#these little details make me so very happy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lauraneedstochill · 1 day ago

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I want everyone to STOP DOING WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND GO READ THIS. I don’t care if you are into HOTD or not, it doesn’t matter if you are a Cregan’s girlie or not (you will be though). this fic should be put into dictionaries next to the word yearning.

even though the pace you set is unhurried, it is a gripping read, and I was heeding every word of dialogue and every description. the way you paint Winterfell — so studiously and in detail, it was like I could see that scenery before my very eyes, every tree and every room! and you weave so effortlessly little moments of their past, all the unsaid things into the present, it helps to make it even more obvious how they tiptoe around their feelings even though their love for each other cannot be denied! I was mentally recreating the “now KISS” meme while reading 🥺

the love confession left me stunned, it was... breathtaking, sensational, absolutely phenomenal. I think I’ve died and ascended to heaven, multiple times.

aaand then you actually made him beg? BEG?!

“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. — “Be mine. Be my wife.” — “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.”

also, there is something so raw and realistic and beautiful in the way he sums up his torment with “I felt sick”. imagine a man being so in love with you, the thought of losing you causes him physical discomfort... (damn, my standards for men skyrocketed after this fic ngl) 💔

this fic is just out of this world, I swear. I want to memorize his confession until it’s engraved in my memory so I can replay it before going to bed to feel all warm and melty.

you deserve many many rounds of applause, and I am so happy I randomly decided to check the hotd tag and found this story. I know for a fact I will reread this! 🌹💙💙

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.

taglist: @smurfelle @elliaze @sillylittlepenguin181818 @lustrz-anna @lovelyteenagebeard @misshale21 @cecestea @n4tsha @inspirationquxxn @rin588 @anoravx @bbubbllejisoo @vividxpages @bucksplum @earth4angels @mattnott @princess-of-the-fandoms @shabnam2005 @nsr-15 @reeseelise @teasweeter @ginarely-blog @bpcr3yes @creganstarkk @st6rmbrn @marg141205 @shesneverreallythere @mother-homunculus @ohhdearmargot

#fic recommendations #this isn’t just a chef’s kiss this is a whole 3 Michelin star meal #and I know this was written with Tom Taylor in mind and he does fit the story really well BUT #Leo Suter is my perfect Cregan Stark so I read this imagining HIM saying all THAT and ooooh my goooood I am unwell..... UNWELL #author astrxq #hotd fanfiction #comfort fics

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callmemonster68 · 1 day ago

Text

SUNOO - Doll ( smut )

" Y/N: Sunoo... you don't need to hide from me. (she said calmly, but the weight of her words made his heart race) I know what you are... and I know why you bought me. "

In a world where loneliness is combated by customizable companions called "human dolls", Sunoo, a shy and dreamy young man, finds in Y/N the chance to fill the emptiness he carries. However, as they live together, he discovers that Y/N is more than an ideal companion – she is capable of seeing his deepest secrets.

Pairing: Sunoo X FemReader

Genre: Obscenity

WARNING: text a little longer than I usually write

Warning: graphic description of gore ( bloond/injuries ) explicit content, unprotected sex, suggestive, penetration, explicit language, climax, sex, swearing, loss of virginity, hickeys, messy make-out sessions, dirty talk, compliments, rough sex, touching bruises, handcuffs, chains, sadomasochism , masochism, brands, group sex,double penetration, oral sex, anal sex, masturbation

In the world where Sunoo lived, human interactions were a difficult territory for many shy people like him. Fortunately, an innovation completely changed the social dynamic: the "human dolls and dolls." These people were trained from an early age to be the perfect companions, offering emotional support, friendship, and, for some, even more intimate experiences. The selection process was simple and completely customizable: appearance, personality, voice, even the way they smiled. Sunoo, shy and dreamy, saw it as a chance to fill the emptiness he felt.

He spent days browsing the site, analyzing the options. His heart raced with each click, until he found what seemed to be the perfect doll for him: Y/N. She had eyes that sparkled as if they were always smiling, a gentle and affectionate personality described as "perfect for those seeking comfort and sweetness." Sunoo hesitated before clicking the purchase button, but with sweaty hands, he finally confirmed the order.

When the big day arrived, he was so nervous that he could hardly concentrate. The doorbell rang, and he practically jumped off the couch. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door... and there she was.

Y/N was standing there, with a radiant expression and a smile that seemed to light up the entire hallway. Dressed simply but captivatingly, she held a small suitcase, as if she were ready to start a new life by his side.

Y/N: Hello! You are Sunoo, right? (she asked with a sweet voice, tilting her head slightly)

Sunoo felt his cheeks burn and stammered a response.

Sunoo: I-it's me... uh, come in, please! (he took an awkward step to the side, making room for her to enter)

Y/N entered his house with light steps, her eyes exploring the surroundings with curiosity. She placed the suitcase next to the door and turned to him, smiling again.

Y/N: I am very happy to be here with you, Sunoo. I hope to be exactly what you need.

He swallowed hard, trying to process the situation. She was even more beautiful in person. Her presence seemed to fill the empty space in his house with something warm and welcoming.

Sunoo: I... I-I too... (he started, but his voice faltered)

She laughed softly and stepped forward, placing her hand gently on his arm.

Y/N: Everything's fine, Sunoo. You don't need to get nervous. I'm here to help you with whatever you need, okay? Let's start slowly.

He took a deep breath, trying to relax, but his heart was beating so fast that he was sure she could hear it. The idea of having someone there, so attentive and beautiful, was surreal.

Sunoo: O-okay. Thank you... for being here. (he finally managed to say)

Y/N: How about showing me the house? (she suggested, her eyes shining with enthusiasm)

Sunoo nodded quickly and began to guide her through the rooms, showing every detail of his small but cozy house. As the day went by, he began to feel more at ease. Y/N was amazing at breaking the ice, asking light questions and complimenting the simple yet unique choices he had made to decorate the space.

After some time, they were sitting together on the couch, drinking tea that Sunoo had made (even though his hands had trembled while holding the kettle).

Y/N: You seem to be a very kind person, Sunoo. (she said, looking directly into his eyes)

He averted his gaze, feeling the heat in his cheeks.

Y/N: I... I don't think I'm that special... (he murmured)

She shook her head, a loving smile on her face.

Y/N: You are special, yes. I can already feel it. And I think we are going to get along very well.

Sunoo looked at her again, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. For the first time, he felt a small spark of confidence welling up inside him. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn to open up more. And with Y/N by his side, he felt that he had found someone who understood him in a way that no one else ever had before.

But he still had many questions... about her, about how that relationship would work, and even about what he really wanted from her. Little did Sunoo know that this would be the first of many lessons he would learn alongside his "human doll."

The interaction between Sunoo and Y/N had already become more natural, although his shyness was still evident in every gesture or word. She, on the other hand, seemed increasingly at ease, exploring the house and adapting to his routine with ease. Y/N had a unique talent, acquired during her training, to read people with precision. She was able to perceive things that even the owners of the emotions were not aware of. And Sunoo? He was like an open book to her.

One morning, while he was trying to concentrate on breakfast, Y/N approached, bringing with her an air of provocation. She was wearing comfortable clothes, but they fit her body perfectly, and the cute smile on her face hid something more mischievous.

Y/N: Sunoo? (She called him with a sweet voice, leaning slightly towards him, her hands crossed behind her back) Don't you think I look pretty when I blink my eyes like this?

She blinked a few times, exaggerating a bit, while a smile played on her lips.

Sunoo, who was already nervous just by her proximity, almost choked on his sip of coffee. He quickly averted his eyes, blushing deeply.

Sunoo: I-I... I think you are... very beautiful... (he murmured, trying to maintain his composure)

She laughed softly, crossing her arms as she continued to tease him.

Y/N: Isn't it pure perfection? (She tilted her head to the side, her eyes shining with something Sunoo couldn't decipher) Cute, polite... Am I not the perfect stereotype?

He shook his head, the words failing him as he tried to formulate a response. Y/N took a step closer, leaning to support herself on the table, bringing her face nearer to his.

Y/N: Ah, Sunoo... you can't even look at me right now. (she said in a tone between cute and mischievous) I have all your attention, don't I? Or do you think you can play with me like that?

Sunoo: N-no! I would never do that! ( he replied quickly, raising his hands in a defensive gesture, but her tone made him even more nervous )

Y/N smiled again, but this time there was something sharper in her eyes. She stepped back just enough to straighten her posture, but her gaze never left his.

Y/N: Sunoo... you don't need to hide from me. (she said calmly, but the weight of her words made his heart race) I know what you are... and I know why you bought me.

He widened his eyes, swallowing hard, feeling the blood rush to his face.

Sunoo: W-what do you mean by that? (he asked, his voice faltering as she kept her gaze fixed on him)

Y/N approached again, stopping right next to him. She leaned in, whispering in his ear with a sweet tone, but laden with ulterior motives.

Y/N: You're a pervert, aren't you? (she said, her voice soft as a whisper but laden with malice) It's okay, Sunoo. You can use me, if you want.

The silence that followed was so intense that he could almost hear the sound of his own heartbeat. He was completely paralyzed, not knowing what to respond or how to act. Part of him wanted to deny it, but another part knew she was right, at least on some level. After all, he had fantasized about having someone as perfect as her, even if he had never admitted it to himself.

Sunoo: Y-Y/N, I... I don't... it's not really like that... (he stammered, but she interrupted him, placing a finger delicately on his lips)

Y/N: Shh, you don't need to explain anything. (she said with a cute smile, but her eyes shone with something deeper) I'm here to be everything you need. Just... don't be afraid to be honest with me, Sunoo.

He looked at her, emotions mixing in his chest. There was shame, nervousness, but also a growing desire to open up to her, truly. But how could he, when her mere presence was already so overwhelming?

The days went by, and the coexistence between Sunoo and Y/N became increasingly... peculiar. While he did everything to keep control of his emotions and avoid inappropriate thoughts, Y/N seemed determined to test all his limits, always maintaining the mask of innocence and cuteness.

She wandered around the house wearing only a t-shirt that was too long for her body — or maybe not so long after all. When she sat on the couch, she crossed her legs carelessly, revealing a glimpse of the white panties she wore underneath. Sometimes, she would lean down to pick something up from the floor, and the fabric of her shirt would ride up just enough to expose her thighs. Sunoo, unable to look away in time, turned as red as a tomato, mumbling softly as he hurriedly walked away.

Y/N: Sunoo? Is everything okay? (with a genuinely worried expression, but the mischievous sparkle in her eyes betrayed her true intentions)

Sunoo: Y-yes, everything's fine! (he responded quickly, his voice faltering as he tried to appear natural)

But she never stopped there. There were moments when she would walk past him in the kitchen and lean over too much, letting the neckline of her shirt reveal more than he wanted (or could) see. Other times, she surprised him by placing one of her hands on his chest or even casually touching his thigh while they talked on the couch, as if it were completely normal.

Y/N: You are so cute, Sunoo. (she said once, running her fingers gently through his hair while he tried to watch a TV show)

He shifted uncomfortably, his hands trembling slightly as he held the remote control.

Sunoo: T-thank you... (he murmured, his gaze fixed on the screen, but unable to pay attention to what was happening)

Y/N, of course, couldn't help it and slid their fingers across his face, an innocent smile on their face.

Y/N: You are so tense. Do you want me to help you relax? (she asked, leaning towards him, and the warmth of her body came very close to his)

Sunoo: N-no need! I'm fine, really! ( he exclaimed, stepping back quickly and almost knocking the remote control to the floor )

Every day, her provocations seemed to increase, and Sunoo knew he was reaching his limit. He tried to ignore, divert, avoid direct contact with her, but Y/N's presence was overwhelming. She was too perfect, too provocative, and seemed to know exactly how to tease him without ever crossing the line.

Until one night, after another day of taunts, something inside him simply broke. He was sitting on the bed, trying to calm his mind and ignore the thoughts that kept coming back, when Y/N walked into the room. She was wearing the same long t-shirt as always, but this time it was slightly damp, probably from the shower she had just taken. The fabric clung to her skin in a tempting way, and the gentle scent of her soap filled the room.

Y/N: Sunoo? (she called, walking slowly towards him) You seem... strange today. Is everything okay?

He lifted his gaze to her, his eyes darkened by the whirlwind of emotions he had been holding for days. Y/N stopped in front of him, tilting her head cutely, but the smile at the corner of her lips still carried that mischievous air.

Sunoo: Y/N. (he said, his voice lower and hoarser than usual)

Y/N: Yes? (she replied, bending down to be at his height, her face so close that he could feel her breath)

It was at that moment that Sunoo finally exploded. He held her wrists gently, but with enough firmness to show that he was no longer willing to run away.

Sunoo: I... can't take it anymore. (he said, his eyes locked on hers) You know what you're doing, don't you?

Y/N smiled, the mischievous sparkle in their eyes becoming even more evident.

Y/N: Maybe... ( leaning in even more, until their faces were almost touching ) But you just needed to admit it, Sunoo.

He took a deep breath, trying to find the right words, but the truth was he didn't want to talk anymore.

Sunoo: I want you. (he finally said, his voice firm but laden with desire) Please... I can't hold back anymore.

Y/N smiled, her gaze softening slightly but still laden with mischief.

Y/N: Finally. (she murmured, before leaning in and brushing her lips against his) I was waiting for this.

She climbed onto the bed and attacked him immediately, the kiss fierce, their tongues exploring each other's mouths, she didn't want to waste any time, and she removed his clothes, leaving him completely naked. Sunoo's face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and desire, his lips swollen from Y/N's assault. Y/N stepped back just enough to take off the shirt she was wearing, she was already naked underneath.

Sunoo's eyes widened, it was the first time he saw a naked woman in front of him, and she was sublime, his cock twisting eagerly to be inside her. She kissed him again, encouraging him to lie down on the bed. She positioned herself on top of his body, her lips moving from his mouth to his jaw, then to his neck, her lips descending down to his groin.

Y/N: Look at me, Sunoo.

He looked, shy but full of expectations. Then she grabbed his penis and he whimpered. She pumped it a few times before taking it into her mouth.

Sunoo: Y/N no... (he grabbed her hair) A long time waiting for this (he says trying to maintain control) I wouldn't last even two seconds if you keep this up.

She smiled, gave two more licks to his head, and walked away.

Y/N: Sure, I still want to enjoy your cock.

So she adjusted herself on top of him, positioned her intimacy on the head of his cock, and without warning, she sat down completely, eliciting a loud moan from Sunoo who felt a shiver run through his body.

Y/N's body moved over his, as if she were completely in control, and she was. From the beginning, she knew what she wanted and how to get it. Sunoo was exactly where she needed him to be, vulnerable, surrendered, in the hands of her perfect doll.

While pleasure consumed them, Y/N leaned over him, her tousled hair falling around his face. She leaned closer, her lips near his ear, and whispered slowly and melodiously:

Y/N: Because, my dear, dolls kill...

Sunoo opened his eyes, confused, but the desire that filled his body prevented him from understanding immediately.

Y/N: Don't provoke us or we will... push you down the hill. (her voice was sweet as honey, but there was something sharp hidden in every word)

She sat down again, her hands sliding under the pillow beside her. When she started to go up and down on it again, Sunoo noticed the shine of something silver in her hands. A knife.

Y/N: We can be beautiful, but we are still as cruel as we are sweet... (Y/N continued, spinning the blade between her fingers with a terrifying skill, while her body still enveloped him, each movement perfectly calculated to leave him on the brink of madness)

Sunoo was frozen, pleasure mingling with a wave of pure adrenaline. His eyes widened as he saw her grip the knife firmly, her gaze so deep and intense that it seemed to pierce through him.

Y/N: Knife hidden under the blankets, my dear... dolls kill. (she murmured, her eyes fixed on his, before tilting the blade dangerously close to his neck) Don't provoke us or we will...

The room seemed to fill with tension, the only sound besides her words being their irregular breathing. He stood still, feeling her body pressing against his, the cold blade near his skin. But then, to Y/N's surprise, Sunoo's lips curved into a slow and unexpected smile.

Sunoo: You say you read people well. ( in a low, hoarse voice, but filled with something darker than fear ) You were right to see that I'm a pervert... but it seems you didn't notice one thing.

Her eyes narrowed, curious and slightly suspicious, as he continued, his voice now laden with something she hadn't expected to hear.

Sunoo: I'm also a sadist. (he said, and the smile on his face became more evident) You can do whatever you want with me, cut me, hurt me, use me...

He raised one of his hands, gently holding her wrist, as if encouraging her to press the knife harder against him, causing a superficial cut on his chest.

Sunoo: I will be your doll from now on.

His words hit Y/N like a gust of wind, making something inside her snap. For a moment, she just stared at him, still with the knife in her hands, still over him, the two connected in a way that transcended the physical. Something in Sunoo's eyes, in his smile, made her hesitate.

He wasn't afraid. He wasn't like the others she had planned to manipulate and discard. He was... different.

Y/N: Are you kidding me? (the tone still firm, but there was a note of uncertainty that hadn't existed before)

Sunoo: I am completely serious. (he replied, his eyes shining with something as intense as hers) If you want to play with dolls, I will be your toy.

Y/N felt her control crumble for a fraction of a second. His words echoed in her mind, disrupting the meticulous plan she had created from the beginning. For the first time, someone looked back at her, not as a doll to be used, but as someone willing to throw themselves into the darkness with her, without fear, without limits.

She dropped the knife on the bed beside her, leaning over him once more, her face inches from his.

Y/N: You're crazy. (she whispered, with a small smile at the corner of her lips)

Sunoo: Crazy about you. (he answered without hesitation)

Y/N didn't know whether to laugh or dive even deeper into the intensity of that moment. But one thing was certain: the plan had changed. And now, she no longer knew who was in control of that relationship.

Y/N was still on top of him, moving at a pace that defied any sense of control. Sunoo moaned beneath her, his fingers digging into her waist, guiding her, as they both seemed to sink into a spiral of pleasure and madness.

The knife gleamed beside them, forgotten for a brief moment, until Sunoo, with a slow and deliberate movement, reached out and picked it up. The cold metal contrasted with the fervent heat of their bodies. He held the object firmly, raising it and looking directly at her.

Sunoo: Y/N... (a hoarse and trembling voice, not from fear, but from excitement) I want you to mark me.

Her eyes narrowed, but the smile that appeared on her lips betrayed the satisfaction those words brought her.

Y/N: Mark you? (the knife now in your hands again)

He nodded, his eyes filled with something intoxicating, almost submissive, but at the same time bold.

Sunoo: Do it. Here. ( he said, pointing to his own chest, right on the left side, where the heart was beating rapidly ) Write your initial. I want the world to know that I am yours.

Y/N tilted her head, a crooked smile adorning her lips as she looked at him with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

Y/N: You really are crazy, aren't you? (she murmured, sliding the knife between her fingers, teasing him, as she had from the beginning)

Sunoo: I already said, crazy about you. (eyes half-closed, challenging her)

She laughed, a low and almost sweet laugh, but it carried with it a touch of cruelty. Y/N didn't hesitate any longer. With precise movements, she leaned over him, the knife steady in her hand. Sunoo took a deep breath, his muscles tense as he awaited what would come next.

The first stroke was slow and deliberate, the blade cutting the skin carefully as the blood began to flow. Sunoo arched his back, a mix of pain and pleasure reflected on his face.

Y/N: My initial... (licking their lips as they continued, forming the perfect letter on his chest)

Sunoo: Your initial. (he echoed, his voice breaking as the sensations pushed him to the limit)

When she finished, the blood had already stained the sheets, and Y/N stood momentarily still, admiring her work. The writing shone in bright red, a mark of possession, a symbol of something no one else could have.

Y/N: Perfect. (a soft voice while running fingers over the cut, mixing the blood with his skin)

But she didn't stop there. With an unexpected movement, Y/N bent down, running her tongue over the freshly made cut. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and she moaned softly, as if it excited her even more.

Sunoo was on the verge of delirium. He grabbed her hair, pulling her up, his mouth seeking hers with an almost animalistic desperation. The kiss was intense, chaotic, full of desire and something darker. The blood on her lips mixed with his, the taste connecting them in a way that was both intimate and disturbing.

Their movements became frantic, almost wild, and the pleasure grew in waves until they both reached the peak together, their bodies trembling and intertwined as moans and sighs echoed through the room.

In the end, Y/N remained on top of him, panting, her hands resting on his chest as she looked at him with a glimmer in her eyes that was hard to decipher. Sunoo smiled at her, exhausted but satisfied, the traces of her initial still glowing red against his skin.

Sunoo: I think there's no doubt now about who I belong to. (the tone laden with devotion and insanity)

Y/N leaned in, kissing him again, this time more slowly, but no less intensely.

Y/N: And I also have no doubt that you are exactly what I needed. (she replied, with a dangerous smile on her lips)

The room was now engulfed in a tense silence, only the sounds of their ragged breaths filling the space. Y/N was still on top of him, observing every detail of his face with an almost predatory intensity. Sunoo, marked, surrendered, looked at her as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world.

It was strange. This wasn't what she had planned. From the beginning, her idea was clear: escape. It was simple. Killing him would be easy — quick, silent. Without him, there would be no one to track her. She could disappear, find her freedom, and never live under orders or expectations again.

She should have plunged that knife into him. The perfect moment had arisen several times. He was vulnerable, overconfident, so surrendered to the illusion of control that she had allowed him to have.

But something had changed.

She looked at the cut that now marked his chest, his initial carved into his skin like a seal of possession. The blood had stopped flowing, but it still gleamed in scarlet tones under the dim light of the room. Sunoo, lying there, still naked and completely exposed, smiled at her. There was no fear in his eyes. Just a devotion she didn't expect.

He was different. Different from all those who had trained her, from all those who had tried to control her. Sunoo didn't want to subjugate her, mold her, or transform her into something she wasn't. He just wanted... her. In all her complexity, in her cruelty and sweetness.

Sunoo: You're thinking about something, aren't you? ( he asked, interrupting her thoughts, his voice soft but full of curiosity )

Y/N tilted their head, fingers playing with the handle of the knife they still held.

Y/N: You know I came here to kill you, don't you? (in a low voice, but without hesitation)

Sunoo blinked, surprised but not scared. He laughed lightly, as if she had told a joke.

Sunoo: I imagined. (he replied calmly) But something tells me you changed your mind.

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the response.

Y/N: And why do you think that?

Sunoo: Because, if you wanted, I would already be dead. (he smiled, his eyes shining with something she couldn't decipher) But instead, you marked me as yours. You don't want to be free, Y/N. You want something more.

His words resonated within her like an echo. She didn't respond immediately, just watched him, trying to understand what exactly had changed. He was right. Killing Sunoo would mean freedom, but it would be an empty freedom. And now, looking at him, marked by her, completely surrendered, Y/N realized something.

She didn't just want to escape. She wanted control, she wanted power, but she also wanted... him. Sunoo, the shy and perverted boy who had bought her without imagining what she really was. He was different, peculiar, even disturbed in a way that fascinated her. And, somehow, he had done something no one else ever could: he had bound her without chains.

Y/N: You are strange. (she murmured, finally smiling at him, but there was something softer in that smile now)

Sunoo: And you are scary. (laughing lightly) I think we make a good pair.

Y/N leaned in, their foreheads touching, fingers still playing with the knife, but now with no intention of using it against him.

Y/N: You know what this means, don't you?

Sunoo: That now I am your doll. (he replied without hesitation)

She smiled more broadly, satisfied.

Y/N: Exactly. But remember...

She raised the knife for a brief moment, only to let it fall beside them on the bed.

Y/N: Dolls still kill.

Sunoo laughed, holding her face between his hands and pulling her in for a kiss.

And, at that moment, Y/N's initial plan was discarded. Running away seemed pointless when she had exactly what she wanted right there. She would be free, yes, but with Sunoo, bound to her forever — her doll, her accomplice, her everything.

They didn't need anything else. There was no one else in the world who could understand or accept each other's madness. Sunoo was hers, and Y/N was his. Two distorted souls, living a reality that only they could understand.

✿ If you don't reblog and comment, you can be sure I'll be showing up in your dreams tonight... and I won’t be as sweet as in the story ✿

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