#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.

[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.

[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

Word count: 2.6k

Authors note: 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:

“Guys! 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

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

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”

[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.

reblogs/feedback are greatly appreciated!! ^^ apply for my tag list here (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

[vampzity]

[ 8:29 pm ]

You stared outside the window, feeling the small amounts of cold radiating from the glass. Snow was falling, and falling fast. You had always loved the snow, especially when it was fresh like this. Though you still felt empty in a way. You shouldn’t be enjoying this snowfall alone but that was quite impossible as your boyfriend was stuck at the studio with his members.

You looked at your phone, the time reading 8:29 pm. It’s been over an hour and you have yet to receive a text from him yet. You didn’t like to bother him when he was working, but he should’ve been home 2 hours ago. It was unusual for him to not update you if he needed to stay longer.

You turned to the dinner table, nicely plated with food in their own dishes just waiting to be dug into. You decided to make his favorites, kimchi stew with rice cakes. You had also made cheesecake brownies as you were slowly getting into baking and knew brownies were his favorite.

Though at this point, everything was just cold.

Cold and unenjoyable.

Sighing heavily you walked over to the couch, turning down the volume on the weather channel. You began to call Felix for the last time, only to receive no answer.

Again.

That was all you needed to understand that he just wasn’t coming anytime soon, that he wasn’t going to reply to you anytime soon. It wasn’t like him, and you’d normally be worried if his location didn’t show him at the company.

You grabbed the folded blanket that sat at the edge of the couch, wrapping it around you as you laid down to watch the tv. A part of you hoped that Felix would just walk through the door at that very moment. That he would be at your knees with a gazillion excuses, practically smothering you in kisses to make you forget his tardiness.

Except you’ve accepted that wasn’t the case.

— ✧⁂✬ —

“y/n?”

Felix closed the door, shivering slightly from the freezing cold. He changed into his slippers, taking off his coat and leaving it on the coat rack. It was odd to catch you sleeping on the couch, especially alone. He walked over to your limp body, frowning slightly remembering the numerous amount of texts and calls he received.

He sat in front of you, rubbing your arm slightly so he wouldn’t startle you. Nothing. Felix glanced to the clock in the kitchen; the time reading 11:23 pm. His eyes fell to the table, catching a glimpse of the untouched food and dishes you set up meticulously. A sudden weight rested on his shoulders, feeling so much guilt for making you wait so long. He felt sorry that you went to sleep on an empty stomach, as you always preferred to eat with him. He kissed your forehead softly, the cold lips awaking you just barely.

“Hey angel.”

A soft deep voice filled your ears, making you open your eyes to see a blonde boy standing in front of you. He smiled at you as his hand came up to caress your face softly.

“I’m sorry I’m late. You must be mad with me, yeah?”

You blushed slightly, rolling your eyes as you tried to remain upset with him. Felix frowned, playing with your hair while he sat in front of you.

“You have every right to be mad with me and I’m okay with that..”

A small smile appeared on his face again. “I wanna show you something.”

You furrow your eyebrows, watching as he unzipped his sweater to see a small head pop out from the inside. It was a kitten, white fur with brown covering her eyes and head like a helmet. Your eyes popped out of your head seeing the little animal, immediately sitting up on the couch.

“Oh my god?! Felix?!”

He placed the cat in your lap, watching as she sniffed you. She rubbed her head against your body, slowly becoming comfortable with you as she laid there. You pet her fur, her warmth seeping into your skin and her purrs vibrating against you.

“The boys and I found her outside the building, no collar, no name tag or anything. So I decided to take her home. It’s too cold to just leave her.”

He looked up at you, watching the way your eyes lit up at the sight of her. He smiled, looking back over to the table.

“Why didn’t you eat?”

You looked up at him, a slight sigh escaping your lips.

“I don’t like to eat without you.” You looked back down at the cat. “You know that.”

Felix took your hand, caressing it with his thumb while giving you a reassuring smile.

“Well I’m here now and I see you made my favorite.” He looked back at the table, eyebrows raised. “Ahh, two of my favorites?”

You gave him a small look, a smirk following behind it. “Be mad at me all you want angel, but I know you’re hungry.”

He got up from where he sat, kissing you on the cheek softly before brushing past your ear.

“Maybe I can make it up to you later, yeah?”

He pulled the cat into his arms, winking at you as he walked over to the kitchen. His deep whisper sent chills down your spine making him laugh at your body’s response. He set the cat down beside him, preparing to heat up the stew so you wouldn’t have to do so again.

“You coming, angel?”

a/n: i wrote this weeks ago when we had our first snowfall here :3

taglist: @rvereri @dvrktvnnel @h4untedgrl @scarfac3 @jjongibears

@sundaybossanova @kittykat-25 @yyaurii @hwasddeongbyeoli @woojirang

@vnessalau @dollywoo @tiredlittlevirgo @roomsofangel @minghaoslatina

@mingtinysworld @joonezra @honeyhwaaa @evidive

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Shake the Frost

A/N: I have no comment other than thank you to the Thunderbolts trailer for putting me back into a Bucky Barnes phase.

Relationship: Bucky Barnes | Winter Soldier x Reader

Tags: bucky barnes x reader, bucky barnes x y/n, The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, Winter Soldier!Bucky, hurt/comfort, fluff

WARNINGS: mentions of flashbacks, PTSD, brainwashing

Summary: Inspired by the song 'Shake the Frost' by Tyler Childers. After a year on the run with Bucky, you think he might finally be opening up to you. All it took was a little honesty. And a healthy dose of yelling.

Word Count: 1.5k+

You’d spent an entire year on the lam, hiding a brainwashed assassin who could barely remember his name. 

And after a year, the Winter Soldier- Bucky- still turned a cold shoulder to you when the memories became too much to bear. One minute he would sit with you on the couch in your little cabin to watch a movie, and the next he’d be trudging through the Montana snowfall, wandering the remote mountain ridge in an apathetic search for clarity. 

It had been the tune of your relationship since the beginning, though the past couple of months had seen some improvement. Bucky was more human, seeking you out for comfort after nightmares and flashbacks or even requesting different food items when you deemed it necessary to run into town for groceries. You weren't sure if it was him actively looking for help or just trying to tamp down on the mounting frustration caused by his constant cold-shoulder. 

Tonight, he had surprised you by grabbing the TV remote while you flipped aimlessly through a limited supply of channels. The cabin, tucked deep into the Montana Rockies, belonged to your maternal grandparents and had the barest of cable packages.

“Wait, wait.” His sudden movement had scared you half to death, metal fingers gently encircling yours on the remote. “Can you go back?”

You balanced a half-eaten plate of rehydrated mashed potatoes on your knee and nodded. “Uh, yeah. Can I have my hand back?”

Your comfort level with him had been fairly steady, as you weren’t in fear of him killing you in your sleep anymore. With that said, any sudden contact still made you wary. You knew what he was capable of when provoked, and didn’t wish to bring it on yourself, even if it was an accident 

“Sorry.” He released you at once, the prosthetic whirring as your wrist was freed. 

Bucky’s keen gaze turned back to the old TV as you clicked back a couple of channels, stopping on an old rerun of M*A*S*H. His head tilted at the uniforms, eyes hardening as he discerned the setting. You swallowed a forkful of potatoes, not sure if this was the best thing for a recovering super-soldier assassin prone to PTSD to be watching. The rest of the food was nudged around your plate nervously before you pressed the button to go to the next channel, twangy country music flooding the room instead.

“Bucky, I don’t know if M*A*S*H is the best-”

He stood abruptly from the couch, walking towards the front door. Nothing of note had happened before you switched the show off, but this was how he worked. Some unknown, unseen trigger would send him spiraling into silence, and you’d be left with no explanation. A year had little effect on his habits.

This time, you weren’t having it. “Hey!”

Ditching your plate on the couch, you chased him to the entryway where his boots were already on. Bucky wouldn’t meet your eyes, focused solely on getting out the door. You grabbed his hand just as he had minutes ago, soft flesh meeting titanium on the doorknob. He shook you off and pulled the door open, tossing a Russian command over his shoulder in your direction. 

“Bucky, wait!” You jammed your feet into the closest shoes and grabbed your coat, hustling out into the blizzard without a thought. 

Soft light emanated from a lantern on the porch, highlighting the figure standing only a couple feet from the bottom step. Powdery snow climbed halfway up his shins, evidently acting as a barrier between him and his usual route. You walked up behind him slowly, stopping on the last stair.

You were normally patient with his traumatic past and memory issues, but it was mounting into frustration as time passed by. “Bucky.”

He didn’t answer. 

“Bucky, what’s wrong?”

The Winter Soldier remained motionless. You grit your teeth, anger rising. 

“Soldat.” You intoned in the same manner you’d heard his handlers speak. “Otvechat [Answer].”

Painfully slow, he turned back towards you. You gulped, steeling yourself for a blow or outburst of anger. Instead, his face was blank. Blue eyes bore into nothing, haunted and cold. You ducked your head to meet his vacant stare, hoping the commands hadn’t forced him into some sort of fugue state. 

“Talk to me.” You said, almost pleading. “For once, tell me what’s going on.” 

A stream of Russian followed, growing more desperate the longer he talked. The extent of your Russian was the few simple commands barked out by HYDRA guards and nothing more, and you were lost after the first two words. His switch between languages wasn’t uncommon, but came frequently with stress.

 You held up your hands, shushing him. Bit back your frustration in order to get an answer. “Bucky, I don’t speak- I need English, please.”

He stopped, chest rising and falling erratically. Blue eyes focused on your face, cheeks already tinged red from the cold. 

 “The p-program made me remember something, but I don’t know what it was. It was there and then it was gone.” Another hitched breath interrupted his words. “It was gone so fast. Like a dream.”

Dreams had been a constant for him, to the point you’d went out of your way to buy him a journal and pen to write them down as soon as he woke up. 

“Well, maybe you’ll have to keep your journal-” 

“I don’t want to rely on a book!” He cried out, “You tell me to write down dreams, but how am I supposed to remember things that happen so fast? I can’t pull out a journal and write it down!”

Though it was angry and loud, you stood your ground. Any sort of real emotion was preferable to the stoic Winter Soldier who’d shown up beaten and bruised in your hotel room so long ago.

“Maybe I’d have an answer if you ever talked to me! These things happen and you always disappear!” You steadied your voice, trying not to fly completely off the handle. “I don’t know how you’re supposed to pin down a memory if you’re too busy trying to run away everytime it comes up. I want to help you, Bucky.”

“I just…” A shiver wracked his body. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Frustration fizzled away into sympathy. “You’ve never…”

“And I would never know until it’s too late.” He growled, sounding more like the Soldier than Bucky. “They controlled me with words. What if I remember them too clearly and I hurt you? You’re the only person who’s ever helped me.”

“You won’t.” You reached out with a tentative hand, setting it on his right shoulder. “You’re in control. You can keep working on your memories, but you can’t do it alone. So let me help you. Please.”

Face angled towards the ground, he nodded. “I’m sorry for taking off again.”

You shook your head. “Don’t be sorry. Just come inside, where it’s warm. We can talk there.”

Once inside, you fought to shuck off your boots, one lace knotted in a manner that prevented escape. You bent down to fix it, cussing until the damn thing came loose. Upon standing, you came face-to-chest with a nervous-looking Bucky. Mellow guitar notes floated to your ears from the abandoned television.

“Oh. Hi.” You said awkwardly, craning your neck to make eye contact. “Everything okay?”

Bright blue eyes, full of pent-up emotion, shined with what you thought might be tears. He chewed on his lip, a nervous tick you had spotted only when he thought you weren’t looking. It was a vulnerability that the Winter Soldier half of him couldn’t allow. 

“Yeah. Thank you.” His mouth opened and closed a few times. “I think… I think I’d like to talk more. If you’ll listen. I don’t want to hide things from you.”

The admission was frank, full of honesty. It was the sort of thing you’d been expecting when he’d woke you up in the middle of the night, only to be met with silence and the unspoken request for company.

“We can talk, Bucky, whenever you want.” You grabbed his flesh hand, squeezing calloused fingers. “I’ll always listen.”

There was a beat of stillness before you were yanked forward into his chest by the same hand. It took a minute to process the movement, but your arms encircled his torso. Warm air rushed past your ear, his exhale heavy on your scalp. It was the most physical he’d ever been, outside of the random protective stances he’d taken in situations perceived as dangerous. Your own body melted into the embrace, unable to resist the primal desire for touch and closeness that it had lacked for months. Even pinned against him by a metal arm, the embrace was comforting. You ran your nails up and down the length of his spine, trying to stave off the tremors that plagued him. Wintertime did Bucky no favors, especially with a cybernetic appendage that conducted the cold straight into his bones.

Eventually, you felt his mouth move against your hair. He spoke so low it could barely be called a whisper.

“Thank you.”

From the living room, music continued softly.

-

‘So if it'd make you stay-

I wouldn't act so angry all the time-

I wouldn't keep it all inside-

And I'd let you know how much I loved you every day-

So darlin' will you stay right here and shake this frost off of my bones?’

-

Thank you for reading, much love ❤

Masterlist

[please-destroy]

First Fall of Snow

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

.

‘Downstairs in ten minutes.’ Natasha walked right past you with her matter of fact greeting.

You held your tongue but your gaze caught Tony’s knowing one. You rolled your eyes at his smirk, every morning was the same.

You kept quiet as you stood up from the breakfast table. Your muscles ached with anticipation for the inevitably exhausting sparring match.

It was just a regular Tuesday.

You never thought you’d be used to such a rigorous regime.

.

You’d first been identified for the Avengers’ Initiative after you’d tipped off the authorities about a human trafficking ring in New York. 

It had been the scariest moment of your life. Your sixth sense for reading other people’s intentions was something that you’d always wanted to keep hidden. You were terrified of what might happen if the wrong people found out.

You couldn’t explain how you’d learned about the criminal gang. You’d hesitated to even call the police.

In the end, you’d left the anonymous tip and intended to leave the city too.

A nondescript van had been waiting for you at the airport instead. 

Director Fury had recruited you right then, on the drive back into the city. 

You’d been wary of the prickling warning signs that even his presence gave you. You’d reminded yourself that complicated intentions were not always bad ones.

Instead, you’d focused on Agent Hill, sitting across from you in the van. Her piercing stare was steady and integrity radiated out from her. 

You decided that there were worse organisations to join.

It had taken Shield less than a day to move you into the Avengers Tower. 

It had taken Natasha Romanoff just over a week to return from her mission and take over your training.

.

The first time you saw her, you were playing video games in the shared living area of the Tower. At her entrance, you automatically stood up from the sofa.

Her hair was braided neatly back. Her gym clothes were non-descript. 

She was so beautiful that it stung.

Natasha’s stare was assessing. She asked you a question. You watched her lips move as you forgot how to process the English language.

Tony muttered something rude from his seat to the side of you. 

‘Downstairs in ten.’ Natasha simply announced, leaving you to scramble back to your room and change into some gym clothes. 

Everything about Natasha’s entrance felt purposeful. 

You wondered if she was careful with her intentions around you, or if she really lived in such a steady state of calm. 

You were already impressed before you’d even walked into the gym. 

When you entered, Natasha looked small from across the room. More ironically, she looked harmless too.

She had a knee pressed against your throat in the first twenty seconds.

A sixth sense was definitely useful but your lack of defensive skills was a glaring weakness.

You quickly learned that Natasha Romanoff did not tolerate weakness.

.

That year, you watched the first New York City snowfall through the highrise windows of your new home. 

You also received purpling bruises as if they were early Christmas gifts.

Your life stopped being your own. Your diet was prescribed. Your training was exact.

By the New Year, you were exhausted, tired and painfully aware of your lack of ability.

You considered quitting the team every time that you walked into another sparring session. Great opportunities were only great if you wanted to have them. You’d never wanted to be a fighter.

.

There was one morning when you took an unexpected hit from Natasha. She caught you unexpectedly from the side and you tumbled sideways, slamming into the hardwood floor unceremoniously. 

You lay on the ground, trying to catch your breath as you watched Natasha walk away with some otherworldly grace to the side of the gym. 

Your gaze landed on the door at the farside of the room. You felt the sudden urge to walk out. All this pain and your progress was hardly noticeable. You couldn’t think of anything you wanted to do more than leave.

For the first time, you felt Natasha’s intentions shift in front of you.

‘Go on then.’ She called out before taking a gulp from her water bottle. 

It had taken nearly six months for her to break a sweat whilst sparring with you. Your eyes caught on the wisps of hair that escaped her braids. They were curling slightly as heat radiated from her. She seemed more beautiful now than ever.

‘If you can’t take it, then you can leave.’ Natasha continued, voice openly challenging. Her eyebrow raised daringly as she stared at you.

It was a front. Your sixth sense pricked as Natasha’s disappointment filled the room.

You thought of all the lives that you could have saved. All the bad intentions from stranger’s that you’d chosen to ignore.

You got to your feet slowly. 

Agent Romanoff could walk through fire unscathed. You wanted to be that brave. 

You owed it to the people who had died because of your hesitation.

The feeling of Natasha’s satisfaction was overwhelming. The only hint of it on her face was the smallest of smirks.

It was hard not to have a crush.

Natasha was unshakeable. You were never good at feeling steady.

You were careful not to assume even a friendship with her. 

It had happened naturally with the other Avengers but with Natasha there was a tension in the air. 

Maybe, it was because she’d seen you at your least competent.

Maybe it was because you wanted Natasha to like you far too much to risk the rejection. 

.

Soon enough, the summer sunshine returned to New York. You watched the trees change in Central Park.

You buried your feelings. You worked harder in every workout. 

Training started to feel like all you had, days merged together. You let it be enough. You lived for the brief cracks in Natasha’s calm mask. The flicker of a smile, the passing of a water bottle when you’d finally earned a break.

.

Somehow, living with the Avengers, each day felt endless but whole months could fly by.

The rhythm of meeting Natasha in the gym was second nature to you now. You came to breakfast already in your workout clothes. 

You took the employee staircase at the back of the building down to the gym, learning to shave a minute from your journey time.

Natasha had demanded high performance from you since the day she’d met you. Finally, you were learning how to give it.

.

It was as you hurried past the large window on the staircase landing, that you saw the first snowflakes flutter down over the city.

Your heart stopped at the sight. You wondered if the seasons could really change so fast.

You paused on the staircase and gripped the bannister. You saw the well-defined muscles in your own arm tighten.

Deja vu coated you like its own fresh flurry of snow. You remembered the aching bruises that you’d had the last time you’d seen a view like this.

You felt peaceful and victorious as you stared out. Your shallow breaths misted the cold window. 

You let yourself lose track of time.

You jolted when you heard the swinging door shut below you. You looked over the bannister. 

Natasha stared back up at you, arms folded in an imitation of impatience. 

‘Ten minutes.’ She reminded you, as if it was still your first day. 

You smiled.

Maybe it was because of the way her short ponytail bounced as she craned her neck upward.

Maybe it was because of the fresh snow on the windowsill and the feeling in your veins like you might finally have made something of yourself.

Maybe it was because nothing sounded better than spending another morning with Natasha.

You smiled wider. 

You realised that you couldn’t stop. Your cheeks stung with the electric buzz of happiness.

You felt an answering ripple in Natasha’s calm exterior. 

Confusion rolled through her as her head tilted curiously. You saw her crossed arms tighten. 

‘I can’t believe it’s been a year.’ You said softly. ‘Thank you Natasha, for everything.’

Natasha blinked twice and her eyes seemed impossibly wide from your higher up position. 

She shrugged and her voice rasped when she next spoke.

‘You’re the one who did all the work.’ Natasha reminded you. ‘You’re the one who didn’t give up.’

You didn’t know how to acknowledge all the credit that she was shrugging off.

You started to walk down the rest of the stairs.

‘Sometimes, I think about all the things I could have done.’ You confessed suddenly. ‘All the lives I could have saved if I’d been prepared before.’

Natasha’s breath caught and you felt a wave of shock shatter through her emanating confidence. 

‘And now, I’ll never have to hesitate again.’ You continued, as you closed the distance between you. It was warmer down here, standing away from the large window. 

Impossibly, Natasha felt closer now than she’d ever been before. 

You paused as her arms slowly unfolded and her hands moved to her sides. You caught the brief movement of her fingernails digging into her palms.

‘I know that exact feeling.’ Natasha rasped out. 

Her voice was a whisper and you focused on her lips as you tried to catch every word. 

Her hands tightened into fists again.

‘There was this place called the Red Room.’ She told you with the same tightness. ‘It took me years to end it.’

The air was filled with brokenness. For the first time, Natasha seemed fragile. Her eyes darted between you and the bright light of the window. 

Every instinct told you what to do next. You still paused. 

You’d learned how to fight with Natasha. You’d taken blows and bruises nearly every time you’d sparred together. Never had you been so hesitant as right now. 

Your fingers slipped carefully in between her tight ones. You slowly loosened her fists, rubbing out the tension in her knuckles. 

Natasha’s intentions shifted one more time. 

Your own attraction mirrored hers. Your eyes focused back to her lips.

Sudden shyness prickled at the back of your neck. It could only be Natasha’s.

You froze.

Natasha’s jaw clenched as she caught your reaction. 

You realised how exposed you must make her feel.

Natasha’s eyes darted away again for a split second. Embarrassment filled you.

You followed her gaze and caught sight of the snow falling outside. 

Your shoulders loosened. You’d spent a whole year stepping out of your comfort zone. You knew how to be brave now. You knew because of Natasha.

You gently interlaced your fingers with Natasha’s again and gave a soft squeeze. You took a step back toward the staircase.

‘Come on.’ You said. ‘I want you to see the snow.’

Natasha followed you readily up the stairs to the landing with the large window. 

You looked over the city together, your shoulders touching. Neither of you spoke.

Natasha’s breath started to fog up the window pane. 

You turned to face her slowly. Natasha’s cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were wide and she looked younger.

Hesitation gave way to anticipation. 

Your hand touched her waist.

She was gentler than you expected when she pressed her lips against yours. 

You felt her happiness like it was your own.

[not-neverland06]

𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

A/N: I've been working on this for a few weeks, debating if I should post it or not. I've been getting an influx of attention on my other Arthur work so I figure now's the best time to try my hand at another series. (Following the timeline of the game but is rarely canon-compliant with how certain events take place.)

Summary: Cold, alone, and abandoned by your poor excuse of a husband. You see lights coming down the path and know you can't stay in your desolate estate any longer. It doesn't matter how far you go, though, the O'Driscolls will always find you.

Fighting for your life after they're through with you, it's another outlaw that decides whether you see tomorrow morning or not.

You hunker further into your blankets and huddle as close as you can get to the fire. Your husband had said he would be back soon with more food and firewood, but that had been three days ago. The wolves had either gotten him or he’d finally decided to try his luck on his own. Neither end would surprise you, but you’d just wished he’d chosen to abandon you in spring instead. 

The wind howls as it rages against the walls of your homestead. It hasn't always been such a bad life up here. This was once a beautiful, sprawling estate. Horses, cattle, and fauna roamed the grounds and your husband had an army of employees dedicated to his family home. Then, he started laying heavy into the liquor and all of a sudden your gorgeous home had wood rot slowly seeping into the skin of your marriage and poisoning you both.

Honestly, if the sorry bastard got his throat ripped out by a wolf, you’d call it divine justice- payback for all the scars you carry from him. 

You hiss as the tips of your fingers tingle painfully. Any closer to the hearth and you’ll set yourself on fire. Still, you push your luck, as you always do. Your stomach is burning from the pangs of hunger, but you’ll take whatever warmth you can get at this point. 

You haven’t seen a blizzard this bad in the years since you moved up to these cursed mountains. If this is truly the one that’s going to finally take you out, it better have gotten the man who dragged you here, as well. 

You struggle to think of ways to fill your belly, to prolong your life for just a few more days. There’s no point in hunting. Any tracks you find will be buried by soft, white snow in seconds. And only a few employees remain on the grounds, Sadie and her husband. But they’ve got their own store of food. As hungry as you are, you won’t steal from them. 

“-You see this?”

Your brows furrow in confusion as noises manage to seep through the thick walls of your home. It sounds like voices, men’s voices. There’s a gnawing feeling in your gut, beyond the familiarity of hunger. This is something else. 

Forcing your aching bones up, you duck down and rush towards the window. Five men, all on horseback and each of them armed, ride up the grounds of your home. Their silhouettes are illuminated against the snowfall by the lanterns they hold. 

They could very well be innocent travelers simply looking for an escape from the storm. But you know better than that. You didn’t make it this far in your life by naively trusting every man you meet. You’ve only made that mistake once, now he’s buried in the snow and you’re about to be killed by raiders. 

You don’t see much of a way out of this. You’ve never been a good shot, certainly not good enough to take on five men on your own. For a moment you think of just making a run for it. Or even shooting yourself before they can get to you. Doing that would probably save you a lot of unnecessary pain. You doubt they’ve got much respect for the women they encounter. 

Then, you remember the family sleeping peacefully on your property. Sadie and Jake deserve fair warning, you can’t just abandon them to the mercies of whoever these men might be. You push away from the window and grab your rifle from above the fireplace. 

Your home isn’t as big as some of those fancier estates you’ve seen visiting the city. But it’s large enough for you to have a back way to crawl out of. You slip through the door quietly, immediately being shoved back into the wood from the force of the snow. You tug your shawl around your face, ignoring the bite of ice crystals nipping at your cheeks. 

The snow is up to your knees as you trudge through it. You can see, on the other side of the house, the glow of lamplight steadily growing closer. As much as you try to rush, you can barely lift your feet. Your heart beats against your chest with panic as you squint across the way at Sadie’s home. 

You see light coming from their windows and you know it’s only making the place a bigger target. Your toes are already going numb as sleet leaks into the tops. You tumble forward slightly, hands sinking past two feet of snow to a frozen ground beneath. “God dammit,” you mutter, tugging yourself up and practically throwing yourself forward. 

This feels like you’re fighting a losing battle. Mother Nature herself seems to be telling you to just give up and turn your ass right back around. But you refuse, you’ve always been stubborn. You’re not abandoning people who entrusted themselves to you and your husband. If warning them is the last thing you do, then so be it. 

After a few minutes and hearing your home get ransacked behind you, you finally manage to stumble onto their front stoop. Your teeth are rattling together so hard you can’t even hear yourself knock. You certainly don’t feel it, half your arm having lost feeling after your stumble in the snow. 

Jake opens the door, hair mussed and face pinched like he’d just been dragged out of a deep sleep. Sadie ambles up behind him, tugging a scarf around her shoulders. Jake gasps out your name, tugging you inside quickly. “What are you doing running around out there? Mr. Rowe will kill me if I let his wife freeze on my watch.”

Sadie glares at him and directs you in front of the fire. “Ignore him,” she hisses. “But, what were you doing?” She sounds more suspicious than concerned. You rub your hands together, letting out heavy puffs of air as you try to get your jaw to unlock. 

“M-men,” the word is a hassle to get out and you can tell from the look on their face they don’t have half a clue what you said. You curse under your breath and pinch at the fat of your cheeks, trying to bring some feeling back to them. “Raiders,” you finally manage to get out. 

Jake’s teasing nature immediately drops. He takes the rifle off your shoulder and Sadie gives him an astonished look. “What the hell do you think you’re gonna do with that?”

“Get in the cellar,” he commands and you don’t think you’ve ever heard him tell her what to do. Not once since they’d joined your staff. Sadie opens her mouth to argue, scoffing at him. “Get in the goddamn cellar, Sadie, and don’t come out!” He shouts at her, running to the window and cussing when he sees whatever’s waiting outside. 

You stand from the chair, taking Sadie’s hand in your shaking ones and leading her to the cellar. She fights you on it, digging her heels in and pleading with Jake. “Just hide out with us, you ain’t know how to use that damn rifle, Jake.”

He turns away from the window with a resigned smile. “Would you, for once in your damn life, just listen to me?” You release her, just long enough for him to embrace her in what you know will be their last touch. You don’t interrupt, just struggle with the latch on their cellar. Sadie comes up behind you, hands covering your own and helping you with it. She urges you inside first and you drop onto the damp ground, her following quickly after. 

Jake stares down at you both, the light of the fire making him look bigger than life as he gives you a reassuring smile. “Won’t be long,” he promises. He leans down, closing the cellar door and plunging you both in such intense darkness you can no longer tell if your eyes are open or closed. 

It’s cold under the house, the harsh weather seeping in through the ground. Sadie crawls away from you as you hear Jake push the rug over the cellar door, hiding you both away. There’s a slight click, like the sound of a match against a boot, and light blooms before you. Sadie holds an oil lamp, crawling back towards you and placing it between the both of you. You open your shawl silently and you both huddle under it, trying to keep each other warm. 

It’s not long before you hear voices join Jake’s. The door slams open, boots rattle the floor above you and dust rains down on you both. You keep your face tucked to your chest, but Sadie’s eyes are glued to one spot. The same spot that you know, instinctually, is where Jake stands. 

It isn’t long before the guns go off. Too many rounds for just one man. You hear the laughter and feel as Sadie sucks in a breath so deep you’re surprised her chest doesn’t cave. You tighten your arm around her and ignore the warmth that seeps through the cracks of the wood. Something red drips against your arm and you just drag Sadie closer. 

You’re in there for most of the night, legs going numb as you and Sadie remain glued to each other. You probably could have survived the men were it not for them finding the whiskey. It only takes one drunken stumble and the rug is lifted off the cellar door. It takes one bullet to break the lock and suddenly the door’s being thrown up. Light burns at your eyes as a man leers down at you. “Well, ain’t this a nice surprise?”

“Even robbing a train doesn’t seem like a good reason for being out here. Not for O’Driscolls,” Dutch stares down at his boots, that look on his face that always spells trouble. Arthur glances back at the barn where the dead O’Driscoll boy lay. 

Of course, up here in the middle of a blizzard surrounded by nothing but snow, they manage to stumble upon an O'Driscoll camp. “We should bring the women up here, it might be a good place for ‘em.” Arthur loads up what little supplies he managed to find on the horses and glances up towards the big house at the top of the hill. 

No fires or noises come from it. He can’t imagine why the O’Driscolls would choose a run-down house to camp out in rather than that fancy estate. 

Dutch shakes his head, “I’m not comfortable separating everyone.” Arthur opens his mouth to argue when a shrill scream rips through the quiet of the night. 

“You stay away from us!” It’s a woman, screaming bloody murder as Micah cackles. 

Dutch lets out a rough sigh, glaring up at the door and rushing towards it. “Micah!” He shouts his name, barreling through the door, “What have you done now?”

Arthur follows after him, nearly getting his face bashed in by a flying kitchen chair. He ducks out of the way as a blond woman circles the table, trying to keep away from Micah. “Look what I found in the cellar,” he taunts, lunging at her. She jumps back, kitchen knife pointed out as she hovers near a cellar door. 

“Leave ‘er alone!” Arthur barks, peering around her legs and trying to get a look in the cellar. She notices him and jumps in front of it, glaring at him. She’d yelled ‘us,’ he wonders if she’s got a kid in there. 

As always, Micah doesn’t listen. He lunges at her again and flips the table over, sending an oil lamp flying onto the rug. The glass shatters, fire spreading quickly over the old wood. Arthur curses, shoving at Micah’s shoulder and forcing him away from the terrified woman. Micah’s still laughing at the look on her face, even as Arthur forces him out of the house. 

“It’s alright, Ma’am. I promise we’re not going to hurt you,” Dutch approaches her slowly, gently pushing the knife away and leading her towards the door. His eyes dart towards the quickly spreading fire, trying to get her out before the house comes down on them all. 

“No, I can’t leave her,” she looks back at the cellar but Dutch keeps pushing forward. She’s growing smaller by the second, muttering to herself and struggling along weakly. 

“Arthur,” Dutch snaps quickly, barely glancing over his shoulder at the cellar. He finally manages to push her out the door and Arthur moves quickly. He follows Dutch’s unspoken order, rushing over to the cellar and peering down. A woman lay curled up inside, a sickly sheen over her damp skin. The tips of her fingers are odd colors, from death or cold, he can’t tell. He drops down, dragging her closer and trying to listen for a breath. 

With the wood creaking dangerously above him, he can’t waste time on her. He throws her over his shoulder with a grunt, crawling back out of the cellar and hoping there’s some life in her yet. “They came three days ago.” The woman tells them as Arthur walks out of the house. Her face slacks with relief when she sees her friend over Arthur’s shoulder. “They killed my husband.”

“It’s alright now, ma’am,” Dutch tells her. And Arthur doubts she believes a second of it. After her encounter with the O’Driscolls and then Micah, he doubts she thinks anyone will ever be safe again. Not as she watches her home burn down. Still, she doesn’t have much choice as Dutch helps her onto his horse. 

“We’re bad men,” Arthur tells her bluntly, “but we ain’t them,” he mutters glaring at the O’Driscoll corpses littering the ground. The blood has already been covered by snow, bodies frosting over to become feasts for whatever starving predator lurks by the trees. 

She watches as he loads her friend’s body on the back of his horse and shakes her head, “Don’t have much of a choice do I?”

Dutch shares a look with Arthur, diverting her attention from everything that’s happened. “What’s your name ma’am?”

“Adler, Mrs. Sadie Adler.” She glances at the other woman and whispers her name with a pained look. Arthur keeps one hand on the chilled body, trying to make sure they don’t lose it in the snow. He’s sure she’s just going to be another corpse to bury. 

Every morning, Sadie sneaks into his room. She somehow manages to do it without him waking up, which is worrying enough. And every morning, he sees her standing over the woman lying by his fire. 

To almost everyone’s surprise, you didn’t die when he brought you back to the camp. You were barely holding onto life, nearly in worse shape than Davey had been in. But still, you kept on breathing. Even if every inhale sounded like the rattle of death, you didn’t let go. 

Sadie refuses to leave your side. Spending most of the day tending to you. It drives Miss Grimshaw insane because Arthur won’t let her bother Sadie into helping out around camp. Arthur’s a fool, but he’s not blind. He knows how uncomfortable all the men make Sadie. She was alone with her husband and you up in these mountains. Suddenly being surrounded by a camp full of the same type of men who killed her husband probably isn’t doing her any good. 

Still, maybe he should try and force her around Abigail and Jack. She can’t keep hiding out in his room. Dutch doesn’t like carrying around dead weight. She’s going to need to start contributing around here, eventually. 

He sits up in bed, running a hand over his ragged face and overgrown beard. Sadie’s already kneeling by the fire, taking a shawl from around her shoulders and putting it over you. You suck in another struggling breath and Arthur frowns. 

“How’d she get like this?” Her shoulders tense at the sound of his voice. He’s been curious about it for a little while. It didn’t make sense how she could be in perfect health and you were barely holding onto life. 

Sadie’s quiet for a moment, staring down at you before looking into the fire. “I mouthed off to one of them bastards. I don’t know what they were gonna do to me, shoot me or somethin’ worse, but she stopped ‘em.” Sadie chuckles slightly, getting to her feet and grabbing another shawl for herself. 

“She grabbed a knife and nearly took one of their eyes out.” The proud look on her face drops as she stares down at her feet. There’s something like shame in her voice, “They took her outside and tossed me back in the cellar. I don’t know what happened but when they finally brought her back in she was barely breathing.”

“You know,” Arthur starts, unsure of where he's going with this as he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not your-”

Sadie’s head snaps up and she glares at him, “It’s my fault. I don’t need you lyin’ to me to make me feel better. It’s not gonna do anyone any good.” 

Arthur lets out a low breath and shakes his head. “Didn’t mean any harm. But you can’t blame yourself for stuff like that. She wanted to help ya, there’s nothing else to it.”

Sadie shoots him a glare but she doesn’t argue further with him. He knows she wants to, but he can also see the exhaustion weighing heavily upon her shoulder. The guilt’s eating away at her. Maybe letting her stay cooped up in this small room with you all day had been a mistake. 

“Alright,” he gets to his feet, grabbing his hat from the table by the door and nodding her forward. “I need you out of here today,” she opens her mouth to protest but he holds up a hand and stops her. “Got business to discuss with Dutch, you can’t be here.” 

He opens the door and waves her forward, “Come on, out with ya.” She huffs, loudly stomping past him and muttering something wicked under her breath. Arthur follows slowly behind her, chuckling slightly to himself. He throws you one last look before letting the door close. 

The world is slow to shift into place as your limbs slowly tingle back to life. Your eyes are crusted with a week’s worth of sleep as you try and pry them open. A low whine of pain brews in your throat, but your tongue is heavy with weakness. 

You remember nothing past those men opening the cellar door and you’re sure you’re better for it. Bit by bit, you test which parts of yourself are still alive. You flex your stiff fingers and toes, roll your ankles, and let your neck flop around. 

You seem to have all your faculties in order, but the second you try and sit up, sharp pains shoot through your spine and legs. It's as though someone is dragging razor blades through every layer of skin and muscle. 

An animalistic sound of pain rips out of your chest as you flip back down onto the hard ground. Whatever waning energy you’d tried to conjure has been beaten out of you. 

There’s a creak of old wood behind you and the familiar sound of men’s boots. Your slow stutter of a heartbeat kicks into the pattering melody of hummingbird wings. Your blood rushes painfully through your skin as you pathetically crane your neck. 

Try as you might, you can’t get a glimpse behind you. You’re so close to a fireplace that the cinders and heat burn out your eyes. 

In the amount of time you’ve spent trying to collect yourself, you haven’t even considered that those men could still be around. It doesn’t make sense, though, this place doesn’t look like Sadie’s home. You suppose that they could have moved you both, but you don’t understand why they would want you so badly. 

While you theorize, the man has only gotten closer. You can make out his pants from the corner of your eye as he rounds the corner. Every part of you wants to jump up and run. But even breathing is an aching chore. What chance do you have fighting a man twice your size off?

“Damn, you’re awake.” The man sounds awed. He doesn’t carry the cadence of someone who's only been waiting to hurt you. He kneels beside you and tries, as much as he can, to gently help you up. 

Your teeth grit together and the thought of danger is long gone from your mind as screaming pain shoots through you. Everywhere he touches is like fire licking at your skin. There’s a worrying coldness buried deep in your veins waking up at the pain. 

You can’t help the pathetic noises that slip from your mouth as he eases you up. “Alright, come on, you’re okay now. ‘M not gonna hurt you.” It’s easy enough to believe him when you’re completely at his mercy. It’s not like you have any other choice but to trust him and hope for the best. 

Through watering eyes, you’ve got a good look at him now. He’s got sweet blue eyes with little bits of emerald swimming through them. The rest of him is scraggly. His beard is unkept, his face is dirtied, and his clothes smell too heavily of gunpowder. But if you just keep looking at those pretty eyes of his, you have no trouble believing him. 

You nod your head as much as you can and open your mouth to ask him something. What- you can’t remember. Your tongue is so parched and throat so cracked that nothing more than a wheeze comes out. 

“Hold on,” he mutters under his breath and leans over to the right a little. He takes you with him, contorting your body painfully as he grabs a small cup of water off an overturned bucket. There’s also a rag beside it and a few other things that look like they were used to care for you. 

He straightens you again and nudges your head back with the tip of his finger. You don’t have much warning before he places the cup to your lips and simply pours. It rushes down your throat in an overwhelming wave of half relief and half fear of drowning in this man’s lap. You swallow it down as quickly as you can, the aches and pains slowly ebbing away. Your tongue just about twitches back to life as he removes the cup and you flex your jaw. 

“You nearly killed me,” you accuse, voice still weak and cracking. 

He gives you a disbelieving look before laughing, jostling you slightly with the movements. “Really? That’s the first thing you say when you wake up. You’ve been in a coma on my floor for a week, and all the times I wondered what you would sound like when you woke up, I’ve been expecting ‘thank you.’”

You have just enough energy to narrow your eyes at him, throat still recovering from the onslaught of water. “Thank you,” you say slowly, still working out the kinks in your voice, “for nearly drowning me.” The slightly smug look drops for one of bewildered amusement. You’ve barely been awake for ten minutes and you’re already pushing your luck with someone who looks like a feral mountain man. 

“Oh, you’re just full of surprises, ain’t ya?” You can’t do much more than nod, already feeling the pull of sleep calling you back. He shakes you gently, hand slipping down your back slightly. It’s enough to make you jolt forward, skin stinging like he’s just whipped you. “What was that?” He demands, voice rough with something akin to worry. 

You can’t imagine why this stranger would be concerned for you. Why does he even care enough about you to help keep you alive?

“Back,” you croak out, shivers racking through from the pain. 

He skates his fingers over the thin cloth of your night shift, careful not to put too much pressure on your skin. There’s the quiet click of a blade unsheathing that has you tensing up before cool metal is placed against the back of your neck. 

“Hold still for a minute,” he warns and you can’t tell if you hear a threat lying in wait. Like butter, your tattered shift parts readily around his blade. The cold brisk air from outside combined with the warmth of the fire makes the skin of your back pinch painfully. You bite your tongue, suppressing a wince and trying not to whine. 

His silence speaks louder than his gruff words. Whatever he sees must be disturbing. He runs a finger over your shoulder blade and whistles lowly. “I see why we couldn’t get you better now.” His tone is clipped, disgust laying thickly on the edge of his words. 

“What is it?” You try and feel worried for yourself but it’s taking all of your efforts just to stay awake. Your words slur together slightly as your tongue laves lazily over your teeth. Your head teeters forward slightly and he just barely manages to catch you before you tip over. 

“Just hold on here for a minute, alright?” He crouches before you, tipping your head up and waiting for confirmation before he leaves. Your eyes remain closed while you nod your head. He hesitates for a moment before standing and walking towards the door. “Don’t,” he snaps, “fall asleep again.”

You don’t have enough energy for a response as he slips back out the door. The second he’s gone you let yourself crumple to the floor. Huddled under the blankets and stuck next to a small fire, you can almost lie and say the dusty hardwood is comfortable. Your eyes remain shut, but try as you might, you can’t fall asleep. Every time you think you might be lulled a little closer to the abyss, a sharp jolt of pain forces you back awake. 

You’re nearly convulsing by the time he comes back. The door blows open, and the wind gusts through, carrying with it snow and the smell of camp food. You hear the noises of people outside and wonder just where you’ve found yourself. 

“Oh, Mrs. Rowe!” Sadie’s voice nearly cripples you with relief. You feel warmth build in your throat, something burns at the back of your eyes as she rushes towards you. You don’t remember how you got here. You certainly didn’t remember whether or not Sadie even made it out with you. Seeing her kneeling before you is beyond comforting. 

Not only is she alive and safe, she’s obviously been fed well. Her cheeks have the rosy glow of staying next to a fire for too long, and the clothes she’s wearing are clearly donated but well taken care of. If nothing else, at least you might have managed to prolong her survival a little longer. You’re not sure you can say the same for yourself. 

Still, despite all the pain and the grief and fear you’ve both gone through, you correct her on your name. You chide her playfully, telling her to call you by your first name. “I’m not Mrs. Rowe any longer,” you laugh bitterly, wincing when it pulls the skin of your back taut. She clicks her tongue at you, taking both of your hands in hers and pulling you up straight. 

You can feel the man hovering awkwardly behind you both, not quite sure how to help, or if he should. “Bastard went and left us all,” you gripe. You keep talking, cursing out your hopefully dead husband. You blabber to try and distract you from the way you can feel something festering under your skin. 

Venomous pain crawls through your veins and rips at your strength. You lean heavily on Sadie to keep yourself upright. The cut-open back of your night shift slips open and Sadie catches your sleeve before it can fall. Her head shoots up, a hateful glare shooting straight toward the man. 

He throws his hands up, “Now, Mrs. Adler-”

“You thought you could just have some fun with her, huh? Oh, you son of a bitch!” You can feel how desperately she wants to leap up and have a go at him. She’s practically trembling with anger. You squeeze her hands with as much strength as you can muster, trying to keep her grounded with you. 

He scrambles to explain, taking a step towards you both and immediately retreating when Sadie curses at him again. “Now, that ain’t what happened-”

She cuts him off again and he huffs with exasperation. “You think I’ll believe anything you outlaws say? I should have known you were no better than the bastards that stole my husband from me.”

“Sadie,” you croak, “let the man speak, dammit.” She shoots you an affronted look, like she might try and yell at you next. The sickly sheen over your skin and your overall pathetic countenance are the only things that stop her. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he mutters, walking over to you both slowly. He approaches Sadie like one would a wild cat, trying to keep her temper from flaring up again. The only reason she and her husband ever managed to stay so long in your employ was because you always vouched for her. One day soon, though, that temper is going to get her into some serious trouble. 

“I think they did something to ‘er.” He starts speaking in hushed whispers, talking about you as if Sadie isn’t holding you between them. Your eyes start to flutter as you listen to their quiet conversation, words fading in and out as you grapple with keeping a hold of your consciousness. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sadie hisses, peering over your shoulder at something you’re probably going to be grateful not to see. “They whip her?” 

“I think so. And it don’t look right, all green around the edges.” He pokes a rough finger against the center of your back and you cry out, jerking away from the touch. Sadie swats sharply at his hand and he glares at her. 

“Don’t touch it you fool! We need medicine for her. It’s infected.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed Mrs. Adler but we’re currently stuck in the middle of a blizzard,” he deadpans. He motions towards the window of the small shack and the wind that whistles loudly behind it. The snow does its best to try and seep in. It pools in one corner of the room, melting into the floorboards below. You can’t feel the chill of it being so close to the fire, though. Or perhaps that’s a fever keeping you warm. You can’t feel much of anything, actually. 

Sadie eases you off of her and he helps lay you on your side. They get to their feet, sneaking away from you as if you didn’t just hear them talking about you like you’re lying on death’s door. “We need something,” Sadie hisses, but you can barely hear it above the rushing in your ears. 

Arthur mutters something back to her but you’re already falling back into the peaceful embrace of sleep. Body going limp as you try and escape the pain. 

“Goddammit!” 

“Quit whining, I’m almost done.” Charles has a gentle enough hand as he puts a salve over your back, but it still hurts worse than a lick of fire. It’s been a few days since you woke up in Arthur’s room. You were more cognisant the next day, more aware of the fact that if you went another moment without treating the wounds on your back, you’d most likely die. 

You’re lucky you’ve made it this long without anything. You suppose you’re just stubborn enough to not let those bastards kill you from an infection. God, that would be an embarrassing way to go. It’s how your husband’s father died and clearly, that had been the worst thing to happen to the family in generations. It left your husband in charge to destroy their reputation and their livelihood. 

You grit your teeth together as Charles’ calloused hand roves over the open wounds. They’re starting to feel a little better. They burn less now, more just ache when you extend your arms too far or cough too hard. You figure Charles has probably saved your life with this herbal concoction of his. Him and Hosea. It had been Hosea’s suggestion of using herbs for treatment that prompted Charles to go hunting for them. 

You never imagined owing your life to a bunch of outlaws but you suppose that no one knows what direction fate is planning on taking them. “You’re not a real sweet nurse, you know that?” You grouse, talking to distract yourself from the discomfort. 

Charles sighs behind you but you swear that it’s almost a laugh. “You complain a lot for someone who owes me their life.” You know he’s only teasing you. As shocking as that is. You didn’t think the man had a funny bone in his body when you first met him. Lo and behold he’s got just as much bite as you do. Still, you do feel a little guilty for giving him so much grief. 

He starts wrapping the bandages around your chest. You help him around the front, being mindful of the still-present burn on his hand. “Thank you,” you whisper as he ties it off. You can’t bring yourself to say it much louder, still not used to being in someone’s debt like this. 

Hell, you’re getting used to a whole lot of new things. You’d never dressed a deer before either but you didn’t have much choice but pull your weight here. You’re pretty sure Mrs. Grimshaw would skin you if you just lazed about like a prissy lady. 

Charles pauses, he’s quiet for a moment before backing off and turning around so you can put your shirt back on. You expect him not to respond, to just slip out quietly. He doesn’t seem the type to indulge too much in a woman’s emotions. “I’m glad you’re better,” he tells you. You don’t get a chance to respond before the door closes again. 

Sighing, you grab your jacket from the bed and tug it on. Your movements are still stilted, your body still stiff from spending so long in the cold. You now struggle to get your fingers to curl the right way. But you’re alive, and that’s got to count for something. 

You slip outside, prepared for the biting cold, and still surprised as your boots sink into the muddy snow. You owe the women for collecting some clothes for you, even altering them so they might fit better. They don’t have the time as they tend to the camp, but they still help. For a group full of murderers and gunslingers, they’re possibly some of the nicest people you’ve ever met. 

“Howdy, Mrs. Rowe, lookin’ might fine this morning.”

Besides, of course, Micah. He leers at you, licking his maw and tugging at his belt. You roll your eyes, ignoring him and trudging past. You hear him laugh behind you and wish you could kick his teeth in. Always gotta be one bad apple, doesn’t there? 

Arthur isn’t too far ahead of you, loading something up on his horse. You speed up a little, hoping to catch him before he leaves. “Arthur!” You call out, his head shoots towards you and you wave a little. He gives you a small smile, leaning against the hitching post as you approach. 

He tips his hat towards you, “How are you this morning, Mrs. Rowe?”

You let out an annoyed huff but there’s a slight smile playing on your lips. “How many times do I need to tell you to stop calling me that?”

He chuckles, turning back towards his horse and adjusting the saddle. “Apologies,” he acquiesces, but the tone of his voice tells you he knows exactly how much it irritates you. His gaze drifts to someone behind you and the amusement dips from his tone. “Charles help you out this mornin'?’” 

He always approaches the subject with more grace than you would have thought him capable of. He must know how odd it is for you to have a man see you nearly half-naked every morning. You were raised as a proper lady, groomed to be a perfect, virtuous wife. It’s a shock to see how brazen some of the women here are. Not necessarily a bad thing, you can appreciate the freedom it provides. 

You no longer feel the suffocating need to think over every word that leaves your lips. You’re not constantly walking around eggshells and fighting to be heard. But being bare before someone other than your husband has been difficult to stomach, even if it is Charles. Arthur seems to realize how hard it must be for you. Which is odd, you didn’t think someone like him would know much about proper women. You wonder if he’s ever had a woman of his own. 

“Yes, he says it’s looking better. I shouldn’t be at risk of dropping dead now, at least,” you laugh, but there was true fear you might not wake up. You know some of the members in camp argued to just toss you to the cold, let the wolves feed on you. They didn’t think you were worth sparing the supplies for. 

“That’s good ain’t it?”

“I suppose so. But, well,” you wonder if you should even be having this conversation. Maybe bringing up this worry will just put an idea in his head he hadn’t had before. 

“Well,” he prompts, not impatiently.

“What am I supposed to do?” You ask, hands dropping to your sides with a heavy sigh. 

“Whaddya mean?” His brows furrow in confusion and you curse yourself mentally. You’ve probably just royally screwed yourself. 

“Well, when I’m healed. When I’m not relying on you or Charles everyday. Where am I meant to go? My husband's dead and my house has been ransacked completely. I’ve got nothing to my name.” Voicing aloud the fears you’ve been carrying for the past few days is like a weight off your shoulders. You’ve been fretting about this forever, losing sleep over it. As much as you fear his answer, at least you finally said it. 

Arthur’s lips quirk up and you huff. There is nothing funny about what you just said. In fact, it’s incredibly worrying. Still, that doesn’t stop him from cracking up, laughing at your expense like you’re some foolish girl. “Arthur Morgan,” you chide, swatting weakly at his arm, “I’m being serious.”

“I know,” he sighs with a smile and you can’t help but return it. “We ain’t gonna throw you to the curb, Mrs-” he cuts himself off when you glare at him. Instead, he says your name with a comforting tone and reaches out, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “If you’re okay with it, you can travel with us or we can drop you off in whatever town we stay at.”

Your heart skips a few beats, hope filling your stomach with warmth. “Really?”

“‘Course, what'd ya think we were just gonna leave you up here in the snow?”

“Well, I know Micah wanted to,” his face falls at the mention of the man. 

His brows furrow and his jaw sets with something akin to anger. He does that every time you mention the man. He just seems to put Arthur in a foul mood. “I ain’t Micah and I ain’t in the business of just abandoning pretty ladies up in the mountains.”

Perhaps you’re a fool, but about the only thing you caught from that was him calling you a pretty lady. Before you can continue your conversation, someone rides up behind you both. “Mrs. Rowe, Mr. Morgan,” Dutch greets you with a gravelly call of your name and a suave smile. You roll your eyes at the mention of your husband's name but bow your head in greeting nonetheless. “Excuse me ma’am, but I need Arthur this morning.”

“Oh,” you flush, not realizing just how much of his time you’ve stolen with your silly worries. “Of course, sorry.” You give Arthur one last smile, watching as he mounts his horse and backing up so his leg doesn’t swing out at you. “Where are you going, anyway?” You ask, peering behind them both to see other men in camp riding up behind them. 

“Why,” Dutch grins, “we’re off to rob a train.” He kicks off and you’re left standing in the snow with a gaping jaw. Arthur gives you one last look before he rides behind him, the others quickly following. 

So, this is the life of an outlaw.

Next Part

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[nlvrr]

SNOW DAY | jude bellingham

summary: after one surprisingly heavy snowfall in your hometown stops you from going back to madrid, you decide to make the best of this snow day.

warnings: none

pairing: jude bellingham x fem!reader

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you hadn’t expected snow. not here, and certainly not today.

from the window of your childhood home, the snowstorm looked beautiful—blanketing the street in quiet, clean white—but you were less than thrilled about being stuck. madrid had been calling you back, your routine waiting, and your flight’s sudden cancellation turned everything upside down.

behind you, footsteps creaked softly, a sound so familiar you didn’t need to turn around. “you’re still sulking?”

“not sulking,” you corrected, rolling your eyes at jude’s amused tone. “i just hate sitting still.”

you turned in time to see jude leaning casually in the doorway, a mischievous smile plastered across his face. his coat and beanie gave him that annoyingly cute “i’m ready for adventure” look. something you’d come to know all too well in the months since you started dating.

“it’s one day,” jude said, stepping further into the room. “i’m not letting you waste it, by the way.”

“waste it?” you snorted, watching as he pulled his gloves from his pocket. “and what exactly do you have in mind?”

jude smirked, tugging the gloves on dramatically. “you, me, outside. a snowball fight to the death.”

“to the death?”

“i’m serious,” he nodded solemnly, but his dimples betrayed him. “i’ve been training my whole life for this moment.”

“and you expect me to participate in this nonsense?” you teased, folding your arms.

“yes,” he shot back without hesitation. “unless you want me to spread the rumor that my girlfriend—a prodigy at almost everything—was too scared to face me in battle.”

you barked a laugh, shaking your head. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you love it,” he quipped with a cheeky grin. he was already halfway out the door, “ten minutes, babe! if you’re not out there, i’m storming back in to drag you out myself!”

fifteen minutes later—after wrestling with your puffy coat and a pair of stubborn boots—you stood at the edge of your snowy lawn, glaring at jude’s triumphant form ahead. his breath curled in little puffs of white, cheeks pink from the cold, as he stood there, arms crossed.

“i knew you’d come,” he said, grinning.

you rolled your eyes, tugging your gloves on tighter. “i came to destroy you, just so we’re clear.”

jude laughed brightly, spinning on his heels to walk backward through the snow. “talk all you want—actions win wars.”

before you could snap back, a soft thwack echoed through the still air. you blinked, snow sliding slowly down your arm. jude was now crouched a few feet away, grinning like he’d just uncovered a secret.

“did you…?”

“you take too long to retaliate.” jude stood with another snowball forming in his hands, raising an eyebrow as if daring you.

“oh, it’s like that,” you muttered under your breath. scooping up snow with both hands, you packed it quickly before launching your masterpiece at his shoulder.

jude sputtered as it hit, his arms flying to his sides. “oi!”

the fight spiraled quickly after that. snow flew through the air in bursts—soft and slightly sloppy since your gloves didn’t pack perfectly, but you didn’t care. jude was relentless, sprinting circles around you with mock attacks, dodging like he was actually playing in some professional match.

“stop running!” you shouted through laughter, flinging a snowball wildly.

“i don’t lose, love!” jude called over his shoulder, laughter in his voice as he ducked another one.

a flash of movement came too quickly to register, and before you knew it, jude tackled you into a low drift with a muffled “gotcha!” his arms wrapped around you just as the snow cushioned the fall, making you squeal as cold seeped in through your coat.

“jude!” you gasped, squirming underneath him. he braced his weight so you weren’t crushed, his face hovering mere inches above yours with an expression far too smug.

“victory feels sweet,” he declared, a teasing warmth lighting up his brown eyes.

“you cheated,” you breathed, trying to keep a straight face, even as laughter threatened to break through.

he just grinned, one gloved hand brushing loose snowflakes from your hat. “you’re terrible at admitting defeat.”

“and you’re terrible at staying still.” you reached up, smearing a bit of snow against his cheek for revenge. jude flinched dramatically, his laughter erupting into the quiet of the snowfall.

as the sound faded, the energy between you softened. jude’s fingers trailed gently across your jaw, and when you looked up into his face—really looked—the world fell silent.

snowflakes tangled in his curls. his skin was flushed from the cold, cheeks and nose painted pink, but there was that familiar warmth in his eyes that turned your insides to mush every time.

“hey,” he murmured, voice softer than it’d been all day.

“hey,” you whispered back, breath coming out in a visible puff.

neither of you moved for a moment, the stillness stretched taut between you. it felt… magical. snowflakes dusted your eyelashes and his hair, settling between the two of you like they were part of the moment—small but perfect. the cold kissed your cheeks, leaving them flushed, but all you could focus on was the warmth radiating from where jude hovered over you.

“can i kiss you?” he asked softly, as if breaking the quiet too sharply would shatter something fragile.

you smiled at the question because jude, who had been playfully throwing snowballs at your head for the last twenty or so minutes, could still somehow make a simple request feel like the sweetest gesture.

“always,” you whispered, sliding your cold fingers behind his neck and tugging him down the rest of the way.

jude’s lips met yours gently at first. soft, warm, and so sweet it made your chest tighten. the world seemed to fall away completely, leaving only the two of you. the snowfall muffled everything around you, as if time itself slowed to make room for the moment.

his gloved hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek as the kiss deepened just slightly. jude kissed you with a quiet kind of certainty, a mix of playfulness and sincerity that made your heart flutter wildly in your chest.

when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested softly against yours, his breath mingling with the cold air between you.

“you’re freezing,” he murmured, his smile soft as his eyes searched your face.

“and whose fault is that?” you teased back, still slightly breathless, though you didn’t dare move just yet.

“mine, clearly,” jude said, and the corners of his mouth lifted into that familiar grin, the one that always made you feel like you were in on some unspoken joke only the two of you shared.

the moment hung between you, gentle and warm despite the chill. snowflakes danced lazily through the air around you, landing in jude’s dark curls and clinging to the edges of his beanie.

you watched him quietly for a second, memorizing the flushed pink of his cheeks and the content gleam in his eyes. after months together, moments like these still surprised you—the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

“what?” jude asked softly, pulling back just enough to catch your gaze.

you shook your head with a small laugh, thumb brushing a flurry of snowflakes from his jaw. “nothing. just… you’re ridiculous, you know that?”

he grinned, tilting his head slightly. “ridiculously charming, ridiculously talented—”

“ridiculously annoying,” you cut in playfully, though the teasing glint in your eyes gave you away.

“lucky for me, you’re ridiculously in love with me,” jude shot back, dimples flashing as he leaned down to press another soft kiss to the tip of your cold nose.

the action made you laugh, cheeks aching from the smile spreading across your face.

“fine,” you muttered, your breath curling in the space between you. “but next snow day, i’m winning that snowball fight.”

“deal.” jude beamed, pushing himself up before reaching down to pull you to your feet. you stumbled slightly, still laughing as you tugged your hat more snugly onto your head.

“come on,” he said, slinging an arm lazily around your shoulders as you both started toward the house. “let’s warm you up before you turn into an icicle.”

you snorted, nudging him with your elbow. “and let me guess, you’re in charge of making hot chocolate?”

“obviously,” jude replied confidently. “only the best for you.”

as you walked back through the snow, his arm still draped around you, you couldn’t help but glance up at him, cheeks pink, curls damp with snow, and that sweet smile still tugging at his lips.

a day in the snow wasn’t part of the plan. but jude had a way of turning even the most inconvenient days into something you knew you’d remember. and as you leaned into his side, laughing softly as he muttered about how next time he’d show no mercy, you thought maybe this snow day—this unplanned, messy, beautiful day—was exactly what you needed.

[asa-do-your-thing]

Faileas

18+ MINORS DNI Cregan Stark x F!Reader 5.6k Warnings: SMUT, blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, mentions forced marriage, dom / sub dynamics as always no proofreading no nothing

Hi guys! you wished for some Cregan action, here you go, some wintery woodsy and very sexy scenes for you <3

The eerie silence of the snow-covered forest was suddenly shattered by a loud thump, jolting you out of your sleep. The sound echoed through the thick trees, sending shivers down your spine. You knew that snow never fell silently, but this was no gentle snowfall.

Someone or something had disturbed the peacefulness of the night.

Hastily pulling on your fur-lined boots and throwing on your warm cape, you grabbed your trusty ax, ready to defend yourself against any unwelcome visitors. The only light came from the full moon, casting elongated shadows across the ground. Your heart raced as you crept towards the door, unsure of what awaited you outside in the frigid darkness. Whoever was lurking around at this hour was most likely not a friendly soul.

Breathing deeply, you pushed open the door just a sliver to peer outside. The sight that met your eyes was nothing short of awe-inspiring. The snow lay pristine and untouched, beautifully illuminated by the silver glow of the moon. Each tree stood tall and heavy under its snowy blanket, the crystals shimmering with infinite variations of blue and silver under the celestial light.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement caught your attention. It was far off in the distance but distinct against the untouched snowscape. Fear surged through your veins, but courage stemmed from your noble upbringing spurred you on. As you stepped out into the winter night, the crisp air stung your face and the snow crunched under your boots. Your fingers tightened around the handle of your ax, its familiar weight offering some measure of comfort.

As you trudged deeper into the forest, it became clear that you were not alone. Footprints imprinted on the previously untouched surface told a tale of stealth and intention. A creature of some sort had indeed passed this way, disturbing the tranquility of your sanctuary.

You had sought solace in this barren place to offer your prayers. A giant Weirwood tree stood beside your modest dwelling, and you made offerings to it every day, seeking guidance. Your parents, who ruled House Knott, were determined to marry you off to an elderly Lord from the Stormlands. Desperate for someone to intervene, anyone at all, you turned to this sacred spot for help, but as it seemed, you were not entirely safe here.

Through gaps in the trees where moonlight penetrated, you saw it; a figure, cloaked in darkness paused momentarily at a clearing futher down. Its silhouette was hunched over as if peering at something in the snow.

Silently, like a wolf stalking its prey, you advanced cautiously towards it. Your heart pounded in your chest like a war drum as each breath became shallow and measured under stress. As you moved closer, an unexpected gust of wind swept through the trees making them groan under their icy load.

Spooked by the sudden noise, you gripped your axe tighter and lifted it up high, expecting the figure - a man in a cloak with fur over his shoulders - to jump up and attack you as soon as he thought you had let your guard down. He was most likely a poacher, trying to hunt down a skinny rabbit or a winter fowl.

“Poaching will get you hanged. Know that you are on the lands of House Knott and I shall bring you to the Lord if I catch you stealing from us,” you said calmly, your ax hanging over the man’s head. “And if you wish to attack me, I’ll lob your head off clean.”

The man quickly turned to face you, his eyes wide with surprise. He rose slowly, hands lifted in a placating manner. The man was tall, towering over you, and the moonlight revealed a wild shock of black hair and stormy grey eyes that seemed to carry a certain depth of experience and wisdom. There was something captivating about the way he looked at you, an intensity coupled with an unexpected warmth that was unlike any stranger you've encountered before.

“Easy there, m’lady,” he said, his voice resonating in the windless night. He cocked a small grin, his teeth white against his rugged features. His northern accent only added to his charm. “I’m no poacher, nor do I seek to harm you or rob your lands. I’m merely looking for shelter.”

His cloak billowed as he moved away from you towards a loneset tree nearby. In the dim light, you noticed a direwolf sigil stitched onto his cloak - the sigil of House Stark. An unexpected chill ran down your spine as realization hit.

"Lord Cregan Stark?" You questioned aloud, disbelief tinting your voice.

The man - Lord Stark - turned back to face you, giving a small nod as he surrendered jokingly with a chuckle. “Indeed," he confirmed in amusement, "Didn’t mean to startle you.”

A thousand questions danced in your mind as your grip on the axe loosened but did not let go completely. The Warden of the North standing before you in your family’s sanctuary in the Woods was something straight out of legends and ballads sung by minstrels at feasts.

“I… I can give you shelter, my Lord. Though it is only a small hut… It surely won’t live up to your expectations,” You mumbled and courtsied, trying to suppress the blush that formed on your cheeks.

Your mother has told you about Lord Stark, but seeing him there, in the moonlight, made you doubt her words. He was strikingly handsome, not at all boorish and violent like she had told you.

“Though, my Lord, if I may be so bold, I would’ve appreciated it greatly if you would have just knocked. I was prepared to hack you to pieces.”

Lord Cregan eyed you over. “Your hut? Are you Lady Knott? I thought she was an old hag, sitting and scheming around in her Keep. You’re decidedly younger and prettier.”

Approaching you slowly, he laid his large, gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. “If you aren’t Lady Knott, then what are you doing here, in the Knott’s Weirwood grove?”

You narrowed your eyes, straightening your posture as you met his gaze. "I am Lady Knott...the younger one," you clarified, feeling the corners of your mouth quirk up in a small smile.

"You might be confusing me with my mother." You watched as the hint of surprise crossed his features before transforming into an appreciative chuckle.

"Well then, that would explain the confusion," Lord Cregan replied, leaning against the tree he had been approaching earlier. He looked at you with renewed interest. "And as for knocking, I thought no one would be occupying this place at this hour. A slight miscalculation on my part."

Your smile widened as you stepped forward, crossing your arms over your chest. "Next time, my lord, take the time to knock. Or better yet, send a raven ahead of time."

His laughter echoed through the grove, a rich and deep sound that resonated within you. "Noted, Lady Knott."

Looking back at him composedly, you added: "But if you're still suspicious of me, Lord Stark, then by all means go back into the forest and sleep there..."

Lord Cregan raised an eyebrow at you. His eyes danced with a playful gleam under the moon's glow. There was a moment of tense silence before he let out another hearty laugh that vibrated through the grove.

"I doubt anyone would be foolish enough to turn away from such generous hospitality,” he answered warmly.

His words filled you with warmth even against the cold wind. He was not what your mother had made him out to be; he was far from it.

"Speaking of hospitality, my lord, would you care to step inside the hut?" you asked, tilting your head towards the entrance of the small dwelling. "I promise I won't hack you to pieces. At least, not tonight."

Once more, his laughter echoed through the trees, creating a symphony with the rustling leaves and nocturnal sounds.

"Lead the way, Lady Knott," Lord Cregan instructed, his eyes sparkling with curiosity as he followed you into the hut. Inside was an array of family relics; old books, carefully crafted tapestries depicting ancient tales from their lands, and one prominent weirwood table where you had been preparing for your moonlit prayers.

You began to explain yourself, your hands nervously fidgeting as you gestured around the sacred space. "I come here often,” you admitted. "A little strange perhaps, for a young noble lady to find solace in such a... rudimentary place. But I find it peaceful."

Lord Cregan's eyes roamed over your treasured sanctum with evident respect. "And tonight?" he asked, glancing back at you as he leaned against one of your stack of books.

A sigh escaped your lips as you braced yourself to confide in this stranger who felt oddly trustworthy. "Tonight... Tonight I came here to pray against my marriage," your voice wavered toward the end.

His brows furrowed curiously and he inclined his head slightly sideways in question. "Against?"

"My parents have arranged my marriage," you clarified hastily. An uneasy laugh escaped your lips as tried to lighten up your confession. "To a sixty year old widower. A Lord from the Stormlands. Lord Symon Dondarrion, they said.”

Shrugging quickly, you put another piece of wood into the hearth and watched the embers reddening. Why were you rambling so? Lord Stark probably did not care.

His silence was unsettling. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he finally broke it with a soft, "I see." His gaze softened, empathy seeping through his glacial eyes as he watched the dancing flames of the hearth reflect in yours.

“And what does the young Lady wish for?" Lord Cregan asked, taking hesitant steps towards you. His sturdy voice echoed in the tight confines of the hut.

Despite his status as a powerful lord, he appeared genuinely interested. You drew in a shaky breath before managing to voice your deepest desire out loud. "To stay in the North," you answered honestly. "To stay where I have grown up, not having to go to… well, almost Dorne. And not having to marry an old man…."

A thoughtful silence fell between you both. Outside, the wind had picked up and was causing the leaves to rustle and twigs to snap under its force. Stark's gaze drifted towards one of your family small tapestries, where large, rugged old men sat next to sour-faced women, wolves and bears at their feet.

"In Winterfell," he began turning his steady gaze back to you, “we have a saying: ‘The lone wolf dies but the pack survives’. At times, alliances made are for survival not just for one individual, but for their kin and their people."

He paused for a moment and sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his head with his gloved hand, before taking it off. The warmth was catching up to him, it seemed. The seriousness faded from his face and he offered you a small smile. "But it doesn't mean that it has to be so bleak.”

The warm fires of the hearth flickered across his rugged features as he stepped closer to you. You could feel your heart drumming louder in your chest as he neared.

"For now, you’re here in the North. Isn’t that… good?”, he said, seemingly trying to cheer you up.

You felt your face flush with embarrassment as you stumbled out of your sodden boots and removed your drenched cloak. It was only then that you realized the inappropriateness of your attire for hosting the esteemed Warden of the North. The topic of your impending marriage also felt uncomfortable to discuss with him.

"Um, yes...I suppose so," you stammered, at a loss for words.

"But...that's not really important right now." Your awkwardness only seemed to grow in his intimidating presence. “If I may be so bold, what were you doing here, north of the Wolfswood, without any guards?”

The corners of Lord Cregan's mouth twitched ever so slightly, as if he was amused by your audacious question. He stood from the stack of books and began pacing the hut, each step measured and silent. "You have a keen sense for observation, Lady Knott," he began, the moonlight streaming through the window to highlight his stern profile.

He paused, leaning against the old ironwood table, his fingers gently brushing over a worn out book that lay there. "In all honesty," he admitted, not looking directly at you, but at the memorabilia scattered across the space. "I'm here on kind of...a pilgrimage."

"A pilgrimage?" you echoed, brows furrowing in confusion. You weren't sure what you expected, but that was certainly not it.

"Yes," he answered simply, before turning to face you properly. His eyes glowed with a certain intensity that made your heart flutter. "In my early youth, I often wandered these woods; it gave me a sense of calm that nothing else could."

"Even though Winterfell is known for its peace and tranquility?" you couldn’t help but jest lightly.

A deep chuckle echoed through the room as Lord Cregan nodded in amusement. "Even then," he confirmed. "Sometimes even the peaceful walls of Winterfell can feel suffocating."

You couldn't help but relate to his confession; even amongst your own family and kinfolk, there were times when you felt bereft of inner peace. It was one of the reasons why you often sought refuge in this secluded hut.

Lord Cregan sought your gaze again, the playful light replaced with a slightly darker one, although not completely sinister. “I think that the Gods have answed both of our prayers, though.”

Sitting down onto your bed, you offered him your chair and gestured towards a large bottle of wine, wordlessly inviting him to pour himself some, if he wished to. “My Lord?”, you asked, not quite knowing what he meant, cocking your head to the side.

Sitting down with a sly smile, he shrugged. “Well, I’m looking for a wife that is not a simpering flower. You’re looking for a strong, young, northern Lord. Or am I wrong, Lady Knott?”

His words hung in the air, creating an electric tension that you could physically feel. The preposterousness of his proposition was too absurd to believe, and yet his confident demeanor suggested he was entirely serious. You hesitated, eyeing him cautiously as if expecting him to erupt into a fit of laughter, revealing it to be a cruel jest. But the man before you remained grave and composed.

The silence stretched out between you like a yawning chasm. His question echoed in your mind, circling around like an insistent buzz. A desperate urge bubbled within you to provide a witty response, anything to alleviate the suffocating heaviness, but words failed to formulate.

Your mouth went dry as dust and for a moment, you worried that you had lost the ability to speak. All you could manage was a weak whisper of "What?" that surely Lord Cregan didn't even hear.

To your surprise, he didn't repeat himself or elaborate on his shocking proposal. Instead, he simply leaned back into his chair and studied you intently as he took a slow sip of the wine you offered him earlier.

A long moment passed before he finally broke the silence, a faint smile gracing his lips. "It's late," he stated simply, standing up from his chair and setting down his cup. You blinked at him in surprise, suddenly realizing how true his words were. The hourglass on your desk indicated that it was way past the hour of the bat.

Lord Cregan made his way towards you, his every movement graceful and measured. He paused, sliding his cloak off, quickly and gently holding your chin in his large hands, making you look up at him. “Tell me if you oppose this. Say the words and I will leave.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as his gaze bore into yours. The fiery intensity, the sheer command in his eyes was insurmountable. His words, though spoken softly, echoed thunderously in your ears. You had always considered yourself a strong-willed woman, not easily swayed by men and their games. But at this moment, looking up at him, you felt a strange fluttering sensation inside you.

The silence extended between you both like a spectral hand reaching out. His statement hung in the chilled air of the room, as if it were suspended on invisible threads. Your heart pounded in the hollow of your chest like a war drum echoing in an empty battlefield.

"Oppose what?" you found yourself asking, your voice barely above a whisper. You held his gaze, your mind racing to comprehend his proposal. Was he suggesting... matrimony? Surely not. The mere suggestion was preposterous.

Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell would never consider someone like you for a wife... would he?

He held your gaze steadily, yet there was a deep gentleness in his eyes that seemed to melt away the icy chill of the room. "Our union," he said simply, his voice quiet yet full of gravity. You blinked up at him incredulously.

Although his words were laced with an undeniable seriousness, you couldn't help but chuckle nervously at the absurdity of it all. "You are jesting." Your words came out as more of a statement than a question.

But the Warden of the North merely shook his head slightly, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Are you suggesting that I am a fool?”

Rolling your eyes, you shook your head. “Of course not! It’s just… how? How will you tell my parents? What will you tell Lord Dondarrion if he would protest?”

“Your father, Lord Knott, has sworn his allegiance to me. He will do as he is told. And Dondarrion… Do you really think that an old Stormlord will ever wish to come up to the North to fight me?”, he said confidently.

The certainty in Lord Cregan's voice was enough to squelch any remaining doubts swimming in your mind. His magnetic confidence had a way of drawing you in, making you question the foundations of your own thoughts and beliefs.

Still, you couldn't help but let out a dry laugh, leaning back against the bedpost with a hint of incredulity in your eyes.

“Cocksure and audacious. I suppose these are traits that I should expect from the Lord of Winterfell,” you commented wryly, crossing your arms over your chest. A soft light danced in his eyes at your words as he rested his hand on the wooden table, leaning towards you ever so slightly.

"And yet, here we are," he began, his tone mild as he absorbed the weight of your words. "In this secluded little hut, far away from prying eyes and the judgmental gaze of society."

He paused slightly, his gaze softening with an emotion that was too complex to decipher. "Should we not take this opportunity and consider what happiness we could find in one another?"

Your breath hitched at his question, a dull ache spreading through your chest as his words sunk in. The thought of marrying Lord Cregan Stark had never crossed your mind until this moment; it was simply a dream too far-fetched and distant for someone like you to entertain.

And yet, here he was - proposing just that.

A mischievous smile then took over his face, as if he had realized something amusing. “Though I must admit,” he said, moving closer to you till his face was just inches away from yours. “If I wouldn’t have known of your predicament, I wouldn’t have minded your company either. You’re a pretty one, Lady Knott.”

His eyes twinkled in the flickering candlelight, his usually stern facial features smoothed and made softer by the intimate atmosphere. The warmth that radiated from him was infectious, causing an involuntary blush to creep up your cheeks.

“Lady Knott, you're blushing,” he observed, a triumphant smirk etched on his face as he leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze playfully inspected your flustered form before he quickly masked his amused expression with a serious one. “I believe I have chased away all your doubts?”

The faintest hint of uncertainty still lingered within you, yet the way Lord Cregan looked at you made it seem like everything was possible. You nodded at him, mustering a small smile. “I suppose you did.”

He gave you a curt nod in response before pushing himself from his chair, a determined gleam in his wolfish eyes. “Then we waste no more time.”

Tension filled the air as he took your hand, guiding you out of the hut and into the dense underbrush. Despite being bundled in cloaks which you had hastily thrown on, both of you shivered from the cold winds that whipped around you. You led Cregan through the towering forest, feeling his steady and confident stride on the snow-covered terrain. It gave you strength knowing he trusted you blindly, following your lead without question. The howling northern wind only added to the intensity of the moment.

After what felt like an eternity of walking, you stopped abruptly in front of a gigantic Weirwood tree; its bark white as snow and leaves blood-red. There was an air of solemnity around it that commanded respect and awe.

“We are here,” you said simply, turning to look up at him with shaking hands reaching for his. “Are you sure?”

The wind whistled hauntingly through the trees, as if nature herself bore witness to this tremendous decision. Cregan Stark returned your shaky grip and looked deep into your eyes. His gaze was dark and stormy, an echo of the northern lands he led. Yet beneath that cold exterior was a layer of profound certainty, an unwavering resolve that was comforting in its strength.

"More sure than I've ever been," he finally said, his voice carrying the weight of the moment. He turned towards the old Weirwood tree, a symbol of his heritage and upbringing. “May the Old Gods bear witness to our oath.”

With your hands still wrapped in each other's, Cregan led you to the base of the ancient tree. You paused in awe at its size and majesty, feeling both insignificant and profoundly special at the same time. The Weirwood's face seemed to stir with an ancient wisdom as if acknowledging your presence.

Taking a deep breath, Cregan started speaking in earnest. “Before the gods, I declare my intent to wed Lady Knott,” his voice echoed through the silent forest, every word carving itself into existence as it lingered in the air.

He then looked at you, his gaze warm yet intense. "Do you willingly accept this union, Lady Knott? If so, speak your vows before the Weirwood."

For a moment there was silence, you gulped down the lump in your throat before speaking up softly yet firmly, “I do accept this union.” You took a step closer to him, hand slipping out of his to rest on his chest over his heart. “Do you willingly accept this union, Lord Stark?”

A silence fell over the eerie forest, the air seeming to hold its breath as if the trees themselves awaited his answer. Cregan Stark studied your face, a mix of love and solemnity in his gaze. He placed his hand over yours, his heart thudding steadily beneath your touch.

"Yes," he finally replied. His voice was a hushed whisper that nonetheless echoed through the silence, sending flocks of distant birds into flight. "I accept this union willingly." His hand tightened around yours. "With all my heart, Lady Knott."

The Weirwood seemed to shiver in response; its leaves rustling softly against the backdrop of the still night. His vow hung potent in the air, mingling with the soft rustling of leaves and echoing in the distance until it seemed to become one with the heartbeat of the very forest.

Humbled by his words and bearing witness to this union, you felt something in you stir. It was an intoxicating sensation, a heady mix of fear and excitement that made your heart pound in your chest like a war drum.

You both knelt before the Weirwood then, dipping your heads in reverence to the Old Gods. Shivering from more than just the frigid cold as snowflakes kissed your cheeks while they fell delicately from above. “May our lives entwine as tightly as our hands are now,” Cregan said softly, squeezing your fingers gently.

“May we grow old together under their watchful eyes,” you added, holding Cregan’s gaze with a bright smile on your face. The warmth radiating between you two belied the biting cold of winter.

He pulled you up, brushing the powdery snow off your backside. With an impish grin, he hoisted you into his arms and you couldn't help but blush.

"I'm your husband now, my dear. Let's save the 'Lord' title for when you are bouncing on my cock." He planted a playful kiss on your forehead before strutting back to the hut. It was clear he couldn't wait to fulfill his marital duties, making you blush and giggle at his eagerness.

With the Weirwood's milky bark glistening under the moonlight as a silent witness to your secret union, you clung onto Cregan as he carried you back to the hut. Your heart pounded loudly in your chest, every beat echoing the promises of love and devotion you both had made under the ancient tree.

Warm light spilled from the narrow slit of a window, illuminating the path leading to your shared domicile. The wind whipped frosty kisses against your cheeks, but entwined securely in Cregan's arms, you were in a cocoon of warmth that dulled the bite of winter.

He pushed open the door with his foot and set you down gently on the thick fur rug next to the smoldering hearth. His eyes danced devilishly over your body as he shrugged off his cloak, allowing it to fall carelessly onto the floor. He then proceeded to help you out of yours, his fingers lingering on areas he promised himself he would explore later.

While his hands were busy undressing you, his mouth claimed yours in an intense battle of dominance. You responded eagerly, matching his fervor and intensity. His mouth tasted like fire and mulled wine, a heady combination that sent shivers down your spine.

His hands found their way up your body, exploring every inch until they landed on your breasts. He kneaded them gently through your dress, eliciting a small gasp from you. The sound only served to spur him on as he moved swiftly and purposefully, undoing the lacing of your dress before sliding it down around your feet.

You stood naked before him, feeling both vulnerable and powerful as you watched him admiring you. “Having any doubts?”, you asked cheekily, enjoying his rapt attention more than a proper Lady should have.

“Doubts? Ha! Never. I shall thank the Gods every day henceforth for making us meet,” Cregan mumbled huskily as he pulled his clothes off, desperate to be rid of them as soon as he could. “Sit on the bed and open your legs for me. I want to see you… All of you.”

You blushed immensely and did as you were told. When you saw Cregan standing in front of you, just like the Gods had made made him, you couldn’t help but blush. You had never seen a man that made you feel the way he did - everything from his muscular shoulders to his hairy chest down to his big, throbbing member made you go crazy. Was this a dream? It had to be.

“You are stunning,” he whispered reverently as he joined you on the bed. His hands traced over your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake as he moved upwards to cup your breasts. He teased your nipples lightly before parting your folds with his other hand.

“Cregan,” you moaned as his fingers found their target, sending sparks shooting straight to your core. His digit slid across your wetness before dipping inside, and you couldn’t help but arch your back in response.

“So wet for me already," he rasped, a smirk playing on his lips. “I knew you were a naughty girl from the first moment I saw you.” The teasing continued as he angled his hips, pressing the head of his cock against your cheek, before gently guiding it towards your moistened lips. “Do you want to prove me right, my pretty little wife?”

"Cregan, I… yes,” you mumbled senselessly, gently letting him enter your mouth as he continued stroking your pearl, though as soon as you let your tongue glide around his tips, his movements started becoming more and more erratic.

“Gods, that feels good,” he groaned. Encouraged by his reaction, you continued your ministrations, sucking him deeper into your mouth as he thrust in and out.

It wasn’t long before your moans mingled with his own, creating a symphony of wanton lust and desire that echoed off the walls of the hut. He pulled away abruptly with a groan. “No more," he panted heavily. "I won't last much longer like this."

With one smooth move, he flipped you over onto your stomach, spreading your legs wide apart. You felt him nudge against your entrance, hot breaths fanning over your chest, sending shivers down your spine. “Are you ready for me?”

“I… I think so, Yes…,” you mumbled, shaking in anticipation.

“Wait… Are you still a maiden?” Cregan asked incredulously, gently lowering himself next to you, kissing you and holding you close to him so that you would not get cold. Not being able to do anything else than to nod, you blushed and closed your eyes as you felt his arms wrapping around you and lifting you onto him.

“Oh… I, ah…”, you muttered and blushed as you saw this large, handsome man lying underneath you and grinning up at you.

“Hush, you needn’t say anything. Just do whatever feels good for you. I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered and laid his hands onto your hips.

Your heart was racing as you felt Cregan's strong, calloused hands slip you onto him, giving you the control over the situation. Blushing, as you felt the heat of his skin against your own, you braced yourself for the slight pain that would come, yet breathed it out before sinking onto his cock with a small moan, your cheeks heating up even more.

The bed dipped under your combined weight as he grasped your waist and thrust gently upward, pushing himself further inside. Your body reacted instinctively, latching onto him with every inch until he's buried to the hilt inside you.

“Good girl… Fuck…” Cregan mumbled and gently held you down, gazing up at you with incredulous eyes.

You tried to focus on something other than the sensation, but it was impossible. His muscled, hairy chest rose and fell with each ragged breath beneath you while his hands roamed down your back—smooth skin meeting soft curves—and grasping your ass cheeks firmly. He held you there with one hand while the other slid between your legs, pushing against that sensitive spot between them that made your toes curl just from the touch.

“Oh G-gods…”, was all you managed to stutter out as you felt yourself tightening around him.

You let out a tiny moan as you began to move, rocking your hips gently back and forth as he groaned and shivered underneath you. Each thrust sent wave after wave of pleasure through every nerve ending in your body, making it impossible not to squirm. His cock was long and thick inside you, filling you completely as you took control of the pace. As he raised himself up on his elbows and took one of your breasts, gently pinching your nipple, you squealed and felt your release washing over you, barely able to hold yourself over him.

“Just like that, my girl… You’re perfect…”, Cregan mumbled as he gently guided you under him, kissing you with great fervour as he repositioned himself, gently pressing your thighs down onto your stomach, lifting your feet onto his broad shoulders.

Before you could wonder what he was doing, he pushed himself inside you, making you moan loudly. This angle felt even better than before and you felt giddy at him looming over you, fucking up into you as if you were a dirty harlot and it made you tighten around him even more.

“Cregan, my Lord, I… ah…”

“Shh…” He silenced you with a hungry kiss, grinding his hips against yours in a primal rhythm. The air was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin and your moans as he continued pounding into you, each thrust harder than the last. “You're so fucking tight, I can't...”

His words spurred you on, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him to go even faster and harder. He obliged, his cock brushing against your insides in all the right places. It didn't take long for the sensations to build up again, but this time it was more intense than before - like a ball of fire deep within your belly that grew bigger and bigger until you couldn't take it anymore.

“Cregan, I… I can’t...”

“That's it, my girl… let it go,” he growled as he thrust one last time, filling you with his hot seed, making your orgasm explode inside of you like a supernova of pure bliss. Your screams echoed through the hut as you shook uncontrollably, both gasping for air as your heartbeats slowed down.

“Well done...”, he panted out. “I knew you'd be... perfect. My Lady Stark.”