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sithapprentice · 5 days ago

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Pomegranate Thief

Summary: requested:She’s Benjen Stark’s best friend from Braavos, all sea-salt wit and stubborn charm, who swore she’d never go this far north—until she did. Winterfell was supposed to be a visit, a chance to drink with an old friend and steal fruit from his table, not to get tangled up in the quiet pull of Lord Cregan Stark’s gaze.

Warnings: Fast paced, even though it’s supposed to be slow burn. It’s long, not proofread. No real warnings for this one.

𓃠⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⋆⭒⚔⭒⋆⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯𓃠

Snowmelt slushed beneath the hooves, spraying cold grit against your boots as you urged the horse faster. The wind cut through the narrow streets, biting at your cheeks, but you hardly felt it—excitement had a way of chasing away the cold. After years apart, you were about to see your oldest friend again.

High noon found you at Winterfell’s gates, the towers rising black and grey against the pale sky. Steam from the hot springs curled faintly over the ramparts, mingling with the drifting snow. You’d sworn, once, that you would never come this far north. Yet here you were—this far north—wrapped in a heavy cloak, your bright Braavosi silks hidden beneath, their colors waiting for the right moment to speak for you.

When you passed through the courtyard arch, your eyes sought the familiar first: Benjen. The boy you’d known was now broader, sharper at the edges, but the grin that ghosted his lips was the same. Then your gaze caught on the man beside him. Dark-haired, grey-eyed, carved from something older and colder than the walls around you. Lord Cregan Stark.

“Benjen Stark!” Your voice rang out, the Braavosi lilt tumbling from your tongue like a challenge and a laugh at once. Heads turned; the scrape of cutlery stilled. You pushed back your hood, smiling as the hall’s dim light caught in your hair. “Feel safe tucked this far north?”

He was on his feet in an instant, his chair crashing backward, shock and recognition warring in his expression.

“No… no fucking way! Greyjoy? You’re here!”

He closed the distance at a near-run, his arms wrapping you in an embrace that lifted you clean off the ground. A hand came to the back of your neck—steady, grounding—and for a heartbeat you were spinning, breathless.

“What are you doing here?”

“I missed you. Obviously.” You let your voice soften, warmth seeping into the edges of your words. “So I came to visit.”

Benjen pulled back just far enough to study you, grinning.

“Your hair’s longer. Took my advice, Stark—I love a man with long hair. Makes a man out of you!”

You grinned, and he rolled his eyes before dragging you into another crushing hug.

“I’ve got someone for you to meet.” He hooked an arm through yours, already steering you toward the tall man who’d been watching in silence. “This is my brother, Lord Cregan Stark. And this—” he gave you a conspiratorial smile “—is my best friend, Lady Greyjoy. Don’t mind the accent—she fakes it for attention.”

“Sometimes,” you said with a sly tilt of your mouth, “it gets me more wine in taverns.” But Cregan knew better. The way each syllable curved and rolled was no affectation—it was truth worn smooth by years of salt air and foreign streets.

“Welcome,” he said at last, his deep voice carrying the weight of winter in it.

You smiled back, the kind that promised you’d brought your own weather with you.

The warmth of Benjen’s laughter wrapped around you like an old song, his arm slung comfortably across your shoulders as you traded jests about the years apart. Servants passed by with steaming trenchers, and men at the long tables leaned in to catch the odd turn of your Braavosi phrases, the way they sang and bit in the same breath.

Yet, somewhere beyond the noise and movement, you felt the weight of another gaze.

Cregan Stark sat a short distance away, a hand braced on the carved arm of his chair, his eyes shadowed beneath the dark sweep of his brow. He did not join the conversation, though Benjen’s voice carried enough to pull at any brother’s ear. Instead, he studied you with the measured caution of a man trained to read strangers—especially those who crossed his threshold unbidden.

Why had you come so far north for Benjen Stark? Winterfell was no simple detour; the North did not lend itself to casual visits. And yet here you were, cloaked against the cold, laughing as though the distance between Braavos and the wolfswood were nothing more than a jaunt down a market street.

Still… his skepticism warred with something less guarded.

The way you moved—light on your feet yet wholly unafraid of the space you occupied—drew the eye without effort. The way your smile shaped itself, slow at first, then bright enough to soften even the greyest day, caught in the marrow of his thoughts before he could turn away. You gestured as you spoke, the hem of your sleeve sliding back to reveal the glint of a bracelet that looked older than you, the kind of talisman a person didn’t remove, even in sleep.

You glanced at him then, your words to Benjen faltering for the smallest fraction of a heartbeat. And in that pause, your eyes caught his—deep grey to grey—an unspoken question passing between you.

He didn’t look away.

𓃠⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⋆⭒⚔⭒⋆⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯𓃠

The corridors were hushed at this hour, their stone walls drinking in the sound of your steps. A faint draft whispered through the arrow slits, carrying the distant scent of snow. You rounded a bend toward your chambers—only to find Lord Cregan Stark standing there, the torchlight cutting his frame in sharp lines.

“Most southerners wouldn’t brave these roads in winter without reason,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to settle into the stone itself.

You tilted your head, studying him. “And you think I have some hidden one?”

His gaze didn’t soften. “I think you’re a long way from home, and no one makes that journey lightly. My brother speaks of you like family. Yet I don’t know your measure.”

A small smile touched your lips—the kind meant to ease rooms, to soften edges. “I’m not complicated, Lord Stark. I came because I missed my friend. I stayed through the feast because I like good food and warm fires. And now,” you flicked your gaze toward the door to your chambers, “I plan to sleep because I’ve been on the road for weeks. That’s my measure.”

Something shifted in his eyes—not enough to call it amusement, but not quite the same distrust that had been there a moment before.

“You speak warmly,” he said at last. “I hope that warmth isn’t all for show.”

“It never is,” you replied, the smile lingering as you stepped past him, hand brushing the latch of your chamber door.

Before you could open it fully, he moved—just enough to close the space between you. His shoulder caught yours in a deliberate, unhurried bump, the weight of it unmistakable. Not cruel, not rough… but enough to make your breath catch at the heat rolling from him in the cold hall. He didn’t look back, only let his stride carry him into the darkness, leaving the scent of pine and frost behind.

You slipped inside, closing the door softly, the faint echo of his presence still clinging to the stone.

𓃠⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⋆⭒⚔⭒⋆⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯𓃠

It had been several days since your arrival, and Winterfell seemed to warm to you as though the walls themselves approved of your presence. The servants laughed at your wit, the hall sang louder when you were seated, and even the youngest stablehands lingered to hear the strange music of your accent.

Cregan noticed it all. He was no longer as sharp-eyed with suspicion as he’d been on the first night, yet the wariness remained—a quiet guard he kept up even as he began to see why others liked you so quickly.

In the solar, he and Benjen shared the late-afternoon quiet, the air carrying the faint scent of smoke from the hearth. Benjen leaned back in his chair, boots stretched toward the fire.

“You know,” Benjen began, a smirk tugging at his mouth, “the first time I met her was in Riverrun. She was with her mother—older, sharp-eyed, the sort who looks at you and measures your worth in the same breath. Father greeted her politely, but then… there she came. Hips swaying like she owned the ground beneath her, hands behind her back, that smile hanging on her lips, hair all wild from the river wind.” He laughed at the memory. “Gods, I wanted to have my way with her. I’d have followed her into the fire if she asked me.”

Cregan gave him a dry look, though there was an edge of curiosity in his silence.

“She didn’t bow,” Benjen went on. “Didn’t speak, either. Just walked through the courtyard like it was hers, straight into the garden. I followed her. First word she said was ‘yes,’—accent was heavier then. I told her who I was, and she just smiled and said, ‘I like the stories of the Northmen.’ Ever since, she’s considered me a friend.”

Benjen’s eyes grew warmer as he remembered. “Wasn’t long after that we were in the market. Some lordling—young, smug, all lace and coin—called her a pirate’s daughter, said she’d sooner steal a man’s purse than speak a kind word. I told him if he didn’t keep his mouth shut, I’d show him how Northmen answer insults.”

Cregan raised a brow. “And?”

“And I did,” Benjen said with a grin. “Knocked him clean into a barrel of apples. She just stood there watching, then walked up to me after, eyes bright like she’d found a rare gem. She smiled—slow, the way she does—and said, ‘Well, Stark, looks like you’re stuck with me forever.’”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “And I suppose I was.”

Cregan looked into the fire for a long moment before answering, his thoughts unreadable. “You may be right about that.”

𓃠⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⋆⭒⚔⭒⋆⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯𓃠

The great hall was thinning, the fire burned low. Conversation dwindled into quiet pockets, but you stayed—half-hidden in the shadows of the high table, your goblet turning slowly in your hand.

Across the room, Lord Stark leaned over the council map, his large hand braced on the table, head bowed as he listened to Benjen’s low words. There was something about the way he stood—shoulders squared not for display, but because the weight of command had been sewn into his bones.

You found your gaze lingering too long. His hair was damp from the snow, strands falling over his brow until he pushed them back in a gesture that was more unconscious habit than vanity. The firelight caught on the fine drops still clinging to him, making the dark fur at his collar glisten faintly.

Someone nearby spoke to you, but you only half-heard them. You were watching the way he moved—quietly, without wasted motion. A man who didn’t need to take up space to command it.

When Benjen left the table, Cregan straightened, scanning the hall with an absent sort of awareness. His eyes passed over you once, twice, before holding. Not long—just enough for the air between you to shift. He said nothing, only dipped his head in a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning toward the door.

It was nothing. And yet… not nothing.

You imagined the path he would take from here, up the stone steps to the lord’s chambers. You’d heard enough whispered descriptions from passing servants—stark in its furnishings, but kept in an order that was almost unnatural for a man who lived in a fortress of constant comings and goings. You wondered if that order held in every corner, if there was anything there he’d keep within arm’s reach while he slept.

You told yourself it was idle curiosity. It didn’t explain the warmth that had crept into your chest, or the pull you felt toward the closed-off part of Winterfell that was entirely his.

The thought followed you as you set down your cup and slipped quietly from the hall.

The chamber was warmer than you expected for Winterfell. The heavy shutters were drawn tight against the snow, letting the fire’s glow gather in the stone hearth until it painted the room in gold and shadow.

You stepped inside without hurry, letting the silence close around you. This was not some stately guestroom—this was where Cregan Stark shed his titles at night. You had the rarest of permissions simply by being here, though no one had actually granted it.

Your gaze swept the room. The great oak bed was the first thing you noticed—broad enough for a man of his height, its frame carved with the proud head of the direwolf. The furs were thick and dark, the kind that held the scent of pine and smoke no matter how often they were aired. At the foot of the bed sat a sturdy bench, its surface scratched by years of boots and buckles.

Against the far wall rested a longsword in its scabbard, angled within easy reach from where he would lie. The steel caught the firelight like a slow breath. Beside it, his boots stood just inside the door, dust from the yard still clinging to them. The desk near the window bore neat stacks of parchment, sealed letters, and a half-burned candle—work left unfinished, but in precise order.

You found yourself smiling faintly. It was all so controlled. So guarded. Your fingers brushed over the back of the carved chair, tracing the deep grooves in the wood. You wondered how many times his hand had rested there in thought, how many nights had been spent in this room planning, deciding, or simply staring at the embers until sleep took him.

And then you heard it—footsteps, steady and unhurried, ascending the stone steps toward this very door. The sound carried up through the cold air, each strike of heel on stone deliberate enough that you could count the beats.

You couldn’t help but hear him coming. For a heartbeat, you considered slipping out. Instead, you crossed to the bed and lowered yourself onto it, sinking into the heavy furs as though you had every right to be there. Your skirts whispered against the coverlet. You rested your hands in your lap and turned your head toward the door just as the latch began to shift, your pulse slowing rather than quickening. When the door opened, you were already waiting.

“Lord Stark,” you greeted, as though you were merely seated in some common room and not standing in the most private space in all of Winterfell.

The heavy oak door shut behind him with a slow, deliberate thud. His eyes narrowed just enough to suggest both suspicion and curiosity. You didn’t flinch, didn’t shift. Instead, you let your fingers trail lazily along the carved bedpost, tracing the worn grooves that formed the direwolf’s proud head.

“Your bed is beautiful work,” you murmured, the observation half to yourself. Your gaze drifted to the longsword propped against the wall, its steel catching the dim light like a living thing. You crossed the room without hurry, silk whispering at your ankles, and laid your fingertips against the hilt. The weight shifted faintly beneath your touch, balanced and ready.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked at last, the words low—too soft to be casual, too sharp to be anything but a warning.

You let the sword settle back into its place and turned toward him, folding your hands loosely before you. “I was curious,” you said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world, “about how you sleep. It’s an odd fascination of mine—I like to peek into people’s minds. Their chambers…well they tell me more than their words ever could.”

His arms crossed over his chest, the slow tightening of his shoulders like a drawstring pulled taut. “And mine?”

“Yours,” you mused, letting your eyes wander deliberately over the chamber, “is harder to crack. You keep things tidy, but not untouched. The sword by the bed, the boots just inside the door—it says you don’t expect to sleep deeply, and you like to be ready the moment you wake.”

“You think me restless?”

“I think you guard yourself,” you answered softly, your voice smoothing the air between you, “even in your sleep. And I think you’ve already tried to measure me and found I don’t fit neatly into your boxes.”

You drifted toward the bed, lowering yourself onto it with the ease of someone who belonged there. The fur coverlet gave beneath your weight, carrying the faint scent of cold pine and smoke. You turned your head just enough to catch his gaze over your shoulder.

His eyes followed you, unblinking. He moved toward you with a measured pace, each step a quiet claim on the space between you. You rose before he reached you, your skirts brushing against his legs as you backed away a single step—he closed it without hesitation.

His hand came up, closing gently around your wrist, the heat of his palm a sharp contrast to the cool air of the chamber.

You smiled, the curve of it deliberate, and tilted your head. “Sweet dreams,” you hummed, the words low and warm.

Then, just as easily, you slipped past him, the scent of your perfume and the whisper of silk trailing in your wake. The latch clicked softly behind you, leaving him alone in the chamber—his bed touched, the air still carrying the ghost of your presence. He stood there for a long moment, hand flexing once before he lowered it to his side, the echo of your voice settling over him like the memory of a fire he hadn’t meant to stand too close to.

𓃠⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⋆⭒⚔⭒⋆⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯𓃠

“She was in my chambers, Benjen,” Cregan said at last. His voice wasn’t sharp, not truly—more a statement carved clean and solid, like stone laid into a wall.

Benjen leaned back in his chair, one brow lifting, the corner of his mouth pulling into a knowing smile. “Seven hells… she likes you. Or, at the very least, she’s interested.”

Cregan’s head turned toward him, grey eyes narrowing. “And how exactly do you get that from her being in my chambers when I wasn’t there?” The question came out low, taut, as though he was determined not to let it sound as defensive as it felt.

Benjen only grinned wider, resting his elbows on the table as if settling in for a long story. “Because she’s not the sort to wander into a man’s chambers without knowing exactly what she’s doing. If she wanted to unsettle you, she would have done it in the Great Hall, where all could see. This? This was meant for you alone.”

Cregan gave a faint, dismissive snort, but the flicker in his gaze betrayed the thought taking root despite himself.

“You’re a hard man to read, brother,” Benjen went on, “but she’s not trying to read you—she’s learning you. There’s a difference.”

Cregan looked away, back to the fire, its light throwing sharp edges across his face. “And what would you have me do with that?”

Benjen’s smile turned sly. “Nothing. Yet. Let her keep wondering if she’s gotten under your skin. That’s how you’ll know when she’s truly trying.”

Cregan didn’t answer, but his fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair—an unconscious rhythm, as if weighing the idea. The fire popped, and in its brief flare he saw again the image of you in his room, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword, smile curving like you knew some truth he didn’t He wasn’t sure whether the memory annoyed him… or made him want to see what you would do next.

𓃠⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⋆⭒⚔⭒⋆⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯𓃠

Over the past month, you had found yourself shadowing Lord Cregan Stark as though it were the most natural thing in the world. When he worked in the council chamber, you would slip into a chair in the corner with a book in hand, eyes drifting from the page to study the lines of his face as he read petitions or scrawled notes in his bold, slanted hand. In the yard, you lingered by the railings, watching the fluid precision of his sword arm, the narrowing of his eyes when an opponent pressed him hard. Sometimes, when he was absent, you wandered into his chambers and claimed the small plate of fruit left for him—pomegranates most of all—savoring the sweet seeds as though they were stolen victories. Most days, he’d want to hand them to you. Any chance he could, training yard, library, council chambers. He loved the way your eyes lit up at the sight of the fruit and the way you looked at him.

There were evenings when you sat cross-legged on his bed while he read aloud by lamplight, his voice deep and deliberate, every syllable carrying weight. He would pause to ask for your thoughts on a dispute among his bannermen or the handling of a stubborn trade partner, listening intently as you spoke. Other times, you asked him questions—about the North, about his family, about the way a lord decides which battles are worth the fight. It was a quiet, constant exchange, a rhythm you had fallen into without ever meaning to, until the days between you blurred into something almost companionable, almost necessary.

And now the hour was yet shy of high-noon, and Winterfell lay beneath a pale mantle of snow. The light that spilled through the narrow shutters was softened by frost, the beams stretching across the floor in long silver slants. The fire in Lord Stark’s chamber burned low but steady, its glow painting the stone walls in gold and ember-red.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of pine logs, oiled leather, and the faint trace of wool long kept by the hearth.

Upon the great oak bed, beneath furs dark as midnight, you lay in the loose sprawl of one who had claimed the space without hesitation. The direwolf’s head carved into the bedpost watched over you, its shadow cast high along the wall.

Ellyn, the elder maiden, moved about the room with the quiet assurance of one who had long kept these chambers in order. Her hair, bound in a neat coil, was streaked with silver; her hands, work-worn and sure, folded fresh linen with the precision of ritual. She had taken a liking to you in a way only Northern women did—with no softness in her manner, but a steadiness that allowed fondness to grow unspoken.

You murmured something from the depths of sleep. Ellyn stilled, head tilting, then stepped closer to tuck the fur higher about your shoulder

“And if the snow falls heavy by morning, my lady?” she asked softly, indulging the dream that had hold of you.

Your brow smoothed, your lips parting. “If it snows…” The words drifted from you like mist. “…I will steal the Lord’s boats. And his gloves. Maybe… his cloak.”

Ellyn’s chuckle was a warm sound in the cold air. “He’ll not take kindly to that.”

“It is warm,” you sighed, lashes resting still upon your cheeks. “Like him.”

Unheard by either of you, two sets of boots ascended the stair, slow and unhurried.

“And what will you do if he catches you, bold creature?” Ellyn teased, smoothing the fur down again.

A faint smile ghosted across your lips. “Benji will take it for me.” The syllables were slurred with drowsiness, but the mischief in them was plain.

A low breath of amusement escaped Benjen Stark from the doorway, though you slept on.

“And if Lord Benjen refuses?” Ellyn pressed, her tone like a mother drawing more from a child’s tale.

“I will pout… or cry,” you murmured, turning faintly in the furs. “Worked on sailors… will work on wolves.”

At that, Cregan Stark’s shadow lengthened across the floor. Ellyn turned, startled to see both brothers framed in the doorway, snow still melting on their shoulders.

“My lords,” she said quickly, dipping her head.

Cregan’s voice was low, though it carried. “She sleeps here?”

“Aye, my lord,” Ellyn answered without fluster. “For a week now. I thought you had permitted it—she lies here as though it were her right. The only day she left, she woke me in the night and pulled me from my pallet to lie beside her. Offered no apology when morning came.”

Benjen’s mouth curved faintly; Cregan’s did not.

He stepped into the room, gaze fixed upon you. The firelight caught in his hair, melting the snow, glistening along the line of his jaw. You lay wholly unguarded before him, one hand curled in the fur, the other resting palm-up as though in invitation.

“You mean to steal my cloak?” His tone was quiet, the words shaped more to himself than to the room.

“If it snows,” you breathed, the dream clinging to your voice.

Cregan’s gaze lingered on you for a long moment, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing. There was no calculation in your face now, no spark of mischief—only the unguarded ease of someone who had claimed the space without asking.

Benjen moved toward the bed, ready to nudge you awake, but Cregan’s hand shot out, catching his arm. “Leave her,” he said quietly.

The maiden’s eyes flicked between them, but she merely curtsied and went back to her work.

You murmured something else then, too soft to catch entirely, though Cregan thought he heard his name folded somewhere in the warmth of it. He wasn’t sure whether the sound unsettled him… or made him reluctant to leave.

The fire had burned low, the glow licking over the edge of Cregan’s book as he read in the heavy, comfortable silence of his chambers. The snow outside softened the world, muting every sound but the faint crackle of the logs.

Behind him, you stirred. A quiet groan escaped your lips, muffled as you rolled onto your stomach, burying your face back into the pillow. The sunlight still slipped through the narrow window, casting a pale gold across the fur-draped bed.

“Seven hells,” you muttered, the words barely audible.

Cregan’s gaze lifted from the page, his voice dropping low. “Sleep well?”

“Yes,” you answered without hesitation, your voice still thick with dreams. “Always. Your chambers are more comfortable than mine. So warm… so you.” You smiled drowsily, eyes still heavy, and began to push yourself upright.

It was then he noticed—or rather, allowed himself to notice—that you were bare beneath the furs, the pelts spilling over your shoulders but doing little to disguise the curve of your skin. He said nothing, though his eyes lingered, taking you in with the stillness of a man who measured his breaths.

“I wasn’t expecting you back in,” you went on, adjusting the furs as you leaned lazily against the carved headboard. “I usually have the maiden change the sheets before you return.” The faintest smirk tugged at your lips, as though you knew precisely how your words might land.

His book closed with a soft thud, one large hand resting over the cover. “And why,” he asked slowly, “would my sheets need changing?”

Your smile deepened, eyes glinting with mischief. “Because I live in them more than I do my own.” For a heartbeat, the fire seemed to fill the room with something heavier than heat, the air thick between you. Cregan did not move toward you, but nor did he look away. And in the quiet, it felt as though both of you understood that your trespass into his space had become something far more than idle curiosity.

“Take your clothes off and join me,” you said, the words soft but threaded with unmistakable intent. “You’re not doing anything… and I’m rather cold.” The smile you gave him was lazy, inviting, as though the request were the most natural thing in the world.

For a moment, he simply studied you—grey eyes steady, as if weighing not the request itself, but the reasons you might give it. Then, without a word, he set his book aside and stood. The firelight caught on the broad line of his shoulders as he shed his outer layers, the sound of leather and wool shifting in the quiet.

Slowly, deliberately, he crossed to the bed and slipped beneath the furs. The bed seemed to shift around you when he settled in, the heavy furs cocooning the both of you in warmth. His body radiated heat like the hearth itself, the faint chill of snow still clinging to his skin where his hair brushed your cheek. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. His arm was firm around your waist, fingers splayed just enough that you felt the subtle flex each time he breathed. You rested your palm against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath.

“See?” you murmured at last, your voice quiet but edged with something teasing. “Better.”

His gaze flicked down to you, a faint crease between his brows. “You do not seem troubled by being in my bed.”

“I’ve been here before,” you reminded, lips curving. “Though you weren’t in it.”

One corner of his mouth lifted, just enough to betray amusement. “I should have noticed.”

“I think you did,” you said softly, letting your fingertips trace the line of his collarbone. “You just… didn’t stop me.”

The weight of his eyes lingered on you then, a deep, assessing stillness. “Perhaps I didn’t want to.”

The fire popped, breaking the quiet, but neither of you looked away. Your leg brushed his under the furs, not in invitation, but as though it had always belonged there. He didn’t move, yet the air between you tightened, the warmth pressing heavier.

His hand slid up from your waist to rest at the small of your back, the motion slow, deliberate. “You’ve made yourself at home here,” he said.

“Would you like me to leave?” you asked, though your voice held no real threat of going.

His thumb moved once against your spine. “No.”

You smiled faintly, eyes closing for a moment as you sank more fully against him, letting the shared heat seep into your bones. The snow beyond the shutters might have been falling in thick curtains for all you knew—the world outside seemed to have narrowed to the sound of his breathing and the weight of his presence.

Neither of you reached for more. Not yet. But the not was its own kind of closeness, and you felt him feel it too.

𓃠⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⋆⭒⚔⭒⋆⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯𓃠

At some point, without either of you naming it, sharing his bed became part of the rhythm. Some nights you fell asleep with a book still in hand, his steady breathing a low counterpoint to the rustle of pages; other nights you woke to find his arm heavy across your waist, the warmth of him warding off Winterfell’s chill. It was a quiet intimacy, born not of haste but of familiarity, each morning marked by the muted exchange of words before the day claimed him.

Now, as southern envoys arrived to speak of trade and alliances.

The Great Hall glowed with firelight, shadows flickering against the high, timbered ceiling. The long tables were crowded, trenchers heaped with roasted boar, venison glazed with honey, and bread still warm from the ovens. The air was a heady mix of spiced wine, pine smoke, and the brine of fresh-caught river fish.

The southerners stood out like bright-plumed birds among wolves—fine silks in jewel tones, jeweled rings catching every glint of torchlight. They laughed too loudly, spoke too much with their hands, and eyed the women of the North with an ease born of courts where such stares were currency. A few had fixed their attention on you since your arrival, their glances lingering a heartbeat too long.

At the high table, Cregan Stark sat in quiet command, flanked by his bannermen. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes—grey and unblinking—followed you through the hall. He had not touched you before others, not spoken a claim aloud, yet since the nights you’d spent in his bed—talking, sharing warmth beneath the furs—there was no question in his mind. You were his, and in the North, that meant something.

You wove through the press of bodies with the same unhurried confidence you carried in Braavos. The southern envoys angled subtly toward your path, one even straightening his doublet as though readying for a dance. But your attention slid past them and came to rest on a woman seated midway down the table.

Lady Maeril of House Dustin—silver threaded through her dark hair, her gown of deep green trimmed in sable. She sat straight-backed, her cup held loosely, watching the dancers with an expression caught somewhere between longing and detachment. Since her son’s death the previous winter, her laughter had been rare, and her place at feasts more a formality than a joy.

You stopped before her and inclined your head. “My lady,” you said, your Braavosi lilt softening the words, “would you grant me a dance? I have no skill to boast of, but I swear not to crush your feet.”

For a moment, she only looked at you, startled. Then, slowly, her lips curved, a ghost of the smile she might have worn in her girlhood. “It has been some time since anyone dared to ask,” she murmured.

You extended your hand. “Then I am honored to be the first in too long.” Her fingers slid into yours, cool but firm, and you led her toward the space cleared near the hearth. The musicians, sensing the moment, shifted their tune to a light reel, the kind meant to coax even the most reluctant dancers.

You matched your pace to hers, guiding her through the first steps with a gentle confidence. On the turn, the firelight caught the silver in her hair, making it gleam like frost beneath the moon. By the second spin, a soft laugh escaped her lips, surprising even herself. By the third, her cheeks were warm, her shoulders looser, her smile reaching her eyes.

Around the hall, the northern lords took notice. Her husband, standing near the trestle table, watched with open approval, his eyes brightening as he saw the ease return to her face. The man beside him murmured something about the Braavosi’s charm, but he only shook his head and smiled.

When the music slowed, you brought her hand to your lips and bowed low, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Thank you, my lady,” you said, releasing her fingers with care. “You’ve made the North warmer this night.”

Lady Maeril chuckled softly, shaking her head as though amused by her own enjoyment. She returned to her husband’s side, her hand finding his without thought, the curve of her smile lingering. From the high table, Cregan’s gaze never wavered. His face was unreadable to those who did not know him, but to those who did—Benjen among them—it was clear: he liked what he saw. Not the dance itself, but the choice. You had passed over the southerners who watched you too closely, choosing instead to lift the spirits of one of his own. Without a word, you had made a statement, and the wolves of the hall understood it

The great hall glowed with firelight, the air thick with the mingled scents of venison, spiced wine, and evergreen boughs hung along the beams. You had spent most of the evening beside Cregan, answering polite inquiries from the southern envoys, but your gaze often drifted to Benjen—his sharp, assessing stare cutting over the hall like a drawn blade.

It was then a tall southern lord in deep green silks approached, bowing with theatrical grace before offering his hand. “My lady,” he said, voice smooth as polished glass, “allow me the honor of a dance.” Before you could refuse, the musicians struck up a tune—quick, layered, unmistakably Braavosi. His eyes lit with recognition. “Ah, you know this one,” he murmured, and when you stepped forward, he led you into the intricate pattern with ease. Your feet found the rhythm as if no time had passed since the last time you danced in the canals’ shadow, skirts swirling as you spun through each turn and stamp.

When the final note faded, he stepped back and clapped his hands, delighted. “I knew it! You’re from Braavos, aren’t you? Why are you here, so far north?”

“Visiting family,” you said lightly, tilting your head toward where Benjen stood. The younger Stark’s expression was carved in iron, jaw tight, goblet unmoving in his hand. The southern lord followed your gesture, his smile faltering under Benjen’s glare.

The music in the hall slowed to a steady, courtly rhythm, the notes winding through the vaulted rafters like drifting smoke. You made your way back to the high table, skirts whispering over the rushes, the faintest flush still warming your cheeks from the dance. Conversation swelled and ebbed around you, but here—at the heart of the dais—the air was taut, sharpened. Cregan’s eyes followed you as you slid into your seat beside him, his broad shoulders angled slightly toward you but his expression unreadable. He reached for his wine without breaking that steady, unblinking watch.

“You’re upset,” you murmured, your voice pitched low, your eyes finding his without turning your head.

From the other side, Benjen gave an exaggerated huff that carried more than a hint of theater. “Oh, excellent. She’s noticed. And here I thought you were entirely oblivious to the storm you’ve stirred.”

You arched a brow. “Have I?”

“What gave it away?” Benjen leaned forward, his elbows on the table, voice sharp with dry humor. “Was it the look of pure joy on my face as he spun you around? Or perhaps the way my teeth ground together when he put his hands on you? Too familiar, far too familiar for a man who’s only just stepped foot in this hall.”

You turned your head back to Cregan. “And you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze slid from you to the table ahead, but his jaw was tight, the faint muscle there working as he pressed his lips together. You could read him more easily than he could himself; the cracks in his composure were subtle, but they were there. The furrow deepening between his brows. The stillness in his frame that wasn’t calm so much as contained.

He wasn’t guarding it—not from you. The truth sat plainly in his eyes. He was jealous.

The woman who had lain in his bed at night, pressed her mouth to his chest, rested her hand over his heart, had moved and laughed and let herself be guided by another man’s hands.

“You already know how I feel,” he said at last, his voice pitched low, meant for you and no one else.

Benjen leaned in, never one to leave a pot unstirred. “No, brother. Say it aloud. Because every time she does this, I’m the one who has to go set the record straight. I’m the one who has to tell everyone she’s still a maiden—”

Your head snapped toward him. “You do not have to announce that I’m a maiden!”

Benjen’s eyes gleamed with a wolfish sort of amusement. “Oh, I think I do. Saves me from having to knock teeth out later when some poor fool gets ideas.”

“Cregan,” Benjen went on, ignoring your glare, “do something about this! She’s—” He gestured vaguely toward you, searching for the word, “—she’s a little girl!”

“I am older than you, Benjen Stark,” you said quietly, each syllable sharpened.

Benjen didn’t miss a beat. “Older, aye. Wiser? No. I’ve known sheep in a snowstorm with more sense than you.” He took a slow drink of his wine, entirely too pleased with himself.

Despite your irritation, a short, unwilling laugh escaped you, and Cregan’s eyes flicked to you at the sound—quick, sharp, like a hawk marking movement.

“Enough,” Cregan said, the single word cutting clean through the noise between you. His gaze fixed on you then, steady, grey as the stone of the hall. “We’ll speak of this later.”

Benjen leaned back in his chair, smirking as though he’d won some small victory. His eyes still lingered on you, half in protection, half in exasperation—the kind only an elder brother or a childhood friend could manage. You turned to your goblet, letting the rim rest against your lower lip, pretending to sip while very aware of the weight of Cregan’s gaze. It wasn’t the same as his jealousy—this was heavier, deliberate, the look of a man who had already decided the matter wasn’t closed.

𓃠⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⋆⭒⚔⭒⋆⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯𓃠

The hall had emptied into the low hum of servants clearing trenchers and dousing torches, the smell of spiced wine and roasted meat lingering in the air. You’d intended to slip away to your own chambers, to avoid whatever look Cregan had been fixing on you all evening—but his hand found your wrist before you’d taken three steps from the high table.

“Not yet,” he said, the words quiet but leaving no space for refusal.

He led you through the shadowed corridors without speaking, his grip firm but not bruising, until you reached the heavy oak door of his chambers. It shut behind you with a low thud, the latch catching like a final word.

You opened your mouth—perhaps to explain, perhaps to tease—but he crossed the space between you in two strides, and whatever words you had were caught on the press of his presence.

“You think I enjoy watching that?” he asked, voice low, sharpened to a point. “You think I want to see his hands on you, hear his voice in your ear?”

You drew a breath, but his gaze held you silent. He didn’t need to raise his voice—the weight of it was enough.

“That dance wasn’t for him,” you began, but he stepped closer still, the heat of him closing in.

“I don’t care if it was for the gods themselves,” he cut in. “He touched you. He smiled at you like he knew something of you. And you let him.”

The crackle from the hearth filled the silence that followed, the light painting him in shifting gold and shadow.

“I lay with you in my bed,” he went on, each word deliberate, “I wake with your head on my chest, your hand curled against me, you’re the one that I lo—“ he shakes his head slightly “And yet tonight, I had to sit there and watch you give a piece of yourself to another man in the middle of my hall.”

Your lips parted again, but he shook his head once—a small, decisive motion. “No. You’ve had your say in the hall with your smile and your clever tongue. Now you’ll hear me.”

His hand rose, fingers brushing your jaw with a touch at odds with the steel in his tone. “You’re mine,” he said simply. “Not in name, not yet—but in truth. And I won’t share what’s mine.”

You could feel your pulse against his fingertips, could hear the slow, controlled rhythm of his breathing.

“Do you understand?”

The firelight caught in his eyes, making them look deeper, darker than grey should ever be. You swallowed once, your answer quiet but steady. “I understand.”

He studied you for another heartbeat before his hand dropped away. Without another word, he turned toward the fire, leaving the air between you heavy with all that had been said—and all that hadn’t.

“Don’t be mad,” you murmured, your voice low, coaxing, as your hands came up to cup his cheeks. Your thumbs brushed the rough line of his jaw, the heat of his skin seeping into your palms.

Cregan’s eyes searched yours for a long moment, the sharpness still there—still wolf—but softening at your touch. With a quiet exhale, he drew you in, one broad hand settling at the small of your back and pulling you flush against him.

“It is tradition in Braavos,” you went on, your smile curling at the corners like a secret. “Maybe… I’ll take you there. Show you where I’m from.”

He made a low sound, somewhere between a groan and a reluctant laugh, and pressed his brow to yours. His breath was warm against your lips. “Don’t try to soothe me with those warm words.”

“I’m not,” you whispered, your nose brushing against his in a slow, unhurried drag. The barest movement had the air between you tightening, his grip on your back firming. “I’m serious, my wolf.”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “Go to Braavos?” he echoed, his voice quieter now, roughened. “Why would I?”

“Because it will be fun,” you said, letting the word fall in a tone that promised more than just city streets and harbor tours. “Benjen can come too. You’ll love it. Meet my father, my brothers, my sisters…” Your smile deepened, eyes glinting as you added, “Maybe even see my mother—if she’s not feeling moody.”

His fingers flexed at your waist, and you felt the shift in him—the way his body angled, the subtle lean that erased what little space was left between you. “And what would I find in Braavos besides your family?” he asked, his voice pitched low enough to curl through you like smoke.

You tilted your head just enough for your lips to almost graze his. “Me,” you said simply. “Where I began. Where you can see all the parts of me you’ve yet to touch.”

For a heartbeat, he stilled, and then his hand slid up your spine, slow and deliberate, until his fingers tangled briefly in your hair. His eyes never left yours. “Careful,” he murmured, the faintest edge of a smile ghosting over his mouth. “You make it sound as if I’ll never want to leave.”

“Maybe you won’t,” you whispered back.

The tension between you sat heavy, electric, until at last he closed the remaining distance—not in a claiming kiss, but in the steady press of his forehead to yours, holding you there as if anchoring himself in your nearness.

𓃠⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⋆⭒⚔⭒⋆⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯𓃠

The chamber was quiet but for the low hiss of the fire and the slow, even breaths of the woman sleeping in Cregan’s bed. The furs had slipped from one bare shoulder, her hair spilled across the pillow in a dark tangle, the rise and fall of her chest steady with deep rest.

Cregan sat in the chair beside the hearth, his gaze fixed not on the flames, but on her.

The door opened with a faint creak, and Benjen stepped inside, shutting it softly behind him. “You wanted to speak with me?” he asked in a low voice, glancing from his brother to the sleeping figure.

“I’m going to marry her,” Cregan said without preamble, his tone so even it could have been mistaken for any other statement—except for the weight in it. “Tonight, made me realize that, I don’t want another and I don’t anyone thinking that she’s someone that they can claim.”

Benjen froze mid-step. His eyes flicked from Cregan’s face to the bed, then back again. Slowly, a grin began to spread. “Seven hells,” he whispered, his voice pitched low so as not to wake you. “You’re serious.” He clap silently, pumping his fist into the air.

“I am.”

Benjen’s grin only widened. “Oh, this is serious.” He nearly laughed, but bit it back, settling for an exaggerated, silent clap of his hands once more.

“She suggested going to Braavos,” Cregan went on, his gaze never leaving you. “I’ll propose there. Arrange it with her father, her mother, her siblings—come to some agreement if her father says so.” A faint, humorless curve touched his mouth. “Maybe kill him if he doesn’t.”

Benjen blinked, though his amusement didn’t fade. “You’re dead serious.”

Cregan’s eyes slid to him, a fraction narrower. “I just told you I was.”

Benjen chuckled, shaking his head. “Whoa, whoa—before you start plotting to throw her father into the sea… her father is the Sea Lord of Braavos. He’ll be more than willing to speak with you about her.” He tilted his head, smirking. “Her mother, though… that’s another story.”

“What of her?” Cregan asked, leaning back slightly in the chair, his voice sharpening just a touch.

“She’s Lady of House Greyjoy now,” Benjen explained, lowering his voice even more, as if speaking of a dangerous storm. “Her father died, and out of all his sons, 7 to be exact, he named her his heir. She never married—always pushed for her to be independent. She’s not the type to hand her daughter over just because you show up with a good name and a sword.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, though his eyes betrayed interest. “Then I’ll convince her.”

Benjen arched a brow. “You’ll have to. She’s more likely to test you than welcome you, and if you think the daughter is stubborn…” He let the words trail off with a grin.

Cregan’s gaze drifted back to the bed, to where you shifted slightly in your sleep, your hand curling into the pillow. “I’ve faced worse.”

Benjen studied him for a moment, the smirk fading into something closer to respect. “Then I hope you’re ready to fight for her in more ways than one, brother. Braavos doesn’t give anything freely.”

Cregan’s lips curved, the faintest ghost of a smile as the firelight flickered over his face. “Neither do I.”

Cregan’s gaze lingered on you for another long moment before he rose from the chair, the leather of his boots whispering over the rushes. He crossed to the bed with a quiet tread, careful not to wake you. The furs had slipped low again, baring the curve of your shoulder to the chill air, and he drew them up slowly, tucking them around you with a care that would have startled anyone who only knew him in the hall or on the field.

Without looking away from you, he spoke. “I’ll need your help. It won’t be easy… but they know you. You’ll put their minds at ease.” His voice was low, almost a murmur, as though speaking any louder might disturb you.

Benjen’s grin softened into something smaller, but no less warm. “Of course, brother.”

Cregan straightened, finally meeting Benjen’s eyes across the bed. “Good. Then we’ll make ready for Braavos.”

You stirred faintly in your sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and Cregan’s gaze immediately dropped back to you. Benjen only shook his head, smiling faintly as he backed toward the door, the unspoken truth hanging between them: this was already more than a plan.

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sithapprentice · 6 days ago

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random asf and I know america is ultra fucked rn, but hEEEAAArrr me out…

House of the Dragon Congress! President! American Politics! au!

like Scandal (I’m obsessed with it)

#hotd #house of the dragon #asoiaf #cregan stark #winterfell #house targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #alicent hightower #jacaerys velaryon #game of thrones #hotd x reader

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sithapprentice · 9 days ago

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How is sex with rafe through the seasons?

Summer –

Summer with Rafe is sunburnt skin tangled in $700 sateen sheets, soaked in sweat and his hands are everywhere all at once, rough and greedy. Hands gripping his headboard, loud moans and labored breathes escaping your mouth. Ceiling fan spinning slow, windows open to let the heavy air in, the world outside muffled by the thrum of his laugh against your throat. He tastes like sun-warmed skin and trouble, the kind of heat that makes you delirious, gasping, begging. It’s fast and messy, overwhelming, electric, and gone before you catch your breath.

⸻

Fall –

Fall with Rafe is golden-hour light slanting through the blinds of your room, it smells like crisp leaves and apples, cooler air and longer touches. He slows down, learns your body like it’s the only thing worth studying. There’s an edge of possession, hands gripping your hips as leaves rattle against the window, his voice lower, rougher, like he’s sharing secrets only you get to hear. It smells like leather and cedar, feels like the kind of warmth you ache for as soon as it’s gone. His hands move up your sweater hidden behind the rocks at a bonfire at the boneyard. Too eager to wait until he gets home, needing to fulfill the ache he’s had in his pants since you both arrived.

⸻

Winter –

Winter with Rafe is a different kind of hunger—slow, deliberate, exotic in its decadence. At the vacation home in Aspen — a fur rug by the fire, flickers of heat painting your bare skin, his mouth tracing lazy constellations down your body. He makes you wait, savoring the slow burn, every sigh and shiver drawn out like a luxury. It’s champagne in crystal glasses, fur under your back, and the sharp contrast of heat and chill, his voice a low murmur against your ear as snow falls unseen outside. It is quiet but hungry, passionate and slow. It’s raw, it’s love.

⸻

Spring –

Spring with Rafe is restless, like the world waking up all at once. He’s eager, playful, always reaching for you in quiet corners of the country club,tasting like mint and rain. It’s soft at first— finger tips brushing against skin as he takes you on the dock as it rains —but it builds fast, blooming into something that steals your breath. Laughter between kisses, his hand sliding under your shirt while the scent of fresh-cut grass drifts in through the open window of the kitchen at Tannyhill trying not to be caught by Rose.

──────── ⎈ ⋆⋅ 𓆉 ⋅⋆ ⎈ ────────

So sorry this took a bit, I definitely needed some time to play around with ideas and get some help from a good friend of mine 🤭

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sithapprentice · 12 days ago

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I Might Hold You With My Hands Tied (Show You I'm the Right Guy to Figure You Out)

Cregan Stark x Bolton!Reader

Tags: angst with a happy ending, friends to lovers and enemies to lovers, smut, oral sex and fingering (fem. receiving), p. in v. sex

When your brother, the Lord of the Dreadfort and House Bolton, betrays Lord Cregan Stark and the North, there must be consequences. Your fate hangs in the balance - a fate tied to Cregan himself.

You stare out of a window of the Dreadfort: the ancestral seat of your family, House Bolton. The earth surrounding the fortress is covered in a muddy blanket of snow, smeared into a slippery mess by the boots of men and the hooves of horses. But an unmistakable red blotch catches your eye, just along the eastern bank of the Weeping Waters, for it’s still bright against the dirty snow. It’s the blood of your brother, Wilhem, Lord of the Dreadfort and House Bolton, from when Lord Cregan Stark, his liege lord and the Warden of the North, took his head. You watched the whole proceeding from this very window. Watched, as a man you’ve known your whole life beheaded the only son of your late-father for inciting a rebellion against House Stark and the North.

You had tried to convince Wilhem not to rebel, no matter his grievances against Cregan Stark. House Stark, you had implored, is too powerful with too much of the North fiercely loyal to it, as was demonstrated by the amount of men who stood behind the Stark banners, bearing the head of a snarling direwolf. And you tried to remind Wilhem of the love he and Cregan shared as brothers in arms for so long. Wilhem had shrugged you off, and you’re sure now that he had been betrayed by his own men, but you suppose that will be confirmed soon enough. You know that the two uneven sides understood that a battle would have been over quickly, and so your brother and five other men were rounded up and thrown at Lord Stark’s feet. Those five men were ordered to take the black and would be sent to the Wall, but your brother was beheaded with Cregan’s Valyrian steel blade, Ice. You’re sure that Cregan knew what you did too: that the rebellion was Wilhem’s idea, and his alone.

And now here you stand, the last Bolton in the North, your family destroyed, and the honor of your house deeply tarnished. You watch melting snow drip down the window pane, and you feel nothing other than exhaustion and emptiness, for not even the death of your foolish brother seems to bring you to tears. Because of Wilhem’s recklessness, your life is now in the hands of a man you’ve known and cared for all of your life, but have no clue of his intentions for you now: to be killed, tortured for more information, to be sold off, who knows. You’re nothing more than a prisoner in your own home, to be easily discarded or made a pawn for some other use. You swallow thickly, and your eyes focus once more on the gash of red, willing even just one tear to fall and slip down your cheek – like the melting snow on the window – for the state of your misfortunes.

But before you can even manage to blink, you hear a key rattle in the door, unlocking it. You don’t bother to turn around. You know who has come.

“Lord Cregan Stark for you, my lady,” Jonas says quietly – an elderly servant who has served your family for your entire life. You don’t acknowledge his announcement, nor turn to face Cregan. You simply stare at the crimson snow, and the rushing river beyond it.

Your quiet is further disturbed by the sound of heavy footsteps carrying Cregan further into the room, no doubt weighed down by his leather-coated armor. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, and you wait to hear your sentence.

He clears his throat, likely hoping you’ll turn to face him and make this easier for him. You will not.

“I’m sorry to be here under such circumstances, my lady,” he says softly, his deep voice cutting through the silence of the room. Such formality carried by his familiar voice twists in you like a knife. He’s never been this guarded with you. “It’s my understanding that you had nothing to do with this.”

You take a deep breath before speaking, still keeping your back to him. So this is how it’s going to be then? “I’m your prisoner, my lord. What does that matter?”

He’s silent for a moment. He must be choosing his next words with care, you think with rancor, as a man of his ilk ought to. If he wishes to be the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North with you, and not the man you’ve always known, so be it.

“It matters a great deal to me that you were not a part of your brother’s rebellion,” he states gently, and you can hear him shift his weight, leaning from one foot to the other, his armor creaking as he does. He and Wilhem had been so close, assuming their lordships at the same time. But none of that matters any more. “And you’re not my prisoner.”

Your jaw clenches sharply, and you finally spin around. “Then what am I?” You snarl. He visibly recoils from your sudden harshness, strands of his brown tresses sweeping along his cheeks as he jerks his head back, but then he quickly tries to smooth his expression. You feel your insides twist even more with anger, and perhaps a hint of grief, to see his fur cloak and armor still faintly splattered with red. He must have hastily wiped away Wilhem’s blood before coming to your chambers, but he did a poor job of it.

“That’s up to you,” he replies calmly, steeling his expression and folding his hands over the pommel of the secondary sword at his hip. Despite Cregan’s towering height, the longsword that killed your brother is strung across his back, too long to carry at his waist.

You clasp your hands at your front, wringing them together in irritation. “Up to me?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steadier this time.

Cregan nods, his familiar gray eyes – two storms swirling around pools of black – never leaving yours. “You’re a noblewoman, and one who has done nothing wrong. I wouldn’t judge a sister by the sins of her brother,” he explains, taking a hesitant step closer to you. You automatically tense up and shrink back, pressing against the window. He watches you do this, his jaw flexing as he clenches his teeth, but doesn’t make an attempt to move any closer. “And so I offer you a choice: work with me to repair the reputation of House Bolton and bring peace to our realm, or leave the North and all of this all behind forever.”

You breathe hard, and cross your arms at your front, as you take in his words. But you want clarification. You want him to say what he means. “Work with you? What does that mean?”

He swallows thickly and tilts his head to the side as his eyes search your face. “I’m offering you my hand in marriage so that we might heal the North together,” he says quietly. He glances at his feet then, almost as if he’s nervous. It’s then that you remember that he’s only four and twenty, just three years older than you – his youth and inexperience are showing; his ignorance to what he’s just done to you. And it infuriates you.

“Marry you?” You ask, your tone thick with incredulity. You take your own step closer to him now, having regained a shred of confidence through your anger. “I just watched you behead my brother from this window, my house and family are destroyed, and you think, my lord, that I would want to marry you?”

His eyes find yours once more and you watch his lips part slowly, for he appears even more unsure of himself now, but he also finds his nerve to speak again. “I can’t undo what I’ve done, just like I can’t undo what Wilhem tried to do to me and the North. But I can ask for your forgiveness, and the chance to prove–”

“I want to leave,” you cut him off sharply, taking another step towards him. “I want to leave, and I hope to never see your face again.” In contrast to your lack of emotions earlier, your voice breaks on the last bit.

You can tell your words sting him, for though he’s a lord seasoned in masking his emotions and nerves, you know it’s not always an easy thing to do. His shoulders sag a bit, now doubt under the weight of his armor and his decisions. His jaw clenches again and he swallows slowly, his gaze holding yours. A tense moment passes between you before he speaks again.

“I shall have four of my guards escort you south to White Harbor at first light, and I will send you with coin to board a ship. To where is up to you,” he explains quietly, his thumb rubbing over the pommel of his sword, clearly for something to do in his moment of discomfort. “I wish you good fortune, my lady.” He inclines his head before looking up to meet your eyes once more. You can see what looks like sadness in them – undoubtedly from what he’s had to face and do today. Though you’ve known him a long time, he appears like a stranger before you now, and his plight can’t get through your own rage and grief. You feel no pity for him. Your life is the one that’s destroyed, not his. You lift your chin in defiance.

His sadness seems to intensify as he takes one last sweeping look over you, and then turns to leave, rolling his broad shoulders a bit under his thick armor, and exits the room without another word.

The icy wind whips fiercely, biting your cheeks more harshly than you’ve ever felt as a daughter of the North. You and your escorts of House Stark are caught in a violent winter storm – one you had sensed was coming from the change in the air pressure last night, but had ignored due to your overwhelming desire to leave the Dreadfort. You didn’t care what you faced, so long as you could put all of this behind you.

But the head guard stops his horse abruptly, interrupting your thoughts and making your own mount nearly bump into his before it halts too. He turns to look at you.

“My lady, we must turn back,” he shouts over the wind.

“We can’t go back to the Dreadfort,” you yell back, panic rising in your chest. You can’t go back. You absolutely can’t.

“We’ll go to Winterfell,” he explains, raising an arm to shield his face from some of the wind and snow. “Our orders were to bring you safely to White Harbor, or to Winterfell if we can’t do that. We have no other choice, my lady. This storm is coming from the South. We can’t continue on.”

Your stomach drops and you can feel your heart ice over even more. Going to Winterfell seems worse than returning to the Dreadfort, but you know you really have no choice now. These men are loyal to Cregan, and they will heed his commands only, not yours.

You nod your head, the battle lost, and you turn your horse to follow the guards. Even through the swirling, blinding snow, you know they’re leading you up the Sheepshead Hills, then down towards a stone bridge that crosses the White Knife, and into the territory of Winterfell and House Stark.

Despite your heavy cloak, your limbs are frozen as they cling to your horse. You’re hungry too, and exhausted, having slept very little the night before. Sleep evaded you as your mind was plagued with a sense of guilt for abandoning the North and the chance to redeem your house, which has stood faithfully with House Stark for generations. But how could you ever sleep at night knowing you’ve given yourself to the man who executed your brother and left House Bolton without a lord or heir? What would your parents have thought? Your grandparents? And on, and on, back in your family line? Would they see you as a traitor to your own kin, unworthy of the Bolton name? The thought makes your empty stomach churn painfully as you steer your horse over the rocky terrain of the hills, desperate now for some reprieve of the wind the downslope might offer. Your hope is all for naught, for the storm whips fiercely on the western side of the hills too. But the White Knife is now in sight, as well as the bridge you’re meant to cross.

Eventually, you and the four guards make it to the bridge, the horses treading cautiously. The water rushes swiftly beneath the stone, for the current is strong here as the river narrows before its two branches collide further south.

Safely over the water, you urge your horse on and follow the men along a path to Winterfell. You try to quiet your mind and fight back the tears that threaten to leak from your eyes. They’ll only freeze on your raw cheeks.

After what seems like an eternity, the castle comes into view – sprawling and made out of gray granite stone, as formidable as you remember. But the only thing welcome about the sight before you is the thought of sitting by a warm fire to thaw out your weary bones. You resign that you must wait out the storm, but you will bid the men to take you south once more to White Harbor as soon as possible, for you’re determined not to stay at Winterfell a moment longer than necessary.

Upon approaching the East Gate, you find your sense of dread snaking even tighter around your throat, for servants hurrying around the courtyard slow their steps and then stop to stare as you enter Winterfell, surrounded by four guards. You know they know who you are.

You try not to look at them, and slowly dismount your horse, your frozen toes prickling painfully as you land on the ground.

“Lady Bolton,” calls a weathered voice. You look up and see an old man approaching, a heavy set of chains bumping against his torso. Oryn, the maester of House Stark. “Welcome back to Winterfell, my lady.”

You don’t respond, for your teeth are chattering violently from the cold, though some of the wind is blocked by the high stone walls of the castle. You simply look at the old man, letting him decide your fate.

He seems to understand. “If you’ll follow me, my lady.”

You wrap your cloak tighter around your body, and follow him down a stone path and then through a passageway of the castle, before coming out of the other side. You have been to Winterfell many times, and you know the way to the Guest House well, but follow the old many anyway. Despite having always found your accommodations at this castle to be welcoming and comfortable, you’re sure you won’t feel the same on this occasion.

Grateful to finally be out of the wind, you follow the maester up a set of stairs and into a spacious guestroom. A fire is already burning in the hearth, as if he knew you were coming. He slowly stoops down to set another log on the grate, as if giving you a moment to collect yourself too.

He finally straightens up, his chains rattling as he moves. “If there is anything I can do for you while you’re here, please call upon me, my lady. I will have food brought to your rooms and a maid will draw you a bath.”

You nod your head again and then find the nerve to meet his eye. “Is he here?” You hate how your voice quivers, but you’re still chilled to the bone, and upset to be in this castle.

The maester gives you a sad smile. “No, my lady. Lord Stark has traveled to the Wall,” he explains gently, and you understand what he’s trying to tell you. That Cregan has accompanied the men that are traitors, like your brother, to the Wall to see their sentences through. “He shall return within the week.”

You nod again, worrying your teeth over your lower lip, and look down at your chest to unbuckle your cloak with stiff fingers.

“I will leave you now. Please know that, by the orders of Lord Stark, you’re welcome here, my lady. No one will treat you as anything other than an honored guest.” The maester takes a step towards the door.

“Did he really say that?” You ask quietly. The old man pauses his wrinkled hand on the doorknob before his green eyes find yours again.

“He did,” he replies with a nod. “I expect that he had a hunch that you would find yourself here.” He gives you another sad smile, and then turns once more, leaving you alone with your thoughts and despair.

The days turn from one to the next at Winterfell, each much the same as the last. The storm subsided the night before, but left snow in thick, windswept banks, which only get deeper the further south one travels. You know it would be foolish to try to go to White Harbor now, meaning you’ll have to wait an indefinite amount of time before leaving. You take a steadying breath as you look around the library, neat shelves of leather-bound books tucked snugly against the curved stone walls. You’ve learned that it’s a place you’re unlikely to be disturbed, for it seems that you and Maester Oryn are the only ones who seek out books at Winterfell. You find you really don’t have an interest in reading any of them too closely today, but it’s a small comfort to change your scenery from the guest chambers you’ve been staying in. You absentmindedly flip to the next page of the book in your lap – one you’ve been reading for a few days now – letting your thoughts wander instead to where you might head once you depart White Harbor. Volantis, perhaps? Or Lys? You might be able to find work as a healer or midwife, for you’ve always favored the art of medicine.

You’re pulled from your thoughts as the oak door on the far side of the room opens gently, and you expect to see Maester Oryn walk through, his heavy chains clinking with his stiff movements.

He does not.

Instead, it’s the one person you were hoping not to see while you’re here. The person you told you hoped you’d never lay eyes on again.

He’s wearing a different cloak now than the last time you saw him, gray fur sweeping over his broad shoulders. He looks weary from the road, half of his brown, shoulder-length hair pulled back loosely, with strands having come free to frame his face. His cheeks are red too, as if he got off his horse and came in from the cold, straight here. Perhaps he did.

You eye him from where you sit, feeling sheepish. You’ve no idea what to say to him, having spoken so harshly to him the last time he stood before you. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you remain bitter with him, and with your situation.

He clears his throat gently. “Maester Oryn said I’d find you up here. I wanted to see that you’re alright,” he explains, his voice carrying softly through the stillness of the library. “That you have everything you need while you’re here.”

“I do,” you say, just as quietly. “Thank you,” you add as well before you can stop yourself, for years of learned-politeness for a noblewoman don’t fade overnight.

He nods, and looks at the ground for a moment, and then back up at you, as if he’s trying to decide something. He takes a deep breath.

“I also came to say that I made a grievous error the last time we spoke,” he states, a little more loudly, as if he wants to make sure that both of you hear his words. “You’re your father’s trueborn daughter, and nothing but tradition says a woman can’t rule in her own right in the North. Should you wish, I would name you the Lady of the Dreadfort and of House Bolton, and escort you back across the Sheepshead Hills as soon as the roads are passable.”

You breathe slowly, taking in his words and offer, and simply look at him for a moment. For years, you’ve stolen lingering glances at his face, which turned from the softness of youth to the hardness of manhood. It’s odd for you, now, to look at him and have his full attention. As you stare, his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, likely unsure with how to proceed. Waiting for your reply. He’s never been shy with you, but perhaps he thinks he might have offended you once again. Perhaps the two of you don’t really know each other anymore.

“Have you ever read this book?” You ask softly, looking down at the open pages in your lap, and then back up at him.

His expression shifts from one of discomfort to one of confusion by your change in subject, and lack of acknowledgment of his revised offer. He shifts on his feet.

“Which book is it?” He asks, clasping his hands together at his front. He’s always done that when he’s trying to keep his composure.

“The Great Northern Houses by Maester Elwic Bryson,” you state, gently shutting the book and showing him the cover.

He nods slowly. “I have.” You can see questions in his eyes now.

“I didn’t know that House Bolton had rebelled against House Stark so many times in the past,” you explain, your fingers curling gently against the book’s worn leather binding.

A faint sadness comes back to his expression – the one you saw briefly the last time. “Aye.”

You nod slowly. “And each time, the Stark’s forgave the Bolton’s.”

He nods, taking a deep breath as he does. “We have.”

You suck in a shaky inhale too. “Why?”

He takes a hesitant step closer to you, his eyes holding yours. “Because stability and peace among the northern houses means more than the pride of one king, or one lord.” His words are careful, but they acknowledge how far back your family’s treason stretches – back to the days when the Starks ruled as Kings in the North.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding, and look down at the book, feeling the emotions you’ve tamped down suddenly bubble up to the surface.

“I won’t force my presence on you any further, my lady, as you made your preferences clear the last time we spoke. But should you need anything, or if you would like to discuss my offer, please don’t hesitate to call upon me,” he says quietly, and you can hear the faint pain in his voice. My lady, again, not your name. You’ve truly hurt him, you think, as he’s hurt you. He turns to leave.

“Cregan,” you call softly, your chest rattling as you try to hold back the tears that threaten to flow.

He turns in the doorway, and seems to find the courage to meet your gaze once more.

So do you. “Thank you,” you whisper.

He looks at you for a moment, a faint softness falling across his features. He dips his head in acknowledgement and then vanishes through the doorway, the deafening silence left behind him echoing around the library.

You stare into the fireplace, watching the flames dance around the blistering wood.

“Cassandra,” you murmur, getting the attention of the lady’s maid that has been assigned to you. You’ve found that she’s a kind woman, and just a few years younger than you.

“My lady?” She asks, finishing folding one of your shifts and placing it in the wardrobe on the other side of your chambers, before walking over to where you sit by the hearth.

You take a steading breath. “Will Lord Stark be dining alone tonight?”

Cassandra pauses for a moment before answering. “Aye, he will.”

You nod, catching her eye. You force yourself to be confident. You’ll never get what you want if you aren’t. “Do you think he would prefer it that way?”

Cassandra smooths the folds of her dress before looking back up at you. “It’s hard to know the mind of Lord Stark, my lady, but I think he might welcome some company.”

You nod once more. “I think I’ll put my best dress on then,” you say quietly. She nods too, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and goes to retrieve a fur-lined dress from the wardrobe. It’s a deep blue, lined with simmering gray fur. She brings over a matching shawl too – made from the same gray fur – which will drape over your shoulders for warmth, and elegance.

You stand, and she helps you dress, lacing you up comfortably and smoothing the fur over your shoulders. Only the front strands of your long hair are pulled and tied behind your head, leaving the rest of your tresses to cascade down your back.

Cassandra finishes fussing with your hair and outfit, and then steps back to admire you with a gentle smile. “You look lovely, my lady.”

You feel the ice that has had a firm grip around your heart thaw just a little bit more from her kindness. “Thank you, Cassandra.”

She gives you a small curtsy, and then opens the door and ushers you through.

You steadily walk the long, winding corridors through Winterfell, past the armory and the Great Keep, to find your way to the Great Hall, grateful for your familiarity with these areas of the castle. It gives you some time to think about how you’d like to approach your thoughts with Cregan, and how to make him understand your perspective.

You take a deep breath as you approach the massive doors of the Great Hall. The guards nod to you in deference, and then one announces your presence. “Lady Bolton, my lord.”

As you enter the hall, your eyes land on the long dining table in the center, polished wood gleaming in the light of the flickering torches and the roaring hearth behind the lord’s chair at the head of the table. Your gaze comes to rest on him as he pauses the bite he was about to take, seemingly shocked for a moment that you’re here, in the Great Hall, standing before him. He lowers his fork before standing, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

“Are you alright, my lady?” You can hear the concern in his voice, and his eyes sweep over your body, as if searching for something wrong.

“My lord,” you greet him with a small curtsy. “Aye, I’m fine… I just wished to speak with you.” You’re pleased that your voice has remained steady despite your nerves. You’re just as unsure about standing before him as he’s clearly surprised that you’re suddenly in his Great Hall.

He nods, swallowing slowly. “Would you like to join me?” He asks quietly, gesturing a hand to the seat to his right.

“That would be welcome, thank you,” you reply softly, walking over to the seat, your dress swishing around your legs. A servant beats you to the chair though, tugging it out to assist you with sitting. You give the servant a polite smile, but he doesn’t catch it before he hurries away, likely to get another place setting for you, since Cregan was, as Cassandra predicted, dining alone.

Cregan settles back down into his chair, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. You know you should speak first, and put him at ease. You’ve both done enough to make the other uncomfortable every time you’ve been in each other’s presence.

“I wished to discuss with you the offer you made to me earlier.” You fold your hands in your lap, and find the nerve to meet his gaze fully. There is a softness in his gray eyes, but the rest of his expression is unreadable as he takes in your words. It reminds you of your father. “Of your offer to support my role as the Lady of the Dreadfort.”

He nods once, but then his eyes flick to the servant returning with a place setting for you. The servant pours wine into your glass as well, and then disappears once more into the shadows.

“Please help yourself,” Cregan says, gesturing to platters in front of you, filled with steaming meat, vegetables, and bread.

You do, filling your plate, and then look up at him once more.

“I take it you’d like to accept my offer, and become the Lady of the Dreadfort?” His tone is calm as he glances at you before resuming eating his own dinner.

You take a bite yourself, savoring the comforting taste of roast duck. It’s a common dish in the North, one both of you have grown up eating.

“I would not,” you say after finishing your bite, and reaching for your wine glass.

He takes a sip of ale, his brows tugging together. “Why not?” There is an edge to his voice, one you’ve rarely heard in the past.

You take another sip of your wine before answering. “Because I’m a woman, my lord. It’s unlikely that the men who were loyal to my house would respect me as their liege lord… Especially not after what happened,” you finish quietly, holding his gaze.

He inhales roughly as he processes your words, as if he’s bothered by them. “I would order them to respect you as they would any other lord. I promise you that.”

You shake your head. “As honorable as your intentions are, I don’t know if that would be enough. Northmen might forgive, but they never forget.”

He lets out a low laugh that has nothing to do with amusement. “You’d still like to leave then?”

“Aye,” you confirm, skewering a roasted potato with your fork. “But I would ask you for something else.”

He eyes you for a moment, the muscle in his jaw feathering, but then nods for you to continue.

“Should I marry, I would ask that one of my sons be granted the Dreadfort, its lands, and the title of Lord Bolton, when he comes of age.” You hope it came out more confident than you feel.

You watch Cregan slow in cutting his meat before he meets your gaze once more. “I will agree to your request, so long as you agree that he’s raised here, as my ward, to learn the ways of the North.” He takes a slow sip of his ale, watching you take in his words now.

You feel your blood begin to simmer as you stare at him. “You’d ask me to give up my son, from a young age, to be raised by you?” You try hard to keep your voice steady – to mask your rising anger – but you’re not sure you succeed. You remember that he too knows you well.

He lifts his chin a bit and shifts slightly in his chair, making the black wolf fur on his cloak ripple in the firelight – a not so subtle reminder of who he is. “You plan to leave the North, and I would need to guarantee that your son would be prepared to lead in the North. He won’t be able to do that from wherever you plan to go.” His tone is a little sharper now, though you can see he’s trying to keep his frustration in check, just like you.

But he’s better at it then you are. “You’re impossible,” you hiss, standing quickly, your chair scraping harshly against the stone floor.

He does the same, following you as you march from the hall. “What would you have me do?”

You don’t look at him as you hurry down the hall, not having any idea of where you’re heading to in this part of the castle, but wanting desperately to get away from him. “You would let me raise my son as I see fit because I’m a Bolton, and you’re not.” You seethe, attempting to length your strides, but his long legs allow him to keep pace with you.

You turn a corner, following a more narrow corridor, your breath coming hard.

“I’m the Warden of the North, and I could teach him the ways of all northern houses,” he grits out, trying to catch your eye as you refuse to look at him.

“You know nothing about being a Bolton–”

But before you can take one more step, he shoves open a door, grabs your wrist and tugs you through. What little strength you have is no match for his, and you find yourself being pulled into some kind of study. You can’t take it all in quick enough before he slams the door shut and backs you up against it, caging you in with his bulk. You look up at his face, both of you breathing hard. His nostrils flare as he stares down at you, his familiar gray eyes boring into yours. You’ve clearly struck a nerve with him.

But so has he with you. “You don’t know anything about being a Bolton, and I do. He should be raised by me,” you snap, tilting your chin up in defiance now. “Or do you wish to make me suffer more?”

“I’m trying to help you. Why must you refuse me at every turn?” He growls, baring his teeth as he leans in closer, like the wolves of his house.

But you won’t back down, snarling back at him. “You’re not trying to help me–”

“I am–”

But his words are cut off and replaced by the loud sound of your palm colliding with his cheek, ringing clearly through the quiet room. You breathe hard, watching his skin redden from where you’ve just slapped him. He breathes hard too, his exhales fanning across your own reddening cheeks. He looks furious.

Something twists inside you – hatred morphing into something different – as you hold his incensed gaze. He’s so warm against you from where he’s caged you in against the door, his body pressed up against yours. His scent fills the air around you too, and you breath him in with every shuddering breath that you take: pine, woodsmoke, and leather.

“You don’t understand what it’s like–” you start, your voice wobbling with emotion.

“I don’t understand what it’s like to be ripped from my home because of another’s mistake?” He cuts you off harshly, leaning even closer to you; so close your noses could brush. You can hear the disbelief in his voice. As if you could forget how his uncle tried to thwart his inheritance and titles, seizing them for his own.

“And have you forgotten that mine own father fought beside you? And died so that you might rule these lands?” You demand, eyes frantically searching his face. How could he forget?

He exhales roughly. “I could never forget the sacrifice your father made for me and for this realm.”

“Then why are you torturing his only daughter like this?” You ask, your voice breaking. You feel the hot tears you’ve been trying so hard to hold back finally begin to slip.

You watch his face crumble a bit, and he tilts his head. “Because I don’t want you to leave,” he breathes.

Tears roll swiftly down your cheeks as you take in his words, momentarily stunned into silence.

“You’re your father’s daughter, and you belong in the North. You should raise your son in the North,” he continues, and you can hear the pain in his voice. Pain both of you have caused.

But you push your hands roughly against his chest, which surprises him enough to step back, allowing you to slip from his grasp and walk into the middle of the room, hugging your arms around yourself. You try to steady your breaths and blink your tears away.

You hear him slowly follow you, and then sit in a chair near the desk you’re now bracing your hands against.

“What does that mean, Cregan?” Your arms shake as your tears drip onto the wood surface.

You wait, but he’s silent behind you. It’s only until you turn to face him once more, that you see it in his expression – something you’ve forbidden yourself from ever hoping for, even after he voiced his original offer to you. At the time, you had assumed he was only offering what was right, not what he truly wanted.

“Do you really not know? After all this time?” His voice is ragged, his eyes flickering over your face with disbelief.

You shake your head, leaning your weight back against the desk.

His head tilts to the side as he swallows painfully. “I love you. I’ve always loved you,” he breathes.

Your own breath catches in your throat.

“I had planned to offer you my hand, but my plans were cut short when Wilhem rebelled. It’s why I was able to get to the Dreadfort so quickly – I was preparing to go there anyway. To you.” His words come out shakily, making your body shake as well as you process his words. He was going to come to propose. He loves you.

Your lower lip trembles. “Cregan–”

“I should have told you. But you were so angry with me, with what happened. I didn’t think you’d believe me.” He leans back in his chair, looking up at you. You can truly see the weight now of everything he carries – all of the hard choices, all of the things he must keep to himself no matter how much it pains him.

You finally find your voice. “But you let me go – let me try leave the North, forever.”

His expression softens even more, his sadness rippling over his body in waves. “I thought you’d never forgive me, and I so I wouldn’t yolk you to me, no matter how much I love you. I wanted you to have a choice.”

You push off the table and cross the few steps separating you from where he sits, his eyes tracking your movements. His left knee brushes against your dress when you stop before him.

“And what about now?” You whisper, holding his gaze as your fingers curl into the velvet fabric of your dress to stop them from shaking.

He takes a shuddering breath before slowly lifting his own hands to lightly curl around the backs of your thighs. You feel the warmth of his massive hands through your clothes, his thumbs gently caressing you, before slowly tugging you forward so you straddle his thigh. Your dress bunches up against his leg, and despite your frustration with him, your body heats with the desire to have your dress, and his clothes, removed entirely.

You slowly settle on his thigh as his hands slide up the sides of your thighs and hips to lightly encircle your waist. Your own hands come up to rest against his chest. You can feel his rapid heartbeat beneath your palm, matching the force of your own thumbing against your ribcage. His ragged breath fans across the exposed skin of your face, neck, and chest, making you shiver in his hold.

“Your second child – boy or girl – would be named the ruler of the Dreadfort…” He takes a steading breath. “And your first would be the heir to Winterfell, if you’ll have me.”

Your heart leaps at his words, his honesty – what he’s always wanted is laid before you, and what he wants now is reflected with what you want. Your hands slip up the planes of his chest, bumping over the quilted fabric of his gambeson, and up the sides of his neck before framing his stubbled cheeks. He’s so warm beneath your palms, especially the cheek that you slapped mere minutes ago. Shame sweeps through you at how vicious you’ve been with him, at how you’ve assumed the worst of him. In your anger and grief, you’d forgotten about who he is, how deeply he cares, and how sometimes he’s forced to make impossible decisions.

You lean forward and press your lips gently against his. His lips are soft and plush despite the rough exterior of him as a hardened, rugged warrior. His lips move tentatively against yours at first, as if he still can’t believe you’re kissing him, but then his hands pull you closer, your core sliding against his thigh.

You gasp softly against his lips from the delicious friction of slipping against his sturdy leg, and he sighs against you too. You know deep in your bones that he understands how you feel. Years worth of desire, affection, and familiarity between the two of you comes rushing to the surface.

His tongue gently swipes against your bottom lip, as if he can’t help but taste you. You part for him with a sigh of your own as his tongue sweeps in to taste you fully, and you follow his lead.

Your fingers curl against his cheeks as you taste him, a shiver rushing up and down your spine. It’s better than you’ve ever imagined, ever dreamed. A sweetness like nothing you’ve ever experienced, an essence that is his alone. His hands sweep gently along the lines of your hips and back, clearly marveling at having you in his lap, in his arms. And you know he’s holding back as he licks into you and touches you.

You break the kiss. “I accept,” you breathe against his lips. “I want you. And I want our children to be raised here, to rule the North.”

A shudder rattles through his chest as he opens his eyes, his gaze meeting yours. The warmth you have always known in him fills his features.

“I’ve always loved you too,” you add, your nose brushing gently against his.

A noise escapes his throat that sounds like a mix of relief and desire, and it shoots right through you, turning your core molten as affection swirls through your veins too.

He crushes his lips to yours again, licking deeply and you do the same. No longer just to taste, but to savor.

His hands slip down your back to cup your ass, hauling you even closer to his chest. Your hands move too, sliding down to curl against his chest, fingers toying at the laces of his gambeson. You’re so close to him now that you feel the outline of him pressed against your thigh that is wedged between his legs. He lets out a soft groan as you roll your hips slowly, chasing the feeling of his muscular thigh rubbing against your core, and wanting him to feel a similar pleasure as your thigh brushes against his manhood.

His fingers dig deliciously into your ass, gripping you tighter as he helps guide your hips against him, both of you lost in the feeling. But you want more – you’ve always wanted everything from him.

You break the kiss once more but he chases your mouth, evidently not wanting to give you up for a single second.

“Will you touch me?” You breathe, shocked that you can even speak, let alone those words, for the need coursing through you has clouded your brain. Everything about him has flooded your senses – the way he smells, so like the lands that you love so much. The way he tastes, more delicious than anything you’ve ever sampled. The way he sounds, with ragged breaths and a rumbling desire in his chest that become the things you want to hear the most for the rest of your life. The way he feels against your body, warm and solid, making you feel hot all over. But you want to feel all of him. You always have.

His tongue traces the curve of your lower lip while his hands continue to move you on his thigh, your sensitive core starting to soak the layers of your dress.

When he speaks, his voice is more gravelly and deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “When I touch you – really touch you, you beautiful woman – I want you to be my wife… And I want you spread out, naked on our bed, so I can show you just how much I love you.”

Your fingers dig into his chest, and a whimper escapes your lips, as you squeeze your thighs tighter around his own. You didn’t even know he knew words like that, and they wrap around your heart, starting to fill the cracks that have formed there, all while he sets fire coursing through your veins. You feel a frenzied desperation to let this fire burn out of control, for him to give you what you long for. To feel the depths of his desire too.

But you nod your head, knowing he’s right. Knowing that straddling his thigh like this, kissing him like you have been, letting your thoughts run wild, is well beyond the bounds of propriety. And once again, you’re reminded that he always strives to do what’s right, even when it’s hard.

To your surprise though, he doesn’t stop moving your hips as he leans in to mold his lips against yours once more. In fact, one of his hands continues to rock you against him as the other slips around to trail down your thigh, gathering a fistful of your dress in his massive hand. He slowly tugs on the fabric, and you lift your hips just the slightest, instantly missing the contact, but allow him to gather the front of your dress against his hips. Then he settles you back against his thigh – the thin layer of your lace underwear now the only thing separating your dripping, sensitive core from his leather trousers and solid muscle beneath.

As you roll your body against his, tilting your hips forward, the friction is maddening. You moan into his mouth as his tongue delves deeper, sweeping against the roof of your mouth, the back of your teeth.

“Cregan,” you manage to whimper, the taut leather over his thigh becoming a slippery mess as you move and move.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes against your lips, his voice thick with desire, as his hand snakes back around your hip to grip your ass. “Let go for me.”

You clench even tighter around his thigh, and around the emptiness in your core too. But even as you do, he tilts your hips forward even more so the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs brush against his. It sends pleasure coursing through your body, making you moan far too loudly.

He doesn’t seem to care as a growl looses from his throat, vibrating against your lips, while he slides your hips up and down the length of his thigh, again and again. Faster, and faster, his trousers becoming truly soaked from your wetness, but he doesn’t seem phased by that either. All he seems concerned with is making you feel good, knowing exactly what to do in this moment – showing you, you realize, just a glimpse of how deep his love and desire runs for you.

The thought and the way his hands glide you over him is enough to send your peak crashing over you, washing you in bliss you’ve never felt before. You cry out against him, and he swallows your moans with a deep kiss. You shake against his sturdy frame, feeling his hands grip you even tighter as he continues to roll your hips, seemingly drawing out your pleasure for as long as he can.

Your hands slide back up his chest to cup the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair as he finally stills your hips. You gasp against his lips and feel his warm breath fan over your cheeks, his chest heaving to catch his breath. He gently tugs your bottom lip with his teeth, making you whimper again. How is it that your desire still burns brightly in your body, and that you’re still so close to begging him for everything he can give you?

He tugs you flush against his chest, and you feel him hot and hard against your thigh wedged between his legs, trapped in what you imagine are now painfully tight trousers.

You open your mouth to beg, but he speaks before you do.

“Will you meet me in the Godswood in thirty minutes?”

You settle back against the furs draped over Cregan’s large bed – your bed now too – and watch as Cregan leans forward from where he stands at the foot of the bed to place kisses on your ankles.

It’s been a whirlwind of a day – waking up still angry with him, the conversation in the library and at dinner, the events in the study. You’ve now come to learn that it’s his private study, where he spends long hours answering correspondence and pouring over account books. It’s as if your feet knew exactly where to take you to have those intimate moments with him – to confess what you’ve both been keeping tucked away in your hearts for so long. And then the quiet ceremony in the Godswood, proceeded over by Maester Oryn and witnessed by some household staff, Cassandra included. She had tears in her eyes at the end of it. Cregan swore before all and the Old Gods to honor and cherish you, to protect you for all nights to come. You vowed the same, and you’ve never seen him smile brighter. Then he draped a frosted blue cloak decorated with direwolves over your shoulders, officially bringing you under his protection. He sealed that promise with a kiss, breaking away eventually and whispering “Lady Stark” against your lips.

He insisted on carrying you from the Godswood to his chambers, in the way that husbands do with their new brides, all while you laughed with a lightness you haven’t felt in ages and stole as many kisses as possible without distracting him from climbing the stairs.

As he entered the chambers – now marital chambers for both of you – he sat you down gently in a chair by the roaring fire in the hearth and knelt before you, taking your hands in his. “I asked Maester Oryn to write to the lords of the North, inviting them to attend a banquet in a fortnight in honor of our marriage. I trust you with my life, and so they should too. I wish for them to bend the knee to you, and to vow to support our children too, when they someday lead from Winterfell and the Dreadfort,” he’d said softly, his eyes searching yours. “I know I can’t change the past, my love, but I can set us on the right path for the future. I want to heal the North, and you.”

Tears came forth, and spilled gently down your cheeks. You know now that he’s truly loved you for so long, and he means what he says. You felt what little ice that still clung to your heart melt away completely, knowing he will do everything in his power to mend what has been broken.

You took a deep breath, and held his hands tightly as you said, “I forgive you, Cregan. And I love you.”

Tears pricked at his eyes too, and he leaned down to kiss your hands in his, before standing once more and pulling you up into his chest. For a long while he simply held you against him, kissing your forehead with such tenderness that it made you ache.

Your hands had slowly slid up his chest between you, your fingers pulling at the laces of his gambeson, this time not willing to stop. One of his strong, calloused hands had lifted to cup your cheek, tilting your chin up so he could kiss you. It was a slow, lingering kiss – nothing like the desperate, wild kisses from earlier. A shiver rushed down your spine as you realized he meant to savor every moment tonight with you, his wife.

It was with the utmost care that he unlaced your dress, never breaking your kiss as he let it fall to the floor and pool at your feet. He did eventually part from you, only to kneel before you again to peel off your underwear, long socks, and remove your shoes, leaving you naked before him, still clad in his own clothing and cloak. He’d softly kissed your hips and belly before standing again. You felt your nerves start to get the better of you – though it’s him, losing your maidenhood is not something you expected to happen today.

He leaned down to kiss you softly. Clearly sensing your apprehension, he said, “We don’t have to tonight. It’s alright.”

You shook your head. “No, I want to. I want to, Cregan. I just…I don’t know what to do.”

He kissed your forehead again before he bent his knees and reached down to lift you into his arms, his forearms wrapped securely under your thighs. Your chest brushed against his clothing, the fur of his cloak caressing your nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body.

“Let me show you,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he carried you to the bed.

And now you’re watching him remove his last layer of clothing, smiling softly at each other until he’s completely naked before you. Your eyes travel along the sharp angle of his jaw, down the column of his throat and across the broad planes of his chest, before following the light trail of hair leading down his stomach. Your eyes sweep over the v of his hips, before landing on the considerable length of him hanging between his sturdy thighs. Despite your nerves, your mouth waters at the sight of his cock, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip. Your eyes flick back up to catch a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips to see you admire him like this. He moves to climb onto the bed, crawling over you and caging you in with his knees and hands as he slowly kisses his way up your body. Your shins and knees, your inner thighs and hips, your belly and the valley between your breasts. As he does so, you reach out tentatively to touch him, fingertips trailing over his warm skin and tracing the faint scars on his forearms and shoulders – the marks of a seasoned warrior.

“I love feeling you touch me,” he whispers against your skin, the tip of his nose brushing along the curve of your breast.

“It feels nice when you touch me too,” you agree breathlessly. “I love the way you kiss me.”

His lips skim higher, brushing lightly over your nipple. “Do you?” He asks, and you can hear the playfulness in his tone. His eyes flick up to meet yours as his lips close over the taut peak and swirls his tongue, making you gasp and arch up into him. It’s as if a bolt of lightning shoots right through your body from where he’s touching you, striking straight in your core. You grip his forearms where his hands are braced on the bed, framing your ribs. He swirls his tongue again, and then sucks in earnest.

You writhe beneath him in pleasure, your hips lifting to meet his. It makes his cock rub against your hips and belly, leaving a wet trail in its wake.

He moans against the friction and the sound reverberates through your body, making you even more wet for him.

“Does that feel good?” He murmurs, moving over to your other breast and repeating his movements.

“Cregan,” you breathe, squeezing your thighs together from the pleasure rushing through you. Your hands sweep up to tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck as his mouth works over you.

He hums in response, kissing, licking and sucking, until his mouth travels up your neck, his tongue laving over your thrumming pulse. He pauses to kiss the soft spot behind your ear before finding your lips again, your heart hammering in your chest.

You kiss him deeply, needing to taste every bit of him, as he lowers himself so his chest and hips cover yours. He still braces his weight on his forearms, so as not to crush you, but you can feel every muscle clench and ripple against you as writhe beneath him, lost in the feeling of being enveloped by him.

His own fingers card through your hair, and the way the pads of his fingers skim over your skin sends shivers down your spine. “Can I touch you?” He husks in between kisses.

The question makes your shivers turn into a moan, and you nod, lips still brushing against his. You feel him smile against you, and your own smile spreads to mirror his.

Before he makes his way down your body, he grabs a pillow and pulls it with him, setting it next to your hips. Then he kisses his way down, pausing again to flick his tongue over one of your nipples, before leaving a wet trail down your belly and hips. Carefully, he shifts your legs to kneel between them, and then lifts your hips to place the pillow beneath you, with very little effort. His strength is something to marvel at, and you know you’ll always see him differently after tonight. Muscles coiled with desire, ready at any moment to lift you and tug you to him, before lavishing you with pleasure and affection. Your husband. You still can’t believe it – it’s real, he’s real, in your arms.

His eyes meet yours as he settles back down on his stomach, his head so close to your core that you can feel his warm breath tickle your skin. His eyes are glossy, only slivers of gray can be seen now. It steals your breath to be looked at like this – to be gazed upon with such hunger by him.

Slowly turning his head to kiss your inner thigh, he lifts your legs to drape them over his shoulders, before settling down to touch you, as you know you’ve both wanted for so long.

He kisses around your core, as if he wants to make you just as hungry for his touch – as if you aren’t already starving. You feel him smile against your skin as you shift your hips, a small whimper escaping your lips, and then you feel your world shift entirely.

Nothing, nothing, could prepare you for the feeling of his tongue dragging up and down through the wetness of your folds, making you even more drenched for him. You let out a breathy moan, your hands finding his hair again, desperate for something to hold onto as he licks you open.

“You taste even better than I ever dreamed,” he groans against your core, making pleasure throb so deeply inside you, you’re sure the spot could never be reached by either of you. You gasp, your thighs squeezing around his head for a moment before letting go, not wishing to hurt him.

In response, his eyes meet yours with a playful smile while he shifts up to swirl his tongue over your pearl, with wet, quick flicks.

“Oh gods, Cregan,” you moan softly, trying not to be too loud. Your fingers tighten in his hair as you try to ground yourself, but you can’t help but grind your hips against his mouth too. The pleasure is like nothing you’ve ever experienced, filling every fiber of your being more and more with every swipe of his tongue.

“Let me hear you, my love,” he encourages you before sucking on your pearl, drawing a loud gasp from you. “That’s it, my beautiful wife,” he says, his voice dripping with desire and affection. “I love the sounds you make.” As he speaks, you feel one of his fingertips drag through your wetness, and then swirl around the entrance of your core.

Suddenly you’ve never needed anything more than to feel him push inside you, fill you up.

“Cregan, please,” you plead, pressing your hips down against his digit. He flicks his tongue over your pearl once more as he obliges you, sliding his finger in slowly. You clench around him, marveling at how big just one of his fingers feels inside you. You have no idea how his cock might fit inside you, but you’re desperate to try.

Slowly, sliding in just a bit more, and then sliding back to your entrance, he helps you adjust with each thrust in and out, all while his tongue continues to work over your pearl. It all feels so incredible, making you moan over and over again.

Finally, down to the last knuckle, he curls his finger inside you, brushing over a spot that you didn’t know existed.

You gasp, spine arching off the bed. He tilts his head to kiss your inner thighs while he continues to sweep his fingertip over that spot inside you, as if he wants you to feel just that pleasure alone. It’s overwhelming in the best way, but you whimper when you feel him draw his finger backwards, away from that pleasure, only to arch again off the bed when he presses in again, but with a second finger next to the first. The stretch is pleasure that borders pain, making you gasp.

“You’re doing so well, my love,” he praises you, kissing your hip. “Just breathe for me.”

You do that as he works his fingers inside of you, any pain subsiding almost immediately as he finds that bundle of nerves again, both fingers curling to brush against it. And as he does, his tongue resumes playing with your pearl, sending your pleasure coursing through your body in waves that quickly rise to peak.

You cry out his name as his fingers and tongue move to draw out your orgasm for as long as possible – just like he did earlier in his study. As if he wants nothing more than for you to feel this blissful, this weightless, forever. And when he does finally slow, finally stills, your fingers slide down to brush tenderly against his jaw while he rests his head against your thigh, gaze meeting yours.

“Gods, I want to make you come again and again, everyday, for the rest of my life,” he husks, and turns his head to kiss the center of your palm.

You let out a light laugh and feel him chuckle against your hand.

“I’d like that too,” you agree breathlessly. “Will you…will you teach me how to make you come?” You ask, a little nervously. You want to make him feel the same pleasure you’ve felt – want to be everything he needs and more.

He kisses your palm again before shifting his body, crawling up to kneel between your thighs before dropping down to his elbows once more. Your legs lift instinctively to frame his hips, the pillow still nestled beneath you, and you feel the heft of his cock, hard, hot, and leaking against the apex of your thighs, brushing against your sensitive peal.

“Aye,” he agrees softly, kissing you with such tenderness that you’re sure your heart might burst. “But if you’ve had enough for tonight, we can always continue tomorrow or whenever you feel ready.” He lifts his head to look down at you, and you can see the depths of his love in his eyes. He clearly doesn’t want to overwhelm you, knowing you have the rest of your lives to learn how to make each other’s bodies and hearts sing. How is it possible to love him even more?

Your hands find his cheeks again as your thighs slide slowly along his hips. “I want you,” you breathe, fingers brushing softly against his skin. “I need to feel you inside me. I want to make you feel so good too, Cregan.”

A shudder ripples through his body as he leans down to kiss you once more, soft and lingering. “I love you,” he whispers when he pulls back just a bit.

“I love you too,” you breathe, eyes searching his. He smiles down at you, content, but you can see the hunger and the passion filling his gaze again. And you want nothing more than to feel the full force of his desire.

As if he can read your mind, he leans his weight onto one arm, and snakes a hand between your bodies, his knuckles brushing over your heated skin. He holds your gaze as you feel him take himself in hand, and then press the tip of his cock to your entrance.

“Just breathe, my love,” he says gently, noticing the hitch in your breath. You do, as he presses himself inside you, just an inch or so, making you gasp at the stretch around him. He stills his hips as he drags his hand back up, framing his forearms on either side of your shoulders. He gently cradles your head in his massive hands, mirroring how you’re holding his face.

Slowly, he moves his hips, pressing a bit more into you. You tilt your head back into the bed, gasping again and squeezing your eyes shut.

He breathes your name, and your eyes fly open again. “Keep your eyes on me,” he says, and you do, finding his eyes again, trusting him so completely. You find you couldn’t look away now even if you wanted to. “Just like that,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing against your cheeks. He slides back out, nearly to your entrance, and then presses back in just a bit more, eyes locked with yours.

And so he sets a rhythm, pulling back and pressing back in just a bit more each time, giving you all the time you need to adjust, all while watching you carefully, his love and protection of you coming through with every thrust he takes. It fills your heart so deeply as he fills you so completely.

Finally, with the last thrust, he buries himself inside you, and you both share the same moan. “I still can’t believe you’re mine,” he gasps, nose brushing against yours.

“Yours,” you agree, “and you’re mine.” He nods in your hands that still hold his face, and then kisses you deeply before drawing his hips out and plunging back into you.

The rush of him against your inner walls sends pleasure cascading through your body, like water rushing over rapids, filling parts of you that you didn’t know existed.

He sets a delicious pace, your legs tightening around him as you clench around his length too.

“Fuck,” he moans, tilting his head to leave wet kisses on your neck, making you moan too. Your arms slip around his neck and your hands clutch at his shoulders, feeling his muscles ripple in time with his thrusts. Your lips brush against his shoulder too, your tongue slipping out to lick at the salty sweat on his skin. He kisses and kisses your neck, and you clench around him again – you can’t help it. He feels so amazing inside you, and his kisses leave you shivering with pleasure, every movement bringing another orgasm to wound tightly in your core.

And then he slows, panting against your neck and presses up to look down at you, amazement on his face. Before you can say anything, he rolls to his side, tugging you with him. He hitches your leg around his hip, stroking your leg in wonder, before curling his arm around your back, warm and strong. Your head nestles against his other bicep, and he kisses you deeply and thoroughly, his tongue swiping sensually against yours.

When he thrusts again, you gasp loudly and arch your back against his arm, for his cock not only reaches a depth you hadn’t thought possible – that place deep inside you that you thought neither of you could ever reach – his tip brushes against that same bundle of nerves his fingers had before.

Pleasure shoots through you like lightning as he does it again and again, making you a moaning mess in his arms, your peak so close. He seems to sense it; seems to note the way you’re fluttering around his length, when he says, “Come for me, beautiful.” He says it again, but this time with your name leaving his lips too. Hearing your name in that deep, gravely voice that you’ve only ever heard in your dreams, and his request, does it for you.

One more thrust has you crying out and clenching around him, your orgasm breaking over you in wave after wave – rolling thunder to match the lightning of pleasure striking through your veins. You find his mouth again for another searing kiss and you can feel his own orgasm before it happens, a tightened throb of him inside you as his muscles coil, and then release.

He groans your name – something you want to hear everyday for the rest of your life – and buries himself deeper than he has yet, spilling and spilling hot ribbons inside you. You flutter around him, wanting to milk him for every drop, every bit of pleasure. He shudders in your arms, until finally he slows and stills.

He pants against your mouth, and pulls back just an inch to find your eyes. “You’re amazing,” he says, voice sounding wrecked. It makes your clench around him again, and he chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. “Are you okay?”

You nod, a smile spreading across your cheeks as your hands slide down to caress his chest. “I’m perfect.” Your eyes search his. “I’ve never been more perfect.”

His hand brushes softly up and down your spine as he kisses your forehead tenderly.

“Was that okay for you?” You ask, praying that it was.

“Perfect,” he repeats your words. “You’re perfect.”

You nuzzle into his chest, still amazed that you’re in his arms, that you’ve just made love, that you’re his wife and the Lady of Winterfell. The pain and grief you’ve felt for days now seems to be fading into a distant memory. You’re not completely healed, but you know you he will strive to make sure you are.

After a few moments of blissfully listening to each other breathe, hands travelling softly over the other’s body, he speaks. “I was thinking you could practice your healing skills here too. I know you’ve always favored medicine and helping people, and I’m sure Maester Oryn would be grateful for your knowledge and skills.”

You pull back just a fraction to look up into his eyes, seeing the hope and peace in them. You had no idea he noticed that detail about you – had no idea he’d want you to bring your passions here, to Winterfell, too.

“You remembered that?” You ask, your voice wobbling a bit from emotion.

“Of course,” he breathes, his warm hand splaying lovingly over your back. “I could never forget how brilliant and selfless you are. The North is better with you in it, my love.” He says it with such tenderness, such sincerity, you feel as if your heart is reaching out to touch his.

You close the tiny space between you, kissing him with a love you never dreamed would be possible, but now couldn’t imagine living without.

You lean back into the sturdy, warm body behind you while you gaze down at the twin babies sleeping peacefully in matching bassinets, a content smile on your face. Cregan’s arms are wrapped around you, hands lovingly splayed over your belly. He kisses your neck softly before you feel him turn his attention back to your children. You know his gaze is filled with love too.

Twin boys, who will be taught how to lead the North by both of their parents. Brothers, who you and Cregan will raise to never have cause to betray the other, and to always support one another and maintain peace throughout the North. The future Lord of Winterfell and Lord of the Dreadfort.

The last fissure in your broken heart has finally sealed over, filled only now with a love that knows no bounds.

©still-jon-snow: This work is prohibited from copying or from being entered into AI software. Thank you.

Dividers can be found here.

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sithapprentice · 13 days ago

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✮⋆˙ . rafe shoving your face into the carpet during backshots.

warnings — 18+ MDNI. aggressive rafe. reader getting pounded into the ground (yuuuup!). p!link mentioned & linked.

cherie’s note — requested here, and based on this p!link.

he'd been gone for what felt like weeks.

in reality, his business trip hadn't lasted any longer than ten days.

but the way he'd abandoned his bag in the hallway, shoes hardly kicked off on the doormat near the front door, it might as well have been weeks.

the way rafe disappeared for ten days a business trip somewhere across the country, text messages short and infrequent, phone calls even rarer. you knew the time difference was brutal, and that he was busy, but that didn't stop the ache between your legs or the way your chest clenched every time you looked at the empty side of the bed.

the door had slammed shut, and before you could say a word, rafe was on you — dragging you by the waist into the living room, hands rough and shaking with need. no greeting. no teasing. just weeks of built-up frustration, violence coiled tight under his skin, finally snapping.

his hands were rough, impatient — yanking your shirt up, shoving your underwear down, grabbing your ass like he could already feel how warm and wet you'd be. you barely had time to blink before he spun you around and bent you down to the carpet, one hand on your lower back, the other already fumbling with his belt.

and with the way he was fucking into you now? you were beginning to question if there was any semblance of patience left within him. your cheek had been smothered on the carpet, his hands digging into your hips so hard you knew there'd be bruises there by morning. he's pounding into you from behind, deep, messy thrusts that make your whole body jolt forward with each slap of his pelvis against your ass. the sound is obscene — slick, raw, desperate — skin-on-skin, and his breath comes out in snarls above you.

"missed this fuckin' pussy," he growls, voice guttural, unhinged. "missed you so much, baby."

you try to answer — something, anything — but all that comes out is a gasp as he drags you back onto his cock even harder, angling deep enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. your eyes roll back, tears blurring your vision from the sheer stretch, the way he's splitting you open like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else.

he leans over you, forearm braced beside your head, voice in your ear, soaked with obsession.

"you think i was gonna come home and take my time with you?" he spits, teeth grazing your neck. "fuck that, i've been hard for you for weeks. thought about this every goddamn night."

his free hand presses down on your lower back, positioned at the right angle for the head of his thick cock to glide right against that gummy, sweet spot inside of you.

your mouth fell open in a gasp, but before any sound could spill out, he was reaching forward — fingers slipping between your lips, pushing two of them deep onto your tongue.

"keep that mouth open," he growled, leaning over your back as his hips started to move again, slamming into you with a pace so fast, so brutal, deep and unforgiving. "bite me, and i'll fuck you harder."

you moaned around his fingers, a little muffled, thighs already trembling. and then you felt it — the way his hand pulled your mouth back, forcing your head to arch, your back to curve, angling your hips just right.

"fuck—there," he groaned, snapping his hips forward with even more force now that he had you tilted the way he wanted. "that's it. that's the fucking spot. you feel that?"

you couldn't respond — not with the way your brain was short-circuiting from how deep he was.

his hips snap forward again, harder now, more punishing. his fingers curl under your stomach, angling your hips just right so every stroke hits your spot dead-on — and you cry out, body trembling, helpless under his weight. and the more he hears you fall apart, the deeper he sinks in, like he's trying to mold your cunt to his cock all over again.

and god, it hurts — it aches — it's too much...

but it's him. and you're addicted.

cherie's taglist <3 — @sexybr9nette, @fawnfate, @bonjourjiminie, @bunniecouture, @kaydennnn, @rafessbaby, @girldisrupted, @vunhun, @mattyskies, @vunhun.

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sithapprentice · 13 days ago

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I have a lil controversial take and I mean it with all respect ofc to all who are a part of the obx fandom

I’m not saying you shouldn’t go out your way to meet your idols/famous celebrities you follow, but as someone who works in the industry, it’s a lil unsettling that people ate actively seeking these people out at their workplaces.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love seeing Drew (and the others from the cast) interact with fans in such a nice way, and he’s truly like invested in talking to each one of them. But something that should be taken into consideration is that he’s also a guy, who’s working and is living his life AND acting happens to be his job.

Wanna clarify that I’m NOT by any means trying to say that no one should do this, but just raise awareness of it because it’s something that’s not talked about if you’re outside of the entertainment industry.

PLEASE! Reach out to me if you’d like to discuss more on this, do not hesitate!!! And this is my opinion, so nothing is concrete! <3

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #obx #rafe obx #john b routledge #outer banks #drew starkey

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sithapprentice · 13 days ago

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🏥Getting to know the staff🏥

──── ⚕️ ────

⚕️ Dr. Rafe Cameron:

Dr. Cameron is Kildare‘s very own Dr. Dreamy! Don’t be fooled he’s more than just good looks, he‘s the best neurosurgeon in North Carolina. He‘s known for performing excellent under pressure and even more excellent in the break room.

⚕️ Dr. John and Dr. Sarah Routledge:

The both of them are known to be a power couple - on and off the clock. She’s the empathic Pediatrician who always wears the cutest scrubs and he‘s the ER doctor that keeps his cool in the most crazy situations. His weak spot: Getting too involved in his cases.

⚕️ Dr. Pope Heyward:

Dr. Heyward is the brilliant, always over-prepared, trying not to lose it kind of guy. He tries to balance the others’ chaos with quiet competence, but that doesn’t always work - even Pope deserves a crash out from time to time.

⚕️ Dr. Cleo Anderson:

She is so cool under pressure and observant. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Trust, if there’s something wrong with your heart, Dr. Anderson will find it! If you tell her what to do though, you better start running, because she will use that scalpel - even off the clock!

⚕️ Dr. Kiara Carrera:

There‘s really no reason to hide anything from Dr. Carrera - that girl knows how to read a room. She‘s the most intuitive person ever. She keeps everyone else in check emotionally while gracefully ignoring her own spirals.

⚕️ Dr. JJ Maybank:

That man has way too much fun at his job. He got the nickname „chaos gremlin“ as soon as he started his residency a while back. Dr. Maybank is known for making patients feel at ease with his silly demeanor and his jokes while still being brilliant with his instincts.

⚕️ Dr. Topper Thornton:

He thinks that he’s the biggest gift to the hospital - and acts like it too. Dr. Thornton is obsessed with image and status. He‘s actually really good at his job though, being known for his meticulous and artistic hands. Fun fact: He also has a skincare line.

⚕️ Dr. Y/N Y/L/N:

Dr. Y/L/N is cool in the OR, but chaotic everywhere else. She‘ll cut her patients open no problem, but spills coffee over herself five minutes later. She loves high risk cases! Patients appreciate her honesty - that’s mostly because she‘s literally an open book and has no poker face. This is exactly what gets her into trouble within the staff.

──── ⚕️ ────

AN: This is my first ever fanfic, so I‘m a little bit nervous! Also thank you to my lovely wife @bithewayellie for encouraging me to write this!

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sithapprentice · 13 days ago

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how to make text in captions gradient or multicolored

I was asked by the lovely @an-idiot-in-a-trenchcoat about how I got the gradient caption to this edit, so I decided to make a mini tutorial! This is my first time doing something like this so if there’s anything that’s confusing, feel free to send me an ask and I will do my best to clarify!

We’re going to learn how to do something like this today:

Keep reading

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sithapprentice · 14 days ago

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𝓻afe cameron and 𝓒OLOMBIANA!reader ⊹ ࣪ ˖

nucita. pink. tory burch. costeñita cervezas. florals. gold hoops. frech tips. sofía vergara.

colombiana!reader … who is totally spoiled rotten by rafe. countless coach and juicy couture bags, tory burch sandels in every color. she wants it, she gots it, even if she insists for him not to.

colombiana!reader … who has such a bad sweet tooth, always carrying a nucita in her purse or a manzana postobon. rafe fucking hates manzana postobon, making a nasty face ad he believes it’s ’a cup full of a sugar.’ (..◜ᴗ◝..)

colombiana!reader … who can walk all day in the blistering sun in heels and wedges, the obx heat has nothing on her—jj complaining behind her in which she responds “have you guys ever even been to Cartagena?” which, they obviously havent.

colombiana!reader … who’s jaw drops when she see’s rafe trying to eat a boli for the first time. “ay, majinate papi, you’re supposed to begin sucking from the seam—you dont unravel it!” in which he responds “i aint doing that shit.” but folds anyway for his muñequita ‎♡‧₊˚

⊹ ࣪ ˖ colombiana!reader works … ↓

nothing here yet … .ᐟ

༯ #migentelatino, latina rep so yummy but while I love all my mexicanas, colombia deserves some luvvvv!!!

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sithapprentice · 15 days ago

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Tomorrowland

Drew Starkey x reader

Note : just wrote this to represent my country lol and because i didn’t went to tomorrowland this year so i’m sad

You never imagined your life would look like this.

Not in the way it looked to the world — because to the world, your life didn’t really exist. Not in any public sense. There were no tagged photos of you, no headlines, no “sources close to the couple” confirming anything. You were invisible in all the ways that mattered to the internet.

But in private?

You were in love with Drew.

And even after almost a year, it still felt unreal sometimes. Not because of who he was, but because of how he made you feel. Safe. Chosen. Constant.

The world saw Drew the actor — magnetic, charming, always polished in interviews and photoshoots.

But you?

You got Drew barefoot in the kitchen at midnight. Drew in a hoodie, draped across your sofa, pretending not to cry at sad movie scenes. Drew whispering half-asleep compliments into your neck. Drew who knew your coffee order, your middle name, your fears. Drew who never posted about you, but kissed your forehead like he never wanted to lose you.

It was quiet love. Private. Intentional.

And it was real.

———

One rainy tuesday night, the two of you were curled up on the couch — a slow, ordinary evening. The kind where time slows down and nothing feels urgent.

He was watching TV, lazily flipping channels, one arm stretched behind your back. You were scrolling TikTok, half-watching, half-zoned out, one leg draped over his lap, his fingers tracing shapes on your shin.

Then a video caught your eye.

It was Tomorrowland.

The music, the stage, the crowd. Everything looked like it had been pulled from a dream — a giant, glowing fantasy built from bass and light and sky.

Your heart clenched. You turned your phone toward him.

“God,” you sighed. “I’d love to go one day. That’s like… my dream.”

He glanced over at the screen, eyebrows raised slightly.

You kept talking, not expecting much. “Tomorrowland. It’s this massive festival in Belgium. It’s beautiful. The energy, the lights. Everyone’s just happy. I’ve always wanted to go. And next year…” you paused, smiling a little shyly, “my favorite DJ is headlining.”

Drew didn’t say anything right away. He just watched the video for a few more seconds. His expression didn’t change. No big reaction. No promise.

Just a thoughtful look.

Then he leaned over, kissed your temple, and murmured, “You’ve got good taste.”

You smiled and dropped your phone, thinking it was the end of the conversation.

But for Drew, it wasn’t.

He tucked it away, deep in his mind. Because your birthday was coming. And now, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

———

Your birthday morning started with rain. Soft and cold. You woke up tangled in blankets, with Drew’s arm around your waist and his breath warm on the back of your neck. He murmured something unintelligible when you tried to get up.

Eventually, he let you escape, only for you to find him in the kitchen twenty minutes later — hair messy, hoodie on, pancakes sizzling in the pan.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind.

“I told you not to do anything big,” you murmured.

He grinned. “You said no party. You said nothing crazy.”

“That includes pancakes,” you teased.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Then he handed you your coffee. Just the way you liked it. But something was tucked under the sleeve — a folded-up paper.

Your name. A barcode. A flight number.

LAX → Brussels.

You froze.

“Drew,” you whispered, breath catching. “Is this… what i think it is?”

He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Happy birthday, baby.”

Your eyes welled up. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” he said softly. “You didn’t just mention it — you lit up. And I want to give you that light. Every time I can.”

You looked at him, heart in your throat.

“You planned all this?”

He smiled softly. “You know i’d do anything for you to realise your dreams.”

You started to cry, it was the best gift anyone could have given you. You jumped into his arms and kissed him passionately. “Thank you so much! I love you. ”

He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you thightly. “I love you more baby.”

———

Tomorrowland was more than you imagined.

From the moment you stepped into DreamVille, it felt like walking into a living fairytale — but louder. And brighter. And somehow warmer, despite the massive crowds.

Drew kept you close the whole time. It was weird, blending in. No one gave him a second look, or maybe they were just too busy being caught up in the music.

You danced together for hours. You rode his shoulders during the DJ’s set. You screamed and danced and kissed him under glittering lights, fireworks bursting overhead. At one point, when confetti fell like snow, you turned to him laughing, “Are you even real?”

He just smiled and kissed you again.

———

On the second night, the two of you slipped away from the crowd to a hill behind the mainstage. The music pulsed below you, echoing through the air. The sky glowed with fading fireworks.

Drew lay beside you on the grass, one hand behind his head, the other resting gently on your hip.

After a while, he said quietly, “Sometimes I think about going public. About showing people who I really love.”

You looked over, surprised.

He wasn’t smiling. He was just… thoughtful.

“I don’t do it because I’m hiding you,” he continued. “I do it because I know how brutal the world can be. And you don’t deserve that. You deserve peace. You deserve this.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“But if you ever wake up and decide you’re ready to let them see what I see — I’ll stand right next to you. Every step.”

You leaned over and kissed him, deep and slow.

“I don’t need the world to know,” you whispered. “I just need you to keep loving me like this.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “That’s the easy part.”

———

On the last day, your favorite DJ played the closing set. The crowd was electric. You danced until your legs gave out, then collapsed into Drew’s arms, laughing breathlessly.

At the very end, as the final fireworks lit up the night and music faded into applause, he turned to you.

“I know this was your dream,” he said, voice low and steady. “But it was mine, too.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

He smiled. “Mine was to give you something unforgettable. Something just for us. No cameras. No press. Just… this.”

You wrapped your arms around him, heart full.

And as the crowd began to drift and the lights went dark, you realized something:

Some dreams happen once.

But the best ones?

The best ones start with love — and never really end.

249 notes · View notes

sithapprentice · 16 days ago

Text

𝓓𝓘𝓛𝓕!𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓜𝓘𝓛𝓕!𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: pet names, shower cuddles; not sexual in nature + rafe’s pov + domestic sweetness

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕, 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

1.4K

𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮’𝓼 𝓟𝓞𝓥:

The jet touched down twenty minutes early but I didn’t rush off like usual. I sat there for a second longer, thumb hovering over her name in my favorites, thinking I might wait until I get home to surprise her in person; but I missed her voice too much.

It rang three times before I heard it—noise. The kind of noise that raised my blood pressure and made me think that I had to do something; anything to take the weight off her shoulders.

“Hello?” She answered, clipped and breathless, sharp around the edges.

“Hi, baby—”

“Hold on. Max, no. I said ‘no’. If you want to take the boat you need to ask me like a normal person. Poppy! Don’t color on that—oh my god, take that out of the dog’s mouth please.”

I smile faintly, but my stomach tightens. “Hey,” I try again, “I landed early. Thought maybe I could—”

“I love you so much, Rafe,” she cuts in in a rush, almost pleading with me to wrap it up and let her go. “I literally cannot hear you. I’m drowning. I’ll—I’ll call you back, okay?” Beep.

I stare down at my phone, clicking the side button, looking down at her beautiful, smiling face glowing in the light of my lockscreen.

She’s the strongest person I know. But damn, I hate how often she has to prove it.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

Sarah was already there, keys in hand, Poppy and Rory already loaded up in their booster seats.

“Hey,” she greets me with a sympathetic smile.

“Thank you,” I murmur as I kiss their foreheads.

Max’s heavy feet stomp through the hallway just as I step inside, already opening his mouth to speak but I shut him up with a few hundred. “Fill the boat; stay at Tripp’s—Missed you, buddy.”

“Missed you too, old man,” he smiles as he plucks the green off my fingers, sealing it with a hug that feels so genuine I'm rolling my eyes because I soften immediately—that little chat about how he treats his mom when I'm gone dying on my lips. And yeah… that's a conversation for another time.

Winnie’s next as she walks toward the door with a tote bag over her shoulder and a half-eaten cookie in her mouth. “I know,” she giggles through a mouthful of sweets, “Don’t call unless someone’s bleeding,” she sighs as she walks into my arms. I press a kiss to her hair, whispering a soft “I love you”.

And when the door slams, the house falls quiet.

That’s when I see her… Standing at the kitchen island, one hand holding her mug of cold coffee, the other bracing herself against the marble countertop. The look on her face’s pure, quiet unraveling. So broken it makes my chest hurt.

She looked beat. Totally wrung out. Mascara smudged under her eyes, hair twisted up in that half-falling-apart way she did when she’d clearly been pulled in every direction. But hell—she was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Maybe even more so like this. Real, raw, somehow still glowing.

I walked up quiet; slow enough not to snap whatever thread was holding her together. I slid my arm around her waist, bending down just enough to kiss her temple letting her feel I was home.

“Hi, baby,” I whisper and just like that, she melts.

“Rafe,” she exhales, turning her head just enough to see me. Her eyes glistened and thankful, “You’re early.”

“Mhmm… And, you look happy to see me, pretty girl,” I whisper as I tilt her chin, pressing a kiss on her lips. “Not exactly sure I deserve that after bein’ gone so long. I'm sorry—”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s a mess in here, I know.”

“It’s not, baby—It could be worse. I mean you've seen how this house looks when it’s just me and the kids…” She chuckles tiredly and nods, snuggling in a little closer. “Kids are gone for the night. Go upstairs, take a shower—take your time.”

“Rafe, I—”

“Nah, I didn't ask,” I chuckle lovingly. My baby just nods and disappears upstairs without a word.

The kitchen’s a disaster and I'd be lying if I said I didn't need it… the security—the reassurance of it all knowing that the woman who can do it all still needs me.

The sink’s full with pots and pans. Macaroni and cheese crusts in the bottom, strawberry stems discarded on the cutting board from snack time. Max’s football uniform is crumpled on the far end of the island, a sticky note that says wash me please stuck to the grass-scuffed jersey.

Next to it a broken toy held together with half-dried glue. And a chocolate stained printout labeled Mommy and Poppy’s Chocolate Chipper Cookies resting beside the towering heap of handmade desserts. On the fridge, the final request: a list of needed items in pink, glittery gel pen—Winnie’s must-haves for cheer camp—needed by 12 pm tomorrow.

I take a breath and get to work.

Tackling the dishes, tossing in Max’s laundry, dripping on a tiny dot of Krazy Glue where it’s still cracked. I open the Target app adding Winnie’s items from the list, to the mobile cart, with a 9 am pickup by yours truly; throwing in a bouquet of flowers to exchange the old, and that chocolate she loves.

Then I go upstairs, relishing the silence for myself as well. Thankful I've got nothin’ on the schedule but taking care of the women I can’t live without.

Steam hangs heavy, wrapping around me the second I step in the master bathroom. The mirrors are fogged up, lights dimmed low; the faint scent of her body wash drifting through the air. The white noise of the water echoes against the tub and through it I can hear her, not speaking, just breathing.

She looks so tired.

Not just physically but down to her bones. That kind of tiredness that settles in when you’ve been needed too many times; touched too much. The kind of tiredness where it’s been give give give and give some more without having a single thing done just for you.

I strip down, leaving my clothes pooled by hers, and step into the shower without a word. She stirs when she feels me behind her.

“Rafe—” She starts but I lean in, pressing a kiss on her forehead, wrapping my arm around her waist as I cup her cheek.

“Don’t worry, baby,” I murmur. “I’m not tryin’ to start anything I swear… What kind of husband would I be?” I whisper as I stroke her soft skin with my thumb and she leans into my hand. “Turn for me.” My hands rest on her hips, facing her back to me.

I grab the shampoo and she exhales the second my fingers touch her scalp.

I don’t dare rush. I couldn't if I tried. My hands work in slow, careful circles. Enough pressure to pull the rest of the tension loose without pulling her too far out of that quiet place she finally sank into.

My thumbs trace behind her ears, drifting down to the tight spots at the base of her neck. I work them gently and her soft little sighs just about break me.

She leans her weight into me and I take it gladly. The water runs over her, carving soft rivers down her skin before swirling around the drain and down. And with it, I swear, I feel the week washing off both of us.

“You did so good, baby,” I whisper. “Hate how tired you are. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

She doesn’t speak—just finds my hand and laces her fingers in mine.

“M’proud of you… I don’t know how you do it.”

Her bottom lip wobbles a bit like saying anything would tip her over the edge. So she just nods, cuddling a little closer to me.

I kiss her like I’ve got nowhere else to be; like all those unsaid I love yous I’ve been savin’ up just for her.

My forehead rests against hers; our breathing falling into a steady rhythm and for the first time all night, she smiles. A soft smile. A true smile. My girl.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better her hands lace around the back of my neck as she lifts on her toes and she kisses me. The kind that always makes the storm in my head calm enough for me to make it through rough waters. Like maybe she’s finally coming up for air herself.

A kiss that feels like finally coming home.

“I needed this,” she whispers against my lips.

“You always know exactly what I need… You're so good to me all the damn time, it’s gotta be exhausting.”

“I love it—”

“I love you, baby,” I mumble between tender, loving kisses.

“I love you too.”

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sithapprentice · 16 days ago

Text

little miss perfect - r.c - introduction & masterlist

pairing: siren!reader x rafe (non-fantasy). they grew up side by side—her, the golden girl; him, the reckless heir. their dads were old money best friends, bound by business and legacy, blind to the games she played. she was always the favorite; he, the scapegoat with a temper. everyone saw her as sweet, perfect, untouchable—but rafe saw through the act. to him, she’s just the siren: made to ruin him.

warnings: suggestive, +18 themes, future smut.

Rafe opens the door to find you already in the kitchen—barefoot, in white linen shorts and one of his old t-shirts you’d probably stolen years ago and somehow still owned.

You’re halfway through his dad’s bourbon cherries, pretending to inspect a cookbook you weren’t reading.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” He mutters, brushing past you.

You don’t look up. “Missed you too, Rafey.”

He tenses.

That voice—sweet as honey with arsenic under the tongue.

You’ve been using it against him since you were eight and blamed him for breaking the Cameroons’ pool table. Somehow, even now, even after all these years, everyone still believed it when you batted your lashes and said, "Rafe did it."

Of course they did.

You were Daddy’s little darling, picture-perfect in pastels, and he was the one with skinned knees and a short fuse.

Once, you switched out the detergent in the Cameron’s laundry room with something that reeked like gasoline. His dad lost it when his suits came out ruined.

Guess who got blamed? He got grounded for a week, you cried to your dad and got ice cream.

He used to pray for the day you'd grow out of being a little shit.

Instead, you just got better at it.

Siren.

That’s what he calls you in his head, has since you were kids. Evil, always singing some sweet lie to drag him into hell.

“I told Dad you were excited I was coming,” you add, looking up at him now, wide-eyed. “Said you were asking about me.”

He scoffs, leaning against the counter. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re obsessed.” You pop a cherry into your mouth, your tongue catching the syrup. “Kinda cute.”

That sets him off.

When you both hit high school, the game changed.

You started flirting. Not cutesy, nor shy—calculated. What made it all worse, unbearable, was that you were fucking gorgeous. Everything about you looked like it was designed specifically to fuck with his self-control.

You’d lean in at family barbecues, whisper dumb shit like, “You’ve got a little something…” and swipe your thumb across his mouth slowly.

You’d wear the shortest skirts when you knew he’d be at the club, then dance like you forgot your daddy was on the board.

At one Fourth of July party, you cornered him in the pool house and said, “You ever wonder what it’d be like if I weren’t so good?” before walking out like it was nothing. Leaving him there with wet swim trunks and a hard-on, he had to drown in beer and denial.

That was always the worst part—you never let it go anywhere, never gave him what he was sure you knew he wanted.

“Still running your little games?” He sneers in disgust. “You’re not ten anymore. Nobody’s falling for that good-girl bullshit.”

“Oh, Rafe…” You tilt your head. “They don’t have to.”

Summer’s back.

You’re here, in his house. Wearing his shirt.

Sleeping one hallway away, still smiling like the devil incarnated.

He hates you, he does. But every time you sashay into the room, all slick lipgloss and wicked grins, his brain fries more. He wants to shove you against a wall, yell until you cry.

He wants to break you. Most of all, he wants to know what it looks like when you finally drop the act. When the fake angel burns.

He watches the way you eat that cherry, knowing what you’re doing. You want him to look. You do—of course you do, you're doing it for him. The T-shirt hangs loose on you, but he knows it’s not an accident.

You have that fucking smile again—you’re winning.

Rafe forces himself to look away, opening the fridge for something, anything, to focus on that isn’t you sucking cherry syrup off your fingers like you’ve got no fucking manners.

“You ever stop talking?” He peeks into the fridge.

“You ever stop being so grumpy?” you counter, lazy and sweet, your warm poison. “You used to be fun, you know.”

“I was never fun around you.”

“Sure you were,” You hum. “That one time I flashed your friend Kelce. You grabbed my wrist so hard I bruised. Still have a picture of it somewhere. Kinda hot.”

He slams the fridge shut.

You flinch, but you’re grinning, you love this.

“You think this is cute?” He grinds out. “Trying to get a rise out of me like you’re twelve?”

“Works, doesn’t it?”

That’s the last straw.

Rafe stalks toward you and you don’t move, you never fucking do.

You want him mad and he doesn’t know if he wants to scream or kiss you just to shut you the fuck up.

He stops a foot away, looking down at you.

Your eyes are bright, shining with mischief, biting your cherry-stained lip like it’s the funniest thing in the world that he looks ready to murder you. Or fuck you. Or both.

You’re poison wrapped in sugar. Fucking Siren. Every goddamn year, worse than the last.

“You know what’s crazy?” he says low, cold voice. “Every year you get worse.”

You blink innocently. “Worse?”

“Worse,” he spits. “Worse at pretending you don’t love this. Worse at hiding how much you want me to snap. And one day—”

He leans closer, so close his breath hits your cheek.

“One day, you’re gonna push too far.”

You look up at him—sweet little mask slipping enough for him to see the devil underneath.

Then you say, syrupy, “I hope so.”

You step closer, enough for your breath to ghost across his neck.

Rafe has to close his eyes, he’s not overwhelmed per se, but if he looks at you for one more second, he might do something stupid, something that proves you right. Your fingers graze his jaw, feather-light, enough to make his skin prickle.

You tilt his face toward you like he’s yours to taunt, to toy with. You’re still smiling when his eyes snap open. He’s glaring at your mouth, the gloss is sticky, red from the cherries, shining like sin.

You lean into the counter, thighs brushing his hips. Your legs part to invite him in, offering him hell on a silver platter.

And then— “Is anyone home?”

Sarah’s voice.

You don’t flinch. Of course you don’t.

Rafe, though, jerks back like he’s been shot.

His sister stands in the doorway, brows pulled together, looking between the two of you.

You let out a soft giggle.

“Sorry, Sarah. Rafe’s such a messy eater.” You pick up the cherry bowl and lick syrup off your thumb—deliberately. “He got juice on his face. I was helping.”

Sarah squints. “Seriously, Rafe?”

You blink at her all wide-eyed and saintly.

“He went through half the bowl. You’d think he was starving.”

Rafe says nothing. He can’t. His jaw is locked so tight it might crack.

Sarah shakes her head and sighs like she’s the older one—even though she’s eighteen and you’re both older than her.

“Dad’s gonna flip if you eat his stash again, dumbass.”

You hum. “I’ll tell him it was an accident. He believes me.”

Sarah disappears back upstairs, muttering about boys and stains and god-knows-what. The second she’s gone, Rafe turns to you—rage curling under his ribs.

“You think this is funny?”

Your lips twitch. “I think you’re funny.”

Then you pop another cherry between your lips, wink, and glide past him—brushing his shoulder. For the second time in five minutes, he’s left standing in the kitchen, rock hard, breathless, and burning.

He hates you. He does.

So why the fuck can’t he stop chasing the high of you ruining him?

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

masterlist⍣ ೋ

.*. ⋆1st dinner of the season*. ⋆

*. ⋆pool day for us!. *. ⋆

*. how do i look?*. ⋆

*. ⋆hole in one. *. ⋆

*. ⋆girl who cried wolf. *. ⋆

*. ⋆exes and oh's!*. ⋆

*. ⋆mommy issues!*. ⋆

. *. ⋆the perfect dip*. ⋆

. *. ⋆that's dirty work*. ⋆

. *. ⋆softest hands*. ⋆

*. ⋆payback's a bitch*. ⋆

698 notes · View notes

sithapprentice · 16 days ago

Text

Fair love.

Cregan Stark x Targaryen wife!reader

Summary: Cregan's obsessive love is too much. When he denies your wish to go to Jace's coronation, you take matters into your own hands-- no matter what your husband says.

Warnings: alludes to much smut, unhealthy obsessiveness, manhandling, etc

Masterlist

..............................................................

You'd tried.

You really had.

Winterfell felt dangerous. Hostile. Biting and unruly.

You had tried to please your mother's wishes of staying with Cregan.

And he had provided for you.

You couldn't really hate him. Not truly.

But it wasn't right.

You had asked him if you could attend your brother's coronation at King's Landing.

And he'd told you no.

And when you'd asked why not, he spoke of the dangers that lied outside the walls, waiting for you.

As if you weren't married to danger as well.

He could protect you from anything. He was a force to be reckoned with. One brush of the northerner's calloused hands told you that he had the blood of many staining them.

You felt a hand push the hair away from your shoulder, and cold lips brushing your neck.

"What's on your mind, my love?" His low voice whispers.

You stare at the fire in your shared chambers. The flames dance, warming the front of your body. The rest of you remains cold.

His hand gently pushes the sleeve of your dress over your shoulder. His lips slowly follow.

"Are you still upset with me?" He asks in an almost teasing manner.

When you don't answer, he stands straight again. You can feel the tension build in his shoulders at the thought of your unhappiness. "'S dangerous out there, my girl. I promised your mother I'd protect you."

"And what of my brother? Am I not safe around him?"

He sighs. "The outside world is always dangerous. If something were to happen to you-"

"Please, Cregan."

His eyes harden, boring into your back. "Be good," he reprimands.

He isn't used to being ignored or disobeyed. He doesn't like it.

"Forgive me."

He sighs, and you can feel his breath against your neck. "'S alright. I've been a bit rude. Haven't I?" Lips brush against the skin again. "Not even listening. My sweet girl. Let's forget this, huh?"

You turn in his grip to see him. Your hands brush over his heavy biceps. The muscles tense under your fingertips. His own hands find your waist.

"My brother…" you try one more time in a soft whisper.

His grip tightens.

He leans down, nuzzling his nose against your temple. "Let it go," he warns lowly.

As he kisses your forehead, you decide: You won't let it go.

…

Three days later, you decide you will go to Jace's coronation.

Cregan is leaving himself for King's Landing today. You've decided that you'd show, albeit late, without your husband's knowledge.

He straps his last bag to his horse, brushing its mane with his rough hands.

You stand not far off, arms around yourself to withstand the cold air.

He turns to you and sighs softly. Eyes roam from head to foot.

Guilt eats at you, and you find yourself crossing to close the gap.

He catches you with far too much ease, as if his arms were created to be around you.

You kiss him softly. The scruff almost burns. His love almost burns. But you can't pull away from him.

One hand stays firm on your hip, the other comes to the back of your head, keeping you close.

Cregan's kisses are heavy. Everything about him is calculated and weighs down on his shoulders.

So, to say he doesn't love you would be a complete lie about his very soul.

To kiss the way that he does?

He loves you as much as his mind allows him to.

He pulls away just enough to see you. And a soft breath escapes as he gently smiles. His hand comes to your cheek, thumb brushing the skin. "You'll be good while I am away?"

You nod, pushing down the guilt.

He hesitates, hands pausing. "Yeah?"

Your gut twists. You're sure he can see right through you. But you can't afford to let him. You nod again, more desperately.

He sighs and you're sure something in you died.

His eyes roam your face then soften. "Good girl." He kisses you again, more desperate, more gentle, more soul bearing.

And when he pulls away again, he speaks. "I am an unfair husband. I know how much you wished to go with me. When I return… I will owe you my time. We will do the things you wish to." His hand plays with your hair as he continues, "Horseback rides, picnics, perhaps the market." He says each one slowly like he's trying to grab your attention. Trying to catch a happy glint in your eye. "I may even have tea with your ladies. Think of what you wish. You have much time until I return."

He notices how quiet you've been. He lowers his head to catch your eye sight. "What, my love? Do you wish me to bring something back for you? I know you miss the soft fabrics of the South. Enough for a dress, perhaps? Would that bring you joy?"

You shake your head. "I only want safe travels for my husband."

"None of that," he dismisses. "Tell me what you want, my dear, pretty wife. I will hand you the world if you ask me."

There are days you question his love— how he keeps you cooped in that castle. But then he says such loving things like this. You see how he protects, but also how he obsesses to do so in unhealthy manners.

"I don't need the world," you try again. "But… perhaps those shells from the shore? My brothers and I used to collect them so gently-"

"Shells," he whispers to memory. "I will hunt for the prettiest shells the shores can make."

Even when he is trying his hardest, he still speaks in manners of 'hunting,' as if stealing these shells from the waters to provide for his wife.

You remember when you taught your younger brother Luke to find shells. The different animals that lived in them. There was one he loved so desperately, but he had to let go because of the small hermit crab living in it. It was a hard lesson you had to teach him.

How your small collection you took to Winterfell makes your heart hurt. The shells remind you of your life before the war. Oh, how peaceful your life had been when you were oblivious to the hatred brewing beneath the hearts of Targaryens.

"Thank you, Cregan."

He nuzzles against your temple. "Speak nothing of it. It is a joy to provide the thing your heart longs for."

As you watch him ride away, you see the way he pauses to look back at you one last time.

…

The next day, you'd finished packing. Your guards had been so hesitant to let you do this. But their Lord was nowhere to be found, and their Lady was demanding that she go. They had no choice but to start a small trusted caravan to King's Landing.

You hated riding in the cold. Targaryen blood ran so hot, you felt like the warmth ran off in waves.

You wished your husband had let you go with his own caravan. His cloaks warmed you so well. And the heat from his body always soothed something in you.

He was going to be so angry at you.

The thought hurt.

In time, the familiar air of King's Landing brought tears to your eyes.

You had missed it more than you originally thought.

How the air, the sun, the sky, it all accommodated the dragon blood in the silver haired family that controlled it.

"Lady Stark," your guard called, "Shall I ride ahead to tell the King of your arrival?"

You nod, "but… be subtle. Do not let my husband know. Not… not yet."

You didn't miss the way his eyes flashed with worry.

…

The moment you got to the castle, every guard's eyes caught the familiar silver hair.

Their princess had returned.

Much like your mother, you were this generation's Realm's Delight. The townspeople once gossiped of how the ugly North never deserved you.

"My princess," one of them greeted as they helped you off your horse. "Forgive us. We were not made aware of your arrival."

"And please do not do more on my account," you assure.

"Lord Stark arrived two days ago. Shall I-"

"No! No," you panic. "That's alright. Thank you. Perhaps just take me to one of the spare rooms."

"Yes, Princess."

…

After getting your bags in your room, you finally refreshened and got to relax. Well, as much as your mind would let you.

The soft knock at your door made the panic come right back.

But when it opened, black curly hair was the first thing you saw.

Like when you were children, he barely poked his head in, as if he wasn't the reigning King over all of the Realm. He's just your brother when you're together. His lips pull up in that knowing grin. "Thought I heard of my beloved sister showing her pretty face here."

Relief floods through, and you're racing across the room into his arms.

He catches you and spins you happily.

He's stronger than you remember.

More manly.

The baby fat in his cheeks are gone, replaced by carefully melded cheek bones.

He sets you down. "Why have you not come with Stark?"

He notices everything. That was something you always cursed him for.

He also noticed the twitch in your brow at his question, and it set him on edge. "What has he done?"

"Nothing, brother. Truly."

He huffs. "But something is amiss. A man that will not travel with his wife is not a man at all."

"Jace-"

"No. I will not have you mistreated. Not while I still have breath in my body. And to think, he told-"

"Jace, nothing happened."

He cups both sides of your face as if checking for injuries.

You have to tug his hands down. "I came without his knowledge."

His face falls. "What?"

"He did not want me to come. So… I came by myself. He does not know."

Jace's face contorts to a new emotion entirely. "W- Why would you do that?"

"He was… worried for my safety."

"Perhaps he should be!" He steps back. "Here you are, lying and hiding away from your own husband. He only wished to protect you, and yet-"

"You do not understand it, Jace!" You yell back. "I feel suffocated by him some days. The snow, it packs down and feels so heavy."

He grabs you by your biceps firmly. "Listen to me." He makes sure he has your attention. "Cregan Stark loves you. Fiercely. You have disobeyed your husband. And… while I love you, I must side with him this time."

"W-" The words catch in your throat. "You side with him?"

"Sister," he sighs. "I know he can come across as… brash. Trust me. Please. You should not have come. The war has only just ended a few months ago. And Cregan Stark," his voice lowers. "Cregan Stark won us the war."

"I know that." You began to question yourself. Perhaps it was a mistake.

"Regardless," he sighs. "Come to the feast tonight. Leave in the morning. Please."

…

A few hours pass. Cregan was right in saying that you deeply missed the light fabric of the South.

Jace had found a few of your old dresses and had them brought to you.

The red fabric of this one… you had forgotten how it looked poured on.

You'd missed it so badly.

You imagined how your Lord husband would react. He'd only seen you in heavy materials in the cold air. But now, he was in your territory.

You felt the need to remind him that he married the daughter of the Realm's Delight.

He might be happy. He might be angry. Gods, he might take you to the next room and ravish you.

With your hair braided a traditional Targaryen way, you almost didn't feel like yourself.

It had been so long since you'd looked like this. And you'd grown into much more of a woman since then.

…

You had it all planned out. You would come later in the night. Sneak in. Whatever happens, do not make it a big deal. If Cregan were to notice you, he'd have no choice but not make a scene in front of the others.

But, as always, fate works against you.

It's two hours into the night. Just enough that people are comfortable. Perhaps they'll be drunk.

When the doors open, it's so fast that you can't tell the servant not to announce your presence.

So the door opens, you're announced, and everyone goes silent.

You stand in the doorway, slight panic in your eyes. But you push it down and set your eyes on your brother.

He's seated at the high table, goblet in hand. He grins and takes a long sip.

And, of course, Cregan sits next to him.

You should have known. He's technically part of the royal family now due to the marriage. And the two are such strong friends. Out of everyone in the room (his own wife, Baela, aside), Jace would choose to sit next to your husband.

You take a deep breath and walk calmly into the crowd. They bow their heads as you pass. But your eyes are still set on the high table.

When you near, you pause, waiting for Jace to allow you forward.

He leans forward with that grin you know far too well.

He's tormenting you.

Making you wait.

Making the room sit and wait in silence.

Letting your husband stare at you.

You finally look at Cregan. His hands grip his seat with white knuckles. His eyes don't stray. Don't move. Never waver from you. And though you try, you can't figure out what emotion is more present on his face.

Your brother waves you up, and you take it with hurried steps.

You have two choices: Sit next to your husband with no one on your other side to save you from his wrath. Or move past both him and Jace to sit with Baela and Rhaena.

There was a clear answer.

So you step around the table with the intention of moving past Cregan. But as you even begin to near, he stood and moved behind his own chair.

You don't look at him, but he catches your arm firmly.

"Sit."

He pulls out his own chair for you, setting you next to Jace. He sits next to you. He refills his (now your) wine glass, and puts food on your plate as if he hadn't been using it only moment ago.

"Eat, wife."

Jace tries his hardest not to look at the two of you. But as a curious brother, he struggled. How he loved drama.

You thank your husband quietly and begin to eat, avoiding looking at anything.

The feast continues as before. Lively voices and music.

His hand finds your thigh. His pinkie brushes the inside of your thigh and you have to keep your thoughts to yourself.

And still, you can't decide what emotion is more prominent in his face.

Jace only speaks with Baela, avoiding you completely. Perhaps he didn't wish to get in trouble with the northerner either.

You couldn't say that you blame him.

…

The night progresses, albeit awkward between you and your husband. He's been quiet. It's a bit unnerving.

Sometimes his hand tightens on your thigh, reminding you of the tension you shared. A silent reminder not to run.

Finally, he leans in towards your chair. He brushes the braid away from your neck so he can admire the skin there. His nose brushes your jaw as he tilts his head up so speak directly in your ear.

"Do not tell me you won't dance with me?"

He hates dancing.

There's something up his sleeve.

He doesn't lean away, but his hand extend out in front of yours.

His large hand.

You accept it with your own nimble one.

He stares down, thumb running over your wedding ring.

And with that, he stands and leads you to the floor.

With him in front of you, you can truly admire him.

He's handsome in the North. You know that. But heavy cloaks hide just how muscular he is.

Seeing him like this reminds you of the way your hand brushes down his arms when you're making love.

And he knows it. The fucking smirk he has on his face right now.

Each brush of your hands feel like the biting chill of his home. Like stepping into a cold bath.

And for being so large and formidable, he's surprisingly graceful in a dance.

You knew his mother had taught him when he was young. Before she'd passed.

So each step comes to him so naturally it's almost sickening.

He grabs your hand roughly now and spins you into him. Your back collides with his chest harder than the other moves before. And when you try to move on, a hand anchors to your waist.

The others continue, but the two of you remain this way for a moment. You can feel the heavy breaths against your back.

"My girl," he whispers. "What are you doing here?"

His free hand starts at your shoulder then unapologetically runs down the exposed skin of your chest, between your clothed breasts and down your stomach, stopping just at the line of inappropriate.

He hears the small whimper escape your throat and he knows he's won.

So his hand slithers to your arm, spinning you back out and catching up with the other dancers as if nothing happened.

There's a flush to your cheeks. A heat that's buried deep in your stomach that you didn't plan on having tonight.

All you can think about is the way his hips roll so perfectly when the two of you are alone-

"Do you need some fresh air, my princess?" He grins. "You look unwell."

Without an answer, he guides you away from the feast. It's almost daunting the way the large doors close behind the two of you.

He takes you out to the gardens. The moon has come up by now, lighting the path through the flowers.

It's not far before he grabs you. "Do I have to fuck some sense into you?" He questions, far too serious to be a tease anymore. "Is that what it will take?"

As much as you'd like to accept, he's at his wits end and you're beginning to grow upset yourself. So, you push down the growing heat and try to replace it with anger. "I would happily take a fucking if it got you to, for once, pay attention to my needs!"

"Your needs?" He questions. He scoffs, letting you go dramatically. "I have met them all enthusiastically! You think I simply do not care?"

"Then why could I not come here?" She throw off your anger as a laugh. "What needs of your own were so important that I could not come along to see my own family? If you wanted to fuck a whore in King's Landing like the other husbands, do not hide that."

He's quiet, eyes trained on you like you just said something worth executing for. He doesn't even breathe. Only stares. "You think," he words slowly, taking a step forward, "that I barred you from coming here because I want to be unfaithful?"

"W-" you find yourself pausing for a second but decide the words aren't worth thinking anymore on. "What else could the reason be?"

"I do not tolerate keeping secrets," he whispers. "In any regard. I do not lie to you. And I hope that you do not lie to me. Perhaps I was wrong."

You scoff. "You do not lie? Then perhaps you do not say the entire truth because I not only live in a castle that does not see the sun, but you keep me in the dark!" You step back, noting the water now in your lash line. "You do not tell me anything! Am I too slow? Perhaps my pretty little head cannot keep up with your manly plans o-"

"Quiet," he growls, gripping your jaw.

Then you two stare.

He's quite handsome in the moonlight.

It shines off his cheekbones in such a pretty manner.

"You are an intelligent woman. Pretty. And with far too much spirit in you. You are determined," he says, "and I admire it of you." He takes a breath. "But it is something I worry of as well."

For all the words you had before, your mind is empty now.

"I will never tame your dragon blood. It can be breathtaking in its fullness. But there are things you still do not understand. And you must listen to me."

"I want to understand."

"I know you do." He takes your hands, cupping them against his heart. "And I am beginning to see that not telling you may have been a mistake. But worrying you with matters out of your own hands felt cruel."

You lean into him, fluttering your lashes in hopes of softening him. "Why have you hid me away, Lord Stark?"

He exhales lowly at the use of his title. Your plan works.

He frees one of his hands, tipping your chin up and kissing you softer than he ever has before.

Without embarrassment, you give in, moaning at the genuine kindness and passion in his gesture.

He continues, peppering soft kisses down the side of your chin and across your jaw to your ear. He takes his time to get there, enjoying the way you react to his stubble scraping your skin.

Once at your ear, he tips your head to the side to give him full access. Which you happily oblige.

"Can you imagine," he whispers, "having your one weakness exposed so openly?"

He bites at your earlobe, his hand now moving down your neck. Your heart races.

"I just won your brother a war, pretty girl. Do you know how many enemies I have?"

His palm rests over the pulse in your neck. You feel like prey to a fierce predator.

The Wolf of the North.

"Imagine a body. A perfect body. It can hunt. It can move. It wields a sword. It rides horses. It leads armies and it rules with an iron hand."

His hand moves lower, resting over your heart. The fingers twitch. You've now realized his other hand has found a firm place around your waist.

"Now imagine that same body. But its ribs have been plucked out and its vital organs remain exposed for even the dullest of swords to penetrate."

The hand wanders back up to your jaw. He tilts your head to nuzzle against your pulse with his nose. "I would almost call you vile for the way you expose my heart."

The sharp hairs on his face scrape, then a kiss is left behind. It's a sickening cycle down your neck to its connection of your shoulder.

"I worship you, my girl," he pants against your skin. "How have you not realized that?"

You whimper at his words.

He nips at a sensitive spot, but the grip on your waist and jaw keeps you from pulling away.

"Be good," he whispers.

…

You return to the feast a little while later, looking far too disheveled to pass as acceptable.

But there's a light in your eyes that can't be mistaken for anything but pride.

Even if there's a slight limp in your step.

Cregan, the ever protective dog stands behind you, hands brushing your waist just enough to relight the flame deep within you.

You both try to ignore the shit eating grin on Jace's face.

…

When the two of you return to Winterfell, you find seashells that he has somehow had time to place for you before you noticed.

The four prettiest shells you've ever seen, followed by a note in his sloppy handwriting:

I would have a fifth for you, but there was a particular crab that would not let it go. Cannot say I blame him. I am rather hesitant to expose the weak parts of myself as well. All is not fair in love and war. But perhaps I should be more fair in love. You are my beloved wife. And my heart burns for no other. Your Cregan

......................................................................

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