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procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 1 year ago

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heorte til heorte: ch. 1 — hopian (to hope)

notes: this is self-indulgent. this is also angsty, like, really angsty. it��s not even funny at this point. does it get better? maybe. but this is athelstan related, so it’s going to hurt. inspired by the fact that i love to put my oc into situations oh and also jack <33333. can be read as a standalone, but it might be a little confusing at the start :]

warnings: violence, age gaps, miscarriage, death, a lot of hurt and grief. no one starts out happy. ngl, i aged down athelstan bc i thought he was like 20 when he got kidnapped. he’s around 26 in this opposed to his regular 32 (??!!).

summary: alethia wanted to go home, to return to her family. instead, she finds herself in ninth-century england. not speaking the language, and still processing the grief of her other life, she searches for an anchor - athelstan.

tagged: @levithestripper @demon-of-the-ancient-world @leithdragon @grantairescurls (hesitantly tagging u for our shared love of athelstan)

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Alethia

Alethia watched as Brayden disappeared through the portal, his small figure swallowed by flickering-static air. Her eyes flickered over to Kinvara, who mumbled in High Valyrian under her breath, holding the portal open.

She wanted to go home. God, Alethia wanted to go home so badly. Jon was dead. Sansa had blackmailed her. The war was done, and she did not want to raise a child in Westeros. There was no need for her here.

“Can I go too?” Alethia asked quietly, looking to Kinvara. Suddenly, she was not the Dowager Queen of the North who was carrying the future King in the North inside of her. Suddenly, Alethia was fourteen again, alone and afraid at the edge of the world.

She wanted to go home. Her heart ached as she thought of Earth, where she’d firmly believed she hadn’t had a home. Alethia wanted to sneak out of school for lunch and buy something to eat from the deli two streets away. She wanted to go on holiday with her brother, spend the days lounging in the sun and swimming. She wanted to be anything but a governor for the North, a widow at just eighteen years old.

Barely visible, Kinvara nodded. The portal flickered again, and Alethia swallowed her fear. She was going home.

It took three big steps to cross the room, and another to walk through the portal.

Alethia closed her eyes and waited. The first thing she noticed was that it was cold. If she’d kept track correctly over the years, this would be around New Years Eve in New York. She was wearing Mereenese clothes. Still, she was afraid to open her eyes.

Instead, Alethia took a breath. The second thing she noticed was that the air did not smell like it would in a city, and certainly not in New York. It was then that she had to open her eyes and her heart dropped a little.

At first glance, this forest looked just like those in the Riverlands. Marshy, muddy grounds made her feet sink into the earth a little and fog danced on the horizon. And yet, instinctually, Alethia knew this was not Westeros.

She took a few more steps, a few more breaths, and then, it clicked. Alethia had lived in England, spent almost two years in London and her holidays South of it. A laugh ripped from her throat as she stretched her hands towards the sky. Thunder rolled in the distance, and almost as if it was divine destiny, rain began to fall onto her face. Alethia let it christen her.

Yes, this was England. She was home, on Earth.

Alethia spun in the forest, and now, she was truly fourteen again. She laughed almost maniacally, closing her eyes again as the rain ran down her face. God, she was home. She was home! She was going to see her little brother! She was going to go home, to New York, find Eric, and hug him so tightly that she would never let him go again.

She would apologize to her mother, for never understanding her sacrifice. She would hold her, thank her. And when she was done, she was going to figure out how to catch up on three and a half years of her life. Morgan was here too. She would help her.

The sun was gone, but one look at the moss on the trees was enough for Alethia to know where South was. All she needed to do was keep on walking in one direction, and she’d find humans. She remembered the skills Qhorin Halfhand had taught her, applying them in a way she never imagined she would.

The mud tugged on her boots, and the rain made her shiver, but in that moment, Alethia could not care. She was home, home, home. A hand brushed over her stomach. Her child was safe.

Alethia continued walking, right until the forest began to clear. And with it, the rain lessened. Half, Alethia tried to listen for the sounds of a road or even a highway, while the other half of her told her to fall into a jog to stay warm.

The sun rose over the sky as Alethia continued southbound, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach as no sign of civilization appeared on the horizon, not even transmission towers or fields.

By the time Alethia guessed it was midday, she finally saw something that almost made her cry with relief. In the distance, small cobblestone and straw-timbered houses dotted a coastline. And there, on a higher point of the coast, stood a taller building with one tall tower. As Alethia came closer, she saw that it was a church.

For three years, Alethia had seen nothing from her home. And now, the first thing she saw was a cross atop the high tower of the church. How ironic that she was not sure if God existed.

Alethia sat in the tall grass, knees drawn against her chest and arms resting atop of them as she looked at the church, the small houses on the coast. The landscape looked like it could be in Hampshire. Before she knew it, hot tears ran down her face, and Alethia swiped them away angrily.

The sudden ring of church bells pulled her from her inertia, and Alethia began walking, always walking, straight for the church. Fear was lodged in her throat as she approached the church. The doors were closed, but she could hear voices from inside, singing.

She waited, not sure how long, until the song had faded away and the doors to the church slowly opened. Her hands wrung together in front of her stomach, her traveling clothes suddenly feeling incredibly inadequate.

Good god, she didn’t even remotely know what the fashion was like now. She doubted it was still anything like it had been in 2020.

Her heart dropped as she saw the people that stood behind those church doors, dressed in long woolen dresses and tunics.

This was not the 21st century, that was for sure. Kinvara had royally, majestically fucked up, and Alethia was stuck in… historical England.

Almost, she screamed, before she caught herself. The people across from her only stared at Alethia with wide eyes, and she could not blame them. The sight of her had to be terrifying. A strange girl with a scarred face, rain-soaked hair and weird clothes - not exactly the sort of creature that seemed safe .

She raised her hands in surrender, a sign that Alethia knew was universally recognized - both in Westeros and on Earth. The people began to whisper amongst themselves until an older, heavy-set man pushed through the crowd.

Alethia recognized his garb. He was a priest, a catholic one if she was right.

Quickly, Alethia pushed a smile on her face.

“I’m Christian too.” she said. She didn’t even know if that was true.

The man’s brows creased together as he drew a cross over her body from where he stood. Alethia nodded, pointing to herself and mimicking his movements.

“Yeah, me too buddy.” she tried. “Come on, you speak English, right?”

No answer.

“Deutsch? Irgendwas muss doch gehen. Francais? S’il vous-plait, je suis fatiguée.” Alethia continued. Still, no reply. Then the man began speaking in what Alethia knew to be Latin. Well, at least she was definitely back on Earth.

She sighed, dropping her hands back to her side and waiting until the man was done. Internally, Alethia was ready to break down again. She tried to remember any sayings she knew in Latin, anything at all she could use to communicate with the man in front of her.

Instead, a few nuns stepped forward, cautiously approaching Alethia. She raised her hands again, trying to show them that she was no danger. She wasn’t doing a repeat of last time, where Eddard Stark had been the only thing between her and being burnt at the stake.

“Salve.” Alethia said very slowly. The nuns paused in their approach, looking to the priest.

He only stared, and Alethia took that as her sign to continue. “Alethia. England?” she asked slowly, pointing to herself and then the land. There was no reply, and she resorted back to her next-to-nothing knowledge of Latin.

“Rex?” she only asked, hoping that the priest would realise she was asking for the ruler of their kingdom.

“Ecbert Eahlmunding orgilde Wessex.” the priest replied.

Alethia pointed instinctually. She had no idea who this Ecbert was, and this was possibly the worst idea she’d ever had. “Ecbert! Take me to Ecbert!”

She’d survive this. She’d survived a torture session with Ramsay fucking Bolton.

Athelstan

He had given up on understanding anyone at the court of King Ecbert. With the monks, he had been able to pursue whatever he desired. With the Vikings, everyone always said exactly what they meant. But here…

Aethelwulf, Judith, Ecbert - they all looked at him differently, and he understood none of them. It was as if he did not speak their language, when he knew that languages was all he understood. That, and history.

Still, he walked alongside Ecbert as the King of Wessex spoke about a scroll Athelstan had just recently transcribed. And when a guard approached the king to whisper something in his ear, Ecbert’s predatory smile let him know that something was wrong.

“What is it?” Athelstan asked, cocking his head to the side.

“There is a fisher village near Southhampton, and it appears that they captured a Christian shieldmaiden.” Ecbert replied.

Athelstan snorted. “There are no Christian shieldmaidens.”

“We shall see about that.” Ecbert said, entering the courtyard of the villa. Aethelwulf was already there, with a garrison of guards surrounding the priest that entered the villa. Behind the priest was a group of ragged soldiers that were probably more fisher than fighter, closely grouped around a shadowed figure.

The Christian shieldmaiden, Athelstan assumed.

He watched as Ecbert stepped forward, quietly conversing witht eh priest and trying to get a look at the woman. Athelstan also watched as Ecbert failed in that, the king forced to step back with masked displeasure as he did not manage to catch even the slightest glimpse of the shieldmaiden.

He returned to Athelstan’s side, leaning over.

“She apparently appeared in front of the church’s doors right after service. How ominous.” Ecbert replied.

“If she was a shieldmaiden, she never would have let them capture her.” Athelstan replied stubbornly.

“What else can a woman wearing weapons be?” Ecbert asked, and for that, Athelstan had no answer.

Finally, the guards stepped aside, and as Athelstan saw the shieldmaiden, Ecbert had been right in his doubts. His first thought when he saw her was so this was what Lagertha looked like when she was young.

The woman looked around the yard, taking everything in with narrowed eyes. She kept her head high, staring at both Aethelwulf and Ecbert with an almost dangerous defiance only those of noble birth had.

“She’s certainly not a farmer.” Ecbert mumbled, voicing Athelstan’s thoughts out loud. The woman’s eyes snapped towards the sound of the king’s voice, meeting Athelstan’s eyes. He felt himself freeze under her gaze.

A scar tugged on her face, not unlike those of Rollo. She stared at him for a moment, and it felt as if she was mapping out his face. Then, she gave him a careful smile. Athelstan felt himself grow warm under her stare.

She was pretty, in the same way Lagertha was - in the same way all shieldmaidens were heedlessly, dangerously beautiful.

The woman addressed Athelstan in a foreign language, but her tone was enough to let him know that she was asking him for something. Help, he thought. The woman was afraid, though she did her very best to hide it.

“Do you know her language?” Ecbert said. Athelstan shook his head. Still, his eyes widened as he listened and realized the woman was switching between three languages he did not realize.

“She is well-educated.” he told Ecbert.

The king’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

“That is not one, but three languages she is using to try and speak to us. And…” Athelstan trailed off. The languages sounded as if he was supposed to understand him. “They are like ours, but not exactly.”

“What do you mean?” Ecbert asked.

“They have the same sound as our languages. One of them sounds like Frankian. I think… some of the words are almost the same as in our languages. She keeps saying a word that sounds like the Norse word for ‘king’. I think she is looking for you.” Athelstan replied. Ecbert nodded, before he raised a hand to his chest.

“I am Ecbert.” he said to the woman. She paused, her brows scrunching together. Athelstan almost laughed as he realized the expression was like those Bjorn wore when he was angry.

“Alethia.” the woman replied. The name sounded almost Saxon. And then, she said it again. “Alethia Stahl.”

The words slipped from his tongue before he could stop them. “I am Athelstan.” he blurted out. Alethia smiled that same careful smile again and repeated her plea from before.

“I think she can help us.” Athelstan said, though he was not sure why.

“How so?” Ecbert asked.

“A Christian shieldmaiden? Imagine Earl Ragnar’s face.” Athelstan said simply. Ecbert smirked, before he nodded.

“She is your charge. Teach her our tongue.”

***

When a servant led her to the room Athelstan was waiting in, Alethia had changed into more Saxon clothes. He watched as she wrung her hands together and made a note in his mind.

“Athelstan.” he repeated, pointing to himself again. She nodded, stepping closer. Alethia was taller than him, if only by a little bit.

She said a few words in quick succession, and Athelstan could only stare at her confused. Her sigh was universal, though. Then, her eyes flickered down. Athelstan heard the sharp gasp she let out the moment she saw the scars on his hands.

What he did not expect was for her to grab his hands and turn the palms upwards, thumbs gently brushing over the scars.

“Jesus.” she said. So she was a Christian after all. Athelstan pulled his hands from hers as if she had burned them.

“Are you Christian?” he asked her, and she seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then, Alethia shrugged, adding a few quiet words. Athelstan was not sure how to begin teaching someone like her his language, so he began slowly.

She repeated the words after him, and Athelstan felt proud to discover that his pupil was fast at learning languages. After a few minutes, Alethia already understood the pronunciation. And when Athelstan grabbed a book from his table, telling her the word for it, her face lit up as if he was God and had just promised her salvation.

Excitedly, she pointed to the book and then herself. Athelstan found himself dumbfounded by her yet again, and he’d only known her for a few hours. Then, Alethia made a writing motion, and Athelstan snorted.

“You can write?” he asked, though it was rather pointless.

Alethia only shrugged, repeating the motion. She walked around the small room they were in, searching for something. Then, she made for the windowsill, where a bird had left its feather. She picked it up, repeating the motion and then pointing to herself.

“You can write?” Athelstan asked, and she nodded.

“You can write.” Alethia repeated clumsily.

“I can write.” Athelstan corrected, pointing to himself to show that this was a way to speak about your own person. Alethia nodded again.

“I can write.” she said slowly. And then, she waved the feather in his face.

“Feather.” Athelstan told her.

“Feather.” Alethia parroted. “Feather. I can write.”

Athelstan was not sure if he had been right about his initial thoughts of her. Maybe she was just a village idiot. Still, he gave her a proper quill, a scrap of parchment and ink.

His jaw almost dropped to the floor as the shieldmaiden dipped the quill into the ink with practiced ease, and wrote her name onto the piece of parchment. Then, beneath it, she wrote his name.

Though she had misspelled it, Athelstan could recognize it as his own. Behind it, she wrote ‘Ecbert’ and ‘Rex’ and ‘Deus’ and finally, she wrote a very clumsily spelled version of the word ‘feather’, following his pronunciation with latin letters.

Athelstan took the scrap from her, careful not to smudge the still-drying ink. He looked from it to Alethia and back at the words again, still unbelieving.

Alethia opened her mouth to say something, but then she quieted down again. Instead, she took Athelstan’s hands into her own again. His first instinct was to pull away. He found he could not, instead letting her fingers squeeze his. They were calloused, like those of Ragnar, of Lagertha. Like those of a warrior.

Athelstan wanted to shake his head at her. A shieldmaiden that believed in God and could read and write. And then, her eyes turned watery, and Athelstan panicked. Had he done something wrong?

Alethia pulled his hands forward, until they rested on her stomach. It was flat, so it took him a few moments to understand. Lagertha had done the same gesture to Ragnar when she’d been with child.

“Child?” Athelstan asked, nodding to her stomach, and Alethia repeated the word with a shaky voice. She raised a finger to her mouth, gently shushing. Athelstan nodded quickly, grabbing the cross around his neck.

“I promise.”

Alethia smiled again, quickly wiping her tears. “Promise.” she repeated. A few seconds later, the door to the small room opened, and Athelstan knew she’d heard the footsteps.

It was King Ecbert who stood in the doorway, a servant behind him. The servant walked towards Alethia, beckoning her forward. Alethia looked to Athelstan, unsure, and he nodded.

“Go with her.” he said calmly.

“Athelstan. Promise.” Alethia replied, and he nodded. When the door closed behind the two women, Saxon and stranger, Ecbert turned to Athelstan.

“Promise? When did that word come up?” he asked.

“She’s a fast learner.” Athelstan said instead. “And… there’s something wrong with her.”

“What do you mean? Is she insane?” Ecbert asked. Athelstan shook his head, handing Ecbert the scrap of parchment. The king had about the same reaction as Athelstan, laughing as his hand rubbed his beard.

“She can read and write. My late wife could not do that. My own son could barely learn the skills.” Ecbert observed.

“It will make the lessons go faster. She is a fast learner, and in such an environment - she may be able to communicate the very basics in a week.” Athelstan replied.

“She was smart enough to be brought to my villa.” Ecbert snorted. “The girl’s smarter than half my court if she could convince a village of idiots that she was not a witch.”

“Alethia told them she was a Christian, I think.” Athelstan replied.

“That naturally changes things.” Ecbert said sarcastically. “I am quite surprised they did not kill her.”

“Neither did you.” Athelstan pointed out.

“I don’t kill curiosities.” Ecbert shrugged. The words made Athelstan shudder. He did not like his king’s tone.

Alethia

Athelstan reminded her of Jon. She tried not to think about that as she flipped through the scrolls in front of her. She’d managed to slip away from the servant that had been assigned to her, and wander off into an abandoned library of sorts.

“Fuck.” she cursed as she unrolled yet another piece of parchment, and was met with the sight of latin words flowing together. Frustrated, she rolled it together, carefully putting the writing back in its place.

Alethia slipped into the next row of shelves, pulling out a massive tome. She paused as she saw the mosaic on the wall across from her, putting the book back in its place. A laugh escaped her as she carefully traced the Roman imagery. If this place had a mosaic like this that meant…

As a throat was cleared around her, Alethia whirled around. King Ecbert leaned against the shelves she’d just been sorting through, a grin on his face that said thought I’d find you here . Alethia did not like it.

Even though she could appreciate how dilfy he was.

“Romans, huh?” she said nervously, pointing to the mosaic behind her. The king’s eyebrows shot up. He said something she could not understand, waving the piece of parchment she’d written in front of her face.

“Yeah, I was kind of trying to find out what this place is about.” Alethia said, nodding to the books. “But the mosaic helped way more.”

“Mosaic.” Ecbert said, pointing to the wall, and Alethia nodded. She pointed to a figure that looked like an Athena-Minerva-esque woman, and said the name of the goddess.

“Minerva?” Ecbert asked.

“I’m guessing.” Alehtia shrugged, pointing to the next few figures and saying the names of the Gods she guessed belonged to them, sending a mental thank you to Rick Riordan. Something flashed behind Ecbert’s eyes as she listed them off, and Alethia suddenly realized that her knowledge was something this king would want.

She reminded herself of why she’d been so excited to see the mosaic.

“If Romans built this place, that means that it has a bath, right? I reek.” Alethia sighed. “Bath? Aqua? Laver? Je veux me laver.”

Ecbert took a few moments, before he nodded. His arm hooked into Alethia’s as he pulled her to his side. She ground her teeth against it, steeling herself so that she would not hit another king.

“Where’s Athelstan?” she asked.

“Bath.” Ecbert replied, mispronouncing her words. And indeed, when she stepped into the room, she saw that Athelstan was speaking with the servant, trying to calm her in a soothing voice.

“Sorry.” Alethia said apologetically as the servant turned to her, giving a careful shrug. The servant only shook her head, looking to Ecbert for approval before she stormed off. Alethia did not mind, hands dipping into the bath as she leaned over the edge. The water was warm and Alethia laughed again.

Quickly, she pulled her dress up to her kness, pulling off her boots before she dipped her feet into the water and sighed.

“What a nice bath you have, King Ecbert.” she snorted, looking over her shoulder. The king was eyeing her with that same predatory look as before, and Alethia quickly looked to Athelstan. When he said the word she assumed meant bath, she repeated it dutifully. Athelstan did not smile back at her, his eyes only flickering to her stomach, gaze full of worry.

He really was like Jon.

#alestan #alethia stahl #athelstan #vikings #history vikings fic #athelstan headcanons #alethia

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procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 1 year ago

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@levithestripper me rn

#alestan

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delicatebarness · 4 months ago

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barnes' girl | prologue

Summary: Your flower delivery to a major corporation takes an unexpected turn when an encounter with the enigmatic CEO, James Barnes, leaves you feeling both intimidated and intrigued. As your paths continue to cross, you find yourself drawn into a world far removed from the peaceful confines of the flower shop.

Warning: Age Gap. Power Imbalance. Intimidation. Sexual Undertones.

Word Count: 1368

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A/N: I am incredibly ill right now and did not expect to be writing at all so I do apologize if this is terrible. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Barnes' Girl: Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in this series. | @im-alestan | @carrotlove

Stepping into the bustling flower shop, the scent of fresh blooms envelops you as you start another day of deliveries. Arrangements of roses, lilies, and tulips fill the space with vibrant colors and intoxicating fragrances. Above the door, the bell softly chimes, signaling your departure into the city– A particularly exquisite bouquet in hand. An imposing skyscraper of a major corporation was today’s first destination, a rare delivery for the quaint little shop.

Carefully cradling the flowers in your arms, you navigated the crowded streets until reaching the towering building. Sleek and modern, the lobby contrasts starkly with the charming disarray of the flower shop. You couldn’t help but feel a flutter of nerves as you approached the elevators. Hearing the door ding open, you begin to step inside, unbeknownst to you that James Barnes, the CEO, was stepping out.

Suddenly, and chaotically; the collusion causes the petals to scatter across the polished, marble floor in a kaleidoscope of colors.

“I’m so sorry, sir!” The words spilled out in a frantic rush, and you dropped to your knees, gathering the fallen flowers desperately. Your hand shook as you tried to salvage the bouquet. Panic surging through you, your heart pounding in your chest.

Mr Barnes stood above you, a towering figure of authority and magnetism. Sharp and discerning, his eyes flickered with something unreadable as he watched you. For a moment, his expression is inscrutable, then suddenly, his lips twitch as if suppressing a smile. Your breath hitched at the intensity in his gaze, as if he was sending unspoken commands that sent a shiver down your spine.

Giving you a momentary reprieve, he looked away, clearing his throat. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you interpreted his reaction as disdain. Scrambling together the last of the petals, you muttered apologies and small comments about how your boss would be furious.

As you manage to compose yourself, you catch sight of the now crumpled box that the flowers were in. Unbeknownst to you, Mr Barnes took a mental note of the shop’s name emblazoned on the side. You were left flustered and humiliated, convinced you had left a terrible impression on the older, powerful CEO.

Later that day, you were surprised to hear that he had called the shop. He explained the incident was his fault, not yours, and agreed to order flowers for the building regularly. “To brighten up the office,” he claimed, but his motives were more complex, layering with an interest that went beyond mere floral appreciation.

The routine of delivering flowers to the building became almost comforting as the weeks passed. Yet, one morning, as you stepped into the lobby with a small bouquet of pink hydrangeas, you were unaware that he was watching, waiting for you on the cameras. The phone on the receptionist’s desk rang, echoing through the lobby, and she answered with a practiced smile.

“Certainly, sir,” she replied, her accent thick. She turned to you after hanging up. “Mr Barnes wants you to deliver these personally today.”

Taking the visitor key card she offered, your pulse quickened, and a mix of anticipation and dread bubbled within you. While making your way to the top floor, it was as if you could feel his gaze on you through the security cameras, a silent, omnipresent observer. The elevator doors open to the executive floor, and you step out, your grip tightening around the bouquet.

With a deep breath, you walked toward his office. The encounter of your first meeting played over and over in your mind. Ruining his suit, you felt jittery and self-conscious. Yet, as you enter his office, you see him there, every bit as intimating as you recall. His broad body was wrapped in a dark suit, attempting to look welcoming but still imposing.

You felt small by the opulent surroundings as you hesitantly stepped further inside. “Hi… I, I’m, I brought the flowers you ordered,” your voice trembled slightly as you held up the bouquet– The vibrant pinks contrasting against the muted elegance of the office.

“Thank you, come, place them on the desk,” he instructed, his gaze never leaving yours. His voice was low, commanding yet inviting, almost like a purr.

As you made your way towards the massive glass desk, you couldn’t help but notice the way he watched your every move. His gaze followed you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Placing the flowers down carefully, you turned to face him, your heart pounding.

You begin to thank him before his low voice interrupts. “What’s your name?” You stutter as you tell him, feeling even smaller under his intense gaze. A small, almost predatory smile curved his lips. “Such a sweet little doll, tell me, are you always so clumsy?”

Shifting uncomfortably, you felt a heat rise to your cheeks. “I… I didn’t mean to be. It was an accident.”

A hint of amusement glinted in his eyes, his smile widening. “Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again. From now on, bring the flowers directly to me. Understood?”

“Y-Yes, sir,” you whispered, nodding quickly. You turn to leave, his glass of whiskey in his hand catching your eye. “I b-better get going,” you stammered, slightly moving toward the door.

“Do you not want to join this old man for a drink?” He held out the glass toward you, the amber liquid glistening in the light.

Glancing nervously at the clock behind him, you hesitated. “I really shouldn’t… I’m still on work time.”

Raising an eyebrow, a hint of a smile still played on his lips. “Just one drink. It won’t take long.”

Your fingers brushed against his as your trembling hands took the glass. The contact sent a shiver down your spine. “Thank you,” you whispered, nervousness and curiosity coursing through you.

“To unexpected encounters,” he toasted, his eyes still locked onto yours.

Taking a small sip, the warmth spreads through you. “To unexpected encounters,” you echoed, your voice barely audible.

He watched you intently, an unspoken tension thick in the air. The walls of his office seemed to close in around you, the lighting added to the intimacy of the moment. “Tell me, doll, how long have you been working at the flower shop?” he asked, leaning back in his leather desk chair slighting.

“About six months,” you replied, your finger tapping the glass nervously.

“And, do you enjoy it?” he asked, his gaze never wavering.

“Yes, sir, I-I do… it’s peaceful,” you said, your heart still raced but your voice became steadier.

“Peaceful, huh?” He tilted his head, considering your words. “Not like this place,” he added with a wry smile, his whiskey glass-filled hand gesturing around the room. The walls were lined with large abstract paintings and bookshelves filled with finance, and self-improvement books.

Taking another glance around, you took in the grandeur of his office. “It’s… very impressive,” you admitted, your eyes returning to his.

“Oh, you think so?” His smile widened once again, amusement dancing over his piercing blue eyes. “You don’t find it… intimidating?”

“A little,” you confessed, your cheeks growing hotter.

“Good,” he said, his tone serious as he leaned back again. His fingers steepled beneath his chin. “It’s meant to be. But, you, doll,” he added, his expression softening slightly, “you shouldn’t be intimidated.”

You swallowed hard, his comments catching you off guard. “I- I should really get back to the shop,” you said, your voice barely audible again.

“If you must,” he conceded, reluctance lacing in his voice. “But remember, little doll… I expect to see you here every week with those fresh flowers.”

“Yes, sir,” you nodded, a strange sense of excitement and apprehension rushing through you. “I, um, thank you for the drink.”

“Anytime, babydoll,” he replied, his eyes lingering on you as you turned to leave.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you walked back to the elevator. The marble floors echo your footsteps, and the soft hum of the employees fills your ears. The conversation replayed in your mind, every word, every glance.

The enigmatic and powerful James Barnes had taken a particular interest in you, and you realized that your weekly deliveries were about to become much more intriguing.

---

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444names · 1 year ago

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mortal kombat characters + french forenames

Aberook Alendette Alestan Amayana Ancifer Andrenks Andro Anikaël Anmatheel Annik Annya Anowene Anoît Arick Arione Arkand Arlogisa Arraphi Ashraak Astorged Audrah Auren Bacquent Batar Beant Bearloïc Beathi Beine Benelex Bennikaël Bette Betth Bilor Bisabilli Blazefang Bosenk Boyant Bring Béanire Caegadeng Cagad Caletrine Camek Camon Canne Caribby Carie Cassan Chacque Chame Charomire Charro Chartavin Chaël Cheles Cheuter Chille Cholok Chranpai Chrenée Chricte Chrill Chrion Chris Clake Clanues Clatands Clathel Clauline Clérie Colavine Colivet Collists Color Colorbrus Coloïc Coman Comorge Crette Cyric Cyristons Dabrichan Dacklen Dacque Daessim Daine Dakevai Dameath Davane Deackanne Deand Demilyn Dennede Dermang Derrada Derrie Dette Drémi Eatryu Edider Elleepte Emara Emien Emikath Emman Emmancer Emmohaël Emplaule Encetter Enorgeng Erojachi Erree Etice Evamil Excla Excléan Execian Fabrianad Fabriu Fahao Famas Faument Fessivic Filegin Fille Filyne Firahre Firenor Firtion Firèneuni Flavikkon Flayn Flogers Flogilex Flood Foryptant Frale Gadecrek Gadionn Gadow Gaétine Geatwoods Gerichrai Geste Ghtine Giletter Gille Gillexans Gilyn Gilyne Gitarle Gohst Golad Gonie Gonietine Gorbrum Gormegis Gorris Gotanna Grandrée Grant Greans Gribby Grile Gronne Guestreen Gélian Haege Halie Haline Hamel Hamurnon Hanno Havalle Heennew Hembus Hence Henkhani Hskands Hskang Hstsunge Hugodion Hujimana Hérèse Icklette Iessate Imbelle Irette Jadaviers Jaden Jadraymon Jamanne Jamath Jamel Janneshop Jatmale Jeadon Jeale Jeand Jeane Jearnbuck Jeatal Jeath Jeatonka Jenne Jenranne Jentilien Jertin Jimeide Johaynd Johne Josetz Jossia Jostert Josébal Jériustes Kabraine Kahaya Kahri Kanloge Kenfro Kerbran Kiren Kirolor Kobeng Kochine Komarce Komart Komeine Krean Krette Krorge Kryourogy Kuaire Kuliang Kulicie Kurey Kurie Laink Laire Lanonque Larisek Laude Laumon Laurant Leorber Lexan Liandmas Lianne Libose Lizan Lochri Locéa Looke Lorce Lorcept Loéminks Luchrine Lucieu Lydraymon Léande Mactor Madanny Madelle Madoc Madon Madonnya Magalegon Magesa Magnèse Maine Mainkons Mannic Mannique Mantahn Maraces Maran Marand Marka Marre Marrieth Marth Marthre Marus Mashanck Mashring Masiant Mastian Mastrin Mator Matuutung Maude Mayndell Meatilene Micell Michano Micien Milibby Mille Milor Mineu Mobric Modial Moling Monifené Morier Mormege Morpette Myric Mélisass Méliseing Mélène Nadier Namanient Natarine Nedeliven Nette Nichanne Nimadow Nimbactim Nimbaro Nitia Nivikath Nivin Noéming Ocess Omomon Ondro Onnonadow Ontorcero Orearoods Paine Paril Passine Paste Pastéph Pathille Paurale Peanstric Peasimen Petth Pirebiet Plakans Prianmi Ptice Qalaing Quanciets Rallene Raphao Rarons Reane Reidet Reilad Reylvien Rinet Rolen Ronces Rooker Rusti Ruuther Ryptarcer Rédraymor Rémything Samel Samuris Sarge Sarienme Saronk Sartine Sasing Schamavie Schne Schral Scolok Shart Shasga Shaëlle Shertan Shien Shies Shine Shrie Sinkhanck Sivain Skerogis Snons Sonier Speange Spert Stark Stivie Stéph Stéphaël Sudricer Suill Surna Suzager Sylace Sylas Sylaul Sylval Talémy Tanfor Teferafan Tegod Termeide Teste Thaet Thargueni Thimon Thotal Thuguy Tomilora Tomor Tonne Torafant Toratine Torgan Torgils Tound Trienrion Trons Tsundre Usine Vamel Vethéro Vickgre Vonis Véricel Warna Winges Winèse Wolfiliet Womeid Wookk Yvenang Zebri Zefeen Élibacu Élibby Éline Éloïc Étanste Étiame

#444 names #444names

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procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 1 year ago

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@levithestripper

#alethia stahl #alestan #ifykyk

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dyscomancer · 5 years ago

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No I‘m not an alcoholic, I’m an

#ffxiv #ff14 #stan #stanning #shitpost #final fantasy #alestan #gridania #from the desk

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levithestripper · 1 year ago

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“‘That is a rare thing in a man.’ ‘You are good, I think,’ Alethia replied. ‘I try,’ Athelstan said.”

—Athelstan and Alethia Stahl in HEORTE TIL HEORTE by @procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics

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procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 1 year ago

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heorte til heorte

— pairing: athelstan x alethia stahl (oc)

— fandom: vikings (tv)

— summary: alethia wanted to go home, to return to her family. instead, she finds herself in ninth-century england. not speaking the language, and still processing the grief of her other life, she searches for an anchor - athelstan.

— warnings: violence, age gaps, miscarriage, death, a lot of hurt and grief. no one starts out happy. aged down athelstan bc i thought he was like 20 when he got kidnapped. he’s around 26 in this opposed to his regular 32.

— notes: this is self-indulgent. this is also angsty, like, really angsty. it’s not even funny at this point. does it get better? maybe. but this is athelstan related, so it’s going to hurt. written for and because of @levithestripper :)

chapters will be posted every sunday, starting this week.

— quotes & excerpts:

Yes, this was England. She was home, on Earth.

She was pretty, in the same way Lagertha was - in the same way all shieldmaidens were heedlessly, dangerously beautiful.

“The christening does not protect the body, but the soul.” Athelstan replied. He sounded as if he was repeating a sentence he knew by heart but did not mean. “And has yours been protected? Has God made sure that you feel whole?” Alethia laughed, her lip quivering. “I should think not. I see you, Athelstan.”

“Not for a stranger. I would go for Alethia Stahl, if I knew who she was.” Athelstan said.

“The ocean makes me afraid.” he said. “It is so… endless.” “Aren’t we all?” Alethia whispered.

A part of him wished that he could have stayed and soothed her scars.

#athelstan #alethia stahl #athelstan x oc #vikings #history vikings #ragnar lothbrok #lagertha #ecbert #aethelwulf #athelstan x alethia #alestan

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procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 1 year ago

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@levithestripper it’s getting worse. i will, in fact, be incorporating this

i really love when a character, calmly and completely earnestly, is like i’m not important, i’m no one really, just a blade that people use and throw away. no one remembers me for long after i leave their life. and then you look at the evidence and it turns out that every person who meets them becomes permanently obsessed with them, for better and for worse, and the character has somehow completely missed this fact

#jack the american #alestan #yes that’s spelled correctly no one but jack knows why #hehe

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thevictoryofthepeople · 7 years ago

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@eternallydreamingstar said: 🎨 (surprise me )

SEND ME A ‘🎨’ FOR AN AESTHETIC OR MOOD COLLAGE FOR OUR MUSES. || TRISTAN ASK || @eternallydreamingstar

Tristan/Alexander || Alestan || OTP: Power Hungry Lovers and Rivals || Verse: Fire and Ice || Alexander Faye: The Ice in my Heart

Your ice flows through my veins Cools down red hot blood Kiss me my king I am your queen Ruling beside you And taking power from you

#asks: tristan #edits: tristan #alestan #otp: power hungry lovers and rivals #v: fire and ice #alexander faye #the ice in my heart #eternallydreamingstar

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delicatebarness · 4 months ago

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barnes' girl | chapter two

Summary: Attending a party with Yelena, you encounter an old fling, Harley. As the night progresses, you grapple with your feelings. Leading to a morning filled with tension and unspoken emotions.

Warning: Alcohol Consumption. Drug Use (Not Reader, or main characters.) Sexual Situations. Intoxication. Emotional Distress. Aggressive Behavior. Power Dynamics.

Word Count: 2890

Spotify Playlist | Support: Ko-FI

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A/N: I'm poorly and I wanted more of these two okay :( - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Barnes' Girl: Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in this series. | @im-alestan | @carrotlove | @scott-loki-barnes | @mrsstuckyboo

The party was already in full swing by the time you arrived. Packed with people– music, chatter, and the faint smell of alcohol and weed filled the air. You grabbed Yelena’s hand, letting her lead the way as she navigated the crowded rooms.

“Let’s get drunk!” Yelena shouted over the thumping music, pulling you toward the makeshift bar in the kitchen. Filling your cup with something sweet, and strong, you felt a warm buzz rush through your body, taking effect within minutes.

The day's worries melted away as your night wore on. You danced and laughed with Yelena by your side. Making everything seem brighter and lighter, the alcohol helped you enjoy yourself. And, it wasn’t long before you and Yelena noticed Harley standing across the room, his eyes fixated on you, his familiar face sparking a flutter of old feelings in the pit of your stomach.

With a sly grin, Yelena nudged you. “Go talk to him,” she urged, giving you a playful push in his direction.

For years, Harley had become a constant presence at these parties, and the physical attraction between you was undeniable. The many nights you found yourself exploring each other’s bodies, tangled in strange beds together, was a testament to that connection. Yet, unbeknown to anyone as to why, the relationship never evolved beyond casual hookups.

You had harbored a quiet hope that something more might develop, but it never did.

Approaching Harley, the alcohol mixing with the atmosphere seemed to amplify everything. Glancing up at you, his face brightened with his familiar, charismatic smile.

“Hey, you,” Harley said, his voice low and inviting. “It’s been a little while.”

“Yeah,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s good to see you.” The alcohol gave you a little more courage, but you couldn’t help but focus on the flutter of nervousness.

His hand lingered a bit longer than necessary, brushing your arm as he spoke. “You look amazing tonight,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. His gaze filled with warmth and with an intensity in his eyes causing your pulse to quicken. “How about we get out of here?”

Before you could process what was happening, his lips found yours, kissing you with an urgency that surprised you. Pulling you close, his hand slid around your waist, lifting you slightly. Your heart raced as you felt the heat radiating off him.

The kiss felt familiar, and at first, almost like a comfort. But, as the kiss deepened, something unsettling began to come into realization for you. The excitement you once felt seemingly began to fade, a growing sense of discomfort replacing it. His hand roamed up your chest as his lips moved against yours, pushing you against the wall.

As you tried to focus on the kiss, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right, something had changed. The heat that would usually course between you fell distant, cold. Flashing in your mind like a film reel, images of Bucky appeared, and the words that fell from his lips earlier that day echoed loudly in your ears.

Your spark for Harley was no longer in sight, your mind had chosen another.

Gently pushing him away, you broke the kiss. His eyes were half-closed, still caught up in the moment. It didn’t take long for his expression to shift to confusion as he took in your sudden withdrawal.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice laced with concern. “I thought we were having a good time?”

You tried to steady your racing heart, taking deep breaths. “Harley… I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is right.”

Furrowing his brow, he searched your face for an explanation. “What do you mean? This is our thing.”

“I know,” you said, your voice steadying as you spoke. “But tonight, I… I just don’t feel the same way. It’s as if, what we had isn’t there anymore.”

Harley’s face fell, disappointment and frustration crossed his features. “You’re serious? After all these years, you just don’t feel it?”

You nodded, a strange feeling of regret mixed with relief coursing through you. “Yeah, I guess… Maybe, I’m just not in the same place anymore.”

He was taken aback, staring at you for a moment. “Alright, if that’s how you feel,” he said, stepping back, and raising his hands in defeat. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

Watching Harley walk away, a mix of emotions coursed through you. The kiss had been a reminder of how much things were changing. You couldn’t shake the feeling of disillusionment as you turned to find Yelena. Even though the night had brought clarity, it was leaving you with a sense of unresolved feelings and a newfound determination to confront the person who had recently occupied your thoughts– James Barnes.

Stumbling onto the patio, the cool night air hit your flushed face as you fumbled with your phone. The distant sound of the music and laughter from the party seemed to fade as you scrolled through your contacts, the city lights blurring in your vision. You leaned against the railing for support as you came across Bucky’s number and hit call with trembling fingers.

“Hello? Doll?” Bucky’s voice came through, groggy but with an instant concern.

“B-Bucky?” you slurred, hiccuping slightly. “Why aren’t you asleep? Isn’t it late?”

“I was sleeping until you called, babydoll. Where are you?” His voice was a mix of worry and frustration, but mostly worry.

“At a party with Yelena, but I can’t find her,” you mumbled, your words blending as you glanced around the patio, seeing only strangers smoking.

“I told you to get an early night,” Bucky said, his tone stern but not unkind.

“I know,” you whined, pouting as you leaned your forehead against the cool metal of the railing. “But, I wanted to see if there was anything still there with Harley. But, there isn’t.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Bucky’s voice was firm and resolute. “Send me your location. I’m coming to get you.”

“I thought I wanted him,” you hiccupped again, tears threatening to spill over. “But I don’t. I want you.”

“Doll, send me your location,” he repeated, his voice steady but more insistent.

You ignored his request, continuing to babble incoherently, telling him facts about hydrangea flowers and how they get their color. Bucky’s tone shifted, becoming more commanding. “You have five seconds to give me your location,” he said, beginning to count down. “Five… four…”

"Um, I’m not sure,” you whispered, your voice small and sad, glancing around the unfamiliar surroundings.

“Alright, baby,” he softened, “go outside for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you agreed, pushing through the crowd and out the door, your steps unsteady. The night air was crisp, and the sound of traffic and city life enveloped you. You shivered slightly, both from the cold and your anxiety.

“What do you see around you?” he asked, his voice a calming presence in your ear.

You looked around, struggling to steady your gaze. "I see... a streetlight flickering and a corner convenience store with a red awning. There’s a mural on the wall next to it, and the street’s lined with parked cars," you managed, your voice shaky.

“Good girl, stay there. I’m coming to get you,” he reassured you. The promise of his arrival brought a sense of relief, and you clung to it, waiting for the familiar sight of his car to appear.

Pulling up to the curb, Bucky emerged with a concerned expression from a black SUV, its dark windows reflecting the city’s neon lights. His intense gaze scanned the street before locking onto you. He approached you swiftly, as always, his presence was both commanding and a comfort, his arm wrapping around your waist steadying you on your feet.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he murmured with a low rumble. Guiding you gently toward the car, his grip firm yet tender.

Once inside the SUV, the seats were cool against your skin, and the dim lighting offered a relaxing contrast to the chaos of the party. The scent of leather grounded you as if mixed with the spice of Bucky’s cologne. Settling beside you, Bucky’s body was a solid and reassuring presence.

The driver navigated the streets, and you leaned into Bucky’s side, feeling the exhaustion and alcohol catching up with you. “I’m hungry,” you mumbled, your stomach growling softly.

“Did you eat before going out?” he asked, his tone gentle yet concerned. He watched you with worry as his head tilted slightly.

You shook your head, pouting slightly. “No.”

Bucky sighed, glancing at the driver. “What do you want?”

“Chicken nuggets,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips. Your childlike request lightens the mood of the night.

Making eye contact with the driver, Bucky nodded. The SUV diverted its route to a nearby fast-food place, the lights casting a warm glow as you pulled into the drive-thru. Not long after, you were handed a bag of chicken nuggets and a strawberry milkshake. You happily devoured the nuggets and drink in the back seat, a smile spreading across your face as you played with the rings on Bucky’s fingers, humming along to the low sound of the radio.

When you finally reached his penthouse, your eyes widened in awe. The spacious, modern design with floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city skyline– far from your shared apartment. The sleek furniture, soft lighting, and overall luxurious atmosphere left you momentarily speechless. The vast elegance of the space was overwhelming, making you feel small yet safe.

Bucky guided you to a guest bedroom, helping you settle into the plush bed. Softly lit, the room held a sense of comfort. “Get some rest, little doll,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” you murmured, your eyes already drifting closed, the softness of the bed and the warmth of his presence lulling you into sleep.

Walking up in an unfamiliar bed, the soft silk sheets and plush pillows only slightly eased your confusion. The room was luxurious, a far cry from your modest apartment. Panic began to set in as you realized you had no clear memory of how you’d ended up here. Quickly sitting up, the room spun slightly as you tried to piece together the events of the previous night.

Heart racing, you scrambled out of bed and stumbled toward the door. The thick carpet muffled your steps as you cautiously made your way through the penthouse, your anxiety growing with each passing second. The memories of the night before were hazy, and the unfamiliar surroundings heightened your sense of disorientation.

Finally, you reached the kitchen, the smell of food, cooking, guiding you. You peeked around the corner, and there he was—Bucky, clad in nothing, but sweatpants, standing at the stove. Flipping pancakes with easy confidence, his movements precise and rhythmic.

Relief washed over you as you saw him, though you still felt uneasy. “Bucky?” you called out, your voice trembling slightly.

He turned to you, his face lighting up with a warm, reassuring smile. “Morning, doll. I was just making breakfast.”

You nodded, though your expression was still one of confusion. “I… I don’t remember much from last night. How did I end up here?”

Bucky’s smile softened. He set down the spatula and walked over to you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “You called me late last night, and I came to pick you up. You were pretty out of it, so I brought you back here to know you were safe.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Oh, right. I’m sorry for causing any trouble.”

He shook his head, dismissing your apology with a gentle smile. “No trouble at all. How about some pancakes? I made a batch just for you.”

You hesitated for a moment, but the aroma of the pancakes was comforting. “I’d love some,” you said, offering a small smile in return.

Bucky guided you to the kitchen island, pulling out a chair for you. You sat down, still feeling slightly disoriented but grateful for the familiarity of Bucky’s presence. He served you a stack of pancakes, their golden-brown surfaces glistening with syrup.

As you began to eat, the atmosphere in the kitchen grew quieter. Bucky took a seat across from you, his demeanor shifting subtly. His usual warmth and easy confidence were replaced by a slight stiffness. His eyes, which normally sparkled with kindness, were now clouded with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place.

You noticed the change, feeling a pang of anxiety. “Bucky, is everything okay?”

He looked up, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he said, but the words felt forced, lacking their usual sincerity.

The silence stretched on, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. You took another bite of your pancakes, trying to find something to say. “Thank you for looking after me last night. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Bucky nodded, his gaze distant. “It’s no problem.”

You could sense the tension, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. The warmth of the pancakes and the comfort of the penthouse felt almost suffocating now. “Bucky, please, tell me what’s going on. Did I do something wrong?”

Bucky's silence was punctuated only by the occasional clink of cutlery against plates. Finally, he broke the uneasy quiet. “Do you not remember what happened last night?”

“No…” you admitted, your voice small. “It’s all a blur.” Your heart raced, a mix of confusion and guilt flooding you. “Bucky, what did I do to make you so pissed with me?”

“It’s not– it’s not what you did,” he snapped, frustration evident in his tone. “It’s the fact that you don’t remember a damn thing and now I’m left questioning if it was all just the alcohol talking.”

You felt a surge of defensiveness but also deep regret. “I’m– Bucky, I have no clue what you’re talking about!”

Bucky's face reddened with a surge of anger, flaring his nostrils as he clenched his jaw. His fingers gripped the edge of the kitchen counter so tightly that the knuckles turned white. His gaze was locked on you, eyes blazing with a fierce intensity that made the air feel electric.

His voice rose, sharp and unyielding, slicing through the heavy silence. “You told me last night that you didn’t want some guy named Harley, whoever the fuck that is!” His hand slammed down onto the counter with a loud thud, the sudden motion causing your body to flinch. “And then, you told me that you wanted me!” His shoulders were tense, rigid with frustration, and he took a step closer, his body language exuding a mix of fury and hurt.

He paced for a moment, his movements jerky and agitated, as if trying to contain the turmoil within him. “But you don’t remember that because you’re a little brat who cared more about intoxicating your mind than resting!” His voice cracked slightly, revealing the strain in his words, and he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, his face contorting with a mix of anger and disbelief.

Your breath caught at Bucky’s outburst, his anger palpable and raw. For a moment, you sat frozen, processing his harsh words and the intensity of his emotions. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, something unexpected began to stir within you. The way he’d called you a “little brat,” the sheer force of his frustration– it was unnervingly exhilarating.

His anger was like a spark igniting something deep inside you. You found yourself drawn to the power in his voice, the way his eyes darkened with intensity. The tension in his body, the rigid set of his shoulders; it was all somehow captivating. You bit your lip, trying to mask the shift in your feelings.

Instinctively, you stepped closer, lowering your gaze and giving him your most sincere, tear-filled eyes. You let your lips form a small, apologetic pout. “I really am sorry, sir,” you said softly, your voice filled with genuine regret. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at you, a mixture of frustration and reluctant amusement flickering in his gaze. He folded his arms across his chest, his posture still tense but his expression softening.

“Do you have any idea what would be happening to you right now,” he said, his tone carrying a blend of frustration and an odd, stern amusement, “if this discussion was within an agreed arrangement?”

You nodded slowly, your heart pounding at his words. The idea of facing his consequences, of navigating through this complicated emotional journey, was both intimidating and strangely thrilling. You could sense that Bucky was struggling with his emotions, trying to reconcile the feelings of frustration with the undeniable connection between you.

“I understand, sir,” you said softly, your voice almost a whisper. “And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make things right. I just want to understand where we stand and how we can move forward.”

Bucky’s gaze softened further, though a hint of his earlier sternness remained. He stepped closer, reaching out to gently cup your cheek with his hand. The touch was both tender and commanding, a reminder of the complexity of your relationship.

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