queerquinnn

[queerquinnn]

power | brynjolf x reader

a/n: ty all SO much for 50 followers ahh !!! here's a celebratory bf brynjolf fic. technically sfw but it's suggestive if you squint bc bryn's a tease lmao

“Everything alright, love?”

His voice, tender and gentle, pulls you out of your thoughts. You look up from the dagger you were sharpening, though your lack of concentration keeps you from doing a good job.

Brynjolf crosses the training room to approach you. He looks at you with a mixture of curiosity and concern, studying your features intently. Even when he’s assessing you for your emotions, his gaze sends flames along your skin.

You nod. “Yes, just fine.” You turn back to your dagger, swallowing any other words that might give you away.

He makes a small humming noise. Then he’s sitting next to you, the locked chest you’d been using as a seat creaking with the added weight. His shoulder taps your own.

“Are you sure?” He asks. “You seemed very unfocused during that meeting.”

Your stomach takes a dip. You’d been praying to Nocturnal that nobody had noticed - especially him.

It wasn’t often that a meeting was called for all the Guild members to attend, so you knew it had to be something big. And something big it was, because whatever map Brynjolf had rolled out onto the desk looked too complex to be a simple grab-and-go mission.

Turns out the owner of a grand estate somewhere outside Solitude will be gone on a business trip, the optimal chance to swoop in and take all the riches that can be found within. Surely, he’ll have some guards there, but that’s nothing for seasoned thieves like yourselves. So there was a lot of planning to be done - who goes in, who grabs what, which paths and entrances to take. You really did intend to pay attention.

But then Brynjolf had started drawing circles and lines on the map, and you found yourself watching his hands. You’d never noticed how well-formed they are,how muscular and veiny, how they are adorned with tiny scars and notches. And how nimble in their movements…

And then he had leaned over to gesture to one area of the map, and you’d caught a whiff of his scent. He smelled like leather and warm spices, something comforting and masculine, a refreshing waft of air compared to that of the cistern.

And then at one point, still locked in discussion, he had quickly tied up half of his hair and gathered it into a messy knot, getting it out of the way so he could see better as he hunched back over the map.

Unfocused is a major understatement for your state of mind during that meeting. You’d been entranced by him, reminded of your boundless infatuation.

But you hope you still have a chance to play it off. “Did I?” You ask, trying not to let one drop of nervousness show up in your voice.

Brynjolf watches you fidget with the dagger in your hand. “Mhm. I wager you weren’t even listening.”

Your head shoots up to look at him. “I was listening!”

Half his mouth lifts in a smile. You see a little sparkle in his eye, and immediately, you regret saying anything. “Really, now? What’s your role in the plan, then?”

You open your mouth, then close it. You look away again, heat flushing the ends of your ears.

Brynjolf chuckles softly. “That’s what I thought.”

You go back to messing with the dagger, but you don’t get very far before he’s reaching over and taking it from you. His hand brushes over your own, and you feel a prickle shoot up your spine.

“When you’ve been in the field as long as I have, you become very observant.” He sets the dagger aside and his hand goes back to yours, but this time, the grazing of his fingers on your palm is slow, and feathery - deliberate.

Your heart starts to race against your ribcage.

“And it seems like you were very observant of me,” he says, his voice dropping a little.

The warmth on your ears rushes down your neck, and you know if you try to play dumb again, it’ll only get worse.

So you give a lazy shrug instead. “Maybe…”

Brynjolf laughs again, a soft rush of his breath falling against your cheek. “You could have picked a better time.”

“I know - sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t be, love. In fact, I like it.”

His fingers dance farther up your hand, to the sensitive skin of your wrist. His thumb prods at the pulse point, and even though it’s a light touch, you feel a jolt leap up your arm.

“You do?” You question, getting a nod in return. “And here I thought you would chastise me for not paying attention.”

“If I were still your superior, I would,” he says flatly.

You scoff and start to gather a reply, but then his hand strays higher up your arm, and your words die with a hitched breath. Your thoughts stumble over one another as your attention shifts to the path of his touch.

You can feel the warmth of his palm through your leathers as he reaches your shoulder. His fingers stretch out to briefly weave some of your hair between them. One of his fingertips grazes your jaw, and your heartbeat flickers.

“But we are equals now. We run this guild together.” Brynjolf’s voice goes soft, matching the gentle movements of his hand as he tucks the strand of hair behind your ear. “Frankly, you can do whatever you want - even if it’s drooling over me at a meeting.”

You roll your eyes at that comment. For a second, you forget the nervous state his touch is putting you in. “I was not drooling. Don’t exaggerate it.”

He snickers. “Had it gone on a little longer, I’m sure you would have started.”

Your blood simmers at his teasing. But once more, your attempt at a retort vanishes when he leans closer. With your hair out of the way, you can feel the subtle warmth of his breath on the side of your face. His hand is back near your shoulder, the pads of his fingers resting against your skin.

The pounding in your chest increases, making it difficult to draw in a slow, unsteady breath. But there is also an excited flutter in your abdomen, and the nerves are overpowered by the desire to play along, to feed more into his intoxicating attention.

You turn your head to look at him. The immediate eye contact is so intense that it’s nearly overwhelming. But you tilt your head, holding that sensual gaze of his. “You like the power, you mean.”

Brynjolf cracks a smirk. “Aye, that might be true.”

Suddenly you feel his fingers slithering down your back, making you flinch with a jolt. He laughs. “Alright, very true. I like having the power to do that.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you mutter, flushing deeper as his fingers stray lower.

“Too late.”

He moves to the small of your back. His fingertips trace your spine, diving into every little ridge as they work their way back up. You shiver, back rippling with movement, but he keeps going.

“I could get drunk off of this,” he says, sounding a little winded. His hand pauses between your shoulder blades, his thumb making a sweeping motion there.

You cast him a glance. “Careful. You know what happened to the last Guild leader to abuse his power.”

He grins again. “Right, right. But if you ask me, I’m using mine wisely.”

His hand travels up until his palm is flat against the nape of your neck. His touch feels warm on the exposed skin there. His fingers stretch up, easing themselves into the hairs at the base of your skull.

Another tremor runs through your body, and you can’t help but lean into his touch. It’s almost embarrassing how weak you are for him.

“Doesn’t seem very fair,” you murmur. You look at him again, trying to narrow your eyes in defiance, but you’re caught off guard by the heat in his own gaze. His own composure is slipping, the amusement in his eyes slowly being washed out by something more serious.

“Is it not?” Brynjolf’s voice drops lower, and so does his head. His mouth is dangerously close to your neck, the sensation of his breath there causing your lungs to lock. “Do you even know of the power you have over me, love?”

That surprises you. You start to voice a doubtful “really”, but it turns into a silent gasp when you feel his lips brushing ever so lightly over your throat.

“How often I look at you when you don’t notice? The effect you have over me when you say my name, or when you give me one of those gorgeous smiles from across the cistern?” He carries the breathy words further down your neck, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin above your collarbone. He’s so close that you wouldn’t be surprised if he could feel your crazed heart pumping. “How often I think about you at every moment, how utterly obsessed I am with you…”

You shudder. It’s a struggle to find your voice, but you manage to whisper, “I .. didn’t know.”

Brynjolf moves back up slowly, his mouth never quite lifting off your skin, until right before he reaches your own lips. He inches back just enough to reply, “Now you do.”

Then he’s finally pulling you in for a kiss. You’ve never melted into one so fast. His lips caress yours with a fierce hunger, one you easily match. It is pure instinct that takes over your body, that drives you to cling to one of the buckles on his armor and bring yourself even closer. You thrive off the warmth provided by him in every way - his hands squeezing your waist, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip, his ragged breaths tumbling onto your face.

It puts you into a euphoric haze, one you only break out of when you impulsively slide a hand up his neck and into his dark russet locks and he groans into the kiss. The sound alone shocks you to your core, but feeling it from his chest, pressing against your own - that is forever etched onto your memory.

You break apart, a brief second passing where you both merely catch your breath, sharing the same air and tingling aftereffects. A warm, amusing realization appears in the clouds of your mind.

“I get it now.” You tilt your head and leave a chaste kiss on his cheek. “I could get drunk off of this.”

Brynjolf’s laugh is breathless, his lungs still recovering from the kiss. But his hands snaking up your waist and back have a newfound strength.

“Like I said, love. Equals.” And he captures your lips again.

[queerquinnn]

「Merriment」

Third-person reader insert! Y/N is the younger sister of King Robert Baratheon. Her house sigil is a stag, yes, but it seems she has a particular fondness for hounds.

Contains: Reluctant pining, kissing, mature situations Words:  2,311

UNFINISHED WORK: This was supposed to be a long, multi-part piece which is why it takes so long setting up! This was part one and is about halfway finished. Figured there's a lot of Sandor fans that might enjoy a small something cute <3

No husband and no responsibilities made for a very happy woman indeed. Small wonder she was all smiles and riddles and gayeties; she must, the commonfolk thought, be the happiest woman in all the seven kingdoms.

This was likely true.

She was forever laughing. There was a smile on her face always, it seemed, and everywhere she went she took merriment with her. Her ladyship took great pleasure in riddles and games and shows of mummers and fools, and King’s Landing had not hosted a tourney that did not have her there in the pavilions in many a year. She was a friend to all regardless of birth or station or reputation (within reason), and for this she was quite loved, but also quite resented. The resentment was paid little mind—turning a blind eye and smiling was much more fun, as it was often irksome to those who were loth to favor her.

Y/N Baratheon. Lady of Storm’s End, younger sister to Stannis and Robert, older sister to Renly. She possessed the same appetite for amity as Robert coupled with the mirth and grandeur of Renly. Of Stannis, it was said, they shared only a name. Still she insisted she adored all her brothers equally, “even the gloomy one.”

Much was afoot in King’s Landing.

King Robert had named Lord Eddard Stark new hand of the king, and Stark had arrived with a host of his own and his two daughters in tow. This was cause for celebration, and celebration was cause for a tourney, and where there was a tourney (or a celebration), Lady Y/N was to be found.

And she was found in King’s Landing quite a lot, of recent.

There was a rumor, often dubbed a vicious and untrue one, that though her house sigil may be the King's own stag, Y/N had a particular fondness for hounds.

The sun was two hours from setting when a host of black and yellow arrived at The King's Gate. In came banners that bore stags, and a spate of wagons bringing wines and cheeses and polished pears from Storm’s End. An impatient rider rode ahead of the rest, leaving behind a cry of protest as she thundered away, alone, up the streets of King’s Landing.

She arrived with a well-lathered horse and a swirl of her cloak. A party had time to gather in the yard of the Red Keep; a paltry welcoming committee with little time to prepare.

But the King was there—of course the King was there.

Had she not already been grinning, she would have grinned. “There’s my favorite brother,” said Y/N, dismounting and already forgetting her palfrey.

The look on Robert’s face was strange, though, and uncharacteristic of the Robert she knew and loved. The years had not been kind to him (as was made most evident by his growing waistline), and his face was stern, drawn into a scowl, his brow furrowed.

Is he not happy to see me? she thought even through her smiles and excitement. Gods, he looks as grim as Stannis, maybe twice as much. When she made to throw her arms about his neck, he took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length instead.

“That’s your grace to you, woman. I am the King, or have you forgotten?”

The King’s sister opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, which was done dumbly and not unlike a fish.

The ruse was short-lived.

Robert Baratheon—King Robert Baratheon—broke into a roar of laughter like that of a bear made human. Still holding his dearest sister by the shoulders, he gave her a hearty shake. “Your face!” he boomed. “You should have seen it!”

Her smile returned, then her laughter. “You’re a fool if ever there was one, Robert!”  She threw her arms around his neck even as he shook her, and the big king lifted his little sister in his arms and hugged her so tightly, so fiercely, that the now-arriving party feared the king may crush their lady.

Robert didn’t crush Y/N, though. No, they were both used to it. “You’re crushing me, Robert,” she huffed at last, prompting the king to drop her back down onto the ground.

He clapped her on the shoulder. “Right then, let’s get inside. We have much and more to catch up on, and there’s a flagon of wine calling my name.”

“Every flagon of wine calls your name, your grace.”

The King was laughing again, then, and the King’s sister was smiling.

That, as far as the two Baratheons were concerned, was the way it always had been, and the way it always would be, until one buried the other.

Meeting the King’s party was a grand ordeal, though Y/N had already met most of the partygoers in attendance on at least one occasion. Of course she knew the Lannisters, her brother’s family by law, and she’d met Lord Eddard Stark once before. Lord Eddard’s daughters were new to her, however, and a few of the faces at court as well. Having been taught well, she recognized most of the family names and colors, smiling and shaking hands and doing all the formalities a lady should do.

The occupants of the Red Keep’s great hall that night came from houses big and small, known and unknown, and saw the attendance of lords and ladies, knights, hedge knights, bards, poets and singers, fools in their motley and mummers with their painted faces. There were cards being shuffled and dice being thrown. Serving girls brought plate after plate of selections from the kitchens: stuffed capons, wine-glazed lamb, honeyed figs, dark breads with thick crusts, sweet lemon cakes still-warm from the ovens. The courses seemed never-ending and the wine never stopped flowing.

“Never was there such a party before, brother,” declared Y/N. She lifted a gilded goblet with a flourish, and rich, purple wine splashed over the rim and down her hand. She was the picture of effortless joy.

And she knew it, too.

If she hadn’t known it, the guests would have reminded her; the way they flocked to her in throngs and yammered on and on whenever she should happen to lend an ear—which was often. Round and round she circled the crowd as the evening wore on and the wine continued to flow, searching the room for a familiar face—a face that would stand out even in the most crowded of rooms.

Her gaze passed the lords and ladies, passed the knights in their polished armor, until at last she found her mark.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, stood near the far wall, obscured halfway in the shadows. His face was grim, as it usually was, pulled tightly into a scowl that had long since worn its lines permanently into his features. The burn scars that marred half his face were highlighted by the flickering torchlight, giving him an even more fearsome appearance.

She knew Sandor was not like the other knights, not like the men who fawned over ladies with flowery words and grand gestures. He was rough, blunt, and often downright rude.

He was the perfect change of pace.

Oft she sought him when at last she could take the rinse-and-repeat of perfumed nobility no longer. She wove through the crowd with ease, exchanging smiles and nods as she passed, until she finally stood before Sandor.

"Sandor," she greeted him plainly. “It’s been too long.”

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For an overly long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a grunt, he inclined his head slightly. "My lady," he replied, his voice as rough as the gravel on the King’s Road.

Y/N smiled up at him, unfazed by his gruffness. "Why do you stand here all alone?" she asked, her tone teasing. "Surely even hounds deserve a bit of merriment."

Sandor huffed, a sound that could have been a laugh if it had come from anyone else. "Merriment’s for fools," he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.

“Forgive me, then, for it seems I’ve forgotten my motley.”

“So it seems.”

She knew he was not a man of many words, especially when it came to matters of the heart. But she also knew that, for reasons she could not fully explain, she had become someone he tolerated more than most.

Perhaps it was a royal decree by Robert unbeknownst to her. And what a royal decree that would be! The thought made her laugh aloud, which only earned her a raised eyebrow in response.

He indicated the floor from which she’d just come. "Motely or not, you should jingle along with the other fools,” he said, though his tone was less stern than usual.

"And you should be out there with your fellow dogs," said she, “but here we are."

Sandor's lips twitched as if they might have remembered how to smile for half a moment. “Surprised you’re not dancing again. It went well for you last time.”

With one sentence he had broken the façade she wore so well. Her look of smug mirth disappeared from her face in an instant and was replaced instead by one of flustered surprise.

It had been a celebration much like this one and she was deep in her cups by the time the sun had set and the dancing had begun. Y/N had been at the heart of it, twirling and dancing with little care, passing hand from one lord to another, from knight to knight, breathless and flushed and shoes long forgotten.

The next thing she knew, she was stumbling, and a moment later, toppling entirely. The ground rose up to meet her with an unpleasant wack!, and the pain in her cheek was overshadowed only by a pain in her ankle. She’d gotten too carried away and twisted something, it seemed, and hadn’t even felt it until she was picking herself back up off the ground.

Or, well, trying to pick herself back up off the ground. The usual cloud of courtiers buzzed around her in an attempt to see her upright again, but the pain in her ankle swelled red hot and angry.

A shadow passed, then, and she had looked up, her vision slightly blurred from the wine, to see Sandor Clegane’s gruff face above her. There had been no mocking grin or cold stare, just a look that might have been concern on a more expressive man. “You’re alright.”

Without another word, he had scooped her up in his arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all.

Y/N had gasped, her hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders. "I can walk!" she had protested, though she hadn’t made any real effort to leave his arms.

 "Not on that ankle you can’t.”

And so she had let him carry her, through the bustling hall and up the winding stairs of the Red Keep, all the way to her chambers. It had been awkward, but it had also been…

More.

“You’re quite strong,” she said to him, which earned only a grunt of acknowledgement.

Something—something—fluttered inside of her when she saw him so close; the burned skin unevenly healed, the scruff that dusted his face, the muscle of his neck that disappeared beneath his armor where her prying eyes could not follow—but her imagination could. 

When they reached her chambers, he had set her down gently on the edge of her bed. She had looked up at him, her heart pounding in a way that had little to do with the wine. As he made to release her, she caught the back of his neck with her hand and held him there, inches from her face.

She’d expected him to break free, to pull away, to do anything else. But he stayed.

He stayed there like that, his lips inches from hers.

He had hesitated, his expression torn between wanting to leave and the pull of something deeper that they both felt there between them. They both smelled of wine and honeyed mead, lips sweet.

She didn’t know who kissed who, but in half a heartbeat they were entangled.

Sandor’s breath came ragged against her mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She bit his lip and he growled. It was fast, animal, raw want.

And a longtime coming.

When he pulled away, she pulled him back in again, and he didn’t fight her. Breathless, she’d pulled herself up by his shoulders and onto her knees, the pain in her ankle unfelt and forgotten. Her hands cupped his face and she pulled him in, in, in, until her chest was flush with his and she could feel every rise and fall of his on hers.

At last he’d taken her by the elbows and pushed her away, and it ended as suddenly as it had started.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he told her.

“But I haven’t had enough of you.”

“You’ve had your fill of that, too,” he said, turning cloak and leaving.

“I’m quite certain I haven’t had my fill of you.”

He paused mid-step and looked at her over his shoulder. “You don’t want that,” he assured her. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something sharp as steel and burning hot.

Y/N leaned back on the bed. “I know what I want,” she said, wishing she could stand and go to him, to pull him by his cloak and his armor and whatever else she could get her hands on—something lower than his beltline. “I’ve known for years and years.”

Slowly, deliberately, Sandor crossed the room again, silhouetted against the warm torchlight that poured in through the still-open door. “Trust me,” he said, towering over her, leaning in close. “You might want to get your fill of me, but you don’t want me to get my fill of you.”

Her breath left her body in a shuddering shiver.

Again he had turned, then, and didn’t stop to look back at her that time.

[queerquinnn]

A Bath for the Hound

Masterlist | img source

Summary: Sandor Clegane is injured. And dirty. Some healers try to help him, but he's a gruff man who won't let anyone touch him. That is, until you show up at his door. Word count: 3200 Notes: Well! It ended up taking me more than a month to write this fic!! But here it is, and with an ending I didn't expect myself. Warning: Highborn f!reader x sandor clegane; Cocky reader; Grumpy Sandor; Beauty and beast vibes and reference; Nakedness and descriptions of underwear; Nothing explicit; Suggestive; Banter; Almost a kiss; Confessions of love; Sandor calls reader little dove. English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes I might make. Constructive feedback is welcomed, I am here to share and learn <3

You barely lifted your eyes from your book when four burly men shuffled into the room - three of them rubbing their sides and the last running a hand over a nasty bruise on his jaw.

"How is he?" you asked, turning the page calmly.

"I-I… don't know, my lady…"

You lifted your gaze and set the book on the silver tray beside you.

“You don't know?"

"No, my lady," the leader of the group answered. "He is… he's a…"

"A complicated man," Tyrion finished for him.

You knew that would happen. Not even a group of strong, experienced men was enough to deal with him.

"I'll go," you sighed, rising from your seat. Your two ladies-in-waiting stood up too, but you gestured for them to stay.

“Are you sure, my lady?” Tyrion’s small hand gently grasped yours. “I don’t think it is the most appropriate.”

“Tyrion,” you smiled at your friend, "I'm good with dogs, I know how to handle them," you added looking into his almond-shaped eyes.

The Hand of the King studied you for a moment. You were a stubborn woman. Nothing he could say or do would make you change your mind. And besides, he knew that you carried the weight of what had happened.

"Very well," he finally said, his smile tight as he released your hand.

You dipped your head briefly and, beneath the wary stares of your ladies-in-waiting, slipped out into the dim corridors of the Red Keep.

*******************

The king’s sword had his quarters in the same wing as the royal chambers. Close enough to reach the king in an instant should danger arise. But unlike the luxurious, sunlit chambers of the nobility, his were in the dark corridor reserved for guards and hired steel. 

You stopped before a heavy, dark door, flanked by two unlit torches. Almost instinctively, you smoothed down your crimson dress, adjusting its square neckline before tapping lightly on the wood with your knuckles.

“GET THE FUCK OFF!!” a rough voice barked from inside.

You smiled to yourself. Exactly the answer you expected.

“Sandor…” you said, keeping your voice calm.

After a moment of silence, heavy footsteps approached the door, stumbling over something metallic that rolled across the floor.

“Fucking seven hells…”  he cursed, and you smiled again.

One, two, three locks clicked open, and the large door moved just enough to reveal a nearly seven-foot tall man scowling down at you. His face was stained with dried blood and dirt.

“Gods, you look awful,” you said. 

The Hound pushed the door open further so his body loomed over yours.

“The little dove shouldn't be here,” he rasped. His gaze roamed unabashedly over your neck and collarbone, just as he always did.

“I know,” you lifted your chin at him, unbothered, “but you kicked out the healers, and someone has to take care of you.” 

His dark eyes darted between yours with a special shine, but his mouth twisted reluctantly. 

“I don't need help.”

Before you could protest, he grabbed the door and tried to slam it shut in your face, but as he did his bulky body staggered to one side. You reacted quickly and caught him by the shoulder. He was a giant of a man, you could not carry him, but at least you gave him some support until he found his balance.

"Let's go inside," you whispered. To your surprise, he bowed his head in a silent nod, letting his black hair fall over his eyes to hide his shame.

Sandor Clegane could afford better as the king’s sworn sword, but he was no man of luxury. In his room, there was little more than a simple wooden chair, a table cluttered with bloody bandages, and a fireplace that looked like it had never been used. You stepped around his battered armor scattered across the floor and helped him sit on the chair.

"Let me see the wound," you said as you lightly tugged at his linen tunic. It was the same he usually wore under his chainmail.

With a grunt, he pulled it off and threw it aside. Before you, a broad chest came into view, strong and covered in dark hair. But it was the blood-soaked bandage around his abdomen that caught your eye. You peeled it back and had to force yourself to stay composed. Jagged cuts tore through swollen, reddened flesh, the crude stitches binding the torn skin in a hasty, careless job. He had lost a great deal of blood, which explained his weakness.

"It’s not infected, but we need to clean it,” you said, so focused on examining the wound that you barely realized you were alone with a man in nothing but his breeches. What would your father say?

The man just grunted, staring straight ahead while you bent down to take a closer look at the wound.

"I’m going to bathe you," you added with all the seriousness the moment allowed.

He shot you a glacial glare. 

"No bloody chance you’re bathing me.” 

"You stink like a dead horse, Sandor. I’m going to bathe you whether you like it or not."

He opened his mouth to argue, but before he could you had already stepped into the hall in search of a servant.

"Hot water, towels, and soap," you instructed.

Several men and women dragged in a wooden bathtub and hurried to fill it with hot water. The tub was large, made for someone of his height, and it took several trips for the servants to finish preparing it. As they worked, you helped Sandor remove the rest of the bandage, stuck to the dried blood. He did nothing but grumble and curse the entire time. Once the steam and the pleasant scent of lavender soap filled the room, you were left alone again.

"I’ll help you get in," you offered him your arm.

"This is nonsense," he stared at the bathtub like a dog refusing to go into the river. "I can fucking wash myself."

"You could if you could stay on your feet," you retorted.

You thought he’d grumble again but instead, he let out a loud huff and pulled his breeches down. You quickly averted your gaze, keeping your arm steady to support him. The fabric crumpled around his ankles, and you felt the weight shift as he stepped into the tub with a soft splash. Yet, for some reason, he didn’t lower himself.

“Sit down, please,” you said, still politely looking away.

“Water’s bloody hot,” he rasped.

“It’s warm,” you said.

“It’s too damned h-”

“JUST SIT IN THE BLOODY BATH, CLEGANE,” you snapped. Your neck was turned so far away it might snap, and you couldn’t take this ridiculous standoff another second.

A brief silence followed your order until, with a reluctant grunt, the towering man relented and lowered himself into the wooden tub. Once the water was up to his waist and the foam concealed his nakedness, you knelt next to him. Moisture clung to your neck, so you gathered your hair into a high knot before taking the cloth and soap left at the tub’s edge. Then, you lathered the fabric thoroughly, dipped it into the warm water, and pressed it lightly against his wound.

“Seven hells, woman, warn a man before you start poking at his guts!” The man cursed and flinched, sending water sloshing over the sides.

You frowned.  "If you held still, it wouldn't hurt so much."

He leaned toward you, teeth bared. 

“If the little dove hadn’t run off, this never would’ve happened.”

“Well,” you squeezed the cloth, “if you hadn’t scared the little dove, she wouldn’t have run!”

Your eyes met his, and his scowl deepened, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of looking away. As you held his gaze, you took a small bottle of ointment and applied it to his wound, more carefully this time. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his head forward, jaw so clenched it might break.

"How many were there?" you asked, trying to distract him from the pain.

“Six,” he muttered.

“And where are they now?” 

“Dead.”

You clicked your tongue in silent reproach.

“Seriously?” He turned to you. “They were going to rape you bloody. Would the little dove have preferred I brought them back for supper?”

A chuckle left you, but you didn't answer. You just got up, walked behind him and knelt at his back while he stared ahead, more sullen than ever.

"Here," you curled your fingers around his unshaven chin, gently guiding his head upward. He allowed it, but the moment you poured clean water over his head, he jerked back dramatically.

“Sandor, it’s just a bit of water," you laughed, "I doubt it’ll drown you." 

He was ready to strike with something sharp again, but the words died in his throat as your fingers sank into his hair, tracing slow and soft circles over his scalp.  

His dreadful scars became even more visible beneath his soaked hair, and the man hunched forward, embarrassed. But you had long since lost your fear of his ruined skin. Your fingers ran through his hair, raking through his locks and gently untangling each knot they found. An almost imperceptible, shaky breath left him, and you could almost say he was enjoying it. But when your hands pressed too close to his scarred flesh, he stiffened and pulled his head away.

"It's alright," you reassured him, carefully guiding his head back.

He remained still like a rock while your fingertips slowly wiped away the dried blood from his burned cheek, treating the folds around his deformed ear with the utmost care. Then, you brushed his hair aside and pushed his shoulders forward. The gesture made his muscles tense under your touch, accustomed only to blows and punches. His back was painted with bruises, stiff with countless knots. You pressed your thumbs where he needed it most, kneading until the tension in his shoulders slowly loosened. Unconsciously, he leaned forward to grant you better access. When you traced his spine from top to bottom, a low moan escaped him. He quickly cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it up. The effort only made you smile. 

There he was, one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms, crumbling beneath your touch.

"All done here," you said as you moved around him. 

His eyes followed you as you knelt beside him again and reached out to wipe his chest. But he was so broad that you had to bend over, wetting your sleeve and the front of your dress.

"Sandor, turn toward me as much as you can," you asked.

He didn't. 

His mouth twisted into a grin as he shot you a defiant look that you recognized instantly. It was the same one he wore when a man tested him in the training yard. He was trying to regain some control after his previous moment of vulnerability, and you knew he wouldn't give in this time.

"Fine," you huffed, standing up. You weren’t going to waste more time. 

Your fingers reached for the front laces of your dress and tugged furiously until the gown slipped from your shoulders and fell at your feet. Sandor's eyes widened, but you paid him no mind. You clutched your undershirt in your fists, tore it over your head, and let it fall carelessly to the floor too.

The man was now fully turned toward you, watching with keen interest how your delicate corset cinched enticingly around your waist. His piercing stare didn't stop you. You yanked down your underskirts, lifting one leg to step into the bath. Only white thigh-high stockings with silken ribbon garters covered your thighs. A foolish choice, perhaps, for that day.

"Gods, woman…” the man leaned forward, thick fingers tugging at your garters as if unwrapping a present. “…a true little dove…."

"Sandor!" You slapped his hands away. But he ignored you. As you shifted your appetizing thighs in front of him to get into the water, his large hands cupped them.

“No! Hey!” You seized his wrists and pushed him back. “No touching, alright? Behave.”

"Must be fucking kidding me…," he gave a sharp, annoyed huff, eyes still glued to your thighs as he let his back fall against the bath.

You lowered yourself onto the opposite side, trying not to be intimidated by the sight of the sturdy, soaked chest before you. The steam pressed against your skin, and you ran a hand over the back of your neck, dampening a few stray strands that fell down your back.

You retrieved the cloth and dipped it back into the foamy water. Your hands found his calves, hard as rocks, and you started to scrub them. You kept your gaze down, perhaps because you felt a little vulnerable as he drank in the curve of your neck and down your cleavage. You continued rubbing his knees and began to slide it up his thighs. Higher and higher. Until you stopped abruptly halfway.

“Scared of what you might find?” he taunted, voice rough as sandpaper.

“Oh, Sandor, I know exactly what I’ll find,” you said, pulling the cloth from the water to repeat the process on his other leg.

His chest shook with a deep, throaty laugh that you were sure could be heard from the hall. You rolled your eyes and sat on your ankles, steadying yourself with one hand on the tub’s rim. As you leaned in to scrub his chest, the soapy water slid slowly down his ribs. He leaned back in the tub, arms resting on the sides. You could feel his pupils fixed on you, hungrily.

"Stop looking at me like that," you grabbed his chin and turned his face away.

“Ah, no," his deep voice rasped. "You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Let this beaten dog enjoy a bit.”

You clicked your tongue at his words but the warmth creeping up your cheeks betrayed you. Gods, who would have thought The Hound’s flattery could make you blush?

“Sandor…” You said, running the cloth over his neck, thick with dark hair that climbed up to his beard.  “Yesterday, when you were chasing me through the woods… why?”

“Following orders,” he said, voice flat. 

You hummed, your touch drifting over his collarbone without thought. He exhaled, long and slow. 

“You were meant to go meet your future lord husband. No one told you?” His eyes sought yours, but you kept them downcast.

“Is that what you want?” You asked, fingers idly toying with the soap. ”For me to meet him?” 

“That’s what highborn ladies do, ain’t it? Marry fine, proper lords.” The scorn in his gruff voice made you look at him but something in your gaze made his own soften. “No, little dove… I don’t want you to meet him,” he sighed.

“Why not?” you asked with round, innocent eyes.

He stared right into you. 

“You fucking know why…”

Silence followed his words, so heavy that you feared he might hear the wild hammering of your heart. 

What a foolish thing to ask.

You tore your eyes away from his, gripping the cloth so tightly that the soapy water ran down your wrists and forearms. His fingers brushed against your wet skin, trying to wipe it away. You shuddered. 

No touching, you had said

"You’re not mine to have, are you?" He continued, his hoarse voice weighed down with the same sadness that darkened his eyes. "Damn foolish of me to have even thought of it."

Your hand clasped his and pressed it against your flushed cheek.

No touching. 

To hell with that. 

Water spilled over the edges of the tub as you rose onto your knees. Your trembling hands found support on his shoulders. His own wandered roughly over your back, sliding up your neck until his fingers tangled in your hair, gripping it in fistfuls. His heavy-lidded eyes flickered down to your mouth. Your parted lips throbbed with want. You weren’t sure if you had leaned down or if he had pulled you in, but there was nothing between you except unsteady breaths and heat. A rough hand glided through the back of your neck. His dripping beard hovered close, almost grazing your chin.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“My lady?” 

You both jolted as a voice called from the other side of the door. You turned your head toward the sound, while Sandor dropped his own forward in defeat.

“Yes?” You raised your voice so the servant could hear.

“Lord Tyrion sends word, asking if all is well.”

You swore you’d strangle Tyrion the next time you saw him.

“E-everything is perfectly fine, thank you!”

“He also asks that you come to the Great Hall with all due haste. Your betrothed has arrived and is eager to meet you.”

You closed your eyes and drew in a deep breath before answering.

“Very well, thank you.”

When you opened your eyes again, Sandor’s mask of indifference was barely holding together.

"I should leave," you said, quickly brushing your hand over his wet beard. He nodded briefly without looking at you.

Stepping out of the bathtub, your eyes lingered on the discarded clothes on the floor. Your silks tangled with his rough garments felt strangely complementary. You gathered your gown and pulled it over your moist skin.

"Can you finish on your own?" you asked, fingers quickly tying the laces.

"Aye," he muttered, still not turning to face you.

You swallowed hard and moved toward the door, leaving him to brood in silence. But just as your fingers brushed the handle, his voice stopped you.

“Little dove.”

You turned. His gaze was fixed on the water.

“I'm going to kill him. I'll rip out his guts in his sleep and strangle him with them.”

Your lips twitched. 

"Tyrion?"

"No..." He lifted his eyes to yours. "The fool who thinks he deserves you."

You left the room before he could see your smile fade. Leaning your back against the wood, you placed one trembling hand on your chest. Your heart raced frantically. You needed a moment. A moment to breathe and calm that wildness that gripped you inside. But they were waiting for you. As much as you wanted to go back to that room, you couldn't. You had to do what you were supposed to do. In that, even a highborn lady was no different from a hound. So you squared your shoulders and pushed yourself away from the door.

Beneath your dress, your soaked stockings stuck uncomfortably to your thighs as you made your way to the Great Hall.

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

Thanks for reading! <3

What do you think? A comment would give me life, and encourage me to write more :)

[queerquinnn]

Little Wolf || Jon Snow ||

A/n: AU where all the Stark are still alive cause I can't handle Robb, Ned or Rickon being dead. Idc it's my fic and I do what I want.

The snowstorm outside his home howled against the stone, but within Jon Snow’s chambers, the world had gone impossibly still.

He sat frozen at your side, his sword calloused hands trembling as they hovered awkwardly, uselessly, not knowing whether to touch you or the impossibly small bundle nestled against your chest.

You, exhausted but glowing, lifted your eyes to him and smiled.

That soft smile he loved oh so much.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice a soft breath against the chaos of his heart. “Would you like to hold him?”

Him.

He had a son.

Jon stared, as if the word was foreign, unreal. A son. His son.

His throat tightened, his chest aching with a pressure he couldn’t put words to. For so long he believed he would never have this , never allowed himself to dream it. He was a Snow, a bastard, a mistake by birth. He was a sword in the dark, a man meant for duty, not softness. Not love.

And yet, there you were — his light, his impossible dream — smiling through your exhaustion, holding out everything he never thought he deserved.

With a slow, reverent motion, Jon slid his arms under the tiny, squirming form. The moment the babe settled against him, so impossibly small and warm, Jon let out a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He forced himself to not cry but a few tears slipped down his cheeks as he let out a shaky breath.

The baby’s tiny fist flailed weakly, brushing against Jon’s chestplate, and instinctively, Jon shifted, cradling him closer. Protectively.

The weight of him — the reality — shattered something inside Jon. All the walls he had built around his heart crumbled.

He lowered his head, resting his forehead gently atop his son’s, closing his eyes.

“I never thought…” he whispered, voice breaking. “I never thought I’d have this.”

You reached out, your fingers curling over Jon’s wrist, grounding him in that moment.

“You deserve it,” you murmured. “You deserve all of it, Jon.”

He shook his head once, as if denying it, but he couldn’t deny the fierce, bone-deep love thundering through him — terrifying in its strength, and yet the surest thing he’d ever known.

He kissed the downy hair atop the baby’s head, closing his eyes.

“My son,” he breathed. “My boy.”

When he looked at you again, there were tears in his grey eyes — but he was smiling. Not the small, reserved smiles you were used to. No, this one was wide, boyish, free.

It was the smile of a man who had been given a future he never dared hope for.

A future that had a name, a face, and now… a son.

Jon sat beside you on the narrow bed, his large form curled protectively around you both, as if daring the world to try and take either of you from him.

And as the storm raged outside the little home, Jon Snow —former Lord Commander, warrior, once a lonely boy at Winterfell — knew with absolute certainty

The raven had been sent days ago, carrying the simple but extraordinary message: He is here. He is healthy. He is ours.

When the doors finally opened to the blinding storm, it was not enemies that poured through — it was family.

Jon stood in the courtyard, the tiny bundle wrapped snug against his chest, protected by his cloak. The snow whipped through the air, but Jon hardly felt it. His heart was hammering for an entirely different reason.

He watched them ride in — his family — strong and real and alive.

Ned dismounted first, his movements still as sure and steady as Jon remembered from childhood. The sword at his hip, the solemn set of his jaw — but when Ned’s eyes landed on Jon, on the small figure cradled against him, something broke in the man’s expression. The sternness melted into something raw, something tender.

Behind him, Arya leapt off her horse with reckless energy, nearly tripping over her boots as she ran through the snow. Sansa followed more gracefully but no less eagerly, her cheeks pink with excitement. Rickon bounded after them, gangly and wild, and Robb — Robb, who had once tussled Jon’s hair and called him brother without hesitation — grinned wide enough to split his face. Bran, bundled up tightly, leaned heavily on Hodor, but his eyes were bright with wonder.

Jon swallowed hard against the lump in his throat as they closed around him.

“Is that—?” Arya gasped, her eyes wide and shining. She reached out a gloved hand but stopped herself, hovering uncertainly.

Jon shifted his cloak carefully aside, revealing his son’s sleepy face.

A collective, awed gasp filled the courtyard.

“Seven hells, Jon,” Robb said, breathless with a smile. “He’s perfect.”

Sansa’s hands pressed to her mouth, tears welling in her blue eyes. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Rickon edged closer, craning his neck. “He’s so small,” he marveled. “Is he supposed to be that small?”

“Babies start small, Rickon,” Bran said with a soft laugh.

Ned stepped forward last, slow, measured — as if approaching a sacred thing. His grey eyes, so like Jon’s, were locked on the baby with something deeper than pride, something almost reverent.

Jon adjusted his hold and, with careful hands, passed his son to Ned.

Ned took the bundle with a gentleness that belied his battle-worn hands. He stared down at the tiny boy for a long moment, his lips pressing tightly together as he fought whatever storm raged in his chest.

“You have given this boy something priceless,” Ned said quietly. “A name. A home. A family.”

He looked up, meeting Jon’s eyes — and Jon felt himself stand a little taller under the weight of his father’s gaze.

“You will be a better father than you ever knew,” Ned said.

Jon’s throat tightened painfully. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words stuck. Instead, he nodded once, fiercely.

The baby let out a soft, sleepy sigh, one tiny fist clenching in the folds of Ned’s cloak.

Ned smiled — truly smiled — and Jon felt the warmth of it like the breaking of dawn through the endless snow.

“You’ll have to teach him to use a sword,” Robb said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. “And ride. And hunt.”

“I’ll teach him to fight better than you, Robb,” Arya cut in with a cheeky grin, her dark hair whipping around her face.

“Perhaps I’ll teach him to read first,” Sansa said primly, though her eyes were shining with laughter.

Rickon puffed up proudly. “I’ll teach him to climb trees.”

Bran laughed. “Only if Jon teaches him how to get down again, too.”

Jon stood there, in the midst of it all — the laughter, the teasing, the love. His son, so small and new, was already cradled by more warmth than Jon had ever dared hope for in his loneliest nights.

You came to Jon’s side then, slipping your hand into his, your eyes full of pride and quiet happiness.

Jon squeezed your fingers gently and with a kiss to your loves cheek you followed the others had gone inside, voices echoing with laughter and warmth through the stone halls of his home.

Only she remained, standing at the edge of the courtyard.

Catelyn Stark.

Jon stiffened the moment he saw her.

The memories were too old and too deep. He remembered the way her eyes, so kind for her trueborn children, had always cooled when they landed on him. A boy she had never asked for. A boy who wore her husband’s blood like a scar.

He had braced himself all his life for her coldness.

Now, as he shifted his son protectively against his chest, that old instinct flared — the need to shield, to defend.

But Catelyn didn’t speak at first.

She simply stood there, the wind teasing her auburn hair free from its careful braids, her hands clenched at her sides as if uncertain what to do with them.

Slowly, Jon turned to face her fully.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

“You named him,” Catelyn said at last, her voice low and unreadable.

Jon nodded. His mouth felt dry. “Yes.”

Her eyes flickered — not to him, but to the child in his arms. Jon saw it then — the tiniest crack in her composure. Not hatred. Not anger.

Hesitation.

Grief.

A longing so raw it startled him.

“May I…?” she began, but the words faltered, as if she herself couldn’t believe she was speaking them.

Jon hesitated — just a heartbeat — before carefully, slowly, lowering the edge of the blanket so she could see.

The babe stirred, his little nose wrinkling at the cold, but he didn’t cry. His tiny hand flailed briefly in the air, seeking warmth.

Catelyn stepped closer, one tentative step at a time.

Her blue eyes softened, and Jon realized with a quiet, gut-wrenching shock that she wasn’t looking at him anymore — she was looking at the baby. Just the baby.

Something shifted in her face. Her lips parted, trembling slightly.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Jon swallowed hard. “He’s… he’s my son.”

She nodded, still staring at the tiny boy as if seeing something precious and fragile and entirely separate from the bitterness that had once lived between them.

“I have hated you for so long,” Catelyn said quietly, and Jon stiffened again — but she shook her head. “It was never your fault. You were just a boy.”

The admission hit harder than a blade.

Jon said nothing. He couldn’t. The words clanged against the iron shield he’d built inside himself, loosening things he had never dared name.

And for the first time in a lifetime of hardship and heartbreak, Jon Snow let himself believe — truly believe — that he was home.

[queerquinnn]

𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐲 𝐀𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | With House Targaryen bringing the realm closer and closer to war, your father sends you to safety at Winterfell. There, you are met with the fascinating man that is Cregan Stark.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 11,474(I will not be taking questions at this time)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mentions of war, Being in a foreign place, Longing for home, Physical discomfort, Existential & identity struggles, Strangers to lovers, Slow burn, Writing secret love letters, Reader from unspecified house, Unresolved ending.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Semi inspired by the song Next to You by John Vincent III. Like very loosely inspired. It felt so good writing for Cregan again! This fic won the recent poll I did so here it is! I'm also experimenting with some new fic layout ideas so things will be looking a little different.

masterlist

WINTERFELL WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE YOUR HOME. You were a woman born and raised in the South. Your skin craved the warmth of the sun and the sweet breeze off the Narrow Sea. Your hands knew the light brush of silk rather than the rough weight of furs. But when the threat of war ravaged the perfect peace of your world, you were sent away.

Your father called on the old friendship he had with the late Lord of Winterfell. He wrote to his son, who now sat the throne of the north. Pleading that he give you refuge from the growing conflict.

You were made to go north. At first, you didn’t know what would await you, but the wolves didn’t turn you away. Cregan Stark did not turn you away.

The Warden of the North was not what you expected. He was younger than you pictured, though still some years older than you. A man carved from ice and steel and led by duty. His people loved him fiercely, and they respected him just the same. He governed his subjects with a manner so unlike what you’d seen before. With humility. Never having to raise his voice over a low timbre.

It snowed almost constantly in the north, blanketing over the keep like a pale white shadow. You never could have prepared yourself for it, could never get used to it. 

The cold existed like a living creature here. It would seep in through the stone walls, nip at your fingertips no matter how many layers you wore. The air was sharper, scented with pine and smoke. It was so unlike the salt-kissed warmth of home. You had grown up surrounded by color—golden shores, lush green gardens, dresses of blush and lilac. Here, everything was muted in shades of gray, white, and brown.

But Winterfell, for all its harshness, was stable. That was what you needed: security in the wake of your entire life being uprooted. And Cregan Stark was the one who provided that balance. 

He didn’t demand your gratitude for his hospitality, though you gave it anyway. He didn’t try to force conversation or friendship upon you. He just allowed you to be. To exist as well as you could in this unfamiliar place. 

At first, you lived as a ghost in his halls, a southern girl adrift in a land of frost. But Cregan was an observant man; he noticed things. He picked up on the way you would linger in the Great Hall after supper, your hands curled around a mug of hot ale, as your eyes stared into the flames burning in the hearth like you yearned to step into them. He saw the way your spirits seemed to lessen when you received letters from home, how your fingers traced the edges before tucking them away, never opening them as far as he knew. 

He never asked. Never prodded into things too personal. And yet, somehow, he was able to discern what you needed.

The first time you truly spoke with him, not just polite courtesies exchanged in passing, but actually talked to him, was a night when the snow had settled so thickly that the castle felt swallowed by it. 

You had fastened a fur-lined cloak about your shoulders and stolen a pelt of dusky elk fur from the bed. Your wandering had taken you up to the battlements, desperate for air and to escape from the stone walls pressing in on you. The wind bit at your red cheeks, but you forced yourself to ignore it. 

“Do you always walk the walls in the dead of night?”

His voice startled you. He leaned against the stone, his arms crossed and gray eyes watching you through the flickering ember torchlight. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted. “I’ve never ventured up here before.”

A long silence stretched between you, and your fingers started to curl around the thick fabric of your cloak the longer it went on. Was he angered? You did not know him well enough to be able to tell. Had you broken some unspoken rule by coming up here? You had spent your life in the South in social circles where one misplaced step or wrong word could mean disgrace. 

“I’m sorry if I’m not supposed to be up here.” You added quickly, already bracing yourself for a harsh reprimand. 

Cregan let out a breath, a huff of air filled with amusement and slight exasperation. “It is a wall, not a throne,” he said. “No one owns it.”

Your shoulders eased, though you were still uncertain if you were intruding upon something undeclared. He did not seem displeased, only watchful, his eyes of steel unwavering like the North itself, forever enduring with the patience of a wolf.

“You should go back inside.” He urged as he pushed away from the earthy blend of the stone. “You aren’t made for this cold.” 

The words weren’t meant as an insult, but you felt the hard truth of them like a shameful secret. You couldn’t disagree or argue with him. The wind bit at your cheeks, and the icy touch of the snow was sharp like a dagger's edge. Your warm southern blood bellowed from inside your veins to retreat back indoors. You ignored its cries, though. Perhaps you just wanted to feel something other than your longing for home. 

You wanted to curse your father for sending you away, but in some ways you understood. However little it was. Your parents had no other children; only you. So you knew your father only wished to protect you, but that did not make it any easier.

“I don’t want to go inside just yet.” You confessed, your gaze focused ahead at the haze of falling snow. 

Cregan studied you; you could feel his eyes on you as he weighed your words. Like he was attempting to discern the truth that you didn’t say out loud. Through the howling of the gale, the faint sound of him unclasping his heavy fur cloak reached your ears. You didn’t move as he settled it over your shoulders; the heat of it and the scent of leather and pine enveloped you instantly. 

“You’ll freeze.” You protested, finally glancing up at him. 

He only shook his head. “I was born in winter.” He stated simply, as if that explained it all. And perhaps, for him, it did. He did not seem affected by the cold at all. But maybe that was due to the infamous Stark stubbornness. 

You pulled his cloak tighter over your own and the pelt you’d taken from the bed. With all those layers, it still didn’t seem like enough to combat the chill. You were uncertain of what to say in return, uncertain of how to speak with him at all truthfully. All your exchanges with him thus far have been brief and brought on by what both of your good manners expected of you. And it had been so long since you held a meaningful conversation with anyone.

 “You don’t read the letters.” Cregan remarked after some time. 

Your head turned to him sharply. His comment wasn’t an accusation, nor was it voiced as a question. Just a fact about you he had observed. Your fingers tightened on the fur wrapped around you. “There’s hardly a point.”

“Why?”

You sighed through your nose, turning your gaze outward, beyond the ancient walls of Winterfell and the mist of snow, to where the night stretched across the land endlessly, as dark as ink. “Because the words won’t change anything,” you said. “My father writes to tell me of the progressions of war. My mother writes to tell me she misses me. But none of it matters since I am my father’s only child; therefore, he must shield me from this conflict. I must remain here.”

He was silent for another moment, and it made you think maybe he was unsure of how to converse with you as well. The wind howled and cried out around you, picking up flakes of snow in ribbons of frost. Cregan only stood there, the picture of northern fortitude. 

When he spoke, his voice was a resonant rumble. “A father protects his only child. That is no crime.”

You hummed a faint breath, not a laugh, not quite an agreement either. “Perhaps not,” you mused. “But it is still a prison, even if its walls are carved from the finest stone and sweetest kindness.”

He returned his gaze to the shadowed woods beyond, slate eyes bouncing from one obscured tree to another. His jaw clenched, though; you did not think him upset. Just deep in thought, more likely. “I was not my father’s only child; not even his only son.”

He glanced at you then, his eyes darkened like storm clouds rolling over green hills. “I have a sister, and I…had a brother. When he died, my father became all the more guarding.” His words held the weight of knowing, acknowledging what it meant to be bound by something out of your hands. 

“And after my father died, I did not get to grieve. I still did not get to choose what happened next. My life belonged to Winterfell, to the North, and to my people.” His voice did not waver, but there was a certain resignation to his words, a burden too heavy to be expressed. 

You felt a pang of understanding, or at least the first stirrings of it. 

“My father sends letters too,” Cregan continued. “From the grave, through the words he left behind. Lessons written when I was still a boy, instructions on ruling, on war, on sacrifice. He thought of everything.” He exhaled, the breath curling like smoke in the frigid air. “Everything except how to bear it alone.”

The confession was not a plea for pity. If anything, it was an admission of what was—two lives, however different, both shaped by expectations, bound by obligations neither of you controlled. 

The world around you was quiet in its vastness, the snow falling endlessly, the night stretching out in all directions.

Then, softly, you murmured, “We understand each other then. In a way.”

“Aye,” he said. “In a way.”

There was no grand revelation in those three words, no sudden shift in the air between you. But something had changed. A thread now woven betwixt you both, connecting you through this one small shared aspect.

You looked away first, turning your eyes back to the boundless stretch of the North beyond Winterfell’s walls. It was strange how small you felt beneath the weight of the sky, beneath the towering trees of the Wolfswood and the rolling white hills vanishing in the distance. The South had never felt this infinite. There, the world had always been filled with people, with voices, with constant movement. The North, by contrast, was quieter, slower. It did not demand attention, only tolerance. 

Perhaps that was why its lord seemed so much a part of it. 

The wind picked up again, the gusts wailing through the battlements. Beneath all the layers you wore, you shivered. 

“You should go inside,” Cregan said again. Like the first time, there was no command in it, only soft insistence. 

A part of you wanted to refuse once more, to stand there a little longer, and linger in this understanding before it disappeared. But he was right; the cold was not your home. 

So you nodded, stripping his cloak from your shoulders to return it. Once it passed from your hand to his, you turned towards the stairwell leading back to the keep. You paused just at the entrance, looking back at him. “You should rest too, my lord.”

Cregan huffed an amused breath. “The lord of Winterfell does not rest.” 

A small, fleeting smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “Even a great direwolf must sleep sometimes.”

THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED YOUR CONVERSATION ATOP THE BATTLEMENTS PASSED IN THE SLOW, MEASURED WAY OF LIFE IN THE NORTH. The cold was relentless as ever, bleeding into every stone of Winterfell. But you were slowly learning to tolerate it. You were not welcoming to the chill just yet, but in time, perhaps. Layers of wool and fur still shielded your skin, but you found a small solace in the warmth of the Great Hall’s hearth, in the rising steam from a cup of mulled wine.

And in the easy company of Cregan Stark. 

Things had become more congenial between you. There were no dramatic declarations, no forced conversations. But in the halls of the castle, in the space where silence once sat, there was now something else. A recognition. 

He watched you still, trying to decipher the southern mystery of you. You had taken to watching him as well. Wanting to see under the ice coating his skin.

One morning before the light of the sun began cresting the horizon, you found yourself wandering the halls, your feet guiding you without clear direction. But once you reached the godswood, you understood. Cregan stood before the heart tree, its pale bark striking against the mixture of morning shadows and the endless white of the snow. The red leaves rustled softly with the faint wind, a whisper of sound in the otherwise perfect stillness. 

“You do not pray,” he spoke, not turning to face you. It was not a question, merely another truth he had seen in you.

The snow crunched under your soles as you stepped closer. “There is no sept here, my lord.”

“No,” he agreed. His breath clouded before him, caught briefly in the light of dawn before vanishing into the frigid air. “There are only the old gods.”

You studied the heart tree, its white surface etched with the face of some ancient, unknowable deity. The deep crimson of its leaves reminded you of blood spilled over snow, vibrant and jarring in the otherwise colorless world of the North. 

“I don’t think they would listen to me,” you murmured. 

Cregan turned then, moving slowly, like the motion was some act of reverence. “They listen,” he assured quietly. “They simply do not answer with mere words.”

You tilted your head, the notion lingering in your mind longer than you thought it would have. You wondered if he truly believed that or if he only said it because that was what had always been said to him. Tradition and silence were not so different, you were coming to learn. 

Still, you stepped closer to the deific tree, your gloved fingers smoothing over the edge of its trunk. Predictably, it was cold, rough like old bone, rooted in frost and something far older than any god you’d ever prayed to. You closed your eyes, not to pray, but to listen—for wind, for breath, for anything.

There was only the sound of snow drifting down in hushed whispers. 

“I used to pray to the Maiden,” you confided. “When I was younger. I thought she would bring me a husband I loved, a life filled with peace.” You paused, a soft scoff escaping you. “I don’t think she heard me either.”

Slate eyes lingered beneath the arching limbs of the heart tree, its ancient visage carved deep into pallid wood, a weeping relic of blood and bone. Morning light spilled across the godswood in muted silver, brushing frost-laced branches in quiet worship. Snow clung to the world like a breath held too long. 

You stood some paces beside him, cloaked in a hush that matched the hour. No rustle of skirts or the crunch of bootsteps disturbed the stillness. Only the thud of your heart—low, insistent, traitorous.

He did not turn, yet he knew you were there. His voice rose like smoke, deep and curling through the winter. “You speak of love as though it were tossed to fate. Like the gods play with hearts like children with toys.”

A breath ghosted past your lips. “Don’t they?”

His gaze, sharp as a blade's edge, slid across his shoulder to find yours. In the blue hush of dawn, his expression was carved in shadow and snowfall, inscrutable yet not unkind. Never unkind. 

“I think love,” he said, voice as steady as stone warmed by the sun, “is not granted by the gods. It is made. Forged. Chosen.”

The wind shifted. Red leaves stirred above, whispering secrets older than memory. You watched him—how the softness of light caught the line of his jaw, how winter itself seemed to pause at his side. At that moment, he looked more like a myth than man.  

“But is that not just duty?” You asked, voice scarcely more than a hush. “A promise wrapped in chains.”

He turned fully now, dark brows knitted with something close to ache. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “you mistake one for the other. Perhaps you’ve only ever known duty disguised as love.”

The words cleaved through you with quiet precision.

You said nothing, breath trembling in the space between you. His eyes held yours—unflinching, searching—and in the silence, the distance between you seemed to lessen more. 

“I envy your certainty,” you said at last.

“It’s not certainty,” he murmured, his tone softer than snowfall. “It’s hope. A quiet sort. The kind that survives long winters.”

Your throat tightened.

He stepped forward, not like a man advancing on a battlefield, but like one approaching a frightened doe—careful and measured. No promises were spoken, yet something hung between you, fragile as frost, waiting to melt.

He did not reach for you outright. Instead, his gloved fingers brushed the backs of yours, tentative as the prayer you interrupted. The contact was fleeting, but beneath the wool, your skin ignited. Your breath hitched, visible in the frigid air, curling like a ribbon toward the branches above.

“I do not make promises lightly,” Cregan said, his voice near your ear now, husky with truth. “But if ever I did... I would not let you live unloved beneath my roof.”

The ache that bloomed in your chest was soft and slow and terrifying. Your hand shifted, fingers sliding against his, answering the question his silence posed.

“You are kind, my lord.” You whispered, uncertain whether it was gratitude or a confession.

His jaw twitched faintly, the only betrayal of emotion. “No,” he said, shaking his head once. “I am only trying not to be cold.” Then, like dusk slipping into night, he smiled at you. It was an all-encompassing warmth, the heat beneath all that northern armor. It wrapped around you like a cloak of fur and flame. In that suspended instant, where even the wind held its tongue, you were sure the fire in the hearths would never compare to that of Cregan Stark’s smile.

You found yourself returning that smile. A small, secret kind born from somewhere deep. That warmth followed you even as you both retreated indoors. It lingered like a vow unspoken, a promise left to dither—unfinished, but not unnoticed.

SNOW MELTED IN CROOKED RIVULETS DOWN STONE WALL, THE HUSH PF MORNING LIFTING INTO A MUTED CLAMOR AS WINTERFELL STIRRED TO LIFE. The courtyard thrummed with the rhythm of men and metal—boots scraping frozen earth, the brash song of steel against steel echoing into the cold sky. Somewhere nearby, a raven shrieked once before falling silent again, its call lost in the wind that whispered through the towers like a ghost with nowhere else to go.

You stood beneath the overhang of a second-floor archway, the hem of your fur-lined cloak brushing against a half-buried cobblestone. The scent of forged iron and churned earth hung in the air—gritty, sharp, and alive. The training yard below was a study in valor and grace. The men of the North moved, not with pageantry, but with discipline. There was no artifice here. It was so unlike the theatrical displays of swordplay you’d seen during tourneys in the south, where men fought for sport and coin rather than simple skill.

Your gaze moved of its own accord, drawn like the tide to moonlight—inevitably, unrelentingly—to him. To Cregan. 

He stood amidst his men, a storm in motion, all sinewed muscles and intent. There was no vanity in the way he wielded his blade, only precision—practiced and brutal. Each movement was exact, executed with the economy of a man who knew the weight of killing, who had no need to waste breath on flair.

His opponent was tall, broad-shouldered, and by no means green, yet still he moved like a reed in the wind before the Warden of the North.

You should not have been ogling him. It was improper to watch a man in such a way. You should have looked away, and yet, you did not.

You were not foolish enough not to notice that he was handsome. Maybe not in the way most southern ladies would think, but there was a rugged appeal to his looks. His broad frame trimmed in forming leathers. Chestnut hair that seemed to fall exactly where it was needed to frame his face just right. And his eyes, both cold grey steel and shining silver stars. He was quite pleasing to look at.

“You are staring.”

The voice pulled you back down to earth like a snapped thread. You turned to find Lady Lara at your side, wrapped in ash-grey wool and an expression far too knowing. Her eyes—a warm brown and keen—glinted with mischief beneath the veil of northern reserve.

“I was only watching,” you defended weakly. 

“Aye,” she drawled, dry as kindling. “Watching very intently.”

Your lips parted, but whatever retort you might have summoned died on your tongue as a boisterous bark of laughter rang across the courtyard. You turned just in time to see Cregan’s sparring partner tumble backward into the mud, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Cregan didn’t gloat. He simply rolled his shoulder, wiped his brow with his forearm, and turned—those steel-grey eyes catching yours like flint against stone. And then, without ceremony, without hesitation, he began to cross the yard toward you.

Your heart flinched. 

Boots crunching frost, leathers creaking with each sure step, he came to stand a few feet away, his breath still quickened from his exertion. 

“Enjoying the spectacle?” He called up to you, his voice low and rough, with a glimmer of amusement threading through its weight.

You lifted your chin, feigning a composure you weren’t certain you still possessed. “I’ve never seen battle in the north,” you replied. “Only feigned duels in southern tourneys.”

“Then you’ve never seen real fighting.”

He said it, as always, without malice. It was simply truth—firm, unvarnished, like the stones of the keep beneath your feet. The men of the north did not fight for sport or titles. They fought for the honor of it.

He sheathed his sword, glimmering steel disappearing into the leather scabbard. His eyes, so much like that shining blade, studied you. “Would you like—”

Whatever invitation he meant to offer was severed by the soft creak of approaching footsteps. 

Maester Kennet emerged from the archway, hunched in his heavy robes, parchment clutched in his weathered hands. His breath steamed in the air, his chain clinking gently with each step, like windchimes cast in iron. 

“My lady,” he said, inclining his head. “A raven arrived this morning. A letter for you—from the south.”

The moment unraveled. You felt it. The quiet tether between you and Cregan pulled taut then slackened, retreating like the sun behind the clouds. 

Your fingers curled around the parchment as it was placed into your palm—crisp and unfamiliar, its seal unbroken. Your father’s crest pressed into the wax, dark red like dried blood. You nodded your thanks to the maester, your voice too soft to waste it in the cold.

Cregan said nothing, but his gaze lingered. Watching. Reading more in your silence than the letter would ever say aloud. You bid your goodbyes to Lady Lara before turning and leaving both of them behind. 

Your chambers were warm by comparison, the fire in the hearth still blazing steadily. The ladies who attended you had quickly learned you preferred it burning at all times. Shadows danced lazily on the stone walls, and outside your window, snow still fell, though now it seemed softer. Less like a siege and more like a lullaby. The silence pressed in around you like thick wool. Heavy and suffocating. 

You stared down at the letter in your lap for what felt like hours. Your hands—once so certain with a quill, with ribbon, with silks and secrets—trembled slightly as they broke the wax. 

Your father’s words spilled forth in familiar, slanted script. Measured. Thoughtful. And yet, beneath every carefully chosen phrase, you felt the echo of fear. Not for himself, but for you. His only child, buried underneath the snows of Winterfell, far from the heat of the bloodshed still to come. 

He wrote of the war that still had yet to begin, but the threat still being incredibly alive. Of bannermen already breaking vows and houses in shambles. He wrote of your mother and her sorrowed smile. Of peace hoped for, but never promised by the dragon monarchs.

My little songbird, he called you still, as if you had not already begun to harden into something else. Something he would struggle to recognize if you were ever reunited. 

You folded the parchment with a slow, deliberate care, as if pressing it between your fingers could make the words less heavy. And then, with ink-stained hands and sleeves rolled past your wrist, you drew a fresh sheet from the writing desk and began to write.

Your response was brief. Polite. Dutiful. You lied just a little. 

You told your father you were well. That Winterfell was cold but safe. That Lord Stark was generous. That the silence of the snow had become something like comfort. 

But as the ink dried and your hand slowed, you did not put down the quill.

Not yet. 

Instead, your fingers drifted to another sheet of parchment. Clean and unsullied by war or duty. And slowly, like breath fogging glass, you began to write a second letter. Not one that would ever be sent. Not one meant for any eyes but your own.

The Twenty-first day of the Third Moon of the Year 129 AC Lord Stark,  You do not know the way your silences have become a language I’m learning to understand. You do not know the way your eyes soften when you speak of snow, of your old gods, of ghosts and griefs you no longer name. You do not know what it means to me—to be seen without being asked to explain. 

The words flowed with startling ease. They were not declarations. Not yet, but they were yours.

You signed it with no name. Folded it with a reverence more sacred than scripture. And tucked it not in a drawer, but between the pages of a worn book beside your bed—a book he had given you weeks ago, without explanation, only the faintest upward tug of his mouth when he caught you reading it by the fire.

You told yourself this was just a way to order your thoughts. A means to unspool the knots in your chest, but you were a woman born of the South; you had grown up being told stories of tragic lovers and deadly heartache. 

You knew this kind of sting. 

You knew exactly what you were doing, and you did it anyway.

THAT NIGHT, SLEEP DID NOT COME EASILY.

You lie tangled in furs and flickering firelight, your limbs restless beneath the weight of so many unspoken and confounding things. The castle groaned in its bones around you—wood settling, wind whispering down stone corridors like a secret looking for ears. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled—low and mournful—and the sound curled around your ribs, hollowing them out. 

Your letter to Cregan still sat where you had hidden it, nestled between pages, its ink smudged but dry. You thought of it as you stared at the canopy overhead, its shadowed edges fluttering slightly with the draft that snuck beneath the windowpanes.

You wondered what Cregan was doing now—if he had returned to the godswood or gone to perform some lordly duty. Or if he, too, lay restless, thinking thoughts that would never find their way into words.

The fire had burned down to a soft glow, its light gilding the stone in deadened gold. Sleep still refused you its mercy.

You sat upright now, catching a shawl of charcoal wool to wrap around you, knees drawn to your chin. The parchment and quill had long been put away—the letter to your father sealed and sent. But it was not those words that kept you awake. The unsent letter to Cregan continued to taunt you from its hiding place, its whisperings too fragile for the world. 

Your mind, ever defiant of peace, wandered back to the hours just before dusk.

The solar had been quiet when you stepped in. A single raven perched restlessly upon its iron hook, midnight black feathers ruffled against the cold draft creeping in. Maester Kennet had been waiting, his haggard fingers busy tying the cords of outgoing letters, his eyes bright behind tired lids. When you handed him the folded paper sealed with your family crest, he nodded, unsurprised. 

But you were not alone for long.

Cregan had entered without announcement, the door closing behind him with the muffled thud of inevitability. You had turned, startled, the flicker of candlelight catching in your lashes, your breath plucked like a thread in your throat. A letter of his own was held in his brawny hand. 

He looked first to the raven and then to the letter in your hand. “You’ve written,” he said, voice once again merely observing.

You nodded, unsure why the act of writing back—of finally replying after so long—felt suddenly so significant now, under his gaze.

His eyes held you for a moment too long. Then they softened, just slightly, as he took a step closer. “I wasn’t certain you ever would.” There had been no judgment in his tone, only a quiet honesty—like fresh snow upon the earth.

You looked down at the letter, still in your hand, though the maester had risen to take it. “I wasn’t certain either,” you replied. “But he’s still my father.”

Maester Kennet took your letter then, his chains clinking softly like distant bells. Cregan’s gaze lingered on it even as he handed over his own correspondence. As though the act itself—putting thought to parchment—meant something more than it seemed.

“It was kind of you,” he said at last, “to write. I’m sure it will ease his mind to hear from you.”

You had not thought of it as kindness. Only duty. And perhaps a small mercy for the man who had once called you his songbird and now could only send birds of his own, hoping for some echo in return.

When you didn’t answer, he stepped nearer. “I’ve found,” Cregan murmured, “that words are akin to fire in some ways. Not always needed but missed when they’re gone.”

That quiet smile had returned—less warmth this time and more something else. Something wistful. You could have stood there forever in the hush of it. But he inclined his head then, respectful and reserved, and turned to go.

Before the door shut behind him, he paused. 

“I hope he writes back.”

You had left minutes after him. After hearing the raven’s caw as the maester sent it off. What you didn’t notice was that the bird carried both yours and Cregan’s letters. Going to the same destination. 

You hadn’t known what to say to him. Not then, and not now as you sat sleepless in your chambers.

The memory clung to you, not like frost—but like breath. Close and lingering. 

You rose before the thought had even fully formed, bare feet brushing across the cold floor. Your fingers reached for the book again, the one with the weight you had given it, the one that now carried not stories, but truths you dared not speak.

You pulled it to you with a reverent hush and opened to the hidden letter.

One.

You added a second before dawn.

The Twenty-second day of the Second Moon of the Year 129 AC My lord, I think I feared he would not recognize the version of me that sits here now, ink-stained and softened by snow instead of sun. But it was your voice I heard in my head when I chose to answer him. Not his. I think the north is changing me. Or perhaps it is only that Winterfell has stopped asking me to be anyone else. You didn’t smile to mock me when I told you I used to pray to the Maiden. You only listened. That is what I remember the most.  And the way your words linger long after you’re gone. Like smoke clinging to old stone.  You are not what I expected. But then, I don’t think I am either. 

This time, you did not fold the letter right away. You held it in your hands for a long moment, staring down at the words that had come more easily than they should have. It was foolish to think this was love, but it was something. And in the north, something was everything.

THE GREY LIGHT OF MORNING SPILLED LIKE MILK ACROSS THE FLOOR, PALE AND COLD, BLEEDING SLOWLY THROUGH THE FROST-RIMMED WINDOWS. It stirred you gently from sleep, if what you’d done could be called that. You had drifted in and out through the night, tangled in dreams that tasted of salt air and southern heat, your mind pulling you far from snow and stone. 

You sat up slowly, limbs stiff beneath wool and fur. The fire had long since died, leaving only the faintest scent of char and the memory of warmth. Outside, Winterfell exhaled its breath in the world—smoke curling from chimneys, frost fathering glass, the courtyard below beginning to stir once more with life. 

But the quietude still held within your room. Scared. Unmoving.

And within that silence, something bloomed. 

You rose without truly thinking, your steps soundless as snowfall. The book at your bedside waited, heavy with its growing significance. Of unsent letters, of slow confessions, of a heart cautiously unfolding. 

You retrieved your quill and a clean page. 

The third letter came like the first two. 

The Twenty-second day of the Second Moon of the Year 129 AC    My lord, Cregan, I dreamt of the sea last night. Of waves the color of green glass, curling toward golden shores. I wonder if you would hate it there—the heat, the noise, the softness of it. It would not suit you. And yet I would like to see you beneath a southern sun, if only once. I think the light would surprise your face into something less guarded. The people of the South would not know what to make of you. You are too quiet, too formidable. They would not see the warmth beneath the cold. But I do. You spoke of hope like it was something still possible. I am trying to believe you. I am trying to hold it between my palms like a flame I cannot let go out.  I am afraid of what I feel when you look at me. And more afraid of how I feel when you don’t.  There is something in me that softens and thrills when I hear your voice. And hardens when I know it’s not meant for me. I think, perhaps, I was not meant to feel so much. And yet here I am, spilling it like water over parchment, hoping the ink does not betray me. You are not mine, but I keep waiting for you as though you were. 

You paused only once while writing—when your hand hovered just above the final line. But no name was signed, and no seal was needed. This letter was not meant to be carried by raven. It belonged to no world but this one, between paper and breath, between wish and silence. 

You folded it slowly, delicately, like it might shatter.

And then, as with the others, you tucked it into the hollow of that book—its spine now bulging, ever so slightly, with the weight of things left unsaid.

Your maids had not yet been in to rebuild the fire, and the room still held its chill. But you did not shiver. 

Not as you sat back down and drew your knees to your chest, the furs wrapped tighter around your shoulders. Not as your eyes fell closed, and the sea returned to you in memory—waves of green glass, and Cregan standing beneath the southern sun.

You didn’t see him for the remainder of the day. Not until after supper, when the fire in the Great Hall crackled with the low murmur of embers settling into ash. Supper had long since ended, the tables cleared, the benches emptied, and yet you remained.

You had grown accustomed to lingering after the noise had ebbed. There was something about the stillness—something about the hush that settled over Winterfell like a final blanket of snow—that made the world feel honest again.

You sat curled in one of the deep, high-backed chairs before the hearth, a book half-open in your lap, unread. Your fingers idly traced the curve of the page, but your eyes were elsewhere—drawn to the flames, flickering gold and russet, chasing shadows across the stone floor.

It was there he found you. 

No announcement. No heavy bootsteps. 

Just the low rustle of his cloak brushing over stone. 

You looked up as Cregan entered the edge of the firelight, his broad frame cast in gold and umber, the lines of his face drawn softer in the flicker. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the edges, as though he’d only just returned from the godswood.

“I didn’t expect anyone to still be awake,” he said, his voice lowered enough not to disturb the quiet. He didn’t ask permission to sit, but he never did. You suppose he didn’t have to. He simply took the seat beside yours, letting the silence settle again like dust. 

“You didn’t expect me to be,” you replied gently.

He looked at you sidelong, the smallest twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. You thought about praying then, for the first time in a long while, that he would smile at you again. As he had done in the godswood.

“No,” he admitted. “But I should have.”

The fire crackles between you. For a long moment, there was no sound but the low drone of burning logs and the faint whistle of wind sneaking into the cracks of old stone. 

“You never finish that book,” he said suddenly, nodding toward your lap.

You gave a soft breath of a laugh. “I always mean to,” you murmured. “But I keep rereading the same passages.”

“Why?”

“Because they remind me of something I’ve never had,” you said, surprising even yourself with the honesty.

His eyes flicked to yours—quick, sharp, and thoughtful. “And yet you return to them.”

“I suppose I’d rather hold a thing in words than not at all.”

His gaze lingered. Not demanding, just watching…always watching.

You turned towards the fire again, but the warmth in your cheeks wasn’t from the flames. 

After a while, Cregan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped. You noticed the way his gloves were worn along the edges, the stitching beginning to fray where fingers gripped reins and swords and burdens too heavy for anyone to carry alone.

“I’ve never known how to say things the way people in the South do,” he said, not looking at you. “They wrap the truth in flowers. Braid it into songs. Here, we only speak what we can bear to say aloud.”

“And what can you bear to say?” You dared to ask.

He was silent for a breath. Then two. 

“That it brings me peace. To know you are growing to be happy here.”

The words struck not like thunder but like the fall of the first snowflake—soft, soundless, and inevitable. You said nothing in return. You only reached out, gently, and closed your hand over his where it rested on his knee. His fingers did not twitch. He did not pull away. He only turned his palm up beneath yours and held on.

That night, when you returned to your chambers with the warmth of his hand still pressing like a ghost into your skin, you wrote again.

The Twenty-second day of the Second Moon of the Year 129 AC   Cregan, The South taught me that desire must be spoken. Named. Dressed in silks and painted lips. But here…here it lives in the way you look at me across a quiet room. I think you want to keep me warm. And that alone is enough to undo me.  I don’t know what this is, but I know it does not frighten me anymore.

IT WAS THE KIND OF DAY THE NORTH RARELY GIFTED—SOFT WITH GOLDEN HAZE, THE SNOWMELT GATHERING IN QUIET RIVULETS THAT WHISPERED THROUGH THE STONES LIKE A LOVER'S BREATH. The sky had shaken off its shroud of grey and donned blue instead, the kind of blue that seemed pulled from childhood memories: deep, drowsy, and untroubled. 

The air was different too. Less brittle. Touched with the scent of earth waking up, of green things stirring beneath old frost. Grass, dew-wet and stubborn, pushed through the softened soil, and the barest buds of life dared to stretch toward the light. It wasn’t spring, not truly—but it was its promise.

You stood at the edge of the outer courtyard, face tilted toward the sky, letting the rare sunlight soak into your skin. Your eyes fluttered closed. There was no wind, no chill. Only warmth. It wasn’t like the sun of the south—blazing and fierce—but gentle, almost devout. A reminder.

But strangely, it no longer comforted you the way it once had. You let that truth settle over you like light itself. 

It doesn’t feel the same anymore.

The warmth of this day, this fragile reprieve, paled now in comparison to something else. To someone else.

Cregan.

You thought of the way he looked at you during long silences. The way he always seemed to carry heat with him, like he’d swallowed the sun’s fire just to lend it to you. 

Even the southern breeze, tinged with loam and green, could not stir your bones the way his voice could. 

You opened your eyes slowly, and there he was.

Cregan stood a few paces away, half in shadow, half in sun. His cloak was absent, his tunic unfastened at the throat, and chestnut hair tousled by the breeze. He looked different in this light. Less like the Lord of Winterfell and more like the boy he must have once been. Unarmored. Unburdened.

“I thought I might find you out here,” he said.

You offered him a smile. “It felt wrong to stay inside.”

His lips twitched, barely a smile, but something close. “You look well in the sun,” he said quietly. 

You glanced down, unsure of how to hold the weight of that. “I’d forgotten what it could feel like.”

“Would you like to see something?” he asked, already taking a slow step forward, the leather of his boots creaking slightly. “This hill near the edge of the Wolfswood—there are flowers blooming.”

Your breath caught.

“Flowers?” You repeated, as if it were a language you hadn’t spoken in years. 

He nodded once. “They bloom quickly and die quicker. But they’re there. For now.”

Before you could think better of it, you nodded eagerly. A flash of something girlish and urgent sparked in your chest. It had been so long since you’d seen color that wasn’t grey or blood or flame.

The walk was quiet, the kind of silence that hummed rather than echoed. Birds chirped timidly in the trees, testing the season’s return. Somewhere nearby, water lapped at thawed earth. The world was beginning again, and you walked side by side through the very breath of its ephemeral reawakening.

When you reached the field, it was like stepping into a forgotten dream.

Wildflowers, modest things in purples and blues, speckled the grass like paint on a canvas too long left bare. They nodded in the breeze, shy but proud, and your breath hitched at the sight.

You stepped forward, crouching near a cluster of violet blooms. “I didn’t know the north could look like this.”

“Most don’t,” Cregan said from behind you. “They never stay long enough to see it.”

You turned your head to glance up at him, sunlight haloing his figure. “And what happens to those who do?”

His expression shifted—fond, perhaps. Or something deeper. “They stop missing what they left behind.”

Your heart gave a single, painful beat. And then he was kneeling beside you.

You watched as his fingers, calloused and careful, reached down and plucked one of the purple flowers from the grass. He twirled the stem between his fingers once, considering. Then, with startling gentleness, he leaned in and tucked it behind your ear.

The petals brushed your temple, soft as silk.

“You suit the north more than you think,” he murmured, voice low and admiring.

The world slowed then. He was close now, his eyes on yours. The heat of him radiating outwards, sun-warmed and wildfire-wrought. His hand hovered, then brushed a strand of hair back behind your ear. His fingers were lingering and tender.

You didn’t move as your breath came shallow.

His gaze dipped to your mouth. And for a moment, just one moment, everything else fell away. The wind, the woods, the war on the horizon. There was only the sun, and him, and you. 

His mouth was so close to yours that you could feel the edge of his full bottom lip graze your own before something halted him. You could see it in his eyes that it wasn’t fear nor rejection. 

It was restraint. 

He drew back like a man stepping away from the edge of something scared and ruinous at the same time. Like he did not dare risk the fall. 

You felt the space between you rupture like spring ice cracking on a riverbed.

Cregan rose slowly to his feet, eyes unreadable once more. “We should return,” he said softly. “The sun doesn’t linger here.”

You nodded. But the sunlight had already gone cold, and the flower still sat behind your ear. 

That night, the warmth of the day clung to you not as heat, but as an ache. 

You had not discarded the flower. It lay now on the edge of your dressing table, its once bright petals turned soft with dusk, purple bleeding into a kind of twilight. It looked fragile there, half-forgotten but wholly felt. Like something far too beautiful to last and too intimate to name.

The fire burned high in the hearth, painting your chamber in an amber glow and a wavering gold. Shadows draped the floor like old velvet. Beyond the windows, Winterfell slept, but within your walls and beneath your skin, something stirred. Restless and quiet. A warmth that had nothing to do with flames.

He had not kissed you, and yet your mouth remembered the nearness of it. The shape of almost. The breath shared between two people who had not yet spoken the name of what passed between them but felt it all the same.

You rose from the bed like mist rising from still waters. The stone floor was cold beneath your bare feet, but it anchored you. You moved to the book—the one he had given you that now acted as your only reprieve. 

You opened it, and the letters lay hidden like pressed wildflowers, fragile things inked in silence. You touched the last one lightly with your fingertips, and for a moment, you did not move. You simply breathed. Remembered.

Remembered the nearness of his lips and how the ghost of his breath had tasted. Remembered how tender his fingers had been as he touched you. Remembered the heat of him. 

You reached for your quill.

The Twenty-fifth day of the Second Moon of the Year 129 AC    Cregan, Your hand did not tremble, and yet you did not kiss me. I have been trying to decide if that was kindness or cruelty. Or something far more complicated, something I do not have a name for yet.  I keep thinking of how gentle your fingers were. How carefully you placed that flower behind my ear, as though afraid it would wilt under too much touch. I do not think you know how softly you hold the world around you. How fiercely you hold yourself back. They say the north is harsh, but I do not believe them anymore.  The north is restraint. And you are its living proof. There are moments when I wish you would stop holding back. Just once, just long enough to let the weight of this thing between us fall where it may. But then I remember that I, too, am silent. That I, too, am afraid of what we might become if the quiet is broken. So I say nothing, and I write instead. I write because it is the only way I know to touch you without asking too much.  You said the sun doesn’t linger, but I think you stole it. I think you carry it within you, hidden beneath the furs and the frost. And on days like this, you let me feel it. Just enough to remember what warmth used to be.  And I crave it all the more now.

THE LIBRARY OF WINTERFELL WAS A PLACE OF SILENCE AND SHADOWS. A mausoleum of memory, where the dust of forgotten centuries clung to ancient tomes and the air itself seemed heavy with the weight of countless unsaid prayers.

It was here you fled when the restless longing gnawed at your marrow and sleep once again denied you its mercy.

Candlelight sputtered and danced against the old stones, casting long, shivering silhouettes that stalked your every movement. As was common at this late hour, the fire in the hearth had been reduced to little more than an ember’s heartbeat, a low, throbbing pulse in the cavernous gloom.

You walked among the towering shelves, your fingers trailing the spines of books worn thin by time and cold hands. Their cracked leather whispered against your skin like ghosts in confession.

There—high above—sat the volume you sought. Just beyond reach, a cruel and taunting thing.

You stretched, the wool of your sleeve slipping down your wrist, your fingertips grazing the battered edge of the tome.

You felt the room shift before you felt him. A shadow woven of frost and fire, standing at your back, silent as a secret. He did not speak. He did not touch. But the heat of him engulfed you all the same—immense and staggering, as if he carried the forge of the old gods inside his chest. 

You stilled, breath faltering. Heart thundering in your ribs like a trapped bird.

And then, with slow, deliberate grace, he reached past you. His arm brushed the air beside your cheek, the coarse weave of his sleeve grazing the barest strand of your hair. The book surrendered to his grasp without resistance, dislodged from its high perch by a hand far more sure and calloused than your own.

You turned and found yourself trapped in a prison of heat and closeness. Your body, trembling and breathless, nearly brushed his. You could feel the shape of him—all broad shoulders and iron-forged strength—as if you had been molded to fit the spaces he left behind.

The breath between you was a living thing, rising and falling in staccato rhythm.

His gaze found yours, fierce and searing, and then dipped, inexorably, achingly, to your mouth. 

When he spoke, it was not with the voice of a lord, but something older. Something hungrier. "You should be careful," Cregan rasped, the words a low snarl of warning and want. He seemed somewhat changed, as if he found it harder to be in your presence now but couldn’t stay away. “Wandering around at this hour can be dangerous.”

You could not summon speech. Could scarcely summon breath. Since when has it become precarious for you to roam the halls? 

His fingers still clutched the book, forgotten now, as though it were merely a pretext to be near you. 

The memory of the almost-kiss from days ago—the wildflower field, the golden haze—crashed over you anew, stealing the strength from your limbs.

Cregan leaned closer, and for one wild, broken instant you thought he would undo it, would close the aching, trembling distance between your lips. But he did not. Instead, he lowered his gaze, as if it pained him to look at you; a muscle jumped in his jaw as he slowly placed the book in your hands. His fingers lingered for one trembling heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.

And then he turned away, away from you and from whatever fragile thing shook between you.

Instinct seized you before hesitation would root you in place. "Cregan," you breathed. It was not loud, not even firm, but it was enough.

He stopped.

Shoulders rigid beneath the rough weave of his tunic, breath visible in the cool gloom of the library. He did not turn to face you, not yet. It was as if he warred with something inside himself, something vast and terrible and tender. 

The fire in the hearth guttered low, casting a swaying glow across the stone floor, catching in the dark fall of his hair.

Slowly, so slowly, he looked back over his shoulder. The expression he wore was stripped of all pretense—raw and open. His mouth parted as if he would speak, but no words came.

Neither of you moved. You were suspended there, in the fragile hush between heartbeat and breath, between yes and no. Your fingers curled tighter around the book he had given you, as though it were the only thing anchoring you to the ground.

He took a step back toward you. It was barely a shift, but it shattered the distance between you once more.

"Cregan..." you said again, helpless against the need to speak his name into the air, as if it alone might keep him tethered to you.

He exhaled a slow, shuddering breath—and this time, when his eyes found yours, he did not look away.

Something in you fluttered under that gaze. Not fear, but the sharp, breathless awareness of being seen not as you were taught to present yourself—polished, poised, palatable—but as you truly were beneath it all. Unraveled. Unhidden. The book clutched in your hand hung forgotten, the leather warmed now by both your palms and his. Your grip loosened.

Still, you said nothing, and neither did he. The silence was not empty. It pulsed between you, thick and charged, filled with things that had no name yet. 

And then, slowly still, Cregan crossed the last inch of distance between you. He stood before you again—so close now your chests brushed with each breath. So close that his scent wrapped around you: pine and snowmelt, smoke, and something unmistakably his. The heat of him bled into your bones.

You tilted your face up to him, lips parted. Waiting and almost daring him to continue what had been left abandoned among the flowers. 

But he didn’t kiss you.

He only lifted a hand and brushed his fingers down the length of your sleeve, from elbow to wrist, where the wool had slipped. His touch was light, but it singed you all the same. As though your skin had remembered him from another life.

“You shouldn’t have called me back,” he murmured, voice filled with unmistakable longing. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you ask me to stay.”

Your breath caught like a leaf in the throat of a storm. “Then don’t make me ask.”

He stilled, hand hovering at your wrist. You could feel it trembling — only slightly, but enough to betray him. Enough to betray just how much restraint it cost him to keep his distance.

You pressed forward without touching. Your face tilted just enough that your mouth hovered near his jaw, your voice barely more than a whisper of breath. “I would have let you kiss me. In the field.”

His eyes closed, and he inhaled sharply—like the confession had pierced him somewhere hidden beneath all that northern stone. “I know.”

His hand came to rest gently at your side, the heel of it pressing just above your hip. Not possessive. Not bold. Just there, like an anchor. A request. A question.

The seconds slipped by.

You could feel it happening. The moment turning into something too large for the room. For either of you. As if the gods themselves were holding their breath. But still he did not kiss you.

Instead, Cregan leaned his forehead to yours. The gesture was old, solemn, and sacred. It shattered something in you more deeply than any kiss ever could.

You closed your eyes, resting against him in the quiet, your hands still holding the book he gave you, pressed between your bodies like a final defense. “Cregan,” you whispered his name again.

His answer was not a word, but a breath—a slow exhale that stirred your hair and warmed your cheek. He stepped back then. Slowly. As though peeling himself away from something holy. His hand lingered the longest, brushing down your side before falling away.

“Goodnight,” he said, and it was not just a farewell but a promise. That he would keep returning. Even if he couldn’t name why. Even if he knew he shouldn’t.

He left then, the hush of his boots swallowed by the rushing of blood in your ears. And once he was gone, you stood still for a long time, the book cradled in your arms like a memory still breathing.

Later, when you had returned to your chambers, you sat by candlelight and wrote again.

The Twenty-eighth day of the Second Moon of the Year 129 AC   Cregan, You keep leaving before you break me. I still do not know if that makes you cruel or kind. You look at me as if I am already yours and then walk away as though you do not want to claim me. I don’t understand how you carry such warmth and never burn the things closest to you. I want to ask you why you stopped. Why you didn’t kiss me when you could have? But maybe I already know. Because if you had…neither of us would have known how to let go.

You did not sign it. 

You did not seal it. 

You only folded it slowly and slipped it between the pages of the same book he had given you all those weeks ago. 

And when you lay down to sleep, your hands were still warm from the space where he had held you, and not held you. As though he was already learning the cruel art of leaving before the breaking point. And you, in turn, were learning the ache of what it meant to be almost loved.

THE HOURS OF WINTERFELL'S MIDNIGHT WERE LONG AND UNFORGIVING, STRETCHED THIN AS THREADS ACROSS THE LOOM OF DUSK. It was in such a breathless hour that you once again found yourself awake. Sleepless, wrapped in a heavy shawl that did little to shield you from the gnawing fingers of cold. The fire in your chambers had guttered to embers, and you didn’t wish to wake your maids. So here you were; the castle beyond your door seemed a place caught between worlds: not wholly dead, but not wholly alive. 

Whispers of snow brushed against the high windows. You wandered the corridors as a ghost might—barefoot and unseen—drawn by the low heartbeat of Winterfell’s living stone. It led you to the Great Hall, vast and cavernous, where the only light came from the dying coals of the hearth, their glow a muted pulse against the grey belly of the night.

There, standing before the dying fire, was Cregan. He was a figure hewn from grief and duty, the firelight drawing deep hollows beneath his cheekbones, limning the sharp line of his jaw in gold. His tunic hung heavy about his broad frame as if he too had attempted sleep but not found it. And his hair, darker than the hour itself, stirred faintly with the draft slithering through the stone.

A side door groaned upon its hinges. Maester Kennet appeared as though summoned from the marrow of Winterfell itself, robes whispering against the floor, a candle bobbing weakly in his wizened hand. In his grasp, a letter.

Without ceremony, the maester crossed the yawning expanse of the hall and placed the missive into Cregan’s waiting palm. The parchment crackled like the brittle edge of a dying leaf. You pressed yourself deeper into the alcove, heart stuttering against your ribs, as Cregan broke the seal with a single, decisive motion.

The words he read aloud were few, but they fell with the weight of a kingdom behind them.

“King Viserys is dead.”

A silence so absolute swallowed the Great Hall that even the crackle of the hearth dared not intrude. Cregan’s voice was a blade drawn against the stillness as he continued, his tone stripped to iron and ice: “The Greens have crowned Aegon in King’s Landing. And Queen Rhaenyra holds Dragonstone. The realm is riven.”

The maester bowed his head, silver chain glinting dully in the hearth’s last light. His voice, when it came, was no more than the hush of old pages turning.

“And the north, my lord?”

The letter trembled faintly in Cregan’s hand, and you knew it wasn’t from the cold. I was born in winter. He had told you so long ago now, it seemed. 

He did not answer at once. Instead, he lifted his gaze from the broken seal, from the ghost of oaths inked across dead men’s promises—and found you. 

Even half-concealed in shadow, even at the farthest stretch of that cavernous hall, he saw you. His eyes locked onto yours as though, in the spinning madness of a crumbling realm, you alone were the true and steady star by which he could still navigate.

It was a look that unmade you.

Grim resignation tightened his brow. A quiet ache bled from his very stance—a man who had known the call of duty would come for him eventually but who had dared, foolishly, to hope it might not come tonight. 

He did not speak again.

He did not call your name.

But he saw you. And you, trembling in your hidden place, saw the moment the boy within him gave way to the Lord of Winterfell.

The oath-breakers would rise. The dragons would tear the skies apart. And Cregan Stark, forged of ancient blood and bitter snow, would answer the summons laid upon his house by the vows of his father. 

The fire sank lower still. A hush the size of kingdoms unfurled between you. You turned your face into the folds of your shawl, as if by doing so you might keep the night from changing anything more. But it was too late. The tide had turned. The world had shifted beneath your feet.

And Winterfell… steady, eternal Winterfell, would march to war.

THE GODSWOOD STOOD STILL BENEATH THE VEIL OF MIDNIGHT—A BREATH HELD BETWEEN THE BEAT OF TWO HEARTS. Snow fell in silent flurries, catching on the dark, bare limbs of ancient trees, blanketing the ground in a shroud of mourning white. The heart tree loomed above it all, its pale bark and bleeding leaves bathed in the frail light of a watchful moon.

It was here you found yourself, as though your feet had been guided not by thought but by something deeper inside your soul. You stood beneath the weeping red canopy, cloaked against the cold, though the chill gnawed at your skin through every layer.

You had come seeking solace. 

You had come seeking him, and it was him you found. 

Cregan stood by the heart tree, his head bowed, one gloved hand pressed flat against the old, worn bark. As if in communion with the gods he barely spoke of but sought out just the same. The heavy fall of his cloak stirred with the breath of the woods, his figure carved from sorrow and bone.

He turned at the sound of your approach, as if he had been waiting for you all along just as you had been looking for him. For a long, aching moment, neither of you spoke as the world seemed to still like it was listening.

When he did speak, it was in a voice roughened by the burden of truths too heavy to carry in silence any longer. "I must leave," he said, and the words cleaved through the quiet like a blade.

Your breath hitched, misting in the brittle air. You said nothing, only clutched the edges of your cloak tighter.

"I ride to the Wall," he continued, "to meet Prince Jacaerys. To swear again what my father swore. That the North remembers its oaths. That we will stand with Queen Rhaenyra."

The name fell into the snow like a stone dropped into a still pond—rippling outward, changing everything it touched.

You stared at him, feeling something fragile and vital crack along the fault lines of your ribs.

War.

It was no longer a distant storm rumbling across another man's sky. It was here. It has found you.

Cregan moved then, one step and another, until he stood before you. Close enough that you could see the silver in the slate of his eyes. Close enough to feel the furnace of his body bleeding through the cold.

He reached for you. Not the way a lord would reach for a lady, but the way a drowning man would reach for driftwood in a storm. His hand found yours, rough leather brushing your wrist as he closed his fingers around you.

"I will return," he said. It was not a promise. Not really.

You knew it, and he knew it. 

You squeezed his hand tightly, willing him to feel the prayers you dared not say aloud.

And then… oh, gods. You thought he would simply let go and walk away, into the dark, into the duty that demanded all he was and all he had yet to give.

He did begin to pull back, but something in him faltered.

Cregan turned again, seized by a gravity he could no longer resist, and before you could draw breath, he caught your face in his calloused palm and kissed you.

It was not a kiss for courts or songs or poets.

It was a kiss for desperate men and breaking hearts. Hard and reverent, wild and anchoring. His mouth moved against yours with a tenderness carved from the same granite that had built the walls around his heart, a tenderness that could not be shaped into words, only into this.

He kissed you like a man starving for the taste of something he might never have again.

And you kissed him back, helplessly and wholly, your hands fisting into the front of his cloak, pulling him closer, drinking in the warmth of him. 

When he finally tore his mouth from yours, his forehead dropped to yours, breath harsh and ragged between you. You could feel the trembling of him in the way his hand still cradled your jaw and the way his chest heaved against yours.

He pressed a kiss to your lips again, quick and fierce.

Then another.

And another, a groan rumbling low in his throat when you gasped softly against him.

Each kiss was a prayer stitched into your skin, a benediction and a goodbye all at once.

Then, just as quickly, he was gone. Pulling away as if the gods themselves had reached out to wrench him back into the path laid before him. Without a word, he turned and disappeared into the snow and the waiting dark.

You did not call after him. 

You only stood there, beneath the bleeding heart tree, the taste of him still like fire on your lips, your heart breaking open like a river in thaw. And in the emptiness he left behind, you vowed, with every beat of your faithful heart, that you would keep his kisses stitched into your soul like a prayer.

Whatever came next—blood, fire, snow, and sorrow—you would hold that piece of him within you.

Always in your aching hands.

I do not wanna talk about the word count alright? I put my heart and soul into this fic, ya'll can deal with it. As always I hope you enjoyed!

[queerquinnn]

Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink. 

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself! 

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.  

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

Keep reading

[queerquinnn]

“LOOK WHAT YOU UNLEASHED”

Lewis Pullman as Robert Reynolds a.k.a Sentry/Void in Thunderbolts* (2025)

[queerquinnn]

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

[queerquinnn]

Playing It Cool

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam’s getting way too suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, laundry room shenanigans, sam wilson being done

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam didn’t sleep well.

It wasn’t the coffee. It wasn’t even the lingering PTSD from a week spent chasing Hydra remnants. No, this was different.

This was gut feeling. Instinct.

He was standing in the kitchen, hair wild, hoodie misaligned, and eyes like a war veteran who’d seen things and couldn’t unsee them. The clock blinked a smug 7:03 a.m. He poured black coffee like a man betrayed by the very concept of sleep.

That’s when he saw it.

Two mugs on the counter.

One had your initials. The other—a vintage WWII fighter plane sticker. It hadn’t been there last night. He knew, because he always did a final kitchen sweep before bed. Counters clean. Dishes put away. Mugs? Accounted for.

His eye twitched.

“…Barnes,” Sam whispered.

He crouched slowly, inspecting the mugs like they might start confessing their crimes.

Then the hallway creaked. Sam turned so fast he sloshed coffee onto his hoodie.

You entered the room, yawning dramatically, hoodie sleeves engulfing your hands.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

Sam squinted. “Is it? Is it really?”

You blinked. “…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, with the exact tone of a man who was absolutely not fine. He walked to the table and pulled out a chair like it owed him money. “Sit.”

“Why?”

“Because I have questions.”

“I’m not under interrogation.”

“You are now.”

“…Sam.”

“Tell me what you were doing between 0500 and 0700 hours.”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

You squinted. “What kind of creepy follow-up—?”

Sam narrowed his eyes like a raccoon about to steal a whole rotisserie chicken. “I knew it. There’s a cover-up.”

You grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the hallway. “There’s a cover-up on your brain, Wilson.”

“I’ve seen the signs,” Sam called after you. “The glances! The whispers! The ‘accidental’ brush of hands during mission briefings!”

“Maybe I’m just clumsy!” you yelled.

“And matching mugs?”

“That sticker was mine first!”

Before Sam could yell something, Bucky entered the room, with aexpression criminally smug. He looked like the kind of man who had just done something worth hiding.

“Morning,” Bucky said, voice low and gravelly. He moved to the coffee pot.

Sam’s eyes followed him like a hawk on its sixth espresso.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“I’m great,” Sam replied. “Y/N just left.”

“Cool.”

“Came in lookin’ real tired.”

“People get tired.”

“You look real tired.”

Bucky paused, looked Sam dead in the eye. “You implying something?”

Sam sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. You implying something?”

They stared each other down. The air crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a tumbleweed rolled by. A raven cawed.

“You need sleep,” Bucky muttered.

“I’ll sleep when the truth sleeps,” Sam snapped back.

Then Sam dramatically left the room—only to storm back in ten seconds later to grab a banana. He peeled it with authority and left again.

Later that morning, when Sam had finally left for a jog—or more accurately, a neighborhood reconnaissance mission—you found yourself back in the kitchen. You were putting away a dish, humming quietly to yourself, when a pair of warm arms slid around your waist.

You didn’t jump. You never did when it was him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured against your neck, voice soft now, stripped of the earlier smugness he reserved for sparring with Sam. His lips brushed your skin like a secret.

“Hey yourself,” you whispered, leaning back into his chest. “You’re not worried Sam’s going to install surveillance cameras?”

“He probably already has.” You both laughed.

He rested his chin on your shoulder. “I left my mug out on purpose, you know.”

You turned your head to look at him, brow raised. “Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged, expression boyishly proud. “He’s been circling for weeks. Figured we’d give him a trail to follow. Let the man feel like he cracked the case.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You are so chaotic.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

You turned in his arms, resting your hands on his chest. “Yeah… I kinda do.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that said, even with a super-spy roommate and questionable mugs, this? This is real.

Later that night you bumped into Sam, sitting on the couch. He was hunched forward, elbows on knees, staring ahead

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice low and suspicious, eyes narrowing like you’d just confessed to treason.

You froze. “Uh. Laundry?”

“Interesting,” he said, voice dripping with suspicion. “You know who else said they had laundry tonight?”

You blinked. “…Literally everyone who owns clothes?”

Sam didn’t smile. He leaned in, voice lowering like he was revealing national security secrets. “Barnes. Same night. Same floor. Same time.”

You paused just long enough to regret getting out of your room.

“It’s a laundry room, Sam,” you said flatly. “That’s how they work. People… use it.”

“Mmmhm,” he replied, writing something cryptic in his notebook. The pen squeaked aggressively against the page.

Just then, the door swung open—and in walked Bucky Barnes, freshly showered, damp hair swept back like a shampoo commercial, whistling something suspiciously upbeat.

 “Y/N. Wilson,” he greeted smoothly.

“Barnes,” Sam said, staring like he was trying to burn a hole through his soul with his eyes.

You smiled. Just a regular smile. Harmless. No romantic undertones. Just two coworkers… being cordial.

Totally.

 “You know... I was asking Y/N here,” Sam said, still squinting, “about her suspiciously coordinated laundry schedule.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Must be fate.”

You coughed, choking down a laugh.

Sam slammed his notebook shut with the kind of theatrical flair that screamed “I was born for this drama.”

“Enough. You think I’m not onto you. But I see things.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You seeing ghosts again?”

“I’m seeing clues, Barnes. Don’t play dumb. You two doing laundry together. The mugs. The vanishing act during last Tuesday’s debrief—twenty minutes. Both of you. Gone.”

You opened your mouth, searching for a reasonable explanation, but let’s be honest—this was Sam. There was no “reasonable” left. This man had turned your laundry schedule into a covert op.

You crossed your arms. “We went to get snacks.”

“Snacks,” Sam echoed flatly.

“Yes,” you said, trying to maintain dignity. “You know. Human food. Fuel. Chips. The sacred post-mission ritual.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. “For twenty minutes.”

“There was a vending machine incident,” Bucky added smoothly, stepping closer, unbothered. “Y/N had a standoff with a bag of peanut M&Ms. It got intense.”

You rolled your eyes as Bucky leaned casually against the doorframe, looking way too smug for someone being accused of laundry-based espionage.

Sam was relentless. “You think this is a game? Because I’ve got spreadsheets. I’ve got charts. I have timestamps.”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky replied, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize I was your top case file.”

“You’re not,” Sam snapped. “You’re just the most suspicious.”

You shook your head, already backing toward the hallway. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go… do the thing. With the clothes. Like a normal human person.”

“Sure you are,” Sam muttered, squinting again like he was two seconds away from installing security cameras.

“Goodnight, Wilson,” Bucky said with a wink. And then—because of course—he followed you out.

“Hey!” Sam called. “This isn’t over!”

You didn’t turn around, but you did hear the sound of him furiously scribbling in that cursed notebook again.

You and Bucky sat side by side on top of the industrial dryer, the hum of the spinning machines filling the quiet room. A single overhead light flickered occasionally, casting a soft glow over the laundry baskets at your feet. The scent of fabric softener lingered in the warm air.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” you murmured, folding a hoodie with unnecessary precision.

“He already has,” Bucky said, smirking. “Tried to stick a tracker in my jacket this morning.”

You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “We should start leaving fake clues. Plant a puzzle piece under his pillow. Hang a tie in the garage.”

“I already put a sock in the fridge,” Bucky said casually, reaching over to pull a warm towel from the dryer.

You turned to look at him, mouth open in delight. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Red. Argyle. No explanation.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I love you.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning in to kiss your temple. “I know.”

You went quiet for a beat, letting the rhythm of the machines and the safe warmth between you fill the space. His knee rested against yours. The scent of his cologne barely clung to the edge of his freshly laundered shirt.

He reached for your hand, twining his fingers through yours beneath the basket of still-warm socks. “He’s getting close, though. We are getting pretty obvious.”

“You wanna stop?” you asked, turning toward him.

He looked at you—really looked. And it was all soft eyes, steady presence, and a patience you hadn’t known you needed until him.

“Not a chance.”

Bucky smiled, warm and easy, and pressed his forehead lightly to yours.

“So,” you whispered, “what are we going to do when Sam actually proves something?”

“We deny everything.”

You laughed. “Even under interrogation?”

“Especially under interrogation.”

One day, he’d prove it.

But not today.

Meanwhile in the living room, Sam was writing in his notebook. On the top of the page:

CASE #110: They’re DEFINITELY Dating. And beneath it, scrawled in increasingly frantic handwriting:

shared laundry = suspicious

“Coincidentally” always sitting next to each other

Y/N smiled at him like he invented air.

Bucky smiled back.

FRIDAY pinged softly. “Sir, your blood pressure is elevated.”

“Because there’s a LIE in this house, Friday!”

War was still on.

But as long as you had Bucky Barnes looking at you like you were his whole world?

You were definitely still winning.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2

A/N: it's me again, hi. just wanted to say a big thank you for all the comments and feedback i've been getting from all of you. never thought that a one-shot could turn into a series with already SEVEN PARTS. anyway, just thank you all again. i hope you're liking where this is going. see you next chapter <3

[queerquinnn]

The Match

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: While secretly dating You, Bucky gets roped into a dating app by Sam

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, light jealousy

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What" (this is already part 5, so yes, im calling it a series.) It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

The kitchen was warm and quiet, filled with the soft morning light pouring in through the big windows. You were curled up on the counter in one of Bucky’s henleys — technically yours now, since you’d claimed it after “accidentally” falling asleep in it two months ago. He hadn’t asked for it back.

Bucky stood between your legs, his hands resting gently on your thighs as he stole tiny sips from your coffee cup every time you lowered it.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mumbled, narrowing your eyes at him as he swiped it again.

He smirked, brushing a thumb over your knee. “Can’t help it. Yours always tastes better.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned forward anyway, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. He caught you halfway and turned it into a real kiss — slow, unhurried, the kind that made time feel irrelevant.

You sighed against his lips. “If you keep kissing me like that, we’re never gonna eat.”

“We can skip breakfast,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

“And deal with Sam’s ‘someone didn’t have their Wheaties’ speech again? No thanks.”

Bucky groaned and stepped back, reluctantly, while you hopped off the counter. You started prepping your coffee again, and he leaned close to watch.

“One scoop…” he counted aloud.

You snuck a glance at him and grinned. “Three.”

“Three?” he fake-gasped. “You planning to vibrate through walls?”

“Says the guy who had four yesterday.”

“Three and a half,” he corrected, deadpan.

You snorted. “Uh-huh. Keep lying to yourself, grandpa.”

He gave you a playful glare but said nothing, instead leaning over to steal one of your toast slices like a thief in the night.

And then — of course — the kitchen door swung open.

“Okay, what the hell is this domestic energy?” Sam’s voice boomed as he walked in. “Am I interrupting a rom-com or—?”

You and Bucky practically jumped apart like teenagers caught red-handed. You reached for the peanut butter like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Morning,” you both said, far too casually, far too in sync.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Weird. Anyway…”

He turned to Bucky, eyes narrowing as he opened the fridge. “You look grumpier than usual.”

“I always look like this.”

“That’s what worries me,” Sam said, pulling out the orange juice. “You need a little somethin’ in your life. A spark. Some romance.”

You snorted into your coffee. “Wow, subtle.”

Sam shot you a grin. “I’m serious, Bucky. You look miserable and I’m sick of it. Your need to get out there. Meet people. Real people. People who don’t, y’know, punch aliens for a living.”

“I’m not miserable,” Bucky muttered, taking a very aggressive bite of toast.

Sam ignored him. “You need someone to, like, hold your hand and remind you that the world isn’t complete garbage.”

“Y/N does that,” Bucky said before realizing. His eyes flicked to you. Yours widened slightly.

“Uh— I mean…” he coughed. “You could. You’re good at pep talks.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

But Sam was too busy with his phone to notice the weird energy. “Anyway, I’m gonna download Spark for you.”

“Oh no,” you whispered.

“Oh yes.” Sam grinned, typing furiously. “It’s like Tinder but for people who still believe in feelings.”

“Delete it,” Bucky said immediately.

“Too late. Already making your profile. Okay — full name?”

“Absolutely not.”

Sam looked up. “Fine, we’ll just put ‘Bucky B.’ You sound like a retired DJ. Age... one-oh-six... but we’ll round down to thirty-five. Close enough.”

You had to cover your mouth with your hand to stop from laughing. Bucky looked like he was actually malfunctioning.

“Give me your phone. I'm deleting it.”

“Nope.” Sam sidestepped him and kept typing. “Bio time. What do you want it to say? ‘Strong, silent, may or may not have trauma, will kill spiders for you’?”

“Sam.”

“Oh! And profile picture.” Sam’s grin went feral. “I’m gonna use the one from Clint’s barbecue.”

Bucky froze. “No. Not the one where—”

“Yup,” Sam said, turning the phone around dramatically. “The one where you’re smiling. A real smile. The people gotta see the goods, man.”

You wheezed. “That’s actually a really good picture.”

“It is,” Sam agreed, tapping to save the profile. “Now we wait. Trust me, you're gonna get matches faster than Tony blows money.”

Bucky looked physically pained.

And then… the phone buzzed.

“Oh snap — you already got a match! Girl named Olivia.” Sam said, scrolling like a man on a mission. “Look at this—she hikes, she volunteers at animal shelters. Honestly, Buck, she’s like a Hallmark movie in human form. You should totally message her.”

You blinked.

Something inside you twisted — that unwelcome, unmistakable burn of jealousy curling in your chest.

Bucky looked… surprised. And then cautious. “That was fast.”

“She’s cute,” Sam said, scrolling. “She said you have nice eyes. You should message her. Or better yet, go on a date. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You forced a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. You should totally go.”

Bucky turned toward you slowly. His smile had faded into something softer. Thoughtful. He tilted his head, studying your face like it was a puzzle he was halfway through solving.

“…Maybe,” he said carefully, like he was testing the word.

You smiled a little too tightly. “Good for you.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, like he could see right through you.

You lasted approximately six hours before cracking. Not that you were counting.

You’d spent the day trying not to think about Olivia. Or her "kind eyes". Or the fact that Bucky had apparently matched with her in under a minute. Not that it mattered, obviously. You were cool. Chill. Entirely unaffected.

…Until Bucky found you in the hallway on your way back to your room, grabbed your hand, and wordlessly tugged you into his.

He shut the door behind you, arms crossed. He didn't look mad. Just… knowing.

You tried to play it cool. “If this is about the last cookie, I swear I thought it was mine.”

“It’s not about the cookie.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding. “Then what?”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver. “You told me to go. Like it didn’t bother you.”

You scoffed lightly, trying to brush it off. “I was just being cool. Y’know, chill. Unbothered.”

“You were seething, doll.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened. “Okay, maybe a little. So what?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just watched you for a second, his silence pressing gently around your walls. Not demanding, not accusing — just waiting for you to be honest.

You exhaled and leaned back against the door. “I know I said it didn’t bother me, but the second Sam said you matched with someone, it was like—like my stomach dropped out.”

His brow furrowed, stepping closer.

You continued, voice softer. “I know you love me. I do. But the idea of someone else getting even a piece of you… I hated it. And that scared me. I didn’t want to be the clingy one or the insecure one or the girl who flips out over some dumb dating app.”

Bucky’s face softened completely. “Hey.”

He closed the gap and cupped your face in his hands, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“You are not insecure. You’re not clingy. You’re human. And you love me.” He kissed your forehead gently. “I want you to care.”

Your chest cracked wide open, and you let yourself lean into him.

“I don’t want to share you, Buck,” you whispered. “Not even a little.”

“You never have to,” he murmured. “You’ve got all of me. Always.”

“…So what about Olivia?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He shrugged. “I unmatched her hours ago. Right after you said good for you like you were trying not to cry.”

You gaped. “You what?”

Bucky smirked. “The only person I want… is you.”

Your heart stuttered, full and aching and impossibly light all at once. “Bucky—”

“You’ve had me from the moment you stole my henley and never gave it back.” His voice was barely a whisper. “You don’t have to be chill. You don’t have to play it cool. You already have all of me.”

Your laugh was shaky, but your smile was real. “Even if I get all weird over fictional matches on dating apps?”

He grinned. “Especially then.”

You leaned into him, your fingers curling around the hem of his shirt. “So you’re not going on a date with Olivia?”

“Nope,” he said, nuzzling your nose with his. “Unless you change your name and start volunteering at animal shelters.”

You snorted. “I would for you.”

Bucky kissed you then — sweet, slow, soft. The kind of kiss that made you forget all the awkward moments of the morning. The kind that made you feel like you were the only two people in the world.

You laughed into the kiss, your fingers curling around his shirt. “You absolute...”

“—Boyfriend material?” Bucky finished, hopeful.

You smiled, lighter than you had all day. “Absolutely.”

Somewhere down the hall, Sam shouted, “I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DELETED SPARK—!”

You broke apart, laughing breathlessly. “We should probably tell him.”

Bucky sighed into your neck. “Or we fake our deaths and disappear into the Alps.”

“Tempting.”

next part

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd

[queerquinnn]

Almost Caught

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You sneak out with Bucky for a secret date and almost get caught.

Word Count: 723

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, lying to friends (for romance reasons!)

A/N: this is kind of a sequel to "you said what?" — it’s the same vibe, same chaotic energy, but it can totally be read on its own! just think of it as part of the same soft universe 💕 hope you enjoy this <3

You never thought your most romantic date would start with crawling out of a window and jumping two stories down into Bucky’s arms—right behind the dumpsters.

“I can’t believe this is how we have to go out,” you whisper, pulling your hoodie tighter.

Bucky grins at you, eyes sparkling. “Come on. You love the danger. Sneaking out like spies.”

You roll your eyes— but he’s right. You do kind of love it. Especially when he leans in and kisses you, right there in the alley, his hand cupping your jaw like you’re the best thing he’s ever held.

The two of you walk a few blocks, laughing quietly, until you reach the rooftop of an old bakery. It’s not fancy, but it’s cozy. Your spot. The stars are out tonight, the sky clear and dark, and it feels like something out of a dream.

Bucky opens a bag he brought with him. “Ta-da.”

You peek inside. Burgers. Fries. Milkshakes. From that place you both secretly love, Cheesy Billy’s Burgers, but refuse to tell the team about, because Tony called it culinary war crime once.

You sit side by side, your legs swinging over the edge of the roof. You eat, you talk, and you laugh so hard you almost choke on your soda. Bucky watches you with that soft look of his, like you’re the most important thing in the universe. Like the stars are nice, sure—but not better than you.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, “if we didn’t have to sneak around like teenagers—”

“We’d still come here,” you say, nudging his foot with yours. “This is our spot.”

He smiles and leans closer. “Yeah. Our spot.”

And he kisses you. Soft, slow, perfect. The kind that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Then—

You hear voices below. Familiar ones.

“Wait—this is where they get the good fries?” Sam says. “Why have we never been here?”

You both freeze.

You slowly peek over the edge of the roof. Sam and Peter are standing below, staring at the bakery’s glowing sign.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “We’re gonna get caught. On our date night. While eating greasy fries.”

Bucky’s already stuffing fries in his mouth. “I’m not giving these up.”

You stare at him. “Are you serious right now?!”

“I have priorities,” he mumbles around a fry.

You both scramble to hide. Bucky throws his hoodie over your head like a blanket and pulls you into the shadows. You’re both giggling, trying to be quiet. Bucky looks like he’s having the time of his life.

Below, Sam looks up for a second, squinting. “…Did you hear something?”

Peter shrugs. “Maybe a raccoon?”

You whisper, “We are the raccoons.”

Somehow, you manage to escape without being seen.

Back at the compound, breathless and laughing in the hallway, Bucky presses you against the wall and kisses you again.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “I’m buying us disguises.”

“…Like wigs?”

He grins. “I was thinking matching mustaches.”

You snort-laugh so hard, someone passing by stares at you suspiciously.

In the next morning , you’re minding your business in the common room, nursing a coffee, when you hear “Yo, Bucky… since when do you eat at Cheesy Billy’s Burgers?”

Your stomach drops.

You turn just in time to see Sam waving a greasy, crumpled receipt like it’s evidence in a murder case.

“Found this in your jacket pocket, man. Thought you hated that place.”

Bucky blinks. Looks at you. Then back at Sam.

“I… don’t remember going there.”

Classic.

Natasha, from the couch “Wasn’t that the night you said you were doing recon?”

Tony walks in with a mug. “Wait, wait—Bucky Barnes ordered a Double Cheesezilla with extra onion rings and a milkshake. Who are you?”

You’re biting your lip so hard trying not to laugh, you might bleed. Bucky looks at you, then back at them, completely straight-faced.

“Maybe it was Steve’s jacket?” Bucky offers. “Old jacket. Probably Steve.”

Steve, walking by “What?”

“Nothing.” Bucky blurts.

Later, in the hallway, you tackle him into a storage closet and whisper, “You kept the receipt?!”

“You said it was the best burger you’d ever had. I panicked and wanted to remember the order.”

Your heart melts. “You’re unbelievable.”

He shrugs, grinning. “You love me.”

You kiss him, just once. “Unfortunately, yes.”

A/N: i wrote a part 3 about them. if you want to check it out here it is <3

[queerquinnn]

You Said What?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You accidentaly call Bucky babe during a mission briefing in front of the whole team.

Word Count: 506

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating

A/N: This is a short story that came to my mind while I was studying, so I had to write it down. Hope you like it :)

Everyone’s crowded around the mission table. It’s too early, someone definitely stole your last coffee, and you're still rubbing sleep out of your eyes when Steve starts explaining the recon plan with way too many acronyms.

Bucky’s next to you, legs slightly touching, flipping a pen between his fingers like he’s not just waiting for a reason to pull your chair closer. He’s staring straight ahead like a good soldier, but you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye every time your knee bounces.

You're trying to pay attention. Something about rooftops, safehouses, surveillance drones and you’re barely following when—

“…and Barnes, you’ll be on overwatch with Y/N.”

And you, running on 2 hours of sleep and one granola bar, lean toward Bucky without thinking.

“Did you hear that, babe?”

Silence.

Cold. Dead. Silence.

Everyone looks at you.

Nat squints. Sam raises both eyebrows so high they disappear into his hairline. Peter drops his pen. Steve, bless his heart, blinks like someone just smacked him with a frisbee.

Bucky doesn’t breathe. Your soul detaches from your body, floats toward the ceiling, and screams.

You scramble. “I—I said bro. Like, ‘Did you hear that, bro?’ That’s what I said. Like a…cool, soldier-y nickname. Haha.”

The room is quiet again. No one believes you. Especially not Sam.  “You said babe. You said it casually.”

Bucky doesn’t even look at you. He’s locked in full Winter Soldier mode, eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall like he’s trying to transcend to another timeline.

“I think she said brrr,” Bucky offers, stone-faced. “She’s cold.”

“She’s wearing a hoodie,” Peter mutters.

You laugh way too loud. “It’s the energy in here. Very chilly.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, arms crossed, staring straight ahead like if he makes direct eye contact with anyone he’ll combust.

Steve slowly turns to him. “Barnes?”

“…Yeah?”

“You cold too?”

Bucky shrugs. “Freezing.”

You know he’s going to murder you in the hallway. Probably kiss you breathless after. But first—death.

Steve stares a moment longer. Then—mercifully—moves on. But the damage is done.

Nat doesn’t. “So… bro, huh?”

You glare at her.

Later, when the meeting is already over, you burst in Bucky's room, already talking. “I told you this would happen, I told you I’d forget—”

Bucky slams the door shut and corners you. “You said babe. In front of Rogers.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I wanna crawl inside a ventilation shaft and disappear.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and pulls your hands away.

“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs, leaning in.

“…What?”

“I liked it.”

You blink up at him. “You liked almost being exposed?”

“No,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “I liked hearing you call me babe.”

Your heart stutters.

“…Say it again.”

You grin. “Babe?”

Then he kisses you like the whole building isn’t even real. Like the only thing in the universe is your mouth and his hands and the way you said it without even realizing.

A/N: i just wrote a lil part 2 about them, it’s not a direct sequel but if you feel like cheking out, here it is. hope you like it, and thanks for reading <3

[queerquinnn]

The Secret Notes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky leaves little notes for you.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, cute doodles

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

It all started one afternoon when you fell asleep on the couch, a book slipping from your hand. Bucky passed by and found you there, peaceful and unaware. Smiling to himself, he gently picked up the book and noticed the page you’d been reading.

With a quiet laugh, he scribbled a note on a scrap of paper:

“You stopped here. Heroine’s rule: naps first, saving the world later. - B”

He slid the note inside the book, marking the page, and placed it on the table beside you. As he left, he couldn’t help but smile at the idea of you finding it when you woke up.

The next day, you found the note in your book, and you couldn’t help but smile. It was silly, but it made your heart warm. You had to reply, of course.

Taking a fresh piece of paper, you wrote:

“A nap is a hero’s secret weapon, Bucky. Thanks for the reminder. If I do end up saving the world today, I’ll be sure to credit you. - Y/N”

You tucked the note inside his jacket pocket, hoping he’d get a good laugh when he found it. It felt so simple, so small, but the thought of sharing little moments like this with him made everything else seem a little brighter.

It wasn’t long before the notes became a daily exchange. They started off funny—sometimes quoting ridiculous lines from movies, or making playful jokes about the Avengers’ absurdly weird missions. You would find them in your locker, under your coffee mug, or tucked inside your boots. They never failed to make you smile.

Even now, after months together, he still took the time to leave you notes and little reminders.

After a particularly brutal mission, you found another note tucked into the pocket of your jacket. You nearly missed it in the rush to get ready for a debriefing. But when you unfolded it, you found it written on a torn piece of notebook paper, and a doodle of a sleeping cat at the bottom.

“You’re allowed to rest, you know. I’ll guard your coffee while you nap.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, warmth blooming in your chest. It had been a rough couple of days—bruised ribs, no sleep. The note felt like a soft exhale in the middle of chaos.

Unfortunately, you weren’t the only one in the hallway.

“Whatcha got there?”

You spun around to see Sam squinting at the piece of paper now very obviously in your hand. And before you could shove it back into your pocket, the man had already snatched it like he was intercepting a rogue football.

“Sam, come on—”

He blinked and read it once. Then again. Then a third time.

 ““You’re allowed to rest, you know. I’ll guard your coffee while you nap”...and there’s a little cat at the bottom. Why is there a cat?! WHO DRAWS CATS?!”

You stared at him, trying very hard not to look like someone caught hiding a secret. “You done?”

“Oh, I’m so not done,” Sam said, holding the note like it was radioactive. “This is a nap-themed love letter, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s just a...friendly reminder.”

“With a doodle,” he said, as if that was damning evidence in a court of law. “Who writes you sweet notes about coffee and naps after a mission? That’s like—domestic.”

“Maybe I wrote it to myself,” you tried.

“You’re not a cat doodler. I know your vibe. You don’t doodle.”

You grabbed for the note. He dodged you.

“Sam—give it.”

“I will not. I’m onto something here.”

Just then, Bucky strolled around the corner with a cup of coffee in hand and a granola bar between his teeth, looking way too casual.

Sam froze.

You froze.

Bucky stopped mid-chew, immediately sensing the chaos in the air. “…Did I miss something?”

Sam, eyes narrowed like a detective in a sitcom, turned slowly toward him.

“Barnes.”

Bucky blinked. “Wilson.”

Sam raised the note like it was a badge. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

Bucky looked at the paper. Then at you. Then back to Sam.

There was a half-second pause.

And then Bucky shrugged. “Cute cat.”

You choked on a laugh and immediately turned it into a cough.

Sam squinted. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? ‘Cute cat’?”

Bucky popped the last of the granola bar into his mouth, completely unfazed. “You’re getting worked up over a doodle.”

Sam pointed at both of you, eyes wide with dramatic betrayal. “Okay, I don’t know what is going on, but something is going on. I feel it in my soul.”

You patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe you just need a nap.”

“I—NO! No, you don’t get to use the nap line on me! That’s part of the conspiracy!”

Sam was already walking away. “I’ll guard your coffee, Wilson,” Bucky called over his shoulder, deadpan.

The hallway finally settled into silence after Sam’s echoing footsteps disappeared around the corner. You let out a small laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

Bucky lingered beside you, coffee in hand. His eyes flicked toward you, and the smallest smile curved at the corner of his lips.

“So… cat doodles are suspicious now?”

You laughed under your breath. “Apparently. Next time, maybe draw a dragon or something. Keep him guessing.”

“Well,” he said, voice low and amused. “That could’ve gone worse.”

You glanced down at the note in your hand, then back at him. “I mean... he didn’t accuse you of writing love sonnets. So, yeah—definitely could’ve been worse.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, leaning casually against the wall. “Should I stop? The notes, I mean. I didn’t mean to... cause a scene.”

You looked up at him, warmth already blooming in your chest. “No. Don’t stop.”

His brow quirked slightly, curious. “No?”

“They’re one of the best parts of my day,” you said honestly, your voice soft. “They make the hard days easier, and the quiet ones feel full. I’d rather risk a hundred Sam-level interrogations than miss even one of them.”

A grin pulled at Bucky’s mouth, slow and sweet. “Yeah?”

You gave him a playful nudge. “Even if Sam tries to launch a full-scale investigation.”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Let him. He doesn’t scare me.”

Then, softer, with that familiar gentleness he always saved just for you, he added, “I’ll keep leaving them, then. Every note, every doodle... they’re little pieces of me. And you’re the only one I want finding them.”

Your smile widened, heart fluttering in that helpless, happy kind of way.

“I guess that makes you my favorite mystery author,” you said lightly.

Bucky leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours. “Only for you, doll.”

You reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out a folded note—you’d planned to tuck it under his pillow later, but something made you decide to give it to him right now. You held it out to him, your smile a little shy.

He opened it slowly. Inside, your handwriting was a little messier than usual, but still clearly yours.

“You’ve got a way of making everything seem a little brighter, even when it’s a rough day. I’m lucky for it.”

Bucky looked up at you, lips parted just slightly. For a long second, he said nothing.

And then he stepped closer, closing the small space between you. His hand brushed yours, slow and warm, and he laced your fingers together.

“You’re gonna destroy me with these notes,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

You leaned into him, heart full and beating a little too fast. “Guess we’re even.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, lingering, like a promise he never needed to say out loud. Then he tucked your note carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket, where all the best ones lived.

“Don’t tell Sam,” you whispered with a smile.

Meanwhile in the kitchen...

Sam sat at the table, muttering to himself with a pen tucked behind his ear and a spiral notebook open in front of him. On the top of the page in large, underlined letters:

Case #109: WHO THE HELL IS Y/N DATING???

Underneath it were four bullet points:

suspicious nap note

Bucky is too chill

cat doodle = code??

is Steve somehow involved???

This was war now.

And you and Bucky? You were winning.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd @poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust

next part

[queerquinnn]

5 Times You Are Not Dating Bucky Barnes (and the one time you are) | Bucky Barnes x Reader | One shot - 2.6k words |

You're sick of saying it, Bucky is not your boyfriend, you are not dating you're just friends. Until...

Warnings: 18+ for some canon typical violence and for Sam and Joaquin being pains in the arse (affectionate). Friends to lovers vibes, idiots in love, dating but not dating.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics & @saradika-graphics

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

1

Bucky Barnes is not your boyfriend.

At least once a day these words come out of your mouth in some form and it's becoming so frequent now that you're considering just recording yourself and playing it back on your phone.

Colleagues, partners in the field, friends.

Not a couple.

Not dating.

"Did you hear that, Wilson? She said —"

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

Sam rolled his eyes at Bucky, sighing dramatically in a way that only Sam is really allowed to get away with. Bucky hadn't taken his eyes from your laptop screen or the secure file you were scrolling through.

"Look awful close though."

You looked up this time, the top of your head brushing Bucky's cheek, his breath was warm against your own and the contrast between his exhale and the cold glass of the table gave you goosebumps.

"We're reviewing the data Joaquin sent us, what do you want us to do?" You snapped, scrolling to the next page of mind numbingly boring KPIs and MIs. Just your luck to get the management files and nothing juicy.

"Perhaps you could use the projector?" Sam clicked a button on the table and the details on your screen lit up the plain, white wall of the conference room.

Embarrassed heat flared up your spine and you shivered.

"Not very secure though, is it, Captain?" Bucky picked up the remote and switched the projector off, his eyes on the laptop screen.

The plastic of your chair squeaked as he tightened his hold on it, and the door slammed shut behind Sam.

2

You followed your nose from the cool darkness of the operations room to the open living area. Tedious as it was to be stationed in the middle of nowhere for recon, you couldn't fault the accommodation, it was almost like being on holiday, apart from the gruelling shifts staring at monitors every day.

Somewhere further along the corridor the sound of good-natured arguing grew louder, Bucky's voice rising above the others and warning them not to disturb you. There was a brief pause before you heard Sam and Joaquin start laughing and Bucky's heavy sigh.

"Morning," you gave a small sleepy smile to the assembled team. Joaquin smiled back, raising his coffee cup in greeting. Sam grinned and you knew instantly that there was something going on. "What now?" You sighed, sending both men in to fits of laughter.

Bucky handed you a cup of tea and bowl of yogurt and granola, a handful of blueberries and raspberries on top.

"Thanks, I'm starving." You bumped his hip as you wandered past to join your teammates at the kitchen island and earned yourself a rare smile.

"What've you got there?" Sam asked, peering into your bowl.

"Usual," you mumbled, sipping your tea. Perfect.

"Uh huh, the usual." He looked up at Bucky, whose face was slowly turning the same colour as the raspberries.

"Can I have some yoghurt, Bucky?" Joaquin asked, innocently.

"Nope." Bucky said, watching you take the first bite and allowing the corner of his mouth to turn up in a smile when yours did.

"Oh, did we run out?"

"Nope."

Bucky put the almost full pot back into the fridge, fixed his coffee and sat down too, shuffling his stool a little closer to you. His hair was still a little damp and you could smell the familiar scent of his shampoo, his bare arm bumping against yours as he took a sip of coffee.

Sam and Joaquin emptied out the last of their coffees into the sink and slunk away, whispering and laughing conspiratorially about "special treatment for girlfriends."

Bucky was, as usual, ignoring them and flipping through a week old newspaper and sipping his coffee. He caught you watching and gave you a mock glare, nothing like the hard stare he'd given Sam and Joaquín earlier.

Then he turned the pages slightly so you could see and you let your head rest on his shoulder, still sipping your tea.

3

"I'm sorry, okay, please stop giving me the cold shoulder." Sam followed after you as you picked your way back to the jet, trying to catch up so you could walk together.

"Absolutely not, I want to be angry for at least two more hours." You grouched, squeezing water from your tactical gear.

"C'mon, it's a little funny," Joaquin laughed, taking up space on your other side.

"Fuck off, Torres, if you had fish swimming in your tac suit you'd be mad too. "

Bucky met you at the cargo door, towel in hand and glaring at your team mates.

"Hell happened to you lot? And why are there fish in your suit?" He scanned you all quickly for serious damage, but it was just your ego that was bruised really.

"Someone, told me it was totally safe to cross this rickety fucking bridge back there," you scowled again.

It really wasn't Sam's fault, it looked perfectly safe or you wouldn't have started to cross, but it was clearly rigged to fall and that's exactly what you'd done, straight into the stagnant water below.

In their gear Sam and Joaquin had been fine. You, on the other hand, had been soaked from head to toe.

"Let's get you in something clean and dry," Bucky gently ushered you into the cool darkness of the jet, soothing your embarrassment with his own stories and wiping mud from the back of your neck as if it was an everyday occurrence.

"I don't think there's anything left in my locker after we got caught in that storm a few weeks back." Embarrassment made your skin itchy and your blood cold. You had spare underwear, maybe, at best.

"Don't worry," Bucky put his back to the door of the small bathroom while you stripped off your dirty clothes inside, "I've got something."

When you reappeared fifteen minutes later, cleaner, dryer, it was in a pair of Bucky's spare sweat pants and the black t-shirt he'd been wearing.

Joaquin raised his eyes but made the decision not to comment and incur your wrath any further.

Sam, on the other hand, chose to tease Bucky instead, their arguing bouncing around the jet while you tried to get comfy on the thin flight seats.

"Got your territory all marked then, Barnes?" He laughed, eyes darting between the two of you.

"Don't know what you're on about, Wilson." Bucky snapped back.

"She's in your clothes, couldn't find any spares? Nothing of mine of Joaquin's back there? You're getting more possessive." Sam shot you a look, "you need to tell him to fuck off."

"I'm good, Sam, thanks for your concern."

"Ahh so you are —"

"We're not dating!" You shouted in unison.

Which only made Sam and Joaquín laugh harder.

It was okay though, you were safe again now and, snuggling deeper into the body warmth of Bucky's t-shirt and definitely a lot less angry than you had been, you really felt safe too. How could you feel any other kind of way, when you could smell his body wash, when he had dried your face so carefully and helped you into your clean clothes.

He looked over at you, eyes still checking for injuries.

"You okay over there? Warm enough?" You nodded and he nodded back, smiling.

4

Joaquin woke with a jolt when the plane hit turbulence, there was a crick in his neck and a sore muscle in his back screaming for a soft bed and his favourite pillow. But no such luck, just an army evac in the dead of night.

Beside him Sam had spread out a blanket and his jacket on the floor, using his rucksack as a pillow and snoring soundly. He could always sleep anywhere, you all could, especially after the day you'd had.

Bucky had taken up a spot sat on the floor like Sam, but with his back to the thin benches, his pack holding up his head. In the gloom he could see Bucky's left arm rigidly holding his body up, elbow locked, because on the right you were leaning into him. His arm was around your shoulders and you'd curled your body into his, pressing into his side, face tucked into his neck and hand under his shirt.

The plane rattled again and Bucky blinked one eye open, his body still as he scanned around quickly before locking eyes with Joaquin.

"You two comfy?" Joaquin whispered and Bucky scowled back. He'd expected Bucky to push you away, but instead he tugged you closer.

Joaquin made a tiny heart shape with his fingers and then mimed kissing.

Bucky flicked up his middle finger and then closed his eyes.

5

"So, Playboy, got any plans tonight," Sam asked, scuffing Joaquin on the back of the head while you pulled your bag out of the gym lockers.

It'd been a long day and you couldn't wait to order a ridiculous amount of food, put your pyjamas on and forget the world existed.

"You know me, Sam. Keepin' my options open." The younger man grinned back.

"Lotta fingers in a lotta pies, have you Torres?" You snickered.

Bucky shut his locker with a slam. "Don't be crude," he grouched, but you saw the way he smiled when he rolled his eyes.

"Something like that," Joaquin shrugged.

"What about you man, hot date?" Joaquin asked,

"Nah," Sam turned away and Joaquin finished towelling his wet hair and started digging his clothes from his bag before wandering off for some privacy.

You slid your trainers back on, tucking your boots in your locker and wondering why they were both suddenly so interested in each other's dating life.

"Not even Leila," you needled, breaking the silence and poking him in the side.

"What's it got to do with you anyway? You seeing anyone tonight?"

"Nope, just me and some Chinese takeout tonight, maybe a little flirt with Netflix," Sam gave you a slightly sad look, but what did you care, it wasn't the only Friday night that would ever happen and you were exhausted.

"I was going to get noodles, do you want to come back to mine, we can split an order?" Bucky asked, fishing his keys from his gym bag and nodding his head towards the door.

"Ohh yes as long as we can get dumplings."

"Obviously we're getting dumplings."

"And maybe fried rice?"

"Rice and noodles?"

"You get one, I'll get the other, we'll split it."

"Fine."

"Shall I follow you —"

"Leave your car by the hanger, I'll drive you back in tomorrow."

"Perfect, let's grab a bottle of wine from the store on the way back."

Bucky groaned, holding the door open for you, "how many times have I said, the only acceptable drink with Chinese takeout is Tsingtao."

The door shut as Joaquin rounded the lockers again, a confused look on his face."Do they know it's Valentines Day?"

Sam laughed, "I don't think so but I can't wait to see their faces tomorrow when they figure it out."

+1

"I've got him, Bucky, you watch the trucks?" You put your sight back to your eye, shuffling your shoulders, settling lower into the ground, you breathed deeply as you prepared to take the shot.

"You'll give away your position, you're too close, fall back." Bucky's voice was surprisingly frantic in your ear.

"Quiet, please. I can do this."

"Leave her, Buck, she's got this."

"Cap's right, gotta have a little faith."

"It's too risky —"

You turned your comm off. You'd been watching this gang for weeks hoping to catch them in the act and you had the perfect chance.

Sam and Joaquin had been leading your infiltration of their den and everything had been going swimmingly — until their leader had walked out and thrown everything into chaos.

You caught the kickback from your rifle with practised ease, your aim perfect, the apparent leader of the group crumpled to the ground, bleeding from his now shattered kneecap. Nothing fatal, you wanted to see him on the stand as did the rest of the team.

You touched your ear piece again ready to gloat about your excellent hit but Bucky's panicked voice found you instead.

"Run, I'm coming but you've gotta run, go —go! Why aren't you going!"

You turned, surrounded by three armed guards, and did the only thing you could do. Fight back.

This wasn't the best time for close quarters combat, but you needed time to reach your handgun or your dagger or something.

Dodging around you gained enough time to slip a knife from your thigh holster.

"I've got it, Buck. Go to Sam."

"No you fucking haven't."

Your arm moved, swiping at your first assailant and leaving a splatter of blood behind. Still low you lurched for the second man's legs, jabbing upwards as he bent down to you. The blade pierced the top of his thigh and blood gushed out as you twisted your wrist and tugged.

"Don't kill anyone." Sam admonished.

But you were too focused to care. The third guard was huge, broad and carrying a knife to match. But it was the gun pointed at your temple that had your heart pounding.

"Put the gun down little lady, we don't want any more messes for you to clean up." The man leered forward, pressing the hot muzzle of the gun into your skin.

"Fuck off." You spat back.

He bent closer, sliding his dagger back into its holster, giving him a free hand to pinch your cheeks. "Such a dirty mouth, what will I do with you."

"She said, fuck off."

The man looked blank, turning his head to find Bucky towering over him gun pressed to his back.

"You okay?" He asked, glancing at you quickly.

"Fine."

"You're a lucky bastard today." Bucky pulled the trigger and you closed your eyes against the spray.

The man shouted, clutching at his shoulder where blood was pouring between his fingers, the wound wider at the front.

"How's that lucky, Bucky?" You chastised, brushing leaves and dirt from your tactical suit and grabbing your rifle.

"If you were hurt, I'd have shot him in the head." He answered, simply, and you felt yourself go hot all over at the thought of what he'd do for you.

Sam and Joaquin landed behind you and rushed forwards.

"We heard more shots, is everyone okay? — What the hell guys I said minimal damage." Sam groaned.

"Would've been easier if someone—" Bucky looked at you, "had left their comms on and run when I'd said."

You rolled your eyes, "I was fine, look." All three patrol guards lay bleeding on the ground.

"That guy had a gun to your head, you were not fine."

"I had him on the ropes." You smiled, but it wavered, you had been scared and your heart had been racing seeing Bucky sneak up on him. "Plus, I've got my knight in shining armour to shoot people for me." You grinned up at Bucky, blood painted on your uniforms and across your cheeks.

"Good thing too." Bucky threaded his fingers through your chest holster and tugged you forwards, pressing a deep kiss to your lips. You hummed happily and leant into him before he set you back down

"If you're done, Sam, can we go back to the jet? I've got bad guy blood all over me, yuck." You made a face and wiped your cheek with the back of your hand before strolling off with Bucky, rifles over your shoulders.

"Did they just—" Joaquin looked over at Sam.

"Yeah —"

"How long?"

"No idea."

As you rounded the corner Bucky took your hand again, tugging you closer and pressing a kiss to your head where the imprint of the gun still lingered.

"Does this finally mean I'm your boyfriend?"

"Because you shot someone for me?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, sure." You smiled, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

[queerquinnn]

read between the lines [one-shot]

college marvel au frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, tutoring, first kiss, college au, vague panic from reader, idk it's just kinda fun and cute :), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: hi this was for a request! so so cute, i wrote this so fast i didn't even think i would have it ready to post so quickly. idk anything about cheerleading or how college works in america, so forgive me. inspired by that willow song! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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I’ve been tutoring Bucky.

Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.

Ugh. Anyway.

He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.

But he’s not. Like… at all?

He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’ Who does that?? Like… stop. That’s not fair.

But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?

And GOD. He’s hot. Like, it’s actually rude. He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.

He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.

So no. I’m not gonna say anything.

Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.

So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.

I’m just going to help him pass stats. That’s all this is. Right? God, I’m so dumb.

—

You were fucked. Well and truly screwed.

You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.

But how were you supposed to focus? Your diary was missing.

Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.

You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.

The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.

It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary. 

You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.

You wanted to scream.

Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.

You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over. Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room? What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?

You didn’t even want to finish that thought.

No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.

Bucky.

Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?

Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.

You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.

You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.

Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.

“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.

He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”

A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.

And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

“I read enough,” he said.

You froze.

Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.

“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”

You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.

“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.

You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”

He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”

Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again. 

“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”

He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.

“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.

He held your gaze, completely serious now.

“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”

That last part made your head spin.

“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.

He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”

You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”

He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”

You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.

“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.

“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.

“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.

“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.

“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”

Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.

You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.

“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.

And then he kissed you.

He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.

“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”

“Just good?” He smirked.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”

He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”

“More like definitely.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.

You were so, so screwed.

But maybe… in the best way possible.

[queerquinnn]

pour it in a cup | j. snow x reader

summary: after the devastating wars against the white walkers and house lannister, jon is once again king in the north, and as such, is in need of a wife. how lucky, then, that tyrion lannister has a niece.

contents: arranged marriage, unrealistically quick relationship progression, she/her pronouns for reader, one use of y/n, slight non-graphic smut at the end

words: 5814

author's note: based on this request. i've also written a version with my oc here (in case you saw both and were confused, it's the same story)

masterlist | additional works masterlist

Perhaps avoiding any talk about the topic of his missing queen had not been the correct idea. He should have listened to his advisors when they spoke of marriage, of the betrothal offers from the Northern lords, of the suggestion to take a Free Folk woman as wife to unite their people. But he had been too focused on trying to deal with becoming king - again - he had brushed them all off. And this was the punishment.

He stood in the courtyard, his remaining siblings beside him, waiting anxiously for the procession to arrive. The entire castle had gathered to greet the visitors from Casterly Rock, and to catch a glimpse of their new queen.

Horns blasted, and then the first soldiers arrived.

Their red and golden armour had not changed, and neither had the lion on their banners. Fewer men than expected accompanied the party, but all of that was forgotten when you rode in.

Cersei Lannister's oldest child, who had hidden in Casterly Rock for the entire war, staying far removed from the horror the rest of them had to suffer.

You were clad in rich fabrics, a dark red dress with golden embellishments, decorated with soft furs to keep yourself warm in the cold. Yet more peculiarly, you did not travel in a wheelhouse as your mother or any of the southern ladies would have done, but sat aside on a horse, its hide as white as the snow around them.

You would become his wife. You would become his queen

Your uncle, Tyrion Lannister, jumped off his own horse and approached him. They shook hands with a smile, and Jon was glad over the lack of proper manners.

“Your Grace.” Tyrion's voice sounded amused saying the title. “I am grateful for the invitation. And that you have accepted the proposal.”

“The North needs this alliance to heal,” he repeated the words of his council. “Just as the Westerlands.”

“That we do.” He beckoned someone forward. “May I introduce your betrothed? My niece, the Princess Y/N.”

You raised your hand, and he quickly took it to lay a kiss upon your knuckles.

“My princess, I am honoured.”

“As am I, your grace.”

Your words were polite yet cold, and he realised for the first time you might want this marriage even less than him.

He tried to grasp at something to say. “May I lead you to your chambers?”

You nodded, and closed your hand around his arm.

Perhaps he should have stayed, should have greeted the other lords and ladies as well, should have held a speech - whatever was expected of a king. But he wanted time alone with his bride, wanted to spend your first moments together without dozens of eyes watching them. And so he did not feel bad as he led you into the halls of his castle.

“Uh-” He cleared his throat. “You will receive your own chambers until the wedding, in order to get used to everything. Afterwards you will move into the Lord's chambers with me.”

You nodded, and said nothing.

You passed the main hall, where a wooden throne now eternally stood high above the rest.

“It must be strange,” he said, “being back here after all these years.”

You chuckled. “Strange indeed. The last time I was here, my family was still alive. Now there is only my uncle and me, the dwarven king and the forgotten princess.”

Your voice had become biting, accusatory. And he supposed you had a point.

“I apologise.” He did not dare look at you. “These last years must have been difficult.”

“They sent me away and never came for me,” you answered far too quickly. As if you had prepared it. “I am loyal to the Stark crown and will do my duty by it.”

He did not try to initiate another conversation until you had reached your chambers. And even then, the few words he spoke were only to inform you that a servant would be with you shortly. You seemed as if you wanted to tell him something - a thank, a question, a demand to leave you alone until the wedding the coming week - yet closed the door before any such thing could happen.

You tried to forget him. Tried to ignore the reality of the situation whenever the thought passed your mind. Which was nonsense, you knew. But it was easier than facing the fact you would be marrying a total stranger in just a few, short days.

That first night, Winterfell held a feast to welcome you, and to introduce the castle and the entire North to their new queen.

Despite what would be expected of you, and despite knowing you would have to adhere to your betrothed's customs soon, you had decided on a blood red gown for the evening, while a golden tiara decorated your intricately braided hair.

One last desperate attempt to cling to your heritage. To not lose what remained of your family.

King Jon Stark already awaited you at the doors to the feast hall, clad in yet another set of black and brown leathers and a fur-lined cloak, this time, however, with a spiked iron crown on top of his dark curls.

He smiled at you, you smiled back, then you took his extended arm, and entered.

The few spots of red and gold were drowned out in a sea of Northmen, all staring at you. Judging you. None of them wanted a tyrant's daughter as their queen, a foreigner, an enemy. Neither did you, but what else was left for you in this world? You were your uncle's heir, yet only until he sired his own children. And afterwards, you would have nothing.

Best accept this marriage. It was certainly the best you could get.

King Jon held a short speech once they stood in front of their seats, thanking first his lords for joining him for this most wonderful occasion, then your uncle for brokering this much needed alliance between their kingdoms, and lastly you. For agreeing.

You smiled and curtsied, and hastily removed your hand from his arm once you were seated.

The food was agreeable, the ale not too bitter, and the constant chattering and even shouting from the wildlings bearable. You had to get used to all this, you reminded yourself, especially to the presence of the man beside you.

Jon, to his credit, had not tried to strike up a conversation yet, though the glances he threw in your direction burned on your skin. You would have to look at him eventually, you knew as much. Touch him, even. Lay with him. Perhaps speaking to him now might soften that experience later on.

But he was drawn into a conversation with your uncle before you could decide.

Sansa sat on your other side, beside her brother and two others you did not recognise. You grasped at something to say - something easy, and far removed from the terrors your families had inflicted on each other.

“I like your dress,” you said carefully, not daring to fully look into Sansa's face.

It was true, you did like her gown - dark blue and simple, with an intricately embroidered wolf just above her heart.

“Thank you. I made it myself a few years ago. I had too much on my hands to sew a completely new gown simply for this feast.”

“You enjoy making them yourself, I take it?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation going. “The last time I was here, you were so proud of what you made, it was all you could talk about for an entire course.”

“And all you could talk about was King's Landing, and how much I would like it there.”

Perhaps Sansa tried to start an argument, to find any excuse to convince her brother to break off the betrothal. Perhaps she wanted to guilt you into admitting fault for your family's actions. Or perhaps that was simply the only thing she remembered from that evening.

“I am sorry.” You stared at the rings on your fingers. “I should have warned you about Joffrey.”

You had been sent to Casterly Rock not long after the outbreak of the war - for safekeeping, so that the Baratheon crown could live on through you should disaster strike the rest of your family - but you had still witnessed the beginnings of your brother's cruelty towards Sansa.

“You couldn’t have known what he would do.”

“I grew up beside him. I knew him longer and better than most. What he did to you… I could have prevented it.”

“He would have punished you as well, had you tried.”

Jon had joined some of wildings further into the hall, and you could almost understand their words and cheers from your place at the main table, such was the volume they were speaking at. He looked comfortable with them.

“Your brother…” You hesitated. “What is he like?”

Your eyes stayed on him, even when Sansa eventually answered.

“He will not mistreat you, if that is what you fear.”

“No. I mean-” You chuckled half-heartedly. “That is all anyone tells me about him. He is good, he is kind, he is brave. It all sounds rather dull.”

“He was a bastard, then a brother of the Night's Watch. He still thinks he is undeserving of the crown, even though the Northerners have pronounced him their king twice now. He has already fought in more battles than most will in their entire lifetime. Such a thing is known to leave one scarred and withdrawn. Give him time, he will warm up to you eventually.”

Jon joined your side again after a while, with red cheeks and a small grin on his lips. Yet when he noticed your stare, he swallowed, shook his head slightly, and it had disappeared.

You almost wanted to tell him how cute it had looked.

“I am rather tired from the long ride,” you said instead. “Would it be terribly impolite by Northern customs to leave already?”

“No, not at all.” He stood up and offered you his arm. “Let me accompany you to your chambers.”

Conversations died when you passed.

The cold air hit you the moment you stepped out into the quiet of the night, and you could not stop the noticeable shiver running down your back, nor the slight shaking of your arms. You clenched your jaw and prepared yourself for an uncomfortable walk, when a cloak was suddenly laid around your shoulders.

Confused, you looked towards Jon.

“I apologise about the cold. I suppose it will take a while to fully get used to it.”

Then he realised he still had his hands laid on your arms, and he hastily dropped them, taking a step back for good measure.

You pulled the fabric tighter around yourself.

“Thank you, your grace.”

You did not touch each other again on the walk to your rooms, and you did not mind at all. Welcomed it, in fact. You would be forced to endure his hands soon enough, there was no reason to invite them sooner.

You thought about saying something once you reached your door - a thank, a question, an invitation to spend the following day with you. Yet all you did was hand him back his cloak, whisper a quick “Good Night”, and quickly close the door behind you.

Be gentle with her. She has gone through a lot.

Tyrion's words echoed in his mind as he made his way to your chambers.

Your distance at the feast last night had surely been noted, he knew it had. Certain Northern lords - Manderly, Umber - were already looking for any excuse to oppose this marriage, he could not provide them with more reasons. You two would be seen conversing happily, spending time together, kissing if necessary. They would not punish you for his misgivings.

He knocked on your door, waited, and assumed for a moment you would ignore him, when he suddenly heard steps. Slow, careful, yet still. His back straightened on its own, and then you stood before him.

A soft green dress draped your body. Simple, without much embroidery, jewels, frills, or lace. Just a lone necklace hung around your neck.

You looked… beautiful.

“Your Grace.” You quickly pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Is something the matter?”

“No, I-” The light caught in your hair. He cleared his throat. “I was planning to check on the castle, make sure everything is working as intended. Would you like to accompany me?”

Best make you believe you would not put unnecessary burdens on his shoulders by agreeing to this walk, but simply to join what he was already doing.

Still… Even despite his efforts, you seemed ready to decline. Your fingers tightening in your dress, the trembling of your lips, the terror in your eyes-

“Yes.”

You quickly had a cloak slung around your shoulders and your hand around his arm, and so you set off.

Jon knew, of course, that you had only agreed because you were aware of your situation, much like him, and that you needed to play the game in order to survive. Your mother had taught you much.

Your walk through the castle led you past the kitchens, the feast halls, the smithery, the stables, the sept, the glass gardens. He explained everything as well as he could - what lead where, who worked where, whom you should talk to when faced with a problem. All while staring ahead, seldom sending a gaze your way.

You listened, nodded, smiled. You curtsied when encountering ladies and servants alike, picked up a stray flower you found in one of the hallways. And yet you also rarely spoke a word. Just a question here and there, a greeting, a polite agreement. A pretty thing on his arm.

Perhaps you were hiding. Perhaps this was simply who you were.

You walked through a door and outside, ending up on the pathways surrounding the training yard.

Northmen and wildlings sparred side-by-side, laughing and joking despite their thousands of years of animosity. Some had said their blossoming friendship was due to him - the man who had died to bring innocents south of the Wall - but he knew they attributed far too much to him. Facing death itself was enough to unite even the greatest of foes.

“Are they all living at Winterfell?”

He shook his head, then remembered you likely weren't looking at him. “No, they are not. Most of them are lords and their entourages, who will leave after the wedding. The wildlings are visiting as well, they are merely here to strengthen our alliance.”

His eyes wandered towards you for a short moment, to glance at you, see if you might express anything but polite interest. And… yes, perhaps that was indeed a small smile on your lips, and a sparkle in your eyes as you watched the children chase each other with sticks and wooden swords.

“I remember the last time I was here,” you said, lost in thought. “My brothers sparred with yours. Tommen was still far too young, so his fighting was more mindless stumbling in a set of armour that didn't quite fit him.”

“Do you miss your siblings?”

You nodded.

You continued your walk around the castle until you ended up in front of your chamber again.

“Thank you for accompanying me,” he said.

“Thank you for letting me.”

Then the door was shut before him once again.

After an eternity of walking circles in your room, you had grabbed a blanket, a book, and hidden in a secluded spot in the glass gardens. Surrounded by flowers and vines that, if you squinted, reminded you at least a little of your home, you had finally felt at ease.

Walking around the castle the previous day had been gruelling. Everyone had stared, knowingly, judgingly, as if they blamed you for your family's crimes, for the dire state the North had been beaten into. And the worst thing was…

You didn't blame them.

Time passed in the safe space you had crafted for yourself, amidst the moondusts and dragon’s breaths and coldsnaps, lost in the words of your book.

Then steps drew near.

In your haste to jump off the cushioned bench, you threw over a flower pot, sending it tumbling to the ground. The bench almost tipped backwards, and you only narrowly kept it from crashing into the glass behind it.

No one could see you here. This was not your place, not your home, not yours to enjoy. You should have stayed locked away, deep inside the halls of Winterfell, with a dozen guards to line the way. Here there was no one. Just you. Alone.

If one of the lords found you here… You had seen their eyes the previous days, the glances and stares sent your way. Full of hatred. Lust. You knew them all - their meaning, their consequences. They would mean to punish you for what your family had done to them, and perhaps even find a way to stop this alliance and keep the king from wanting you. You needed to get away from here, back to your rooms, far away-

“Princess? Is everything alright?”

Jon stood amongst the plantlife, dressed in another set of black leathers. He looked down at you, concern etched across his face as he watched your hunched over form, kneeling in the dirt.

“Yes. Yes, everything is alright.” You stumbled over your words. “I- I apologise for this mess. I will clean it up right away and then-”

“Let me help you.”

His hands were calm, strong, cold as they brushed yours. He quickly had the flower pot - not broken, thank the gods - back on its pedestal, and helped you brush the dirt together.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“You would not believe the amount of things I have almost destroyed in this castle.” His chuckle reverberated in your chest, the sound low yet warm and inviting, and something shifted inside you.

“I doubt anyone would have noticed. Winterfell is even more contorted than Casterly Rock.”

And then he laughed, and you wanted to bottle up the sound and keep it locked away close to your heart.

“Maybe you could show it to me one day. After you have gotten used to your new life.”

You knew you should agree with him, tell him he need not be worried, and that you would be the nice and pleasing wife he desired. Yet something about your current position - sitting on the ground so close next to each other, your fingers mere breaths apart, staring into his dark eyes - made you whisper, “I don’t know if I ever will.”

He cocked his head. “Why would you say that?”

“Just look at me. I don’t belong here - I don’t belong anywhere. Your lords know that, and you would be much more suited marrying one of their daughters. Not the child of a foreign tyrant.”

Jon looked at you, eyes fluttering across your face, your body, your dress, seemingly trying to find an answer to the questions mounting in his head. You turned your head away, yet he quickly caught your chin with his fingers, and forced you to meet his gaze again.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

His breath brushed across your cheek, his lips so close to yours you felt the heat radiating off them.

“After our wedding,” you whispered, “I want you to stop lying to me. I get enough of that pity from my uncle.”

And so you quickly stood up, and ran away.

You had stayed hidden in your room since your interaction the previous day. Or perhaps, simply stayed hidden from him.

He was slowly running short on ideas to make you warm up to him. Nothing, it seemed, that he said or did made you more comfortable around him, nothing caused you to open up to him, nothing led to you seeking him out.

Perhaps he should give up. Commit himself to a sad, lonely life, with an emotionless shell of a person beside him, until the cold finally returned to claim him once more. Perhaps it was what he deserved.

He sat up in his bed; slowly, breathing laboured, skin covered in sweat. The chamber was still wrapped in darkness, with only a sliver of the moon’s silver light falling past the drapes. He buried his face in his hands, then quickly stood up, slipped into a tunica and some boots, and disappeared into Winterfell’s deserted hallways.

No one was awake during this time of the night. The most he would ever encounter during his semi-regular walks around his castle was a stray rat, or a cat running after it.

Ghost had joined him at some point, trotting by his side like a white shadow, the fur cold and soft underneath his scarred hand. He was glad for his direwolf, glad for the quiet company, glad to not be alone in the darkness. Then he stepped on one of the walkways overlooking the main courtyard, and almost had his breath knocked out of him.

A soft breeze wafted through your hair, open for the very first time in his presence, the moonlight illuminating the strands and making them appear almost silver. Despite the freezing cold you wore no cloak, just a simple, dark blue dress that hugged your frame.

You looked… ethereal.

Your blue eyes settled onto him, and he nearly stumbled backwards.

“I- I apologise. I will leave-”

“No.” Your gaze settled on the yard beneath you once again. “It’s alright.”

He slowly, carefully walked towards you, yet made sure to stop a good distance away from you, and then followed your gaze into the abandoned courtyard. Usually brimming with life, now dark and empty.

“I apologise about my behaviour yesterday,” you almost said in a whisper. “You were merely trying to be nice towards your betrothed, and I should not have run away.”

“I understand why you did, and do not hold it over your head.” He buried his fingers into the frost-covered banister.

You stood there, in uncomfortable silence afterwards, neither knowing what to say, if to say anything.

“I suppose…” you said, then hesitated. “My mother sent me away and never came for me. Even as my siblings started dying, even after your brother had been killed, even after my uncles had been defeated, she left me at Casterly Rock, never sending a letter, never visiting. Then she crowned herself queen, and the only way I found out was because my uncle turned up after the war to tell me. And to tell me she had died, and that the Seven Kingdoms were no more.” She took a shaky breath. “I fear that if I trust someone again, they will do the same.”

He had had no idea- He had always thought you had hid in Casterly Rock, looking down upon them as they were slaughtered on battlefields. That you had been essentially held captive had never once crossed his mind as a possibility.

Be gentle with her. She has gone through a lot.

“I am not your mother. You will never experience anything like it again, I swear it.”

Ghost eventually left his side and took a few careful steps towards you, sniffing at your hand, bumping his nose into your arm. And even though Jon had seen you ride in on a horse, had seen your eyes, hard as ice, staring at anyone daring to get too close to you, it still took him by surprise when you did not move back in fear, instead slowly starting to let your fingers glide through his white fur. All while failing at hiding the smile gracing your lips.

He wished you would smile like this at him. Some day, perhaps.

“I remember them from my last visit,” you said. “Though this one has grown quite a lot during this time.”

“His name is Ghost.”

“Ghost.” You chuckled. “An apt name. And I think you agree as well.” You ruffled the direwolf’s fur.

“You changed as well. You grew taller, and your hair has gotten longer as well. Back then you looked just like your mother, but I can’t say you share much resemblance with her now.”

The words had tumbled out of him, and he regretted them as soon as he closed his mouth. What had gotten him to say all this?

Then, into the silence, you whispered, “I don’t remember you at all.”

Your smile had faded, replaced by the constant state of terrified impassiveness he had gotten so used to seeing on you.

“I do not blame you. I was a lowly bastard, and you part of the royal family. Our paths could have never crossed, even had we wanted to.”

“And yet you remember me.” You looked down into the courtyard. “Likely remember me walking out of that wheelhouse beside my mother, and smiling at your brother, and talking to your sister, and decorating myself with all that useless frivolity, still so deep in the belief that my life would have some meaning.”

“Then perhaps it is time you create those memories of me.”

Something that was far more beautiful than you trying to hide your smile was you trying to hide your grin. And perhaps, if the sun had been out during your conversation, he would have seen pink bloom on your cheeks.

All week, the castle had been busy preparing for the wedding. Your wedding. The one that would make you queen of a strange and alien kingdom.

You had stayed away, as well as you could - while you still could. After tomorrow, you would be expected to act as their queen, no matter how little you knew your people.

Pacing up and down your chambers had become something of a favourite pastime of yours. Not that you liked it, of course, but you did not dare step foot out of the door on your own, without one of the Starks to accompany you. Defend you against the disapproving stares.

A knock on your door.

You had expected everything, except for King Jon to stand on its other side, a wooden box and a book in his hands.

“May I come in?”

You could not quite forbid your betrothed from walking around his castle, so you stepped aside without a word and closed the thick wooden door behind him.

“I wanted to talk with you about tomorrow,” he said quickly. Either because he did not want to stay in your presence any longer than necessary, or because he was nervous.

You nodded, indicating to him to continue.

“There will not be a bedding ceremony. I have been to Northern weddings before, and approximately know when they happen. We will leave before then.”

You could barely comprehend his words. He could not truly mean-

“Why?”

“I- You will be my wife and queen, and I want my lords to respect you. I don't want their first real interaction with you to be… touching you inappropriately.”

He was seemingly embarrassed by his own words, and if you were not currently talking about the prospect of your wedding night, you might even say it was cute.

“I… thank you.” You tugged at the sleeves of your gown. “But I doubt it would change anything. I am an outsider, whether or not they undress me tomorrow will not change how they see me.”

He then, quite strangely, handed you the book he had been carrying. “But this might.”

Justice and Injustice in the North. You had been reading the tome in the glass gardens two days past, and had forgotten it there in your desperate attempt to escape Jon.

You looked up, and met his dark, endless eyes.

“You are learning about the North,” he said. “Not simply its people, but its laws and customs as well.”

“It's the least I can do.”

“See? Not even married to me and you are already taking your role as future queen of these lands seriously.”

Then he offered you the wooden box, opened the latch, and revealed a simple iron crown. Much like his own, yet this one had a small ruby etched into the front.

“You do not have to wear this tomorrow,” he said. “But you can, if you wish. I will force you to nothing.”

You nodded slightly, took the box, and carried it and the book towards one of the cupboards.

“I assume that will be all?”

You could not remain in the same room with him for any longer, could not stand to remain in vicinity to this man who had been treating you so kindly at no benefit to himself.

“Actually… There is one more thing.”

Jon gently turned you towards him, laying his fingers underneath your chin to urge you to meet his eyes. The moonlight fell through the window beside you, bathing him into a soft, silver light that illuminated his black curls.

“We will be watched for the rest of our lives. Nothing will remain secret, each of our actions needing to ensure prosperity for the North and all who live here. I am certain that tomorrow, even if we manage to escape the ceremony, someone will ensure we have consummated our union. So, if you are willing, I want this one, simple thing to be just ours.”

His lips had gotten so close to yours, a mere hair's breadth apart, and you could once again feel the immense heat radiating off it.

You could refuse, you knew. If you told him no, he would accept your answer, and leave. Yet his words echoed inside you, and you knew them to be true.

And so, instead of whispering that dreaded word, you simply closed the space between you, and sealed your lips in a kiss.

A week ago, Jon would have never thought he would feel so at ease standing before the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, you before him in a blinding white gown and with the iron crown of winter upon your hair, speaking the vows that would bind you. But he was glad the day had come. And he was glad you were the woman he would share eternity with.

The ceremony, the brief kiss, and the feast passed by him in a breeze, his wife's hand in his the only thing grounding him.

His wife.

He would need some time to get used to that word.

You looked even more radiant than you had the previous night, cloaked in the silver light filling your room, with red lips swollen from your kiss. He was barely able to keep his eyes off you.

(A part of him desperately hoped his lords noticed.)

And then the moment came. The guests in the feast hall either too distracted or too drunk to pay the pair of you any real mind, so his fingers tightened around yours, and he pulled you upward, through the servant's entrance behind the high table, and down Winterfell's corridors.

His quick steps had turned into a run at some point, and your giggles echoed off the stone walls.

Then you entered his chambers, and you went quiet.

“I-” He swallowed. “I know what I said yesterday, but we do not have to do this today if you do not want to. There is no pressure on us to-”

“No. Let us get through this.”

You took off your crown and cloak, laid both of them on a chair, and then started unlacing your dress. Eyes lowered, half-turned away from him.

Carefully, he stepped up towards you, and laid his hands on yours. And then, when you looked up and met his gaze, eyes sparkling in the fire of the candles around you, he laid his lips on yours without hesitation.

Your previous two kisses - one in your chambers, one at the ceremony earlier in the evening - had been chaste. Short and sweet, yes, but over far too quickly, and without ever providing him with the opportunity to feel you. Now he allowed himself to move deeper, to touch your body, explore your mouth with his, trace the lines of your dress, hear your pretty gasps. And you accepted. Melted into him, almost.

Until he touched the laces at your back.

He pulled back, heart beating in his chest so loudly he feared you might hear.

“If you wish to stop at any point…”

You nodded. “I know.”

To alleviate at least some of your fears, he started undressing, willing to bare himself and that what he feared most to stop your trembling hands. And they did, yet only once he had gotten rid of his blouse.

You stared at the scars on his chest. Carefully, you lifted a hand and let it hover above them. He made no move to stop you, only watching your confused eyes as your fingers traced his skin.

(He did not look down. Would not dare.)

“What-” Your voice broke. “What happened?”

“I was betrayed. They’re all dead now.”

He left it at that, and you did not inquire any further.

Eventually, even your last clothes fell to the ground, your lips once again locked into a kiss as he picked you up and carried you to the bed.

His hands explored your body slowly, gliding across your breasts, your stomach, your legs. And once you stopped twitching away, he let his mouth follow that same path. First kissing your breasts, then your stomach, then your legs, and then your core.

He listened to your gasps and your moans to find out what you liked, and what you loved. Your body reacted, as if on its own, to every single one of his touches, to the movements of his tongue, the crooking of his fingers, and when you finally peaked, he took everything you offered him.

Then he wandered upwards again, sealing your lips in a kiss. Your fingers got tangled up in his hair, pulls and tugs eliciting groans from his mouth that you swallowed as soon as they spilled across his lips.

He entered you as gently as he could, stopping shortly when you buried your nails into his shoulder. Once your hips sat flush against each other, and he had looked into your eyes, he started moving. Your back arched at his thrusts, and you swung your leg around his waist to encourage him to speed up. He followed your commands without hesitation.

You peaked again, and he followed shortly afterwards, spilling inside of you and sealing your union.

You laid in his bed afterwards, tangled up, pressed against each other, your heartbeats echoing the other, yearning to beat in tandem.

He would be alright. Perhaps you  would never love each other, but you would be friends, and he decided that ruling side by side with someone he trusted was everything he needed.

author's note: if you liked this story, may i recommend the fic it was inspired by, meet me in the dark

[queerquinnn]

Yours, Whether You Know it or Not

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Setting: Falcon and the Winter Soldier Timeline

Word Count: 1K

Summary: You’ve been running missions with Sam and Bucky for a while now, and everything was fine—until John Walker started showing up and taking an interest in you. Bucky isn’t having it. Not because he’s jealous. Definitely not because he’s jealous. He just doesn’t trust Walker. Right?

Unwanted Attention

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking, but you knew Bucky was beside you—silent, brooding, and absolutely vibrating with tension.

Again.

It had started a week ago. After the whole Flag Smashers fiasco in Munich, John Walker and his annoying sidekick, Lemar, had started appearing more often. They were always just there, cocky and insufferable, flashing that stolen shield like they had any right to it. But that wasn’t what had been bothering Bucky the most.

It was Walker’s interest in you.

Ever since you’d first been introduced, Walker had made it painfully obvious that he found you attractive. The first time, it was a comment—something about how you were “too pretty to be running around with these two grumps.” You’d rolled your eyes, but Sam had snickered, and Bucky had muttered something under his breath that you hadn’t quite caught.

Then, it became touches—a hand on your lower back, a brush of fingers against yours when he handed you something, a lingering grip on your wrist after a mission. It was all casual enough that you couldn’t really call him out on it, but you weren’t an idiot. Walker was testing boundaries. And every time, Bucky got pissed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

At first, you thought it was just his general hatred for Walker. But then you noticed other things.

Bucky started standing closer. His arm would “accidentally” brush against yours when you were walking. He’d place a firm hand on your back before Walker could, guiding you away without a word. And, most notably, whenever Walker so much as looked at you, Bucky’s jaw would tighten, his fists clenching like he was barely keeping himself from decking the guy.

Which led to this moment right now.

You, Bucky, and Sam were walking back to the safe house after a tense meeting with Walker and Lemar—one in which Walker had, yet again, spent way too much time trying to get your attention.

“You don’t have to act like I’m gonna drop dead if he talks to me, you know,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

Bucky didn’t look at you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on.” You stopped walking, turning to face him. “Every time Walker so much as breathes in my direction, you look like you’re about to rip his throat out.”

Bucky scoffed, looking away. “I just don’t trust him.”

Sam, who had been trailing a few steps behind, smirked. “Right. That’s what this is about.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam just shrugged.

“Man, you’re jealous,” Sam said. “It’s written all over your grumpy little face.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You’re so jealous.”

“I—” Bucky cut himself off, taking a deep breath like he was trying to calm himself. “He’s an asshole.”

“No arguments there,” you said. “But if you don’t like him flirting with me, there’s a pretty easy solution, Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. “Yeah?”

You smiled innocently. “You could just tell me why it really bothers you.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, blue eyes dark and unreadable. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he muttered, “Let’s go,” and kept walking.

Sam sighed. “Man, you are hopeless.”

You didn’t disagree.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A Game of Possession

The next time you saw Walker, things escalated.

It was supposed to be a simple recon mission—stakeout, gather intel, get out. But, as always, Walker found a way to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted.

“You know,” Walker said, sidling up beside you, “we’d work a lot better together if you ditched these two and joined Lemar and me.”

Bucky, who was standing just a few feet away, tensed immediately.

You sighed. “Not interested.”

“Come on,” Walker pressed, flashing that annoyingly charming smile. “I’d take good care of you.”

Before you could retort, a heavy, warm weight settled around your waist.

Bucky.

His metal arm wrapped around you in an unmistakably possessive gesture, tugging you snugly against his side. His fingers splayed against your hip, and when he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.

“She’s already taken care of.”

The air went thick with tension. Walker’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered.

“Oh yeah?” he challenged. “By who?”

Bucky’s grip tightened. “Me.”

Your heart stopped.

Walker raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Didn’t peg you for the type to settle down, Barnes.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

Walker let his gaze linger on you for a beat too long before smirking. “Alright, alright. No need to get your vibranium arm in a twist.”

And with that, he strolled off.

Bucky didn’t move. Neither did you.

Finally, you found your voice. “So. That was… something.”

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. Slowly, his hand eased away, though his fingers brushed lightly against your side before leaving entirely. “Sorry.”

You turned to look at him. “Are you?”

He hesitated. Then, in a rare moment of honesty, he admitted, “No.”

You bit your lip, heartbeat unsteady. “So… am I actually taken?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Do you want to be?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped forward, closing the space he’d left between you.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you murmured.

Bucky swallowed hard. His eyes flickered to your lips. His fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to touch you again.

Before either of you could do anything about it, Sam’s voice rang out from across the way.

“Hey, lovebirds! We’ve got work to do!”

You pulled back, trying not to grin. Bucky just sighed.

“This is your fault,” he muttered.

You smirked. “If you say so, boyfriend.”

Bucky groaned, but the tips of his ears burned red. And you had a feeling that, jealous or not, he wasn’t going to let the title go.

Not anymore.