push, hoping to see where the line is. But what happens when you cross it?”

Your breath hitched at the implication in his words, but you quickly recovered, masking your unease with a smirk. “I guess we’re about to find out, aren’t we?”

Professor Hotchner's eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place - frustration? Amusement? It was hard to tell with him. He was always so controlled, so precise. Even now, standing this close, he hadn’t lost his composure.

“You think you’re in control, don’t you?” His tone was quiet, almost too quiet, but there was an edge to it that made you shiver.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, he took another step toward you, closing the distance between you entirely. His voice dropped lower, more intimate, as he leaned in just enough that only you could hear him.

“You’re not,” he murmured. His breath ghosted against your ear, sending a shockwave of heat through you, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. “And it’s about time you realized that.”

The challenge in his tone hit you hard, stirring something deep inside, but you refused to give in so easily. You weren’t going to back down, no matter how intense the tension had become.

You tilted your chin up slightly, meeting his gaze head-on. “You sure about that, Professor?” you replied, your voice soft but laced with defiance. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’ve been getting exactly what I want.”

His eyes flashed, getting darker, and for a brief moment, you wondered if you’d gone too far. He wasn’t just some professor to toy with - he was Aaron Hotchner, a man who commanded respect and had little patience for insolence who had climbed the ranks ever since he got his first position within the FBI. Yet, here you were, pushing him to the limit.

But instead of snapping, his lips curled into a tight, almost predatory smile. “You think this is what you want? You’re playing a dangerous game.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, the weight of them settling deep in your chest. You swallowed, suddenly feeling the anticipation between the two of you shift in a way that you couldn’t control, and the power dynamic you’d been clinging to started to slip through your fingers.

Professor Hotchner took a step back, his eyes never leaving yours as he surveyed you, taking in your defiance, your composure - everything you’d used to mask what was really happening beneath the surface. The authority he commanded in the classroom extended here, too, as if there was no escape from the weight of it.

“I think it’s time you understood something,” Hotch said, his voice low but firm. “You can’t keep walking into my class acting like you can undermine me and expect no consequences. If you think this is all just a game to push boundaries, you’re wrong.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words settle in. There was no denying the power he held in this moment, and for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were in control of what was happening between the two of you. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out.

“Do you have anything to say?” His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable authority behind it that made it clear he wasn’t going to tolerate any more of your defiance.

Your pulse raced as you searched for a response, but the smirk you usually relied on had faded. He watched you closely, waiting for you to either respond or break under the pressure, but you held his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

After a long, tense silence, you finally managed to speak, though your voice was softer than before. “And what if I don’t stop?”

Professor Hotchner's gaze didn’t waver, but there was something different in his eyes now. Something darker, something that sent a thrill through you even as it made your stomach twist. His expression remained unreadable, his tone firm but quieter than before as he replied:

“Then we’re going to have a problem. One that you’re not prepared to handle.”

His words hung in the air, and for the first time, the reality of what you’d been toying with began to sink in. You’d pushed him far enough to break through the facade he kept up with the rest of the class, but in doing so, you had unleashed something far more vicious than you’d expected.

And now, you had to decide if you were going to keep playing this game - or back down.

He took a step closer again, his presence overwhelming as he looked down at you. His voice was calm, but the edge of authority was unmistakable.

“Because if you don’t stop,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, “I’ll make sure you do.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your mind racing as the full weight of the power play between the two of you settled in. The tension crackled in the air, and it was clear that whatever happened next was entirely up to you.

You had crossed that line - now the question was whether you’d be able to handle what came next.

The air in the room felt suffocating, it was thick with unspoken words and the electric pull between you. Professor Hotchner's eyes bore into yours, and you could feel the intensity of his gaze as he stepped even closer. Your heart pounded in your chest, the sense of control you’d been clinging to slipping further away with each passing second.

Without warning, his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist firmly but not painfully, pulling you forward. Before you could react, he backed you up against his desk, the hard surface pressing against the small of your back. His grip was commanding, as though this was the moment he'd been waiting for.

“Enough is enough,” he muttered, his voice a low growl, his breath hot against your skin.

The words barely had time to register before his free hand came to your waist, pushing you back onto the desk in one swift motion. You gasped, your other hand instinctively reaching out to brace yourself on the edge as he towered over you, his presence was overwhelming. Your heart raced, but you weren’t afraid - if anything, the surge of adrenaline coursing through you made everything feel sharper, more exhilarating.

His hand tightened slightly on your waist as he leaned down, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. The weight of his charge pressed down on you, but instead of cowering, you met his gaze with equal fire. The challenge in your eyes hadn’t faded.

And then, before you could say anything, his lips crashed against yours in a searing and desperate kiss.

It wasn’t gentle - it was rough, a battle for dominance as his lips claimed yours with the intensity that had been building between the two of you for weeks now. The force of it sent a jolt through your body, your mind going blank as you were consumed by the sensation. You tried to pull back, to push him away, but the second your hands came to his chest, something shifted.

Instead of shoving him off, you pulled him closer.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, yanking him down as you kissed him back with equal ferocity. The tension between you exploded in that moment, your lips moving against his in a way that felt both angry and frantic, a clash of wills as neither of you was willing to back down. You felt his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you further against him as the kiss deepened.

The sound of your own ragged breathing filled the air as you pushed yourself up from the desk, your body arching into his as you deepened the kiss, parting your lips slightly to let him in. You felt his hesitation for a split second before he gave in, his tongue sweeping into your mouth in a way that made your head spin.

The intensity was overwhelming, every nerve in your body on fire as you kissed him harder, needing more. You felt his hands slide up your sides, gripping you tighter as he responded to the challenge, the kiss turning even more heated, more desperate.

It was a power play in its rawest form, neither of you willing to give an inch, both of you consumed by the battle for control. The push and pull between you was intoxicating, and for the first time, you weren’t sure who was winning.

Your lungs burned as you both finally broke apart for a split second, gasping for air. The room spun, your lips tingling from the force of his kiss, and you barely had time to process before Professor Hotchner moved. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly as he flipped you over, your stomach coming to rest against the wooden surface of his desk.

The movement was swift, almost effortless, and you couldn’t suppress the surprised gasp that escaped your lips. Your hands flew out to brace yourself against the desk, your chest pressing against the smooth surface as the world tilted beneath you.

Your legs hung over the edge, toes barely touching the floor, but before you could shift your position, you felt his hand on your lower back, firm, keeping you in place. The pressure of his palm was grounding, heavy with control as he leaned in close, his breath warm against the nape of your neck.

You shivered, but it wasn’t from fear. The tension had reached a fever pitch, and you could feel it in every inch of your body.

Without a word, he slid his hand down your thigh, only to pause halfway, gripping firmly before nudging your feet apart. His touch was assertive but not rough, guiding, commanding. You felt a flush of heat as your legs spread slightly, feet planted more firmly on the ground now, creating just enough space for him to step closer, his presence looming over you.

Your breath hitched as you felt his hand press firmly against your lower back, keeping you pinned in place. Every nerve in your body was on edge, the authority in his touch overwhelming yet thrilling. His warmth was so close, suffocating in the best way, and when his voice came again, low and commanding, it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Stay right there,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

Your lips parted, and the words slipped out before you could stop them, breathy and submissive. “Yes, sir.”

For a moment, there was only silence, but you felt him stiffen behind you, his grip tightening just slightly. Then, he chuckled softly, a dark, mocking sound that sent a jolt of heat through you.

“Oh, so you do know how to follow orders,” Hotch murmured, his voice filled with amusement as he leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “And here I thought you were incapable of it.”

His words dripped with sarcasm, and you clenched your fists against the desk, torn between the need to snap back at him and the overwhelming desire to submit. The way he mocked you, the condescension laced into every syllable, made your pulse race. He knew exactly what he was doing - pushing and prodding at the edges of your defiance, breaking you down piece by piece.

His hands moved with a sharp precision, gripping the hem of your skirt as he flipped it up over your stomach in one swift motion. The cool air of the room hit the bare skin of your thighs, sending a jolt through your body as the fabric bunched around your waist, leaving you exposed to his gaze.

He stood still for a moment, and you could feel his eyes on you, heavy and intense as if he were taking in every detail.

“So quick to submit now,” he murmured, his voice dark and almost mocking again. “I wonder where all that attitude suddenly went.”

His fingers grazed along the edge of your hips, teasingly light, and you had to fight the urge to arch back into his touch. Every movement was calculated, designed to remind you of who was in control now, and you knew he wasn’t about to let you forget it.

Professor Hotchner's lips curved into a smirk as he leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Look at you," he whispered, his tone dripping with satisfaction. His fingers traced the edge of your panties, feeling the dampness that had gathered there.

"You really are a brat, aren’t you?" he teased, his voice low and sultry. The way he pronounced each word made your heart race, a mix of embarrassment and excitement flooding your senses.

His gaze lingered on you, taking in the flush that crept up your cheeks and the way you squirmed under his touch. "I didn’t expect you to get so worked up, but it seems you’re enjoying this a little too much," he continued, the smirk never leaving his lips.

You could feel the heat radiating off your skin, the reality of the situation crashing over you. He had you right where he wanted you - vulnerable, exposed, and ready to follow his lead.

Professor Hotchner's hand shot out, gripping a fistful of your hair as he pressed your body further into the desk. The sudden pull made you gasp, a rush of excitement coursing through you. He leaned over you, his weight settling against your back, creating a pressure that heightened the thrill of the moment.

“You’ve been a real distraction in class,” he murmured his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. The way he held your hair firmly yet gently sent a mix of vulnerability and exhilaration through you, amplifying the tension in the air.

With his body hovering above yours, you could feel the heat radiating from him, and it sent your heart racing. The cool surface of the desk contrasted sharply with the warmth of his presence, and you found it hard to focus on anything but him.

“What are you going to do about it, Professor?” you challenged, your voice laced with desire.

A smirk played on his lips as he tightened his grip on your hair, forcing you to arch your back slightly. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he replied, his voice thick with promise.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, sending tingles throughout your body. “But first, you need to learn how to behave,” he whispered, the words igniting something deep within you.

As Professor Hotchner pinned your body to the desk, his free hand snuck down to your waist, slowly maneuvering your panties down to your knees. You could feel him as he rubbed himself against your pussy. Jolts of excitement ran through your veins with each teasingly slow thrust.

He couldn’t take it anymore. The tension had reached a boiling point, and he felt an overwhelming surge of desire pulse through him. He stepped back, allowing the space between you to grow, and a low growl escaped his lips, reverberating through the silence of the room as you tried to move, it was enough to keep you in your place.

You felt the sudden shift. The sound of his belt unbuckling broke through the stillness, each metallic click sending a shiver down your spine. You couldn’t see him, but you could imagine the intense focus in his eyes, the way he held himself with an authority that both thrilled and terrified you.

The soft hiss of his zipper being pulled down followed, and you felt your breath hitch, your heart racing as the anticipation built within you. You were acutely aware of the overwhelming silence surrounding you, punctuated only by the sound of your own heartbeat and the rustling of fabric.

With every sound, your body responded, craving the connection you knew was coming, and the knowledge that he was just behind you, poised and powerful, left you utterly captivated, longing for what was to unfold.

“Do you want this?” he murmured, his voice husky and laced with an edge of dominance that made your stomach flutter. It was both a question and a command, and the way he said it made your heart race even faster. The thrill of his control was intoxicating, sending a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins.

You nodded instinctively, unable to form words, the desire bubbling just below the surface, threatening to overflow. The anticipation was a sweet torment, your body aching for his touch. The fluttering in your stomach intensified, the heat pooling deep within you, urging you to surrender completely.

“Use your words,” he teased, a hint of amusement threading through his tone. “Tell me what you want.”

The challenge in his voice ignited a spark of defiance within you, making you shiver in anticipation. You knew he wanted you to submit, to give in to the pleasure that hung in the air between you like an unbroken promise. It was both thrilling and terrifying, the power dynamic shifting and swirling around you like a tempest.

“Please…” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, laced with longing. It felt like an admission of vulnerability, and yet the act of saying it sent a thrill through you, a reminder of the power in your own submission.

“Good girl,” he replied, his voice low and velvety, sending another wave of heat coursing through you. The praise wrapped around you like a warm embrace, reinforcing the tension that filled the room. "Will you behave?"

"Yes sir, please I need it!" You begged.

And with that he lined the tip of his cock with your soaking entrance, slowly pushing against it, filling you up with a shared moan resonating off the walls in the lecture hall. He set a slow pace as he rolled his hips against you, watching you squirm underneath him as you tried to push back against him to quicken the pace.

It wasn't long before Hotch started thrusting into you harder and harder with each move of his hips. His thrusts were painstakingly harsh. You grabbed at the edge of his desk, whimpering with pleasure as jolts of pure bliss overtook you. You felt every part of your body respond to him.

You felt as both of your releases washed over you, the warmth of his cum coating your walls as he filled you up.

As the tension in the air began to dissipate, Professor Hotchner slowly pulled away, his breath still heavy against your skin. The room was filled with the remnants of what had just transpired, an electric pulse lingering between you both. He shifted his weight, allowing you to turn over, your eyes meeting his in the dim light of the office.

Your heart raced, still echoing with the thrill of the moment. There was a vulnerability that hung in the air, and despite the heat of passion, a sense of intimacy enveloped you. You caught your breath, letting the silence settle as you and Hotch shared an unspoken understanding, one that transcended the physicality of what had just happened.

His gaze softened as he brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your cheek. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern. The authoritative demeanor was replaced by something more tender, a gentleness that surprised you.

You nodded, your heart swelling at the sincerity in his eyes. “Yeah, I’m okay,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper as you came to your senses. There was a lingering shyness between you now, a recognition of the boundaries you had crossed together.

His lips curled into a small, affectionate smile, and he leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft kiss that held promise and warmth. It was a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before, but it spoke volumes of the connection you shared.

After pulling away, Professor Hotchner hesitated for a moment, his expression shifting to something more contemplative. “This can’t happen again in class,” he said, his tone serious but softened by the affection that lingered in his eyes. “It’s not professional.”

You could only smile at his earnestness, knowing deep down that this was more than just a fleeting moment. “I know,” you replied, a playful glint in your eyes. “But maybe outside of class…”

His laughter was deep and rich, filling the room with a warmth that made your heart flutter. “Maybe,” he mused, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. “But we’ll have to navigate this carefully.”

You both shared a knowing look, a blend of excitement and uncertainty swirling between you.

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luckyarchivist · 2 days

Text

Ais helps Kuras in the clinic~

And I haven't been able to stop thinking about it for a while!! I was gonna write a fic but then I was like "Don't you have a Tumblr? Just make bullets lmao" so that's what I did and here's my HCs about Kuras and Ais in the clinic <3

Ais will just drop in on him sometimes. Like, no warning, Kuras will get back from picking up more laudanum or whatever he uses and Ais'll just be sitting on the counters, kicking his feet (but respectfully not letting his feet hit the lower cabinets).

He also never really gives a reason for being there. Always chalks his appearances up to boredom or loneliness. But then again, Kuras knows that for Ais, that's probably all the reason he needs.

They don't talk much while they're in the clinic together—just silently enjoy each other's company. Ais is also surprisingly good at organizing when he chooses to be, and Kuras has started putting away his supplies the same way Ais does subconsciously.

Ais does like to check in with Kuras to make sure people—and Monsters—haven't been harassing the clinic when he's not around. Kuras is perfectly capable of taking care of any problematic patients or unruly loiterers, but he appreciates the concern nonetheless.

When good patients visit the good doctor, Ais sometimes will play nurse: counting people's heartbeats, disinfecting minor wounds or injection sites, rewriting prescriptions so patients can actually read them. Regular patients recognize Ais, while occasional visitors have no idea who he is: both groups are a little scared of him, but also a little charmed by him.

When problems decide to show their faces, Ais acts as bodyguard instead. He certainly doesn't need an excuse to beat someone up, but he likes that helping out Kuras gives him one. Kuras always tells him to go easy on people, though, and Ais doesn't want to make more work for him, so he can't go all out unless someone's a real danger, instead of just a nuisance.

When Ais finishes beating somebody up, Kuras will take a moment before accepting another patient to inspect Ais for any injuries. Pressure is applied to cuts until the blood starts to coagulate. Kuras usually holds off on disinfecting or bandaging anything until Ais is about to take his leave, to make sure he doesn't immediately ruin Kuras's hard work.

On slow days, Ais will talk to Kuras in whatever language he's practicing or feeling like speaking. Kuras will converse back and, if he's feeling preachy (or like being a troll), correct Ais on his incorrect conjugations or lazy pronunciations. Ais keeps trying, but he has yet to find a language that he knows better than Kuras.

Just like his arrivals, there's no way to predict when Ais will leave. Sometimes he stays until the clinic closes; other times, he'll keep Kuras company for less than an hour. It all depends on his mood. For however long he chooses to hang around, Kuras tries to make sure Ais knows that he appreciates his presence.

And that's all my thoughts!! omg just rereading this checking for spelling mistakes i was like "i love them sm. i love them <3" in my head~

#touchstarved game #touchstarved hcs #kuras #ais #luckyfiction #i care them so HARD girl #i want them to be besties #super chill besties who are kinda trolls!!#and if they wanna date??#that's none of my business but 👀#i will be Watching

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ducktoo · 15 hours

Text

Syncing Dream [Aespa x M!Reader]

12. Jelly does come in both ways

Note: pretty long chap soo….enjoy the fluff!

Ever since the topic of dating came up, Ningning, ever the instigator, had been joking around during one of their late-night practice sessions. They were cooling down, lying on the floor of the practice room, and Y/n had just stepped out to grab some water.

And a little birdie has chirped that Y/n got set up to a blind date.

“You know,” Ningning had said, shooting a glance at Winter, “if Y/n’s going on a date, maybe you should’ve set him up with someone, unnie. I mean, you are the same in age.”

Winter, sitting cross-legged, froze mid-stretch. “W-What? Why me?”

Karina, sensing an opportunity to join in the fun, smirked. “Well, you are always bickering with him. Opposites attract, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” Giselle added with a sly grin, “and you two spend so much time together. You must know his type by now.”

Winter’s face flushed. “That’s ridiculous! We just childhood friends. That’s it.”

Ningning snickered. “Sure, unnie. Whatever you say.”

The teasing didn’t stop there. The other girls kept dropping little comments and giggles every time Y/n and Winter interacted. Winter, despite trying her best to ignore it, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something every time they mentioned the date.

It wasn’t jealousy—definitely not—but she was... annoyed. That’s all it was. She didn’t even know the girl Y/n was meeting, yet something about the situation irked her.

And that’s how Winter found herself leading the charge to spy on Y/n’s date.

When Y/n agreed to go on a blind date, he had no idea he’d also be starring in a spy movie—except, instead of highly trained professionals following him, it was four idiots wearing oversized sunglasses and ridiculous disguises.

Winter, Giselle, Ningning, and Karina sat huddled in the corner of a small café, pretending to read menus they had no intention of ordering from. It was Winter’s idea, of course, to “just check in” on Y/n’s date. She swore it was for his own good, not because of any weird feelings she might or might not be experiencing.

She watched from behind her menu as Y/n walked into the café, looking more put together than usual—buttoned-up shirt, hair neatly styled, even a bit of cologne. Winter’s stomach did a weird little flip, and she cursed herself for noticing.

“There he is,” Ningning whispered, her voice barely containing her amusement. “Our boy’s looking sharp.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” Giselle asked, eyes darting to the entrance.

Winter didn’t respond, but her grip tightened on the menu. This was stupid. Why was she even here? She had better things to do with her day off than spy on Y/n’s date.

But then again, if she wasn’t here, who knew what kind of person Y/n might be meeting? What if she wasn’t nice? What if Y/n got catfished?

“Oh! There she is,” Karina whispered, nudging Winter.

The girl who entered was undeniably pretty—stylish, confident, and exactly the kind of person you’d expect Y/n to go on a date with. Winter’s stomach twisted again. She wasn’t sure why.

As the girl approached Y/n and they started talking, Winter kept stealing glances, trying not to look too obvious. The conversation seemed to be going well, and Y/n even laughed at something the girl said.

Winter’s frown deepened. “He laughs like that with everyone,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that?” Ningning asked, peeking over her sunglasses.

“Nothing,” Winter snapped, sinking lower into her seat.

Karina, sensing Winter’s mood, leaned in. “You know, you’re the one who insisted we do this.”

“I know,” Winter grumbled. “I just didn’t think he’d... I don’t know.”

“Look at him,” Giselle whispered, nodding toward Y/n. “He’s practically glowing.”

Winter glared at her. “I’m not jealous.”

“Sure,” Ningning said with a wink. “Whatever you say, unnie.”

As the date went on, the girls’ presence became harder to ignore. At first, they tried to be subtle—occasionally walking by the table, pretending to stretch, or “accidentally” dropping things nearby. But when Ningning knocked over a stack of napkins for the third time, Y/n shot them a look that screamed “I know you’re watching.”

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” Winter whispered, clutching her iced coffee. “He’s going to catch on.”

“He already has,” Karina said, barely containing her laughter. “Look, he’s staring right at us.”

Y/n’s eyes were practically drilling holes into their table, but Winter refused to meet his gaze.

“Abort mission?” Giselle suggested, trying to stifle a giggle.

“No way,” Ningning whispered. “We’ve come too far.”

Winter, against her better judgment, found herself agreeing. She couldn’t back out now. Not when she’d already gotten this far.

Eventually, Y/n’s date couldn’t help but notice the commotion. The girl looked over at the corner where aespa was failing miserably at being inconspicuous and raised an eyebrow.

“Uh... Y/n?” she asked, pointing. “Are those... your friends?”

Y/n sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah... unfortunately.”

Winter, realising they’d been caught, stood up from the table, dragging the others with her. She marched over to Y/n’s table, her face burning with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted, avoiding Y/n’s gaze. “We didn’t mean to... interrupt.”

Y/n leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Really? Because it looks like you’ve been spying on me for the past hour.”

Winter winced. “Okay, maybe we were. But it was Ningning’s idea!” she quickly deflected, throwing the youngest under the bus.

“Hey!” Ningning protested, though she didn’t seem too offended. “I was just curious! You know, making sure everything was going smoothly.”

Y/n’s date laughed, clearly more amused than upset. “It’s fine. Honestly, I think it’s cute that you guys are so close.”

Winter’s cheeks flushed. Cute? Was that how it looked? She wasn’t trying to be cute. She was just... concerned. That was it. Just concerned.

Y/n sighed, looking between his date and the girls. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “I should’ve known you guys wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“We just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting catfished!” Ningning defended with a grin. “Plus, you’re our manager. We have to look out for you.”

Y/n shot her an exasperated look. “Right. Sure.”

As the date came to an end, Winter couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of relief. Y/n’s date had been nice, sure, but she hadn’t been that nice. Not like Winter had been worried or anything... but still.

The girls continued to tease Y/n as they left the café, all of them walking back together. Ningning kept making little comments about how Y/n was “glowing,” while Karina and Giselle chuckled at his flustered expression.

Winter, on the other hand, stayed quiet, her thoughts swirling. She wasn’t sure why she felt the way she did, but she couldn’t shake the strange feeling that had settled in her chest.

“Well,” Y/n finally said, sighing as they reached the dorm, “I guess that’s the last time I agree to a blind date…and also see her.”

“Aw, come on,” Ningning teased. “Don’t give up yet. There’s still hope!”

Y/n rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Sure, if you guys don’t tag along next time.”

Winter smirked slightly, shoving her hands in her pockets. “No promises.”

It all started innocently enough, just a casual conversation about plans for the weekend. The girls had a break coming up, and for once, it seemed like everyone had something to do. Except for Y/n.

"So, what’s everyone doing this weekend?" Ningning asked as they sat around the practice room, cooling down from their dance session.

Karina stretched, glancing over at the others. "I’m thinking of going back to visit my family."

Giselle yawned. "I’m planning to catch up on sleep. A lot of sleep."

Winter, who had been unusually quiet, glanced at her phone before looking up with a slightly nervous smile. "Uh, I... actually have a date."

The room went silent.

Y/n, who had been casually sipping his water, almost choked. “Wait, what?”

Karina and Giselle exchanged quick looks, trying not to grin too widely, while Ningning's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Ohhhh, a date, huh?" she teased, leaning toward Winter. "And you didn’t think to tell us earlier?"

Winter’s cheeks flushed. "It’s not a big deal. Just someone I met through a friend."

Y/n could feel the odd, unfamiliar sensation bubbling in his chest. His grip on the water bottle tightened. “A date,” he repeated, as if confirming it to himself.

Minjeong was going on a date.

For some reason, that didn’t sit right with him. Not that he had any say in what Winter did with her free time, of course, but something about it made him... uneasy.

“Who is he?” Y/n blurted out, trying to keep his voice casual but failing miserably.

Winter raised an eyebrow at his tone. “Just a guy. Why, are you jealous or something?”

The question hung in the air, half a joke but with a hint of challenge in Winter’s eyes.

Giselle, sensing the shift, smirked. “Oh, this is getting interesting.”

“I’m not jealous,” Y/n said a little too quickly, his heart racing. “I just... you know, I want to make sure he’s not some random guy. You have to be careful.”

“Dejavu….” Karina muttered while glancing at the other 2 girls, who had the same idea.

Winter crossed her arms, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. I’ll be fine, Y/n. You don’t have to worry.”

Ningning, loving every second of the exchange, leaned over to Karina and whispered loudly, “I think we’ve found our next couple to tease.”

Karina chuckled, nodding. “Definitely.”

Y/n, now flustered, tried to shake off the growing irritation gnawing at him. He knew the girls were teasing, but the thought of Winter going on a date was seriously messing with his head. Why did he care so much?

But then, there was that look Winter had when she teased him. That sparkle in her eyes, the small smile playing on her lips. It made his chest tighten in a way that was completely unfamiliar.

Y/n paced nervously in front of the large windows overlooking the city from the café’s second floor. He told himself, “This is purely for safety reasons. Nothing more.” His hands were shoved into his pockets, but his mind was racing a mile a minute. Winter was on a date. With some guy. And he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that gnawed at him.

"Why do I care so much?" he muttered to himself, watching the small table near the window where Winter sat with her date. She seemed relaxed, laughing at something the guy said.

He tried to play it cool when Winter first mentioned the date, but now that it was happening, he couldn’t help but worry. The fact that the guy recognised Winter as a member of aespa only added to his anxiety.

He glanced over again, eyes narrowing slightly. The guy didn’t look suspicious, but then again, Y/n had seen this type of situation play out before. A fan pretending to be a casual date, using it as an opportunity to get closer to idols—Winter in this case.

Y/n's phone buzzed, pulling him out of his thoughts. It was Ningning.

Ningning:

You better not be doing what I think you’re doing.

Y/n sighed. He was caught. Of course, she would know. She always knew. He typed back quickly.

Y/n:

I’m just making sure she’s safe.

Ningning:

Sure you are. 🙄 You do realise Mindoogie can take care of herself, right? Stop being jealous and come back before she notices..

Y/n groaned. Jealous? He wasn’t jealous. He was… concerned. And besides, Ningning wasn’t helping by pointing out what he already refused to admit. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and continued to observe from his spot, only for Giselle to join in with another text.

Giselle:

I heard you’re spying on Winter’s date. Get a grip, dude. 😂

Y/n:

You guys spied me last time, anyway. Why can’t I TT

Ningning:

Just because

Clearly, Ningning had told the others. Y/n clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to reply. Giselle’s playful jab wasn’t going to change his mind. He was here for a good reason. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Downstairs, Winter took a sip of her coffee, her eyes flickering toward the window. She was having a decent time, but there was something off. Her date had been nice enough, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was more interested in her career than in her as a person. He kept bringing up aespa, talking about their music, their recent performances, and fan events.

At first, she appreciated that he knew her work, but after the fourth mention of the group, it was getting a little weird. She shifted in her seat, wondering if she should just call it a night.

"You must get so many fan gifts, huh?" her date asked with an awkward chuckle. "It must be wild."

Winter forced a smile. "Yeah, it’s part of the job."

She didn’t want to seem rude, but she couldn’t help but wish she were somewhere else. The conversation felt more like an interview than a date. “This was a bad idea,” she thought.

Suddenly, she glanced out the window again and spotted something—or rather, someone—familiar. Her eyes widened as she realised…

Y/n was standing a few feet away, trying (and failing) to blend in with the people passing by.

"Wait a second..." she muttered under her breath.

Her date noticed her distracted expression and turned to follow her gaze. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, it’s just—" Winter’s mind raced. Why on earth was Y/n spying on her date? Was he seriously that worried about her? She could handle herself just fine.

Y/n had just stepped back from the window, deciding it was time to leave, when he heard a voice behind him.

"Idiot?"

He froze. Slowly, he turned around to see Winter standing there, arms crossed, a mixture of amusement and frustration on her face.

"Uh... Hey," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Fancy seeing you here."

Winter raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What are you doing here?"

Y/n tried to come up with a believable excuse but knew there was no way out of this one. "Hahhh…. I was just... making sure everything was okay. You know, safety first and all that."

"Safety?" Winter echoed, her voice laced with disbelief. "You’re spying on my date, aren’t you?"

"Spying is a strong word," Y/n mumbled, clearly caught. “And you did it last time with the others…”

Winter couldn’t help but laugh. The situation was ridiculous, and as much as she wanted to be annoyed, seeing Y/n flustered like this was amusing. "You know I can take care of myself, right?"

"Yeah, I know," Y/n said quickly, but his eyes flickered with something else—something Winter hadn’t noticed before. "I just... I didn’t want anything bad to happen."

Winter softened at his words. She knew Y/n was protective, but this was a new level of concern. "You don’t have to worry about me all the time, Y/n," she said gently. "I can handle it."

"I know," he sighed, finally admitting defeat. "I just couldn’t help it. The guy knew you were in aespa, and I thought maybe he was... I don’t know, taking advantage of that."

Winter smiled, a genuine one this time. "He’s just a fan, but I could tell it wasn’t going anywhere. You didn’t have to follow me."

Y/n nodded, feeling a bit silly now. "Yeah, sorry. I’ll back off next time."

Winter chuckled softly. "No need. It’s kind of... sweet. In a really weird way.

Before Y/n could respond, Winter’s phone buzzed. She glanced down and rolled her eyes. "It’s Ningning. They’re all laughing at us, aren’t they?"

"Damn right they are," Y/n muttered.

Winter shook her head and sighed. "Come on, let’s get out of here. This date wasn’t exactly what I thought it’d be anyway."

"Really?" Y/n asked, surprised. "You’re cutting it short?"

"Yeah," Winter shrugged. "He was more into aespa than into me."

“I bet his bias wasn’t you.”

“Oh shush, idiot”

Y/n smiled, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. "So... what now?"

"How about we grab some real food?" Winter suggested. "I’m starving."

"Sounds good," Y/n grinned, already feeling better as they left the café together. Winter had handled everything just fine, but maybe, just maybe, Y/n didn’t mind being there for her—even if it meant being caught in the act.

#aespa #aespa x reader #kpop #aespa giselle #aespa karina #aespa ningning #aespa winter #karina #ningning #giselle #aeri uchinaga #ning yizhuo #yoo jimin #kim minjeong #x reader #winter

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cetoddle-archive · 1 year

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i'm getting emotional just ignore me tbh

#i was rlly sad last night cause like #things are scary and i am so so scared #and i can't help but think how much easier it would be if i didn't have to keep doing everything alone #sure i have a couple friends online who can try and cheer me up and offer advice and support and stuff #but. u know.#no one's here #i don't have anyone to hold my hand or gently pat my head or take me out for ice cream when i'm so so sad and so so scared #no one to just sit with and talk with and enjoy their presence #i am always alone and it's eating me alive from the inside out #that's all #.......#but i also know that i can't stay here #there's nothing left for me here #and i don't know where the things i need are waiting #but staying here and wallowing won't help #and i have to keep being brave and even if that means doing scary things all by myself for a while longer #i just hope that i'm making the right decisions and that things will work out #and maybe eventually i'll find myself somewhere #where i don't feel quite as alone all the time..#u know #universe please hold my hand when no one else will #i'm scared #:(#i know i sound so dramatic but. i can't help it ;-;#snow.txt

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lovegasmic · 2 months

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CAUGHT CHEATING ?

your boyfriend found you texting your ex after a fight, does that even count as cheating ?!

( request ) ──── Toji, Sukuna, Satoru, Suguru x f!reader. mdni. curseless au , possessive behavior but you talk / fight back , they don't know each other . didnt add Kento or Choso bc they would just sit down and talk....... or drop your ass.

★ join the taglist.

TOJI ! : rough forced oral but you actually like it

for the nth time you roll your eyes, almost now aching from how many times your boyfriend has forced you to, “i told you i am not cheating” the tap of your foot is rhythmical and a constant presence in the room filled with thick anger, “and give me my damn phone”

“not happening, doll, you’re such a little liar” Toji mutters with a thick voice, a hand snaking to cup your cheeks and squish them together roughly, the other maintaining your phone up high so he could continue to check the messages with your ex. he’s mad and you know it, that usual smirk now replaced by a scowl and arm veins popping.

a slight twitch is visible on his brow, hands tightening around your mouth so you pout deepens, Toji loves how you look right now, grumpy and with a stupidly cute pout he wants to kiss, but your pretty face won’t make him forget about all your bullshit.

“get on your knees” is what he barks instead, thumb scrolling through your phone with a slight grind of his teeth, “didn’t you hear me?”

“m’ not goin’ t— hmph!”

your knees roughly hit the floor with a thud, from where Toji pushed on your shoulders and is currently tossing your phone on your feet, you’re able to see the tenting erection on his boxers, “why are you ha—”

“suck it”

“huh?! you’re fuckin’ insane if you think i’m—” sickling sweet, his hand cups your jaw, rummaging under the fabric of his boxers to fetch his cock and slide the tip past your lips, “ungh, fucker”

cheeks hollowed by the way you suck on your boyfriend’s cockhead, you were so mad, he was so mad, but the way your pussy throbbed was very much present, deciding to simply ignore your brain and focus on your needs.

“you love this cock too much to cheat on me” Toji smirks from above, barely watching his face from the way he tilted back and huge chest was in the way, fuck, another wave of slick down your cunt.

yet you try to fight back, groaning and purposely tapping the underside of the tip with your tongue, a touch you knew drove him insane, “oh you little...” he breathes, teeth clenched one more time while sliding your hair back off your eyes, “you want to play like that, doll? you got it”

there will most likely be bruises on Toji’s thighs from how hard you dig your nails on them, throat bulging and eyes swelling with tears from each harsh thrust of his length deep into your mouth, keeping you steady with both hands on the back of your head, using you like a damn fleshlight. and of course, when you think he’s calmed a little, your phone has to light up with a new text from your so undesired ex.

SUKUNA ! : choking, degradation, messy making out.

Sukuna mostly liked to fuck face to face, enjoying the lewd expressions you made with each rub of his cock into your soft walls, and when he fucked on doggy, you knew he was pissed.

“who knew my girlfriend was such a slut” his voice echoes through the walls, a deep rumbling groan getting replaced by the sound of your soft ass repeatedly smacked against his pelvis.

“’Kuna... what are you, u-ngh, saying....?”

what you thought was a make up sex, was a punishment instead.

his hand is quick to reach forward and squeeze your neck, pulling you back flush against his broad and sweaty back, “who the fuck is Satoru?” he did not need the answer, already aware of your ex’s name.

the way your eyes widened slightly was enough answer either way.

“do you enjoy texting your ex about how much of an asshole I am?” and you’re fucked. part of you extremely mad at your boyfriend scrolling through your phone, but well, you were in disadvantage currently.

“you are” his hand on your neck tightens, reducing your air flow but simultaneously making you clench around his tip.

“you’re not a saint, sweetheart”

you never said that, and force yourself to not roll your eyes, “quite the opposite, you’re a needy, horny girl, not getting enough with my cock, and now you need another? tsk, what a whore”

“u-ugh” you cough, “that’s... not true!”

“be quiet” Sukuna gruffs, tugging your head back tighter to lean closer, “and stick out your tongue” somehow that lewd command made you obey, staring at him with challenge, your eyes not fathering although he still had the upper hand.

“cheeky thing” is what he says, taking the tip of your tongue with his, messily having a tongue kiss without your lips actually touching, creating a lewd and loud sound in the room that made you dizzy, “you’ll delete his number, okay, baby?” he murmurs, a threat, “or, I will not take responsibility for what may happen” why was that hot?

you wish there was a way for you to groan or yell at him, only for your body to betray you and make your pussy gush around the cock still buried inside you.

“good girl”

SATORU ! : oral fixation, creampies, overstim.

“you won’t do that again, right, baby?” your boyfriend is so sweet and soft, tenderly rubbing two of his fingers against your tongue.

“S’tru wh’t the fuck” your words are choked, muffled by his long digits exploring every inch of your mouth.

“wrong answer” fingers stop but his free one pinches your clit hard.

“hngh!”

a hum escapes his reddish lips, getting comfortable in his current position between your legs and pussy soaking, beautifully warming his cock, “try again, baby, you just need to say you won’t cheat on me again”

“didn’t cheat” again, another muffled groan.

this time you get cut by a gag from Satoru’s fingers resuming their rubbing on your tongue, uncomfortably deep, “that’s not what I saw, babe, you betrayed my trust” his words are slightly thicker with bubbling up emotions.

“you’re exa— ugh, —ggerating”

suddenly, his eyes darken, gripping onto any edge of sanity as not to snap at the mere thought of you reducing his feelings and worries, opting instead for a more appropriate approach.

“Satoru! a-angh, no, no more!” your muffled sounds now, a few minutes later, turned into desperate pleas and cries of overstimulation, the sheets below sticky and damp with mixed fluids.

“not until, —uh fuck, you understand” completely feral is what he is, fucking you into the sheets, with load after load seeping past your stretched cunt, coating all over his length and dripping down his balls and the sheets, where the fabric sticks to your sweaty lower back utterly uncomfortably.

and considering the way your boyfriend’s cock somehow springs back to life after thick loads of semen splurted into you, you know you’re stuck for a long time.

SUGURU ! : groping , taking pictures of you mid fuck.

“this, is mine” Suguru’ voice is gruff, even more than usual, completely and utterly jealous. although your boyfriend was usually rough, his long fingers squeezing your tit and pinching your nipple in the process was much meaner than usual.

“this, is also mine” he murmurs now, sickly cooing, as if taunting and playing with you. pushing his whole body weight against your backside to forcefully make the vanity edge dig on your soft hips from where you’re bent, eyes on the mirror and Suguru’s free hand tight on your jaw.

“you’re much prettier when you’re quiet and obedient” his lips trail down your jawline, and by the way his tight grip held you steady, it’s not as if you could actually speak, “not when you’re texting your exes with stupid names... what was it again?”

“Ch-choso...” you manage to mumble through squished cheeks.

he huffs, “what a ridiculous name, love, did your pretty head forget you’re mine?” for anyone who just met Suguru, they wouldn’t have sensed the menacing tone in his voice, hidden so perfectly under fake sweet words.

“t’was not”

“hm, what was it?” Suguru’s smile widens slightly scarily, letting go off your cheeks.

you huff, rubbing the slightly sore skin, “i was not doing anything bad, it was just a dumb text” and oh, the attitude does not sit well with Suguru.

“just a text, right, of course” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing, and you gulp, “then, you wouldn’t mind me texting them too, right?” blood runs cold through your body, unsure and definitely terrified of what he would do, grabbing your phone and unlocking it while his free hand shoves under the crotch of your panties and tug it aside.

“Suguru, what are you—” words cut in a choked moan, having your boyfriend’s cock slowly pushing into your soaked cunt, eyes wide as well as your mouth.

“that’s just the expression I was looking for, baby” Suguru chuckles, knowing your body so well to the point that every hit slammed your g-spot, having you almost blissed, almost too dumb to realize the frontal camera of your phone capturing the lewd sight of your expression, “smile” he mocks again, a click, and the picture was delivered to your ex.

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silkscream · 3 months

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natural devotion

ੈ✩ synopsis: gojo finds you, his ex-wife, in a sketchy dive bar. he almost doesn't recognize you.

ੈ✩ cw: smut (minors dni, ageless + blank blogs will be blocked), previous arranged marriage, ex-husband!gojo, clanleader!gojo, rough bathroom sex, semi-public sex, drunk sex, oral, fingering + penetration, light choking, gojo is.... weird idk how to explain. he's just strange and cold and possessive and so odd

ੈ✩ wc: 3.2k

ੈ✩ a/n: literally nobody asked for this. also it's unedited. sorry

Gojo thinks he sees a ghost when he sees you.

At least, he thinks it’s you.

You don’t see him yet, so he takes the liberty to scan you over more thoroughly. You’re not wearing anything like the simple, modest attire he remembered you donning around his estate. Instead, you’re in a form-fitting crop top and the tiniest mini skirt Gojo has ever seen. He’s not sure if it even classifies as a skirt.

Interesting.

He takes a breath as he sits down next to you, interrupting your conversation with the bartender to offer his card. You turn to look at him and you laugh.

“Put hers on my tab,” Gojo says.

“Always the gentleman.”

“You know I’ll always take care of you. Even if we aren’t married anymore.”

You could scoff at that, but you decide to be polite. He’s as candid as he’s always been. It used to humiliate you, but you aren’t the same docile little wife you used to be. You also realize his gesture could be interpreted as tender, which isn’t something you were ever used to in your marriage.

He was a cold man and it was a marriage of convenience.

Or perhaps he was only cold to you. You would watch how he would interact at social gatherings and clan parties, his charisma infecting entire rooms. Toothy grins that shone as brightly as his hair. Always loud, animated, and magnetic.

To you, he was mostly indifferent.

He was never outwardly mean, but he was constantly occupied with missions. It almost felt as if you weren’t married at all. You enjoyed speaking to him when he was around, though. There were moments when you could almost picture yourself being his friend, but then he would be away and come back cold.

When you asked for a divorce, he complied without a blink. Even after you were free from becoming an incubator for the Gojo clan’s next heir, something in your chest ached at how easily Gojo signed the papers.

And now, he’s tipsy in a bar with you and more tuned into your presence than ever. When he looks at you, there’s a lingering that you convince yourself you’re hallucinating.

Small talk with him is odd. He’s much more complicated than that, but here you are, discussing trivial things right now. If he’s remarried yet (he hasn’t). If you honed in on your cursed technique (you have).

It’s terribly odd. Like talking to a stranger that you’ve only met in a dream.

“I thought you’d have better taste in bars,” he drawls, sipping a Cosmo. It was annoyingly endearing, the way he wasn’t the kind of man to have a glass of whiskey despite acting like it.

“I could say the same to you.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not a regular. This place is full of perverts.”

“Does that include you?”

Gojo grins. “Not like some of these guys. You would’ve gotten roofied if I didn’t sit down. And your outfit certainly isn’t helping.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” you scoff.

“It is one. You’re a sight to behold. Never saw you in anything like this when we were married.”

“Your clan would have my head. I assume you would, too,” you mutter.

His eyes are taking you in, flickering between your face and your body. It would make you uncomfortable if you weren’t already three beers in.

“I wouldn’t be angry. I just don’t promise that I would’ve kept my hands to myself.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“I think this is the most forward you’ve ever been to me.”

“You were so timid back then,” he smirks. He places a hand on your knee, his thumb tracing the skin. “Such a nervous little girl. There were times I assumed you were cheating on me, the way you were so rigid with me.”

You remember being obedient and quiet. Perhaps rigid, but you had only followed his lead, pushing yourself away from him just because he was doing it to you first. You know you shouldn’t apologize or feel guilty for your lack of intimacy with him, but the way he teases you makes your face heat up.

“I wouldn’t cheat on you,” you frown.

“Good,” he smiles. It almost seems genuine. “I wouldn’t have let anyone have you, anyway.”

Your eyes widen in slight surprise.

Why did you let me divorce you, then?

His fingers are tracing circles into the skin of your thigh absentmindedly. The flutter in your chest threatens to pull on your lungs when you notice.

“You’re so different now,” he notes.

“Not really.”

“I don’t just mean the way you look, by the way. Your eyes are sharper. Posture better. Not a meek little thing anymore, huh?”

You could flush at how he belittles you, but the praise gets to your head.

“Huh. You’re the opposite. You look and act the same as when I last saw you.”

He laughs. “I always liked when you talked back, you know. Anyone ever told you can be a bit of a brat?”

You raise a brow. “Yes.”

His breath smells sweet. Tongue like a candy apple from the sugared liquor in his glass, you were sure. You don’t wince when he gets closer to you.

“Yeah? And how do they deal with it?”

You bite the inside of your cheek before entertaining him.

“Everyone’s a little different,” you mumble.

You miss the flicker of jealousy in his eyes. You’re too distracted by the shape of his mouth.

“What do you think I’d do?” Gojo tilts his head as if he’s taunting you.

“I don’t– what?” you stammer.

“You’re a smart girl. Use your imagination.”

He grins again. Everything about him is sickeningly sweet. It’s not a side of him you’ve ever seen directed at you. There’s almost a fondness there. You would only see it before in rare moments, usually when Gojo was a little drunk. You suppose he could be drunk now and you’re almost grateful despite yourself. He would always get a little handsy, especially if you were dressed up for his clan events. He’d have his hand only on your leg, crawling up the skirt of your dress. During times like those, he felt like a real husband.

They were always such fleeting moments. Even years after the divorce, certain memories could still make you dizzy.

Your mouth goes dry. You compose yourself.

“Sorry. I, uh, have to use the bathroom.”

“Gonna use your imagination in there?” Gojo jokes.

“Something like that,” you mutter back, if only to humor him.

You don’t realize the hole you’ve put yourself in once you utter the words. The invitation you’ve given him. Unfortunately, you’re also still reeling from the conversation, so you forget to lock the door of the handicapped bathroom.

To be fair, Gojo did try to convince himself not to follow you for the entire three minutes you were gone. But he’s never been that good of a man. It was your fault for being so damn tempting in the first place. But he had tried to be good even in the very beginning – he was polite, kept his hands to himself. Bought you anything you wanted.

He even let you leave him. After seeing you tonight, he now knows it was a grave mistake.

“Satoru.”

“Hey.”

He closes the door gently and locks it. Leans against the door with his arms crossed as if waiting for you to do a magic trick from the way he’s looking at you expectantly.

“Why are you–”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want me to follow you,” he tuts.

Okay. Fine. He had a point.

“This must be exciting for you, yeah? Seeing me lose it over you?”

You can’t form words. Despite the fire in your belly, you aren’t completely sure what his angle is here. He steps forward and backs you into the wall. He could pin you to it, easily.

His hands rest on your thighs, riding up the length of the pathetic excuse you call a skirt.

“You’re trying to kill me with this,” he huffs. “Just making everything so… difficult.”

He almost sounds disappointed in you. There is a rush of desperation flooding your brain like a knee-jerk reaction. You can feel your heart about to burst.

“Sorry,” you mumble. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.

“I was really trying to behave, too,” Gojo sighs. “Wouldn’t want to scare my ex-wife away with how much I missed her. Christ.”

“You– what?”

“Yeah, baby. How could I not miss this face?” He strokes your cheek. You’re convinced he’s been possessed by someone else, maybe. Mistaken you for a different stranger.

Your knees are already going weak. He leans in to whisper in your ear. The hand stroking your cheek holds your chin, squishing your face slightly.

“Didn’t you miss me?”

“I… I did,” you whisper.

“Good,” he smiles softly. “I like knowing you still think about me.”

The proximity is driving him insane, but he’s always liked to play with you. Sometimes he would be a little mean on purpose, but never enough to be considered bullying. He just enjoyed watching you squirm back then — it was adorable how dedicated you were to playing the part of a doting wife. He wanted to see you crack, maybe beg for his attention, but you were always too stubborn.

His cock throbs knowing that you’re putty in his hands now. Melting against him, soft and willing like a blooming flower. God, he needs a taste. He nibbles on your earlobe and grins when he feels your breath hitch.

“I kind of wanted to just take you right there on the bar. Let all those creeps see how good I’d fuck you.”

Your eyes flutter rapidly at his words. He has pinned you to the wall now. You’re close enough to feel him press against you, bullet-hard. A little more teasing and he’d pull the trigger.

He kisses down your neck, mapping it out with his teeth. He’s barely touched you and you feel like an elastic band about to snap.

“S-Satoru–”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You pant lightly. You’re preening into his touch. Lightning makes roots down the center of your spine. You forget what you wanted to say.

“What is it? You want me to take care of you?” He pulls back this time to look you directly in the eyes. His expression softens just a second at the lovestruck look in your eyes. Tender and glistening.

You nod slowly.

“I need your words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” your voice shakes. “I want you to take care of me.”

He hums, pleased. The desire in his face is so new to you despite having been his wife. He’d only fucked you once before, on your anniversary. You were too tempting and he, admittedly, was tired of punishing himself by not allowing himself the pleasure of having you.

He could see you now, sprawled on the tatami mat, how you smelled like cherry blossoms. Flashes of images reeling in his mind, every little sound you made. He’d fucked his fist to the memory of it all too often after you left him.

He felt honored to have the real thing in his hands right now.

He kisses you like he needs you to breathe. You feel blood rush to your ears, the music from the bar muffled. All you could hear were the sound of his grunts, the slickness of his tongue in between your lips.

He spins you around abruptly, bending you over the sink. Hand on your throat, teeth in the tendon of your shoulder.

“Look at how pretty you are,” he rasps.

You whimper, feeling his hard cock rut against the curve of your ass. He laughs when he swipes his hand underneath your skirt, the fabric of your underwear already wet.

You gasp sharply when he eases a finger in without any resistance. He swallows the sounds you make, craning your neck towards his face with his hand while the other works another finger in. Your stomach flips, all boiling heat when he curves his fingers in just the right spot. As if he’d done it a dozen times.

“Dirty girl,” Gojo mumbles. “Getting off to her ex-husband's fingers all the way up in her cunt. In a fucking dive bar bathroom, too.”

When you whine, he only scissors into you harder and laughs. It kills you how much it turns you on, even while knowing he’s being cruel. You would fantasize about it all the time back then. Needed him to make you a real wife so you could forget yourself. You close your eyes, groaning.

“S-Satoru, I–”

“You’re not gonna cum just from that, are you?” You hear a grin in his voice.

“Fuck, please —”

His fingers leave you, making you whine in protest. The sopping mess of your arousal trickles down your inner thighs.

“Not yet, baby. Want you to cum in my mouth.”

Gojo drops to his knees and flips up your skirt, pulling your soiled underwear down your legs at the same time. You cover your mouth to keep from moaning when you feel his tongue prodding at your cunt.

“I always regret not tasting you on our anniversary,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You’re sweeter than I imagined.”

“Imagined?” you squeak out.

“You thought I stopped wanting you just because I signed a piece of paper?”

“I didn’t – oh, fuck —”

You’re distracted by the plunge of his tongue into cunt. He sucks at the hood of your clit and you feel yourself jerk involuntarily. He’s fond of your sensitivity. He used to want to take advantage of it.

You let a particular loud whine and he hums, lapping up every drop of your arousal. He sucks at your clit in earnest while he brings his fingers back to you, immediately reaching for the spot he knows will make you see stars.

You cum so hard that you nearly bang your head against the sink faucet. Your head is spinning from the impact of it, dizzied on the high that came from a clan head in your cunt. The alcohol wasn’t helping.

He’s quick to get to his feet and kiss you so you can taste yourself. He tugs your hair and you arch for him like a taut bowstring.

“Feel how much I want you, baby?” You can feel his dick against you, something like shame flooding your system at how much of a mess you were. Getting his nice slacks all damp with your slick.

“Please,” you beg.

He doesn’t think twice once he hears your plea. He unbuckles his belt quickly and slides down his pants. He collects your wetness in between your folds to stroke his dick.

It feels like he’s gouging your stomach when he fucks into you. Bigger than any man you’ve had, still. Gojo likes that he was your first and he’s decided now that he will be your last.

“Tight,” Gojo mutters. You know it’s a compliment but your face heats up nonetheless. His hand around your throat is only more confirmation of his want.

He smacks your ass with his other hand, looking down to admire the reddish mark he left. Brute. He grins when you squeeze him tighter after it. He notices your eyes struggling to stay open and gives a particularly hard thrust just to see your jaw go slack. Eyes in half-moons, boiled by the heat of your thumping heart. Blood pumping to every soft spot in your body, your brain.

“Satoru,” you gasp.

“Yeah, baby?”

“F-Feels so…”

You inhale sharply, eyes widening when his hand snakes down to pinch your clit. Your hair’s wrapped his knuckles now. A ribbon around a wedding gift. He liked when you used to wear ribbons around your neck. Liked imagining you all wrapped up for him.

Satoru was so beautiful when he did anything, but he was angelic when he was fucking you. Cheeks all carmine, mouth wide open. It was something you wanted to get used to.

“You keep clenching, Jesus,” he grunts. Teeth at your nape, at your shoulder. Blue eyes staring at you in the mirror.

“Satoru, I’m close,” you whine.

“Hold it.”

“I– I don’t know if I can.”

“You can. You’re a good girl, even if you are dressed like a little slut.”

You whimper at that, your cunt pulsating at his words. Muscles strung out like a wet rag. You nearly cry when he pulls out of you, manhandling you to turn. He picks you up to set you down on the cold sink counter, the porcelain soothing the bruising on your ass.

He groans as he pumps himself slowly, admiring the way his tip catches on your entrance. You squirm a little, impatient, and he kisses you. It feels invasive, almost, from how rough he plays with you, sucks on your tongue. He takes the opportunity to ram into you, enjoying the way the pitched whine rolling out of your mouth gets tasted by him.

“Missed my cock, didn’t you?” he smirks. “Still the best you’ve ever had, right?”

“Y-Yes,” you sob.

His gut fucking melts.

Your mascara was getting smudged, not smudgy like he’d see in porn, but blending in the rim of your wet eyes. Dew-drop lashes.

“Feels best like this. Wanna see your face when you cum for me,” he pants.

Your hands are on his shoulders, clinging onto him. He’s so much bigger than you, especially like this — your legs spread, his big hands gripping your thigh hard enough to hurt a little. You moan. Your voice sounds girlier than usual, wounded. You don’t recognize yourself.

“Oh, it’s too deep—”

“No such thing,” Satoru snickers. “You’re – hah – so good at this. Good girl.”

“S-Satoru, it’s too–”

“You love it. Tell me.”

“F-fuck — I,” – you struggle mindlessly, voice strained – “I love it…”

“I know, baby,” he coos. Kisses your forehead, which is hilariously domestic and gentle considering the mean pace of his hips.

He grabs your chin and makes you look up at him. You’re so fucked out. He’d ask you to take a picture if he wasn’t so focused on making you cum.

“You want to cum, don’t you?” he taunts.

“Please, please, please—”

“Okay, honey,” he chuckles. “You can cum now.”

Your moan is louder than expected as your cunt squeezes him impossibly tight. You can feel all the warmth rush out of you. You really are a sight to behold, which is why Satoru cums immediately after you. You feel like you might pass out.

He kisses you all over your face, mumbling praise as you come back to your body. It’s all most nonsensical, but you swear you hear I love you. Your half-lidded eyes close as he envelops you with his arms, mascara streaking his shoulder.

He opens his mouth to say something but gets interrupted by a succession of loud knocks.

“Other people need to piss!”

Satoru scoffs, pulling away from you to slide his pants back up and buckle them. He mouths something to you that you don’t understand and leans down to grab your underwear to give to you.

“Just a second!” Satoru yells. “My wife is sick, had a bit too much to drink. Almost done.”

“Wife?” you whisper, bewildered.

Satoru eyes soften in amusement. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

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