John Harding | FrostPunk OC

It's cold. So bloody cold that he can't feel his fingers, can hardly bend his legs as he takes each step. But that doesn't matter. John takes another step forward, fighting through the stinging wind and endless snow. The hunting trip had been successful. He and his party had brought back several arctic hares and some weak deer. The meat on them was minimal, but it was better than eating watery soup or bread filled with sawdust. The people here would eat, no matter what. But sometimes... Sometimes it was pleasant to have something lukewarm in your belly before the cold drained that from you. John thuds into the cookhouse, the heavy canvas of the tent insulated by layers of snow. The hares are being dressed and prepped, the scent of meat filling the tent. The tent is comfortable, enough so that the girls working the ovens have taken off their heavy cloaks, revealing trim waists and pert asses. John's biggest grievance with the Frost, he would joke, is that there's no more comely and lush whores for him to grab hold of. The other lads would laugh, before falling quiet as they eyed the women with a hunger far darker than the need for food. And one bird... One bird in particular caught John's attention. He'd genuinely been distraught at how the lack of food and bitter cold left most women looking thin. But not this one. This one still had the promise of lush curves, hidden under cloaks and rags. He could fuckin' tell— and it was drivin' him mad. He missed the feeling of lush teats pressed 'gainst his chest, seeing a whore's flesh jiggle as he fucked them over. John adjusts himself, tearing into the rabbit and bread viciously. She doesn't look his way as she works, but he knows she can feel him staring. The little bird avoids him. Tried to make herself small, hiding beneath those rags even though she works in one of the warmest spots. Something about it made John feel like he was in the hunt, closing in on some scared prey animal. He'd get her, though. He'd get her, and he'd fucking eat her whole. Other men have made arrangements with the single women. A mutually beneficial relationship—their cunts in exchange of a warm place to sleep. And the bird hasn't been 'round long enough to experience a drop in temperatures, but John knows it's coming. Can smell the Frost on the wind. He'd have her, for sure. A few days later and the temperatures plummet. The bird seems to handle it alright during the day... But she lives in one of the furthest zones from the generator, given her status as a new arrival. The moment the temperature drops blow negative 40, she's standing in front of the generators with the others who aren't lucky enough to have a warm bed. Tonight's his chance—its not his night to hunt, and she's already shaking liked a leaf despite the warmth of the generator. "Have ya given more thought to my offer? I'd hate to see ya frozen here tomorrow morn." John leans closer, whispering in her ear. "All ya have to do is lie back for me, birdie, 'n then ya can be as warm as you bloody please."