#sudden snowfall

[ruanbaijie]

against better judgement i caved and started snowfall over this weekend and i am enjoying it a lot. currently trying to go slow so it doesn't end so quickly but also dying to see what's next all while my to gif list exponentially grows

[allbeendonebefore]

Teehee ! snowdrops in bloom :3 the only snow I want to see in Victoria, HAHAHAHAHA!!!

[check in with me again on thursday]

[lagtrovert]

It's snowing!

[ceilidho]

prompt: you and Price get in an accident (1.6k)

-

He comes into your life like nothing less than divine intervention.

A fender bender, of all things. It’s a bad day and you’re distracted, too busy thinking about your dad calling to tell you that he lost ten thousand from his retirement fund when the stock he’d invested in crashed and how you’re supposed to help him out of this mess, and the roads are slick with that last snowfall of early spring, still unsalted even hours after the snow started. 

So when you slam on the brakes at the last second after noticing the car in front of you stopped at a red light, your car slips on the ice and slides forward, hitting the back of the stopped car and sending it forward a foot. It’s quick and sudden, and though you stepped on the brakes early enough to avoid a worse collision, your head snaps forward with the jolt and the seatbelt yanks you back violently, winding you. 

Your hands go tight around the wheel, eyes so wide that they nearly pop out of your head as you stare at the car directly in front of you. All of the dread in the world pools in your mouth and then down your throat when you swallow, heart galloping in your chest. You almost can’t believe it for a second.

Then the car in front of you—a big, fuck-you SUV that only worsens your anxiety because of all cars to hit, it had to be someone with a fancy, brand new car that probably has a lawyer on speed dial—puts their hazards on and the driver’s side doors opens and reality snaps like a rubberband back into you. With shaky hands, you put your car into park and put your hazards on as well. 

“Oh shit,” you whisper under your breath. An understatement.

A tall man in a brown parka steps out of the car and stares at you through the windshield, a stern expression on his face. He has a beanie pulled down over his head and a full beard, and for a second, the mental image of a bear emerging out of its den flickers in your imagination, all snow-dusted and irritable. 

He’s grizzled and older than you. The only consolation is that he doesn’t match the image of the driver that you had in your head—no seven thousand dollar suit or bluetooth earpiece; instead, he seems like the kind of man who’d drive an old pickup or a schooner, wearing an Aran sweater and a skipper's cap, with a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. He seems out of place in the middle of the road in your small town. 

But he is real, and even though you watch him march over to you, you flinch when he raps on the window with his knuckles. 

“Roll the window down,” he instructs, voice muffled through the glass, and you do because the command cuts through the buzzing in your ear. When you do, he reaches into your car with one hand and pops the lock, then takes a step back to open the door. You’d freak out if the situation were different, but you must be in shock because all you can do is stare at him dumbly as he leans into the car and undoes your seatbelt. “C’mon, sweetheart. Out.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing to get you to step out of the car. All he has to do is step back and you get out, knees nearly buckling, like jelly under you. He holds your elbow to steady you. Your elbow feels delicate and tiny in the width of his palm. 

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, looking all over your face.

You want to answer him, but all you can do is whimper, “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, none of that. It was an accident. You alright though? Anything hurt?”

“Uh…I don’t…I don’t know.” It hasn’t really sunk in yet, you think. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be sore all over, but right now you feel fine. On the verge of shaking out of your skin, teeth nearly clattering together, but more or less okay. 

“Nothing too bad then. Wanna give me your insurance so we can deal with this, sweetheart?” 

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Let me just—” You move to reach back into your car to fetch your purse, but he stops you, insisting on getting it for you. 

And you let him, docile like a doll, watching as he leans into your car and across the seats to grab your purse, big frame looking comically large in your little car. Looking like he’d barely fit in the front seat if he tried to get in. 

He comes back out with your little purse in hand and opens it, handing you your wallet and purse by its strap. Your fingers are still shaking when you pull out your insurance information and hand it to him. Everything feels surreal and muted, and the tears are going to flow at any minute now if you don’t get a handle on it. 

He must notice because a knuckle fits under your chin and lifts your head up. “Hey, what’s wrong? 

“No, no,” you say, reaching up to swipe your fingers over your eyes. “I’m just—I’m really embarrassed. I’ve never been in an accident before.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” His voice is much softer now, pitched low in the way handlers talk to spooked animals. He puts his thumb to your chin, holding you in place. “No one got hurt. Could’ve been worse than it was, and we’ve both got insurance, so what’s done is done. I don’t look mad, do I?”

Trapped between his thumb and knuckle, you can only give a slight shake of your head. “No.” 

“Then let’s just take it one step at a time and no tears. Okay?”

You sniff. “Okay.”

“Okay. I’m going to call the insurance, so you get back in the car and sit tight, alright?” 

You nod. 

“Good girl,” he says, a hint of praise in his voice. “Put the heat on too. It’s too cold for that jacket.”

That makes you go warm all over, flustered and tongue-tied. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to expect a response out of you. The only thing he expects you to do is get back in the car and turn the heat back on, the warm air billowing into your face when he leans in to crank it up all the way. 

Though most of the sound is muffled from inside the car, you turn down the heat and crack the window open slightly to hear him give his name to his insurance company. John Price. Even his name evokes the image of him somewhere else in the world, settled into the nooks and crannies of history. 

John handles everything for you while you sit in the car like he told you to, settling everything with the insurance companies and calling for a tow truck right after that. You don’t realize that, of course, until the tow truck pulls up in front of his car and he comes back to usher you out of your car. 

“How am I supposed to get home?” you croak. The tow truck driver hitches your car to the bed of the lift and pulls it up, your little car looking pathetic all alone up there. 

“I’ll drive you home then bring mine in later.”

“Why can’t I drive my car to the garage too?” You’re petulant now that you’ve learned that he won’t bite, and you know it’s petulance because you don’t actually put up much of a fight to get your car taken off the tow truck. 

That petulance trembles when his expression grows stern again. “You’re getting it checked by a mechanic before you get behind the wheel again,” he tells you in no uncertain terms, eyes daring you to contradict him.

You don’t. It’s hard to argue with someone so adamant on your wellbeing. A mechanic in later days will tell John, with you by his side, that your car was mostly fine apart from some slight damage to the bumper, but that you made the right call to bring it in just in case the frame cracked during the accident.

John’s arm will be around your waist at the time and he’ll pull you tighter into his side when the mechanic says that. And what do you do but go with it, curling into his side like it’s natural. You’ll have already fucked him by then anyway. It’ll be no less forward than letting him take you for coffee and then back home, following you up to your apartment and into your bed. 

Now though, you let him usher you into the passenger seat of his car and shut the door behind you, the wind cutting off abruptly. It only comes back when the door opens on his side. 

You rattle off your address and watch bemusedly as he programs it into his GPS and hits save. You don’t have the temerity to question him, to poke a hole in the bubble of familiarity ballooning around the two of you. The real world seems far away in his car, like you’re in limbo, the rules different here somehow. 

“How about a coffee?” he asks at the next light, putting his hand on your thigh and shaking when you don’t respond right away. “Does a hot drink sound good right about now?”

“I guess?” you say. In truth, it sounds great, but you’re losing the thread of this conversation, your old preoccupations getting further and further away from you. 

John gives your thigh a squeeze, lingering for a beat before pulling away. “Good. It’ll be a nice little pick me up before we go home. My treat.”

All you can do is nod, your throat dry.

[grugruel]

Stop me if it hurts.

Pairings: dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: A supply run goes south, and Joel has to save you. The damage done brings you closer.

At the end of the day, you're belly up on the bathroom floor with joel on top of you, sweaty and panting.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: soft!joel, pinv sex, oral sex (f recieving), fingering, creampie, "I love you", cum eating ish, pet names (sweetheart, baby, girl), slight overstimulation.

AN: I've laboured guys. I might have cooked. The end is sloppy in more ways than one😼 I'll fix it up, though. I've still got to proofread. But until then, ENJOY.

Reliable arms carry her far. Bloodied and torn, but she's still alive. By his virtue alone.

He'll glance down at her from time to time, whenever he can spare vigilance from their surroundings. There's worry sharpening his eyes. Yet, the edges dull when their eyes connect and he finds hers glinting with gratitude.

Disconnected by shock, but safe in his embrace. Fatigue from the day's horrifying events take over, and the girl doesn't reflect before caressing his neck.

Joel smiles, it's quick and sweet. But it falls as reality floods the pair, drowning them in consequences. The softness she values disappear from his eyes, seamingly reminded of the dire situation they find themselves in.

She shouldn't have, she knows it. His divided reaction lurches in her stumach while the question festers in her mind. Which situation was it? Emotional or physical–Infected or her father. One wedging between them while the other forces them closer.

Her thoughts become muddled, she doesn't know. The girl's adrenaline drops and she struggles to keep her eyes open as her subconscious is assured of safety in his embrace.

Worry furrows his brow once again. Snow crunches underfoot as his pace picks up, desperate to get you to safety.

The bright blue sky and light snowfall encapsules the determination in his features. Her eyes are drawn to his strong stubbled chin as fingers sink into her skin.

Then it goes black.

—

Her father's worried face and relief washing it clean as he catches sight of his girl. He knows she's in good hands, he knows she needs to be taken care of. She gets snippets of their conversation while swaying in and out of consciousness. "Take care of her, Joel." And "Get her warm." Among a few. In the back of her mind is an image, her father's eyes relenting to a friend. Admitting that his grown daughter would rather have Joel's help in such a delicate situation. Then, his parting words comes rushing back. "I trust you."

—

Coarse fabric strokes her face, stinging shallow wounds. Wincing at a particularly nasty cut, she opens her eyes to find Joel's face inches from her own. "It was the best I could find," he murmurs, a damp towel in hand.

She sighs in with relief, happy to see his face again and the girl gets a sudden urge to stroke the grey strands at his temples. "At least it's clean."

Joel smiles, the dent between his eyebrows loosening. He's relieved by her light mood. It's a good sign. "Not anymore," he jokes.

The girl blinks, noting that the brownish red towel had once been white. It doesn't worry her, the cuts she can feel are mild. It's the pain she cant see that alarms her, a dull ache haunting her muscles. She tries to move, but a blinding pain shoots through her and she groans. "Mggh-- Fuck. Is it bad?"

"I dont know, I'd have to see for myself." He sits back, eyes searching her body. "Your face took the worst of it. I can't find any blood apart from the cuts on your face." Joel rubs the towel over her forehead, his thumb soothing the skin as he moves along. "But, I expect there'll be a lot of bruising."

"Will they scar?"

Joel's gaze flick between the wounds, assessing them. He doesn't say it, but he's apologetic.

She nods, putting on a facade of indifference. "Cool, cool." She feels her face. The skin on her forehead, chin and cheek have split. A few scars are little to trade for her life, but it sucks either way.

"You're not gonna like it, but we need to get you walking–figure out where it hurts."

The girl nods again. She takes a moment to catch her breath, then sighs, "let's get it over with."

Joel ditches the towel and kneels beside her, circling an arm around her back to get a steady grip on her body. "Ready?"

She puts an arm around his shoulders and braces a hand against the back of her chair. "Ready," she exhales.

It hurts less with his help, but the side of her abdomen wails in protest. "Oof-" Worn floorboards creak as the girl takes a few steps without a limp. That's good news. "Mhh-- Its my side," she huffs. The room seems to warp around her, blurring her vision. "Feels like my waist 's gonna snap in half."

"Alright, alright," he exhales, relieved by the miraculous steps as she is. "We'll have to take a look, got a bath running upstairs," he begins, bending down to slip an arm beneath her legs. He smells of leather and pine.

The girl stops him. "I can walk, Joel." Pushing him away by the chest. "Promise," she says, but the dizzy spell lingers and the force from her own arms make her stumble.

Joel hauls her into his arms, shooting her independece down. "Now's not the time to be stubborn," he chuckles.

She wants to protest further, but there's immediate relief along her midriff as he takes the weight off the damaged area. She didn't realise how her body strained, but once gone, a relieved tear rolls down her cheek. "Thank you," she whispers.

Glancing down, Joel has to swallow unwelcome emotions. The tear has streaked dialuted remains of blood. She's strong, but hurting. Three words want to slip by his lips, but he swallows them too. He doesn't dare answer at all.

They journey the rest of the way in silence. Once arrived, Joel nudges the door open with his shoulder and steam swarms the pair. Gently, he sets her down on the tiled floor.

It's dark as little light seeps in from the hallway. But it's the heat that presses her mind, making it hard to focus on anything else. She's overdressed, sweat already coating her skin. Unzipping her jacket, she strains to pull it off. Hissing as she's forced to move her side.

"Gently," Joel calms her, stepping in to help and slides it down her arms. Without another word, he sinks to his knees and starts untying her shoes. Joel looks up, there's devotion in his eyes. Kind and unyielding. He cares for her like she cares for him, but this isn't news. It's hazardous however.

With their eyes locked, the girl carefully bends forward to brace a hand against his shoulder, aiding Joel in the removal of her shoes. He slides a hand behind her calf while the other grab the heel of her boot, pulling it off. It pains her, and he notices. "Just one more," Joel reassures her as he switches legs, making quick work of the second to spare her the pain. "Well done, sweetheart."

The pain affects her less than his words. Joel straightens out and looks her over. "Still need any help with that?" He nods to her hoodie, hands on his hips.

"Please." She's never enjoyed the feeling of helplessness, but if someone has to save her–she'll ways choose Joel.

"Raise your arms," he instructs, and gathers the fabric into his palms. She wears a t-shirt beneath, and as he begins to pull, it catches on the hoodie and hikes above her abdomen. Joel gets an involuntary glance of her exposed skin, and duty catches him in the act. He's quick to grab the shirt and pull it down as he slips the hoodie over her head. "Alright," he clears his throat and discards the hoodie. "Want to sit down for this?"

She shakes her head.

"Stop me if I hurt you."

She nods.

"Hey, look at me."

Doe-eyed, she faces him.

"Say it."

The girl's gaze flick between his eyes. Stubborn versus stubborn. He desires to strengthen her autonomy–by doing as he tells her. It's contrasting. And the thought of his hands on her body was a remedy of its own. Yet, she relents. "I'll stop you. . . If it hurts."

There's the beginnings of a smile, proud in it's curve as he hitches the t-shirt on his thumb and lifts it enough to inspect her side. A tall bruise stretches up her midriff, darkening her waist and ribs. He plants his hands around her ribcage to feel for breakage, and her breath hitches as he gets to the bruise. Joel lock eyes with her, ready to stop. But the 'stop' never comes.

The girl rolls her eyes. "You're not hurting me," she reassures him.

Joel nods slowly, inspecting the purple skin. "Nothing seems broken," he says, softly tracing the length of her ribs. And his thoughts take him elsewhere.

It was supposed to be a supply run. Ordinary and well-practiced. She wasn't supposed to come, but Joel had allowed it. She wanted to, he tells himself. But deep down, it was because of his own slefishness. He wanted her by his side, unsupervised by her father for few hours. Just the two of them.

He strokes the purple skin, transfixed by it's blotchy pattern. He was the cause of her pain. "I'll wait downstairs," he breathes. Prepared to give her space. Yet, he doesn't move.

"I might need your help," she offers, giving him a reason to stay. But there's protest brewing in his features. She continues, "just turn around, Joel. It's not that serious."

His arms are crossed as he gages her. One would think it's the look of a man firm in his decision. But Joel sighs, and a moment later his back is turned, leaning against the doorframe.

He eyes the floor out of respect, but the day has taken it's toll. He's worn, and look up to stretch his neck. Too late does he remember the small mirror above the sink. Inside it's fogged up frame is the girl, half-naked and glistening from sweat. And Joel's consience fails.

She releases pained grunts pulling on the back of her shirt, hoping to avoid extra strain. "Oh for fu-- Joel?" She pants. The fabric had slipped from her grip, and the girl can't bother doing it all again. "Joel?" The girl repeats. Turning her head sideways, she catches his eye in the mirror. "Think 'm gonna need that help after all." She doesn't question why he's looking at her or why he hasn't refrained. She knows.

The girl turns around and lifts her shirt, revealing the small of her back. Joel moves closer until his lips are inches from her neck, their breaths come heavy and his hands slide beneath the fabric. All rational sense vaporize along with the steam as he pulls it off. "Want me to continue?" He asks, whispering over her shoulder.

The girl shivers. "Yes."

Rusty fingers unclasp her bra, snapping it open. Gently, he slides the straps down her arms. Thebra hits the floor, Joel grasps her biceps and rests his forehead between her shoulderbaldes. "Tell me to stop, baby." Lips brush against her spine.

She furrow her brows as the words cut through her. "I won't." She knows it's hard for him, how he wishes to be free of these feelings. But it's hard for her aswell–being told of his wish to stop.

Joel moves closer, pressing his chest against her bare back. His hands find the buttons on her jeans, undoing them one by one. Then, he sinks his knees once more, and their gazes meet over her shoulder. Joel focuses on her eyes as he hooks his thumbs into the denim waistline and pulls it down. From their restriction, her panties follow. And she steps out of them both before Joel stands back up and looks away, grabbing her waist. He helps her step into the bath without a glance in her direction. Duty outways lust.

The girl adores his display of respect. She always has. Sitting on the edge of the tub, his fingers sink deep into her untouched side. He holds her weight with one arm, enabling Joel to spare her bruised side. Her eyes light up. She adores how considerate he is. There are a hundred qualities most men lack, which all come natural to Joel.

Sinking into the water, her aching body sighs. It loosens the tension that constricts her muscles and allows the girl to move without much pain.

"Im always thanking you."

"You never have to," he says, then moves to leave. He has done his duty, lingering would be a breech of it.

But she grabs his hand. "I want to thank you properly."

He shakes his head, refusing to look at her. "Im not trading you for a few minutes of pleasure."

"Joel." The girl places his hand over her heart, coarse fingertips soaking up waterdroplets that glisten on her skin. "I'm right here," she whispers, leaning closer to cup his face, gaining no response. "Inches away, wanting you . . . Loving you."

That gets his attention. Finally, he looks at her. The gravity of their situation opening his eyes.

"You mean the world to me," she murmurs and slip his hand beneath the surface, guiding it atop her breast.

Joel inhales, fingers itching to move. To squeeze and massage. To give her everything she needs.

"I love my father, but he doesn't get to decide who else I give those words to." She beckons him closer. There's no force. Only slight pressure dimpling his cheek as she retracts her hand. It's the simple threat of her touch slipping away that makes Joel follow.

Their noses brush. "Tell me you love me too," she whimpers, squeezing for him, making his calloused fingertips dig into her breast.

Joel groans, chin jerking in chase of her lips. But he uses all the willpower he can muster to halt his urges, closing his eyes to focus.

"Tell me, Joel." She pecks the corner of his mouth, stubble prickling her lips. "Tell me. . ." Her hand squeezes harder around his.

"Fuck, girl," he groans, clenching his free hand. Joel tries to shake his fingers loose of restlessness, but it doesn't work. Enough is enough, he thinks. And puts them to use instead.

Joel rolls his shirtleeve up before softly grabbing her jaw. Slowly, his hand leaves her breast and dives beneath the surface. He leans closer, when an inch away he whispers, "I love you." Their lips connect as his hand slides down her abdomen. The kiss is considerate, and they're hungry. But this moment will weigh heavy in their memories, it would be a shame to rush.

Fingers slip behind her neck for purchase as Joel deepens the kiss. Yet, keeping the thumb on her jaw he applies a soff caress to preserve it's innocence.

The girl has never felt love this strongly before.

His hand sends shivers up her spine as jt dives between her thighs, cupping her mound.

She gasps and pulls away by reflex. Their eyes connect. Joel hesitates, his fingers pausing just as they reach her clit.

She shakes her head. "Dont stop, Joel. Dont stop." She had been entranced by the kiss, the sudden pressure caught her of guard. But her hand slips from his cheek to pull him closer by the shirt. "Please," she breathes, brushing her lips against his before inching back. Teasing him into action.

Luckily for her, it works. He slides two fingers between her folds before sinking into her core. She moans, eyebrows furrowing from the sudden pleasure shooting through her. "Yes . . ."

But as she leans in to kiss him, Joel pulls back. "Let me look at you, sweetheart."

The girl smirks and rests her cheek on the bathtubs edge, cushioned by the back of her hand.

Combing through her damp hair, he tenderly pulls it away from her face and gathers it in his fist. Joel simultaneously picks up the pace. He rubs his hand against her mound while thrusting his fingers, long fingers curling against her insides as his palm rubs against her clit.

He has experience, but that's to be expected. The girl was just in tatters by the raw talent he possesses. The knot tightens in her stumache, uterus roiling from the stimulation of her walls. She can only try to convey the pleasure he gives her. Her panting picks up, nonsense words falling from her lips.

"You're so beautiful," he says and strokes her temple. Gazing at eachother, his expanded pupils betray his thoughts.

The girl smiles, but the sweet moment passes as his fingers curl and her teeth sinks into her lip. "You-- Mhhg . . . You'll make me blush . . . Joel."

He smiles back, teeth and all. Those are rare. "You already are."

She can imagine. Rosy and satisfied by his hand. Her lungs strain as breaths expell in moans, high in pitch to signal her approaching climax.

"Jesus- 'm close," she cries, eyebrows creasing painfully. "You're s' fuckin good . . . Wanna be good, too." Her hand falls to his jeans, attempting to undo the buttons while she navigates through blinding pleasure, stars filling her vision.

"Let's focus on you, baby." The words push her over the edge and the pressure bursts like a dam, washing over- and filling her with ecstacy. "You're doing so good," he murmurs and levels his head with hers. The girl's fingers curl reflexively, sinking them into his thigh. Joel hisses, brushing his lips over hers. "Thats it . . . Good job, sweetheart."

"Kiss me," she whimpers and Joel obides without question–for once. Their lips meet again, comforting and soft. Joel's and leave her sex to move both into cupping her face, and the restrained her falls around her face. He pulls her closer

Tracing a nail up his thigh, she loops a finger through a belt hoop and tugs. "Need you . . . "

He disconnects their lips and sits back. Hand dripping of water and foam, he leaves wet stains on the fabric of his shirt as he undoes it's buttons. "Im yours."

—

The girl blinks and the next thing she knows–she finds herself on the floor. A rug pulled beneath her back and a large palm beneath her head, he lays her down.

Even though the air is warm and clingy, goosebumps cover her skin as cold tile stick to her ass.

Leather groans as he pulls the belt loose of it's constraints and denim rustles as his pants hit the floor. Then, Joel kneels before her.

The girl cant take her eyes off him, it's a sight she can never tire of. She's seen him shirtless before, but the circumstances were different. He looks different now–in the pale light, removing his clothes with intimate intention. Perhaps it's her view of him that's changed. He looks softer, somehow. She's noticed glints of it before, when they talk and in the way he looks at her. But it never lasts long. She imagines this version of him prominent before the outbreak. His default setting. But now, for the first time in a long time, his guard is completely lowered.

"Ready?" He asks and kisses her forehead, tip prodding at her entrence.

She nods eagerly, the need for him pent up and ready to release in tears unless she can have him soon. "Im ready." Her voice breaks.

Deleting the space between them, Joel drives forward and enters her. They gasp, then smile. Eyes connected as they explore the shape of one another. He's big, but the girl takes him perfectly. "Fuck," she moans.

"Stop me if i hurt you," he tells her again, always conscious of her well-being. But she realises late that it was more of a warning. Because Joel pulls out, pauses and thrusts back into her. He laces their hands together, move them above her head and then strike into her again.

"Holy shi-" she cries out in surprise and sinks her nails sink into the back of his hands.

Targeting her neck, he kisses the soft spot above her collarbone. " 'M sorry . . . Need you so bad." Laboured breaths and deep moans hit her ear. They're finally close in the way she always dreamed of.

His thrusts are deep and strong, but never forceful. Dull twists of pain go through her side with each thrust, but the warm water has limbered her up. They're barely noticeable. Besides, she would never let anything pull this man out of her. Joel had been so diligent at prioritising her that she never registered his own needs. "No It- 's ok." The stuttering of their bodies puts pause between her words. " 'S good, feels so good."

Sinking teeth into her neck, he leaves love bites that will let everybody know who she belongs to.

She nuzzles his profile and kisses his ear, attempting to grab his attention as her hands do little good. "Let me touch you, Joel . . . Please." She rocks her hips to meet his thrusts, it's all she can do.

His member twitches inside her, the actions getting to him. "Bad idea, baby," he grunts, then lowers his body what little there's left and uses his weight to thrust deeper, simultaneously pinning her hips to the tile.

Frustration bubble up as her walls clench around him. "Please, please," she whimpers.

Joel staggers, hands reflexively squeezing her as he push them hard into the tiles. "Cant . . . I won't last long enough for you." He gathers himself and trails kisses up her neck–soft and expertly–until he reaches her lips.

"Joel." His name is barely audible as it falls from her lips, her panting and pitched tone make words difficult to convey. "C- mmh, cum inside me for all I care." Her teeth sink into his bottom lip. "Just let me get you there."

He relents with a breathy groan, taking some weight off her hips as his hands slip to her wrists. He gives them a final squeeze of dissatisfaction before realeasing and caging her in with his forearms.

"Thank you," she smiles and pecks his lips. But she has a goal in mind. The girl puts her hips in motion then wrap her legs around the snall of his back, pushing him deeper still. She wraps a hand around his neck to pull him in for a kiss, while the other finds his back to claw.

"Fuck." Joel's thrusts falter as he pushes into her hard. "Feels so nice, girl . . . 'M- mhh, gonna cum."

She smiles against his lips, tongues dancing around eachother. "Good."

"Want me inside?"

"Please."

Joel's pace stutters and he slams his fist into the floor as he spills into her core. The pleasure overwhelming him. "So fucking good, I love you, sweetheart," he pants.

Satisfaction floods her chest, heart beating thrice as quick by his words alone.

"I love you," he continues, placing kisses down her throat. Hands slide down her sides, grabbing her ribs as his lips attach to her breast.

She gasps. "Shit-- Joel, it's alright. I dont have to-"

He sucks the plush flesh inte his mouth while kneading the other. Not taking no for an answer.

The girl moans, back arching. "Now isn't the time to be stubborn," she teases, using his own words against him.

He smiles around her nipple, biting it softly before he travels south. His fingers dimple her thighs as he hooks them over his shoulders and the pair lock eyes. Smug, he smirks.

She rolls her eyes and smiles back. "Go on, then. Big guy." One would think the girl has learned to control her tongue around Joel, because getting smart with him always end with a valuable lesson.

"Smart mouth," he exhales, damp breath fanning over her cunt. The girl swallows, and then he dives in.

She has no idea how many women he's been with, even though hes aware of her short history with one or two at Jackson. No matter how long it's been, Joel's tongue has kept its experience.

Lapping and sucking, he attacks her clit. Licking a stripe trough her folds just to tease her while paying no mind to the seed spilling out of her core. He might spit it out or use it as lube. She cant tell, because its all too much.

She topples over the edge quicker than expected. But he doesn't stop. He has a lesson to teach and she to learn. Tears roll down her cheeks as stars cover her eyes. "Fuck, Joel," she mewls. "I get it, I get it."

He let's out a throaty chuckle and slips his tongue out of her core. "Good."

Catching her breath, she heaves herself up as he crawls onto her. Joel braces his knuckles into the tile, keeping his arms straight to level his head with hers. Leaning in, they smile in unified satisfaction as their lips connect. He tastes of salt, a mix of their juices.

"I love you, too."

[rafey-baby]

trinket

rafe thinks his maid is just the sweetest little thing...  

prince!rafe x maid!reader 

c/w: rafe being a menace, him flirting (?) w her, some royal cameron family angst ig, brief descriptions of him having sex w another woman, 18+ mdni!

wc: 2.3k

also this is by no means historically accurate which is why i’m not gonna name any specific era for this xx

moodboard & introduction

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Every mid-December, the palace comes alive in an entirely novel way with the bustling preparations for the annual winter ball that the king and queen host to celebrate ‘another wonderful year’.

The once quiet and calm castle transforms into something colorful and vivid with the mouthwatering smell of cakes and pastries cooking in the ovens of the royal kitchen, along with maids and other servants whirling around the long hallways as they place intricate decorations and shiny ribbons all over the broad staircases and windows. 

She’s grateful she doesn’t have to partake in the hustle and bustle all that much since her primary duties include taking care of the prince and ensuring he has everything and anything he could possibly need.  

Although right now, she sort of wishes she could be stringing up polished ornaments or garnishing elegant baked goods because apparently, being the prince’s personal maid sometimes means sitting quietly in his bedchambers (as per his request to keep him company while he’s reading) with her own thoughts and the sounds outside the door her only source of entertainment.  

Therefore, she’s elated when he suddenly turns to face her in his armchair— flitting his eyes over to her from the hefty book that seems to have made him exasperated rather than enthralled.  

“Will you join me for a walk? All this noise is makin’ m’head hurt.”

There’s enthusiasm in the nod of her head; a yearning to see the fresh layer of snow covering the trees and painting the entire kingdom with its powdery whiteness— the aftermath of last night’s blizzard. She doesn’t think there’s anything more beautiful than the crystalline snowfall glittering under the touch of the afternoon sun— or maybe a certain pair of aquamarine eyes, but that’s beside the point.  

“That would be my pleasure, Your Highness,” she easily agrees. 

“How many times do I have to tell you how much I despise that name? There’s no need to use it when s’just me,” he scolds her before he’s straightening up and stretching out his arms over his head. 

“My apologies, it’s a habit,” she rises to her feet as well; trying her hardest not to let her eyes linger on the sliver of his stomach peeking out from underneath the silky fabric of his shirt. 

“I don’t want your apologies, want you to use my name,” he says before stepping closer— standing tall before her and forcing her to blink up at him in order to meet his eyes. “Go on, sweetheart, say it,” he practically orders; eager eyes fixed on her face.  

She hesitates under the sudden attention. He’s always seemed so fascinated by her and she doesn’t know why.  

“Um…Rafe.”  

He lets out a hum of approval. “That’s good. You ready to leave?” 

“Y— yes, uh, Rafe.”  

“Good job. Not so difficult, is it?” he coos at her almost mockingly— fingertips grazing the skin of her cheek when he tucks a loose tendril of hair back behind her ear. 

She merely shakes her head— a warmth dusting over the apples of her cheeks when his touch lingers on the side of her face afterwards. And for a moment, she thinks she’s going to drown in the lagoons of his eyes, but then he clears his throat and offers the palm of his hand for her to take.  

And it’s rather unusual for someone of his status to do; a prince who’s bound to wear the crown one day holding his maid’s hand isn’t exactly something that’s written in any book regarding the royal etiquette. However, he’s never been one to allow for dreadful rules and traditions to dictate his behavior, especially not towards her.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -  

“Are you looking forward to the winter ball?” she asks when they stop by the stables to check up on his horse, Jupiter.  

“You know I hate dancin’,” he mutters out as he watches its teeth grind on the carrot he brought with him.  

She smiles because she does know, before letting out a wistful sigh. “I wish I could attend.”

“You do? Why?” he’s perplexed by her enthusiasm towards something he considers as more tedious than anything— having to plaster on a smile for an entire night and socialize with people he doesn’t necessarily care for in order to humor his father never being something he’s particularly taken delight in.  

Especially when Sarah is going to be the one receiving all of their father’s attention anyway. Not that he cares (he does) but he would appreciate it, if for once in his life, his old man would show him even an ounce of the care he seems to so easily shower his sisters in.  

“Well, I’d love to wear a ball gown, but mostly for the food,” her feather-light voice brings him back to the moment.  

“I’ll make sure to bring you a plate ‘n you can eat it in my room then, yeah?” he promises as he runs his fingers through Jupiter’s black main.  

“You would do that?”  

“If you promise not to tell the other maids or they’re gonna accuse you of gettin’ special treatment,” his tone is playful. 

“They already do that,” she points out. “They think we spend too much time together.” 

“And what do you think?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

“I don’t mind. I quite enjoy your company,” she answers truthfully. After all, she has grown quite fond of Rafe throughout the years. Sometimes she just wishes he wasn’t so overwhelming, in every sense of the word. 

“Yeah?” a smirk pulls at the side of his mouth, seemingly pleased with her answer. 

She’s certain he’s well aware of the effect he has on her— the effect he has on everyone. And she thinks that he enjoys it; relishes in toying with her for his own amusement simply because he can. He can practically do anything he wants since his father is oftentimes gone for long periods of time; fulfilling his duties for the kingdom and whatnot.  

And she knows Rafe doesn’t particularly mind the fact that his father is rarely home because he’s always been hard on him, much harder than on his sisters because whether he likes it or not, he’s set off to be the new king one day. And his reputation of having female guests over more often than not whenever his father is away doesn’t necessarily help with gaining his approval.

After all, rumor travels fast around the palace.  

Rafe once admitted to her that he often felt like a disappointment, and that the pressure of everyone’s expectations sometimes made him wish he was nothing more than a stableman. After all, he does get along with horses better than he ever has with his family— it’s not exactly a secret amongst the royal court.  

“Would you wanna go for a ride with me? Think Jupiter’s gettin’ bored,” he suddenly asks.  

“Oh, I would love to but I’ve never, um, ridden a horse before,” she timidly admits. 

“No? You wanna know how it feels? You could jus’ sit behind me, don’t need to do anythin’, yeah?” he coaxes her to say yes with a seemingly sincere smile; already walking Jupiter out of its stable and leaving her no choice but to follow them outside.   

“Really?” the frosty air causes a shiver to crawl up her spine when she eyes him, hesitant.  

“Mhm. Promise nothing’s gonna happen, I’ll take care of you. ‘N I know you’ll like it, s’very freeing,” he assures her as he’s already saddling up the horse, seemingly aware that she could never refuse him of anything.  

“Okay...if you insist,” she tentatively agrees with a nod that he rewards with a beaming grin; the icy snowflakes sticking to his hair making him look like something straight out of a fairy tale.  

Then, he’s lifting her up to straddle the entirely too big of an animal that sort of still scares her— strong hands gripping onto her hips and leaving her momentarily starstruck at how effortlessly he does it; as if she weighs nothing more than the carrot Jupiter was just chewing on.  

He follows soon after, settling down in front of her with ease before looking at her over his shoulder. “Need you to hold onto me unless you wanna fall,” he instructs, seemingly reveling in the fact that he gets to be the one teaching her something new.  

“Oh, yeah, of course,” she says, gingerly setting her hands on his waist, movements uncertain.  

“Gonna need you to hold on tighter, promise I won’t bite,” he huffs out a laugh before he’s grabbing her arms and wrapping them around his middle more firmly— forcing her to fully lean against his back when the sudden clip-clopping of Jupiter’s hooves against the snow-covered cobblestone causes her to let out a surprised shriek.   

“Good?” he asks, seemingly amused at the way she’s practically clutching onto him as the cottony snow prances around them. 

She manages out a hum, wondering if he can hear her poor heart loudly thumping in her ribcage when he decides to pick up the speed some more, as if she wasn’t already terrified.  

“Rafe! Can you slow down?” she squeaks out when Jupiter seems to only accelerate further underneath them.  

“Where’s the fun in that?” he lets out a hearty chuckle in response, apparently finding amusement in her utterly frightened state while she wonders why she let herself think for even one second that he had pure intentions.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Y/N? Will you go look for my son? I fear he’s once again escaped his responsibilities to God knows where,” the king requests with an exasperated sigh while she’s crouching down and helping a servant clean up the sharp pieces of a shattered wine glass— the sound of laughter and dancing flourishing around them. 

And she could swear she saw Rafe conversing with a guest only a few short moments ago. However, as she looks around in an attempt to locate the missing prince, he’s nowhere to be found.  

“Right away, Your Majesty,” she’s quick to answer with a polite smile.  

“Thank you,” he nods gratefully, seemingly fed up with his son already.  

She ensures that the poor girl who accidentally cut her finger on the broken shards is not going to faint before tiptoeing up the broad flight of stairs in order to reach the higher levels of the palace— the loud music and blooming celebrations echoing around the halls. 

“Your Highness? Are you in there?” she knocks softly on the mahogany door leading to his bedroom.  

However, she isn’t granted a response. 

“Rafe?” she tries once more before pressing her ear against the wood separating her from the muffled sounds she can now hear from the other side— brows furrowing when something akin to a whimper reaches her ears.

It sounds nothing like Rafe; it has a higher pitch, something more feminine than his usual drawl. And as she stands there, contemplating whether something is wrong or if she should just leave, the volume only amplifies.

And in a moment of cloudy judgement, she finds herself pushing down on the handle.

However, she curses her curiosity the moment the door cracks open and she’s faced with the view of some woman’s naked back. Her long, beautiful hair reminds her of lady Lydia (a daughter of one of the dukes invited to the ball) with none other than the prince himself underneath her sweaty form.  

The sheets that she changed this morning are crumpled and creased around them and without the barrier of the door, she can now hear Rafe’s low grunts as well— can see how his big hands guide her movements. And they’re both panting heavily, seemingly lost in some haze— maybe the same one that forces her to stay rooted to her spot in the doorway.  

With her eyes as wide as saucers and mouth parted, she’s not entirely sure how long she stands there for. Until out of the blue, she notices Rafe’s eyes flickering over to her— a smirk tugging at his mouth when he catches her staring. 

She tries to move her legs but they won’t listen; making his lazy grin only grow in tandem with his strained groans that seem to only increase in volume as he locks his eyes with her.  

And she can’t breathe; the air clogging her lungs instead of flowing through as her dazed mind tries to get her to do something, anything to get her to leave the room but his heady gaze seems to have hypnotized her— compelled her to stay right where she is.  

All at once, a gravelly noise rumbles from his chest— his head dropping against the cushion of his fluffy pillows, seemingly reaching some sort of a peak in his search for pleasure as the woman above him begins to slow down her movements. And that’s when she’s finally able to step away; shutting the door behind her before scurrying down the stairs with bated breaths and heart pounding in her ears.

When she reaches the bottom, she accidentally stumbles into someone holding a golden serving tray— causing it to topple over to the floor with a loud clatter. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes before her wobbly legs are scrambling off in an attempt to locate the nearest escape route to the garden.  

And once she’s managed to make it outdoors, she feels like she can finally breathe— the crisp December wind granting her heated skin an opportunity to cool down as she sits down on one of the wooden benches with a sigh.

[romanofftherealest]

Winter Solstice

Summary: You reasoned that perhaps some time spent as a bear would be beneficial. Humans, after all, seemed so lacking in magic, so terrible—so disconnected from the world and the elements around them.

Pairings: Hunter Natasha Romanoff x Witch Female Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

BEWARE OF: small, grizzly, tickly, fluffy, clingy, whiny, snotty, hungry, stinky baby Tasha bear ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠`⁠ʔ

Author's Note: Scheduled repost

⧗

During the first snowfall of the season, witches must venture into the forest. This is a sacred tradition, a time for the witches to connect with nature and harness its powers. The trees stand tall, their branches coated in a pristine layer of snow, their tips adorned with shimmering icicles. The forest is silent, the snowfall and wind muffling the usual sounds of wildlife.

You continue your walk through the blizzard-filled forest, the snow falling in a flurry around you. The path is slippery underfoot, the icy terrain making each step precarious.

As you try to maintain your balance, your foot suddenly slips on an unseen sheet of ice, sending you to the ground with a jarring thump. In an instant, you reach out for support, your hand finding a nearby tree trunk. But in that moment, a rush of adrenaline-fueled magic surges out of your fingertips.

The sudden slip sent you sprawling onto the icy ground, knocking the air out of your lungs. As you struggled to recover, a shout echoed through the snowy forest, catching your attention. The sound seemed to come from nearby, and you strained your ears to pinpoint its direction.

As you walked towards where you heard the echoed scream, you saw nothing but some fabrics and some boots on the ground. Who would try to go out during a snowstorm? You asked yourself as you approached the clothes and boots lying on the snowy ground, curiosity piqued, you knelt down to take a closer look. But as your hand is mere inches away from the fabric, something beneath it moves. Your breath hitches and you freeze, watching as a small bear emerges from underneath the discarded attire. Its black eyes regard you with cautious curiosity, its body tense but unthreatening.

You observed the bear with a growing sense of dread, you noticed something peculiar…

For the love of Mephisto, it was your sign, perfectly etched onto its arm.

"Fuck…"

It was a mark, a subtle reminder of the magic you had inadvertently released. This bear, this poor creature, was the result of your magic gone awry because of the stupid slip.

Your first instinct was to run and you did, without hesitation, you sprinted away from the bear, leaving it behind in the midst of the raging snowstorm—you ran away from the consequences of your actions. The sound of your own footsteps and labored breathing filled your ears, drowning out any sense of conscience or remorse.

However, the bear was determined and persistent so it followed you, whining and growling in its attempts to catch up. At first, you had no mercy, slamming the door shut in its face. But as the cold of the night settled in, so did your guilt. You had only planned to allow the bear to warm itself by your fire for the night. You promised yourself that come morning, you would find it a new place to stay.

But the bear quickly made itself comfortable, indulging in your supply of honey and curiously pawing through your spellbooks. It even went so far as to find its way into your bed, seeking to cuddle close. Your initial annoyance nearly compelled you to turn it into a mealworm, but then you found yourself gazing into its pitiful face.

"Just for tonight…again," you muttered to yourself.

Many nights had passed, you decided to head back to the place where you had found the bear, and there you found its abandoned clothes and shoes. You examined the belongings, you noticed a set of bows and arrows, not so far behind along with a collection of knives. This was a hunter, you realized. No ordinary one, judging by the various types of knives at its disposal. And that's when you knew the bear's name, carved in on one of the knives.

"Natasha…" you read, your breath showing in the cold air as you read it.

She was all paws, at first. Her movements are awkward and uncoordinated, clumsily trying to adjust to her new form. You reasoned that perhaps some time spent as a bear would be beneficial. Humans, after all, seemed so lacking in magic, so terrible—so disconnected from the world and the elements around them.

But a number of new moons had passed. Despite your efforts, you were unable to undo the enchantment. The bear, formerly a human who was stuck in the form of a bear cub, now grew into a midsize bear, you cannot carry her around like a baby anymore. She had adapted to her new form, displaying a surprising level of intelligence and cooperation as you continued your attempts to unravel the magic you had inadvertently invoked.

Today, you had decided to ask the assistance of another witch who might be able to help you reverse the magic you had inflicted upon Natasha.

"Stinky! Come here!" you called out, beckoning for the bear to come closer. To your surprise, she actually started walking towards you, moving with a grace that didn't exactly scream "clumsy bear."

You leaned down to level her, "We're going to Asgard and I want you to behave, alright?" you instructed the bear, who simply tilted its head to the side in a cute manner. You couldn't help but roll your eyes, finding her antics endearing despite the situation.

"No swimming in the puddle, no biting anyone's shoe or cloak," you said sternly, listing off your rules for Natasha's behavior while visiting your friend. However, as you started listing her next instruction, you stopped when she dashed towards the window, growling at something outside.

When you followed her gaze, you noticed an owl perched outside the window, watching the two of you with its piercing eyes. You couldn't help but smile recognizing the owl, then in a blink of an eye the owl transformed into a human, revealing Loki himself.

"Loki, what are you doing here? I was supposed to come to your realm..."

Before you could even approach Loki for a hug, Natasha had already lunged forward and clamped her jaws onto the hem of your friend's cloak.

"Stinky! Hey! What did I tell you about biting!" you scolded, trying to get Natasha to release Loki's cloak. Your friend just simply laughed and gently dislodged the bear's jaw from the fabric.

"It's alright, my cloak can handle a little tug," he assured you, a smile playing on her lips. "You've got some territorial thing right there, huh?"

But your friend grew impatient, he smirked as he observed the bear's unwavering bite to his cloak before channeling his magic. With a flick of his wrist, he casted a spell that sent Natasha flying away to the side of the room. Your eyes widened in surprise as you watched Natasha land on the wooden floor with a loud thud. However, before you could rush to her aid, Loki stepped in and enveloped you in a warm embrace.

"It's been so long since I saw you little one."

Natasha who was still dazed from being thrown onto the ground, began to whine in pain. She attempted to move towards you, but before she could take a single step, Loki casted another spell. In a fraction of a second, Natasha's eyes drooped shut, and she succumbed to sleep, leaving you somewhat dumbfounded.

"Wow, that's uhm…" your voice was trailing off awkwardly as you stared at Natasha's knocked out form while Loki was still so busy embracing you.

"So what you need me for, little one?" your friend asked as he finally, finally pulled away.

You breathed, smoothing your dress. You finally eyed your friend who was looking at you questioningly and patiently.

"This…" you pointed at the bear, "this is what I need you for?" you smiled at her awkwardly before scratching the back of your head.

"That thing?" Loki asked, laughing out loud that for sure made the birds and small animals nearby your cottage scurried away.

"W-well, yes…I mean she's not a thing Loki, she…she was a human," your head was low and you looked at him, his arms crossing as he listened. Your fingers fidgeted with the laces of the corset, trying to discreetly adjust the garment that felt oddly constricting—you feel suffocated.

"You...a witch...has a human in yo—"

"I slipped during the first moon of winter and I accidentally turned her into…that." You bit your lip in embarrassment, not letting him finish his words, you know he will scold you. "Please help me?"

You knew Loki was far more experienced and knowledgeable than you when it came to magic, having lived for centuries. Compared to her, you were just a fledgling, "the little one" they call you. The thought made you feel somewhat inadequate, but you knew he was your best chance at reversing the enchantment you had cast upon Natasha.

"Sure, little one."

A thorn was picked out of your heart when Loki agreed to help. In your eagerness to get started, you quickly knelt down beside the sleeping bear, gently guiding its head onto your lap, its soil colored soft fur against your skin.

"Alright, let's get to work," he said, "First, I need to understand exactly what happened. Can you walk me through the spell you used that led to this...situation?"

Your shoulders slumped slightly as you tried to recall the exact details of the event.

"I honestly don't know," you confessed, a note of helplessness in your voice. "It was an accident, truly. I slipped on some snow, and...it just happened. A spell slipped out, and the next thing I knew, there was a bear where a human was supposed to be."

Loki listened intently and nodded to your explanation. Then, with a determined look in her eyes, he stepped closer to the bear and knelt in front of you both, he raised his hands in a gesture of summoning her magic. Then a green glow enveloped Natasha's sleeping form.

However, as he attempted to cast the spell to reverse the enchantment, it didn't work at first. A frown crossed his face as he tried again, his frustration growing as the spell remained unsuccessful.

As each enchantment failed, Natasha continued to writhe in pain, you could no longer bear the sight and shut your eyes tightly, trying to block out the scene. But you couldn't block out the sound of Natasha's whimpers, the soft, pitiful noises that tore at your heart and filled the room with a sense of helplessness.

"I might have to take her heart."

But yours dropped at what he just said.

"What? No!" you protested pulling the bear's unconscious body who's still whimpering in pain.

"That's the only way littl—"

"No…" you insisted, looking at Natasha who was curled like a ball on your lap, you gently caressed her fur—no magic, hoping that it would lessen the pain that she's feeling.

"If that's the only way then no, it could kill her Loki."

"Little one, no it won't—"

"But it will hurt her." Your voice almost cracked as you said it. "Goodbye, Loki. I'm sorry for wasting your time." You said with a finality, you will not have her take Natasha's heart.

Your friend's face softened as she realized that you were adamant in your decision and he respected it. He now stood and patted your head.

"I'll see you, little one." With that, he transformed back into being an owl. Her wings fluttered as he took flight and disappeared out the open window, leaving you alone with a bear that was supposed to be back to its human form now.

"I'm so sorry Stinky, I promise I won't stop until we get you back. Alright?"

⧗

You decided it was time to venture into town. The supplies in the cottage were running low, and a fresh batch of ingredients would allow you to continue concocting more potent potions in your pursuit to restore your companion to her human form. Also, for some food restocking especially that you had ten human stomachs living in your place.

As a bear, Natasha was a bit less picky with her food. She pretty much devoured whatever she could find, and one evening, you nearly panicked when she bit into a bird she had found pecking at some berries. You had to quickly and harshly open her mouth to spit the poor bird out, and she did so, albeit reluctantly, looking at you defiantly with bird feathers stuck in her teeth. And there was another afternoon, when you had been out gathering firewood, you burst into the cottage with an armful of it. And there she was, standing in your living room particularly proud of herself as she held up the snake in her grotesque teeth, waiting for your reaction. But you dropped the firewoods and let out a shrill scream as you saw the large snake still moving from her mouth.

She looked at you with all innocence and confusion in her eyes, tilting her head as if to ask, why were you freaking out? You swear you had to remove the thought of having her in a cage because being trapped in a bear's body is too much already.

As you strolled through town ready to go back to the forest after picking some things, you noticed some papers scattered on the plaza. You frowned and reached one.

"Missing…" you whispered to yourself, you examined the drawing of the missing person with great care. It was a woman, you studied her appearance described within. The image was black and white but conveyed the distinctive attributes; she had her hair in braids, and she boasted massive arms, pointed eyes, and a prominent nose.

"Natasha Romanoff?" The name felt like a curse in your mouth as you read the ink printed on the paper and you almost choked.

"A witch hunter…"

You immediately crumpled it and put it in your basket before walking away from the town, not even daring to turn back.

As you walked the trail on your way home with unease, you noticed footprints marking the ground. You reached the ground touching the dirt.

Horses.

You also smelled a faint smell of fresh tobacco lingering in the air. Someone had been here recently, and they must be nearby.

And your cottage is nearby.

You immediately run and as you approach your secluded cottage, nestled in the hills, and the sight of two horses grazing in the meadow sets your heart racing. They stand abandoned, their saddles empty, and there's no sign of their riders. The silence of the hills suddenly feels oppressive, and you can't help but wonder who has been here, and what they could want with your humble home.

You were so startled by the sudden voice that you dropped everything you had just bought from the town—a fresh loaf of bread, a jar of honey for Natasha, and a few ingredients for the next potion you're going to work on with her as well as the crumpled paper you picked from the plaza. You whirled around to see a man with an eye patch approaching you.

"Do you live here?" he asked, his one good eye locking onto yours.

"Y-Yes," you stammered, your mouth going dry as you took in the sight of the man. "I live here. Can I help you with something?" you tried to steady your voice as you spoke, hoping the stranger didn't notice your nerves. He seemed to be assessing you, his one eye scanning you up and down. He stopped when he saw the scar burn in your arm and you instinctively pulled down your sleeves to cover it.

It was a burn you got from one of the items Natasha left, a cold iron. And it is one of your weaknesses—witches' weaknesses.

He continued his questions, his eye narrowed. "You live here, alone, in this forest?" he paused for a moment. You remained silent, not wanting to reveal too much, especially not your secret as a witch.

He seemed to take your silence as an answer, and continued. "Aren't you afraid?"

You shook your head side by side.

As the stranger spoke, he began to explain that he and his friend were nearby looking for someone—a woman who had gone missing months ago. He described her with the same features you saw on the paper you found in a plaza that is now crumpled in the dirt in front of you. You simply stepped at the paper wishing he wouldn't see it.

"She was last seen around here. Have you seen anyone here in the past weeks? Months?" you felt your throat go dry, the words getting caught in your throat.

Well, you didn't. All you have seen around in the past months was a small brown bear.

Then all of a sudden a shout emitted in the air, and the bear as you speak, charging after a man. Instinctively, you reacted and kneeled down, stopping the bear in its tracks. You carried her in a hip hold, feeling her fur and her trembling body as she tried to catch her breath. The stranger stood there in shock.

"Stinky? What did I tell you? Hm?" you groaned, adjusting her from your hip, she's becoming a little too heavy now.

"That's a monster!" he shouted, making the one-eyed man palm his face.

"She's just a bear." You hissed that made the wonky man shake even more.

They had absolutely no idea that this bear could be the same woman they were looking for. Even though you knew that they could be her family, and you were the one who caused her to be in this bear form, you couldn't help but feel selfish. You felt a fierce desire to keep her with you. You knew it was wrong, but the feeling of possessiveness was getting the best of you.

"We're going to leave you now," the one-eyed man spoke, his friend beside him still shaking as they walked to their horses.

As you put the bear on the ground, the man called again.

"Young lady, be careful."

It should bring you comfort as they were intended to offer, but the tone of his voice made it feel like a threat, as if he knew more than you wanted him to know.

⧗

You huffed as a nose nudged your elbow. "What?"

Natasha, despite her animalistic state, still exhibited human-like behaviors. She grabbed a hold of your cloak with her teeth, whining softly at you.

You sighed heavily, accepting the cloak from her. Even though Natasha's actions were those of a bear, you could sense the familiar gesture, and your heart ached at the thought.

"Thank you," you whispered, wrapping the cloak around your shoulders, the fabric feeling both comforting and melancholic.

The bear moaned before lumbering across the fire from you. She sat patiently, knowing how this worked by now.

You continued to rack your brain, trying to think of any possible solution to the enchantment. This was far from being the first attempt you had made to turn her back into a human, yet all your efforts seemed fruitless.

Despite your growing frustration, you refused to give up. You were determined to find a way to restore Natasha's human form, even if it meant exhausting all possible avenues and risking failure again.

You knew that the situation wasn't as simple as casting a basic spell, because spells could easily wear off or become dependent on the subject's current condition. And it wasn't a curse either, because you hadn't experienced any negative effects yourself. Nothing tethered your life to hers.

But she is your responsibility, it was your fault she's being like this—you were the reason why she's suffering. Even as she had grown much larger, no longer able to fit comfortably on your bed, she still loyally slept on the hearth beside you every night. You continued to share your meals with her and worked on spells and potions together, despite knowing that each attempt was a gamble and could potentially fail.

"This might be it," you whispered, watching as the steam from the potion began to recede. The potion's color shifted, and when you looked at the viscous liquid, you could almost see your reflection.

With a shaky hand, you carefully picked up a ladleful of the potion and offered the bowl to Natasha.

The bear wrinkled her nose at the smell of the potion, sticking out her tongue in distaste.

"Come on, it can't be that bad." You said, holding the bowl out persistently.

After a moment's hesitation, Natasha accepted the bowl in her oversized paws. She sniffed at the potion once more, her nose twitching as she took in the scent. Then, after a brief moment, she dared to take a small lick of the liquid.

You couldn't help but smile at the bear's reaction to the steaming hot potion.

"You silly stinky, it's a bit hot," you warned, chuckling lightly as you watched her expression.

She let out a series of sounds, and you couldn't help but wonder what her human voice would sound like. She went to fetch a mouthful of snow to cool her mouth and then ate the remaining potion with her sharp, bear-like teeth.

You held your breath, your knuckles turning white as you clenched the edges of your cloak tightly. The cold mountain breeze swept around you, but you barely felt it as you waited anxiously for a reaction from the bear.

It was no longer feasible to conduct experiments with Natasha inside the cottage; her size had become too large to contain within the four walls—almost thrice the size of you. After the messy fiasco that resulted from the previous indoor spell, you had decided to avoid any further incidents inside your dwelling. The memory of the hours spent cleaning the aftermath was still fresh in your mind.

You studied the bear as she looked around her surroundings and then down at her paws.

It didn't work.

It was clear that the spell had no effect, not a bit, causing her to deflate and slump down in the snow.

You averted your gaze to your own feet, your boots sinking into the snow. Disappointment coursed through you, the familiar sense of failure settling in your chest. You had hoped that this time, the spell might have been the solution, but once again, you were met with another dead end. It wasn't just the failed potion that weighed heavily on your mind, but the profound sadness evident on Natasha. Perhaps she missed her old life, or maybe there was a significant event coming up in her human existence. You also hadn't had the chance to inquire if she had family or friends waiting for her. How could you? You literally turned her into a bear?

Natasha, still in her bear form sat up again despite her weary demeanor, her ears drooping sadly. She let out a faint moan, her breath visible as it left her muzzle in the cold air.

Your heart ached as you watched her reaction. Every failed attempt weighed heavily on your soul, but this one felt particularly disheartening. Your hopes had been soaring high, and you truly believed that you had concocted the correct formula this time.

You had even gotten her hopes up about this latest attempt. You had scrutinized the spell book together, acquired the necessary ingredients and confidently told her that maybe this time, the spell would work for sure. The potion was meant to reverse the development of cells, typically used on vegetables to undo being pickled. However, you had delved deeper into research and believed that it could potentially work on a living subject.

In preparation, you had even tested the spell on fish, which you had generously offered to Natasha as a tasty reward. Indeed, the spell had functioned perfectly.

"I'm so sorry."

With a mournful expression, the bear raised its head, looking directly at you. Even while seated, she stood tall enough to meet your gaze.

"I thought—" your voice caught in your throat as tears threatened to escape and you swiftly pressed your lips shut. You didn't have the right to weep; it was her life who had endured the more profound suffering.

Your hand reached out to gently caress her head, your fingers threading through the soft, brown fur. Your thoughts drifted to those moments when she would sneak into your bed for warmth and you would idly toy with her ears while she slept.

The bear emitted a soft bellow, leaning forward to tenderly nuzzle her snout against your tear-streaked cheek. She then placed her head on your shoulder and encircled you with her embrace, her large paw draped around you carefully so as not to harm you with her sharp claws.

Bears possessed remarkably warm bodies, and when she pulled you so close, her heat enveloped your body, a comforting presence amidst the disappointment and yet another failure.

You pressed your nose against the fur of her neck and took a deep breath, appreciating the improvement in her scent compared to the days when she was smaller and clumsier. She had grown out of her messy phase, no longer getting her food everywhere, which meant fewer baths.

You gave her chest a firm pat, "Come on." you said gently, signaling her to follow as you led her back towards the safety and warmth of the cottage.

In solemn silence, the bear followed behind you, her large paws kicking up plumes of snow to smother the lingering flames of disappointment from the failed spell.

It was a disheartening moment, and you both knew that the abandoned cauldron would remain behind, its contents and the memories of your hopes extinguished by the snow's cold embrace.

You did your best to restrain your tears as you stepped inside the cottage, hanging up your cloak beside the door. Your bear companion waddled straight to the fireplace and collapsed heavily onto the rug you had woven for her, groaning faintly as her weight fell heavily on the woven fibers.

When Natasha felt you against her back, she stirred, and the ache in your heart intensified once again, knowing that the solution still eluded you.

"I'm sorry, Stinky." Your voice choked with tears as you pressed your face against her fur, letting the hot liquid from your eyes soak into the thick hairs. She responded with a deep sigh, her muzzle lifting slightly to ruffle your hair. Your heart ached.

"I never meant to alter your life like this." You murmured, the weight of guilt heavy on your conscience.

She didn't exactly have a reply for you.

You leaned heavily on her chest, the weight of disappointment and exhaustion taking its toll. "But I won't stop. I won't give up until I change you back."

The guilt from being partially responsible for her current state continued to gnaw at you. You couldn't help but contemplate the possible scenario of her going back to her human form.

But you will take it, everything.

Even if she harbors resentment towards you, even if she yelled and screamed at you in fury, even if she arrived brandishing a pitchfork with the town's folk with the intent to burn down your cottage.

Or perharps she would torture you herself and bring you to the town where the people would decide how you'll die in their hand.

She was missing, she was declared missing by her people and it was your fault.

You know damn well she will kill you. Oh she will.

A witch hunter, turned into a bear by a witch…supposedly you should've just kicked her out or killed her like any other witches would do the day you found the paper in the town or the day you found out that she's a witch hunter or maybe the same day you saw her.

A witch hunter and a witch, you're dead—not if you kill her first though.

But still you had offered a sanctuary within your cottage and you still couldn't disregard the fact that this was all just temporary respite against the cold for her. She was probably longing for the familiarity of her own home, her own family. What if those old creeps who were looking for her were her family? What if she had a partner who whispered tender words to her in the soft darkness of night? And what if she had children who questioned each twilight about the whereabouts of their mother? Were her children's bedtime tales whispered by a grandmother about wicked witches who abducted huntsmen, ensnaring them as their eternal slaves?

You would give the potion another try, but this time you would be more meticulous in your tests. You would extend your research to include larger specimens, more varied species. As a witch, your life was committed to the magic and pursuit of its limitless knowledge, and this Natasha's transformation back to her human form had become your new mission. Despite knowing that she would likely loathe you and curse your name across the annals of time.

You couldn't fathom how you'd manage to rest with such thoughts haunting your mind. Nevertheless, before you had drifted off to sleep, you reached to kiss Natasha's cheek before burying your face into the comforting softness of her fur, still carrying a hint of the fire's smoke. The alluring warmth radiating from her enveloped you, and you couldn't help but nuzzle your face in her fur once more, your fingers tenderly combing through the silky strands—to the mark you etched in her skin.

You groggily opened your eyes, sensing a different sensation the next morning. The bear's fur didn't feel quite the same as it had the night before, and when you attempted to rouse yourself further, a wince escaped your lips. You knew that crafting a new potion or casting a spell each evening drew heavily on your magical reserves, and you were rapidly approaching your limit.

"You okay?"

"Hm…" you moaned lazily as sunlight touched your slumbering eyes, gradually awakening to your surroundings. It dawned on you that you were still on the floor, gazing up at the now extinguished fireplace. Given the absence of warmth, you anticipated being chilled. However, you noted an unexpected comfort, realizing you weren't in your bed but rather resting upon something solid and warm...a chest, perhaps?

Your head snapped upright, the sudden realization hitting you like a wave. It wasn't your bear with her massive black eyes, nor the damp, cold nose. It is a human, a strong pair of muscular arms wrapping you close, with a body and her auburn hair almost covering half her face but you didn't miss the pleasant smile that graced her lips, and the sound of her deep soft hum reaching your ears.

"S-stinky?"

[fortunxa]

❝ HOT & COLD ❞

Jinx x fem!reader / modern AU

summary: Jinx and you are over—officially. But the lease says otherwise. Add a blizzard, a broken heater, one very unfortunate bed-sharing arrangement, and too many grudges to count. The blanket is thin, but the line between hatred and muscle memory is even thinner. Who knew emotional repression could be this warm?

contents: soft angst & fluff, exes to… something, forced proximity, only one bed trope, accidental intimacy, domestic tension, mutual pining, yearning, idiots (still) in love, poor communication skills, sleepy confessions, romcom fic, modern AU.

wc: 4.4k

Jinx masterlist ⭑.ᐟ

Jinx and you broke up.

Like, broke up broke up.

With tears, screaming, one shattered mug (accidental), one shattered phone screen (less accidental), and silence, in the end. Not the peaceful kind—just the kind that buzzed with all the things you didn’t say and probably wouldn’t.

It was Jinx who muttered, “Fine. We’re done,” and you who said nothing in response.

Not because you agreed, but because you didn’t want to beg. Again.

But, in your infinite brilliance, neither of you remembered to check the lease. Or maybe you did remember—just silently hoped the other would cave first and move out.

Because rent was hell, and pride was worse. And if you left, Jinx would win.

She was absolutely thinking the same thing.

Weeks passed. Two months, technically.

Two long, passive-aggressive, emotionally charged, death-by-a-thousand-paper-cuts months of sharing the same apartment like strangers who knew exactly where the other kept their trauma.

She holed herself up in the bedroom, headphones always on, voice rising in chaotic bursts during gaming streaks or mechanical rants to no one. You took the couch, curled into yourself at night, watching bad movies on low volume, mouthing along to the dialogue just to feel less alone.

It was the kind of breakup that involved changing the other’s profile picture on Netflix to their least favorite character just to push buttons, arguing about mugs that were mysteriously “stolen” (Jinx still maintained that the “World’s Okayest Girlfriend” mug always belonged to her), and a dramatic declaration from you that you needed “space to grow without someone damaging your Minecraft village every night.”

You coexisted in a very passive-aggressive ceasefire, held together by sheer spite and a mutual agreement to pretend the other didn’t exist outside of kitchen-related war crimes.

“STOP EATING MY CEREAL” became a recurring sticky note on the fridge.

“STOP BUYING SHITTY CEREAL,” Jinx wrote back, underlining shitty three times.

You labeled your food with threats like a deranged librarian. She responded by using your fancy almond milk to water your plants.

“You poisoned my fern!”

“She was a bitch anyway.”

One particularly tense morning, you found all your movie posters defaced with crudely drawn mustaches. Jinx’s crime was marked by the signature blue Sharpie and the fact that she cackled for ten minutes straight when you discovered it.

You retaliated by unplugging her gaming setup mid-boss-fight.

The scream could probably still be heard echoing down the hall.

She logged into your shared Spotify account and replaced your sad indie playlist with Yodeling Kid remixes.

You bought a life-size cardboard cutout of some D-list actor she hated and propped it up in the hallway.

She put googly eyes on it and called it her new roommate.

It was a cold, petty war. Very stupid, but livable.

Until the blizzard hit.

It came out of nowhere. No gentle snowfall or cinematic build-up—just a sudden, blinding white wall outside the windows, like karma finally cashed in all its receipts. Within the hour, the entire city went quiet, like someone had unplugged the world.

And then came the outage—lights gone, Wi-Fi dead. The fridge stuttered to a halt with a shudder, and everything fell into a hush thick enough to taste.

You were in the kitchen, standing over a sad bowl of reheated soup—portion for one—trying to stir some kind of comfort into it. The only light came from your phone’s flashlight, its narrow beams cutting through the room like a lighthouse in a sea of passive-aggressive clutter.

Jinx emerged from her room like a startled raccoon, squinting at the sudden dark. She blinked blearily, purple hoodie half-zipped, screwdriver still tucked behind one ear, and a half-disassembled drone clutched to her chest like a wounded animal.

“Hey,” she muttered, “did you pay the—?”

“It’s the storm,” you said, not even bothering to look at her as you angled the flashlight toward the stove. Your tone was flat and practiced. The tone of someone who had once shared a bed with her and now shared nothing but bills.

She paused. Processed.

“Cool,” she said flatly. “I love the apocalypse.”

“You would.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she scratched her neck, the way she always did when she was about to say something either vaguely important or incredibly stupid.

“So, uh,” she began, rocking back on her heels, “the heater’s dead, too.”

You turned your head slowly, deadpan. “What.”

“It was making this noise like eeeeeeeeeeeck—” She flailed one arm vaguely, mimicking an engine dying mid-scream. “Then nothing.”

You stared at her. “I told you we should’ve bled the radiator last week. It was already wheezing like a dying Victorian child, gasping out its final confession.”

Jinx just shrugged, unapologetic. “Yeah, well. He died doing what he loved. Making terrible sounds and being a nuisance,” she shot back like a stubborn teenager before realization hit. “Wait—were you just speaking to me like we’re still on speaking terms?”

“No, I was speaking to the other emotionally stunted idiot I share rent with.” You rolled your eyes, but your jaw tightened.

She blinked at you for a long second, eyes catching the flashlight. “Must be a crowd in here, then,” she finally muttered under her breath.

The tension had been simmering all evening—quiet, sharp, inevitable. You and Jinx stood in the darkened apartment like two ghosts who hadn’t figured out how to leave the place where they died. Wrapped in too-thin hoodies and thicker layers of resentment, you both waited for the other to break first.

“We could light candles,” you offered eventually, voice clipped, arms folded across your chest like armor.

Her head turned slowly, eyes glinting. “You mean my candles? The ones you took from our room after the breakup?”

You scoffed. “You don’t even like vanilla sugar cookie.”

“I like spite,” she snapped back. Then, of course, she went and fetched them anyway. She lit each one like she was performing a ritual—striking matches with far too much intensity, her face flickering in the flame’s glow like she was summoning a demon instead of basic warmth. You watched her set the candles down on the windowsill, the kitchen counter, and the old coffee table stained with memories.

The room was suddenly full of soft light and the scent of synthetic sweetness. It clung to the air like nostalgia—unwelcome and too familiar.

You pulled on another hoodie and cocooned yourself in a blanket from the couch. Lukewarm soup in hand, you sat cross-legged in the living room, the spoon tapping gently against the ceramic bowl like a nervous tic. Jinx paced behind you like she couldn’t stand still for too long without combusting.

“Bedroom’s warmer,” she finally muttered, not looking at you.

You raised an eyebrow without lifting your gaze, watching the soup swirl in your bowl like it held some kind of moral high ground. “Because you hoard all the blankets.”

“It’s called survival instincts,” she replied, leaning one hip against the doorframe. “Sorry you weren’t born with any.”

“I was too busy being born with emotional maturity.”

“Boring,” she tossed over her shoulder and turned on her heel, feet thumping softly against the floorboards.

But she left the bedroom door open.

You stared at it for a while. At the golden light pooling in the hallway. At the shape of her shadow disappearing inside. At the crack in your own will widening with every second.

Eventually, logic won.

Or loneliness did. Hard to say.

Ten minutes later, you stood in the doorway like a reluctant truce offering with crossed arms and toes curling into the icy floor through your fuzzy socks.

“You’re hogging the whole bed,” you said, trying for annoyance and landing somewhere closer to exhaustion.

“You weren’t in it,” she replied from somewhere under the blanket, her voice muffled.

“You left one pillow.”

“I am one pillow.”

“Gross.”

“True.”

You climbed in anyway.

The mattress creaked beneath you like it remembered things you didn’t want to. The blanket was warm in the places she’d already been, cold everywhere else. She didn’t move to make room, and you didn’t ask. Just shifted into the empty space beside her with the kind of caution reserved for old battlefields.

The silence between you was immediate and loud, only broken by the wind hurling itself against the windows like it had a vendetta. You lay stiff and awkward, the air filled with unsaid things and the scent of faint shampoo and stubborn memories.

“I’m still mad at you,” Jinx muttered into her side of the bed, her voice muffled and sullen, breath fogging faintly in the frigid air.

You didn’t bother turning around. “Then don’t cuddle me.”

“I’m not cuddling you,” she huffed defensively, indignation wrapped in shivers.

After a muttered argument and one poorly constructed pillow wall that collapsed under the weight of pettiness and shared body heat the moment you moved, the two of you ended up back-to-back, pressed together beneath the blanket like awkward divorcees forced to share a hotel bed at a family reunion. Two ex-girlfriends, one blizzard, zero dignity. But a whole lot of silence, tension, and regret.

Then, softly—reluctantly—she mumbled, “…Move closer, dumbass. I’m freezing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it could’ve powered a generator. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, but you scooted back, just a little. She moved, too, slowly, like she wasn’t totally desperate for warmth. Or the smell of your hoodie. Or the shape of you.

Her toes bumped your calf, and you flinched. “Your feet are ice,” you hissed.

“You’ve got the warm ones. Share, frost witch.”

You kicked at her half-heartedly, but she just tangled her legs into yours like it was nothing. You both squirmed, adjusting awkwardly—arms crossing, knees knocking, elbows bumping into ribs—until you landed in a mess of limbs that felt more like a habit.

Jinx’s nose brushed against your shoulder—accidentally, on purpose—and neither of you mentioned it.

A long pause settled over the room. The kind of silence that comes after too many almosts and not enough apologies.

“…Are you still mad at me?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, like the question had snuck out before she could stop it.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, then exhaled. “I don’t know,” you admitted, the words leaving your mouth half-formed, like they didn’t want to exist outside of your chest.

Silence settled again. Not cold, but careful.

“I saw you crying during Finding Nemo last week,” she blurted out, trying—and failing—to keep the amusement out of her voice.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glare half-heartedly. “That movie is devastating. He literally loses his son.”

She grinned in the dark. “Yeah, but I was emotionally dead inside before the stingray scene.”

You let out a short, reluctant laugh—sharp at the edges, but real. “You’re the worst.”

“You love it.”

“I did.”

The air shifted.

Not just the temperature, but the weight of everything unsaid, and you could’ve sworn you felt the mattress dip with the gravity of it.

“…So. Past tense,” she said quietly.

You shifted beneath the blanket, fabric brushing against her leg. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Her voice was too innocent.

“Make it sound like I’m the villain in your sad indie song,” you murmured.

Jinx blinked. “I would never.” Then, she smiled. Softly, almost fond. “Your vibe is more… tragic lesbian who dies in Act III.”

That earned another huff of laughter from you, but quieter this time. Sadder.

You turned to face her—just barely—and your noses nearly touched. Her breath was warm against your mouth. You didn’t move, and neither did she. The space between you was almost nothing, but still everything.

For a long moment, you simply stared at each other in the half-dark. Breathing the same cold air, wearing the same old ache, still pretending the word love wasn’t curling in both your throats like smoke.

Her eyes fluttered. You could see her trying to stay present, to stay with you. But every few seconds, her gaze would soften, blur a little, until she blinked hard again and refocused on you—like your face was something she didn’t want to lose track of.

Your chest rose, and so did hers. In time.

It was around 3:00 a.m., though neither of you knew it. Because Jinx was curled against you like she forgot you broke up and lost the right to touch, and you didn’t remind her.

Maybe neither of you cared.

You fit together the way people who’ve fought and fucked and forgiven each other a hundred times always do—like old puzzle pieces with frayed edges, soft from use.

You weren’t really awake, but not quite asleep either—somewhere in the middle, suspended in that liminal space where your body acts before your brain does.

So when you stirred beside her—shuffling closer, sighing softly into the crook of her neck—it felt natural to respond. Familiar, like muscle memory. Her arm curled instinctively, draping over your waist like it used to.

You didn’t flinch. Simply exhaled, deep and steady, while your nose brushed against her collarbone in the dark. A second later, your lips followed, grazing soft skin—too lightly to be deliberate, too precisely to be random.

“You still grind your teeth when you’re about to fall asleep,” Jinx mumbled suddenly, her voice low and heavy, half-buried in the pillow between you.

You smiled into the dark—one of those worn-in smiles that surfaces from memory before thought. You didn’t mean to. It just happened, the way muscle remembers softness even after months of tension.

She exhaled, her breath warm against your temple, slow and even like the rhythm of a tide she couldn’t resist. Her lips brushed skin—not purposefully, not quite. But close enough to blur the line.

It wasn’t a kiss.

But it wasn’t not a kiss.

More like an echo.

A ghost of the old days, when goodnights always came with kisses and mornings meant shared coffee—too sweet, made one-handed while you still wore your blanket like a cape—and legs entangled in sleepy domestic knots.

An entire life lived in tiny routines.

You shifted slightly, voice drowsy as you murmured, “You’re breathing on me.”

“Can’t help it,” she mumbled, her words slurred with sleep. “You’re warm.”

“You’re dreaming.”

“Probably,” she hummed in response, a quiet, contented sound. The words melted into the quiet like honey in tea.

You moved again, slowly, thoughtlessly—half-lost to sleep yourself. Your nose brushed the curve of her cheek, skin to skin in the dark. “You’re soft.”

Jinx didn’t respond to that.

Because what could she say?

That she knew?

That she’s only ever soft with you?

That the word soft coming from your mouth made her want to cry in a way nothing else ever did?

That she missed being called that more than she’d miss breathing?

So, she said nothing.

She just leaned forward and pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead—so light it could’ve been imagined, so instinctive it didn’t feel like a choice at all.

Not even thinking.

Just moving. Reacting. Remembering.

“I still set the kettle out for you,” you whispered suddenly, voice barely audible in the dark.

She stirred beside you. “What?”

“Every morning. I don’t know why.”

She went quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that meant she was holding something between her teeth, turning it over.

“I still charge your phone when you forget.”

You blinked, eyes stinging suddenly, inexplicably. The quiet pressed in around you again, heavy with all the things you hadn’t said.

“…We’re so dumb,” you said, almost laughing. It came out cracked.

“The dumbest.”

Another silence, but not empty.

Never empty.

Then she shifted, just slightly, like her whole body braced for impact before the words even left her mouth. “You know,” she said, quiet and careful, “I didn’t stop loving you. I just got tired of trying to become someone you could stay with.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t respond right away. Not because you didn’t have words, but because none of them felt like enough—not for this, not for her, and not after everything.

But slowly, tentatively, your hand found hers under the blanket. The touch was gentle, almost shy. Yet when your fingers slid into hers, they fit the same way they always had. Like nothing had changed. Like everything had. Like love learned how to hold on even when you tried to let go.

Your thumb brushed over her knuckle once. “You were always someone I wanted to stay with,” you whispered. “I just didn’t know how to stay with you and not lose pieces of myself in the process.”

Jinx’s grip tightened, just a little. Just enough. “I would’ve given you space,” she murmured.

“You didn’t know how,” you said, not unkindly, just true.

“I do now.”

Silence again.

Then, slowly, she tilted her head. Her mouth brushed the edge of your jaw—featherlight, slow, like she wasn’t sure she had permission. Like she was trying not to wake you. Like the memory of loving you was still rooted in her muscle memory, twitching to life in the dark.

And you let her. Turned into it, just slightly, because you were too tired to pretend you didn’t miss the way her lips used to know exactly where to land.

You met halfway.

The kiss was nothing like the ones you used to share. No urgency, no hunger, and no frantic pulling at clothes or gasps between apologies.

It was soft and short and not entirely awake—it happened so gently, so sleepily, you didn’t even realize you were kissing until it was already over.

Just a peck. The kind people don’t mean to give—like a sigh, or a yawn, or reaching for the light switch in a room you haven’t lived in for months but still remember.

Like coming home for three seconds in the middle of a snowstorm.

And then, without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed another kiss to the tip of her nose. Barely a whisper of contact. Just enough for her to breathe in sharply, like even now, even half-asleep, your affection still caught her off guard.

Then a third one—this one landing a little off-center, a little clumsy, brushing messily across the corner of her mouth.

A hello.

I remember you.

This still lives here.

Jinx made a small, involuntary sound—something between a sigh and a whimper—low and soft against your lips, like her body remembered you before her mind could. Your noses bumped lazily, and you smiled into it like it hurt.

When you finally paused for air, foreheads pressed together, you whispered, “This doesn’t mean anything… right?”

She nodded against you. “Right. Just… survival. Warmth.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, breath puffing against her lips. “Like penguins.”

She cracked a smile. “Exactly.”

“So if I kiss you again—”

“It’s so I don’t freeze to death,” she finished for you.

“Obviously.”

Another kiss.

This one lingered—longer than the last, warmer, steadier. There was a quiet kind of certainty in it.

“Penguins mate for life,” you whispered against her lips, the words soft and teasing, but not without weight. Like you tried to make it a joke so you didn’t have to admit it sounded like a promise.

Jinx blinked, caught mid-breath.

“…Shit.”

You laughed, breathless, and buried your face in her neck again, smelling her body wash and deciding not to comment on the fact that it smelled suspiciously close to yours.

Her arms slipped around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sleep,” she murmured, voice raspy with exhaustion and something far too tender. “Before we say something even dumber.”

“Too late,” you mumbled back, the words muffled against her collarbone.

You fell quiet again, tangled up in heat and history and every part of you that never quite let go, her thumb tracing something lazy into your spine.

“We’re a mess,” she whispered.

“Always have been.”

“Still want toast in the morning?”

You smiled, eyelids heavy now, the weight of the moment pressing down like warmth. “Yeah.”

Jinx’s grin was lazy and crooked, her voice slurring at the edges of sleep. “I’ll burn it just how you like.”

Outside, the storm continued.

Inside, two idiots kept forgetting they ever broke up, suddenly remembering how to be soft again.

And maybe the heater would come back.

And maybe you’d go back to hating each other in the morning.

But the body doesn’t lie the way the mouth does.

Because love doesn’t vanish—not really.

Sometimes it just moves into the living room and leaves sarcastic sticky notes.

yippeee i haven’t forgotten how to write softness!!

[pushinpieta]

holding hands w/ the weak hero class boys scenarios

a/n: just fluff! and gender neutral reader. if you’re scared of spiders…well here’s your warning >w<

╰┈➤ SIEUN: he’s not into physical affection and it never affected your relationship with him because he always showed his love and care for you through small actions like grabbing an extra umbrellas for you in rainy days or running to the pharmacy to pick up medicine when you got sick. sieun loved in many other ways. but what was he if not just a man, he still craved slight grazes and nearness. it was the first snowfall of the year, a heavy one. worried, he offered to walk you home. the walk was tumultuous, the wind and cold breeze blew at your faces, snow twirling around like white orbs when sieun notices that you had one glove missing. he wouldn’t allow your hand to get frozen so he offered for you to put your one hand in his pocket and you gratefully agreed, comfortably snaking your hands into his jacket. he stood still for a moment, flustered at the sudden closeness of your knuckles brushing against his. he turned to look at you rather relaxed and humming some tune to yourself. he wrapped his pinky with yours like a pinky promise. you turned to him in pleasant surprise and he said “it’ll be warmer if we hold hands too.” you smiled, allowing him to lace his cold fingers with yours. the freezing walk home suddenly felt warm and pleasant.

╰┈➤ SUHO: he drives you mad. suho spotted a spider on the wall behind you with a dramatic gasp, knowing well that’s you’d be the scared one. a wide grin spread across his face when he heard you scream for his help “suho, please, take that away!” you said while flailing your arm in defense from the tiny thing behind you. he grabbed the 8-legged critter by a leg to bring it close to your face earning another scream from you. “get that away!” you cried slowly backing away from him when he starts chasing you around the street. the area is filled with his laughter and your complaints and finally, he places the spider far away from where you were. “look, i got rid of the spider for you.” he said, confidently, hands in his pocket with that innocent look in his eyes as if he hadn’t just ran around with a spider between his fingers to tease you. “how chivalrous.” you sneered at him in irritation, huffing from running around. “now you have to hold my hand for my act of kindness, y/n. eye for an eye.” he put his hand out for you to grab but you stubbornly smacked it away with a snicker. “i don’t think that’s how it works, dickhead.” you crossed your arms over your chest with a hmph. “nuh uh, give me your hands, who else would willingly touch a spider like that for you?” he whined like a kid, following behind all puppy-like “can’t you just hold my hand?”. a smile tugged at the corner of your lips and you turned to him with false irritation “fine, then.” you agreed, grabbing his hands. he’s quick to intertwine his fingers with yours with a chuckle of victory. “can i get a kiss on the cheek…or lips?” he leaned in with his eyes closed like an idiot. “hmm… you only get this for now.” you teased, tightening your grip on his hands, that had his heart fluttering in his chest, cheeks turning red.

╰┈➤ BAKU: isn’t even the slightest bit slick about it. he sees you walking ahead of him, concentrated on the path upfront and he startles you with his loud, enthusiastic voice calling out your name. he’s beaming, a toothy smile like a school kid staring through the windows of a bakery when you wave at him. in a second he’s running up to you in full speed like the athlete he is, swiftly tangling his fingers with yours. his hands are calloused from basketball and fighting yet, somehow, it brings a relief to know that he was by your side. his chest is puffed, feeling prideful for having a perfect partner like you holding his hands so tenderly. you’re both smiling at each other cheekily like little kids, giggling and giddy, acting like you hadn’t held hands before. he occasionally lets go of your hands to pinch your cheeks or boop your nose while he went on about his days and when it’s back on yours, he’s holding it tightly.

╰┈➤ GOTAK: gotak doesn’t want to startle you nor seem distant so he’s often conflicted on whether he should make the first move to hold your hands or not. his little dilemma gets vanished when he looks at you and his heart melts. he’s overcome with the need to hold you and show affection so he ever-so-softly reaches for the tips of your fingers, letting himself feel the warmth. then, he waits for your response to the touch and when you slowly lace your fingers with his, he’s relieved, letting out a satisfied sight. your fingers are tangled together and the warmth holds you both tight. your hands creating a bridge between your bodies and there’s nothing more he enjoyed than the subtle, sweet touches.

╰┈➤ JUNTAE: he’s shy but not so shy when it comes to holding hands with you. with a sheepish smile he’d ask you “could we, uhm, hold hands?” to which you’d happily agree. he’d hesitantly connect your hands with his, feeling your soft skin radiating warmth, then he’d look at you while scratching his head shyly before swaying your hands while walking. holding hands with him came so naturally like a routine, either he asked or you did and you’d go about holding hands casually. it was the best part of his day.

╰┈➤ SEONGJE: tries to be nonchalant but all he wants to do is grab your hands and hold onto it. he doesn’t know when the time is right and when he should go for it but he tells himself that it doesn’t matter and that he should go for it anyway. he was usually confident and held himself high but when it came to you, there was a slight hint of shyness that he felt creep up on him. he hated it but loved it at the same time. so when he finally finally built up the courage to swiftly hold your hands, he’s surprised at how calmly you held his hands back, without so much of a glance his way. an unexpected flutter in his chest made his heartbeat quicken. he felt embarrassed at how much affect the moment had on him and he realized just how deprived he was of warmth that even the slightest of affection from you made him go soft. you were dangerous for his heart. yet still, he made place for you in it.

╰┈➤ BAEKJIN: baekjin likes to control. especially himself. he was always controlled and calculated. it took a lot of effort but it always played out so effortlessly which made him so easy to follow and take orders from. he thought-out and planned every step he took. except this time, when his hand shot up to tightly lock with yours in a moment of heat, rain pouring outside while you threatened to walk away from him. it was an act of defeat, he didn’t want you to turn your back and walk away, he hadn’t given himself a moment to think before he interlocked his fingers with yours. it caught you by surprise too but when you looked up to see his surrendering eyes, you couldn’t help but soften under his hold. what he needed the most in that moment was for you to hold him back and you did. you held his hand tightly— shooting warmth all over your body and his. the reciprocation easing his shoulders and his desperate gaze that he tried so hard to mask and turn into a cold glare. “baekjin, i’ll stay.” you assured, bringing your other hands to to sandwhich the hand you were holding. his heart pattered against his chest like the rain falling outside. he needed to hear that more than anything and you both just stood there holding each others hand not knowing how impactful and comforting it was to the each of you.

[pineconepie]

Parental yandere vampire!!

TW: Implied neglect, implied abuse, yandere, parental yandere, forced age regression, death of family (not main characters), light violence, kidnapping

If there's any more trigger warnings I should add, let me know!

...

The cold gnawed at your bones, breath visible in front of you as you made your way through the thick snowfall. The chill bit into your skin, but you pressed on.

"Monster!" "Witch!" "Cursed!"

Their words echoed in your mind. The entire village thought you were some kind of monster, all because you were different from your peers. You were used to the kind of horrible treatment you received at their hands, and had long since learned not to fight it; no matter what you said, they never listened.

It got lonely never having friends, though. Even the people who weren't scared of you were ridiculed for being seen with you, sometimes even being called a witch just because they associated with you.

Your own family became embarrassed and ashamed by your reputation, to the point where they would go days ignoring your existence.

Sure, you had thought of running away before, but given you had nowhere to go, that'd just be a dumb idea.

Only when you overheard the church speaking of burning you at the stake did you realize just how little you actually had to live for there.

Either way, it seemed like your chances of death were high, so either way, fuck it, right?

You could barely feel your feet beneath you, wading through the snow.

How long have you been walking now? Hours? Days?

It feels like years. You felt tears burn at the edges of your eyes as you tripped over a root, collapsing into the soft cushioning of the snow.

A snarling noise behind you causes you to get back up and run, stumbling blindly and weakly through the snow.

You could barely tell what was going on behind you, but all you knew was that a vicious growl from some sort of animal was definitely not something you should just stand around for.

In the distance, you see a structure, probably the first one you've seen in days.

With some sudden rush of adrenaline, you sprint towards it, almost rolling down the hill leading up to the old building.

The steel gate in front of it makes you curse in frustration, looking up to assess how likely it is you can climb it. Your hands curl into fists around the bars, shaking violently as you pull. Not a chance.

"Help!" you scream, hoping whoever is inside can hear you. "Please!"

When there's no response, you turn back, seeing glowing yellow eyes approaching you. Fear courses through your veins, paralyzing you as you look on in horror. The shadowy beast prowls closer, standing tall on its four paws and staring you down hungrily.

Just as it stalks forward, ready to jump, it pauses. You squeeze your eyes shut and prepare for the inevitable. When the sharp fangs never come sinking into your flesh, you hesitantly crack an eye open. The beast whines and scampers off.

Only when the sound of its footsteps disappear completely does a breathy laugh escape your lips. What a weird twist of fate.

"My goodness! Are you okay?!"

You whip around to see a tall figure with piercing green eyes and long dark brown hair. He's wearing some kind of old-fashioned clothing that looks like it hasn't been touched in centuries.

Before you can say anything, you promptly pass out from exhaustion.

...

"You poor thing. I wonder where you came from..." A hand reaches down to caress your face, the gloved fingers ice cold against your flushed skin. "Seems as if you were meant to find me."

When you finally stir awake, your brain feels like it's rattling in your skull. Blinking slowly, you bring your hand up to rub at your temple, sighing and looking around. You're lying in a large canopy bed, soft red velvet sheets encompassing you.

Sitting up, you take note of the grandiose bedroom, decorated in similar deep shades of red, gold, and black.

There's antique furniture lining the room, with a large painting above the mantlepiece directly across from the foot of the bed. An embroidered carpet is spread on the floor, its design weaving into the same complex, golden filigree that is the headboard of the mattress.

Your gaze drops, noting that you aren't wearing the same clothes you were before.

Now you're wearing some kind of tunic, reminiscent of pajamas but far too fancy and extravagant to be called something so simple. The silk hugs your frame, falling delicately across your lap as you cross your legs and take a look around.

Then you meet his gaze.

He looks surprised that you woke up already, pulling his hand back quickly from where it was about to rest on your shoulder.

He had been watching you sleep, it seems.

The man clears his throat and smiles down at you. "Oh good. I thought for sure you'd sleep through dinner." His voice is deeper than you'd expected, but still gentle. He gestures to himself. "I am Octavian. What's your name, precious?"

"Uh–" You hesitate, caught off guard by the nickname. "I'm (Y/n)."

"A sweet name," he says simply, the corner of his mouth quirking up even more. Octavian reaches down to brush a strand of hair out of your face before straightening back up again.

You watch him cautiously, unsure why he's so comfortable touching a complete stranger.

Then again, you suppose most strangers don't magically appear outside of someone's home, either. Besides, he did just save your life; he deserves at least this much courtesy after helping you.

"It's been a very long time since I've seen anyone out here, let alone gotten any visitors. What on earth were you doing out here all alone? You certainly aren't a traveler, you barely were carrying anything with you." He looks almost ready to scold you.

"Well, uh..." You awkwardly tug at the sleeve of your nightgown, thinking how best to answer his question without opening the door for him to judge you or ask more questions. But he did save your life... "My village doesn't like me. Thinks I'm weird. And when they started talking about killing me, I figured it'd be better to get out sooner rather than later."

Octavian sucks in a sharp breath, concern written all over his features. "Killing you?" He puts a hand over his heart. "You poor thing. You must've been so scared," he coos.

"Yeah... I was," you admit. "I'm glad I ran into your place, at least."

The tall man gives you a soft smile, sitting down at the edge of the bed. It dips beneath him under his weight. "I am too. Stay right there, I'll go get you some dinner."

Before you can say anything else, Octavian slips out of the room.

You think back to when he found you. That animal chasing you acted scared when it saw him. Why? Sure, he's pretty tall, but the guy clearly wouldn't stand a chance against the teeth and claws of that thing. So why was it so spooked by him?

He reenters with a golden tray in hand. On top of it sits a bowl of soup and some bread.

"I'm afraid that's the only thing I have available at the moment," Octavian sighs, setting it down next to you and handing you a spoon. "It should warm you up though." He watches you eat with an adoring smile, one you miss, too busy ravaging into the food. "My Gods, you must've been starving. When was the last time you ate, sweetheart?"

You scarf down a piece of bread. "I haven't been keeping track of time. Maybe three days ago?"

Octavian almost appears on the verge of tears. "You poor little angel..." He hesitantly reaches his gloved hand over to wipe away a stray droplet of broth dribbling down your chin. "You won't ever go hungry again, I swear it."

"What do you mean?" you mumble while chewing on another piece of bread.

He gently wipes at your cheek. "You got some on your face. Messy thing," he tuts. His green eyes glow brighter. Unnaturally so. "I'll go refill your bowl. More bread?" He watches you nod, then takes the tray from you.

It was weird how he avoided your question, but you shrug it off. Seems like he's a little weird too.

...

After having four bowls of soup and God-knows-how-much bread, you finally start to feel full for the first time in ages. Octavian watches with pride as you polish off each meal, praising you for cleaning your plate every single time.

In the middle of him gushing over you, you interrupt him.

"So... Do you think I could use your horse tomorrow morning to head back into town?" you ask shyly. "Assuming you have one."

Octavian freezes, brows furrowing as if in confusion. "(Y/n)... surely you don't think I'm just going to send you back to the people that are trying to kill you?"

"Well, not mine... just a town nearby," you shrug. "Anywhere with people, really."

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "There is no other civilization for miles. No. That'd just be a death wish."

You try not to raise your voice, reminding yourself it's thanks to him you're even alive. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

He opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut before taking a deep breath. "You need some rest. Let's discuss this later." You frown in frustration, knowing he's avoiding talking about it. Though he has a point. Sleepiness settles within you, a yawn bubbling past your lips. He bends down to kiss your forehead. "Sweet dreams, little love."

He's so weird.

...

The next day, you venture from the room he put you in, looking around. As to be expected, everything is beautifully furnished, from the wallpaper to the ceilings to the marble columns holding it all up.

In your searching, you stumble upon a portrait.

There's a tall man holding two children, with a woman standing next to him. It takes you a minute before you realize the man is Octavian.

He looks exactly the same in the portrait, except now his hair is slightly longer and he's wearing different clothes. Something in his appearance also seems happier.

You squint at the picture, wondering what's up with it.

"That's my family."

You jump, turning to see Octavian standing beside you, eyes glazed over as he gazes at the painting.

"Oh. They're beautiful," you whisper. You can hear him suck in a shaky breath. "Are they here?"

A melancholy smile pulls at his lips, though it doesn't meet his eyes. "No. My wife and my son and daughter... they're no longer here." His voice is far quieter than before.

Your chest grows heavy when you realize what he means. "I-I'm so sorry..."

The last thing you were expecting was for this to be so sad. Here you thought the picture was taken recently. Guilt pools in your belly for thinking that, especially now that you know the truth. Poor guy.

Octavian places a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Don't apologize. I think my loneliness streak is nearing its end." He guides you away from the painting and to the stairs. "Let's go eat. Breakfast should be ready by now." You're silent, not sure how to respond.

Walking down the ornate staircase, Octavian keeps his hand placed firmly on the small of your back.

Once you both reach the ground level, he removes it, walking ahead into the kitchen area. Following, you sit down across from him, watching as he places food in front of you both.

"It feels nice to cook for someone else again," he hums, beginning to dig into his own plate of food.

It smells really good, which you suppose you shouldn't be surprised by given the fact that everything else in this house seems to be perfect in its presentation.

"Thank you," you mutter, picking up the silverware and eating.

The two of you talk idly throughout the meal, Octavian being mindful of what you like and don't like to eat for future reference.

He asks you about yourself, appearing invested in every little tidbit you drop. Eventually, you're finally satiated, leaning back against your chair with a pleased sigh.

You watch him do the dishes and leave into what you presume is the living room. Curiously, you follow after him.

He's holding an open book, reading glasses perched on his nose.

The fire flickers and crackles, providing heat to the otherwise chilly space.

Sitting down next to him, you catch his eye. Octavian smiles at you and scoots closer, putting one arm around you and shifting his eyes back to his book.

Unsure of how else to react, you lean into the embrace. He's very cold compared to most people, you find.

The gesture is welcome though, regardless of the cool chill of his skin. Even through his gloves, you can tell his body temperature isn't normal.

If he came from your village, the villagers would definitely think he's some paranormal beast too.

Maybe that's why he lives so secluded from society.

...

A few more days pass. He gets a little more odd, but it just makes you more comfortable to show your own quirks too.

One morning, you wake up next to a teddy bear placed between your arms. He must've put it there last night.

It's almost like he senses you're awake, because he strides into the room not even a minute later.

"There's my sweet little angel," Octavian coos. "Did you sleep well?" You yawn and rub at your eye with a closed fist. He gives you a bright smile at that and sits on the edge of the bed. "Do you like your toy? I figured it might keep you company while I'm gone. Does it help?"

"Yeah, but..." You frown. "How'd you get it? There's no nearby shops, right?"

Octavian nods. "It belonged to my son." At that, you stare wide eyed down at the stuffed animal, moving to give it back to him.

"I-I can't take this from you–"

He grabs your hands and holds them in place around the toy, shaking his head. "Nonsense, I want you to have it." His eyes burn with such intense emotion, so much so that you're unable to resist the pull to listen to his request. "Keep it, please. When this winter is over, I'll go get you some of your own stuffies and clothing. Do you have any clothing preferences? Any favorite animals?"

"When winter is over, I'll be leaving," you correct him.

He stiffens. "Right. Of course. Silly me." His emerald irises flash with something unreadable.

The rest of the day, he becomes even more overbearing.

He pulls you into his lap whenever he has the chance, insisting you rest your head against his chest while he reads to you (all of which are children's books). He constantly is giving you random little hugs, or complimenting you for whatever little mundane things you do.

You only allow it because you feel pity for him.

Each time you even try to pull away slightly, he looks so heartbroken and hurt, as if you stabbed him in the chest.

And it's not like you dislike it. You're so starved for attention and touch that it actually feels kind of good, having someone hug you and hold your hand and read to you.

It makes up for all the times you've been neglected.

Each day, he gets even more coddling and babying with you. You wonder why he's like this.

Then it hits you.

His kids are gone. He's never going to have another chance to hold his babies again.

This behavior... is this just him projecting his loss onto you? Trying to relive the feeling of caring for a child?

It breaks your heart for him, making you feel more guilty for wanting to leave.

...

As the snow begins to melt, Octavian gets more antsy. He constantly holds you in his arms now, rambling about anything and everything, bouncing and swaying side to side.

It reminds you of how mothers soothe their babies.

One day, he stops to give you a serious look, gripping your face in his hands and kissing your cheekbone.

"Please," Octavian whispers, desperation seeping into his tone, "please please please stay." Tears drip down his pale skin. "You have no idea what these past few weeks have meant to me." The grip on your jaw tightens and he shakes his head with a dry laugh. "God, I can't imagine living without you anymore! Don't make me go through that agony again! Don't abandon me! You're happy here!"

Your hands hesitantly grab his wrists, not pulling him away but letting him know your boundaries. "These past few weeks meant a lot to me too. But I don't want to live alone out here, forever."

He sniffles and glares down at you. "What do you mean? You wouldn't be alone. I'm here. You'd have me!"

"But I want more people than that!" you cry out. "And in the end, you're still basically a stranger..."

That last sentence was the wrong thing to say.

All color drains from his face, shock freezing him in place.

"A-A stranger...?" Octavian scoffs, betrayal seeping into his broken voice. "After all this time together?! After all the things I've done for you, all the things we've talked about?!" You tremble and try to move away. "Why can't you love me back?! Your parents don't want you, but I do!"

You shake your head. "You're freaking me out..." Never before had you been so scared of this man. Never did you think he'd act this way, even with how affectionate and caring he could be. This is on a whole new level. "I'm not a kid. Just because you lost yours doesn't mean you can make me yours instead!"

Octavian doesn't say anything.

The silence that hangs thick in the air between you is deafening. It makes you want to scream, break it somehow, just so you don't have to endure how tense this is.

Tears pool in his eyes. He hesitates, then yanks off both of his gloves and drops them to the ground.

You notice his fingernails are long and sharp. Like claws. Not human.

"What...?"

"I've never been normal either." Octavian lets out a choked sob. "My wife died trying to protect our children from vampire hunters." He bares his teeth, revealing pointed fangs. "She couldn't. They all died before I could save them."

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight.

A mix of fear and sympathy swirls in your gut, making you feel nauseous and disoriented all at once. You step backwards, putting distance between you and him.

His eyes grow dull. "I couldn't save them. But I could save you." Octavian reaches out with those strange hands and cups the sides of your neck with a featherlight touch, holding your gaze despite your attempts at averting it. "You may think of yourself as big, but to me? You're just a baby."

A pitiful whine leaves your lips as your eyes begin to water.

"They said the same things about me. Aberration. Monster. I know how you feel; how lonely and awful it is. That's why you need to stay with me," he insists. "We understand each other. We're the same."

"No! You're crazy!" you exclaim, backing up further until your back hits a wall behind you. His form looms over yours ominously, casting a shadow across the floor beneath him. "Stop fucking touching me!"

"Maybe I am crazy," Octavian humorlessly chuckles. "But anyone would become unhinged from losing everything dear to them." Without warning, he moves quicker than lightning, picking you up and holding you close to his chest. He curls himself over you, shielding you from nothing as if to protect you. His body completely engulfs yours, swallowing you in his presence. It's unnerving. "Everything will be okay now. Papa will keep you safe. No one will ever hurt you again," he promises softly. "You won't be like them."

"No, no, stop," you beg pathetically. "Let me go."

"Shhh... this will hurt a tiny bit, but only for a moment. It's necessary for us to always be together," he hushes you. "I was going to save this for when you've settled in more, but I can't have you run away."

Octavian kisses the top of your head before pulling the collar of your shirt down just enough for his mouth to hover above your bare shoulder.

"Nonono, please, don't!" you cry. "I don't wanna be a vampire!"

"I know, sweetheart," he laments. "I hate seeing you in pain, too."

Before you can say anything else, Octavian sinks his teeth deep into the flesh of your exposed shoulder blade.

You shriek in pain as you feel fangs digging into muscle tissue and sinew alike. Tears stream freely down your cheeks now, uncontrollable sobs wracking your frame as blood runs freely down your back and stains your clothes crimson red.

"Shhhh..." he hushes again, caressing your hair even while he drinks away your humanity. "I love you, I love you, I love you..."

By the time he's finished drinking, you feel woozy from blood loss and adrenaline. Octavian lifts you up, grip looser now that you're too tired to struggle, and dampens a cloth under the faucet, using it to clean up the excess blood.

Then he takes you back to the bedroom, tucking you underneath layers upon layers of warm bedding.

You try to speak, but your throat hurts so badly and you can barely move. Everything feels heavy, including your eyelids which threaten to shut due to exhaustion.

"Get some sleep. It's bedtime for little ones," he murmurs giddily. He adjusts the blankets covering you. "Oh, I knew I was missing something." You hear him shuffle around the room before returning. Suddenly the familiar feeling of the teddy bear is pressed against your torso, its fur tickling your nose.

"Papa..." you croak deliriously, thinking of your own father.

"Yes," he says. His face splits into a manic smile. "That's right." Octavian crawls under the covers next to you, dragging you towards his cold figure. He combs through your hair and cuddles you tightly, as though if he lets go, he might lose you. "Say it again. Say 'Papa.'"

You don't reply, far too exhausted to even care anymore. All you do is slump against him and close your eyes.

Octavian squeezes you tighter.

He buries his nose into the top of your head and breathes deeply.

"My baby..." His words sound distant as slumber overtakes your mind and drags you into darkness. "You're back home where you belong."

[colouredbyd]

Sweet Things Melt Slowly

poly!marauders x fem!reader

summary: winter comes softly, a hush of snow and silver mornings, and in the golden flicker of firelight, three boys and their girl fall a little more in love with each passing night.

warnings: fluff, snowball chaos, cuddling, soft vibes, mild language, a whole lotta tooth rotting fluff

wc: 2.6k

a/n: literally the most tooth aching, heart warming, fluffiest fluff to ever fluff in any possible au.

masterlist

The snow begins like a secret the sky couldn’t hold any longer.

Not sudden, not loud—just a quiet confession, unfolding slowly beneath the hush of morning light. A single flake, small as a breath, drifts past the windowpane and lands on the wooden sill, vanishing as if it was never really there. You pause, eyes caught by the shimmer, uncertain if it was real or imagined. Then another comes, and another, spiraling down like lost feathers from a sleeping bird.

Outside, the world begins to soften. The sharp edges of fences and rooftops blur beneath a fine dusting of white. The trees stretch their arms toward the sky, catching snow in their branches like old friends reuniting after too long.

It’s the kind of snowfall that doesn’t just cover the ground—it changes it. The kind that makes everything seem quieter. Gentler. Like the world is trying to remember how to be kind.

Inside, it’s warm. You’re curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a book forgotten against your chest. The pages are slightly bent where your fingers loosened their hold. You’re still in pajamas—an oversized jumper and fuzzy socks that don’t match—but they feel like armor against the chill.

The fire crackles softly. The room smells faintly of cinnamon and pine. And for a few moments, you let yourself believe the day might stay like this—slow, quiet, untouched.

Then a voice rings out from the kitchen, loud and delighted:

“Snow! It’s snowing!”

It’s James, obviously.

You barely have time to register the words before he barrels into the room, socked feet skidding across the floor, arms flailing like a Quidditch player mid-dive.

“Look! Look, it’s actually snowing!” he shouts, pointing toward the window like it’s the first snowfall of the century and not just November being dramatic.

You sit up with a startled laugh. “Jamie, I see it.”

“No, you don’t see it,” he insists, grabbing a pillow and gesturing wildly with it like it’s a weather map. “You have to witness it. You have to feel it in your bones. It’s snow, baby!”

And just as the words leave his mouth, the thunder of approaching footsteps rattles the floorboards.

Sirius appears in the doorway a heartbeat later, looking half-feral and entirely thrilled. His coat is hanging off one shoulder, hair a chaotic mess of curls, and—of course—he’s barefoot.

“Did someone say snow?” he demands, eyes gleaming like a boy who just found the key to a locked candy shop. He’s already heading for the front door, wild with joy.

“Sirius, you don’t have shoes on—”

Too late. The door slams open, letting a rush of cold air curl around your ankles like curious fingers. Sirius charges into the yard with a laugh that sounds like it belongs to someone who’s never known sadness.

James whoops and sprints after him, slipping slightly as he fumbles to put on a jacket and yell something about “preemptive strikes.”

You blink at the open door, at the snow swirling lazily across the threshold like it’s been waiting for an invitation.

Then you hear a soft chuckle.

Remus leans against the doorway to the hall, dressed in a thick sweater and wrapped in a long, familiar scarf—the one you knit him last winter. The one with the uneven stitches and frayed tassels, charmed to shimmer gold in the sunlight. He doesn’t mention it. Just smiles at you like he knows every thought you’ve had since you woke up.

“We both know how this ends,” he says calmly, as Sirius yells something unintelligible from the front garden.

You sigh, but you’re smiling already. “With a truce and three ruined coats.”

“And probably a broken flower pot.”

“Again?”

He shrugs, moving to pull your coat from the hook by the door. “Tradition.”

He crosses the room and stops in front of you, eyes warm. “Arms up, darling.”

You obey without question, and he slips your coat over your shoulders, his hands gentle as he adjusts the collar and buttons the top. He’s close enough for you to smell his cologne—tea leaves and old books and something that feels like home.

“You’ll need gloves too, dove” he murmurs, already fishing them from your pocket.

“And boots. Can’t have you losing toes just because Sirius thinks frostbite is character building.”

Remus slides your gloves gently onto your hands, like he’s worried he’ll break you if he’s too rough.

You grin up at him, warmth blooming in your chest and spilling to your toes, and let him fuss.

He crouches to grab your boots while you slip on mismatched socks—one has a tiny cartoon stag, the other a crescent moon—and when he comes back up, he’s already holding your gloves in one hand and a knitted hat in the other.

You snort. “He would say that.”

“He did say that. Last year when he stuck his hand in a snowbank to prove he could hold it longer than James.”

“And James got third-degree burns from hot cocoa.”

“That's right, pretty girl.”

There’s another shout from outside—something about honor and betrayal—and Remus presses a kiss to your cheek before gently nudging the hat Sirius gave you last winter into your hands. The one with the little white stars stitched across the black wool. You pull it on, tugging it over your ears, and Remus offers you his gloved hand.

Outside, shouting erupts. A snowball fight has definitely begun, and judging by the string of swear words from Sirius, he’s already been hit in the face.

“You ready?” Remus asks, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You nod.

He holds the door open for you and steps into the cold. The snow is falling heavier now—slow and gentle, like the sky is settling down to sleep.

The yard is chaos.

And the snow, still falling in silent spirals, greets you like an old friend.

Sirius hides behind a tree, breath visible in bursts as he tries to form another snowball with one hand and brush snow out of his hair with the other. His coat is still only half-zipped. He’s somehow managed to find shoes—but they’re clearly the wrong size. Probably James’s.

James is across the garden, ducked behind an overturned wheelbarrow, whooping like he’s in a Quidditch final, hurling snowball after snowball with shocking accuracy.

The first one hits Sirius in the shoulder. The second smacks him in the side of the head.

“You absolute menace!” Sirius yells, wiping snow out of his eyes.

“Preemptive!” James calls back smugly.

“Unfair, I was defenseless!”

“Should’ve zipped your coat!”

You’re still standing on the porch, laughing quietly to yourself, when Sirius spots you.

His face lights up like you’ve handed him the sun.

“There’s my girl!” he shouts, abandoning his cover immediately. “Come on! We need reinforcements!”

“She’s not on your side,” James hollers.

“She is,” Sirius counters, bounding toward you like an overexcited dog. “Because I love her the most.”

Remus snorts. “That’s definitely not true.”

“Don’t start,” you mutter, smiling.

Sirius reaches you just as you step off the porch, scooping you into a bone-crushing hug that lifts you off the ground. He’s freezing, damp, and smells like fresh snow and trouble.

“You ready to destroy Potter?” he asks in your ear, voice muffled by Remus’s scarf.

“Always, siri, ”

He sets you down with a wild grin and grabs your hand, tugging you toward the center of the yard where the snow is untouched and perfect for ambushes.

Remus trails behind you, hands tucked into his pockets, watching all of you like you’re the most ridiculous, most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And maybe you are.

Because the snow keeps falling, and your laughter rises louder than the wind, and in the middle of it all—James yelling, Sirius twirling dramatically after being hit, Remus muttering tactics under his breath as he builds a snow barricade—you realize this might be your favorite kind of magic.

Not spells or charms or enchanted stars.

You don’t remember who laughed first, only that it caught like wildfire. It burned through the tired in your bones, the sting in your cheeks, and the snow down your collar. It didn’t stop—even when James was wheezing from where Sirius had tackled him straight into the bushes, even when Remus shook his head like a disappointed professor but wore that stupid fond smile he couldn’t hide if he tried.

The battle ended in truce. All of you panting, pink-faced, soaked—snow glittering in your hair like stars. Sirius declared himself the winner despite having the most snow in his coat. James argued his case with a stick used as a gavel. Remus refused to participate in the ruling and threatened to hex both of them if they tracked more snow into the house.

And so, in the hazy hush of winter dusk, you dragged yourselves back inside.

The heat hit like a sigh. That sudden flush of warmth against cold-bitten skin stung your eyes a little—the way they sting after crying too hard or laughing too much or watching someone you love do something unbearably tender.

The house bloomed with the mess of it—boots kicked off in mismatched pairs, scarves dangling from doorknobs, puddles forming in doorways. Someone slipped on the rug (James) and blamed it on Remus (it wasn’t), which earned a wet towel to the face (from you).

Sirius dropped his coat in the middle of the hallway and immediately stole your favorite blanket. When you scolded him, he wrapped it around himself like a cloak and shouted “I am the chosen one!” before tripping over his own wet sock and nearly faceplanting into the armchair.

James vanished into the kitchen with the determined madness of a man on a cocoa mission. Pots clattered. Spells sparked. Marshmallows flew. He emerged minutes later with mugs of something steaming and sacred, glasses fogged and grin smug.

Remus, always the calm after the storm, returned with another blanket folded neatly over one arm and a tin of those little cinnamon biscuits he secretly hoards behind the tea tins.

You all sank into the living room like it was a landing pad. Not one of you sat normally. You were half on Sirius, half on Remus, your knees draped over James’s lap, your back pressed to Remus’s chest. Blankets tangled and layered until it was impossible to tell whose belonged to whom. Heat radiated in waves—fireplace, cocoa, bodies pressed together.

James handed out mugs like he was conducting a sacred rite.

“Hot cocoa is sacred,” he said solemnly. “Passed down from wizard to wizard with great care and precision.”

Sirius raised his mug with exaggerated reverence. “I pass down my cocoa by burning my mouth.”

You opened your mouth to stop him but didn’t move fast enough.

He sipped. Choked. Let out a wounded noise that was more betrayal than pain.

“Why does it always hurt like that?”

“Because you never wait.” Remus said without looking up, already rubbing his temple like he’d rehearsed this exchange a thousand times.

James laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.

“It’s not even hot hot yet!”

“Tradition.” Sirius gasped. “Burn it once. Appreciate it forever.”

You shook your head and took a slow, cautious sip of your own. The heat curled through your chest—thick and rich, marshmallows half-melted into a silky froth. It tasted like memory. Like holidays and snow days and being fifteen again and invincible.

Sirius shifted beside you until his head nestled against your shoulder, heavy and warm. 

He smelled like snow and pine and something softer—like old books and the worn-out scent of someone who’s lived in your orbit so long they’re part of your gravity.

His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers cold but seeking.

Remus leaned against the couch’s back, knees bent so your spine fit neatly between them. His arms slipped around your waist, slow and certain—the way he always held you when words weren’t necessary. His nose brushed the side of your neck like punctuation. You could feel him breathing. The rise and fall of his chest, slow and steady like tides. 

Every now and then, he kissed the crown of your head and didn’t say a thing.

James lay half-on, half-off the rug, one hand loosely cradling his cocoa, the other resting on your shin. He traced lazy circles just above your ankle, humming something tuneless under his breath. He looked at all of you like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like he’d bottle this moment if he could and wear it around his neck.

Outside, the world had gone white.

Snow fell like a lullaby, soft and slow and endless, blurring the edges of everything until it felt like the sky had dropped a quilt over the earth and whispered, rest now. The windows fogged with breath and frost, and inside, time didn’t seem to move at all.

They were tangled up in each other on the couch, limbs draped like vines, heads on shoulders, hands tucked beneath blankets. The fire crackled low, casting flickering amber across knit socks and the curve of sleepy smiles. Mugs sat forgotten on the table—half-full, half-empty, sweet with cinnamon and clove.

James was the first to speak, voice low and rough with contentment. “We should bottle this feeling. Sell it, make millions.”

Sirius laughed, lazy and warm. “We’d be terrible capitalists. We’d give it away for free and forget to charge.”

“Sounds about right” Remus murmured, running his fingers absently through your hair, then into Sirius’s, then along James’s arm—like he couldn’t stop touching, as if to reassure himself everyone was really here.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. You just leaned into the warmth of them all, heart full to the brim.

“I love us,” Sirius said suddenly, not looking at anyone in particular. “Like—disgustingly much. Sickening, tragic, poetic levels of love.”

James turned his head against your thigh and grinned. “You mean like sonnets and stolen glances and deathbed confessions?”

“No,” Sirius said, eyes sparkling. “Worse. I mean cuddling under four blankets, fighting over the last cinnamon bun, and watching Remus cry at Christmas ads.”

“I don’t cry,” Remus said indignantly.

“You sniffle!” you corrected, grinning.

“And I love that,” Sirius said, softer now. “I love that we all exist in this tiny, perfect moment. With snow on the window and sleep in our bones and nothing pulling us apart.”

You reached for their hands, finding them easily in the warmth. No need to search.

They were always there.

“This is it,” James whispered. “This is the part of life they write books about.”

Remus kissed his forehead. “We’ll write our own.”

And as the snow whispered secrets to the windows and time slipped soft and golden through the quiet, you let yourself fall into the moment, into them—all their sleepy warmth and easy affection, all the laughter tucked into their shoulders and the unspoken love that clung to everything they touched, and maybe it wasn’t perfect, maybe it never would be, but it was real, it was safe, it was theirs.

And in the hush of it all, with Sirius breathing music into the air and James brushing his thumb across your leg like he couldn’t help it and Remus watching you like you were something worth reading a hundred times over, you realized you didn’t need a vow or a promise or a future written in stars.

this was what love looked like when no one was watching.

This was what forever would’ve chosen, if it got the chance.

[pmpmyread]

Content Warnings: 18+/MDNI, suggestive themes Pairing: Nanami Kento x fem!Reader Summary: "It’s just way too tight, Kento. I really don’t think you’ll fit.” You deliberately punctuate your statement with a lilt of your voice, which implies far more than your words convey, a shift that does not go unnoticed by Nanami. It’s what finally earns you the view you’re fishing for. Word count: 3.4k

It’s a bright, frigid winter afternoon, the kind that sees the sun casting a dazzling light off the patches of the morning’s snowfall with near-blinding intensity. Your breath fogs slightly as you bring your hands to your mouth, pretending to warm up the fingers that conceal the chuckle you simply cannot contain anymore.

You’re sitting in your car, parked just outside Nanami’s apartment building, watching in quiet amusement as the sorcerer emerges through the automatic door and approaches you. His eyes are narrowed in a sharp, assessing gaze as he glances first at the front and then at the rear of your car, undoubtedly taking stock of the cramped space and the less-than-ideal angle you’d managed to maneuver into. When his gaze briefly locks with yours, it is a small shake of his head that acknowledges your sheepish smile before he crosses in front of the car ahead of you to reach your side.

Oh, how you love to play the game.

It’s a game that owes its inception to a spark ignited within you one evening, several months prior. Your second official date with Nanami Kento was a memorable one; a wonderful outing together comprising delicious food and delightful open conversation, which allowed you to discover an unfiltered side to the otherwise reserved colleague you’d grown so fond of. You’d learned so much about him in the space of a mere few hours.

After which you'd also learned something about yourself.

“Damn, they really boxed us in like this…” You’d said as Nanami opened the passenger door to his car for you.

You’d just wrapped dinner at a quaint and charming restaurant whose only drawback was the inconvenience of only having street parking available on what was a rather narrow street. It now appeared that since your arrival, two vehicles had parked so closely, both behind and in front of Nanami’s, leaving it with hardly any room to exit.

“That is rather bothersome,” Nanami said before gently closing your door and squeezing his way over to the driver’s side.

He took a moment after pushing the ignition, and you sensed he was making a mental calculation in his mind as he thought through this conundrum. You reached into your handbag, taking the opportunity to quickly reapply a thin layer of your tinted lip balm, which you damn near bit off when Nanami abruptly draped his arm over the back of your seat as he looked over his shoulder, assuming a new position that saw him leaning both backward and towards you. The combination of his sudden nearness, the faint woody scent of his cologne, and his warm breath on your neck was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” He murmured, more to himself, his confident words a low rumble that tickled your ear and sent a warmth spreading through you.

When you finally dared take a sidelong glance at Nanami, you were gifted with a breathtaking sight. You took notice of the way the setting sunlight illuminated his strong jawline, of how it enhanced the sharp features of his face, and of the subtle radiance emanating from his profile.

You watched his eyebrows furrow in focus, his eyes narrow in calculation, averting your gaze just as he faced forward again, shifting your focus to where his fingers gripped the wheel as he turned it with the same practiced precision he carried when out on the field, exorcising curses.

The sleeves of his blue dress shirt were rolled back, revealing strong forearms that flexed as he brought his right arm from the steering wheel to the gear stick. In just a handful of dexterous maneuvers, he found the right angle and effortlessly managed to glide out.

Just like that.

Heat sluiced through the air, through you, and suddenly it was warm, far too warm, even for an early summer evening. The low buzz of excitement that had hummed just below your surface all evening had now reached its fever pitch. The air in the car was charged with a quiet intensity. Even today you wonder what you must have looked like in the moment, what kind of expression you had on your face as your eyes remained fixed on Nanami as if he was the first person to ever reverse out of a damn parking spot, what he might have seen in your eyes when he finally glanced your way and caught your lingering eyes, prompting him to ask, in a tone tinged with earnest curiosity:

“Is something wrong?”

“No, uh… You didn’t even use your backup camera.” It’s the desperate substitute for a coherent reply formulated by your slightly panicked mind.

“I didn’t, no. I find that leaning on the traditional way works best in a tricky situation like that. In fact, I usually don’t use the camera at all.” He paused a bit before playfully adding, “Is this a deal-breaker for you?”

“Well yes, Nanami, I perceive you so differently now…” You buried your genuine sigh of relief beneath one of mock concession. “But since I really like you, I guess I can learn to live with your lifestyle.”

“Thank you for accepting my cavalier ways.” Nanami’s lips curved into one of his warm smiles that you’ve grown to live for, distracting you, only for a brief moment, from the fact that you’d almost gotten caught flagrantly ogling him.

I have got to be careful with this, you’d thought to yourself at the time.

And for a while, you did; you discreetly savored in the rare opportunities you were offered, and keenly watched Nanami engage in the skillful displays that were his reverse maneuvers.

But now, it’s several months later, and time and familiarity have long since dulled the edge of caution.

Now, you’ve shed some of your inhibitions, and you allow yourself to be a bit bolder, more brazen.

Now, you don’t always want to wait for opportunities, so sometimes you manufacture them.

The distinctive clicking sound of your door latch snaps you out of your reverie as Nanami opens it, and the frigid winter air finds your face again, bringing you back to the current moment.

One quick look at him, at the tousled blonde locks freely cascading over the reading glasses he didn’t bother removing, at the black sweatshirt peeking through his unzipped puffer jacket, at the comfortable gray sweatpants emblematic of his peaceful weekend détentes confirms what you’d suspected a few minutes ago, as you texted your SOS regarding your precarious parking job.

You imagine the soft glow of his reading lamp and you can almost hear the light rustle of pages from the book he was likely reading before you interrupted him. For a moment, you feel the prickling sensation of guilt crawling up your spine. But then a second picture, even more alluring than the first, fills your mind, a vision so enticing that it relegates any and all thoughts of retreat to the far back corner of your mind, and you find yourself back on task with renewed motivation.

“Hey, thanks for being my hero again.” You cheerfully say, springing out of the car and landing on your tiptoes, your arms encircling his neck as you brush his cheek with a light kiss, feeling the warmth of his skin against your cool lips.

“Your knack for finding the trickiest spots on this street is unmatched, truly remarkable.” The bright sunlight reflects off his glasses, but you don’t need to see his eyes to detect the affection underlying Nanami’s exasperated tone. This isn’t his first rodeo, this is not your first time pulling this stunt, and you’re not new to this careful plotting of the conditions that would grant you the otherwise rare view you enjoy so much.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I always prefer this side for the convenient view I get from your place. I saw the spot and I really thought I could hack it.” You point back at the high-rise towards Nanami’s window, the one that faces this street some twelve stories above you, intent on feigning innocence by leaning onto the plausible excuse you’ve employed time and time again.

“You know, if you’d told me you’d be available earlier, I could’ve picked you up myself,” he says as he gently taps his boots to the side of your car, carefully ridding himself of the snow clinging to his boots before taking the wheel.

“I didn’t want to disturb you… Though I realize that I sort of am right now.” Your reply is apologetic in its tone but unapologetic in its objective to obscure your true intentions. You start on the path Nanami just took to get to you, following into the fresh footprints left by his boots in the snow to find the sidewalk again, expertly dodging the “you never disturb me” he undoubtedly has ready at the tip of his tongue.

Because you are disturbing him, deliberately so.

In theory, parallel parking never was your forte. Technically speaking, you could use his help. It is a stretch of a rationalization, something you know very well, being the architect of your premeditated predicament, as evidenced by the self-satisfied smirk that tugs at your lips once more.

You try your best to school your expression back into neutrality as you re-enter Nanami’s field of vision and as you move to enact the next step of your little scheme. Once you finally reach the car, it is in the back that you slide into, rather than the passenger seat.

Nanami uses the edge of his shirt to wipe the fog from his glasses before he wears them again, and only then, through the rearview mirror, does he seem to register your unusual decision to sit where you do. A slow arch of his eyebrow betrays his amused confusion.

“I’ve already made peace with being your valet, but am I to be your chauffeur as well?”

“Ah, you know, all of my things are on the front seat. I figured this is simpler,” you say in the most persuasive tone you can.

He glances down at the passenger seat, where you’ve indeed ensured, before driving here, to pile your handbag over the three hefty grocery bags holding the ingredients for your shared dinner, the ones you’ve deliberately left out of your spacious trunk.

“I see…” he says, finding your gaze through the mirror again, something unreadable briefly crossing his eyes. “I know we just discussed this the other day but I do wish you’d just let me rent you a spot in the indoor parking lot.” He adds, finding his train of thought once more as he shifts the gear into drive and begins his maneuver, moving a few inches forward.

“There’s no need, Kento. We’ll be moving in together soon, and besides, I rarely bring my car around here. It only amounts to a couple of times a month, if that.” Your rehearsed responses are a refrain from a conversation you’ve already had countless times.

“So you take my spot then, and I’ll park on the street. My car is smaller, and it will be easier this way.” His hand stills over the gear switcher, awaiting your feedback on his proposed alternative. Incorrigibly pragmatic, this man is; always so logical, constantly looking to make your life easier, all things you utterly love about him. But this is not a problem you want him to solve, at least not in the ways he’s thinking. The seconds tick by, each one a hammer blow against your carefully crafted plan.

So you quickly decide to shift tactics.

“I guess you’re right.” You slowly say. “You should get us out of this spot and park us elsewhere. I don’t think it can be done.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it can’t—”

“It’s just way too tight, Kento. I really don’t think you’ll fit.” You deliberately punctuate your statement with a lilt of your voice, one which implies far more than your words convey, a shift that does not go unnoticed by Nanami, who responds instantly with a lift of his head up as he anchors his gaze to yours. The signs that betray the successful effect of your instigation are nearly imperceptible but they are there; in the minute narrowing of his eyes, in the slight lift of his eyebrows, in the subtle hitch of his breath.

It’s what finally earns you the view you’re fishing for, today’s at a newfound angle; Nanami finally reaches behind the passenger seat, places his hand on the headrest, and takes his usual position to reverse.

“Well, I’m certainly not one to back down from a challenge,” he says, defiance laced in his tone.

You mentally give yourself a pat on the back, but your triumph is quickly replaced with another sentiment. Because for some reason, as he maneuvers the car a few inches backward, Nanami holds your gaze, and you hold your breath. He doesn’t waver as the car slightly jerks under the audible tap of his foot on the pedal, and now you’re nervous. You are acutely aware of the ridiculously small space left between the cars, making his blind attempt at the maneuver seem irrational.

“Hey, shouldn’t you actually be keeping your eyes on the road?” It comes out of you, more a breathless utterance than a clear question. You watch Nanami shift back to drive and give a few light taps to the gas pedal, before switching back to reverse, his amusement now increasingly evident as his eyes find yours once more.

“Hey, shouldn’t you actually be seated next to me? Or is this the new best seat in the house?” His gaze does not waver, and he punctuates each of those last three syllables with a tap to the pedal, each producing a short, jerky backward jolt of the vehicle.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nanami.” You mumble this, and you don’t even bother to sound convincing at this point, you’re still reeling at this unrelenting teasing. Here you are, having scored something even better than the mere view you were after, and somehow you’ve still lost the upper hand.

“Ah, so I’m just Nanami, now?” He says with what is now unmistakably a smirk.

A nervous scoff escapes you and you attempt to avert your gaze to something, anything other than his sly, piercing hazel eyes. You’re not left with many alternatives, so your eyes find purchase on the hand he’s placed on the headrest right in front of you, and you hope it will suffice to bring your heart rate down, to lower the increasingly warming temperature in the car, and to help you find your footing again in this repartee.

He must notice your newfound anchor and he must be determined to sink you because Nanami’s fingers begin to move in a light rhythmic tapping of his index finger and you now find yourself somewhat distracted again. His hand disappears momentarily as he grips the wheel to move forward, and when it returns, it is both his index and middle fingers that are moving again, together, this time.

What begins as a seemingly random, lazy, circular motion quickly transfigures into a slow, deliberate up-and-down rubbing motion; the minute squeaking sound of fingers against rubber, an audible evidence of a nebulously steady rhythm. Suddenly, it’s a pattern you recognize all too well, a motion you’ve watched him, felt him enact far too many times, one that causes a familiar fizzing of your stomach and compels you to instinctively squeeze your thighs together.

You find yourself unwittingly transfixed, the subject-changing retort you so desperately want to wield in self-defence, never quite making it to your lips. Did seconds pass? Did minutes? It is only once Nanami pulls his hand back to himself, and breaks the tense silence that you realize that the car has long since stopped moving,

“Now, tell me how I did.” He says in a commanding but gentle tone.

“How you… what?” You are decidedly disoriented and you don’t even know what he’s asking anymore.

“Check the curb, my love, and tell me if I’m aligned properly?” His abrupt flip back to his usual kind and even tone after engaging in the most egregious display of pettiness is dizzying.

You open your door to find your car perfectly positioned, your dicey position long since corrected.

You shut your door to meet a gaze that betrays the mischief simmering just beneath Nanami’s surface.

“You’re good,” you mumble, still pulling yourself back to reality. You would marvel at this masterclass in hand and eye and apparent finger coordination if you could think straight. Instead, your mind is a mix of hot and bothered and confused and you think to yourself that perhaps this time, you bit off just a bit more than you could chew.

“It was a tight fit, but as usual, I made it in.” He says these words in such a casual tone, and you know that he knows that he doesn’t need much more than this, that you’re already riled up.

Decidedly eager to vacate the car and get a breath of fresh air, you lean over the center console to reach for your handbag. Unbeknownst to you, Nanami sees this as an opening, an advantage to exploit.

By the time you feel Nanami’s arm draping just behind you as he reaches for the passenger seat once more, it’s already too late, and you find yourself stuck in your awkwardly bent position on the other side of his arm.

“Actually,” you feel more than you hear his voice rumble just behind your left ear, “I think I could back up a bit more.”

You watch him shift the gear into reverse, and he moves to look over his shoulder, but he can only really make it halfway.

Your faces are so close that you can see your reflection in his eyes, pupils and irises now indistinguishable. This is beyond impractical; you know it and he knows it. You look down to find something to grab onto, using the center console to brace yourself against the next anticipated jolt of the moving car.

It’s one that never materializes.

After a few moments of inertia, you finally lift your face to level your eyes with his, and by now it is a full-on, mischievous smirk plastered on his face.

And this ignites you. Because you, too, are not one to back down from a challenge.

You decide to make the most out of your newfound position by moving your left hand to grab onto his right leg. There it is, the shift of his expression, the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth now nothing more than a memory. Slowly but surely, you glide your hand up his leg, maintaining your eye contact, inching closer and closer up toward his lap. You watch as his breath hitches for a moment, as his gaze wavers, as a brief dark flicker crosses his eyes, telegraphing in advance the question he’s about to blurt out in a disquiet of his own, one you’re now more than willing to answer.

“What are you—” He breathes out.

“Well, Kento, I need to hold on to something, don’t I? You wouldn’t want me to fall, right?”

Nanami reaches down to switch the gear to what you assume is ‘Park’, his first gesture of concession. But you don’t relent, no, you double down.

You shift some of your weight off the console and onto your offending hand, gliding upwards, up towards his lap. Moving inwards, in towards his—

Your movement is abruptly halted, but you don’t miss the small audible groan that melts into the gulp he swallows as he closes his free hand over yours in a grasp that is both as gentle and as firm as his tone when he finally chokes out, “Upstairs.”

“Oh. Is this capitulation I hear from my beloved valet?” Your voice does not come out as even as you intend, your breath hitches, and frankly, it’s a miracle that you’re still holding your own, that you still manage to speak because the truth of the matter is that witnessing the effect of your anticipatory torture on him only serves to exacerbate your own conundrum.

“Let’s call it a temporary truce,” he says as he gently interlaces your fingers, cautiously moving your hand away from the danger zone all the while bringing his face as close to yours without touching, as if to spill his next words of promise directly into your mouth, words that come out as a deep rumble and that travel straight to your core.

“Capitulation is what I’ll pull from you real soon.”

[adragonprinceswhore]

You’re Nothing But A Beast

Osferth x Reader

Summary: After falling into a river in the middle of winter, Osferth needs to warm up his lady companion.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, depictions of hypothermia, temperature play, water being too hot for comfort, yearning, religious guilt, fingering, praise

A/N: I dug this one up and re-read it today, feeling festive so thought I’d share it 🩵

Word count: 2600

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It happened too quickly for Osferth to react.

Under his lord's request, he had been trusted with the important task of delivering a noble lady to her betrothed only two days' journey away.

But the sudden snowfall that met them after a mere half day's travel left the ground slippery, causing his companion's horse to panic and throw her off and into the river lining their path.

Osferth hadn’t hesitated when he jumped off his horse and reached into the river to aid her, swiftly dragging her to land as she coughed up the water she’d swallowed in shock.

He’d pulled the furs adorning his saddle loose and wrapped her in them in a futile attempt at keeping her warm, but to little avail. Shivers continuously erupted from her body so aggressively she could hardly stand still.

Now, dread makes Osferths chest tighten as he considers their situation.

Only half-way to the inn where they’re set to spend the night, one horse short and snow falling onto their cold bodies, freezing them further.

He glances at the Lady he’s meant to protect as he ponders their next move.

Her shaking form leaves him on high alert. She looks like prey; ready to be captured by any ravenous predator lurking behind the trees.

He knows how quickly the chill can claim a person.

I have failed her.

“My lady, we need to find heat”, he speaks rapidly, eyes blown wide in panic as one of his hands tenderly rests on her arm. She only shivers in response, mouth unable to utter words as her teeth chatter loudly together.

Lord Uthred had tasked him with this, a simple delivery, and he is failing him.

I have failed my lord.

Osferth tries to chase the defeatist thoughts rattling in his brain away. He cannot let this blunder best him, this might be one of God’s trials; a chance for him to prove to the Lord that he is still a good man, despite the depraved acts he’s indulged in as of late.

He places her in the saddle of his horse, continuing their tracking as he leads them on the narrow path lined with snowclad trees. He cannot help it when his eyes flicker to her. In the corner of his eye, he sees the strange shade her lips have shifted into; the drain of colour on her face.

When Lord Uthred had informed his men that one of them needed to escort a noble lady on a short trip, he hadn’t even bothered to look Osferths way. Fighting alongside them, offering his loyalty and by consequence, his life, to their cause still did not reflect on how they viewed him; always just a Baby Monk.

Osferth’s insistent advocating had finally worn his lord down. Uthred’s tone was laced with irritation when he reluctantly agreed to grant the young man his first expedition unaccompanied.

Looking around the sparse trees next to the path they were trailing, Osferth felt shame consume him like never before. He shouldn’t have been trusted with this; it was as they thought.

Still just a Baby Monk.

He sighs in resignation, moving to walk infront of where the lady’s shiver form is sitting so she won’t be able to see his face as the corners of his lips pull down.

Walking with his head cast down, shoulders tensing up with each step, he suddenly realises that he’s trailed this path before.

In summer, which could explain why he hadn’t recognised the scenery quicker, as it’s now coated in a layer of snow.

The Lord must be on my side.

“My lady, I know a place nearby that will warm you”, he speaks over his shoulder before he steers his horse towards where he is sure they discovered a natural spring spewing out hot water from the underground last time he walked this wood.

From the saddle of his horse, she let out a weak hum in reply.

Osferth’s estimations were correct. There is a source of hot water here; a blessing that God himself had carved out of the side of a rocky hill. Despite the harsh winter chill, it is still warm, judging by the steam oozing from it.

Could this be witchcraft?

They come to a halt before the water. “Lady, the spring here will warm you”, he explains, turning around to face her.

She’s stopped shivering, her body now seems stuck in rigidity. Osferth swallows thickly before reaching out to grab her waist to help her down from the horse. His fingers sink into the material of her coat with an unpleasant squelch; her clothes are soaked and freezing cold.

“You’ll need to remove this before entering”, he mumbles without looking into her eyes. The redness on his cheeks and ears are no longer solely from the harsh cold biting at his skin.

Before he joined Uthred, Finan and Sithric, he was a god-fearing monk devoted to a life in the service of God.

But his time with them had led him down a path of deviance; a life filled with swords, fighting and women.

The latter happened to be Osferth’s favourite of his new-found interests.

If he did not know of the pleasures of the flesh, he might not have found the lady he’s guarding so enchanting. He’d had eyes for her since he first saw her, admiring her soft skin and sparkling eyes. But only from afar.

Always from a distance.

A pious lady like her should not be sullied by my impurity, even in thought.

She moves unsteadily, hands stiff and rigid as she unsuccessfully tries to undo the buckles of her winter coat.

“Allow me”, Osferth offers as he quickly helps her get the coat off. Her thick wool dress underneath is just as soaked as her outer layer and Osferth helps her shed that too.

Soon, she is left in nothing but her undergarments; a thin, crem-coloured smock. It sticks to her curves like a second skin, giving Osferth a clear view of her perky nipples and the soft curls nestled between her thighs.

He does not know what to say, afraid his voice will betray his tainted intentions, and chooses to remain silent when he grabs her hand to lead her towards the heated water. He’s determined to help her get in, make sure she does not slip on any icy rocks, and then leave her to bathe herself warm.

Her cold hand holds on to him tightly as she steps into the water, a cry escapes her lips at the contact.

“I-, I cannot enter. It’s too hot”, she whines, stepping back. Osferth moves his hands to hold on to her elbows as he searches for her eyes.

“You must warm up, my lady. The chill could kill you”, he speaks softly. She nods in understanding, again moving her feet back into the scorching water. She hisses at the sting as she brings her second foot in, eyes growing glassy at the sensation.

“Osferth, it burns”, she meekly complains.

“Please, try to relax”, he instructs her. He cannot help but take pity on her, she still looks so weak, the familiar glint in her eyes no longer there.

She takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself before experimentally lowering her body a bit further. The hot water feels like a thousand needles piercing her skin and she quickly stands to her full height again.

The grip she has on Osferths coat tightens as she stiffly stands in the warm spring, “I cannot-, i- it’s too painful”, she says in a defeated tone.

Osferth feels how cold her body is through her thin smock. He sees the odd colouring of her face. She needs to warm her body, even if it’s painful.

The brief but instructive experience with the women he’d indulged in had earned him some new skills. Perhaps he could utilise that to make her more pliable?

“If I help you overcome the sting, will you stay in the water?”, he inquires with uncertainty, already ashamed of his lewd proposal.

She looks up at him curiously, nodding in response.

“I know of a way to relax you, if you trust me?”

“I trust you with my life, Osferth”, she gently replies, giving him the courage he needs to show her his debauchery.

He smiles nervously, allowing his hand to move from her elbow down to her hip. He cannot find the words to explain what he’ll do to her, and decides that it would be better to simply show her.

His palm travels from her hip, to her thigh, and then towards her centre. She shivers slightly under his touch, but does not stop him, eyes watching him in peculiarity.

He moves to gently cup her mound, long fingers reaching down to stroke her core over her garment.

The fabric will shield her from my impurity, if only slightly.

His face feels hot, his eyes flicker from her face to the snowy setting surrounding them. He tries his best to remain indifferent, but the sweet gasp she releases as he carefully strokes her stirs something awake within him.

“Focus on the pleasure, my lady”, he instructs her as he moves his fingers to circle her pearl through the wet fabric of her smock. He wonders if she’s ever done this to herself; ever allowed herself to engage in sinful pleasure.

Her fists are still holding onto the fabric of his coat, her breath heavy as she tries to forget the burning water her feets are submerged in.

Osferth grows bolder, pressing down a bit harder as his fingers work in steady circles. Her body squirms before him.

He instantly stops the movements of his hand, eyes filled with worry as he asks, “Am I hurting you?”

“No”, she says with a slight shake of her head.

“Then let me”, he pleads, picking up the pace of his hand once more, “Please”

She closes her eyes, tiny gasps leaving her stiff mouth.

“I-, If you.. also touch..”, he cannot finish the sentence, still ashamed of his depravity; the depravity he’s inflicting upon her.

She must know that he does not mean to besmirch her, his only wish is to help her.

She surely knows how sullied I am by now. Will she still allow me to guard her as our journey continues for another day?

“Osferth?”, her voice, close to a moan, brings his thoughts to a halt.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Is it a sin to kiss?”

Her inquiry leaves his mouth dry, yet he swallows and answers, “I-, I do not know”

“Oh”, she sighs, not in pleasure but more akin to disappointment.

“I-, I cannot imagine it is!”, he blurts out when he sees her eyes cast down, “Simply an expression of affection. Like between a mother and her babe”, he reasons, voice slightly breathless at the implication.

“Do you feel affection for me?”, she asks, gaze trailing up to meet his.

How could he resist her now, when she’s looking at him like that? When the shimmer in her eye has returned? When he can think of nothing else but to swallow the sweet moans that leave her lips?

He ducks his head down to kiss her in reply, the hand not between her thighs coming up to engulf the entirety of her cheek.

She moans into his mouth when his thumb circles her pearl, and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth. Her face and lips are so cold, but her kiss is just as sweet as he’d imagined.

He comes up for air, still revelling in the feeling of her, “Does it feel more bearable?”

“Yes”, she moans again, the colour now back on her cheeks.

Despite the depraved method, Osferth takes pride in knowing that he’s helping her; warming her up again.

“Kneel”, he instructs, allowing her to grab onto him as he lowers himself with her, standing on his knees in the snow as she sinks further into the scorching water.

She hisses at the stinging sensation and Osferth soothes her with another kiss, quietly murmuring, “I’ll make you comfortable, my lady”.

He can feel how cold the smock is against her skin, and without pondering upon it for too long, he moves to rid her of the garment. A voice inside of him tells him it’s to allow the steam from the water to reach her skin. Another voice tells him it’s for his own pleasure, so he may admire her fully.

Has the devil consumed my senses?

She is still shivering; from the cold air, the heat of the water, or Osferth’s touch, she does not know.

He brings one of his hands down into the water, large palm gently scooping up some of the scorching water and letting it slide down the side of her arm.

“You’re doing so well”, Osferth compliments her, eyes kind and inviting as they seem unable to stray away from hers.

His hand comes up to cradle the side of her face. She leans into his touch and closes her eyes, focusing on the pleasure, not her stinging flesh.

His other hand moves between her thighs again, but this time he makes contact with her pearl without hindrance and she whimpers at his touch, eyebrows scrunched together in bliss.

Divine.

His fingers travel down further. Feeling the wetness he created with his touch has his head spinning.

As he slips a finger inside her tight heat, she grabs onto his shoulders, rocking her hips in tandem with his movements, throwing her head back. He searches for that spot inside her that he knows will make her collapse into his embrace, and when he finds it she rewards his pursuit with another pleasure-thick cry.

“Use me, my lady. Find your pleasure”, Osferth urges as he places his hand so that the finger inside of her tightness presses at her sweet spot while the heel of his palm pushes down on her pearl.

Her fists hold onto his shoulders tightly as she rides his hand, mouth gasping as it searches for his to indulge in another sin. He lets her use him; he knows he’s the one responsible for her wanton ways.

I’ll pray to the Lord for her salvation later.

Another finger slips inside her, and he feels her tighten harshly as she peaks, falling forward into his embrace. He carefully moves his hand away from her warmth, allowing her a moment to steady her breathing as she rests her head against his chest.

Though she has found peace and comfort, Osferths body is still on high alert, painfully aware of the closeness between him and her naked form.

He’s been able to keep his gaze away from her, to offer her the slightest decency, but when she leans back his eyes unabashedly flicker down to watch the steady rise and fall of her breasts.

She finally sinks into the water, breathing heavily from the intense peak he drew from her. Osferth’s panting as well; cheeks tinted pink and eyes dark with lust. His mouth appears to be salivating as his gaze stays on her.

She lets out a breathless giggle as she allows the hot water to graze over her skin.

“You’re nothing but a beast, Osferth”

Her words wound him, but the playful smile on her face leaves him intrigued.

“Has the devil got his claws in you?”, she continues to taunt him, though he senses that her intent is not malicious.

“Consume me too. Show me the depths of your depravity”

[brittle-doughie]

[Evil Y/N AU]

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Snowfall Villager: “The snow has been calming down recently, we should start hanging up lanterns while we can.”

Young Snowfall Villager: “I’ll help with setting them up over here on this side of the village!”

The young villager collected some lanterns to go hang them around houses and trees, taking a moment after hanging up one to gaze at the soft glow the lantern emanated.

Young Snowfall Villager: “Ooh, so…glowy! Hehe!”

She went along to hang up the rest of the lanterns on her side, while the Snowfall Villager hung up the lights on his side. He had just placed up a light when he noticed a figure approaching the village.

Snowfall Villager: “It looks we have a visitor heading this way!”

Young Snowfall Villager: “They must’ve been traveling in that harsh blizzard a little bit ago! They must so cold!”

Snowfall Villager: “Well, we can’t let them go on like that. Come on, kiddo. Let’s give them a warm welcome.”

The two Cookies go to approach the silhouette, the young villager skipping ahead of her father.

Snowfall Villager: “Excuse me! Are you traveling by here! You must’ve been walking in that blizzard that came by here!”

Young Snowfall Villager: “Are you tired! You can stop by our home to rest and warm up!”

The silhouette doesn’t respond, which makes the villager confused, did they not hear him?

Snowfall Villager: “Hello! Can you hear me! I was wondering if you…needed…help?”

The villager stopped in his tracks when the wind made the hood that the silhouette wore flap back for a second…

Just enough for him to see the figure wore a crown with the Cookie Kingdom symbol.

The villager’s heart plummeted as he yelled for his daughter to get back here!

Snowfall Villager: “KID! GET BACK HERE!”

The young villager turned around in confusion to his yell.

Young Snowfall Villager: “Huh? What’s wrong, daddy? That Cookie needs our help.”

???: “And I thank you for the hospitality.”

The young villager turned around to the voice, only to see the hooded Cookie standing right in front of her, clearing the distance previously in a matter of seconds.

???: “But hospitality won’t be enough for me, or my darling sovereign.”

Snowfall Villager: “WAIT!”

The villager ran to the two, gasping for air as he pleads for the hooded Cookie to wait a second.

Snowfall Villager: “I know you…the Cookie Kingdom. That crown…you’re her…

???: “Then you know why I’m here, dummy….”

The hooded Cookie reaches to undo her hood, revealing her long, pink icing hair that now flowed in the wind, her smile, her heart shaped eyes that radiated a soft glow. Up close, she wore an armored princess outfit with spiked shoulder guards. A necklace was worn around her neck with a red teardrop trinket attached.

Coronet Cupcake Cookie.

The villager held his daughter close to him protectively.

Snowfall Villager: “You want us to join under your umbrella.”

Coronet Cupcake Cookie: “You’ll be happier this way. Supplies, community….safety.”

Coronet leaned towards the two with that last word, making the villager pull his daughter away from her.

Snowfall Villager: “And if we refuse?”

Coronet Cupcake Cookie: “There is no refusing, dummy. Unless you want to find out if you even can.”

Coronet draw her blade and aimed it at the villager’s neck in one swift motion, making his daughter cry out in fear.

Coronet Cupcake Cookie: “So, will you say yes?”

She stared down the villager, her eyes glowing ominously in the snowing night. It made the villager steadfast…

…

…

…

Snowfall Villager: “I will get the village elder.”

Coronet Cupcake Cookie: “So you can be smart! I can wait to share with my dearest sovereign the good news!”

The villager was a little put off by the sudden change in Coronet, going from intimidating to silently squealing to herself like a girl with a crush.

He hurried off with his daughter in tow, he didn’t want to make an enforcer of Y/N Cookie wait….

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

[prisvvner]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 ꜱᴋɪɴᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴛɪᴏɴ

word count: 2105

pairing: megumi fushiguro x reader

content: lot's off fluff, healthy relationship, self-care, SOFT MEGUMI

author's note: just cozy-fluff with megs and skincare obsessed reader 💓🍯 enjoyyy!

There were two types of people in the world.

Those who washed their face with body soap and walked out the door like war-hardened minimalists, and those who used six different cleansers, rotated serums by the season, and could recite ingredients like a dermatologist prepping for battle.

You were, without shame or apology, the second kind.

Skincare was not a routine. It was a philosophy. A deeply personal daily ritual—equal parts science and faith—that required discipline, commitment, and the full belief that one day, when the world fell into chaos, your glowing, glass-smooth skin would serve as a beacon of hope. Or at least, a distraction.

Megumi didn’t get it.

But he got you. And that was close enough.

He had learned, over time, that loving you meant understanding the sacredness of your night routine. It meant respecting the quiet, meditative thirty-five minutes you spent in front of the bathroom mirror every evening, whispering incantations like “layer thinnest to thickest” and “never skip SPF,” while gently patting products into your skin with the delicacy of a tea ceremony master.

At first, he had simply stayed out of your way. That was his instinct when anything deeply personal came into play—observe from a distance, keep the chaos at bay, stay invisible. But it was impossible not to notice you.

The way your brow furrowed in concentration as you tested the pH of a new toner like you were decoding a curse. The way your expression softened when a serum soaked in perfectly, like it was a tiny miracle. The way your shoulders relaxed the moment you twisted the lid off your favorite moisturizer, as if the scent alone could exorcise the stress from your bones.

You were, in a word, enchanting. In about twenty more words, you were low-key intimidating and high-key adorable in the way only someone who took beauty rituals as seriously as national security briefings could be.

And Megumi? Well, he had long since given up pretending he wasn’t obsessed.

He never said much. That was just his nature—stoic, steady, reliable. But he watched you with the same quiet attention he gave to complex battles and silent snowfall. As if studying you might one day make him a better man.

Sometimes, he caught himself wondering how your skin managed to look so soft even when you were fuming over a missed launch restock. Or how your lips formed a perfect little pout whenever you clicked your tongue at a poorly formulated product. Sometimes, he imagined brushing your hair behind your ear while you layered your third serum, just to see what it felt like. Just to know if you’d lean into the touch or give him that look that said “not now, I’m emulsifying.”

It had become a rhythm between you. A dance.

You’d start your routine in a fluffy robe, your face still flushed from the warm shower, a towel wrapped high on your head like a turban crown. Megumi would be sprawled across the couch nearby, a book in hand or a cup of tea resting on his knee, pretending to read while his eyes flicked to the hallway mirror every few minutes—like you might catch fire if he didn’t keep checking.

The seriousness with which you approached your products was unparalleled. You didn’t smile during skincare. You did not multitask. This was not the time for small talk or sudden movement. You had, once, with terrifying calm, told him to breathe more quietly while you were applying a retinoid.

He had nodded. Apologized. Sat in absolute silence for the next seven minutes until you said thank you and kissed the top of his head in forgiveness.

He should have been annoyed.

Instead, he had nearly ascended on the spot.

Because Megumi Fushiguro, world-weary and sharp-eyed and silent to most, had a fatal weakness—and it was you, in that tiny bathroom, dabbing eye cream under your lashes with the precision of a surgeon and the gravitas of a queen.

And one night, everything changed.

୨ৎ

It started when you sighed.

It wasn’t a dramatic sigh, or even an annoyed one. Just a soft, thoughtful sound, muffled slightly by the towel wrapped around your face as you gently patted in your essence.

Megumi had been reading—or trying to—on the bed. But his head snapped up instantly.

You were standing in front of your mirror, bare-faced, looking concerned.

He sat up. “Everything okay?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just pursed your lips and tilted your head, inspecting your cheek in the light.

“…I think I over-exfoliated.”

He blinked. “That’s… bad?”

You turned to face him, your expression grave. “Yes, Megumi. It’s very bad. My moisture barrier is compromised.”

He squinted. “Your… what?”

“My skin barrier. The acid mantle. The thing that keeps all the bad stuff out and the good stuff in? It’s my only protection against environmental damage and dehydration. If it’s compromised, I could break out.”

He blinked again. Slowly. “…You know I’ve fought actual demons, right?”

You ignored him.

“I need ceramides. And maybe a thick sleeping mask. Ugh. This is what I get for double cleansing with an AHA on the same night as retinol.”

Megumi had no idea what half those words meant, but the way you said them—with passion, urgency, a dash of wounded pride—made his chest feel warm.

He set his book down, padded over to you quietly.

“You look fine,” he murmured.

You shot him a look. “I look inflamed.”

He leaned in, brushing your cheek lightly with the back of his hand.

“You look cute.”

You froze.

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, not really. But there it was—casual, quiet, true.

He hadn’t even been thinking about it. It just slipped out. Like a fact.

You didn’t speak right away. Just blinked at him, and for a terrifying moment, he thought you were going to banish him from the bathroom forever.

Then you turned back to the mirror and muttered, “Well… cute is fine. But I’m aiming for luminous.”

Megumi didn’t say anything after that. He didn’t need to. You didn’t comment on it either—not the “cute,” not the soft touch, not the quiet look he’d given you that lingered a little longer than usual. You simply patted the last layer of your routine into place, sealed it all in with the kind of sleeping mask that came in a frosted jar and promised dreams of dewy perfection, and walked past him without a word.

But your fingers brushed his as you passed. Deliberate. Barely there. And somehow that one touch made his skin feel warmer than any serum ever could.

He followed you to bed, a few steps behind, and you didn’t say anything as you slipped under the covers, freshly lotioned and glowing faintly in the dark. You just turned your head and gave him a look like, I’m still mad at my face, but I guess you can stay.

He stayed.

୨ৎ

Megumi woke to the smell of herbal toner and citrus cleanser.

It was still early—light barely creeping in through the curtains—but you were already up. He could hear the gentle rustle of your robe, the soft shuffle of slippers on wood, the faint clink of a glass dropper bottle tapping against porcelain.

When he cracked one eye open, he saw you standing at your vanity, tying your hair back with the focus of a general preparing for war.

He didn’t interrupt. Watching you was like watching the sunrise: something to be experienced in silence, sacred in its own way.

You were beautiful in the mornings, not just in the visual sense—though, yes, your skin glowed with the kind of light that made poets consider quitting while they were ahead—but in the energy of you. Your discipline. The calm confidence in every step of your process.

You moved with purpose, patting products into your face with gentle precision. You didn’t smile. You didn’t hum or fidget or pause. Skincare, for you, was not indulgent. It was a holy ritual of care, like praying for peace or watering a rare plant that bloomed only for those who believed.

And Megumi? He believed.

Not in the power of peptides or vitamin C. Not in retinol or niacinamide. But in you.

He shifted slightly under the covers and watched you through slitted eyes, wondering how something so meticulous could be so soft. Wondering how anyone could love their skin so fiercely and not realize that someone else loved the way they loved it.

Because that’s what it was, really—love. Not vanity, not obsession. Love.

You loved the skin that carried you, protected you, held your history. And Megumi, in his quiet way, admired that more than he could say.

He stayed quiet until you turned around, caught his gaze in the mirror, and raised a brow.

“Staring?” you said, voice still a little hoarse with sleep.

He blinked. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

He paused.

“SPF,” he said dryly.

You let out a laugh—a real one this time, bright and disarming—and his heart thudded once, loud in his chest.

୨ৎ

Megumi wasn’t the kind of man who took notes. Not in school, not in battle, and definitely not on anyone’s personal habits.

But after that morning, something in him shifted.

He started noticing more.

The way you warmed your cleanser between your palms before applying it. The exact order of your products. How you only used physical exfoliants once a week, and chemical ones no more than twice. How you rotated serums like a fantasy football lineup based on mood, weather, and probably moon phase.

You were, without a doubt, the most high-maintenance person he had ever dated. And he loved that about you.

It wasn’t even the skincare itself. It was the way you were unapologetically you about it. There was no performance, no attempt to be low-effort or cool or effortless. You cared. Deeply. And that, to him, was everything.

So he started… participating. Quietly. Subtly. In the most Megumi way possible.

It began with a question.

“Is this good?” he asked one evening, holding up a random bottle he’d seen you use.

You looked over your shoulder, surprised. “That’s hyaluronic acid. It’s a humectant.”

He blinked. “Is that good?”

“It helps draw moisture into the skin.”

He nodded slowly. “Should I… use it?”

You squinted at him. “Did you wash your face?”

“…With body soap.”

You gasped like he’d confessed to a crime.

“No,” you said sternly, pulling him by the wrist. “No, no, no, absolutely not. We’re fixing this.”

And that’s how Megumi Fushiguro, certified brooding badass and former body-soap bandit, found himself seated on the closed toilet lid with his hair pulled back by one of your spare headbands, while you lectured him on the difference between cleansing oils and micellar water.

It was mortifying.

It was adorable.

It was possibly the happiest he’d ever been.

୨ৎ

You finished your routine slowly that evening.

No rush. No multitasking. Just you, your skin, and the quiet hum of the night.

Megumi sat behind you on the bed, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower. He didn’t say anything as he watched. He never did—not when you were like this. Focused. Gentle. Alive in your ritual.

He thought you were beautiful when you laughed, of course. When you teased him or rolled your eyes or tucked your face into his neck. But there was something different about you when you did this—when you touched your own face like it deserved softness. When you treated yourself like someone worth caring for.

He fell in love with that, he realized. Not the results. Not the glow.

The care.

When you were done, you turned off the vanity light and crossed the room in silence, climbing into bed beside him. You didn’t reach for your phone. You didn’t say anything clever. You just rested your cheek against his chest and exhaled.

Your skin was still warm. Still damp. Still faintly dewy.

“You smell like rosewater,” he said quietly, brushing his knuckles down your arm.

“Better than smelling like your body soap,” you murmured.

He chuckled. “You converted me.”

You smiled against his shirt.

For a long time, you lay there in the dark, the silence soft and full.

And then he said it—not like a confession, not like a revelation, but like a truth that had always been there.

“You’re the first person who ever taught me to be gentle with myself.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t say anything.

You just reached for his hand under the blanket, laced your fingers with his, and held on.

Like you were saying: Me too.

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @/si-eunnis

⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own.

🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not.

[cheollipop]

❅*⋆ 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙣𝙤𝙬

navi | taglist

pairing: jung wooyoung x fem!reader

w.c.: 4.4k

genre: smut, fluff, established relationship

while the world revelled in the first snowfall of the year — crowding their windows as the sky painted the streets in a blanket of white — your focus remained elsewhere, too busy celebrating wooyoung.

❅ warnings: food/eating mentioned, unprotected sex (👎), creampie, oral sex (m receiving), deepthroating, men whimpering *drools*, wooyoung is a tease, sub-leaning!reader, cockwarming, creaming, praise, nicknames (youngie, woo; baby, good girl, darling, love), they are so in love i want to throw up

❅ A/N: happiest birthday to my beloved.

nsfw under the cut—minors dni 🔞

Smoothing your spatula over the cooled top layer, small, golden crumbs adhered to the buttercream as you coated the freshly baked cake’s exterior. You peered outside the window atop the sink, a smile stretching your lips when you’d noticed the falling white specs coating the world behind the safety of your glass pane.

You loved winter. You loved the hot chocolate with marshmallows melting into a swirl of whipped cream, huddling up on the couch with candles burning, blankets engulfing your form while the world around you faded away as warmth seeped into your skin. You loved the anticipation of snow, and the bliss it brought with it when it dressed the streets in a soft, pearly gown. You loved the big jumpers you’d sneak out of Wooyoung’s closet, his scent imbedded into the soft fibres, and the homemade soup burning your tongue as he spoon-fed it into your open mouth. Even with harsh storms swaying the trees from side to side, branches banging against your windows, hail pounding on the hoods of cars, and bleak winds breaching the thick layers of cashmere and fleece, winter with Wooyoung was warm.

Too immersed in taking in the sky’s frosty offering, you’d missed the gentle rustling of keys, the click of the front door, mindlessly spreading the slightly-too-thick coating while socked feet padded their way to your idle form. The sudden hands on your waist startled you, a gallop of buttercream flying off the spatula you were holding as your arm jolted upwards, quickly twisting your body with a stunted inhale to face the intruder. Your initial fright dwindled away as you stood before Wooyoung, eyes closed to avoid the buttercream stuck over his eyebrow, his body trapping yours against the marble counter.

“Woo,” you breathed out a sigh of relief, giggles bubbling up in your throat as you reached for the tablecloth you had thrown over your shoulder, wiping his face with your lips drawn tight to suppress the laugh attempting to slip through.

“Is this how you treat me on my birthday?” You wanted to kiss his pout away, but you resisted. “I rushed home to my darling because I missed her so much, and she tries to blind me,” he sulked, fluttering his eyes open once you’d wiped his face completely clean.

This time, you giggled, leaning forward to press your lips together, moving to peck the corners before pulling away. “I’m sorry, my love,” you smiled apologetically, not bothering with teasing him on his birthday. His mouth stretched into a smile that mirrored yours, and you leaned into his body, arms wrapping around his small waist while his circled your own. Glancing down at his shirt, about to scold him for the improper number of layers he’d thrown on before leaving, your eyebrows shot up at the blotchy streaks of brown painting the thin white. “What did the guys do to you?”

He tilted his head to take in the state of his shirt, blowing out a breathy laugh before directing his gaze back to your puzzled features. “Oh baby, you should’ve seen my face. They had Jongho push it down into the cake.”

“Mm, you still have some in your hair,” you grinned while picking out the crumbs from his hairline, running your fingers through dark locks to break up the stuck-together strands.

A gust of air blew over your face as it escaped Wooyoung’s parted lips in a heavy sigh, interrupting your ministrations when he dropped his head onto your shoulder to nuzzle his nose into your pulse point, inhaling the lingering scent of vanilla wafting off your skin and occupying your residence. Pressing a kiss to your neck, he muttered against the soft flesh, “I’ve missed you.”

You smiled, “you’ve only been gone for two hours.”

“Too long.”

Your chest warmed, fingers carding through the soft hairs at his nape while he laid the weight of his head onto your shoulder, breath steady and arms secure around your waist, occasionally tightening as he zoned in and out of the present, content to simply rest within the aura of tranquillity you’d effortlessly granted him. “You’re here now,” you burrowed your nose into his hair, the chocolatey aroma of a wasted cake embedded into the soft locks.

It wasn’t that Wooyoung was fond of winter too — he simply enjoyed spending it by your side. Pretending to be cold so you’d snuggle closer to him, running your hands through his hair and peppering kisses over his face until it scrunched up, blowing hot air over his already-warm palms just to see the corners of his eyes wrinkle as his lips curled with a smile. You'd wait all year to watch the world pile on layers of thick fabric with a sheet of white, quickly melting dust resting on their shoulders, dainty snowflakes bedecking brown locks, irises glinting under the winter sky as you walked down the slippery sidewalk with intertwined fingers swinging between your bodies.

Winter, to you and Wooyoung, meant meaningless walks under the soft snowfall, feeling the momentary chill of the icy flakes on your skin before it reverted back to liquid. Red noses inhaling the crisp air, soft gusts of fog leaving freckled lips as excited words rolled off his tongue — something about a new series he was watching, or was it a movie? The non-prescription glasses he insisted on wearing all but fully beclouded, droplets of melted snow rolling off the plastic frame, his lips cracked with their excessive movement as he kept switching between topics, as though he’d been saving them up for weeks. As though you didn’t share most of the day’s hours in each other’s company, eyes meeting delicate features as the morning sun cast its early rays over your resting figures, and falling shut within each other’s embrace, hoping their gentle touch could carry into your dreams.

Wooyoung knew when to be quiet as well. When the grey, weary skies reflected upon your affect, your warm sheets proving to be a little more difficult to part with, and words a little more difficult to utter. In such instances, Wooyoung offered you peace, safety, warmth. A place to rest and recover, where the passage of time didn’t seem too daunting, where you could find footing at your own pace, with a gaze flooded with unfaltering adoration cast upon you, and arms warmer than the peak of summer holding your trembling form until it found the strength to stand alone, a ghost of a palm on your lower back even as you took your first steps back into the present.

A pleasant exhale warmed your shoulder before Wooyoung’s body retreated partially, arms still encompassing your body while he directed his focus onto the counter behind you. “Has my baby been working on this since I left?” His tone was playful, amused as he peered over your shoulder at the crumb-coated cake left unfinished.

The corners of your lips lifted into a shy smile, cheeks flushed while you nodded. With your eyes fixed onto a particular stain on Wooyoung’s collar, you’d missed the tenderness of his gaze as he took you in — curling in on yourself while he held you in his arms, flour dusted over your sweater and traces of buttercream left at the corner of your mouth from a sneaky taste testing you thought would go unnoticed. Holding your chin with his pointer and thumb, Wooyoung directed your focus back to his face, greeting you with an easy smile before leaning forward to close the gap between your lips. They sashayed like dancers, moulding against one another in a gentle, yet gradually deepening kiss, noses pressing against one another as Wooyoung stepped further into your space.

And just like that, he was gone again, moving back to moon over the blend of abashment and disorientation taking over your features while your lips continued to chase his, the plushness lingering over your senses, and you wanted more. But the hands on your waist were twisting you clockwise until you faced the loitering snowfall once again, Wooyoung’s arms now on either side of you, bracketing your body against the counter while his lips feathered over the cartilage of your ear as he spoke, “come on then, don’t let me distract you.”

Your heartrate picked up, Wooyoung’s body heat — despite the intentional space left between your back and his chest — seeping into your skin, not aiding the flush running up your body at the proximity, the not-so-innocent touches, the teasing, the taste of his lips persisting over yours.

“Woo,” the tone was firm, but your voice wavered before you could stop it, and the telltale stretch of his mouth against the shell of your ear told you all you needed to know — Wooyoung was aware of his effect on you, and would work to exploit his power in any way he could.

Slender fingers reached for the piping bag you’d set aside earlier, twisting one of your hands with his free one to place the tool into your open palm. “Here, I’ll help,” his smirk remained, evident in his voice as he laid his hands over your knuckles, following your lead as you adjusted the bag in your hold until it fit comfortably.

You exhaled the breath you’d been holding, steadying your trembling hands and angling your body over the counter, dragging Wooyoung down with you as he watched your measured movements in silence. Pressing down on the sides of the plastic bag, you formed your first buttercream swirl with a meticulous twist of the wrist. You pursed your lips, leaning back ever so slightly to examine it before nodding in approval, bending down once again to repeat the process.

Wooyoung's hand remained perched idly over yours, eyes flitting between your profile and the hands lining his birthday cake’s circumference with — very uneven — swirls of vanilla buttercream. With no trace of your previous bashfulness to be found, Wooyoung found himself mooning over the engaged furrow of your eyebrows, the glossy sliver of tongue held between your teeth, steady hands moving underneath his with no complaint about their added weight; you’ll most likely use that as an excuse to justify the noticeable discrepancy in swirl size, and Wooyoung will most likely allow it, drop the banter and accept you accusations, simply to see the blissful spark lighting up your irises.

Suddenly straightening up into his body, you’d dragged Wooyoung out of his sappy daydreams and back to inspect the finished cake, the decorative swirls appearing more uniform now that they’d been clustered together, the mouthwatering scent of vanilla and caramel so inviting, so homey and pleasant.

As though you’d read his mind, you reached forward to grab a clean fork from the dishrack, not bothering with cutting out a slice before you’d stabbed the cake to scoop out a bite of fluffy, vanilla-coated sponge. Wooyoung's mouth opened without thought as you directed the heaped fork over your shoulder, teeth clanging against the metal as he slid the contents off its prongs. You'd expected the passionate feedback, turning your head as soon as his eyes had fell shut, wishing you’d plugged your ears as soon as the hyperbolic moaning began. Sensing the sway of his body behind you while he chewed loudly, you slid your finger over the coated side of the cake, collecting a bead of buttercream and rotating your body to smear it onto his cheek. The moaning stopped, thank fuck.

The deadpan expression barely lasted, his features melting into that of warmth, affection, love — as though you’d handcrafted the intricate snowflakes painting the world white and placed them into his hands. Wooyoung’s gaze moved to your lips, skipping contemplation, and diving forward to share the sweet remnants of vanilla on his tongue, flicking it over your bottom lip with a sly smile. He trailed tender kisses up your face, starting at the corner of your mouth and up to your cheekbone. And just as your eyes fluttered shut, a warm, buttercream-covered cheek collided with yours, curved nose nuzzling into the warm flesh to smear the sugary cream over your skin. His grip on your waist was unyielding, holding you still while you thrashed in his arms.

“You shouldn’t play with your food, my love,” he grinned, fingers now poking at your sides.

“Woo—” you shrieked and jerked away from his touch, throwing your head back as giggles erupted from your chest. “Please—s-stop!”

He carried on with his ministrations for a few moments more, revelling in the pleasant melody leaving your smiling lips, the joyous expression persisting even after his hands ceased their motion, now resting comfortably over the curve of your waist. It was as though an inconspicuous force drew him to you, finding it laborious to remain detached from your form. The cake on his shirt be damned, he wrapped himself around you, tucking his head into the crook of your neck to inhale the scent of your body wash, pressing feathery pecks over the soft skin.

The corners of your lips curled upwards, sighing pleasantly at the gentle gesture as you smoothed your hands down his back, nuzzling your cheek into his clothed shoulder while the scent of musk and chocolate mingled in the air around you.

Settling in the tranquil stillness with Wooyoung, you could feel the taut, lean muscle lining his back beneath your palms, absorbing his comforting heat as you stood together. “How are you not cold?”

He smiled fondly at the slight lisp you spoke with, tucked so close to his body, his shoulder muffled your words. Pulling back, he placed a wet kiss to the tip of your nose when you’d whined about the sudden parting, and his hands reached for yours. He enveloped the icy digits within the warmth of his own, bringing them up to his mouth to blow hot air into the cocoon he’d created around your hands. Closing his fingers around yours completely, he hoped it’d contain the warmth of his breath, lowering them back down to peer at you through his eyelashes, a familiar glint in his eyes.

“What?” you questioned warily, one eyebrow raised and heat rushing through your body.

Despite his intense stare, his eyes — though slightly narrowed — remained soft, one hand leaving yours to smooth down the hair at the side of your head, the scent of chocolate surrounding you once again as he pressed his lips to your temple, the leftover sugary cream on his skin spreading over your cheekbone as he spoke.

“My sweet baby, let’s warm you up, yeah?”

--

All plans to ravish you vanished as soon as your knees met the carpeted floor between his legs, hurried fingers tugging at his sweatpants, not allowing him the time to settle back down onto the couch cushions before a wet tongue swiped over the precum beading at his tip.

“Baby, you really don’t have to,” he muttered breathlessly, fingers carding through your hair, eager eyes watching your spit-soaked lips approaching his cock.

Looking up at him through your lashes, you wordlessly took his cockhead into your mouth, fluttering your eyes shut as you lowered yourself further down his length, grunts and choked moans reverberating in your ears and motivating you to carry on. He felt heavy on your tongue, the prominent vein lining his shaft throbbing in your mouth and bitter precum overwhelming your tastebuds. Wooyoung’s thighs tensed under your palms, and glancing up at him, you watched the turmoil his features portrayed, wanting you to move at your own pace, yet the burning want sizzling in his gut begged him to take what he wanted.

“Youngie,” a gentle mumble of his name was enough to drag him out of the battles crowding his mind, snapping his eyes down to your face with parted lips and stunted exhales. Dragging your mouth down his length, you watched as his gaze moved to take in the slow descent, then back up at the sound of your voice, “use me however you want, birthday boy.”

You flattened your tongue over underside of his cock, moving upwards to circle around his head, your exaggerated slurping breaking Wooyoung’s composure, the internal battles in his mind coming to a standstill as your warmth engulfed him, eyes beginning to roll back with every inch you took down the rough plane of your tongue. His hands shot up to hold your face, thumb caressing your cheekbones while he kept you in place, languidly rolling his hips into your mouth, head thrown back over the cushions behind him with burning arousal rushing through his body. You nuzzled your nose into the thick hairs at his base, and even as you gagged, your mind floated in ecstasy with every upward buck of Wooyoung’s hips.

“Fuck—‘m sorry darling, you feel so good,” he admired the skill in which you took his cock with lidded eyes, brows furrowed while he held you down until he felt the last of your oxygen warming the skin of his pelvis.

Wooyoung helped you off his length before you had the chance to tap on his thigh, chest heaving as he watched you regain your breath, his throbbing length coated in your spit and spurting translucent, sticky precum in anticipation. He followed the string of saliva connecting the tip of your tongue to his cockhead, swallowing dryly as his body lit up with all-consuming lust. Watching you suck in the air you’d lost, Wooyoung assumed he’d have more time to recover, to push down the hints of an orgasm come too soon, but the sudden fingers around his base offered him no reprieve. Small, firm tugs on the lower half of his cock built him up to an almost-high once again, his voice thinning — groans turned choked-up moans — and his hips involuntarily jerking into your fist.

“W-wait—baby, ‘m gonna cum, please—” he pleaded, but the small smile you tried to hide told him everything he needed to know: you weren’t planning on stopping. You wanted to hear him whimper and whine, watch him squirm and shiver under your touch until he’d dirtied his clothes with his own cum, until his cock could no longer handle the flaring stimulation. But Wooyoung had other plans, grabbing your wrist and sighing as you relaxed your fingers around his cock, shutting his eyes to bask in the calm before opening them once again to take in your dejected features. Too riled up to play your games, like a carnivorous fauna who’d been mercilessly starved for weeks, Wooyoung wanted to feast. “God, darling, I wanna fuck you so bad.”

You thought the couch would’ve been reserved for foreplay and playful teasing, but Wooyoung didn’t bother move to the comfort of your shared bed, simply lifting you off the ground and trapping you under him, the fingers tangled in the hair at your nape tugging your head back to bare your neck while blunt canines left imprints over the delicate skin. Wooyoung’s cock fit snugly between your walls, resting comfortably within your clenching heat while he ravished you, his body weight resting on your pelvis restricting your movement. It seemed as though the raw lust blazing in hooded eyes had dissipated completely, replaced by unwavering patience, gentle pecks and blooming bruises, a throbbing cock seated within your cunt with no plans of moving, of fucking you the way you’d yearned for.

“Youngie,” you whined, a high-pitched whisper that elicited a hum from the man biting into your shoulder. “Please move.”

A breathy chuckle blew over your skin, “I thought the birthday boy made the requests?”

Your expression fell, was it the embarrassment or dejection? Either or, you turned your head to face the backrest, the motion restricted by the hand in your hair, now easing its grip as Wooyoung noticed the flush spreading up from the collar of the flour-dusted sweatshirt he didn’t bother add to the pile of clothes haphazardly thrown over the carpet.

Redirecting back up to your jaw, he planted wet, open-mouthed kisses over its slope, gentle fingers on your chin guiding your gaze back to him. “Oh baby, I’m just kidding.”

His lips settled into an easy smile, soft fringe fanned over his forehead and shimmering beads of sweat forming over the slivers of skin peeking through. The abashment you’d felt faded upon meeting his eyes, void of any judgement, and full of unconditional infatuation. His lips landed onto yours while you were too busy admiring his features — a slow, deep kiss to match the leisure movement of his hips, the drag of his cock over your walls throwing gasoline into the fire burning in your gut. Arm hooking under your knee, he spread you open and laid himself over your lower half.

“What are you—”

“Moving,” a sly smirk paired with a sharp thrust into your welcoming heat, a groan left his parted lips while he watched you melt under his towering frame, the audible squelch of your pussy like music to his ears.

He didn’t give you time to process, elbows digging into the cushion on either side of your head as he built up to a mind-numbing pace, stuffing his cock inside you and revelling in the pleasure painting your features — eyes shut and mouth forming an ‘o’, unable to form coherent words, only a staccato of airy ah’s. His cock was relentless, repeatedly pressing into your sweet spot to light fireworks behind your eyelids, your hips rolling to meet his to create an echo of skin-on-skin between the four walls. The constant squeeze of your pussy around him, the sweet sounds leaving your lips, the firm hold you had around his biceps as he pistoned his hips into you with fervour — Wooyoung’s composure began faltering, and his desperation unveiled itself the deeper he fucked himself into your sopping cunt.

You were so wet, a frustrated whine reverberating in Wooyoung’s throat when he slipped out of you, hands trembling as he hurriedly pushed himself back into your fluttering hole, sighing in unison once your walls were once again moulded to his shape. He lowered himself atop you, his forearms easing some of his body weight off yours while he nuzzled back into your neck, grunts and breathy moans now much closer to your ear, much clearer, sending searing waves of heat straight down to your stretched core.

“So fucking perfect,” he muttered into your skin, “taking me so well, letting me use your cunt the way I want. Such a good girl for me,” he bit down on the column of your throat, feeling it vibrate with your moans as he built himself up to the brink of his orgasm, then slowing down to drag you there with him.

“Fuck, Woo, please—”

Your fingers found the hair at his crown and tugged, not to pull him off you, but to hear the whimpers sounding at the back of his throat. You were close too, so fucking close from the relentless abuse of your g-spot, Wooyoung’s cockhead pressing into it with every forceful thrust into your needy cunt while his pelvis continuously brushed against your swollen clit. The familiar fluttering didn’t go unnoticed, your pussy gripping Wooyoung with its every retreat, swallowing him back inside — inch by inch — with an exhale of relief.

“Close?”

It sounded more like a statement, but you nodded anyway, the hands on his shoulders sliding down his bare back to grip the warm flesh of his hips, desperately guiding them into your heat. The gesture, paired with the doe, sparking eyes you looked up at him with, the gentle tone of your voice as whispered pleads and repetitions of his name escaped your pouty lips, dragged Wooyoung over the edge, tumbling down the steep hill of his orgasm until his vision blurred with unshed tears. The rhythm he'd maintained broke, replaced by sloppy, frenzied thrusts into your dripping cunt, a thick ring of cream forming around his cock as he emptied inside you.

He twitched violently between your walls, and the sudden warmth spreading through your lower belly dragged you down that hill with Wooyoung. You clamped down around his length, halting the frantic pounding as he sheathed himself within your cunt, feeding thick ropes of white into your womb while he shuddered above you, unfiltered moans vibrating against the side of your neck.

It felt like you were still coming, even as Wooyoung used your cunt to milk out the last of his cum, heavy dollops streaming out of the stretched hole, your walls continued to flutter around him, thighs trembling at his side and under his palm. Even as he stretched your leg out for you, refusing to leave the comforting warmth of your cunt while he wrapped his arms around you and twisted you onto your sides, your mind still floated within a cloud of ecstasy.

Was it your orgasm, or was it just Wooyoung? His presence, the soft scent of his cologne and the chocolate in his hair creating a bubble of comfort around your resting frame, his warmth seeping into your skin and lighting your heart ablaze. Today was meant to be about him, celebrating him, but love laced itself into everything Wooyoung did, and he couldn’t help but give, even on a day on which he was meant to take.

“Thank you for today,” the words spoken into your hair were unexpected, and you lifted your head to meet dazed eyes.

“What?”

“The cake, and the dessert,” he smiled at the innuendo, leaning down to peck the tip of your scrunched nose. “Thank you for loving me.”

Dumbstruck, you stared up at the man with glassy eyes, tucking yourself back into his chest before he could question the tearful reception of his words. But Wooyoung only held you tighter, pressing a faint yet reassuring kiss over your hair while you sunk further into his arms. Warm. Even in the midst of winter, Wooyoung was warm.

With the fluffy blanket you’d laid over the backrest now wrapped around your bare figures, you rested within Wooyoung’s secure hold, sharing whispered confessions and hearty giggles while the sun started its descent from its locus. And as the sky shifted from blues to a vivid magenta, you endeavoured to maintain the smile stretching Wooyoung’s lips, to watch his lines around his mouth further deepen until this happiness forever etched itself onto his face.

The world continued to celebrate the first snow of the year — blankets of white now melting over the asphalt — but your focus remained elsewhere, too busy celebrating Wooyoung.

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