#mare answers things

[not-poignant]

Assumption: You have never ridden a horse.

Oooo, this is a fun one, salkfjas

I have! I've ridden more than one horse, more than once.

(Actual storytime) (This is from the Assumptions meme!)

In late highschool and in the few years after I had a close friend who owned a horse (Billy) and agisted him, and was responsible for him. She basically was allowed to get him when she got her driver's license.

I was the kind of friend (and still kind of am, energy willing) that you could drag around to all your chores and I'd just be there. So I'd be there when she went shopping. I would be there when she went to get horse food. I would be there when she did homework. I would be there when she went to visit her horse and brush him down and feed him etc.

I helped with basic chores and watched from the sidelines and mostly hung out with her dog, Huskee, who was not a husky, but a borderline collie x corgi who barked nonstop at that horse, who she alas, could not herd.

Through this friend I actually learned about Natural Horsemanship, to the point where I actually went to a couple of Pat Parelli seminars (run by Pat) in like 2000/2001. It was the thing that really sparked my interest in animal training, especially humane, fear free animal training (and clicker training specifically, since Pat was teaching marker training at the time, and said friend started using it on their dog, Huskee).

I never rode, for a long time, because I was happy on the sidelines, and also I went there so my friend could ride her horse, not so I could like, steal her horse out from under her lol. I don't think her horse liked me very much anyway (later I'd find out that was pretty much true, it was a zero respect relationship, maybe he knew I was a doormat lmao).

Anyway, said friend had another friend who was extremely horse intense, and she got her own horse (Coda) , that she then never really took the time to ride. Coda was kind of nuts. Billy was the kind of horse who walked so slow you felt like you were going backwards, Coda had one speed: gallop. Coda and Billy got on great.

But Coda was pretty neglected, and so I often spent time with him while my friend did her chores with Billy. I was used to bringing out food, or changing water etc. so I did that for Coda sometimes. And after a while, friend was like 'it would be cool if we could trail ride together, how about you learn on Billy first since he's so slow and sedate.' And friend was like 'I'll ride Coda because I have more experience.' This made sense! She wanted me to stay safe!! But...

Billy was slow, sedate, and did not give a shit about me. This is a horse that stepped on my feet (on purpose), who deliberately angled towards low-hanging branches to scrape me off the saddle (hilarious, but also not really), and made it clear how much he wasn't interested in anyone else riding him in the most passive aggressive way a horse possibly can.

Coda, on the other hand, had a reputation for being wild and unstable. He'd tossed multiple riders more than once, hadn't been trained with Natural Horsemanship (like...kind of? But not really) and was not halter-broke by the time friend-of-friend got him, so just getting him to accept a halter and a saddle at all was huge, and anything beyond that was like 'welp, good luck.'

However, it was obvious trying to do anything with me and Billy was not going to work out. So...Coda it was.

And idk how to explain it, but Coda and I just got along. It was on the other hand terrifying, because his default movement was 'canter' and all he wanted to do, all he wanted to do, was gallop up and down granite hills as quickly as possible and spook at fucking everything. It wasn't his fault, he wasn't taken out much and he had that kind of personality. He once saw a kangaroo in the distance and spun a full 360 degrees, and I ended up half off him, hanging on for dear life, while friend just stared at me and said: 'how did you not fall off, that was insane. You might actually be good at this.'

Well. No, I wasn't, I just had a good grip, lmao.

So we went on extremely stressful trail rides together. Billy thankfully curbed some of Coda's GOTTA GO FAST instincts but only to a point, so I had to be pretty hypervigilant nonstop because that dude bunched his hindquarters what felt like every ten seconds, and I can't really blame him, it's what he loved to do most. He was just a terrible horse to learn to ride on, lmao, even if we did get along.

I haven't ridden since and honestly haven't felt much of an inclination to. I'd be too heavy now anyway. And I'm pretty certain I'd be bad at it. When your first experience is 'placid horse who generally accepts everyone but stares at you in a desultory manner and makes sure you know - while feeding him / brushing him / watering him etc. - that you do not matter in the grand scheme of things' followed by 'I like you! NOW I WILL FLING MYSELF DOWN THIS GRANITE HILL WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE WE ARE ALL SCREAMING IN EXCITEMENT AND NOT FEAR' you think 'actually I don't need to ride the murder ponies, it's fine.'

Anyway, yeah, I have ridden a horse.

[wishmaker-astra]

Offhand, I can't wait to see how flustered you get when someone calls you divine in a flirtatious way.

@suddenlyauntiemaya

Already happened with Mare (@aura-acolyte) jokingly. Kinda. Wasn't flirting, but could be misread as that. She was just joking around with compliments and called me a love goddess or something, but she's a friend, so that's kinda different.

For some rando? Man, I don't know what I'll do. And you're right. It IS going to happen at some point unfortunately.

[sneebl]

HI I LOVE YOU YOURE SO COOL

THATS ALL <3

I LOVE YOU TOO AW YOURE COOL AS WRLL DARCY!! I HOPE YOURE DOING GOOD <3

[elytrafemme]

every single fictional character i like should split and have mood swings like me. "ohhhhh but it's not canotical" "ohh they have good control over their emotions and stable views on the world" i don't fucking care. i see cq in his fake desert i see klavier's control dialogue i see dahlia and her serial murders and komaeda and the gun literally fuck with me right now. we need to stop being cowards about our fictional character headcanons i think everyone should kill people always because i can't

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

MY GIRL, MY GIRL. ( HOTD x READER )

AUTHOR NOTE! I'm still figuring out how to write him as I mostly do Aegon ( cuz he's highly requested and a part of my fanfic ) <3 pairing: Lord Cregan Stark x Lady Blackwood! Reader prompt : based off kinda enemies to lovers vibe, and angst. word count: 1, 000+ words I owe a million flowers to @swordgrace and @venusbyline for helping me characterize / understanding how to write Cregan with their amazing writing!

Mayhaps, it was a Northern trait for Cregan to be the way he was. He was a gruff man, loyal to his core, towering over you by a solid foot⎯you swore he was part giant⎯and emotions so cold that it was hard to read. You had thought he was smitten, or at least appeared to be smitten in his own Stark way, with your older sister Alysanne Blackwood. He showed the signs for it. 

He certainly had more banter with her than you, witty comebacks and light-hearted insults⎯the kind of things that no Lord would let any Lady say without some form of punishment. His eyes always flickered to her first when he entered a room, like she was the only person that mattered to him. He smiled, a rare thing, with her. Hells, he offered his hand whenever she needed to enter a carriage. He treated her a whole lot better than he did with you.

He was cold with you, grunts and short one word answers. He never looked at you, not unless it was absolutely needed. He always had an icy look on his face, almost as if being around you made him upset. He never offered to help you, not even a polite hand when you needed to enter a carriage. It appeared as if you were the bane of his existence. 

It was a surprise when he gruffly asked for your maidenhead, his odd, or mayhaps just the blunt Northern way, of asking to Court you. Of course, you had slapped him across the face at such a crude attempt of courting. Embarrassed that he would dare to say such a thing in Court, surrounded by your fellow nobles, who found Northern customs scandalous.

Not to mention, a tiny part of you was hurt that he would dare ask to Court you after his previous rude treatment towards you. You would not be a second choice. Nor the replacement for your sister. You wanted a man to want you for you, not because you just ‘happened to be there’. Cregan Stark would have to work for your hand, if he truly wished to have if because he wanted it⎯not because he couldn’t have your sister.

Glaring him down from where you stand, the palm of your hand still tingles from the force of your hand connecting with his cheek, your face flushing a soft pink from embarrassment. How dare he say such a thing, to you, in public nonetheless. Could he have not waited until they were out of Court, or preferably alone with not a soul around?

The bright red handprint glows on his pale cheek, the contrast bright and violent with the look on your face. It made your gut churn, from shame at striking him, and anger for being pushed into it. They would surely gossip of this, the Wolf of the North struck in the face by Lady ( Y/N ) Blackwood after he asked for her maidenhead.

“I am not some breeding mare.” You snap, face burning a brighter red.

“Aye,” He grins cheekily, “You’re a Lady.”

“Exactly, I am one, and I demand to be treated as one. A proper one. Not like the way you savages do in the North.” You argue, attempting to defend your honor in front of the honor lookers.

“Where I come from, a simple ‘no’  would suffice.” He narrows his eyes, the cheeky grin on his lips curling into a scowl.

“Where you come from, people bathe in the river and use pine cones for coin.” You snap back, earning a booming noise from him. 

Flinching at the booming sound, it wasn’t quite a curse of anger, nor a growl. It was almost like a laugh? Was he laughing? Or attempting to laugh? Furrowing your brows in confusion at the strange noises coming from him, his chest racks up and down like he was laughing. But, his face was curled into a hard to interpret look. It was not quiet amusement, nor anger, nor anything really. He was odd, made more of ice than man. 

“What in the seven hells is that?" You blubber, taken aback by his odd laughter.

“You are bold." He chuckles, a grin spreading on his lips.

“And you are mad,” You shake your head, “Especially after saying such a thing to me."

"I asked for your maidenhead." He states bluntly, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

"Yes, and you're mad if you think this is how you ask a Lady to Court you." You scoff, "I do not understand how you may do things in the North, but here in the South, we do not⎯"

"You are prude's, hiding behind poetry and longing looks. If you want a woman, you say so, not linger around when another can take her."

True, to a point. But, there was something rather sweet of a man taking the time to spout out sweet poetry, gifting roses, longing for your hand, or doing romantic gestures just to appease you. You had seen men do the same for other Ladies of the Court, and were a tad bit envious of it. That was what you sought out, craved for, pleaded for in a man to do to court you just as any other Lady would. Not grunts, glares, and rude behavior. 

Hells, those were the type of antics that would make your older sister, Alysanne, throw her small clothes in lust. She always fancied a more gruff, brooding man compared to you. You had imagined her marrying a Stark, or a Greyjoy. While you settled for a Tyrell or Arryn, a gentler man. Cregan Stark would have better luck courting her than with you. They were alike, in mind and behavior. They’d make the perfect couple. 

"And you think that I want you? That I would accept it, accept your, after everything you have said and done to me?" You argue, shaking your head with a scoff.

“I was courting you.” He states, as if it was the most obvious thing.

“That is courting to you? Treating me poorly?” You scoff, “Hells, you may as well stab me and call that courting.”

“And if I did, would you accept?” He asks, making your face flush.

“No!” You snap, voice raising.

Seven hells and heavens above, it was like talking to a stone wall. No, it was worse than talking to a stone wall. At least, with a stone wall would listen to what you were saying. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you force yourself to take a deep breath in, hands curling into fists at your side.

Opening your eyes, you clench your jaw tightly, cheeks flushed a bright pink from anger. You wished to strangle him, to shove his head in the snow until his face was blue. Mayhaps, then he would understand just what you were trying to say. Though, he’d probably see it as you flirting back with him considering how brutish Northern customs seemed to be. 

“Were you dropped on your head as a babe?” You huff annoyed, “What makes you think that this is the way to Court a Lady?”

“My Father did the same with my mother.” He narrows his eyes, offended by your words.

“Yes, mayhaps, half a century ago and with more charm than you.” You snap back, unable to stop the comment from slipping your tongue. 

“Watch your tongue.” He warns, his voice hardening.

“Or what?” You challenge, narrowing your eyes.

Staring you down with a cold face, you refuse to cower back from the argument, stubbornness keeping you firm in place. Puffing up his chest as he holds himself back, he leans down to your face, lips curled up into a thin line. Chewing on your bottom lip out of habit, you could feel his hot breath fanning your face, his gaze picking apart your features. He was infuriating. Handsome, but infuriating. Mayhaps, it would be better if he kept his mouth shut and stood there looking pretty.

“You are rejecting me?” He asks, his brows furrowing together.

“No,” You argue,“I would consider it, should you court me differently.”

“I am not reciting poetry.” He states without hesitation.

“I never said poetry, gods.” You roll your eyes, “Court me like other men do. Is it truly below you to attempt to send me letters, give me roses, or ride with me on horseback?”

“No.” 

“Then, be a man and properly court me.” You argue, standing up on your tippy toes to get in his face.

He stills, not saying a word. Narrowing your eyes at him, you slowly lower yourself back to the heels of your feet, tilting your head up to keep him in your gaze. It looks as if he understands, finally cowering away from you and the argument. Had you won? Relaxing at his silences, you open your mouth before closing it, choosing to let the silence end the argument. But, then a slow smile spreads on his lips. His grey eyes twinkling brightly..with joy? 

“You’re demanding.” He smirks, his voice dripping with amusement. 

“And you're too gruff.” You snip back, without hesitation.

“I like that.” He whips back, tilting his head to the side. 

“Good, because this is how I am and this is how I will be each time you fail to use good manners.” You counter back, “Understand?”

“Very.” He nods.

"Good, now go get me a rose." You huff, turning your back to him.

"Tis' winter, there are none."

"Then, find a way to get one." You argue, narrowing your eyes unimpressed.

---

this is a one and done kind of fic, cause i am trying to figure out how to write him, so enjoy it while i learn / grow! o

[shelovesosa]

UNTIL THE GRAPES TURN SWEET

art credits to k4enyu and aransmind on X!

Pairing: COWBOY!Choso x CITYGIRL!reader

Contains: MDNI, smut , oral ( f + M receiving), dom Choso, p in v, unprotect sex, enemies to lovers, western life, jealously, tension.

SUMMARY!! You were born with dirt-free hands and a silver spoon in your mouth—spoiled, sharp-tongued, and heir to your father's sprawling ranch empire. Sent away to "learn responsibility," you expected dusty boots and boring sunsets. You didn't expect Choso—the quiet, brooding ranch hand with eyes like storms and a voice dipped in molasses. He hated your attitude, and you hated his silence.

<<<Part 1

The mornings were the only time you had.

With the ranch buzzing and Marlene shadowing every step Choso took, you and him had to steal whatever moments you could. Five minutes behind the stables. A brief glance by the tack room. A soft brush of fingers when no one was looking.

But the barn? That was yours. Yours and his.

Your sanctuary before the sun rose.

You stood inside the dusky morning light, leaning against the warm hide of a sleepy chestnut mare. Choso stepped in, his boots quiet on the hay-covered floor, his shoulders stiff beneath a flannel shirt that didn’t even try to hide the bandage wrapping his ribs.

You looked up at him.

“You’re late.”

“Miss me that much?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t step away when he got close. He kissed you slow. Careful. The kind of kiss that tasted like secrets and everything you weren’t supposed to want.

“I’d ride that colt again if it meant this,” he murmured against your lips.

“Don’t joke,” you breathed. “You scared the hell outta me.”

“I scare myself sometimes.”

And just like that—

“What in the hell is this?”

You froze. Choso turned. Marlene stood in the doorway. Her eyes burned like fire licking at dry brush.

“You sneak around behind everyone’s backs just to put your hands on him?” she hissed. “Like some little girl playin’ grown-up.”

You straightened. “It’s none of your business.”

“He was mine.”

Choso stepped between you before you could answer.

“I was never yours, Marlene.”

Her jaw clenched. “You think she’s gonna stay? You think she gives a damn about this place once her daddy cuts her off?”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” you said coldly.

“I know you don’t belong here,” she snapped. “You’re not one of us. You wear your city perfume and think it covers up how soft you are.”

You stepped forward.

“I’d rather be soft than so starved for attention you can’t see he’s never looked at you the way he looks at me.”

“You think a few kisses make you special?” Marlene growled. “You’re a phase. He’ll forget you.”

Choso’s voice cut like a blade.

“I won’t.”

The silence after that was heavy. Ugly. Final. Marlene walked off without another word—but you both knew it wasn’t over.

You found your father in his office. Cigars. Whiskey. An old record playing quietly behind him. He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“You’ve caused a lotta talk, girl.”

You swallowed hard.

“About what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

He set down his glass.

“You think this thing with Choso is gonna end with white lace and blessings?”

You stayed quiet.

“You don’t belong here, sweetheart. You think you do. You don’t.”

You looked at him, voice tight.

“And Marlene does?”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned back in his chair.

“You’re goin’ back to the city.”

The floor fell out from under you.

“What?”

“You leave Sunday. I’ll have your bags packed.”

“You can’t make me.”

“You’re my daughter,” he said. “I can and I will.”

You left the room in a daze. Sunday was only two days away.

You met Choso under the old oak tree, where the shadows swallowed the two of you whole. He stood against the trunk, waiting.

You didn’t speak. You just walked into his arms. And he knew.

“When?”

“Sunday.”

“No.”

“He’s already booked the ticket.”

“Then I’ll stop the train myself.”

You shook your head, eyes glassy.

“They’ll never let us be.”

He took your face in his hands.

“Then let’s leave before they try.”

Your heart seized.

“You’d come with me?”

“I’d follow you through hell, sugar. But only if you look me in the eye and tell me you want me.”

The night was quiet. You looked up at him.

“I don’t want you,” you whispered.

Then, softer—

“I need you.”

Choso didn’t move for a moment. Like your words pinned him in place, carved deep into something that had never been touched before.

Then— His hand came up to cradle the back of your head. Slow. Gentle.

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you said, looking up.

That’s when he kissed you. No hesitation. No asking again.

Just that moment where time forgot itself and all that remained was heat.

His lips found yours with the quiet desperation of a man who'd been starving for too long. It wasn't rushed—no, it was slow, so painfully slow you thought you'd come undone before his mouth had fully molded to yours.

Your hands found his shirt, gripping the soft fabric as his other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, careful of his ribs but not so careful that you couldn’t feel the way his body trembled with need.

He tasted like summer sweat and stubborn longing. You kissed like you were trying to memorize the shape of his soul.

The oak tree groaned quietly in the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a horse snorted, the night carrying the scent of hay and warm earth.

But none of it touched you. Not like he did.

His hand slid to the small of your back, grounding you, anchoring you to the only thing that made sense in a world where everything else was falling apart.

“You drive me crazy,” you breathed into his mouth.

“Good,” he muttered, kissing you deeper. “’Cause you’ve had me mad since the day you showed up in those damn white boots.”

You laughed, lips still tangled in his, breathless and aching.

Choso's hands slid down to grip your hips, squeezing the soft flesh as he pulled you impossibly closer. You could feel every hard inch of him pressed against you, his arousal evident even through the denim of his jeans. A shiver ran through you at the thought of what was to come, your body already aching with need.

"I want you so fucking much," Choso growled, his voice rough with desire. His hands slid around to cup your ass, kneading the firm globes as he ground his hips against yours.

His words sent a thrill through you, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. You tangled your fingers in his dark hair, gripping the short strands as you tilted your head to capture his lips in a searing kiss. Your mouth moved against his with a desperate hunger, years of pent-up longing pouring out in a torrent of passion.

Choso matched your fervor, his tongue delving deep to claim your mouth, to stake his own desperate need

You shuddered as Choso's hands gripped your hips tightly, his calloused fingers digging into your soft flesh. The heat of his body seeped into yours, his hard muscles pressing urgently against your curves. You could feel every thick, rigid inch of his desire, straining against the confines of his jeans and nestling between your thighs.

Choso's intense gaze bore into yours, his eyes dark and hungry. He leaned in closer, his stubbled jaw brushing against your cheek as he growled lowly in your ear. "I've wanted this since the moment you rode into town, looking like a goddamn vision in those white boots. I knew then that I had to have you, no matter what it took."

His words sent a thrill through you, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. You tangled your fingers in his dark hair, gripping the short strands as you tilted your head to capture his lips in a searing kiss. Your mouth moved against his with a desperate hunger, years of pent-up longing pouring out in a torrent of passion.

Choso matched your fervor, his tongue delving deep to claim your mouth, to stake his own desperate need. His hands slid down to grasp your ass, kneading the round globes roughly as he ground his hips against yours, the thick ridge of his erection pressing insistently against your core.

You gasped into his mouth, your nails raking down his back as you clung to him, lost in the intensity of the moment. The cool night air and the rough texture of the picnic blanket beneath you were a stark contrast to the scorching heat and hard, unyielding strength of the man above you.

Breaking the kiss with a harsh hiss, Choso sat back on his knees, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His hands slid under your skirt, pushing it up and over your head in one swift motion, leaving you bare and exposed to his heated gaze. He took a moment to drink in the sight of you, his dark eyes roaming over every inch of your skin, before reaching for the button of his jeans.

Choso quickly shed his jeans and boxers, kicking them off to the side in his haste to be rid of them. His thick, hard length sprang free, bobbing slightly as it strained towards you, the swollen head already glistening with beads of moisture.

He settled between your thighs, the coarse hair on his legs brushing against your smooth skin as he pushed your knees further apart. His calloused hands slid up your inner thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, before coming to rest on your hips.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful," Choso rasped, his voice rough with desire. His fingers dug into your hips as he gazed down at your naked form, his intense eyes drinking in every curve and dip. "I can't believe you're really here, that I get to touch you like this."

He leaned down, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel before trailing lower. Your breath hitched in your throat as his lips brushed over the sensitive skin at the apex of your thighs, your body tensing in anticipation.

Choso's fingers slid through your slick folds, feeling the evidence of your arousal coating his digits. He groaned against your skin, the vibrations sending shivers of pleasure racing through you."Damn, baby, you're so fucking wet. All this for me?

Before you could respond, Choso's mouth was on you, his tongue parting your folds to delve deep into your aching core. He licked and sucked at your most sensitive flesh, his lips and tongue working in tandem to drive you wild with lust. Your hands fisted in his hair, holding him to you as your hips rocked against his face, seeking more of that delicious friction.

Choso's tongue swirled around your sensitive clit, flicking and stroking the swollen nub with practiced ease. Your fingers tightened in his hair as jolts of electric pleasure shot through you, your back arching off the soft grass beneath you. The cool night air caressed your bare skin, a stark contrast to the scorching heat building low in your belly.

"Choso, yes!" you gasped, your breath coming in short, sharp pants as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. The rustling of the oak tree's leaves overhead and the distant hoot of an owl were the only sounds besides your escalating moans and Choso's low, approving groans.

He slid two thick fingers deep inside your dripping channel, pumping them in and out in a steady rhythm that had your inner walls clenching and fluttering around the welcome intrusion. His thumb rubbed firm circles over your clit, stoking the flames of your arousal higher and higher, pushing you rapidly towards your peak.

"Come for me, baby," Choso growled against your slick flesh, his fingers and tongue never pausing in their relentless assault.

Choso's tongue swirled around your sensitive clit, flicking and stroking the swollen nub with practiced ease. Your fingers tightened in his hair as jolts of electric pleasure shot through you, your back arching off the soft grass beneath you. The cool night air caressed your bare skin, a stark contrast to the scorching heat building low in your belly.

"Choso, yes!" you gasped, your breath coming in short, sharp pants as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. The rustling of the oak tree's leaves overhead and the distant hoot of an owl were the only sounds besides your escalating moans and Choso's low, approving groans.

He slid two thick fingers deep inside your dripping channel, pumping them in and out in a steady rhythm that had your inner walls clenching and fluttering around the welcome intrusion. His thumb rubbed firm circles over your clit, stoking the flames of your arousal higher and higher, pushing you rapidly towards your peak.

"Come for me, baby," "Come for me, baby," Choso growled against your slick flesh, his fingers and tongue never pausing in their relentless assault.

Hearing his rough, commanding words and feeling his fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring you pleasure, you couldn't hold back any longer. Your body stiffened, your muscles pulling taut as your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave.

"AHHH, CHOSO!" you screamed, your voice echoing through the quiet night air as ecstasy exploded through every nerve ending. Your sex clamped down hard around his fingers, rippling and squeezing as you gushed your release, coating his hand and face with your essence.

Choso groaned, his tongue lapping up every drop of your spend as he worked you through your intense orgasm, drawing out your pleasure until you collapsed back against the grass, boneless and sated. He crawled up your body, a satisfied smirk on his handsome face, his lips glistening with your arousal.

"Damn, baby, that was so fucking hot," Choso murmured, his voice rough with desire.

As Choso crawled up your body, you could feel his hard, thick length brushing against your thigh, leaving a trail of pre-cum in its wake. The scent of his arousal filled your nostrils, musky and intoxicating, making your mouth water with the sudden, desperate need to taste him.

You sat up slightly, your hand reaching out to wrap around his throbbing shaft. It was hot and hard, the skin velvety soft over the rigid steel beneath. You could feel it pulsing in your grip, could see the thick veins running along its impressive length.

“Please Choso, let me taste you.” you purred, your voice low and husky with desire.

With a wicked grin, you pushed Choso onto his back, straddling his hips and hovering over his straining erection. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, could see the way his muscles flexed as he watched you with those intense, hungry eyes.

Leaning down, you dragged your tongue along the underside of his shaft, starting at the base and working your way up to the swollen head. You swirled your tongue around the broad crown, your lips brushing teasingly against the sensitive skin before you wrapped them around the tip and sucked gently.

Choso groaned, his head falling back against the soft grass as he fisted a hand in your hair. His hips jerked up slightly, seeking more of your touch, more of your scorching mouth.

You could taste the first drops of his arousal leaking from the slit, could feel him throbbing against your tongue as you licked and sucked at the tip.

"Fuck, baby, your mouth feels so goddamn good," Choso panted, his voice strained with pleasure. "I've thought about this moment so many times, about burying myself in your sweet little mouth and fucking your face until I fill your throat with my cum."

Emboldened by his words, you took him deeper into your mouth, relaxing your throat to accommodate his considerable size. You could feel him hitting the back of your throat with each bob of your head, could feel the thick head of his cock pressing insistently against your tonsils.

Choso groaned, a low, guttural sound that reverberated through his chest. His fingers tightened in your hair, gripping the silky strands tightly as he guided your movements, urging you to take him even deeper. You could feel the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath you, could see the way his abs clenched and flexed as the pleasure built in his core.

You picked up the pace, your head moving faster as you sucked him with increasing fervor. Your tongue swirled around his length, stroking and caressing every rigid inch as you worked him closer and closer to his peak. You could taste the salt of his skin, could feel the heat of his body radiating through you as you lost yourself in the act of pleasuring him.

"Shit, baby, just like that," Choso grunted, his hips starting to rock up to meet your movements. "Your mouth is fucking incredible, you're going to make me cum so hard." His voice was strained, his breathing growing heavier and more labored with each passing second.

You could feel your own arousal building as you continued to suck him, your core clenching and fluttering around nothing. The idea of tasting his release, of feeling his hot seed coating your tongue and sliding down your throat, was enough to make you throb with need.

Determined to bring him to completion, you doubled your efforts, taking him as deep as you could. You swallowed around his thickness, feeling it pulse and throb against your tongue as you massaged the sensitive flesh with your lips and tongue. Your fingers slid down to gently squeeze his heavy balls, rolling them in your palm as you urged him closer and closer to his climax.

Just as you felt Choso's cock start to twitch and pulse, signaling his impending release, he suddenly gripped your hips tightly and lifted you off his shaft. Before you could protest, he flipped your positions, pinning you down beneath his muscular frame.

Just as you felt Choso's cock start to twitch and pulse, signaling his impending release, he suddenly gripped your hips tightly and lifted you off his shaft. Before you could protest, he flipped your positions, pinning you down beneath his muscular frame.

"Not yet, baby," Choso growled, his voice rough and strained with barely restrained desire. "I'm not ready for this to be over. Not until I've felt this sweet little pussy wrapped around my cock, squeezing me like a velvet vise as I fuck you senseless."

He reached down, gripping your thighs and pushing them up and apart. The cool night air brushed over your slick folds, making you shiver and clench with anticipation. You could feel the thick head of his cock knocking against your entrance, the swollen flesh parting your lips teasingly.

*"Please, Choso," you whimpered, your hips rolling up to try and take him inside. "I need you, I need to feel you inside me, filling me up so deep and hard."

With a low, approving groan, Choso surged forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust. Your back arched off the soft grass as you took him deep, your inner walls stretching and fluttering around his impressive girth. You could feel every thick, rigid inch of him pulsing inside you, the heat and hardness of his arousal searing you from within.

*"Fuck, baby, you're so goddamn tight," Choso panted, his hips starting to rock and roll as he began to move inside you. "This little pussy fits me like a glove, like it was made just for my cock."

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss as he started to thrust in earnest. His tongue delved deep, tangling with yours as he fucked into you with increasing force and speed. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the quiet night air, mingling with your escalating moans and cries of pleasure.

Choso's hips slammed into yours with increasing urgency, his thick length driving deep into your core with each powerful thrust. The old oak tree above you rustled its leaves, as if whispering its approval at the primal act unfolding beneath it. Your fingers dug into Choso's muscular back, nails raking down his skin as you clung to him, lost in the intensity of the moment.

"Shit, baby, I'm getting close," Choso grunted, his voice strained and rough with impending release. "I'm going to fill this tight little cunt to the brim, pump you full of my hot, thick cum until it's dripping out of this sweet pussy."

His filthy words, spoken in that deep, gravelly tone, pushed you closer to the edge. You could feel your own climax building rapidly, your inner walls starting to flutter and clench around his pistoning length. The idea of feeling his seed flooding your insides, claiming you in the most primal way, sent a thrill of excitement racing through every nerve ending.

With a harsh cry of your name, Choso slammed into you one last time before his body stiffened above you. His cock throbbed and pulsed inside you as he found his release, the first hot spurts of his seed painting your clenching walls. You could feel his heavy balls drawing up tight, could feel the force of his climax as he emptied himself deep inside you.

The sensation of his release triggered your own, your body shaking and shuddering beneath him as you came undone. You screamed his name into the night air, your voice echoing off the old oak tree as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated bliss crashed over you. Your sex clamped down around his length, milking him for every last drop of his precious essence as you rode out the intensity of your shared climax.

As the aftershocks faded, Choso collapsed onto you, his weight pressing you into the soft grass.

You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, could feel the sheen of sweat cooling on his skin as he struggled to catch his breath. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as you both drifted in the haze of satisfaction.

By the next night, the ranch was dark. The air still.

Only the soft rustle of wind through the wheat fields broke the silence as you crept out of the house. The moon hung heavy and pale overhead, spilling silver across the land like God was watching.

You clutched your satchel tight, boots crunching over gravel. The barn loomed ahead, tall and familiar. Choso would be there, like he promised—horses saddled, bedrolls packed, the two of you ready to vanish before the rooster even thought to crow.

Your heart raced. You weren’t running away.You were running to something.

Freedom. Him. The only place that had ever felt like home. He was already there.

Standing by the gate, hat low over his eyes, arms tensed as he adjusted the straps on his mare’s saddle. The lantern glowed beside him, casting golden light across his face.

When he turned to you—

“You came,” he said, like he’d held his breath the whole time waiting.

“Didn’t think I would?”

“Didn’t think I deserved it.”

You reached up, curled your fingers around the front of his shirt, and pulled him into a kiss. Quick, soft, but real.

“You deserve more than this place ever gave you,” you said. “We both do.”

He touched your cheek like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Like he expected the world to end before it let you go.

“We’ll ride east,” he said. “Past the river, then find the road. I know someone near the border town—we’ll make it.”

“And after that?”

“Whatever you want,” he whispered.

But before you could swing into the saddle—

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Your stomach dropped. You turned. Marlene.

Standing in the shadows behind the haystack. Arms folded. A smirk curling her mouth like a secret she’d been dying to tell.

“You think you’re special?” she hissed. “You think he really loves you?”

“Go home, Marlene.”

“He was mine before you showed up in your fancy boots, tossing your hair and making eyes at every hand in the yard.”

“I was never yours,” Choso said, stepping in front of you.

“You’re really gonna throw everything away for her?”

“I already did.”

Her face twisted with something like grief and rage stitched into one.

“Your father’s gonna love this,” she muttered.

You froze.

“What?”

“He knows,” she said. “I told him an hour ago. Figured you’d try something. He’s waiting at the gates with the others.”

You looked at Choso.

“She’s lying,” you said.

But you didn’t believe it. And then—hoofbeats. A light. A voice.

“Y/N!”

Your father’s shout tore through the barn like thunder.

“Get away from him!”

Choso grabbed your hand.

“Run.”

The ranch hands were closing in from the north, torches in hand. Your father rode out ahead of them, his coat flying behind him like a dark wing. His voice was ice.

“Get her on that horse, and I’ll shoot you down.”

Choso pulled you toward the fence, eyes locked on the open field behind it.

“I’m not leavin’ without her.”

“And I’m not losing another man to a goddamn fantasy.”

Choso helped you mount. Then turned back. Facing them alone.

“She’s not a fantasy,” he called. “She’s the only damn thing real in this place.”

Your father raised his rifle.

“Step away from her.”

But you kicked your heels into the horse and reached down.

“Choso!”

He took your hand— Swung up behind you— And you rode. Into the field. Into the wind. Into the unknown.

The moon hung high as the two of you rode hard across the dark open stretch of prairie.

Choso held the reins in one hand, his other arm tight around your waist. Your hair whipped against his jaw, your heart beating as wild as the hooves beneath you.

Neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say that could match the thunder of leaving.

You rode until the sky began to pale at the edges, until the sun reached up lazy and gold behind the hills. Until your body ached and your throat was dry, and still—he didn’t stop.

Not until the hills swallowed the ranch behind you.

Not until your family, your name, your past was dust on the horizon.

You found it tucked between two sycamores—an old hunting cabin long forgotten, half-eaten by ivy, but safe.

Secluded.

You dismounted stiffly, legs trembling, the ache from riding all night settling deep into your thighs.

Choso tied the horse, hands shaking.

“Get inside,” he said gently. “I’ll check the fence line.”

You nodded and slipped inside.

It was quiet. Smelled like cedar and time. There was a dusty quilt on the cot. A kettle in the hearth. You ran your fingers along the wood beams and finally—finally—breathed.

You’d made it. You’d really— The door creaked open.

Choso stood in the frame, silhouetted against the morning light. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion, hair sticking to his neck, face unreadable.

“Fence is clear,” he murmured.

Then his eyes found yours.

“You alright, city girl?”

“I will be,” you said, stepping toward him. “We’re safe now.”

But he didn’t smile.

He didn’t even look relieved.

“For now,” he muttered, then dropped onto the wooden bench like the weight of the world finally caught him.

You knelt in front of him, fingers already reaching for the blood-soaked patch at his side.

“You tore your stitches again.”

“Had to ride.”

“You stubborn—”Your voice cracked.

He caught your wrist, gentle but firm.

“Hey,” he whispered. “We’re gonna be alright.”

Your chest ached. Your eyes stung. And then his lips found your forehead.

“I ain’t ever lettin’ them take you back.”

You leaned in, kissed his mouth soft. Not like before. Not wild. Not desperate. Just warm. Steady. A kiss that promised:We’ll make it.

You curled up on the cot with him behind you, his body wrapped around yours, chest rising and falling steady at your back.

For the first time—you fell asleep in peace. But not for long. A sound. The crack of a branch.

Choso’s body tensed behind you. You jolted awake.

“Stay here,” he whispered, grabbing the knife from the saddlebag and slipping out the door.

You sat up. Waited. Heart pounding. A minute passed. Two. Then the door opened again—

And Choso stormed in, face like stone.

“He’s here.”

“What?”

“Your father,” he said, voice low. “He’s followin’ us.”

You stood, shaking. “Where?”

“Two ridges out. Tracks in the mud. He’s alone.”

“Alone?”

“Means he’s serious.”

You swallowed.

“We’ll ride again,” you said.

Choso shook his head.

“You’re tired. He’s countin’ on that. We stay here tonight. Move before dawn.”

You looked up at him.

“He won’t stop, Choso.”

“Neither will I,” he growled, jaw tight. “I’ll put him in the dirt before I let him touch you.”

Your throat closed.

“He’s my father…”

“And I’m the man who loves you.”

The room fell silent.

You stared at him.

“Say that again.”

“I love you.”

You stepped into him, pressed your forehead to his.

“Then don’t let go.”

And he didn’t. Not that night. Not ever.

The sun was climbing fast. Hot, sharp, cruel.

The cabin sat still in the dusty haze, quiet as a secret. Choso kept to the porch, sharpening his knife on the edge of the windowsill. You’d barely spoken since he spotted your father’s tracks.

He didn’t ask you to stay inside.And you didn’t. Because you heard the horse first. Then the voice.

“Y/N!”

You froze. Choso was already standing. His blade tucked in his belt.

“I’ll handle it,” you said.

“He came for blood.”

“He came for me.”

And you stepped out, boots hitting dry dirt, your chin high.

Your father sat tall in the saddle, dust on his jacket, rifle strapped to his back. His eyes burned when they met yours—furious, wild.

“You got ten seconds to step away from that coward,” he barked, pointing past you to Choso.

“Don’t you dare call him that,” you snapped. “He’s the only one who’s been honest with me!”

“He’s a hand,” your father growled, dismounting. “A hired man with nothin’ but a saddle and a busted past. You think he loves you, girl? He’s runnin’. You’re just the fool who jumped in the saddle with him.”

“He’s not the one lying to himself,” you shouted. “You’re so afraid of not controlling me you’d rather see me miserable than see me free!”

“I gave you everything!”

“You gave me a cage.”

“I gave you a future.”

“No, you gave me Marlene’s version of a future! You never asked what I wanted!”

Your voice cracked, and still you stepped closer.

“I wanted more than the ranch, more than pearls and suitors and fake smiles at harvest parties.”

“You’re ungrateful.”

“I’m awake!”

The words slapped him harder than your hand ever could.

His breath hitched, and for the first time—you saw it. Fear.

“That man is a mistake,” he said quietly.

“No,” you whispered. “You are, if you let him die trying to love me.”

Behind you, Choso didn’t move. He watched. Waiting.

Your father looked between the two of you. The air grew thick with dust and heat. Then—

“You leave now,” he said, voice hard, “you never come back.”

“I’ve already gone.”

You didn’t look back as you walked to Choso. He caught your waist, pulled you into him as the horses stomped impatiently nearby.

“You sure?” he murmured in your ear.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you whispered.

“You’re somethin’ fierce, sugar.”

“Takes one to love one.”

He kissed you slow, right there in front of your father. A kiss that didn’t ask for permission. And when you pulled away— Your father was gone.

The town didn’t have a name.

At least, not one you ever heard spoken aloud. It was a slip of civilization just past the hills, surrounded by brush, dust, and sky.

There was a chapel, a general store, a boarding house with crooked shutters and a wide porch. A horse trough. A bell that rang at noon and sometimes not at all.

Nobody asked questions. And that’s why you stayed. The room was small. A single bed, a basin, and a window that looked out onto the church steeple. You kept the curtain open. Light felt like safety. Like something honest.

Choso sat on the edge of the bed, undoing the buttons of his shirt. You stood behind him, fingers tracing the new scar just below his ribs.

“I still hate that this is here,” you whispered.

“Better a scar than a grave,” he said, voice rough.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

“You’re not alone anymore.”

He turned, eyes meeting yours.

“Neither are you.”

You woke first. Always. Draped in his shirt, your legs tangled in the quilt, you’d tiptoe to the kitchen below and bring back eggs, coffee, and sometimes a fresh slice of blackberry pie if you sweet-talked the cook.

He’d grumble. Pretend to still be asleep.

“Sugar, you tryin’ to fatten me up?”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” you’d tease.

“Keep feedin’ me like this, I’m gonna lose my edge.”

“You lost that the second I kissed you.”

And he’d smirk, half-asleep, dragging you back to bed.

The days blurred sweetly.

You helped at the stable. He fixed fences. You braided his hair once when the sun was high and your fingers itched for something soft. He let you. Sat there in the dirt with his knees wide and a smirk on his face.

“You done, princess?”

“You like it,” you said.

“I like you.”

The wind had picked up. It smelled like sage and rain.

You lay curled beneath the blanket, facing him. His eyes were already on you, wide open in the dark.

“Can’t sleep?” you whispered.

“Thinkin’.”

“About what?”

“How I got here,” he said. “How a girl like you gave up the whole world just to ride into the unknown with a nobody like me.”

You leaned in.

“You’re not a nobody.”

“I ain’t got nothin’, Y/N.”

“You’ve got me,” you said. “That’s everything.”

He kissed you like he didn’t know how else to say thank you. Like his soul was stitched into yours already. And maybe it was.

“Let’s stay,” you whispered. “No running. Just for a little while.”

“You sure?”

“I’m tired of being afraid.”

“Then we’ll rest,” he said, brushing your hair from your cheek. “And when it’s time to run again… I’ll carry you if I have to.”

“Choso—”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

He kissed you again. Slower. Deeper. And you didn’t speak again for a long, long while.

The morning sun spilled golden over the hills as you and Choso rode back toward the ranch. The air was sharp with promise and the scent of fresh earth.

You hadn’t heard from your father since that fierce day on the prairie, and for once, the silence didn’t choke you. It felt... different.

At the ranch gate, a familiar figure stood waiting. Your father.

His face was weathered, lines deeper than you remembered, but his eyes held a softness now. The kind of softness that comes with long nights of thought.

“Y/N,” he said, voice steady. “I’ve been wrong.”

You stayed silent, the weight of years pressing on your shoulders.

“This ranch,” he continued, “it’s been in our family longer than I’ve been alive. But it ain’t worth much if it don’t have your heart in it.”

He gestured wide, to the land stretching beyond, golden and wild.

“I want you to have it. All of it. You’re my daughter — the only one I ever wanted to be proud of.”

Your breath caught.

“And Choso?” you asked softly, eyes flicking to the man standing beside you, hand curled around your waist.

Your father nodded slowly.

“He’s family now. As long as he treats you right.”

Choso’s hand tightened on yours. You squeezed back.

“I’m not the girl who needed saving anymore,” you said, voice clear.

“No,” your father smiled faintly. “You’re the woman who’s always been stronger than me.”

That evening, you stood on the porch of the ranch house, the sun dipping low behind the hills. Choso beside you, the world feeling wide open.

Your father’s words echoed in your heart like a new song. The land was yours. The future was yours. And for the first time in a long time— You were home.

A soft breeze carried the scent of ripe grapes across the sprawling vineyard. The sun hung low, casting golden light over the laughter and chatter gathering near the old barn.

The annual grape dance was back—the day the whole ranch, workers and family alike, gathered in crisp white to stomp the grapes and celebrate the season’s bounty.

You stood near the edge of the crowd, hand resting gently on your belly, the soft curve already showing beneath your flowing dress.

Choso was beside you, eyes bright and full of pride. Around you, the ranch women spun and laughed, their dresses swirling like clouds of white.

“Look at you,” one of the older workers said warmly, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Carrying the next generation already, huh?”

You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.

“Seems this city girl’s finally settling in.”

Choso caught your gaze, then leaned in to whisper.

“You’re my fierce girl, belly and all.”

The workers gathered in a circle, feet bare, ready to stomp the grapes. Eli winked at you from across the crowd, but you only smiled back and shook your head.

The music started—soft at first, then rising into a lively rhythm. The women took their places, laughter ringing like bells as they danced on the purple-stained grapes, sending juice splashing like tiny fireworks.

You watched with a full heart.

Your father stood nearby, nodding with approval as he talked quietly with a few of the ranch hands, including Choso.

He caught your eye, giving a small, proud smile. This was home. This was family.

And soon, this little bump would be part of it all.

You slipped your hand into Choso’s as the dance went on. No words were needed. Because this—right here—was everything.

Taglist

@urcatlover345

[kiraavi]

thaw & trickle

Note: This was written with Game Joel (Goel) in mind because he is my precious, handsome man and I love him dearly. Happy reading! CW: Smut, unprotected piv, pull out method, oral f!receiving, dirty talk, brat-taming vibes, overstimulation, grumpy x grumpy, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, mentions of blood and injury. Summary: Regrettably, you fill in for Tommy and end up on patrol with Joel during one of the worst winters to hit the valley. Joel's stubbornness leaves you stranded and alone. It's by chance that you stumble upon an abandoned barn. Word Count: 5055 Ao3 Link: Read here!

The wind slashes at you, howling through the valley like some beast awakened from its slumber. You tug your hood tighter over your head for what feels like the hundredth time and squint into the blinding white void ahead. Four feet, maybe five, is as far as you can see before the storm dissolves the details. Joel’s silhouette was eaten by the storm several minutes ago.

You’d told him—argued with him, really—that you should’ve hunkered down in the town you’d passed through earlier. But no, Joel had insisted on pushing forward, and you suppose that’s par for the course with him. The blizzard had descended upon the valley quickly and now you’re lost in the frozen hellscape it created. The wicked cold bites through your layers and you’re beginning to lose feeling in your fingers and feet.

Lady, your mare, stumbles beneath you, her usually sure-footed gait faltering as the snow deepens and is swept around you. She’s tired. You’re tired. The prospects are grim but stopping here may as well be suicide. 

“Joel!” you shout, but your voice is ripped away by the wind and you receive no reply that you can hear over the whirring tempest. You try again, louder this time. “Joel! Goddamnit!”

Nothing. No answer. Just the wail of the storm and the crunch of Lady’s hooves in the snow. You grit your teeth, fighting the panic that wells up within you, threatening to sink its claws into you. Beneath the fear something else churns. Anger. Frustration. Helplessness. That stubborn, infuriating man. You get the feeling that he doesn’t like you—hell, you’re not sure he likes anyone, except Ellie. And even she’s been keeping her distance lately, which has only made his sour mood worse. But did he really dislike you enough to strand you in the elements? You grumble.

You should’ve said no. You shouldn’t have covered for Tommy and gone on this patrol. But hindsight’s useless now. If you don’t find shelter soon, you’ll end up another frozen corpse buried beneath the drifts.

Your teeth chatter and your grip tightens on the reigns. You wonder if under your gloves frostbite has set in. Then, through the dense curtain of snow, a shape emerges. A barn. Old and slanting to one side, but still standing. Relief floods your system as you lean forward and pat Lady’s neck. “Come on, girl. Just a little farther,” you mutter, your voice trembling.

A chain and lock rattle on the other side of the barn doors when you tug and try to pry them open with weak, shaking hands. But it’s no use and the doors won’t budge. “Fuck! Fuuuuck!” You shout into the nothingness that surrounds you, your frustrations vanishing somewhere into the endless expanse. You stumble back, dread planting itself in the pit of your stomach and blooming into fear. For a moment, you feel like you might cry, and the only thing that prevents you from bursting into tears is the worry that they might freeze over.

You glance around desperately, your breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. The cold vapour feels like it crystalizes in your throat. There’s no way forward and no sign of Joel. Just you, Lady, and the gradually diminishing hope you’d been clinging to since you spotted the barn. Your gaze catches on a tractor parked along the wall. Several feet above it there’s an open window. 

Clambering onto the icy metal is about as difficult as you expect. The frigid cold has sapped your strength and your balance wavers as your boots slip against the slick surface. Several times, you nearly lose your footing. By the time your fingers graze the window’s edge, your arms quiver with exertion. You feel brittle—as if another gust of wind might snap you in two. You curl your fingers over the lip and haul yourself up with every ounce of strength you can muster.

The window is narrow and the angle is awkward. Your backpack catches on the edge but you somehow manage to squeeze through. You tumble inside with a grunt, landing hard on the hayloft. The wood beneath you groans and before you can properly shift your weight, the planks splinter and collapse. You’re falling. The drop is far and you land with a sickening crack. The impact steals the air from your lungs. Pain blossoms from your ankle, radiating outward and shooting up your leg. 

All you can do is lie there, trying to draw breath and gasping out. The cold presses in through the wooden siding of the barn but the pain in your ankle eclipses every other sensation. You can’t bring yourself to look at it—to lay your eyes upon your foot twisted in some unnatural angle. The thought makes you feel nauseous. You press your head back against the dirt floor, struggling to drag breath in. 

Above you the rafters croak as if to taunt you. A screech rips through the barn and it’s now that you realize you’re going to die here. Not to the winter—no, you won’t have the privilege of succumbing peacefully—of being swept under a cold, numbing blanket of snow. Is this what you get for resisting a death to the elements? Something worse? Something violent, bloody, and cruel. To be alone and torn apart in the dark. 

The runner is on top of you before you can draw your pistol, slamming into you. It screams and snarls as you brace your hands on its shoulders and desperately try to create distance. Its jaw snaps inches from your face as it draws closer. Its breath is hot and sour, fanning over your skin. Rancid. You’re losing. All your strength is gone, wasted on getting here—on climbing and stumbling into your own grave. And now, when you need it most, there’s nothing left. You’re running on empty. The runner’s teeth gnash closer. Your grip slips and you squeeze your eyes shut.

A gunshot pierces the air. The runner jerks and twitches before stilling. Something wet and warm splatters over you. The flailing creature above you goes limp, gurgling as it slumps against you. You don’t move. For a few moments you live there—in that split second before death and before your next forsaken breath. There is peace in that moment; a fleeting respite from whatever hell this world has become but you're pulled back into that reality. Shoving the corpse off of you, you look up.

Joel is standing over you, revolver held tight in his hand. His eyes are cold as he looks upon the scene and then they flit to you. He tilts the gun, directing the barrel toward you.

“Are you bit?” He asks.

“What the fuck?” you snap, your words serrated. You’re just beginning to catch your breath.

“Did it bite you?” he repeats, raising his voice. The words cut through the ringing in your ears that you didn’t even register until that moment.

“No, I’m not bit, Joel!” His name is like venom on your tongue as you sit up, propping yourself on your elbows. Your chest heaves, and you glare up at him. “How the hell did you even get in here?”

“The back door,” he says flatly, lowering the gun. His gaze flicks upward to the broken rafters. “You oughta check the whole building before you go tryin’ dumb shit like that. Christ, girl.”

Sure enough, behind him, there’s a door hanging ajar, snowflakes pouring in through the gap. You feel dumb. He makes you feel dumb. He makes you feel angry. You curse under your breath and a laugh bubbles up. You must be going insane and the look that crosses his face tells you he must be thinking the same thing.

“Well, maybe you oughta listen to your patrol partner,” you bite out, wincing as you shift your leg, “when she says to take shelter.”

The words earn you no response, just a blank look as he holsters his gun. You know you’re right, and he knows it too but he’s not going to admit it. It’s safe to say you’re just a couple of stubborn idiots stranded in a snowstorm. 

Joel notices your injury after retrieving the horses from outside. Without a word or a second glance, he sets to work, rummaging through the barn until he finds the broken handle of a rake. You watch as he kneels beside you. He pauses.

“I have to set it,” he says and you swallow hard, but nod. His hands grasp your swollen foot. He gives you no count down and no warning before he snaps it back into place. You muffle your wail into your arm. His brows furrow in focus as he uses the straps from his backpack to fashion a makeshift splint. His hands are steady and sure as he ties it tight around your leg. You wince, a sharp hiss escaping you. He has the heart to mutter a quiet apology without meeting your eyes, and the sincerity catches you off guard. 

The barn is standing, but only by the whim of a couple rusted bolts and a prayer. The building feels almost alive, or rather barely clinging onto life. It creaks and groans as the winds batter its sides, shuddering around you. You find yourself flinching and bracing for collapse every couple minutes or so. It’s better than nothing but the frigid air punctures the uninsulated walls. The cold is a punishing, formidable thing and you’re not sure you’ll last the night curled up in the corner of the barn. Your clothes are cold, damp, and bloodied, clinging to your skin. Your breath fogs the air as you watch Joel pacing the barn, boots heavy over the hay-strewn floor. He’s restless and his shoulders are drawn tight.

Finally, he circles back to you. In his hands is a blanket—or what might’ve been a blanket once. Now it’s little more than a fraying, moth-eaten scrap of fabric. He unfurls it with a flick, unleashing a flurry of dust that makes you cough and wave a hand in front of your face.

“Joel…” you mutter, your nose scrunching.

He doesn’t deign you with a response. Instead, he clears his throat and fixes you with a pointed stare. You arch a brow.

“You need to get outta those wet clothes,” he says.

“I’m fine,” you reply with a shrug, averting your gaze and pretending the hay on the ground to be far more entertaining than this conversation.

“You’re not fine,” he shoots back, “You’re gonna get hypothermia.”

The words settle between you and you roll your eyes, leaning your head back against the wall. You know that he won’t let this go and you’re not sure you have the energy to fight him. The thought of stripping down in front of Joel, the man you’re trying to convince yourself that you hate, makes your stomach twist. You think that maybe hypothermia would be preferable, and you’re tempted to say as much, but refrain, biting your tongue. 

He tosses the blanket onto your lap and turns around. What a gentleman. You sit still for a moment, staring at the threadbare bundle of fabric. WIth a frustrated sigh, you begin peeling off your outer layers. You grumble as you wrestle out of them, your fingers numb and trembling as the zipper of your jacket catches and snags. 

Joel doesn’t move. He stands a few feet away, his broad shoulders hunched and his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. When you’ve successfully wrangled your clothes off, you wrap the blanket around yourself. It’s itchy and rough, but dry. You’re not entirely convinced that it’s much better than stewing in your wet clothes, but at least Joel will stop huffing and grumbling now.

Night falls, swaddling the barn in darkness and the temperatures plunge with it. You can’t stop shivering, your arms wound tightly around yourself in a futile attempt to conserve warmth but the cold leeches from you, stealing into your rattling body. Joel is sitting a few feet from you, not that you can see him very well through the inky blackness. But you can make out the slow, even rhythm of his breaths and the occasional shuffle of his body. He must be asleep. Lucky guy. If only you could manage to get some rest too.

A hand clamps around your wrist, jolting you from whatever place your mind had been drifting off to. Calloused fingertips trail over your icy skin, brushing your palm.

“You feel like a fuckin’ corpse,” he says, drawing nearer. Suddenly, he’s right there, warmth radiating off him and bleeding into the air between you. Your body leans into it instinctively, like a moth to flame, but your brain tells you to stay away.

“Fuck off,” you snap and somewhere deep down, you regret it.

“This the thanks I get for savin’ your ass?” Joel mutters, but there’s no real malice, not so tender-hearted as to take offense. He doesn’t move away and instead settles next to you. His arm curls around your shoulders and he tucks you into his side. He is solid, exuding heat like a furnace—some solace amidst the plummeting temperatures.

Your head tilts up, and even in the dark, you can make out the faint curves of his face. A thin stream of moonlight seeps through the cracks in the barn and highlights his profile—his hair catching the light like spun silver, the bridge of his nose, and the subtle dip of the scar there. His eyes glint with something unreadable. He looks softer. All his sharp edges are a little more dull. It’s not the first time you’ve noticed how handsome he is. You just figured that it’d be the kind of thing you’d take to the grave.

“It’s the thanks you get for stranding us in a blizzard,” you say, and you feel rather than hear the huff of the tiniest laugh—his chest quaking beneath you and a puff of warmth against your forehead. It’s the kind of laugh that feels like it wasn’t meant to escape, and it makes your chest ache.

You shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not about Joel Miller. You’re supposed to hate his guts—he’s supposed to hate you. But as you sit there, pressed into his warmth, the lines blur. Your preconceived notions crumble. Hate was an over exaggeration, wasn’t it? It’s human to want. You’re human to want. It’s a lonely world out here.

Your gaze drops to his lips. They’re chapped and rough from the cold, as are yours, you’re sure. But you don’t care. You can feel the hitch in his breath. It’s almost imperceptible but you catch it. He noticed. And yet, he doesn’t move away.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

But you do.

You’re close, inexplicably close, and his warmth has poured into you, thawing more than just your skin. You lean in slowly, hesitant, giving him the out you expect him to take. But your lips brush his. He tenses but there is no retreat and you feel emboldened. Yet weak. So you let yourself fall into him, pressing a little firmer. His beard grazes your skin. A moment passes, and then another and his resistance withers away, his hand sliding to the small of your back and tugging you impossibly closer. You reach up and cup his jaw, shaky fingers curling there as a soft sound is muted by his lips against yours.

It is everything and nothing. It consumes every other sensation and all the thoughts in your mind. You must be delirious. Has the frostbite reached your brain? You try to convince yourself that it is nothing more than mindless desperation that drew you in, and not some unequivocal, deeply buried attraction. His tongue swipes your bottom lip and you hum softly. It’s your cue to pull away.

“That’s the thanks you get for saving my life.”

He looks unsure at first—his hands hover just shy of you, held still. His gaze flits around, down and then back up to you. All of the steeliness in his hazel eyes has dissolved into an endearing awkwardness. And for a split second you think that you’ve ruined the moment, but then this look crosses his face. A little bit of a smirk. A little bit of smugness.

“Do I also get a thanks for splintin’ your leg?” He asks and you swear that your heartbeat stutters. You observe him for a moment, a sharp remark dancing on the tip of your tongue.

“You don’t get a medal for fixing the mess you made.” “That so?” he hums, tilting his head. One hand lands on your thigh, his finger tips feathering up, up, up. A shudder courses through your body and your good leg instinctively shifts, opening yourself up to him. Silent permission. A silent request. His gaze flicks down and heat rushes to your cheeks. “Still cold?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, still trying and failing miserably to disguise how utterly desperate you are for him. The blanket slips away and you find that you don’t much feel the cold when he’s so near, working you up—pushing you down. His shifts over you, his large frame enshrouding you.

“Mm, there she is…” he coos, moving his hands to undo the buttons of your shirt before coming up to cup your breasts. You let out a stuttered breath as he leans down and ghosts a kiss over your neck followed by another, and then another. He leads a trail between the valley of your breasts and down to your navel until he reaches the waistband of your underwear. 

You tilt your head back and try to suppress the soft sound that threatens to fall from you. He nips at the fabric, pulling it back and letting it snap back against your skin. His nose brushes right against your clothed cunt and you swear he inhales, the scent tugging a low groan from his throat. 

“Joel…!” His name sounds like a prayer on your lips—a frantic and eager plea. It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s made you melt. You’re nothing but a puddle beneath him. A pliant and helpless creature yearning for his warmth. You haven’t done this in so long, and now that it’s dangling in front of you, you’re realizing just how much you need it. You don’t think you can go another second without it—without him. 

And he is just as eager—eager enough to forgo the removal of your panties and lave his tongue over the fabric. Your hips twitch and he has the nerve to grin. A quiet moan escapes you as he repeats the action.

“Would you- would you just get on with it?” Your voice doesn’t come out sounding the way you want it to, instead it’s pitched higher in a pathetic whine, and you know that it feeds right into his ego the instant he pulls away. Still, you can’t stop yourself from adding your next utterance. “Please.”

“Oh, what happened to all that attitude, hm?” He asks and you’re already beginning to feel dizzyingly frustrated. Is he really going to make this difficult? Is he going to relish in your desperation? Judging by the look on his face, you think you know the answer and it’s not one you like. 

But instead he surprises you and hooks two fingers in your panties, shoving them down your legs. In the brief five seconds he’s pulled himself away from you, your body misses him. He returns, filling the empty space between you. His hands are at your sides, splayed across the supple expanse of skin. It renders the distinct differences in you and him—whereas you’re soft and tender, he is weathered and scarred, marked by the passing of time and the life he’s led. The cruelty of the world has not made itself a physical mark on your skin and he seems in awe of it. 

Your impatience, however, is thinly veiled in the way your body seems to strain toward his, back arching as his hands chart a course down your body once more. He wrenches your legs wider, cupping them as he leans down to press a kiss on the flesh of your inner thigh. Your mind is muddled, and trapped in limbo between total shut down and acquiescence. Your brows knit together as he licks a stripe upwards before stopping just short of your dewy folds. You can feel his breath fanning over your cunt.

“Joel, I swear to God- ah!” The words lodge in your throat when he finally, finally flicks his tongue over your clit. 

He has the nerve to retreat just to make a remark. “Sorry, what was that, pretty girl?” 

“You’re a lot more handsome when you’re not talking,” you mumble, reaching down to clutch at his hair and yank him closer. It’s a lie. That low southern draw of his is sexy as hell, but that’s besides the point. He grunts and resumes the task at hand, licking into your pussy as though it is his final meal.

His tongue swirls around your clit before journeying lower to prod at your entrance. His nose bumps against the bud and he sweeps his gaze up to look at you, taking in the way your mouth has fallen open and your eyes, misty and saccharine, flutter. He is unrelenting and fervent, tongue tracing every contour of your folds in order to siphon each illicit, cloying sound from you.

You can feel it—that slow, languid build, and he can sense it. Your body warbles and rolls up into him, fingers still tangled in his silver locks, keeping him smothered up against your cunt. “Oh fuck… hah!” you curse, body drawing tight as you crest the peak of your pleasure. You hover there, in that vanishing second, on the precipice of something far greater, and you wish you could stay there—wrapped up in that blissful feeling, but then you’re falling further and further, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“That’s it… there you go,” he whispers praise. When he pulls away you notice your arousal slathered over the lower half of his face, droplets clinging to his beard. It’s sort of obscene but he doesn’t stay put for long. He runs his thumb up along the seam of your cunt, smearing your slick and stopping to swipe over your clit. “Did so good for me. So pretty.”

Your chest heaves and your hips squirm under the excess attention. “Nghh-! Give- give me a moment.”

Joel doesn’t let up though and you whine. “It’s just that…” he begins but pauses to slowly sink two thick fingers inside you, “you pleaded so pretty earlier. Is it too much for you already? Poor thing.” You hate him. You need him. You hate that you need him, and you hate that he knows exactly how to play into these stupid mind games. He knows how to coerce your surrender from you.

There is a part of you that wants to deny him, and shove him out into the blizzard if only it would prove to him that you don't need this so badly—prove that your needs did not revolve around him and that you aren't merely something magnetized to him, floating in his orbit. But he's the only thing keeping the cold at bay and to do so would also be to deny yourself.

And so, you choose not to dwell. You’ll allow him to rend you open and devour you whole because it feels nice to be able to for once. It feels right. The quivering relinquish of control that you can so rarely afford yourself. You are in the palm of his hand. It feels so nice to let your walls down and be swept up in sensation.

His thick fingers move with purpose, curling upward as he eases them in and out of you. Each stroke drags them along your front wall. Prickling sparks ripple through you, curling your toes and stealing your breath. Your body slackens further as you give in. Gone are your defenses, doubts, and restraints. Joel watches you, his gaze heavy and lips parted as he hangs onto each sound that falls from your lips, and works devotedly to unearth the next. He pulls them like threads and looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Wind howls outside, but the blizzard that rages on outside is long forgotten—a distant memory as Joel staves off the cold with nothing but his touch. Something churns deep in your core, unfurling and roiling in the pit of your stomach. You are ensnared in him. You fall apart for him. Unravel before him. The edges of your vision blurs as you're thrown off that ledge again, lurching as your walls convulse around his fingers. Yet, when the heat breaks, he is relentless, keeping you teetering on the edge of overstimulation. He refuses to let up and you toe the line between ecstasy and numbness.

“I can’t- no more,” you mewl shakily, but you don’t push him away—you make no effort to put distance between you. You trust that he’s got you. You trust in his capable hands.

Joel leans in closer, his breath feathering over your ear. “One more,” he murmurs, coaxing another brittle whimper from you. “You can give me one more, sweetpea.” He slides his fingers from your cunt and reaches to fumble with his belt. The buckle clatters to the ground but you barely register it. He shoves his jeans and boxers down in a single motion, and when he positions himself between your thighs, your breath catches. He’s big—girthy and veined, cock curving slightly upward. The tip is flushed and glistening. Your breath shutters and you begin questioning your capabilities. But his hands are careful as he adjusts your injured leg with the utmost care. 

“I know you’ve got it in you…” His gaze locks with yours, waiting for the go-ahead. You’ve bared yourself to him, and he’s made you tender and compliant in turn. You give him your permission with a small nod, body aching in anticipation. “Atta girl.”

He aligns himself, the blunt head of his cock sliding along your slick slit before resting against your entrance. Then, in one deliberate thrust, he sinks into you, stretching you wide and cleaving you open. It’s intense, but then there is a deep, smoldering heat that envelops you and cradles you so delicately.

Joel groans, his head tipping back as your walls squeeze him tight. “Mhm,” he hums, his voice thick, “you needed this so bad, didn’t you?”

His words are like kindling, stoking the flames of your arousal. You clutch at him, one hand gripping his bicep while your other reaches around to rest on his shoulder blade before smoothing down his back. You yank at the hem of his sweater, rucking it up frantically. He moves back to tug it up and over his head, tossing it somewhere into the dark void around you. The darkness eats the article up and he returns to you, chest pressed flush to yours. The coarse thatch of his chest hair scraping against your skin.

Your body arches into his as he rolls his hips, sawing in and out of you. You muffle your moan by crushing your lips against his in a messy and frenzied kiss. His breath flitters beneath your nose, mingling with your own. One large hand kneads your thigh, hiking it up as he crowds closer and drives himself deeper. The kiss ends and the both of you gasp for air. Joel’s breathing turns ragged, each thrust punctuated by a grunt. His even rhythm falters.

“Struggling to keep up, old man?” You tease. Your brazenness has returned in full force, galvanizing him to pick up the pace. His eyes narrow and his expression darkens. His grip turns bruising. Your body jolts with the force of his movements.

“You were the one askin’ me to stop,” he grits out, words strained. His body trembles and you know that he’s close. He pauses and levels you with the most terrible look—one that tells you that you’re in for trouble. “I can still make that happen.”

You keen, bucking your hips up to regain that delicious friction. He stills your hips forcefully, and his cock threatens to slide free.

“No! No, please.” You can hardly recognize your own voice. It’s needy and forlorn—born and dredged from the depths of your need. “I do… I need you- please, Joel.”

His pupils dilate at your plea and something stirs in his expression. Finally he sinks all the way back inside, filling you completely. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

He begins to fuck into you again. His pleasure is contingent on yours. Your mind is quickly going fuzzy. Everything else is unintelligible as that potent feeling brims inside you. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in vigorous circles until you’re quaking again—cunt fluttering and spasming around his cock. The pleasure is blinding, every nerve flaring alight as you fray beneath him. A cry tears from you.

“Shit- yes…!” he moans as you turn listless beneath him. He gets a few more stuttered, erratic thrusts in before pulling out and giving his cock a couple strokes. You watch through half-lidded eyes as he finishes, his spend spilling onto the ground. His brows furrowed and eyes shut. Teeth clenched and jaw set tight.

For a minute, the barn is silent save for the sound of your laboured breaths. Joel collapses somewhere beside you and you flop your arm out. The back of your hand lands on his sweaty chest, rising and falling with each inhale. He catches it, his larger hand engulfing it, and holding it there for a moment. Somehow it feels just as intimate as the act itself.

There’s movement, his arm is winding around your waist as he moves closer again. Well, he’s certainly better than some ratty blanket, and warmer. Maybe you’re a little glad that he had been so stubborn earlier and that you ended up here. You won’t admit that, though, not ever. As if his ego needs to be fed anymore. You gather yourself against him, letting yourself fit into his side.

“You’re not so bad,” you say quietly through the darkness. 

Joel scoffs quietly, but you swear you can hear the smile in his voice. “You ain’t too bad yourself.”

[r-memberme]

the mare | k.m

⎯⎯ “I do everything, love,” he said, tone full of mock humility. “Some of us are blessed.”

warnings: none just fluff and Klaus being a smartass

where Klaus is most himself, and you are slowly beginning to understand why

You hadn’t expected horses.

You hadn’t expected the smell of warm hay and rain-slick wood, or the way the early afternoon sun painted golden strokes across the stable floor. You hadn’t expected Klaus to look so at home—coat half-buttoned, curls tousled by the wind, hand resting with effortless elegance on the bridle of a horse that looked like it belonged in some wild dream of the Scottish highlands.

“I thought this trip was about relaxing,” you said slowly, eyeing the creature that stood nearly as tall as Klaus himself.

He didn’t answer right away. He was too busy pressing his forehead to the horse’s, murmuring something low and tender in a language you didn’t recognize.

“She likes you,” he said eventually, glancing up at you with a crooked smile. “You’ll ride her.”

You blinked. “Ride?”

Klaus looked at you fully then, and whatever amusement sparkled in his gaze was softened by something deeper—older.

“Tell me you’ve ridden before,” he said, only half-teasing.

You took a cautious step closer, your gaze fixed on the mare’s intelligent eyes and the faint twitch of her ears. “Not unless you count those little mechanical ponies outside supermarkets.”

Klaus laughed. Not a sharp bark of amusement, but a real laugh—soft and surprised and fond.

“Then it’s settled,” he said. “I’m teaching you.”

You crossed your arms. “Why do I feel like this is a trap?”

“Because you don’t trust easily,” he said, coming to stand beside you. “But I do hope you trust me.”

You turned toward him—and found him closer than expected. His expression had shifted into something gentler, more intimate. Like he was watching not just the you of now, but the version of you he wanted to show the world to. The one who might, just might, understand the way his heart ticked like an old, elegant clock.

“I do,” you said, barely more than a whisper.

His smile was small. Private.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I wouldn’t let anything harm you. Least of all a horse.”

༊*·˚

Her name was Evangeline.

A beautiful, willful dapple-gray with a long, moonlight-silver mane and dark eyes that regarded you with suspicious tolerance.

“She’s used to me,” Klaus explained, handing you a small apple slice to offer. “Which is to say, she doesn’t bite me. Often.”

You gave her the apple from your palm, flinching slightly as her velvety lips tickled your fingers. But she took it gently, and Klaus gave an approving hum behind you.

“She’s ancient,” he said suddenly. “In spirit, at least. As if she remembers things no animal should. I used to think I was projecting.”

You turned to glance at him. His gaze was distant.

“She reminds you of someone?” you asked.

He hesitated. “Everything reminds me of someone.”

And then, with a shake of his head, he smiled again. “Come. Foot here, hand there. That’s it. You’re a natural.”

You most certainly were not a natural. You were ungainly, anxious, and entirely too aware of Klaus’s hands at your waist as he helped lift you into the saddle.

“You’re enjoying this,” you muttered through gritted teeth.

“Immensely,” he admitted. “But not in the way you think.”

He looked up at you then, one hand still steadying your boot in the stirrup.

“I just love seeing you experience something for the first time,” he said softly. “It makes the world new again. Even for me.”

Your heart gave a strange little lurch.

༊*·˚

The ride itself was nothing short of magic.

Once Klaus was mounted on his own stallion—a shadow-black creature with a snorting, proud attitude that matched his owner—you followed his lead along a winding trail that opened into wide, rolling fields. The breeze played with the tall grass, with your hair, with the edges of Klaus’s coat as it flared behind him like he’d stepped out of a painting.

You had never felt so out of place, and yet so utterly held by the moment.

He rode just ahead of you, his posture relaxed, one hand resting loosely on the reins. He glanced over his shoulder often, checking on you, smiling when you didn’t fall off.

“I feel like I should be wearing a corset and reading poetry aloud,” you called.

“You’d look lovely in both,” he replied over his shoulder, grin sharp and boyish. “Though I’d prefer you read it to me, while I paint you.”

You scoffed. “Of course you paint.”

“I do everything, love,” he said, tone full of mock humility. “Some of us are blessed.”

And yet, there was no arrogance in the way he said it. Only playfulness. Pride tempered by charm. He wanted to impress you—not to win you, but simply to deserve you.

༊*·˚

You paused near a gentle stream, letting the horses drink.

You sat a little taller in the saddle now, your confidence blooming in the late afternoon light.

“I get it now,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

“Get what?”

“Why you love this. The stillness. The sky. The rhythm of it.”

Klaus was quiet for a long moment.

“I wasn’t always a monster,” he said quietly. “Once, I was just a boy who loved the sound of hooves on earth. Who could ride for hours and believe the world would forgive me, if I only rode far enough.”

You turned toward him, and something in your face must have broken his reverie, because he smiled again. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not about to spiral into tragedy.”

“You always spiral into tragedy,” you teased.

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “it is my nature.”

You both laughed.

༊*·˚

Later, back at the stables, you fed Evangeline one last slice of apple and leaned your head on Klaus’s shoulder. You were exhausted in that soft, glowing way that only came after long, beautiful days.

“You were amazing,” he said into your hair.

“I almost fell off twice.”

“You didn’t,” he said proudly, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Which makes you brilliant. And brave.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “And you?”

“I,” he said, with a mock bow, “am insufferable.”

You laughed.

And then you kissed him—slowly, warmly, like a thank you. Like a promise.

He kissed you back like he’d waited a hundred years to have someone to share this with.

༊*·˚

the part of the day where silence means love, and hands mean poetry

The sun had dipped low, brushing the treetops with fire as you stumbled back into the cottage—half-laughing, half-limping, shoes in one hand, your other arm slung lazily around Klaus’s shoulders. He was insufferably pleased with himself, humming a tune as he helped you inside, boots scuffing across the wooden floor.

“You think this is funny,” you groaned, collapsing onto the plush cushions of the couch by the hearth.

“I think,” Klaus said, crouching to tend to the fire, “that watching you cling to Evangeline like a damsel from a pastoral novel was the single highlight of my century.”

You pelted a throw pillow at the back of his head.

He caught it one-handed without turning, of course. Show-off.

“You mock me now,” you muttered, curling sideways and stretching your legs with a grimace, “but when I wake up tomorrow and can’t walk…”

“I’ll carry you,” he said simply.

You blinked.

He looked over his shoulder, eyes aglow with the reflection of the fire he was coaxing to life, all soft amber and quiet pride. “I’m serious. I’ll carry you through the garden like a war hero’s bride.”

“Wow,” you said. “That’s not even the tiniest bit subtle.”

“Neither am I.”

He smiled—and it was the kind that disarmed nations, not just you.

༊*·˚

By the time the fire was crackling warmly, Klaus had tossed his coat onto the chair, rolled his sleeves to the elbow, and returned with two mugs of something that smelled like cinnamon and heat.

“Bribery?” you asked, taking the mug gratefully.

“Reparations,” he said with a wink, sitting beside you.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It never was, with him. You’d learned that early. Klaus filled silences the way poets filled stanzas—with something unspoken, something that shimmered.

Your eyes fluttered closed. The warmth of the hearth seeped through your bones like honey through warm bread. You didn’t even realize your head had slipped onto his shoulder until his hand came up, curling into your hair with featherlight care.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured after a while.

You nodded. “Tired. Happy.”

He made a soft sound at the back of his throat—pleased, but maybe a little surprised.

You turned your head just slightly, enough to see the edge of his jaw, the pulse at his throat.

“You do things like this so easily,” you whispered. “Like it’s second nature. The horses. The old books. The fire. Even the way you speak sometimes. Like you're from a different era.”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers threaded gently through your hair, slow and thoughtful.

“I am from a different era,” he said eventually. Quietly.

You laughed a little. “Sure. You and your thousand-year-old soul.”

His hand stilled.

You looked up at him.

Something flickered across his face—an unreadable, shadowy thing. And then, just like that, it was gone. Replaced by a slow smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I suppose I never learned how to be new,” he said softly.

You sat up then, turning toward him fully.

“No,” you said, “but you know how to be good.”

His eyes met yours. Steady. Still.

And then he reached for something behind him.

A book.

Leather-bound. Gold-etched. Worn at the corners like it had traveled the world and back again.

“You read poetry on horseback,” you said, smirking.

“I write poetry on horseback,” he corrected, flipping the book open. “But tonight, I’ll read you someone else’s.”

He cleared his throat, and in a voice richer than twilight and slower than candle wax, he began.

"She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies..."

You stared at him.

Klaus, sitting in the flickering firelight, curls falling boyishly into his eyes, lips forming verses like he’d birthed them himself, reading Byron as if he’d known him. Maybe he had. With Klaus, you never really knew.

Your head found his lap sometime during the second poem. His hand never stopped moving through your hair. His voice never faltered.

And when you drifted off—somewhere between a stanza and a sigh—you could swear you heard him whisper something that wasn’t from any book.

A vow, maybe.

A confession.

Something like forever.

thank you for the req anon! <3 hope you enjoy it🤍

taglist;

taglist: @ohapple

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

[ninetailedfoxmanchi]

The Northern Winds (pt. 2)

PART 1

Plot: Arranged marriage between the Lord of Winterfell and a lady from a minor house

MASTERLIST

Warnings: profanity, mention of blood, violence & death, menstruation, miscarriage, sexism and medieval notions of women, mature NSFW content (18+), possessiveness/over-protectiveness, brief mention of r@pe

Summary: Whilst Cregan is on a march against the wildlings, Lady Y/N navigates the ruling of Winterfell in his absence as she awaits his return

Words: 15k

A/N: There will be a part 3, with which this series will end (I think). The intro of this part is a bit long but it gets better I promise! (Cregan comes back 🤫)

Taglist: @nixtape-foryou @accountforreading123 @melsunshine @lovemesomevesey @goldenxshine @beebeechaos @mckennah123

@blonde-scandinav1an @letaliabane @answer-the-sirens @lilyed777 @travelingmypassion (I hope I didn't forget someone! <3)

***

It has been a week since the Lord of Winterfell took his host north to Last Hearth, the seat of House Umber, to fight against the wildling invasions. The number of his warriors and those of his sworn bannermen was strengthened by some three thousand men provided by Lord Jonos Whytefort in exchange for his daughter’s hand in marriage with the Warden of the North. Lady Y/N and Lord Cregan Stark were wed for near half a turn of the moon before he was bound to ride north. Although Lady Y/N was instructed in the ways of Winterfell’s functioning and her duties before Lord Stark’s departure, it was one thing ruling the North with her husband by her side and a whole other to do it on her own. Lady Y/N had noble servants whose loyalties lied with Winterfell to advise her, yet the burden of duty and responsibility weighed heavy on her shoulders. The North was a vast and colossal place to rule with hundreds of thousands of people who looked to House Stark for leadership. Even in the days before Aegon the Conqueror, the North knew no king but the King in the North whose name was Stark.

Winter is coming. The words resonated with Lady Y/N as if they were those of her own House. She thought them every morning when she woke up for her duties and every evening as she laid to rest. The emptiness of her bed at night proved an even greater challenge to Y/N than the absence of her husband at her daily duties. She was surrounded by people great and small whilst the sun was still in the sky. Yet at night, Y/N grew lonely and yearned for home, yearned for Whytefort. No matter how hard she attempted to persuade herself that Winterfell was her home now, Y/N had yet made no memories in this place, felt no familiarity nor true comfort. She found consolation only in her mare, Blackspur, and her ladies-in-waiting, particularly Lady Ellyn Mormont. Whilst Y/N did not mind the company of the other ladies, she had grown the closest to Lady Ellyn. They would often share their meals and walked the castle grounds, although they could not ride together for Lady Mormont had a terrible fear of horses. She was thrown off her mount when she was but a child, which caused Lady Mormont to break her leg. Y/N had not noticed it until it was pointed out to her but there was a small limp in Lady Ellyn’s walk because of this accident. Lady Y/N did not wish to make her companion uncomfortable so she shared her rides with Ser Tybald Cassel, the master-of-horse, or lately more often with Ser Harwyn, the master-of-arms. Whilst Ser Tybald was undoubtedly a man skilled and knowledgeable when it came to horses, he often gave the impression that if Lady Y/N had not been Lady Y/N Stark, he would not have paid her the respect she deserved on the account of her being a woman. Ser Harwyn, on the other hand, proved himself a man as loyal as they come and a pleasant companion on adventurous rides around the grounds of Winterfell. Lady Y/N grew even fonder of him than of Maester Bennard, who was also a tremendous help in navigating the ways of her duties as the Lady of Winterfell.

One day, as Lady Y/N and Lady Ellyn walked the glass gardens of Winterfell that were warmed with hot spring water on which the castle was built, Lady Ellyn asked her mistress whether she had been able to grow accustomed to living at Winterfell after near a moon of staying there.

“I imagine it is not the same now that Lord Stark is gone as well,” said Lady Ellyn as they sat down on a stone bench beneath an orange tree.

“No … It is not,” thought Lady Y/N saddened as she played with the sleeve of her lilac gown.

Y/N gazed around the glass gardens. Half of the plants in them Y/N had only seen painted and documented in books. They did not grow in the north, especially not in an area as mountainous as Whytefort. They would not grow here either if not for the thermal waters. Most of the plants were brought from the south through White Harbor in large wooden crates, tended to by maesters specialising in botany and herbology. There was a type of fruit that looked much like an apple, red and yellow with fuzz on its skin that reminded Y/N of moss. She could not remember what it was called, however. And another which seemed like pumpkin yet its flesh was green and sweeter than that of a pumpkin although the foreign fruit smelled similarly. There were also strawberries the size of pebbles unlike those as small as raindrops that grew in the mountains. There were vegetables a plenty too: all sorts of green leafy plants that were often served at nuncheon or for supper along with grains, seeds, and eggs. There were many medicinal herbs and roots as well, particularly for the brewing of potions and infusions.

Nevertheless, Y/N’s favourites remained oranges. She looked up at the big round orange fruits. “Do you suppose we could take one and share it?”

Lady Ellyn smiled to herself. “Of course, my lady. Everything you see is yours.”

Lady Y/N smiled as well although she still felt like nothing more than a guest at Winterfell, especially without Cregan in the castle.

“It …” began Lady Y/N, unsure whether she could trust her thoughts into Lady Ellyn’s care yet she had to speak to someone or she might go mad. “It is hard being away from home,” said Lady Y/N whilst Lady Ellyn’s smile slowly disappeared as she listened.

“I know Winterfell is my home now but I cannot help but long for the familiarity of Whytefort. I miss even the people I thought I despised – and I do, I do despise them still!” Y/N laughed but she might as well have cried. “It is only … It is only this feeling in my chest …” told the Lady of Winterfell as she held a hand over her heart as if to keep it from falling apart. In that moment, she really did think she might cry for everything that she had to leave behind.

“It seems to me that everyone expects me to fail, that they think less of me because I am not from as a great and noble House as they would expect the Lady of Winterfell to be,” spoke Lady Y/N evenly as she tried to contain her emotions. “Lady Daela—” considered Y/N, remembering the comments she swore were meant only as jests and the looks given to her by Lady Manderly when she believed Lady Stark was unaware.

“My lady,” Lady Ellyn cut her mistress off. “I believe Lady Daela’s moods may be a consequence of her having harboured notions of becoming the Lady of Winterfell herself.”

Lady Stark’s gaze darted to her lady-in-waiting. She felt a sting inside of her, an itch she did not only want to scratch but cut out altogether. Suddenly, the thought of Lady Daela made Y/N’s stomach twist into knots; not only of Lady Daela alone but of her and Cregan.

“I had believed you knew, my lady,” said Lady Ellyn. “That is why I did not mention it sooner. I thought you did not wish to speak of it.”

“Tell me,” asked Lady Y/N when so many things about Lady Daela suddenly made sense. The looks and the comments, her little japes and glares.

“I do not know much, my lady,” said Lady Ellyn. “As you would know as well, she is the youngest of Lord Manderly’s four daughters and all of them are already married to men of great and noble Houses: Tallhart, Mallister, and Arryn. White Harbor is one of the largest harbours in Westeros and the largest in the North. The match between Lord Stark and Lady Daela would not be unseemly.” Not like the one between Lord Stark and me, thought Lady Y/N with a heavy heart.

“But Lord Manderly is already fighting his own war at sea with the pirates from Essos,” thought Lady Y/N aloud. There was often news from White Harbor at the councils Y/N attended as the Lady of Winterfell. “He has no men to spare whilst my father has nothing but men.” And sheep.

“Indeed,” agreed Lady Ellyn. “Yet as far as I am aware, the match was never proposed by Lord Manderly. The prospect of Lady Daela’s hopes of marrying Lord Stark are but that – hopes and illusions,” Lady Ellyn gave her mistress a reassuring smile.

“I see,” said Lady Y/N, her blood boiling at the thought of Lady Daela and Cregan, and yet at the same time, Y/N felt a heavy weight in her stomach. She had already felt like everyone was judging her before Lady Ellyn told her of this – a match between a lady much nobler than Y/N herself and the Lord of Winterfell – and now the feeling only grew worse.

“If I may be so bold, my lady,” spoke Lady Ellyn when she saw the storm of thoughts in her lady’s features.

“Of course,” said Lady Y/N, “I wish nothing more of you than to speak plainly and in the manner you feel.”

“I long knew I would be a lady-in-waiting for the Lady of Winterfell when Lord Cregan would wed,” began Lady Ellyn. “Yet when I left Bear Island, I felt just as you do, my lady. Lost and alone, with everyone staring at me and watching me. I too had to leave my home and my family, my sweet little brothers and my lord father,” spoke Lady Ellyn, a sadness to her voice. “Even with Lady Daela, with Jocelyn and Harryett, I could not find peace here at Winterfell… Until you arrived.”

“Me?” asked Lady Y/N, her big eyes widening still.

“You were so kind to me – to us. Even when you need not have been,” said Lady Ellyn quickly. “We … We all bear names of great Houses: Manderly, Dustin, Karstark, and Mormont. But we … Lady Daela is devious, Jocelyn barely speaks a word without being called upon, Harryett is in her own world of gallant knights and pretty maidens, and myself … I cannot even accompany you at the thing you love most because of my stupid, stupid fear of horses.”

“And yet it matters not because you are a friend to me,” said Lady Y/N honestly as she took Lady Ellyn’s hand and squeezed it. "A true friend."

“I … I cannot make friends easily,” confessed Lady Stark. “Acquaintances, yes, quick friends perhaps, but not true friends, not loyal friends.”

“If not for you, I …” said Y/N as she looked away. “I would have no one to talk to but Maester Bennard,” she said. “He would have tried to invent a healing potion for my thoughts or ascribe it all to moonblood,” Lady Y/N laughed and Lady Ellyn joined her.

Just so, both the Lady of Winterfell as well as the only daughter and the oldest child of Lord Mormont breathed a little easier and shared an orange on their way back to the castle.

***

It was a moon’s turn since Lord Stark departed for north. Lady Y/N’s days were still filled with council meetings, settling disputes, and listening to the woes of the smallfolk and trying to find solutions. She hosted lesser members of House Dormand and later House Flint. If Y/N could not find the time to take Blackspur for a ride, she would at least take a walk around Winterfell. Yet she would visit the godswood everyday even if the sun had already set only to pray for her husband’s safe return. For the longer he was away, the less news arrived, and the more anxious Y/N grew. She prayed for her family as well; for her lady mother and her brother, and even her father, who was fighting against the wildlings alongside Lord Stark. If there were no duties waiting for her, Y/N could sit beneath the heart tree for hours, wrapped in her thick fur coat as she would lean against the weirwood tree. Whilst her own bed brought her nothing but sadness these days, Y/N encountered what little peace she could find at the godswood and sometimes in the presence of Lady Ellyn, when Y/N found the strength for company.

The stars appeared in the sky that night and the moon was so bright it made the evening frost glisten like crystals. There had not been any snow in a week yet the cold was even greater than before. Lady Y/N was returning from the godswood, hardly needing a torch to light her way as the moon was bright enough. She was more restless then normally and her body felt as exhausted as if she had climbed up to the top of the Iceraven. There were weights bound to her legs and a pressure in her stomach. Y/N had venison for supper with buttered beats and a slice of blackberry tart. The sweet must have been too much because Y/N had to steady herself against a tree and catch her breath. Cold drops of sweat gathered on her chest and neck before she bent over with nausea. All that she had eaten that evening left her body. Y/N leaned against the tall pine and tried to find the strength to return to the castle. She slowly made her way up the cobbled path that lead back. She had to stop twice when she felt too weak to continue.

As Lady Y/N finally made it to the castle, she was awaited by Lady Ellyn.

“My lady,” gasped Lady Mormont as she hurried to her mistress’ side. She took her arm as Y/N leaned against her friend. “Somebody call the maester!” called Lady Mormont. The servant girl nearby dropped the linen from her hands and ran to fetch the maester whilst Lady Ellyn escorted Lady Y/N to her chambers, her skin as pale as the weirwood tree.

“I do not need the maester,” spoke Lady Y/N weakly when she laid in her bed. “I only need some rest.”

“My lady,” implored Lady Ellyn. “You have to allow Maester Bennard to see you.”

“Tomorrow,” whispered Lady Y/N. “If I do not feel better.”

“At least allow me to stay with you, my lady. You must not be alone like this,” said Lady Ellyn as she helped her lady out of her clothes. She brought Lady Y/N her nightgown and a cup of water which Lady Y/N could not be more grateful for. Yet even simply drinking some water made Y/N nauseous again. Lady Ellyn fetched the basin for washing and held back her lady’s hair.

“I beg of you, Y/N,” spoke Lady Ellyn gravely. “Allow Maester Bennard to see you. My lady, you could be gravely ill—”

“I am not ill,” said Y/N as her eyes let in hot tears. She had known it for some time now yet she did not want to admit it to herself. She realized it that afternoon in the gardens when she joked with Lady Ellyn about Maester Bennard.

Lady Y/N rose her gaze to her lady-in-waiting, who could read the answer from her mistress’ eyes.

“You are with child,” breathed Lady Ellyn. Y/N nodded as salty tears slid down her pale cheeks. Lady Ellyn put her arms around her mistress. Lady Y/N’s hands clutched to her friend’s back as she sobbed.

“Are … Are you not glad, my lady?” spoke Lady Ellyn carefully and not without compassion.

“W-What … What if he … What if he does not return?” Lady Y/N’s voice broke. The thought of her alone at Winterfell without him was unbearable, what more alone but with his child. The child who would never know their father nor could their mother tell them much about him as they were only wed for half a moon before he had to march north. The child that she would love with all of her heart but would remind her of the man she had lost.

“Lord Stark?” asked Lady Ellyn.

Lady Y/N nodded.

“He is one of the best swordsmen in all of the Seven Kingdoms,” said Lady Ellyn with every confidence. “Everyone says so and not only because he is our Lord of Winterfell. He will come back to you safely, my lady.”

Ser Harwyn said so himself, Lady Y/N considered, although that is not what concerned her. She had seen Lord Stark train with the master-at-arms herself and many other seasoned warriors with whom he won every time. Yet Lady Y/N also remembered her husband’s body, his scarred chest. If the savage’s arrow had aimed but an inch lower and pierced Cregan’s lung …

There was a knock on the door with Maester Bennard awaiting outside. Lady Ellyn got up to speak to the maester whilst Lady Y/N managed to change into more comfortable garments.

Lady Ellyn asked Maester Bennard to return in the morning, explaining of her lady’s sickness – but never mentioning the pregnancy – and how she was feeling better already.

As she closed the door behind her, Lady Ellyn’s heart grew heavy. She had not known Lady Stark for very long but they had grown quite close in the recent weeks. Lady Ellyn wished to help, to comfort her Lady Y/N but she could not find the words that would do so.

“Lord Stark will come back,” assured Lady Ellyn once more. “And he will be delighted with the news,” she tried to cheer Y/N up. It worked because Y/N’s dark thoughts were replaced with bright, happy memories the child would bring to her and Cregan. She imagined telling him, mayhaps sending a raven or a messenger to deliver the news. Or she could wait for him to return and see for himself.

Lady Ellyn was sitting on the edge of the bed beside her mistress, gently caressing her hair. Although they had spent a lot of time together, she noticed Lady Stark was shutting herself away from others. She would take her meals alone more often and spend much of her time in the godswood. It must have been since she found out she was with child, Lady Ellyn considered. Whilst herself, Lady Daela, Jocelyn, and Harryett could somewhat bond over their duties as the ladies-in-waiting to the Lady of Winterfell, Y/N had no one to share her burden with, not truly.

“Allow me to stay with you tonight, my lady,” asked Lady Ellyn, her hand pausing on her mistress’ shoulder. Lady Y/N nodded, allowing someone in properly for the first time in as long as she could remember.

Lady Ellyn laid down in bed beside Y/N, who turned around to face her lady-in-waiting. Her eyes were closed as her tears slipped down into the pillow. They fell asleep together in silence, Lady Ellyn’s hand tightly wrapped around Y/N’s palm.

It was in the hour of the owl when Lady Stark woke in terrible pain. She had felt it coming for hours but half believed the pain was only in her nightmares. Lady Y/N whimpered in pain as she sat up in bed, her nightgown wet with blood. The candles were out but there was still the light from the hearth and the brightness of the moonlight through the windows. Y/N cried in horror, waking up Lady Ellyn, who sat up immediately. Her gaze followed Lady Y/N’s, her mouth parting in shock at the sight of the blood.

“Gods …” breathed Lady Ellyn as her mistress’ hands shook uncontrollably. “Guards!” called Lady Ellyn and got up. “GUARDS!”

Ser Martyn, Lady Stark’s sworn shield, burst into the Lord and Lady of Winterfell’s private chambers.

“Get the maester! NOW!” shouted Lady Ellyn, surely waking half of the castle before she returned her attention to the Lady of Winterfell. “It’s alright, it’s alright, my lady,” whispered Lady Ellyn soothingly over and over again yet she could not mask the doubt in her quivering voice at the sight of all the blood.

“N-No, no, no … No, no …” cried Lady Y/N as she stared at her blood-stained fingers. “Wh … What is happening?” she whimpered. Lady Y/N clutched to her abdomen in the moment of another striking pain, more painful than anything she had been feeling throughout the night. Lady Y/N’s nightgown was soaked with sweat, her wet hair sticking to her chest.

Although an old man, Maester Bennard rushed to his liege lady immediately. His assistants were with him, all three of them freezing at the sight of all the blood. Maester Bennard knew then that Lady Stark had been with child but no was longer so.  

After the maester and his assistants did the best they could to stop Lady Stark’s pain and bleeding, they let her rest. Although Lady Y/N was given milk of the poppy, it only helped with her physical pain, which was nothing compared to what Y/N felt in her heart. The dawn had already broken and yet Lady Stark could not stop weeping since she had awoken in the hour of the owl.

All four of her ladies-in-waiting wept with her yet none could truly understand. Even Maester Bennard’s heart went out to his lady although he was a man of science, who placed logic and stoicism above most everything else, particularly feelings.

Nevertheless, Maester Bennard allowed himself to approach the foot of the bed. “Even if you had let me come see you last night,” spoke the maester gently, “I would not have been able to make a difference, my lady.”

Lady Stark was blaming herself for losing the babe and her eyes would not go out of tears like deep and endless dark pools do not run out of water.

“It is not uncommon for women to lose their first child, especially this early in the pregnancy,” continued Maester Bennard. “And they go on to have perfectly healthy children, my lady. Do not despair …” The old man wished to comfort her but Lady Y/N could not be consoled. A part of her believed Maester Bennard’s words. If one of her ladies-in-waiting had been in her position, Y/N would be sure to tell them the same as the maester told her. Yet she could not help but feel that it had been her fault. That she had not loved it enough, that she had not wanted it enough and feared for it too much, and that that is the reason why it went away.

Lady Stark’s chest broke into a heart-breaking sob as she clutched to her chest. Maester Bennard decided to leave his lady in the company of Lady Ellyn instead. She wrapped her arms around her lady but Y/N’s pain could not be contained. That day Lady Ellyn shared Lady Stark’s bed once again for Y/N could not bear to be alone with her thoughts. She took some sleeping drought prepared by the maester and drowned her pain in the depths of sleep.

***

The days which followed were the hardest. Lady Y/N spend the first few days in bed, recovering from the loss of blood, but mostly from the loss she felt inside. Lady Stark commanded the maester not to send a raven north to the Lord of Winterfell. If someone was to tell Lord Stark of what had happened, it was going to be Y/N herself. She recalled their final night together at Winterfell and how he said she might be with child by the time he returns. A part of him spoke with hopefulness and Y/N’s heart broke even further at the thought of it.

The recovery was hard. Lady Y/N could not even think of food, much less make herself have an proper meal, which did not go unnoticed on her weight.

“The servants will prepare anything you wish, my lady,” said Lady Jocelyn as she helped her lady get dressed properly for the first time in days. “Lemon cakes, apple tarts, anything you wish. Lord Stark will not be pleased to find you like this when he returns,” begged Lady Jocelyn and did the lacing on Lady Y/N’s dress.

The mention of Lord Stark made Lady Y/N turn around to look at her lady-in-waiting. Lady Jocelyn Karstark was plain of face with brows which would always have one believe she was saddened. Her hair was like wheat, her frame slim yet hardy. She enjoyed wearing gowns in blue shades as she thought it would make her hair seem more golden than brown. Yet what Lady Y/N learned of Lady Jocelyn was that she was timorous in the face of authority and did not care much for Y/N personally, rather what the Lord of Winterfell and his maester will write to her family of her service at the castle.

Once when in her cups, Lady Jocelyn confessed she wished nothing more but to be married. She never wanted to come to Winterfell and doted on a boy from her family’s castle in The Grey Cliffs. She was Lord Karstark’s youngest niece through his only remaining brother for fever took the rest some years ago.

The boy Lady Jocelyn spoke of had only his name but no House he belonged to. He was the castle smith’s apprentice. Neither her father nor Lord Karstark would ever allow for them to marry but Lady Jocelyn refused to lose faith. She sometimes accompanied her lady to the godswood where she prayed that the Lord of Winterfell should send her home and she could marry the boy.

Lady Stark felt sorry for the girl. She was only four-and-ten, and although a girl flowered, Lady Jocelyn was not yet a woman grown. She had yet to learn that life was not as simple as a maiden’s dreams or Y/N would have been a stable master’s apprentice or a knight in some lord’s service, trained in swordplay and travelling on horseback throughout the Seven Kingdoms. She had always wanted to see the yellow sands of Dorne and the Red Keep of King’s Landing. She wanted to ride the Rose Road through The Reach and have wine in some meadow outside Highgarden. And if she would have found the courage, Y/N would have even boarded a ship to Essos.

“Go and break your fast with the ladies, Lady Jocelyn,” said Lady Stark as she fixed her earrings herself. She wore a gown of deep juniper green with a slim headpiece of yellow gold and a matching belt.

“And have the servants prepare stewed beef with wine and cloves for nuncheon,” Lady Y/N instructed her lady-in-waiting. Lady Jocelyn curtsied and left Y/N’s private chambers.

Alone at last, Lady Y/N sat down at the table and helped herself to some cheese to break her fast. She was not truly hungry. She had not been able to gain appetite in days. Nevertheless, as the sweet and savoury taste of bread and cheese mingled in her mouth, Y/N’s body recognized the need she had been avoiding. Y/N had some wine with her food when a knock came on the door. Ser Martyn entered and bowed, announcing that Maester Bennard wished to see his lady. Y/N had half a mind to ask him to meet her later when the council was to take place.

“He speaks of a raven from the north, my lady,” said Ser Martyn. Lady Y/N’s heart stopped in her chest as she looked up at her sworn shield.

“Send him in,” urged Lady Y/N and got up immediately.

Maester Bennard entered her private chambers, a scroll of parchment in his wrinkled hand.

“My lady,” the maester bowed. “A raven flew in from the north bearing Lord Stark’s seal.” He handed the scroll to Lady Stark. She took the letter eagerly, but once in her hands, the parchment paper seemed to her as heavy as an sword of steel. Even if the news were grave, Y/N could not wait any longer. She broke the direwolf in the grey wax and rolled out the parchment. Her heart beat savagely in her chest as heat crawled all over her body.

Y/N left out a shivery breath.

“What is it, my lady? What word comes from the north?” asked Maester Bennard with haste.

“They are well,” breathed Lady Stark as her eyes welled with tears. The scroll in her hand, she leaned against the table, her chest raising heavily as her tears soaked the walnut wood of the furniture. Lady Stark took a deep breath as she collected herself and brushed the tears from her face. She looked at the maester who was visibly relieved as well.

Lady Stark offered him the scroll to read.

“They had already pushed the wildlings north of The Gift. It is only a matter of time before the host is defeated and whoever is left flees back across the Wall,” told Lady Stark as she sat back at the table with great relief whilst Maester Bennard read the news for himself. He nodded, a hint of a smile hiding in his usually unemotional features. He was neither a tall nor a strong man but the wisdom of books and age made his presence as prominent as any.

“Will you sit, maester?” asked Lady Y/N and poured the man who brought such joyous news from a flagon of sweet Dornish red.

“If it pleases my lady,” said Maester Bennard. Although they have always been courteous to each other and Maester Bennard was an indispensable source of wisdom with a deep personal loyalty to House Stark, Lady Y/N never found a moment to form a personal bond with Maester Bennard unlike with Ser Harwyn, with whom it happened almost naturally.

“The wildlings are just that, my lady, wild and untamed,” commented Maester Bennard on the letter. “Their kind may fight in numbers but not in form and organization, nor is their steel any match for ours.” He never doubted the strength of Winterfell or its lord, yet strange things may happen when an army goes on a march – disease and weather being just two of them.

Lady Y/N saw a wildling once. He was caught in her father’s mountains stealing sheep from the shepherds. The men brought him to Whytefort to her lord father. The man wore sheepskin and leather and seemed to Y/N no different then any man she had met other than in his choice of garments and lack of courtesy. Lord Jonos made his men cut off the wildling’s hands at the wrists before he was hanged and made an example to warn both the smallfolk as well as any other wildlings that thought of sealing in his lands.

“If my lady would consider writing back to Lord Stark,” suggested Maester Bennard carefully.

“I will write to him,” Lady Y/N nodded.

“I am sure my lord would wish to know of my lady’s recent condition,” agreed Maester Bennard. Lady Stark’s gaze rose to him, an unusual coldness lying in her eyes.

“No,” said Lady Stark. “I would not worry him. He needs a clear mind,” she concluded although that was only half of the truth. The other half was that Y/N did not know how she would tell Cregan what had happened. She did not know how he would react and if he too would blame her as she blamed herself.

Maester Bennard wished to speak, to persuade her, but Lady Y/N got up.

“I would have the council gather today, Maester Bennard. It has been too long since I sat in it,” said Lady Stark. Near a week had passed since she fell ill. The North had been in the capable hands of Winterfell’s councillors in the meantime, but Y/N would not allow herself to disappoint the Lord of Winterfell in failing to rule the North in his absence as well. She mustered all of the strength she had left.

“As my lady commands,” said Maester Bennard and left her chambers.

Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers running through the soft furs laid on her husband’s side. He will come back, thought Y/N. The smile slowly faded off her lips at the thought of it. She was grateful to hear that the warriors were successful, that Cregan was alive and well. She could cry out of happiness. But Y/N could not imagine telling him, not even at the insistence of the maester.

***

Yet another turn of the moon passed before the raven came with news of Lord Stark’s return to Winterfell. Some of the warriors remained south of the Wall to make sure the wildlings were gone, one of those hosts led by Daeron Whytefort himself whilst Lord Jonos returned to Whytefort with the greater part of his army.

Lord Stark’s host was to return to Winterfell half the moon’s turn after the raven of the same news arrived. The castle was in upheaval with the preparations for its lord’s return. There would be a feast held in the honour of the victorious host of warriors. The lords and commanders were to dine in the Great Hall whilst a feast for the soldiers and warriors of Winterfell was to be held in the winter town.

Lady Stark ordered the servants to prepare sweet beef, pork-and-onion pies, roast venison and baked mallards for the feast in the Great Hall.

Lady Y/N paced around the watchtower in her skirts of deep blue with embroidery of flowers in the string-of-gold on her long bell sleeves and ornate bodice. She wore her tear pearls with yellow gold and a cloak of deep blue and fox fur for warmth. Y/N watched the horizon every day, waiting for an army of men to appear in her sight. It had been so for days until a rider came in one of the evenings, announcing the return of Lord Stark’s host on the morrow.

“My lady,” said one of the soldiers who was with her atop of the watchtower. Lady Stark’s gaze followed that of the young man where it found riders on the horizon. Y/N’s heart began to beat harshly against her ribcage, threatening to tear her chest apart and escape. She licked her dry lips when she saw the banners of House Stark flying in the cold, northern winds.

It was midday when the host of warriors reached the castle gates. Lady Stark was waiting in the courtyard with Maester Bennard, Ser Harwyn and Ser Martyn, and countless others. Even the smallfolk who served in the castle gathered in the courtyard to see their lord’s return, at least those who were not busy preparing the feast.

The sound of hooves approaching echoed through the castle walls. Lady Y/N’s arms prickled with goose bumps. She held her breath as the riders arrived into the courtyard, Y/N’s gaze immediately finding that of the Lord of Winterfell. Lady Y/N’s chest quivered. Cregan’s hair was longer and his cheeks covered in yesterday’s stubble. Other than that, Y/N felt like nothing had changed, and yet everything. For a moment, it seemed to her that she was looking at a stranger, someone from a dream she remembered but did not know.

The Lord of Winterfell and his men dismounted as the stableboys and squires took care of their coursers. Lord Stark made his way to his wife with Maester Bennard and Ser Martyn by her side.

“My lady,” spoke Lord Stark, a warm smile hiding in the somber line of his lips. He took Lady Y/N’s hand into his, kissing the top of her knuckles and held it a moment. The touch of his hand felt so familiar and yet so strange to Lady Y/N.

“Husband,” breathed Lady Y/N quietly. Their gazes entwined as neither could manage to fill the silence with words and yet their eyes spoke a thousand phrases.

Y/N remembered to breathe and curtsied gracefully, “Welcome.”  

“Thank you, my lady,” said the Lord of Winterfell and watched her as if he had just seen her for the first time. His grey eyes were neither cold nor warm, neither hiding nor revealing; at least not to her.

The Lord of Winterfell greeted the rest of his court whilst the commanders expressed their courtesies to the Lady of Winterfell. Y/N could hardly focus on them as her gaze kept escaping to her husband’s broad back hidden beneath a heavy cloak of wolf fur. Y/N’s eyes watered yet she was unsure whether it was from the icy wind or her husband returning. She could feel Maester Bennard’s gaze on her, however, hiding only one thought.

***

“I would have a bath, scalding hot,” Lord Stark instructed the servants as himself and the Lady of Winterfell reached their private chambers. The servants disappeared to fetch the water and the tub as Lord Cregan took off his heavy coat with a suppressed groan.

“Are you well?” asked Lady Y/N, not anticipating the strange awkwardness that lingered in the air after the comfort she had grown to feel in their time together but that was four moons ago.

Lord Stark smiled to himself whilst he hung his coat over one of the chairs. He had been longing to hear his wife’s voice in the long, lonely days that he had been away.

“I am well,” said Lord Stark as he took Lady Y/N’s hand and gently pulled her to him. “Only tired from the ride,” he spoke more quietly, leaning his forehead against hers. Lady Y/N wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist and came closer, resting her cheek against Lord Stark’s chest. He smelled of horses, smoke, and pinewood but she did not mind, not in that moment. Cregan held his wife, realizing how much he had missed her. There was nothing but blood and slaughter and battle everywhere around him, frustrated advisors and fellow commanders, and warriors impatient in the cold northern climate. Lord Stark’s mind often drifted to his lady wife, to Y/N. He longed for the peace of holding her in his arms, for the touch of her soft skin beneath his sword-calloused hands. He missed her big, pensive eyes and her warm, gentle voice.

“Have you been well, my lady?” asked Lord Cregan in turn. Y/N paused. The moment was perfect to tell him yet she could not do it.

“Yes,” spoke Lady Y/N quietly and nodded. In truth, she had been anything but. Ruling Winterfell in her husband’s absence was one thing, yet trusting her body and finding leave to grieve at the same time was a different matter entirely. When Lady Y/N was with her moonblood for the first time since she lost her babe, she wept. She wept from happiness of things going back to normal and she wept from sadness as the blood only reminded her of what she had lost.

The servants returned and prepared a bath for their lord. Lady Y/N stood by the window as she noticed the snow had begun to fall almost as if it knew the Lord of Winterfell had returned to his castle. The servants retired once they readied the bath, leaving their lord and lady alone once again.

Cregan began unclasping his thick, leather jerkin lined with warm wool.

“I can leave you if you wish,” offered Lady Y/N gently as Lord Stark pulled off his boots. He turned to her with a frown.

“I have been gone from you for neigh four turns of the moon, wife,” said Lord Stark. “I do not wish to be parted from you a moment longer.”

A blush crept to Lady Y/N’s face as her spoke those words, an even greater fever flushing though her cheeks when Lord Stark took off his tunic and breeches and stepped into the bath. The feeling lasted for but a moment, however, because Y/N’s gaze fell to Cregan’s built chest, which was bandaged beneath his armpits and across his left shoulder.

Lady Y/N hurried to him and knelt by the bathtub.

“What happened? You said you are well,” asked Y/N quickly, her eyes wide and her brows in a frown. She wished to reach out and touch the bandage yet she did not dare.

“I am,” assured Lord Stark, the hint of a smile returning to his lips. His wife’s concern for him warmed Cregan’s heart.

“But—” Lady Y/N shook her head, looking at the red-brown stain of a wound trying to disguise itself in the pale bandages.

“You have my word, my lady,” said Lord Stark as he reached his hand to Lady Y/N’s cheek. His thumb brushed against her soft skin. He leaned in slowly as Y/N’s hand reached just beneath his jaw and their lips met in a kiss not of lust and desire but of profound longing. Y/N wondered how she could find the strength to hold back and not kiss her husband the moment he climbed off his horse. An overwhelming set of emotions washed over Lady Y/N as she rested her hand on her husband’s cheek, his lips leaving ever so familiar kisses on her own. It has been too long.

Lady Y/N pulled away hesitantly and reached for air. Her husband’s eyes lingered on her lips before they shifted to her eyes, his gaze warm and full of longing.

“I should call Maester Bennard to attend to your wound. Gods only know what sort of pretender treated it on the battlefield,” said Lady Y/N, whose voice was grave with worry and even anger at the thought of some charlatan posing for a maester treating her husband’s injury.

“Later,” agreed Lord Stark to reassure his beautiful wife. “I would have this bath first.”

Lady Y/N nodded, still holding her husband’s hand that held her cheek only moments ago. It was wet from the water yet still Lady Y/N held it tightly, drawing shapes into his palm with her thumb. Her eyebrows were in a deep, troubled frown, her eyes like big pools of worry and sadness.

“What is it?” asked Lord Stark, not unkindly, yet his own voice was grave with worry and suspicion. Something was amiss, something must have happened whilst he was away for Maester Bennard’s eyes were also hiding something when he awaited Lord Stark in the courtyard. He saw the meaningful look the maester gave to his lady wife yet the meaning was still unknown to the Lord of Winterfell.

Lord Cregan’s brows hung formidably as he studied his wife.

“Hm?” Lady Y/N looked up. She felt as if she had been caught red-handed yet Cregan could not have heard her thoughts. “Nothing,” lied Y/N and pressed a soft kiss atop of her husband’s hand before she let it go. “I was only … I am glad you have returned.” Lady Y/N offered a small smile but she could not mask how troubled her mind was to Cregan. He had learned to recognize in their short time together when something was amiss with his wife even when no one else would notice. 

“I should prepare for the feast,” Lady Y/N changed the topic and got up. Lord Stark did not question her any further yet his grey eyes lingered on Lady Y/N as she walked to the dressing area.

Lady Y/N had a gown made especially for the feast in the white and green of the field of House Stark’s banner and string-of-silver for its grey direwolf. The base of the dress was white with the hems of the sleeves, collar, and the bodice embroidered with dark green jewels, Myrish lace, and string-of-silver. Lady Y/N wore her necklace of emeralds and pearls and matching earrings gifted to her by her mother and had her handmaidens braid her hair for the occasion.

When Lady Y/N emerged from the dressing area, Lord Stark was already in his dark boots and breeches yet held off the tunic and jerkin until the maester would change his bandages. As the servants and the handmaidens left, Lord Stark’s grey eyes fell upon his wife wearing the finest gown in the colours of his House. His mouth parted softly.

“I had it made for this occasion,” said Lady Y/N when her husband would not speak. She felt a mixture of self-consciousness under Lord Stark’s gaze as well as some satisfaction at his reaction.

“I hope it pleases you,” said Lady Y/N as she locked her hands, offering a small smile.

“Pleases me?” breathed Lord Stark and got up eagerly. Yet before he could even take two steps towards his wife, the door of the chambers opened, announcing the arrival of the maester.

Maester Bennard brought his assistant, who carried a heavy yet ornate wooden box of herbs, potions, and medical supplies. Lord Stark’s gaze lingered on his beautiful wife a moment longer before he sat back down and allowed the maester to change his bandages. Lady Y/N stood by, watching it all from a distance. When Maester Bennard revealed a gash in Lord Stark’s chest just above his heart, Lady Y/N’s brows returned to a concerned frown. Whatever blood there was was old, dry and crusted on the bandage whilst the wound seemed to be healing. It was a cut caused by a wildling’s short axe who managed to steal into the Lord of Winterfell’s tent one night. The savage came at him with a dagger but did not know Lord Stark was still awake. Cregan knocked the man on the floor and took his dagger but the wildling recovered as they rolled on the floor. When the man got up, he came at Lord Stark with his short axe but managed only a weak blow for the Lord of Winterfell broke his arm when he had knocked him on the floor. Cregan got to the wildling’s own dagger and stabbed him in his side and then in his heart.

As Lord Stark told the tale of his new scar, he did not look at his wife. Cregan could feel her worried gaze on him with every word he spoke and did not want to give her any more cause for concern. Lady Y/N, however, had to hold her breath to keep the tears from her eyes as she listened, refusing to show her feelings, least of all in front of Maester Bennard. They have been working relentlessly since Lady Y/N recovered from that night, never speaking of it once since Lord Stark’s letter from The Gift arrived – other than checking on her health once in a while to ensure the lady’s recovery. Lady Y/N did not want to give Maester Bennard any more cause to see her as weak or incapable of ruling Winterfell in her husband’s absence. She made all the efforts to keep the council happy and Winterfell functioning as it should.

“Considering everything, the wound is healing nicely, my lord,” concluded Maester Bennard after he changed the bandage and stored away his supplies.

“Thank you, maester,” said Lord Stark as he got up and pulled on his tunic and jerkin. His cheeks were shaven clean and one of the servants must have shortened his dark hair some. For a moment, it seemed as if the march north had never happened, thought Lady Y/N, although in truth she felt as if four years and not four moons had passed since Lord Stark marched.

“Will you join us at the feast, Maester Bennard?” asked Lord Stark.

“I will. Thank you, my lord,” smiled Maester Bennard and bowed courteously. “And if I may, my lady, you look exquisite,” he added, turning to his lady and bowed as well.

“Thank you, maester,” said Lady Stark, slightly taken aback by Maester Bennard’s comment.

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell joined the commanders in the Great Hall where the feast was held. The music was already playing merrily as the lords drank on ale, waiting for their liege lord to begin feasting on delicious foods as well. Once the presence of Lord and Lady Stark was noted with everyone rising in respect before they sat down together, the servants began to bring dishes of beef and venison, meat pies, buttered vegetables, and even baked mallards. When all of the food was brought into the Great Hall, the Lord of Winterfell rose with a cup of ale in his hand.

“My lords,” addressed Lord Stark firmly, his voice booming and as solemn as ever yet unmistakably pleased. “Another march north is behind us and once again we have defeated the wildlings and sent them beyond the Wall where they belong!” he spoke with a heavy northern accent as the Great Hall roared with cheers and fists and cups slamming against the heavy oaken tables. “We protected our homes and we protected our people; our wives and our children—” the Lord of Winterfell continued but Lady Y/N’s heart sank to her stomach at the sound of his words. Her eyes rose to Maester Bennard, who was holding onto his cup of warm honeyed wine and watching his lord address his noble commanders. Still, Y/N wondered whether the maester wrote to her husband in secret, whether he told him of what had happened without her leave.

“This feast is for you! The finest warriors in all of the Seven Kingdoms and PROUD NORTHERNERS!” Lord Stark’s voice thundered through the hall as he rose his cup. The men cheered even louder and got up as well as did Lady Y/N, all emptying their cups to Winterfell’s victory over the savages.

The men dug into the delicious food prepared for them, having lived off stew and porridge for too many days on end. It was difficult enough to cook anything in a camp, much less something that did not come from a big pot for a great many people.

The Lady of Winterfell helped herself to some sweet beef and some buttered potatoes, having no more than a cup of wine all evening as she feared it might make her say something she would regret. For a moment, Lady Y/N considered it was all in her head – Maester Bennard’s burning gaze that she seemed to feel on her at all times. Nevertheless, when she rose her eyes to the maester, he was already looking at her. He averted his gaze when the Lady of Winterfell caught it. A part of her was furious with the old man and yet a part of her understood. He would not have his lord remain in the dark about anything, not even his wife.

Lady Y/N lost her appetite even before the desserts came. She made the kitchens prepare blueberry tarts and rice pudding with spices that warmed up even the coldest hands.

The Lord of Winterfell did not care for sweets yet he nevertheless had a slice of the blueberry tart. The tension at the high table could be cut with a knife, the mood no longer reflected only in Lady Y/N and Maester Bennard, as well as Lady Ellyn who sat by her lady’s side, but also in Lord Stark himself. The uneasy looks, the silence on both sides, where there was usually at least talk of the weather, made Lord Stark’s thoughts drift into dark and unsettling places. A seed of anger and frustration grew inside of him and it did not go unnoticed in a man who was usually as calm and stoic as a rock. He was tired and his patience was thinning.

“Would you tell me what is it that you are hiding from me?” suggested Lord Stark to his wife as he washed down the slice of tart with a cup of ale. The tone of his voice was harsher than he intended but once the words lingered between himself and Lady Y/N there was no taking them back and his wife’s silence only frustrated him more.

Lady Y/N stared into her husband’s eyes as if she were searching for something, something she hoped to recognize from many moons ago. She squeezed the fingers of one of her hands inside the other until it hurt. Lady Y/N licked her dry lips as she realized she would no longer be able to keep her secret to herself. If it would not be she who tells Lord Stark, the maester surely will.

“Will you … Will you walk with me?” asked Lady Y/N as she avoided her husband’s gaze.

Cregan studied his wife as his brows rested in a formidable frown but agreed nevertheless. “I will.”

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell got up from the high table and walked the grounds of their castle, its walls filled with the sound of merriment of its warriors. They walked the path to the godswood, the crowns of the pine trees blocking the snow some. Lady Y/N slowed her pace once they were finally alone and away from even the smallfolk attending the castle.

“Do you …” began Lady Y/N, not sure where to start. “Do you remember what you said to me the night before you left Winterfell?” she asked, her voice small and shiver-like. Her breath came out in small, white clouds.

Lord Stark looked at his wife as they walked. His face was frowning in such a formidable way that made Lady Y/N’s stomach twist into painful knots. She remembered her father and his anger.

“You asked me to return safely and I said I would,” said Lord Stark, his voice clear and sombre. Lady Y/N nodded but he could see that that was not what she meant. They walked down the path of cobblestones towards the godswood. It was narrow enough for only one person to walk it at a time. Lady Y/N went first, Lord Stark following on her trail. Y/N could almost feel his warm breath on the back of her head from his closeness. Goose pimples rose on her arms and legs. She held up her skirts as she passed some stairs until they reached the godswood, the heart tree, and the black pond.

“I told you that I loved you,” tried the Lord of Winterfell as they stood beneath the great, haughty weirwood tree. Lord Stark’s voice turned quieter yet remained earnest.

Lady Y/N’s gaze rose to her husband’s grey eyes as her entire body froze. Her heart broke into a million small pieces like a figurine made of glass shattering on the floor. Her eyes watered with tears although she had been doing everything in her power to keep herself from crying. She turned her head away and bit her lip to keep her chin from quivering yet it was all in vain. Hot, salty tears escaped her eyes and stung her cheeks as she closed her eyes. She could not make the words pass her mouth.

Cregan watched his wife, his own heart aching at the sight of her tears. A thousand and one thought had passed his mind on their way to the godswood. If something had gone wrong with the ruling of Winterfell in his absence, if there had been a falling out with one of the Houses, Maester Bennard would be sure to write of it to him whilst he was away. Yet another, more pressing thought weighed heavy on Lord Stark’s mind, a thought that made him burn with anger, with fury and jealousy unlike he had ever known before. If his wife had been unfaithful … He would not allow himself to believe that thought. He did not know what he would do if it proved to be true. Yet when he saw Y/N’s tears when he mentioned the time he told her of his love for her, Cregan had almost believed it – believed there was another man. But as his wife turned away, her body shivering with tears and a sadness so great that it threatened to break her, Cregan knew it could not be the love of a man that made her weep.

Lady Y/N’s small, delicate hand rested on her stomach as she looked down, her cheeks stung with tears.

“You might be great with child by then,” the Lord of Winterfell remembered his words from the night they last lied together. Cregan’s heart dropped to his stomach and he could not swallow the heaviness that formed in his throat. Furious with himself for his foolish thoughts and his harsh behaviour, Lord Stark’s mind overpowered with concern for his wife. He understood now too why the maester was involved.

Although Cregan was saddened about the babe, the feeling could not be compared to the sight of Y/N, his wife, in such a state of sorrow.

Lady Y/N’s chest allowed a small sob to escape, her hand closing over her mouth.

“Y/N …” spoke Lord Stark, his voice deep and hoarse as he reached for his wife. Y/N took a step back instinctively, her shoulders tensing around her neck as if she believed he might strike her.

“I am so sorry,” whispered Y/N as she shook her head, tears stinging her cheeks.

“If you will ever … ever be able to f-forgive me,” Lady Y/N’s voice broke as she made to kneel.

“Y/N,” Lord Stark spoke again, this time even more gently as he took her shoulders. The frown on his face was no longer one of anger and frustration but one softened with sadness and worry. Y/N’s eyes were red, her lashes clumped with tears.

Cregan pulled her into his arms. Lady Y/N resisted at first but Cregan held her tightly. At last Y/N’s chest broke into a painful cry, one with sobbing so sorrowful it made even the Gods cry. The face of the heart tree was lined with red streaks as the Lord of Winterfell held his wife.

“I am so sorry … I am so sorry,” spoke Lady Y/N over and over again against her husband’s chest. Her fingers were buried in his coat as Lord Stark held her head close.

“It is not your fault, Y/N,” assured Lord Stark with all of the authority in him but it made no difference to Lady Y/N. “You are not to blame.”

“I was so afraid, Cregan,” cried Y/N. “I was so afraid you would not come back … And it … It made it go away …”

“That is not true, my love,” Lord Stark spoke more gently against Y/N’s hair. “It is not your fault.” Cregan kissed the top of his wife’s head and rested his chin there as he held her trembling frame close to his.

“Maester Bennard said there was nothing he could have done,” whispered Lady Y/N tearfully as her crying soothed down some. “There … T-There was just s-so much blood.” Lady Y/N's chin quivered as she remembered that night. “I was so scared …” she whispered so quietly she thought her husband would not be able to hear but he did.

“It is not your fault, my lady ... I am here now, my love,” spoke Lord Stark quietly against his wife’s hair as he caressed her head.

“I thought … I thought you would be so angry with me,” spoke Y/N in the same voice.

“Why would you think so?” frowned Lord Stark, his body tensing.

“I only thought … I thought you wished for it …”

“I did,” spoke Lord Stark gently and cupped his wife’s cheeks and made her look him in the eye. “But not as much as I wish for your happiness and health,” he said earnestly. Y/N closed her eyes. She could not look into her husband’s eyes no matter how much he wanted her to.

“We will have dozens of children if that is what you wish,” said Cregan but he could not stop his wife’s tears.

“Two dozen,” tried Cregan again. Lady Y/N laughed a small laugh through her tears and nodded. Cregan wiped away the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs before he kissed her forehead. Their lips met as snow began to fall. Lord Stark leaned his forehead against his wife’s, his eyes closed whilst he took in the scent of her hair. He longed for her; not only for her body but for her company.

“Come, my love,” spoke Lord Stark quietly, his hand caressing his wife’s cheek before they returned to the castle.

***

Neither the Lord or the Lady of Winterfell got up at the break of dawn that morning. Cregan laid on his side with his wife’s arm hung over his waist as she pressed against his warm back. Even in her sleep, Lady Y/N could not make herself part from the safety of her husband’s touch now that he had returned. As Lord Stark began to wake in the late hours of the morning, he took his wife’s hand absently and pulled it to his chest where it rested in his. Cregan could hear her sigh, her nose nuzzling against his broad back and making him smile. He turned around carefully.

“No …” murmured Lady Y/N as her source of warmth shifted, her eyes still shut tight.

Lord Stark smiled to himself and guided his wife’s small hand over his side once again. He pulled her closer and watched her catch the last minutes of sleep before the morning would turn into day. He studied the colour of her beautiful hair and the line of her jaw and her nose, the shape of her shoulder, which disappeared from his sight beneath the covers. Lord Stark guided his hand from his wife’s ribs down to the curve of her waist, which made his body warm with desire. The feeling did not linger long, however, as Lord Stark’s mind drifted to his time away on the march and the loss not only he but especially his wife suffered. Cregan reminded himself to speak to Maester Bennard about Lady Stark’s health and what happened. He caressed his wife’s head and shifted his body lower so that he could kiss her forehead. Cregan left soft kisses on Lady Y/N’s cheek until she smiled through her sleep and slowly opened her eyes.

“What time is it?” mumbled Y/N just before Cregan softly kissed her.

“Late,” said Lord Stark yet did not seem to care. He had just returned from a march – he was entitled to a good night’s sleep for once.

“I can get dressed,” said Lady Y/N but snuggled closer to her husband’s body. The Lord of Winterfell smiled yet could not hide the worry that settled in him. His body was tense and his hands secured its grip protectively around his wife’s body.

Lady Y/N rose her head and looked at her husband. “Is something the matter?” she asked softly. After they returned to the castle last night, they only went to sleep. They had not been together since Cregan returned although in truth it has only been a day’s turn.

“I’m sorry I was not here for you when it happened,” said Cregan, caressing his wife’s cheek. All of the sudden Y/N was wide awake. She hoped they had closed this matter last night in the godswood.

“Why … Why are you sorry if I … If I was the one …” Y/N tried to find the right words without triggering any tears but that was harder than she thought.

“You had to go through such a terrible thing alone,” said Lord Stark solemnly. “If I were here—” But Y/N could not hear it, she would not hear it, and so she placed her palm over her husband’s mouth.

“Please,” pleaded Lady Y/N. “Don’t make me talk about it any further … I just want to forget.” 

Cregan nodded and took his wife’s hand and kissed it. “Forgive me.” But Y/N only shook her head. She leaned in and softly kissed her husband. His large hand cupped her cheek instinctively as he brought her closer.

“You cannot imagine how I longed for you all this time, my lady,” said Cregan against Lady Y/N’s lips in a deep, husky voice of the morning. He shifted and leaned against his arm so that his wife laid beneath him. She wrapped her soft legs around his waist. Y/N realized how she too longed for him and his touch and how it was even possible they had not been together yesterday already. She pulled Cregan closer, her hands wrapped around his neck as she tugged gently on his hair. A soft moan escaped Y/N’s mouth when Cregan’s hardness brushed against the inside of her thighs. She gathered the hem of his shirt, yearning to see his body. Cregan pulled off his loose tunic, revealing his strong, built chest but also his injury that sobered Y/N some.

“Are you in pain?” asked Lady Y/N quickly. “Should we—”

“I am only in pain from not having you,” Cregan cut her off and pulled off his nightbreeches before entering his wife. The pleasure he felt was so great that when Lord Stark steadied himself against the headboard, the wood cracked beneath the grip of his fingers. Cregan could not be bothered as he savoured the delight of his wife’s body. He tried to go slow and gentle but his desire was too strong. Instead, he slid an arm behind Y/N’s waist and turned them around without leaving her. Cregan laid on his back and let his wife take control or he would lose it.

Y/N pulled her hair to one side of her neck as she leaned down to Cregan’s lips and kissed him passionately. She almost leaned her arms against his chest before she saw the bandage that she had forgotten about in her pleasure. Y/N steadied herself against the bed instead whilst Cregan’s hands wrapped around her hips as she moved steadily against his waist. Her heart beat hard against her chest when she began nearing her climax. She both wanted to stop and have Cregan take over but at the same time Y/N would do anything for the feeling never to end.

“Fuck,” muttered Cregan when he saw how close Y/N was. He sat up, drunk on desire, and helped her by moving his hips as well. His hands reached for her soft breasts that he squeezed and kissed, his fingers brushing against her nipples that made Y/N whine in pleasure.

Y/N was almost there. Her thighs quivered and her nails dug into Cregan’s back. She leaned against his body when a series of quiet whimpers escaped her mouth and her entire body trembled with pleasure. Her shivering breath disappeared in her husband’s loud groan with his arms locked around her waist tightly. They were breathing heavily in each other’s arms, incredulous how they could bear so long without each other. Cregan was still inside of her as they already laid back on the bed, him unable to stop kissing Y/N. His strong arms were wrapped around her bare shoulders, holding her to him as if he feared she might disappear if he let go.

“Gods, I love you,” murmured Cregan against his wife’s lips. Y/N pulled away some, looking up in to her husband’s grey eyes, the warmest she had ever seen them.

“And I you,” spoke Y/N softly.

***

After breaking their fast, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell attended the council together. Lady Y/N wore a grey dress with embroidery of string-of-silver in the pattern of tree branches with small red leaves representing the heart tree. She wore her pearls and the ruby necklace of her wedding day.

Lady Stark sat beside her husband at the long table whilst the councillors discussed the matters of the past few moons. Lady Y/N spoke herself at times, adding and taking from some of the words of the lords. Some would make things seem better or worse than they were to please the Lord of Winterfell and look good in his eyes. Y/N did not say anything then but after the council, in the private audience only between herself, Cregan, and Maester Bennard, the three could discuss plainly what was said and where the real truths lied.

“Thank you, Maester Bennard,” said Lord Stark as they came to the end of both daily matters as well as things concerning his recent absence. “I will see you in the evening should there be more ravens and matters to attend to.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Maester Bennard. His small eyes glanced between the Lady of Winterfell and Lord Stark. “Would you allow me a private audience, my lord?” asked the maester carefully. He looked down in respect and Lady Y/N did not think twice of it. She told Cregan everything and if the maester wanted to check on that, she would let him. If it was about another matter, Y/N could not be happier to be relieved of her duties for once.

Lady Y/N looked at her husband but Cregan was already waiting to hear her wishes. Y/N smiled reassuringly and curtsied.

“I will take Blackspur for a ride. It has been too long,” said Lady Y/N and left the maester and her husband to speak privately.

Lord Stark leaned in his chair and watched his loyal advisor take a seat before him. He had been meaning to speak to Maester Bennard himself ever since he learned of what had happened in his absence.

“My lord,” began Maester Bennard hesitantly, which was rather untypical of the maester. He usually spoke with conviction and certainty.

“If you mean to speak of my wife’s passing condition in my absence, I would have you know she had already spoken to me about it, maester,” said Lord Stark neither kindly nor upset. The maester seemed relieved at the news and nodded.

“It gladdens me, my lord,” said Maester Bennard. “Lady Stark commanded she should be the one to tell you.”

“I see,” said the Lord of Winterfell. “And if she had not spoken to me prior to this audience?”

Maester Bennard paused as he sensed tension in his lord’s voice. “I was of a mind that a raven should be sent to you when my lady fell ill,” said the maester. “These things rarely happen without complications. If nothing else, the loss of blood can be significant.”

The maester’s words made Cregan sick to his stomach. He had seen men’s limbs torn from their bodies, their heads hacked in half and cut off; he himself cut off many a man’s head be it as punishment or in battle, but the thought of his wife in a puddle of blood made Lord Stark’s stomach twist.

“But my lady recovered well,” said Maester Bennard encouragingly. “I believe she found solace in work although she is spending less and less time with her ladies-in-waiting, even with Lady Mormont, who was a comfort to Lady Stark in her darkest hours.”

The Lord of Winterfell listened.

“Whilst losing a babe, especially if it is the first, is nothing unusual and the body oft heals relatively quickly,” said the maester, “The healing of the heart, especially a woman’s heart, is a different matter.”

Cregan nodded to himself. “Thank you, maester,” said the Lord of Winterfell, understanding now.

“My lord,” bowed Maester Bennard and left Cregan be. Lord Stark looked through the window on his right. The sun glistening in last night’s snow blinded his eyes. He wished he knew what to do.

***

Buried in his work, the Lord of Winterfell lost the sense of time. One of his personal servants came to call him to a late nuncheon, making Lord Stark realize how long he had been chained to the desk.

"I will join the Lady Stark in a moment," said Cregan and pressed his seal into hot, grey wax.

"My lady has yet not returned from her ride, my lord," said the servant cautiously.

"What do you mean she has not returned yet?" said the Lord of Winterfell, his stern, grey eyes rising to the servant's. The young man looked down.

Lord Stark rose from his desk and stormed to the master-of-stables who informed him that Lady Stark had left only with Ser Martyn as her escort.

“How could this happen?” Lord Stark rose his voice mindlessly at his servants. They all bowed their heads and looked at the ground, even Ser Tybald. “She is the Lady of Winterfell! She should have an escort of at least a dozen knights!” thundered Cregan with anger boiling within him. His fists were squeezed tight as he stormed outside and called for his men to gather. The hour grew darker by the moment with a snow blizzard on the horizon. A party of two dozen men was gathered, most of them horsed save for the master-of-kennels, Ser Jon, and his apprentices that held the hounds on their chains.

The cruel northern winds whistled mercilessly as Lord Stark mounted his courser Nightkeeper. The snowflakes were dancing in the air, not a single one reaching the ground in the wild wind seeming more like ash than snow.

The party did not even make outside of winter town before they ran into the Lady of Winterfell and her sworn shield, Ser Martyn. He looked as pale as the weirwood tree in the face of his lord’s anger yet his sword was bloodied and his armor soiled red.

The Lord of Winterfell dismounted immediately as did Lady Y/N and Ser Martyn. Cregan stormed to his lady wife, grasping her shoulders before he pulled her into an ardent kiss of relief never minding his men watching. Lady Y/N was knocked out of wind and would have stumbled backwards if Lord Stark had not held her arms so securely.

“Where were you?” demanded Lord Stark from his lady wife. He still held her tightly by the shoulders, his brows in a terrible frown. Lady Y/N’s cheeks were flushed red where the cold wind lashed at them but not only that. The redness masked the small cuts that neither bled nor remained insignificant. Her neck, where visible, was more of the same and her head of long hair loose from its braid and windblown.

“And you!” snapped Cregan before Lady Y/N could manage a word and grabbed Ser Martyn’s breast plate. “How could you leave without an escort?” Lord Stark roared at one of his best men, but in that moment, Cregan could just as well kill him with his bare hands for endangering his wife. Lord Stark could not tell what angered him more: the thought of his wife alone with another man or that man, her sword shield, allowing Cregan’s wife to leave the grounds of Winterfell without a proper escort to protect her.

“Please, everything is alright now,” urged Lady Y/N as she came up to her husband, “A host of bandits attacked us ... ” She touched Lord Stark’s arm but he winced livid with fury, his cold, grey glare snapping to his wife.

“I should think,” snapped Lord Stark. Lady Y/N took a step back and lowered her gaze. Cregan was breathing heavily, still holding onto Ser Martyn’s breast plate although his eyes were on his wife. Lord Stark’s breathing began to calm although not so much his anger born from concern.

“I will hear of your pretensions later, knight,” the Lord of Winterfell growled at Ser Martyn as he let go of his breast plate with a yank.

A shivery breath of relief escaped Lady Y/N’s chest as she stared at her lord husband. He turned as did she, intending to mount Blackspur.

“No,” commanded Lord Stark, his insides still boiling with anger. Lady Y/N’s big eyes found her husband’s furious glare as he took her hand and led her to his courser. The dark brown stallion paced restlessly as he sensed his master’s rage. Cregan grabbed a hold of his wife’s waist and lifted her effortlessly on his courser. Y/N gasped soundlessly but dared not say a word. She had never seen her husband so furious or his anger so slow to cool. She wanted to tell Cregan what had happened and how Ser Martyn was not to blame but the wind whistled so loudly she could barely hear her own thoughts. They had to get back to the castle and quickly.

Heavy snow began to fall as the Lord of Winterfell climbed up into his saddle, one of his arms tightly wrapping around his wife’s waist. Lady Y/N held onto his strong, tense arm as Cregan spurred his mount around and they rode back to the castle. One of the men took Blackspur’s reins and led her to the castle with them. Y/N could almost sense the white-hot anger radiating off her husband’s body as he held her to him. Lord Stark’s anger only cooled some when he began to realize his wife was unharmed for the most part but was fuelled yet again as he knew none of it would have happened if a larger party escorted her. A tempest of thoughts ran through Cregan's mind. He doubted they could have got lost and were ambushed. Ser Martyn may not have been born in Winterfell but he had been a squire for his father since he was a boy of seven. He knew Winterfell as well as any.

Cregan’s heart pumped furiously as a seed of jealousy began to grow in him once again. Just the thought of Y/N alone with another man, any man. The foolish idea in Lord Stark's mind was soon overpowered by a thought that could prove to become all to real if Ser Martyn had not brought Y/N back safely. A pack of bandits, if they had prevailed over Lady Y/N's sworn shield ...

Cregan’s grip on Lady Y/N’s grip tightened even more just as they passed the castle gates. Lady Y/N squeezed Cregan's forearm, trying to tell him wordlessly that the grip was too tight but Lord Stark was too deep in his thoughts. The more Y/N tried to peel his arm off her waist, the stronger Cregan’s grip became.

“You’re hurting me,” said Lady Y/N at last. Her words sobered Lord Stark immediately and woke him from his poisonous thoughts. His hold softened immediately and he released a long held breath.

They reached the castle where one of the stableboys took the reins of Lord Stark's horse. The Lord of Winterfell dismounted and took his wife’s waist carefully. As her feet reached the floor, Cregan towered over her easily. He was suddenly acutely aware of his strength and how his thoughts carried him away.

“Forgive me,” asked Lord Stark of his wife, “It was never my intention to harm you.” Lady Y/N looked up into her husband’s eyes, taken back by the change in his voice. Cregan was far from calm, she could tell, but calmer still than he was only moments ago.

“Only if you can forgive me, my lord,” said Lady Y/N and bowed. Her hands began to tremble as she remembered the group of bandits. Neither herself nor Ser Martyn were sure they would be able to escape and it was her fault for persuading the knight they do not need more men with them. But she was no longer the young Lady Whytefort who no one knew of. She was the Lady of Winterfell, wife to the Warden of the North, and therefore much more valuable to bandits and delinquents.

“There were six of them,” told Lady Y/N once in her husband’s solar. “One of them was slain by Ser Martyn and another lost his arm at the wrist but the rest of them remained unscathed. Some of them had swords and short axes, and two of them were ahorse – one of those died at the hands of Ser Martyn when they chased us through the Wolfswood,” said Lady Y/N quickly, her words flying out of her mouth as if they were in a race to be heard by Lord Stark and Maester Bennard.

“Is there anything else you remember, my lady?” asked Maester Bennard as he wrote down the details for there would be a search party and an award for anyone who would provide information of the delinquents.

Lord Stark stared at his wife, wondering what it would be like if her and Ser Martyn had not returned, if he could not find her in time. Cregan had only just returned home only to neigh lose his wife, the woman he dreamed of every night on his march north.

The snow blizzard raged outside but that was the least of Lord Stark's concerns. If Lady Y/N could not have managed to escape the bandits … The wax stick in Cregan’s hand snapped like a twig. He had been rolling it around his fingers to keep his focus and pace his temper.

Lady Y/N’s eyes moved from Cregan’s eyes to his hands and finally to the maester. She shook her head.

“Thank you, my lady,” said Maester Bennard curtly and put the quill away. Lady Y/N nodded and finally felt at ease enough to remove her cloak. She hissed when the heavy fabric drew across a deep gash on her shoulder that she had forgotten about in the midst of it all.

Cregan jumped up hastily at the sight of the wound. The sleeve of Lady Y/N’s riding gown was drenched in blood.

“I think I caught a branch when we were running away,” said Lady Y/N, her fingertips red with blood as she inspected her wound.

“Why didn’t you speak before?” asked Lord Stark, rushing to his wife’s side. Lady Y/N looked up into her husband’s eyes, his formidable frame looming over her. He looked the wound before he tore off a strip of his tunic and wrapped it around her upper arm to stop the bleeding, whilst the maester went to fetch his things.

“I forgot,” said Lady Y/N quietly yet in all honesty. Cregan frowned at her, hardly believing what she was saying. Only then could Cregan see the tremble in her hands and the fear in her eyes. The small cuts on her face became more prominent once the blush from the wind drained from her cheeks. Lady Y/N should have taken a larger escort but the bandits had no business lurking the grounds of Winterfell in the first place, much less attacking its high lady. If Cregan feared for his wife's safety, how frightened must she have been in the face of it all.

Cregan caressed his wife’s cheek gently and pulled her closer, careful not to brush against her shoulder. He kissed the top of Y/N’s head as he felt her small hands reach around his waist.

“Please forgive me,” said Y/N quietly. Tears soaked her voice as she leaned against Cregan’s steady frame. "I was a fool not to heed Ser Martyn's advice. I never thought ..."

“Forgiven,” murmured the Lord of Winterfell against her hair. A different kind of anger rose inside of Cregan as he caressed his wife’s hair.

“I will have their heads and hang their from the walls of Winterfell, my lady. You have my word.”

***

It took a week for the snow blizzard to settle and near another three for any traces of the bandits to be found. Ser Martyn led one of the search parties, knowing full well what the men looked like. Just so, it was his group of knights who found them. Ser Martyn delivered the news as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell had their nuncheon in private. They had trout prepared in a skin of herbs with baked potatoes and a flagon of dark ale.

Lady Y/N’s heart paused in her chest when she heard the news.

“How did you find them?” asked Lady Stark. It has been so long everyone began to lose hope of ever catching the group of delinquents.

Ser Martyn hesitated a moment, showing a clear discomfort. “We found them despoiling a peasant girl,” he told.

Lady Stark’s lips parted but she could not find the words she wanted to say. Her stomach twisted and turned into knots and Y/N had to do everything in her power to keep her meal down. Blood began to boil in her veins. Out of nowhere, Lady Y/N could see the men’s faces in her mind as if it were yesterday that she encountered them in the Wolfswood. The man slain by Ser Martyn, the one who lost his hand, the short one with missing teeth, the two lanky men who seemed to be kin and the one who remained on horseback. Y/N did not know why but she wanted to see how the life would leave the bandits’ eyes. She wanted to be there when Cregan would pass the judgement and condemn them to whatever punishment he saw fit.

“I will see them,” said Lord Stark severely and got up from the table. Lady Y/N's eyes followed him.

“There are only four of them left, my lord,” informed Ser Martyn. “We interrogated the men separately and all claim the fifth was taken by the snowstorm.”

“After I am through with them, they will believe the frozen fool fortunate,” said the Lord of Winterfell.

***

The bandits were brought to Winterfell in chains, unharmed at the command of the Warden of the North. When the day of their execution came, most of Winterfell and the winter town gathered in the main square to witness the deaths of the men who had been pestering their lands. The Lady of Winterfell was not the first person they attacked and the peasant girl would not have been the last if not for Ser Martyn and his knights.

As the four men were led to the scaffold, not one of them walked without a limp. Their faces were broken and bruised but Lady Y/N could recognize them still even with the blood drying on their wounds. As per law, their heads were to be cut off for their crimes, but the Lord of Winterfell ordered their carcasses be hanged above the main gates of the castle as a warning to others.

The morning already broke but the snow was falling heavily in the silver-blue light of day. Lady Stark was standing with Lady Ellyn on the dais beneath a canopy that shielded them from the worst of the late autumn snow. Lady Y/N had trouble sleeping and had been feeling uneasy all morning. She could not find comfort not even in her husband’s embrace. Y/N could not stop thinking about the peasant girl nor of the day herself and Ser Martyn were ambushed. She could have ended up as the peasant girl or worse. The whole of it made her sick to her stomach. Lady Y/N wanted to be there for the execution, she wanted to see, and yet she wished for all of it to be over as quickly as possible.

The Lord of Winterfell marched on the scaffold where the prisoners waited in line. Thick snowflakes nestled in his heavy fur cloak and his long, dark hair. Ice hung solemnly on Lord Cregan’s back as the charges were told to the prisoners and the crowd that gathered.

“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” Cregan told Lady Y/N when she asked last night who will bring doom to the bandits in the morn. The words rang almost as profoundly of House Stark as those of “Winter is coming”. Y/N had long thought it an old-wife's tale yet the longer she stayed at Winterfell, the more she began to believe there really never was a Stark without honour.

An eerie silence filled the square when the Lord of Winterfell unsheathed his great longsword. Cregan took off the prisoners’ heads one by one yet before he could reach the third, Lady Y/N’s head grew light as a summer cloud and a sickness settled in her stomach. She could not watch any longer but it was too late. Y/N tried to grasp Lady Ellyn’s hand to steady herself but her grip was no grip at all, merely a touch before she came crashing to the ground and darkness swallowed her vision.

Lady Y/N could feel the pillows beneath her as she began to wake but even the slightest movement of her head sent her head spinning. Y/N groaned and steadied herself against the mattress, slowly opening her eyes. She recognized the ceiling of her private chambers. There were voices speaking but there was ringing in her ears and she could not understand them. Suddenly, a heavy nausea came over her and she threw up, a basin already by her side. Someone took her hair and held it back as sweat coated Lady Y/N’s neck and forehead. The ringing in her ears gradually stopped as did her vomiting. She was offered a cup of water by someone. Lady Y/N rose her gaze and saw her lady-in-waiting.

“It’s alright,” whispered Lady Ellyn with a small smile.

“What happened?” asked Lady Y/N as she looked around her chambers. Cregan was standing by her side, his eyes bright and restless and his brows in a concerned frown. If this were a battle, he would have been swinging his sword and shouting orders. But this was no battle although his body was just as tense.

Lady Y/N noticed Maester Bennard was there as well as were her other three ladies-in-waiting. The ladies wore cheerful smiles and exchanged silent whispers.

Maester Bennard offered a small smile. “I am pleased to say that your ladyship is with child again.”

[volklana]

To You I Belong

Title Comes From This Song:

Summary: It was supposed to be a simple spying mission, like the ones he had done many times over, draw no suspicions, take no prisoners, leave no casualties and then slip away into the night with the precious information he had learned. What he did not factor into this equation was encountering the love of his life.

Warnings: Reader is a slave for the first part of the story.

The moment he laid eyes on you something stirred in his very soul, something he had never felt before, and it unsettled him, deeply.

Sihtric had never failed Uhtred before. 

Not once. 

But he was about to.

And if he was honest with himself from the moment he had entered the Dane’s camp, he knew he was going to do something he had never done before, he was going to be selfish.

Because from that very moment he saw you he had decided he would do whatever he could. Suffer whatever consequence came his way to get you out of here. 

It was supposed to be a simple spying mission, like the ones he had done many times over, draw no suspicions, take no prisoners, leave no casualties and then slip away into the night with the precious information he had learned. 

Except he was sure of one thing with great certainty, he would not be slipping away into the night unless it was by your side. 

He had watched you for nights now, pouring ale into the cup of the brutish Dane Ulf, who possessed you, slave irons around your neck, which tethered you to him. 

He watched you flinch every time he rose, and watched in horror as he backhanded you roughly for dropping his cup once when he yanked too harshly on your chains.  

“Saxon bitch,” he hissed as you held a trembling hand to your cheek, before gathering yourself and pouring the drink into his cup. 

“Pour one for my friend too,” he instructed, and Sihtric almost held his breath as you stepped into his proximity to pour into his empty cup, he thanked you with a small nod of his head, and for a moment your eyes lingered on his before you were yanked backwards and were forced to stand beside your brutish slaver again. 

“Why do you keep those chains on her?” Sihtric had asked and Ulf sighed a long hard sigh before leaning forward, voice dipped as if sharing a secret with Sihtric, “Do not let that face fool you. She is wild like a mare, bites like one too.” 

Sihtric was beginning to despair at how he could get you away from Ulf.

He thought about slipping into his tent at night, slitting his throat and simply stealing you away but he couldn’t trust that it would be so easy, and Ulf never left your side for long enough to simply steal you away.

The only time he ever left you unguarded was when he had you chained to a stake not far from his own tent and it was in these rare moments where Sihtric could talk freely with you. Bringing you stolen rations of food or allowing you to sip from his own water pouch.

If,you fought like a mare, Sihtric thought it was only because you were frightened, he could read it in your huge worried eyes whenever he was near you.

You always expected pain and it took you days to accept the food straight from his hands and not from the ground where he placed it, hands up and backing away to show he meant to harm.

It broke his heart.

Sihtric once again found himself around the campfire, sipping slowly from his cup, eyes once again on yours when Ulf’s booming voice pulled his attention.

“You like the look of my woman?” he teased, half slouched back on the ground, his gullet filled with ale and Sihtric swirled the liquid around in his own cup instead of answering.

He yanked roughly on your chains and you were pulled forward, “I said,” he commanded again “Do you like the look of my woman? You have been humping her with your eyes all evening. Perhaps I should cut your eyes from your head so you learn to not look upon things that do not belong to you. Or perhaps,” he suddenly rose and made to tear at your clothes to expose you, “I should show you what you are missing.”

Sihtric rose from his seat like a lightning bolt, sword drawn and ready to strike when Ulf suddenly laughed and stood back with his hands raised “I jest friend, come, let us sit, there is no need for blood to be spilled this night.” 

He plonked himself drunkenly down on the ground and even though Sihtric was seething, chest rising and falling in anger he slowly put down his weapon, before doing a quick check over of you.

You remained standing eyes wide, looking like a rabbit cornered by foxes, and remained frozen in fear of another blow from Ulf.

You were being punished. For two nights now you had been forced to sleep outside, chained to that godforsaken stake in the ground, denied food and drink because you had nearly bitten Ulf’s ear clean off in an attempt to flee him a few nights before. Tired of enduring him, tired of his violence. And you would have made good on your escape were it not for the stupid shackles you wore around your neck, for as soon as you had run a few hundred paces he managed to grab a hold of the chain you dragged along behind you and yanked you down to the ground, you still bore the cut where your lip had split from his blows and your throat still ached from where he had nearly strangled the life from you, but unfortunately you had survived the ordeal and knew you would never have the chance to flee again.

The nights were freezing, and frost covered the ground, you shook so violently your teeth chattered in your skull and Sihtric came both nights to cover you in his furs, sitting with you in silence until your body stopped shaking, although sometimes you wished he wouldn’t so that the frost may take you with it, but you would have been lying if you said your heart didn't flutter in your chest when you saw his figure approach each night.

“Here lady,”  a gentle voice pulled you from your despair as Sihtric hunkered down in front of you and passed you his leather pouch filled with water to drink from, “You must be thirsty.”

Your anxious eyes scanned the night for a glimpse of Ulf, and Sihtric whipped his head around to follow your line of sight, and realised it was the brute you were looking for, but you visibly relaxed when you could not find him.

The cold liquid soothed your scratched throat and Sihtric encouraged you to drink some more, “Take as much as you need, I will bring you more later,” he said honestly and your heart fluttered in your chest at his unwavering kindness.

“You are not like them,” you said after a few moments' consideration, “You don’t belong here, you are gentle.”

Sihtric stilled all actions for a moment, it was the first time you had ever spoken to him and he had not been expecting it.

“That has always been my problem lady, I have never wanted to be like them,” he smiled sadly, remembering back to the days when Kjartan the Cruel would have him tortured simply for being so soft. “Weak,” he had spat at him, yet him and Sven, his one eyed goat turd of a brother, were gone and only Sihtric remained. 

“You will not hurt me?”

“I will not.”

“You will not try to claim me?”

“I will not,” he promised again and you took a second of liberty to look up into those open, honest, mismatched eyes and found no lies there.

“My name is Y/N,” you told him as you handed his leather pouch back into his hands, his rough fingers momentarily encapsulating yours. 

“I am going to get you out of here,” he promised and a lump caught in your throat.

“You cannot promise that,” you cried and he took your hands fully in his.

“I swear to it y/n, when I come for you and I will, be ready to run,”

“You swear it?” you cried, voice wobbling and he squeezed your hands with conviction.

“I swear it, on my gods and yours.” 

There was a skirmish in the camp and your heart caught in your throat, you were trapped and caught in the centre of it all. You could smell the burning boats and blood and next thing Sihtric was in your vision, axe in hand hacking at the chain that held you in place and when it finally snapped in half he was pulling you wordlessly, your legs ached and your lungs burned but you ran as fast as your legs could carry you, Sihtric hacked and stabbed at any Dane who attempted to stop him “Keep going to the horses,” he urged whenever he was slowed down “Don’t stop I will meet you there!” 

True to his word he hoisted you effortlessly onto his horse and took to riding with all his might, away into the night.

As you finally reached Coccham, Sihtric offered you his hand and helped you climb down from his horse, he brushed you down but was careful not to allow his hands to linger or make you uncomfortable. 

“You will be safe here,” he promised.

His friends had suddenly gathered around eager to hear what information he brought with him and the head of Uhtred’s household stepped forward.

“I claim her,” she suddenly demanded “She is a good strong one. I claim her as a servant.”

“No,” Sihtric barked and Uhtred stood to attention in front of him, “She is not yours to claim and she will never be a servant again. Is that clear,” he commanded, demanding anyone to even dare to defy him.

“Fine,” she sneered “Keep your little slave.”

“She is no slave,” he spat “She is free.” 

Sihtric was like a wild animal, teeth bared and ready to bite.

“She is free!” Finan concluded coming to stand beside his friend and he did not need to speak it aloud for Sihtric to understand he too would fight any man or woman who dared to challenge Sihtric.

“It is agreed,” Uhtred nodded and Sihtric was marching upwards to the burgh to find the blacksmith to finally remove the shackles from your neck, there would be time to pass on his information over supper.

“I don’t know if I have the tools,” the smith looked sympathetic but not too worried about finding the tools but Sihtric was irate, “You will find the tools or you will never yield another tool again,” he threatened and within moments the iron shackles were removed from your bruised neck and you were free.

You stood before Sihtric in bewilderment as he was pulling off his armrings and placing them into your hands. 

“You are free,” Sihtric said gently but sadly because he genuinely expected you to flee, now that you had the option to but you remained rooted in place.

“I promised you I would not claim you, your destiny is your own. If you would like to return home I will arrange a horse for you, if you would like to stay I will arrange boarding for you here within Uhtred’s household.”

You considered him for a moment, standing before you shyly and then you flung yourself into his arms, wrapping your own arms around his neck, “Thank you,” you whispered softly into his skin “Thank you.”

His own arms locked around your form, and he gently brushed his fingers through the length of your hair.

“I wish to stay,” you said when you broke away and Sihtric made to say he would arrange it, “Not in boarding, not in Uhtred’s household. With you. I would like to stay with you.” 

Sihtric swallowed thickly and blinked quickly, but nodded nonetheless.

You bathed and dried your hair by the hearth in Uhtred’s hall, and with warm food in your belly and proper clothes on, you felt somewhat human again.

Sihtric was sitting amongst his friends, eating and deep in talk, no doubt deciding what their next plans would be. 

You touched your hands to where the weight of the shackles had been for months and were not used to the feeling of not finding a weight there. 

Osferth, the monk came to sit by your side so he too could warm himself by the fire.

“You are Christian?” Osferth enquired and you shook your head.

“I was,” you said, looking towards Sihtric “Now I only believe in strength and those brave enough to do the right thing.” 

“You look to him,” Osferth mused, following your line of sight. 

“He cared for me when none other did.” 

“Could you? - Might you care for him?” he asked sincerely and you nodded, unable to stop the tears that formed in your eyes, when Sihtric’s own eyes landed on yours.

“Yes, I believe so.” 

“We are to ride on to Winchester,” Sihtric informed you, “You will be safe here until we return,” he added and you shook your head violently.

“I will go with you,” you stated and he shook his head.

“Y/n, you should stay where you are safe.”

“I am safest with you,” you pleaded and he grimaced.

“You are free. You owe me no fealty, you are not bound to me. You do not owe me-”

You pressed your lips to his, cutting off whatever it was he was about to say.

“I do not choose to stay with you because I feel indebted to you. I stay because I am your woman now,” you told him, cupping his face in your hands “You hear me? I am yours by my own choice. Of my own free will. If you will have me, that is.”

The smile that broke out over his face was almost boyish and his own hands sprung up to rest on yours, still holding his face.

“You are the only decision I’ve ever made that was selfish, that was purely my own- that was for me and me alone.”

“Then choose me again,” you smiled back “Choose me every time, as I will choose you.”

Sihtric closed the distance, crashing his lips to yours and he was agreeing to take you to Winchester because he would have asked the gods to carry you to the moon if you asked it of him.

"To you I belong Sihtric," you had whispered that night as you made love under the stars, and you traced the scars of Sihtric's body trying to commit every one to memory. "To you I belong."

Father Beocca joined your hands together and Sihtric’s smile was contagious.

“Behold my oath, that I will take no other as my wife but you,” Sihtric promised.

“Behold my oath, that I will take no other as my husband but you,” you returned and Father Beocca blessed the union, and when he finally announced you man and wife, Sihtric leaned in to seal the union with a kiss.

You reached for his Thor’s amulet and brushed your thumb across the hammer and whispered,

“May Thor bless our union with strength and courage. May Freya bless us with family and prosperity, and may Loki never deny us laughter.”

Sihtric chuckled and swept you up into his arms as Beocca looked on blissfully unaware of the heathen oath you had just made in his presence.

“And just where did you learn these words?” he mused and you turned your head in delight towards Uhtred.

“Say the part about Freya again my love,” he urged. 

“I have said it once,” you teased “And now only our actions will bring it to fruition.” 

“Well let us make haste,” he cocked with a smirk “For we would not want to disappoint the gods.” 

And indeed Freya did bless the union for many years later, when Sihtric became the Lord of Dunholm you had enough offspring to form your very own witan.

And true to his word Sihtric never allowed you to be a servant again, but he would never know that you served him and only him from the moment you laid eyes upon him until the day they would shut forever. 

But your vow to him was always the same.

To you I belong.

Tagging:

@canyonmoon-2 @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @whitedarkmoonflower @thenameswinter99 @foxyanon

@acdassenza @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @gemini-mama

@troyottonick @alexagirlie

a-beaverhausen nebulamorada izzydlb knight-of-flowerss

justcuriousandbored

[katomicarchetype]

i've always had a thing for dangerous women ❧

“Spit on your hand and lead me inside Through the caves of your fingers and into the tide”

‘Sow Mare Bitch Vixen’ - Fionn Regan

pairing: blood-junkie!sam x demon!reader

rating: 18+, MDNI

tags: smut, pwp, sam is a munch fr, incorrect use of blood, sam-manipulation, jk love him and think that his being manipulated is often overlooked but sometimes u gotta do what u gotta do for the fanfic, reader is afab... kind of., the person that reader is possessing is afab, KFC (finger-licking good), dub-con, lowercase intended, p in v (wrap before tap), oral - f receiving

notes: hi first time posting an actual thing so scared ahhhhhh

wc: 1.3k

when ruby said sam winchester was off limits, she made the forbidden fruit even sweeter.

so naturally, when you wanted to piss her off, you tracked the winchester boy down to that abandoned shed in nebraska that he’d been squatting in for the past few days. scared and alone with his brother rotting in hell, vulnerability was practically oozing off of sam as you threw the shed’s doors open. you watched him like a hungry wolf watches a fawn as he scrambled to his feet and reached for his shotgun.

“who the hell are you?!” sam barked, aiming the barrel straight for your head.

“me?” you chuckled with a sweet bitterness. “i’m practically your sister in law, honey… by the way, dean sends his love,”

you see his face twitch in reaction to your words and you can’t help but lick your lips. as you saunter closer to him, you can see his resolve begin to crumble, and the position of his gun falters just a bit. it should be illegal to look that pathetic and sexy at the same time.

“what do you want?” he sneered, looking down the barrel of the slightly lowered shotgun at you. he backed up a half step, as if he had the ability to control himself.

“i wanna help you, sammy,” you purred, running your fingers along the dusty workbench as you stepped closer to him. you could see him clench and unclench his jaw as he caught a whiff of your scent: dark and smoky-sweet, like a bourbon that burns your throat all the way down to your gut. "...unless you're loyal to a demon,"

sam slightly shook his head, and you wondered if he were trying to convince you or himself with that answer. you stopped walking once your fingers brushed something on the workbench and picked it up, testing its weight in your hands. it was an old hatchet, still surprisingly sharp. you ran your index finger along the bit, drawing a drop of crimson blood to the surface of your skin.

"i'll let you have the first taste for free..." you tell him in a sick sing-song voice.

you can almost hear the gears move in that pretty little head of his. click... click... click. within an instant, he's crossed the shed to you, lapping at your finger like a starving man, his eyes wide and crazed, holding your wrist like it were the most precious thing in the world.

once he's hooked, you pull your finger away from his mouth and click your tongue. "tsk, tsk, sam. the rest comes at a price." he looks up at you with those classic puppy-dog eyes you've heard so much about from ruby. it would've hurt your soul if you still owned one.

"...what's the price?" he asked hesitantly, his dewy eyes looking at you as if you were holy rather than damned.

"just show me how much you want your fix," you drawled, boosting yourself onto the edge of the workbench, crossing your legs.

next thing you know, sam winchester, the forbidden fruit, is fucking nose-deep into your pussy... well. not really your pussy. the girl that you possessed's pussy. the same girl that you thanked god (again, not really.) wore her cutest lacey panties today. and the same girl who is probably watching from the inside, horrified that she's inadvertently cheating on her goodie-two-shoes boyfriend. you chuckle to yourself as you picture him: starched khakis and on his way to church, hoping to catch this girl's eye in the pews...

your thoughts were quickly interrupted as sam moves from tongue-fucking you to sucking on your clit.

"shit!" you hiss, feeling your thighs twitch from where they're wrapped around his neck. he sucks harder at your loud expletive, sending you over the edge, his fingers digging into the soft skin of your thighs. jess was a lucky woman before she, y'know, exploded into flames... tragic.

"that good?" sam huffed impatiently, finally coming up for air. his nose twitched as if he were ashamed. as if he wasn't known for being a monster-fucker.

"don't be in such a rush, sammy," you cooed. "you've hardly made an appearance."

he followed your eyes down to his jeans, where a prominent bulge was forming below his belt. sam frowned, deciding if he wanted to give yet another demon the pleasure. he looked you up and down, chewing the inside of his cheek. sure, what the hell? it wasn't that bad- in fact, the sicker side of him kind of enjoyed it. and dean wasn't here to judge or yell at him...

as his hands frantically move down to his belt buckle, you unwrap your legs from his neck, and your high heel connects with his chest, pushing him back from the workbench so you have some room to hop down and help the guy out.

once his belt was no longer in the way, you helped him shimmy his jeans down his hips, leaving him in only his boxers from his mid-thigh, up to where his shirt had ridden up a little. you could see his jaw clench again as your fingers, then your hand, dipped below the waistband of his underwear and pulled out his dick.

he was only half hard, but despite that, he was the biggest out of all the men you've seen completely hard. you raise your eyebrows and glance up at sam, and he turns his head as if he has something to be embarrassed of.

"sorry," he mumbles, and you quickly shake your head.

"don't be sorry,"

you spit on your hand and wrap it around his cock, placing your other hand on his chest to brace yourself. he lets out what you could've sworn was a low whimper before dipping his head and brushing his lips against the side of your face, finally allowing himself to kiss you, as if you actually care for him, because right now, he's pretending that you do.

you stroke him a few times until he becomes actually hard, and he lifts you by the hips, and holds you against the workbench, the rotted wood biting into your ass. you continue to pump your fist until he holds you steady enough so that you can line the tip of him up with your entrance. you allow yourself to sink down on him a bit, and he thrusts up, meeting you the rest of the way. sam stutters to a stop, allowing you to stretch and accommodate his size before continuing.

"god," he hisses, leaning over you more and pressing his nose to the side of your neck. he places a few kisses on your skin before moving again.

he starts slow and calculated, but begins to speed up and get hasty as time passes. by the end of it, he's going deeper, hitting spots you never knew existed, even though you've never had the same uterus twice, and he's fucking you so hard that the tools on the workbench rattle and begin to fall off.

"fuck!" you cry in between his grunts, your nails digging into his scalp and into the wood grain of the workbench, one of his hands splayed across your lower back, and the other across your hip.

before he cums, he bites down on your shoulder and quickly pulls out, allowing himself to spill all over your stomach. he breathes heavily against the crook of your neck and you can feel his skin slick with sweat as well as your own release between your thighs, wetter than the ocean tide.

"sam," you whisper, and he lifts his head enough to glance at you. you tilt your head in the direction of your outstretched arm, a long red cut along your forearm, already dripping as much as your fucked-out pussy.

his eyes lazily drift towards your bleeding arm and he praises god that he is finally worthy to drink the nectar of your veins.

[itsaintmebabe]

pure as snow

summary: in the quiet safety of jackson, joel miller fights his fear of hope and love as his growing feelings for y/n threaten the walls he’s built around his heart.

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

notes: trying to write more fluff cause i feel like i’m always writing angst

The first snow of the season dusted Jackson like a quiet promise, soft and fragile, covering the rough edges of a world that had seen too much. The sound of boots crunching against it was the only thing breaking the hush as Joel made his way through the streets.

He saw her before she saw him.

Y/N stood by the paddock, arms wrapped around herself against the cold. The wind tugged at her hair, and the early morning light cast her in shades of pale gold and soft blue. She looked untouchable, a thing of quiet beauty in a world that had no business being gentle.

But Joel knew better. She wasn’t untouchable.

“Y/N.” His voice came rough, scraping against the cold air.

She turned, and the fragile stillness cracked. Her eyes landed on him, guarded and cautious, and Joel felt that familiar ache settle deeper into his chest. It had been there since the day they arrived in Jackson, since the day she smiled at him like he was worth something and made him remember things he thought he’d buried long ago.

It had started slowly. Joel and Ellie arriving in Jackson, trying to adjust to a life that felt almost too good to be true. Y/N had been there from the start, patient and kind, but never pushy. She helped Ellie settle in first, showing her around, introducing her to the kids, and making Jackson feel like a home. And maybe that’s why Ellie had taken to her so fast.

She was there when Ellie had nightmares, calm and steady when Joel didn’t know what to say. She taught Ellie how to ride better, helped her learn to shoot straighter, and sometimes just sat with her when the weight of the world got too heavy. Joel watched it happen, watched his girl find a kind of peace he didn’t think was possible anymore and it was because of Y/N.

“She likes you, you know,” Joel had said one night after patrol, the two of them tending to the horses in the stable.

Y/N had smiled, brushing a hand over the mare’s flank. “She’s easy to like.”

“Not always.”

That made her laugh, really laugh, and Joel remembered thinking how good it sounded, how rare it felt.

“Guess I just know how to handle stubborn people.” She’d shot him a look then, teasing and warm.

“Think you’re funny, huh?”

“A little.”

Ellie had noticed too. It didn’t take long.

“You like her,” Ellie teased one afternoon, flopping onto the couch with a smirk. “You get all weird when she’s around.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Drop it, Ellie.”

But she hadn’t. Not really. And maybe the kid was right, maybe Joel did get a little weird around Y/N. Because she made him feel things he hadn’t let himself feel in years, warmth, safety, hope. And that scared the hell out of him.

“Morning,” she said softly.

He nodded, coming to stand next to her at the fence. “Cold one.”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretched out, thick with words neither of them knew how to say. Joel wanted to reach out, to touch her hand, her cheek, but he kept his fingers curled into his gloves.

“You gonna be on patrol today?” he asked after a while.

She shook her head. “Tommy gave me a break.”

He felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. “Good. You… you should rest.”

Y/N’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You always say that.”

“Because you never listen.”

That earned him a quiet laugh, but it faded too quickly. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and frost, and Joel found himself watching her from the corner of his eye.

“You don’t have to keep looking out for me, Joel.”

The words were soft, but they hit hard.

“Somebody’s gotta,” he said quietly.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know.”

She turned to face him fully then, eyes searching his face. “Then why do you always act like you’re waiting for me to break?”

He didn’t have an answer for that or maybe he had too many. Because the world broke things. It broke people. And the more you cared about something, the more it hurt when it got taken away.

“I just…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want anything happenin’ to you.”

The air between them felt heavier, filled with the weight of things unsaid. And then Y/N reached out, her gloved fingers brushing against his arm.

“I’m right here, Joel.” Her voice was soft. Steady. “You don’t have to keep waiting for the worst.”

But he did. He always did.

Before he could stop himself, his hand covered hers. The warmth of her touch bled through the cold, and Joel let himself hold on, just for a moment.

“You’re too good for this world,” he murmured.

“I’m not,” she whispered back. “I’ve just… managed to keep some pieces of myself together.”

He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she was the purest thing he’d found in a world gone bitter and dark. But Joel had never been good with words, and he was even worse when it came to hope.

So he held her hand a little tighter, and when she didn’t pull away, it felt like the first real warmth he’d known in years.

[meiplays]

Ride Me Slow, Darlin’ 🌾🐎 (it's not the type of ride, you think it is) *spicy/sfw*

Pairing: Cowboy!Sam Winchester x Reader

Summary: You stole his hat. He says that means you’re his. You want to test that theory… pressed up against the wall of a dusty barn, handsy, breathless, and burning.

The horse’s hooves thundered softly over packed dirt as you came into view, hair windswept and wild, dress fluttering around your thighs like it had a mind of its own. The summer sun was sinking low, casting streaks of gold across the open pasture.

Sam stood still in the shade of the old barn, arms crossed, chewing on a toothpick like it might keep him sane. It didn’t.

You were riding his horse.

Wearing his hat.

And grinning like the devil himself.

He watched as you leaned into the saddle, hips rolling smooth with each gait. You rode like you meant it—confident, untamed, the kind of girl that didn’t need saving but made a man want to offer his hands anyway.

Sam swore under his breath.

Damn you looked good.

By the time you slowed to a stop and swung down from the saddle, your skin glowed with sweat and sunlight. You patted the mare’s neck and started toward the barn, leading her in by the reins like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that damn hat was still on your head.

“You always this bold?” Sam asked, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet.

You turned with a spark in your eyes. “You always this nosy?”

His jaw ticked, his boots already moving as you walked your horse past the barn doors. You brushed your hand gently over the mare’s flank as she walked beside you, but your eyes never left Sam.

“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” you said sweetly. “You weren’t wearin’ the hat, and it matches my dress.”

Sam’s gaze dragged over you—slow, deliberate, full of heat and hunger that he didn’t bother to hide anymore.

“That hat on you,” he murmured, following your footsteps, “might be the last straw.”

The barn door creaked behind you as you stepped into the warm, dusty hush of it—cooler in the shade, but not by much. Sunlight filtered through the wood slats in long strips, lighting the hay-strewn floor in golden slices.

You put the horse away and just minded your own business..

The old barn was bathed in golden haze, sunlight leaking in through the cracks in the boards like honey. You didn’t hear his boots at first. Not until they stopped behind you, slow and heavy.

You didn't realize.

You didn't realize Sam Winchester had followed you in.

“You got a death wish,” came that low drawl—rough velvet and Southern sin.

You turned, pretending to look innocent, the brim of his cowboy hat tilting low over your grin. “You mean for borrowing your hat?”

Sam Winchester was all broad shoulders and long legs, flannel rolled up to thick forearms, dust clinging to him like he was born from the land itself. His belt buckle gleamed. His jaw ticked.

He didn’t answer. Just stalked toward you, the barn door creaking closed behind him.

Your breath hitched as he backed you up until your spine kissed a beam. Sam caged you in, one hand pressing beside your head. His body heat rolled over you in waves.

“You think you can just walk around with my hat on like that?” he asked, voice a dark rumble against your ear.

You swallowed. “Maybe I wanted attention.”

He chuckled, but it wasn’t nice. It was dangerous. “You just gonna strut around in that little sundress, wearin’ my hat, and not expect consequences?”

“I didn’t think—”

“That’s right. You didn’t.”

His hand slid up your thigh—slow, dragging, palm rough and sure. The slit in your dress gave easy access and he took his time, fingers brushing higher, making you tremble.

“You know what happens when a girl wears a cowboy’s hat?” Sam asked, lips brushing your neck.

“What?”

“She belongs to him.”

Your knees nearly gave out.

His other hand grabbed your jaw, gently forcing your gaze to meet his under the brim. His eyes were dark, feral, starved. “I’ve been patient. But you—walkin’ around like that? You’re beggin’ to be touched.”

“Then touch me,” you whispered.

That was all he needed. His mouth crashed to yours—hot and wild and claiming. His grip on your thigh tightened as he lifted, effortlessly hoisting your leg around his waist. You gasped into his mouth as your hips met, every inch of him pressing hard and slow into you through too many layers.

And he moved—grinding against you, rhythm deep and steady, like he was already teaching your body how it’d feel when nothing was in the way. Your back arched, fingers tangling in his shirt.

“You feel that, darlin’?” he growled, breath hot against your cheek. “That’s what you do to me.”

His lips found your neck again, sucking just below your ear until your eyes fluttered shut.

“You keep the hat on,” he murmured, “’cause I want you to remember exactly who you belong to.”

You moaned softly, clutching him tighter, overwhelmed by the sheer need in every press of his body.

And right as you swore you’d combust—

He stopped.

He leaned in, smirking against your lips. “You wanna ride a cowboy?” he whispered.

You nodded, breathless.

“Good.” His hand brushed your cheek. “But next time, we lose the dress.”

He winked, adjusted his hat still sitting on your head—and walked off like he hadn’t just turned you inside out with his clothes on.

[tangibletechnomancy]

Doing It Wrong On Purpose: Episode 1 - The Un-Ship

Today's experiment: What happens if I prompt for something, and then negative prompt all the main keywords, plus various synonyms and related words?

The answer: Some gloriously weird stuff.

For example, let's look at a negative cat:

Positive prompt: A cat on a windowsill during a storm

Negative prompt: Cat, feline, felidae, kitty, kitten, animal, pet, windowsill, window, glass, pane, house, storm, rain, water, lightning, thunder, clouds, torrent, downpour, snow, blizzard, wind, windy

Interesting! Let's get a little more fantasy with it and try for an anti-deer:

Positive prompt: A deer in a peaceful flowery meadow, crystals, midnight, fantasy, colorful

Negative prompt: Deer, cervidae, animal, elk, moose, stag, doe, fawn, reindeer, antelope, cervid, antlers, flowers, night, dark, trees, foliage, bloom, stars, night, tranquil, fantastic, vibrant, cool, magic, blue, moon, sky, crystal, stone, statue, topiary, floral, blossom

Between these two experiments, including a few dozen other generations that remain unposted, one thing I can say for sure is that for living subjects, it's a great way to get the kind of anatomical wonk that older models are (in)famous for - and it makes sense why, the model is trying to make something that looks like a certain subject...but once it starts to look too much like it, well, shit, we told it NOT to do that! Break something up! Given that I love that kind of wonk, I think I've found a useful tool for myself.

One more living subject, and let's get even more abstract with our direction here:

Positive prompt: mind horse

Negative prompt: horse, equine, colt, filly, mare, stallion, bronco, pony, mind, brain, thought, essence, psyche, intelligence, consciousness, imagination, dream, soul, visualization, intellect, wit, cognizance

Now let's try something that isn't alive. One thing I love AI for is surreal settings and landscapes - lets try one now!

Positive prompt: A magic palace garden made of crystal and gold

Negative prompt: Palace, magic, crystal, gold, fantasy, castle, estate, stronghold, temple, garden, flowers, plants, blossoms, bloom, blooms, trees, grass, stems, foliage, leaves, greenery, branches, bush, bushes, hedge, hedges, metal, luxury, stone, glass, brass, rose, polished, jewel, prism, courtyard

I then tried to see if, learning from the animal subjects, I could make it more likely to return one of my favorite "mistakes" - making it impossible to discern the point where a water area ends and a sky area begins. I wasn't immediately successful, but I came up with some results I found pleasing regardless-

Positive prompt: Secret hideout in a cave behind a waterfall in the foggy forest on a floating sky island in fluffy clouds

Negative prompt: hideout, camp, campsite, home, abode, house, dwelling, rest, shelter, waterfall, water, cave, grotto, forest, woods, woodland, trees, fountain, cascade, pond, stream, lake, river, brook, puddle, creek, pool, beach, ocean, sea, cloud, clouds, sky, cumulus, cirrus, nimbus, fog, storm, rain, sunshower, falls

It seems that with landscapes it's got a much clearer and more specific "idea" of what a [SUBJECT] without [SUBJECT] looks like; it's more inclined to invent very specific, very consistent unasked for related elements. With the animals, I was tweaking the weight on the positive prompt to avoid getting straightforwardly just what I had positive (and negative) prompted, but with landscapes, I just get... almost something else entirely.

So how about inanimate objects? Let's try a ship, perhaps?

Positive prompt: A huge sailing ship with brilliant prismatic crystal sails on a stormy, turbulent sea of sunset clouds

Negative prompt: ship, boat, sailboat, sailing ship, pirate ship, galleon, ketch, schooner, sloop, cutter, sail, sea, ocean, storm, wind, rain, water, waves, cloudy, clouds, fog, sunset, dusk, dawn, sunrise, twilight, evening

...okay, I'm in love with the un-ship. It truly does manage to consistently give me results that look like, yet entirely unlike, a ship. It is everything I love about AI as a medium. More than that, it is my friend.

At lower positive prompt weights, they only get even more beautifully chaotic.

I want to live on one of these (in an alternate universe where they're geometrically possible and structurally sound, that is).

Failing that, I will be featuring them a lot from now on.

All images generated using Simple Stable, under the Code of Ethics of Are We Art Yet?

[andy-15-07]

okay so a joel miller x reader where joel saves reader before jackson. and after they are in jackson joel forgets reader or smt. like she doesnt come down to eat anymore etc, but the reason why she doesnt come down anymore is because she just completely lost it because she is not used to community. then at one point she asks tommy for another house for her one and somehow joel and reader talk and she first gets mad but then she calms down :)) thank youu

Too Many Walls

PAIRING:Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1197| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

You remembered the snow the most.

It had dusted Joel’s hair as he tore through the blizzard to get to you, blood blooming through his sleeve, dragging you from a house half-burned and surrounded by infected. You remembered the fire in his voice when he found you. His hands,rough, bleeding,cupping your face like you were something worth saving.

Now, in Jackson, there was no snow. Just silence.

You hadn’t been downstairs in three days. The warm halls of the house you and Joel had been given felt too wide. The windows too clear. People walked by every morning and waved through them. You always ducked. The idea of breakfast with strangers made your skin itch.

The first week, Joel had stayed close. Then, slowly, he’d stopped asking if you were coming to the dining hall. He'd leave in the morning, come back in the evening, sometimes with Tommy, sometimes alone. He always asked if you were okay. You always lied.

Today, you knocked on Tommy’s door.

He blinked at you in surprise. “Y/N?”

“I need a new place.”

“What?”

“A house,” you said. “A smaller one. By the fence. Or even something unfinished. I just… I can’t stay there anymore.”

Tommy scratched the back of his neck. “Did something happen with Joel?”

You looked away. “He doesn’t even notice I’m not there.”

Tommy sighed. “He does. He’s just... Joel. He thinks giving space is helping.”

“Space is one thing,” you muttered. “But I feel like a ghost.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll check the west side,there’s a little place near the barn no one’s taken yet.”

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“Don’t disappear, though,” he said softly. “You’re not invisible. You know that, right?”

You didn’t answer.

Joel noticed when the mugs stopped appearing in the sink.

She hadn’t come downstairs for coffee.

She always made coffee.

Even during the chaos of the first few weeks in Jackson, she’d cling to that ritual,her hands shaking, sometimes crying quietly as the kettle boiled. But it gave her something. And it gave him something too.

He waited until dusk to knock on her bedroom door.

“Y/N?”

No response.

He leaned closer. “You hungry? I can bring somethin’ from the hall.”

Still nothing. Just silence, and maybe the faint creak of the floor as she turned away.

The next morning, she was gone.

Tommy found him in the stables.

Joel was brushing down a mare when Tommy leaned against the post and said, “Y/N moved out.”

Joel froze. “What?”

“She came to me yesterday. Said she needed her own place. Said she couldn’t stay with you anymore.”

He blinked at the horse’s side. “Why the hell didn’t she say anything to me?”

“She tried, man. Not directly, but… Joel, she’s drowning. This place, it’s... a lot.”

“She’s the one who said she wanted to be safe.”

“Yeah. Safe, not suffocated. You ever think maybe she doesn’t know how to be okay in a place like this?”

Joel’s jaw clenched.

Tommy crossed his arms. “You’ve been quiet lately too. You ain’t talkin’ to her. She thought you stopped caring.”

“I was givin’ her time,”

“Well, it didn’t help. Go talk to her, Joel.”

The house Tommy gave her was half-finished,bare walls and creaky floorboards, but no big windows. No people walking by. No hallway that echoed with every step.

Y/N was unpacking her small bag when a knock hit the frame. The door wasn’t even fully hung yet, just tilted on its hinges.

She turned, and there he was.

Joel. Hands in his coat pockets. Frown in place.

“Nice place,” he muttered.

She straightened slowly, her face unreadable. “Did Tommy send you?”

“No,” Joel said. “I came because I saw the kitchen and realized you weren’t there. Again.”

Her lips thinned. “Took you long enough.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What? Tell the truth?” she snapped.

Joel’s shoulders tightened. “You could’ve just said you wanted space.”

“You didn’t ask,” she said, her voice rising. “Joel, I waited for you to notice. I waited for you to say something, anything, about how I was spiraling. But you just stopped talking to me.”

He looked wounded. “I was tryin’ to give you peace.”

“Well, it felt like abandonment.”

A long silence fell.

Y/N’s eyes burned. “Do you know what it’s like to go from running for your life every damn day to waking up in a warm bed in a quiet town, and feel nothing but guilt for it? Like maybe you don’t deserve it?”

Joel swallowed. “Yeah. I know that.”

“I don’t know how to do this, Joel,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to be a person here. I freak out when someone waves at me. I panic if I hear kids laughing. I spent months expecting to die. And now…”

He stepped forward, slowly.

“You don’t gotta figure it all out at once,” he said. “And I didn’t stop carin’, alright? I thought I was helpin’. I was wrong.”

Her shoulders trembled.

“You saved me,” she murmured. “You dragged me outta hell. And then you just... faded.”

“I didn’t know how to be around you when you started pullin’ away,” Joel said, his voice cracking. “I ain’t good at this. I thought maybe you’d feel better if I wasn’t hoverin’.”

“Well, you weren’t hovering,” she said, her voice breaking now. “You just vanished.”

Joel looked down. “I’m sorry.”

She turned away, wiping at her eyes.

“You know,” she said bitterly, “when I asked Tommy for this house, I told myself it was because I needed space. But I think I just wanted to see if you’d care.”

Joel took another step forward. “And I do.”

Silence again, thick and heavy.

“You didn’t even ask where I was going,” she whispered.

“I was scared,” he said.

She blinked at him, surprised. “Of what?”

“Of sayin’ the wrong thing. Of holdin’ on too tight and pushin’ you away more.” He sighed. “I’ve lost too many people, darlin’. I thought if I gave you quiet, maybe you’d stay.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

Joel’s face twisted with something like pain.

She looked down at her bag. “I’m not ready for Jackson. Not really. But I thought maybe... maybe I could be ready with you.”

He stepped closer again, now inches from her.

“I want that,” he said softly. “I want you. Even if you’re scared. Even if you hide away sometimes. Hell, I do the same thing.”

She let out a shaky breath. “So what now?”

He hesitated. Then: “Can I stay here? With you? Not forever. Just... tonight. Maybe we can talk. Or not. Just sit. If that’s all you can do right now, that’s enough.”

Y/N stared at him.

And then her shoulders finally dropped.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “But you’re makin’ the coffee.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh. “Deal.”

That night, they sat in her unfinished living room, a mug of coffee each, two pillows on the floor, no electricity yet.

No more silence, either.

Just the sound of breathing. Of Joel quietly humming a tune under his breath. Of Y/N finally leaning her head on his shoulder.

Neither of them said the words. Not yet.

But they stayed.

And in Jackson, that was the first step.

[moonstruckme]

hiiii! I’m usually a very quiet reader, but I just had to request something for prince!sirius too! 

I had in mind that she needs to learn how to ride a horse (besides all of the other things she needs to learn) and is scared of horses. So, when she's not in her official practice, maybe she and Sirius are riding out together and he tries to calm her anxiety?

It's totally fine if it doesn't ignite that writing spark

Thank you for requesting!

cw: some fear/trepedation of horses, talk of family expectations/fitting into high society

prince!Sirius x princess!reader ♡ 1.1k words

For all your loveliness, Sirius has watched you embarrass yourself in many ways since he’s met you. Some he can help with, like nudging you in the direction of the correct fork or telling you when a particular courtier is trying to make a fool of you, and some, like when you accidentally light your skirts on fire standing too close to the fireplace, he unfortunately cannot. 

This, Sirius thinks, is something he can help you with. 

He should probably be embarrassed to admit he’s been watching you, but really he isn’t. There isn’t all that much to do for a visiting prince in the hours between meetings and events, and Sirius has found that whether you’re with him or otherwise engaged, you tend to dominate his attention. Also, the lawn where you have your riding lessons is viewable from his window. 

You’re not a terribly cloddish thing by nature; a bit awkward at times, yes, but that seems permissible when you’re walking in new shoes and cumbersome dresses into unfamiliar situations. The way you hold yourself on your horse seems a stiffness more borne of mental unrest. 

You’ve been given the oldest, gentlest mare in the stables for your practice, and still you sit taut as a drawn bow on her back. 

It’s humiliating to watch, honestly, and as someone who cares for you Sirius can’t allow it to continue. He’s supposed to be your ally in all this. Fork usage, snooty courtiers, and horses, he can help you with. 

“Is Rayan not meeting us?” you ask, naming your riding instructor as you follow Sirius outside. The sun is bright, sitting central in a clear sky. Sirius feels his skin warm despite the cool spring breeze.

“No.” He tips his face up to the warmth as he walks. “He wasn’t invited.” 

A little laugh stumbles out of you. And Sirius loves to make you laugh, but he thinks he detects some trace of nerves in this one. “What, so we’re on our own?”

“Mhm. Problem?” 

“No, just…” You watch him approach the stables skeptically. “Who’s going to let us in?” 

Sirius meets your stare as he gives the front door a push, letting it swing open. Your answering smile is worth all the gold in his family’s coffers. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised.” 

“No, you shouldn’t.” Sirius winks at you. He learned long ago that a flirtatious smile and a genuine eagerness for conversation could get him anywhere; after a friendly chat this morning, the stableboy was more than happy to prepare things for the two of you and leave you to your own devices. 

“You’ve got to start learning to throw your weight around,” he says, going to fetch your mare. “You’re a princess.” 

“I don’t identify with that,” you counter lightly. Staying, Sirius notes, well away as he leads the horse outside. “And I don’t think I’d like to throw my weight around.” 

You don’t say it with a hint of judgement. You really are too sweet for your own good, sometimes. You take the reins when Sirius passes them to you, but even after he’s collected his own horse and mounted, you’ve made no move to get on. 

Sirius wants to laugh as you eye your horse warily. She really is a lovely thing, dappled gray with a dark mane and emanating calm even as you fret and fidget at her side. 

“She’s not going to bite,” he says, meeting your worried gaze with a smile. “Do you want a hand up?” 

You look like you’d rather scurry back inside, but you take Sirius’ hand, allowing him to encourage you into the saddle. It’s a clumsy process; you suck in a breath when your mare stirs at your shifting weight. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” Sirius grasps your arm before remembering it’s not you he’s supposed to be soothing. He sets his hand to the horse’s flank. “You’re both okay. She’s just an old girl.”

“I know,” you say, voice heavy with dread. “I feel like I’m going to break her poor old back.” 

He grins at you. “Is that what you’re so afraid of? That you’re going to hurt her?” 

You go a tad sheepish. Not quite looking at him, one shoulder lifting. “I’m afraid we’re going to hurt each other,” you admit. 

Sirius laughs. “Gorgeous, this old girl has pranced around with men twice your weight on her back. She can handle you.”

Still, you look wary. Sirius takes your hand and brings it to the mare’s neck. He encourages you to stroke it slowly. 

“See?” he says. “She’s a sweetheart, too. You’re suited to each other.” His own horse stirs beneath him, restless. “Mine, however, is ready to go. Come along.”

He starts out at a slow pace without waiting for you to follow, and is gratified when you do. Your posture straightens immediately, tense and unnatural. Sirius reaches over to poke your middle. 

The sound that escapes you is half cry, half laugh. You twist away from him, instinctively directing your mare to put distance between you. 

“What was that for?” 

“You need to loosen up.” Sirius jabs for you again, pleased when you pull the reins to evade him. “Look, you’re guiding her perfectly. You’ve got it, doll.” 

You look down at your mare like she’s done this all on her own. At another gentle tug from you, she turns until you’re ambling along parallel to Sirius again. 

You gnaw your lip as though mistrustful of this newfound competence. “I don’t see why I need to learn this. How often am I going to be expected to ride a horse?” 

“More often than you’d think.” He winks at the bemused look you send him. “Relax, you look good up there.”

You huff a laugh, looking away as you do whenever he gives you a compliment. One of these days, Sirius is going to get you to take one. “The list of skills I need to pick up just to exist here…” You blow out a breath. “Your resumes must be insane.” 

“Our what?” 

You gawp, and Sirius grins. 

“Joking. We have heard of those even within royal society.” 

Another huffed, begrudging laugh. But you’re loosening up, your posture easing and grip loosening on the reins. You look almost comfortable. 

“You can nearly put this one on your resume, though,” he praises you. “You likely won’t ever need to go faster than a walk like this. Just work on looking a bit more regal and you’ll have it.” 

You shoot Sirius a suspicious look as you straighten your shoulders. “Don’t poke me again.” 

He teases back, “Don’t be so awkward, and I won’t have to.”