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astrxq · 9 days ago

Text

Through the Snowfall

cregan stark x reader

words: 19k

notes: You return to Winterfell after years spent in the South, where you and Cregan Stark grew up together but eventually drifted apart. As duty and duty-bound marriage proposals weigh on Cregan, the unspoken love between you slowly reignites, thawing years of silence.

Your heart pounded in your chest as the horses pulled the carriage closer to the castle. You had been away for so long – far too long – and now, standing before the very gates that had once been your home, you felt both the weight of nostalgia and the uncertainty of what awaited you inside.

As the carriage came to a stop, the familiar figures of Winterfell’s servants approached, offering their assistance.

You had not seen him in years. Not since that summer, when you were both just children with the world at your feet. So much had changed since then. You had gone south with your family, settling far from the North’s relentless winter, and Cregan had grown into a man – one bound by duty and responsibility. The boy you had known, the one who had held your hand and whispered secrets beneath the moonlight, was no longer here.

At least, that’s what you tried to convince yourself of.

You took a steadying breath and stepped down from the carriage, your boots crunching softly in the snow beneath you. The gates slowly creaked open, and there he was, standing just beyond them.

Cregan stood tall, his cloak of thick fur sweeping around his legs, and his dark eyes – those eyes that had once been so full of mischief – were now cold, hard with the weight of his title, his responsibilities. The boyish grin that used to play on his lips was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was the quiet, stoic man who had taken his place as Warden of the North. His features were sharper now, the jawline more defined, the muscle in his arms and chest more pronounced. He had grown into himself in ways you hadn’t expected.

But there, beneath it all, was still Cregan.

He had not seen you yet, his gaze fixed on something distant, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to study him. It felt wrong – too intimate – but you couldn’t stop. You remembered the way his face would soften when he laughed, how his eyes would light up with excitement when he talked about the future. But those things seemed far gone now. This man, the one standing before you, was not the same as the one you had known. He was colder, harder, distant. The weight of the North had clearly shaped him.

Your heart twisted in your chest, a pang of longing mixed with the ache of uncertainty.

Before you could find the answers to any of the questions running through your head, Cregan’s sharp gaze flickered to you, and his expression softened – just the faintest of shifts. His eyes lingered for a moment, as though trying to place you. You felt a sudden rush of warmth, a recognition that burned through you in a flash.

There you were, standing in front of him, not the woman you had become, not the years that had passed between you. No. You were the girl he had once known, the one who had laughed with him in the snow, who had stolen kisses beneath the weeping branches of the godswood. You were the one who had left, but never truly gone.

His lips parted, but no words came out at first. It was as if he had forgotten how to speak, how to address you after all this time. He stepped forward slowly, his boots leaving heavy imprints in the snow, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

He breathed, your name escaping his lips like a prayer, soft and reverent in the cold morning air. The way he said it – it was as if he had been holding onto it all these years, waiting for the right moment to let it go. His voice was deeper now, rougher around the edges, but the way he shaped the syllables of your name remained unchanged.

The sound of it made your chest tighten, memories flooding back like a tide you couldn't control. Summers spent racing through the godswood, winters huddled by the great hearth, sharing stories and dreams. The first time he had called your name in that special way, just before he kissed you beneath the heart tree, both of you young and foolish and full of hope.

"My lord," you managed to reply, the formality feeling strange on your tongue. It wasn't what you wanted to say – not really – but it was what was expected. You were no longer children who could speak freely, who could ignore the weight of titles and responsibilities.

Something flickered across his face at the formal address – pain, perhaps, or disappointment. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the mask of the Lord of Winterfell. "Welcome home," he said, his voice steady now, controlled. "It has been far too long."

Home. The word echoed in your mind, bringing with it a surge of emotions you weren't prepared for. Was it still home? Could it be, after all this time?

"Yes," you agreed softly, "it has."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words, with memories neither of you dared to voice. You could feel the eyes of the servants upon you, watching this reunion with barely concealed interest. They remembered, of course they did. The whole castle had known of the friendship between the young lord and you, had whispered about the possibility of more.

But that was before. Before duty called. Before you left. Before he became the man who stood before you now, wrapped in furs and responsibility.

"You must be tired from your journey," Cregan said finally, breaking the tension. "Allow me to show you to your chambers." He gestured toward the castle, and you noticed how his movements had become more refined, more measured. Gone was the impulsive boy who would grab your hand and run through the corridors without a care.

You followed him through the familiar corridors, each step echoing against the stone walls. The silence between you was deafening, filled only by the sound of your footsteps and the distant murmur of castle life. It wasn't supposed to be like this. In your dreams of returning to Winterfell, you had imagined easy conversation, perhaps even laughter. Instead, there was this – this suffocating quiet, this careful distance.

Your mind wandered to the letters that had once bridged the gap between you. In the beginning, they had been endless pages filled with everything and nothing. Cregan would write about his growing responsibilities, his fears, his hopes. You would tell him of the South, of the strange customs and the even stranger people. Every word had felt like a lifeline, keeping you connected despite the distance.

But then the letters grew shorter. His responses took longer to arrive. Your own words became careful, measured, as if you were both suddenly aware of the growing chasm between your lives. The last letter you had received was barely a page long, filled with polite inquiries about your health and family. You had stared at it for hours, trying to find traces of the boy you had known in those formal lines.

You hadn't written back.

Now, watching his broad shoulders ahead of you, you wondered if he had waited for your response. If he had looked for your letter among the ravens that arrived each morning, the way you used to look for his. The thought made your chest ache.

"The castle hasn't changed much," Cregan said suddenly, his voice echoing in the stone corridor. He didn't turn to look at you as he spoke, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his sword belt. "Though I suppose you'll find some things different."

"Some things are bound to change," you replied softly, your words carrying more weight than you intended. You saw him falter slightly in his stride, just for a moment, before he continued walking.

"Aye," he agreed, his voice rougher now. "They do."

Your feet slowed as you caught sight of the intricate pattern on the wall – a tapestry of sorts, sewn with meticulous care. The deep, dark blues and grays of Winterfell’s colors danced against the stone, a striking contrast to the cold walls. Stark sigils intertwined with threads of silver, the banners and colors that had defined this place for generations.

It was beautiful in its own way. Not grand or flashy, but solid.

You stopped, reaching a hand out to trace the design with your fingers. The fabric was worn, the edges frayed in places, but the overall pattern was still as strong as ever. It reminded you of the very essence of Winterfell – rough around the edges, but still standing, unyielding in the face of time.

"Beautiful," you murmured, more to yourself than to Cregan. Your fingers lingered on the edges of the stitched lines, feeling the texture beneath your touch.

Cregan's footsteps slowed, and you could sense him watching you, though his gaze remained ahead. His tone was casual when he spoke, but you heard the faintest edge to it. "The women in the kitchens were mumbling that Winterfell has lacked a woman's touch for far too long," he said, his voice dropping slightly, as if he were uncertain whether to continue.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him now, though he still hadn’t turned to face you. There was an odd, almost sheepish quality to his words, something that didn’t quite fit with the man you had known. "They said this was an attempt to make Winterfell feel less..." He hesitated, as though searching for the right word, his hand tightening on his sword belt. "Rocky, I suppose."

You chuckled softly, the sound unfamiliar in the stone silence of the hall. It felt strange to laugh here, in this place that had once been so full of warmth and laughter, but something about the idea of Winterfell being made to feel less “rocky” made the edges of your mouth twitch upward.

"Less rocky," you repeated, your eyes flicking over the tapestry once more. "Well, it does have its charm, I think. I can see what they were trying to do."

Cregan’s lips twitched, the first flicker of a smile you had seen on his face since you had arrived. The small, fleeting change made your chest tighten with something you couldn’t quite place. The tension that had settled between you – so thick, so charged – seemed to shift ever so slightly. Just enough for you to catch your breath.

"You’ve always had a way of seeing things in a different light," Cregan murmured, his voice quieter now. He finally turned, his gaze meeting yours, a brief flicker of something you couldn’t define in his eyes. It was gone before you could grasp it, hidden behind the stoic expression he had perfected over the years.

You felt a sudden warmth spread through your chest, an ache that wasn’t painful but still lingering, soft and unyielding.

"Just a matter of perspective," you said, your voice low, before your gaze returned to the tapestry. Your fingers lingered for a moment longer before you let them fall.

Cregan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch again, this time a more comfortable one. And for the first time since you had set foot in Winterfell, you felt as though you could breathe.

You passed the entrance to the great hall, and memories flooded unbidden into your mind. The feast days of your youth, when you and Cregan would steal extra sweets from the kitchen and hide beneath the tables, giggling as the adults searched for you. The winter nights when you'd sit side by side before the great hearth, sharing stories and dreams while the snow fell outside. The last feast before you'd left, where Cregan had barely spoken two words to you. You remembered how he'd sat at the high table, his face a mask of stone, while you'd picked at your food and tried not to cry.

Neither of you had known how to say goodbye, how to bridge the growing distance between you. It had been easier, perhaps, to say nothing at all.

And then the letters had come. His first, and miraculously, your own, arriving near the same time. Both of them apologies, scrawled in the uncertain hands of youth. He’d written of regret for not saying goodbye, of how his words had caught in his throat when the time had come. You’d said much the same, weaving a wry joke about your shared failure into the letter, trying to mask the sting of leaving.

Now, walking these same halls with him, those memories felt sharp as a blade. The silence between you was different this time – heavier, laden with years of unspoken words and buried feelings. Your footsteps echoed against the stone floors, a steady rhythm that matched the beating of your heart.

"Your father writes that you've settled well in the South," Cregan said suddenly, his voice carefully neutral. He didn't look at you as he spoke, his eyes fixed ahead.

"I suppose," you replied, matching his measured tone. "Though it never quite feels like home."

He glanced at you then, something flickering in his dark eyes. "No?" There was an edge to his question, one that made your breath catch.

"No," you said softly. "The South is... different. The people there, they don't understand..." You trailed off, unsure how to explain that everything there felt too bright, too loud, too shallow. How you missed the quiet strength of the North, the honor that ran deep as roots in frozen ground. How you missed him.

"What don't they understand?" Cregan asked, his voice lower now, almost gentle.

You stopped walking, turning to face him. The torchlight cast shadows across his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his gaze. "The North," you said simply. "What it means to be of the North. To have its blood in your veins, its winds in your dreams."

Something shifted in his expression then, a crack in his carefully maintained facade. "You always did understand," he murmured, so quietly you almost missed it.

The words hung between you, delicate as frost on a window pane. You remembered how he used to say that – 'you understand' – whenever you'd find him in the godswood, wrestling with some new responsibility his father had placed on his shoulders. You'd sit together beneath the heart tree, and you'd listen as he spoke of his fears, his doubts, his dreams. You had understood then, and somehow, despite the years and distance, you still did.

The rest of the walk to your chambers passed in relative quiet, but it was a different kind of silence now. Less strained, though still careful. Each step felt like walking through memories – some sharp and clear as ice, others soft and blurred like snow falling at twilight.

Your chambers, when you reached them, were exactly as you remembered. The same heavy wooden furniture, the same thick furs on the bed, the same view of the courtyard through frost-kissed windows. Someone had already lit a fire in the hearth, and its warmth reached out to you like an old friend's embrace.

"I hope you'll find everything to your satisfaction," Cregan said, standing in the doorway. His frame nearly filled it, and you couldn't help but remember how you both used to slip through these same doors as children, playing hide and seek in the endless corridors of Winterfell.

"Thank you," you replied, turning to face him. The firelight cast shadows across his features, softening them somehow. For a moment, you caught a glimpse of the boy you had known, hidden beneath the lord's stern facade. "It's... exactly as I remember."

His eyes met yours, and something flickered in their depths. "Not everything changes," he said quietly, and there was a weight to his words that made your heart skip a beat.

Before you could respond, he straightened, his expression shifting back to that careful neutrality. "The evening meal will be served in the Great Hall. I..." he paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I would be honored if you would join us."

"Of course," you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened at the invitation. It was nothing more than courtesy, you told yourself. The Lord of Winterfell doing his duty to a guest.

He nodded, his hand resting briefly on the doorframe. For a moment, it seemed as though he might say something more, but instead, he simply inclined his head and turned to leave.

"Cregan," you called out, surprising yourself. He stopped, his back still to you. "I... it's good to see you again."

He remained still for a long moment, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand clenched at his side. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost rough. "And you, my lady. And you."

Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the crackling fire.

***

The next morning arrived with a gentle knock at your door. The sound pulled you from your thoughts – you'd barely slept, your mind replaying the conversation in the godswood over and over again.

"Come in," you called, sitting up in bed. The door creaked open to reveal a young woman with warm brown eyes and a sweet smile. She couldn't have been more than eighteen, her movements quick but graceful as she bustled into the room.

She bobbed a quick curtsy. "Good morning, my lady. I'm Mira. Lord Stark assigned me to be your handmaiden during your stay."

There was something warm and genuine about her smile that immediately put you at ease.

Your heart fluttered at her words. Of course he would be – Cregan had always been thoughtful in these small ways, even when you were children. Some things, it seemed, hadn't changed.

"Thank you, Mira," you said, watching as she moved to open the heavy curtains. Morning light spilled into the room, making the frost on the windows sparkle. "You don't need to curtsy every time, though. I'm not..." You hesitated, unsure how to explain that you weren't really anyone of importance here, not anymore.

Mira turned to you with a knowing look that seemed beyond her years. "Lord Stark said you might say that," she said, a small smile playing at her lips. "He also said I should ignore it."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Did he now? And what else did Lord Stark say about me?"

"Nothing directly, m'lady," Mira replied, moving to your wardrobe to select a dress. "Oh, these southern fabrics are beautiful," she exclaimed, running her fingers over one of your dresses. "Though you might want something warmer for today. Lord Stark mentioned he'd be showing you the grounds himself." There was a knowing glint in her eye as she said this, though she tried to hide it by busying herself with your hair.

"Did he?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral. Your heart, however, had other ideas, picking up its pace at this news.

"Oh yes, my lady. Quite insistent about it too." Mira’s fingers were gentle as she worked through your hair, braiding sections in the northern style. "Begging your pardon, but... well, he's never taken such interest in showing guests around before. Usually leaves that to the steward, he does."

You caught her eye in the mirror, and she blushed, realizing perhaps she'd said too much. "Not that it's my place to say, of course."

"It's alright, Mira," you assured her, watching as she expertly wove your hair into the intricate northern style. Her words had sent a warmth spreading through your chest, despite your attempts to temper your expectations. "The castle can be quite confusing for those who aren't familiar with it."

"Oh, but you are familiar with it, aren't you, my lady?" Mira said, her fingers never pausing in their work. "The older servants, they speak of when you were here before. They say..." she hesitated, then continued more softly, "they say you used to know every corner of Winterfell, just as well as Lord Stark himself."

You swallowed hard, memories flooding back – of hide and seek games that had taken you through every secret passage, of races through the corridors, of quiet moments in forgotten corners where you and Cregan would share dreams of the future.

"That was a long time ago," you said quietly, though your heart ached at the truth of it.

Mira hummed thoughtfully as she finished with your hair. "Time doesn't always matter as much as we think it does," she said, with that same wisdom that seemed far beyond her years. "Especially not within these walls."

She moved to the wardrobe again, pulling out a dress of deep blue wool, thick and warm, with delicate silver embroidery along the sleeves. "This one, I think. The color..." she smiled slightly. "Well, Lord Stark has always favored blue."

Your cheeks warmed at her words, remembering how Cregan had once told you, in one of his early letters, that blue reminded him of the day you'd first kissed – how you'd been wearing a blue ribbon in your hair, how it had come loose when he'd pulled you close.

As Mira helped you dress, you couldn't help but wonder what this tour of the grounds would bring. Would it be formal and distant, like your first meeting at the gates? Or would there be moments, like in the godswood last night, where the walls between you seemed to crack, just slightly?

"There," Mira said finally, stepping back to survey her work. "Perfect." She paused, then added with a slight smile, "Lord Stark won't know what hit him."

"Mira!" you exclaimed, but you couldn't help laughing. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and for a moment, you felt like a girl again, getting ready for a feast where you knew Cregan would be watching. The handmaid’s youth seemed to catch onto you.

"He’ll be waiting in the courtyard," she said as she gathered up the discarded linens and fabrics.

With that, she slipped out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts – and your racing heart. You moved to the window, the cool glass pressing against your palms as you gazed outside. The morning sun sparkled on the fresh snow, turning it to diamonds, and in the courtyard below, you spotted him.

Cregan stood with one of his men, his dark cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. Even from this distance, his commanding presence was unmistakable. Yet, it wasn’t his authority that held your attention – it was the way he kept glancing toward the entrance to the keep, as though waiting, hoping… for you.

The thought sent another flutter through your chest, both thrilling and terrifying. You lingered at the window for a moment longer, watching the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the easy strength in his posture as he gave quiet commands to his men. This was Cregan as you had always imagined him growing into: steady, capable, and deeply rooted in the land he ruled.

What you hadn't imagined – what you couldn't have known – was how it would feel to see him like this, to be on the outside looking in. Once, you had known every expression that crossed his face, could read his thoughts in the set of his shoulders. Now, watching him from above, you felt both achingly close and impossibly far away.

Taking a deep breath, you turned from the window. The dress Mira had chosen was perfect – warm enough for the winter air, but fitted in a way that made you feel more confident than you had since arriving. You smoothed your hands over the fabric one last time, trying to calm the nervous energy that seemed to hum beneath your skin.

The walk down to the courtyard felt both too long and too short. Each step brought you closer to him, and with each step, memories seemed to rise from the very stones beneath your feet. Here was where he had caught you when you slipped on the ice one winter morning. There was where you had hidden behind a pillar, trying not to laugh as he searched for you during one of your games. Every corner held a piece of your shared past, and you wondered if he felt their weight as heavily as you did.

When you finally stepped out into the courtyard, the cold air bit at your cheeks, but you barely noticed it. Cregan had turned at the sound of your approach, and the look in his eyes when he saw you made your breath catch in your throat.

For a moment – just a moment – his carefully maintained facade cracked. His eyes widened slightly, his lips parting as though he had forgotten whatever he had been about to say. You saw his hands clench at his sides, then relax, as though he was physically stopping himself from reaching out.

"Good morrow, my lord" you said softly, proud of how steady your voice sounded despite the way your heart was racing.

"Good morrow," he replied, and though his voice was controlled, there was a warmth to it that hadn't been there yesterday. His eyes lingered on your hair, and you wondered if he recognized the northern style, if he remembered how he used to tease you about your southern braids.

The man he had been speaking with quietly excused himself, though neither of you really noticed his departure. For a moment, you just stood there, the morning sun painting everything in soft gold, making the frost sparkle like scattered diamonds around you.

"You look..." Cregan started, then seemed to catch himself. "I hope you slept well?"

"Well enough," you answered, though in truth, sleep had been elusive, your mind too full of him, of memories, of the way he had looked at you in the godswood. "Though some things haven't changed – I can still hear the droplets at night."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The dripping pipes," he said, a trace of amusement softening his voice. "I’d forgotten how loud they can be.” He paused, his brows drawing together slightly. "I'll see it so they’re fixed. You should be able to rest without such distractions."

"Oh, there's no need for that," you said quickly, waving a hand in dismissal. "There are surely more pressing matters for the Lord of Winterfell than a bit of dripping water."

Cregan’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Perhaps," he replied, his voice even, though there was a flicker of something – determination, maybe – in his tone. "But you’ve only just returned, and I’d rather your stay be... comfortable."

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and you found yourself studying the frost-dusted cobblestones at your feet. It was a small thing, this concern over a leaky pipe, but it felt like more. Like a reminder of the boy who had once made you a crown from pine branches because you’d lost the ribbon in your hair.

"I’ll manage just fine," you said softly, meeting his gaze again.

He regarded you for a moment longer, then inclined his head. "As you wish," he said, though you didn’t miss the way his lips pressed into a thin line, as if he wasn’t entirely ready to concede the matter. "But if it keeps you up again, you’ll tell me."

You nodded, though you knew you wouldn’t. The dripping didn’t matter – not really. What mattered was this, standing here with him, feeling the frost-kissed air between you and the weight of all the unspoken things you could not bring yourself to say.

"Shall we?" Cregan gestured toward the path that led around the castle walls. As you fell into step beside him, you noticed how he shortened his stride to match yours – another small thing that spoke of memory, of habit.

"The grounds have changed somewhat since you were last here," he said, his voice taking on that careful neutrality again. "We've expanded the glass gardens, added new training yards for the guards."

"And the old oak?" you asked before you could stop yourself. "The one by the east wall – is it still standing?"

Cregan's step faltered slightly. You both knew why you were asking – it had been your spot, once upon a time. Where you'd meet in the early mornings, where you'd carved your initials into the bark one summer afternoon.

"It is," he said softly. "Lost a few branches in last winter's storms, but the old thing's stubborn. Refuses to fall."

A smile tugged at your lips. "Some things are like that," you murmured. "Too stubborn to give in, even when the world tries to break them."

His eyes met yours, dark and intense. "Aye," he agreed, his voice rougher now. "Some things are."

You walked in silence for a moment, the snow crunching beneath your boots. The morning air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke.

"Do you remember," you started, then laughed softly, shaking your head. "Gods, I feel like that's all we've done since I arrived. Remember this, remember that..."

"Is that so terrible?" Cregan asked, his tone lighter than you'd heard it yet. "Remembering?"

"No," you admitted, watching your breath cloud in the cold air. "Just... different. When I was in the South, I tried so hard not to remember. And now..."

"Now?"

You gestured vaguely at the castle walls, the snow-covered grounds, at him. "Now it's like every stone has a memory attached to it. Every corner holds some piece of... of us."

Cregan was quiet for a long moment, and you worried you'd said too much. But when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost vulnerable. "I never tried not to remember," he admitted. "Perhaps I should have. Might have made things easier."

"Easier isn't always better," you said quietly, remembering all the times you'd convinced yourself that forgetting would be easier, only to find yourself dreaming of northern winters and dark eyes filled with laughter.

He turned to look at you then, really look at you, and something in his expression made your heart skip. "No," he agreed. "It isn't."

The wind picked up, sending a few loose strands of your hair dancing. Without thinking, Cregan reached out, his fingers brushing your cheek as he tucked the wayward strands behind your ear. The touch was fleeting, gone almost before you registered it, but it left your skin tingling.

"I..." he started, then stopped, his hand dropping to his side. "Your hair – the style. It suits you."

You touched the braids self-consciously. "Mira did it. She seems quite skilled."

"She is. Though I suspect she had an easier task than most, given her subject." The words seemed to slip out before he could catch them, and you saw a faint flush color his cheeks.

"My lord flatters me," you said, trying to keep your tone light despite the way your heart was racing.

"Cregan," he said suddenly, almost fiercely. "Please. When we're alone, at least – I can't bear to hear you call me 'my lord' again."

The raw honesty in his voice caught you off guard. "Cregan," you repeated softly, and you saw something in his expression crack, just slightly. "Old habits are hard to break, I suppose."

"Some habits," he said, his voice low, "are worth breaking. Others..." He trailed off, his eyes finding yours again, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch.

The moment stretched between you, the cold air around you seeming to warm under the weight of his words. You opened your mouth to respond, though what you would say, you weren’t entirely sure. But before the words could form, he stepped back, breaking the connection.

As you walked beside him, you found your attention drifting from his words about the castle grounds to Cregan himself. You couldn't help but study him, drinking in all the ways time had changed him. The boy you'd known had grown into something else entirely – something that made your breath catch and your cheeks warm despite the winter chill.

There was a scar now, thin and silver, that curved along his jaw and disappeared beneath his beard. You wondered about its story, about what battles or trials had marked him while you were away. His hair, longer than you remembered, was pulled back in a neat bun at the nape of his neck, though a few strands had escaped to frame his face. You remembered how it used to fall in his eyes when you were younger, how you'd always wanted to brush it back.

A servant hurried past with a bundle of firewood, and you couldn't help but notice how Cregan towered over him. He'd always been tall, but now... The thick furs draped over his broad shoulders made him seem even larger, a true northern lord in every sense. You watched as he gestured toward the battlements, explaining something about recent reinforcements, and the way his muscles moved beneath his clothing made heat rise to your cheeks.

Gods, you needed to stop this line of thinking. You turned your face away slightly, hoping the cold air would cool your burning cheeks. You had no business noticing how his size made your mouth go dry, how his deep voice sent shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the winter chill.

"The glass gardens have doubled in size," he was saying, his deep voice rumbling through the morning air. "We can grow enough vegetables now to–" He stopped suddenly, catching you staring. "Is something wrong?"

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, caught in your obvious appreciation of him. "No, nothing's wrong. I just..." you fumbled for words, trying to ignore the knowing glint in his eye. "The scar. On your jaw. I was wondering..."

His hand went to it almost unconsciously, fingers brushing over the mark. "Ah. A disagreement with a wildling raiding party two winters ago. Nothing too dramatic, though the maester feared it might leave a mark."

"It suits you," you said before you could stop yourself, then immediately felt your face flame hotter. Gods, what were you doing? Commenting on his scars like some swooning maiden?

But Cregan's lips twitched, almost smiling. "Does it now?"

You looked away, suddenly very interested in the frost patterns on a nearby wall. "I only meant... that is..." You took a breath, trying to gather your scattered thoughts. "You look well. The years have been... kind."

His low chuckle made you look back at him, and the warmth in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "Kind isn't the word most would use," he said, his voice softer now. "But thank you."

A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, and you couldn't help but step closer to him, seeking shelter from the biting cold. He shifted instinctively, his broad frame blocking the worst of the wind, and suddenly you were very aware of how close you were standing. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, to catch the scent of leather and pine that clung to his furs.

"You're cold," he said, his voice rough. It wasn't a question.

"A little," you admitted, though in truth, the heat rising in your cheeks could have warmed all of Winterfell.

He moved as if to remove his cloak, but you quickly shook your head. "Don't. I'm fine, truly. Just... adjusting to the North again."

His eyes searched your face for a moment, and you saw something flicker in their depths – concern, perhaps, or something deeper. "We should head back inside," he said finally. "I've kept you out here too long."

"I don't mind," you said quickly – too quickly perhaps, given the way his eyebrow arched. "That is... the tour is lovely. I'd like to see more of what's changed."

"And what hasn't?" he asked softly, and you knew he wasn't talking about the castle anymore.

You met his gaze, feeling your heart thunder in your chest. "Yes," you whispered. "That too."

He was quiet for a long moment, just looking at you, and you found yourself holding your breath, waiting for... something. Whatever this tension was between you, it felt like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to either snap or sing.

A servant hurrying past with an armful of firewood broke the moment, and Cregan stepped back slightly, though his eyes never left your face. You immediately missed his warmth, the shelter of his broad frame against the wind.

"My lord," the servant bobbed a quick bow as he passed, and you saw Cregan's jaw tighten at the title.

"The godswood," he said suddenly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Do you remember the path we used to take? Behind the heart tree?"

Your breath caught. Of course you remembered – it had been your secret route, a hidden trail that led to a small clearing where you could be alone, away from watchful eyes and whispered expectations.

"Yes," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Would you..." he paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Would you walk it with me? After the midday meal, perhaps?"

Your heart leapt at the invitation, even as your mind warned you to be careful. This wasn't like when you were children, when stolen moments in secret places held no consequences. You were both different now, bound by duty and expectations.

And yet...

"Yes," you said again, watching as something like relief flickered across his features. "I'd like that."

He nodded, and you caught the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Good. That's... good."

Another gust of wind swept through the courtyard, and this time you couldn't suppress a shiver. Cregan's expression immediately shifted to concern.

"Come," he said, gesturing toward the keep. "Let's get you inside before you freeze. I won't have it said that the Lord of Winterfell let his guest turn to ice on her first proper day back."

You fell into step beside him, noticing how he angled his body to shield you from the wind as you walked. It was such a natural gesture, so unconsciously protective, that it made your chest ache with familiarity.

"I'm hardly so delicate," you protested, though you couldn't help but smile at his concern. "I did grow up here, you know. The cold isn't foreign to me."

"No," he agreed, his voice softening. "But you've been in the South for so long. The North's winters have grown harsher since you left."

"And its lord more protective, it seems," you teased gently, then immediately wished you hadn't when you saw the way his expression shuttered slightly.

You continued walking, Cregan pointing out changes to the grounds – new stables here, reinforced walls there – when something caught your eye. Hidden partly behind an old oak tree was a wooden swing, its ropes frayed and rusted chains creaking softly in the wind. Your heart clenched at the sight of it.

"Oh," you breathed, halting mid-step. "It's still here."

Cregan followed your gaze, and you saw something flicker across his face – memory, perhaps, or regret. "Aye," he said quietly. "Though it's seen better days."

You walked toward it, your fingers trailing over the weathered wood. "You made this for my tenth nameday," you said softly. "Spent weeks on it in secret, if I remember correctly."

"Nearly took my thumb off with the saw," he admitted, a hint of amusement coloring his voice. "Father was furious when he found out I'd been sneaking tools from the forge."

Without thinking, you settled onto the swing. It creaked ominously under your weight, the chains groaning in protest. Cregan stepped forward quickly, concern etching his features.

"Careful," he warned. "It's not as sturdy as it once was."

As if to prove his point, one of the chains gave an particularly loud groan, and you quickly stood, a nervous laugh escaping your lips.

"I think it’s had its last ride," you said, brushing your hands over your skirts, as if to dust away the lingering memory of it. But your smile faltered when you saw the look on Cregan’s face – not amusement, but something deeper, heavier.

You couldn’t stop your eyes from catching on the faint scar that curved along his jaw. It was subtle, but now that you’d noticed it, you couldn’t look away. It hadn’t been there before.

“You didn’t tell me about the scar,” you said softly, breaking the quiet.

Cregan stiffened slightly, his hand brushing against his jaw as if reminded of its presence. He didn’t stall, but his expression darkened, and his voice, when he finally spoke, was tight.

“It had been months since we last spoke,” he said, a sharp edge to his tone. “When would I have told you?”

The words hit harder than you expected, and you faltered, your breath catching in your throat. He glanced at you then, his expression softening, regret flickering in his eyes.

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with all the letters that hadn't been written, all the words that hadn't been said. You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure where to look or what to do with your hands.

But Cregan, ever the diplomatic lord, didn't let the awkwardness linger. He cleared his throat softly and gestured toward a nearby archway. "The kitchens have been expanded," he said, his voice deliberately lighter.

He began walking, offering his arm so you could step around the swing to step beside him once more.

You were grateful for the change in subject, embarrassment creeping up your neck at having mentioned the letters – or lack thereof. Of course he hadn't written to you about the scar. The easy intimacy you'd once shared in your correspondence had faded long before that.

"The kitchens can feed twice as many now," Cregan continued, his voice steady and controlled. "Though Old Nan still complains they're too small when feast days come around."

A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "Old Nan's still here?"

The mention of the old septa that raised you brought a grin to your face.

"Aye. Still terrorizing the kitchen staff with tales of grumkins and snarks." There was warmth in his voice now, the tension from moments before beginning to ease. "She asked about you, you know. When she heard you were coming."

"Did she?" You tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered at the thought that people had spoken of your return, that they had remembered you.

Cregan nodded, ducking slightly as you passed under a low archway. "Said the castle hasn't been the same since you left. Too quiet, according to her."

You laughed softly, though the sound held a touch of sadness. "I doubt one person's absence could make such a difference."

He stopped then, turning to face you with an intensity that made your breath catch. "You'd be surprised," he said quietly.

The godswood was quiet when you reached it, the kind of silence that seemed to press against your skin, ancient and knowing. Snow crunched beneath your feet as you made your way to the heart tree, its red leaves rustling softly above.

Without hesitation, you made your way to the base of the heart tree, your boots crunching softly in the fresh snow. The spot was as familiar to you as breathing – how many afternoons had you spent here, talking and dreaming and simply being? You gathered your skirts and settled down, the thick wool protecting you from the cold ground as you straightened your legs out before you.

Cregan remained standing, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the filtered sunlight. His eyes were on you, dark and unreadable, and for a moment, you felt like that young girl again, looking up at him with a heart full of dreams neither of you could quite voice.

You patted the ground beside you, a silent invitation. His lips quirked slightly – the ghost of a smile – and he let out a long breath, as if releasing something he'd been holding onto. Then he lowered himself to sit beside you, his movements careful and measured, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile between you.

He sat close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, yet far enough that your shoulders didn't quite touch. Always careful, always maintaining that proper distance. But here, in the sacred quiet of the godswood, even that small space between you felt charged with possibility.

You leaned your head back against the heart tree, turning to study his profile. The weak winter sunlight filtered through the red leaves above, casting dappled shadows across his features. He must have felt your gaze because his lips curved into a smile – not the careful, measured expression of Lord Stark, but something softer, more genuine. Something that reminded you of the boy who used to sneak lemon cakes from the kitchen just because he knew they were your favorite.

"What?" he asked, his voice quiet in the sacred silence of the godswood. He turned his face to you.

"Tell me about Winterfell," you said softly. "About you. I want to know everything I've missed."

He was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently playing with a fallen leaf. "Where would you like me to start?"

"Anywhere," you replied. "Everything. The castle, the people... you."

Cregan let out a breath, his smile turning slightly rueful. "It's strange, isn't it? How many years we wrote to each other, sharing every detail of our lives, and now..."

"And now we're practically strangers," you finished when he trailed off.

"No," he said quickly, turning to look at you properly. "Never strangers. Different, perhaps, but not..." He shook his head, searching for words. "You could never be a stranger to me."

The intensity in his voice made your heart skip. "Tell me then," you urged gently. "Tell me about the man you've become."

He was quiet for another moment, considering. "It's not very exciting, I'm afraid. Most days are filled with ledgers and petitions, training yards and council meetings. The North demands much of its lord."

"And does its lord ever get to breathe?" you asked, noting the way his shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight.

A soft laugh escaped him. "Sometimes. In moments like this." He glanced at you, then quickly away. "The godswood... it's still the only place where I can truly think. Where I can just be Cregan, not Lord Stark."

"Is it very different?"

"More than I expected," he admitted. "Father tried to prepare me, but..." He shook his head. "There's always something that needs attention, someone who needs guidance or protection or justice. The responsibility of it all... sometimes it feels like drowning."

"And yet you swim," you observed quietly.

He smiled slightly. "What choice do I have? The North needs its Stark."

"And what does Cregan need?"

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you saw him stiffen slightly. For a moment, you thought he wouldn't answer. But then he turned to look at you, really look at you, and there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch.

"What I need..." he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. "What I need hasn't changed much since we were children."

"And you?" he asked softly, shifting slightly to face you better. "What has life been like in the South?"

Your fingers found their way to your hair, twisting a loose strand that had escaped Mira's careful braiding. It was an old habit, one you'd never quite broken, and you noticed Cregan's eyes following the movement.

"You still do that," he said, a gentle warmth in his voice. "When you're thinking."

You dropped your hand, surprised. "Do what?"

"Play with your hair." His smile grew softer, more reminiscent. "You used to do it during lessons with Maester Walys. Drove him half mad, watching you twist your hair instead of paying attention to his histories."

A laugh bubbled up from your chest. "Gods, I'd forgotten about that. Though in my defense, his lessons on the Andal invasion were dreadfully dull."

"As I recall, you preferred the stories about the First Men and their battles," Cregan said, his eyes twinkling with remembered mischief. "Especially the bloody ones."

"Still do," you admitted, then sighed, your smile fading slightly. "Though there wasn't much call for such tales in the South. It was all... different there. Prettier, perhaps, but..."

"But?" he prompted when you trailed off.

"Softer," you said finally. "Everything was softer. The winds, the words, even the people. My septa spent three years trying to teach me proper Southern graces – how to sit, how to speak, how to be a proper lady." You rolled your eyes, remembering the endless lessons. "She was horrified when she found out I knew how to use a bow."

Cregan's laugh was deep and genuine. "I remember teaching you. You were a terrible shot at first."

"I got better!" you protested, playfully indignant.

"Aye, after you nearly took my eye out with that first attempt," he teased, and for a moment, it was as if no time had passed at all. You were just you and he was just Cregan, sharing jokes beneath the heart tree.

"The South sounds... peaceful," he said after a moment, though there was an odd note in his voice.

You looked at him thoughtfully. "It was. Beautiful and peaceful and utterly..." you searched for the right word.

"Boring?" he suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"Empty," you corrected softly. "It was empty."

A comfortable silence fell between you, broken only by the whisper of wind through the heart tree's leaves. You could feel Cregan shifting beside you, as if wrestling with something he wanted to say. His fingers drummed against his knee – another old habit you remembered from when he was nervous.

Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice taking on that formal, lordly tone he seemed to use as armor. "I trust your time in the South was... that is..." He stopped, started again. "Were you... did you find..." He let out a frustrated breath, and you could see him struggling to find the right words.

"Are you trying to ask if I'm betrothed, Lord Stark?" you asked, unable to keep the hint of amusement from your voice. The sight of him – the formidable Lord of Winterfell – stumbling over his words like a green boy was oddly endearing.

A flush crept up his neck, but he met your eyes steadily. "Yes. That is... I merely wondered if anyone had... if you had found someone worthy of your hand."

You almost laughed at the formality of his phrasing, but something in his expression – a vulnerability you rarely saw anymore – stopped you. "Almost," you admitted softly. "Once."

You saw his jaw tighten, though he tried to keep his face neutral. "Almost?"

"Mm. A second son of some noble house or other. Kind enough, I suppose, but..." you wrinkled your nose at the memory. "Dreadfully dull. Could talk for hours about horse breeding and nothing else. Father arranged it, thinking it would be a good match."

"But it wasn't?" Cregan's voice was carefully controlled, but you could see the tension in his shoulders.

"No," you said simply. "I couldn't... it wasn't what I wanted. Who I wanted." The last part slipped out before you could stop it, and you quickly looked away, focusing on a patch of snow near your feet. "Thankfully, Father listened when I told him I couldn't go through with it. Sent the poor man away with apologies and a fine horse as consolation."

You felt rather than saw Cregan relax beside you, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The rigid set of his spine softened, his breathing seemed easier, and his hands unclenched from where they'd been gripping his knees.

"That was... kind of your father," he said finally, his voice much lighter than before. "To consider your wishes."

"It was," you agreed, chancing a glance at him. The relief on his face was poorly concealed, and something warm bloomed in your chest at the sight of it. "And you? Has the Lord of Winterfell found himself a lady yet?"

Cregan's laugh was soft, almost self-deprecating. "No," he said quietly. "No lady yet."

"The northern lords must be pressing you," you observed. "An heir is important."

"Aye," he agreed, but there was something in his tone – something that made you look at him more closely. "Duty demands it."

You watched him carefully, noting the way he avoided meeting your eyes. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things. A snowflake drifted down, landing on the sleeve of his fur cloak, and you found yourself watching it melt.

"And what do you want?" you asked softly. "Beyond duty?"

Cregan turned then, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something – something important, something that would change everything.

But the moment passed.

"The North needs its lord," he said finally, the carefully constructed walls sliding back into place.

You knew better than to push. But something in you – the part that had always known him best – recognized the deflection for what it was.

You couldn't help yourself. "I bet there are plenty of ladies who'd be eager to become the Lady of Winterfell," you teased, nudging his shoulder gently.

Cregan rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Hardly," he said, trying to sound dismissive.

"Oh, come now," you pressed, leaning closer. "A handsome lord, strong, kind, with that scar making you look..." You paused, choosing your words carefully. "Roguish."

He blushed – actually blushed – the color rising from his neck to his cheeks. "Roguish?" he repeated, sounding half-embarrassed, half-amused.

"Handsome," you clarified, watching the flush deepen across his cheeks. "Very handsome. Any lady would be lucky to have you."

Cregan ducked his head, a rare vulnerability breaking through his usual composure. "You're teasing me," he said, but there was a softness to his voice that suggested he was enjoying it.

"Not teasing," you insisted. "Truly. You've become..." You paused, searching for the right word. "Impressive."

His eyes met yours then, dark and intense. "Impressive," he repeated, something unreadable in his tone.

"The scar especially," you added, unable to resist. "Makes you look like a proper man. Experienced."

A low chuckle escaped him. "Is that so?"

You nodded, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the furs you were wearing. "Absolutely."

Cregan laughed, the sound deep and rich, but it carried a faint note of disbelief. "You’ve a silver tongue, you know that?" he said, shaking his head.

"Your father always said so," Cregan continued, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "In his letters, he mentioned That it was one of the northern qualities the maesters hadn’t managed to weed out of you."

Your smile faltered at his words, the lightness in your chest giving way to a cold weight. Cregan had been exchanging letters with your father. And not to you.

For a moment, the quiet stretched between you, filled only by the sound of the wind brushing through the trees. The warmth you’d felt before seemed distant now, replaced by something far colder, deeper.

You forced a smile back onto your lips, though it felt thin and brittle, you could feel the tension creeping into your own tone. "I didn’t realize my father had written to you so much."

Cregan shrugged, his gaze fixed ahead as though the snow-covered path held answers he didn’t want to give voice to. "He worried for you. Wanted me to know you were well."

You forced yourself to stay composed, even though you felt like you were unraveling with each passing moment. "I see," you replied, your voice quieter than before, barely more than a whisper.

Cregan’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, his expression unreadable, before he let out a soft breath and looked ahead once more. The snow had begun to fall more heavily now, dusting your hair with a thin layer of frost, and you felt its bite despite the warmth of your cloak.

The tension between you both hung thick in the air, but Cregan’s attention shifted to the road ahead. "The wind’s picking up," he murmured. "Perhaps we should head back inside. You’ve got snow in your hair."

You brushed a hand through your hair absently, the cold snowflakes falling in delicate clusters against your skin. "It’s nothing," you said, though you were grateful for the suggestion. The chill was creeping into your bones, and you knew it would be better to seek warmth.

"I have court matters to attend to," he continued, his voice now more businesslike, though there was a hint of hesitation in his words, as though he wanted to be certain you were well before leaving. "You should get some rest by the fire. You’ll need to warm up properly."

You nodded, despite the lingering weight of the unspoken words between you. "I’ll be fine. Go take care of your business, Cregan. I’ll make my way back."

He hesitated, glancing at you once more, but then seemed to make up his mind. "I’ll escort you back to the castle," he insisted, his tone firm, though there was something softer beneath it – a reluctance to leave you alone in the cold.

"You’re needed elsewhere," you replied, though it came out sounding weaker than you’d intended. "You don’t need to worry about me."

"I’d feel better if I did," Cregan muttered, the frustration in his voice soft but there, like he couldn’t help himself.

The simplicity of his request caught you off guard. You nodded again, your chest tightening at the thought of him staying when he clearly had things to attend to. "Alright," you said quietly. "Thank you."

The two of you began walking back toward the castle, your steps crunching softly in the snow, the weight of your shared silence once again settling over you. The distance between you felt palpable, but there was a quiet, unspoken comfort in his presence – just enough to keep you from feeling entirely lost in the cold, both outside and within.

By the time you reached the castle doors, the snow had gathered in thick layers on your shoulders, and Cregan’s expression had softened, though his lips were set in a line of determination. "I’ll see to it that you’re properly warmed," he said, though it wasn’t quite an order – it was a promise, quiet and steady.

You gave a small nod, allowing yourself a moment to lean into his offered care, even if you couldn’t fully bring yourself to acknowledge the ache still pulling at your heart. "Thank you, Cregan."

As you parted ways, you couldn’t help but feel the absence of the earlier warmth between you both, but perhaps, in time, that too would return.

***

The evening had settled over Winterfell, soft and quiet. You sat before the looking glass, your nightgown a pale shimmer against the stone walls. Mira's fingers worked deftly through your hair, weaving a loose braid that would keep it from tangling during the night.

"You're fidgeting, my lady," Mira said softly, her hands never stopping their careful work.

"Am I?" you replied, watching your fingers twist together in your lap.

She hesitated, then added quickly, "Begging your pardon. It's not my place to comment."

You turned, meeting her eyes in the mirror. There was something in her gaze – a kindness, an openness that invited confidence. "No," you said quietly. "It is your place. If anyone's."

“I... I think I might need a friend." you added.

She met your eyes in the mirror, her expression kind but respectful. "If my lady wishes to speak, I am here to listen."

A soft laugh escaped you – more a breath than a sound. "I'm not certain I even know how to explain it."

You took a deep breath, watching Mira's hands continue their careful work. "Things feel different now," you began slowly. "We were children when I left. Practically strangers now. I worry we won't..." You trailed off, unsure how to finish the thought.

Mira's eyes sparkled with something between mischief and understanding. "The older staff tell stories," she said, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "About you and Lord Stark when you were young."

"Oh?" you prompted, curiosity getting the better of you.

She grinned, finishing the braid with a practiced twist. "Old Martha in the kitchens says Lord Stark was unbearable after you left. Sulked for months. Would hardly speak to anyone, spent all his time in the training yards or studying maps. As if working himself to exhaustion might stop him from thinking about your absence."

Your heart clenched. "That sounds like him. Always trying to hide his feelings behind duty."

"Not very successfully," Mira added with a knowing look. "The servants could see right through it. How he'd ask about every letter that came for you, how he'd stare at the ravens as if willing them to bring word of your return."

You turned fully now, facing her. "And what do you think?" you asked softly. "About all of this?"

Mira's smile was knowing, far beyond her young years. "Some stories are written in the stones of Winterfell," she said. "And some bonds aren't so easily broken."

The candle flickered, casting shadows across the stone walls. Outside, the wind whispered against the windows, carrying with it the promise of another cold northern night. And in that moment, surrounded by the weight of memory and possibility, you felt something shift – subtle, but undeniable.

The Great Hall was nearly empty when you arrived, save for the handful of servants preparing for the midday meal. Cregan was already seated at the high table, a stack of ravens and correspondence spread before him. As you entered, he looked up, immediately rising to his feet.

Your breath caught. Such a formal gesture – and yet, there was something in the way he watched you that felt anything but formal.

He had deliberately placed your plate directly beside his, a clear and intentional choice that made your heart race. The other seats remained conspicuously empty, leaving just the two of you.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, gesturing to the seat. "I thought we might discuss the estate while we eat."

But his eyes said something entirely different. They spoke of something more – of memories, of unspoken words, of a connection that hadn't been severed by time or distance.

You sat, acutely aware of how close you were. Close enough to see the slight furrow of his brow as he glanced down at his correspondence, close enough to catch the familiar scent of leather and woodsmoke that had always been uniquely his.

"Ravens?" you asked softly, nodding toward the papers.

"Always," he replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "The North never sleeps."

Cregan's fingers brushed against the ravens almost absently, sorting them with a practiced movement. You noticed how his hands had changed – no longer the soft hands of a young lord, but strong, calloused from years of sword training and managing the vast Stark lands.

"Troubling news?" you asked, watching him carefully.

He glanced up, something soft passing across his features. "Nothing we cannot manage," he said, pushing the papers slightly away. His focus shifted entirely to you – a deliberate choice that made your breath catch.

Cregan's attention shifted, a deliberate softening in his demeanor. "The cook prepares an excellent northern mushroom soup," he said, his voice careful, almost tentative. "Would you like me to have some brought out?"

The request was simple, but there was something underneath it – a desire to bridge the distance between you, to create a moment of shared experience. You noticed how he watched you, waiting, his fingers absently tracing the edge of a raven's parchment.

"I would love that," you replied, matching his careful tone.

A servant appeared almost immediately, as if summoned by some unspoken command. The soup arrived steaming, rich with the earthy scent of wild mushrooms gathered from the forests surrounding Winterfell. Cregan waited until your bowl was placed before you, a small gesture of courtesy that felt both familiar and strange.

"Do you still prefer it with a touch of dried thyme?" he asked, reaching for a small herb container near the table's center.

The question surprised you – a moment of intimate knowledge that seemed to slip through the carefully constructed walls between you. How could he remember something so small, so insignificant?

"You remember," you said softly, more a statement than a question.

His hand paused, hovering over the herbs. For a moment, vulnerability flickered in his eyes – the briefest glimpse of the boy you had once known.

The soup was indeed excellent. You took a careful sip, appreciating the warmth that spread through you. "The kitchens have been busy, I see," you commented, glancing around the nearly empty hall.

Cregan nodded, a slight smile touching his lips. "There's always work to be done. The harvest preparations are nearly complete, and we're discussing trade agreements with the eastern holdfas

"Challenging negotiations?" you asked, genuinely curious about the day-to-day complexities of running Winterfell.

He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxing. "The Mormont representatives drive a hard bargain. But fair. They always know exactly what they want."

A comfortable silence settled between you. Not the charged, uncomfortable quiet of earlier, but something softer. More natural.

"Have you tried the new apple preserves?" Cregan asked, gesturing to a small dish near the bread. "The orchards have been particularly good this year."

You reached for a piece of bread, spreading a thin layer of the preserve. The sweetness burst across your tongue – tart, with just a hint of cinnamon. "Delightful," you murmured.

He watched you, something warm in his eyes that had nothing to do with formality. Just two people, sharing a meal, finding their way back to something that felt like friendship.

The hall's quiet was suddenly interrupted by a young servant bursting through the doors, a raven clutched in his trembling hands. "My lord," he called, breathless, "a message from the Southern houses."

Cregan's posture stiffened, his hand instinctively reaching for the parchment. The servant, clearly nervous, began reading with rapid, almost frantic speed.

"Lord Stark, House Blackwood proposes a most advantageous marriage alliance. Their daughter, Lady Roslin, comes with a dowry of–“

But Cregan wasn't listening. His eyes had darted to you, a flash of panic crossing his features.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Betrothal. Marriage. The very things you had discussed in the godswood days earlier, when Cregan had spoken of duty and legacy with such careful restraint.

Your chest tightened, a sudden and unexpected ache spreading through your lungs. The memory of that conversation in the godswood came rushing back – the way he had spoken about the responsibilities of his position, the need to secure the Stark line. You had listened, understanding but not wanting to hear.

Now, watching Cregan's reaction, something shifted.

His panic was not subtle. It radiated from him in waves – a desperate, almost violent rejection of the proposal. His eyes darted to you repeatedly, as if checking, measuring your response. The servant's words dissolved into background noise, drowned out by the thundering of your own heartbeat.

You watched a muscle jump in Cregan's jaw, saw how his hand clenched into a fist on the table. The movement was quick, controlled, but underneath lay something wild. Something that spoke of a emotion far more complex than simple aristocratic disinterest.

"Enough," Cregan said sharply. "That will be all."

The servant blinked, confused. "But my lord, the details of–“

"I said. That. Will. Be. All." Each word was clipped, controlled, but underneath lay something else. Something that made the servant immediately bow and retreat

The silence that followed was deafening.

You cleared your throat, attempting to lighten the moment. "Another potential bride?" The words came out more strained than playful, an uncomfortable edge cutting through your attempted humor.

Cregan's response was deliberately casual. "Just another proposal," he said, reaching for his goblet. "Nothing of consequence."

But something in his tone didn't quite match his words. You studied him carefully, noting the way his fingers gripped the goblet just a fraction too tightly.

He looked at you then, something sharp in his gaze. "He should not have read such details in front of a lady," Cregan said, redirecting the conversation with practiced ease. "It was inappropriate."

Yet his fingers still gripped the edge of the table, betraying an emotion his voice refused to acknowledge.

A muscle twitched in Cregan's jaw – the only hint of the emotion roiling beneath his carefully constructed surface. "Winterfell requires careful consideration," he said finally, his voice low. "Any alliance must serve the North's interests."

You leaned back, watching him. The words were precise, calculated. But something underneath them vibrated with an energy that spoke of something more complex than mere political strategy.

"Of course," you replied, your own voice matching his careful tone. "A lord's duty is never simple."

His eyes flickered to you – a quick, almost imperceptible movement. For just a moment, something raw and unguarded passed between you. Something that had nothing to do with lords, duties, or alliances.

Then it was gone, buried beneath layers of propriety and carefully maintained distance.

A servant approached, interrupting the charged silence. "Shall I clear the plates, my lord?"

Cregan nodded, his attention already drifting to the stack of correspondence that still waited. But his fingers, you noticed, had stopped tracing the edges of the parchment.

You leaned forward, a sudden urgency in your voice. "What do you want, Cregan?" The question hung between you, more loaded than simple curiosity.

He went very still. The kind of stillness that spoke of years of control, of emotions carefully locked away. "Want?" he repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"But it does," you pressed. "Duty cannot consume everything. There must be something beyond these walls, beyond these endless responsibilities."

Cregan's laugh was soft, without humor. "Wanting something doesn't make it possible. Marrying someone you see as a friend, a confidant, a love – it isn't fair if those feelings aren't returned." His eyes met yours, raw and unguarded for just a moment. "Not to her. Not to anyone."

You straightened in your seat, his words echoing in your ears. Her. There was someone. Some lady who had captured his attention, maybe even his heart.

Your throat tightened, though you forced yourself to maintain composure. A small, unsteady smile curved your lips. "So there is someone." The observation was light, playful even, but your heart wasn't in it.

Cregan froze, a faint blush creeping up his neck and spreading to his cheeks. He opened his mouth, perhaps to deny it, to clarify, but no words came. Instead, he fumbled for his goblet, his fingers trembling slightly as he took a long sip.

His reaction only confirmed your suspicion. You leaned back in your chair, trying to ignore the dull ache settling in your chest. Had it happened while you were away? Had she been here all along?

"I see," you murmured, doing your best to sound unaffected. "I suppose it's no surprise. A man like you, Cregan... well, you'd be difficult not to love." The words were meant to sound teasing, but they came out softer, more wistful than you'd intended.

The blush rising to his cheeks told you everything you needed to know. Your chest tightened further, but you pressed on, determined to hide the sting of the revelation.

"I should have guessed," you said, your voice gentler now. "Someone must have caught your attention while I was away."

Cregan’s brows knit together, his confusion flickering across his face, but you didn’t notice. You were too busy willing your tone to stay even, your smile to remain steady.

"I hope she’s kind," you said quietly, your gaze dropping to your hands. "You deserve someone good, someone who sees you as more than just Winterfell’s lord." You forced a laugh, though it sounded fragile to your own ears. "I’m sure her feelings are mutual. After all, who wouldn’t love you, Cregan?"

When you dared to look up again, his expression gave you pause. He was staring at you, his eyes wide, his lips parted in shock. There was a flicker of something raw there – something you didn’t understand.

You shifted uncomfortably, misreading the look on his face. "Don’t look so surprised," you joked softly, hoping to dispel the tension. "You’ve always been easy to love."

His mouth opened as though to argue, but no sound came out. He shook his head slightly, the words caught somewhere between his mind and his tongue.

You misinterpreted the gesture as embarrassment, and it only solidified your assumption. Your heart ached at the thought that he had found love in your absence, but you swallowed it down, determined not to let it show.

"Truly, Cregan," you said with a small, bittersweet smile, "I pray she makes you happy."

For a moment, he looked as though he might correct you, as though he wanted to say something – anything. But before he could say so, a servant returned to refill his goblet, breaking the fragile tension between you.

The interruption left the conversation unfinished, and Cregan seemed almost relieved for the escape. He straightened, clearing his throat, and turned his attention to the correspondence before him.

"Perhaps we should speak of lighter things," he muttered, his voice tight.

You nodded, forcing a smile and willing your heart to steady itself. But as you turned your gaze to the snowy window beyond, you couldn’t help but wonder. Had you not left Winterfell all those years ago... could it have been you?

***

The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the hearth. Mira moved around the room with practiced ease, tucking the sheets and fluffing the pillows. You sat at the edge of the bed, absently combing your fingers through your hair, lost in thought.

Mira glanced at you, her brow furrowing. "You’re awfully quiet tonight," she said softly, her tone edged with curiosity.

You blinked, startled from your reverie. "Am I?" you murmured, your voice distant even to your own ears.

She hummed in response, smoothing the blankets with care. "I’m used to you chatting my ear off about this or that. You’ve barely said a word since dinner."

You offered her a weak smile, one you knew didn’t reach your eyes. "Just tired, I suppose."

Mira paused, hands stilling on the sheets as she studied you. Then, as if deciding not to press, she turned to the hearth. "At least you’ll have some peace tonight. The pipes won’t be keeping you awake anymore."

You frowned slightly, confused. "The pipes?"

"The ones you always complained about," she said, glancing over her shoulder with a knowing smile. "The awful rattling that kept you up at night? Lord Stark ordered them fixed. Must’ve had the builders working day and night; the noise is finally gone."

The words hit you with an unexpected weight. He’d done that... for you? You fought the urge to frown, your fingers curling tightly around the comb.

"That’s..." you started, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you forced another weak smile. "That’s kind of him."

Mira nodded in agreement, clearly oblivious to the turmoil stirring inside you. She gave the sheets one final tug before straightening with a satisfied nod. "There. All ready for you."

You thanked her quietly, slipping under the covers as she bustled about, tidying the rest of the room before leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The quiet was oppressive now, no longer punctuated by the familiar rattle of the pipes. You lay in bed, staring up at the canopy, your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. Every time you closed your eyes, the events of the day replayed in vivid detail—Cregan’s hesitation, his blush, his confusion. The weight of the word her.

With a frustrated sigh, you turned onto your side, clutching the sheets in your fists as if the fabric could somehow anchor you. Your mind wouldn’t quiet. The absence of the pipes’ metallic groan only amplified the thoughts swirling in your head.

Was it possible he truly cared for someone? Had she been here, right under your nose? Or perhaps he’d met her during your absence. The ache in your chest tightened, an unpleasant mixture of longing and regret.

The sheets twisted with your movements, and you pushed them aside, only to pull them back moments later. Sleep continued to elude you, as did the answer to the question you couldn’t bring yourself to ask.

The hours stretched on, the fire dimming to embers. You lay still, your hands gripping the blankets as you stared into the shadows of the room.

The ache in your chest grew unbearable, a knot tightening in your throat as you fought back a sob. You hugged your pillow close, burying your face in its softness. The fabric smelled faintly of Winterfell – of cold pine, frost-bitten stone, and something warmer, something unmistakably him. It was the scent of home, and it only made the ache sharper, cutting deep into your very core.

Your mind drifted to a time when the world had felt simpler, before duty and distance had complicated the bond between you. You had been six-and-ten, with a blue ribbon woven through your hair that day – a gift from Cregan himself, given with the playful claim that it made you look like the proper ladies from the love stories you adored.

He had tugged at it gently, his grin boyish and mischievous. "Look at you," he’d teased, his voice low enough to make your cheeks burn. "All dressed up like some lady in a tale. What do they call them? The ones who make knights lose their senses?"

You’d rolled your eyes, though your face was aflame. "You’re being ridiculous, Cregan. It’s just a ribbon."

He had leaned closer then, his voice dropping further. "Do they kiss in those stories of yours?"

Your breath had hitched, your face impossibly warmer. You’d nodded shyly, unable to meet his eyes.

"Then you must know how to do it," he said, his grin turning into something softer, more uncertain. "Right?"

You had barely managed to stammer out a response before he added, his tone barely above a whisper, "You could show me."

It was a suggestion that had hung between you, daring and unspoken. Cregan had waited, his eyes locked on yours, and you’d felt the world narrow to just the two of you.

Finally, your trembling hands had reached up, your heart racing in your chest as you leaned closer. His lips had been warm, soft against yours, the faintest brush that left you breathless and giddy all at once.

"I think I understand now," he’d murmured when you pulled away, his voice thick with something new, something you hadn’t yet named.

He had grinned then, you had laughed nervously, unsure of how to respond, but something about the way he said it stayed with you. Even now, the memory lingered, vivid and bittersweet.

Despite the now-silent pipes, sleep remained elusive. You tossed and turned, the quiet somehow more deafening than the previous metallic rattling. Each time you closed your eyes, images flickered – Cregan's blushing face, the hint of a woman he might love, the unspoken tensions of the day.

The hearth's embers glowed dimly, casting long shadows across the room. Hours passed, marked only by your restless movements and the occasional distant sound of a castle settling. Your mind churned with questions, with memories, with the painful possibility that Cregan's heart belonged to someone else.

The next few days passed in a blur of whispers and hushed conversations. Cregan was conspicuously absent, his presence reduced to fleeting shadows in the corridors of Winterfell. The servants spoke in low tones about the mounting pressures of winter – folk from distant holdings coming with requests, urgent matters of land and survival that demanded the Lord of Winterfell's constant attention.

You caught glimpses of him – a pale face passing quickly down a corridor, the hem of his fur cloak disappearing around a corner. When your paths briefly crossed, his eyes seemed distant, preoccupied. Dark circles had begun to form beneath them, speaking of sleepless nights and endless responsibilities.

On the fifth day, you heard the kitchen staff discussing the lord's missed meals. "Hasn't taken proper food in days," Old Martha muttered, her weathered hands kneading bread dough with practiced movements. "Working himself to the bone, he is."

The corridors were quiet as you made your way to his study. Servants moved with hushed efficiency, careful not to disturb the lord's work. When you reached the heavy wooden door, you hesitated, the wrapped cakes warm in your hands.

A sound from inside – something between a sigh and a frustrated grunt – made you knock softly.

"Enter," came the response. Weary. Distracted.

Cregan sat behind a massive oak desk, surrounded by maps and correspondence. Candles burned low, casting long shadows across his face. He looked up, surprise flickering in his exhausted eyes.

"I thought you might be hungry," you said softly, setting the cakes down beside a stack of ravens.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, the faintest smile touched his lips – so brief you might have imagined it.

Cregan devoured the first cake in three quick bites, his hunger evident. Crumbs scattered across the correspondence, but he seemed beyond caring. The second cake disappeared almost as quickly, though this time he paused mid-bite.

"Forgive me," he said, looking slightly embarrassed. "I should have left one for you."

His fingers brushed the remaining crumbs, a gesture so vulnerable it made your heart clench. The candles flickered, casting shadows across his weary face. Exhaustion lined his eyes, etched into the corners of his mouth.

"I'm not hungry," you assured him softly. "You needed them more."

He looked up then, truly looked at you – and for a moment, the mask of the Lord of Winterfell slipped. You saw the boy you had known, vulnerable and real, beneath the weight of his responsibilities.

"Thank you," he murmured, and the words held more meaning than a simple acknowledgment of pastries.

"I'll get more," you said, your voice soft but firm. "The kitchens are worried. They'd be more than happy to prepare extra for you."

Cregan's eyes flickered to you, a mixture of exhaustion and something deeper – vulnerability, perhaps. You moved closer, taking a seat near his desk, unable to ignore how the candlelight caught the sharp lines of his face, softening them despite his obvious fatigue.

"You look terrible," you murmured, the words coming out more tenderly than you intended.

A ghost of a laugh escaped him. "Always so direct," he said, but there was no bite to the words. His hand, strong and calloused, hovered near one of the lemon cakes.

"When was the last time you slept?" you asked, leaning forward. "Truly slept, not just dozed over these endless documents?"

He didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched between you, filled with the soft crackle of candles and the rustle of parchment.

"The North doesn't rest," Cregan said finally, "and neither can its lord."

You reached out – almost without thinking – and touched the back of his hand. "Even lords need to rest," you whispered.

"I apologize," Cregan said softly, his eyes meeting yours. "For not seeking you out this week. The preparations for winter..." He trailed off, gesturing to the scattered documents. "I've had no free time."

His voice carried a weight of genuine regret, something deeper than mere politeness. You saw the exhaustion in his eyes – not just physical, but something that ran much deeper. The burden of lordship, of responsibility, etched into every line of his face.

He glanced at you, his hand reaching out to yours.

Cregan's hand lingered beneath yours, his rough skin warm despite the chill in the room. His fingers curled slightly, as if reluctant to let go. For a moment, he studied your face, his gray eyes softening in a way that made your heart ache.

"You need to rest," you whispered, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. "This isn't sustainable, Cregan. The North can’t thrive if its lord collapses."

His lips quirked into a tired half-smile. "The North has seen worse, and so have I."

You shook your head, resolute. "That doesn’t mean you have to shoulder it alone."

Cregan’s gaze fell to your joined hands, his expression shadowed with something you couldn’t quite name. "Stay," he said quietly, the word almost swallowed by the low crackle of the fire. "If you’re here, I’ll rest later, I promise. But I can’t leave this unfinished."

You hesitated, torn between pressing him and yielding to his request. "You’ll rest if I stay?"

He nodded, the motion small but earnest. "I just–" He paused, taking a breath. "I just need to finish reviewing these accounts. Winter's coming faster than we expected, and the stores–"

You stopped him with a gentle squeeze of his hand. "I’ll stay," you said, rising from your seat. "But I’m holding you to that promise."

The faintest smile returned to his lips. "Of course you are."

You glanced around the room before pulling a chair closer to his desk, settling beside him. The firelight painted the space in shades of amber and gold, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to dance on the stone walls. The papers spread before him were marked with hasty notes and calculations, the weight of Winterfell’s survival laid bare in ink.

"Why do you do all this yourself?" you asked after a moment, watching as his quill moved swiftly across a sheet of parchment. "Surely you have a steward or a squire to help."

Cregan glanced at you, a faint furrow appearing between his brows. "I trust my people, but some things..." He sighed, setting the quill down for a moment. "Some things, I feel, need my own hand. If I make a mistake, it’s on me, not them."

You tilted your head, considering his words. "And if you work yourself into the ground? What then? Who will lead Winterfell?"

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he turned back to his work, his silence speaking volumes.

"You’re stubborn," you murmured, leaning back in your chair.

A soft laugh escaped him, surprising in its warmth. "You’ve known that for years."

The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. You watched him work, the steady scratch of his quill and the occasional rustle of paper filling the space. Every so often, you’d ask a question or make a comment, and he’d respond, his voice low and steady.

"You’re good company," he said after a while, his tone almost wistful.

You smiled faintly. "Someone has to keep an eye on you."

Cregan’s hand paused mid-stroke, and he looked at you, his gray eyes heavy with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. "I appreciate it," he said softly. "More than you know."

You nodded, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest despite the cold that seemed ever-present in Winterfell. "I know," you replied, just as softly.

For the first time in days, Cregan’s shoulders seemed to relax, if only slightly. And though he returned to his work, the lines of exhaustion on his face didn’t seem quite as deep.

The flicker of firelight played across Cregan’s profile as he returned to his work, quill scratching softly against the parchment. You shifted in your chair, leaning back to watch him in silence for a moment. Despite his focus, you could see the tension in his jaw, the set of his shoulders as though bracing for the weight of another crisis.

"You know," you began lightly, your tone purposefully casual, "when we were younger, I thought being Lord of Winterfell meant sitting by a roaring fire all day, drinking spiced ale and ordering people around."

Cregan huffed a quiet laugh, though his eyes remained on the paper in front of him. "It’s not quite so glamorous," he murmured, dipping his quill into the inkpot.

"You don’t say." You crossed one leg over the other, resting your elbow on the arm of the chair. "I used to imagine you perched on the high seat, glaring down at people like one of those stern kings from the old stories."

He glanced up at you briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Did I look the part?"

"Not remotely," you said, grinning. "You were lanky back then, all knees and elbows. Hardly the imposing lord you are now."

That earned a real laugh, low and warm, though his quill never paused. "I don’t recall you being particularly regal yourself," he said, his tone teasing. "Always running about the grounds with your skirts hitched up, trying to climb trees with the boys."

You gasped in mock offense. "I was adventurous!"

"You were a menace," he countered, his eyes briefly flicking up to meet yours. The faint smile on his lips softened his usual stern demeanor, and for a moment, you saw the boy he used to be.

"I wasn’t that bad," you protested, though you couldn’t suppress your smile. "And for the record, I never fell out of a tree, unlike a certain someone."

Cregan shook his head, his attention returning to his papers. "That wasn’t a fall–"

"Of course it was," you said, leaning forward, your smile widening. "And the bruise on your back that lasted for weeks was what? A badge of honor?"

"I was defending my territory," he said, feigning seriousness. "You shouldn’t have dared me to climb higher."

"I didn’t think you’d actually do it," you shot back, laughing softly. "You were always so eager to prove yourself."

Cregan’s smile lingered, though his eyes remained focused on the page in front of him. The steady rhythm of his quill filled the silence that followed, but you could tell he was listening, the subtle way his head tilted in your direction giving him away.

"You’ve always been like that," you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. "Taking on more than you should, trying to carry everything yourself."

His quill paused briefly, and he glanced up at you. For a moment, you thought he might argue, but he said nothing, returning instead to his work.

The hours stretched on, the only sounds in the room the faint crackle of the fire and the relentless scratch of Cregan’s quill. His hand moved steadily, though every so often, you noticed him flexing his fingers, rolling his wrist as if to stave off cramps.

You’d long since run out of things to say, your stories and observations dwindling into companionable silence. Reclining in the large chair near the fire, you twisted a strand of your hair idly between your fingers, a book resting forgotten on your lap. The words on the page blurred as your gaze kept drifting back to him, his broad shoulders hunched over the desk, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Eventually, even his steady movements began to slow. The lines he wrote became less precise, his head dipping forward briefly before jerking upright again. You watched as his hand faltered, the quill slipping from his grasp to roll across the desk.

“Cregan,” you murmured softly, but his only response was a faint, sleepy exhale.

Pushing the book aside, you rose and crossed the room quietly. He’d fallen asleep where he sat, his chin resting against his chest, the exhaustion of the past days finally overwhelming him.

You hesitated for a moment, standing over him, taking in the quiet vulnerability etched into his face. The fur-lined coat draped over his broad shoulders seemed heavy, pulling him further into his slumber. You couldn’t leave him like this – not slouched over his desk with papers and ink threatening to stain his hands and face.

“Cregan,” you whispered again, a little firmer this time. He stirred slightly, his head shifting but not lifting, his breath still slow and even.

Carefully, you reached for the edge of his coat, tugging at it gently. “Let me help,” you murmured, even though he was barely awake to hear you.

He made a faint sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, as the weight of the coat slipped from his shoulders. His hand rose sluggishly, as though to stop you, but his movements were slow, clumsy with exhaustion.

“Shh,” you said softly, reassuring him. “Just sleep.”

He relaxed again, his arm falling limp to his side as you folded the heavy garment and set it aside. The firelight danced across his features, softening the hard lines of his face, and for a moment, you allowed yourself the indulgence of staring. His hair fell slightly over his forehead, his lashes dark against his cheeks.

You retrieved a blanket from the nearby chair, shaking it out and draping it carefully over him. His shoulders rose and fell in deep, steady breaths, and when the blanket settled around him, he shifted, leaning slightly into the warmth.

You stepped back, watching him for a moment longer. This was a side of him few ever saw – unguarded, peaceful, free from the burdens he carried so stoically.

The papers scattered across the desk caught your eye, maps and letters blending into a mess of ink and parchment. Gently, you moved them aside, stacking them neatly so he wouldn’t wake to chaos. As you worked, his voice, low and rough with sleep, startled you.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, his eyes still closed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied softly, smoothing the blanket over his shoulders. “Not tonight.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips, and he sank further into the chair, his head tilting to rest against the high back. His trust, so rarely given, felt like a fragile gift, and you vowed silently to guard it well.

But then your gaze drifted back to the desk, to the maps and letters you’d stacked neatly. Though they no longer formed the chaotic sprawl they once had, they still told the story of his tireless dedication to his people. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for sitting idle while he worked himself into exhaustion.

You moved quietly to the desk, careful not to disturb him. His quill lay where it had rolled, a small blot of ink marking the wood. You picked it up, turning it over in your fingers before setting it aside.

You took a deep breath and reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. Your penmanship wasn’t as firm and practiced as Cregan’s, but it would do. Carefully, you began drafting words, drawing on the knowledge you’d gleaned over years of watching your family and Winterfell’s stewards handle similar matters.

The work was steady, methodical, and strangely satisfying. You found a rhythm in the scratch of the quill, the gentle dip and lift as you shaped words across the page. When you paused to stretch your fingers, you glanced at Cregan, still deeply asleep, and felt a quiet sense of pride.

Hours passed this way, with you answering letters, organizing correspondence, and marking key points on the maps spread across the desk. The fire had burned lower by the time you reached the last of the documents, and your eyes were heavy with fatigue, but the pile of completed work was a small victory.

As you set down the quill for the final time, you leaned back in the chair, letting out a long sigh. The room was silent now, the hearth’s embers glowing faintly. You turned to look at Cregan, still draped in the blanket you’d placed over him.

Gathering your own blanket from the chair by the fire, you settled back into the seat near the desk. The weight of the evening tugged at your limbs, and as your head rested against the chair’s back, you let your eyes close, the peaceful quiet of the room lulling you into a dreamless sleep.

When morning came, the first rays of pale winter light filtered through the high windows, painting the room in soft gold. Cregan stirred before you did, his brow furrowing as he blinked against the light. His gaze fell first to the neatly stacked papers on the desk, then to you, curled in the chair with the blanket wrapped tightly around you.

For a moment, he simply watched, his expression unreadable. Then, a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. Rising from his seat, he moved quietly, tucking the blanket more securely around your shoulders before turning to the desk.

His hand brushed over the stack of completed letters, and his smile grew, this time tinged with something deeper – gratitude, perhaps, or something he didn’t yet have the words to name.

***

The days stretched on in a quiet rhythm, each one a seamless continuation of the last. The work he had to clear piled up slowly but steadily, and you remained by his side, helping in ways that became second nature to you. Cregan's exhaustion never fully left him, but his gratitude for your presence was unmistakable in every quiet glance and every word of thanks.

One evening, as you sorted through the last of the papers, you glanced up to find him standing near his desk, his movements slower than usual. He was watching you with a softness in his eyes that made your chest tighten, though you couldn’t place why.

“I’ve never properly thanked you,” he said, his voice low, almost as though he were speaking to himself. “For everything you’ve done. For being here.”

You shook your head, the words ready on your lips to tell him it had been nothing, that it hadn’t been a bother, but before you could speak, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small box. He held it out to you, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment as he placed it in your palm.

A breath caught in your throat as you opened the box, revealing a silver necklace, simple yet striking in its beauty. The pendant was shaped like a jewel – graceful, lifelike, its features finely crafted. It was a gift that spoke volumes, and for a moment, you found yourself at a loss for words.

“I…Cregan, you don’t have to do this,” you began, your voice soft, almost shy. “I haven’t done anything to deserve–”

But he shook his head, a steady, quiet determination in his gaze. “You have. You’ve done more than anyone else would. Please, let me show you how much it means to me.”

You looked at the necklace again, the glint of the metal catching the firelight. You knew it was something important to him, something he wanted to give.

“Will you… put it on for me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan’s eyes softened, the edges of his lips lifting just slightly as he nodded. Without another word, he moved behind you, his presence solid and comforting, the space between you shrinking with every step.

You felt a shiver stir in your spine as his fingers brushed through your hair, pushing it aside with an ease that belied the tremor in his touch. His breath, warm and slow, fanned over your neck, and for a moment, you felt entirely suspended in time, the world outside fading to nothing.

His fingers, though steady, trembled slightly as he reached for the clasp at the back of your neck. The weight of his touch, the gentleness with which he handled you, stirred something deep within you.

The necklace settled against your skin, the pendant cool and delicate against your warmth. He paused, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary, tracing down your arms with such care that it made your breath catch in your throat.

He didn’t stop there. His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of your waist, pulling you toward him in a fluid, natural motion. You couldn’t help but let your body lean into his, your back gently meeting his chest as his arms encircled you, drawing you closer.

The proximity made your heart race, the feeling of his warmth sinking into you, of his breath coming in shallow gasps against the back of your neck. His fingers tightened, holding you against him with an almost desperate tenderness.

“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice thick with the weight of years. “All these years… I’ve thought of you, always. Every choice, every turn I took, you were there in my mind, in everything I did.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the rawness of his words seep into your very bones. You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say. So, you turned slightly in his arms, your movements slow, almost uncertain.

When your eyes met his, there was nothing but the quiet understanding between you – the unspoken weight of everything that had come before, the years lost, the space that had once been between you now filled with something unshakable.

“Cregan” you mumbled, feeling drunk under his gaze.

Cregan’s grip on you tightened, his thumbs caressing your waist with a desperation that made your heart thrum erratically in your chest. Every inch of him pressed so close to you that you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin, stirring the fine hairs on your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

You felt him lean in, the whisper of movement before the softness of his lips brushed against your temple. It was a fleeting kiss, gentle, but it carried the weight of everything he hadn’t said in all the years you’d been apart. He lingered for just a breath longer than necessary before he shifted, his lips grazing your forehead in a tender, aching caress.

His lips were dangerously close to your ear now, the words slipping out of him like they had been trapped for far too long.

“You have no idea…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, the rawness of it making your breath hitch. “I’ve been waiting. Yearning for you. For this. For so long, I thought I’d never have the chance to tell you how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve thought of you every damn day since you left.”

The words hung in the air, vibrating with an aching honesty. His fingers, trembling just barely, traced down your waist once more, as though grounding himself in the reality of having you so close – of having you back. He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling against your back, a steady rhythm broken only by the uneven, ragged breaths he couldn’t quite stifle.

“I never stopped,” he breathed against your skin, his voice raw, the words shaking in a way that left no room for pretense. “Never stopped thinking of you… hoping.”

You could feel the thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips, the way his body betrayed the quiet control he always exuded. He was on the edge – teetering on the verge of something too big to contain.

And still, his hands held you, his touch reverent and soft, as though he feared that if he held you too tightly, you might disappear again. But his voice, filled with so much raw emotion, was the only thing that seemed to hold you in place now.

Cregan's breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly with the weight of his words. He didn’t pull away, keeping you pressed against him as if grounding himself in the moment, in you.

“I prayed,” he whispered, his voice low and raw, almost as if he hadn’t said the words out loud in years. “Every damn night, I prayed you’d come back to me. That I’d see you again.” His hands tightened around your waist, his touch like a quiet plea. “I hated not writing to you. I thought... I thought I was intruding on your life. Your days were moving forward without me. And I didn’t want to burden you with my silly updates, my silly thoughts. You deserved more than that.”

His voice faltered slightly, as though the years of regret were finally surfacing, one painful word at a time. He inhaled shakily, and in that breath, you felt the storm within him – years of loneliness, of yearning. You felt the weight of his absence as much as you felt the yearning now.

Shaking your head, you pulled away just slightly, enough to look up at him. His gaze was soft, searching, like he wanted to see every corner of you, to memorize every inch. “No,” you murmured softly, your voice trembling, “You wouldn’t have intruded, Cregan. It was... it was also me. I stopped writing, too. I–”

He cut you off before you could continue, his voice sharp with a quiet intensity.

“No,” he said, the word firm yet gentle. “I won’t let you apologize for that. I should have fought harder. I should have been better.”

His hand moved up, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing the line of your jaw. “But we’re here now,” he whispered, his nose nuzzling softly against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet, intimate space between you.

You held your breath as his face hovered near yours, the proximity making your heart race faster than you could control. His nose rubbed gently against yours, a tender, almost desperate gesture that made everything inside you tighten. It wasn’t just a kiss he was searching for – no, it was a connection, something deeper. Something he had longed for, too.

Before you could open your mouth, before you could argue against him or even properly collect your thoughts, his voice broke through, raw and full of an ache you could feel deep in your chest.

"Please," Cregan breathed, his grip on your waist tightening almost imperceptibly, as if he feared you might slip away if he didn’t hold you just right.

His forehead pressed gently against yours, his eyes closed as he let out a ragged breath. "Be mine. Be my wife."

The words were a quiet plea, as though he had been holding them in for so long they had become the very air he breathed. The desperation in his tone was unmistakable, the weight of his years apart from you crashing into the room, suffocating the space between you both.

“I’ve lived all this time without you, but I can’t... I can’t do it anymore,” he continued, his voice breaking, softer now, but no less desperate. “I can’t go on pretending I’m fine. I need you, by my side, with me.”

The world around you seemed to still, and in that stillness, his words hung in the air, vibrating with everything unsaid, with all the years of silence, of waiting, of hoping. His thumbs brushed over your sides, his hands moving slowly, reverently, as though he was trying to make sure you were real, that you were there.

His eyes met yours then, open and wide, full of emotion, of vulnerability, of something deeper than anything either of you had said before.

“Please,” he whispered again, his lips almost trembling with the weight of his longing. “Say yes.”

Your words were lost, choked in the rawness of the moment, but it didn’t matter. You reached up, your hands trembling slightly, but steady enough to cup the roughness of his jaw. Your fingers lingered there, as if memorizing the feel of him, before sliding down to his neck. You could feel the warmth of his skin beneath your touch, the thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips.

And then, without thinking, you tangled your hand in his hair, pulling him down to you with a sudden, desperate need that mirrored his. His breath caught in his throat, a soft exhale escaping him as his lips finally met yours.

The kiss was slow at first, tentative, as if neither of you could quite believe this was real, as though the years apart had made both of you afraid to believe it could be so simple. His lips moved against yours in a delicate, reverent rhythm, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to vanish entirely.

He let out a low, guttural moan at the contact, his hands tightening around you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet room, raw and filled with all the longing that had been kept at bay for far too long. You could feel his body tremble against yours, the warmth of him seeping through the space between you, desperate, desperate for this closeness.

Without a word, he moved, backing you gently toward the desk, his hands never leaving the curve of your hips as he guided you. His lips never left yours, the kiss growing deeper, more insistent, more consuming with every passing moment. As his hands cupped your face, pulling you to him, his movements were sure, as though this was where he was always meant to be – right here, right now, between you.

The desk pressed against the backs of your legs, the cool wood contrasting sharply with the heat of his body against yours. Your breath hitched, a soft exhale escaping you, and your lips parted just enough to speak.

“I thought… I thought you’d found someone else,” you whispered against his mouth, the words tumbling out in a fragile breath. “I thought that night would take me away… take me away from everything.”

His lips moved against yours, a soft but urgent reassurance, before he pulled away slightly, his eyes searching yours with a mix of vulnerability and anguish. "No," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "It couldn’t ever be anyone else." He kissed you again, quick and urgent, as though trying to erase the gap the years had made between you.

When he pulled back again, he was still so close, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged and uneven. He looked at you, his eyes dark with something that went deeper than desire, something that spoke of all the pain and longing he’d carried in silence.

“I felt sick,” he confessed, his voice barely a whisper, but the words cut through the air between you like a blade. “When you told me about your father… about the man he almost married you to – someone who wasn’t me.”

His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones as if he needed to feel you, as if he was trying to convince himself that this was real, that you were here, that he was here with you.

"I couldn’t breathe," he continued, his voice faltering for a moment before he found the strength to finish. "I couldn’t bear it. All that time, I was praying... praying that I could have you back, that I could have this with you."

His lips found yours again, urgent and desperate, the kiss breaking only when the need to breathe became too great. His hands still roamed, never straying far from your waist, your hips, as if afraid of letting you go.

You pulled away just enough to catch your breath, the air between you heavy with the intensity of the moment. A soft, playful smile tugged at the corner of your lips, the tension in your chest giving way to a warmth that spread through your veins.

"You fixed the draining pipes," you said softly, your voice laced with amusement, though the smile on your face remained genuine.

Cregan froze for a moment, his brow furrowing in confusion before his lips quirked in a slow, knowing smile. "What?" he murmured, still breathless, as if struggling to connect your words with the whirlwind of emotions and touches that had just passed between you.

“The pipes," you repeated, your fingers grazing lightly over his chest, trailing downward to his broad shoulders. "The ones that didn’t let me sleep. You fixed them." You chuckled, the sound light and teasing.

His lips twitched as he stared down at you, his eyes still dark with unspoken emotions, but there was a softness there too – a warmth that mirrored the one blooming in your chest. "Ah," he said, his voice low but with a hint of amusement now, "so that’s what you're thinking about now?"

You raised an eyebrow, the playful spark in your eyes matching the teasing tilt of your lips. With a laugh, he let his head fall on your shoulder.

His weight, warm and solid against you, felt like a grounding presence, a reminder that you were no longer drifting, no longer alone in the silence that had once kept you apart. You could still feel the gentle tremor in his hands, the lingering pull of his need, but now it was different, softer somehow – gentle, like the quiet after a thunderstorm.

"You’ve always been impossible," you murmured, your voice teasing, but there was a softness beneath it that only he could hear, only he could understand.

He lifted his head from your shoulder, his lips curling into that familiar half-smile that still managed to take your breath away. "Only for you," he replied, his voice thick with affection, a trace of humor threading through the rawness that still clung to his words.

The silence was no longer heavy with unspoken words, but filled with the promise of what was to come. And as he held you, as his fingers brushed against your skin in the most tender of ways, you realized that this, at long last, was home.

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doll3scent · 14 days ago

Text

★ Pornstar 3 ★

John Price x Cam girl! reader

warnings- 18+-mdni, smut, age gap, cam girl reader, explicit language, video call sex.

wc. 5k

a/n i’m already halfway done with pt 4…i have a lot of free time…

2, 3, 4,

master list 𓂃۶ৎ

It had been a week, and Price couldn’t shake the knot of paranoia in his chest. Every time he saw your brother, he expected the conversation to turn, expected him to throw a punch or call him out for his disgusting actions. Price had barely slept, imagining the fallout: the disgust in your brother’s eyes, Ghost’s sharp judgment if he found out his captain was sneaking onto your streams.

But nothing had happened. Ghost remained oblivious and hadn’t acted any differently toward him. That only made it worse—because Price was certain you hadn’t forgotten. No, you had recognized him. You’d seen him.

And yet, you hadn’t said a word. The silence was eating him alive. Were you disgusted? Angry? Planning to expose him? The uncertainty was unbearable. He tried to keep his mind busy by burying himself in his work. But he was constantly plagued by the fear that he’d get a knock on his door, and it would be Ghost, ready to beat him within an inch of his life.

Price couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was maddening. Every quiet moment, every pause in the day, his thoughts drifted back to you—back to that call. The way you moved, the way your voice hitched when you spoke to him, and that soft gasp when you realized who he was.

He’d spent the entire week replaying it in his mind. How you’d looked, how you’d blushed when he praised you, and the way you scrambled to end the call when recognition dawned on your face. The memory made his chest tighten and his blood heat. He knew it was wrong—knew the lines he’d crossed—but that didn’t stop him. It only made the desire worse.

Nights were the hardest. Lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, he could almost hear your voice again, soft and sweet, calling him “Daddy” in that timid little tone. He’d clench his fists, trying to shake the thought, but it never worked. He hated himself for it—wanted to convince himself that it was just the heat of the moment—but he knew better. You were under his skin now, and he couldn’t shake you loose.

He tried distracting himself with work. Paperwork, training schedules, anything to keep his hands busy. But every time he’d pass Ghost, that familiar pang of paranoia would hit him. What if he knows? What if you told him? It was a vicious cycle—work, worry, and want, all twisting together until he was a mess of frustration.

And then there were the quiet moments when his mind wandered without permission. He found himself wondering what you were doing now. Were you thinking about him too? Were you avoiding your streams, afraid he might appear again? Or worse—were you streaming, letting someone else watch you, hear you, make you blush like that? The thought made his jaw clench.

One night, he sat alone in his office, a glass of whiskey in hand, the dim light casting long shadows on the walls. He pulled out his phone, his finger hovering over the app he’d used to find you. It would be so easy to look you up again, to click and see if you were live. But he stopped himself, setting the phone down with a growl. He couldn’t. Not again. But God, he wanted to.

For days, you stayed curled up in your pink, soft blankets, replaying the moment over and over in your mind. You should've been disgusted, horrified even, that your brother's captain—his boss-had been watching you like that. And yet, every time you thought about it, your cheeks burned for an entirely different reason.

You couldn't shake the way his deep, commanding voice had sent shivers down your spine. The way he praised you, so filthy and raw, had you plunging your fingers into your wet cunt again and again.

And the way he bossed you around, his tone laced with authority, had made your body ache in ways you didn't want to admit. You knew it was wrong-so, so wrong-but the thought of him, of how he wanted you, refused to leave your mind. It was dangerous, forbidden, and yet you couldn't stop yourself from wondering... what if it happened again?

You clutched the edge of your blanket, staring at the blank screen in front of you, your thoughts spiraling. He didn't know it was you-how could he? You'd always worn your mask, kept your identity hidden. To him, you were just another faceless streamer. Just someone he stumbled upon, nothing more. That thought gave you a strange sense of reassurance.

He couldn't possibly connect the dots. He didn't know you were his lieutenant's little sister. That made it... safe, didn't it? At least, that's what you kept telling yourself. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, your heart racing as your mind whispered dangerous thoughts.

Would it really be so wrong if it happened again? If you let him watch, let him command you? You reasoned it wasn't personal for him —it was just the thrill of the moment. But for you... the memory of his voice alone made your stomach twist in ways you couldn't ignore.

You bit your lip, a mixture of guilt and anticipation flooding your senses. One more time wouldn't hurt. He didn't know. He couldn't know. You conjured up an email, hoping he'd respond.

Hi! Price,

I just wanted to say how sorry I am for how our last call ended. Something personal came up, and I had to leave so suddenly... I really hope I didn't upset you.

As a way to make it up to you, l'd love to offer another video call, completely free, if you'd like. Just let me know what works best for you, and I'll make sure I'm all yours this time.

Thank you for being so understanding. I hope to hear from you soon!

Yours,

Angel

You stared at the screen, your finger hovering over the send button. The thought of him finding out it was you-your brother's captain, of all people-made your stomach flip with anxiety. What if he did recognize you? What if he went straight to your brother and told him what his little sister was doing?

The mere thought sent a chill down your spine. But... then again, what if he didn't find out? What it you were careful, kept everything just right, and he never connected the dots? Your heart raced with the risk, the thrill of the secrecy. If you could just keep your identity hidden a little longer, maybe you could let this dangerous game play out. You swallowed hard, trying to steady your nerves. The desire to continue, to feel that rush again, gnawed at you. Your hands trembled as you clicked the send button.

John sat back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his face. The past week had been a blur of tension, his thoughts plagued by that night. He couldn't stop thinking about the look on your face when the webcam shifted, the shock in your eyes as you recognized him.

He had barely slept since, half-expecting you to show up at his door or, worse, tell your brother what you'd seen. He opened his inbox absentmindedly, eyes scanning the subject line of a new email. It caught his attention-your name glowing back at him-and a pang of curiosity tugged at his chest. He clicked open the message and started reading, his brow furrowing as he processed your words.

"I'm so sorry how our last call ended..."

A wave of relief washed over him as he read further. You were apologizing for the way things had ended, offering to make it up to him. His fingers lingered over the screen as he reread the part about a free rescheduled call, and his heart raced. Were you serious? Or was this some sort of trap? Would your brother be on the other end of that call?

John leaned back, tension settling back into his shoulders. He could feel the heat of the situation creeping up on him again. The desire to see you, to hear you, to feel that connection again was almost too strong to resist.

John leaned back in his chair, trying to suppress the rush of emotions that flooded his chest as he remembered the way you had responded to him. The soft, breathy gasps, the way your body had moved in perfect sync with his words—it was like you had become his in that moment. He could still feel the tension in the air, how you had melted at his voice, obediently following his instructions without hesitation.

Your responses had been soft, shy, and yet there was something powerful in the way you surrendered to him, something that had stirred something deep inside him.

He hadn't expected you to listen so easily, to let go of your inhibitions like that. And the way your body had moved-slow, deliberate, responding to him like he was the only thing that mattered.

He bit his lip, remembering how he had commanded, how you had obeyed. His heart thumped in his chest as he realized just how much control he had over you, how much you had let him in. It made him want to take it further, push the limits, see just how far you'd go.

His thoughts drifted to the email now sitting in his inbox, a silent invitation from you. He couldn't stop the grin from tugging at his lips. He knew it was risky, but the temptation was too strong. He had to see you again, hear you again, and feel that same power dynamic build between you.

Dear Angel,

First off, no need to apologize-I completely understand that things can come up. That being said, Ive been thinking about our last call... and I have to admit, I haven't been able to shake the memory of it.

I'd definitely be interested in rescheduling, and I'll make sure we have a bit more time to really enjoy our time. How does tomorrow evening sound to you? I'm flexible, so just let me know what works for you.

Looking forward to it.

Best,

Price

You giggle softly, your cheeks flushing as you read his reply. The thought that he's been thinking about you too sends a thrill through you. You glance at his words about his flexibility and the teasing thought crosses your mind. You want to reply something cheeky, something bold like how you're flexible too, and how he can bend you however he wants. You could say it... something bold, something that would make him want you more.

But you bite your lip, hesitant. Instead, you type a more subtle response, keeping your playful nature intact, but holding back the risqué thoughts.

Price,

That sounds perfect. I'll make myself available, just let me know what time specifically works for you. Can't wait to talk again soon.

Yours,

Angel

You lie in bed, the soft sheets wrapped around you as your mind drifts, you can't help but imagine how you'll look on the next call-how you'll make sure every inch of you is perfect for him. You run your fingers through your hair, mentally picturing yourself in the right lighting, the right angle.

You want to be flawless, to catch his attention in a way that makes him crave you more. The thought of impressing him, of hearing his approval, fills you with anticipation.

You slip out of bed, the warmth of the blankets leaving you with a soft shiver. You know exactly what you need, and the idea of finding the perfect lingerie set for him sends a thrill through your body. You quickly get dressed, pulling on something comfortable, and head out to the nearest Victoria's Secret, your mind racing with anticipation.

As you walk through the store, your fingers graze the delicate fabrics, envisioning how it will look on you. You want it to be just right, so perfect for him.

A stunning pink lace lingerie set catches your eye. The corset is beautiful, hugging the waist in all the right places, cinching you in perfectly, making your curves pop. The lace details are delicate, almost fragile, and the tiny bows scattered along it only add to the allure.

Attached to the corset is a skirt made of the same soft pink lace, flowing gently around your hips, teasing just enough.

But it's the garters and thigh-high stockings that really seal the deal. The set is perfect-sexy, feminine, and exactly what you need to make an unforgettable impression. You bite your lip, already imagining how it'll look when you wear it, and you can't help but feel a little thrill run through you at the thought of what's to come.

The next day, you wake up with a flutter of nerves in your stomach, the excitement building as the time for your call draws near. You spend the entire morning getting ready, carefully setting the mood for what's about to unfold.

You start with a long, hot shower, letting the water relax your muscles as you shave every inch of your skin. The scent of your favorite body wash fills the air, and once you're done, you lotion every part of your body, making your skin soft and silky to the touch. You follow with a layer of oil, making sure you glow. You even powder lightly, giving yourself a flawless finish, as if you're preparing for a show, not just a call.

Even though he can't smell you through the screen, you spritz your best perfume- something light, fresh, and sweet-just for the touch of confidence it gives you. It's your little secret, and it makes you feel ready.

You curl your hair perfectly, each wave soft and bouncy, framing your face just the way you like it. When you step back and look at yourself in the mirror, you feel... different. You feel empowered, beautiful, ready. The lingerie set you picked out is waiting for you, laid neatly on your bed.

As the time ticks closer, you take one last glance around your room, making sure everything is just as you want it. Even your bed is perfectly made, the soft sheets and pillows arranged just so, setting the stage for the night ahead. Your heart races with anticipation, knowing every detail is about to fall into place.

You move toward your setup, carefully adjusting your webcam, making sure the angle captures just the right view. Then, you flick on your setup lights, but only direct them toward the bed. The soft glow they cast highlights the space perfectly, making the room feel inviting and intimate. With a deep breath, you switch off your bedroom lights, letting the cool darkness surround you. The only illumination now comes from the candles you've scattered around the room. Their dancing flames flicker softly, casting shadows that add an alluring, romantic vibe to the room. The air feels charged, the atmosphere thick with anticipation.

Everything is set. All that's left is the call. Your nerves mingle with excitement, knowing this is the moment you've been waiting for.

With a deep breath, you step into the lingerie, feeling the soft lace hug your body in all the right ways. The corset cinches your waist, accentuating your curves, while the delicate lace feels like a second skin. You pull on the matching panties, the fabric smooth and soft against your skin.

Carefully, you adjust the tiny skirt, letting it fall perfectly over your hips. It's light, teasing, and just enough to make the outfit feel complete. You attach the stockings to the garters, feeling the smooth fabric stretch over your legs, the garters snug against your thighs, holding them in place.

The set fits you perfectly, every detail just as it should be. You look at yourself in the mirror, feeling a mix of excitement and a little nervousness, knowing that everything is ready now. The candles flicker in the dim room, casting soft light over the delicate lace. You take a final breath, steeling yourself for the call that's about to begin.

You reach for your little white lace mask, your fingers brushing over the delicate fabric. It's the finishing touch. You tie it carefully behind your head, adjusting it so it sits perfectly, framing your eyes and cheeks.

You sit on the edge of the bed, your legs crossed delicately, hands resting in your lap as you try to calm your racing heart. The soft glow from the setup lights bathes you in a flattering hue, while the flickering candlelight creates an intimate ambiance around the room.

You glance at the screen, the little "connecting" symbol spinning as you wait for him to join. Every second feels like an eternity, your nerves buzzing with anticipation.

You adjust the tiny skirt once more, smoothing it down over your thighs, and take a slow, steadying breath. The moment the screen flickers to life, your heart skips a beat. His face appears, and you're immediately struck by the way his sharp features soften slightly as he takes you in. You can see his jaw tighten, his eyes scanning the screen, taking in every detail of you.

You bite your lip, your voice soft as you finally speak.

"Hi..."

The moment his face appears on the screen, he's completely silent. His dark eyes roam over you slowly, taking in every painstaking detail-the delicate pink lingerie hugging your body, the way your perfectly curled hair frames your face, the soft glow of your skin in the candlelight.

His gaze lingers, almost reverent, as though he's trying to memorize every inch of you. The corner of his mouth tugs upward into a faint smirk, but his silence speaks louder than any words could. It's in the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, the way his eyes darken with something raw and unrestrained.

For a moment, the tension hangs thick between you, his voice caught somewhere in his throat. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough, and thick with desire. "Christ... you're perfect."

You smile softly, your cheeks warming under his intense gaze. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you let your eyes flicker down shyly for a moment before meeting his again. "Sorry about how I ended our last call...something came up" you say softly, forcing a polite smile. Your voice is steady, but inside, your heart is racing. You can still remember the moment you realized who he was, the rush of shock that made you end the call so abruptly. But you've convinced yourself that he doesn't know, that he couldn't possibly have pieced it together.

On the other side of the screen, his smirk twitches, subtle but unmistakable. His sharp eyes linger on you a little too long, and there's something in his expression —a flicker of amusement, maybe even satisfaction-that makes your stomach twist. He leans back slightly, his tone casual but laced with a knowing edge.

"Something came up, huh?" he repeats, almost like he's testing you. But he doesn't push, letting the moment hang between you.

You nod quickly, desperate to keep the air light, unaware that he already knows exactly why you ended the call-and that he's watching you closely, waiting for you to slip. "Don't worry, sweetheart," he says, leaning in just a little closer, his voice smooth, almost reassuring, "I understand. Things come up. We're good, yeah?"

You clear your throat, trying to shake off the awkwardness that lingers in the air. "So, how've you been?" you ask, your voice a little softer than usual, almost uncertain. You can't help the way your nerves spike, knowing exactly who he is-your brother's boss, a military captain in his 40s. And yet, here he is, sitting across from you on a video call, just another man on the other side of the screen. But it's not just any call-it's this call. This man, so authoritative in his world, is sitting here, watching you.

Price can't help but smile as you talk to him, he knows you're lying. He doesn't call you out on it, but he's enjoying the fact that you don't know that he knows. He can tell just by the sound of your voice alone that you're nervous, but you're trying to act polite.

"I've been good, darlin". Been missing you though", he responds with a soft chuckle. He tries not to sound too desperate or obvious, he wants to play along and see how long it'll take you to crack. You can't help but smile, the warmth spreading across your face as the sound of his voice lingers in your mind. You let out a little giggle, almost shy, but it escapes before you can stop it. "Really?" you ask.

Price can't help but smirk at your school girl giggle, the sound of which seems to go straight to his core. "Yes, really" he responds playfully. "I've been thinking about you a lot, doll" he adds, his voice low. You shift on your bed, feeling a rush of heat flood your cheeks. The way he's looking at you, the way his words hang in the air, makes your heart race and your stomach flutter. You can't help but feel giddy, your body betraying your attempt to stay composed.

“...Thinking about me how?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, and you can't quite bring yourself to meet his gaze. There's a pause on Price's end, a moment that seems to stretch on into eternity as he stares at you through the screen. "Oh, you want specific details, huh darling?" he asks lowly, his eyes roaming over you. He can barely keep his voice steady, his body is heating up just looking at you.

You nod softly, your fingers nervously playing with the fabric of your skirt, twisting and turning as you try to steady your breath. The quiet tension between you both feels like it's building with every second. You can't help but feel a little shy under his gaze, yet at the same time, the thrill of it all keeps you grounded, your curiosity pushing you to want to know more.

You glance up briefly, meeting his eyes for just a moment, the weight of the question hanging in the air. “..l want to know" you murmur, your voice soft but eager. Price's gaze is intense as he stares deeply into your eyes through the screen, taking in your every move.

Your shyness is only making Price want you even more, and the tension between you is growing. When you tell him you want to know his lips curve into a smirk, his eyes flickering over your body. He leans forward, the whiskey glass dangling loosely from his fingers, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Been thinking about that tight little cunt of yours, mostly. Fantasizing about bending you over every fucking surface I see"

Price's blunt words have a powerful effect on you, they make your mind go blank for an instance before a wave of heat washes over you, his voice alone is enough to drive you insane. He's watching you intensely through the screen, taking in your reaction to his filthily words.

"You like the sound of that, baby?" he asks with a smirk, his eyes roaming over you. Price's own words make his own mind start to wander, images of you writhing under him, bent over his desk flooding his mind. "I've been thinking about your soft little moans" he says in a low voice, his eyes roaming over you on the screen. "I've been thinking about how badly I want my hands on you"

Price notices the way your thighs clench in response to his words, and it ignites something in him. "Oh, darlin...are you getting excited?" he asks with a grin, his tone a little teasing. He sets the whiskey glass down, his eyes never leaving yours as he reaches down to adjust his pants, making sure his growing erection is comfortable. "I can tell by the way you're squeezing those thighs together. You're fucking dripping for me, aren't vou. andel?"

Price can't help but admire you through the screen, his eyes darkened with intensity and desire. His hand reaches down to subtly adjust the growing bulge in his pants, trying to ignore the ache in his groin. Your legs are squeezing together, as if trying to find some sort of relief for the ache that's building between your legs.

Your face is flushed, your breathing is becoming more erratic, and you're struggling to keep your eyes on him without looking away out of shyness. Price's voice drops even lower, smooth and commanding, as his gaze locks onto yours.

"Call me daddy," he says, each word deliberate, like a challenge and a request all at once. He leans forward slightly, his tone thick with desire, as he adds, "Can you do that for me, sweetheart?" You blush, the warmth creeping up your neck as you nod, your voice barely a whisper.

'Yes" you reply softly, the word slipping out almost shyly. Price's gaze sharpens, his lips curling into a small smirk. "I want to hear you say it," he commands gently, his tone firm but not unkind. "Say it for me, sweetheart." The room feels heavier with his words, the air thick with tension as he waits, his eyes never leaving you, eager for your response.

You whisper it, barely above a breath, the words almost lost in the quiet room “....Yes, daddy.." you murmur, your face flushed with warmth as you feel his gaze linger on you, intense and expectant. The way the words feel leaving your lips sends a wave of nervous excitement through you, making your heart race all over again.

Price's whole body almost shudders as he hears you call him that, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head. It's almost too much, hearing you refer to him like that.It's a power dynamic that he never knew he craved, until he met you. He takes a moment to collect himself, taking a deep breath and trying to keep his own desire under control. "Good girl" he praises, watching you closely to see how you react to his words.

The soft whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it, a sound so quiet, yet it doesn't go unnoticed.

Price's smirk deepens as he watches you, the shift in your demeanor not lost on him. He can see how his words are affecting you, how they make you tremble, and it only fuels the desire that's already burning inside him.

He leans in slightly, voice dropping to a lower, more possessive tone. "That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs, the words like a caress. "Let me hear more of that." His eyes remain locked on yours, searching for every reaction, every tiny movement you make.

He smirks as he sees your reaction, clearly savoring the effect his words have on you. "Such a good girl, making those sweet little noises for Daddy." He leans back, purposely giving you a glimpse of his muscular frame through his partially unbuttoned shirt.

His voice drops to a commanding growl as his eyes rake hungrily over your image on the screen. "Strip for me, angel. Nice and slow. Let Daddy see that gorgeous body he's been jerking off to every fucking night."

“Yes, daddy" you slip off your panties, tossing them to the end of bed. "Leave the stockings on," he orders, his tone smooth and firm. You slide your fingers over the delicate lace of your lingerie, the fabric clinging to your body just enough to tease, before you begin to pull it away slowly, deliberately. The tension in the air grows thick as you reveal more of you skin, each inch of you body exposed with a careful, almost tantalizing slowness.

Your hands trail down your sides, feeling the smoothness of your skin as you slides the fabric down, the lace brushing against you hips before it slips completely off. You don't rush, letting each moment stretch out, letting the anticipation build. You let the lingerie drop to the floor with a soft flutter, you body now fully exposed, save for the stockings you've kept on, the lace clinging to your legs, a final piece of the puzzle that leaves just enough to the imagination. The room is heavy with your movements, the way your eyes flick up to meet his, revealing just how much you're willing to give in this moment.

He watches with bated breath as you slowly reveal your body, his heart pounding in his chest like a fucking war drum. Every inch of exposed skin makes his mouth water, his dick hardening further in his pants. "Fuck, look at you...like a goddamn wet dream." He reaches out, his finger hovering over the screen, as if he could touch you through it. "I want to see those stockings, angel. I want to see you stand up and let me see how they cling to those fucking perfect legs of yours."

You step off the bed, moving the webcam back as you stand. His eyes lock onto your legs, the black lace stockings clinging to your shapely thighs like a second skin. He swallows hard, his mind racing with images of running his hands up those silky legs. "Turn around"

You turn obediently facing your bed.

He drinks in the view of your back, the way the stockings disappear into the curve of your backside, leaving the rest of you bare. He can't help but notice the slight sway of your hips as you turn. "Bend over," he growls. You can hear him fumbling with something before the sound of a zipper being unzipped, you try to stand and turn to see him.

"Stay," he commands, his voice low and authoritative.

He wraps his fingers around his length, slowly stroking himself as he watches you bent over, the lace stockings hugging your thighs. You let out a frustrated whine "I wanna see you.."

"Not yet," he murmurs, his eyes glued to the screen as he continues to slowly stroke himself, the tip of his thumb rubbing over the sensitive head each time he reaches the top. "Please daddy?"

His hand pauses, his thumb hovering over the tip as he hears those words. He can feel his body tensing, ready to snap. "You calling me daddy isn't going to make me show you," he says gruffly. "Spread them wider," he orders, his voice low and demanding. He watches intently as you comply, the lace stockings stretching taut over your thighs as you widen your stance.

"Put your hand between your legs and rub your fucking cunt," he growls, his voice rough and commanding. He starts to stroke himself faster, watching with rapt attention as he waits for you to follow his orders.

"Slowly." You lift you upper half off the bed enough to slide your hand down to your dripping wet pussy. You let you a whine as you start to rub yourself painfully slow.

He watches intently, his cock throbbing in his hand as he sees your fingers disappear between your legs, moving languidly over your sex. The sight of your slow, teasing touches makes his teeth grind with barely restrained desire.* "Fuck, that's it..."

His eyes narrow as he sees you try to push your fingers inside. "Did I say you could fuck yourself with your fingers?" he snaps, his grip tightening around his cock.

"No, I told you to fucking rub, not shove your fingers in like a goddamn whore."

"Im sorry daddy.."

"You'd better be," he growls, his face contorting with anger and unsatisfied lust. "Now spread your legs wider and rub slower," he demands, his voice dripping with authority and unspent desire. "I want to see your fingers barely touching your little pink folds."

"No please-"

"Yes, because if you don't start fucking listening and doing exactly as I say, I'll hang up this call and leave you fucking spread open and desperate," he interrupts harshly. "So you'd better start rubbing that fucking pussy like I told you before I lose my patience."

"No! i'll listen I promise!"

He watches closely, his cock throbbing as he sees your fingers quiver against your mound, barely grazing the swollen flesh. Each feather-light stroke over your clit makes his breath hitch. "That's it... fuck," he growls approvingly, starting to stroke himself faster.

"You're doing so good being a good girl and listening," he praises softly, his tone deceivingly gentle as he continues to watch your slow, torturous rubs. "But you know what else I want?"

"What daddy?"

"I want to see you spread your lips open with your fingers," he orders, his voice low and thick with desire.

"Use your index and middle finger, spread them open wide so I can see that fucking pink hole." You moan into the bed as you comply.

His eyes widen as he sees your fingers part your lips, revealing the glistening pink interior of your pussy. He can see the head of your clit peeking out from between your folds, and the way your inner lips are slightly puffy and swollen. "Fuck... look at that,"

He continues stroking himself, faster now, his breathing heavier as he takes in the vulgar sight of your exposed sex. His cock throbs in his hand, leaking precum. "Keep holding yourself open," he commands,

"use your other hand and rub your fucking clit. Gentle.'

"Please daddy" your other hand goes down to rub your clit. His cock twitches as he watches you hesitantly start to rub your clit, your fingers moving in cautious circles. "Yeah, just like that," he encourages hoarsely, stroking himself in tandem with your movements. "Nice and slow, get yourself fucking wet."

He watches intently as your fingers circle faster, your breathing growing more labored with each passing second. The sight of your fingers glistening with arousal makes his cock ache with need. "Look at that fucking pussy, getting all wet for me," he murmurs approvingly.

"Please let me-"

He squeezes his throbbing cock harder, feeling a bead of precum trickle down the shaft as he imagines sliding into your slick heat. "Fuck, I wish I was there, burying myself deep in this tight little pussy"

"I need you-*

The conversation takes a subtle shift as Price leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his intense gaze locked on you through the screen. His voice, low and deliberate, cuts through the quiet hum of the call.

"You know, sweetheart," he starts, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, "this would be so much better if I were there in person." You stand up from the bed, turning to face the webcam.

The weight of his words makes your heart skip, and you pause, your hands stilling on the bedspread. He studies your reaction, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he already knows the effect he's having on you. "What do you say, doll?" he continues, his tone smooth and confident, laced with something deeper.

“I could come over... see you for real." He lets the suggestion hang in the air, watching as your eyes widen slightly, your cheeks flushing at the thought. "No cameras, no screens. Just you and me."

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the-winter-spider · 3 months ago

Text

Mine | One Shot

Parings: Bucky x Reader AU

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: Probably the fluffiest thing ive ever written, of course angst.

A/N: Yall this AU bucky branch ive extended has been life changing for me lmaoooo

The first time you meet Bucky Barnes, he’s already looking at you, a soft, open look in his eyes that sends a jolt through you. You’ve just started a new job in town and ended up here at a cozy, dimly lit bar one night after work. You sit down a few stools away, glancing over at him—he’s warm, approachable, not exactly the type you’d expect to find sitting alone.

You look away quickly, heart suddenly racing, though you’re not sure why. He’s a stranger, just someone you’ll see tonight and probably never again, but something about him feels safe in a way you haven’t felt in years.

A few minutes later, he moves closer, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Rough day?” he asks, voice gentle, as if he’s been waiting for you to say something first.

You nod, a little surprised by both his forwardness and the kindness in his tone. You’re used to handling things on your own, keeping walls up that no one’s ever bothered to climb. But something about Bucky makes you want to drop your guard, if only for a moment.

You offer Bucky a small smile, feeling strangely at ease under his gaze. “Yeah, you could say that,” you reply, letting out a quiet sigh. “It’s been… a long week. Just finished my first week at a new job, and I’m still finding my footing. Everything’s just a bit overwhelming, you know?”

Bucky nods, understanding flashing in his eyes. “New job, new town?” he asks, his tone inviting, like he genuinely wants to know, not just make conversation.

You nod, surprised at how easy it feels to open up. “Yeah, both, actually. I just moved here, so it’s been a lot of… adjustment.”

He tilts his head, his expression warm and reassuring. “That’s a lot to take on. I remember when I first moved here… let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a smooth transition.” He chuckles softly, the sound low and comforting, and you can’t help but smile.

“Really?” you ask, curious despite yourself. “What brought you here?”

His gaze softens as he considers the question, as though he’s debating just how much to share. “Needed a fresh start,” he says simply, a hint of something unspoken in his eyes. “Figured this was a good place to do that.”

You feel a pang of recognition—you understand that need to start over, to build something new. “I get that,” you murmur. “Sometimes… sometimes you just need a change to get things back on track.”

“Exactly,” he replies, his eyes brightening as he leans a little closer. “Sounds like we might have a bit in common, then.”

There’s a brief silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s like the two of you are sharing something without needing to say it outright. You feel your usual guardedness slipping, replaced by a warmth that’s both thrilling and unsettling. It’s strange—he’s still a stranger, and yet he feels familiar, like someone you could trust, someone who understands.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, his voice gentle, his gaze steady. “Just to celebrate surviving the first week. It’s no small thing.”

You smile, nodding as a rush of gratitude fills you. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Bucky signals to the bartender, ordering two drinks and settling back beside you, his posture relaxed. Bucky leans in, a warm smile lighting up his face as he listens, his full attention on you. It’s like he’s hanging on every word, nodding and chuckling at all the right moments, his eyes crinkling at the corners every time you say something that amuses him.

“So, then,” you continue, trying to hold back a laugh as you recall the memory, “I walked into what I thought was the meeting room, you know, just trying to make a good first impression… only to realize it was the break room. And everyone just kind of stared at me like I was some intruder there to steal their coffee.”

Bucky lets out a genuine laugh, shaking his head. “Oh no! And you didn’t just play it cool?”

You grin, rolling your eyes. “Nope, not at all. I panicked and mumbled something about being ‘lost’—in the most literal sense. And then, to top it off, I nearly backed into a coffee machine trying to escape!"

He laughs harder, the sound warm and genuine, filling the space between you. “I think that’s endearing,” he says, his tone sincere. “Bet they thought you were charming.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say sarcastically, unable to hide your smile. “If by ‘charming’ you mean they think I’m the odd one in the office now, then yeah, absolutely. As if being the 'new girl' wasnt enough"

He smirks, leaning his chin on his hand as he watches you, that mischievous glint still in his eyes. “Hey, at least you’re memorable. It’s not every day people meet someone with personality.”

You laugh, giving him a playful nudge. “Oh, so I have ‘personality’ now?”

“Definitely,” he teases, taking a sip of his drink. “You’re… different. In a good way.” His gaze softens, and for a moment, you see something more serious flicker in his eyes, something that makes your heart skip a beat.

Trying to ignore the fluttering feeling in your chest, you shake your head, focusing on lightening the mood. “So,” you say, grinning, “what about you? Any embarrassing first-day stories?”

He chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, way too many,” he says, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “When I started at my last job, they had this big company lunch. I was so nervous that I accidentally grabbed the CEO’s sandwich off his plate, thinking it was from the catering table.”

Your jaw drops. “No! What did you do?”

He laughs, shaking his head at the memory. “Honestly? I didn’t even realize until I’d taken the first bite. The CEO looked at me, just stunned, and I kind of just froze, sandwich halfway to my mouth. I thought for sure I was going to get fired on the spot.”

You’re laughing so hard you nearly spill your drink. “So, did he say anything?”

“Oh, he said plenty,” Bucky says, chuckling along with you. “But, somehow, he found it funny. Or maybe he just took pity on me, who knows? Either way, I survived, but I don’t think I’ll ever live it down.”

You both sit there, laughter fading into comfortable silence as you sip your drinks, sharing those lighthearted moments and embarrassing stories that somehow make you feel closer. After a few beats, he glances at you, his expression softening.

“It’s nice, you know… hearing all this,” he says quietly. “Feels like I’m getting to know the real you.”

Your cheeks flush, but his words make you feel seen in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying. “Yeah… I think maybe you are,” you say softly.

His gaze holds yours, an unspoken understanding passing between you. And as you sit together, in the dim light of the bar with laughter still lingering in the air, you realize that this—this feeling of being understood, of being truly known—is something you didn’t even know you were missing. And with Bucky, it feels like you’re finally finding it.

By the time you’re finishing your second drink, you’re feeling lighter, the weight of the past week fading away, replaced by a warmth that seems to linger between you and Bucky.

“Well,” he says after a moment, glancing at his watch but making no move to leave. “Thank you for letting me share your first-week celebration. I don’t know about you, but I’d say this is the best part of any first week—meeting someone you didn’t expect to.”

You blush, looking down with a shy smile. “Yeah… me too.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, and in the back of your mind, you realize you’re hoping this won’t be the last time you see him. Maybe he feels the same way, because as you gather your things to leave, he clears his throat, a hint of nervousness flickering in his eyes.

“So, listen… if you ever want some company after work or need someone to talk to about the craziness of starting over, I’d be happy to be that person,” he says, his voice soft, a little uncertain.

Your heart skips a beat, and you smile, feeling that warmth spread through you again. “I’d like that, Bucky. I’d really like that.”

With one last shared smile, you both exchange numbers, a quiet promise lingering in the air that this, whatever it is, isn’t just a fleeting moment.

“You know,” he says, after a quiet moment, “if you’re free tomorrow, i can show you the best place for coffee in the morning.”

For reasons you can’t explain, you say yes. And it’s the first of many yeses you’ll say to him, even if you can’t shake the feeling that opening up to someone can only lead to getting hurt.

The next morning, you meet Bucky outside a quaint little café, the kind with mismatched chairs and hanging plants that give it a cozy, lived-in feel. Sunlight spills across the sidewalk, and there’s a crispness in the air that makes everything feel brighter, more hopeful.

You both order coffee and pastries and find a table outside. As you settle in, he looks over at you with that same soft, open smile that feels like a balm to your heart. You’re not sure if it’s the warmth of the coffee or his presence, but somehow you feel yourself letting go, leaning into the morning with him as if it’s a part of something bigger.

“So, did you always know you wanted to be here?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving yours.

You shake your head with a little laugh. “Not exactly. Moving here was… spontaneous. I just needed a change, I guess. I don’t know if it’s where I want to end up, but it feels like a good place to be, at least for now.”

He nods thoughtfully, a smile tugging at his lips. “I get that. Change is… good sometimes. Scary, but good.”

There’s a brief silence before you turn the question back on him. “What about you? Have you always been here?”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “No, I bounced around a lot before I landed here. I’m from Brooklyn, actually. Grew up in a small apartment with my mom and sister, Rebecca. It wasn’t much, but it was home.”

He pauses, his gaze drifting, and you can see a fondness there, mingled with nostalgia. “My sister used to make me these ridiculous lunches for school. You know those sandwiches where it’s way too much peanut butter, like it’d practically glue your mouth shut?”

You laugh, picturing a young Bucky struggling with a lopsided sandwich. “So what, she was trying to get you to stop talking?”

“Maybe! It probably worked a few times,” he says with a grin. “She was older than me, and she loved teasing me. But she’d also defend me to the ends of the earth if I needed it. She was tough but loyal—still is. We used to spend summers playing stickball in the streets or riding our bikes down to the pier until the sun set. Those were good days.”

You find yourself smiling, caught up in the warmth of his stories. There’s something about the way he talks about his sister and his childhood that feels so genuine, so open, and it makes you feel safe somehow, like you could share parts of yourself that you usually keep hidden.

“Sounds like you were close,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” he replies, nodding. “We still are, even though we don’t see each other as much these days. But you know how it is. Life gets busy, people drift….” He trails off, looking a little pensive, but then he catches your gaze and offers a reassuring smile. “But we still check in. She likes to give me a hard time about how I’ve ‘softened up’ over the years.”

“Oh, so you used to be a real troublemaker, huh?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe a little,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But only in the fun ways. My friends and I—especially my best friend, Steve—always found ways to keep things interesting. Steve was the wild one, though, always dragging me into things. He’d get these ideas—like, one summer, he convinced me we could make a raft and take it out on the East River.”

“Wait, you didn’t actually try that, did you?” you ask, laughing as you imagine two boys clinging to a makeshift raft.

“Oh, we tried,” Bucky says, shaking his head with a chuckle. “It was a disaster. We were out there for maybe ten minutes before the whole thing started falling apart, and we ended up soaking wet, half-drowning, while everyone on the shore was just watching and laughing. My mom nearly had a heart attack when she found out.”

You laugh, clutching your coffee cup as you picture the scene. “So, I guess you didn’t end up the next great explorers of Brooklyn?”

“Nope, that dream died real fast,” he says, grinning. “But that was Steve for you—big dreams, no plans. I think that’s why we were close, though. He’d always push me to do things I wouldn’t even think about trying. He’d challenge me in ways that I didn’t know I needed. Kind of made me who I am today.”

You see a glimmer of nostalgia and perhaps a little sadness in his eyes as he talks about Steve, and you wonder if they’re still close. But before you can ask, he leans forward, his expression softening as he looks at you.

“So, how about you?” he asks, changing the subject. “Any siblings?”

You nod, taking a small sip of your coffee. “Yeah, an older brother. We were close growing up, but life kind of… pulled us in different directions. He was the one who kept me out of trouble, actually. He fled home as soon as he was old enough” You chuckle sadly “Always thought he was the responsible one, and I was the daydreamer. Guess some things never change.”

Bucky’s eyes light up, as if he’s seeing a new side of you. “Daydreamer, huh? What kind of dreams?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to answer. But then you feel that familiar warmth between you, the kind that feels safe, inviting you to share a little more of yourself.

“Honestly, I don’t know anymore,” you admit softly. “I guess that’s part of why I moved here. Trying to figure it out, trying to find something that feels… real.”

He nods, his gaze understanding, as if he sees right through you in a way that’s both comforting and a little terrifying. “Well, I think that’s brave,” he says quietly. “Taking a leap, starting fresh… not everyone has the guts to do that.”

The way he says it, so genuine and reassuring, makes you feel like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, like maybe the path isn’t as uncertain as it once felt.

The conversation drifts into comfortable silence, and you both take a moment to sip your coffee and enjoy the warmth of the sun. After a while, he leans back, his expression thoughtful as he looks over at you.

“You know, meeting someone like you… it’s kind of a rare thing,” he says, his voice soft but full of a sincerity that takes you by surprise. “I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels… right.”

His words settle into your heart, and you feel a warmth spreading through you, a connection that feels deeper than anything you expected to find in a new town, with a man you’ve only just met. And in that moment, with the sunlight catching in his eyes, you feel a quiet certainty that this—whatever this is—might be the beginning of something real.

Over the next few weeks, life begins to settle into a new rhythm. Days are marked by coffee dates that turn into long walks down the quiet streets, and those walks stretch into late-night conversations on park benches under streetlights. Bucky has quickly become your favorite part of the day, and even though neither of you has spoken about how you feel, there’s a growing closeness—a feeling of inevitability that’s hard to ignore.

One night, after a cozy dinner together, you find yourselves lingering on a quiet bench, watching the lights of the city reflected on the river. The silence between you is easy, comfortable, but there’s an unspoken tension there, too—something that hovers in the space between words, in the quiet glances you both share.

Bucky looks over at you, a warm smile playing at his lips. “I can’t believe it’s only been a few weeks,” he says, his voice soft. “Feels like I’ve known you… longer.”

You nod, feeling your heart race at the sincerity in his eyes. “I know what you mean,” you murmur, glancing down to hide your own smile. “I don’t usually… open up to people like this. But with you, it just feels easy.”

He grins, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes. “So you’re saying I’m easy to talk to?”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Don’t get too cocky, Barnes. I’m just saying you have… potential.”

“Oh, potential, huh?” he teases, giving you a mock-hurt look. “Wow. Just when I thought I was doing well.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling a lightness you hadn’t felt in a long time. Somehow, Bucky has a way of making you feel like yourself, like you don’t have to be anything other than exactly who you are.

As the night deepens, you both head home, reluctantly parting with lingering glances and unspoken words hanging in the air. But when you finally get home, your phone lights up with a text, and you feel a thrill run through you as you see Bucky’s name.

Bucky: So, I’m not getting cocky, but… any chance I passed the “potential” test?

You laugh, typing out a reply.

You: I’d say you’re doing okay… so far.

Almost immediately, he texts back.

Bucky: Just okay? You’re killing me here. I might have to try harder.

You: I think I can handle that.

There’s a pause, and you watch as the typing bubble pops up again, wondering what he’ll say next.

Bucky: Just so we’re clear, I’m pretty sure you’re the highlight of my day. Don’t tell anyone—I’ve got a reputation to maintain.

You feel your cheeks warm, smiling at your phone. It’s strange how quickly he’s managed to find his way into your heart, and even stranger how natural it feels to be talking to him like this.

You: Highlight of your day, huh? That’s some big talk, Barnes.

Bucky: It’s not just talk, sweet girl....I mean it.

You pause, taking in the sincerity of his words. For a second, you wonder if he can feel the same pull you do, the same feeling that this could be something real.

You: Guess I’ll see what you come up with next time.

Bucky: Oh, so now I’m being challenged? I’ll have to think of something special.

You: Good luck with that, I’m a tough critic.

Bucky: Challenge accepted, darling.

His use of the word “darling” sends a thrill through you, and you feel yourself blush, biting your lip as you smile at the screen. The lighthearted back-and-forth carries on into the night, each text feeling like another step closer to something you’re both tiptoeing around, something you’re both afraid to fully acknowledge yet.

And as you finally say goodnight, you feel a contented warmth settle over you, the kind that promises there’s something real here, something waiting to unfold. But for now, the unspoken words, the quiet glances, and the sweet, flirty texts are more than enough, leaving you falling asleep with a smile on your face.

One night, you’re both walking through a nearby park, the cool evening air wrapping around you. It’s late enough that the world feels almost empty, like the two of you are the only ones who know this quiet part of the city. You’re talking about your favorite childhood movies, laughing over memories, and you feel a lightness in you, a happiness that’s been dormant for so long you’d nearly forgotten it was there.

“So you’re telling me,” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow as he glances over at you, “that you actually dressed up as an elf for three Halloweens in a row because of Lord of the Rings?”

You laugh, feeling your cheeks flush. “Yes! I was obsessed. It was all I wanted to do for years. I think I had pointy ears stashed in every drawer.”

Bucky grins, his eyes twinkling. “I can’t believe I missed out on that... bet you made a cute elf.”

“Oh, please.” You roll your eyes, trying to stifle a laugh. “It was… an intense phase. I still cringe a little thinking about it.”

“I don’t know,” he says, nudging you playfully. “I think it sounds perfect. I used to dress up as a knight when I was a kid. One time, I even convinced Steve to be the dragon.”

You laugh, picturing a younger version of him, full of life and laughter. “Please tell me there’s photographic evidence of that.”

“There might be,” he teases, smirking. “But I think you’re going to have to stick around a little longer before I start sharing the embarrassing childhood photos.”

Something in his tone, playful yet sincere, makes your heart skip a beat. You realize how much you look forward to these moments, how he’s become a part of your life in a way you never saw coming. There’s a softness about him that pulls you in, a kindness that makes you feel safe, and the thought of seeing where this goes fills you with a quiet excitement.

You walk a bit further, the silence between you comfortable, and he glances over, a question lingering in his eyes. “So,” he starts, a little hesitant. “Are you… happy here? I mean, you said you needed a change. Do you feel like this is it?”

You think about his question, about how you arrived here hoping to find a fresh start, not knowing if it would ever feel like home. But now, as you stand beside him, there’s a sense of belonging that surprises you.

“Honestly?” you say, your voice soft. “I think I am. It’s strange, but being here… it’s like I can breathe again. Like maybe I can finally be myself, without all the expectations I left behind.”

Bucky nods, his expression thoughtful, and he stops walking for a moment, turning to face you. “I’m glad,” he says quietly, his gaze holding yours. “You deserve that. You deserve… to feel free.”

His words sink into you, and for a moment, all you can do is look at him, taking in the gentleness in his eyes, the warmth in his smile. It’s almost too much—the idea that someone could see you this clearly, understand you so deeply.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

He reaches out, brushing his fingers against yours in a simple, tender gesture. “You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs, his voice low. “I’m just glad I get to know you.”

There’s a vulnerability in his words that catches you off guard, and for a moment, you’re both standing there, the world around you quiet and still. You want to say something, to let him know how much he’s come to mean to you, how his presence feels like a light that’s brought you back to yourself. But the words catch in your throat, so instead, you simply squeeze his hand, letting the warmth of his touch speak for you.

----

Another evening, you’re both sitting on a small bench at the edge of the park, looking up at the stars. Bucky has his arm around you, pulling you close against the chill of the night, and you rest your head on his shoulder, feeling a peace you haven’t felt in years.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asks suddenly, his voice soft, as though he’s been thinking about the question for a while.

You’re quiet for a moment, surprised by the question. You used to avoid thinking about the future, unsure of where you fit in, always second-guessing yourself. But now, with him, the idea of the future doesn’t feel as daunting.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “I do. But it’s different now. I guess… I’m not so afraid of it anymore.”

He nods, a small smile on his face. “I’m glad,” he says, his voice filled with a tenderness that makes your heart ache in the best way. He hesitates, glancing over at you. “I know we’re just… starting this, whatever it is, but I hope you know that I’m here, for all of it. I don’t… plan on going anywhere.”

The sincerity in his words makes you catch your breath, and you feel that familiar warmth rising in your chest, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper. You don’t say anything, instead reaching up to brush a gentle hand against his cheek, letting him know that you feel the same, even if the words are still forming in your heart.

As the night deepens, you sit there in a comfortable silence, his arm around you, his steady presence grounding you. And as you look up at the stars, you realize that for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of what lies ahead.

But yet, every time he leans a little closer, touches your hand, or tells you something vulnerable, you can’t help but feel that old anxiety creeping in, telling you to be careful. It’s as if you’re back to being a kid, watching your parents’ marriage shatter right in front of you. You’ve told yourself for years that love can’t be trusted, that letting people in only leads to pain.

---

One evening, when you’re sitting beside him at your favorite spot near the river, he reaches over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re safe with me, you know?” he says softly, sensing the hesitation in your gaze.

The words linger in the air, and you look down, feeling your defenses rise again. “I don’t think you understand,” you murmur. “People leave. Or worse, they hurt you without even meaning to.”

Bucky takes your hand, holding it gently, grounding you. “I know,” he says quietly. “But maybe… maybe you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

The river flows quietly beside you both, the soft murmur of water filling the silence between you. Bucky’s hand is still gently wrapped around yours, grounding you with a warmth that feels both comforting and unfamiliar. Part of you wants to pull away, to shield yourself from the vulnerability you feel creeping in, but there’s something about him that makes you feel safe, even when the memories are so raw.

You take a shaky breath, finally letting your eyes meet his. “My parents… they didn’t have the kind of love that you read about, or see in movies. It was messy and… destructive. They fought constantly—screaming, blaming each other for everything wrong in their lives. Growing up, I thought that was just how it was supposed to be. That love was meant to hurt.”

Bucky listens intently, his expression softening as you continue, no hint of judgment in his gaze. He’s just… there, holding space for you in a way that makes you feel seen, like you don’t have to hide.

You swallow, feeling the ache of those memories resurface. “I used to tell myself that when I grew up, I’d find someone who was different. Someone who wouldn’t treat me like my father treated my mother.” Your voice drops, barely a whisper now. “But when I left home, I fell for someone who was just like him. He was… careless, selfish. I gave everything I had because I thought that was what love was. And he hurt me, Bucky, over and over, but I convinced myself it was my fault, that if I just tried harder, he’d change.”

Bucky’s grip on your hand tightens, his gaze filled with a fierce protectiveness that you didn’t expect. You can see his jaw clench, as though he’s holding back words he wants to say, but he lets you continue, giving you the space you need.

“When he finally left,” you continue, your voice breaking slightly, “I felt… empty. Like I’d failed. Everyone always leaves, and somehow, I believed it was because of something I did or something I wasn’t. For a long time, I thought I didn’t deserve anything better.”

You feel a tear slip down your cheek, and before you can brush it away, Bucky reaches out, gently wiping it with his thumb. His touch is so tender, so careful, that it breaks something inside you, a wall you didn’t realize you were still holding up.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he says softly, his voice full of conviction. “None of it. And it wasn’t your fault.”

You try to look away, the old shame rising up, but he places a gentle hand on your cheek, his thumb brushing soothing circles on your skin. “Hey,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “Look at me.”

You meet his gaze, and the kindness there is almost too much to bear.

“I don’t care what your past looked like,” he says, his voice steady and certain. “None of that changes how I feel about you. You are worth more than any of the pain you’ve been through. You deserve love that feels safe, that feels steady. You deserve someone who chooses you, every single day, this is worth the risk to me, you're worth it to me"

The words sink into you, healing in a way you never thought possible. His hand rests on your cheek, grounding you, and for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be right. That maybe love doesn’t have to hurt.

Bucky leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours, his voice a soft promise. “I’m not going anywhere. I know it’s hard to believe, and I know trust doesn’t come easy. But I want to be here for you. Every single day.”

Your eyes close, and you feel his warmth surrounding you, filling the empty spaces you’ve carried for so long. He stays close, his presence steady and unyielding, like a lifeline you didn’t know you needed.

When you finally find your voice, it’s soft, almost trembling. “How can you be so sure?”

He smiles, a gentle, understanding smile that melts every last piece of fear you’re holding onto. “Because I know what it’s like to feel broken. And I also know that finding someone who understands, who sees you for who you really are… that’s worth everything.”

In that moment, you feel a shift inside you, a glimmer of hope where there used to be only fear. Bucky is everything you thought you’d never find—kind, patient, willing to fight for you even when you’re not sure you can fight for yourself.

You let out a shaky breath, a tear slipping down your cheek, but this time it’s not one of sadness. It’s the relief of knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’re not alone anymore.

“I don’t know if I know how to love like that,” you admit quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s hand gently trails down to your chin, lifting it so your eyes meet his. “Then we’ll learn together,” he says softly, his gaze filled with a warmth and patience that takes your breath away. “One day at a time.”

And as he pulls you into his arms, holding you close against the quiet backdrop of the river, you let yourself believe that this—this love, this kindness, this man—might just be the home you’ve been searching for all along..

You stay there together by the river, wrapped in the warmth of Bucky’s arms as the soft murmur of the water flows beside you. His steady heartbeat under your cheek is calming, and you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the safety of the moment. It’s as if time has slowed, like the world has paused just for the two of you, letting you both breathe.

After a while, he pulls back slightly, enough to look down at you, his hand still resting gently against your cheek. There’s a softness in his gaze, a vulnerability that mirrors your own, as if he’s waiting for just the right moment.

His thumb traces a soft line along your cheek, and he hesitates, as though he’s searching for the right words. Finally, he takes a deep breath, his voice low and steady, full of a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“Will you do me the honor,” he begins, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine, “of being mine, darling?”

The question hangs in the air, his words so simple yet carrying so much weight, so much love. You feel the familiar urge to pull back, to put up your defenses, but with Bucky standing there, his gaze unwavering, you realize that you don’t want to run anymore. Not from him.

A warmth spreads through you, a quiet happiness that feels like it’s been waiting for this moment all along. You meet his gaze, feeling every ounce of his love and devotion, and you realize that, with him, you don’t have to be afraid. Not of love, not of loss—because he’s here, and he’s choosing you.

With a soft, shaky breath, you nod, a smile breaking across your face as you whisper, “Yes, Bucky. I’m yours.”

A look of pure joy lights up his face, and he pulls you close, pressing his forehead against yours as he lets out a relieved laugh, as if he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have. His hand cups the back of your neck, and he murmurs softly, his voice full of warmth and certainty, “I'm not going anywhere ever, your stuck with me angel"

He leans in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips, and in that moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other, and you feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

As he pulls you back into his arms, holding you close against the night, you know that this—this love, this connection, this man—is home. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe love doesn’t have to hurt; maybe it can be kind, steady, and true.

---

Over the next few months, Bucky weaves his way into every part of your life, becoming as familiar and comforting as home itself. He’s there for all of it—the quiet, mundane moments, the small victories, and the heavy days when the past creeps in and weighs on you. It’s as if he knows exactly when to be there, a steady presence who never asks more of you than you’re ready to give.

One day, after a long day, you find yourself curled up on the couch with him, your head resting against his shoulder. You’re both wrapped in a comfortable silence, but he can sense that something’s weighing on you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently, his fingers trailing soothingly along your arm. He doesn’t push, just leaves the door open, giving you the choice.

You hesitate for a moment, the familiar fear creeping in, but with him, it’s easier to let down your guard. You take a breath, leaning into his warmth as you begin to speak.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever stop carrying all of it with me,” you admit softly. “My parents… their anger was everywhere. They’d go from silence to shouting, always blaming each other. As a kid, I used to hide in my room, but I could still feel it, like their anger was seeping through the walls.”

Bucky’s hand stills, his fingers curling around yours, grounding you. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens, his eyes filled with a quiet empathy that makes it easier to continue.

“I used to think it was normal, that that was just… how love looked. Chaotic, painful. When I got older, I started building walls, just to keep people at a distance. It felt safer that way.”

He nods, squeezing your hand gently. “That must have been so hard,” he says quietly, his voice laced with understanding. “To grow up thinking that’s all there was to love.”

You nod, letting out a shaky breath. “I know it sounds strange, but I thought maybe I’d somehow inherited that anger, that chaos. Like… if I let anyone close, it would just repeat. That I’d end up hurting them, or they’d hurt me.”

Bucky’s gaze softens, and he shifts slightly, turning so that he’s fully facing you, his thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek. “You’re not them,” he whispers, his voice steady and sure. “And you don’t have to carry their mistakes.”

The kindness in his eyes, the unwavering gentleness, makes you feel like a knot is loosening in your chest. You hadn’t realized how heavy those fears had become, how deeply they’d settled into you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “For being here. For listening.”

“Always,” he says, his hand still resting against your cheek. “I’ll be here, no matter what.”

On a lighter day, Bucky’s there for your small victories, too, celebrating them as if they’re his own. You remember a Friday afternoon, when you’d finally completed a major project at work, one you’d been stressing over for weeks. You’d texted him, excited but exhausted, and by the time you got home, you found him standing in your kitchen with a bottle of champagne and a cake with “You did it!” iced onto it in wobbly, uneven letters.

“You did all this… for me?” you ask, laughing as you read the words on the cake.

“Of course,” he says, grinning as he pops the cork on the champagne. “You’ve been working so hard, and I thought you deserved a little celebration.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling the warmth of his joy for you radiate through the room. “You know, no one’s ever celebrated something like this with me before.”

“Well,” he says, pouring two glasses and handing you one, “then it’s about time someone did, and in honoured it gets to be me"

You clink glasses, and as you take a sip, you realize just how much he’s become part of your life, filling the empty spaces you’d once thought would always be there.

You sip the champagne, feeling the bubbles dance on your tongue as you look at Bucky, the warmth of the moment settling over you like a blanket. He’s watching you with that easy, genuine smile, the kind that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. You’d been working so hard, pouring everything you had into that project, and it was like he knew exactly how much you needed someone to see you, to be there, to celebrate this small victory with you.

“Really,” you say, setting down your glass and shaking your head with a laugh. “I still can’t believe you did all of this… for me. The cake, the champagne… It’s so thoughtful.”

He shrugs, but there’s a softness in his eyes. “You deserve it. I know how hard you’ve been working.” He glances at the cake, chuckling a little. “Even if the cake looks like it was made by a five-year-old.”

“It’s perfect,” you say, a laugh escaping you as you look at the uneven letters again, and he grins, that familiar glint of mischief lighting up his eyes.

Over the past few weeks, he’s taken to saying those three words to you—quietly, simply, as if he’s known them all along. It usually happens in those gentle moments, the ones that sneak up on you and make you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. The first time he’d said it, you’d felt the words catch in your throat, and he’d squeezed your hand, smiling softly.

“It’s okay,” he’d whispered. “You don’t have to say it back. I just… wanted you to know.”

And he’s been true to his word, never pressuring you, never expecting more than you’re ready to give. He says it without hesitation, as though his love for you is as natural as breathing, and each time, it feels like another piece of the armor around your heart softens. You’ve been holding those words close, letting them settle, and tonight, with him standing here in your kitchen, celebrating you, it’s like they’re finally ready to take flight.

You take a breath, setting your glass down and looking at him, really looking at him. He’s so patient, so steady, just waiting for you to be ready, and in that moment, the words slip out, simple and true.

“I love you too, Bucky.”

For a moment, he looks surprised, his eyes widening just slightly. Then a slow, radiant smile spreads across his face, and he lets out a soft, relieved laugh, like he’s been holding onto a breath he didn’t realize he’d taken.

“Yeah?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, and there’s a gentleness in his gaze that makes your heart feel like it’s glowing.

You nod, a warmth blooming in your chest as you watch him, feeling the weight of those words sink in, wrapping around the two of you. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I love you.”

He takes a step closer, reaching out to take your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours in that familiar way that makes you feel safe, cherished. He doesn’t say anything else—he doesn’t have to. The way he looks at you, like you’re the most precious thing in his world, says it all.

You stand there together, the sound of quiet laughter and clinking glasses filling the air, and as you look into his eyes, you know this is just the beginning of something beautiful.

---

One night, over a year after that moment by the river, you’re sitting on the back porch with him, wrapped in a blanket as you watch the stars. It’s quiet, peaceful, and he has his arm around you, pulling you close as you lean into him.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur, breaking the silence.

“Anything,” he replies, his voice soft.

“Do you ever… I don’t know… feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop?” you ask, the vulnerability of the question catching in your throat. “Like things are too good, and maybe it won’t last?”

He’s quiet for a moment, as if he’s considering your words, and then he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “I used to,” he admits. “But then I realized that waiting for something to go wrong just robs you of all the good things you’ve got right here, right now.”

You nod, letting his words sink in. He has a way of grounding you, of making the fears that once felt so overwhelming seem smaller, more manageable.

“Look,” he says, pulling back slightly so he can look into your eyes, “I know you still have walls up baby, I know you’ve been through things I can’t even imagine. But none of that changes how I feel about you. You’re it for me sweet heart"

The sincerity in his eyes makes your heart race, and you feel that familiar warmth, that sense of safety you’ve come to cherish with him. You open your mouth to respond, but he reaches out, crashes his lips to yours, as his lips meet yours, everything else fades away. The quiet of the night, the cool breeze, the blanket wrapped around you both—none of it matters except the feel of him, warm and steady and here. His hand cradles the back of your head, gentle yet certain, as if he’s savoring this moment just as much as you are. There’s a tender urgency in the way he kisses you, a depth of feeling that words could never fully capture.

His other hand moves to your waist, pulling you even closer, and you find yourself letting go, allowing the barriers you’ve held up for so long to slip away. In his arms, every lingering fear, every shadow of doubt feels smaller, quieter. He’s the one constant you never thought you’d find, and here, beneath the blanket of stars, you feel safe enough to let him see all of you.

You run your hands along his shoulders, feeling the strength there, the solidity, as if to reassure yourself that he’s real, that he’s yours. He senses the hesitation in your touch and gently deepens the kiss, pouring his own quiet reassurance into each soft brush of his lips against yours. He’s unhurried, savoring the closeness, the warmth shared between you, as if he has all the time in the world.

When you finally pull back to catch your breath, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes soft and full of that familiar warmth that’s always steadied you. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering as he looks at you, his gaze tender and unguarded.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs, his voice a soft rasp. “I hope you know that.”

Your heart swells, and you can’t help but reach up, your fingers tracing his jaw, memorizing the lines of his face. “I do,” you whisper, smiling as you take in the love shining in his eyes. “And you’re everything to me, too.”

The moment is gentle, intimate, a quiet affirmation of all that you’ve come to mean to each other. As the night drifts on, you find yourselves wrapped in each other’s arms, exchanging soft kisses and whispered promises, the world around you falling away until it’s just you and him, together in the safe haven you’ve created.

---

It isn’t until months later, on a quiet afternoon in your small apartment, that you realize how much he’s changed you. You’re both in the kitchen, making dinner, when he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his head on your shoulder. In that moment, feeling the solid warmth of him, something inside you finally softens, and you feel that long-buried fear of love start to melt away.

Turning around to face him, you look into his eyes, your heart pounding but steady. “You’re… you’re home,” you say softly, finally daring to voice the truth you’ve been feeling for so long.

Bucky smiles, and it’s the warmest, most genuine smile you’ve ever seen. “And so are you,” he murmurs, brushing a gentle kiss across your forehead. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

As you lean into him, you feel a deep sense of peace—a peace that tells you love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real, that sometimes, it’s okay to let yourself be someone else’s. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that you can be loved without fear.

In his arms, you know that no matter where life takes you, he’ll always be there, steady as ever, reminding you every day that you’re his, and he’s yours.

The soft simmering of the pot on the stove fades into the background as you hold each other in the kitchen, wrapped in a quiet warmth that feels like it’s seeped into every corner of your life together. The room is filled with the comforting scent of herbs and spices, but all you can focus on is him—his arms around you, his steady breathing, the familiar warmth of his presence.

You look up at him, and there’s a softness in his eyes, a light you’ve come to recognize as the kind of love that expects nothing but offers everything.

“I don’t know if I tell you this enough,” he murmurs, running his fingers gently along your back. “But you… you make me feel whole. Like I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

His words settle over you like a balm, soothing any lingering fear you still carry. There’s a deep sincerity in his gaze, a warmth that has become your comfort, your safety. You feel your heart swell, a surge of gratitude that he’s here, that he chose you even with all the jagged edges you thought would push people away.

“Bucky,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “I never thought I’d find this. Find… you.”

He smiles, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to trust me. But you’re everything I ever wanted… everything I never thought I deserved.”

You laugh softly, the sound breaking through the quiet as you realize how much he’s come to mean to you, how he’s become the constant in your life, the calm in your storms. “You deserve all of it, love....Every bit of happiness there is.”

His eyes soften, and he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, lingering as if he’s savoring the moment, as if he’s savoring you. “Then stay with me,” he whispers, his voice low and full of emotion. “For as long as we have… let’s make this our forever.”

Your heart races as his words sink in, and you feel a warmth bloom within you, a peace that you’ve only known with him. The future, once clouded by fear and doubt, now feels open, full of possibility, and you realize that with him, you’re no longer afraid of what lies ahead.

You take his hands in yours, feeling the roughness of his palms, the strength that’s always there, supporting you. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say, looking up into his eyes. “I’m yours, Bucky. Completely.”

He smiles, a look of relief mixed with pure joy lighting up his face, and he pulls you close, his arms wrapped securely around you as he holds you like he never intends to let go.

“I’ll remind you of that every day,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice a soft promise. “You’re mine. And I love you… more than I could ever put into words.”

In that quiet moment, held close in his arms, you feel it—this deep, steady love that you never believed could be yours. And you know, as long as you have him, you are finally, truly home.

Bucky’s arms wrap around you a little tighter, pulling you closer, and in his embrace, you feel every ounce of love and devotion he’s offered you so freely. His hands rest at the small of your back, gentle but firm, grounding you. The simmering sounds from the stove fade into the background as he holds you, the world narrowing down to just the two of you in this shared moment.

He dips his head, his lips brushing softly against yours in a kiss that’s unhurried, tender, but filled with an intensity that leaves you breathless. His hand moves to cradle your cheek, his thumb tracing a gentle path along your jawline, a soft reverence in his touch, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

You feel the roughness of his palms as his hands settle along your waist, his fingers splaying across your back, drawing you even closer. The air between you feels charged, a steady, simmering warmth that’s both comforting and thrilling. You let your fingers trail up his shoulders, feeling the strength and warmth there, feeling safe and cherished.

“Bucky,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you lean into him, pressing soft kisses along his jawline, savoring the way his breathing hitches ever so slightly at your touch.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze soft but intense, filled with a tenderness that makes your heart ache in the best way. “You’re everything,” he whispers, his forehead resting gently against yours as he closes his eyes, breathing you in. “Everything I never knew I could have.”

---

A few months later, everything feels like it’s slipping out of your hands. Work is stressful, you’ve hardly had a moment to yourself let alone with Bucky, and the anxieties that you thought you’d buried start creeping back in, tainting every small moment of happiness with doubt. Bucky notices, of course. He’s always paying attention, always picking up on the little things.

After a long, exhausting day, you come home and find him waiting for you in your small, cluttered living room. He’s made dinner, and the smell of pasta fills the apartment, a small act of love that you know he did just to make you feel better.

But instead of feeling grateful, all you feel is overwhelmed.

As you set your bag down, you glance at him, trying to ignore the pressure building in your chest. “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” you say, your voice sharper than you intended. “I don’t need you to take care of me all the time, i can do it myself!"

He blinks, taken aback by the edge in your tone. “I know you can baby, ” he says carefully. “I just wanted to make things a little easier tonight"

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t need you to!” you snap, unable to hold back the frustration boiling over inside. “I’m fine on my own....I’ve always been fine on my own!"

Bucky’s face falls, and he sets down the plate he was holding, his gaze steady but pained. “Where’s this coming from?” he asks quietly.

You don’t know how to answer, not when everything feels so confusing and raw. “Maybe… maybe we were a mistake,” you murmur, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Maybe we got too close too fast.”

His jaw clenches, hurt flashing across his face. “Do you really mean that?” His voice is low, almost breaking. “Or are you just scared?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut, because he’s right. You are scared—scared of getting hurt, scared of being vulnerable, and scared of what it means to love someone so deeply. And yet, instead of admitting it, you double down, pushing him further away.

“What if I am scared, Bucky?” you snap, crossing your arms. “Maybe I don’t want to put myself through this. People always leave, and were in so deep! I, I’m just—” You stop, your voice catching as the memories of your parents’ fights come rushing back, the anger, the silence, the way love had turned to something dark and painful.

Bucky steps forward, his expression softened but resolute. “I’m not your Father, we're not your parents” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “I’m not going to walk away just because things get hard.”

You turn away, trying to hide the tears that have started to well up. “How can you say that? You don’t know… what it was like.”

He takes a breath, his hand reaching out to yours, fingers warm and steady around yours. “Then tell me,” he says, his voice steady but full of emotion. “Help me understand, so I can be here for you the way you need.”

The walls you’ve built around your heart feel like they’re crumbling, and you struggle to keep them in place, to hold onto the safety they give you. But Bucky’s still there, holding your hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

With a shaky breath, you finally let go, everything you've been keeping inside for the last couple weeks pours out of you, your eyes like waterfalls. Bucky has his arms wrapped around faster than you could wipe your tears away. His grip firm, as he rubs circles on your back. Holding you close, and you feel the weight of his presence, grounding you, filling the empty spaces with a warmth you were about to let yourself lose.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs softly, his fingers brushing soothingly along your back. “No matter how scared you get, I’m here. You’re not alone, you’re worth it, i promise angel”

You pull back, looking up at him, feeling the truth of his words sink into you. The fear is still there, lingering around the edges, but somehow it feels smaller now, less overwhelming.

As you hold his gaze, you realize that this—this moment, where you’re both standing on the edge of your fears and still choosing each other—is what love is meant to be. It’s not about perfection or never fighting. It’s about standing together, even when things get messy, even when it feels like everything is falling apart.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean it, ant of it Bucky I’m just… scared of losing you.”

He smiles, brushing a tear from your cheek. “Then hold onto me,” he says softly “Because I’m not letting you go"

---

Bucky has been working long hours lately, pulling extra shifts and coming home exhausted. You’ve noticed how he’s barely had a moment to breathe, how he comes home later every night, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes as he falls onto the couch. You’ve asked him if everything’s okay, and every time, he just smiles, brushes a kiss across your forehead, and says he’s fine, just a little busy.

What you don’t know is that Bucky’s been saving up for something big, something he’s been dreaming about since the day he realized he couldn’t imagine a life without you. He’s been setting aside every extra dollar to buy you a ring, one that feels worthy of you. But between work and stress, his nerves are stretched thin, and even though he tries to be patient, exhaustion is starting to get the better of him.

You come home from work and find him in the kitchen, staring blankly at a half-prepared dinner, his face worn and tired. You reach out to touch his arm, concerned. “Bucky, you don’t have to do everything, you know. I could’ve picked something up.”

He doesn’t look at you, just sighs, his voice tense. “I’m fine doll, I can handle it.”

You press a little further, sensing something beneath his words. “Are you sure? You’ve been so… distant lately. I just feel like we barely talk anymore.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffen, and he glances over at you, a flicker of frustration in his gaze. “I don’t get why you’re always questioning me,” he snaps, voice sharper than usual. “I’m here, aren’t I? It’s not like I’m going anywhere, i've told you"

You flinch at his words, feeling a familiar ache settle in your chest. “I’m not… I just don’t understand why you’re shutting me out.”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, and you can tell he’s trying to keep his emotions in check. “I’m not shutting you out, alright? Not everything has to be a big deal.”

The words feel dismissive, and something inside you snaps, the old fears rising up. “I just… I need to know what’s going on, Bucky, you know this, I-I....You say you’re here, but it doesn’t feel like it right now, It’s like you’re already halfway gone already..."

The moment you say it, his expression changes, a spark of hurt flashing across his face. “Are you serious?” he asks, his tone suddenly defensive. “I’ve been working myself to the bone for us, trying to make things better. I’m here every night, putting in the effort, and you’re just waiting for me to mess up. Waiting for an excuse to push me away! "

Your breath catches, his words cutting deeper than you expected. “That’s not fair,” you say, voice trembling. “You know why I have a hard time trusting people, why I get scared. You’re the one who made me feel safe again. And now it’s like… it’s like you’re proving me right.”

He looks away, jaw clenched, but the frustration and exhaustion finally get the better of him. “Maybe I don’t know how to prove it to you, then,” he mutters, anger shading his words. “I don’t know what more you need from me!"

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and suddenly the air feels too thick, the walls of your house are suddenly too close. Without thinking, you grab your coat, needing to escape the pain before it breaks you completely.

“Where are you going?” he calls after you, the anger giving way to worry as he realizes you’re actually leaving. “It’s 2:30AM! Y-you cant just walk out!

You pause at the door, tears streaming down your cheeks as you look back at him, the hurt and fear finally spilling over“I’m leaving before you leave me,” you choke out, your voice barely a whisper. “I told you would! Everyone always does.”

With that, you slip out the door, stepping into the quiet, empty street. You start walking, the chill of the night biting into your skin as you try to hold back the tears. The memory of his words lingers, replaying in your mind, amplifying every insecurity you’ve ever felt.

But then you hear footsteps behind you, and before you can turn, Bucky’s voice reaches you, a soft, desperate sound. “Wait, Baby please, just… stop for a second"

You hesitate, swallowing down the sob that’s caught in your throat as he steps closer, his face a mix of regret and something you can’t name. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, his voice breaking slightly, his own tears spilling over “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

You take a shaky breath, your voice full of the hurt you can’t hide. “You’re right, though. I don’t know how to believe you’ll stay. I can’t get rid of this feeling that you’ll change your mind.”

He closes the gap between you, his gaze softening as he reaches out, brushing a tear from your cheek. “Hey,” he whispers, his voice gentle, grounding. “I’m not going anywhere. You know why I’ve been working so much?”

You shake your head, your mind still reeling.

He lets out a deep breath, pulling something from his pocket, a small, worn ring box. “This...This is why I’ve been putting in those hours. Because I want to be with you, forever....For good.”

You stare at the box in his hand, the realization washing over you like a wave. Bucky steps closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been saving up to buy you a ring. Because all I want is a life with you. No running, no more fears. Just us...till death do us part and all..."

The words sink in, and your heart feels like it’s breaking open and mending at the same time. “Bucky, I… I didn’t know.”

“I know, you weren't suppose to sweet girl” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. “I know, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I was just… scared, too. Scared that maybe you’d never really believe I’d stay or be too scared to stay yourself.."

You cling to him, feeling the warmth of his embrace seep into you, grounding you. For the first time, you let yourself feel the truth in his words, the steady, unyielding love he’s shown you all along.

As he holds you in the quiet of the night, you finally feel something shift deep inside, a sense of peace replacing the old fears. And as you look up into his blue eyes, you know, without a doubt, that this is what home looks like.

Bucky holds you close, his arms wrapped around you as you both stand on the empty street, the quiet stillness of the night surrounding you. You can feel the steady beat of his heart as he holds you, each thump anchoring you back into the moment, reminding you of everything he’s done to show you he’s here to stay.

After a few moments, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft and full of a warmth that nearly takes your breath away. He glances down at the small ring box in his hand, then back up at you, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I was planning this whole big thing, you know,” he says, a soft laugh escaping him as he looks at you, his eyes bright with a tenderness that makes your heart ache in the best way. “A perfect night, the right words… I wanted it to be special. Because you deserve that, you deserve everything.”

Your breath catches, your eyes filling with tears again, but this time they’re tears of joy, of a hope that’s finally free of the shadows that used to hold you back.

“But somehow,” he continues, his thumb brushing softly across your cheek, “this feels right. Standing here with you, just… us, no walls, no fears.”

Slowly, Bucky lowers himself down onto one knee, opening the small ring box to reveal a simple but beautiful ring that catches the glow of the streetlight. His eyes never leave yours as he speaks, his voice thick with emotion.

“I know we’ve both been through a lot, and I know we’ve still got our fears,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, each word carrying the weight of everything he feels. “But there’s no one else I’d rather face them with. You’re it for me. You’re my home, my everything.”

He takes a steadying breath, his gaze unwavering as he holds the ring up to you. “Will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m never going to leave?”

You feel the tears spill over, but this time you don’t bother wiping them away. Nodding, you barely manage to whisper, the easiest words you ever said before “Yes...Yes, Bucky, I’ll marry you"

A bright smile breaks across his face as he slips the ring onto your finger, then rises to his feet, pulling you back into his arms. He kisses you softly, a lingering kiss filled with every unspoken promise between you "I love you Bucky Barnes"

As he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, a smile playing on his lips. "And I love you, forever" he whispers, his voice filled with warmth and certainty. “You’re the best thing that's ever been mine,”

#Spotify #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes au #bucky banres #james bucky barnes #james barnes x you #james barnes fanfiction

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smokesandsonatas · 6 months ago

Text

Twisted Wonderland but make it grounded in dark reality. I drafted this around late 2023 and I just finished this now, haha. As always read at your own discretion and enjoy!

Warnings: Implied cannibalism. Dread.

Characters: Floyd and Jade, Leona, Ruggie, Rook, Idia, Lillia, Malleus, Others.

Not beta read.

Food.

- Any substance consumed by an organism for nutritional support. A means for survival.

You’ve always known most of them are peculiar creatures. Sharp teeth, mismatched eyes, monstrous forms, fins that glint with predatory sharpness, and horns that pierce the sky with arrogant pride. They embody the villains from the old fairy tales back in your world, grotesque and terrifying in equal measure. You suppose they function like civilized beings—they’ve learned to blend into human society, after all—but you can’t help but notice just how different, how unnervingly similar, they are to one thing: food.

The dishes at this college are like nothing you've ever tasted. Perhaps it's because many of them are children of royalty, so even the cafeteria food tastes like something out of a king's banquet. The pickiness of their palates is evident in every bite, in every carefully crafted dish. But there are things you find more intriguing than their refined taste; something almost hypnotic about the way they eat, especially when they don't mind you watching.

The scent of something delicious invaded Ramshackle Dorm in the dead of night. You assumed Grim was cooking, as ridiculous as that sounded, but found the little gremlin snoozing soundly beside you. Maybe it was the ghosts? But as you descended the stairs, you found the kitchen empty, devoid of any culinary activity. One glance at the night sky over Sage’s Island told you it was around 3 AM—far too early for breakfast, and far too late for dinner.

You tried to go back to sleep, but the tantalizing scent of roasted meat kept you awake, gnawing at your resolve until you could no longer ignore the hunger pangs twisting your stomach. Leaving Grim behind, you draped the sheets over his body, muttering a promise to return soon. Your curiosity and hunger led you to the cafeteria, which should have been deserted at this hour, but to your surprise…

They were all there. The ones you’ve grown closest to.

They were gathered around a long, elegant table, the atmosphere eerily reminiscent of Mostro Lounge—dim lights casting soft, ominous shadows across their faces. The table was laden with exquisite, expensive cuts of meat, arranged in a feast fit for monsters. And in the center of it all, a massive stack of roasted meat commanded your attention.

It looked…perfect. The tenderloin, you assumed, was butter-soft, with a thick, moist cut that bled a light pink from the center. The outer layer was roasted to a flawless crisp. But something about the presentation unnerved you, a chill creeping up your spine.

The pile of meat looked too much like the carcass of a person. Or a beast, perhaps. It was hard to tell. But you could almost see the outline of a body, as though someone—someone about five or six feet tall—had been subjected to the furnace’s extreme heat, roasted beyond recognition. Was that hair you saw near what should have been the head? Before you could inspect further, a voice called out to you.

"Ah! You're here! Come and join us, Shrimpy!" Floyd’s voice rang out, cheerful and disturbingly eager. His sharp teeth gleamed in the dim light, rows of jagged edges that could tear through flesh with ease. Beside him, Jade chuckled, slicing into a slab of meat with surgical precision, the knife gliding through like it was cutting butter.

Your eyes scanned the gathering. At the head of the table sat Tsunotaro—Malleus, the prince of fae. You frowned, under the impression that he usually is not invited in gatherings like this. But he nodded at you, a small, regal acknowledgment. “I was invited by Lilia,” he explained, his voice low and melodic. You glanced at his plate—a half-eaten steak submerged in a thick, red sauce. The metallic, almost fishy scent wafted up, assaulting your senses.

Before you could react, Lilia appeared beside you, his small hand guiding you to a seat. His right hand held a wine glass filled with a creamy red liquid that clung to the inside of the chalice. You tried to dismiss the fact that it looked too much like blood—thick, viscous blood. Surely, wine wasn’t supposed to look like that, but who were you to judge?

“Bonjour, Trickster! ~” Rook’s voice whispered in your ear, and when you turned, you were met with a sight that made your stomach turn. The smell hit you first—foul, putrid, like a freshly killed animal left to rot. It was too strong, the copper and iron scent so overpowering you had to fight to keep your expression neutral.

You hope your face does not betray the constriction of your throat.

“Rook,” you managed to say, swallowing down the bile that threatened to rise. “What…uhm, what is that?”

Rook laughed, the sound as sharp as the glint in his eyes. “Liver pâté, my dear,” he said, twirling his fork. “If it’s a strong scent, I apologize. It’s from the raw liver I like to eat with the liver pâté.”

Raw…

You tried to ignore the word. Back in your world, people ate raw food—sushi, for instance. So whatever Rook had on his plate was none of your business. At least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself.

“Shishishi, the food is sure delicious, especially when I’m getting it for free!” A voice cackled, startling you. You almost jumped out of your seat at the sight of Ruggie, devouring his meal with a voracious appetite. His sharp teeth ripped through the flesh with ease, tearing the meat from the bone in one swift motion. Red droplets—blood?—splattered across his chin, and you watched in horror as his tongue darted out to lick it clean.

“Oi, Ruggie, have some manners,” Leona growled from beside him, his voice gruff and annoyed. He wasn’t eating, his plate already littered with bones, but he was sipping from a glass filled with a red liquid. You wanted to believe it was wine, but the scent…The scent was as repugnant as the raw liver on Rook’s plate. It was metallic, nauseating

—blood.

A shiver trickled down your spine.

That same scent wafted from Malleus and Lilia’s glasses, clinging to the air like a dark cloud.

“You’re one to talk!” Ruggie retorted, his mouth full of meat. “You’ve never eaten a rat before, Leona-san.”

You blinked. Did you hear him right?

Your train of thought was interrupted by Malleus’s voice from your left.

“Shroud,” the prince of fae said, his tone commanding yet gentle, “drink this and replenish your energy.” You watched as Malleus offered Idia the same drink he was consuming. And to your shock, Idia accepted, his expression one of reluctance.

“I don’t really mind drinking this stuff, but I just don’t like eating much…” The Ignihyde dorm leader mumbled, his voice trailing off. You glanced at his plate—a barely touched piece of ‘steak’ with a small cut in the corner, oozing something you didn’t want to identify.

You could barely breathe as you watched Idia reluctantly take a sip of the viscous liquid from Malleus's chalice. His face remained as pale as ever, though a faint hint of color touched his cheeks. The sight was unsettling, and you couldn't help but feel a creeping sense of dread tightening around your chest.

"Not a fan of solid food?" Jade's voice slithered into your thoughts, pulling you from the trance. His mismatched eyes glinted in the dim light as he calmly sliced through his portion of meat, each movement precise and almost too graceful. "It's an acquired taste," he continued, offering you a smile that somehow did nothing to ease your growing anxiety.

Your gaze shifted to the plate in front of you, untouched and ominously inviting. The stack of meat in the center of the table loomed like a dark specter, its presence a constant reminder of the unease gnawing at your mind. You felt a pressure to partake, to show your acceptance of their world, but every fiber of your being screamed against it.

"Come now," Lilia's playful voice broke through the tension, "you should try it at least once. After all, it's not every day you get to dine with such esteemed company." He winked, the gesture meant to be comforting, but it only made you more wary.

You glanced around the table, noting the expectant gazes directed your way. Floyd’s sharp grin was still fixed on you, his eyes gleaming with mischief, while Ruggie gnawed contentedly on his bone, seemingly oblivious to the tension. Rook, watched you with a keen interest, his fork poised elegantly in his hand.

Leona’s gaze was the most unsettling, though. His amber eyes were half-lidded, seemingly bored, yet there was an intensity in them that made you feel like prey. His fingers drummed lazily on the table, and you couldn’t help but notice the slight curl of his lips, as if he was waiting for you to make a move.

Your gaze drifted across the table, stomach churning with a mix of disgust and dread. The dim light flickered, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance across their faces—no, across their true forms. You blinked, the image wavering as if your mind was trying to shield you from something it wasn’t ready to comprehend.

Floyd’s laughter echoed, a sound that grated against your nerves. For a split second, you saw something else—an elongated, sinuous form, slick with scales, teeth sharper than any blade, rows upon rows of them, stretching endlessly down a gaping maw that promised nothing but pain. You shuddered, the image vanishing as quickly as it appeared, leaving you staring at the harmless, smiling face of the boy who once called you Shrimpy. Jade is no better. You can see the muscles bulging as his back turns, with sharp rows of fins scattered along his spine. If you were behind him right now, you’re certain he would cut you in half.

Your eyes flicked to Ruggie, who was gnawing on the bone of his meal with unabashed relish. But in the periphery of your vision, his form distorted—muscles rippling beneath fur that was too thick, claws that scraped against the table, and a maw that was too wide, too hungry, filled with jagged fangs meant for tearing, ripping, devouring. He glanced up, catching your gaze, and you quickly looked away, the image of the beast-man fading back into the all-too-familiar figure of a mischievous boy. Leona on the other hand, sit still. The image of a lion assessing it's prey. You dare not look at his eyes burning holes through your skull—you feel it.

Idia, who sits apart from the others, his presence a dark shadow at the table. There’s something about him that feels different, even among these monsters. His connection to the underworld is undeniable, a guardian of the boundary between life and death. The flickering blue flames of his hair and the way his eyes pierce through the darkness suggest something far older and more terrifying than any of the others—a being who has seen what lies beyond the veil, and who has perhaps brought a piece of it back with him.

Rook, you cannot even begin to comprehend how a human—like yourself, is able to blend in with them.

But the worst was Malleus. The prince of the fae was calm, serene even, but there was something wrong—horribly wrong. His eyes glowed too brightly, their green hue pulsating with an otherworldly light. And then, for just a moment, you saw what lay beneath that regal facade—a towering figure, wings that stretched endlessly, blotting out the sky, horns that twisted and curled like a crown of dark thorns. His smile was too sharp, too knowing, as if he could see right through you, into the very depths of your soul.

You closed your eyes, refusing to look at anyone anymore.

You tried to swallow your saliva, but your throat was dry, your mouth parched. The air was thick with the scent of blood, the tang of iron clinging to your tongue. They were all looking at you now, waiting, expecting you to take a bite, to join them in this feast.

Lilia’s voice broke the silence, light and playful as ever. “Come now, dear. Don’t be shy. You wouldn’t want to insult your hosts, would you?”

The pressure was unbearable, the weight of their gazes pressing down on you, suffocating you. Your hand trembled as you reached for the fork, the silver glinting in the low light. You knew, deep down, that whatever you saw—whatever you thought you saw—a no mere trick of the light.

They were not like you. They were never like you.

"I," you hope your voice does not shake, "I am full." You nodded, convincing them. You let out a nervous laugh, quickly standing up as you find the place too suffocating. Chair scraping the floor. "I'm fine! Really, I—ah, I need to go back, I have to catch some sleep and Grim is alone."

Floyd is quick to be by your side. His smile, wide and filled with sharp teeth, is unsettling. "Eh, Shrimpy, do you not like the food?" He asks, worry in his voice. You know it's fake: he's mocking you.

"I am good," you say with a strained smile. Please let me go, please, please—

"I insist," Malleus interjects, his voice smooth but commanding. "This is a feast meant for sharing. It would be rude to leave before sampling a morsel."

As if on cue, the others start to close in. Rook leans in closer, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mix of curiosity and amusement. "The flavors are truly exquisite, you know. Not something one should miss out on."

Leona’s gaze is heavy and piercing, his voice low and rumbling. "I’ve seen your kind turn down more robust fare than this. Surely you can handle a small bite."

Your attempts to excuse yourself only seem to stoke their interest further. The way they move, their unnervingly smooth motions, reminds you of predators circling their prey.

You might just be one tonight.

Floyd’s grin widens as he leans in closer, his breath hot against your neck. "Come on, Shrimpy. Just a taste. I promise it won’t hurt."

The pressure is mounting. They are pushing you to stay, to partake in their feast, and the atmosphere thickens with their silent insistence. Malleus’s eyes bore into you with a knowing gaze, his hand extending with a glass of the viscous red liquid. "Just a sip, if you please."

Every attempt to excuse yourself only seems to make their eyes narrow further, their smiles widen just a little more. The eerie calm of the feast surrounds you.

It is when you see the meat properly that you made up your mind to escape. It is in someone's plate, you do not know who.

It's in the shape of a finger. A charred fingernail dipped in red.

Floyd let out a yelp as you finally push him off of you, your steps quickening as you trace back where you came from: The path to Ramshackle dorm.

You heard Jade reprimand Floyd, the latter angry when you pushed him: How dare you Shrimpy was all you heard before you were out of their sight and you're running back, panting, to your safe space, Ramshackle.

Only to pause as Crowley stands in the steps of your door. His mask drowning the glint of yellow from holes that was supposed to be his eyes.

What... what the fuck.

Crowley approached you slowly, as if he's reaching out to a wounded prey, this is the first time you've ever seen him serious. You take a step back, should you run in the other direction? Where will you escape, Heartslabyul? Will they take you in there?

The headmaster let out a sigh, "My students here at Night Raven should perhaps know kindness from their teacher," he declared dramatically. Then he gave you pouch, full of madol. Thaumarks.

This is a bribe. Crowley is bribing you.

"Our little secret, alright?"

You blinked. What...?

"A little compensation for your troubles, for I am truly kind."

He then disappear, leaving you stunned.

At exactly 3:33 AM, a realization hit you. You are in the company of creatures far more dangerous than you ever imagined, their monstrous forms hidden just beneath the surface. One wrong step, one mistake, it can all come down. Crumbling to pieces.

It is inside when your knees give out, you slide through the door of the Ramshackle, too weak to stand anymore.

This is the truth: you are in the company of creatures mimicking humans, their monstrous forms hidden just beneath the normal exterior. But what terrifies you most is not the thought of what they are—but the thought that, perhaps, they see you as something less than human too.

The truth of what they were—what they really were—lurked just out of reach, like a shadow at the corner of your vision, waiting to pounce the moment you let your guard down.

But you knew better. Something had changed.

And as you sit there, the only protection you have are rotting woods that make up your dorm. You are just within the circle of monstrous beings in their friendly human skins. You are a magic-less, pathetic alien.

For in a world filled with monsters hiding in plain sight, the only question that remained was this:

What would happen when they decided they were tired of pretending?

Perhaps you will find out soon.

#twisted wonderland #s h u #malleus draconia #idia shroud #floyd leech #disney twisted wonderland #jade leech #leona kingscholar #lillia vanrouge #crowley #creepy twisted wonderland #eerie #twisted wonderland x reader #twst yuu #ruggie bucchi #rook hunt #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst

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alnilaem · 1 year ago

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slobbering and whimpering at the thought of butcher!simon who also happens to be your socially inept neighbour <3

—

It’s the seedier side of Manchester you move to. To a flat with wet rot between each brick and the peal of police sirens on every other street.

Crammed into the corner of your block is a little gem found between flats and markets: a well-loved butcher shop.

It’s suffocating when you walk in. Dewy and damp and misty and permeating with the angry odour of metal, poorly offset by an overripe air freshener hanging above the entrance.

A man lurks behind the counter. He’s big. Huge. Demands too much space as the coarsely-sewn sheers of his shirt look like they’re about to burst at his biceps. His hair is tamed under a Man Utd cap, but a few odd-angled curls peek out. His arm, swathed in tattoos, flexes as he hacks at a red piece of meat, slicing through the tendons, as you meagrely clear your throat for his attention.

His eyes, sunken in his sallow sockets, hinge upwards to stare at you.

“Um, hope I’m not interrupting you.”

His eyebrows purse because obviously you are. He steps away from the counter, wiping his big, bloodied hands against his apron.

“Could I just-“ you sharply inhale, then belatedly regret it as the smell of raw meat invades your senses. You suppress a cough as to not offend him. He stands with his arms crossed, the papery crows feet of his eyes folding as he stares at you above his mask. “Ah… lamb shanks?”

He grunts. It’s curt, but it doesn’t seem rude. More like socially inept in the ways in which he regards you, and how he prepares your order in sparse, quick movements.

“£6.00.”

You fish in your pocket and bring out a thin handful of coins. He swipes it, doesn’t bother to count it, for some reason, and slides the lamb into a repurposed Tesco bag, handing it over the display.

You reach over, your gaze flitting to his name tag which features only the tail-end of his name, the rest of the ink smudged and washed away from years of hard work.

As you swipe the bag from his hold, his finger brushes yours. A gossamer-thin layer of blood stains your forefinger and marinates your skin in the middle of the exchange.

You pivot, throwing a soft thanks over your shoulder, and rub your thumb into his vestigial warmth on your finger.

—

It’s after dark when you slip outside your flat, bin bag slapping against your thigh. You’re in a large sweatshirt and some shorts, chucking the trash down the disposal, when the tinny, grating sound of metal-against-metal peals from the elevator.

You throw a cursory glance over your shoulder, but freeze as you spot a familiar figure ducking under the roof of the lift and stepping onto your floor. The butcher.

He is clad in a filmy jacket, arms laden with shopping bags as he helps an elderly lady into her flat.

She says “Thank you, Simon,” and Simon nods, closing the door on his way out.

He fishes through his pockets for his keys and shoulders past you. You think he doesn’t recognise you, or worse, pointedly ignores you.

And for some reason, the latter thought causes a pang of sadness to seize you.

However, halfway down the corridor, in front of the flat next to your own, Simon turns around.

“You’re the new neighbour? Room 146?”

His eyes flicker from your legs to your face. A film of recognition glosses his eyes. Your mouth suddenly feels dry and you dumbly nod, preening under his intimidating eyes.

“Walls are thin,” he says, jamming his keys into the lock, “try keeping quiet, love. Some of us’ve got work in the mornings, yeah?”

Before you can reply, the conversation is already over with the slam of Simon’s door swinging shut.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #simon riley #simon ghost x you #ghost mw2 #butcher!simon #simon writing #writing

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sleepy-bear-tm · 1 month ago

Text

Was going through my gallery and found these old drawings of my oc's... gotta get back to drawing these fools.

#pangs of recognition #maria pace #aristotle janus #asher janus #oc art #oc #original character #my art #art #old art #digital art

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novaursa · 5 months ago

Note

Good evening love

I was thinking about that last night!

When Daemon and Rhaenyra goes to brothel they sleep together and obviously she’s pregnant and coz it’s just before her wedding (we will says it just before) everyone thing it’s Leanor.

She gave birth to a little girl all Targaryen looks. They’re was always some rumors but since she looks like every targ it’s easier for her. Harwin played dad role for her and she’s really protective of her brother.

more time passed and everyone can clearly see that she looked exactly like daemon physically and mentally.

And it’s finally during the funeral of her aunt, Daemon see her and he understand that she is his. She’s everything he want and have a special bound with her (first child, heir of the throne, powerful dragon)

Fire in Her Veins

- Summary: During Laena’s funeral, Daemon recognizes you as his own blood.

- Pairing: (daughter) targ!reader/(father) Daemon Targaryen (platonic)

- Note: The reader is the firstborn child and only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. The reader is also bonded to Vermithor.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The sea air on Driftmark is filled with salt and sorrow, the crashing waves of the Narrow Sea providing a mournful backdrop to the solemn gathering. You stand with your brothers on the stone cliffs of the island, your hands clasped tightly together in front of you as the funeral procession moves solemnly forward. Lady Laena’s casket is adorned with pearls and driftwood, her body wrapped in the traditional Velaryon colors, and you can feel the weight of your family’s grief pressing heavily upon your shoulders.

The mood is somber, the sky above gray and heavy, as if even the gods mourn the loss of Laena Velaryon. The Velaryon banners flap in the wind, and from where you stand, you see the faces of the royal family—Alicent and her children, all clustered together, keeping their distance from you and your brothers. Their green dresses stand out like bright flames against the dark ocean and black mourning attire.

You feel a familiar pang of protectiveness as you glance toward your brothers, who are standing just to your right, their small faces grim and pale. You notice how Jacaerys keeps his head down, avoiding the stern gazes from across the gathering. You recognize the unspoken tension between the two halves of the family, an invisible line that divides you all.

Behind you, you hear the murmurs of the court, soft whispers that seem to follow you wherever you go. They speak of many things—the death of Lady Laena, the grief of her husband Daemon, and the unspoken truth that seems to hang in the air around you. The truth of who you are.

"She looks more like him every day," you overhear a noblewoman whisper, though she thinks she is being quiet enough to go unnoticed.

And you know who they mean. Not Laenor Velaryon, who raised you as his own. Not Harwin Strong, who shielded you when you were small, his fierce protectiveness marking him as a father figure in your life. But Daemon.

Your eyes, so like his—stormy, burning with fire—scan the crowd until they land on him.

Daemon Targaryen stands just beyond the gathering of mourners, his face half-hidden beneath his hood, his silver hair blowing in the wind. There is something wild about him, something untamed, as though he belongs to the sea and the sky more than he belongs to the earth. He looks broken today, mourning his wife, but in his eyes there is a flicker of something as he catches your gaze—recognition, perhaps.

Your heart beats harder, and you lift your chin, a Targaryen through and through. You are not afraid to meet his gaze. In fact, there’s something in you that draws you closer to him, though your feet remain rooted to the ground.

Daemon's eyes narrow, the brief glint of recognition becoming a full realization. His mouth parts slightly as if he is going to speak, but no words come out. You see the flicker of memory in his gaze, a moment that stretches back to the night you were conceived—the night Rhaenyra escaped into the shadows of King's Landing, into his arms, if only for a single stolen moment.

The likeness between the two of you is undeniable, your shared features as plain as day to anyone who cared to look closely. Your high cheekbones, the curve of your lips, the storm in your gaze. And there is something more than just the physical—an energy, a fierceness that burns in you as much as it does in him.

"Y/N," Daemon murmurs your name under his breath as he steps forward, moving as though drawn to you by some unseen force.

You do not step back. You hold your ground, standing taller, your spine straight. You are not the little girl who needed protection anymore. You are Rhaenyra’s daughter, the rider of Vermithor, a dragon like no other.

Your brothers shift uncomfortably beside you as Daemon approaches, and you gently place a hand on Jacaerys’ shoulder, a silent reassurance that you will protect them. They are yours, just as much as you are theirs, and no one, not even Daemon, can change that.

“Do you remember me?” Daemon’s voice is low, so low that only you can hear it. His eyes never leave yours.

Your lips part, but words fail you for a moment. You do remember him through your memory as he was a ghost—and the stories your mother told you, the truths she revealed as you grew older. You remember the fire that courses through your veins, the unyielding bond with your dragon, the instincts that set you apart. It all comes from him.

"How could I not?" you reply, your voice steady, even though inside you feel like a storm is brewing.

Daemon’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smile—it’s something darker, something more conflicted. He glances toward your mother, Rhaenyra, who stands a little ways off, her eyes firmly fixed on Laena’s casket. There is a tension between them as well, a history that lingers in the air, unspoken but understood.

“You look like her,” Daemon says quietly, but his eyes say otherwise. He knows you look like him.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. You have always heard the whispers, the stories, but standing before him now, there is something more intimate in the way he observes you. He is seeing himself in you, recognizing the dragon fire in your blood, the legacy of your shared heritage.

“I look like myself,” you correct, your tone sharper now. “I am my mother’s daughter.”

“And mine,” Daemon replies, his voice a murmur carried by the wind.

You hold his gaze, your heart thudding in your chest, but you do not back down. For years, you had wondered what it would be like to stand face to face with the man whose blood flows in your veins. Now that you are here, you find that you do not need his acknowledgment. You do not need his approval.

You are who you are, no matter who claims you.

"I didn’t need you before," you say, your voice low but firm. "I don’t need you now."

The wind blows harder, carrying your words with it, and Daemon stares at you for a long moment before he nods, almost imperceptibly. There is something in his eyes now—perhaps regret, perhaps something else entirely.

"You are strong," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "That much is clear."

You nod, not offering him anything more, and you turn away, your brothers following you as you lead them away from the cliff’s edge and back toward the safety of your family. The tension in your shoulders slowly fades as you walk away from Daemon, though you can still feel his eyes on your back, watching you as you go.

As the sea crashes against the rocks below, you feel a sense of finality, but also a strange kind of peace. You are your mother’s daughter. You are bonded to a dragon as mighty as Vermithor. You do not need anyone to tell you who you are.

And yet, you cannot help but wonder what it might mean to carry the fire of both Rhaenyra and Daemon, to have the blood of two dragons raging inside of you.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd daemon #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd platonic #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x y/n #daemon x you #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon platonic

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fr0stf4ll · 1 month ago

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 5

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 5k

Trigger warning; //

notes; Hey ! Happy celebrations for everyone <3 I'm back with the part 5 of the story, you guys are getting more elements about the story here hihi. Hope that you will enjoy it ! See you soon <3

Link; Part 4 or Part 6

---

The day after you had stabilized Azriel, you returned to the House of Wind to check on his injuries. Morning light filtered through wide windows as you stepped into the corridors, the faint scent of fresh linen lingering in the air. You carried your satchel of supplies—new dressings, salves, and a mild tonic—tucked under one arm. The tension you felt in your chest, the awareness of that golden bond, still hummed quietly under your skin.

When you eased open the door to Azriel’s room, you found him not only awake, but sitting propped against a nest of pillows. He turned his head at your arrival, and his hazel eyes, calm yet quietly guarded, focused on you. You froze for a fraction of a second, expecting something—recognition, some sign that he sensed what you had felt so vividly the night before. The mating bond. But Azriel’s gaze was polite, curious, nothing more than what you’d expect from a warrior thanking a healer.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low and even. His wings were carefully arranged, bandages neat and secure from your previous efforts. “I owe you my life, I think.” The corner of his mouth tipped upward slightly, a cautious attempt at a smile. “Thank you.”

Your heart twisted. You managed a professional nod, stepping closer to the bed. “It’s my duty,” you replied, your voice steady despite the pang in your chest. “How do you feel?”

He shifted a little, wincing but not complaining. “Better,” he answered, meeting your gaze without any flicker of that deeper connection you had feared or hoped for. Just calm gratitude and a warrior’s patience. “The pain is manageable.”

You swallowed, extending a gentle hand to adjust a pillow behind him and check the bandage on his shoulder. Your fingers brushed his skin lightly. Nothing. No spark, no sign that he felt what you did. He gave a small nod of thanks, as though you were any other healer administering care.

The golden thread inside you felt taut and delicate, as if one wrong breath could snap it. But what good was a thread if only one person felt its pull? You busied yourself with routine tasks: applying fresh salve, examining the healing tears in his wings, ensuring there were no signs of infection. He watched quietly, occasionally letting out a soft hiss of discomfort, but never more than that.

Every so often, you dared glance into his eyes again, searching for something—some warmth or spark that might betray an awareness of the bond. But you found nothing beyond polite interest and a soldier’s resilience. To him, you were a stranger who had saved his life, a skilled hand rather than a destined partner.

When you finished, you stepped back and forced a calm, reassuring smile. “Everything seems to be on track,” you said, keeping your tone measured and pleasant. “I’ll prepare a mild tonic to help with any lingering ache. If you rest and follow instructions, you’ll recover smoothly.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You have my thanks,” he said simply. “And my respect.”

With that, you gathered your supplies and turned toward the door, heart heavier and more uncertain than before. You paused on the threshold, glancing back once over your shoulder. Azriel was settling back into the pillows, eyes drifting to the window, lost in his own thoughts—thoughts that, evidently, didn’t involve the bond you carried alone.

You left his room as you had entered: a healer, no more, no less. The golden bond within you lay silent and unacknowledged, a secret you would shoulder alone.

Days blurred into a quiet routine: morning rounds at the clinic, afternoons spent reviewing herbal stocks and training junior healers, and, scattered between these duties, several trips to the House of Wind. Each visit found you in Azriel’s room, applying new salves and checking that his injuries were knitting properly. He was a cooperative patient—patient enough, at least. He didn’t complain, though you sensed his restlessness. He asked questions about healing techniques, listened politely to your instructions, and always offered a sincere “thank you” after you were done.

In these encounters, the tension of that first night lingered only as a ghost of memory. He seemed comfortable enough with your presence. Once or twice, you thought you caught something in his gaze—curiosity, or a particular warmth—but you brushed it off. Your priority remained his recovery, not your tangled emotions or that elusive bond you had discovered.

But not all your visits were so calm. One afternoon, just after you’d finished changing the dressings on his wings, voices rose outside his door. You stepped into the corridor with your empty bowl of used bandages, intending to fetch fresh ones, when you heard the unmistakable sound of Rhysand’s voice—low, measured, but threaded with tension.

Azriel responded, quieter but sharper. You hesitated near the threshold, uncertain if you should intervene or give them privacy. Yet their words drifted through the partially open door, and you caught enough to understand what was happening.

“I’m not asking for permission,” Azriel said, voice tight. “I know what I’m doing, Rhys.”

Rhysand’s tone cooled noticeably. “This isn’t about your skill or independence. It’s about what’s best for everyone. You heard Y/N’s orders—no more unauthorized interference. Azriel, you nearly died. We can’t afford another risk.”

A pause, then Azriel’s voice, lower now, a note of frustration vibrating through it. “I’m not talking about the healer’s instructions. I’m talking about Elain.”

Your chest tightened at the name. So they were arguing about her. About his relationship to her. You swallowed, fingers tightening around the bowl as if it were an anchor in unfamiliar waters.

Rhysand sighed, weariness and a hint of annoyance seeping in. “You know the stance we agreed upon. Elain’s presence here complicated matters. She’s not a healer, and we can’t have her risking your life by trying something ill-advised. It’s best if she stays at the townhouse until you’re fully recovered.”

Azriel’s response was quieter, but no less charged. “I know she didn’t mean harm. She cared, and that caring led her astray. I’m not defending her action, but I want a chance to speak with her. This—this distance you’re enforcing feels like punishment.”

Rhysand’s answer came measured, each word precise. “Call it what you like. Her action nearly cost your life. Let Y/N do her job without interference. Once you’re healed, we can revisit the matter.”

A tense silence followed. You should have turned and left, but your feet seemed rooted in place. At length, Azriel spoke again, voice subdued yet firm: “I won’t forget this, Rhys. I know you mean well, but I have a say in who sees me and when. We’ll talk about this again.”

The tension crackled, and you took that as your cue. Quietly, you stepped away, heading off to get fresh supplies. By the time you returned, Rhysand was gone, and Azriel sat brooding by the window, wings carefully draped over the edge of the chair. He met your eyes and offered a faint, polite nod, as if nothing had happened.

But the atmosphere had changed. You redid a bandage and Azriel thanked you, his voice level, though a crease lingered between his brows. It wasn’t your place to ask about the dispute, and he didn’t volunteer information. Yet the words you’d overheard thrummed in your mind—the High Lord’s firm stance, Azriel’s quiet defiance. And, unspoken between them, Elain’s name, heavy with meaning.

You left that day more aware than ever that Azriel’s recovery wasn’t just about healing flesh and bone. There were deeper wounds, quieter tensions to navigate, and you found yourself caught at the edges of relationships and loyalties you barely understood.

At the week’s end, you returned to Azriel’s room for what would be your last scheduled visit. The afternoon light slanted in gently, highlighting the subtle improvements in his condition. His wings, once in tatters, now bore only faint scars slowly fading beneath well-applied salves. He was no longer propped up by a fortress of pillows, simply leaning back against a few cushions. His color was better, his breathing steady and even.

You approached with your medical bag, a familiar ritual by now. He watched your every move, though more relaxed than before. After a brief examination—checking the suppleness of his healing wing membranes, testing the resilience of muscle and skin—you nodded, satisfied.

“I think you’re in the clear,” you said, voice warm but professional. “Your wounds have healed nicely. You’re allowed to walk around the House of Wind again, as much as you like. Just…” You arched a brow, fixing him with a pointed look. “Please wait a few more days before attempting any training. Give your body time to adjust.”

Azriel inclined his head, his eyes thoughtful. “I’ll try,” he said, a hint of wry humor in his tone. “I’m not particularly good at staying idle, but I’ll manage.” There was a pause as he studied you, folding his hands loosely in his lap. “How are things at the clinic? It must be a lot of work, reacquainting yourself with everything after so long.”

You took a moment to consider your answer, recalling the busy days, the endless patient logs, the younger healers who looked to you for guidance. “It’s busy, yes,” you admitted, shoulders rising in a small shrug. “But well. The transition has gone smoother than I expected. Madja’s presence helped me settle in quickly. I’ve met most of the healers by now. They’re competent and kind.”

Azriel nodded, as if glad to hear it. “I’m relieved. I know Madja cared deeply about who would take her place. She made the right choice.”

Your heart tightened slightly at the praise, but you managed a small, genuine smile. “I hope so. I’m doing my best.”

A brief silence fell. You cleared your throat, deciding it was time to share your upcoming plans. “I should mention—I’ll be leaving tonight. I have to travel to Winghaven for a few days. So if you have any issues you will have to wait a few days or got to the clinic directly.”

At that, Azriel’s gaze sharpened. “Winghaven?” His brow furrowed. “Alone?”

The note of concern in his voice was unmistakable. Though he’d never demanded details of your comings and goings before, you could sense genuine worry now. Perhaps it was the memory of his own recent injuries, or simply the protective streak you sensed running through him and his circle.

“No, not alone,” you assured him, waving a hand lightly. “Cassian will be accompanying me. I’ll be there for just three days—no more. I’m to inspect the healers in the Illyrian camps, starting with Winghaven, and see what improvements can be made.”

Azriel’s shoulders eased a fraction at the mention of Cassian. “Good,” he said quietly. “Cassian knows the terrain and the people well. He’ll keep an eye out.”

You offered a small laugh, though it carried traces of earnest relief. “I’m counting on that. I’m prepared for skepticism, but at least I won’t be going in blind.”

Azriel regarded you steadily for a moment. The silence felt strangely comfortable, his eyes holding yours but revealing nothing that would add to your confusion. Finally, he nodded. “Then I wish you a safe journey. If anyone can bring them new wisdom, it’s you.”

You inclined your head in thanks, feeling the odd weight of unspoken things settle between you. You gathered your bag, stepping back and preparing to leave. “Rest well,” you said softly, voice gentling with sincere care. “I’ll see you when I return—if you haven’t taken flight before then.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I’ll be here, doing as you ordered, healer.”

You departed with that quiet exchange lingering in your mind, the simple comfort of knowing he’d be on the mend as you embarked on your own task. The golden thread that you carried alone remained silent in your chest, and you tried not to linger on it. For now, purpose called you to Winghaven, and he had recovery and patience ahead. It was enough.

———

Those three days in Illyria were challenging, to say the least. You’d arrived with Cassian after a lengthy journey through mountain passes and windblown valleys, the chill air biting at your cheeks. Your first night was spent in Rhysand’s mother’s old cottage—an unexpected sanctuary tucked into the rugged landscape. The walls hummed softly with old memories, but provided a safe place to rest before the real work began the next morning.

You settled in as dusk wrapped the world in quiet shadows. Cassian had started a small fire in the hearth, coaxing warmth into the modest room. You sat across from him, knees folded beneath you on a low cushion. He offered you a cup of something hot and spiced, the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafting between you. Outside, the wind sighed against the wooden shutters, a distant chorus of wolves or perhaps just the moan of the breeze in the pines.

The conversation drifted naturally toward personal matters. Perhaps it was the calm crackle of the fire or the sense of isolation out here that made it easier to speak of things long unspoken.

“So,” Cassian began, leaning forward on his elbows, his tone gentle but curious, “you’ve traveled a great deal. Dawn Court healers, crossing seas for rare herbs… I’ve heard bits and pieces, but never your own version.”

You fiddled with the rim of your cup, gaze flicking to the flames. “I suppose you’d like to know why I left the Night Court in the first place,” you said, voice low.

He dipped his chin. “If you don’t mind sharing. I know you trained under Madja for a time. But then… you disappeared for centuries.”

You exhaled, the memory tugging gently at your heart. “I was a child during the first war,” you began, words careful. “I saw enough pain and loss in those early years to shape my entire understanding of healing. Madja took me under her wing afterward, teaching me for more than fifty years—an eternity to a child, but a mere blink to her. She was patient, strict when necessary, and always kind. But besides her…” You paused, searching for the right words. “I had no attachments. My parents, my kin—lost to war or scattered.”

Cassian nodded, respectful silence encouraging you onward.

“After those decades, I met a renowned healer from the Dawn Court—someone who saw a spark in me. He said I had a gift worth honing further than what the Night Court alone could offer. At first, I resisted. This was my home, wasn’t it?” You gave a hollow laugh. “But I felt… stuck, I suppose. Prythian was changing, and we were all rebuilding from ash and smoke. Yet I wanted to see more of the world, learn techniques from healers who knew magics and herbs I’d never even dreamed of.”

Cassian’s eyes gleamed with understanding. “So you left for experience.”

You nodded. “Exactly. The Night Court has always been a place of shadows and hidden strengths, and I love it for that. But I craved something more—new visions, new methods. Dawn Court healers taught me how to harness starlight in potions. In the Summer Court, I learned to treat venomous wounds from creatures that lurk in coral reefs. Across the seas, I found healing arts that rely on sound vibrations rather than herbs. Every place offered something unique, something that layered onto my understanding of healing until I could weave it all together.”

Cassian tilted his head, a small, admiring smile curving his mouth. “No wonder you could do what you did for Az,” he said softly. “You brought back a piece of every land to save him.”

You swallowed, touched by his words. “I hope so. Returning… it wasn’t part of my plan. But Madja asked, and I couldn’t refuse her. Besides, maybe I’ve gathered enough threads now to weave something truly worthwhile here at home. Maybe I won’t feel stuck this time.”

Cassian’s gaze drifted over the small room—old furniture, worn curtains, the echoes of a past High Lady who once dwelled here. “You left a home that felt too small,” he said, “and came back with a world’s worth of knowledge. You’re changing the Night Court already, I can tell.”

His sincerity warmed you almost as much as the fire. “It might be too soon to say it but I trully wish that I will be able to help”

Outside, the night howled softly, and beyond that, Winghaven waited—skeptical healers, reluctant warriors, a land that would test your resolve. But for tonight, here in this cottage, you had honesty and understanding. Cassian, it seemed, respected your journey, and in turn, you respected the loyalty and openness he offered.

You sipped your hot drink, and Cassian spoke of Illyria’s challenges: old traditions that died hard, camp leaders who would eye you suspiciously. You listened, grateful for the insight and glad for the company. Three days in Winghaven would be short, but intense. At least you would not face it ignorant or alone. And when you returned to Velaris, you’d do so with fresh perspective, your choices affirmed by the understanding gleaned here tonight.

The teacup in your hands had grown lukewarm. Outside, the night was dark and silent, and within the old cottage’s modest walls, you and Cassian had settled into a gentle rhythm of conversation. You had shared bits of your life, your wanderings, and the layers of healing knowledge you carried. He, in turn, had given you insight into the Illyrian camps, the challenges you’d face in Winghaven.

But your mind, restless even after the day’s trials, drifted to the quiet tension you’d sensed in the House of Wind—particularly around Elain and Azriel. You remembered Rhysand’s firm stance, Azriel’s simmering frustration, and Elain’s tearful regret. Maybe it was none of your business. In fact, you knew it probably wasn’t. Yet the curiosity gnawed at you.

Swallowing your reservations, you glanced at Cassian, who sat across from you, relaxed yet ever watchful. He had answered your questions willingly so far. Would he answer this one? You took a breath and ventured, “Cassian, can I ask you something more personal?”

He raised an eyebrow, curious but not wary. “You can ask,” he allowed, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

You tried a faint smile. “Fair enough.” You hesitated only a moment before plunging ahead. “The Archeron sisters—they’re all closely linked to the High Lord and High Lady, yes? I’ve met Feyre, of course. But I’ve heard of Nesta, Elain… They seem important to this court. Could you… tell me a bit about them?”

Cassian’s expression changed subtly, as though he were sorting through what he could say. He took a sip from his mug, gaze drifting to the fire before coming back to meet your eyes. “Important might be an understatement,” he said quietly. “Feyre, as you know, is our High Lady. She and Rhys… well, they hold this court together in ways I never thought possible.”

You nodded, encouraging him without words to continue.

“There are three Archeron sisters in total,” Cassian went on, choosing each word with care. “Feyre, Nesta, and Elain. Each of them is very different. Feyre’s heart is this court’s beacon, always thinking of others, guiding us with compassion. Nesta… she’s complicated. Strong-willed, fierce, often prickly. She’s fought her own battles, overcome demons both inside and out. And Elain—” He paused, a subtle tension passing over his face. “Elain is gentle. Kind. She sees the good in everyone, wants to help.”

You swallowed, recalling Elain’s well-meaning but disastrous attempt to help Azriel. “I see. They must have deep bonds with you all.”

Cassian’s grin was wry, as if acknowledging a private joke. “Deep bonds indeed. They’re not just important to the court, they’re part of us—Rhys’s family, our family. We’d do anything for them.”

You considered his words. The Archeron sisters each had distinct roles and personalities. Feyre the High Lady, Nesta the warrior spirit (if what you gleaned from rumors was true), and Elain the gentle heart. “It sounds like they’ve all been through a lot,” you said softly.

“You have no idea,” Cassian replied, voice quieter. “War, transformations, personal struggles—those three have endured trials that would break many.”

Your gaze lowered, understanding dawning. Whatever had happened to them, it had forged unbreakable bonds not only with each other but also with these Illyrian warriors and the High Lord. You remembered Elain’s desperation at Azriel’s bedside, that fierce concern that led her astray. Perhaps it made sense now—she was a nurturer, wanting to help but lacking the knowledge. Her role within this tight-knit circle might explain why she was so devastated by her mistake.

You raised your eyes again, meeting Cassian’s gaze. “I see,” you said quietly. “I suppose they mean as much to each other as they mean to you all.”

He nodded, his stance relaxing again. “They’re family. And in this court, family isn’t just blood—it’s chosen. Earned. The Archerons earned their place in all our hearts, scars and all.”

As Cassian spoke, you saw a certain softness enter his gaze, especially when he spoke of Nesta. He lingered over her name, voice turning fond and respectful in a way that stood out. You took a careful sip of your cooling tea, weighing whether to pry further. Finally, you couldn’t help it: his tone when mentioning Nesta was unmistakable.

He caught your curious glance and let out a low, rueful laugh. “I suppose there’s no hiding it. Nesta is my mate,” he admitted, voice quiet but steady. The corners of his mouth curved into a small, proud smile. “It took us a while to find our footing, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Your thoughts spun for a moment, and you had to swallow a surprised breath. Feyre and Rhysand were mates, you’d learned that quickly enough. Now Nesta and Cassian. A fleeting, wry thought crossed your mind: three Archeron sisters, three Illyrian warriors, three mates? Was it so neatly arranged?

Cassian’s gaze sharpened slightly, as if reading your thoughts. He raised a hand, palm outward, as though to forestall your assumptions. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, tone turning wry. “Three brothers for three sisters. But it’s not that simple.”

You blinked, surprised that he’d guessed your train of thought. He set down his mug and sighed. “Elain already has a mate—Lucien.” He paused, letting the weight of that name settle in the small room. You hadn’t met Lucien yet, but you’d heard whispers of a fox-eyed male with keen wit and wandering loyalties. “That bond was forged during the war, under extraordinary circumstances. Yet Elain’s relationship with Azriel…” He trailed off, choosing his next words carefully.

Your brow furrowed, curiosity piqued. “I gather it’s complicated?”

Cassian gave a solemn nod. “Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it,” he said. “Elain’s mate is Lucien, but her feelings—her choices—don’t neatly follow the bond’s dictates. And Az… Az and Elain have a certain understanding, a closeness that’s never found a clear label. It’s delicate, messy. Not something any of us can force or resolve easily.”

Your heart twisted with new understanding. Elain’s tearful face by Azriel’s bedside, her desperate attempt to help him, made sense in a different light now. She was caught between a mate-bond she couldn’t ignore and feelings for another. The tension you’d sensed back in the House of Wind, the argument between Azriel and Rhysand, the High Lord’s firm stance—this was part of that tangled knot of loyalties and love.

You leaned back in your chair, fingers tightening around the mug. “That’s… a lot to untangle,” you said softly, marveling at the complexity of the lives you’d stepped into upon returning to the Night Court. “I suppose healing hearts is even harder than healing wounds.”

Cassian’s smile was gentler now, his eyes reflecting a sad sort of understanding. “You have no idea,” he murmured. “But we make do. We try our best, all of us.”

And so you sat there, in Rhysand’s mother’s old cottage, the fire crackling softly. The weight of destiny, bonds, and unspoken wishes pressed in around you. Three days in Winghaven would be challenging enough, but these people’s lives—filled with bonds that sometimes knotted rather than wove together—reminded you that not all healing could be done with herbs and salves. Sometimes, it was about patience, understanding, and the acceptance that not every wound could be closed neatly.

You said nothing more about it, not now. You’d carry this knowledge silently, weaving it into your understanding of the court and the people who had become part of your new world.

Over the following days in Winghaven, your schedule unfolded with steady precision. You’d arrived with a clear plan: assess the camp’s existing healer teams, identify gaps in their knowledge and supplies, and demonstrate a few techniques that might broaden their capabilities. With Cassian hovering protectively in the background, you were able to move through each task smoothly, guiding younger healers and checking on several patients who had been awaiting more advanced care.

On the first morning, you stood under a makeshift awning behind the camp’s central barracks, watching as a trio of Illyrian healers prepared poultices from dried herbs. They worked diligently, but with a certain mechanical repetition that hinted at a narrow scope of training. You introduced yourself, explaining that you were here at the High Lord’s request to advise and improve methods. One of them, a middle-aged healer named Serain, looked at you with polite skepticism.

“Been doing it this way for decades,” she said, packing a poultice into a cloth bundle. “We know how to close a wound and set a bone. What more do we need?”

You offered a measured smile, crouching beside them. “Closing wounds and setting bones are vital, yes. But have you tried using crushed frost-lily petals for inflammation, or incorporating a mild healing spell to halt bleeding before you stitch?”

They exchanged glances, intrigue sparking behind their guarded eyes. By mid-afternoon, they were asking quiet questions: what if they added a teaspoon of powdered ash-root to their salve for deeper burns? How did you stabilize a patient’s temperature overnight in the harsh winters? Slowly, their skepticism turned to curiosity, and by the end of the day, they were taking notes on your suggestions.

Between these lessons, you wandered the camp with Cassian shadowing you, stopping to speak with patients recuperating in cramped tents. One young Illyrian warrior, wing bandaged awkwardly against his side, stared at you warily when you entered.

“You’re from Velaris?” he asked, voice thick with bitterness. “What do you lot know about Illyrian injuries?”

You met his glare steadily. “A wing is a wing,” you replied, voice calm. “Tendons, membranes, blood vessels—it’s anatomy. If you allow me, I can show you a gentler binding technique that will let it breathe and heal faster.”

He snorted, but Cassian cleared his throat meaningfully, and the warrior grudgingly allowed it. By the time you finished adjusting his bandage, he flexed his wing gingerly and looked surprised by the improvement. “Huh,” he murmured, grudging respect coloring his tone. “Thank you.”

“Sometimes small changes make a big difference,” you said, standing and dusting off your hands. “No matter where I’m from.”

On the second day, you found yourself face-to-face with Delvon, the camp’s leader. You’d been warned about him by Cassian the night before, but mere words didn’t prepare you for the man’s presence. He strutted toward you as you emerged from a storage hut, his dark eyes narrowed and jaw set, wings mantling behind him as if to emphasize his status.

“So, you’re the ‘expert’ the High Lord sent,” Delvon said, voice dripping with sarcastic disdain. He looked you over as if assessing livestock, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Come to tell us how to heal our own warriors, have you?”

You inclined your head slightly, forcing a polite smile. “I’m here to offer knowledge that may help your people recover faster and better. If you wish to view it as an intrusion, that’s your choice.”

He snorted, stepping closer, invading your personal space. “We’ve managed for generations without Velaris meddling. Next you’ll be telling us how to fight our battles.”

You stood your ground, lifting your chin. “I’m not here to discuss your battle tactics, only to ensure your injured don’t suffer more than necessary.”

Delvon’s lip curled in a sneer. “All that fancy technique and gentle touches—waste of time if they can’t get back to the battlefield. But do as you will, we can ignore it if it’s useless.” With that, he stormed off, wings flaring as if to punctuate his dismissal.

Cassian appeared at your shoulder, having watched from a distance. He rolled his eyes. “That went about as well as expected,” he murmured dryly.

You sighed, tension easing at his words. “At least I know why everyone despises him,” you replied under your breath. “He’s impossible.”

“Delvon’s a relic,” Cassian said, voice low. “A time will come when leaders like him are replaced. Until then, just focus on those who listen.”

And so you did. Despite Delvon’s hostility, you spent your third and final day in Winghaven conducting a brief demonstration for a handful of healers who’d shown genuine interest. You guided them through mixing a new salve that combined Illyrian herbs with a Dawn Court technique of magically infusing warmth into the mixture. A few nodded in quiet approval, clearly seeing the salve’s potential.

When dusk fell on your last evening in Winghaven, you looked over the camp from the edge of a plateau, Cassian beside you. The wind tugged at your hair, carrying the scents of pine and distant snow.

“You made some progress,” Cassian observed.

You let a small, wry smile slip onto your lips. “Some, yes. Enough to plant seeds of change, I hope.”

He laid a comforting hand on your shoulder. “It’s all we can do. Now, let’s head back. Velaris awaits.”

With a final glance at the camp, you turned away, a pocketful of new experiences and a touch more understanding of the Illyrian people weighting your steps. Change might be slow, but you had played your part, and tomorrow, you would return home with new lessons learned.

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